13379	----	The Two Elsies A Sequel to Elsie at Nantucket BOOK 10 By Martha Finley 1868 LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS AND OTHER POPULAR BOOKS BY MARTHA FINLEY ELSIE DINSMORE. ELSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS. ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD. ELSIE'S WOMANHOOD. ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD. ELSIE'S CHILDREN. ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD. GRANDMOTHER ELSIE. ELSIE'S NEW RELATIONS. ELSIE AT NANTUCKET. THE TWO ELSIES. ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN. ELSIE'S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN. CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE. ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS. ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS. ELSIE'S VACATION. ELSIE AT VIAMEDE. ELSIE AT ION. ELSIE AT THE WORLD'S FAIR. ELSIE'S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS. ELSIE AT HOME. ELSIE ON THE HUDSON. ELSIE IN THE SOUTH. MILDRED KEITH. MILDRED AT ROSELANDS. MILDRED'S MARRIED LIFE. MILDRED AND ELSIE. MILDRED AT HOME. MILDRED'S BOYS AND GIRLS. MILDRED'S NEW DAUGHTER. CASELLA. SIGNING THE CONTRACT AND WHAT IT COST. THE TRAGEDY OF WILD RIVER VALLEY. OUR FRED. AN OLD-FASHIONED BOY. WANTED, A PEDIGREE. THE THORN IN THE NEST. THE TWO ELSIES. CHAPTER I. "Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave." LONGFELLOW. It was a lovely summer morning, glorious with sunlight, sweet with the fragrance of flowers and the songs of birds. The view from the bay-window of the library of Crag Cottage, the residence of Mr. George Leland, architect and artist, was very fine, embracing, as it did, some of the most magnificent scenery on the banks of the Hudson. The house stood very high, and from that window one might look north and south over wooded mountain, hill and valley, or east upon the majestic river and its farther shore. The nearer view was of well-kept, though not extensive, grounds; a flower-garden and lawn with a winding carriage-way leading up the hill by a gradual ascent. It was a pleasant place to sit even on a sunny summer morning, for a tall tree partially shaded the window without greatly obstructing the view, and it was there the master of the house was usually to be found, at this time of day, with Evelyn, his only child, close at his side. They were there now, seated at a table covered with books and papers, he busied in drawing plans for a building, she equally so with her lessons. But presently, at the sound of a deep sigh from her father, she glanced hastily up at him. He had dropped his pencil and was leaning back against the cushions of his easy-chair, with a face so wan and weary that she started up in alarm, and springing to his side, exclaimed, "Dear papa, I am sure you are not well! Do stop working, and lie down on the sofa. And won't you let me tell Patrick to go for the doctor when he has taken mamma to Riverside?" "Yes, Evelyn, I think you may," he answered in low feeble tones, and with a sad sort of smile, gently pressing the hand she had laid in his, as he spoke. "It will do no harm for me to see Dr. Taylor, even should it do no good." "What is that? send for the doctor? Are you ill, Eric?" asked a lady who had entered the room just in time to catch his last sentence. "I am feeling unusually languid, Laura," he replied; "yet not much more so than I did yesterday. Perhaps it is only the heat." "The heat!" she echoed; "why, it is a delightful day! warm, to be sure, but not oppressively so." "Not to you or me, perhaps, mamma," remarked Evelyn, "but we are well and strong, and poor papa is not." "A holiday would do you good, Eric," the lady said, addressing her husband; "come, change your mind and go with me to Riverside." "My dear," he said, "I should like to go to gratify you, but really I feel quite unequal to the exertion." "You need make none," she said; "you need only to sit quietly under the trees on the lawn; and I think you will find amusement in watching the crowd, while the fresh air, change of scene, and rest from the work you will not let alone when at home, will certainly be of great benefit to you." He shook his head in dissent. "I should have to talk and to listen; in short, to make myself agreeable. I have no right to inflict my companionship on Mrs. Ross's guests on any other condition; and all that would be a greater exertion than I feel fit to undertake." "There _was_ a time when you were willing to make a little exertion for my sake," she returned in a piqued tone, "but wives are not to expect the attention freely bestowed upon a sweetheart, and so I must go alone as usual." "Mamma, what a shame for you to talk so to poor papa!" exclaimed Evelyn indignantly. "You know--" "Hush, hush, Evelyn," said her father in a gently reproving tone, "be respectful to your mother, always." "Yes, sir," returned the child, with a loving look into his eyes. Then to her mother, "I beg your pardon, mamma, I did not mean to be rude; but--" with a scrutinizing glance at the richly attired figure before her. "Well?" laughingly interrogated the lady, as the child paused with a slight look of embarrassment and a heightened color. "Nothing, mamma, only--" "Something your correct taste disapproves about my attire?" "Yes, mamma; your dress is very handsome; quite rich and gay enough for a ball-room; but--wouldn't a simpler, plainer one be more suitable for a lawn-party?" "Well, really!" was the laughing rejoinder; "the idea of such a chit as you venturing to criticise her mother's taste in dress! You spoil her, Eric; making so much of her and allowing her to have and express an opinion on any and every subject. There, I must be going; I see Patrick is at the door with the carriage. So good-by, and don't overwork yourself, Eric." "Mamma," Evelyn called after her, "Patrick is to go for the doctor, you know." "Oh, yes; I'll tell him," Mrs. Leland answered, and the next moment the carriage was whirling away down the drive. "There, she is gone!" said Evelyn. "Oh, papa, when I am a woman I shall not marry unless I feel that I can always be content to stay with my husband when he is not able to go with me." "But business may prevent him very often when sickness does not, and you may grow very weary of staying always at home," he said, softly smoothing her hair, then bending to touch his lips to her smooth white forehead and smile into the large dark eyes lifted to his as she knelt at the side of his chair. "No, no! not if he is as dear and kind as you are, papa. But no other man is, I think." "Quite a mistake, my pet; the world surely contains many better men than your father." "I should be exceedingly angry if any one else said that to me," she returned indignantly. At that he drew her closer to him with a little pleased laugh. "We love each other very dearly, do we not, my darling?" he said; then sighed deeply. "Indeed we do!" she answered, gazing anxiously up into his face. "How pale and ill you look, papa! do lie down and rest." "Presently, when my work has progressed a little farther," he said, putting her gently aside, straightening himself and resuming his pencil. Evelyn was beginning a remonstrance, but at the sound of wheels upon the drive sprang to the window, exclaiming, "Can mamma be coming back already? She has perhaps changed her mind about attending the party. No," as she caught sight of the vehicle, "it is the doctor. I'm glad." "Go, receive him at the door, daughter, and show him in here," said Mr. Leland; "and as I desire a private interview, you may amuse yourself in the grounds while he stays." "Yes, sir; and oh, I do hope he will be able to give you something that will make you well directly," the little girl replied, bestowing a look of loving anxiety upon her father, then hastening to obey his order. She received the physician at the front entrance, with all the graceful courtesy of a refined lady, ushered him into the library, then putting on a garden-hat, wandered out into the grounds. It was the month of roses, and they were to be found here in great variety and profusion; they bordered the walks, climbed the walls, and wreathed themselves about the pillars of the porches, filling the air with their rich fragrance, mingled with that of the honeysuckle, lilac, heliotrope, and mignonette. Evelyn sauntered through the garden, pausing here and there to gather one and another of the most beautiful and sweet-scented of its floral treasures, arranging them in a bouquet for her father; then crossed the lawn to an artistic little summer-house built on the edge of the cliff, where it almost overhung the river. The view from this spot was magnificent, extending for many miles and embracing some of the grandest scenery of that region; and to Evelyn and her father, both dear lovers of the beauties of nature, it was a favorite resort. Seating herself upon a rustic bench, she passed some moments in absorbed, delighted contemplation of the scene so familiar, yet ever new. The thought that anything worse than a passing illness threatened her beloved father had not yet entered her youthful mind, and she was serenely happy as she sat there waiting for the departure of the physician as the signal that she might return to him. From her earliest recollection he had been father and mother both to her, Mrs. Leland's time being too fully occupied with her onerous duties to society to allow her to bestow much attention upon her child. Had the husband and father taken a like view of his responsibilities, Evelyn would have been left almost entirely to the care of the servants; but to him the formation of his child's character, the cultivation of her mind and heart, was a duty that outweighed all social claims, and to which even business might to some extent be sacrificed. Nor was it a duty only, but also a delight. And so well was she rewarding his efforts that he found her, at thirteen, more companionable than her mother had ever been; taking an enthusiastic interest in his professional work, and sharing his aspirations after perfection therein and recognition as one of the foremost architects of his day. In her esteem he had already distanced all competitors; no one else could plan a house so well for comfort, convenience, and beauty combined. Also he was to her the very embodiment of all that was unselfish, good, and noble. She thought, and truly, that her mother failed to appreciate him. While Evelyn waited the doctor subjected his patient to a thorough examination, not only feeling his pulse, listening to the beating of his heart, sounding his lungs and looking at his tongue, but cross-questioning him closely, his face growing graver with every reply elicited. "You have told me everything?" he inquired at length. "Yes, I think so; every symptom that I can recall at this moment. And now, doctor, I want you to be equally frank with me; tell me exactly what you think of my case." "I cannot hold out any hope of recovery," was the unwilling reply; "but there is little, if any, immediate danger." "You but confirm my own impressions," said Mr. Leland quietly. "But I would have a clearer understanding of your verdict; do you mean that I may have years of invalidism before me, or that a few weeks or months must bring the end?" "You really desire to know the worst, my dear sir?" returned the physician inquiringly, a look of deep sympathy on his kindly face. "I do," was the calmly resolute reply; "let me know the worst and face it in the strength God gives to His children according to their day." "Then, my dear sir, I will be plain with you; but bear in mind that I lay no claim to infallibility; I may err in judgment, but I see no reason to hope that your life on earth will be prolonged for more than three months at the farthest, and I much fear the end may come in less than half that time." The doctor could not at first judge of the full effect of his words, for Mr. Leland sat with his face half hidden in his hand. For a moment a deathlike stillness reigned in the room; then Dr. Taylor said, low and feelingly, "You are a Christian, my dear sir, and for you dying will be but going home to a brighter and better world." "Yes," was the reply, "and your tidings would have no terrors for me were it not--for those who must be left behind; but oh, the parting from helpless dear ones for whom my care and protection seems so necessary!--that is the bitterness of death!" "'Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive; and let thy widows trust in Me,'" quoted the physician in sympathizing tones. "Yes, yes; thank God for that precious promise!" exclaimed Mr. Leland. "And you, doctor, for reminding me of it," he added, stretching out a hand to his kind comforter. It was taken in a warm grasp and held for a moment while other of the many sweet and comforting promises of God's Word were recalled to the mind of the sufferer, to his great consolation. "I would it were in my power," the doctor said at length, "to hold out to you any hope of restoration to health. I cannot do that, but will write you a prescription which will, I trust, by God's blessing, give relief to some of the most distressing symptoms." "Even partial relief will be most welcome," sighed the patient. "Ah, if I can but find strength for promised work!" "Better let it alone and take what rest and ease you can," was the parting advice of the physician. "What a long, long visit the doctor is paying!" Evelyn had said to herself several times before her eyes were gladdened with the sight of his carriage rolling away down the drive. "At last!" she cried, springing to her feet and hurrying back to the house. She found her father lying on a sofa, his face very pale, his eyes closed. She drew near on tiptoe, thinking he might have fallen asleep; but as she reached the side of his couch he opened his eyes, and taking her hand drew her down to his breast. "My darling, my beloved child!" he whispered, putting his arm about her and holding her fast with tender caresses. "What did the doctor say, papa?" she asked, nestling closer to him and laying her cheek to his. "Does he hope to make you well very soon?" For a moment there was no reply, and Evelyn, startled at her father's silence, suddenly raised her head and gazed earnestly, inquiringly into his face. He smiled, a little sadly, and gently smoothing her hair back from her forehead, "I was thinking," he said, "of a text in the psalm we read together this morning--'My soul, wait thou only upon God, for my expectation is from him.' He and He only can make me well, daughter." "Then why send for the doctor, papa?" "Because God works by means; it pleases Him so to do, though it would be no more difficult to Him to accomplish His designs without. He has provided remedies, and I think it is His will that we should use them, at the same time asking His blessing upon them, feeling that without it they will be of no avail." "Then you are to have some medicine, I suppose?" "Yes; and to be out a good deal in the open air." "Oh, then, won't you come out to the summer-house and lie in the hammock there, with me close beside you to wait on you?" "Presently; but I must write a letter first," he said, putting her gently aside and resuming his seat at the writing-table. "Can't it wait till to-morrow, papa?" she asked. "You may feel stronger by then." "It is to be only a few lines, to your Uncle Lester; and I want it to go by this afternoon's mail, that, if possible, it may reach Fairview before they have arranged their plans for the summer. I want them to come here to spend the hot months. Should you like it?" "Yes, indeed, papa! I've always been fond of Uncle Lester, as you know, and I quite fell in love with Aunt Elsie and the baby when he brought them to see us on their return from Europe." CHAPTER II. "How sudden do our prospects vary here!" It was the breakfast-hour at Fairview. The young husband and wife chatted pleasantly over their coffee, omelet and rolls, strawberries and cream, the principal subject of discourse being the expected trip to Nantucket in company with her mother, grandparents, and the rest of the family at Ion. Lester and his Elsie had been there the previous evening, helping to celebrate the first anniversary of the marriage of Edward and Zoe, and had readily fallen in with the plans for the summer outing proposed by Captain Raymond. "You will go with us, of course, Elsie?" their mother had said, several of the others eagerly echoing her words, and they had answered that they knew of nothing to hinder, and should be delighted to do so. So that question seemed fully settled, and now their talk was of needful preparations and arrangements for so long an absence from home; of the anticipated pleasures of the voyage and the proposed lengthened sojourn upon Nantucket Island, including the sketching of the most attractive features of its scenery. Young, healthy, in easy circumstances, entirely congenial in opinions and tastes, they were a very happy couple. Lester was meeting with marked success in his chosen profession--had received only yesterday a large price for one of his paintings; and as Elsie and he were essentially one in all their interests, her joy was fully equal to his, if not greater. In consequence they were unusually gay this morning, and life seemed very bright and beautiful before them. They lingered over their meal, and were just leaving the table when a servant came in with the morning's mail. There were several newspapers and magazines; only one letter. "From Eric, dear old boy! I was intending to write to him to-day," remarked Lester, as he examined the superscription. "How nice, then, that his came just in time for you to answer it in yours," said Elsie. "I'll leave you to the enjoyment of it while I give my orders for the day," she added, turning from him toward the rear of the house, as they left the breakfast-room together. "Yes, my dear, and when you have a spare moment to bestow upon your unworthy husband, you will find him on the veranda," he answered lightly, bending his steps in that direction. Only a few minutes had passed when she sought him there; but what a change had come over him! All his gayety had forsaken him, his face was pale, and his eyes, as he turned them upon her, were full of anguish. "Oh Lester, my dear, dear husband! what is it?" she cried, hastening to him and laying a hand tenderly upon his shoulder. "Read," he said hoarsely, holding out the open letter to her,--Eric's letter, whose sad tidings seemed for the time to have driven away all the joy and brightness of life. Glancing down the page, Elsie read: "My dear brother, will you come to me? I have sore need of you. For a year past I have felt my strength failing; for the last few months matters have grown worse, till my days and nights are filled with pain and unrest; and today I have learned that the time has come for me to set my house in order, for I am to 'die, and not live.' Nay, not so: I am to pass from the land of the dying to that blest world where death can never enter. "My physician tells me it may possibly be three months ere I reach 'that bourne whence no traveller returns,' but that in all probability I shall arrive there in less than half that time. "And there is much I would say to you, my brother; much in which I need your kind help. You will be coming North for the hot season; I would gladly have you, your sweet wife and baby-boy spend it here with us; and to me it seems that there are few pleasanter places than this little home-nest of ours high up on the rocky banks of the grand old Hudson River. We have pure air and magnificent scenery, and it will be most comforting to me to have your loved companionship as I go down into the valley of the shadow of death. "Thank God, it is only the shadow, and I shall go down into it leaning on the strong arm of my beloved. Jesus will be with me to the very end. "But I may be asking too much of my sweet sister Elsie; you and she have, perchance, formed other plans more congenial to your tastes and wishes. If so, let me not interfere with them; consider my request withdrawn. Yet, shall I not have at least a sight of your loved faces ere I go hence to return no more? "Lovingly, ERIC." Elsie could scarce see the signature from the fast-falling tears. "The dear brother!" she sobbed. "But, oh, Lester, be comforted! His troubles and trials are almost over, the battle nearly ended, the victory well-nigh won; and we know he will come off more than conqueror through Him that loved him!" "Yes, I know, I know it; but he has been a dear brother to me, and, oh, how can I learn to live without him!" he answered, in tones quivering with emotion. "'Twill only be for a time, love, and then you will be restored to each other, never to part any more forever," Elsie said softly, with her arm about her husband's neck, while her tears mingled with his, and her sweet lips were pressed again and again to his cheek. He folded her in a close embrace. "My dear, sweet, precious comforter," he said, "I can never be unhappy while God spares me my wife." "Nor I, while I have you, dearest," she responded, with an added caress. "And we will go to poor Eric instead of with mamma and the rest to Nantucket." "My sweet one, I could not ask so great a sacrifice from you," he said. "I can hardly feel it to be such when I think of your poor brother--our brother; for is he not mine also? We will go to him instead, and I know it will be with mamma's approval, grandpa's also. Ah, here they both come!" she exclaimed, in a tone of satisfaction, as the Ion family carriage was seen approaching through the avenue. In another moment it had drawn up before the entrance, and Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter alighted. With the quick eye of affection the mother at once noted the sadness of her daughter's countenance, of Lester's also, and scarcely had she exchanged the morning greetings with them ere she inquired the cause. Lester silently handed her Eric's open letter. Tears trembled in the soft brown eyes as she read. In compliance with a mute request from Lester, she passed it on to her father. There was a moment of silence after Mr. Dinsmore had finished reading, then the elder Elsie said in low, sympathizing tones, "My dears, you will go to him? Delightful as it would be to have you with us, I could not wish you to refuse such a request from one so near and dear." "No, mamma dear, nor could we think of refusing," answered her daughter, quickly, glancing tenderly at her husband as she spoke, and receiving a grateful, loving look in return. "Certainly not," said Mr. Dinsmore; "but I see no reason why you should not accompany us on our voyage, spend a few days at Nantucket, and then go on to New York. Do you, Lester?" "No, sir; and if my little wife approves of that plan, we will adopt it," He turned inquiringly to her. "I should like it very much," she said. "If you are quite sure it will not delay us too long," she added as an after-thought. "No, scarcely at all, I think," returned Lester; "so we will consider that settled." "Ah, I am glad that we shall not lose your company altogether," Mrs. Travilla said. "And do not despair for your brother, Lester, for many very sick people have recovered, even after being given up by the doctors. We know, too, that with God nothing is impossible, and that He is the hearer and answerer of prayer. We will unite our petitions in behalf of Eric, and if it shall be for God's glory and his good, he will be restored to health." "Yes, mother; I have not a doubt of that," returned Mr. Leland, "nor of my dear brother's safety in any case. He is one who has lived the life of a Christian for years, and I am sure dying grace will be given him for dying time--whenever that shall come." "And well may you be," said Mrs. Travilla, "for not one of all God's promises ever fails, and to each of His children He has said, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'" "If you want to answer your letter by return of mail, Lester, do not let us hinder you," said Mr. Dinsmore. "We are going to the village presently, and will mail it for you, if you like." "Thank you; then I shall write at once," Lester replied, as he rose and left them. "This change of plan will involve some change in your intended preparations, will it not, Elsie?" asked Mrs. Travilla. "Not very much, mamma, as we are not likely to take part in any gayeties. I shall not need to have any new dresses made; indeed, I think I have already a full supply of everything necessary or desirable, in the way of dress, for both baby and myself." "Then you will be ready for the trip as soon as any of us?" her grandfather said inquiringly. "Yes, sir; I could pack to-day and start this evening if desired to do so," she answered with a smile. "We will not put you to the test," he said, "but we hope to sail next Tuesday." CHAPTER III. "We all do fade as a leaf." (Is. lxiv. 6.) A fortnight had passed since the day of the reader's introduction to the dwellers in Crag Cottage; the June roses were blooming about it in even richer profusion than before; tree, and shrub and vine were laden with denser foliage; the place looked a very bower of beauty to the eyes of Lester and his Elsie as the hack which had brought them from the nearest steamboat-landing slowly wound its way up the hill on which the cottage stood. On the vine-covered porch Eric lay in a hammock, his little daughter, as usual, by his side. Though losing flesh and strength day by day, he still persevered with his work; had spent some hours over it this morning, but was resting now, his cheek fanned by the pure, sweet air from the mountain and river, his eyes now feasting upon the beauties of the surrounding scenery, and anon turning with fond, fatherly affection upon the face of the child he loved so well. She was proving herself an excellent nurse for one of her age; never weary of waiting upon her loved patient, always striving to anticipate his every want, and doing her best to entertain him and make him forget his pain. She was talking of their expected guests. "I am so glad they are coming, papa," she said, "for I hope it will cheer you and do you much good to see your brother." "And sister," he added with a faint smile; "your Aunt Elsie is a very lovely and interesting woman." "Yes, but I hope they will let me have my father to myself sometimes," she said, laying her cheek lovingly against the hand that was clasping hers. "I'm hardly willing to share you even with Uncle Lester." "No, not all the time," he responded; "we must have an hour alone together now and then. I should not like to be deprived of it any more than you." She had lifted her head, and was gazing toward the river. "Papa, I think they are here!" she exclaimed. "There is a carriage coming up the drive." "Ah, I hope so," he said, his pale cheek flushing with pleasure; and excitement lending him momentary strength, he hastily stepped from the hammock, and with Evelyn went forward to greet and welcome the travellers as they alighted, the hack having now drawn up before the entrance. Both Lester and Elsie were much moved at sight of their brother--so sadly changed from the vigorous man from whom they parted less than a year before. Elsie had much ado to hide her emotion, and even Lester's voice was husky and tremulous as he returned Eric's greeting and made inquiries regarding his health. "It is much the same as when I wrote you," Eric answered, holding fast to his brother's hand, and gazing with a look of strong affection into his face. "And you are quite well?" "Quite, thank you; but about yourself, Eric? Would it not be well to have other advice?" "I believe there is none better than I have had, brother," Eric said. Then turning to caress the little one in its nurse's arms, "What a fine little fellow! a truly beautiful child, Sister Elsie. Ah, Lester I rejoice that you have a son to keep up the family name. May he live to be a great blessing to you both!" "How sweet and pretty he is!" Evelyn said, caressing him in her turn. "Aunt Elsie, shall I show you to your room?" "If you please, dear." And they passed on into the house together, while Eric dropped exhausted into an easy-chair, and Lester took possession of another close at his side. "You are very weak, Eric," he remarked, in a tone of mingled affection and concern; "and I fear suffer a great deal of pain." "Yes, a good deal at times; but," he added with a joyous smile, "I shall soon be in that land where there shall be no more pain, and the inhabitants shall not say 'I am sick.'" "Don't speak of it," said Lester hoarsely; "I must hope there are yet years of life in this world before you." "What a very pleasant room; what a delightful prospect from that window looking toward the river!" Elsie exclaimed, as Evelyn led the way into the spacious, airy apartment set apart for the occupation of herself and husband during their stay. "I think it is," Evelyn returned in a quiet tone; "that was the reason papa and I selected it for you. We have two other spare rooms, but this is the largest and has the loveliest views from its windows." "Thank you, dear. Is your mamma well?" "I suppose so; she was when we heard last, a day or two ago. She is at Newport, Aunt Elsie; she found herself so worn out, she said, with attending to the claims of society, that a trip to the seashore was quite a necessity. Do you put the claims of society before everything else, Aunt Elsie?" "Indeed no," returned Elsie, with a happy laugh. "I'm afraid I put them last on my list: husband, baby, mother, grandpa, brothers and sisters, all come before society with me." "So they shall with me when I'm a woman," said Evelyn with decision; "and papa shall always, _always_ be first. I don't know how mamma can bear to be away from him so much; especially now when he is so weak and ailing. And I am quite mortified that she is not here to welcome you. She said she would be back in time, but now writes that she finds Newport so delightful, and the sea-breezes doing her so much good, that she can't tear herself away just yet." "Well, dear, as she is your mother and my sister, we will try not to criticise or find fault with her," responded Elsie, in a gently soothing tone. "No; I ought not," acknowledged Evelyn; "papa never does; at least not to me. Mamma said she thought we could entertain you for a short time, and we mean to do our best." "Yes, dear child; but we must not allow your father to exert himself to that end; we did not come to be entertained, but to try to be of use to him." "It was very kind," said Evelyn, gratefully; "it must have been quite a sacrifice, for you to leave that beautiful Nantucket so soon after arriving there; I know about it, because we were there two summers ago, and I could hardly bear to come away." "It is very pleasant there, but so it is here also," responded Elsie. Evelyn looked much pleased. "I am glad you like it, Aunt Elsie," she said. "_I_ think it the dearest spot on earth; but then it has always been my home." "You are justly partial to it, Evelyn," Elsie said, "for it is a sweet spot." "Thank you. Our dinner will be ready in about an hour from now; but don't take the trouble to dress, there will be no one but ourselves," Evelyn said, retiring. Elsie was not sorry to learn that her sister-in-law was absent from home; for though neither really disliked the other, they were not congenial; their opinions, their tastes, their views of life, its pleasures and its duties, were so widely different that they could have but little in common. A proud, self-important woman would have taken offence at the lack of hospitality and consideration shown her in the failure of the mistress of the house to be present with a welcome on her arrival, but such was not Elsie's character. She had but a humble opinion of her own importance and her own deserts, so very readily excused and overlooked the neglect. But his wife's conduct was very mortifying to Eric, as he showed in his apology for her, on Elsie's rejoining him and Lester on the porch. Elsie accepted his excuses very sweetly, assuring him that she expected to find much enjoyment in his society, her husband's, and Evelyn's, and would have been very sorry had Laura returned home for her sake before her visit to Newport was completed. Evelyn, too, felt much chagrin on account of the lack of courtesy and hospitality in her mother's behavior toward these relatives, esteemed by herself and her father as worthy of all honor. She made no remark about it to either of them, but tried very earnestly to fill her mother's place as hostess during her absence. She was a very womanly little girl, with a quaint, old-fashioned manner which Elsie thought quite charming. It was touching to see the devoted affection with which she hovered over and waited upon her sick father. She was seldom absent from his side for more than a few minutes at a time, except when he sent her out for air and exercise. Elsie usually accompanied her on her walks and drives, while Lester remained with his brother. Eric seized these opportunities to open his heart to Lester in regard to the future of his only and beloved child, his one great anxiety in the prospect of death. "I cannot leave her to her mother's care," he said, with a sigh and a look of anguish. "It is a sad, a humiliating thing to say in regard to one's wife, but I have been sorely disappointed in my choice of a partner for life. "We married for love, and she is very dear to me still, but our tastes and views are widely dissimilar. She has no relish for the quiet pleasures of home, finds the duties of a wife and mother extremely irksome, and is not content unless living in a constant whirl of excitement, a never-ending round of pleasure-parties, balls, concerts, and other fashionable amusements. "I cannot join her in it; and so, for years past, we have gone our separate ways. "Evelyn, her mother having no time to bestow upon her, has been left almost entirely to me, and I have earnestly striven to train her up to a noble Christian womanhood; to cultivate her mind and heart, and give her a taste for far higher pleasures than those to be found in the giddy whirl of fashionable follies. "I think I have already succeeded to some extent; but she is so young that, of course, much of the work yet remains to be done; and Laura is not the person to carry it on; also, I think, would not covet the task. "Lester, if you will undertake her guardianship and receive her into your family, to be brought up under the influence of your lovely wife and mother-in-law, I shall die happy. Would it be asking too much, my dear brother?" "You could not ask too much of me, Eric," Lester said with emotion; "and if my Elsie is willing, it shall be as you wish." Eric expressed his thanks, and his hope that Elsie would not object. "My darling will not be a troublesome charge," he said; "she has her faults, of course, but they are not of a kind to make her a disagreeable inmate of your family; and her admiration for her Aunt Elsie is so great that, doubtless, she will yield readily to her wishes and study to be like her in her loveliness of character and manners." "Yes; Evelyn is a child any father might be proud of," assented Lester. "Surely her mother cannot help being fond of her, and you would not separate them, Eric?" Eric looked much disturbed. For a moment he seemed lost in thought; then said, "I cannot tell just what Laura will do; she certainly must have some affection for our child, but not enough, I fear, to make her willing to resign any pleasure for her sake. I think she will not care for a settled home when I am gone, but will spend her time in flitting about from one fashionable resort to another; and in that case Evelyn would be only a burden and care to her: one she will probably be glad to get rid of. I see plainly that it could be for neither your happiness nor Laura's to attempt to live together; but perhaps you would be willing to receive her as a guest occasionally, and for a short time?" "Certainly," Lester said; "and to assist her pecuniarily, if necessary." "Thank you for the generous offer," returned Eric, gratefully; "but there will be no need to trespass upon your kindness in that way. Laura has some money of her own, and her proportion of mine will make her very comfortable; while the remainder will be sufficient to clothe and educate Evelyn, and give her a moderate income afterward for the rest of her life, if it is not lost in any way; and that she will not be robbed of it in her minority I feel certain, having been so fortunate as to secure you for my executor," he added, with an affectionate glance and smile. "I shall certainly do the best I can to take care of it for her," Lester said, his voice a little unsteady with the thought that these were his brother's dying wishes to which he was listening; "but I am not a business man, and--" "I am quite willing to trust to your good sense, honesty, and love for your niece," interrupted Eric, hearing the approaching footsteps of Elsie and his daughter. Evelyn's wish that she might sometimes have her father to herself was gratified. Lester and Elsie were thoroughly considerate, and almost every day went out together for an hour or more, leaving the little girl to perform the duties of nurse. Then there was an interchange of confidences and endearments such as was not indulged in the presence of any third person, and Eric improved the occasion to give his darling much tender and wise fatherly counsel which he thought might be of use to her in the coming years when he would no longer be at her side. He did not tell her of the trial that was drawing so near--the parting that would rend her heart--but she more than half suspected it, as she saw him day by day grow weaker, paler, and thinner. But the very idea was so terrible that she put it resolutely from her, and thought and talked hopefully of the time when he would be well again. And he could not bear to crush the hope that made her so bright and happy; but he spoke often to her of the blessedness of those who sleep in Jesus, and made her read to him the passage of Scripture which tells of the glories and bliss of heaven--of the inheritance of the saints in light--the things which "eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither the heart of man conceived"--the things that God hath prepared for them that love him, for them "who have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb." CHAPTER IV. "Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break." TENNYSON. Laura lingered at Newport for several weeks after the arrival of Lester and Elsie at Crag Cottage; so that the brothers had abundance of time and opportunity for private talks and business arrangements, and Evelyn to practise the rôle of hostess. When at last she did reach home, she was greatly shocked at the change in her husband; and she heaped reproaches upon poor Evelyn for not giving her more faithful reports of his condition. "Mamma," said the little girl, "I did write you that he was getting weaker and weaker; that he was no longer able to walk, or even drive out, and had wakeful, restless nights. I thought you would certainly want to come to him when you heard that. But don't worry; Dr. Taylor has changed the medicine, and I hope he will soon be better now." "No, he wont; he'll not live a month!" she exclaimed half angrily; then glancing at Evelyn's pale, terror-stricken face, "Pshaw, child! don't be frightened," she said; "I did not really mean it; I dare say we shall have him about again in a few weeks." "Mamma, what _do_ you _really_ think?" asked the little girl, clasping her hands and gazing into her mother's face with a look of agonized entreaty. "I know you believe in deceiving people sometimes when you think it for their good, for I have heard you say so; but I want to know the truth, even if it breaks my heart." "I'm not a doctor, Evelyn," returned her mother coldly; "I can judge only from appearances, which are as visible to you as to me. Besides, what is the use of my giving my opinion, since you choose to believe I am capable of intentionally deceiving you?" With the last word she sailed from the room, leaving Evelyn alone in the parlor, where the conversation had taken place. Evelyn sat like one stunned by a heavy blow. Could it be that her father was dying--the dear father who was all the world to her? Oh, what would life be worth without him? how could she go on living? How soon would the dread parting come? how many more days or hours might she spend in his dear companionship? Ah, those precious hours were fast slipping away; every moment spent away from his side was a great loss; she would go to him at once. She started up, but dropped into her seat again; "mamma" was with him, and just now she would rather avoid her society. Covering her face with her hands, she sat silently thinking,--going over again in imagination all that had passed between her father and herself during the last few weeks, recalling their conversations, especially every word he had addressed to her bearing upon her future; all his loving counsels; his exhortations to lean upon God in every time of trial and perplexity; to carry every sorrow, anxiety, and care to the Lord Jesus in unwavering confidence that there she would find never-failing sympathy, comfort, and help. And now for the first time it struck her that thus he was trying to prepare her to do without him--the earthly parent who had been hitherto the confidant of all her childish griefs, perplexities, hopes, joys, and fears; and with the thought the conviction deepened that he was indeed passing away to that bourne whence no traveler returns. Tears were stealing between the slender fingers, low, deep sobs shaking her slight frame, when a hand was gently laid upon her shoulder, and a sweet-toned voice asked in tender accents, "What is it, Evelyn, dear?" "O Aunt Elsie," cried the little girl, lifting a tear-stained face, "you will tell me the truth! Is my dear papa--No, no, I can't say it! but oh, do you think we may hope he will soon be well again?" "Dear child," Elsie said, in quivering tones, as she seated herself and, putting an arm about the little girl's waist, drew her close with a tender caress, "he is very ill, but 'while there is life there is hope,' for with God all things are possible." "Oh I know--I understand what that means!" cried Evelyn in anguished accents, "he is dying!--my dear, dear father!" "My poor child, my poor, dear child!" Elsie said, her tears falling fast, "I can feel for you, for it is not very long since I stood by the deathbed of a dear father. Flesh and heart fail in such a trial; but look to Jesus for help and strength to endure, and he will sustain and comfort you, as he did me." "I can never, never bear it!" sobbed Evelyn, hiding her face on Elsie's shoulder. "And papa--oh, how dreadful for him to have to go away all alone! I wish I could go with him." "That can not be, dear; but he will not go alone. 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.' Jesus will be with him and he will need no one else." "Yes; I know, and I am glad for him; but oh, who will be with me when he is gone? Mamma is seldom at home, and cares nothing for having me with her." "God will raise up friends and companions for you, dear, and if you seek the Lord Jesus, he will be to you a Friend indeed; One who sticketh closer than a brother or father, or any earthly creature; a Friend who will never die, never leave or forsake you." For some moments there was silence in the room, broken only by Evelyn's low sobs; but at length she spoke in trembling, tearful tones, "Will the angels come and carry him to heaven, Aunt Elsie, as they did the poor beggar, Lazarus, the Bible tells about?" "Yes, dear, I believe they will," Elsie answered, tenderly smoothing the child's hair. "And I think they will be full of joy for him, because he will be done with all the pains, the troubles and trials of earth, and going to be forever with the Lord. I believe they will carry him home, with songs of gladness; and oh what a welcome he will receive when he enters the gates of the Celestial City! for the Bible tells us 'Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints;' and that 'He shall see of the travail of His soul and be satisfied.' It tells us that His love for his people exceeds in depth and tenderness that of a mother for her child. Then how must he rejoice over each one of his ransomed ones as he takes them in his arms and bids them welcome to the blissful mansions he has prepared for them." "Yes; I shall be glad for papa; but O Aunt Elsie, what can I do without him?" "God will help and comfort you, dear child; he will be your father," Elsie said with emotion. "'A Father of the fatherless, and a judge of the widows, is God in his holy habitation.'" "It is a very sweet promise," said Evelyn. "Aunt Elsie, I wish I knew that was a true, a real occurrence--that story of Dives and Lazarus; for then I should be quite sure that angels do come to carry home Christians when they die, and that they would come for papa; but some people say it is only a parable." "But the Bible does not say so," returned Elsie. "Jesus narrates it as a real occurrence, and I believe it was. Nothing has ever happened in any world that he has not seen and known, therefore he was perfectly competent to tell about the life and death of any man, and also of his experiences after death. So I think, dear child, you may take all the comfort you can find in believing it a narrative of actual occurrence. "Ah, now I remember something that may perhaps give you comfort as additional proof that angels do carry home the souls of God's children. I heard an old minister--a man whose word I should credit as entirely as the evidence of my own senses--tell it to my mother. "He said that when he was a boy, at home on his father's farm, he and his brother were one evening out in a meadow attending to their horses. Some short distance from them was the dwelling of an old elder, a remarkably devoted Christian man, who always had family worship morning and evening, and always, on those occasions, sang a hymn to either Mear or Old Hundred. "On this particular evening the lads, while busy there in the meadow, were surprised by hearing sounds as of a number of voices singing one of the elder's two tunes--I have forgotten now which it was--but the sounds came nearer and nearer, from the direction of the elder's house--and, to the great wonder and astonishment of the lads, passed above their heads. "They heard the voices in the air, but saw nothing of the singers. Afterward they learned that the good old man had died just at that time."[A] [Footnote A: Given the author as a fact, by a Christian lady who had it from the good minister's own lips.] "How strange," said Evelyn, in an awestruck tone. "O Aunt Elsie, if I could hear their song of joy over papa, I should not grieve quite so much." The door opened and Laura looked in. "Evelyn," she said, in a piqued tone, "your father wants you. It actually seems that you, a mere child, are more necessary to him than his own wife. He would see you alone for a few minutes." Silently, for her heart was too full for speech, Evelyn withdrew herself from Elsie's arms and hastened to obey the summons. CHAPTER V. "Gone before To that unknown and silent shore." CHARLES LAMB. Mr. Leland, lying pale and languid on his couch, was listening intently for the approaching footsteps of his child. As she stole softly in, fearful of disturbing him, he lifted his head slightly and greeted her with a tender, pitying smile and a feebly outstretched hand. "My darling," he whispered, drawing her to him, "my poor darling; so they have told you? I have tried to spare you the bitter truth as long as I could; bitter to you, love, and to me for your sake; yet the will of God be done; He knows and will do what is best for us both." Evelyn was making a determined effort at self-control for his dear sake, that she might not disturb him with the knowledge that her very heart was breaking. "Papa," she said, with a vain endeavor to steady her tones, "dear, dearest papa, you will surely get well; for I will pray day and night to God to cure you; and have you not taught me that He is the hearer and answerer of prayer, that He loves us, and that He is able to do everything?" "Yes, dear daughter; and it is all true, but His thoughts are not as our thoughts; He may see best to take me now to the heavenly home toward which you too, I hope, are traveling; best for you as well as for me." "O papa, how can it be best for me, when you are such a help to me in going that road; the only help I have?" "He is able to raise up other and better helpers for you, dearest, and He Himself will be the best of all. Perhaps it is to draw you nearer to Himself that He is taking away the earthly father upon whom you have been accustomed to lean." Mr. Leland's voice faltered with the last words; the exertion of talking so much had exhausted his feeble frame, and closing his eyes, he lay lifting up silent petitions for his child. Evelyn thought he slept, and lest she should disturb him, forcibly repressed her inclination to relieve her over-burdened heart by sobs and sighs. She remained close at his side, gently fanning him, for the day was oppressively hot. But presently he opened his eyes, and fixed them upon her face with a long look of tenderest love and sympathy--a look that impressed itself indelibly upon her memory and was often, in after years, dwelt upon with feelings of strangely mingled joy and grief. "My darling," he murmured at length, so low that her quick ear scarce caught the words, "my precious child, I leave you to the care of Him who is a Father of the fatherless. I have been pleading with Him for you; pleading His promise to those who trust in Him--'I will be a God to thee and to thy seed after thee.' It is an everlasting covenant, and shall never fail. Seek Him, my darling, seek Him with all your heart, and He will be your God forever and ever: your Guide even unto death." "I will, papa, I will," she whispered, pressing her quivering lips to his cheek. The end did not come that day; for another week the loved sufferer lingered in pain and weakness, borne with Christian fortitude and resignation. For the most part his mind was clear and calm, the joy of the Lord his strength and stay; yet were there moments when doubts and fears assailed him. "What is it, dear brother?" Elsie asked one day, seeing a troubled look upon his face. "'How many are mine iniquities and sins,'" he answered; "'mine iniquities are gone over mine head; as a heavy burden they are too heavy for me.'" "But 'He was wounded for our trangressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him; and with His stripes we are healed,'" quoted Elsie. "Oh, bless the Lord 'who forgiveth all thine iniquities.'" "Yes," he said, "but I am so vile, so sinful--it seems utterly impossible that I ever can be pure in His sight who is 'of purer eyes than to behold evil, and cannot look on iniquity.'" "'The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin,'" quoted Elsie in low tones of deepest sympathy. "'Thou shalt call his name Jesus; for he shall save his people from their sins.' "'This Man, because he continueth ever, hath an unchangeable priesthood. Wherefore he is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him, seeing he ever liveth to make intercession for them.' "'Who gave himself for us, that he might redeem us from all iniquity.' "'Let Israel hope in the Lord; for with the Lord there is mercy, and with him is plenteous redemption. And he shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities.'" "Blessed words!" he ejaculated, the cloud lifting from his brow, "blessed, blessed words! I will doubt and fear no more; I will trust His power to save; His imputed righteousness is mine, and covered with that spotless robe I need not fear to enter the presence of the King of kings." Some hours later the messenger came, and whispering, "All is peace, peace, unclouded peace," the dying saint fell asleep in Jesus. Gently, tenderly Lester closed the sightless eyes, saying in moved tones, "Farewell, brother beloved! Thank God the battle's fought, the victory won!" And now Evelyn, who had been for hours close at her father's side, waiting upon him, smoothing his pillow, moistening his lips, gazing with yearning tenderness into his eyes, drinking in his every word and look while displaying a power of self-control wonderful to see in a child of her years, burst into a passion of tears and sobs, pressing her lips again and again to the brow, the cheek, the lips of the dead--those pale lips that for the first time failed to respond to her loving caresses. But with a wild shriek the new-made widow went into strong hysterics; and, resuming her self-control, the little girl left the dead to wait upon and console the living parent. "Mamma, dearest mamma," she said, in quivering tones, putting her arms about her mother, "think how blest he is; the angels are even now carrying him home with songs of gladness to be forever with the Lord; and he will never be sick or in pain any more." "But what is to become of me?" sobbed her mother. "I cannot do without him, if you can. You couldn't have loved him half so well as I did or you would never take his loss so quietly." "O Mamma!" cried the child, her tone speaking deeply wounded feeling, "if you could know _how_ I loved him!--my dear, dear father! Oh, why am I left behind? why could I not go with him?" "And leave your mother all alone!" was the reproachful rejoinder. "But you always loved him best; never cared particularly for me; and never will I suppose," she added, going into a stronger paroxysm than before. "O mamma, don't!" cried Evelyn, in sore distress. "I love you dearly too; and you are all I have left." She threw an arm about her mother's neck as she spoke, but was thrust impatiently aside. "You are suffocating me; can't you see it? Help me to bed in the next room, and call Hannah. She perhaps will have sense enough to apply restoratives." But both Lester and Elsie had come to her aid, and the former, taking her in his arms, carried her to the bed, while Evelyn hastened to call the nurse who had for the past week or two assisted in the care of him who now no longer needed anything but the last sad offices. Laura's grief continued to be very violent in its manifestations, yet did not hinder her from taking an absorbing interest in the preparation of her own and Evelyn's mourning garments. She was careful that they should be of the deepest black, the finest quality, the most fashionable cut; to all of which the bereaved child--a silent undemonstrative mourner--was supremely indifferent. Her mother noted it with surprise, for Evelyn was a child of decided opinions and wont to be fastidious about her attire. "Flounces on this skirt, I suppose, Miss? how many?" asked the dressmaker. "Just as mamma pleases; I do not care in the least," returned Evelyn. "Why Eva, what has come over you?" queried her mother. "It is something new for you to be so indifferent in regard to your dress." "You are the only one I care to please now, mamma," replied the little girl in tremulous tones. "I think there is no one else likely to be interested in the matter." Laura was touched. "You are a good child," she said; "and I think you may well trust everything to my taste; it is considered excellent by my friends and acquaintance." With thoughtfulness beyond her years Evelyn presently drew her mother aside, out of earshot of the dressmaker, and whispered, "Mamma dear, don't put too much expense on me; you know there is no one to earn money for us now." "No, but he cannot have left us poor," rejoined the mother; "for I know his business has paid very well indeed for years past. And of course his wife and child inherit all he has left." "I do not know! I do not care!" cried Evelyn, hot tears streaming from her eyes. "What is money without papa to help us enjoy it?" "Something that it is very convenient, indeed absolutely necessary, to have in this practical world, as you will know when you are older and wiser," returned her mother, with some severity of tone; for Evelyn's words had seemed to her like a reproach, and an insinuation that Eric's daughter was a deeper and more sincere mourner for him than his widow. Such was the fact, but she was by no means ready to admit it. And she had loved him, perhaps, as well as she was capable of loving any one but herself. Since her return home she had been too much occupied with his critical condition, and then his death, to give a thought to the state of his affairs or the disposition to be made of his property. True, she had little cause for anxiety in regard to these things, knowing that he had no financial entanglements, and having heard him say on more than one occasion, that whatever he might possess at the time of his death would be left to his wife and child; yet had she been an unloving wife, queries, hopes and fears in regard to the amount he was leaving her would have found some place in her thoughts. And now that Evelyn had in a manner opened the subject, they did so; she was no longer absorbed in her grief; it was present with her still, but her thoughts were divided between it on the one hand and her mourning and future prospects on the other. It now occurred to her that Evelyn, being under age and heir to some property, must have a guardian. "That should be left to me," she said to herself. "I am quite capable--her natural guardian too; and I trust he has not associated any one else with me. It would be too provoking, for he would be forever interfering in my plans and wishes for the child." She waited till the day after that on which the body was laid away in its last resting-place, then finding herself alone with her brother-in-law, said to him, "I want a little talk with you, Lester, for it is time for me to be arranging my plans. As you were with your brother for some weeks before his death, I presume you can tell me all about his affairs. Did he make a will?" "He did; leaving his entire estate to his wife and child," replied Lester, in a grave but kindly tone. "One third to me and two to her, I suppose?" "Yes; but I think he said you would be the richer of the two, having some property of your own." "That is quite correct. I am appointed executrix, and guardian to Evelyn of course?" "No," Lester replied, with some hesitation, for he saw that she would be ill-pleased with the arrangements Eric had made; "at the earnest solicitation of my brother, I consented to become his executor and the guardian of his child." Laura did not speak for a moment, but her eyes flashed and her cheek paled with anger. "Ah, I might have known it," she hissed at length; "had I not been the most innocent and unsuspicious of women I should have known better than to leave him for weeks to the wiles of designing relatives; when, too, his mind was weakened by disease." "His mind was perfectly clear and strong from first to last, Laura," returned Lester mildly, "and you greatly mistake in supposing I had anything to gain by agreeing to his wishes or that I was at all covetous of either office." "Pardon me," she sneered, "but if you do not receive a percentage for your trouble, you will be the first executor I ever heard of who did not." "I shall not accept a cent," he retorted, with some slight indignation in his tones. "We shall see; men can change their minds as well as women. But surely I am associated with you in the guardianship of Evelyn?" "According to her father's will I am sole guardian," said Lester. "It is too much; I am the child's natural guardian, and shall contest my rights if necessary," returned Laura, defiantly; and with the last word she rose and left the room. Elsie, entering the parlor a moment later, found her husband pacing to and fro with a very disturbed and anxious air. "What is the matter?" she asked, and he answered with an account of his interview with Laura. "How strange!" she exclaimed. "Her love for her husband cannot have been very deep and strong, if she is so ready to oppose the carrying out of his dying wishes. But do not let it trouble you, Lester; she is venting her anger in idle threats, and will never proceed to the length of contesting the will in a court of law." "I trust not," he said sighing. "Ah me! if my poor brother had but made a wiser choice." In the library, whither Mrs. Laura Leland bent her steps on her sudden exit from the parlor, Evelyn was sitting in her father's vacant chair, her elbow resting on the table, her cheek in her hand, her eyes on the carpet at her feet, while her sad thoughts travelled back over many an hour spent there in the loved companionship of the dear departed. She looked up inquiringly on her mother's abrupt entrance, and noted with surprise the flush on her cheek and the angry light in her eyes. "Ah, here you are!" said Laura. "Pray, were you let into the secret of the arrangements made in my absence?" "What arrangements, mamma?" asked the little girl wonderingly. "In regard to your guardianship, and the care of the property left by your father." "No, mamma, I never knew or thought anything about those things. Must I have a guardian? Why should I be under the control of anyone but you?" "Yes, why indeed? I would not have believed it of your father! but he has actually left you to the sole guardianship of your Uncle Lester. You may well look astonished," she added, noting the expression of Evelyn's face. "I feel that I am robbed of my natural right in my child." "You need not, mamma; I shall obey you just the same of course, for nothing can release me from the obligation to keep the fifth commandment. So do not, I beg of you, blame papa." With what a quiver of pain the young voice pronounced that loved name! "No; I blame your uncle; for no doubt he used undue influence with Eric while his mind was enfeebled by illness. And I blame myself also for leaving my husband to that influence; but I little thought he was so ill--so near his end; nor did I suspect his brother of being so designing a man." "Mamma, you quite mistake in regard to both," exclaimed Evelyn, in a pained, indignant tone; "Uncle Lester is not a designing person, and papa's mind was not in the least enfeebled by his illness." "No, of course not; it can not be doubted that a child of your age is far more capable of judging than a woman of mine," was the sarcastic rejoinder. "Mamma, please do not speak so unkindly to me," entreated the little girl, unbidden tears springing to her eyes; "you know you are all I have now." "No, you have your dear Uncle Lester and Aunt Elsie, and I foresee that they will soon steal your heart entirely away from your mother." "Mamma, how can you speak such cruel words to me?" cried Evelyn. "I would not hurt you so for all the world." CHAPTER VI. "Farewell; God knows when we shall meet again." SHAKSPEARE. Laura said no more about breaking the will, but her manner toward Lester and Elsie was so cold and repellant that they were not sorry that she shut herself up in her own room during the greater part of each day while they and she remained at Crag Cottage. Had they consulted only their own inclination, they would have taken their own departure immediately after seeing Eric laid in his grave; but Lester's duties as executor and guardian made it necessary for them to stay on for some weeks. The cottage was a part of Evelyn's portion of the estate, but Laura was given the right to make it her home so long as she remained Eric's widow. Laura knew this, having read the will, but as that instrument made no mention of Eric's desire that his daughter should reside with her guardian, she was not aware of that fact; and feeling well nigh certain that it would rouse her anger and opposition, Lester dreaded making the disclosure. But while perplexing himself with the question how best to approach her on the subject, he found among his brother's papers, a sealed letter addressed to her. Calling Evelyn, he put it into her hand, bidding her carry it to her mother. Half an hour later the little girl was again at his side, asking in tearful tones, "Uncle Lester, must mamma and I be separated?" He was in the library, seated before a table, and seemed very busy over a pile of papers laid thereon; but pushing back his chair, he threw his arm round her waist and drew her to his knee. "No, my dear child, not necessarily," he said, softly caressing her hair and cheek; "your mother will be made welcome at Fairview if she sees fit to go with us." "But she wants to stay here and keep me with her; and it's my home, you know, the dear home where everything reminds me of--papa, Will you let me stay?" "Do you really wish it, Evelyn? do you not desire to carry out the dying wishes of the father you loved so dearly?" "Yes, uncle," she said, the tears stealing down her cheeks, "but--perhaps he wouldn't care now, and mamma is so sorely distressed at the thought of separation; and--and it hurts me too; for she is my mother, and I have no father now--or brother, or sister." "You must let me be a father to you, my poor, dear child," he said in moved tones, and drawing her closer; "I will do my utmost to fill his place to you, and I hope you will come to me always with your troubles and perplexities, feeling the same assurance of finding sympathy and help that you did in carrying them to him." "Oh, thank you!" she responded. "I think you are a dear, kind uncle, and very much like papa; you remind me of him very often in your looks, and words and ways." "I am glad to hear you say so," he answered. "I had a great admiration for that dear brother, and for his sake as well as her own, I am very fond of his little daughter. And now about this question. I shall not compel your obedience to your father's wishes--at least not for the present--but shall leave the decision to your own heart and conscience. Take a day or two to think over the matter, and then let me hear your decision. "In the meantime, if you can persuade your mamma to go with us to Fairview, that will make it all smooth and easy for you." "Thank you, dear uncle," she said, as he released her and turned to his work again, "I will go now and try what I can do to induce mamma to accept your kind invitation. And please excuse me for interrupting you when you were so busy." "I am never too busy to attend to you, Evelyn," he returned in a kindly tone; "come freely to me whenever you will." Crossing the hall, Evelyn noticed the carriage of an intimate friend of her mother drawn up before the entrance. "Mrs. Lang must be calling on mamma," she said to herself; and pausing near the half-open parlor door, she saw them sitting side by side on a sofa, conversing in earnest, through subdued tones. The call proved a long one. Evelyn waited with what patience she might, vainly trying to interest herself in a book; her thoughts much too full of her own near future to admit of her doing so. At last Mrs. Lang took her departure, and Evelyn, following her mother into her bedroom, gave a detailed account of her late interview with her uncle. "Mamma dear, you will go with us, will you not?" she concluded persuasively. "No, I shall not!" was the angry rejoinder. "Spend weeks and months in a dull country place, with no more enlivening society than that of your uncle and aunt? indeed, no! You will have to choose between them and me; if you love them better than you do your own mother, elect, by all means, to forsake me and go with them." "Mamma," remonstrated poor Evelyn, tears of wounded feeling in her eyes, "it is not a question of loving you or them best, but of obeying my father's dying wish." For a moment Mrs. Leland seemed to be silently musing; then she said, "I withdraw my request, Evelyn. I have decided upon new plans for myself, and should prefer to have you go with your uncle. You needn't look hurt, child; I'm sure it is what you have seemed to desire." "Mamma," said the little girl, going up to her, standing by the side of her easy-chair, and gazing down beseechingly into her eyes, "why will you persist in speaking so doubtfully of my love for you? It hurts me, mamma; it almost breaks my heart; especially now that you are all I have left." "Well there, you need not fret; of course I know you must have some natural affection for your mother," returned Laura carelessly. "Here, sit down on this stool at my feet, and you shall hear about my change of plans. "Mrs. Lang called to tell me they are going to Europe--will sail in a fortnight--and to ask me to accompany them; and I have accepted the invitation. You were included in it also, but I shall have less care if I leave you behind; and though I have always intended that you should have the trip some day, I think it much the wiser plan to defer it for a few years till you are old enough to appreciate and make the best use of all its advantages. "Beside, your uncle being your guardian, his consent would have to be gained, and I have no mind to stoop to ask it." "Mamma, I am satisfied to stay," said Evelyn; "I should be very loath to add to your cares, or lessen in any way your enjoyment." It was with no slight feeling of relief that Lester and Elsie heard of this new determination on the part of their sister-in-law; for her behavior toward them thus far had been such as to make her presence in their home anything but desirable. With an aching heart Evelyn watched and aided in the preparations for her mother's departure, which would take place some weeks earlier than her own and that of her uncle and aunt. But naturally quiet and undemonstrative, she usually kept her feelings locked up within her own breast, and in consequence was sometimes accused by her mother of being cold-hearted and indifferent. Yet, as the day of separation drew near, Laura grew more affectionate toward her child than she had ever been before. That was joy to Evelyn, but made the parting more bitter when it came. Mother and child wept in each other's arms, and Evelyn whispered with a bursting sob, "O mamma, if you would only give it up and go with us!" "Nonsense, child! it is quite too late for that now," returned Laura, giving her a last embrace and hurrying into the carriage which was to convey her to the depot; for she was to travel by rail to New York City, and there take the steamer for Europe. Lester went with her to the city, to see her safe on board the vessel, leaving his wife and child behind. Elsie's tender heart was full of pity for Evelyn--robbed of both parents, and left lonely and forlorn. "Dear child, be comforted," she said, embracing her tenderly, as the carriage disappeared from sight down the drive, "you have not departed from your best Friend. 'When my father and mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.' "And be assured your uncle and I will do all in our power to make you happy. I am not old enough to be a mother to you, but let me be as an older sister. "And I will share my dear mother with you," she added with a sweet, bright smile. "Everybody loves mamma, and she has a heart big enough to mother all the motherless children with whom she comes in contact." "Thank you, dear Aunt Elsie," Evelyn responded, smiling through her tears, then hastily wiping them away; "I am sure I shall love your mamma and be very grateful if she will count me among her children while my own mamma is so far away. Sure too, that I shall be as happy with you and Uncle Lester as I could be anywhere without papa." "I hope so, indeed," Elsie said; "and that you will find pleasant companions in the Ion young people. Both my sister Rose and Lulu Raymond must be near your age; you probably come in between them." "And I suppose they are very nice girls?" remarked Evelyn, inquiringly." "_I_ think they are," said Elsie; "they have their faults like the rest of us, but many good qualities too." Desirous to divert Evelyn's thoughts from her sorrows, Elsie went on to give a lively description of Ion, and a slight sketch of the character and appearance of each member of the family, doing full justice to every good trait and touching but lightly upon faults and failings. Evelyn proving an interested listener. Fairview and then Viamede came under a similar review, and Elsie told the story of her mother's birth and her infant years passed in that lovely spot. After that of her honeymoon and of the visits paid by the family in later days. "What a very sweet lady your mamma must be, Aunt Elsie," Evelyn remarked in a pause in the narrative; "I am glad I shall see and know her." "Yes, dear; you well may be," Elsie responded with a happy smile; "'none knew her but to love her,' none can live in her constant companionship without finding it one of the greatest blessings of their lives." "I think you must resemble her, auntie," said Evelyn, with an affectionate, admiring look into Elsie's bright, sweet face." "It is my desire to do so," she answered, flushing with pleasure. "My dear, precious mother! I could hardly bear to leave her, Eva, even for your uncle's sake." "But I am very glad you did," quickly returned the little girl. "I am so glad to have you for my aunt." "Thank you, dear," was the pleased rejoinder. "I have never regretted my choice, or felt ashamed of having gone all the way to Italy to join my sick and suffering betrothed and become his wife, that I might nurse him back to health." "Oh, did you?" exclaimed Evelyn, looking full of interest and delight, "please tell me the whole story, won't you? I should so like to hear it." Elsie willingly complied with the request, and it would be difficult to say which enjoyed the story most--she who told it, or she who listened. "I think you were brave, and kind and good, Aunt Elsie," was Evelyn's comment when the tale was told. "I had a strong motive--the saving of a life dearer to me than my own," Elsie responded, half absently, as if her thoughts were busy with the past. Both were silent for a little, Evelyn gazing with mournful eyes upon the lovely grounds and beautiful scenery about her home. "Aunt Elsie," she said at length, "do you know what is to be done with the house while mamma and I are away? If it should be left long unoccupied it will fall into decay, and the grounds become a wilderness of weeds." "Your mother suggested having it rented just as it stands--ready furnished," replied Elsie; "but she feared--as do we also--that strangers might abuse the property; then, as I thought it over, it occurred to me that we might rent it ourselves for a summer residence; and when away from it, leave it in charge of Patrick and his wife, who have no children to do mischief, and who have lived so long in the family--so your mother told us--that their character for trustworthiness is well established." "Yes, indeed it is!" said Evelyn; "and that seems to me the best plan that could possibly be devised except that--" "Well dear, except what?" Elsie asked pleasantly, as the little girl paused without finishing her sentence. "I fear it will be a great expense to you and Uncle," was the half-hesitating reply, "and that you will get but little good of it, being so far away nearly all the year." "You are very thoughtful for one so young," said Elsie in surprise. "It is because papa talked so much with me about his affairs, and the uses of money, the difficulty of earning and keeping it, and the best ways of economising. He said he wanted to teach me how to take care of myself, if ever I were left alone in the world." "That was wise and kind," said Elsie; "and I think you must have paid good attention to his teachings. But about the expense we shall incur in making the proposed arrangement: there is a large family of us, and I do not doubt that we shall have help with both the use of the house and the paying of the rent." "And your mamma is very rich I've heard." remarked Evelyn half inquiringly. "Very rich and very generous," returned her aunt. "Are we to leave soon? and to go directly to your home?" asked Evelyn. "It will be probably several weeks before your uncle can get everything arranged, and then he wants to spend some time sketching the scenery about Lake George and among the Adirondacks," replied Elsie; "and we are to go with him. Shall you like it?" "Oh, yes indeed!" Evelyn exclaimed, her face lighting up with pleasure, then with gathering tears and in low, tremulous tones, "Papa had promised to take me to both places some day," she said. CHAPTER VII. FAIRVIEW AND ION. It had been a cloudy afternoon and the rain began to fall as, shortly after sunset, the Lelands left the cars for the Fairview family carriage. "A dismal home-coming for you, my love," remarked Lester, as the coachman closed the door on them and mounted to his perch again. "Oh, no!" returned Elsie brightly, "the rain is needed, and we are well sheltered from it. Yet I fear it maybe dismal to Evelyn; but, my dear child, try to keep up your spirits; it does not always rain in this part of the country." "Oh, no! of course not, auntie," said the little girl, with a low laugh of amusement; "and I should not want to live here if it did not rain sometimes." "I should think not, indeed," said her uncle. "Well, Eva, we will hope the warmth of your welcome will atone to you for the inclemency of the weather." "Yes," said Elsie, "we want you to feel that it is a home-coming to you as well as to us." "Thank you both very much," murmured Evelyn, her voice a little broken with the thought of her orphaned condition; "I shall try to deserve your great kindness." "We have done nothing yet to call for so strong an expression of gratitude, Eva," remarked her uncle in a lively tone. In kitchen and dining-room at Fairview great preparations were going forward; in the one a table was laid, with the finest satin damask, glittering silver, cut-glass and china; in the other sounds and scents told of a coming "feast of fat things." "Clar to goodness! ef it ain't a pourin' down like de clouds was a wantin' for to drownd Miss Elsie an' de rest!" exclaimed a young mulatto girl, coming in from a back veranda, whence she had been taking an observation of the weather; "an' its that dark, Aunt Kitty, yo' couldn't see yo' hand afo' yo' face." "Hope Uncle Cuff keep de road and don't upset de kerridge," returned Aunt Kitty, the cook, opening her oven-door to glance at a fine young fowl browning beautifully there, and sending forth a most savory smell. "He'd larf at de wery idear of upsettin' dat vehicle, he would, kase he tinks dar ain't nobody else knows de road ekal to hisself; but den 'taint always de folks what makes de biggest boastin' dat kin do de best; am it now, Lizzie?" "No, I reckon 'taint, Aunt Kitty; but doan you be a prognosticatin' ob evil and skearin' folks out deir wits fo' de fac's am 'stablished." "An' ain't gwine fo' to be 'stablished," put in another voice; "'spose de family been trabling roun' de worl' to come back an' git harm right afo' deir own do'? 'Co'se not." "Hark! dere dey is dis bressed minit', I hear de soun' o' de wheels and de hosses' feet," exclaimed Aunt Kitty, slamming to her oven-door, laying down the spoon with which she had been basting her fowl, and hastily exchanging her dark cotton apron for a white one. She brought up the rear of the train of servants gathering in the hall to welcome their master and mistress. A glad welcome it was; for both Lester and Elsie were greatly beloved by their dependents; and Evelyn, too, came in for a share of the hand-shakings, the "God bless yous," and was assured again and again that she was welcome to Fairview. "Well, Aunt Kitty, I suppose you have one of your excellent suppers ready for us hungry travelers?" remarked Mr. Leland interrogatively, as he divested himself of his duster. "I'se done de wery bes' I knows, sah," she answered, dropping a courtesy and smiling all over her face. "Eberyting am done to a turn, an' I hopes you, sah, and de ladies mos' ready to eat afo' de tings get spoiled." "We won't keep your supper waiting many minutes, Aunt Kitty," said her mistress pleasantly. "Myra take the baby to the nursery. Evelyn, my dear, we will go up stairs and I will show you your room." Reaching the second floor, Elsie led the way into a spacious, luxuriously-furnished apartment. "This is your room, Eva," she said. "It is just across the hall from your uncle's and mine; so I hope you will not feel lonely or timid. But if anything should alarm you at any time, come to our door and call to us." "Thank you, dear Aunt Elsie. Such a beautiful room as it is!" exclaimed Evelyn. "How very kind you and Uncle Lester are to me!" There was a little tremble of emotion in the child's voice as she spoke. Elsie put her arms lovingly about her. "Dear child," she said, "how could we be otherwise? We want you to feel that this is truly your own home, and to be very happy in it." "I could not be so happy with any one else as with you and uncle," returned the little girl, with a sigh to the memory of the father she had loved so well. "And to-morrow you shall see what a sweet home this is," Elsie said, releasing her with a kiss. "Now we must hasten to make ourselves ready for supper. A change of dress will not be necessary. There will be no company tonight, and your uncle would prefer seeing us in our traveling dresses to having his meal spoiled by waiting." Evelyn went to sleep that night to the music of the dashing of the rain upon the windows, but woke next morning to find the sun shining brightly in a deep blue sky wherein soft, fleecy white clouds were floating. She drew aside the window curtain to take a peep at the surroundings of her new home. Lawn, shrubbery, flower garden, while larger than those at Crag Cottage, were quite as well kept; neatness and order, beauty and fragrance made them so attractive that Evelyn was tempted to a stroll while waiting for the call to breakfast. She stole softly down the stairs, thinking her aunt and uncle might be still sleeping, but found the latter on the veranda, pacing to and fro with meditative air. "Ah, good morning, little maid!" he said in a kindly tone. "I hope you slept well and feel refreshed?" "Yes, uncle, thank you," she returned. "Don't you enjoy being at home again after your long absence?" "I do, indeed!" he answered; "there is no place like home, is there? This is your home, too, now, Eva." "Yes, sir," a little sadly. "You and Aunt Elsie are home to me now, almost as papa used to be in the dear old days; and perhaps I shall learn to love Fairview as well as I do Crag Cottage. May I go into the garden, uncle?" "Yes, I will take you with pleasure. Your shoes are thick I see," glancing down at them, "and that is well; for the walks may be a little damp." He led her about, calling her attention to one and another rare plant or flower in garden and green-house, and gathering a bouquet of beautiful and fragrant blossoms for her, then one for his wife. Elsie joined them on the veranda as they came in at the summons to breakfast, and Lester presented his flowers, claiming a kiss in return. "Help yourself," she said laughingly; "and many thanks for your flowers. And now shall we go in to breakfast? we are a little late this morning." "Ah, our mail is already here, I see," Lester remarked, as they entered the breakfast-room. "I will open the bag while you pour the coffee, my dear, hoping to find a letter for each of us." "I think there should be one for me," remarked Evelyn, watching her uncle with wistful, longing eyes as he took out the letters and glanced over the addresses; "for I have heard but once from mamma since she went away." "Twice now," her uncle said with a pleased smile, as he handed her the longed-for missive. "You, too, hear from your mother this morning, my dear; and from several other friends. Here, Jane," to the servant girl in waiting, "hand these to your mistress." "And here is a cup of coffee to reward you; mamma's letter alone is worth it," responded Elsie gaily, lifting the letters from the silver waiter on which they lay, and setting there, in their stead, a delicate china cup from whose steaming contents a delicious aroma greeted the nostrils. "I must just peep into mamma's to see when we may expect them home," she added, breaking open its envelope; "the rest will keep till after breakfast." "When was Aunt Wealthy's birthday?" queried her husband. "Yesterday," she answered with her eyes on the letter. "Ah! Ned and Zoe start this morning for home. The rest will stay a week or so longer, and our cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Keith, and their daughter, Annis, will soon follow with the expectation of spending the winter as mamma's guests." "Will you excuse me, Aunt Elsie, if I open my letter now just for a peep?" asked Evelyn with a slight shy smile. "No, my dear, certainly not; as I never do the like myself, but always wait patiently till the meal is over," returned the young aunt with playful irony. "Then I'll have to ask uncle or do it without permission," said Evelyn, blushing and laughing. "Hark to the answer coming from the chicken yard," said her uncle facetiously, as the loud crow of a cock broke in upon their talk. "I fail to catch your meaning, uncle," said Evelyn, with another blush and smile. "Listen!" he answered, "he will speak again presently, and tell me if he doesn't say, 'Mistress rules here.' Some one has so interpreted it, and, I think, correctly. "Oh," exclaimed Evelyn, laughing; "then, of course, it is of no use to appeal from auntie's decisions." "No, even I generally do as I am bid," he remarked gravely. "And I almost always," said Elsie. "Eva, would you like to drive over to Ion with me this morning?" "Very much indeed, Aunt Elsie," was the prompt and pleased reply. "Mamma wishes me to carry the news of the expected arrival of my brother and his wife, and to see that all is in order for their reception," Elsie went on. "And am I to be entirely neglected in your invitation?" asked her husband, in a tone of deep pretended disappointment and chagrin. "Your company will be most acceptable, Mr. Leland, if you will favor us with it," was the gay rejoinder. "Baby shall go, too; an airing will do him good; and beside, mammy will want to see him." "Of course; for she looks upon him as a sort of great-grand child, does she not?" said Lester. "Either that or great-great," returned Elsie lightly. "Who is mammy?" asked Evelyn. "Mamma's old nurse, who had the care of her from her birth--indeed, and of her mother also--and has nursed each one of us in turn. Of course, we are all devotedly attached to her and she to us. Aunt Chloe is what she is called by those who are not her nurslings." "She must be very, very old, I should think," observed Evelyn. "She is," said Elsie, and very infirm. No one knows her exact age, but she cannot be much, if any younger than Aunt Wealthy, who has just passed her hundredth birthday; and I believe her to be, in fact, somewhat older." "How I should like to see her!" exclaimed Evelyn. "I hope to give you that pleasure to-day," responded Elsie. "Until very recently she always accompanied mamma--no, I mistake; she staid behind once; it was when Lilly was taken North as a last hope of saving her dear life. Papa and mamma thought best to take me and the baby along, and to leave mammy behind in charge of the other children. "This summer she was too feeble to leave Ion; so we shall find her there. In deep sorrow too, no doubt; for her old husband, Uncle Joe, died a few weeks since." "Eva must hear their story one of these days," remarked Mr. Leland; "it is very interesting." "Yes; and some of it very sad; that which occurred before mamma's visit to Viamede, after she had attained her majority. That visit was the dawn of brighter days to them. I will tell you the whole story, Eva, some time when we are sitting quietly together at our needlework, if you will remind me." "For what hour will you have the carriage ordered, my dear?" Lester asked, as they left the table. "Ten, if you please," she answered. "I hope you will go with us?" "I shall do so with pleasure," he said. "It is a lovely morning for a drive; the rain has laid the dust and the air is just cool enough to be bracing." Evelyn was on the veranda, gazing about her with a thoughtful air. "Well, lassie, what think you of Fairview?" asked her uncle, coming to her side. "I like it," she answered emphatically. "Didn't something happen here, uncle, in the time of the Ku-Klux raids? I seem to have heard there did." "Yes; a coffin, with a threatening notice attached, was laid at the gate yonder one night. My uncle owned, and lived on, the place at that time, and by reason of his northern birth and Republican sentiments, was obnoxious to the members of the klan." "And it was he they were threatening?" "Yes. They afterward attacked the place, wounded and drove him into the woods, but were held at bay and finally driven off by the gallant defence of her home made by my aunt, assisted by her son, then quite a young boy. "But get Elsie to tell you the story; she can do it far better than I; especially as she was living at Ion at that time, and though a mere child, has still a vivid recollection of all the circumstances." "Yes," Elsie said, "including the attacks upon Ion--first the quarter, when they burnt the schoolhouse, and afterward the mansion--and several sad scenes connected with them." "How interesting to hear all about them from an eye-witness," exclaimed Evelyn. "I am eager to have you begin, Aunt Elsie." "Perhaps I may be able to do so this evening," returned her aunt; "but now I must give my orders for the day, and then it will be time for our drive." "What does your mamma say?" asked Lester of Evelyn, when Elsie had left them alone together. "Not very much that I care for, uncle," sighed the little girl. "She's in good health, but very tired of foreign cookery; wishes she could have such a breakfast every morning as she has been accustomed to at home. Still she enjoys the sights, and thinks it may be a year, or longer, before she gets back. She describes some of the places, and paintings and statuary she has seen; but that part of the letter I have not read yet." "Do you wish you were with her, Eva?" he asked, smoothing her hair as she stood by his side, and gazing down affectionately into her eyes. "No, uncle; I should like to see mamma, of course, but at present I like this quiet home far better than going about among crowds of strange people." He looked pleased. "I am glad you are content," he said. Elsie was full of life and gayety as they set out upon their drive. Her husband remarked it with pleasure. "Yes," she said lightly, "it is so nice to be going back to my old, childhood's home after so long an absence; to see mammy, too--dear old mammy! And yet it will hardly seem like home either, without mamma." "No," he responded; "and it is quite delightful to look forward to having her there again in a week or two." They had turned in at the great gates leading into the avenue, and presently Elsie, glancing eagerly toward the house, exclaimed with delight, "Ah, there is mammy on the veranda! watching for our coming, no doubt. She knew we were expected at Fairview yesterday, and that I would not be long in finding my way to Ion." Evelyn, looking out also, perceived a bent and shriveled form, seated in an arm-chair, leaning forward, its two dusky hands clasping a stout cane, and its chin resting on the top. As the carriage drew up before the entrance, the figure rose slowly and stiffly, and with the aid of the cane hobbled across the veranda to meet them. "Bress de Lawd!" it cried, in accents tremulous with age and excitement, "it's one ob my chillens, sho' nuff; it's Miss Elsie!" "Yes, mammy, it is I; and very glad I am to see you," responded Mrs. Leland, hurrying up the veranda steps and throwing Her arms about the feeble, trembling form. "Poor old mammy," she said, tenderly; "you are not so strong as you used to be." "No, darlin', yo' ole mammy's mos' at de brink ob de riber; de cold watahs ob Jordan soon be creepin' up roun' her ole feet." "But you are not afraid, mammy?" Elsie said, tears trembling in her sweet, soft eyes, so like her mother's. "No, chile, no; for Ise got fas' hold ob de Master's hand, and He holds me tight; de waves can't go ober my head, kase He bought me wid his own precious blood and I b'longs to Him; and He always takes care ob his own chillens." "Yes, Aunt Chloe," Lester said, taking one withered hand in his, as Elsie withdrew herself from her embrace, and turned aside to wipe away a tear, "His purchased ones are safe for time and for eternity. "'The Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory.'" "Dat's so, sah; grace to lib by, an' grace to die by, den glory wid Him in heaben! Ole Uncle Joe done 'speriencin' dat now; an' byme-by dis chile be wid him dar." "Who dis?" she asked, catching sight of Evelyn standing by her side and regarding her with tearful eyes. "My niece, Evelyn Leland, Aunt Chloe," answered Lester. "She has heard of you, and wanted to see you." "God bless you, honey," Chloe said, taking the little girl's hand in her's, and regarding her with a look of kindly interest. But the other servants had come flocking to the veranda as the news of the arrival passed from lip to lip; and now they crowded about Lester and Elsie eager to shake their hands and bid them welcome home again, mingling with their rejoicings and congratulations many inquiries about their loved mistress--her mother--and the other absent members of the family. And here, as at Fairview, Evelyn received her full share of pleased attention. Elsie delivered her mother's messages and directions, and taking Evelyn with her, went through the house to see that all was in order for the reception of her brother and his wife, then sat down in the veranda for a chat with "mammy" before returning to Fairview. "Mammy, dear," she said interrogatively, "you are not grieving very much for Uncle Joe?" "No, chile, no; he's in dat bressed land whar dah no mo' misery in de back, in de head, in any part ob de body; an' no mo' sin, no mo' sorrow, no mo' dyin', no mo' tears fallin' down the cheeks, no mo' trouble any kin'." "But don't you miss him very much, Aunt Chloe?" asked Evelyn softly, her voice tremulous with the thought of her own beloved dead, and how sorely she felt his absence. "Yes, chile, sho I does, but 'twont be for long; Ise so ole and weak, dat I knows Ise mos' dar, mos' dar!" The black, wrinkled face uplifted to the sky, almost shone with glad expectancy, and the dim, sunken eyes grew bright for an instant with hope and joy. Then turning them upon Evelyn, and, for the first time, taking note of her deep mourning, "Po' chile," she said, in tender, pitying tones, "yo's loss somebody dat yo' near kin?" Evelyn nodded, her heart too full for speech, and Elsie said softly, "Her dear father has gone to be forever with the Lord, in the blessed, happy land you have been speaking of, mammy." "Bressed, happy man!" ejaculated the aged saint, again lifting her face heavenward, "an' bressed happy chile dat has de great an' mighty God for her father; kase de good book say, He is de father of de fatherless." A momentary hush fell upon the little group. Then Mr. Leland, who had been looking into the condition of field and garden, as his wife into that of the house, joined them and suggested that this would be a good time and place for the telling of the story Eva had been asking for; especially as, in Aunt Chloe, they had a second eye-witness. Elsie explained to her what was wanted. "Ah, chillens, dat was a terrible time," returned the old woman, sighing and shaking her head. "Yes, mammy," assented Elsie; "you remember it well?" "Deed I does, chile;" and rousing with the recollection into almost youthful excitement and energy, she plunged into the story, telling it in a graphic way that enchained her listeners, though to two of them it was not new, and one occasionally assisted her memory or supplied a missing link in the chain of circumstances.[A] [Footnote A: For the details of this story, see "Elsie's Motherhood."] CHAPTER VIII. "Next stood hypocrisy, with holy leer, Soft smiling and demurely looking down, But hid the dagger underneath the gown." --DRYDEN. While old mammy told her story to her three listeners in the veranda at Ion, a train was speeding southward, bearing Edward and Zoe on their homeward way. Zoe, in charmingly becoming and elegant traveling attire, her fond young husband by her side, ready to anticipate every wish and gratify it if in his power, was extremely comfortable, and found great enjoyment, now in chatting gaily with him, now sitting silent by his side watching the flying panorama of forest and prairie, hill, valley, rock, river and plain. At length her attention was attracted to something going on within the car. "Tickets!" cried the conductor, passing down the aisle, "Tickets!" Edward handed out his own and his wife's. They were duly punched and given back. The conductor moved on, repeating his call, "Tickets?" Up to this moment Zoe had scarcely noticed who occupied the seat immediately behind herself and Edward, but now turning her head, she saw there two young women of pleasing appearance, evidently foreigners. Both were looking anxiously up at the conductor who held their tickets in his hand. "You are on the wrong road," he was saying; "these are through-tickets for Utah." "What does he say? something is wrong?" asked the younger of the two girls, addressing her companion in Danish. "I do not understand, Alma," replied the other, speaking in the same tongue. "Ah, did we but know English! I do not understand, sir; I do not know one word you say," she repeated with a hopeless shake of the head, addressing the conductor. "Do you know what she says, sir?" asked the man, turning to Edward. "From her looks and gestures it is evident that she does not understand English," replied Edward, "and I think that is what she says. Suppose you try her with German." "Can't, sir; speak no language but my mother tongue. Perhaps you will do me the favor to act as interpreter?" "With pleasure;" and addressing the young woman, Edward asked in German if she spoke that language. She answered with an eager affirmative; and he went on to explain that the ticket she had offered the conductor would not pay her fare on that road; then asked where she wished to go. "To Utah, sir," she said. "Is not this the road to take us there?" "No, we are traveling south, and Utah lies toward the northwest; very far west." "O sir, what shall we do?" she exclaimed in distress. "Will they stop the cars and let us out?" "Not just here; the conductor says you can get off at the next station and wait there for a train going back to Cincinnati; it seems it must have been there you made the mistake and left your proper route, and there you can recover it." She sat silent, looking sadly bewildered and distressed. "I feel very sorry for you," said Zoe kindly, speaking in German; "we would be glad to help you, and if you like to tell us your story, my husband may be able to advise you what to do." "I am sure you are kind and good, dear lady, both you and the gentleman, and I will gladly tell you all," was the reply, after a moment's hesitation; and in a few rapid sentences she explained that she and Alma, her younger sister, had been left orphaned and destitute in Norway, their native land, and after a hard struggle of several months had fallen in with a Mormon missionary, who gave them glowing accounts of Utah, telling them it was the paradise of the poor; that if they would go with him and become members of the Mormon Church, land would be given them, their poverty and hard toil would become a thing of the past, and they would live in blissful enjoyment among the Latter-day Saints, where rich and poor were treated alike--as neighbors and friends. She said that at first they could scarce endure the thought of leaving their dear, native land; but so bright was the picture drawn by the Mormon, that at length they decided to go with him. They gathered up their few possessions, bade a tearful farewell to old neighbors and friends, and set sail for America in company with between two and three hundred other Mormon converts. Their expectation was to travel all the way to Salt Lake City in the company; but, as they neared the end of the voyage, Alma fell ill, and when they landed was so entirely unfit for travel that they were compelled to remain behind for several weeks, and at an expense that so rapidly diminished their small store of money that when, at last, they set out on their long journey across the country, they were almost literally penniless. They had, however, the through-ticket to Utah--which the Mormon missionary had made them buy before leaving them, and knowing no choice, and believing all his wily misrepresentations, they rejoiced in its possession as the passport to an earthly paradise. "But we have lost our way," concluded Christine, with a look of distress, "and how are we to find it? how make sure of not again straying from the right path? Kind sir, can you, will you, give us some advice? Could I in any way earn the money to pay for our travel on this road? I know how to work, and I am strong and willing." Edward mused a moment, then said, "We will consider that question presently; but let us first have a little more talk. "Ah, what can be the matter?" he exclaimed in English, starting up to glance from the window; for the train had come to a sudden standstill in a bit of woods where there seemed no occasion for stopping. "What is wrong?" he asked of a man hurrying by toward the engine. "A wreck ahead, sir," was the reply. Every man in the car had risen from his seat, and was hastening to alight and view the scene of the disaster. "Oh, Ned, is there any danger?" asked Zoe. "No, dear, I think not. You won't mind if I leave you for a moment to learn how long we are likely to be detained here?" "No, I won't, if you promise to be careful not to get into danger," she said, with some hesitation; and he hurried after the others. Alma and Christine, looking pale and anxious, asked Zoe what was the matter. She explained that there had been an accident--collision of cars--and that the broken fragments were lying on the track, and would have to be cleared away before their train could go on. Then Edward came back with the news that there would be a detention of an hour or more. Zoe uttered a slight exclamation of impatience. "Let us not grumble, little wife," he said, cheerily, "but be thankful that things are no worse. And, do you know, I trust it will prove to have been a good providence; inasmuch as it gives us an opportunity to make an effort to rescue these poor dupes from the Mormon net." "Oh, yes," she said, her countenance brightening; "I do hope so! Let us tell them all about it, and try to persuade them not to go to Utah." "I shall do my best," he said; then addressing Christine again--in German as before--you tell me what are the teachings of Mormonism, according to your missionary?" "They believe the Bible," she answered; "they preach the gospel of Christ as the Bible teaches it; else how could I have listened to him? how consented to go with him? for I know the Bible is God's word, and that there can be no salvation out of Christ." "Did he not tell you that they teach and practice polygamy?" "No, sir; no indeed! It surely cannot be true?" "I am sorry to say it is only too true," said Edward, "that the Mormon priesthood do both teach and practice it. One of them, Orson Pratt, in a sermon preached August 29, 1852, said: 'The Latter-day Saints have embraced the doctrine of a plurality of wives as a part of their religious faith. It is incorporated as a part of our religion, and necessary for our exaltation to the fullness of the Lord's glory in the eternal world.'" Christine looked inexpressibly shocked. "Oh, sir, are you quite sure of it?" she cried. "Not a word of such a doctrine was spoken to us. Had it been we would never have set out for Utah." "It is a well-established fact," replied Edward; "and it is well known also that they conceal this doctrine from those whom they wish to catch in their net; to them they exalt the Bible and Christ; but when the poor dupes reach their promised paradise, and are unable to escape, they find the Bible kicked into a corner, the book of Mormon substituted for it, and Joe Smith exalted above the Lord Jesus Christ." "Dreadful!" exclaimed Christine. Alma too looked greatly shocked. "But women may remain single if they choose?" she said, inquiringly. "No, indeed!" replied Edward; "Mormon theology teaches that those who are faithful Mormons, living up to their privileges, and having a plurality of wives will be kings in the celestial world, and their wives queens; while those who have but one wife--though they will reach heaven, if they are faithful to the priesthood and in paying tithes--will not have a place of honor there; and those who are not married at all will be slaves to the polygamists. "For this reason, among others, they desire to have many wives, and will have them, willing or unwilling. "They send their missionaries abroad to recruit the Mormon ranks and supply wives for those who want them. "The missionaries procure photographs of the single women whom they have persuaded to embrace Mormonism, and these are sent on in advance of the parties of emigrants. The Mormon men who want wives are then invited to look at the photographs and select for themselves. "They do so, and when the train comes in, bringing the originals of the pictures, they are there to meet it; each man seizes the girl he has chosen by photograph, and drags her away, often shrieking for help, which no one gives. I have this on the testimony of an eyewitness, a minister of the Presbyterian Church, who has lived for years in Utah." Alma grasped her sister's arm, her cheek paling, her eyes wild with affright. "Oh, Christine! you know he has our likenesses; you know we gave them to him, suspecting no harm. Oh, what shall we do?" "Be calm, sister; God has preserved us from that dreadful fate," said Christine, with quivering lips. "I know not what is to become of us, penniless in a strange land, but we will never go there; no not if we starve to death." "You need not do that," exclaimed Zoe; "no one who is willing to work need starve in this good land; and my husband and I will befriend you, and find you employment." "Oh, thanks, dear lady!" cried the sisters in a breath; "it is all we ask; we are able and willing to work." "What can you do?" asked Edward; "what were you expecting to do in Utah?" "We were to have some land," said Christine; that was the promise, and we thought to raise vegetables and fruits; fowls, too, and perhaps bees; but we can cook, wash the clothes, keep the house clean, spin, and weave, and sew." "Oh," said Zoe, "if you know how to do all those things well, there will be no trouble in finding employment for you." "But where, dear lady?" Christine asked with hesitation. "We have no money to pay our way to travel far; we must find the work near at hand, or not at all." Zoe gave her husband a look, half inquiring half entreating; but he seemed lost in thought, and did not see it. He was anxious to help these poor strangers, yet without wounding the pride of independence, which he perceived and respected. Presently he spoke. "My wife and I live at some distance from here; we are not acquainted in this vicinity, but know there is plenty of such work as you want in our own. If you like, I will advance your travelling expenses, and engage to find employment for you; and you can repay the advance when it suits you." The generous offer was accepted with deep gratitude. The detention of their train lasted some time longer, and presently the talk about Mormonism was renewed. It was Alma who began it, by asking if a Mormon's first wife was always willing that he should take a second. "Oh, no, no!" Zoe exclaimed; "how could she be?" "No," said Edward; "but she is considered very wicked if she refuses her consent, or even ventures upon a remonstrance. "One day a Mormon and his family, consisting of one wife and several children, were seated about their table taking a meal, when the husband remarked that he thought of taking a second wife. "His lawful wife--the mother of his children sitting there--objected. Upon that he rose from his seat, went to her, and, holding her head, deliberately cut her throat from ear to ear." "And was executed for it?" asked Christine, while she shuddered with horror." "No," said Edward; "he was promoted by the Mormon priesthood to a higher place in the church, as one who had done a praiseworthy deed." "Murder a praiseworthy deed!" they cried in astonishment and indignation. "How could that be?" "They have a doctrine that they call 'blood-atonement,'" replied Edward. "Daring to teach, contrary to the express declarations of Scripture, that the blood of Christ is insufficient to atone for all sin, they assert that for some sins the blood of the sinner himself must be shed or he will never attain to eternal life, and that therefore it is a worthy deed to slay him. "That terrible, wicked doctrine has been made the excuse for many assassinations, and was the ground for not only excusing the horrible crime of which I have just told you, but for also rewarding the wretched criminal. "Polygamy is bad enough--especially as instances are not wanting of a man being married at the same time to a mother and her daughters, or several sisters, and in at least one instance to mother, daughter, and granddaughter; and Mormon theology teaches, too, that a man may lawfully marry his own sister. Yet it is not the worst of their crimes; we have it upon the testimony of credible witnesses--Christian citizens of Salt Lake City--that their temples and tithing-houses are 'built up by extortion and cemented with the blood of men, women, and children whose only offence was that they were not in sympathy with the unrighteous decrees of this usurping priesthood.' And 'that all manner of social abominations and domestic horrors, and mutilations, and blood-atonings, and assassinations and massacres have been perpetrated in the name and by the authority of the Mormon priesthood.'" "Oh, sir, how very dreadful!" exclaimed Christine. "Are they not afraid of the judgments of God against such fearfully wicked deeds?" "It seems not," said Edward. "The Bible speaks of some whose consciences are seared as with a hot iron." "But why is such terrible wickedness and oppression allowed by your government?" "There you have asked a question that many of our own people are asking, and which is difficult to answer without bringing a heavy charge against our law-makers at Washington; a charge of gross neglect, whether induced by bribery or not I do not pretend to decide." "But it makes us blush for the honor of the land we love!" cried Zoe, with heightened color and flashing eyes. CHAPTER IX. "Heaven gives us friends." The train moved on, and Zoe settled herself back in her seat with a contented sigh; it was so nice to think of soon being at home again after months of absence. She had grown to love Ion very much, and she was charmed with the idea of being mistress of the household for the week or two that was to elapse before the return of the rest of the family. But she was greatly interested in the Norwegian girls, and presently began to occupy herself with plans for their benefit. Edward watched her furtively, quite amused at the unwonted gravity of her countenance. "What, may I ask, is the subject of your meditations, little woman?" he inquired, with a laughing look into her face, as the train came to a momentary standstill at a country station. One might suppose, from your exceeding grave and preoccupied air, that you were engaged in settling the affairs of the nation." "No, no, my load of care is somewhat lighter than that, Mr. Travilla," she returned with mock seriousness. "It is those poor girls I am thinking of, and what employment can be found for them." "Well, what is the conclusion arrived at? or is there none as yet?" "I think--I am nearly sure, indeed--that if they are really expert needlewomen, we can find plenty for them to do in our own family connection; five families of us, you know." "Five?" "Yes: Ion, Fairview, The Laurels, The Oaks, and Roselands." "Ah, yes; and it must take an immense amount of sewing to provide all the changes of raiment desired by the ladies and children," he remarked laughingly. "So that matter may be considered arranged, and my little wife freed from care." "No, I have yet to consider how they are to be conveyed from the city to Ion, and what I am to do with them when I get them there. Mamma will not be there to direct, you know." "The first question is easily settled; I shall hire a hack for their use. As to the other, why not let them have their meals served in the sewing-room and occupy the bedroom opening into it?" "Why, to be sure! that will do nicely," she said, "if you think mamma would not object." "I am quite certain she will find no fault, even if she should make a different arrangement on returning home. And you wouldn't mind that, would you?" "Oh no, indeed! Are we not going very fast?" "Yes; trying to make up lost time." "I hope they will succeed, that our supper may not be spoiled with waiting. Do you think there will be any one but the servants at Ion to watch for our coming, Ned?" "Yes; I expect to find the Fairview family there, and have some hope of seeing delegations from the other three. Mamma wrote Elsie when to look for us, and probably she has let the others know; all of them who have been absent from home this summer returned some days or weeks ago." "And Lester and Elsie brought that orphan niece of his home with them, I suppose. I am inclined to be a warm friend to her, Ned; for I know how to feel for a fatherless child." "As we all do, I trust. We are all fatherless, and may well have a fellow-feeling for her. We will do what we can to make life pleasant to her, and I think from my sister's report that we shall find her an agreeable addition to the Fairview family." Elsie had given to Evelyn quite as agreeable a portraiture of Edward and Zoe as that she had furnished them of her, and the little girl was in some haste to make their acquaintance. It was as Edward expected. The five families were very sociable; when all were at home there was a constant interchange of informal visits, and when some of their number returned after a lengthened absence, the others were ready to hail their coming with cordiality and delight: both of which were intensified on this occasion by the relief from the fear that some accident had happened to Edward and Zoe, inasmuch as they were several hours behind time in reaching home. On their arrival they found the Lelands, the Lacys, the Dinsmores, and the Conlys gathered in the drawing-room and supper waiting. "Two hours behind time! I really am afraid there has been an accident," Mrs. Lacy was saying, when the welcome sound of wheels called forth a general exclamation, "There they are at last!" and there was a simultaneous exit from the drawing-room into the hall, followed by numerous embraces, welcomes, congratulations, inquiries after health and the causes of detention. They made a jovial party about the supper-table: all but Evelyn, who sat silently listening to the exchange of information in regard to the way in which each had passed the summer, and Edward's and Zoe's description of the celebration of their Aunt Wealthy's one hundredth birthday; all mingled with jest, laughter, and merry badinage. As the child looked and listened, she was, half unconsciously, studying countenances, voices, words, and forming estimates of character. She had been doing so all the evening; had already decided that the Lacys and Dinsmores were nice people who made her feel happy and at home with them; that she liked Mr. Calhoun Conly and his brother, Dr. Arthur, very much, but detested Ralph; thought Ella silly, proud, and haughty, and that with no excuse for either pride or arrogance. So now her principal attention was given to the latest arrivals--Edward and Zoe. She liked them both; thinking it lovely to see their devotion to each other, and how unconsciously it betrayed itself in looks and tones, now and again, as the talk went on. At length, as the flow of conversation slacked, Zoe turned to Evelyn, remarking with a winning smile, "What a quiet little mouse you are! I have been wanting to make your acquaintance, and I hope you will come often to Ion." "Thank you; I shall enjoy doing so very much indeed," returned Evelyn, blushing with pleasure. Edward seconded the invitation. "And don't forget that the doors are wide open to you at the Laurels," said Mr. Lacy. "At the Oaks also," said Mr. Dinsmore. And Calhoun Conly added, "And at Roselands; we shall expect frequent visits, and do our best for your entertainment; though unfortunately we have no little folks to be your companions." Evelyn acknowledged each invitation gracefully and in suitable words. Then, the meal having come to a conclusion, all rose from the table and returned to the drawing-room; but presently, as it was growing late and the travelers were supposed to be wearied with their journey, one family after another bade good-by and departed. "Well, Eva, what do you think of Mrs. Zoe?" asked Mr. Leland when they had turned out of the avenue into the road leading to Fairview. "I understood you were quite anxious to make her acquaintance." "I think I shall like her very much, uncle," Eva answered; "she seems so bright, pleasant, and cordial. And she loves her husband so dearly." Mr. Leland laughed at the concluding words. "And you think that an additional reason for liking her?" "Yes, indeed! I think husbands and wives should be very unselfishly affectionate toward each other; as I have observed that you and Aunt Elsie always are." Both laughed in a pleased way, her uncle saying, "So you have been watching us?" "I never set myself at it," she said, "but I couldn't help seeing what was so very evident." "And no harm if you did. To change the subject--I am greatly interested in those Norwegians. I hope, my dear, you can give them some employment." "Yes, and shall do so gladly, if they are competent; for I, too, feel a deep interest in them." "So do I," said Evelyn; "I wanted to see them." "We will call at Ion to-morrow, and I think you will then get a sight of them, and I learn something of their ability in the sewing line," said her aunt. Edward and Zoe had arrived at home a little in advance of their two protégées, and given orders in regard to their reception; and when the girls reached Ion they were received by Aunt Dicey, the housekeeper, at a side entrance, kindly welcomed and conducted to the apartments assigned them, where they found a tempting meal spread for their refreshment and every comfort provided. "Dis am de sewin'-room--an' fo' de present yo' dinin'-room also," she announced as she ushered them in; "an' dat am de bedroom whar Mr. Ed'ard an' Miss Zoe tole me you uns is to sleep. Dar's watah dar an' soap an' towels, s'posin' you likes fo' to wash off de dust ob trabel befo' you sits down to de table. 'Bout de time you gits done dat de hot cakes and toast and tea'll be fotched up from de kitchen." With that she turned and left the room. The sisters stood for a moment gazing in a bewildered way each into the other's face. Not one word had they understood; but the gestures had been more intelligible. Aunt Dicey had pointed toward the open door of the adjoining room, and they comprehended that it was intended for their occupancy. "What a dark-skinned woman, sister," said Alma at last. "What did she say? What language does she speak?" Christine shook her head. "Could it be English? I do not know; it did not sound like the English the gentleman and lady speak when talking to each other. But she brought us here, and from the motions she made while talking I think she said these two rooms were for us to use." "These rooms for us? these beautiful rooms?" exclaimed Alma in astonishment and delight, glancing about upon the neat, tasteful, even elegant appointments of the one in which they were, then hastening into the other to find it in no way inferior to the first. "Ah, how lovely!" she cried; "see the pretty furniture, the white curtains trimmed with lace, the bed all white and looking, oh, so comfortable! everything so clean, so fair and sweet!" "Yes, yes," said Christine, tears trembling in her eyes; "so far better than we ever dreamed. But it may be only for to-night; to-morrow, perhaps, we may be consigned to lodgings not half so good. Ah, I hear steps on the stairs; they will be bringing our supper. Let us wash the dust from hands and face that we may be ready to eat." Presently, seated at the table, they found abundant appetite for the food set before them, and remarked to each other again and again, how very good it was, the best they had tasted in many, many days. "We have fallen in with the best of friends, Christine," said Alma, "have we not? Oh, what a fortunate mistake was that that put us on the wrong road!" "It was by the good guidance of our God, Alma," said Christine; "and oh, how shortsighted and mistaken were we in mourning as we did over the sickness that separated us from the rest of our company and left us to travel alone in a strange land; alone and penniless!" "We will have more faith in future," said Alma; "we will trust the Lord, even when all is dark and we cannot see one step before us." "God helping us," added Christine, devoutly; "but, alas! we are prone to unbelief; when all is bright and the path lies straight before us, we feel strong in faith; when clouds and darkness cover it from sight, our faith is apt to fail and our hearts to faint within us." When the last of their guests of the evening had gone, Edward and Zoe bethought them of their protégées, and went to the sewing-room to inquire how they were, and if they had been provided with everything necessary to their comfort. They found Christine seated in an arm-chair by the table, with the lamp drawn near her, and reading from a pocket Testament. She closed and laid it aside on their entrance, rising to give them a respectful greeting. "Where is your sister?" asked Zoe, glancing round the room in search of Alma. Christine explained that, not having entirely recovered her strength since her illness, Alma was much fatigued with her journey and had already retired to rest. "Quite right," said Edward; "I think you should follow her example very soon, for you are looking tired. I hope the servants have attended to all your wants?" "Oh, sir, and dear lady," she exclaimed, "how good, how kind you are to us! what more could we possibly ask than has been provided us by your orders?" "Our orders were that you should be well cared for," Edward said, "but we feared that for lack of an interpreter you might not be able to make your wants known." "Indeed, sir, every want was anticipated," she answered, with grateful look and tone. "That is well," he responded. "And now we will leave you to take your rest. Good-night." "Good-night, sir," she said; then turning to Zoe, "And you, dear lady, will let me do some work for you to-morrow?" "Yes, if you are quite rested by that time," was the smiling reply. "Don't be uneasy; work and good wages will be found in abundance if you prove capable." So Christine went to bed with a heart singing for joy and thankfulness. Elsie and Evelyn drove over to Ion next morning and found Zoe attending to her housekeeping cares with a pretty matronly air that became her well; Aunt Dicey receiving her orders with the look and manner of one who is humoring a child, for such she considered the youthful lady. "There, Aunt Dicey, I believe that is all for to-day," said Zoe; and turning from her to her callers, "Sister Elsie, how good in you to come over so early! And you too, little maid," to Evelyn: "I'm delighted to see you both." "Thank you," returned Elsie, brightly. "How do you like housekeeping?" "Very much so far, and my efforts seem to amuse Ned immensely," laughed Zoe. "It's too absurd that he will persist in looking upon me still as a mere child. Just think of it! when I've been married more than a year; yes, a year and a half." "Ah, my dear little sister, don't be in too great a hurry to grow old," said Elsie, "or you may be wanting to turn about and travel back again one of these days. How do you like your new helpers, or rather their work? But I suppose you have hardly tried them yet." "Yes; they are busy now in the sewing-room. I wanted them to take a few days to rest; but their pride of independence rose up so against it that I was fairly forced to give them something to do, and I find they do sew beautifully. Suppose you come and examine their work for yourself. You are included in the invitation, Evelyn," she added, as she rose and led the way. In the cheerful, sunny sewing-room, beside a window that looked out upon the beautiful grounds, now gay with autumn flowers, Christine and Alma sat busily plying their needles and talking together thankfully of the present, hopefully of the future, when the door opened and the two ladies and little girl entered. "How very industrious!" said Zoe. "I have brought my sister, Mrs. Leland, to see what competent needlewomen you are." "They are that indeed," Elsie said, examining the work. "I shall be glad to engage you both to sew for me when you are no longer needed here," she added with a kindly glance and smile. Then taking a chair which Zoe had drawn forward for her, she entered into conversation with the strangers, asking of their past history and their plans, hopes, and wishes for the future, and completely winning their confidence by her sweetly sympathizing tones and manner. They were delighted with her, and she much pleased with them. Christine had a good, strong face, plain, rugged features, but a countenance that indicated so much good sense, probity, and kindliness of heart that it was attractive in spite of its lack of comeliness. Alma seemed to lean very much upon this older sister. Hers was a more delicate organization; she was timid and shrinking, and with her fair complexion, deep blue eyes, golden hair, and look of refinement, was really quite pretty and ladylike in appearance. CHAPTER X. "Who knows the joys of friendship--The trust, security, and mutual tenderness, The double joys, where each is glad for both?" ROWE. Max Raymond was racing about Miss Stanhope's grounds with the dog that had given his sister Lulu so great a fright the first night of their stay in Lansdale. Up one walk and down another they went, the boy whistling, laughing, capering about, the dog bounding after, catching up with his playfellow and leaping upon him, now on this side and now on that; then presently finding himself shaken off and distanced in the race; but only for a moment; the next he was at the boy's side again or close at his heels. "Max! Max!" called an eager child's voice, and Lulu came running down the path leading directly from the house. "Well, what is it, Lu?" asked the lad, standing still to look and listen. "Down, Nero, down! be quiet, sir!" "Oh, I have something to tell you," replied Lulu, half breathlessly, as she hurried toward him. "That letter you brought Grandma Elsie from the post-office this morning was from Aunt Elsie; and they are at home by this time--she wrote just as they were ready to start--and Evelyn Leland is with them; she's to make her home at Fairview." "Well, and what of it? what do _I_ care about it? or you either?" "Dear me, Max, you might care! I hope she may prove a nice friend for me; not a bit like Rosie, who has always despised and disliked me." "I don't think Rosie does anything of the kind, Lulu," said Max, patting Nero's head; "she may not be very fond of you, and certainly does not admire your behavior at times, but I don't believe it amounts to dislike." "I do, then," returned Lulu, a touch of anger in her tones. "Anyhow, I'd dearly love to have a real friend near my own age; and Aunt Elsie says Evelyn is only a little older than I am." "Well, I hope you won't be disappointed. If she was a boy I'd be as glad of her coming, or his coming, as you are." "Oh, Maxie, I wish, for your sake, she was a boy!" cried Lulu in her impulsive way, stepping closer and putting her arm about his neck. "How selfish in me to forget that you have no companion at all at Ion!" "I have," returned Max; "I have you, you know, and you're right good company when you are in a good humor." "And I'm not often in any other with you, Maxie; now am I?" she said coaxingly. "No, sis, that's true enough, and I do believe I couldn't get along half so well without you. I'm glad for your sake that this--what's-her-name?--is coming." "Her name is Evelyn. Oh, Max, I feel so sorry for her!" "Why?" "Because her father's dead, and they were so very, very fond of each other; so Aunt Elsie wrote." "Rosie's father's dead too; and she and all of them were very fond of him." "Yes; but it's a good while now since he died, and she's had time to get over it so far that she seems hardly ever to think of him; while it is only a few weeks since Evelyn lost hers; and Rosie has her nice, kind mother with her, while Evelyn's is away in Europe, and like enough isn't half so nice as Grandma Elsie anyhow. Oh, Max, I feel most heart-broken every time papa goes away, even though I expect to see him back again some day; and think how dreadful to have your father gone never to come back!" "Yes, it would be awful!" said Max. "I'd rather lose ten years off my own life. But, Lu, if you really love papa so dearly, how can you behave toward him as you do sometimes--causing him so much distress of mind? I've seen such a grieved, troubled look on his face, when he thought nobody was watching him, and you were in one of your naughty moods." "Oh, Max, don't!" Lulu said in a choking voice, as she turned and walked away, hot tears in her eyes. Max ran after her. "Come, Lu, don't take it so hard; I didn't mean to be cruel." "But you were! Go away! you've got me into one of my moods, as you call it, and I'd better be let alone," she returned almost fiercely, jerking herself loose--for he had caught a fold of her dress in his hand--and rushing away to the farther end of the grounds, where she threw herself on a rustic seat panting with excitement and the rapidity of her flight. But the gust of passion died down almost as speedily as it had arisen; she could never be angry very long with Max, her dear, only brother; and now her thoughts turned remorsefully upon the conduct he had condemned. It was no news to her that she had more than once caused her father much anxiety and grief of heart, nor was it a new thing for her to be repentant and remorseful on account of her unfilial behavior. "Oh, why can't I be as good as Max and Gracie?" she said to herself, covering her face with her hands and sighing heavily. "I wish papa was here so I could tell him again how sorry I am, and how dearly I do love him though I am so often naughty. I am glad I did tell him, and that he forgave me and told me he loved me just as well as any other of his children. How good in him to say that! I wonder if Evelyn Leland ever behaved badly to her father. If she ever was naughty to him, how sorry she must feel about it now!" During the remainder of the short visit at Lansdale, and all through the homeward journey, Lulu's thoughts often turned upon Evelyn, and she had scarcely alighted from the carriage on their arrival at Ion before she sent a sweeping glance around the welcoming group on the veranda, in eager search of the young stranger. Yes, there she was, a little slender girl in deep mourning, standing slightly apart from the embracing, rejoicing relatives. She was not decidedly pretty, but graceful and refined in appearance, with an earnest, intelligent countenance and very fine eyes. She seemed quite free from self-consciousness and wholly taken up with the interest of the scenes being enacted before her. "How many of them there are! and how they love one another! how nice it is!" she was thinking within herself, when the two Elsies, releasing each other from a long, tender embrace, turned toward her, the older one saying, half inquiringly, "And this is Evelyn?" "Yes, mamma. Eva, this is my dear mother," said Mrs. Leland. Mrs. Travilla took the little girl in her arms, kissed her affectionately, and bade her welcome to Ion, adding, "And if you like you may call me Grandma Elsie, as the others do." "Thank you, ma'am," Evelyn answered, coloring with pleasure; "but it seems hardly appropriate, for you look not very much older than Aunt Elsie; and she is young to be my aunt." "That's right, Eva," Mrs. Leland said, with a pleased laugh; "I for one have never approved of mamma being called so by any one older than my baby-boy." Mrs. Travilla's attention was claimed by some one else at that moment, and Lester, taking Evelyn by the hand, led her up to Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore. She was introduced to the others in turn, every one greeting her with the utmost kindness. Rosie gave her a hasty kiss, but Lulu embraced her with warmth, saying, "I am sure I shall love you, and I hope you will love me a little in return." "I'll try; it wouldn't be fair to let it be all on one side," Evelyn answered with a shy, sweet smile, as she returned the hug and kiss as heartily as they were given. Lulu was delighted. After supper, while the older people were chatting busily among themselves, she drew Evelyn into a distant corner and told her how glad she was of her coming, because she wanted a girl-friend near her own age and found Rosie uncongenial and indifferent toward her. "She will probably be the same to me," said Evelyn; "she has so many of her very own dear ones about her, you know, that it cannot be expected that she will feel much interest in strangers like you and me. But," frankly, "I think I should love you best anyhow." "How nice in you!" said Lulu, her eyes sparkling; "but I'm afraid you won't when you know me better, for I'm not a bit good; I get into terrible passions when anybody imposes on me or my brother or sister; and I sometimes disobey and break rules." "You are very honest, at all events," remarked Evelyn pleasantly; "and perhaps I shall not like you any the less for having some faults. You see, if you were perfect, the contrast between you and myself would be most unpleasant to me." "How correctly and like a grown-up person you speak!" said Lulu, regarding her new friend with affectionate admiration. Evelyn's eyes filled. "It is because papa made me his constant companion and took the greatest pains with me," she said, in tones tremulous with emotion. "We were almost always alone together, for I never had a brother or sister to share the love he lavished upon me." "I'm so, so sorry for you!" said Lulu, slipping an arm round Evelyn's waist. "I think I know a little how you feel, for my papa is with us only once in a while for a few days or weeks, and when he goes away again it nearly breaks my heart." "But you can hope he may come back again." "Yes; and I have Max and Gracie; so I am much better off than you." "And such a sweet, pretty mamma," supplemented Evelyn, sending an admiring glance across the room to where Violet sat chatting with her sister Elsie. "But you have your own mother, and that's a great deal better," returned Lulu. "Mamma Vi is very beautiful and sweet, and very kind to Max and Gracie and me, but a step-mother can't be like your own." "I suppose not quite," Evelyn said with a sigh; "but I have no idea when I shall see mine again." "We are situated a good deal alike," remarked Lulu, reflectively. "My father and your mother are far away in this world, and your father and my mother are gone to heaven." "Yes. Oh, don't you sometimes want to go to them there?" "I'm not good enough--not fit in any way; and I believe I'd rather stay here--at least while papa does," Lulu said, with some hesitation. "I hope he may be spared to you for many, many years," said Evelyn, gently; "at least till you are quite grown up, and perhaps have a family of children of your own." "Were you ever so naughty that your father told you you gave him a great deal of trouble and heartache?" asked Lulu in a tremulous voice and with starting tears. "Oh no; no, indeed!" exclaimed Eva, in surprise. "How could I, or any one, with such a father as mine?" "No father could be better or kinder than mine," said Lulu, twinkling away a tear; "and yet I have been so passionate and disobedient that he has told me that several times." "Oh, don't ever be so again; for if you do your poor heart will ache so terribly over it when he is taken away from you," Evelyn said with emotion, and pressing Lulu's hand affectionately in hers. "Oh, I can never be thankful enough," she went on, "that the day my dear father was called home he said to me, 'My darling, you have been nothing but a blessing and comfort to me since the day you were born.'" "My father can never say that to me; I have already put it out of his power," thought Lulu to herself, with a great pain at her heart; and as soon as she found herself alone in her own room that night she wrote a little penitent note to him all blistered with tears. Shortly after breakfast the next morning she went to "Grandma Elsie" with a request for permission to walk over to Fairview and spend an hour with Evelyn. "You may, my dear, if you can get Max or some older person to walk with you," was Elsie's kind reply; "otherwise I will send you in the carriage, because it is not safe for you to walk that distance alone. I think you and Evelyn are going to be friends, and I am very glad of it," she added with a pleasant smile. "If she will come, you may bring her back with you to spend the day at Ion." "Oh, thank you, Grandma Elsie; that will be so nice!" cried Lulu, joyously; then bounded away in search of her brother. Max, having nothing else to do just then, readily consented to be her escort, and they set out at once. "A brother is of some use sometimes, isn't he?" queried Max, complacently, as they walked briskly down the avenue together. "Yes; and isn't a sister, too?" asked Lulu. "Yes, indeed," he said; "you are almost always ready to do me a good turn, Lu. But, in fact, I'm taking this walk quite as much to please myself as you. It's a very pleasant one on a morning like this, and Uncle Lester and Aunt Elsie are pleasant folks to visit." "I think they are," returned Lulu; "but I am going more to see Evelyn than anybody else. Oh, Max, I do hope, I do believe, it's going to be as I told you I wished." "What?" "That we'll be intimate friends and very fond of each other. Weren't you pleased with her, Max? I was." "She's nice-looking," he replied; "but that's all I can say till we've had time to get acquainted." "I feel quite well acquainted with her now; we had such a nice long talk together last night," said Lulu. Evelyn was strolling about the grounds at Fairview, and came to the gate to meet them. She shook hands with Max, kissed Lulu affectionately, and invited them into the house. They settled themselves in the veranda, where Mrs. Leland presently joined them. Then Lulu gave "Grandma Elsie's" invitation. "May I go, Aunt Elsie?" asked Evelyn. "Certainly, dear, if you wish to," Mrs. Leland answered kindly. "Your uncle and I will drive over early in the evening and bring you home." "By moonlight!" Evelyn said; "that will be very nice. Auntie, you and uncle are very good to me." "Indeed, child," returned Elsie, smiling, "you may well believe it is no hardship for us to go to Ion on any errand; or with none save the desire to see mamma and the rest." Evelyn and Lulu passed the greater part of the day alone together, every one else seemingly lacking either leisure or inclination to join them, and the friendship grew rapidly, as is usually the case when two little girls are thus thrown together. Each gave a detailed history of her past life and found the other deeply interested in it. Then they talked of the present and of the near future. "Are you to go to school?" asked Lulu. "No," Evelyn said with a contented smile, "I am to study at home and come here to recite with you." "Oh, how nice!" cried Lulu, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Yes, I think it very kind in Aunt Elsie's mother and grandfather to offer to let me do so," said Evelyn. "I shall try very hard to be studious and well-behaved and give them no trouble." Lulu's cheek flushed at that remark, and for a moment she sat silent and with downcast eyes; then she burst out in her impetuous way, "I wish I were like you, Eva--so good and grateful. I'm afraid you wouldn't care for me at all if you knew what a bad, ungrateful thing I am. I've given ever so much trouble to Grandpa Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie, though they have done more for me--for Max and Gracie too--than they are going to do for you." "I don't believe you're half so bad as you make yourself out to be," returned Eva, in a surprised tone. "And I'm sure you are sorry and will be ever so good and grateful in the future." "I want to, but--there does seem to be no use in my trying to be sweet-tempered and all that," said Lulu, dejectedly; "I've got such a dreadful temper." "Papa used to tell me God, our heavenly Father, would help me to conquer my faults, if I asked Him with all my heart," said Evelyn, softly; "that, in His great love and condescension, He noticed even a little child and its efforts to please Him and do His will." "Yes, I know; my papa has told me the same thing ever so often; but most always the temptation comes so suddenly I don't seem to have time to ask for help, and"--hesitatingly--"sometimes I don't want it." CHAPTER XI. "O blessed, happy child, to find The God of heaven so near and kind!" It was Sabbath afternoon. In the large dining-room at Ion a Bible-reading was being held, Mr. Dinsmore leading, every member of the household, down to the servants, who occupied the lower end of the apartment, bearing a share in the exercises; as also Lester, Elsie, and Evelyn from Fairview, and representatives from the other three families belonging to the connection, and the Keith cousins, who had arrived at Ion a few days before. The portion of Scripture under consideration was the interview of Nicodemus with the Master when he came to Him by night (St. John iii.), the subject, of course, the necessity of the new birth, God's appointed way of salvation, and the exceeding greatness of His love in giving His only-begotten Son to die "that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life." Each one able to read had an open Bible, and even Gracie and little Walter listened with understanding and interest. She whom the one called mamma, the other Grandma Elsie, had talked with them that morning on the same subject, and tenderly urged upon them--as often before--the duty of coming to Christ, telling them of His love to little children, and that they were not too young to give themselves to Him; and Mr. Dinsmore addressed a few closing words to them in the same strain. They fell into Gracie's heart as seed sown in good ground. When the reading had come to an end and she felt herself unobserved, she slipped quietly away to her mamma's dressing-room, where she was not likely to be disturbed, and sat down to think more profoundly and seriously than ever before in her short life. She went over "the old, old story," and tears stole down her cheeks as she whispered to herself, "And it was for me He died that dreadful death; for me just as truly as if it hadn't been for anybody else; and yet I've lived all this long while without loving Him, or trying to do right for the sake of pleasing Him. "And how often I've been invited to come! Papa has told me about it over and over again; mamma too, and Grandma Elsie; and I haven't minded what they said at all. Oh, how patient and kind Jesus has been to wait so long for me to come! And He is still waiting and inviting me to come; just as kindly and lovingly as if it was the very first time, and I hadn't been turning away from Him. "He is right here, looking at me, and listening for what I will say in answer to His call. Oh, I won't keep Him waiting any longer, lest He should go away and never invite me again; and because I do love Him for dying for me, and for being so good and kind to me all my life--giving me every blessing I have--and keeping on inviting me, over and over, when I wouldn't even listen to His voice. "I'll go to Him now. Grandma Elsie said just to kneel down and feel that I am kneeling at His feet, and tell Him all about my sins, and how sorry I am, exactly as if I could see Him, and ask Him to forgive my sins and wash them all away in His precious blood, and take me for His very own child to be His forever, and serve Him always--in this world, and in heaven when he takes me there. Yes, I will do it now." With the resolve she rose from the chair where she had been sitting, and kneeling before it with clasped hands and closed eyes, from which penitent tears stole down her cheeks, said, in low, reverent tones, "Dear Lord Jesus, I'm only a little girl and very full of sin; I've done a great many bad things in my life, and haven't done the good things I knew I ought to do; and I have a very bad heart that doesn't want to do right. Oh, please make it good; oh, please take away all the wickedness that is in me; wash me in Thy precious blood, so that I shall be clean and pure in Thy sight. Forgive me for living so long without loving Thee, when I've known all the time about Thy great love to me. Help me to love Thee now and forever more; I give myself to Thee to be all thine forever and forever. Amen." Her prayer was ended, yet she did not at once rise from her kneeling posture; it was so sweet to linger there at the Master's feet; she remembered and trusted His promise, "Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out," and almost she could hear His dear voice saying in tenderest tones, "Daughter, thy sins, which are many, are forgiven thee." "I love them that love Me, and those that seek Me early shall find Me." She seemed to feel the touch of His hand laid in blessing on her head, and her heart sang for joy. Meanwhile the older children had gathered about Aunt Chloe, now seated in a back veranda--the weather being still warm enough for the outer air to be very pleasant at that time of day--and Rosie, as spokesman of the party, begged coaxingly for stories of mamma when she was a little girl. "It's de Lawd's day, chillens," answered the old woman in a doubtful tone. "Yes, mammy," acknowledged Rosie, "but you can easily make your story fit for Sunday; mamma was so good--a real Christian child, as you have often told me." "So she was, chile, so she was; I's sho' she lub de Lawd, from de bery day her ole mammy fus' tole her how He lub her. Yes, you right, Miss Rosie; I kin tole you 'bout her, and 'twon't break de Sabbath day. Is yo' all hyar now?" she asked, glancing inquiringly about. "All but Gracie," said Rosie, glancing round the little circle in her turn. "I wonder where she is. Betty," to a little negro maid standing in the rear, "go and find Miss Gracie, and ask if she doesn't want to hear the stories mammy is going to tell us." "Yes, Miss Rosie, whar you s'pose Miss Gracie done gone?" drawled the little maid, standing quite still and pulling at one of the short woolly braids scattered here and there over her head. "I don't know. Go and look for her," returned Rosie, somewhat imperiously. "Now hurry," she added, "or there won't be time for all mammy has to tell." "Wisht I know whar Miss Gracie done gone," sighed Betty, reluctantly obeying. "I saw her going upstairs," said Lulu; "so it's likely you'll find her in Mamma Vi's rooms." At that Betty quickened her pace, and the next moment was at Violet's dressing-room door, peeping in and asking, "You dar, Miss Gracie?" "Yes," Grace answered, turning toward her a face so full of gladness that Betty's eyes opened wide in astonishment, and stepping in she asked wonderingly, "What--what de mattah, Miss Gracie? yo' look like yo' done gone foun' a gol' mine, or jes' sumfin' mos' like dat." "Better still, Betty: I've found the Lord Jesus; I love Him and He loves me," Gracie said, her eyes shining, "and oh, I am so glad, so happy!" "Whar yo' fin' Him, Miss Gracie?" queried Betty in increasing wonder and astonishment, and glancing searchingly round the room. "Is He hyar?" "Yes; for He is God and is everywhere." "Oh, dat de way He hyar? Yes, I knows 'bout dat; Miss Elsie tole me lots ob times. How yo' know He lub yo', Miss Gracie?" "Because He says so, Betty. "'Jesus loves me; this I know, For the Bible tell me so.'" "Yo's wanted down stairs, Miss Gracie," said Betty, bethinking herself of her errand. "Ole Aunt Chloe gwine tell 'bout old times when missus bery little and lib way off down Souf. Bettah come right 'long; kase Miss Rosie she in pow'ful big hurry fo' Aunt Chloe begin dat story." "Oh yes; I never get tired hearing mammy tell that; Grandma Elsie was such a dear little girl," Grace said, making haste to obey the summons. The others had already gathered closely about Aunt Chloe, but the circle promptly widened to receive Grace, and the moment she had taken her seat the story began, opening with the birth of its subject. There were many little reminiscences of her infancy and early childhood, very interesting to all the listeners. The narrator dwelt at length upon the evidences of early piety shown in the child's life, and Aunt Chloe remarked, "Yo' needn't be 'fraid, chillens, ob bein' too good to lib: my darlin' was de bes' chile eber I see, and yo' know she has lib to see her chillen and her gran'chillens." "I'm not at all afraid of it," remarked Rosie. "People who are certainly don't know or don't believe what the Bible teaches on that point; for it says, 'My son, forget not My law; but let thine heart keep My commandments; for length of days, and long life, and peace shall they add to thee.'" "And there's a promise of long life and prosperity to all who keep the fifth commandment," said Max. "'So far as it shall serve for God's glory and their own good,'" added Evelyn, softly. "Dat's so, chillens," said Aunt Chloe; "an' yo' ole mammy hopes ebery one ob yo's gwine try it all de days ob yo' life." "Yes, we're goin' to, mammy; so now tell us some more," said Walter, coaxingly; "tell about the time when the poor little girl that's my mamma now had to go away and leave her pretty home." "Yaas, chile, dat wur a sad time," said the old woman, reflectively; "it mos' broke de little chile heart to hab to leab dat home whar she been borned, an' all de darkies dat lub her like dar life." She went on to describe the parting, then to tell of the journey, and was just beginning with the life at Roselands, when the summons came to the tea-table. "We'll come back to hear the rest after tea, mammy, if you're not too tired," Rosie said as she turned to go. But on coming back they found no one on the veranda but Betty, who, in answer to their inquiries, said, "Aunt Chloe hab entired fo' de night; she hab de misery in de back and in de head, and she cayn't tell no mo' stories fo' mawning." "Poor old soul!" said Evelyn, compassionately; "I'm afraid we've tired her out." "Oh no, not at all," answered Rosie; "she likes nothing better than talking about mamma. You never saw anything like her devotion; I verily believe she'd die for mamma without a moment's hesitation." Most of the house-servants at Ion occupied cabins of their own at no great distance from the mansion, but Aunt Chloe, the faithful nurse of three generations, was domiciled in a most comfortable apartment not far from those of the mistress to whom she was so dear; and Elsie never laid her own head upon its pillow till she had paid a visit to mammy's room to see that she wanted for nothing that could contribute to ease of body or mind. This night, stealing softly in, she found her lying with closed eyes and hands meekly folded across her breast, and, thinking she slept, would have gone away again as quietly as she came; but the loved voice recalled her. "Dat yo', honey? Don' go; yo' ole mammy's got somefin to say; and de time is short, 'kase the chariot-wheels dey's rollin' fas', fas' dis way to carry yo' ole mammy home to glory." "Dear mammy," Elsie said with emotion, laying her hand tenderly on the sable brow, "are you feeling weaker or in any way worse than usual?" "Dunno, honey, but I hear de Master callin', an' I's ready to follow whereber He leads; eben down into de valley ob de shadow ob death. I's close to de riber; Is hear de soun' ob de wattahs ripplin' pas'; but de eberlastin' arms is underneath, an' I sho' to git safe ober to de oder side." "Yes, dear mammy, I know you will," Elsie answered in moved tones. "I know you will come off more than conqueror through Him who loved you with an everlasting love." "'Peat dat verse to yo' ole mammy, honey," entreated the trembling, feeble voice. "What verse, mammy dear? 'Who shall separate us'?" "Yes, darlin', dat's it! an' de res' dat comes after, whar de 'postle say he 'suaded dat deff nor nuffin else cayn't separate God's chillen from de love ob Christ." Elsie complied, adding at the close of the quotation, "Such precious words! How often you and I have rejoiced over them together, mammy!" "'Deed we hab, honey; an' we's gwine rejoice in dem togeder beside de great white throne. Now yo' go an' take yo' res', darlin', an' de Lawd gib yo' sweet sleep." "I can't leave you, mammy if you are suffering; you must let me sit beside you and do what is in my power to relieve or help you to forget your pain." "No, chile, no; de miseries am all gone an' I's mighty comfor'able, bery happy, too, hearin' de soun' ob de chariot-wheels and tinking I's soon be in de bressed lan' whar de miseries an' de sins am all done gone foreber; an' whar ole Uncle Joe an' de bressed Master is waitin' to 'ceive me wid songs ob joy and gladness." Thus reassured, and perceiving no symptom of approaching dissolution, Elsie returned to her own apartments and was soon in bed and asleep. In accordance with an Ion rule which Lulu particularly disliked, the children had gone to their rooms an hour or more in advance of the older people. Grace still slept with her mamma in her father's absence, but often made her preparations for bed in her sister's room, that they might chat freely together of whatever was uppermost in their minds. To-night they were no sooner shut in there, away from other eyes and ears, than Grace put her arms round Lulu's neck, saying, while her face shone with gladness, "Oh, Lu, I have something to tell you!" "Have you?" Lulu answered. "Then it must be something good; for in all your life I never saw you look so very, very happy. Oh, is it news from papa? Is he coming home on another visit?" she cried with a sudden, eager lighting up of her face. The brightness of Grace's dimmed a trifle as she replied, "No, not that; they would never let him come again so soon. Oh, how I wish he was here! for he would be so glad of it too; almost as glad as I am, I think." "Glad of what?" asked Lulu. "That I've given my heart to Jesus. Oh, Lulu, won't you do it too? it is so easy if you only just try." "Tell me about it; how did you do it?" Lulu asked gravely, her eyes cast down, a slight frown upon her brow. "I did just as Grandma Elsie told us this morning. You know, Lu?" "Yes, I remember. But how do you know that you were heard and accepted?" "Why, Lulu!" was the surprised reply, "the Bible tells us God is the hearer and answerer of prayer--it's in one of the verses I've learned to say to Grandma Elsie since I came here. And Jesus says: 'Him that cometh unto Me I will in nowise cast out;' so of course He received me. How could I help knowing it?" "You've got far ahead of me," Lulu said, with petulance born of an uneasy conscience, as she released herself from Grace's arms and began undressing with great energy and despatch. "You needn't feel that way, Lu," Grace said pleadingly; "Jesus is just as willing to take you for His child as me." "I don't believe it!" cried Lulu, with almost fierce impatience; "you've always been good, and I've always been bad. I don't see why I wasn't made patient and sweet-tempered too; it's no trouble to you to behave and keep rules and all that, but I can't; try as hard as I will." "Oh, Lulu, Jesus will help you to be good if you ask Him and try as hard as you can, too," Grace said in tender, pleading tones. "But suppose I don't want to be good?" Grace's eyes opened wide in grieved surprise, then filled with tears. "Oh, Lulu!" she said; "but I'm sure you do want to be good sometimes. And can't Jesus help you to want to always? won't He if you ask Him?" "I'm tired of the subject, and it's time for you to go to bed," was the ungracious rejoinder. Usually so unkind a rebuff from her sister would have caused Grace a fit of crying, but she was too happy for that to-night. She slipped quietly away into her mamma's rooms, and when ready for bed came to the door again with a pleasant "Good-night, Lulu, and happy dreams!" Lulu, already repentant, sprang to meet her with outstretched arms. "Good-night, you dear little thing!" she exclaimed with a hug and kiss. "I wish you had a better sort of a sister. Perhaps you will some day,--in little Elsie." "I love you dearly, dearly, Lu!" was the affectionate rejoinder, accompanied by a hearty return of the embrace. "I wish mamma would come up, for I want to tell her; 'cause I know it will make her glad too," Grace said to herself as she got into bed. "I mean to stay awake till she comes." But scarcely had the little curly head touched the pillow ere its owner was fast asleep, and so the communication was deferred till morning. When Violet came into the room she stepped softly to the bedside, and bending over the sleeping child gazed with tender scrutiny into the fair young face. "The darling!" she murmured, "what a passing sweet and peaceful expression she wears! I noticed it several times during the evening; a look as if some great good had come to her." A very gentle kiss was laid on the child's forehead, and Violet passed on into Lulu's room, moved by a motherly solicitude to see that all was well with this one of her husband's children also. The face that rested on the pillow was round and rosy with youth and health, the brow was unruffled, yet the countenance lacked the exceeding sweet expression of her sister's. Violet kissed her also, and Lulu, half opening her sleepy eyes, murmured, "Mamma Vi you're very good and kind," and with the last word was fast asleep again. Mrs. Elsie Travilla rose earlier the next morning than her wont,--a vague uneasiness oppressing her in regard to her aged nurse,--and waiting only to don dressing-gown and slippers went softly to Aunt Chloe's bedside; but finding her sleeping peacefully, she returned as quietly as she had come, thinking to pay another visit before descending to the breakfast-room. Only a few minutes had passed, however, when the little maid Betty came rushing unceremoniously in, her eyes wild with affright. "Missus, missus," she cried, "suffin de mattah wid ole Aunt Chloe; she--" Elsie waited to hear no more, but pushing past the child, flew to the rescue. But one glance at the aged face told her that no human help could avail; the seal of death was on it. A great wave of sorrow swept over her at the sight, but she was outwardly calm and composed as, taking the cold hand in hers, she asked, "Dear mammy, is it peace?" "Yes, chile, yes," came in feeble yet assured accents from the dying lips; "an' I's almos' dar; a po' ole sinnah saved by grace. Good-by, honey; we's meet again at de Master's feet, neber to part mo mo'!" One or two long-drawn gasping breaths followed and the aged pilgrim had entered into rest. At the same instant a strong arm was passed round Elsie's waist, while a manly voice said tenderly, "We will not grieve for her, dear daughter, for all her pains, all her troubles are over, and she has been gathered home like a shock of corn fully ripe." "Yes, dear father, but let me weep a little; not for her, but for myself," Elsie said, suffering him to draw her head to a resting-place upon his breast. In the mean while Violet and Grace had wakened from sleep, and the little girl had told of her new-found happiness, meeting with the joyful sympathy which she had expected. "Dear Gracie," Violet said, taking the little girl in her arms and kissing her tenderly, "you are a blessed, happy child in having so early chosen the better part which shall never be taken away from you. Jesus will be your friend all your life, be it long or short; a friend that sticketh closer than a brother; who will never leave nor forsake you, but will love you with an everlasting love, tenderer than a mother's, and be always near and mighty to help and save in every time of trouble and distress." "Oh, mamma," said Grace, "how good and kind He is to let me love Him! I wish I could do something to please Him; what could I do, mamma?" "He said to His disciples, 'If ye love Me, keep My commandments;' and He says the same to you and me, Gracie, dear," Violet answered. "I will try, mamma; and won't you help me?" "All I can, dear. Now it is time for us to rise." They had nearly completed their toilet when a tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Violet's mother, looking grave and sad, and with traces of tears about her eyes. "Mamma, what is it?" Violet asked anxiously. "Our dear old mammy is gone, daughter," Elsie answered, the tears beginning to fall again; "gone home to glory. I do not weep for her, but for myself. You know what she was to me." "Yes, mamma, dearest, I am very sorry for you; but for her it should be all joy, should it not? Life can have been little but a burden, to her for some years past, and now she is at God's right hand where there are pleasures forever more." Elsie assented; and sitting down, gave a full account of what had passed between Aunt Chloe and herself the previous night, and of the death-scene this morning. "What a long, long journey hers has been!" remarked Violet; "but she has reached home at last. And here, mamma," drawing Grace forward, "is a little pilgrim who has but just passed through the wicket-gate, and begun to travel the strait and narrow way." "Is it so, Gracie? It makes my heart glad to hear it," Elsie said, taking the child in her arms in a tender, motherly fashion. "You are none too young to begin to love and serve the Lord Jesus; and it's a blessed service. I found it such when I was a child like you, and such I have found it all the way that I have traveled since." CHAPTER XII. LULU REBELS. Several weeks had passed since the events recorded in the last chapter, during which life had moved on in its accustomed way at Fairview and Ion. Evelyn was as happy in her new home as she could have been anywhere without her father and mother--perhaps happier than she would have been anywhere _with_ the latter--and enjoyed her studies under Mr. Dinsmore's tuition; for, being very steady, respectful, studious, and in every way a well-behaved child, and also an interested pupil, she found favor with him, was never subjected to reproof or punishment, but smiled upon and constantly commended, and in consequence her opinion of him differed widely from that of Lulu, whose quick, wilful temper was continually getting her into trouble with him. She was the only one of his scholars who caused him any serious annoyance, but he had grown very weary of contending with her, and one day when she had failed in her recitation and answered impertinently his well-merited reproof, he said to her, "Lucilla, you may leave the room and consider yourself banished from it for a week. At the end of that time I shall probably be able to decide whether I will ever again listen to a recitation from you." Lulu, with cheeks aflame and eyes flashing, hardly waited for the conclusion of the sentence ere she rose and rushed from the room, shutting the door behind her with a loud slam. Mr. Dinsmore stepped to it and called her back. "I desire you to come in here again and then leave us in a proper and ladylike manner, closing the door quietly," he said. For a single instant Lulu hesitated, strongly tempted to refuse obedience; but even she stood in some awe of Mr. Dinsmore, and seeing his stern, determined look, she retraced her steps, with head erect and eyes that carefully avoided the faces of all present; went quietly out again, closed the door gently, then hurried through the hall, down the stairs, and into her own room; there she hastily donned hat and sacque, then rapidly descended to the ground-floor, and the next instant might have been seen fairly flying down the avenue. Her passion had slightly cooled by the time she reached the gate, and giving up her first intention of passing through into the road beyond, she turned into an alley bordered by evergreens which would screen her from view from the house, and there paced back and forth, muttering angrily to herself between her shut teeth, "I hate him, so I do! the old tyrant! He's no business to give me such long, hard lessons and then scold because I don't recite perfectly." Here conscience reminded her that she could easily have mastered her task if her time had not been wasted over a story-book. "It's a pity if I can't have the pleasure of reading a story once in a while," she said in reply; "and I'm not going to give up doing it either for him or anybody else. He reads stories himself; and if it's bad, it's worse for grown folks than for children. Oh, how I do wish I was grown up and could do just as I please!" Then came to mind her father's assurance that even grown people could not always follow their own inclinations; also his expressions of deep gratitude to Mr. Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie for giving his children a home with them and taking the trouble to teach and train them up for useful and happy lives. Lulu well knew that Mr. Dinsmore received no compensation for his labors in behalf of her brother and sister and herself, and that few people would be at such pains for no other reward than the consciousness of doing good; and reflecting upon all this, she at length began to feel really ashamed of her bad behavior. Yet pride prevented her from fully acknowledging it even to her own heart. But recalling the doubt he had expressed as to whether he would ever again hear a recitation from her, she began to feel very uneasy as to what might be the consequence to her of such a refusal on his part. Her education must go on; that she knew; but who would be her teacher if Mr. Dinsmore refused? In all probability she would be sent away to the much-dreaded boarding-school. Indeed she felt quite certain of it in case the question should be referred to her father; for had he not warned her that if she were troublesome or disobedient to Mr. Dinsmore, such would be her fate? A fervent wish arose that he might not be appealed to--might forever be left in ignorance of this her latest act of insubordination. She would, it was true, have to make a report to him of the day's conduct, but she could refrain from telling the whole story; could smooth the matter over so that he would not understand how extremely impertinent and passionate she had been. Everything that had passed between Mr. Dinsmore and herself had been seen and heard by all her fellow-pupils, and the thought of that did not tend to lessen Lulu's mortification and dread of consequences. "Rosie will treat me more than ever like the Pharisee did the publican," she said bitterly to herself, "Max and Gracie will be ashamed of their sister, Walter will look at me as if he thought me the worst girl alive, and perhaps Evelyn won't be my friend any more. Mr. Dinsmore will act as if he didn't see me at all, I suppose, and Grandma Elsie and Aunt Elsie and Mamma Vi will be grave and sad. Oh dear, I 'most think I'm willing to go to boarding-school to get away from it all!" Evelyn had been greatly shocked and surprised at Lulu's outburst of temper, for she had become strongly attached to her, and had not known her to be capable of such an exhibition of passion. During the scene in the school-room, Rosie sent angry glances at Lulu, but Evelyn sat silent with eyes cast down, unwilling to witness her friend's disgrace. Max hid his face with his book, Gracie wept, and little Walter looked on in silent astonishment. "She is the most ill-tempered piece I ever saw!" remarked Rosie, aloud, as the door closed upon Lulu for the second time. "Rosie," said her grandfather, sternly, "let me hear no more such observations from your lips. They are entirely uncalled for and extremely uncharitable." Rosie reddened and did not venture to speak again, or even to so much as raise her eyes from her book for some time. The out-door air was quite keen and cold; Lulu was beginning to feel chilled, and debating in her own mind whether to return at once to the house spite of the danger of meeting some one who knew of her disgrace, and was therefore likely to look at her askance, when a light, quick step approached her from behind and two arms were suddenly thrown around her neck. "Oh, Lu, dear Lu," said Evelyn's soft voice, "I am so, so sorry!" "Eva! I did not think you would come to find me; do you really care for me still?" asked Lulu, in subdued tones, and half averting her face. "Of course I do. Did you suppose I was not a true friend that would stand by you in trouble and disgrace, as well as when all goes prosperously with you?" "But it was my own fault for not learning my lesson better, in the first place, and then for answering Grandpa Dinsmore as I did when he reproved me," said Lulu, hanging her head. "I know papa would say so if he were here, and punish me severely too." "Still I'm sorry for you," Eva repeated. "I'm not, by any means, always good myself; I might have neglected my lessons under the same temptation, and if my temper were naturally as hot as yours I don't know that I should have been any more meek and respectful than you were under so sharp a rebuke." "It's very good in you to say it; you're not a bit of a Pharisee; but I think Rosie is very much like the one the Bible tells about; the one who thought himself so much better than the poor publican." "Isn't it just possible you may be a little hard on Rosie?" suggested Eva, with some hesitation, fearing to rouse the ungovernable temper again. But Lulu did not show any anger. "I don't think I am," she replied, quite calmly. "What did she say after I left the room?" Eva was very averse to tale-bearing, so merely answered the query with another. "Why do you suppose she said anything?" "Because I know her of old; she dislikes and despises me, and is always ready to express her sentiments whenever the slightest occasion offers." "That reminds me," said Evelyn, "that just before dismissing us Grandpa Dinsmore requested us to refrain from mentioning what had passed, unless it should become quite necessary to do so." "You may be sure Rosie will find it necessary," Lulu said; "she will tell her mamma all about it--Mamma Vi, too--and it will presently be known all over the house; even by the Keiths. I wish they weren't here," "Don't you like them? I do." "Yes; Aunt Marcia and Aunt Annis--as we children all call them--are kind and pleasant as can be; but I'd rather they wouldn't hear about this; though I don't care so very much either," she added, half defiantly. "What difference does it make what people think of you?" "Some difference, surely," said Evelyn, gently; "for the Bible says, 'A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold.' Papa used to tell me that to deserve a good name, and to have it, was one of the greatest blessings of life. I must go now," she added, pulling out a pretty little watch, one of the last gifts of that loved father; "Aunt Elsie will be expecting me." "I wish I could go with you," said Lulu, sighing. "Oh, that would be nice!" exclaimed Evelyn. "Can't you?" Lulu shook her head. "Not without leave, and I don't want to ask it now. Oh, Eva, I do wish I hadn't to obey these people who are no relation to me!" "But they are very kind; and Aunt Violet is your father's wife, and loves you for his sake, I am sure." "But she's too young to be a real mother to me, and the rest are no relation at all. I begged papa not to say I must obey them, but he would say it." "Then, loving him so dearly, as I am sure you do, I should think you would be quite willing to obey them, because it is his will that you should." "I don't see that that follows," grumbled Lulu; "and--now you will think me very bad, I know--I have sometimes even refused to obey papa himself." "Oh, how sorry you will be for it if ever he is taken away from you!" Eva said, with emotion. "But did he let you have your own way?" "No, indeed; he is as strict in exacting obedience from his children as Grandpa Dinsmore himself. I'm dreadfully afraid Grandpa Dinsmore or somebody will write to him about to-day; I do hope they won't, for he said if I should be disobedient and troublesome he would take me away from here and put me in a boarding-school." "And you wouldn't like that?" "No, indeed! for how could I bear to be separated from Gracie and Max?" "I hope you won't have to go; I should be sorry enough on my own account as well as yours," Evelyn said, with an affectionate kiss. "I must really go now; so good-by, dear, till to-morrow." Evelyn had hardly gone when Max joined his sister. "Lulu, why can't you behave?" he exclaimed in a tone of impatience and chagrin. "You make Gracie and me both ashamed of your ingratitude to Grandpa Dinsmore." "I don't choose to be lectured by you, Max," returned Lulu, with a toss of her head. "No; but what do you suppose papa would say to this morning's behavior?" "Suppose you write and tell him all about it, and see what he says," she returned scornfully. "You know I would not do such a thing," said Max; "but I should think you would feel bound to do it." "I intend to some day," she answered, almost humbly; "but I don't think I need just now; 'tisn't likely he'd get the story anyhow for weeks or months." "Well, you'll do your own way, of course, but if it was my case I'd rather confess, and have it off my mind." So saying, Max turned and walked toward the house, Lulu slowing following. Though determined not to show it, she quite dreaded meeting any one belonging to the family; but she was already too thoroughly chilled to think of staying out another moment. Besides, the more she reflected upon the matter, the more plainly she saw that her misconduct could not be hidden from the family; they would notice that she did not go into the schoolroom as usual; they would see by Mr. Dinsmore's manner toward her that she was in disgrace with him, and would know it was not without cause; therefore to remain longer out in the cold was only delaying for a very little while the ordeal which she must face sooner or later. Still she deemed it cause for rejoicing that she succeeded in gaining her own room without meeting any one. CHAPTER XIII. "What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted." BURNS. Poor little Grace was sorely distressed over her sister's misconduct and the consequent displeasure of Mr. Dinsmore. On being dismissed from the schoolroom she went directly to her mamma's apartments. She knew she would be alone there, as Violet had gone out driving, and shutting herself in, she indulged in a hearty cry. She was aware of the danger that Lulu would be sent away, and could not bear the thought of separation from her--the only sister she had except the baby. Their mutual love was very strong; and Lulu was ever ready to act as Grace's champion, did anyone show the slightest disposition to impose upon or ill-treat her; and it was seldom indeed that she herself was anything but the kindest of the kind to her. Finding her young step-mother ever ready with sympathy--and help, too, where that was possible--Grace had long since formed the habit of carrying to her all her little troubles and vexations, and also all her joys. She longed to open her heart now to "mamma," but Mr. Dinsmore's parting injunction as he dismissed his pupils for the day seemed to forbid it. Grace felt that even that partial relief was denied her. But Violet came suddenly upon her, and surprised her in the midst of her tears. "Why, my darling, what is the matter?" she asked in a tone full of concern, taking the little girl in her arms as she spoke. "Oh, mamma, it's--But I mustn't tell you, 'cause Grandpa Dinsmore said we were not to mention it unless it was quite necessary." "But surely you may tell your mamma anything that distresses you so! Is it that Grandpa Dinsmore is displeased?" "Not with me, mamma." "Then with Max or Lulu?" "Mamma, I think I may tell you a little," Grace replied, with some hesitation. "It's with Lulu; but I can't say what for. But, oh, mamma, if Grandpa Dinsmore won't teach Lu any more will she have to go away to boarding-school?" "I hope not, dearie; I think not if she will be content to take me for her teacher," Violet said, with a half-suppressed sigh, for she felt that she might be pledging herself to a most trying work; Lulu would dare much more in the way of disregarding her authority than that of her grandfather. But she was rewarded by Grace's glad exclamation, "Oh, mamma, how good you are! I hope Lulu would never be naughty to you. How could she if you save her from being sent away?" "I think Lulu wants to be good," Violet said gently; "but she finds her naturally quick temper very hard to govern." "But she always grows sorry very soon," Grace remarked in a deprecating tone. "Yes, dear, so she does. She is a dear child, as her father says, and one cannot help loving her in spite of her faults." "Thank you, darling mamma, for saying that!" Grace exclaimed, throwing her arms round Violet's neck and kissing her cheek. "May I tell Lulu that you will teach her if Grandpa Dinsmore will not?" "No, Gracie," Violet answered, with grave look and tone; "it will do her good, I think, to fear for a while that she may lose the privileges she enjoys here by not valuing them enough to make good use of them, or by indulging in improper behavior toward those whom her father has placed over her, and who are in every way worthy of her respect and obedience." "Yes, mamma," Grace responded submissively. "Where is Lulu?" Violet asked. "I don't know, mamma. Oh yes, I see her coming up the avenue," she corrected herself, as she glanced from a window. "She's been taking a walk, I s'pose." Presently they heard Lulu enter her own room, shut the door, lock and bolt it, as if determined to secure herself from intrusion. But Grace hastened to join her, passing through the door that opened from Violet's apartments. Lulu, who was taking off her hat, turned sharply round with an angry frown on her brow. But it vanished at sight of the intruder. "Oh, it's only you, is it, Gracie?" she said in a slightly relieved tone. "But what's the matter? What have you been crying about?" "You, Lulu; oh, I'm so sorry for you!" Grace answered, with a sob, running to her sister and putting her arms round her neck. "Well, you needn't be; I don't care," Lulu said defiantly, and with a little stamp of her foot. "No, not if all the old tyrants in the world were angry with me!" "Oh, Lu, don't talk so!" entreated Grace; "and you do care if papa is displeased? Our own dear papa who loves us so dearly?" "Yes," acknowledged Lulu, in a more quiet and subdued tone. "Oh, Gracie, why wasn't I made good like you?" "Don't you remember the Bible verse we learned the other day?" queried Grace. "'There is none good; no, not one.'" "Then Grandpa Dinsmore isn't good himself, and ought to have more patience with me," remarked Lulu. "But don't you fret about it, Gracie; there's no need." "You're always sorry when I'm in trouble, and I can't help feeling so when you are," said Grace. Violet was dressing for dinner, thinking sadly the while upon what she had just learned from Grace. "How it would trouble her father if he should hear it!" she said to herself. "I hope grandpa will not consider it necessary to report her conduct to him. Of course, according to his requirements she should tell him herself, but I presume she will hardly have the courage to refrain from making her behavior appear less reprehensible than it actually was." She questioned with herself whether to speak to Lulu on the subject of her misconduct, but decided not to do so at present, unless something should occur to lead to it naturally. Her toilet completed, she went down to the parlor, and there found her grandfather alone. He looked up with a welcoming smile; Violet had always been a particular favorite with him. "The first down, little cricket," he said, using an old-time pet name, and pausing in his walk (for he was pacing the floor) to gallantly hand her to a seat on a sofa; then placing himself by her side, "How extremely youthful you look, my pet! Who would take you for a matron?" "To tell you a secret, grandpa," she said, with a merry look, "I feel quite young still when the children are not by; and not always very old even when they are with me. By the way, how have they behaved themselves today?" A grave, slightly annoyed look came over his face as she asked the question. "Max and Gracie as well as any one could desire," he said; "but Lulu--really, Vi, if she were my own child, I should try the virtue of a rod with her." Violet's face reflected the gravity of his, while she gave vent to an audible sigh. Mr. Dinsmore went on to describe Lulu's behavior on that and several other days, then wound up with the question, "What do you think her father would have me do with her?" "I suppose he would say send her to a boarding-school; but, grandpa, I am very loath to see that done. At the same time I cannot bear to have you annoyed with her ill-conduct, and I am thinking of attempting the task of teaching her myself." Mr. Dinsmore shook his head. "I cannot have you annoyed with her, my little Vi; no more, at least, than you necessarily must be, occupying the relationship that you do. But we will take the matter into consideration, getting your grandma and mother to aid us with their advice." "And we won't tell her father the whole unpleasant truth, will we, grandpa?" Violet said, half inquiringly, half entreatingly. "You shall tell him just what you please; I shall not trouble him in regard to the matter," Mr. Dinsmore answered in his kindliest tone. The entrance of Mrs. Keith and Annis put an end to the conversation, and presently dinner was announced. Lulu went to the dining-room in some trepidation, not knowing what treatment to expect from Mr. Dinsmore, or others who might have learned the story of her misconduct. But there seemed no change in the manner of any of the grown people, except Mr. Dinsmore, who simply ignored her existence altogether, apparently was unaware of her presence, never looking at or speaking to her. He had privately given instructions beforehand to one of the servants to attend to Miss Lulu's wants at the table, seeing that her plate was supplied with whatever viands she desired; and it was done so quietly that no one noticed anything unusual in the conduct of the meal. Still Lulu was uncomfortably conscious of being in disgrace, and seized the first opportunity to slip quietly away to her own room. She took up the story-book--still unfinished--which had got her into this trouble, but could not feel the interest she had before; an uneasy conscience prevented. Laying it aside, she sat for some moments with her elbow on the window-sill, her cheek in her hand, her eyes gazing upon vacancy. She was thinking of what Max had said about the duty of confession to her father. "I wish I didn't have to," she sighed to herself; "I wish papa hadn't said I must write out every day what I've been doing and send the diary to him. I think it's hard; it's bad enough to have to confess my wrong-doing to him when he's at home. It's just as well he isn't, though, for I know he'd punish me if he was. Maybe he will when he comes again, but it's likely to be such a long while first that I think I'm pretty safe as far as that is concerned. Oh, it does provoke me so that he will make me obey these people! I'm determined I'll do exactly as I please when I'm grown up! "But if I'm sent off to boarding-school I'll have to obey the teachers there, or have a fight and be expelled--which would be a great disgrace and 'most break papa's heart, I do believe--and they would very likely be more disagreeable than even Grandpa Dinsmore; not half so nice and kind as Grandma Elsie, I'm perfectly certain. Oh dear, if I only _were_ grown up! But I'm not, and I have to write the story of to-day to papa. I'll make it short." Opening her writing-desk, she took therefrom pen, ink, and paper, and, after a moment's cogitation, began. "I haven't been a good girl to-day," she wrote; "I was so interested in a story-book that I neglected to learn my Latin lesson; so I failed in the recitation, and Grandpa Dinsmore was very cross and disagreeable about it. He says I answered him disrespectfully and as punishment I sha'n't go into the schoolroom or recite to him again for a week. "There," glancing over what she had written, "I hope papa will never question me closely about it; and I think he won't; it'll be such an old story by the time we meet again." The week of her banishment from the schoolroom was an uncomfortable one to Lulu, though she was given no reason to consider herself a martyr. She was allowed a share in all the home pleasures, all her wants were as carefully attended to as usual, she received no harsh words or unkind looks; yet somehow could never rid herself of the consciousness that she was in disgrace. Very little notice was taken of her by any of the family except her brother and sister; she came and went about the house as she pleased,--never venturing into the schoolroom, however,--but when she joined the family circle no one seemed to be aware of her presence; they talked among themselves, but did not address or even look at her. This treatment was galling to her, and she began to spend almost all of her time in "the boy's work-room," at her favorite employment of fret-sawing. Max was generally at work there also out of school-hours, but during those hours she had always been alone till one morning Mrs. Leland, happening to want something from a closet in the work-room, came unexpectedly upon her. It was a surprise to both; for Evelyn had kept her friend's counsel, and no one at Ion had let Elsie or any one else indeed into the secret of Lulu's ill-conduct and consequent disgrace. "You here, Lu?" she exclaimed on entering the room. "I heard you saw as I came up the stairway, and wondered who could be busy here at this hour when the young folks are all supposed to be in the schoolroom. "What lovely work you are doing!" she went on, drawing near to examine it. "I presume you have been extremely good and studious, and so have been rewarded with leave of absence at this unusual hour; and you are certainly making good use of your holiday. "You are wonderfully expert at this for a child of your age. Perhaps one of these days you will develop into so great a genius as to make us all proud of your acquaintance." Lulu's cheeks burned. "You are very kind to praise my work so, Aunt Elsie," she said. "Do you really think this basket is handsome--I mean without making allowance for my age?" "I certainly do; I think it deserves all I have said of it, if not more. How pleased your father will be when he hears what a good, industrious, and painstaking little girl he has for his eldest daughter!" Lulu did not speak for a moment. She was fighting a battle with herself; conscience on the one hand and love of approbation on the other were having a great struggle within her breast. She valued Mrs. Leland's good opinion and was loath to lose it. But she was worthy of her father's glad encomium, "However many and serious her faults may be, she is at least honest and truthful," and could not accept praise which she knew was wholly undeserved. "You mistake, Aunt Elsie," she said with an effort, hanging her head in shame, while her cheek flushed hotly; "I am not here for being good, but for being naughty--missing my lesson and answering Grandpa Dinsmore impertinently when he reproved me for it." "I grieve to hear it, my dear child," Elsie returned in a truly sorrowful tone. "I had hoped you were getting quite the better of your temper and inclination to defy lawful authority. But do not be discouraged from trying again to conquer your faults. Every one of us has an evil nature and many spiritual foes to fight against; yet if we fight manfully, looking to Jesus for help and strength, we shall assuredly gain the victory at last; coming off more than conquerors through Him who loved us and died to save us from sin and death." "You can never think well of me again, Aunt Elsie?" Lulu said, half in assertion, half inquiringly. "I certainly hope to, Lulu," was the kind reply "Your honest avowal is greatly to your credit; I see that you are above the meanness of falsehood and taking undeserved praise; that seems to me a very hopeful sign, deeply ungrateful as was your conduct toward my dear, good grandfather, who has been so kind to you and yours. Do you not think it so yourself, now that your passion has had time to cool?" "Yes, ma'am," replied Lulu, again hanging her head and blushing. "I don't mean to behave so any more." Then after a moment's silence, "Aunt Elsie, I don't believe anybody has any idea how hard it is for me to be good." "Don't you think other people find it hard, too, my poor child?" Elsie asked gently. "They also have evil natures." "I'm sure," said Lulu, "that Max and Grace don't have half as hard work to be patient and sweet-tempered as I do. I often wish I'd been made good like Grace; and I don't see why I wasn't. And there's Rosie; she doesn't ever seem to want to be wilful, or tempted at all to get into a passion." "Perhaps, Lulu, she is as strongly tempted to some other sin as you are to wilfulness and passion, and perhaps falls before temptation as often. We cannot read each other's hearts; one cannot know how much another resists--can only see the failures and not the struggles to avoid them. "But how comforting to know that God, our heavenly Father, sees and knows it all; that He pities our weakness and proneness to sin! How precious are His promises of help in time of trial, if we look to Him for it, at the same time using all our own strength in the struggle!" "I never thought about different people having different temptations," remarked Lulu, thoughtfully. "Perhaps it isn't so much harder for me to do right than for others, after all." "My grandfather is not unforgiving," Elsie remarked as she turned to go; "and I think if you show that you are really sorry for your wrong-doing, he will restore you to your former privileges." Lulu went on with her work, but her thoughts were busy with that parting piece of advice, or rather the suggestion thrown out by Mrs. Leland. Her pride strongly revolted against making any acknowledgment, and remembering that there was but one more day of her week left, she at length decided to await events and do the disagreeable duty only when she could no longer delay it without danger of banishment. A remark she accidentally overheard from Rosie that afternoon made her more unwilling to apologize to Mr. Dinsmore; in fact, quite determined that she would do nothing of the kind. Rosie was speaking to Zoe, as they entered the work-room together, and did not notice that Lulu was there reading in a deep window-seat, where she was partially concealed by a curtain. "I think if Lulu is wise she will soon make it up with grandpa," she was saying; "for Christmas is not so very far off, and of course she will get nothing from him if she continues obstinate and rebellious." Lulu did not wait to hear what Zoe might say in reply, but starting up in a fury of indignation, "I would have you to understand, Miss Rosie Travilla," she said, "that I am not the mercenary creature you appear to believe me. I would scorn to apologize in order to secure a gift from Mr. Dinsmore or anybody else; and if he gives me one, I shall not accept it." "I really do not think you will have the opportunity to reject a gift from him," replied Rosie, with what seemed to Lulu exasperating coolness. "However, I sincerely regret having said anything to rouse that fearful temper of yours. I should not have spoken so had I known you were within earshot." "No, I have no doubt that you say many a mean thing of me behind my back that you would be ashamed, or afraid, to say to my face." Rosie laughed gleefully. "Do you think I am afraid of _you_?" she asked in a mirthful tone, putting a strong emphasis upon the last word. "Come, come, girls," interposed Zoe, "you surely are not going to quarrel about nothing?" "No; I have no quarrel with any one," replied Rosie, turning about and leaving the room with a quick, light step. Lulu threw her book from her, upon the seat from which she had just risen. "She insults me and then walks off saying she has no quarrel with anybody!" she exclaimed passionately, addressing Zoe, who had remained behind with the laudable desire to say something to Lulu which should be as oil upon the troubled water. "It's bad enough to be abused without being forgiven for it." "So it is," said Zoe; "but I don't think Rosie meant any harm; I sincerely believe she wants you to make it up with grandpa for your own sake--that you may have a good time now and at Christmas." "If I can't do it from a better motive than that, I won't do it at all," said Lulu. "Aunt Zoe, I hope you have a little better opinion of me than Rosie seems to have?" "Yes, Lulu, I've always liked you. I think yours would be a splendid character if only you could learn to rule your own spirit, as the Bible says. I've heard my father say that those who were naturally high-tempered and wilful made the noblest men and women if they once thoroughly learned the lesson of self-control." "I wish I could," said Lulu, dejectedly. "I'm always sorry for my failure when my passion is over, and think I will never indulge it again; but soon somebody does or says something very provoking, and before I have time to think of my good resolutions I'm in a passion and saying angry words in return." "I am sorry for you," said Zoe; "I have temper enough of my own to be able to sympathize with you. But you will try to make your peace with grandpa, won't you?" "No; I was intending to, if Rosie hadn't interfered, but I sha'n't now; because if I did he would think it was from that mean motive that Rosie suggested." "Oh no; grandpa is too noble himself to suspect others of such meanness," asserted Zoe, defending him all the more warmly that she had sometimes talked a trifle hardly of him herself. But she saw from Lulu's countenance that to undo Rosie's work was quite impossible, so presently gave up the attempt and left her to solitude and her book. CHAPTER XIV. "How poor are they that have not patience!" SHAKESPEARE. The next morning's mail brought a letter from Isadore Keith to her cousin, Mrs. Elsie Travilla. It was dated "Viamede Parsonage," and written in a cheerful strain; for Isa was very happy in her married life. She wrote rejoicingly of the prospect of seeing the Ion family at Viamede; the relatives of her husband who were now staying with them also urged an early arrival. "We long to have you all here for the whole season," she said; "Molly and I are looking eagerly forward to your coming; and the old servants at the mansion beg for a Christmas with the family in the house. Cannot Ion spare you to Viamede this year at that season? "I know your and uncle's kind hearts would make you both rejoice in adding to our happiness, and theirs also. And I have an additional inducement to offer. A fine school has been opened lately in the neighborhood, near enough to all our homes for our children to attend. Mine, of course, are still far too young, but I rejoice in the prospect for the future. "It is both a boarding and day school, principally for girls of all ages from six or eight to eighteen or twenty; but they take a few boys, brothers of the girls who attend. "A gentleman and his wife are the principals, two daughters assist, and there are French and music masters, etc. You will hear all about it when you come; but I am pretty certain you will find it a suitable school for all your numerous flock of children; and so uncle may take a rest from his labor of love, for such I know it has been." The remainder of the letter was occupied with other matters not important to our story. The greater part of the missive Elsie read aloud to the assembled family in the parlor, where they had gathered on leaving the breakfast-table; then turning to her father, "Well, papa, what do you think of it?" she asked. "I am rejoiced at the prospect of seeing you left to take your ease, as you surely have a right to at your age." "Am I actually growing so extremely old?" he asked with a comically rueful look. "Really, I had flattered myself that I was still a vigorous man, capable of a great deal of exertion." "So you seem to be, Cousin Horace," said Mr. Keith, "and certainly you are quite youthful compared to Marcia and myself." "Oh fie, Uncle Keith," laughed Zoe, "to insinuate that a lady is so very ancient!" "But, my dear child, people often come, toward the close of life, to be proud of their age, and perhaps sometimes are tempted to make it appear greater than it is." "When they get up in the hundreds, for instance?" Edward said half inquiringly. "Yes," said Mr. Keith, with an amused smile; "though I must not be understood as acknowledging that either my wife or myself has yet arrived at that stage." "But we hope you will live to reach it," Elsie said, with an affectionate glance from one to the other. "Would you keep us so long from home, my sweet cousin?" Mrs. Keith asked, something in her placid face seeming to tell of longing desire to be near and like her Lord." "Only for the sake of those to whom you are so dear, Aunt Marcia," Elsie answered, her eyes glistening. "I shall keep them as long as ever I can," said Annis. There was a moment's silence; then Edward asked, "Now what about Isa's request?" "What do you say, Elsie?" Mr. Dinsmore queried, looking at his daughter. "That I am quite satisfied to go at whatever time will best suit the others; particularly our guests and yourself, papa." "What do you say, Marcia?" he inquired of his cousin. "That I find it delightful here, and feel assured it will not be less so at Viamede; so am ready to go at once, or to stay longer, as you please." Mrs. Dinsmore, Mr. Keith, and Annis expressed themselves in like manner. "I think you would probably have pleasanter weather for travelling now than some weeks later in the season," remarked Edward; "and whatever else may be said of my opinion, it is at least disinterested, as I shall be the loser if you are influenced by it." "Why, what do you mean, Ned?" asked Zoe, in surprise. "Are we not going too?" "Not I, my dear; at least not for the winter: business requires my presence here. I hope, though, to be able to join you all for perhaps two or three weeks." "Not me; for I shall not go till you do," she said with decision. "You know you couldn't spare me, don't you?" "I know I should miss you sadly," he acknowledged, furtively passing his arm round her waist, for, as usual, they were seated side by side on a sofa; "but I know how you have been looking forward for months to this winter at Viamede, and I don't intend you shall miss it for my sake." "But what have your intentions to do with it?" she asked, with a twinkle of fun in her eye and a saucy little toss of her pretty head. "The question to be decided is what I intend; and I answer, 'Never to leave my husband, but to go when he goes and stay when he stays!' What do you say to that?" "That I am blest with the dearest of little wives," he whispered close to her ear, and tightening his clasp of her waist. They had nearly forgotten the presence of the others, who were too busy arranging the time for setting out upon their contemplated journey to notice this bit of by-play. The children--Lulu included--were all in the room and listening with intense interest to the consultation of their elders. At length it was settled that they would leave in a few days, and Rosie, Max, Grace, and Walter burst into exclamations of delight; but Lulu stole quietly and unobserved from the room and hurried to her own. "Oh, I wonder," she sighed to herself as she shut the door and dropped into a chair, "if I am to go too! I wouldn't be left behind for anything; and as there is a school there that I can be sent to as a day-scholar, maybe Mamma Vi will coax to have me go; she's more likely to be in favor of taking me than anybody else--unless it's Grandma Elsie." Just then she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, through the hall, and into the adjoining room, and the voices of the three who were in her thoughts. "What do you think about it, papa?" Elsie was saying. "I should be very glad to have the dear child enjoy all that the rest of us do; but it must not be at the cost of spoiling your enjoyment." "I shall not allow it to do so," Mr. Dinsmore answered. "Lulu is a lovable child in spite of her very serious faults, and it would distress me to have her deprived of the delights of a winter at Viamede; which she has, I believe, been looking forward to with as great eagerness as any of the others, children or adults." "I know she has; and, dear grandpa, I thank you very much for your kind willingness to take her with us," Violet responded feelingly; her mother adding, "I also, papa; it would grieve me deeply to be compelled to leave her behind; especially as it must necessarily be in a boarding-school; Edward and Zoe being too young and inexperienced to take charge of her." Lulu's first emotion on hearing all this was delight that she was to go; the next, gratitude to these kind friends, mingled with a deep sense of shame on account of her misconduct. Impulsively she rose from her seat, hastened to the door of communication with the room where they were, and, pausing on the threshold, asked timidly, "Mamma Vi, may I come in?" "Yes, Lulu," Violet answered with a kindly look and smile; and the little girl, stepping quickly to Mr. Dinsmore's side, addressed him, with eyes cast down and cheeks burning with blushes: "I heard what you said just now, Grandpa Dinsmore, though I wasn't intending to be an eavesdropper, and I thank you very much for being so kind and forgiving to me when I've been so ungrateful and troublesome to you; and it makes me feel very sorry and ashamed, because of my bad behavior. Will you please forgive me? and I'll try to be a better girl in future," she added with an effort. "Surely I will, my dear child," Mr. Dinsmore responded, taking her by the hand and drawing her to him, then bending down to kiss her cheek and stroke her hair caressingly. "So well assured am I that you are truly sorry, and desirous to do better, that I should say come back to the school-room to-morrow, if we were going on with lessons as usual; but as the time for setting out upon our journey to Viamede is so very near, I shall give no more lessons, after to-day, until we return." "Ah," glancing at his watch, "I see I should be with my pupils now;" and with that he rose and left the room. "Lulu, dear, you have made me quite happy," Elsie said, smiling affectionately upon the little girl. "And me also," said Violet; "and I know your father would feel so too, if he were here." "You are all so kind you make me feel very much ashamed of myself," murmured Lulu, blushing and casting down her eyes. "Mamma Vi, can I do anything to help you?" "If you like to amuse baby for a few minutes, it will be a help to me," Violet answered; for she saw that just now it would give Lulu sincere pleasure to think herself of use. "Her mammy is eating her breakfast," Violet continued, "and I want to speak to Christine and Alma about some sewing they are doing for me." "I'd like to, Mamma Vi," returned Lulu, holding out her hands to little Elsie, and delighted that her mute invitation was at once accepted; the sweet babe stretching out its chubby arms to her. "I do think she is just as pretty and smart as she can be! Aren't you, you darling little pet?" she went on, hugging and kissing the little one with sisterly affection, while the young mother looked on with shining eyes. It was a great relief to her that Lulu seemed to have entirely banished her former jealousy of her baby-sister; and that this pleasant state of affairs might continue, she was careful to make her errand to the sewing-room very short, lest Lulu should begin to find her task irksome. Hastening back to her own apartments, she found Lulu still in high good-humor, laughing and romping with the babe, allowing it to pat her cheeks and pull her hair with perfect impunity. "Mamma Vi," she said, "isn't she a darling?" "I think so," replied Violet; "but I fear she is hurting you, for I know from experience that she can pull hair very hard." "Oh," said Lulu, "I don't mind such a trifling hurt, as it amuses her." Still she seemed quite ready to resign baby to her mother. "What more can I do, Mamma Vi?" she asked. "Don't you want to finish that pretty bracket you were at yesterday?" asked Violet. "Yes, ma'am; unless there is something I can do to help you." "Nothing at present, thank you, dear," Violet answered; and giving a parting kiss to the baby, Lulu hastened away to the work-room. She toiled on industriously, much interested in her carving, cheerful and happy, but watching the clock on the mantel as the time drew near for Mr. Dinsmore's pupils to be dismissed from their tasks. She had not seen Evelyn since early the day before, and was longing to have a talk with her, particularly about the delightful prospect of going to Viamede to spend some months there together; and when at last the sound of child voices and laughter, coming up from below, told her that lessons were over, she sprang up and ran hastily down the stairs, looking eagerly for her friend. She did not see Evelyn, but met Rosie face to face. They exchanged glances: Lulu's proud and disdainful, Rosie's merry and careless; insultingly, so Lulu thought, considering what had passed between them the previous day; and drawing herself up to her full height, she said, her eyes flashing with anger, "You owe me an apology!" "Do I, indeed? Then I'm quite able to owe it," laughed Rosie, dancing away, but pausing presently to throw back a parting word over her shoulder: "I'm afraid that's a very bad debt, Miss Raymond; don't you wish you could collect it?" Lulu's face crimsoned with anger, and she was opening her lips for a cutting retort, when Evelyn, who had just stepped out of the schoolroom, where she had lingered a moment to arrange the contents of her desk, hastily threw an arm round her waist and drew her away. "Don't mind what Rosie says; it's not worth caring for," she whispered. "She's full of her fun, don't you see? and doesn't mean any harm. Come, let us go up to the work-room and have a good talk." Lulu yielded in silence, struggling hard to be mistress of herself. Evelyn tried to help her. "Oh, Lulu, is it not delightful that we are to go so soon to that lovely Viamede?" she asked as the work-room door closed behind them. "Yes; if only one could leave temper and tormenting people behind!" sighed Lulu. "Oh, Eva, Rosie is _so_ tormenting! I'd be glad to be friends with her, but she won't let me." "It is trying," Evelyn admitted. "But you know, Lu," she went on, "that we must expect troubles and trials in this world; that they are sent or permitted for our good; for strength grows by exercise, and if there is nothing to try our patience, how can it grow?" "I have none to begin with," said Lulu. "Oh, that's a mistake," said Evelyn; "you have great patience with your work yonder, and deserve a great deal of credit for it. I do think you have much more of that kind of patience than Rosie has. But let us talk of something else." They talked of Viamede, each telling the other what she had heard of its beauties; of Magnolia Hall, too; of Molly, Isa, and the other relatives of the Dinsmores who were living in that region of country. It so happened that Rosie's mother, passing through the hall below at the moment, overheard her mocking words to Lulu. "Rosie," she called, and the little girl perceived a grieved tone in the sweet voice, "come here, daughter." "Yes, mamma, dear, what is it?" Rosie asked lightly, descending the stair. "Come into my dressing-room; I want to talk to you." Then, when they were seated, "What was that I overheard you saying to Lulu just now?" Rosie repeated her words in a careless tone. "I desire an explanation," her mother said gently, but very gravely. "What was the debt, and who owes it?" "I, mamma, if anybody. Lulu had just said that I owed her an apology; and I had answered that if so, I was quite able to owe it." "What had you done or said that she should think herself entitled to an apology?" Rosie replied with a truthful account of the scene of the day before in the boy's work-room, excusing her part of it by an allusion to "Lulu's fearful temper." "Are you quite sure, Rosie, that when you rouse it by exasperating remarks you do not share the sin?" asked her mother with a grieved, troubled look. "No, mamma, I'm afraid I do," acknowledged Rosie, frankly. "Satan is called the tempter," Elsie went on, "and I fear that you are doing his work when you wilfully tempt another to sin." "Oh, mamma," cried Rosie, looking shocked, "I never thought of that. I don't want to be his servant, doing his work; I will try never to tempt any one to wrong-doing again." "I am glad to hear you say that," said her mother. "And now that you are conscious of having harmed Lulu, are you not willing to do what lies in your power to repair the mischief--to pay the debt she thinks you owe her?" Rosie's head drooped and her cheeks crimsoned. "Mamma, you are asking a hard thing of me," she said in a low, unwilling tone. "If you order me, of course I know I must obey; but I'd rather do almost anything else than apologize to Lulu." "I wish you to do it of your own free will and from sense of duty, not because my commands are laid upon you," Elsie answered. "Is it not the noblest course of action I am urging upon you? Is it any less mean to refuse to meet such an obligation than a moneyed one?--a thing of which I am sure you would be heartily ashamed to be guilty." "Certainly I should, mamma; one might as well steal as refuse to pay what one honestly owes; unless it be entirely out of one's power." "You are speaking of pecuniary obligations. Now apply the same rule to this other: you have taken something from Lulu's peace of mind (a possession more valuable than money), and can you refuse an honest endeavor to restore it?" "Mamma, you have a most convincing way of putting things," Rosie said, between a smile and a sigh. "I will do as you wish, and try not to repeat the offence which calls for so humiliating a reparation." So saying, she rose and left the room, anxious to have the disagreeable duty over as soon as possible. Rightly conjecturing Lulu's whereabouts, she went directly to the work-room and found her and Evelyn chatting there together. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, but a frown suddenly darkened Lulu's brow as she turned her head at the opening of the door and saw who was there. "Excuse the interruption, girls," Rosie said pleasantly. "I only want to say a few words and then I will go. Lulu, I have come to pay that debt. Mamma has convinced me that I have done very wrong in teasing you, and ought to apologize. I therefore ask your pardon for any and every unpleasant word I have ever addressed to you." Before Rosie had fairly finished what she had to say, warm-hearted, impulsive Lulu had risen to her feet, run hastily to her and thrown her arms round her neck. "Oh, Rosie," she cried, "I've been just too hateful for anything! I ought to be able to stand a little teasing, and you needn't apologize for vexing such a quick-tempered piece as I am." "Yes, I should," returned Rosie. "Mamma has shown me that I have been greatly to blame. But I trust we shall be good friends after this." "So do I," said Lulu. CHAPTER XV. "'Tis a goodly scene-- Yon river, like a silvery snake, lays out His coil i' th' sunshine, lovingly; it breathes Of freshness in this lap of flowery meadows." HUNT. "Oh, isn't this just the loveliest, _loveliest_ country!" exclaimed Evelyn, rapturously; "what does anybody want to go to Europe for? If for beautiful scenery, I should advise them--all Americans, I mean--to travel over their own land first." "So should I," responded Lulu. "I don't believe there can be lovelier scenery on this earth than what we have been passing through for hours past! I wonder how near we are now to Viamede?" "We are beside it--the estate--at this moment," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, overhearing their talk; "this orange-orchard is a part of it." Exclamations of delight followed the announcement. Everybody on board the little steamer that had been threading its way up Teche Bayou and through lake and lakelet, past swamp, forest, plantation and plain, miles upon miles of smooth, velvety lawns, dotted with magnificent oaks and magnolias, and lordly villas peering through groves of orange-trees--everybody, although they had greatly enjoyed the short voyage, was glad to know they were nearing their desired haven. A glad welcome awaited them there. As they rounded to at the little pier they could see a crowd of relatives and retainers gathered beside it, watching and waiting with faces full of joyous eagerness. And as the voyagers stepped ashore what affectionate embraces, what glad greetings were exchanged! Cyril and Isa Keith were there with their two little ones; Dick Percival, Bob and Betty Johnson--and could it be possible? was that Molly Embury, on her feet, standing by Mr. Embury's side and leaning only slightly on his arm? Yes, it can be no other; and--oh, wonder of wonders!--she comes nearer, actually walking upon the feet that no one thought would ever again be able to bear her weight. How they gathered about her with exclamations of astonishment and delight, and question upon question as to the means by which this wondrous change had been wrought! And with what tears of joy and thankfulness, and in tones how tremulous with deep gratitude, she and her husband told of the experiments of a rising young surgeon which, by the blessing of God, had resulted in this astonishing cure! "Oh, Uncle Horace, Aunt Rose, Cousin Elsie," Molly exclaimed, glancing from one to the other, "I think I am surely the happiest woman in the world, and the one who has the greatest reason for thankfulness! See, here is another precious treasure the Lord has sent me in addition to the many I had before;" and turning, she beckoned to a middle-aged colored woman standing a little in their rear, who immediately came forward bearing an infant of a few weeks in her arms. "My Elsie, named for you, dear cousin," Molly said, taking the child and holding it proudly up to view. "I only hope she may, if God spares her life, grow up to be as dear and sweet and good, as kind and true and loving, as she whose name she bears." "The darling!" Elsie said, bending down to press a kiss on the velvet cheek of her tiny namesake. "And how kind in you, Molly, to name her for me! Oh, it makes me so happy to see you able to move about, and with this new treasure added to your store!" The others added their congratulations; and Mr. Embury remarked, with a happy laugh, "Molly certainly thinks there was never another baby quite equal to hers in any respect." "Which is very natural," said Mrs. Dinsmore. "I remember having some such idea about my own first baby." The Ion children were allowed a few days of entire liberty to roam about and make themselves fully acquainted with the beauties of Viamede, Magnolia Hall, and the neighborhood before beginning school duties. Meanwhile their elders had visited Oakdale Academy and made the acquaintance of Prof. Silas Manton, his wife and two daughters,--Miss Diana and Miss Emily,--who, with Signor Foresti, music-master, and M. Saurin, instructor in French, formed the corps of teachers belonging to the institution. Privately our friends were but indifferently pleased with any of them; still it was decided to enter the children as pupils there for the present, and, watching carefully over them, remove them at once if any evidence of harmful influence were perceived. So far as they could learn, the parents of the pupils already there had found no cause for complaint; and, as a school was greatly needed in the vicinity, the Viamede families were desirous to aid in sustaining this should it prove, as they still hoped, a good one. The children were naturally full of curiosity in regard to their future instructors, and gathering about the ladies on their return, plied them with questions. "How many boys go to the school, Grandma Elsie, and who teaches them?" queried Max. "Two questions at a time, Max!" she said pleasantly. "Yes, ma'am; but if you will please answer one at a time I'll be entirely satisfied." "I think the professor said there were six or eight; and he teaches them himself. That is, boys of your age and older, Max; the very little ones go into the primary department along with the little girls, and are taught principally by Miss Emily." "And who will teach us larger girls, mamma?" asked Rosie. "Mrs. Manton hears some of the recitations; Miss Diana sits in the schoolroom all the time to keep order, and hears most of the lessons. Professor Manton has all the classes in Latin, German, and the higher mathematics." "Boys and girls both?" asked Lulu. "Yes, all children are together in those studies." "That's nice," Max said with satisfaction. "You like the idea of going to school again, Max?" "Oh yes, Grandma Elsie; if the fellows I'll be put with are nice. You know I haven't had a boy-companion for a long time--as a schoolmate, I mean. But if they turn out sneaks or bullies, I shall not enjoy their company. I'd rather be with the girls." "Oh, Max, how complimentary!" cried Rosie, laughingly; "you would actually prefer our company to that of bullies and sneaks!" "Now, Rosie, you needn't make fun of me," he said, echoing the laugh; "I didn't mean that you--that girls--were only a little to be preferred to such fellows." "How far is Oakdale Academy from here, Grandma Elsie?" asked Lulu. "Two miles; perhaps a trifle more." "I think I can walk it; at least in pleasant weather," remarked Evelyn. "You will not be required to do that, my dear," said Grandma Elsie, smiling kindly upon her; "the carriage will take you all there every morning, and bring you home again when school duties are over." "How nice! how very kind you are to us all!" exclaimed Evelyn. "But I think I should enjoy the walk some days, with pleasant company and time enough to take it leisurely." "Should you? Then I shall try to manage it for you. But it would not do at all for you to go entirely alone." "If you'll just let me be her escort, Grandma Elsie, I'll walk beside her with pleasure and take the very best care of her," said Max, proudly and assuming quite a manly air. "I'd want a bigger and stronger man than you, Max," remarked Rosie, teasingly. "Then I won't offer my services to you, Rosie," he answered with dignity, while Lulu gave Rosie a displeased glance which the latter did not seem to notice. "Never mind, Max; I appreciate your offered services, and shall not be afraid to trust myself to your care," Evelyn said in a lively tone; and putting an arm affectionately round Lulu's waist, "Come, Lu, let us go out on the lawn; I saw some lovely flowers there that I want to gather for Aunt Elsie's adornment this evening." So the little group scattered, and Grace followed Violet to her dressing-room. "What is it, dear? is anything wrong with my little girl?" asked Vi, noticing that the child was unusually quiet and wore a troubled look on the face that was wont to be without a cloud. "Not much, mamma--only--only I've never been to school, and--and I'm--afraid of strange people." A sob came with the last word, and the tears began to fall. "Then you shall not go, darling; you shall stay at home and say your little lessons to your mamma," Violet said, sitting down and drawing the little girl to her with a tender caress. "Oh, mamma, thank you! how good you are to me!" cried Grace, glad smiles breaking suddenly through the rain of tears, as she threw her arms round Violet's neck and held up her face for another kiss. "But I will go if you think I ought," she added the next moment, "for you know I want to do right and please Jesus." "Yes, dear, I know you are trying all the time to please Him; I can see it very plainly; but I shall be glad to keep my darling at home with me; and that being the case, I do not think your conscience need trouble you if you stay at home. The academy people will have no cause to complain, because you were not promised positively to them." "Dear mamma, you've made me so happy!" exclaimed Grace, hugging Violet with all her little strength. "I'm so obliged to papa for giving me such a dear, sweet, kind mother." "And I am obliged to him for the dear little daughter he has given me," Violet responded with a low, pleased laugh. Grandma Elsie sat alone upon the veranda, the rest having gone away, except Max, who lingered at a little distance, now and then casting a wistful glance at her. At length catching one of these, she gave him, an encouraging smile and beckoned him to her side. "What is it, Max?" she asked. "Don't be afraid to tell me all that is in your heart." "No, ma'am, I don't think I am; only I shouldn't like to be troublesome when you are so very kind to me--as well as to everybody else." "I shall not think you so, but be very glad if I can help you in any way," she answered, taking the boy's hand and looking into his eyes with so kind and motherly an expression that his heart went out to her in truly filial love. "I hardly know just how to say it," he began with some hesitation, "but it's about the school and the new boys I'll meet there. I don't know what sort of fellows they are, and I--you know, Grandma Elsie, I'm trying to be a Christian, and I--I'm afraid if they are not the right sort of boys, they--I might be weak enough to be led wrong as I have been before." "Yes, my dear boy, I understand you; you fear you may fall before temptation and so bring dishonor upon your profession. And doubtless so you will if you trust only in your own strength. But if, feeling that to be but weakness, you cling closely to Christ, seeking strength and wisdom from Him, He will enable you to stand. "The apostle says, 'When I am weak, then am I strong,' and the promise is, 'God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.'" "Thank you, Grandma Elsie; I'll try to do it," he said thoughtfully. "I'm glad that promise is in the Bible." "Yes; it has often been a comfort to me," she said, "as which of His great and precious promises has not? Max, my dear boy, never be ashamed or afraid to show your colors; stand up for Jesus always, whether at home or abroad, in the company of His friends or His foes. "The acknowledgment that you are His follower, bound to obey His commands, may expose you to ridicule, scorn, and contempt; but if you are a good soldier of Jesus Christ, you will bear all that and more rather than deny Him." "Oh, Grandma Elsie! could I ever do that?" he exclaimed with emotion. "Peter did, you remember, though he had been so sure before the temptation came that he would rather die with his Master than deny Him." "My father's son ought to be very brave," remarked Max after a moment's thoughtful silence, half unconsciously thinking aloud. "I am quite sure papa would face death any time rather than desert his colors, whether for God or his country." Elsie smiled kindly, approvingly upon the boy. It pleased her well to see how proud and fond he was of his father; how thoroughly he believed in him as the personification of all that was good and great and noble. "I'm not nearly so brave," Max went on; "but, as papa says, the promises are mine just as much as his, and neither of us can stand except in the strength that God gives to those that look to Him for help in every hour of temptation. "Besides, Grandma Elsie, I'll not have death to fear as Peter had. Yet I'm not sure that it isn't as hard, sometimes, to stand up against ridicule." "Yes; I believe some do find it so; many a man or boy has been found, in the hour of trial, so lacking in true moral courage--which is courage of the highest kind--as to choose to throw away his own life or that of another rather than risk being jeered at as a coward. Ah, Max, I hope you will always be brave enough to do right even at the risk of being deemed a coward by such as 'love the praise of men more than the praise of God.'" "Oh, I hope so!" he returned; "and if I don't, I think there should be no excuse made for me--a boy with such a father and such friends as you and all the rest of the folks here." "I am pleased that you appreciate your opportunities, Max," Elsie said. Just at that moment Evelyn and Lulu came up the veranda steps with hands filled with wild-flowers culled from among the myriads of beautiful ones that spangled the velvety lawn where they had been strolling together ever since leaving the house. "See what lovely flowers. Grandma Elsie!" cried Lulu. "Oh, I thank you for bringing me here to Viamede, and for saying that I may gather as many of these as I please!" "I am very glad you enjoy it, dear child," Elsie answered. "It was one of my great pleasures as a child, and is such to this day." "I gathered mine for you and Mamma Vi," said Lulu; "and--oh, I should like to put this lovely white one in your hair, if you don't mind, Grandma Elsie," she added with a wistful look into the sweet face still so smooth and fair, spite of the passing years. "If I don't mind? I shall be pleased to have it there," was the smiling reply; and Lulu hastened to avail herself of the gracious permission; then stepping back to note the effect, "Oh," she cried, "how lovely it does look against your beautiful golden-brown hair, Grandma Elsie! Doesn't it, Evelyn?" "Yes, indeed!" exclaimed both Max and Evelyn; the latter adding, "I never saw more beautiful or abundant hair, or lovelier complexion; it seems really absurd to call a lady 'grandma' who looks so young." "So it does," said Max; "but we all love her so that we want to be some relation, and can't bear to say Mrs. Travilla, and what can be done about it?" As he spoke, Grace came running out and joined them, wearing a very bright, happy face. "Oh, Grandma Elsie, and everybody, I'm just as glad as I can be!" she cried. "I don't have to go to school, because mamma is so kind; she says she will teach me at home." While the others were expressing their sympathy in her happiness, Mr. Dinsmore joined them. "Here are letters," he said. "For you, Elsie, from Edward and your college boys; and one for each of the Raymonds, from the captain." He distributed them as he spoke, giving Violet's to Max with a request that he would carry it to her. "Thank you, sir; I'll be delighted to do the errand; because nothing pleases Mamma Vi so much as a letter from papa, unless it is a sight of his face," said Max, hurrying away with it. Grace, always eager to share every joy with "her dear mamma," ran after him with her own letter in her hand. What a treasure it was! a letter from papa, with her name on it in his writing, so that there could be no doubt that it was entirely her very own! How nice to have it so! But unless there was a secret in it, mamma should have the pleasure of reading it; Max and Lulu too: for there was very little selfishness in Grace's sweet nature. Lulu's face was full of gladness as she took her letter from Mr. Dinsmore's hand and, glancing at the address, recognized the well-known and loved handwriting. "Dear Lu, I'm so glad for you!" murmured Evelyn close to her ear, then turned and walked swiftly away. "Oh, poor, dear Evelyn! she can never get a letter from her father," thought Lulu with a deep feeling of compassion, as she sent one quick glance after the retreating figure. But her thoughts instantly returned to her treasure, and she hurried to the privacy of her own room to enjoy its perusal unobserved. Reading what her father had written directly to her, and her alone, was like having a private interview with him even a sight of which must be allowed to no third person; besides, he might have said something that would touch her feelings, and she could not bear to have any of "these people" see her cry. It was not a long letter, but tenderly affectionate. He called her his dear child, his darling little daughter, and told her he was very often thinking of and praying for her; asking that God would bless her in time and eternity; that He would help her to conquer her faults and grow up to good and useful womanhood; and that when her life on earth was done He would receive her to glory and immortality in the better land. He spoke of having received flattering accounts of her studiousness and general good behavior since last he parted from her, and said that until she should become a parent herself she could never know the joy of heart it had given him. He knew that she must have fought many a hard battle with her besetting sins, and while he hoped that a desire to please God had been among her motives, he rejoiced in believing that love for himself had influenced her also. "And it makes me very happy to think so, my precious little daughter; very glad to be able to bestow praise upon you rather than reproof," he added. Lulu's cheeks grew hot with shame as she read these words of commendation--now so undeserved--and tears started to her eyes as, in imagination, she saw the look of deep pain and distress that would come over her father's face when he learned of her late misconduct. "Oh, why am I not a better girl?" she sighed to herself; "how could I behave so when I know it grieves my dear papa like that!" CHAPTER XVI. LULU'S PROTEST. Lulu's self-upbraidings were broken in upon by a gentle tap at her door, followed by Grace's voice saying in glad, eager tones, "Come, Lulu, mamma is going to read us some of her letter from papa. And you shall see mine too, if you want to." "Yes, I'll be there in a minute," Lulu replied, jumping up, hastily folding her letter, slipping it into its envelope, and that into her pocket. This done, she hurried into Violet's dressing-room and joined Max and Grace as listeners to the reading of her father's letter to his wife. At its conclusion Max offered the one he had received, saying, "Now please read mine aloud, Mamma Vi; I'm sure you would all like to hear it." "Mine too," Grace said, laying hers in Violet's lap. When these had been read, both Max and Grace turned expectantly to Lulu. "Mine is just a nice little talk meant only for me," she said. "Then, dear, we won't ask to see it," Violet answered pleasantly; and the others seemed satisfied with the explanation. "Of course papa hadn't heard about the school. I wonder what he would think of our being sent to it," remarked Lulu. "I have no doubt he would approve of anything done for you by my mother and grandfather," Violet answered gently. "When do we begin there?" asked Max. "Next Monday. But you are to be taken over this afternoon for a preliminary examination, so that you may be assigned your places and lessons, and be all ready to set to work with the others on Monday morning." "Will you go with us, Mamma Vi?" asked Lulu. "No, dear; but mamma and grandpa will." "I must go and tell Eva, so she will be ready," exclaimed Lulu, starting up and hurrying from the room. Evelyn had wandered to a distant part of the grounds and seated herself upon a little grassy mound that encircled the roots of a great oak-tree. With the sight of Lulu's joy at receiving a letter from her absent father a fresh sense of her own heavy bereavement had come over her, and her heart seemed breaking with its load of bitter sorrow; its intense longing for "the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!" She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes gazing far out over the bayou, while tears coursed freely down her cheeks and her bosom heaved with sobs. It was her habit to go away and weep in solitude when calmness and cheerfulness seemed no longer within her power. Presently a light step approached, but she did not hear it, and deemed herself still alone till some one sat down beside her and, passing an arm round her waist, tenderly kissed her forehead. "Dear child," said her Aunt Elsie's sweet voice, "do not grieve so; think how blest he is--forever freed from all earth's cares and troubles, pains and sicknesses, and forever with the Lord he loved so well." "Yes; oh, I am glad for him!" she cried; "but how, oh, how shall I ever learn to live without him?" "By getting nearer to Him who has said, 'I will be a Father of the fatherless: I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.' "Dear child, Jesus loves you with a purer, deeper, stronger love than any earthly parent can feel for his child. "And He will never suffer any trial to visit you which shall not be for your good; He will give you strength to bear all that He appoints, and when the work of grace is done will take you to be forever with Himself and the dear ones gone before." "Yes, Aunt Elsie, thank you; it is very sweet and comforting to know and remember all that. "And He has given me such a good home with you and uncle; and everybody is so kind to me, I ought to be happy; and I am most of the time, but now and then such a longing for papa comes over me that I am compelled to go away by myself and indulge my grief for a little. Do you think it is wrong to do so?" "No, dear, Jesus wept at the grave of Lazarus, and did not rebuke the sisters for indulging their grief, so I cannot believe our kind heavenly Father would forbid us the relief of tears." The conversation gradually drifted to other themes, and when Lulu joined them they were talking of the studies Evelyn should pursue at Oakdale. Lulu made her communication; then she and Evelyn went into the house to dress for dinner and the drive which was to be taken immediately after. Each rejoiced that they were to be together in this new experience, and they were greatly pleased when, having examined them in their studies, Professor Manton assigned them to the same classes and to adjoining desks. They were pleased, too, with Oakdale. It had been a very fine place before the war, the residence of a family of wealth and standing; and though now in a measure fallen into decay, was still an attractive spot, not destitute of beauty. The rooms appointed to study and recitation were of good size, airy, and well lighted; with a pleasant outlook--here upon lawn and lakelet, there on garden, shrubbery, or orange orchard. "I think it is a beautiful place for a school," Lulu remarked as they were on their homeward way; "we shall enjoy wandering around the grounds, or sitting under the trees on the lawn, at recess." "Or having a game of ball," said Max. "Do you like Professor Manton, Eva?" asked Lulu, with a look of disgust as she mentioned his name. "I don't know him yet," Evelyn replied, half smiling. "I intend to try to like him." "I don't!" cried Lulu with vehemence; "he's too pompous and too--what is it?" "Fawning," supplied Max. "I'm just certain he has heard that Grandpa Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie are very rich, and I guess he thinks we are their own grandchildren." "Perhaps it is just as well, if it will make him treat you all the better," remarked Rosie; "therefore I shall not enlighten him. I have formed the same opinion of him that you and Lulu have, Max." "But don't let us judge him too hastily," said Evelyn. "Thinking ill of him will only make it hard to treat him with the respect we should while we are his pupils." "Very sage advice, Miss Leland," laughed Rosie. "But seriously, I am sure you are quite right." "So am I," said Max; "and I, for one, intend to try to behave and study exactly as if he were as worthy of respect as even Grandpa Dinsmore himself." "I too," said Evelyn; "and as if all the teachers were." "Very good resolutions," said Rosie; "so I adopt them for myself." "Well," sighed Lulu, "resolutions don't seem to amount to much with me, but I haven't the least intention of misbehaving or wasting my time and opportunities." She said it earnestly, really meaning every word of it. The children would probably not have expressed themselves quite so freely in the presence of their elders; but they were alone in the carriage, Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter having prepared to take the trip on horseback. Rosie, however, reported to her mother that part of the conversation relating to their intended good conduct, and so greatly rejoiced her heart, for she had been somewhat anxious in regard to the impression made upon the children--especially Lulu, who was a keen observer of character--by the professor, and its effect upon their behavior toward him. She had feared that Lulu, who never did anything by halves, would conceive a great contempt and dislike for the man, in which case there would be small hope of her conducting herself at all as she should while attending the school. Mr. Dinsmore and Violet had shared her fears, and they had consulted together as to the measures it might be wise to take in hope of averting the unpleasant and trying occurrences which they dreaded. "Do you think I should talk with her about it?" asked Violet. "Oh, if I only knew what it would be best to say!" "Perhaps the less the better," her grandfather said, with a smile; "I should advise you not to prepare a set sermon, but to say nothing unless upon the spur of the moment, when something she does or says may lead naturally to it." "No, do not let us disgust her with long lectures," said Elsie; "she is a child that will not endure a great deal in the way of reproof or admonition." "But perhaps, papa, a few words from you, who are certainly much wiser than either Vi or myself, might have a good effect." "No," he said, "because she respects you quite as much as she does me, and loves you far better. You are the one whose words will be most likely to benefit her." "Then I will undertake it, asking for wisdom from above that I may do her good and not harm," Elsie replied in a low, earnest tone. The task thus devolving upon her, she seized a favorable moment, when alone with Lulu, to remind her that she now had an opportunity to establish a character for diligence and good behavior, as she was taking a new start among strangers; while home friends were quite ready to believe that she had turned over a new leaf and would henceforth strive to be and to do just what would please her heavenly Father and the dear earthly one who loved her so fondly. The words were accompanied by a tender caress; and Lulu, looking up brightly, lovingly into the kind face bending over her, impulsively threw her arms round Elsie's neck, saying, "Yes, indeed, dear Grandma Elsie, I do mean to try with all my might to be a good girl, and to learn all I possibly can. "I am not at all sure of success, though," she added, her face clouding and her eyes seeking the floor. "Dear child," Elsie said, "remember that the Lord says to us, 'In Me is thine help.' Look to Him for help and strength in every time of trial, and you will come off at last more than conqueror." "How kind you are, Grandma Elsie!" Lulu said gratefully. "I think you do believe in me yet--believe that I do really want to be good; though I have failed so often." "My dear little girl, I have not a doubt of it," was the kind response; and Lulu's heart grew light: the trustful words gave her renewed hope and courage for the fight with her besetting sins. And she, and the others also, made a very fair beginning, winning golden opinions from their teachers. Both Max and the girls found pleasant companions among their new schoolmates, while the principal of the institution was less disagreeable than they had at first esteemed him, though they all agreed among themselves that it would be quite impossible ever to feel any affection for him, his wife, or Miss Diana, with whom the little girls had most to do. They all liked Miss Emily best, but Walter was the only one of their number belonging to her department, and she seldom came in contact with any of the others. They all took lessons in French; and as Signor Foresti had the reputation of being a very fine music-teacher, it had been arranged that the three little girls should be numbered among his pupils. But the first day, Lulu, on coming home from school, went to Violet with a strong protest against being taught by him. "Mamma Vi," she said, "the girls in his class say he has a dreadful, dreadful temper, gets angry and abusive when they make the slightest mistake, and sometimes strikes them with a whalebone pointer he always has in his hand; that is, he snaps it on their fingers, and it hurts terribly. I shouldn't mind the pain so much; but it would just make me furious to be disgraced by a blow from anybody, especially a man--unless it were papa, who would have a right, of course," she added, with a vivid blush. "So, Mamma Vi, please save me from having him for my teacher." Violet looked much perplexed and disturbed. "Lulu, dear, it doesn't rest with me to decide the matter, you know," she said, in a soothing, sympathetic tone; "if it did, I should at once say you need not. But I will speak to grandpa and mamma about it." "Well, Mamma Vi, if I must try it, won't you tell him beforehand that he is never to strike me? If he does, I'll not be able to restrain myself and I'll strike him back; I just know I shall. And then we'll all be sorry I was forced to take lessons of him." "Oh, Lulu, my dear child, I hope you would never do that!" cried Violet in distress. "How would your father feel? what would he say when he heard of it?" "I don't know, Mamma Vi, but I don't believe he would allow that man to strike me; and I dare say he would think I served him right if I struck him back. However, I don't mean to be understood as having formed the deliberate purpose of doing so; only I feel that that's what I should do without waiting a second to think." Violet thought it altogether likely, and after a moment's cogitation promised that the signor should be told that he could have Lulu for a pupil only with the distinct understanding that he was never, on any account, to give her a blow. "And, Lulu, dear," she added entreatingly, "you will try not to furnish him the slightest excuse for punishing you, will you not?" "Yes, Mamma Vi; but I do want to escape taking lessons of him, for fear we might fall out and have a fight," returned the little girl, laughing to keep from showing that she was almost ready to cry with vexation at the very idea of being compelled to become a pupil of the fiery little Italian. He was a diminutive man of rather forbidding aspect. "I fear that in that case you would get the worst of it," Violet remarked, with a faint smile. "He is only a little man, Mamma Vi," Lulu said, shaking her head in dissent; "the professor would make two of him, I think," "And you are only a little girl, and men and boys are, as a rule, far stronger than women and girls," replied Violet. "But aside from that consideration it would be a dreadful thing for you to come to a collision; and I shall certainly do what I can to prevent it." In pursuance of that end she presently went in search of her mother and grandfather. She found them and Mrs. Dinsmore seated together on the lawn; the ladies busied with, their needlework, Mr. Dinsmore reading aloud. As Violet approached, he paused, and laying the open book down on his knee, made room for her by his side. "Don't let me interrupt you, grandpa," she said, accepting his mute invitation. "Perhaps grandpa is ready to rest," remarked her mother; "he has been reading steadily for more than an hour." "Yes; I am ready to hear what my little cricket has to say," he said, looking inquiringly at Violet. "It will keep, grandpa," she answered lightly. "No," he said, "let us have it now; I see something is causing you anxiety and you have come to ask counsel or help in some direction." "Ah, grandpa," she responded, with a smile, "you were always good at reading faces;" then went on to repeat the conversation just held with Lulu. "What do you say, grandpa, grandma, and mamma," she wound up, "shall we insist on her taking music-lessons of Signor Foresti?" "Yes," said Mr. Dinsmore, with decision; "he is an uncommonly fine teacher, and it is desirable that she should enjoy, or rather profit by, his instructions; also it is high time she should become thoroughly convinced of the necessity of controlling that violent temper of hers. She needs to be taught submission to lawful authority too; and indulging her in this whim would, in my judgment, be likely to have the very opposite effect. What do you say, Rose and Elsie?" "I presume you are right, Horace, as you usually are," replied his wife. "I prefer to leave the question entirely to your decision, papa," said Elsie. "But shall we not yield to the child's wishes so far as to warn the man beforehand that he is never, upon any pretext, to give her a blow? I will not have him strike Rosie," she added with heightened color; "if he ventured such a thing I should take her immediately away." Her father regarded her with an amused smile. "I have seldom seen you so excited, so nearly angry, as at that thought," he remarked. "But Rosie is not at all likely to give him any pretext for so doing; nor is Evelyn; they are both remarkably even-tempered and painstaking with their studies. "However, I shall warn Signor Foresti in regard to his treatment of all three of the little girls sent by us to the school; telling him that if they are idle or wanting in docility and respect, he is simply to report them for discipline at home. Will that answer, Violet?" "Nicely, thank you, grandpa," she said, with a sigh of relief. Lulu looked but half satisfied when her mamma reported the result of her intercession with those higher in authority; but seeing there was nothing more to be gained, quietly submitted to the inevitable. CHAPTER XVII. THE COLLISION. It was a blessing to Lulu at this time that she had such a friend as Evelyn Leland constantly at her side in the schoolroom and on the playground. Their mutual affection grew and strengthened day by day. Eva was most anxious to be a true and helpful friend to her dear Lulu; and how could she better prove herself such than by assisting her to conquer in the fight with her fiery temper which had so often got her into sore trouble? Evelyn set herself earnestly to the task; urged Lulu to renewed efforts, encouraged her after every failure with assurances of final victory if she would but persevere in the conflict; also was ever on the watch to warn her of threatening danger. Did she see anger begin to flash from Lulu's eye or deepen the color on her cheek, she would remind her of her good resolutions by an entreating look or a gentle touch or pressure of her hand. She thus warded off many an outburst of passion, and Lulu, like the others, was able each week to carry home a good report of conduct; of lessons also, for she was much interested in her studies, very ambitious to excel, and therefore very industrious and painstaking. All went well for the five or six weeks between their entrance into the school and the Christmas holidays. The older people were careful to make that holiday week a merry time for the children. Each one received numerous beautiful gifts, and visits were exchanged with the families of Magnolia Hall and the parsonage. Scarcely ever a day passed in which there was not more or less intercourse between the three families, but at this holiday time there were special invitations and more than ordinary festivity. Then, the holidays over, it was a little difficult to settle down again to work and study; the children, and probably the teachers also, found it so. However that may have been, there was certainly more than usual friction in the working of the school machinery: the teachers reproached the scholars with want of attention and lack of industry, and the latter grumbled to each other that the professor and Miss Diana snubbed them, and Mrs. Manton and the French teacher wasted neither patience nor politeness upon them. Also those whose turn it was to take a music-lesson reported Signor Foresti as unbearable, testy, and fault-finding. Fortunately Lulu was not of the number, but her respite was only for a day, and her heart sank as she thought of the danger of a collision between him and herself. She thoroughly disliked him, but hitherto had been able to control herself and avoid any clashing of her temper with his; and it had not always been an easy thing for her to do, he having bestowed upon her many a sharp word which she felt to be altogether undeserved. She gave herself great credit for her continued forbearance, and thought she could not reasonably be expected to exercise it much longer, yet knew that failure would entail dire consequences. Evelyn knew all about it, and trembled for her friend. "Oh, Lu," she said, when they found themselves alone together at home on the evening of that first day after their return to school duties, "do let us make up our minds to bear and forbear to-morrow when we take our music-lessons, and not give Signor Foresti the pleasure of seeing that we care for his crossness." "Indeed," cried Lulu, "I've put up with enough of it; and I'll be apt to tell him so if he's much worse than usual." "Oh, Lu, don't!" entreated Evelyn; "you have borne so splendidly with him, and what a pity it would be to spoil it now by giving way to impatience!" "Yes; but I can't bear everything. I'm only astonished at myself for having put up with so much. I don't believe I ever should if it hadn't been for your help, Eva." "I'm very glad if I have been of any assistance to you, dear Lulu," Evelyn answered, with a look of pleasure; "and oh, I should like to help you to go on as you have begun." "Well, if I don't it will be his fault; it would take the patience of a saint to bear forever with his injustice and ill-temper. I know I have a bad temper, but I'm sure his is a great deal worse." "I do really think it is, Lu; but other people having worse faults doesn't make ours any better. Besides, do you suppose he has had as good religious teaching as you and I?" "No; of course not. But I never thought of that before. He's a man, though, and a man ought to be expected to have better control of himself than a little girl." Evelyn and Lulu took their music-lessons on the same day of the week, Evelyn first, Lulu immediately after. They met the next day at the door of the music-room, the one coming out, the other just about to enter. Evelyn was looking pale and agitated, Lulu flushed and angry, having been scolded--unjustly, she thought--by Miss Diana, who accused her of slighting a drawing with which she had really taken great pains. "Oh, Lu, do be careful; the slightest mistake angers him to-day," whispered Evelyn in passing. "It always does," said Lulu, gloomily. "But you will be on your guard?" Lulu nodded, and stepped into the room with a "Good-morning, signor." "Good-morning, mees; you are von leetle moment too late." Deigning no reply to that, Lulu took possession of the piano-stool, spread out her music and began playing. "Dat ish too fast, mees; you should not make it like to a galop or a valtz," stormed the little man. Without a word Lulu changed her time, playing very slowly. "Now you make von funeral-dirge," he cried fiercely. "Play in de true time or I vill--" "You will what?" she asked coolly, as he paused without finishing his sentence. "Report you, mees." She merely flashed a scornful glance at him out of her great dark eyes, and went on with her exercise, really doing her best to play it correctly. But nothing would please him; he continued to fume and scold till he succeeded in confusing the child so that she blundered sadly. "You are striking false notes, mees," he roared; "I will not have it!" And with the words a stinging blow from his pointer fell across the fingers of her left hand. Instantly Lulu was on her feet, white with concentrated passion; the next she had seized the music-book in both hands and dealt her cowardly assailant a blow with it on the side of his head and face that nearly stunned him and gave him a black eye for a week. At the same moment the piano-stool came down upon the floor with a crash, upset by her in whirling round to reach him, and before he knew what had happened she was out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Never had she been in a greater fury of passion. She rushed out into the grounds and paced rapidly to and fro for several minutes, trying to regain sufficient calmness to dare venture into the schoolroom; not caring to appear there either for some minutes, as the hour for her music-lesson had not yet fully expired. When she thought it had, she went quietly in and took her accustomed seat. Miss Diana was busy with a recitation and took no notice; but Evelyn, glancing at Lulu's flushed face and sparkling eyes, perceived at once that something was wrong with her. The rules of the school, however, forbade questioning her then, and she could only wait to do so until they should be dismissed. Another pupil had gone to Signor Foresti a moment before Lulu's entrance into the school-room. When her hour had expired she came back with a face full of excitement and curiosity. She glanced eagerly, inquiringly at Lulu, then turning to Miss Diana said, "Signor Foresti says Miss Raymond did not finish her lesson, and he wishes her to come back and do it now." "Singular!" remarked Miss Diana, elevating her eyebrows. "Do you hear, Miss Raymond? You can go." "I do not wish to go, Miss Diana," replied Lulu, steadying her voice with some difficulty. "Indeed! that has nothing to do with it, and you will please go at once." Lulu sat still in her seat with a look of stubborn determination on her face. "Do you hear, Miss Raymond?" asked the teacher, raising her voice to a higher key. "Yes, ma'am; but I shall never take another lesson from that man." "And why not, pray?" "Because he is not a gentleman." Miss Diana looked utterly astonished. "Well, really!" she exclaimed at length. "I shall not discuss that point with you at present, but it has nothing to with the matter in hand. Will you be pleased to go and finish your music-lesson?" "No, ma'am; I have said I shall never be taught by him again; and I am not one to break my word," concluded Lulu, loftily. "Very well, miss; we will see what my father has to say to that." She stepped to the door and summoned him. He came, marching in with his most pompous air, and glancing frowningly around, inquired what was wanted. A great hush had fallen on the room; there was not a whisper, not a movement; eyes and ears were intent upon seeing and hearing all that should pass. Miss Diana, glancing from her father to Lulu, drew herself up haughtily and replied, "Miss Raymond refuses obedience to orders." "Indeed!" he said, his frown growing darker and expending itself entirely upon the culprit. "How is that? What were the orders, and what reason does she assign for refusing obedience?" "The signor sent word that she had not finished her music-lesson, and that he desired her to return and do so. I directed her to obey the summons, and she flatly refused; giving as her only reason that he was not a gentleman." "Not a gentleman!" repeated the professor in accents of astonishment and indignation--"not a gentleman! In making such an assertion, young miss, you insult not the signor merely, but myself also; since it was I who engaged him to give instruction in music to the pupils of this establishment. Pray, miss, on what do you found your most absurd opinion?" "Upon his conduct, sir," replied Lulu, returning the man's stare unblenchingly, while her cheeks reddened and her eyes flashed with anger; "he has treated me to-day as no gentleman would ever treat a lady or a little girl." "How?" "Scolding and storming when I was doing my very best, and going on to actually strike me--me whom he was forbidden from the very first ever to strike. Both Grandpa Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie--I mean Mrs. Travilla--forbade it when they put me in his class; for I had told them I wouldn't be taught by him if he was allowed to treat me so; and they said he should not." "Ah! he should not have done so; I do not allow girls to be punished in that manner here. I shall speak to the signor about it. But you will go and finish your lesson." Lulu made no movement to obey, no reply except a look that said plainly that she had no intention of obeying. "Did you hear me, miss?" he asked wrathfully. "I did; but I have already said several times that I would never be taught by that man again." He made a step toward her and a threatening gesture, but paused, seemed to consider a moment, then saying, "We will see what your guardians have to say about that," turned and left the room. Every one seemed to draw a long breath of relief, and smiles, nods, and significant glances were exchanged. "The hour for the closing of school has arrived, young ladies, and you are dismissed," said Miss Diana; and she also sailed from the room. Instantly the girls, some twenty in number, flocked about Lulu with eager, excited exclamations and questions. "Did he really strike you, Lu?" "How did you take it?" "I hope you returned the blow? I certainly shall if ever he dares to lift his hand to me." This from a haughty-looking brunette of fourteen or fifteen. "Brings it down, you mean, with a snap of his pointer on your fingers," laughed a merry little girl with golden hair and big blue eyes. Neither Rosie nor Evelyn had spoken as yet, though the one was standing, the other sitting, close at Lulu's side. Lulu's left hand lay in her lap, her handkerchief wrapped loosely about it. Eva gently removed the handkerchief, and tears sprang to her eyes at sight of the wounded fingers. "Oh, Lu!" she cried in accents of love and pity, "how he has hurt you!" A shower of exclamations followed from the others. "Hasn't he? the vile wretch!" "Cruel monster! worst of savages! He ought to be flogged within an inch of his life!" "He ought to be shot down like a dog!" "He ought to be hung!" "It's a very great shame," said Rosie, putting her arm affectionately round Lulu's neck. "I hope grandpa will have him arrested and sent to prison." "But oh, Lu," cried Nettie Vance, the one who had brought the signor's message, "do tell me, didn't you strike him back? He looked as if he had had a pretty heavy blow on the side of his face." "So he had; as hard a one as I could give with the music-book in both hands," replied Lulu, smiling grimly at the recollection. Her statement was received with peals of laughter, clapping of hands and cries of, "Good for you, Miss Raymond!" "Oh, but I'm glad he got his deserts for once!" "I think he'll be apt to keep his hands--or rather his pointer--off you in the future." "Off other people too," added a timid little girl who had felt its sting more than once. "I was rejoiced to hear the professor say he didn't allow such punishment for girls. I'll let the signor know, and that I'll inform on him if ever he touches me with his pointer again." "So should I," said Nettie; "I wouldn't put up with it. But he has never hurt you as he has Lulu. See! every one of her fingers is blistered!" "Yes; it must have hurt terribly. I don't wonder she struck him back." "Indeed, it wasn't the pain I cared so much for," returned Lulu, scorning the implication; "it was the insult." "Young ladies," said a severely reproving voice behind them, "why are you tarrying here? It is high time you were all on your homeward way. Miss Rosie Travilla, Miss Evelyn Leland, and Miss Raymond, the Viamede carriage has been in waiting for the last half-hour." The speaker was no other than Mrs. Manton, who had entered unperceived by them in their excitement. No one replied to her rebuke, but there was a sudden scurrying into the cloak-room, followed by a hasty donning of hats and wraps. Rosie brought up the rear, muttering, as she drew out and glanced at a pretty little watch, "Hardly so long as that, I am sure!" "Ah, you can't expect perfect accuracy under such trying circumstances," laughed Nettie Vance. "Wait, Lu," said Evelyn, softly; "let me help you with your cloak, or you will be sure to hurt those poor fingers." "How kind you are, Eva!" whispered Lulu, her face lighting up with pleasure as she accepted the offer; "how good to me! Oh, it is nice to have such a friend as you!" CHAPTER XVIII. "For what I will, I will, and there's an end." SHAKESPEAKE. Max was on the veranda, waiting, like the little gentleman he was, to hand the girls into the carriage. Hardly were they seated therein and the door closed upon them, when he exclaimed, "Why, what's the matter?" "Why do you think anything is?" queried Rosie, with an attempt to laugh. "Because you all look so excited, and--what's your hand wrapped up for, Lu?" She removed the handkerchief and held the hand out before him. "Who did that? Who dared do such a thing to my sister?" he asked hotly, his face crimsoning with anger and indignation. "Never mind who," said Lulu. "Signor Foresti," said Rosie. "I hope grandpa will have him fined and imprisoned for it--such a cowardly, savage attack as it was!" "I only wish I was big enough and strong enough to flog him well for it," growled Max, clenching his fists and speaking between his shut teeth. "If papa were here, I think the cowardly villain wouldn't escape without a sound drubbing." Lulu laughed rather hysterically as she said, "I took the law into my own hands, Max, and punished him pretty well for it, I believe." "You did!" he exclaimed in utter astonishment; "how? I shouldn't think you had the strength to grapple with him." "I didn't, exactly, but before he knew what was coming I hit him a blow that I think nearly knocked him down;" and she went on to repeat the whole story for Max's benefit. The occurrence was the theme of conversation all the way home; and on their arrival, Mr. Dinsmore and the ladies being found on the veranda, the case was at once laid before them in all its details. All were indignant at the treatment Lulu had received, but somewhat shocked, also, at her retaliation. "You should not have done that," Mr. Dinsmore said reprovingly; "it was by no means lady-like. I should not have blamed you for at once vacating the piano-stool and walking out of the room; but his punishment should have been left to older and wiser hands." "There's enough more owing him for older and wiser hands to attend to," remarked Lulu; "and I hope it won't be neglected." An amused smile trembled about the corners of Mr. Dinsmore's mouth; but only for an instant. "Measures shall be taken to prevent a recurrence of the unpleasantness of to-day," he said with becoming gravity. "I shall myself call upon the signor and warn him to beware of ever repeating it." "He won't repeat it to me, because I shall never take another lesson from him," said Lulu, steadily, looking straight into Mr. Dinsmore's eyes as she spoke. "The choice is not with you," he answered somewhat sternly; "you are under orders and must do as you are bid. But we will not discuss the matter further at present," he added with a wave of the hand, as dismissing her. She turned to go, in no very amiable mood. "Lulu, dear," said Grandma Elsie, rising and following her, "those poor fingers must be attended to. I have some salve which will be soothing and healing to them; will you come with me and let me dress them with it?" "Yes, ma'am, thank you," the child answered half chokingly, the kind sympathy expressed in the words and tones quite overcoming her with a strong reaction from the stubborn, defiant mood into which Mr. Dinsmore's closing remarks had thrown her. Mr. Dinsmore's decision was truly a disappointment to all the children; for once even Rosie was inclined to warmly espouse Lulu's cause. Though standing in considerable awe of her grandfather, she ventured upon a mild remonstrance. "Grandpa, don't you think that man has behaved badly enough to deserve to lose his pupil?" "I do most decidedly," he answered; "but Lulu is improving wonderfully under his tuition, and should not, I think, be allowed to lose the advantage of it while we remain here." "I very much fear his usefulness is over so far as she is concerned," sighed Violet. "And, grandpa, I dread the struggle you will certainly have with her if you insist upon her continuance in his class. I never saw a more determined look than she wore when she said that she would never take another lesson of him." "Do not trouble yourself," he said; "I think I am fully equal to the contest. I should gladly avoid it if it seemed to me right to do so, but it does not. It is high time Lulu was taught proper submission to lawful authority." Max, standing with averted face, a little apart from the speaker, heard every word that was said. The boy was sorely troubled. He turned and walked away, saying to himself, "She will never do it; I don't believe any power on earth can make her, and Grandpa Dinsmore is about as determined as she; so what is to come of it I can't tell. Oh, if papa were only here! nobody else can manage Lu when she gets into one of her stubborn fits, and I don't believe he'd make her go back to that horrid savage of a music-teacher. I've a notion to write and tell him all about it. But no, where would be the use? I dare say the whole affair will be over before my letter could reach him and an answer come back." Very tenderly and carefully Elsie bound up the wounded fingers; then taking the little girl in her arms she kissed her kindly, saying, "You were treated very badly, my dear child, but it is not likely the man will venture to act so again after my father has spoken to him and warned him of the consequences of such behavior." "I think he won't to me," Lulu answered, the stubborn, defiant look returning to her face. "Do the fingers feel better?" Elsie asked gently. "Yes, ma'am; and I am very much obliged. Grandma Elsie, do you know where Gracie is?" "I think you will find her in the playroom." Lulu immediately resorted thither, and found Grace playing happily with her dolls. "Oh, Lu, I'm so glad you have come!" she cried, glancing up at her sister as she entered. "I do miss you so all day long while you are at school! But what's the matter with your hand?" she asked with concern. "Nothing very serious," Lulu answered carelessly. "That villain of a music-teacher snapped his pointer on my fingers and blistered them; that's all." "Oh, Lu, what a shame! Did it hurt you very much?" "Quite a good deal; but of course it was the insult, not the pain, that I cared for." She went on to give the details of the occurrence to this new listener, who heard them with tears of sympathy and indignation. "I think somebody ought to whip him," she said; "and I hope he'll never have a chance to strike you again." "I don't intend he shall. I've said I won't take another lesson from him, and I don't intend to. But Grandpa Dinsmore says I must; so there'll be another fight." "Oh, Lu, don't!" cried Grace, in terror; "don't try to fight _him_. Don't you remember how he 'most made Grandma Elsie die when she was a little girl, 'cause she wouldn't do what he told her to?" Lulu nodded. "But I'm another kind of girl," she said; "and I'm not his child, so I think he wouldn't dare be quite so cruel to me." "How brave you are, Lulu!" Grace exclaimed in admiration. "But, oh, I am so sorry for you! I'd be frightened 'most to death, I think; frightened to think of going back to that signor, and dreadfully afraid to refuse if Grandpa Dinsmore said I must." "Yes, you poor little thing! but I'm not so timid, you know. Grandpa Dinsmore can't frighten me into breaking my word." "But, you know, Lu," said Max, coming in at that moment, "that papa has ordered us to obey Grandpa Dinsmore, and if we refuse we are disobeying our father too." "I am sure papa never thought he would want me to go on taking lessons of a man that struck me," cried Lulu, indignantly. "Besides, I've said I won't, and nothing on earth shall make me break my word." "I wish papa was here," sighed Max, looking sorely troubled. "So do I," responded Lulu. "I'm sure he wouldn't make me go back to that hateful old Signor Foresti." That evening Max, Lulu, Rosie, and Evelyn were in the schoolroom at Viamede, preparing their lessons for the morrow, when a servant came up with a message for Lulu; she was wanted in the library. Flushing hotly, and looking a good deal disturbed, Lulu pushed aside her books and rose to obey the summons. "Only Miss Lulu? nobody else, Jim?" asked Rosie. "I 'spects so, Miss Rosie; dat's all Massa Dinsmore say." "Oh, Lu, I'm sorry for you!" whispered Evelyn, catching Lulu's hand and pressing it affectionately in hers. "You're very kind, but I'm not afraid," Lulu answered, drawing herself up with dignity; then she hurried to the library, not giving herself time to think what might be in store for her there. She started with surprise, and paused for an instant on the threshold, as she perceived that Professor Manton was there with Mr. Dinsmore, who was the only other occupant of the room. "Come in, Lulu," Mr. Dinsmore said, seeing her hesitation; "you have nothing to fear if you are disposed to be good and docile." As he spoke he pointed to a low chair by his side. Lulu came quietly forward and took it. "I'm not afraid, Grandpa Dinsmore," she said in low, even tones. "Good-evening, Professor Manton." "Good-evening," he replied, with a stiff nod. "I am sorry to be brought here by so unpleasant a duty as laying a complaint against you." "You needn't care; I don't," she said with the utmost nonchalance. He lifted his eyebrows in astonishment, and had nearly forgotten his dignity so far as to utter a low whistle, but caught himself just in time. Mr. Dinsmore frowned darkly. "What is the meaning of such talk, Lulu?" he inquired. "If you do not care for the displeasure of teachers and guardians you are indeed a naughty girl." He paused for a reply, but none came, and he went on: "Professor Manton has brought me a report of your conduct to-day, agreeing substantially with the one given by yourself, and I have called you down to tell him in your presence that you are to go on taking lessons of Signor Foresti." Lulu's cheeks crimsoned, and she looked from one to the other with flashing eyes. "Grandpa Dinsmore and Professor Manton, I have said several times, and I say it again, I will _never_ take another lesson from that man!" "Then you deliberately defy the authority of both the professor and myself?" Mr. Dinsmore queried sternly. "In this one thing I do." "The consequences may be very unpleasant," he said significantly and with rising anger. "I know the consequences of giving up and taking lessons again from Signor Foresti would be very unpleasant," she retorted. "Leave the room!" he commanded, with a stamp of the foot that sent Lulu's heart up into her throat, though she tried to appear perfectly calm and unconcerned as she silently rose and obeyed the order. "Really the most amazingly audacious, impertinent child I ever saw!" muttered the professor. Then aloud, "What is to be done with her, sir?" he asked. "She must be made to obey, of course," replied Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, yes, certainly; but what measure would you have me take to bring her to submission?" "None; you will please leave all that to me." "Then if to-morrow she refuses to finish that interrupted lesson, you would have me simply report the fact to you?" "No, sir; even that will be quite unnecessary; she will tell me herself. I am proud to be able to say of her that she is a perfectly truthful and honest child." "I am glad to learn that she has at least one virtue as an offset to her very serious faults," observed the professor, dryly, then rising, "Allow me to bid you good-evening, sir," and with that he took his departure. Mr. Dinsmore saw him to the outer door, then returning, began pacing the floor with arms folded on his breast and a heavy frown on his brow. But presently Elsie and Violet came in, both looking anxious and disturbed, and stopping his walk he sat down with them and reported all that had passed during the call of Professor Manton; after which they held a consultation in regard to the means to be taken to induce Lulu to be submissive and obedient. "Shall we not try mild measures at first, papa?" Elsie asked with a look of entreaty. "I approve of that course," he answered; "but what shall they be? Have you anything to suggest?" "Ah," she sighed, "it goes hard with me to have her disciplined at all; why will she not be good without it, poor, dear child!" "Let us try reasoning, coaxing, and persuading," suggested Violet, with some hesitation. "Very well," her grandfather said; "you and your mother may try that to-night. If it fails, tell her that so long as she is rebellious all her time at home must be spent in her own room and alone." "Dear grandpa," Violet said pleadingly, "that punishment would fall nearly as heavily upon Gracie as upon Lulu; and a better child than Grace is not to be found anywhere." "Yes, yes, and it is a pity; but I don't see that it can be helped. It is a hard fact that in this sinful world the innocent have very often to suffer with the guilty. You are suffering yourself at this moment, and so is your mother, entirely because of the misconduct of this child and that fiery little Italian." "Lulu is extremely fond of her little sister," remarked Elsie; "so let us hope the thought of Grace's distress, if separated from her, may lead her to give up her self-will in regard to this matter. Take courage, Vi; all is not lost that is in danger." Each of the two had a talk with Lulu before she went to bed that night, using all their powers of argument and persuasion; but in vain: she stubbornly persisted in her resolve never again to be taught by Signor Foresti. Violet was almost in despair. She was alone with the little girl in her dressing-room. "Lulu," she said, "it will certainly give great distress to your father when he learns that you have become a rebel against grandpa's authority. You seem to love your papa very dearly; how can you bear to pain him so?" "I am quite sure papa would not order me to take another lesson of a man who has struck me," was the reply, in a half-tremulous tone, which told that the appeal had not failed to touch the child's heart. "I do love my father dearly, dearly, but I can't submit to such insulting treatment; and nothing on earth will make me." "You are not asked or ordered to do that," Violet answered gently; "the man is to be utterly forbidden to ill-treat you in any way. "Perhaps I should hardly try to hire you to do right, but I think there is nothing I would refuse you if you will but do as grandpa bids you. What would you like to have which it is in my power to bestow--a new dress? a handsome set of jewelry? books? toys? What will you have?" "Nothing, thank you," returned Lulu, coldly. "I will double your pocket-money," was Violet's next offer; but Lulu heard it in silence and with no relaxing of the stubborn determination of her countenance. "I will do that and give you both dress and jewelry besides," Violet said, with a little hesitation, not feeling sure that she was doing quite right. Lulu's eyes shone for an instant, but the stubborn look settled down on her face again. "Mamma Vi, I don't want to be bribed," she said. "If anything at all would induce me to do as you wish and break my word, love for papa and Gracie and Max would do it alone." Violet sighed. Drawing out her watch, "It is past your bedtime," she said. "Lulu, dear," and she drew the child caressingly toward her, "when you say your prayers to-night will you not ask God to show you the right and help you to do it?" "Mamma Vi, it can't be right to tell a lie, and what else should I be doing if I went back to Signor Foresti for lessons after I've said over and over that I never would again?" "Suppose a man has promised to commit murder; should he keep that promise or break it?" asked Violet. "Break it, of course," replied Lulu; "but this is quite another thing, Mamma Vi." "I'm not so clear about that," Violet answered seriously. "In the case we have supposed, the promise would be to break the sixth commandment; in yours it is to break the fifth." "I'm not disobeying papa," asserted Lulu, hotly. "Are you not?" asked Violet; "did he not bid you obey my grandfather while he is not here to direct you himself?" "Yes, ma'am," acknowledged Lulu, reluctantly; "but I'm sure he never thought your grandpa would be so unreasonable as to say I must take lessons of a man like Signor Foresti who had struck me: and that when I did not deserve it at all." "Lulu," said Violet, a little severely, "your father made no reservation. But now good-night," she added in a more affectionate tone. "I trust you will wake to-morrow morning in a better frame of mind." "But I won't," muttered Lulu, as she left the room and retired to her own; "I'll not be driven, coaxed, or hired." CHAPTER XIX. "For what I will, I will, and there's an end." SHAKESPEAKE. Shortly after breakfast the next morning, and before the hour for setting out for school, Elsie called Lulu aside, and in a gentle, affectionate way asked if she were now willing to do as directed by Mr. Dinsmore. "Grandma Elsie," said the little girl, "I am ready to do anything he bids me if it is not to take lessons of that horrid man who dared to strike me after being told by Grandpa Dinsmore himself that he must never do so." "I am grieved, my child, that you have no better answer than that to give me," Elsie said, "and I think you know that it will not satisfy my father; he will have those committed to his care obedient in everything; and he bade me tell you that if you will not submit to his authority in this matter--if you do not to-day obey his order to finish that interrupted music-lesson--you must, on returning home, go directly to your own room and stay there; and as long as you continue rebellious, all your time at home is to be spent in that room and alone." She paused for a reply, but none came. Lulu sat with eyes cast down and cheeks hotly flushing, her countenance expressing anger and stubborn resolve. Elsie sighed involuntarily. "Lulu, my dear child," she said, "do not try this contest with my father. I warn you that to do so will only bring you trouble and sorrow; he is a most determined man, and because he feels that he has right on his side in this thing, you will find him unconquerable." "I think that is what he will find me, Grandma Elsie," replied the determinately self-willed little girl. "Surely you are showing scant gratitude for the many kindnesses received at my father's hands," Elsie said; "but I will not upbraid you with them. You may go now." Feeling somewhat ashamed of herself, yet far from prepared to submit, Lulu rose and hastened from the room. She knew nothing of what had passed between Mr. Dinsmore and Professor Manton after her dismissal the night before, and it was with a quaking heart she entered the schoolroom at Oakdale that morning. Yet though in fear and dread, she had not the slightest intention of abandoning her position in regard to the music-lessons. Nothing, however, was said to her on the subject till the hour for meeting the signor. Then Miss Diana directed her to go and finish her lesson of the previous day; but on receiving a refusal, merely remarked that it should be reported to her guardians and her punishment left to them. Evelyn gave her friend an entreating look, but Lulu shook her head, then fixed her eyes upon her book. As they drove home to Viamede in the afternoon, Grace was waiting for them on the veranda there. "Oh, Lulu," she cried, as the latter came up the steps, "mamma has been helping me to fix up my baby-house, and it is so pretty! Do come right up to the play-room and see it." "I can't, Gracie," Lulu answered, coloring and looking vexed and mortified. "Why not?" asked Grace in a tone of surprise and keen disappointment. But before Lulu could reply, Mr. Dinsmore stepped from the door and inquired, "What report have you to give me, Lulu?" "I have not taken a music-lesson to-day," she answered. "Were you not told to do so?" "Yes, sir." "And did not choose to obey? You know the consequence; you must go immediately to your room and stay there alone during the hours spent at home, until you are ready to obey." Lulu assumed an air of indifference as she walked slowly away, but Grace burst into tears, crying, "Oh, Grandpa Dinsmore! you won't keep me, her own sister, away from her, will you? oh, please don't. I can't do without her." "My dear little girl," he said soothingly, and taking her hand in his, "I am truly sorry to distress you so, but Lulu must be made obedient. She is now in a very rebellious mood, and I should do wrong to indulge her in it." "Grandpa Dinsmore," she said, looking up pleadingly into his face; with the tears streaming over her own, _I'd_ be frightened 'most to death if _I_ had to take lessons of that cross, bad man. How can you want to make poor Lulu do it?" "Lulu is not the timid little creature you are," he said, bending down to kiss her forehead, "and I am sure is not really afraid of the man; nor need she be after what I have said to him about striking her or any of the pupils I send him." "It'll be a long, long while before she'll give up," said Grace; "maybe she never will. Mayn't I go and talk to her a little and bid her good-by? You know it's 'most as if she's going far away from us all." She ended with a sob that quite touched Mr. Dinsmore's heart; also he thought it possible that her grief over the separation from Lulu, and her entreaties to her to be submissive and obedient, might have a good effect. So after a moment's cogitation he granted her request. "Thank you, sir," said Grace, and hurried upstairs to her sister's door. "Please, Lu, let me in," she cried. "Grandpa Dinsmore said I might come." "Did he?" returned Lulu, admitting her. "Well, it must have been altogether for your sake, not a bit for mine; his heart's as hard as stone to me." "Oh, Lu, dear Lu, don't talk so; do give up, so we won't be separated!" cried Grace, throwing her arms round her sister and giving her a vigorous hug. "I never can do without you; and don't you care to be with me?" "Of course I do," said Lulu, twinkling away a tear, for they were raining from Grace's eyes now, and her bosom heaving with sobs, "and it's just the cruelest thing that ever was to separate us!" "But they won't if you'll only give up; and Grandpa Dinsmore says that horrid man sha'n't strike you again." "Grandpa Dinsmore is an old tyrant!" said Lulu. "Nobody but a tyrant would want to force me to put myself in the way of being again treated in the cruel and insulting way Signor Foresti has treated me once already; and I _won't_ go back to him; no, not if they kill me!" "But oh, Lu, think of me!" sobbed Grace. "Max can see you and talk with you every day, going and coming in the carriage, but I'm afraid I won't see you at all." "Oh, Grade, I have a thought!" exclaimed Lulu. "Ask Mamma Vi if you mayn't ride back and forth with us every morning and afternoon. There's room enough in the carriage, and the rides would be good for you. You'd have to ride alone, one way each time, but you wouldn't mind that, would you?" "Oh no, indeed!" exclaimed Grace, smiling through her tears; "it's a bright thought, Lu. I'll ask mamma, and I'm 'most sure she'll say yes, she's so good and kind." Violet did say yes at once, making one condition only--that neither her mother nor grandfather should object. They did not, and every morning and afternoon Grace was ready in good season for her drive to Oakdale. The other children were glad of her company, and as by common consent always gave her the seat next to Lulu. For two weeks those short drives yielded the sisters all the intercourse they had. They met with a warm embrace in the morning just before stepping into the carriage, and parted in the same way on their return to Viamede in the afternoon. Then Lulu went directly to her own room, shut herself in, and was seen no more by the other children till the next day. During that fortnight the confinement and solitude were her only punishment; her meals were brought to her and consisted of whatever she desired from the table where the family were seated; also books and toys were allowed her. Every night Violet and Elsie, her mother, came, separately, for a few words with the little girl; always kind, gentle, loving words of admonition and entreaty that she would return to her former dutiful and docile behavior. But they were always met by the same stubborn resolve. At length, one evening she was summoned to Mr. Dinsmore's presence,--in the library as before,--again asked if she were ready to obey, and on answering in the negative was told that, such being the case, she was to be sent to Oakdale as a boarding scholar, and not to return home at all until ready to give up her wilfulness and do as she was bidden. She heard her sentence with dismay, but resolved to endure it rather than submit. "I'm not ready to break my word yet, Grandpa Dinsmore," she said with a lofty air; "and perhaps Oakdale won't be a worse prison than those the martyrs went to for conscience' sake." "Lulu," he said sternly, "do not deceive yourself with the idea that you are suffering for conscience' sake; a wicked promise--a promise to break one of God's commands--is better broken than kept; the sin was in making it." "I don't know any commandment that says I must take lessons of Signor Foresti, or obey somebody who is no relation to me," returned Lulu, half trembling at her own temerity as she spoke. "You are an extremely impertinent little girl," said Mr. Dinsmore, "and not altogether honest in pretending such ignorance; you know that you are commanded to obey your father, that he has directed you to be obedient to me in his absence, and that I have ordered you to take lessons of Signor Foresti." He paused a moment, then went on: "If tomorrow you do as you are ordered you will be at once restored to favor, and all the privileges you formerly enjoyed in this house; otherwise you will not return from Oakdale with the others in the afternoon." He waved his hand in dismissal, and she left the room full of anger and defiance, a most unhappy child. In the hall she halted for a moment and glanced toward the outer door. A sudden impulse moved her to run away. But what good would that do? Where could she go? How find shelter, food, clothing? And should she ever see father, brother, sisters again? She moved on again down the hall, and slowly climbed the broad stairway leading to the one above. Violet met her there and felt her heart sink as she glanced at the sullen, angry countenance. She stopped, laid her hand kindly on the child's shoulder, and said, "Lulu, dear, I know pretty well what you have just been told by grandpa, and, my child, it distresses me exceedingly to think of you being sent away from us all." "You needn't care, Mamma Vi; _I_ don't," interrupted Lulu, angrily. "I'd rather be away from people that ill-treat me so; I only wish I could go thousands of miles from you all, and never, _never_ come back." "Poor, dear, unhappy child!" Violet said, tears trembling in her beautiful eyes; "I know you cannot be other than miserable while indulging in such wrong feelings. If I have ill-treated you in any way I have not been conscious of it, and am truly sorry, for it is my strong desire to be all that I should to my husband's dear children. Come into my dressing-room and let us have a little talk together about these matters." She drew Lulu into the room as she spoke, and made her sit down on a sofa by her side. "No, Mamma Vi, you have never ill-treated me," answered Lulu, her sense of justice asserting itself; "but I think Grandpa Dinsmore has, and so I'd rather go away from him." "I am sorry you feel so little gratitude to one who has done so much for you, Lulu," Violet said, not unkindly. "Surely you cannot deny that it has been a very great kindness in him to take you into his own family--giving you the best of homes--and instruct you himself, for no reward but the pleasure of doing you good and seeing your improvement: that, too, in spite of having to bear with much ill-behavior from you." Lulu tried hard to think herself unjustly accused, but in her heart knew very well that every word of Violet's reproof was richly deserved. She made no reply, but hung her head, while a vivid blush suffused her cheeks. Silence in the room for several minutes; then Lulu said, "I think my bedtime has come, Mamma Vi; may I go now?" "Yes; good-night," said Violet, bending down to give her a kiss. Lulu returned both the kiss and the good-night, then rose to leave the room. "Stay a moment, dear," Violet said in her gentlest, sweetest tone; "I am writing to your father: what shall I say about you?" "Anything you please," Lulu answered coldly, and walked away with head erect, cheeks aflame, and eyes flashing. "If she wants to tell tales on me, she may. I shan't try to stop her," she muttered to herself as she went into her own room and closed the door; then sending a glance around upon all the luxury and beauty of the apartment, the thought flashed painfully on her that these things, so delightful to her, would have to be exchanged for others far inferior and less enjoyable; for, of course, no boarding-school room would be furnished at anything like the expense that had been lavished upon this and others in this fine old mansion, so long owned and at times occupied by the possessors of vast wealth joined to refined and cultivated taste. During the last fortnight, enforced confinement there had sometimes made the room seem like a prison; but now her heart swelled at the thought of leaving it, perhaps never to return, for certainly, unless she became submissive and obedient, she would be kept at the academy at least until the family were ready to leave for Ion. Then it occurred to her that there were advantages, companionships, luxuries, to be given up, the resigning of which would be still harder. Now that she was to leave them, she found she had grown fond of both her young stepmother and the baby sister of whom she had once been so jealous; and that she loved Grandma Elsie also, Aunt Elsie too; and indeed, that almost every one in the family connection had proved agreeable in such intercourse as she had held with them. Alas! what a sorry exchange from their society to that of the Mantons, and from all the loving care that had been bestowed upon her and the many privileges accorded her at Ion and Viamede, to the neglect and indifference to be expected from strangers! As she thought of all this she could not contemplate the carrying out of her sentence of banishment to Oakdale with anything like satisfaction. Yet the idea of submitting to what she considered Mr. Dinsmore's tyranny being still more repugnant to her, she resolved to abide by her decision, risking all consequences. She rose early the next morning, and busied herself for some time in gathering together such book and toys as she wished to take with her; then seeking her young step-mother, "Mamma Vi," she asked, "am I to pack my trunk myself?" "You are quite resolved to leave us, then, Lulu?" Violet inquired. "I am quite resolved never to take another lesson from Signor Foresti," returned Lulu doggedly. Violet sighed. "I had hoped you would wake this morning in a better mood," she said. "No; you need not pack your trunk: Agnes shall do it under my supervision. But it shall not be sent till the return of the children from school this afternoon, as I still hope to see you with them." Grace, who was present, stood listening in wide-eyed astonishment. "What is it all about?" she asked in alarm. "Is Lulu going away?" "Yes," Lulu answered for herself; "Grandpa Dinsmore says if I won't take lessons of Signor Foresti I must stay at Oakdale as a boarding-scholar." "O Lu, Lu! do give up and come back home," entreated Grace, bursting into tears; "I can't do without you, you know I can't?" Lulu drew her aside and whispered words of comfort. "It can't be for so very long, I think, Grace; because we'll all be going back to Ion in two or three months. Besides, we can see each other every day, if you keep on coming in the carriage as you've been doing." "But it will be only for a few minutes, and you won't have a bit nice time there." "No, I suppose, not; but even if it's pretty hard, I'd rather stay there than give up to that old tyrant." "Please don't say that," pleaded Grace; "I love Grandpa Dinsmore." When the carriage came to the door after breakfast, and the children trooped down ready for school, Grandma Elsie joined them on the veranda, wishing them a happy and profitable day at their studies; then putting an arm about Lulu she said to her in an undertone, "Lulu, dear child, I want to see you here with the rest to-night; you are one of my little girls, and I would not have you so rebellious that you must be shut out from my house. There! you need not answer, dear; only remember that Grandma Elsie loves you, and longs to see you good and happy." "Thank you, ma'am; you're very good and kind," Lulu said a little tremulously, then hurried into the carriage, Max giving her the help of his hand. The others were already in, and as Max took the only vacant seat, by Lulu's side, he noticed that her face was very red, and that Grace was crying. "What's the matter?" he asked, glancing from one to the other. "Lulu's not coming home with us to-night; she's going to board at Oakdale, she says," sobbed Grace. "Is that so? What for?" asked Max, looking at Lulu. "Because Grandpa Dinsmore says I must, if I won't take lessons of Signor Foresti." It was news to Evelyn, Rose, and Walter as well as to Max, they having heard nothing of it before. There was a moment of surprised silence, broken by Rosie: "Well, you may as well give up. Grandpa is not to be conquered, as I knew when the contest began." Max and Evelyn were looking much distressed. "Oh, Lulu, do!" entreated the latter; "you surely have held out long enough," "I should think so," said Max; "especially considering how kind Grandpa Dinsmore has been to us all, and that papa ordered us to be obedient to him." "I'd give up," remarked Walter, "'cause there's no use fighting grandpa. Everybody has to mind him. Even mamma never does anything he asks her not to." "The idea of not being your own mistress, even when you're a grandmother!" exclaimed Lulu scornfully. "Mamma _is_ her own mistress," retorted Rose. "It is only that she loves grandpa so dearly, and thinks him so wise and good, that she _prefers_ to do just as he wishes her to." CHAPTER XX. "Let come what will, I mean to bear it out." SHAKESPEARE. "The hour for your music-lesson has arrived, Miss Raymond," announced Miss Manton. Rosie and Evelyn both looked entreatingly at Lulu; but scarcely raising her eyes, she simply said, "I shall not take it to-day, Miss Diana." "Very well; you will have to abide the consequences of your refusal," returned Miss Diana severely. "Is it so very dreadful to live in this house with you?" queried saucy Lulu. "What do you mean by that impertinent question?" asked Miss Diana, facing round angrily upon her. "I only wanted to know in time," said Lulu. "What you said just now sounded as if you thought so; for that is the consequence I'll have to abide if I continue to refuse to take my music-lessons." "It shall be about as unpleasant as I can well make it, in return for your impudence," was the furious rejoinder. "Also, you will remain in your seat during recess to-day." "Oh, Lulu," whispered Evelyn at the first opportunity, "it was not prudent to say what you did to Miss Diana; she will have it in her power to make your life here very uncomfortable." "Yes," Lulu said with indifference, "I expect to have to pay for the pleasure of speaking my mind; but if she makes _me_ uncomfortable, I'll manage to make _her_ so too." As the hour drew near when the school would be dismissed for the day, a servant came in with a message. She said a few words in a low tone to Miss Diana, who at once turned to Lulu, saying, "You are wanted in the parlor, Miss Raymond." The child's heart beat fast as she rose and obeyed the summons, but quieted when, on entering the parlor, she found Elsie and Violet its sole occupants. They had always been gentle and kind to her, and she loved without fearing them. They made a place for her on the sofa between them, and taking her hand in a kind clasp, Elsie said, "We have come to take you home, dear child, if you are now ready to be good and obedient." "I didn't take the lesson, Grandma Elsie, and I don't intend ever to do it as long as I live," Lulu answered in even, steady tones. "It was very kind in you and Mamma Vi to come for me, but I shall have to stay here till Grandpa Dinsmore gives up asking such an unreasonable thing of me." "Then, Violet," Elsie said, "nothing remains for us but to see that she has comfortable accommodations, and leave her here." At this moment Mrs. Manton came hurrying in with profuse apologies for not having come sooner, but through the negligence of the servant she had been until this moment kept in ignorance of their arrival. "No, you must not blame the servant," Elsie said; "she acted by my directions. We wished to see this little girl alone for a few minutes, and not to disturb you; knowing that you are busy with your pupils at this hour of the day." "Ah! then perhaps I am intruding;" and Mrs. Manton drew herself up with dignity. "Oh no, not at all," Elsie returned pleasantly; "our private interview with the child is at an end. She is now to be placed here as a boarder--as you may perhaps know; and, if you please, we would like to see the room she is to occupy." "Certainly, Mrs. Travilla. She can have her choice of several--or you the choice for her," Mrs. Manton replied, graciously leading the way as she spoke. "You would like to come too?" Elsie said inquiringly, holding out a hand to Lulu. "Yes, ma'am, thank you," Lulu answered, slipping hers into it. They were shown several large rooms, intended and furnished for from four to six occupants each; two others of somewhat smaller size, which Mrs. Manton called double rooms; and one little one over the hall, which she said Lulu could have to herself, if she liked that better than sharing a larger one with a schoolmate. To Lulu's eyes it looked uninviting enough: so small, furnished with only one window, a single bed, one chair, bureau and wash-stand of very plain, cheap material, somewhat the worse for wear, and just a strip or two of carpet both faded and worn. "I think this will hardly do," Violet said gently. "Have you nothing better to offer, Mrs. Manton?" "No room that the young girl can have to herself," was the cold, half-offended reply. "Excuse me for saying so, but I think it is quite good enough for so obstinate and rebellious a child as I have understood she is." "I am quite of your opinion, Mrs. Manton," said a familiar voice behind them; and turning, they perceived that they had been joined by Mr. Dinsmore, with Professor Manton bringing up the rear. Lulu was growing very red and angry. "But she is my husband's child, grandpa," urged Violet. "And I am quite certain he would say she deserved nothing better while she continues obstinate in her rebellion against lawful authority," he answered. Lulu flashed an angry glance at him. "It is no matter," she said; "papa will set things right when he comes. And, Mamma Vi, don't be troubled about it; I shall tell him it was no fault of yours." "No," Mr. Dinsmore said, smiling grimly. "I shall not share the responsibility; my shoulders are quite broad enough to bear it all." Violet drew Lulu aside when they had all gone down stairs again, and with her arm about her waist pleaded tenderly, affectionately, with her to give up her rebellion and go home with them. "We will start in a few minutes now," she said; "and oh, dear child, I don't want to leave you behind. I shall grieve very much to think of you all alone in that miserable little room. Does it not seem a poor place after those you have had at Ion and Viamede?" "Yes, Mamma Vi, I have an idea that it's a good deal like a prison-cell; but what do I care for that? I'd despise myself if I could give up just for that." "No, dear, not for that, but because it is right to do it." "'Tisn't worth while for you to trouble yourself to urge me any more, Mamma Vi," Lulu said loftily; "I am as fully resolved as ever not to break my word." "Then good-by," Violet said, with a sigh and a kiss. "You are not to be ill-treated--I settled that question with grandpa before we came; and if any one should attempt to ill-use you, let me know all about it at once." Elsie, too, kissed Lulu in bidding her good-by; but Mr. Dinsmore simply took her hand,--given with evident reluctance,--and said he was sorry to be compelled to banish her from the family-circle; yet if she willed it so, restoration to the comforts and privileges of home would not be long delayed. Lulu followed them out to the veranda, expecting to see the family-carriage there with the other children, including her sister Grace, but was sorely disappointed to perceive that it had already driven away. A smaller one, which had brought Mr. Dinsmore and the ladies, was still there, and she saw them enter, and watched it drive away till it was lost to sight among the trees. Then a sudden sense of almost utter loneliness came over her, and rushing away to a secluded part of the grounds, she gave vent to her feelings in a storm of tears and sobs. But by its very violence it soon spent itself; in a few moments she became quite calm, did her best to remove the traces of her tears, and went back to the house, reaching it just as her trunk arrived. It was carried at once to her room, and she followed to unpack and arrange her clothes in the drawers of the bureau and wash-stand. There was no closet, and she found herself much cramped for room. It was very disheartening, for she loved neatness and order, and perceived that it would be no easy matter to maintain them here, where it was so difficult to find a place for everything and keep it there. The supper-bell rang, but she delayed obeying the summons in order to finish the work in hand. She was hardly more than five minutes behind time, yet received a sharp reprimand from Professor Manton, and a black mark. Of course she was angry and indignant, and plainly showed that she was; not mending matters in the least thereby. In sullen displeasure she took the seat assigned her, and glancing over the table, was tempted to turn away in disgust. The food provided was of the plainest, scant in quantity, inferior in quality, and neither well prepared nor daintily served; in all which it presented a striking contrast to the meals that Lulu had been accustomed to sit down to at Ion and Viamede. She ate but little; in fact, homesickness had nearly destroyed her appetite. "What a miserable supper!" she remarked to a school-mate, when they had gone from the dining-room and were gathered on the veranda for the short half-hour that intervened between the meal and the evening study-hour. "It was quite as good as usual," was the rejoinder in a sneering tone. "What did you expect? Do you suppose the Mantons don't want to make anything off us as boarders?" "I hadn't thought about that at all," Lulu said, with a look of surprise and perplexity. Then after a moment's cogitation, "I suppose they do want to make all they can out of us, and that would be the reason there was so little on the table; but would it have cost any more to have it cooked properly? The bread was both sour and heavy, and the butter so strong that I'd rather go without than eat it." "Rancid butter is cheaper than sweet, both as costing less and going farther," answered her companion, "and good cooks are apt to be able to command higher wages than poor ones; also, like butter, bread goes farther if it is unpalatable." "But it makes people sick?" Lulu said, half in assertion, half in inquiry. "Of course; but the Mantons don't pay our doctor bills, or support us in invalidism if it comes to that." The girl walked away, and Lulu stood leaning against a pillar, lost in thought, and feeling more homesick than ever. The boarding-scholars were all some years older than herself, and did not seem to desire her companionship; in fact, they looked upon and treated her as one in disgrace, shunned her society, and almost ignored her existence. The study-hour over, they gathered in groups, chatting together on such themes as school-girls find most interesting, one or another now and then looking askance at Lulu, who sat at a distance, lonely and forlorn, watching them and half-envying their apparent gayety and lightheartedness. How she longed for Evelyn, Grace, Max; even Rosie and the grown up-people at Viamede! It was a long evening to her; she thought the hands of the clock had never before moved so slowly. At nine a bell called them all into Professor Manton's school-room, where he read a chapter from the Bible, and made a long prayer in a dull, monotonous tone, that set most of his hearers to nodding or indulging in half-suppressed gapes and yawns. It struck Lulu as a very different service as conducted by him, from what she had been accustomed to under the lead of her father or Mr. Dinsmore. They had always shown by tone and manner that they esteemed it a solemn and a blessed thing to read the words of inspiration and draw near to God in prayer; while this man went through it as a mere matter of form, of no more interest than the calling of the roll at the opening of school. The service was followed by a formal good-night, and the pupils scattered to their rooms. "The bell will tap in half an hour, Miss Raymond, and at the first sound every light must be instantly extinguished," Miss Diana said harshly, as she gave Lulu her candle. "But what if I have not finished undressing?" Lulu asked in dismay. "Then you will be obliged to finish in the dark." "There won't be time to write in my diary, and I'll have to say my prayers in the dark," Lulu said to herself as she hastened up the stairs and into her closet-like apartment. "What a forlorn bit of a place it is!" she grumbled half aloud; "oh, so different from my pretty rooms at Ion and Viamede! Oh dear, oh dear! I wish that horrid Signor Foresti was back in his own country. I'm glad he doesn't live in this house, so I'd have to see him every day; it's bad enough to have to stay here without that. But I don't mean to let Grandpa Dinsmore find out how bad his punishment is; no, nor to be conquered by it either." She had set down her candle and was hurriedly making ready for bed. On creeping in, having blown out her candle just as the signal sounded, she discovered a new reason for regretting her change of residence; she must sleep--if she could--on a hard pallet of straw, instead of the soft, springy mattress she had been accustomed to rest upon at home. She uttered an exclamation of disgust and impatience, fidgeted about in the vain effort to find a comfortable spot, and sighed wearily over the hard hills and hollows. How Mamma Vi and Grandma Elsie too would pity her! Probably they would say she must have a better bed, even if it had to be sent from Viamede. But then Grandpa Dinsmore might put his veto upon that, saying, as he had that day in regard to the room, that it was quite as good as she deserved; and she would not give him the chance: she would put up with the hard bed, as well as with all the other disagreeables of the situation, nor give up in the very least about the music-lessons. The situation seemed no brighter or cheerier the next morning; there was no one to give her a smile, a kiss, or so much as a pleasant word; breakfast was no improvement upon last night's supper; Mrs. Manton scolded all through the meal--at her husband, daughters, pupils, servants; the professor bore it meekly as regarded her, was captious and irritable toward every one else; Miss Diana looked glum, Miss Emily timid and ashamed. The morning service in the schoolroom, that followed the meal, was very like a repetition of that of the previous evening, and Lulu withdrew from the room after it was over, feeling less respect and liking than ever for the principal of the institution. To her great joy the Viamede carriage drove up a full half-hour earlier than usual; Grace alighted from it with the others, and running to her said, "O Lulu, I'm so glad to see you! And I may stay till school-time; mamma told me so. Grandma Elsie told Uncle Ben to bring us early, and wait here for me till you go into school." "It's very kind in them," returned Lulu, hugging and kissing her little sister. "And I'm ever so delighted to see you all," she added to the others who had gathered round her. "And we to see you," Evelyn said, embracing her. "What kind of a time have you had?" asked Rosie and Max in a breath. "About such as I anticipated," answered Lulu, nonchalantly. "Of course it's not like home; but I didn't expect that." She afterward, under a promise of secrecy, let Evelyn more into her confidence; described her bed, the meals, telling that she had learned from one of the older boarders that those she had partaken of were of average quality; and the unpleasant manners of Professor Manton, his wife, and Miss Diana. "O Lu, it is quite too bad that you should be exposed to such things!" said Evelyn. "Do give up to Grandpa Dinsmore and go home with us to-night!" Lulu shook her head decidedly. "Well then, at least let me tell your mamma, or Grandma Elsie about the hard bed, and they will surely see that a better one is provided for you." But Lulu negatived that also. "I can stand it," she said, "and I wouldn't for a great deal let Grandpa Dinsmore know what a hard time I am having. He would triumph over me, and say it was just what I deserved." So no complaint was made, and Evelyn was the only person at Viamede who had any idea of the many discomforts Lulu was enduring for self-will's sake. Sunday morning came and Lulu made herself ready for church, all the time fearing that she would have to go with the Mantons and sit with them and their other boarding-scholars. Great, then, was her joy on seeing Max drive up in a light two-seated carriage, Violet and Grace on the back seat, a vacant space on the front beside the young charioteer. "Oh, they've come for me!" cried Lulu, half aloud, glancing from the window of her room. "How nice is Mamma Vi to do it!" and she flew down to the front door to greet them. The professor was there before her, bowing, smirking, and asking in his most obsequious tones if Mrs. Raymond would be pleased to alight and walk into the parlor. "Thank you, no," Violet said. "We have come merely to pick up Lulu and take her to church with us. Come, dear," to the little girl; "the professor will help you in, if you are quite ready to go." "Yes, Mamma Vi," Lulu answered eagerly, and with the aid of the professor's hand quickly climbed to her place. "Mamma Vi, you are very good," she said, as the carriage rolled on again. "Yes, isn't she?" said Max. "She says she isn't at all afraid to trust me to drive her." "No," said Violet, smiling affectionately on him; "you do great credit to Uncle Ben's teaching. I think your father would be much pleased with your proficiency." "Were you expecting us, Lulu?" asked Grace. "No, indeed! How should I, when nothing had been said about it? But oh, I was so glad to see you coming." The children seemed happy in being together again and chatted cheerily, Violet occasionally joining in. She had fully gained their respect and affection, yet they now never felt her presence the slightest damper upon their enjoyment of each other's society. On their return, while yet at some little distance from the academy, Violet asked, "Lulu, dear, do you find yourself quite comfortable and happy at Oakdale--so that you wish to continue there as a boarder?" "I wish that rather than to go home again on Grandpa Dinsmore's conditions," Lulu said with a frown, and with that the subject was dropped. CHAPTER XXI. "Woes cluster; rare are solitary woes: They love a train, they tread each other's heel." YOUNG. For a number of weeks events moved on their even course at Viamede; they were all well and happy, though Lulu's continued obstinacy caused most of them more or less mental disquietude. She still remained at Oakdale, making no complaint to any one but Evelyn of her fare or accommodations, and was studious and well-behaved in every respect, except that she steadily refused to have anything whatever to do with Signor Foresti. She had attended church regularly with the family, had seen them all occasionally on weekdays, but had not been once permitted to visit Viamede, Magnolia Hall, or the parsonage. If either she or Mr. Dinsmore regretted having begun the struggle which now appeared so interminable, no one else was aware of the fact. Grace had kept up her habit of driving over to Oakdale every morning and afternoon, and the pleasure of seeing her so often had helped Lulu greatly in the endurance of her exile, as had also her daily intercourse with Max, Evelyn, and Rosie. But one morning in March they came without Grace, and all looking grave and troubled. "Where's Gracie? Why didn't she come?" asked Lulu, with a vague feeling of uneasiness. "She's sick," Max answered, trying to swallow a lump in his throat, and keep the tears from coming into his eyes; "and so is the baby, and the doctor--Cousin Dick Percival--says they both have the scarlet-fever in almost its worst form." Lulu, who knew something of the deadly nature of the disease, stood speechless with surprise and dismay; the other two girls were crying now. Presently Lulu burst out vehemently, "I must go home! I _will_ go! It's the cruelest thing in the world to keep me away from my darling Gracie when she's so sick and may be going to--oh, I can't say it! I can't bear to think it!" and she began sobbing as if her heart would break. Evelyn put an arm about her. "Lu, dear Lu, don't be so distressed. The doctor has not said that either case is hopeless; and they may both get well." "The dear baby, too!" sobbed Lulu; "oh I do love her, she is such a darling!" "Indeed she is," said Max, vainly trying to steady his tones; "and it's hard to see her suffer. Gracie, too--she's so sweet and patient, and so good. I heard some of the old servants talking together this morning about her, saying she was just like a little angel, and too good to live; and--and I'm afraid she is." He quite broke down with the last word. "No, she ain't," cried Rosie; "she's just as good as they think her, but good children are not any more likely to die than bad ones. Everybody that knew mamma when she was a child says she was as good as she could be, and see how long she has lived." "That's true, and I'm obliged to you for reminding me of it, Rosie," said Max, looking slightly relieved. "But I must go home," repeated Lulu; "Gracie is sure to be wanting me, and I can't stay away from her." "No," the others said; "none of us are allowed to go into the room for fear of the contagion. Indeed, we're not to go back to Viamede, but to stay at either Magnolia Hall or the parsonage till the danger is over." "Mamma and Violet are nursing the sick ones, with the help of old Aunt Phillis," said Rosie. "Sister Elsie has gone to the parsonage with little Ned, and she and Isa will have to keep away from Viamede on account of their babies; so will Cousin Molly. "Grandpa telegraphed for Cousin Arthur this morning, because we know he is a skilful physician, and Gracie is begging for her own doctor." "I'm glad: I hope he'll come quickly," said Lulu. "And oh, how I wish papa was here!" "Yes; we always want papa when we're in trouble," said Max; "we can't help feeling as if he could help us somehow. But perhaps it's a very good thing that he's not here just now to see the children suffer." "Oh, are they suffering very much?" Lulu asked tearfully. "Yes," answered Rosie; "mamma told me they were both very ill: Gracie especially--her head aching badly, her throat distressingly sore, and her fever very high; but that she was sweetly patient under it all." "I'm not surprised to hear that," sobbed Lulu; "for she always was patient and good; never a bit like me. Oh, it is so hard that I can't be with her." They were standing together in a little group on the veranda while they talked, and the agitation in their faces and voices had attracted attention from scholars and teachers who happened to be within sight and hearing. Miss Emily now drew near, and asked in a kindly, sympathetic tone what was the matter. Rosie answered, telling briefly of the serious illness of the two little sisters of Max and Lulu. "Ah! I am extremely sorry," Miss Emily said. "You will find it difficult to give your minds to your lessons under such trying circumstances; but I will go to my father and the others, and ask that you may be excused if your recitations should be imperfect to-day," "That was a kind thought," said Max, as she went into the house. "She's much the best and kindest of the family." The ensuing week was one of great sorrow and anxiety to Violet, scarcely less so to her mother; for the children were so dangerously ill that it was greatly feared both would succumb to the power of the disease. It was a time of sore trial, but it brought out in strong relief the beauty and nobility of character in both Violet and her mother. They proved themselves the most devoted of nurses, patient, cheerful, hopeful, never giving way to despondency, or wearying in efforts to relieve the little sufferers or wile them into forgetfulness of their pain. Till the crisis was past they watched over them day and night, aided by Drs. Conly and Percival. Arthur had obeyed the summons with all possible dispatch, approved of what Dick was doing, and joined him in the care of the little patients. One or the other was always close at hand. "This is a sad, anxious time for you, my dear Vi," Elsie said one evening as they sat together in the sick-room--Violet with her almost dying babe on her lap, while Grace lay on the bed in an equally critical condition; "but you are bearing up bravely." "Dear mamma, you help me very much in so doing," Violet said, low and tremulously; "so do Arthur and Dick. But best of all, 'underneath are the everlasting arms.' O mamma, it seems as if my heart must break if either of the children is taken, and I may be called to part with both--and their father, my dear, dear husband, so far away." She paused, overcome by her emotions. "'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble,'" her mother whispered, with a tenderly sympathetic look. "'He will never leave nor forsake you, dear child.'" "No, mamma; my heart is constantly saying to Him, 'I have called thee Abba, Father! I have stayed my heart on thee; Storms may howl and clouds may gather-- All must work for good to me.'" "Yes, dear child," Elsie said with emotion, "'we know that all things work together for good to them that love God.'" "And my baby is so young, Gracie such a dear little Christian child, that, if I must give them up, I shall know that they are safe-- 'Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe on His gentle breast.'" Grace, whom they had deemed quite unconscious, opened her eyes and fixed them on Violet's face with a look of ardent affection. "Yes, mamma," she said feebly, "I'm not afraid to die; because I know that Jesus loves me. My head aches; I'd like to lay it down on His breast. And--He'll comfort you and papa, and--the rest." Violet could not speak for weeping, but Elsie bent over the child, and tenderly smoothing her pillow, said, "Yes, darling, He will; and whether we live or die, we are all His, and we know that He will do what is best for each one of us." Grace dropped asleep again almost immediately, and Elsie resumed her seat by her daughter's side. "Oh," murmured Violet, "dearly as I love Gracie, I should far rather see her go than Lulu, because I am sure she is ready for the change; and I know their father would feel so too. Mamma, how long it is since I have heard from him! I begin to feel very anxious. Ah, what comfort and support his presence would be to me now!" "Yes, dearest; but console yourself with the thought of how much anxiety and distress he is spared by his ignorance of the critical condition of these little ones. We may be able in a few days to write that they are better--out of danger, with careful nursing, so that the news of their convalescence will reach him at the same time with that of their severe illness." "Yes, mamma, there is comfort in that," Violet said, smiling through her tears. On going down to breakfast the next morning Elsie found her father seated at the table, with the morning paper before him. He glanced up at her as she came in, and something in his expression of countenance set her heart to throbbing wildly. "Oh, papa, what is wrong?" she asked. "My boys? have you?--is there bad news of them?" and she dropped into a chair, trembling in every limb. "No, no, daughter," he hastened to say. "I think they are all right; here are letters from all three," pointing to a pile on the table before him. She drew a long breath of relief; then with another glance at his face, "But what is wrong? certainly something is distressing you greatly. And mamma is shedding tears," as she saw Rose furtively lift her handkerchief to her eyes. "Yes," he sighed, "something is wrong; and not to keep you in suspense--it is a report that Captain Raymond is lost. It is now some weeks since his vessel should have been heard from, and it is greatly feared that she has gone down with all on board." "Vi! oh, my poor Vi!" gasped Elsie; "her heart will be overwhelmed: we must keep it from her as long as we can; at least till the children are better." "Certainly," Mr. Dinsmore said, "my dear child," going to Elsie and taking her hand in his in tender, fatherly fashion. "Remember it is only a report,--or rather a conjecture,--which may be without any foundation in fact. The captain may be alive and well at this moment." A slight sound caused them all--Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and Elsie--to look toward the door opening into the hall. Max stood there with a face from which every vestige of color had fled, his features quivering with emotion. "What--what is it about, papa?" he asked hoarsely. "Oh, Grandpa Dinsmore, Grandma Elsie, don't hide it from me! I must know!" "Max, my boy, how came you here?" Mr. Dinsmore asked in a kindly pitying tone, going to the lad and making him sit down, while he took a glass of water from the table and held it to his lips. Max put it aside. "My father?--what about my father?" His tone was full of agonized inquiry, and Mr. Dinsmore saw the question was not to be evaded. "My poor fellow," he said, "I am truly sorry you should be distressed by hearing what is as yet only a rumor: fears are reported that your father's vessel is lost; but nothing is known certainly yet, and we must hope for the best." For a moment the boy seemed utterly stunned; then, "I don't believe it! I _won't_ believe it!" he exclaimed. "We can't do without him; and God wouldn't take him from us. Would He, Grandma Elsie?" and his eyes sought hers with a look of anguished entreaty that she knew not how to withstand. "My dear Max, I trust we shall have better news to-morrow," she said tenderly; "but whatever comes, we know that all things work together for good to them that love God. He is our kind, Heavenly Father, who loves us with far more than an earthly parent's love, and will let no real evil befall any of His children." "Yes, and--oh, I'm sure it couldn't be good for Lulu and me to be without our father to help us to grow up right." No one present thought it necessary to combat that idea, or show that it might be a mistaken one, since it seemed to afford some comfort to the boy. "We will hope for the best, Max; so do not let possibilities distress you," Mr. Dinsmore said kindly. "Come to the table now, and take some breakfast with us." "Thank you, sir; but I couldn't eat," returned Max brokenly. "Grandma Elsie, how are Gracie and baby?" "I'm afraid no better, Max," she said in faltering tones; "the crisis of the disease has not yet come; but in regard to them also we must try to hope for the best. Indeed, whatever the result, we shall know it is for the best," she added with tears in her soft, sweet eyes, "because 'He doeth all things well.'" It was Saturday, and there was no school; but Max had promised Lulu that he would go over to Oakdale after breakfast and carry her the news in regard to the sick children. She was extremely anxious and distressed about them, and as soon as at liberty to follow her inclination, hastened to a part of the grounds overlooking the road by which he must come. She had not been there long when she saw him approaching, walking slowly, dejectedly along, with his eyes on the ground. "Oh, they are no better," she said to herself; "for if they were better, Max wouldn't hang his head like that." She stood still, watching him with a sinking heart as he came in at the gate and drew near her, still with his eyes cast down. And now she perceived that his countenance was pale and distressed. "O Max," she cried, "are they worse?--dying? Oh, don't say they are!" "No; they are no better: perhaps they may be to-morrow; but--" He stopped, his eyes full of tears as he lifted them for a moment to her face, his features working with emotion. "Max, Max, what is it?" she asked, clutching at his arm. "Oh, what is the matter? You must tell me." "My father--our father--" He covered his face with his hands and sobbed aloud. "O Max, what about papa?" she cried wildly. "Oh, don't say anything has happened to him! I couldn't bear it!--oh I couldn't!--but I must know. O Maxie, tell me what it is?" She had put her arms round his neck and laid her cheek to his. He returned the embrace, hugging her tightly to his breast. "It mayn't be true, Lu," he said brokenly; "but oh, I'm afraid it is: they say it's feared his ship has gone down with all on board." "Gone down?" she repeated in a dazed tone, as if unable to believe in the possibility of so terrible a disaster. "Gone down?" "Yes, in the sea--the dreadful sea! O Lu, shall we ever see our father again in this world?" "Do you mean that papa is drowned? Oh, I can't, I _won't_ have it so! He'll come back again, Max--he surely will! I couldn't live without him, and neither could you, or Gracie; but oh maybe she will die too! And I'm afraid it's because I'm so bad; God is taking away everybody I love, because I don't deserve to have them. I've been disobeying my father by not doing as Grandpa Dinsmore bade me; and now maybe I haven't any father to obey! Oh, Max, Max, what shall I do? everybody's being taken away!" "I'm left, Lu," he said, brushing away a tear; "I'm left to you, and you're left to me; and we don't know certainly yet, that anybody is really taken from us, or going to be." "Oh," she cried lifting her head, which had dropped upon his shoulder as he held her closely clasped in his arms, "I'll stop being so bad; I'll be good and do as Grandpa Dinsmore has ordered me, and maybe God will forgive me and spare papa and Gracie and the baby. Do you think he will, Max?" "Perhaps; you remember how ill papa was when you were obstinate and disobedient to him once before, and you gave up and did as he bade you, and we all prayed for papa and he got well?" "Yes, oh yes, I'll do it now, this minute; I can't go to Viamede to tell Grandpa Dinsmore, but I'll write a little note, Max, and you can carry it to him." "I have a note-book in my pocket, pencil too," he said, pulling them out in haste to get the thing done, lest her mood should change. "I'll tear out a leaf and you can write on that. Grandpa Dinsmore won't mind what kind of paper it is so the words are there." He led the way to a rustic seat, tore out the leaf, spread it on the cover of the book and handed that and the pencil to her. "I needn't say much--need I, Max?" she asked, looking at him through tear-dimmed eyes. "No; just the few words you would say if he were here beside you." "I can't write nicely, my hand trembles so, and I can hardly see," she sobbed, taking out her handkerchief and wiping away the fast-falling tears." "Never mind; I know he won't care how it looks; he'll know why you couldn't do better." Thus encouraged, Lulu wrote with trembling fingers: "Grandpa Dinsmore, I'm sorry for having been so naughty, obstinate, and disobedient. Please forgive me, and I will do whatever you bid me; even if you still say I must take lessons again of Signor Foresti." She signed her name in full, and handing it to Max, asked, "Will that do?" "Yes; I'm sure it will; and I'm ever so glad you've done it at last, Lu." "But, oh! Max, how can I go back to that horrid man after I've said so many times that I never would?" She seemed inclined to snatch the note out of his hand, but he stepped back quickly out of reach, hastily deposited it in the note-book, and that in his pocket. "Don't repent of doing right, Lu," he said. "Think that you may be averting sorrow and bereavement. I think I'd better go now, before you change your mind." "Oh no, don't, Max," she entreated; "I'm so lonesome without you; let us keep together and comfort each other." Max yielded, and they sat down again side by side. Just then one of the school-girls came flying down the walk toward them, crying out half-breathlessly as she drew near, "Lu Raymond, don't you want to hear the news?" "What is it?" Lulu asked indifferently. "Something you'll be glad to hear. You know the spring term closes next week; well, it seems that the time of Signor Foresti's engagement here expires with it, and, as he has been offered a higher salary elsewhere, he refuses to renew the contract with Professor Manton. I overheard their talk; something was said about you, and the signor remarked in a passionate tone that you had already missed your last chance to take another lesson of him, or even to finish that interrupted one. Now, aren't you glad?" "Yes," Lulu said, a momentary flash of joy illuminating her countenance, but only to be instantly replaced by the very sad and anxious expression it had worn before. "Oh, Max, will Grandpa Dinsmore think I--?" "No," interrupted Max, "I'll tell him all about it; and he knows you're honest as the day. Why," turning his head at the sound of approaching wheels, "there's Grandpa Dinsmore now! I'll run and tell him, Lu;" and, without waiting for a reply, he sprang up and went. "What's he going to tell?" asked the girl who had brought the news about Signor Foresti. "That's our private affair," replied Lulu, coloring. "Oh! is it indeed?" and she walked off with an offended air. Lulu was too much agitated by contending emotions to care whether she had given offence or not. She sat still, watching from afar the interview between Mr. Dinsmore and Max. She saw the latter hand her note to the former, who took it with a pleased look, read it, said something to Max, then alighted and came toward her, Max accompanying him. She watched their approach in some agitation, and noticed that Max seemed to be talking fast and earnestly as they moved slowly onward. At length they were close beside her. She rose with a respectful "Good-morning, Grandpa Dinsmore," and, taking her hand in his, he bent down and kissed her, saying, "I am very glad, my dear, to be able to take you back into favor." Then he sat down on one side of her, Max on the other. CHPTER XXII. SKIES BRIGHTEN. "Oh, Grandpa Dinsmore!" cried Lulu, with a burst of sobs and tears, "do you think it's true that--that papa's ship is lost?" "I hope it is not," he said, "such reports have often proved false. So do not grieve too much over it: it is never wise to break our hearts over possibilities." "But I know you and Max cannot help feeling anxious about both your father and your little sisters; and that being the case, I do not think you can study to any profit; and as the term has so nearly expired, I shall, if you wish it, take you away from here at once. "Not to Viamede, of course, but to Magnolia Hall, Mr. and Mrs. Embury having sent you a warm invitation to make their house your home for the present. What do you say to my proposition?" "Oh, Grandpa Dinsmore, how nice and kind is Cousin Molly and her husband!" exclaimed Lulu. "I shall be, oh, so glad to go away from, here, especially to such a lovely home as theirs." "Very well, then," he said with a smile, "go and gather up your belongings, while I settle matters with Professor Manton; then I will drive you both over to Magnolia Hall, for Max is included in the invitation." Lulu needed no second bidding, but started up at once to obey. "I'll go with you, sis, and help you pack, if you like," said Max. The offer was accepted gladly; and as Mr. Dinsmore's business with the professor would take him to the house, all three walked thither together. An hour later the children had bidden a final good-by to Oakdale, and were on their way to Magnolia Hall. Arrived there, they received a warm welcome, and Lulu was greatly pleased to find Evelyn a guest also, and that they were to share the same room. "Oh, Eva!" she cried, "I'm delighted that you are here; but I thought you were staying at the parsonage." "So I was," Evelyn said, "and Rosie was here; but we have exchanged; she and Walter have gone to visit Cousin Isa, while you, Max, and I let Cousin Molly entertain us in her turn. I find it delightful at both places." "But oh, Lu, how you have been crying! Is it about the sick little sisters?" "Partly," Lulu answered, hardly able to speak for emotion, "for they are still in great danger; but oh, much worse than that! they say--that--that it's feared papa's ship is lost with--all on board. Oh, Eva, I've been so disobedient to my father for months past, and now--I'm afraid I'll never, never see him again!" Before she had finished her sentence, Evelyn's arms were around her, holding her close, while she wept with her. "I can feel for you, dear," she sobbed, "for I know only too well how dreadful it is to be fatherless; but it is only a report, which may be false. Do try to hope for the best. We will both pray for your dear father, if he is still living; and for the little ones, that they may get well." After her long trial of the privations to be endured at Oakdale Academy, Lulu greatly enjoyed the comforts and luxuries of Magnolia Hall; yet the suspense in regard to her father and little sisters was very hard to bear. For two days longer there was no relief from that, but on the morning of the third, Max came bounding in on his return from Viamede, where he had been to make his usual inquiries about Grace and the baby, his face glowing with happiness. "Oh, Lulu, good, good news!" he cried, tossing up his cap and capering about in the exuberance of his joy; "the children are considered out of danger if well taken care of--and we know they'll be that; and papa's ship has been heard from, all well on board; and we'll see him again, I do believe; perhaps before a great while!" Lulu wept for joy. "Oh, I am so glad, so happy!" she sobbed; "but oh, how I do want to see papa! the children too. Can't I go to them now, Max?" "No, not yet; they wouldn't let me go into the wing where they are. I mean the doctors wouldn't; because the danger of contagion is not over, and won't be for a week or more." "So long to wait?" she sighed. "Yes," Max said, "but we ought to wait very patiently, now that we have had such glorious news. And perhaps there'll be letters from papa by to-morrow." His hope was fulfilled: the next morning's mail brought letters from Captain Raymond to his wife and each of his children--the baby, of course, excepted. Max handed Lulu hers. She almost snatched it from him in her joy and eagerness, and hurried with it to her room, where she could be quite alone at this hour, Evelyn being at school; for she was finishing out the term, not having the same reason for leaving before its close that Max and Lulu had. But now that she held the precious, longed-for missive in her hand, Lulu could scarce find courage to open and read it; because she had good reason to expect a severe reprimand from the father, whom, in spite of their mutual love, she had been persistently disobeying for the last three months. She would have given much to recall that past, and feel herself deserving of his commendation and such words of tender fatherly affection as he had often addressed to her by both tongue and pen. At last she tore open the envelope, spread out the sheet, and with burning cheeks and fast beating heart, read: "My dear little daughter; my heart misgives me that there is something very much amiss with you. Not sickness, for your mamma, Max, and Gracie all make casual mention of you, and say directly that you are well; yet I have not seen a stroke of your pen for three months or more. "Your little letters, so full of 'love to papa,' have been very sweet to me, so that I am loath to have them discontinued; but in addition to that, daughter, I have, as you know, directed you to constantly report to me your progress in your studies, your conduct, etc., and in failing to do so you have been guilty of positive disobedience. What excuse have you to offer for such disregard of your father's commands? "I cannot think there is any that will at all exonerate you from blame. Now I bid you write at once, giving me as full and detailed a report of the past three months as you possibly can. "My child, I love you very dearly; there is never a day, I believe never a waking hour, in which my heart does not go out in love to my darling Lulu, and send up a petition to a throne of grace on her behalf. I think there is no sacrifice I would not willingly make for the good of any one of my dear children, and my requirements are all meant to promote their welfare and happiness in this world and the next. "My child, my dear, dear child, your father's heart bleeds for you when he thinks what a hard battle you have to fight with the evil nature inherited from him! "But the battle must be fought, the victory won, if you would reach heaven at last. "'The kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent take it by force.' "You have a strong will, my Lulu: make good use of it by determining that you will in spite of every hindrance, fight the good fight of faith and lay hold on eternal life; that you will win the victory over your besetting sins, and come off more than conqueror through Him that loved us. "I can hardly hope to hear that you have not been again in sad trouble and disgrace through the indulgence of your wilful, passionate temper, and you will dislike very much to confess it all to me; you will be sorry to pain me by the story of your wrong-doing; and certainly it will give me much pain: yet I am more than willing to bear that for my dear child's sake; and as I have given you the order to tell me all, to refrain from so doing would be but a fresh act of disobedience. "How glad I am to know that my little daughter is open and honest as the day! I repeat, write at once, a full report, to your loving father, LEVIS RAYMOND." "Oh," cried Lulu, speaking aloud in the excitement of feeling, "I do wish papa wouldn't make me confess everything to him! I think it's dreadfully hard! And what's the use when it hurts him so to hear it? "And I'm sure it hurts me to tell it. I'll have to, though, and I won't keep anything back, though I'm terribly afraid he'll write that I must be sent away to some boarding-school, so that Grandpa Dinsmore won't be bothered with me any more. Oh dear! if papa could only come home, I'd rather take the hardest whipping he could give me, for though that's dreadful while it lasts, it's soon over. But he can't come now; they wouldn't think of letting him come home again so soon; so he can't punish me in that way; and I wouldn't take it from anybody else," she added, with hotly flushing cheeks and flashing eyes; "and I don't believe he'd let anybody else do it." She turned to his letter and gave it a second reading. "How kind and loving papa is!" she said to herself, penitent tears springing to her eyes, "It's plain he hasn't been told a word about my badness--by Grandpa Dinsmore or Mamma Vi, or anybody else. That was good in them. "But now I must tell it all myself; he says for me to do it at once, and I won't go on disobeying him by waiting; besides, I may as well have it over." Her writing-desk stood on a table near at hand, and opening it, she set to work without delay. She began with a truthful report of her efforts to escape becoming one of Signor Foresti's pupils and its failure; giving verbatim the conversations on the subject in which she had taken part; then described with equal faithfulness all that had passed between the signor and herself on the day of their collision, and all that followed in the school-room and at Viamede. She told of the fortnight in which all her time at home had to be spent in the confinement of her own room, then of the long weeks passed as a boarding-scholar at Oakdale Academy, describing her bedroom there, the sort of meals served in the dining-room, the rules that she found so irksome, and the treatment received at the hands of teachers and fellow-boarders; repeating as she went along every conversation that she felt belonged to the confession required of her. But the long story was not all told in that one day; it took several; for Lulu was too young and inexperienced in composition and penmanship to make very rapid work of it. Evelyn was taken into her confidence, Capt. Raymond's letter read to her, then parts of the confession as it progressed from day to day, till she had heard the whole. "Do you think I have told papa everything I ought, Eva?" Lulu asked when she had finished reading aloud the last page of her report. "Yes; I can't see that you've kept back a single thing: I'm sure your father is right in saying that you are open and honest as the day! And Oh, Lulu! what a nice, good father he must be! I don't wonder his children all love him so dearly, or that you and Max were so distressed when that bad news came." "No," Lulu said, hastily brushing away a tear, "but I am sure you must wonder how I can ever be disobedient to such a dear father; and I often wonder too, and just hate myself for it. "Now my report is ready; I'm glad it's done; it seems an immense load off my mind; but I must write a little note to go with it." "Of course you must," said Evelyn; "and I'll run away and talk to Cousin Molly while you do it." She hastened from the room, and Lulu's pen was again set to work. "My own dear, dear papa, I have your letter--such a nice, kind one to be written to such a bad, disobedient girl: it came last Wednesday, and this is Saturday; for though I did obey you about the report, by beginning at once to write it, I had to make it so long that I couldn't finish it till now. "I have tried to tell 'the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,' and Eva thinks I have succeeded. "Papa, I am really and truly sorry for having been so disobedient and obstinate; passionate, too; but I'm always being naughty and then sorry, then naughty again. "I don't see how you can keep on loving such a bad child; but oh, I'm so glad you do! Though it makes me sorrier than ever, and oh, so ashamed! I know I deserve punishment at your hands, and I have no doubt you would inflict it if you were here. I'm afraid you will say I must be sent away to a boarding-school; but oh, dear papa, please don't. I do intend to be good, and not give any trouble to Grandpa Dinsmore or any of the rest. I think I was the first part of the winter, and would have been all the time if they hadn't forced me to take lessons of that horrid man. "Papa, I've always thought you wouldn't have said I must go back to him after he struck me. Would you? And don't you think Grandpa Dinsmore was very hard on me to say I must? I don't think anybody but my father has any right to punish me in that way, and I don't believe you would say he had. "Dear papa, won't you please write soon again and say that you forgive me?" But we will not give the whole of Lulu's letter to her father. She had something to say of her own and Max's distress over the report that his vessel was supposed to be lost, of the sickness of the dear little sisters, the pleasant time she was having at Magnolia Hall, etc. The letter and report together made quite a bulky package; Mr. Embury--not being in the secret of the report--laughed when he saw it, remarking that "she must be a famous letter-writer for so young a one." Lulu rejoiced when it was fairly on its way to her father, yet could not altogether banish a feeling of anxiety in regard to the nature of the reply he would send her. Grace and Baby Elsie improved steadily till they were quite well and past the danger of a relapse. All the members of the Viamede family gathered there again as soon as the physicians pronounced it entirely safe to do so; and a week or two later, when the little ones seemed quite strong enough for the journey, they all set out on their return to Ion, where they arrived in safety and health; received a joyful welcome from Edward, Zoe, other relatives and friends gathered for the occasion, the servants and numerous dependants, and found their own hearts filled with gladness in the consciousness of being again in their best-loved home. THE END. 
14379	----	ELSIE AT NANTUCKET A Sequel to _Elsie's New Relations_ by MARTHA FINLEY 1884 PREFACE. Three years ago I spent some six weeks on Nantucket Island, making the town of the same name my headquarters, but visiting other points of interest, to which I take the characters of my story; so that in describing the pleasures of a sojourn there during our heated term, I write from experience; though, in addition to my own notes, I have made use of Northrup's "'Sconset Cottage Life" to refresh my memory and assist me in giving a correct idea of the life led by summer visitors who take up their abode for the season in one of those odd little dwellings which form the "original 'Sconset." Should my account of the delights of Nantucket as a summer resort lead any of my readers to try it for themselves, I trust they will not meet with disappointment or find my picture overdrawn. M.F. CHAPTER I. "How happy they, Who from the toil and tumult of their lives Steal to look down where naught but ocean strives." --_Byron._ "Well, captain, for how long have you Uncle Sam's permission to stay on shore this time?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, as the family at Ion sat about the breakfast-table on the morning after Captain Raymond's arrival. "Just one month certain, sir, with the possibility that the leave of absence may be extended," was the reply, in a cheery tone; "and as I want to make the very most of it, I propose that our plans for a summer outing be at once discussed, decided upon, and carried out." "I second the motion," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Are all the grown people agreed? The consent of the younger ones may safely be taken for granted," he added, with a smiling glance from one to another. "I am agreed and ready for suggestions," replied his wife. "And I," said his daughter. "Vi is, of course, since the proposition comes from her husband," Edward remarked, with a sportive look at her; then glancing at his own little wife: "and as I approve, Zoe will be equally ready with her consent." "Have you any suggestion to offer, captain?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "I have, sir; and it is that we make the island of Nantucket our summer resort for this year, dividing the time, if you like, between Nantucket Town and the quaint little fishing village Siasconset, or 'Sconset, as they call it for short. There is an odd little box of a cottage there belonging to a friend of mine, a Captain Coffin, which I have partially engaged until the first of September. It wouldn't hold nearly all of us, but we may be able to rent another for the season, or we can pitch a tent or two, and those who prefer it can take rooms, with or without board, at the hotels or boarding-houses. What do you all say?" glancing from his mother-in-law to his wife. "It sounds very pleasant, captain," Elsie said; "but please tell us more about it; I'm afraid I must acknowledge shameful ignorance of that portion of my native land." "A very small corner of the same, yet a decidedly interesting one," returned the captain; then went on to give a slight sketch of its geography and history. "It is about fifteen miles long, and averages four in width. Nantucket Town is a beautiful, quaint old place; has some fine wide streets and handsome residences, a great many narrow lanes running in all directions, and many very odd-looking old houses, some of them inhabited, but not a few empty; for of the ten thousand former residents only about three thousand now remain." "How does that happen, Levis?" asked Violet, as he paused for a moment. "It used to be a great seat of the whale-fishery," he answered; "indeed, that was the occupation of the vast majority of the men of the island; but, as I presume you know, the whale-fishery has, for a number of years, been declining, partly owing to the scarcity of whales, partly to the discovery of coal-oil, which has been largely substituted for whale-oil as an illuminant (as has gas also, by the way), and to substitutes being found or invented for whale-bone also. "So the Nantucketers lost their principal employment, and wandered off to different parts of the country or the world in search of another; and the wharves that once presented a scene full of life and bustle are now lonely and deserted. Property there was wonderfully depreciated for a time, but is rising in value now with the influx of summer visitors. It is becoming quite a popular resort--not sea-side exactly, for there you are right out in the sea." "Let us go there," said Mrs. Dinsmore; "I think it would be a pleasant variety to get fairly out into the sea for once, instead of merely alongside of it." "Oh, yes, do let us go!" "I'm in favor of it!" "And I!" "And I!" cried one and another, while Mr. Dinsmore replied, laughingly, to his wife, "Provided you don't find the waves actually rolling over you, I suppose, my dear. Well, the captain's description is very appetizing so far, but let us hear what more he has to say on the subject." "Haven't I said enough, sir?" returned the captain, with a good-humored smile. "You will doubtless want to find some things out for yourselves when you get there." "Are there any mountains, papa?" asked little Grace. "I'd like to see some." "So you shall, daughter," he said; "but we will have to go elsewhere than to Nantucket to find them." "No hills either?" she asked. "Yes, several ranges of not very high hills; Saul's Hills are the highest; then there are bluffs south of 'Sconset known as Sunset Heights; indeed, the village itself stands on a bluff high above the sandy beach, where the great waves come rolling in. And there is 'Tom Never's Head.' Also Nantucket Town is on high ground sloping gradually up from the harbor; and just out of the town, to the north-west, are the Cliffs, where you go to find surf-bathing; in the town itself you must be satisfied with still-bathing. An excellent place, by the way, to teach the children how to swim." "Then you can teach me, Edward," said Zoe; "I'd like to learn." "I shall be delighted," he returned, gallantly. "Papa," asked Max, "are there any woods and streams where one may hunt and fish?" "Hardly anything to be called woods," the captain answered; "trees of any size are few on the island. Except the shade trees in the town, I think some ragged, stunted pines are all you will find; but there are streams and ponds to fish in, to say nothing of the great ocean. There is some hunting, too, for there are plover on the island." "Well, shall we go and see for ourselves, as the captain advises?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, addressing the company in general. Every voice answered in the affirmative, though Elsie, looking doubtfully at Violet, remarked that she feared she was hardly strong enough for so long a journey. "Ah, that brings me to my second proposition, mother," said Captain Raymond; "that--seeing what a very large company we shall make, especially if we can persuade our friends from Fairview, the Oaks, and the Laurels to accompany us--we charter a yacht and go by sea." "Oh, captain, what a nice idea!" cried Zoe, clapping her hands. "I love the sea--love to be either beside it or on it." "I think it would be ever so nice!" Rosie exclaimed. "Oh, grandpa and mamma, do say yes!" "I shall not oppose it, my dear," Elsie said; "indeed, I think it may perhaps be our best plan. How does it strike you, father?" "Favorably," he replied, "if we can get the yacht. Do you know of one that might be hired, captain?" "I do, sir; a very fine one. I have done with it as with the cottage--partially engaged it--feeling pretty sure you would all fall in with my views." "Captain," cried Zoe, "you're just a splendid man! I know of only one that's more so," with a laughing look at her husband. The captain bowed his acknowledgments. "As high praise as I could possibly ask, my dear sister. I trust that one may always stand first in your esteem." "He always will," said Zoe; "but," with another glance, arch and smiling, into Edward's eyes, "don't tell him, lest he should grow conceited and vain." "Don't tell him, because it would be no news," laughed Edward, gazing with fondness and admiration at the blooming face of the loved flatterer. The talk went on about the yacht, and before they left the table the captain was empowered to engage her for their use. Also the 'Sconset cottage he had spoken of, and one or two more, if they were to be had. "You will command the vessel, of course, captain?" several voices said, inquiringly, all speaking at once. "If chosen commander by a unanimous vote," he said. "Of course, of course; we'll be only too glad to secure your services," said Mr. Dinsmore, everybody else adding a word of glad assent. "How soon do we sail, captain?" asked Zoe. "Must we wait for an answer from Nantucket?" "No; I shall send word by this morning's mail, to Captain Coffin, that we will take his cottage and two others, if he can engage them for us. But there is no time to wait for a reply." "Can't we telegraph?" asked Violet. "No; because there is no telegraph from the mainland to the island. "Now, ladies all, please make your preparations as rapidly as possible. We ought to be off by the first of next week. I can telegraph for the yacht, and she will be ready for us, lying at anchor in our own harbor. "But, little wife," turning to Violet, with a tenderly affectionate air, "you are not to exert yourself in the least with shopping, sewing, or packing. I positively forbid it," he added, with playful authority. "That is right, captain," Elsie said, with a pleased smile. "She is not strong enough yet for any such exertion, nor has she any need to make it." "Ah, mamma," said Violet, "are you not forgetting the lessons you used to give us, your children, on the sin of indolence and self-indulgence?" "No, daughter; nor those on the duty of doing all in our power for the preservation of health as one of God's good gifts, and to be used in His service." They were all gathered upon the veranda now in the cool shade of the trees and vines, for the weather was extremely warm. "I wish we were ready to sail to-day," said Zoe. "How delicious the sea-breeze would be!" A nice-looking, pleasant-faced colored woman stepped from the doorway with a little bundle in her arms, which she carried to Violet. The captain, standing beside his wife, bent over her and the babe with a face full of love and delight. "Isn't she a darling?" whispered Violet, gazing down upon the tiny creature with all a young mother's unspeakable love and pride in her first-born, then up into her husband's face. "That she is!" he responded; "I never saw a fairer, sweeter babe. I should fear to risk her little life and health in a journey to Nantucket by land; but going by sea will, I think, be more likely to do her good than harm." "It's all her, her, when you talk about that baby," laughed Rosie; "why don't you call her by her name?" "So we will, Aunt Rosie, if you will kindly inform us what it is," returned the captain, good-humoredly. "I, sir!" exclaimed Rosie; "we have all been told again and again that you were to decide upon the name on your arrival; and you've been here--how many hours?--and it seems the poor little dear is nameless yet." "Apparently not greatly afflicted by it either," said the captain, adopting Rosie's sportive tone. "My love, what do you intend to call your daughter?" "Whatever her father appoints as her name," returned Vi, laughingly. "No, no," he said; "you are to name her yourself; you have undoubtedly the best right." "Thank you; then, if you like, she shall be mamma's namesake; her first granddaughter should be, I think, as the first grandson was papa's." "I highly approve your choice," he said, with a glance of affectionate admiration directed toward his mother-in-law; "and may a strong resemblance in both looks and character descend to her with the name." "We will all say amen to that, captain," said Edward. "Yes, indeed," added Zoe, heartily. "Thank you both," Elsie said, with a gratified look; "I appreciate the compliment; but if I had the naming of my little granddaughter, she should be another Violet; there is already an Elsie in the family besides myself, you know, and it makes a little confusion to have too many of the same name." "Then, mamma, we can make a variety by calling this one Else for short," returned Violet, gayly, holding up the babe to receive a caress from its grandmother, who had drawn near, evidently with the purpose of bestowing it. "What a pretty pet it is!" Elsie said, taking it in her arms and gazing delightedly into the tiny face. "Don't you think so, captain?" "Of course I do, mother," he said, with a happy laugh. Then, examining its features critically: "I really fancy I see a slight resemblance to you now, which I trust is destined to increase with increasing years. But excuse me, ladies; I must go and write that all-important letter at once, or it will be too late for the mail." He hurried away to the library, and entering it hastily, but without much noise, for he wore slippers, found Lulu there, leaning moodily out of a window. She had stolen away from the veranda a moment before, saying to herself, in jealous displeasure, "Such a fuss over that little bit of a thing! I do believe papa is going to care more for it than for any of us, his own children, that he had long before he ever saw Mamma Vi; and it's just too bad." Knowing Lulu as he did, her father instantly conjectured what was passing in her mind. It grieved and angered him, yet strong affection was mingled with his displeasure, and he silently asked help of God to deal wisely with this child of his love. He remembered that Lulu was more easily ruled through her affections than in any other way, and as she turned toward him, with a flushed and shamefaced countenance, he went to her, took her in his arms, held her close to his heart, and kissed her tenderly several times. "My dear, dear little daughter," he said. "How often, when far away on the sea, I have longed to do this--to hold my dear Lulu in my arms and feel hers about my neck and her sweet kisses on my lips." Her arms were instantly thrown round his neck, while she returned his kisses with interest. "Papa," she said, "I do love you so, _so_ dearly; but I 'most wonder you don't quit loving such a hateful girl as I am." "Perhaps I might not love an ill-tempered, jealous child belonging to somebody else," he said, as if half in jest, half in earnest; "but you are my own," drawing her closer and repeating his caresses, "my very own; and so I have to love you in spite of everything. But, my little girl," and his tone grew very grave and sad, "if you do not fight determinately against these wrong feelings you will never know rest or happiness in this world or the next. "But we won't talk any more about it now; I have no time, as I ought to be writing my letter. Run away and make yourself happy, collecting together such toys and books as you would like to carry with you to Nantucket. Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi will decide what you and the rest will need in the way of clothing." "I will, papa; and oh, but I think you are good to me!" she said, giving him a final hug and kiss; "a great deal better than I deserve; but I will try to be good." "Do, my child," he said; "and not in your own strength; God will help you if you ask Him." For the moment thoroughly ashamed of her jealousy of the baby, she ran back to the veranda, where the others still were, and bending over it as it lay its mother's arms, kissed it several times. Violet's face flushed with pleasure. "My dear Lulu, I hope you and little Else are going to be very fond of each other," she said. "I hope so, Mamma Vi," Lulu answered, pleasantly; then, in a sudden fit of penitence, added, "but I'm afraid she'll never learn any good from the example of her oldest sister." "My dear child, resolve that she shall," said Grandma Elsie, standing by; "you cannot avoid having a good deal of influence over her as she grows older, and do not forget that you will have to give an account for the use you make of it." "I suppose that's so," Lulu answered, with a little impatient shrug of her shoulders; "but I wish it wasn't." Then, turning abruptly away, "Max and Gracie," she called to her brother and sister, "papa says we may go and gather up any books and toys we want to take with us." The three ran off together in high glee. The ladies stayed a little longer, deep in consultation about necessary arrangements which must fall to their share: then dispersed to their several apartments, with the exception of Violet, who, forbidden to exert herself, remained where she was till joined by her husband, when he had finished and despatched his letter. It was great happiness to them to be together after their long separation. Mr. Dinsmore and Edward had walked out into the avenue, and were seated under a tree in earnest conversation. "Talking tiresome business, I suppose," remarked Zoe, in a half-petulant tone, glancing toward them as she spoke, and apparently addressing Violet, as she was the only other person on the veranda at the moment. "Yes, no doubt; but we must have patience with them, dear, because it is very necessary," Violet answered, with a smile. "Probably they are discussing the question how the plantation is to be attended to in their absence. You know it won't take care of itself, and the men must have a head to direct their labors." "Oh yes, of course; and for that reason Ned is kept ever so busy while we are here, and I do think it will be delightful to get away to the seashore with him, where there will be nothing to do but enjoy ourselves." Zoe skipped away with the last word, ran up to her room, and began turning over the contents of bureau drawers and taking garments from wardrobes and closets, with the view of selecting such as she might deem it desirable to carry with her on the contemplated trip. She was humming softly a snatch of lively song, feeling very gay and light-hearted, when, coming across a gray travelling-dress a little worse for the wear, her song suddenly ceased, while tears gathered in her eyes, then began to fall drop by drop as she stood gazing down, upon this relic of former days. "Just one year ago," she murmured. "Papa, papa! I never thought I could live a whole year without you; and be happy, too! Ah, that seems ungrateful, when you were so, so good to me! But no; I am sure you would rather have me happy; and it would be ungrateful to my dear husband if I were not." She put the dress aside, wiped away her tears, and took down another. It was a dark woollen dress. She had travelled home in it the previous fall, and had worn it once since on a very memorable occasion; her cheek crimsoned at the recollection as she glanced from it to her husband, who entered the room at that instant; then her eyes fell. "What is it, love?" he asked, coming quickly toward her. "Nothing, only--you remember the last time you saw me in this dress? Oh, Ned, what a fool I was! and how good you were to me!" He had her in his arms by this time, and she was hiding her blushing face on his breast. "Never mind, my pet," he said, soothing her with caresses; "it is a secret between ourselves, and always shall be, unless you choose to tell it." "I? No indeed!" she said, drawing a long breath; "I think I should almost die of mortification if any one else should find it out; but I'm glad you know it, because if you didn't my conscience wouldn't give me a bit of peace till I confessed to you." "Ah! and would that be very difficult?" "Yes; I don't know how I could ever find courage to make the attempt." "Are you really so much afraid of me?" he asked, in a slightly aggrieved tone. "Yes; for I love you so dearly that your displeasure is perfectly unendurable," she replied, lifting her head to gaze fondly into his eyes. "Ah, is that it, my darling?" he said, in a glow of delight. "I deem myself a happy man in possessing such a treasure as you and your dear love. I can hardly reconcile myself to the thought of a separation for even a few weeks." "Separation!" she cried, with a start, and in a tone of mingled pain and incredulity. "What can you mean? But I won't be separated from you; I'm your wife, and I claim the right to cling to you always, _always_!" "And I would have you do so, if it could be without a sacrifice of your comfort and enjoyment, but--" "Comfort and enjoyment!" she interrupted; "it is here in your arms or by your side that I find both; nowhere else. But why do you talk so? is anything wrong?" "Nothing, except that it seems impossible for me to leave the plantation for weeks to come, unless I can get a better substitute than I know of at present." "Oh, Ned, I am so sorry!" she cried, tears of disappointment springing to her eyes. "Don't feel too badly about it, little wife," he said, in a cheery tone; "it is just possible the right man may turn up before the yacht sails; and in that case I can go with the rest of you; otherwise I shall hope to join you before your stay at Nantucket is quite over." "Not my stay; for I won't go one step of the way without you, unless you order me!" she added, sportively, and with a vivid blush; "and I'm not sure that I'll do it even in that case." "Oh, yes you will," he said, laughingly. "You know you promised to be always good and obedient on condition that I would love you and keep you; and I'm doing both to the very best of my ability." "But you won't be if you send me away from you. No, no; I have a right to stay with you, and I shall claim it always," she returned, clinging to him as if she feared an immediate separation. "Foolish child!" he said, with a happy laugh, holding her close; "think what you would lose: the sea voyage in the pleasantest of company--" "No; the pleasantest company would be left behind if you were," she interrupted. "Well, very delightful company," he resumed; "then I don't know how many weeks of the oppressive heat here you would have to endure, instead of enjoying the cool, refreshing breezes sweeping over Nantucket. Surely, you cannot give it all up without a sigh?" "I can't give up the thought of enjoying it all with you without sighing, and crying, too, maybe," she answered, smiling through tears; "but I'd sigh and cry ten times as much if I had to go and leave you behind. No, Mr. Travilla, you needn't indulge the hope of getting rid of me for even a week. I'm determined to stay where you stay, and go only where you go." "Dreadful fate!" he exclaimed. "Well, little wife, I shall do my best to avert the threatened disappointment of your hopes of a speedy departure out of this heated atmosphere and a delightful sea voyage to that famous island. Now, I must leave you and begin at once my search for a substitute as manager of the plantation." "Oh, I do hope you will succeed!" she said. "Shall I go on with my packing?" "Just as you please, my dear; perhaps it would be best; as otherwise you may be hurried with it if we are able to go with the others." "Then I shall; and I'm determined not to look for disappointment," she said, in a lively, cheery tone, as he left the room, At the conclusion of his conference with Edward, Mr. Dinsmore sought his daughter in her own apartments. He found her busied much as Zoe was, looking over clothing and selecting what ought to be packed in the trunks a man-servant was bringing in. She had thrown aside the widow's weeds in which she was wont to array herself when about to leave the seclusion of her own rooms, and donned a simple white morning dress that was very becoming, her father thought. "Excuse my wrapper, papa," she said, turning toward him a bright, sweet face, as he entered; "I found my black dress oppressive this warm morning." "Yes," he said; "it is a most unwholesome dress, I think; and for that reason and several others I should be extremely glad if you would give it up entirely." "Would you, my dear father?" she returned, tears springing to her eyes. "I should indeed, if it would not involve too great a sacrifice of feeling on your part. I have always thought white the most suitable and becoming dress for you in the summer season, and so did your husband." "Yes, papa, I remember that he did; but--I--I should be very loath to give the least occasion for any one to say or think he was forgotten by her he loved so dearly, or that she had ceased to mourn his loss." "Loss, daughter dear?" he said, taking her in his arms to wipe away the tears that were freely coursing down her cheeks, and caress her with exceeding tenderness. "No, papa, not lost, but only gone before," she answered, a lovely smile suddenly irradiating her features; "nor does he seem far away. I often feel that he is very near me still, though I can neither see nor speak to him nor hear his loved voice," she went on, in a dreamy tone, a far-away look in the soft brown eyes as she stood, with her head on her father's shoulder, his arm encircling her waist. Both were silent for some moments; then Elsie, lifting her eyes to her father's face, asked, "Were you serious in what you said about my laying aside mourning, papa?" "Never more so," he answered. "It is a gloomy, unwholesome dress, and I have grown very weary of seeing you wear it. It would be very gratifying to me to see you exchange it for more cheerful attire." "But black is considered the most suitable dress for old and elderly ladies, papa; and I am a grandmother, you know." "What of that?" he said, a trifle impatiently; "you do not look old, and are, in fact, just in the prime of life. And it is not like you to be concerned about what people may think or say. Usually your only inquiry is, 'Is it right?' 'Is it what I ought to do?'" "I fear that is a deserved reproof, papa," she said, with unaffected humility; "and I shall be governed by your wishes in this matter, for they have been law to me almost all my life (a law I have loved to obey, dear father), and I know that if my husband were here he would approve of my decision." She could not entirely suppress a sigh as she spoke, nor keep the tears from filling her eyes. Her father saw and appreciated the sacrifice she would make for him. "Thank you, my darling," he said. "It seems selfish in me to ask it of you, but though partly for my own gratification, it is really still more for your sake; I think the change will be for your health and happiness." "And I have the highest opinion of my father's wisdom," she said, "and should never, never think of selfishness as connected with him." Mrs. Dinsmore came in at this moment. "Ah, my dear," she said, "I was in search of you. What is to be done about Bob and Betty Johnson? You know they will be coming home in a day or two for their summer vacation." "They can stay at Roselands with their cousins Calhoun and Arthur Conly; or at the Oaks, if Horace and his family do not join us in the trip to Nantucket." "Cannot Bob and Betty go with us, papa?" Elsie asked. "I have no doubt it would be a very great treat to them." "Our party promises to be very large," he replied; "but if you two ladies are agreed to invite them I shall raise no objection." "Shall we not, mamma?" Elsie asked, and Rose gave a hearty assent. "Now, how much dressmaking has to be done before the family can be ready for the trip?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "Very little," the ladies told him, Elsie adding, "At least if you are willing to let me wear black dresses when it is too cool for white, papa. Mamma, he has asked me to lay aside my mourning." "I knew he intended to," Rose said, "and I think you are a dear good daughter to do it." "It is nothing new; she has always been the best of daughters," Mr. Dinsmore remarked, with a tenderly affectionate look at Elsie. "And, my dear child, I certainly shall not ask you to stay a day longer than necessary in this hot place, merely to have new dresses made when you have enough even of black ones. We must set sail as soon as possible. Now, I must have a little business chat with you. Don't go, Rose; it is nothing that either of us would care to have you hear." CHAPTER II. "Where the broad ocean leans against the land." --_Goldsmith_. Elsie felt somewhat apprehensive that this early laying aside of her mourning for their father might not meet the approval of her older son and daughters; but it gave them pleasure; one and all were delighted to see her resume the dress of the happy days when he was with them. Zoe, too, was very much pleased. "Mamma," she said, "you do look so young and lovely in white; and it was so nice in you to begin wearing it again on the anniversary of our wedding-day. Just think, it's a whole year to-day since Edward and I were married. How fast time flies!" "Yes," Elsie said; "it seems a very little while since I was as young and light-hearted as you are now, and now I am a grandmother." "But still happy; are you not, mamma? you always seem so to me." "Yes, my child; I have a very peaceful, happy life. I miss my husband, but I know the separation is only for a short time, and that he is supremely blessed. And with my beloved father and dear children about me, heart and hands are full--delightfully full--leaving no room for sadness and repining." This little talk was on the veranda, as the two stood there for a moment apart from the others. Zoe was looking quite bride-like in a white India mull, much trimmed with rich lace, her fair neck and arms adorned with a set of beautiful pearls, just presented her by Edward in commemoration of the day. She called Elsie's attention to them. "See, mamma, what my husband has given me in memory of the day. Are they not magnificent?" "It is a very fine set," Elsie answered, with a smile, glancing admiringly at the jewels and from them to the blooming face of the wearer. "A most suitable gift for his little wife." "He's so good to me, mamma," Zoe said, with warmth. "I love him better every day we live together, and couldn't think of leaving him behind alone, when you all go off to Nantucket. I do hope he'll be able to find somebody to take his place; but if he isn't I shall stay here with him." "That is quite right, dear child; I am very glad you love him so dearly," Elsie said, with a very pleased look; "but I hope your affection will not be put to so severe a test; we have heard of a very suitable person, though it is still uncertain whether his services can be secured. We shall probably know to-morrow." "Perhaps sooner than that," Mr. Dinsmore said, approaching them just in time to hear his daughter's last sentence; "Edward has gone to have an interview with him, and hopes for a definite reply to his proposition. Ah, here he comes now!" as Edward was seen to turn in at the great gates and come up the avenue at a gentle trot. It was too warm for a gallop. As he drew near he took off his hat and waved it in triumph round his head. "Success, good friends!" he cried, reining in his steed at the veranda steps. Then, as he threw the reins to a servant and sprang to the ground, "Zoe, my darling, you can go on with your packing; we may confidently expect to be able to sail with the rest." "Oh delightful!" she exclaimed, dancing about as gleefully as if she had been a maiden of eight or ten instead of a woman just closing the first year of her married life. Everybody sympathized in her joy; everybody was glad that she and Edward were to be of their party. All the older ones were very busy for the next few days, no one finding time for rest and quiet chat except the captain and Violet, who keenly enjoyed a monopoly of each other's society during not a few hours of every day; Mrs. Dinsmore and Elsie having undertaken to attend to all that would naturally have fallen to Violet's share in making ready for the summer's jaunt had she been in robust health. Bob and Betty Johnson, to whom the Oaks had been home for many years, and who had just graduated from school, came home in the midst of the bustle of preparation, and were highly delighted by an invitation to join the Nantucket party. No untoward event occurred to cause disappointment or delay; all were ready in due season, and the yacht set sail at the appointed time, with a full list of passengers, carrying plenty of luggage, and with fair winds and sunny skies. They were favored with exceptionally fine weather all the way, and seas so smooth that scarce a touch of sea-sickness was felt by any, from the oldest to the youngest. They entered Nantucket harbor one lovely summer morning, with a delicious breeze blowing from the sea, the waves rippling and dancing in the sunlight, and the pretty town seated like a queen on the surrounding heights that slope gently up from the water. They were all gathered on deck, eager for a first glimpse of the place. Most of them spoke admiringly of it, but Zoe said, "It's pretty enough, but too much of a town for me. I'm glad we are not to stay in it. 'Sconset is a smaller place, isn't it, captain?" "Much smaller," he answered; "quite small enough to suit even so great a lover of solitude as yourself, Mrs. Travilla." "Oh, you needn't laugh at me," she retorted; "one needn't be a great lover of solitude to care for no more society than is afforded by this crowd. But I want to be close by the bounding sea, and this town is shut off from that by its harbor." "Where is the harbor, papa?" asked little Grace. "All around us, my child; we are in it." "Are we?" she asked, "I think it looks just like the sea; what's the matter with it, Aunt Zoe?" "Nothing, only it's too quiet; the great waves don't come rolling in and breaking along the shore. I heard your father say so; it's here they have the still bathing." "Oh, yes, and papa is going to teach us to swim!" exclaimed Lulu; "I'm so glad, for I like to learn how to do everything." "That's right," her father said, with an approving smile; "learn all you can, for 'knowledge is power.'" They landed, the gentlemen presently secured a sufficient number of hacks to comfortably accommodate the entire party, and after a cursory view of the town, in a drive through several of its more important streets, they started on the road to 'Sconset. They found it, though a lonely, by no means an unpleasant, drive--a road marked out only by rows of parallel ruts across wild moorlands, where the ground was level or slightly rolling, with now and then some gentle elevation, or a far-off glimpse of harbor or sea, or a lonely farmhouse. The wastes were treeless, save for the presence of a few stunted jack-pines; but these gave out a sweet scent, mingling pleasantly with the smell of the salt-sea air; and there were wild roses and other flowering shrubs, thistles and tiger-lilies and other wild flowers, beautiful enough to tempt our travellers to alight occasionally to gather them. 'Sconset was reached at length, three adjacent cottages found ready and waiting for their occupancy, and they took possession. The cottages stood on a high bluff overlooking miles of sea, between which and the foot of the cliff stretched a low sandy beach a hundred yards or more in width, and gained by flights of wooden stairs. The cottages faced inland, and had each a little back yard, grassy, and showing a few flowers, that reached to within a few yards of the edge of the bluff. The houses were tiny, built low and strong, that they might resist the fierce winds of winter in that exposed position, and shingled all over to keep out the spray from the waves, which would penetrate any other covering. Dinner was engaged for our entire party at one of the hotels, of which there were two; but as it yet wanted more than an hour of the time set for the meal, all who were not too tired sallied forth to explore the hamlet and its environs. They found it to consist of about two hundred cottages, similar to those they had engaged for the season, each in a little enclosure. They were built along three narrow streets or lanes running parallel with the edge of the bluff, and stood in groups of twos or threes, separated by narrow cross-lanes, giving every one free access to the town pump, the only source of fresh-water supply in the place. The children were particularly interested in the cottage of Captain Baxter, with its famous ship's figure-head in the yard. Back of the original 'Sconset, on the slight ascent toward Nantucket Town, stood a few more pretentious cottages, built as summer residences by the rich men of the island, retired sea captains, and merchants; this was the one broad street, and here were the two hotels, the Atlantic House and the Ocean View House. Then on the bluff south of the old village, called Sunset Heights, there were some half dozen cottages; a few on the bluff north of it, also. The town explored and dinner eaten, of course the next thing was to repair to the beach to watch the rush and tumble of the restless waves, fast chasing each other in, and the dash of the spray as they broke along the shore. There was little else to see, for the bathing hour was long past; but that was quite enough. Soon, however, nearly every one of the party began to feel unaccountably sleepy. Some returned to the cottages for the indulgence of their desire for slumber, and others, spreading cloaks and shawls upon the sand, enjoyed a delicious rest, warmed by the sun and fanned by the sea breeze. For a day or two they did little but sleep and eat, and sleep and eat again, enjoying it immensely, too, and growing fat and strong. After that they woke to new life, made inquiries in regard to all the sights and amusements the island afforded, and began availing themselves of their opportunities, as if it were the business of life. When it was for a long drive to some notable point, all went together, chartering several vehicles for their conveyance; at other times they not unfrequently broke up into smaller parties, some preferring one sort of sport, some another. "How many of us are going to bathe to-day?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, the second morning after their arrival. "I for one, if you will bear me company and look out for my safety," said his wife. "Most assuredly I will," he answered. "And you too, Elsie?" turning to his daughter. "Yes, sir," she said, "if you think you can be burdened with the care of two." "No, mother," spoke up Edward, quickly; "you and Zoe will be my charge, of course." "Ridiculous, Ned! of course, Harold and I will take care of mamma," exclaimed Herbert. "You will have enough to do to look out for your wife's safety." (The yacht had touched at Cape May and taken the two college students aboard there.) "I shall be well taken care of," their mother said, laughingly, with an affectionate glance from one to another of her three tall sons; "but I should like one of you to take charge of Rosie, another of Walter; and, in fact, I don't think I need anything for myself but a strong hold of the rope to insure my safety." "You shall have more!" exclaimed father and sons in a breath; "the surf is heavy here, and we cannot risk your precious life." Mr. Dinsmore added, "None of you ladies ought to stay in very long, and we will take you in turn." "Papa, may I go in?" asked Lulu, eagerly. "Yes; I'll take you in," the captain answered; "but the waves are so boisterous that I doubt if you will care to repeat the experiment. Max, I see, is waiting his chance to ask the same question," he added, with a fatherly smile directed to the boy; "you may go in too, of course, my son, if you will promise to hold on to the rope. I cannot think that otherwise you would be safe in that boiling surf." "But I can swim, papa," said Max; "and won't you let me go with you out beyond the surf, where the water is more quiet?" "Why yes, you shall," the captain replied, with a look of pleasure; "I did not know that you had learned to swim." "I don't want to go in," said timid little Grace, as if half fearful it might be required of her. "Mamma is not going, and can't I stay with her, papa?" "Certainly, daughter," was the kind reply. "I suppose you feel afraid of those dashing waves, and I should never think of forcing you in among them against your will." Betty Johnson now announced her intention to join the bathers. "It's the first chance I've ever had," she remarked, "and I shan't throw it away. I'll hold on to the rope, and if I'm in any danger I suppose Bob, or some of the rest of you, will come to my assistance?" "Of course we will!" all the gentlemen said, her brother adding, "And if there's a good chance, I'll take you over to Nantucket Town, where there's still-bathing, and teach you to swim." "Just what I should like," she said. "I have a great desire to add that to the already large number of my accomplishments." Miss Betty was a very lively, in fact, quite wild, young lady, whose great desire was for fun and frolic; to have, as she expressed it, "a jolly good time" wherever she went. The captain drew out his watch. "About time to don the bathing-suits," he said; "I understand that eleven o'clock is the hour, and it wants but fifteen minutes of it." Grandma Elsie had kindly seen to it that each little girl--that is, Captain Raymond's two and her own Rosie--was provided with a pretty, neatly-fitting, and becoming bathing dress. Violet helped Lulu to put her's on, and, surveying her with a smile of gratified motherly pride, told her she looked very well in it, and that she hoped she would enjoy her bath. "Thank you," said Lulu; "but why don't you go in too, Mamma Vi?" "Only because I don't feel strong enough to stand up against those heavy waves," Violet answered. "But I am going down to the beach to watch you all, and see that you don't drown," she added, sportively. "Oh Lu, aren't you afraid to go in?" asked little Grace, half shuddering at the very thought. "Why no, Gracie; I've bathed in the sea before; I went in a good many times last summer; don't you remember?" "Yes; but the waves there weren't half so big and strong." "No; but I'll have a rope and papa, too, to hold to; so why need I be afraid?" laughed Lulu. "Mamma is, I think," said Grace, looking doubtfully at her. "Oh no, dear," said Violet; "I should not be at all afraid to go in if I were as strong as usual; but being weak, I know that buffeting with those great waves would do me more harm than good." Their cottages being so near the beach, our party all assumed their bathing suits before descending to it. They went down, this first time, all in one company, forming quite a procession; Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore heading it, and Violet and Grace, as mere spectators, bringing up the rear. They, in common with others who had nothing to do but look on, found it an amusing scene; there was a great variety of costume, some neat, well-fitting, and modest; some quite immodestly scant; some bright and new; some faded and old. There was, however, but little freshness and beauty in any of them when they came out of the water. Violet and Grace found a seat under an awning. Max came running up to them. "Papa is going in with Lulu first," he said; "then he will bring her out and take me with him for a swim beyond the breakers. I'll just wait here with you till my turn comes." "See, see, they're in the water!" cried Grace; "and oh, what a big, big wave that is coming! There, it would have knocked Lulu down if papa hadn't had fast hold of her." "Yes; it knocked a good many others down," laughed Max; "just hear how they are screeching and screaming." "But laughing, too," said Violet, "as if they find it fine sport." "Who is that man sitting on that bench nearest the water, and looking just ready to run and help if anybody needs it?" asked Grace. "Oh, that's Captain Gorham," said Max. "and to run and help if he's needed is exactly what he's there for. And I presume he always does it; for they say no bather was ever drowned here." Ten or fifteen minutes later a little dripping figure left the water, and came running toward them. "Why, it's Lulu," Gracie said, as it drew near, calling out to Max that papa was ready for him. Max was off like a shot in the direction of the water, and Lulu shouted to her sister, "Oh Gracie, it's such fun! I wish you had gone, too." Violet hastened to throw a waterproof cloak about Lulu's shoulders, and bade her hurry to the house, rub hard with a coarse towel, and put on dry clothing. "I will go with you," she added, "if you wish." "Oh no, thank you, Mamma Vi," Lulu answered, in a lively, happy tone. "I can do it all quite well myself, and it must be fun for you to sit here and watch the bathers." "Well, dear, rub till you are in a glow," Violet said, as the little girl sped on her way. "Oh mamma, see, see!" cried Grace, more than half frightened at the sight; "papa has gone away, way out, and Maxie with him. Oh, aren't you afraid they will drown?" "No, Gracie dear; I think we may safely trust your father's prudence and skill as a swimmer," Violet answered. "Ah, there come Grandma Rose and my mother; but Zoe and Betty seem to be enjoying it too much to leave yet." "Mamma, let's stay here till our people all come out; papa and Maxie, any way" Grace said, persuasively. "Yes; we will if you wish," said Violet. "I was just thinking I must go in to see how baby is doing; but here comes Dinah, bringing her to me." There was no accident that day, and everybody was enthusiastic in praise of the bathing. Zoe and Betty would have liked to stay in the water much longer than their escorts deemed prudent, but yielded to their better judgment. The next morning there was a division of their forces: the Dinsmores, Mrs. Elsie Travilla, Rosie, and Walter, and the Raymonds taking an early start for Nantucket Town, the others remaining behind to enjoy a repetition of the surf bath at 'Sconset. The Nantucket party drove directly to the bathing house of the town, and the little girls took their first lesson in swimming. They all thought it "very nice," even Grace soon forgetting her timidity in the quiet water and with her father to take care of her. After that they went about the town visiting places of note--the Athenaeum, the oldest house, dating back more than a hundred years, no longer habitable, but kept as a relic of olden times, so important that a visit to it is a part of the regular curriculum of the summer sojourner in Nantucket; then to the news-room, where they wrote their names in the "Visitors' Book;" then to the stores to view, among other things, the antique furniture and old crockery on exhibition there and for sale. Many of these stores, situate in wide, handsome streets, were quite city-like in size and in their display of goods. Dinner at one of the hotels was next in order; after that a delightful sail on the harbor, then around Brant Point and over the bar out into the sea. Here the boat new before the wind, dancing and rocking on the waves to the intense delight of the older children; but Gracie was afraid till her father took her in his arms and held her fast, assuring her they were in no danger. As she had unbounded confidence in "papa's" word, and believed he knew all about the sea, this quieted her fears and made the rest of the sail as thoroughly enjoyable to her as it was to the others. The drive back to 'Sconset, with the full moon shining on moor and sea, was scarcely less delightful. They reached their cottage home full of enthusiasm over the day's experiences, ready to do ample justice to a substantial supper, and then for a long delicious night's sleep. CHAPTER III. "And I have loved thee, Ocean!" Captain Raymond, always an early riser, was out on the bluffs before the sun rose, and in five minutes Max was by his side. "Ah, my boy, I though you were sound asleep, and would be for an hour yet," the captain remarked when they had exchanged an affectionate good-morning. "No, sir, I made up my mind last night that I'd be out in time to see the sun rise right out of the sea," Max said; "and there he is, just peeping above the waves. There, now he's fairly up I and see, papa, what a golden glory he sheds upon the waters; they are almost too bright to look at. Isn't it a fine sight?" "Yes, well worth the sacrifice of an extra morning nap--at least once in a while." "You must have seen it a great many times, papa." "Yes, a great many; but it never loses its attraction for me." "Oh, look, look, papa!" cried Max; "there's a fisherman going out; he has his dory down on the beach, and is just watching for the right wave to launch it. I never can see the difference in the waves--why one is better than half a dozen others that he lets pass. Can you, sir?" "No," acknowledged the captain; "but let us watch now and try to make out his secret." They did watch closely for ten minutes or more, while wave after wave came rushing in and broke along the beach, the fisherman's eyes all the while intent upon them as he stood motionless beside his boat; then suddenly seeming to see the right one--though to the captain and Max it did not look different from many of its neglected predecessors--he gave his dory a vigorous push that sent it out upon the top of that very wave, leaped into the stern, seized his oars, and with a powerful stroke sent the boat out beyond the breakers. "Bravo!" cried Max, clapping his hands and laughing with delight; "see, papa, how nicely he rides now on the long swells! How I should like to be able to manage a boat like that. May I learn if I have the chance?" "Yes," said his father; "I should like to have you a proficient in all manly accomplishments, only don't be foolhardy and run useless risks. I want my son to be brave, but not rash; ready to meet danger with coolness and courage when duty calls, and to have the proper training to enable him to do so intelligently, but not to rush recklessly into it to no good end." "Yes, papa," Max answered; "I mean to try to be just such a man as my father is; but do you mean that I may take lessons in managing a boat on the sea, if I can find somebody to teach me?" "I do; I shall inquire about among the fishermen and see who is capable and willing for the task. Come, let us go down to the beach; we shall have abundance of time for a stroll before breakfast." At that moment Lulu joined them with a gay good-morning to each; she was in a happy mood. "Oh, what a lovely morning! what a delightful place this is!" she cried. "Papa, can't we take a walk?" "Yes, Max and I were about starting for one, and shall be pleased to have your company." "I'd like to go to Tom Never's Head, papa," said Max. "Oh, so should I!" cried Lulu. "I believe they call the distance from here about two miles," remarked the captain reflectively; "but such a walk before breakfast in this bracing air I presume will not damage children as strong and healthy as these two of mine," regarding them with a fond, fatherly smile. "So come along, we will try it." He took Lulu's hand, and the three wended their way southward along Sunset Heights, greatly enjoying the sight of the ocean, its waves glittering and dancing in the brilliant sunlight, their booming sound as they broke along the beach and the exhilarating breeze blowing fresh and pure from them. "This is a very dangerous coast," the captain remarked, "especially in winter, when it is visited by fierce gales; a great many vessels have been wrecked on Nantucket coast." "Yes, papa," said Max; "I heard a story the other day of a ship that was wrecked the night before Christmas, eight or ten years ago, on this shore. Nobody knew that a ship was near until the next morning, when pieces of wreck, floating barrels, and dead bodies were cast up on the beach. "They found that one man had got to land alive; they knew it because he was quite a distance from the beach, though entirely dead when they found him. You see there was just one farmhouse in sight from the scene of the disaster, and they had alight that night because somebody was sick; and they supposed the man saw the light and tried to reach it, but was too much exhausted by fatigue and the dreadful cold, for it seemed his clothes had all been torn off him by the waves; he was stark naked when found, and lying on the ground, which showed that he had struggled hard to get up after falling down upon it. "I think they said the ship was called the Isaac Newton, was loaded with barrels of coal-oil, and bound for Holland." "What a terrible death!" Lulu said with a shudder, and clinging more tightly to her father's hand; "every one drowned and may be half frozen for hours before they died. Oh, papa, I wish you didn't belong to the navy, but lived all the time on land! I am so afraid your ship will be wrecked some time," she ended with a sob. "It is not only upon the water that people die by what we call accident, daughter," the captain answered; "many horrible deaths occur on land--many to which drowning would in my opinion be far preferable. "But you must remember that we are under God's care and protection everywhere, on land and on sea; and that if we are His children no real evil can befall us. I am very glad you love me, my child, but I would not have you make yourself unhappy with useless fears on my account. Trust the Lord for me and all whom you love." They pressed onward and presently came upon a lovely lakelet near the beach, as clear as crystal and with bushes with dark green foliage growing on all sides but that toward the sea. They stopped for a moment to gaze upon it with surprise and admiration, then pushed on again till the top of the high bluff known as Tom Never's Head was reached. They stood upon its brink and looked off westward and northward over the heaving, tumbling ocean, as far as the eye could reach to the line where sea and sky seemed to meet, taking in long draughts of the pure, invigorating air, and listening to the roar of the breakers below. "What is that down there?" asked Lulu. "Part of a wreck, evidently," answered her father; "it must have been there a long while, it is so deeply imbedded in the sand." "I wish I knew its story," said Lulu; "I hope everybody wasn't drowned when it was lost." "It must have happened years ago, before that life-saving station was built," remarked Max. "Life-saving station," repeated Lulu, turning to look in the direction of his glance; "what's that?" "Do you not know what that means?" asked her father. "It is high time you did. Those small houses are built here and there all along our coast by the general government, for the purpose of accommodating each a band of surf-men, who are employed by the government to keep a lookout for vessels in distress, and give them all the aid in their power. "They are provided with lifeboats, buoys, and other necessary things to enable them to do so successfully. If it were not too near breakfast time I should take you over there to see their apparatus; but we must defer it to some other day, which will be quite as well, for then we may bring a larger party with us. Now for home," he added, again taking Lulu's hand; "if your appetites are as keen as mine you will be glad to get there and to the table." "Two good hours to bathing-time," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, consulting his watch as they rose from the breakfast table. "I propose that we utilize them in a visit to Sankaty lighthouse." All were well satisfied to do so, and presently they set off, some driving, others walking, for the distance is not great, and even feeble folk often find themselves able to take quite long tramps in the bracing sea air. Max and Lulu preferred to walk when they learned that their father intended doing so; then Grace, though extremely fond of driving, begged leave to join their party, and the captain finally granted her request, thinking within himself that he could carry her if her strength gave out. The little face grew radiant with delight. "Oh, you are a nice, good papa!" she cried, giving him a hug and kiss, for he was seated with her upon his knee. "I am glad you think so," he said, laughingly, as he returned her caress. "Well, as soon as I have helped your mamma into the carriage we will start." They set out presently, Grace holding fast to one of his hands while Lulu had the other, and tripping gayly along by his side till, passing out of the village, they struck into the narrow path leading to Sankaty; then the little maid moved along more soberly, looking far away over the rolling billows and watching the progress of some vessels in the offing. They could hear the dash of the waves on the beach below, but could not see it for the over-hanging cliffs, the path running some yards distant from their brink. "I want to see where the waves come up," said Lulu; "there's Max looking down over the edge; can't we go and look too, papa?" "Yes, with me along to take care of you," he said, turning from the path and leading them seaward; "but don't venture alone, the ground might crumble under your feet and you would have a terrible fall, going down many feet right into the sea." They had reached the brink. Grace, clinging tightly to her father's hand, took one timid peep, then drew back in terror. "Oh, papa, how far down it is!" she exclaimed. "Oh, let's get away, for fear the ground will break and let us fall." "Pooh! Gracie, don't be such a coward," said Lulu. "I shouldn't be afraid even if papa hadn't hold of our hands." "I should be afraid for you, Lulu, so venturesome as you are," said the captain, drawing her a little farther back. "Max, my son, be careful." "Yes, sir, I will. Papa, do you know how high this bluff is?" "They say the bank is eighty-five feet high where the lighthouse stands, and I presume it is about the same here. Now, children, we will walk on." Grace's strength held out wonderfully; she insisted she was not at all tired, even when the end of their walk was reached. The other division of the party had arrived some minutes before, and several were already making the ascent to the top of the lighthouse tower; the rest were scattered, waiting their turn in the neat parlor of the keeper's snug little home, or wandering over the grassy expanse between it and the sea. "There are Grandma Elsie and mamma in the house," cried Grace, catching sight of them through a window. "Yes," said her father, "we will go in there and wait our turn with them," leading the way as he spoke. "Do you want to go up into the tower, Gracie?" "Oh no, no, papa!" she cried, "what would be the use? and I am afraid I might fall." "What, with your big strong father to hold you fast?" he asked laughingly, sitting down and drawing her to a seat upon his knee; for they had entered the parlor. "It might tire you to hold me so hard; I'm getting so big now," she answered naïvely, looking up into his face with a loving smile and stealing an arm about his neck. "Ah, no danger of that," he laughed. "Why, I believe I could hold even your mamma or Lulu, and that against their will, without being greatly exhausted by the exertion. "My dear," turning to Violet, "shall I have the pleasure of helping you up to the top of the tower?" "Thank you, I think I shall not try it to-day," she answered; "they tell me the steps are very steep and hard to climb." "Ah, so I suppose, and I think you are wise not to attempt it." "But I may, mayn't I, papa?" Lulu said. "You know I always like to go everywhere." "I fear it will be a hard climb for a girl of your size," he answered doubtfully. "Oh, but I want to go, and I don't care if it is a hard climb," she said coaxingly, coming close to his side and laying her hand on his shoulder. "Please, papa, do say I may." "Yes, since you are so desirous," he said, in an indulgent tone. Max came hurrying in. "We can go up now, papa," he said; "the others have come down." Edward and Zoe were just behind the boy. "Oh, you ought all to go up," cried the latter; "the view's just splendid." "Mother," said Edward, "the view is very fine, but there are sixty steps, each a foot high; a pretty hard climb for a lady, I should think. Will you go up? may I have the pleasure of helping you?" "Yes," she answered; "I am quite strong and well, and think the view will probably pay for the exertion." They took the lead, the captain following with Lulu, and Max bringing up the rear. Having reached the top and viewed the great light (one of the finest on the coast) from the interior, Elsie stepped outside, and holding fast to Edward's hand made the entire circuit, enjoying the extended view on all sides. Stepping in again, she drew a long breath of relief. "I should not like to try that in a strong wind," she said, "or at all if I were easily made dizzy; no, nor in any case without a strong arm to cling to for safety; for there is plenty of space to fall through between the iron railing and the masonry." "I should tremble to see you try it alone, mother," Edward said. "It is a trifle dangerous," acknowledged the keeper. "Yet safe enough for a sailor," laughed the captain, stepping out. "Oh, papa, let me go too, please do!" pleaded Lulu. "Why should you care to?" asked her father. "To see the prospect, papa; oh, do let me! there can't be any danger with you to hold me tight." For answer he leaned down and helped her up the step, then led her slowly round, giving her time to take in all the beauties of the scene, taking care of Max too, who was slowly following. "I presume you are a little careful whom you allow to make that round?" the captain observed inquiringly to the keeper when again they stood inside. "Yes, and we have never had an accident; but I don't know but there was a narrow escape from it the other day. "Of course crowds of people come here almost every day while summer visitors are on the island, and we can't always judge what kind they are; but we know it is not an uncommon thing for people standing on the brink of a precipice or any height to feel an uncontrollable inclination to throw themselves down it, and therefore we are on the watch. "Well, the other day I let a strange woman out there, but presently when I saw her looking down over the edge and heard her mutter to herself, 'Shall I know him when I see him? shall I know him when I see him?' I pulled her inside in a hurry." "You thought she was deranged and about to commit suicide by precipitating herself to the ground?" Edward said inquiringly. "Exactly, sir," returned the keeper. All of their number who wished to do so having visited the top of the tower, our party prepared to leave. "Are you going to walk back, papa? Mayn't I go with you?" pleaded Grace. "No, daughter, we must not try your strength too far," he said, lifting her into the carriage where Grandma Elsie and Violet were already seated. "I am going on a mile further to Sachacha Pond, ladies," he remarked; "will you drive there, or directly home?" "There, if there is time to go and return before the bathing hour," they answered. "Quite. I think," he replied, and the carriage moved on, he with Max and Lulu, and several of the young gentlemen of the company following on foot. Sachacha Pond they found to be a pretty sheet of water only slightly salt, a mile long and three quarters of a mile wide, separated from the ocean by a long narrow strip of sandy beach. No stream enters it, but it is the reservoir of the rainfall from the low-lying hills sloping down to its shores. Quidnet--a hamlet of perhaps a half dozen houses--stands on its banks. It is to this pond people go to fish for perch; calling it fresh-water fishing; here too they "bob" for eels. Our party had not come to fish this time, yet had an errand aside from a desire to see the spot--namely, to make arrangements for going sharking the next day. Driving and walking on to Quidnet they soon found an old, experienced mariner who possessed a suitable boat and was well pleased to undertake the job of carrying their party out to the sharking grounds on the shoals. He would need a crew of two men, easily to be found among his neighbors, he said; he would also provide the necessary tackle. The bait would be perch, which they would catch here in the pond before setting out for the trip by sea to their destination--about a mile away. Mr. Dinsmore, his three grandsons, and Bob Johnson were all to be of the party. Max was longing to go too, but hardly thought he would be allowed; he was hesitating whether to make the request when his father, catching his eager, wistful look, suddenly asked, "Would you like to go, Max?" "Oh, yes, papa, yes, indeed!" was the eager response, and the boy's heart bounded with delight at the answer, in a kindly indulgent tone, "Very well, you may." Lulu, hearing it, cried out, "Oh, couldn't I go too, papa?" "You? a little girl?" her father said, turning an astonished look upon her; "absurd! no, of course you can't." "I think I might," persisted Lulu; "I've heard that ladies go sometimes, and I shouldn't be a bit afraid or get in anybody's way." "You can't go, so let me hear no more about it," the captain answered decidedly as they turned toward home, the arrangements for the morrow's expedition being completed. "Wouldn't Lulu like to ride?" Violet asked, speaking from the carriage window; "she has already done a good deal of walking to-day." The carriage stopped, and the captain picked Lulu up and put her in it without waiting for her to reply, for he saw that she was sulking over his refusal of her request. She continued silent during the short drive to the cottage, and scarcely spoke while hurriedly dressing for the surf-bath. The contemplated sharking expedition was the chief topic of conversation at the dinner-table, and it was quite evident that those who were going looked forward to a good deal of sport. The frown on Lulu's face grew darker as she listened. Why should not she have a share in the fun as well as Max? she was sure she was quite as brave, and not any more likely to be seasick; and papa ought to be as willing to give enjoyment to his daughter as to his son. She presently slipped away to the beach and sat down alone to brood over it, nursing her ill-humor and missing much enjoyment which she might have had because this--a very doubtful one at the best--was denied her. Looking round after a while, and seeing her father sitting alone on a bench at some little distance, she went to him and asked, "Why can't I go with you to-morrow, papa? I don't see why I can't as well as Max." "Max is a boy and you are a girl, which makes a vast difference whether you see it or not," the captain answered. "But I told you to let me hear no more about it. I am astonished at your assurance in approaching me again on the subject." Lulu was silent for a moment, then said complainingly, "And I suppose I'll not be allowed to take my bath either?" "I don't forbid you," the captain said kindly, putting his arm about her and drawing her in between his knees; "provided you promise to keep fast hold of the rope all the time you are in. With that, and Captain Gorham keeping close watch, you will not be in much danger, I think; but I should be much easier in mind--it would give me great satisfaction--if my little girl would voluntarily relinquish the bath for this one day that I shall not be here to take care of her, for possibly she might be swept away, and it would be a terrible thing to me to lose her." "I 'most wonder you don't say a good thing, papa, I'm so often naughty and troublesome," she said, suddenly becoming humble and penitent. "No, it would not be true; your naughtiness often pains me deeply, but I must continue to love my own child in spite of it all," he responded, bending down and imprinting a kiss upon her lips. "And I love you, papa; indeed, indeed I do," she said, with her arm round his neck, her cheek pressed close to his; "and I won't go in to-morrow; I'm glad to promise not to if it will make you feel easier and enjoy your day more." "Thank you, my dear child," he said. "I have not the least doubt of your affection." Edward had spread a rug on the sand just high enough on the beach to be out of reach of the incoming waves, and Zoe, with a book in her hand, was half reclining upon it, resting on her elbow and gazing far out over the waters. "Well, Mrs. Travilla, for once I find you alone. What has become of your other half?" said a lively voice at her side. "Oh, is it you, Betty?" Zoe exclaimed, quickly turning her head and glancing up at the speaker. "No one else, I assure you," returned the lively girl, dropping down on the sand and folding her hands in her lap. "Where did you say Ned is?" "I didn't say; but he has gone to help mamma down with her shawls and so forth." "He's the best of sons as well as of husbands," remarked Betty; "but I'm glad he's away for a moment just now, as I want a private word with you. Don't you think it is just a trifle mean and selfish for all our gentlemen to be going off on a pleasure excursion without so much as asking if one of us would like to accompany them?" "I hadn't thought anything about it," replied Zoe. "Well, think now, if you please; wouldn't you go if you had an invitation? Don't you want to go?" "Yes, if it's the proper thing; I'd like to go everywhere with my husband. I'll ask him about it. Here he comes, mamma with him." She waited till the two were comfortably settled by her side, then said, with her most insinuating smile, "I'd like to go sharking, Ned; won't you take me along to-morrow?" "Why, what an idea, little wife!" he exclaimed in surprise. "I really hate to say no to any request of yours, but I do not think it would be entirely safe for you. We are not going on the comparatively quiet waters of the harbor, but out into the ocean itself, and that in a whaleboat, and we may have very rough sailing; besides, it is not at all impossible that a man-eating shark might get into the boat alive, and, as I heard an old fisherman say yesterday, 'make ugly work.'" "Then I don't want to go," Zoe said, "and I'd rather you wouldn't; just suppose you should get a bite?" "Oh, no danger!" laughed Edward; "a man is better able to take care of himself than a woman is of herself." "Pooh!" exclaimed Betty; "I don't believe any such thing, and I want to go; I want to be able to say I've done and seen everything other summer visitors do and see on this island." "Only a foolish reason, is it not, Betty?" mildly remonstrated her Cousin Elsie. "But you will have to ask my father's consent, as he is your guardian." "No use whatever," remarked Bob, who had joined them a moment before; "I know uncle well enough to be able to tell you that beforehand. Aren't you equally sure of the result of such an application, Ned?" "Yes." "Besides," pursued Bob, teasingly, "there wouldn't be room in the boat for a fine lady like my sister Betty, with her flounces and furbelows; also you'd likely get awfully sick with the rolling and pitching of the boat, and leaning over the side for the purpose of depositing your breakfast in the sea, tumble in among the sharks and give them one." "Oh, you horrid fellow!" she exclaimed, half angrily; "I shouldn't do anything of the kind; I should wear no furbelows, be no more likely to an attack of sea-sickness than yourself, and could get out of the way of a shark quite as nimbly as any one else." "Well, go and ask uncle," he laughed. Betty made no move to go; she knew as well as he how Mr. Dinsmore would treat such a request. The weather the next morning was all that could be desired for sharking, and the gentlemen set off in due time, all in fine spirits. They were absent all day, returning early in the evening quite elated with their success. Max had a wonderful tale to tell Lulu and Grace of "papa's" skill, the number of sand-sharks and the tremendous "blue dog" or man-eater he had taken. The captain was not half so proud of his success as was his admiring son. "I thought all the sharks were man-eaters," said Lulu. "No, the sand-sharks are not." "Did everybody catch a man-eater?" "No; nobody but papa took a full-grown one. Grandpa Dinsmore and Uncle Edward each caught a baby one, and all of them took big fellows of the other kind. I suppose they are the most common, and it's a good thing, because of course they are not nearly so dangerous." "How many did you catch, Maxie?" asked Grace. "I? Oh, I helped catch the perch for bait; but I didn't try for sharks, for of course a boy wouldn't be strong enough to haul such big fellows in. I tell you the men had a hard tug, especially with the blue-dog. "The sand-sharks they killed when they'd got 'em close up to the gunwale by pounding them on the nose with a club--a good many hard whacks it took, too; but the blue-dog had to be stabbed with a lance; and I should think it took considerable courage and skill to do it, with such a big, strong, wicked-looking fellow. You just ought to have seen how he rolled over and over in the water and lashed it into a foam with his tail, how angry his eyes looked, and how he showed his sharp white teeth. I thought once he'd be right in among us the next minute, but he didn't; they got the lance down his throat just in time to put a stop to that." "Oh, I'm so glad he didn't!" Grace said, drawing a long breath. "Do they eat sharks, Maxie?" "No, indeed; who'd want to eat a fish that maybe had grown fat on human flesh?" "What do they kill them for, then?" "Oh, to rid the seas of them, I suppose, and because there is a valuable oil in their livers. We saw our fellows towed ashore and cut open and their livers taken out." CHAPTER IV. "There is none other name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved."--_Acts_ 4: 12. It was down on the beach Max had been telling his story; the evening was beautiful, warm enough to make the breeze from the sea extremely enjoyable, and the whole family party were gathered there, some sitting upon the benches or camp-chairs, others on rugs and shawls spread upon the sand. Max seemed to have finished what he had to say about the day's exploits, and Gracie rose and went to her father's side. He drew her to his knee with a slight caress. "What has my little girl been doing all day?" "Playing in the sand most of the time, papa. I'm so glad those horrid sharks didn't get a chance to bite you or anybody to-day. Such big, dreadful-looking creatures Maxie says they were." "Not half so large as some I have seen in other parts of the world." "Oh, papa, will you tell us about them? Shall I call Max and Lulu to hear it?" "Yes; if they wish to come, they may." There was scarcely anything the children liked better than to hear the captain tell of his experiences at sea, and in another moment his own three. Rosie, Walter, and several of the older people were gathered around him, expecting quite a treat. "Quite an audience," he remarked, "and I'm afraid I shall disappoint you all, for I have no yarn to spin, only a few items of information to give in regard to other varieties of sharks than are to be found on this coast. "The white shark, found in the Mediterranean and the seas of many of the warmer parts of the world, is the largest and the most feared of any of the monsters of the deep. One has been caught which was thirty-seven feet long. It has a hard skin, is grayish-brown above and whitish on the under side. It has a large head and a big wide mouth armed with a terrible apparatus of teeth--six rows in the upper jaw, and four in the lower." "Did you ever see one, papa?" asked Grace, shuddering. "Yes, many a one. They will often follow a ship to feed on any animal matter that may be thrown or fall overboard, and have not unfrequently followed mine, to the no small disturbance of the sailors, who have a superstitious belief that it augurs a death on board during the voyage." "Do you believe it, captain?" queried little Walter. "No, my boy, certainly not; how should a fish know what is about to happen? Do you think God would give them a knowledge of the future which He conceals from men? No, it is a very foolish idea which only an ignorant, superstitious person could for a moment entertain. Sharks follow the ships simply because of what is occasionally thrown into the water. They are voracious creatures, and sometimes swallow articles which even their stomachs cannot digest. A lady's work-box was found in one, and the papers of a slave-ship in another." "Why, how could he get them?" asked Walter. "They had been thrown overboard," said the captain. "Do those big sharks bite people?" pursued the child. "Yes, indeed; they will not only bite off an arm or leg when an opportunity offers, but have been known to swallow a man whole." "A worse fate than that of the prophet Jonah," remarked Betty. "Do the sailors ever attempt to catch them, captain?" "Sometimes; using a piece of meat as bait, putting it on a very large hook attached to a chain; for a shark's teeth find no difficulty in going through a rope. But when they have hooked him and hauled him on board they have need to be very careful to keep out of reach of both his teeth and his tail; they usually rid themselves of danger from the latter by a sailor springing forward and cutting it above the fin with a hatchet. "In the South Sea Islands they have a curious way of catching sharks by setting a log of wood afloat with a rope attached, a noose at the end of it; the sharks gather round the log, apparently out of curiosity, and one or another is apt soon to get his head into the noose, and is finally wearied out by the log." "I think that's a good plan," said Grace, "because it doesn't put anybody in danger of being bitten." No one spoke again for a moment, then the silence was broken by the sweet voice of Mrs. Elsie Travilla: "To-morrow is Sunday; does any one know whether any service will be held here?" "Yes," replied Mr. Dinsmore; "there will be preaching in the parlors of one of the hotels, and I move that we attend in a body." The motion was seconded and carried, and when the time came nearly every one went. The service occupied an hour; after that almost everybody sought the beach; but though some went into the surf--doubtless looking upon it as a hygienic measure, therefore lawful even on the Lord's day--there was not the usual boisterous fun and frolic. Harold, by some manoeuvring, got his mother to himself for a time, making a comfortable seat for her in the sand, and shading her from the sun with an umbrella. "Mamma," he said, "I want a good talk with you; there are some questions, quite suitable for Sunday, that I want to ask. And see," holding them up to view, "I have brought my Bible and a small concordance with me, for I know you always refer to the Law and to the Testimony in deciding matters of faith and practice." "Yes," she said, "God's Word is the only infallible rule of faith and practice. All scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness!" "Yes, mamma, I have the reference here; Second Timothy, third chapter, and sixteenth verse. And should not the next verse, 'That the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works,' stir us up to much careful study of the Bible?" "Certainly, my dear boy; and, oh what cause for gratitude that we have an infallible instructor and guide! But what did you want to ask me?" "A question that was put to me by one of our fellows at college, and which I was not prepared to answer. The substance of it was this: 'If one who has lived for years in the service of God should be suddenly cut off while committing some sin, would he not be saved, because of his former good works?'" "Is any son or daughter of Adam saved by good works?" she asked, with a look and tone of surprise. "No, mother, certainly not; how strange that I did not think of answering him with that query. But he maintained that God was too just to overlook--make no account of--years of holy living because of perhaps a momentary fall into sin." "We have nothing to hope from God's justice," she replied, "for it wholly condemns us. 'There is none righteous, no, not one.... Therefore by the deeds of the law there shall no flesh be justified in His sight.' "But your friend's question is very plainly answered by the prophet Ezekiel," opening her Bible as she spoke. "Here it is, in the eighteenth chapter, twenty-fourth verse. "'But when the righteous turneth away from his righteousness and committeth iniquity, and doeth according to all the abominations that the wicked man doeth, shall he live? All his righteousness that he hath done shall not be mentioned: in his trespass that he hath trespassed, and in his sin that he hath sinned, in them shall he die.'" "Nothing could be plainer," Harold said. "I shall refer my friend to that passage for his answer, and also remind him that no one can be saved by works. "Now, mamma, there is something else. I have become acquainted with a young Jew who interests me greatly. He is gentlemanly, refined, educated, very intelligent and devout, studying the Hebrew Scriptures constantly, and looking for a Saviour yet to come. "I have felt so sorry for him that I could not refrain from talking to him of Jesus of Nazareth, and trying to convince him that He was and is the true Messiah." Elsie looked deeply interested. "And what was the result of your efforts?" she asked. "I have not succeeded in convincing him yet, mamma, but I think I have raised doubts in his mind. I have called his attention to the prophecies in his own Hebrew Scriptures in regard to both the character of the Messiah and the time of His appearing, and shown him how exactly they were all fulfilled in our Saviour. I think he cannot help seeing that it is so, yet tries hard to shut his eyes to the truth. "He tells me he believes Jesus was a good man and a great prophet, but not the Messiah; only a human creature. To that I answer, 'He claimed to be God, saying, "I and My Father are One;" "Verily, verily, I say unto you, before Abraham was I am;" and allowed himself to be worshipped as God; therefore either He was God or He was a wretched impostor, not even a good man.' "But, mamma, I have been asked by another, a professed Christian, 'Why do you trouble yourself about the belief of a devout Jew? he is not seeking salvation by works, but by faith; then is he not safe, even though he looks for a Saviour yet to come?' How should you answer that question, mamma?" "With the eleventh and twelfth verses of the fourth chapter of Acts: 'This is the stone which was set at naught of you builders, which is become the head of the corner. Neither is there salvation in any other; for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.' "That name is the name of Jesus of Nazareth, the crucified One. He is the only Saviour. We speak--the Bible speaks of being saved by faith, but faith is only the hand with which we lay hold on Christ. "'A Saviour yet to come?' There is none; and will faith in a myth save the soul? No; nor in any other than Him who is the Door, the Way, the Truth, the Life. "'He is mighty to save,' and He alone; He Himself said, 'No man cometh unto the Father, but by Me.' "And is it not for the very sin of rejecting their true Messiah, killing Him and imprecating His blood upon them and on their children, that they have been scattered among the nations and have become a hissing and a byword to all people?" "True, mamma, and yet are they not still God's own chosen people? Are there not promises of their future restoration?" "Yes, many, in both the Old Testament and the New. Zechariah tells us, 'They shall look upon Me whom they have pierced, and they shall mourn for Him as one mourneth for his only son, and shall be in bitterness for him, as one that is in bitterness for his first-born;' and Paul speaks of a time when the veil that is upon their hearts shall be taken away, and it shall turn to the Lord. "Let me read you the first five verses of the sixty-second chapter of Isaiah--they are so beautiful. "'For Zion's sake will I not hold My peace, and for Jerusalem's sake I will not rest, until the righteousness thereof go forth as brightness, and the salvation thereof as a lamp that burneth. "'And the Gentiles shall see thy righteousness, and all kings thy glory; and thou shalt be called by a new name which the mouth of the Lord shall name. "'Thou shalt also be a crown of glory in the hand of the Lord, and a royal diadem in the hand of thy God. "'Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken; neither shall thy land any more be termed Desolate: but thou shalt be called Hephzibah, and thy land Beulah: for the Lord delighted in thee, and thy land shall be married. "'For as a young man marrieth a virgin, so shall thy sons marry thee: and as the bridegroom rejoiceth over the bride, so shall thy God rejoice over thee.'" Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore sat together not many paces distant, each with a book; but hers was half closed while she gazed out over the sea. "I am charmed with the quiet of this place," she remarked presently; "never a scream of a locomotive to break it, no pavements to echo to the footsteps of the passer-by, no sound of factory or mill, or rumble of wheels, scarcely anything to be heard, even on week-days, but the thunder of the surf and occasionally a human voice." "Except the blast of Captain Baxter's tin horn announcing his arrival with the mail, or warning you that he will be off for Nantucket in precisely five minutes, so that if you have letters or errands for him you must make all haste to hand them over," Mr. Dinsmore said, with a smile. "Ah, yes," she assented; "but with all that, is it not the quietest place you ever were in?" "I think it is; there is a delightful Sabbath stillness to-day. I cannot say that I should desire to pass my life here, but a sojourn of some weeks is a very pleasant and restful variety." "I find it so," said his wife, "and feel a strong inclination to be down here, close by the waves, almost all the time. If agreeable to the rest of our party, let us pass the evening here in singing hymns." "A very good suggestion," he responded, and Elsie and the others being of the same opinion, it was duly carried out. CHAPTER V. "Sudden they see from midst of all the main The surging waters like a mountain rise, And the great sea, puff'd up with proud disdain To swell above the measure of his guise, As threatening to devour all that his power despise." --_Spenser_. What with bathing, driving, and wandering about on foot over the lovely moors, time flew fast to our 'Sconseters. It was their purpose to visit every point of interest on the island, and to try all its typical amusements. They made frequent visits to Nantucket Town, particularly that the children might take their swimming lessons in the quiet water of its harbor; also repeated such drives and rambles as they found exceptionably enjoyable. Max wanted to try camping out for a few weeks in company with Harold and Herbert Travilla and Bob Johnson, but preferred to wait until his father should leave them, not feeling willing to miss the rare pleasure of his society. And the other lads, quite fond of the captain themselves, did not object to waiting. In the mean time they went blue-fishing (trying it by both accepted modes--the "heave and haul" from a rowboat or at anchor, and trolling from a yacht under full sail), hunting, eel-bobbing, and perch-fishing. The ladies sometimes went with them on their fishing excursions; Zoe and Betty oftener than any of the others. Lulu went, too, whenever she was permitted, which was usually when her father made one of the party. "We haven't been on a 'squantum' yet," remarked Betty, one evening, addressing the company in general; "suppose we try that to-morrow." "Suppose you first tell us what a 'squantum' is," said Mrs. Dinsmore. "Oh, Aunt Rose, don't you know that that is the Nantucket name for a picnic?" "I acknowledge my ignorance," laughed the older lady; "I did not know it till this moment." "Well, auntie, it's one of those typical things that every conscientious summer visitor here feels called upon to do as a regular part of the Nantucket curriculum. How many of us are agreed to go?" glancing about from one to another. Not a dissenting voice was raised, and Betty proceeded to unfold her plans. Vehicles sufficient for the transportation of the whole party were to be provided, baskets of provisions also; they would take an early start, drive to some pleasant spot near the beach or one of the ponds, and make a day of it--sailing, or rather rowing about the pond, fishing in it, cooking and eating what they caught (fish were said to be so delicious just out of the water and cooked over the coals in the open air), and lounging on the grass, drinking in at the same time the sweet, pure air and the beauties of nature as seen upon Nantucket moors and hills, and in glimpses of the surrounding sea. "Really, Betty, you grow quite eloquent," laughed her brother; "Nantucket has inspired you." "I think it sounds ever so nice," said little Grace. "Won't you go and take us, papa?" "Yes, if Mamma Vi will go along," he answered, with an affectionate look at his young wife; "we can't go without her, can we, Gracie?" "Oh, no, indeed! but you will go, mamma, won't you?" "If your papa chooses to take me," Violet said, in a sprightly tone. "I think it would be very pleasant, but I cannot either go or stay unless he does; for I am quite resolved to spend every one of the few days he will be here, close at his side." "And as all the rest of us desire the pleasure of his company," said her mother, "his decision must guide ours." "There, now, captain," cried Betty, "you see it all rests with you; so please say yes, and let us begin our preparations." "Yes, Miss Betty; I certainly cannot be so gallant as to refuse such a request from such a quarter, especially when I see that all interested in the decision hope I will not." That settled the matter. Preparations were at once set on foot: the young men started in search of the necessary conveyances, the ladies ordered the provisions, inquiries were made in regard to different localities, and a spot on the banks of Sachacha Pond, where stood a small deserted old house, was selected as their objective point. They started directly after breakfast, and had a delightful drive over the moors and fenceless fields, around the hills and tiny emerald lakes bordered with beautiful wild shrubbery, bright with golden rod, wild roses, and field lilies. Here and there among the heather grew creeping mealberry vines, with bright red fruit-like beads, and huckleberry bushes that tempted our pleasure-seekers to alight again and again to gather and eat of their fruit. Everybody was in most amiable mood, and the male members of the party indulgently assisted the ladies, and lifted the children in and out that they might gather floral treasures for themselves, or alighted to gather for them again and again. At length they reached their destination, left their conveyances, spread an awning above the green grass that grew luxuriantly about the old house, deposited their baskets of provisions and extra wraps underneath it, put the horses into a barn near at hand, and strolled down to the pond. A whaleboat, large enough to hold the entire company, was presently hired; all embarked; it moved slowly out into the lake; all who cared to fish were supplied with tackle and bait, and the sport began. Elsie, Violet, and Grace declined to take part in it, but Zoe, Betty, and Lulu were very eager and excited, sending forth shouts of triumph or of merriment as they drew one victim after another from the water; for the fish seemed eager to take the bait, and were caught in such numbers that soon the word was given that quite enough were now on hand, and the boat was headed for the shore. A fire was made in the sand, and while some broiled the fish and made coffee, others spread a snowy cloth upon the grass, and placed on it bread and butter, cold biscuits, sandwiches, pickles, cakes, jellies, canned fruits, and other delicacies. It was a feast fit for a king, and all the more enjoyable that the sea air and pleasant exercise had sharpened the appetites of the fortunate partakers. Then, the meal disposed of, how deliciously restful it was to lounge upon the grass, chatting, singing, or silently musing with the sweet, bracing air all about them, the pretty sheet of still water almost at their feet, while away beyond it and the dividing strip of sand the ocean waves tossed and rolled, showing here and there a white, slowly moving sail. So thoroughly did they enjoy it all that they lingered till the sun, nearing the western horizon, reminded them that the day was waning. The drive home was not the least enjoyable part of the day. They took it in leisurely fashion, by a different route from the one they had taken in the morning, and with frequent haltings to gather berries, mosses, lichens, grasses, and strange beautiful flowers; or to gaze with delighted eyes upon the bare brown hills purpling in the light of the setting sun, and the rapidly darkening vales; Sankaty lighthouse, with the sea rolling beyond, on the one hand, and on the other the quieter waters of the harbor, with the white houses and spires of Nantucket Town half encircling it. They had enjoyed their "squantum," marred by no mishap, no untoward event, so much that it was unanimously agreed to repeat the experiment, merely substituting some other spot for the one visited that day. But their next excursion was to Wanwinet, situate on a narrow neck of land that, jutting out into the sea, forms the head of the harbor; Nantucket Town standing at the opposite end, some half dozen miles away. Summer visitors to the latter place usually go to Wanwinet by boat, up the harbor, taking their choice between a sailboat and a tiny steamer which plies regularly back and forth during the season; but our 'Sconset party drove across the moors, sometimes losing their way among the hills, dales, and ponds, but rather enjoying that as a prolongation of the pleasure of the drive, and spite of the detention reached their destination in good season to partake of the dinner of all obtainable luxuries of the sea, served up in every possible form, which is usually considered the roam object of a trip to Wanwinet. They found the dinner--served in a large open pavilion, whence they might gaze out over the dancing, glittering waves of the harbor, and watch the white sails come and go, while eating--quite as good as they had been led to expect. After dinner they wandered along the beach, picking up shells and any curious things they could find--now on the Atlantic side, now on the shore of the harbor. Then a boat was chartered for a sail of a couple of hours, and then followed the drive home to 'Sconset by a different course from that of the morning, and varied by the gradually fading light of the setting sun and succeeding twilight casting weird shadows here and there among the hills and vales. The captain predicted a storm for the following day, and though the others could see no sign of its approach, it was upon them before they rose the next morning, raining heavily, while the wind blew a gale. There was no getting out for sitting on the beach, bathing, or rambling about, and they were at close quarters in the cottages. They whiled away the time with books, games, and conversation. They were speaking of the residents of the island--their correct speech, intelligence, uprightness, and honesty. "I wonder if there was ever a crime committed here?" Elsie said, half inquiringly. "And if there is a jail on the island?" "Yes, mother," Edward answered; "there is a jail, but so little use for it that they think it hardly worth while to keep it in decent repair. I heard that a man was once put in for petty theft, and that after being there a few days he sent word to the authorities that if they didn't repair it so that the sheep couldn't break in on him, he wouldn't stay." There was a general laugh; then Edward resumed: "There has been one murder on the island, as I have been informed. A mulatto woman was the criminal, a white woman the victim, the motive revenge; the colored woman was in debt to the white one, who kept a little store, and, enraged at repeated duns, went to her house and beat her over the head with some heavy weapon--I think I was told a whale's tooth. "The victim lingered for some little time, but eventually died of her wounds, and the other was tried for murder. "It is said the sheriff was extremely uneasy lest she should be found guilty of murder in the first degree, and he should have the unpleasant job of hanging her; but the verdict was manslaughter, the sentence imprisonment for life. "So she was consigned to jail, but very soon allowed to go out occasionally to do a day's work." "Oh, Uncle Edward, is she alive now?" Gracie asked, with a look of alarm. "Yes, I am told she is disabled by disease, and lives in the poorhouse. But you need not be frightened, little girlie; she is not at all likely to come to 'Sconset, and if she does we will take good care that she is not allowed to harm you." "And I don't suppose she'd want to either, unless we had done something to make her angry," said Lulu. "But we are going to Nantucket Town to stay a while when we leave 'Sconset," remarked Grace uneasily. "But that woman will not come near you, daughter; you need, not have the least fear of it," the captain said, drawing his little girl to his knee with a tender caress. "Ah," said Mr. Dinsmore, "I heard the other day of a curiosity at Nantucket which we must try to see while there. I think the story connected with it will particularly interest you ladies and the little girls." "Oh, grandpa, tell it!" cried Rosie; "please do; a story is just what we want this dull day." The others joined in the request, and Mr. Dinsmore kindly complied, all gathering closely about him, anxious to catch every word. "The story is this: Nearly a hundred years ago there lived in Nantucket a sea-captain named Coffin, who had a little daughter of whom he was very fond." Gracie glanced up smilingly into her father's face and nestled closer to him. "Just as I am of mine," said his answering look and smile as he drew her closer still. But Mr. Dinsmore's story was going on. "It was Captain Coffin's custom to bring home some very desirable gift to his little girl whenever he returned from a voyage. At one time, when about to sail for the other side of the Atlantic, he said to her that he was determined on this voyage to find and bring home to her something that no other little girl ever had or ever could have." "Oh, grandpa, what could that be?" exclaimed little Walter. "Wait a moment and you shall hear," was the reply. "What the captain brought on coming back was a wax baby, a very life-like representation of an infant six months old. He said it was a wax cast of the Dauphin of France, that poor unfortunate son of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette; that he had found it in a convent, and paid for it a sum of money so enormous that he would never tell any one, not even his wife, how large it was." "But it isn't in existence now, at this late day, surely?" Mrs. Dinsmore remarked inquiringly, as her husband paused in his narrative. "It is claimed that it is by those who have such a thing in possession, and I presume they tell the truth. It has always been preserved with extreme care as a great curiosity. "The little girl to whom it was given by her father lived to grow up, but has been dead many years. Shortly before her death she gave it to a friend, and it has been in that family for over forty years." "And is it on exhibition, papa?" asked Elsie. "Only to such as are fortunate enough to get an introduction to the lady owner through some friend of hers; so I understand; but photographs have been taken and are for sale in the stores." "Oh, I hope we will get to see it!" exclaimed Lulu eagerly. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm bound to manage it somehow," said Betty. "How much I should like to know what was really the true story of that poor unfortunate child," said Elsie, reflectively, and sighing as she spoke. "It--like the story of the Man in the Iron Mask--is a mystery that will never be satisfactorily cleared up until the Judgment Day," remarked her father. "Oh, do tell us about it," the children cried in eager chorus. "All of you older ones have certainly some knowledge of the French Revolution, in which Louis XVI. and his beautiful queen lost their lives?" Mr. Dinsmore said, glancing about upon his grandchildren; "and have not forgotten that two children survived them--one sometimes called Louis XVII., as his father's lawful successor to the throne, and a daughter older than the boy. "These children remained in the hands of their cruel foes for some time after the beheading of their royal parents. The girl was finally restored to her mother's relatives, the royal family of Austria; but the boy, who was most inhumanly treated by his jailer, was supposed to have died in consequence of that brutal abuse, having first been reduced by it to a state of extreme bodily and mental weakness. "That story (of the death of the poor little dauphin, I mean, not of the cruel treatment to which he was subjected) has, however, been contradicted by another; and I suppose it will never be made certain in this world which was the true account. "The dauphin was born in 1785, his parents were beheaded in 1793; so that he must have been about eight years old at the time of their death. "In 1795 a French man and woman, directly from France, appeared in Albany, New York, having in charge a girl and boy; the latter about nine years old, and feeble in body and mind. "The woman had also a number of articles of dress which she said had belonged to Marie Antoinette, who had given them to her on the scaffold. "That same year two Frenchmen came to Ticonderoga, visited the Indians in that vicinity, and placed with them such a boy as the one seen at Albany--of the same age, condition of mind and body, etc. "He was adopted by an Iroquois chief named Williams, and given the name of Eleazer Williams. "He gradually recovered his health, and at length the shock of a sudden fall into the lake so far restored his memory that he recollected some scenes in his early life in the palaces of France. One thing he recalled was being with a richly dressed lady whom he addressed as 'mamma.' "Some time later--I cannot now recall the exact date--a Frenchman died in New Orleans (Beranger was his name), who confessed on his death-bed that he had brought the dauphin to this country and placed him with the Indians of Northern New York. He stated that he had taken an oath of secrecy, for the protection of the lad, but could not die without confessing the truth." "I'm inclined to think the story of the dauphin's death in France was not true," remarked Betty. "Didn't Beranger's confession arouse inquiry, grandpa?" asked Zoe. "And did Eleazer Williams hear of it?" "I think I may say yes to both your queries," Mr. Dinsmore answered. "Eleazer's story was published in the newspapers some years ago, and I remember he was spoken of as a very good Christian man, a missionary among the Indians; it was brought out in book form also under the title 'The Lost Prince: A Life of Eleazer Williams.' "Eleazer himself stated that in 1848 he had an interview, on board a steamer from Buffalo, with the Prince de Joinville, who then told him he was the son of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, and tried to induce him to sign away his right to the throne of France, and that he refused to do so. "In his published statement he said he thought the Prince would not deny having made that communication. But the Prince did deny that, though he acknowledged that the interview had taken place." "Did Eleazer ever try to get the throne, grandpa?" asked Max. "No, he never urged his claim; and I dare say was happier as an obscure Indian missionary than he would have been as King of France. He died at the age of seventy." "Poor Marie Antoinette!" sighed Elsie; "I never could read her story without tears, and the very thought of her sorrows and sufferings makes my heart ache." "I don't think I ever read it," said Zoe, "though I have a general idea what it was." "We have Abbott's life of her at Ion," said Elsie. "I'll get it for you when we go home." Harold stepped to the window. "It is raining very little now, if at all," he said, "and the sea must be in a fine rage; let us go and have a look at it" "Oh, yes, let's go!" cried Betty, springing to her feet; "but I'm afraid we've missed the finest of it, for the wind isn't blowing half so hard as it was an hour ago." "Don't be discouraged," said Captain Raymond, sportively; "the waves are often higher than ever after the wind has subsided." "Oh, papa, may I go too?" Grace said, in a pleading tone. "Yes; if you put on your waterproof cloak and overshoes it will not hurt you to be out for a short time," answered the indulgent father. "Lulu, don't go without yours." All were eager for the sight; there was a moment of hasty preparation, and they trooped out and stood upon the edge of the high bank at the back of their cottages gazing upon the sea in its, to most of them, new and terrible aspect; from shore to horizon it was one mass of seething, boiling waters; far out in the distance the huge waves reared their great foam-crested fronts and rushed furiously toward the shore, rapidly chasing each other in till with a tremendous crash and roar they broke upon the beach, sending up showers of spray, and depositing great flakes of foam which the wind sent scudding over the sand; and each, as it retreated, was instantly followed by another and another in unbroken, endless succession. Half a mile or more south of 'Sconset there is a shoal (locally called "the rips") where wind and tide occasionally, coming in opposition, cause a fierce battle of the waves, a sight well worth a good deal of exertion to behold. "Wind and tide are having it out on the rips," the captain presently remarked. "Let us go down to the beach and get the best view we can of the conflict." "Papa, may we go too?" asked Lulu, as the older people hastily made a move toward the stairway that led to the beach; "oh, do please let us!" Grace did not speak, but her eyes lifted to his, pleaded as earnestly as Lulu's tongue. He hesitated for an instant, then stooped, took Grace in his arms, and saying to Lulu, "Yes, come along; it is too grand a sight for me to let you miss it," hurried after the others. Violet had not come out with the rest, her attention being taken up with her babe just at that time, and he would give her the sight afterward on taking the children in. On they went over the wet sands--Mr. Dinsmore and his wife, Edward and his, Betty holding on to Harold's arm, Rose and Walter helped along by Herbert and Bob. To Max Raymond's great content and a little to the discomfiture of her sons, who so delighted in waiting upon and in every way caring for her, Elsie had chosen him for her companion and escort, and with Lulu they hastened after the others and just ahead of the captain and Grace, who brought up the rear. The thunder of the surf prevented any attempt at conversation, but now and then there was a little scream, ending with a shout of laughter from one or another of the feminine part of the procession, as they were overtaken by the edge of a wave and their shoes filled with the foam, their skirts wetted by it. Not a very serious matter, as all had learned ere this, as salt water does not cause one to take cold. Arrived at the spot from where the very best view of the conflict could be had, they stood long gazing upon it, awestruck and fascinated by the terrific grandeur of the scene. I can best describe it in the words of a fellow-author far more gifted in that line than I. "Yonder comes shoreward a great wave, towering above all its brethren. Onward it comes, swift as a race-horse, graceful as a great ship, bearing right down upon us. It strikes 'The Rips,' and is there itself struck by a wave approaching from another direction. The two converge in their advance, and are dashed together--embrace each other like two angry giants, each striving to mount upon the shoulder of the other and crush its antagonist with its ponderous bulk. Swift as thought they mount higher and higher, in fierce, mad struggle, until their force is expended; their tops quiver, tremble, and burst into one great mass of white, gleaming foam; and the whole body of the united wave, with a mighty bound, hurls itself upon the shore and is broken into a flood of seething waters--crushed to death in its own fury. "All over the shoal the waves leap up in pinnacles, in volcanic points, sharp as stalagmites, and in this form run hither and yon in all possible directions, colliding with and crashing against others of equal fury and greatness--a very carnival of wild and drunken waves; the waters hurled upward in huge masses of white. Sometimes they unite more gently, and together sweep grandly and gracefully along parallel with the shore; and the cavernous hollows stretch out from the shore so that you look into the trough of the sea and realize what a terrible depth it is. The roar, meanwhile, is horrible. You are stunned by it as by the roar of a great waterfall. You see a wave of unusual magnitude rolling in from far beyond the wild revelry of waters on 'The Rips.' It leaps into the arena as if fresh and eager for the fray, clutches another Bacchanal like itself, and the two towering floods rush swiftly toward the shore. Instinctively you run backward to escape what seems an impending destruction. Very likely a sheet of foam is dashed all around you, shoe-deep, but you are safe--only the foam hisses away in impotent rage. The sea has its bounds; 'hitherto shalt thou come, but no farther.'"[A] [Footnote A: A. Judd Northrup, in "Sconset Cottage Life."] CHAPTER VI. She is peevish, sullen, froward, Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty; Neither regarding that she is my child, Nor fearing me as If I were her father. --_Shakespeare_. A day or two of bright, breezy weather had succeeded the storm, and another "squantum" had been arranged for; it was to be a more pretentious affair than the former one, other summer visitors uniting with our party; and a different spot had been selected for it. By Violet's direction the maid had laid out, the night before, the dresses the two little girls were to wear to the picnic, and they appeared at the breakfast-table already attired in them; for the start was to be made shortly after the conclusion of the meal. The material of the dresses was fine, they were neatly fitting and prettily trimmed, but rather dark in color and with high necks and long sleeves; altogether suitable for the occasion, and far from unbecoming; indeed, as the captain glanced at the two neat little figures, seated one on each side of him, he felt the risings of fatherly pride in their attractiveness of appearance. And even exacting, discontented Lulu was well enough pleased with her mamma's choice for her till, upon leaving the table and running out for a moment into the street to see if the carriages were in sight, she came upon a girl about her own age, who was to be of the company, very gayly apparelled in thin white tarletan and pink ribbons, "Good-morning, Sadie," said Lulu. "What a nice day for the 'squantum,' isn't it?" "Yes; and it's most time to start, and you're not dressed yet, are you?" glancing a trifle scornfully from her own gay plumage to Lulu's plainer attire. The latter flushed hotly but made no reply. "I don't see anything of the carriages yet," was all she said; then darting into the cottage occupied by their family, she rushed to her trunk, and throwing it open, hastily took from it a white muslin, coral ribbons and sash, and with headlong speed tore off her plain colored dress and arrayed herself in them. She would not have had time but for an unexpected delay in the arrival of the carriage which was to convey her parents, brother and sister and herself to the "squantum" ground. As it was, she came rushing out at almost the last moment, just as the captain was handing his wife into the vehicle. Max met her before she had reached the outer door. "Lu, Mamma Vi says you will need a wrap before we get back; probably even going, and you're to bring one along." "I sha'n't need any such thing! and I'm not going to be bothered with it!" cried Lulu, in a tone of angry impatience, hurrying on toward the entrance as she spoke. "Whew! what have you been doing to yourself?" exclaimed Max, suddenly noting the change of attire, while Grace, standing in the doorway, turned toward them with a simultaneous exclamation, "Why, Lulu--" then broke off, lost in astonishment at her sister's audacity. "Hush, both of you! can't you keep quiet?" snapped Lulu, turning from one to the other; then as her father's tall form darkened the doorway, and a glance up into his face showed her that it was very grave and stern, she shrank back abashed, frightened by the sudden conviction that he had overheard her impertinent reply to her mamma's message, and perhaps noticed the change in her dress. He regarded her for a moment in silence, while she hung her head in shame and affright; then he spoke in tones of grave displeasure, "You will stay at home to-day, Lulu; we have no room for disrespectful, disobedient children--" "Papa," she interrupted, half pleadingly, half angrily, "I haven't been disobedient or disrespectful to you." "It is quite the same," he said; "I require you to be obedient and respectful to your mamma; and impertinence to her is something I will by no means allow or fail to punish whenever I know of it. Sorry as I am to deprive you of an anticipated pleasure, I repeat that you must stay at home; and go immediately to your room and resume the dress she directed you to wear to-day." So saying he took Grace's hand and led her to the carriage, Max following after one regretful look at Lulu's sorely disappointed face. Grace, clinging about her father's neck as he lifted her up, pleaded for her sister. "Oh, papa, do please let her go; she hasn't been naughty for a long while, and I'm sure she's sorry and will be good." "Hush, hush, darling!" he said, wiping the tears from her eyes, then placing her by Violet's side. "What is wrong?" inquired the latter with concern; "is Gracie not feeling well?" "Never mind, my love," the captain answered, assuming a cheerful tone; "there is nothing wrong except that Lulu has displeased me, and I have told her she cannot go with us to-day." "Oh, I am sorry!" Violet said, looking really pained; "we shall all miss her. I should be glad, Levis, if you could forgive her, for--" "No, do not ask it," he said hastily; adding, with a smile of ardent affection into the azure eyes gazing so pleadingly into his; "I can scarcely bear to say no to you, dearest, but I have passed sentence upon the offender and cannot revoke it." The carriage drove off; the others had already gone, and Lulu was left alone in the house, the one maid-servant left behind having already wandered off to the beach. "There!" cried Lulu, stamping her foot with passion, then dropping into a chair, "I say it's just too bad! She isn't old enough to be my mother, and I won't have her for one; I sha'n't mind her! Papa had no business to marry her. He hardly cares for anybody else now, and he ought to love me better than he does her; for she isn't a bit of relation to him, while I'm his own child. "And I sha'n't wear dowdy, old-womanish dresses to please her, along with other girls of my size that are dressed up in their best. I'd rather stay at home than be mortified that way, and I just wish I had told him so." She was in so rebellious a mood that instead of at once changing her dress in obedience to her father's command, she presently rose from her chair, walked out at the front door and paraded through the village streets in her finery, saying to herself, "I'll let people see that I have some decent clothes to wear." Returning after a little, she was much surprised to find Betty Johnson stretched full length on a lounge with a paper-covered novel in her hand, which she seemed to be devouring with great avidity. "Why, Betty!" she exclaimed, "are you here? I thought you went with the rest to the 'squantum.'" "Just what I thought in regard to your highness," returned Betty, glancing up from her book with a laugh. "I stayed at home to enjoy my book and the bath. What kept you?" "Papa," answered Lulu with a frown; "he wouldn't let me go." "Because you put on that dress, I presume," laughed Betty. "Well, it's not very suitable, that's a fact. But I had no idea that the captain was such a connoisseur in matters of that sort." "He isn't! he doesn't know or care if it wasn't for Mamma Vi," burst out Lulu vehemently. "And she's no business to dictate about my dress either. I'm old enough to judge and decide for myself." "Really, it is a great pity that one so wise should be compelled to submit to dictation," observed Betty with exasperating irony. Lulu, returning a furious look, which her tormentor feigned not to see, then marching into the adjoining room, gave tardy obedience to her father's orders anent the dress. "Are you going in this morning?" asked Betty, when Lulu had returned to the little parlor. "I don't know; papa didn't say whether I might or not." "Then I should take the benefit of the doubt and follow my own inclination in the matter. It's ten now; the bathing hour is eleven; I shall be done my book by that time, and we'll go in together if you like." "I'll see about it," Lulu said, walking away. She went down to the beach and easily whiled away an hour watching the waves and the people, and digging in the sand. When she saw the others going to the bath-houses she hastened back to her temporary home. As she entered Betty was tossing aside her book. "So here you are!" she said, yawning and stretching herself. "Are you going in?" "Yes; if papa is angry I'll tell him he should have forbidden me if he didn't want me to do it." They donned their bathing-suits and went in with the crowd; but though no mishap befell them and they came out safely again, Lulu found that for some reason her bath was not half so enjoyable as usual. She and Betty dined at the hotel where the family had frequently taken their meals, then they strolled down to the beach and seated themselves on a bench under an awning. After a while Betty proposed taking a walk. "Where to?" asked Lulu. "To Sankaty Lighthouse." "Well, I'm agreed; it's a nice walk; you can look out over the sea all the way," said Lulu, getting up. But a sudden thought seemed to strike her; she paused and hesitated. "Well, what's the matter?" queried Betty. "Nothing; only papa told me I was to stay at home to-day." "Oh, nonsense! what a little goose!" exclaimed Betty; "of course that only meant you were not to go to the 'squantum'; so come along." Lulu was by no means sure that that was really all her father meant, but she wanted the walk, so suffered herself to be persuaded, and they went. Betty had been a wild, ungovernable girl at school, glorying in contempt for rules and daring "larks." She had not improved in that respect, and so far from being properly ashamed of her wild pranks and sometimes really disgraceful frolics, liked to describe them, and was charmed to find in Lulu a deeply interested listener. It was thus they amused themselves as they strolled slowly along the bluff toward Sankaty. When they reached there a number of carriages were standing about near the entrance, several visitors were in the tower, and others were waiting their turn. "Let us go up too," Betty said to her little companion; "the view must be finer to-day than it was when we were here before, for the atmosphere is clearer." "I'm afraid papa wouldn't like me to," objected Lulu; "he seemed to think the other time that I needed him to take care of me," she added with a laugh, as if it were quite absurd that one so old and wise as herself should be supposed to need such protection. "Pooh!" said Betty, "don't be a baby; I can take care of myself and you too. Come, I'm going up and round outside too; and I dare you to do the same." Poor proud Lulu was one of the silly people who are not brave enough to refuse to do a wrong or unwise thing if anybody dares them to do it. "I'm not a bit afraid, Miss Johnson; you need not think that," she said, bridling; "and I can take care of myself. I'll go." "Come on then; we'll follow close behind that gentleman, and the keeper won't suppose we are alone," returned Betty, leading the way. Lulu found the steep stairs very hard to climb without the help of her father's hand, and reached the top quite out of breath. Betty too was panting. But they presently recovered themselves. Betty stepped outside just behind the gentleman who had preceded them up the stairs, and Lulu climbed quickly after her, frightened enough at the perilous undertaking, yet determined to prove that she was equal to it. But she had advanced only a few steps when a sudden rush of wind caught her skirts and nearly took her off her feet. Both she and Betty uttered a cry of affright, and at the same instant Lulu felt herself seized from behind and dragged forcibly back and within the window from which she had just emerged. It was the face of a stranger that met her gaze as she looked up with frightened eyes. "Child," he said, "that was a narrow escape; don't try it again. Where are your parents or guardians, that you were permitted to step out there with no one to take care of you?" Lulu blushed and hung her head in silence. Betty, who had followed her in as fast as she could, generously took all the blame upon herself. "Don't scold her, sir," she said; "it was all my doing. I brought her here without the knowledge of her parents, and dared her to go out there." "You did?" he exclaimed, turning a severe look upon the young girl (he was a middle-aged man of stern aspect). "Suppose I had not been near enough to catch her, and she had been precipitated to the ground from that great height--how would you have felt?" "I could never have forgiven myself or had another happy moment while I lived," Betty said, in half tremulous tones, "I can never thank you enough, sir, for saving her," she added, warmly. "No, nor I," said the keeper. "I should always have felt that I was to blame for letting her go out; but you were close behind, sir, and the other gentleman before, and I took you to be all one party, and of course thought you would take care of the little girl." "She has had quite a severe shock," the gentleman remarked, again looking at Lulu, who was very pale and trembling like a leaf. "You had better wait and let me help you down the stairs. I shall be ready in a very few moments." Betty thanked him and said they would wait. While they did so she tried to jest and laugh with Lulu; but the little girl was in no mood for such things; she felt sick and dizzy at the thought of the danger she had escaped but a moment ago. She made no reply to Betty's remarks, and indeed seemed scarcely to hear them. She was quite silent, too, while being helped down the stairs by the kind stranger, but thanked him prettily as they separated. "You are heartily welcome," he said; "but if you will take my advice you will never go needlessly into such danger again." With that he shook hands with her, bowed to Betty, and moved away. "Will you go in and rest awhile, Lu?" asked Betty. "No, thank you; I'm not tired; and I'd rather be close by the sea. Tell me another of your stories, won't you? to help me forget how near I came to falling." Betty good-naturedly complied, but found Lulu a less interested listener than before. The "squantum" party were late in returning, and when they arrived Betty and Lulu were in bed; but the door between the room where Lulu lay and the parlor, or sitting-room, as it was indifferently called, was ajar, and she could hear all that was said there. "Where is Lulu?" her father asked of the maid-servant who had been left behind. "Gone to bed, sir," was the answer. Then the captain stepped to the chamber door, pushed it wider open, and came to the bedside. Lulu pretended to be asleep, keeping her eyes tight shut, but all the time feeling that he was standing there and looking down at her. He sighed slightly, turned away, and went from the room; then she buried her face in the pillows and cried softly but quite bitterly. "He might have kissed me," she said to herself; "he would if he loved me as much as he used to before he got married." Then his sigh seemed to echo in her heart, and she grew remorseful over the thought that her misconduct had grieved as well as displeased him. And how much more grieved and displeased he would be if he knew how she had disregarded his wishes and commands during his absence that day! And soon he would be ordered away again, perhaps to the other side of the world; in danger from the treacherous deep and maybe from savages, too, in some of those far-away places where his vessel would touch; and so the separation might be for years or forever in this world; and if she continued to be the bad girl she could not help acknowledging to herself she now was, how dared she hope to be with her Christian father in another life? She had no doubt that he was a Christian; it was evident from his daily walk and conversation; and she was equally certain that she herself was not. And what a kind, affectionate father he had always been to her; she grew more and more remorseful as she thought of it; and if he had been beside her at that moment would certainly have confessed all the wrong-doing of the day and asked forgiveness. But he was probably in bed now; all was darkness and silence in the house; so she lay still, and presently forgot all vexing thought in sound, refreshing sleep. When she awoke again the morning sun was shining brightly, and her mood had changed. The wrong-doings of the previous day were the merest trifles, and it would really be quite ridiculous to go and confess them to her father; she supposed, indeed was quite sure, that ha would be better pleased with her if she made some acknowledgment of sorrow for the fault for which he had punished her; but the very thought of doing so was so galling to her pride that she was stubbornly determined not to do anything of the kind. She was thinking it all over while dressing, and trying hard to believe herself a very ill-used, instead of naughty, child. It was a burning shame that she had been scolded and left behind for such a trifling fault; but she would let "papa" and everybody else see that she didn't care; she wouldn't ask one word about what kind of a time they had had (she hoped it hadn't been so very nice); and she would show papa, too, that she could do very well without caresses and endearments from him. Glancing from the window, she saw him out on the bluff back of the cottage; but though her toilet was now finished, she did not, as usual, run out to put her hand in his, and with a glad good-morning hold up her face for a kiss. She went quietly to the dooryard looking upon the village street, and peeped into the window of the room where Grace was dressing with a little help from Agnes, their mamma's maid. "Oh, Lu, good-morning," cried the little girl. "I was so sorry you weren't with us yesterday at the 'squantum;' we had ever such a nice time; only I missed you very much." "Your sympathy was wasted, Grace," returned Lulu, with a grand air. "I had a very pleasant time at home." "Dar now, you's done finished, Miss Gracie," said Agnes, turning to leave the room; then she laughed to herself as she went, "Miss Lu she needn't think she don't 'ceive nobody wid dem grand airs ob hers; 'spect we all knows she been glad nuff to go ef de cap'n didn't tole her she got for to stay behin'." Grace ran out and joined her sister at the door. "Oh, Lu, you would have enjoyed it if you had been with us," she said, embracing her. "But we are going to have a drive this morning. We're to start as soon as breakfast is over, and only come back in time for the bath; and papa says you can go too if you want to, and are a good girl; and you--" "I don't want to," said Lulu, with a cold, offended air. "I like to be by myself on the beach; I enjoyed it very much yesterday, and shall enjoy it to-day; I don't need anybody's company." Her conscience gave her a twinge as she spoke, reminding her that she had passed but little of her day alone on the beach. Grace gazed at her with wide-open eyes, lost in astonishment at her strange mood; but hearing their father's step within the house, turned about and ran to meet him and claim her morning kiss. "Where is your sister?" he asked when he had given it. "The little one is asleep, papa," she answered gayly; "the other one is at the door there." He smiled. "Tell her to come in," he said; "we are going to have prayers." Lulu obeyed the summons, but took a seat near the door, without so much as glancing toward her father. When the short service was over Grace seated herself upon his knee, and Max stood close beside him, both laughing and talking right merrily; but Lulu sat where she was, gazing in moody silence into the street. At length, in a pause in the talk, the captain said, in a kindly tone, "One of my little girls seems to have forgotten to bid me good-morning." "Good-morning, papa," muttered Lulu, sullenly, her face still averted. "Good-morning, Lucilla," he said; and she knew by his tone and use of her full name that he was by no means pleased with her behavior. At that moment they were summoned to breakfast. Lulu took her place with the others and ate in silence, scarce lifting her eyes from her plate, while everybody else was full of cheerful chat. A carriage was at the door when they left the table. "Make haste, children," the captain said, "so that we may have time for a long drive before the bathing hour." Max and Grace moved promptly to obey, but Lulu stood still. "I spoke to you, Lulu, as well as to the others," her father said, in his usual kindly tone; "you may go with us, if you wish." "I don't care to, papa," she answered, turning away. "Very well, I shall not compel you; you may do just as you please about it," he returned. "Stay at home if you prefer it. You may go down to the beach if you choose, but nowhere else." "Yes, sir," she muttered, and walked out of the room, wondering in a half-frightened way if he knew or suspected where she had been the day before. In fact, he did neither; he believed Lulu a more obedient child than she was, and had no idea that she had not done exactly as he bade her. This time she was so far obedient that she went nowhere except to the beach, but while wandering about there she was nursing unkind and rebellious thoughts and feelings; trying hard to convince herself that her father loved her less than he did his other children, and was more inclined to be severe with her than with them. In her heart of hearts she believed no such thing, but pretending to herself that she did, she continued her unlovely behavior all that day and the next, sulking alone most of the time; doing whatever she was bidden, but with a sullen air, seldom speaking unless she was spoken to, never hanging lovingly about her father, as had been her wont, but rather seeming to avoid being near him whenever she could. It pained him deeply to see her indulging so evil a temper, but he thought best to appear not to notice it. He did not offer her the caresses she evidently tried to avoid, and seldom addressed her; but when he did speak to her it was in his accustomed kind, fatherly tones, and it was her own fault if she did not share in every pleasure provided for the others. In the afternoon of the second day they were all gathered upon the beach as usual, when a young girl, who seemed to be a new-comer in 'Sconset, drew near and accosted Betty as an old acquaintance. "Why, Anna Eastman, who would have expected to see you here?" cried Betty, in accents of pleased surprise, springing up to embrace the stranger. Then she introduced her to Elsie, Violet, and Captain Raymond, who happened to be sitting near, as an old school friend. "And you didn't know I was on the island?" remarked Miss Eastman laughingly to Betty, when the introductions were over. "I hadn't the least idea of it. When did you arrive?" "Several days since--last Monday; and this is Friday. By the way, I saw you on Tuesday, though you did not see me." "How and where?" asked Betty in surprise, not remembering at the moment how she had spent that day. "At Sankaty Lighthouse; I was in a carriage out on the green in front of the lighthouse, and saw you and that little girl yonder (nodding in Lulu's direction) come out on the top of the tower; then a puff of wind took the child's skirts, and I fairly screamed with fright, expecting to see her fall and be crushed to death; but somebody jerked her back within the window just in time to save her. Weren't you terribly frightened, dear?" she asked, addressing Lulu. "Of course I was," Lulu answered in an ungracious tone; then rose and sauntered away along the beach. "What did she tell it for, hateful thing!" she muttered to herself; "now papa knows it, and what will he say and do to me?" She had not ventured to look at him; if she had she would have seen his face grow suddenly pale, then assume an expression of mingled sternness and pain. He presently rose and followed her, though she did not know it till he had reached her side and she felt him take her hand in his. He sat down, making her sit by his side. "Is this true that I hear of you, Lulu?" he asked. "Yes, papa," she answered in a low, unwilling tone, hanging her head as she spoke, for she dared not look him in the face. "I did not think one of my children would be so disobedient," he said, in pained accents. "Papa, you never said I shouldn't go to Sankaty Lighthouse," she muttered. "I never gave you leave to go, and I have told you positively, more than once, that you must not go to any distance from the house without express permission. Also I am sure you could not help understanding, from what was said when I took you to the lighthouse, that I would be very far from willing that you should go up into the tower, and especially outside, unless I were with you to take care of you. Besides, what were my orders to you just as I was leaving the house that morning?" "You told me to change my dress immediately and to stay at home." "Did you obey the first order?" Lulu was silent for a moment; then as her father was evidently waiting for an answer, she muttered, "I changed my dress after a while." "That was not obeying; I told you to do it immediately," he said in a tone of severity, "What did you do in the mean time?" "I don't want to tell you," she muttered. "You must; and you are not to say you don't want to do what I bid you. What were you doing?" "Walking round the town." "Breaking two of your father's commands at once. What next? give me a full account of the manner in which you spent the day." "I came in soon and changed my dress; then went to the beach till the bathing hour; then Betty and I went in together; then we had our dinner at the hotel and came back to the beach for a little while; then we went to Sankaty." "Filling up the whole day with repeated acts of disobedience," he said. "Papa, you didn't say I mustn't go in to bathe, or that I shouldn't take a walk." "I told you to stay at home, and you disobeyed that order again and again. And you have been behaving very badly ever since, showing a most unamiable temper. I have overlooked it, hoping to see a change for the better in your conduct without my resorting to punishment; but I think the time has now come when I must try that with you." He paused for some moments. Wondering at his silence, she at length ventured a timid look up into his face. It was so full of pain and distress that her heart smote her, and she was seized with a sudden fury at herself as the guilty cause of his suffering. "Lulu," he said, with a sigh that was almost a groan, "what am I to do with you?" "Whip me, papa," she burst out; "I deserve it. You've never tried that yet, and maybe it would make me a better girl, I almost wish you would, papa," she went on in her vehement way; "I could beat myself for being so bad and hurting you so." He made no answer to that, but presently said in moved tones, "What if I had come back that night to find the dear little daughter I had left a few hours before in full health and strength, lying a crushed and mangled corpse? killed without a moment's time to repent of her disobedience to her father's known wishes and commands? Could I have hoped to have you restored to me even in another world, my child?" "No, papa," she said, half under her breath; "I know I wasn't fit to go to heaven, and that I'm not fit now; but would you have been really very sorry to lose such a bad, troublesome child?" "Knowing that, as you yourself acknowledge, you were not fit for heaven, it would have been the heaviest blow I have ever had," he said. "My daughter, you are fully capable of understanding the way of salvation, therefore are an accountable being, and, so long as you neglect it, in danger of eternal death. I shall never be easy about you till I have good reason to believe that you have given your heart to the Lord Jesus, and devoted yourself entirely to His blessed service." He ceased speaking, gave her a few moments for silent reflection, then setting her on her feet, rose, took her hand, and led her back toward the village. "Are you going to punish me, papa?" she asked presently, in a half-frightened tone. "I shall take that matter into consideration," was all he said, and she knew from his grave accents that she was in some danger of receiving what she felt to be her deserts. CHAPTER VII. "The rod and reproof give wisdom: but a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame."--_Prov_. 29: 15. Lulu hated suspense; it seemed to her worse than the worst certainty; so when they had gone a few steps farther she said, hesitating and blushing very deeply, "Papa, if you are going to punish me as--as I--said I 'most wished you would, please don't let Mamma Vi or anybody know it, and--" "Certainly not; it shall be a secret between our two selves," he said as she broke off without finishing her sentence; "if we can manage it," he added a little doubtfully. "They all go down to the beach every evening, you know, papa," she suggested in a timid, half-hesitating way, and trembling as she spoke. "Yes, that would give us a chance; but I have not said positively that I intend to punish you in that way." "No, sir; but--oh, do please say certainly that you will or you won't." The look he gave her as she raised her eyes half fearfully to his face was very kind and affectionate, though grave and judicial. "I am not angry with you," he said, "in the sense of being in a passion or out of patience--not in the least; but I feel it to be my duty to do all I possibly can to help you to be a better child, and noticing, as I have said, for the last two or three days what a wilful, wicked temper you were indulging, I have been considering very seriously whether I ought not to try the very remedy you have yourself suggested, and I am afraid I ought indeed. Do you still think, as you told me a while ago, that this sort of punishment might be a help to you in trying to be good?" Lulu hesitated a moment, then said impetuously, and as if determined to own the truth though it were to pass sentence upon herself, "Yes, papa, honestly I do; though I don't want you to do it one bit. But," she added, "I sha'n't love you any less if you whip me ever so hard, because I shall know you don't like to do it, and wouldn't except for the reason you've given." "No, indeed, I should not," he said; "but you are to stay behind to-night when the others go to the beach." "Yes, papa, I will," she answered submissively, but with a perceptible tremble in her voice. Grace and Max were coming to meet them, so there was no opportunity to talk any more on the subject, and she walked on in silence by her father's side, trying hard to act and look as if nothing was amiss with her, clinging fast to the hand in which he had taken hers, while Grace took possession of the other. "You ought to have three hands, papa," laughed Max a little ruefully. "Four," corrected Grace; "for some day little Elsie will be wanting one." "I shall have to manage it by taking you in turn," the captain said, looking down upon them with a fatherly smile. Violet and some of the other members of their party were still seated where they had left them on the benches under the awning just out of reach of the waves, and thither the captain and his children bent their steps. Sitting down by his wife's side, he drew Grace to his knee and Lulu close to his other side, keeping an arm round each while chatting pleasantly with his family and friends. Lulu was very silent, constantly asking herself, and with no little uneasiness, what he really intended to do with her when, according to his direction, she should stay behind with him after tea while the others returned to the beach. One thing she was determined on--that she would if possible obey the order without attracting any one's notice. Everybody must have seen how badly she had been behaving, but the thought of that was not half so galling to her pride as the danger of suspicion being aroused that punishment had been meted out to her on account of it. Max watched her curiously, and took an opportunity, on their return to the house, to say privately to her, "I'm glad you've turned over a new leaf, Lu, and begun to behave decently to papa; I've wondered over and over again in the last few days that he didn't take you in hand in a way to convince you that he wasn't to be trifled with. It's my opinion that if you'd been a boy you'd have got a trouncing long before this." "Indeed!" she cried, with an angry toss of her head; "I'm glad I'm not a boy if I couldn't be one without using such vulgar words." "Oh, that isn't such a very bad word," returned Max, laughing; "but I can tell you, from sad experience, that the _thing_ is bad enough sometimes; I'd be quaking in my shoes if I thought papa had any reason to consider me deserving of one." "I don't see what you mean by talking so to me," exclaimed Lulu, passionately; "but I think you are a Pharisee--making yourself out so much better than I am!" The call to supper interrupted them just there, and perhaps saved them from a down-right quarrel. Lulu had no appetite for the meal, and it seemed to her that the others would never have done eating; then that they lingered unusually long about the house before starting for their accustomed evening rendezvous--the beach; for she was on thorns all the time. At last some one made a move, and catching a look from her father which she alone saw or understood, she slipped unobserved into her bedroom and waited there with a fast beating heart. She heard him say to Violet, "Don't wait for me, my love; I have a little matter to attend to here, and will follow you in the course of half an hour." "Anything I can help you with?" Violet asked. "Oh, no, thank you," he said, "I need no assistance." "A business letter to write, I presume," she returned laughingly. "Well, don't make it too long, for I grudge every moment of your time." With that she followed the others, and all was quiet except for the captain's measured tread, for he was slowly pacing the room to and fro. Impatient, impetuous Lulu did not know how to endure the suspense; she seemed to herself like a criminal awaiting execution. Softly she opened the door and stepped out in front of her father, stopping him in his walk. "Papa," she said, with pale, trembling lips, looking beseechingly up into his face, "whatever you are going to do to me, won't you please do it at once and let me have it over?" He took her hand and, sitting down, drew her to his side, putting his arm around her. "My little daughter," he said very gravely, but not unkindly, "my responsibility in regard to your training weighs very heavily on my mind; it is plain to me that you will make either a very good and useful woman, or one who will be a curse to herself and others; for you are too energetic and impulsive, too full of strong feeling to be lukewarm and indifferent in anything. "You are forming your character now for time and for eternity, and I must do whatever lies in my power to help you to form it aright; for good and not for evil. You inherit a sinful nature from me, and have very strong passions which must be conquered or they will prove your ruin. I fear you do not see the great sinfulness of their indulgence, and that it may be that I am partly to blame for that in having passed too lightly over such exhibitions of them as have come under my notice: in short, that perhaps if I had been more justly severe with your faults you would have been more thoroughly convinced of their heinousness and striven harder and with greater success to conquer them. "Therefore, after much thought and deliberation, and much prayer for guidance and direction, I have fully decided that I ought to punish you severely for the repeated acts of disobedience you have been guilty of in the last few days, and the constant exhibition of ill-temper. "It pains me exceedingly to do it, but I must not consider my own feelings where my dear child's best interests are concerned." "Is it because I asked you to do it, papa?" she inquired. "I never thought you would when I said it." "No; I have been thinking seriously on the subject ever since you behaved so badly the day of the 'squantum,' and had very nearly decided the question just as I have fully decided it now. I know you are an honest child, even when the truth is against you; tell me, do you not yourself think that I am right?" "Yes, sir," she answered, low and tremulously, after a moment's struggle with herself. "Oh, please do it at once, so it will be over soon!" "I will," he said, rising and leading her into the inner room; "you shall not have the torture of anticipation a moment longer." Though the punishment was severe beyond Lulu's worst anticipations, she bore it without outcry or entreaty, feeling that she richly deserved it, and determined that no one who might be within hearing should learn from any sound she uttered what was going on. Tears and now and then a half-suppressed sob were the only evidences of suffering that she allowed herself to give. Her father was astonished at her fortitude, and more than ever convinced that she had in her the elements of a noble character. The punishment over, he took her in his arms, laying her head against his breast. Both were silent, her tears falling like rain. At length, with a heart-broken sob, "You hurt me terribly, papa," she said; "I didn't think you would ever want to hurt me so." "I did not want to," he answered in moved tones; "it was sorely against my inclination, I cannot tell you how gladly I should have borne twice the pain for you if so I could have made you a good girl. I know you have sometimes troubled yourself with foolish fears that you had less than your fair share of my affection; but I have not a child that is nearer or dearer to me than you are, my darling. I love you very much." "I'm so glad, papa; I 'most wonder you can," she sobbed; "and I love you dearly, dearly; I know I've not been acting like it lately, but I do, and just as much now as before. Oh, papa, you don't know how hard it is for me to be good!" "I think I do," he said; "for I am naturally quite as bad as you are, having a violent temper, which would most certainly have been my ruin had I not been forced to learn to control it; indeed I fear it is from me you get your temper. "I had a good Christian mother," he went on, "who was very faithful in her efforts to train her children up aright. My fits of passion gave her great concern and anxiety. I can see now how troubled and distressed she used to look. "Usually she would shut me up in a room by myself until I had had time to cool down, then come to me, talk very seriously and kindly of the danger and sinfulness of such indulgence of temper, telling me there was no knowing what dreadful deed I might some day be led to commit in my fury, if I did not learn to rule my own spirit; and that therefore for my own sake she must punish me to teach me self-control. She would then chastise me, often quite severely, and leave me to myself again to reflect upon the matter. Thus she finally succeeded in so convincing me of the great guilt and danger of giving rein to my fiery temper and the necessity of gaining the mastery over it, that I fought hard to do so, and with God's help have, I think, gained the victory. "It is the remembrance of all this, and how thankful I am to my mother now for her faithfulness, that has determined me to be equally faithful to my own dear little daughter, though unfortunately I lack the opportunity for the same constant watchfulness over my children." "Oh, papa, if you only could be with us all the time!" she sighed. "But I never thought you had a temper. I've seen some people fly at their naughty children in a great passion and beat them hard; I should think if you had such a bad temper as you say, you'd have treated me so many a time." "Very likely I should if your grandmother had not taught me to control it," he said; "you may thank her that you have as good a father as you have." "I think I have the best in the world," she said, putting her arm round his neck; "and now that it's all over, papa, I'm glad you did punish me just so hard; for I don't feel half so mean, because it seems as if I have sort of paid for my naughtiness toward you." "Yes, toward me; the account is settled between us; but remember that you cannot so atone for your sin against God; nothing but the blood of Christ can avail to blot out that account against you, and you must ask to be forgiven for His sake alone. We will kneel down and ask it now." Violet glanced again and again toward the cottages on the bluff, wondering and a trifle impatient at her husband's long delay, but at length saw him approaching, leading Lulu by the hand. There was unusual gravity, amounting almost to sternness, in his face, and Lulu's wore a more subdued expression than she had ever seen upon it, while traces of tears were evident upon her cheeks, "He has been talking very seriously to her in regard to the ill-temper she has shown during the past few days," Violet said to herself. "Poor wayward child! I hope she will take the lesson to heart, and give him less trouble and anxiety in future." He kept Lulu close at his side all the evening, and she seemed well content to stay there, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist, while she listened silently to the talk going on around her or to the booming of the waves upon the beach not many yards away. When it was time for the children to retire, he took her and Grace to the house. At the door he bent down and kissed Grace good-night, saying, "I shall not wait to see you in your bed, but shall come in to look at you before I go to mine." "May I have a kiss too, papa?" Lulu asked in a wishful, half-tremulous voice, as though a trifle uncertain whether her request would be granted. "Yes, my dear little daughter, as many as you wish," he replied, taking her in his arms and bestowing them with hearty good-will and affection. "I'm sorry--oh, very sorry for all my naughtiness, papa," she whispered in his ear while clinging about his neck. "It is all forgiven now," he said, "and I trust will never be repeated." Lulu was very good, submissive, and obedient during the remainder of her father's stay among them. She was greatly distressed when, two weeks later, orders came for him to join his ship the following day. She clung to him with devoted, remorseful affection and distress in prospect of the impending separation, while he treated her with even more than his wonted kindness, drawing her often caressingly to his knee, and his voice taking on a very tender tone whenever he spoke to her. It was in the evening he left them, for he was to drive over to Nantucket Town and pass the night there in order to take the early boat leaving for the mainland the next morning. Mr. Dinsmore went with him, intending to go to Boston for a few days, perhaps on to New York also, then return to Siasconset. Harold, Herbert, Bob, and Max set out that same evening for their camping ground; so that Mr. Edward Travilla was the only man of the party left to take care of the women and children. However, they would all have felt safe enough in that very quiet spot, or anywhere on the island, without any such protection. Lulu went to bed that night full of remorseful regret that through her own wilfulness she had lost many hours of her father's prized society, besides grieving and displeasing him. Oh, if she could but go back and live the last few weeks over, how differently she would behave! She would not give him the least cause to be displeased with or troubled about her. As often before, she felt a great disgust at herself, and a longing desire to be good and gentle like Gracie, who never seemed to have the slightest inclination to be quick-tempered or rebellious. "She's so sweet and dear!" murmured Lulu half aloud, and reaching out a hand to softly touch the little sister sleeping quietly by her side; "I should think papa would love her ten times better than me; but he says he doesn't, and he always tells the truth. I wish I'd been made like Gracie; but I'm ever so glad he can love me in spite of all my badness. Oh, I am determined to be good the next time he's at home, so that he will enjoy his visit more. It was a burning shame in me to spoil this one so; I'd like to beat you for it, Lulu Raymond, and I'm glad he didn't let you escape." Violet and her mother were passing the night together, and lying side by side talked to each other in loving confidence of such things as lay nearest their hearts. Naturally Vi's thoughts were full of the husband from whom she had just parted--for how long?--it might be months or years. "Mamma," she said, "the more I am with him and study his character, the more I honor and trust and love him. It is the one trial of my otherwise exceptionally happy life, that we must pass so much of our time apart, and that he has such a child as Lulu to mar his enjoyment of--" "Oh, dear daughter," interrupted Elsie, "do not allow yourself to feel otherwise than very kindly toward your husband's child; Lulu has some very noble traits, and I trust you will try to think of them rather than of her faults, serious as they may seem to you." "Yes, mamma, there are some things about her that are very lovable, and I really have a strong affection for her, even aside from the fact that she is his child; yet when she behaves in a way that distresses him I can hardly help wishing that she belonged to some one else. "You surely must have noticed how badly she behaved for two or three days. He never spoke to me about it, tried not to let me see that it interfered with his enjoyment (for he knew that that would spoil mine), but for all that I knew his heart was often heavy over her misconduct. "Yet she certainly does love her father. How she clung to him after she had heard that he must leave us so soon, with a remorseful affection, it seemed to me." "Yes, and though she shed but few tears in parting from him, I could see that she was almost heart-broken. She is a strange child, but if she takes the right turn, will assuredly make a noble, useful woman." "I hope so, mamma; and that will, I know, repay him for all his care and anxiety on her account. No father could be fonder of his children or more willing to do or endure anything for their sake. Of course I do not mean anything wrong; he would not do wrong himself or suffer wrong-doing in them; for his greatest desire is to see them truly good, real Christians. I hope my darling, as she grows older, will be altogether a comfort and blessing to him." "As her mother has been to me, and always was to her father," Elsie responded in loving tones. "Thank you, mamma," Violet said with emotion; "oh, if I had been an undutiful daughter and given pain and anxiety to my best of fathers, how my heart would ache at the remembrance, now that he is gone. And I feel deep pity for Lulu when I think what sorrow she is preparing for herself in case she outlives her father, as in the course of nature she is likely to do." "Yes, poor child!" sighed Elsie; "and doubtless she is even now enduring the reproaches of conscience aggravated by the fear that she may not see her father very soon again. "She and Gracie, to say nothing of my dear Vi, will be feeling lonely to-morrow, and Edward, Zoe, and I have planned various little excursions, by land and water, to give occupation to your thoughts and pleasantly while away the time." "You are always so kind, dearest mamma," said Violet; "always thinking of others and planning for their enjoyment." "Oh, how lonely it does seem without papa! our dear, dear papa!" was Gracie's waking exclamation. "I wish he could live at home all the time like other children's fathers do! When will he come again, Lulu?" "I don't know, Gracie; I don't believe anybody knows," returned Lulu sorrowfully. "But you have no occasion to feel half as badly about it as I." "Why not?" cried Grace, a little indignantly, even her gentle nature aroused at the apparent insinuation that he was more to Lulu than to herself; "you don't love him a bit better than I do." "Maybe not; but Mamma Vi is more to you than she is to me; though that wasn't what I was thinking of. I was only thinking that you had been a good child to him all the time he has been at home, while I was so very, very naughty that--" Lulu broke off suddenly and went on with, her dressing in silence. "That what?" asked Grace. "That I grieved him very much and spoiled half his pleasure," Lulu said in a choking voice. Then turning suddenly toward her sister, her face flushing hotly, her eyes full of tears, bitterly ashamed of what she was moved to tell, yet with a heart aching so for sympathy that she hardly knew how to keep it back, "Gracie, if I tell you something will you never, _never, never_ breathe a single word of it to a living soul?" Grace, who was seated on the floor putting on her shoes and stockings, looked up at her sister in silent astonishment. "Come, answer," exclaimed Lulu impetuously; "do you promise? I know if you make a promise you'll keep it. But I won't tell you without, for I wouldn't have Mamma Vi, or Max, or anybody else but you know, for all the world." "Not papa?" "Oh, Gracie, papa knows; it's a secret between him and me--only--only I have a right to tell you if I choose." "I'm glad he knows, because I couldn't promise not to tell him if he asked me and said I must. Yes, I promise, Lulu. What is it?" Lulu had finished her dressing, and dropping down on the carpet beside Grace she began, half averting her face and speaking in low, hurried tones. "You remember that morning we were all going to the 'squantum' I changed my dress and put on a white one, and because of that, and something I said to Max that papa overheard, he said I must stay at home; and he ordered me to take off that dress immediately. Well, I disobeyed him; I walked round the town in the dress before I took it off, and instead of staying at home I went in to bathe, and took a walk in the afternoon with Betty Johnson to Sankaty Lighthouse, and went up in the tower and outside too." "Oh, Lulu!" cried Grace, "how could you dare to do so?" "I did, anyway," said Lulu; "and you know I was very ill-tempered for two days afterward; so when papa knew it all he thought he ought to punish me, and he did." "How?" "Oh, Grace! don't you know? can't you guess? It was when he and I stayed back while all the rest went to the beach, that evening after Betty's friend told of seeing me at Sankaty." Grace drew a long breath. "Oh, Lu," she said pityingly, putting her arms lovingly about her sister, "I'm so sorry for you! How could you bear it? Did he hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes, terribly; but I'm glad he did it (though I wouldn't for anything let anybody know it but you), because I'd feel so mean if I hadn't paid somehow for my badness. Papa was so good and kind to me--he always is--and I had been behaving so hatefully to him. "And he wasn't in a bit of a passion with me. I believe, as he told me, he did hate to punish me, and only did it to help me to learn to conquer my temper." "And to be obedient, too?" "Yes; the punishment was for that too, he said. But now don't you think I have reason to feel worse about his going away just now than you?" "Yes," admitted Grace; "I'd feel ever so badly if I'd done anything to make dear papa sad and troubled; and I think I should be frightened to death if he was going to whip me." "No, you wouldn't," said Lulu, "for you would know papa wouldn't hurt you any more than he thought necessary for your own good. Now let me help you dress, for it must be near breakfast time." "Oh, thank you; yes, I'll have to hurry. Do you love papa as well as ever, Lu?" "Better," returned Lulu, emphatically; "it seems odd, but I do. I shouldn't though if I thought he took pleasure in beating me, or punishing me in any way." "I don't b'lieve he likes to punish any of us," said Grace. "I _know_ he doesn't," said Lulu. "And it isn't any odder that I should love him in spite of his punishments, than that he should love me in spite of all my naughtiness. Yes, I do think, Gracie, we have the best father in the world." "'Course we have," responded Grace; "but then we don't have him half the time; he's 'most always on his ship," she added tearfully. "Are you ready for breakfast, dears?" asked a sweet voice at the door. "Yes, Grandma Elsie," they answered, hastening to claim the good-morning kiss she was always ready to bestow. Lulu's heartache had found some relief in her confidence to her sister, and she showed a pleasanter and more cheerful face at the table than Violet expected to see her wear. It grew brighter still when she learned that they were all to have a long, delightful drive over the hills and moors, starting almost immediately upon the conclusion of the meal. The weather was charming, everybody in most amiable mood, and spite of the pain of the recent parting from him whom they so dearly loved, that would occasionally make itself felt in the hearts of wife and children, the little trip was an enjoyable one to all. Just as they drew up at the cottage door on their return, a blast of Captain Baxter's tin horn announced his arrival with the mail, and Edward, waiting only to assist the ladies and children to alight, hurried off to learn if they had any interest in the contents of the mailbag. CHAPTER VIII. "Be not too ready to condemn The wrongs thy brothers may have done; Ere ye too harshly censure them For human faults, ask, 'Have I none?'" --_Miss Eliza Cook_. The little girls took up their station at the front door to watch for "Uncle Edward's" return. Gracie presently cried out joyfully, "Oh, he's coming with a whole handful of letters! I wonder if one is from papa." "I'm afraid not," said Lulu; "he would hardly write last night, leaving us so late as he did, and hardly have time before the leaving of the early boat this morning." The last word had scarcely left her lips when Edward reached her side and put a letter into her hand--a letter directed to her, and unmistakably in her father's handwriting. "One for you, too, Vi," he said gayly, tossing it into her lap through the open window. "Excuse the unceremonious delivery, sister mine. Where are grandma and mamma? I have a letter for each of them." "Here," answered his mother's voice from within the room; then as she took the missives from his hand, "Ah, I knew papa would not forget either mamma or me." "Where's my share, Ned?" asked Zoe, issuing from the inner room, where she had been engaged in taking off her hat and smoothing her fair tresses. "Your share? Well, really I don't know; unless you'll accept the mail-carrier as such," he returned sportively. "Captain Baxter?" she asked in mock astonishment. "I'd rather have a letter by half." "But you can't have either," he returned, laughing; "you can have the postman who delivered the letters here--nothing more; yours is 'Hobson's choice.'" Lulu, receiving her letter with a half-smothered exclamation of intense, joyful surprise, ran swiftly away with it to the beach, never stopping till she had gained a spot beyond and away from the crowd, where no prying eye would watch her movements or note if the perusal of her treasure caused any emotion. There, seated upon the sand, she broke open the envelope with fingers trembling with eagerness. It contained only a few lines in Captain Raymond's bold chirography, but they breathed such fatherly love and tenderness as brought the tears in showers from Lulu's eyes--tears of intense joy and filial love. She hastily wiped them away and read the sweet words again and again; then kissing the paper over and over, placed it in her bosom, rose up, and slowly wended her way back toward the house, with a lighter, happier heart than she had known for some days. She had not gone far when Grace came tripping over the sands to meet her, her face sparkling with delight as she held up a note to view, exclaiming, "See, Lu! papa did not forget me; it came inside of mamma's letter." "Oh, Gracie, I am glad," said Lulu; "but it would be very strange for papa to remember the bad child and not the good one, wouldn't it?" she concluded, between a sigh and a smile. "I'm not always good," said Grace; "you know I did something very, very bad last winter one time--something you would never do. I b'lieve you'd speak the truth if you knew you'd be killed for it." "You dear little thing!" exclaimed Lulu, throwing her arm round Grace and giving her a hearty kiss; "it's very good in you to say it; but papa says I'm an honest child and own the truth even when it's against me." "Yes; you said you told him how you had disobeyed him; and If it had been I, I wouldn't have ever said a word about it for fear he'd punish me." "Well, you can't help being timid; and if I were as timid as you are, no doubt I'd be afraid to own up too; and I didn't confess till after that Miss Eastman had told on me," said Lulu. "Now let's sit down on the sand, and if you'll show me your letter, I'll show you mine." Grace was more than willing, and they busied themselves with the letters, reading and rereading, and with loving talk about their absent father, till summoned to the supper-table. Lulu was very fond of being on the beach, playing in the sand, wandering hither and thither, or just sitting gazing dreamily out over the waves; and her father had allowed her to do so, only stipulating that she should not go out of sight or into any place that looked at all dangerous. "I'm going down to the beach," she said to Grace, when they had left the table that evening; "won't you go too?" "Not yet," said Grace; "baby is awake, and looks so sweet that I'd rather stay and play with her a little while first." "She does look pretty and sweet," assented Lulu, glancing toward the babe, cooing in its nurse's arms, "but we can see enough of her after we go home to Ion, and haven't the sea any more. I'll go now, and you can come and join me when you are ready." Leaving the house, Lulu turned southward toward Sunset Heights, and strolled slowly on, gazing seaward for the most part, and drinking in with delight the delicious breeze as it came sweeping on from no one knows where, tearing the crests of the waves and scattering the spray hither and yon. The tide was rising, and it was keen enjoyment to watch the great billows chasing each other in and dashing higher and higher on the sands below. Then the sun drew near his setting, and the sea, reflecting the gorgeous coloring of the clouds, changed every moment from one lovely hue to another. Lulu walked on and on, wilfully refusing to think how great might be the distance she was putting between herself and home, and at length sat down, the better to enjoy the lovely panorama of cloud and sea which still continued to enrapture her with its ever-changing beauty. By and by the colors began to fade and give place to a silvery gray, which gradually deepened and spread till the whole sky was fast growing black with clouds that even to her inexperienced eye portended a storm. She started up and sent a sweeping glance around on every side. Could it be possible that she was so far from the tiny 'Sconset cottage that at present she called home? Here were Tom Never's Head and the life-saving station almost close at hand; she had heard papa say they were a good two miles from 'Sconset, so she must be very nearly that distance from home, all alone too, and with night and a storm fast coming on. "Oh me! I've been disobedient again," she said aloud, as she set off for home at her most rapid pace; "what would papa say? It wasn't exactly intentional this time, but I should not have been so careless." Alarmed at the prospect of being overtaken by darkness and tempest alone out in the wild, she used her best efforts to move with speed; but she could scarcely see to pick her steps or take a perfectly direct course, and now and again she was startled by the flutter of an affrighted night-bird across her path as she wandered among the sand dunes, toiling over the yielding soil, the booming of the waves and the melancholy cadences of the wind as it rose and fell filling her ears. She was a brave child, entirely free from superstitious fears, and having learned that the island harbored no burglars or murderers, and that there was no wild beast upon it, her only fear was of being overtaken by the storm or lost on the moors, unable to find her way till day-break. But, gaining the top of a sand-hill, the star-like gleam of Sankaty Light greeted her delighted eyes, and with a joyful exclamation, "Oh, now I can find the way!" she sprang forward with renewed energy, soon found the path to the village, pursued it with quickened steps and light heart, although the rain was now pouring down, accompanied with occasional flashes of lightning and peals of thunder, and in a few moments pushed open the door of the cottage and stepped into the astonished presence of the ladies of the party. She had not been missed till the approach of the storm drove them all within doors; then perceiving that the little girl was not among them, the question passed from one to another, "Where is Lulu?" No one could say where; Grace remembered that she had gone out intending to take a stroll along the beach, but did not mention in which direction. "And she has never been known to stay out so late; and--and the tide is coming in," cried Violet, sinking pale and trembling into a chair. "Oh, mamma, if she is drowned, how shall I answer to my husband for taking so little care of his child?" "My dear daughter, don't borrow trouble," Elsie said cheerfully, though her own cheek had grown very pale; "it was in my care he left her, not in yours." "Don't fret, Vi," Edward said; "I don't believe she's drowned; she has more sense than to go where the tide would reach her; but I'll go at once to look for her, and engage others in the search also." He started for the door. "She may be out on the moors, Ned," called Zoe, running after him with his waterproof coat. "Here, put this on." "No time to wait for that," he said. "But you must take time," she returned, catching hold of him and throwing it over his shoulders; "men have to obey their wives once in awhile; Lu's not drowning; don't you believe it; and she may as well get a wetting as you." Grace, hiding her head in Violet's lap, was sobbing bitterly, the latter stroking her hair in a soothing way, but too full of grief and alarm herself to speak any comforting words. "Don't cry, Gracie; and, Vi, don't look so distressed," said Betty. "Lulu, like myself, is one of those people that need never be worried about--the bad pennies that always turn up again." "Then she isn't fit for heaven," remarked Rosie in an undertone not meant for her sister's ear; "but I don't believe," she added in a louder key, "that there is anything worse the matter than too long a walk for her to get back in good season." "That is my opinion, Vi," said Mrs. Dinsmore; and Elsie added, "Mine also." No one spoke again for a moment, and in the silence the heavy boom, boom of the surf on the beach below came distinctly to their ears. Then there was a vivid flash of lightning and a terrific thunder crash, followed instantly by a heavy down-pour of rain. "And she is out in all this!" exclaimed Violet in tones of deep distress. "Dear child, if I only had her here safe in my arms, or if her father were here to look after her!" "And punish her," added Rosie. "It's my humble opinion that if ever a girl of her age needed a good whipping, she does." "Rosie," said her mother, with unwonted severity, "I cannot allow you to talk in that way. Lulu's faults are different from yours, but perhaps no worse; for while she is passionate and not sufficiently amenable to authority, you are showing yourself both uncharitable and Pharisaical." "Well, mamma," Rosie answered, blushing deeply at the reproof, "I cannot help feeling angry with her for giving poor Vi so much unnecessary worry and distress of mind. And I am sure her father must have felt troubled and mortified by the way she behaved for two or three days while he was here." "But he loves her very dearly," said Violet; "so dearly that to lose her in this way would surely break his heart." "But I tell you he is not going to lose her in this way," said Betty in a lively tone; "don't you be a bit afraid of it." But Violet could not share the comfortable assurance; to her it seemed more than likely Lulu had been too venturesome, and that a swiftly incoming wave had carried her off her feet and swept her in its recoil into the boiling sea. "I shall never see the dear child again!" was her anguished thought; "and oh, what news to write to her father! He will not blame me, I know, but oh, I cannot help blaming myself that I did not miss her sooner and send some one to search for and bring her back." Elsie read her daughter's distress in her speaking countenance, and sitting down by her side tried to cheer her with loving, hopeful words. "Dear Vi," she said, "I have a strong impression that the child is not lost, and will be here presently. But whatever has happened, or may happen, stay your heart, dear one, upon your God; trust Him for the child, for your husband, and for yourself. You know that troubles do not spring out of the ground, and to His children He gives help and deliverance out of all He sends them. "'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.' 'He shall deliver thee in six troubles: yea in seven there shall no evil touch thee.'" There was perhaps not more than a half hour of this trying suspense between Edward's departure in search of the missing child and her sudden appearance in their midst: sudden it seemed because the roar of the sea and howling of the storm drowned all other sounds from without, and prevented any echo of approaching footsteps. "Lulu!" they all cried in varied tones of surprise and relief, as they started up and gathered about her dripping figure. "Where have you been?" "How wet you are!" "Oh, dear child, I am so glad and thankful to see you; I have been terribly frightened about you!" This last from Violet. "I--I didn't mean to be out so late or to go so far," stammered Lulu. "And I didn't see the storm coming up in time, and it caught and hindered me. Please, Mamma Vi, and Grandma Elsie, don't be angry about it. I won't do so again." "We won't stop to talk about it now," Elsie said, answering for Violet and herself; "your clothes must be changed instantly, for you are as wet as if you had been in the sea; and that with fresh water, so that there is great danger of your taking cold." "I should think the best plan would be for her to be rubbed with a coarse towel till reaction sets in fully and then put directly to bed," said Mrs. Dinsmore. "If that is done we may hope to find her as well in the morning as if she had not had this exposure to the storm." Lulu made no objection nor resistance, being only too glad to escape so easily. Still she was not quite sure that some punishment might not be in store for her on the morrow. And she had an uncomfortable impression that were it not for her father's absence it might not be a very light one. When she was snugly in bed, Grandma Elsie came to her, bringing with her own hands a great tumbler of hot lemonade. "Drink this, Lulu," she said, in her own sweet voice and with a loving look that made the little girl heartily ashamed of having given so much trouble and anxiety; "it will be very good for you, I think, as well as palatable." "Thank you, ma'am," Lulu said, tasting it; "it is delicious, so strong of both lemon and sugar." "I am glad you like it; drink it all if you can," Elsie said. When Lulu had drained the tumbler it was carried away by Agnes, and Grandma Elsie, sitting down beside the bed, asked, "Are you sleepy, my child? If you are we will defer our talk till to-morrow morning; if not, we will have it now." "I'm not sleepy," Lulu answered, blushing and averting her face, adding to herself, "I suppose it's got to come, and I'd rather have it over." "You know, my child, that in the absence of your father and mine you are my care and I am responsible for you, while you are accountable to me for your good or bad behavior. Such being the case, it is now my duty to ask you to give an account of your whereabouts and doings in the hours that you were absent from us this evening." Lulu replied by an exact statement of the truth, pleading in excuse for her escapade her father's permission to stroll about the beach, even alone, her enjoyment of the exercise of walking along the bluff, and her absorbing interest in the changing beauty of sky and sea--all which tended to render her oblivious of time and space, so that on being suddenly reminded of them she found herself much farther from home than she had supposed. "Was it not merely within certain limits you were given permission to ramble about the beach?" Elsie asked gently. "Yes, ma'am; papa said I was not to go far, and I did not intend to; indeed, indeed, Grandma Elsie, I had not the least intention of disobeying, but forgot everything in the pleasure of the walk and the beautiful sights." "Do you think that is sufficient excuse, and ought to be accepted as fully exonerating you from blame in regard to this matter?" "I don't think people can help forgetting sometimes," Lulu replied, a trifle sullenly. "I remember that in dealing with me as a child my father would never take forgetfulness of his orders as any excuse for disobedience; and though it seemed hard then, I have since thought he was right, because the forgetfulness is almost always the result of not having deemed the matter of sufficient importance to duly charge the memory with it. "In the Bible God both warns us against forgetting and bids us remember: "'Remember all the commandments of the Lord, and do them.' "'Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.' "'Beware lest thou forget the Lord.' "'The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God.' "You see that God does not accept forgetfulness as a sufficient excuse, or any excuse for sin." "Then you won't, of course," muttered Lulu, carefully avoiding looking into the kind face bending over her; "how am I to be punished? I don't feel as if anybody has a _right_ to punish me but papa," she added, with a flash of indignant anger. "I heartily wish he were here to attend to it," was the response, in a kindly pitying tone. "But since, unfortunately, he is not, and my father, too, is absent, the unpleasant duty devolves upon me. I have not had time to fully consider the matter, but have no thought of being very severe with you; and perhaps if you knew all the anxiety and sore distress suffered on your account this evening--particularly by your mamma and little sister--you would be sufficiently punished already." "Did Mamma Vi care?" Lulu asked, in a half-incredulous tone. "My child, she was almost distracted," Elsie said. "She loves you for both your own and your father's sake. Besides, as she repeated again and again, she was sorely distressed on his account, knowing his love for you to be so great that to lose you would well-nigh break his heart." A flash of joy illumined Lulu's face at this new testimony to her father's love for her, but passed away as suddenly as it came. "I do feel punished in hearing that you were all so troubled about me, Grandma Elsie," she said, "and I mean to be very, very careful not to cause such anxiety again. Please tell Mamma Vi I am sorry to have given her pain; but she shouldn't care anything about such a naughty girl." "That, my child, she cannot help," Elsie said; "she loves your father far too well not to love you for his sake." After a little more kindly admonitory talk she went away, leaving a tender, motherly kiss upon the little girl's lips. At the door Grace met her with a request for a good-night kiss, which was promptly granted. "Good-night, dear little one; pleasant dreams and a happy awaking, if it be God's will," Elsie said, bending down to touch her lips to the rosebud mouth and let the small arms twine themselves around her neck. "Good-night, dear Grandma Elsie," responded the child. "Oh, aren't you ever so glad God brought our Lulu safely home to us?" "I am indeed, dear; let us not forget to thank Him for it in our prayers to-night." Lulu heard, and as Grace's arms went round her neck the next moment, and the sweet lips, tremulous with emotion, touched her cheek, "Were you so distressed about me, Gracie?" she asked with feeling. "Did Mamma Vi care so very much that I might be drowned?" "Yes, indeed, Lu, dear Lu; oh, what could I do without my dear sister?" "You know you have another one now," Suggested Lulu. "That doesn't make any difference," said Grace. "She's the darling baby sister; you are the dear, dear big sister." "Papa calls me his little girl," remarked Lulu, half musingly; "and somehow I like to be little to him and big to you. Oh, Gracie, what do you suppose he will say when he hears about to-night?--my being so bad; and so soon after he went away, too." "Oh, Lu, what made you?" "Because I was careless; didn't think; and I begin to believe that it was because I didn't choose to take the trouble," she sighed. "I'm really afraid if papa were here I should get just the same sort of a punishment he gave me before. Gracie, don't you ever, ever tell anybody about that." "No, Lu; I promised I wouldn't. But I should think you'd be punished enough with all the wetting and the fright; for weren't you most scared to death?" "No; I was frightened, but not nearly so much as that. Not so much as I should be if papa were to walk in just now; because he'd have to hear all about it, and then he'd look so sorry and troubled, and punish me besides." "Then you wouldn't be glad to see papa if he came back?" Grace said, in a reproachfully inquiring tone. "Yes, I should," Lulu answered, promptly; "the punishment wouldn't last long, you know; he and I would both get over it pretty soon, and then it would be so delightful to have him with us again." Lulu woke the next morning feeling no ill effects whatever from her exposure to the storm. Before she and Grace had quite finished their morning toilet Grandma Elsie was at their door, asking if they were well. She stayed for a little chat with them, and Lulu asked what her punishment was to be. "Simply a prohibition of lonely rambles," Elsie answered, with a grave but kindly look; "and I trust it will prove all-sufficient; you are to keep near the rest of us for your own safety." CHAPTER IX. "He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes."--_Prov_. 13: 24. When the morning boat touched at Nantucket pier there were among the throng which poured ashore two fine-looking gentlemen--one in the prime of life, the other growing a little elderly--who sought out at once a conveyance to 'Sconset. The hackman had driven them before, and recognized them with evident pleasure mingled with surprise. "Glad to see you back again, capt'n," he remarked, addressing the younger of his two passengers; "but it's kind of unexpected, isn't it? I understood you'd gone to join your ship, expecting to sail directly for foreign parts." "Yes, that was all correct," returned Captain Raymond, gayly, for he it was, in company with Mr. Dinsmore; "but orders are sometimes countermanded, as they were in this instance, to my no small content." "They'll be dreadful glad to see you at 'Sconset," was the next remark; "surprised, too. By the way, sir, your folks had a fright last evening." "A fright?" inquired both gentlemen in a breath, and exchanging a look of concern. "Yes, sirs; about one of your little girls, capt'n--the oldest one, I understood it was. Seems she'd wandered off alone to Tom Never's Head, or somewhere in that neighborhood, and was caught by the darkness and storm, and didn't find her way home till the older folks had begun to think she'd been swept away by the tide, which was coming in, to be sure; but they thought it might have been the backward flow of a big wave that had rushed up a little too quick for her, taking her off her feet and hurrying her into the surf before she could struggle up again." All the captain's gayety was gone, and his face wore a pained, troubled look. "But she did reach home in safety at last?" he said, inquiringly. "Oh, yes; all right except for a wetting, which probably did her no harm. But now maybe I'm telling tales out of school," he added, with a laugh. "I shouldn't like to get the little girl into trouble, so I hope you'll not be too hard on her, capt'n. I dare say the fright has been punishment enough to keep her from doing the like again." "I wish it may have been," was all the captain said. Then he fell into a revery so deep that he scarcely caught a word of a brisk conversation, in regard to some of the points of interest on the island, carried on between Mr. Dinsmore and the hackman. Lulu was having an uncomfortable day. When she met the family at the breakfast-table Grandma Rose seemed to regard her with cold displeasure; "Mamma Vi" spoke gently and kindly; hoping she felt no injury from last night's exposure, but looked wretchedly ill; and in answer to her mother's inquiries admitted that she had been kept awake most of the night by a violent headache, to which Rosie added, in an indignant tone, and with an angry glance at Lulu: "Brought on by anxiety in regard to a certain young miss who is always misbehaving and causing a world of trouble to her best friends." "Rose, Rose," Elsie said, reprovingly; "let me hear no more such remarks, or I shall send you from the table." Lulu had appeared in their midst, feeling humble and contrite, and had been conscience-smitten at sight of her mamma's pale face; but the sneer on Betty's face, the cold, averted looks of Edward and Zoe, and then Rosie's taunt roused her quick temper to almost a white heat. She rose, and pushing back her chair with some noise, turned to leave the table at which she had but just seated herself. "What is it, Lulu?" asked Grandma Elsie, in a tone of gentle kindliness. "Sit still, my child, and ask for what you want." "Thank you, ma'am," said Lulu. "I do not want anything but to go away. I'd rather do without my breakfast than stay here to be insulted." "Sit down, my child," repeated Elsie, as gently and kindly as before; "Rosie will make no more unkind remarks; and we will all try to treat you as we would wish to be treated were we in your place." No one else spoke. Lulu resumed her seat and ate her breakfast, but with little appetite or enjoyment; and on leaving the table tried to avoid contact with any of those who had caused her offence. "May I go down to the beach, Grandma Elsie?" she asked, in low, constrained tones, and with her eyes upon the floor. "If you will go directly there, to the seats under the awning which we usually occupy, and not wander from them farther than they are from the cliff," Elsie answered. "Promise me that you will keep within those bounds, and I shall know I may trust you; for you are an honest child." The cloud lifted slightly from Lulu's brow at those kindly words. She gave the promise, and walked slowly away. As she descended the stairway that led down the face of the cliff, she saw that Edward and Zoe were sitting side by side on one of the benches under the awning. She did not fancy their company just now, and knew hers would not be acceptable to them. She thought she would pass them and seat herself in the sand a little farther on. Edward was speaking as she came up behind them, and she heard him say, "It was the most uncomfortable meal ever eaten in our family; and all because of that ungovernable child." Lulu flushed hotly, and stepping past turned and confronted him with flashing eyes. "I heard you, Uncle Edward," she said, "though I had no intention of listening; and I say it is very unjust to blame me so when it was Rosie's insulting tongue and other people's cold, contemptuous looks that almost drove me wild." "You are much too easily driven wild," he said. "It is high time you learned to have some control over your temper. If I were your father I'd teach it you, even if I must try the virtue of a rod again and again; also you should learn proper submission to authority, if it had to be taught in the same manner." Lulu was too angry to speak for a moment; she stood silent, trembling with passion, but at length burst out: "It's none of your business how papa manages me, Mr. Travilla; and I'm very glad he's my father instead of you!" "You are a very saucy girl, Lulu Raymond," said Zoe, reddening with anger on her husband's account, "and shamefully ungrateful for all Mr. Travilla's kind exertions on your behalf last night." "Hush, hush, Zoe; do not remind her of it," Edward said. "'A benefit upbraided forfeits thanks.' I should have done quite the same for any one supposed to be in danger and distress." "What was it?" asked Lulu; "nobody told me he had done anything." "He was out for hours in all that storm, hunting you," replied Zoe, with a proudly admiring glance at her husband. "I'm very much obliged," said Lulu, her voice softening. "And sorry you suffered on my account," she added. "I did not suffer anything worth mentioning," he responded; "but your mamma was sorely distressed--thinking you might be in the sea--and, in consequence, had a dreadful headache all night. And since such dire consequences may follow upon your disregard for rules and lawful authority, Lulu, I insist that you shall be more amenable to them. "I believe you think that when your father and grandpa are both away you can do pretty much as you please; but you shall not while I am about. I won't have my mother's authority set at defiance by you or any one else." "Who wants to set it at defiance?" demanded Lulu, wrathfully. "Not I, I am sure. But I won't be ruled by you, for papa never said I should." "I think I shall take down this conversation and report it to him," Edward said, only half in earnest. Lulu turned quickly away, greatly disturbed by the threat, but resolved that her alarm should not be perceived by either him or Zoe. Walking a few yards from them, she sat down upon the sand and amused herself digging in it, but with thoughts busied with the problem, "What will papa say and do if that conversation is reported to him?" A very little consideration of the question convinced her that if present her father would say she had been extremely impertinent, punish her for it, and make her apologize. Presently a glance toward the cottages on the bluff showed her Violet and Grace descending the stairway. She rose and hurried to meet them. "Mamma Vi," she said, as soon as within hearing, "I am ever so sorry to have frightened you so last night and given you a headache. But you oughtn't to care whether such a naughty girl as I am is drowned or not." "How can you talk so, Lulu dear?" Violet answered, putting an arm round the child's waist and giving her a gentle kiss. "Do you think your Mamma Vi has no real love for you? If so, you are much mistaken. I love you, Lulu, for yourself, and dearly for your father's sake. Oh, I wish you loved him well enough to try harder to be good in order to add to his happiness; it would add to it more than anything else that I know of. Your naughtiness does not deprive you of his fatherly affection, but it does rob him of much enjoyment which he would otherwise have." Lulu hung her head in silence, turned, and walked away full of self-accusing and penitent thoughts. She was not crying; tears did not come so readily to her eyes as to those of many children of her age, but her heart was aching with remorseful love for her absent father. "To think that I spoiled his visit home," she sighed to herself. "Oh, I wish he could come back to have it over again, and I would try to be good and not spoil his enjoyment in the very least!" "Come back now?" something seemed to reply; "suppose he should; wouldn't he punish you for your behavior since he left, only two days ago?" "Yes," she sighed; "I haven't the least doubt that if he were here and knew all he would punish me severely again; and I suppose he wouldn't be long in the house before he would hear it all; yet for all that I should be--oh, so glad if he could come back to stay a good while." Last night's storm had spent itself in a few hours, and the morning was bright and clear; yet a long drive planned for that day by our friends was unanimously postponed, as several of them had lost sleep, and wanted to make it up with a nap. Violet sought her couch immediately after dinner, slept off the last remains of her headache, and about the middle of the afternoon was preparing to go down to the beach, where all the others were, except Grace, who was seldom far from mamma's side, when the outer door opened, and a step and voice were heard which she had not hoped to hear again for months or years. The next moment she was in her husband's arms, her head pillowed on his breast, while his lips were pressed again and again to brow and cheek and lips, and Grace's glad shout arose, in sweet, silvery tones, "Papa has come back! Papa has come back! My dear, dear papa!" "Can it be possible, my dear, dear husband?" cried Violet, lifting to his a face radiant with happiness. "It seems too good to be true." "Not quite so good as that," he said, with a joyous laugh, "But it is quite a satisfaction to find that you are not sorry to see me." "Of which you were terribly afraid, of course," she returned, gayly. "Do tell me at once how long our powers of endurance of such uncongenial society are to be taxed?" "Ah, that is beyond my ability." "Then we may hope for weeks or months?" she said, rapturously. "Certainly we are not forbidden to hope," he answered, smiling tenderly upon her. "Oh, I am so glad!" she said, with a happy sigh, leaning her head on his shoulder and gazing fondly up into his face, his right arm about her waist, while Grace clung to the other hand, holding it lovingly between her own and pressing her lips to it again and again. "Ah, my darling little girl," he said presently, letting Violet go to take Grace in his arms. "Are you glad to see papa back again so soon?" "Oh, yes, indeed; nothing else could have made me so very, very glad!" she cried, hugging him close, and giving and receiving many tender caresses. "But how did it happen. Levis?" Violet was asking. "Through some unlooked-for change in the plans and purposes of the higher powers," he answered, lightly. "My orders were countermanded, with no reasons given, and I may remain with my family till further orders; and, as you say, we will hope it may be months before they are received." "And you were glad to come back to us?" Violet said, inquiringly, but with not a shade of doubt in her tones. "Yes, yes indeed; I was full of joy till I heard that one of my children had been disobeying me, bringing serious consequences upon herself and others." His countenance had grown very grave and stern. "Where is Lulu?" he asked, glancing about in search of her. "Down on the beach with mamma and the rest," Violet answered. "Can you give me a true and full account of her behavior since I have been away?" he asked. "My dear husband," Violet said, entreatingly, "please do not ask me." "Pardon me, dearest," he returned. "I should not have asked you; Lulu must tell me herself; thankful I am that many and serious as are her faults, she is yet so honest and truthful that I can put full confidence in her word and feel sure that she will not deceive me, even to save herself from punishment." "I think that is high praise, and that Lulu is deserving of it," remarked Violet, glad of an opportunity to speak a word in the child's favor. Captain Raymond gave her a pleased, grateful look. "You were going to the beach, were you not?" he said. "Then please go on; I shall follow after I have settled this matter with Lulu. There can be no comfort for her or myself till it is settled. Gracie, go and tell your sister to come here to me immediately." "Do be as lenient as your sense of duty will allow, dear husband," whispered Violet in his ear, then hastened on her way. Grace was lingering, gazing at him with wistful, tear-filled eves. "What is it?" he asked, bending down to smooth her hair caressingly. "You should go at once, little daughter, when papa bids." "I would, papa, only--only I wanted to--to ask you not to punish Lulu very hard." "I am glad my little Gracie loves her sister," he said; "and you need never doubt, my darling, that I dearly love both her and you. Go now and give her my message." All day long Lulu had kept herself as far apart from the others--her sister excepted--as lay in her power. She was sitting now alone in the sand, no one within several yards of her, her hands folded in her lap, while she gazed far out to sea, her eyes following a sail in the distant offing. "Perhaps it is papa's ship," she was saying to herself. "Oh, how long will it be before we see him again! And oh, how sorry he will be when he hears about last night and this morning!" At that instant she felt Grace's arms suddenly thrown round her, while the sweet child voice exclaimed, in an ecstasy of delight, "Oh, Lu, he _has_ come! he _has_, he _has_!" "Who?" Lulu asked, with a start and tremble that reminded Grace of the message she had to deliver, and that Lulu's pleasure at their father's unexpected return could not be so unalloyed as her own; all which she had forgotten for the moment in the rapture of delight she herself felt at his coming. "Papa, Lulu," she answered, sobering down, a good deal; "and I was 'most forgetting that he sent me to tell you to come to him immediately." "Did he?" Lulu asked, trembling more than before. "Does he know about last night, Gracie? Did Mamma Vi tell him?" "He knows 'bout it; somebody told him before he got to 'Sconset," said Grace. "But mamma didn't tell him at all; he asked her, but she begged him to please not ask her. Mamma doesn't ever tell tales on us, I'm sure." "No, I don't believe she does. But what did papa say then?" "That you should tell him all about it yourself; you were an honest child, serious as your faults were, and lie could trust you to own the truth, even when you were to be punished for it. But, Lulu, you have to go right up to the house; papa said 'immediately.'" "Yes," Lulu replied, getting upon her feet very slowly, and looking a good deal frightened; "did papa seem very angry?" "I think he intends to punish you," Grace replied, in a sorrowful tone; "but maybe he won't if you say you're sorry and won't do so any more. But hurry, Lulu, or he may punish you for not obeying promptly." "Is Mamma Vi there?" asked Lulu, still lingering. "No; yonder she is; don't you see?" said Grace, nodding her head in the direction of the awning under which nearly their whole party were now seated: "there's nobody there but papa. Oh hurry, Lulu, or he will whip you, I'm afraid." "Don't you ever say that before anybody, Gracie," Lulu said, low and tremulously; then turned and walked rapidly toward the stairway that led up the bluff to the cottages. At a window looking toward the bluff the captain stood, watching for Lulu's coming. "She is not yielding very prompt obedience to the order," he said to himself; "but what wonder? The poor child doubtless dreads the interview extremely; in fact, _I_ should be only too glad to escape it; 'tis no agreeable task to have to deal out justice to one's own child--a child so lovable, in spite of her faults. How much easier to pass the matter over slightly, merely administering a gentle reprimand! But no, I cannot; 'twould be like healing slightly the festering sore that threatens the citadel of life. I must be faithful to my God-given trust, however trying to my feelings. Ah, there she is!" as a little figure appeared at the top of the staircase and hurried across the intervening space to the open doorway. There she halted, trembling and with downcast eyes. It was a minute or more before she ventured to lift them, and then it was a very timid glance she sent in her father's direction. He was looking at her with a very grave, rather stern, countenance, and her eyes fell again, while still she shrank from approaching him. "You are not very glad to see me, I think," he said, holding out his hand, but with no relaxing of the sternness of his expression. "Oh, papa, yes! yes, indeed I am!" she burst out, springing to his side and putting her hand in his, "even though I suppose you are going to punish me just as you did the last time." He drew her to his knee, but without offering her the slightest caress. "Won't you kiss me, papa?" she asked, with a little sob. "I will; but you are not to take it as a token of favor; only of your father's love that is never withdrawn from you, even when he is most severe in the punishment of your faults," he answered, pressing his lips again and again to forehead, cheeks, and lips. "What have you done that you expect so severe a punishment?" "Papa, you know, don't you?" she said, hiding her blushing face on his breast. "I choose to have you tell me; I want a full confession of all the wrong-doing you have been guilty of since I left you the other day." "I disobeyed you last night, papa, about taking a long walk by myself; but it was because I forgot to notice how far I was going; at least, I didn't notice," she stammered, remembering that she had wilfully refrained from so doing. "You forgot? forgot to pay attention to your father's commands? did not think them of sufficient importance for you to take the trouble to impress them upon your mind. I cannot accept that excuse as a good and sufficient one. "And, tell me honestly, are you not, as I strongly suspect, less careful to obey your father's orders when he is away, so that you feel yourself in a measure out of his reach, than when he is close at hand?" "Papa, you ask such hard questions," she said. "Hard to my little daughter only because of her own wrong-doing. But hard or easy, they must be answered. Tell me the truth, would you not have been more careful to keep within prescribed bounds last night if I had been at home, or you had known that you would see me here to-day?" "Yes, papa," she answered, in a low, unwilling tone. "I don't think anybody else can have quite so much authority over me as you, and--and so I do, I suppose, act a little more as if I could do as I please when you are away." "And that after I have explained to you again and again that in my absence you are quite as much under the authority of the kind friends with whom I have placed you as under mine when I am with you. I see there is no effectual way to teach you the lesson but by punishing you for disregarding it." Then he made her give him a detailed account of her ramble of the night before and its consequences. When she had gone as far in the narrative as her safe arrival among the alarmed household, he asked whether her Grandma Elsie inflicted any punishment upon her. "No, sir," answered Lulu, hanging her head and speaking in a sullen tone. "I told her I didn't feel as if anybody had any right to punish me but you." "Lulu I did you dare to talk in that way to her?" exclaimed the captain. "I hope she punished you for your impertinence; for if she did not I certainly must." "She lectured me then, and this morning told me my punishment was a prohibition against wandering away from the rest more than just a few yards. "But, papa, they were all so unkind to me at breakfast--I mean all but Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi and Gracie. Betty looked sneering, and the others so cold and distant, and Rosie said something very insulting about my being a bad, troublesome child and frightening Mamma Vi into a headache." "Certainly no more than you deserved," her father said. "Did you bear it with patience and humility, as you ought?" "Do you mean that I must answer you, papa?" "Most assuredly I do; tell me at once exactly what you did and said." "I don't want to, papa," she said, half angrily. "You are never to say that when I give you an order," he returned, in a tone of severity; "never venture to do it again. Tell me, word for word, as nearly as you can remember it, what reply you made to Rosie's taunt." "Papa, I didn't say anything to her; I just got up and pushed back my chair, and turned to leave the table. Then Grandma Elsie asked me what I wanted, and I said I didn't want anything, but would rather go without my breakfast than stay there to be insulted. Then she told me to sit down and eat, and Rosie wouldn't make any more unkind speeches." "Were they all pleasant to you after that?" he asked. "No, papa; they haven't been pleasant to me at all to-day; and Uncle Edward has said hateful things about me, and to me," she went on, her cheek flushing and her eyes flashing with anger, half forgetting, in the excitement of passion, to whom she was telling her story, and showing her want of self-control. "And I very much fear," he said, gravely, "that you were both passionate and impertinent. Tell me just what passed." "If I do you'll punish me, I know you will," she burst out. "Papa, don't you think it's a little mean to make me tell on myself and then punish me for what you find out in that way?" "If my object was merely to give you pain, I think it would be mean enough," he said, not at all unkindly; "but as I am seeking your best interests--your truest happiness--in trying to gain full insight into your character and conduct, meaning to discipline you only for your highest good, I think it is not mean or unkind. From your unwillingness to confess to me, I fear you must have been in a great passion and very impertinent. Is it not so?" "Papa, I didn't begin it; if I'd been let alone I shouldn't have got in a passion or said anything saucy." "Possibly not; but what is that virtue worth which cannot stand the least trial? You must learn to rule your own spirit, not only when everything goes smoothly with you, but under provocation; and in order to help you to learn that lesson--or rather as a means toward teaching it to you--I shall invariably punish any and every outbreak of temper and every impertinence of yours that come under my notice when I am at home. Now, tell me exactly what passed between your Uncle Edward and yourself." Seeing there was no escape for her, Lulu complied, faithfully repeating every word of the short colloquy at the beach when she went down there directly after breakfast. Her father listened in astonishment, his face growing sterner every moment. "Lucilla," he said, "you are certainly the most impertinent, insolent child I ever saw! I don't wonder you were afraid to let me know the whole truth in regard to this affair. I am ashamed of your conduct toward both your Grandma Elsie and your Uncle Edward. You must apologize to both of them, acknowledging that you have been extremely impertinent, and asking forgiveness for it." Lulu made no reply; her eyes were downcast, her face was flushed with passion, and wore a stubborn look. "I won't;" the words were on the tip of her tongue; she had almost spoken them, but restrained herself just in time; her father's authority was not to be defied, as she had learned to her cost a year ago. He saw the struggle that was going on in her breast. "You must do it," he said; "you may write your apologies, though, if you prefer that to speaking them." He opened a writing-desk that stood on a table close at hand, and seated her before it with paper, pen, and ink, and bade her write, at his dictation. She did not dare refuse, and had really no very strong disinclination to do so in regard to the first, which was addressed to Grandma Elsie--a lady so gentle and kind that even proud Lulu was willing to humble herself to her. But when it came to Edward's turn her whole soul rose up in rebellion against it. Yet she dared not say either "I won't" or "I don't want to." But pausing, with the pen in her fingers: "Papa," she began timidly, "please don't make me apologize to him; he had no right to talk to me the way he did." "I am not so sure of that," the captain said. "I don't blame him for trying to uphold his mother's authority; and now I think of it, you are to consider yourself under his control in the absence of your mamma and the older persons to whom I have given authority over you. Begin at once and write what I have told you to." When the notes were written, signed, and folded he put them in his pocket, turned and paced the floor. Lulu, glancing timidly into his face, saw that it was pale and full of pain, but very stern and determined. "Papa, are you--are you going to punish me?" she asked, tremulously. "I mean as you did the other day?" "I think I must," he said, pausing beside her, "though it grieves me to the very heart to do it; but you have been disobedient, passionate, and very impertinent; it is quite impossible for me to let you slip. But you may take your choice between that and being locked up in the bedroom there for twenty-four hours, on bread and water. Which shall it be?" "I'd rather take the first, papa," said Lulu, promptly, "because it will be over in a few minutes, and nobody but ourselves need know anything about it." "I made sure you would choose the other," he said, in some surprise; "yet I think your choice is wise. Come!" "Oh, papa, I'm so frightened," she said, putting her trembling hand in his; "you did hurt me so dreadfully the other time; must you be as severe to-day?" "My poor child, I am afraid I must," he said; "a slight punishment seems to avail nothing in your case, and I must do all in my power to make you a good, gentle, obedient child." A few minutes later Captain Raymond joined the others on the beach, but Lulu was not with him. She had been left behind in the bedroom, where she must stay, he told her, until his return. Everybody seemed glad to see him; but after greeting them all in turn, he drew Violet to a seat a little apart from the others. Grace followed, of course, keeping close to her father's side. "Where is Lulu, papa?" she asked with a look of concern, "Up at the house." "Won't you let her come down here, papa? She loves so to be close down by the waves." "She may come after a little," he said, "but not just now." Then taking two tiny notes from his pocket: "Here, Gracie," he said, "take this to your Grandma Elsie and this to your Uncle Edward." "Yes, sir; must I wait for an answer?" "Oh, no," he replied, with a slight smile; "you may come right back to your place by papa's side." Elsie read the little missive handed her at a glance, rose up hastily, and went to the captain with it in her hand, a troubled look on her face. "My dear captain," she said, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, "why did you do this? The child's offence against me was not a grave one in my esteem, and I know that to one of her temperament it would be extremely galling to be made to apologize. I wish you had not required it of her." "I thought it for her good, mother," he answered; "and I think so still; she is so strongly inclined to impertinence and insubordination that I must do all in my power to train her to proper submission to lawful authority and respect for superiors." Edward joined them at that moment. He looked disturbed and chagrined. "Really, captain," he said, "I am not at all sure that Lulu has not as much right to an apology from me as I to this from her. I spoke to her in anger, and with an assumption of authority to which I really had no right, so that there was ample excuse for her not particularly respectful language to me. I am sorry, therefore, she has had the pain of apologizing." "You are very kind to be so ready to over look her insolence," the captain said; "but I cannot permit such exhibitions of temper, and must, at whatever cost, teach her to rule her own spirit." "Doubtless you are right," Edward said; "but I am concerned and mortified to find that I have got her into such disgrace and trouble. I must own I am quite attached to Lulu; she has some very noble and lovable traits of character." "She has indeed," said his mother; "she is so free from the least taint of hypocrisy or deceit; so perfectly honest and truthful; so warm-hearted, too; so diligent and energetic in anything she undertakes to do--very painstaking and persevering--and a brave, womanly little thing." The captain's face brightened very much as he listened to these praises of his child. "I thank you heartily, mother and brother," he said; "for the child is very dear to her father's heart, and praise of her is sweet to my ear. I can see all these lovable traits, but feared that to other eyes than mine they might be entirely obscured by the very grave faults joined with them. But it is just like you both to look at the good rather than the evil. "And you have done so much for my children! I assure you I often think of it with the feeling that you have laid me under obligations which I can never repay." "Ah, captain," Elsie said, laughingly, "you have a fashion of making a great mountain out of a little mole-hill of kindness. Flattery is not good for human nature, you know, so I shall leave you and go back to papa, who has a wholesome way of telling me of my faults and failings." "I really don't know where he finds them," returned Captain Raymond, gallantly; but she was already out of hearing. "Nor I," said Violet, replying to his last remark; "mamma seems to me to be as nearly perfect as a human creature can be in this sinful world." "Now don't feel troubled about it, Ned," Zoe was saying to her husband, who was again at her side. "I think it was just right that she should be made to apologize to you, for she was dreadfully saucy." "Yes; but I provoked her, and I ought to be, and am, greatly ashamed of it. I fear, too, that in so doing I have brought a severe punishment upon her." "Why should you think so?" "Because I know that such a task could not fail to be exceedingly unpalatable to one of her temperament; and don't you remember how long she stood out against her father's authority last summer when he bade her ask Vi's pardon for impertinence to her?" "Yes; it took nearly a week of close confinement to make her do it; but as he showed himself so determined in that instance, she probably saw that it would be useless to attempt opposition to his will in this, and so obeyed without being compelled by punishment." "Well, I hope so," he said. "She surely ought to know by this time that he is not one to be trifled with." It seemed to Lulu a long time that she was left alone, shut up in the little bedroom of the cottage, though it was in reality scarcely more than half an hour. She was very glad when at last she heard her father's step in the outer room, then his voice as he opened the door and asked, "Would you like to take a walk with your papa, little girl?" "Yes indeed, papa!" was her joyful reply. "Then put on your hat and come." She made all haste to obey. "Is Gracie going too, papa? or anybody else?" she asked, putting her hand confidingly into his. "No; you and I are going alone this time; do you think you will find my company sufficient for once?" he asked, smiling down at her. "Oh yes, indeed, papa; I think it will be ever so nice to have you all to myself; it's so seldom I can." They took the path along the bluffs toward "Tom Never's Head." When they had fairly left the village behind, so that no one could overhear anything they might say to each other, the captain said, "I want to have a talk with you, daughter, and we may as well take it out here in the sweet fresh air, as shut up in the house." "Oh, yes, papa; it is so much pleasanter! I can hardly bear to stay in the house at all down here at the seashore; and it seemed a long while that you left me alone there this afternoon." "Yes, I suppose so: and I hope I shall not have occasion to do so again. My child, did you ever consider what it is that makes you so rebellious, so unwilling to submit to authority, and so ready to fly into a passion and speak insolently to your superiors?" "I don't quite understand you papa," she said. "I only know that I can't bear to have people try to rule me who have no right." "Sometimes you are not willing to be ruled even by your father; yet I hardly suppose you would say he has no right?" "Oh, no, papa; I know better than that," she said, blushing and hanging her head; "I know you have the best right in the world." "Yet sometimes you disobey me; at others obey in an angry, unwilling way that shows you would rebel if you dared. "And pride is at the bottom of it all. You think so highly of yourself and your own wisdom that you cannot bear to be controlled or treated as one not capable of guiding herself. "But the Bible tells us that God hates pride. 'Every one that is proud in heart is an abomination to the Lord; though hand join in hand, he shall not be unpunished.' "'Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.' "'Proud and haughty scorner is his name who dealeth in proud wrath.' "Ah, my dear daughter, I am sorely troubled when I reflect how often you deal in that. My great desire for you is that you may learn to rule your own spirit; that you may become meek and lowly in heart, patient and gentle like the Lord Jesus, 'who when He was reviled, reviled not again; when He suffered, He threatened not; but committed Himself to Him that judgeth righteously.' Do you never feel any desire to be like Him?" "Yes, papa, sometimes; and I determine that I will; but the first thing I know I'm in a passion again; and I get so discouraged that I think I'll not try any more to be good; for I just can't." "It is Satan who puts that thought in your heart," the captain said, giving her a look of grave concern; "he knows that if he can persuade you to cease to fight against the evil that is in your nature he is sure to get possession of you at last. "He is a most malignant spirit, and his delight is in destroying souls. The Bible bids us, 'Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil as a roaring lion walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.' "We are all sinners by nature, and Satan, and many lesser evil spirits under him, are constantly seeking our destruction; therefore we have a warfare to wage if we would attain eternal life, and no one who refuses or neglects to fight this good fight of faith will ever reach heaven; nor will any one who attempts it without asking help from on high. "So if you give up trying to be good you and I will have a sad time; because it will be my duty to compel you to try. The Bible tells me, 'Withhold not correction from the child; for if thou beatest him with the rod he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.' "I must if possible deliver you from going to that awful place, and also from the dreadful calamities indulgence of a furious temper sometimes brings even in this life; even a woman has been known to commit murder while under the influence of unbridled rage; and I have known of one who lamed her own child for life in a fit of passion. "Sometimes people become deranged simply from the indulgence of their tempers. Do you think I should be a good and kind father if I allowed you to go on in a path that leads to such dreadful ends here and hereafter?" "No, sir," she said in an awed tone; "and I will try to control my temper." "I am glad to hear that resolve," he replied. "The Bible tells us, 'He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.'" They were silent for a little while, then hanging her head and blushing, "Papa," she asked, "what did you do with those notes you made me write?" "Sent them to those to whom they were addressed. And they were very kind, Lulu; much kinder than you deserved they should be; both your Grandma Elsie and your Uncle Edward expressed regret that you had been made to apologize, and spoke of you in affectionate terms." "I'm glad,'" she said with a sigh of relief; "and I don't mean ever to be at all impertinent to them again." "I trust you will not indeed," he said. "Papa, I think this is about where I was the other evening when I first noticed that the storm was coming." "A long way from home for a child of your age; especially alone and at night. You must not indulge your propensity for wandering to a distance from home by yourself. You are too young to understand the danger of it; too young to be a guide to yourself, and must therefore be content to be guided by older and wiser people. "You said, a while ago, 'I just can't be good;' did you mean to assert that you could not help being disobedient to me that evening?" She hung her head and colored deeply. "It was so pleasant to walk along looking at the beautiful, changing sea, papa," she said, "that I couldn't bear to stop, and wouldn't let myself think how far I was going." "Ah, just as I suspected; your could not was really would not; the difficulty all in your will. You must learn to conquer your will when it would take you in the wrong direction. "We will turn and go back now, as it is not far from tea-time." Lulu shrank from meeting the rest of their party, particularly Grandma Elsie and Edward; but they all treated her so kindly that she was soon at her ease among them again. CHAPTER X. "I am rapt, and cannot Cover the monstrous bulk of this ingratitude With any size of words." --_Shakespeare_. The next day they all set out soon after breakfast for a long drive, taking the direction of the camping-ground of the lads, where they called and greatly astonished Max with a sight of his father, whom he supposed to be far out on the ocean. The boy's delight fully equalled his surprise, and he was inclined to return immediately to 'Sconset; but the captain advised him to stay a little longer where he was; and he accordingly decided to do so; though regretting the loss of even an hour of the society of the father who was to him the best man in the world and the most gallant and capable officer of the navy; in short, the impersonation of all that was good, wise, and brave. The 'Sconset cottages had been engaged only until the first of September, but by that time our friends were so in love with life upon the island that learning of some cottages on the cliffs, a little north-west of Nantucket Town, which were just vacated and for rent, they engaged two of them and at once moved in. From their new abodes they had a fine view of the ocean on that side of the island, and from their porches could watch the swift-sailing yachts and other vessels passing to and fro. The bathing-ground was reached by a succession of stairways built in the face of the cliff. The surf was fine, and bathing less dangerous there than at 'Sconset. Those of them who were fond of the sport found it most enjoyable; but the captain took the children into the town almost every day for a lesson in swimming, where the still bathing made it easy for them. And now they took almost daily sails on the harbor, occasionally venturing out into the ocean itself; pleasant drives also; visiting the old windmill, the old graveyards, the soldiers' monument, and every place of interest in the vicinity. Besides these, there was a little trip to Martha's Vineyard, and several were taken to various points on the adjacent shores of the mainland. Much as they had enjoyed 'Sconset life, it now seemed very pleasant to be again where they could pay frequent visits to libraries and stores, go to church, and now and then attend a concert or lecture. And there was a good deal of quiet pleasure to be found in rambles about the streets and queer byways and lanes of the quaint old town, looking at its odd houses and gardens, and perhaps catching a glimpse of the life going on within. They gained an entrance to some; one day it was to the home of an old sea captain who had given up his former occupation and now wove baskets of various sizes and shapes, all very neat, strong and substantial. There was always something pleasant to do; sometimes it was to take the cars on the little three-mile railroad to Surfside and pass an hour or two there; again to visit the Athenaeum and examine its stores of curiosities and treasures, mostly of the sea; or to select a book from its library; or to spend an hour among the old china and antique furniture offered for sale to summer visitors. They were admitted to see the cast of the dauphin and bought photographs of it, as well as of many of the scenes in and about the town, with which to refresh their memories of the delightful old place when far away, or to show to friends who had never had the pleasure of a visit to its shores. Violet spent many an enjoyable hour in sketching, finding no lack of subjects worthy of her pencil; and those of the party who liked botany found curious and interesting specimens among the flora of the island. They had very delightful weather most of the time, but there was an occasional rainy day when their employments and amusements must be such as could be found within doors. But even these days, with the aid of fancy-work, and drawing materials, newspapers, magazines and books, conversation and games, were very far from dull and wearisome; often one read aloud while the others listened. One day Elsie brought out a story in manuscript. "I have been thinking," she said, "that this might interest you all as being a tale of actual occurrences during the time of the French Revolution; as we have been thinking and talking so much of that in connection with the story of the poor little dauphin." "What is it? and who is the author?" asked her father. "It is an historical story written by Betty's sister Molly," she answered. "For the benefit of the children I will make a few preparatory remarks," she added, lightly, and with a pleasant smile. * * * * * "While France was torn by those terrible Internal convulsions, it was also fighting the combined armies of other nations, particularly Austria and Prussia, who were moved against it from sympathy with the king, and a desire to reinstate him on his throne, and a sense of danger to themselves if the disorganizing principles of the revolutionists should spread into their territories. "Piedmont was involved in this conflict. Perhaps you remember that it is separated from Dauphiny, in France, by the Cottian Alps, and that among the valleys on the Piedmontese side dwell the Waldenses or Vaudois-evangelical Christians, who were for twelve hundred years persecuted by the Church of Rome. "Though their own sovereigns often joined in these persecutions, and the laws of the land were always far more oppressive to them than to their popish fellow-citizens, the Waldenses were ever loyal to king and country and were sure to be called upon for their defence in time of war. "In the spring of 1793--some three months after the beheading of King Louis XVI.--and while the poor queen, the dauphin and the princesses, his sister and aunt, still languished in their dreadful prisons--a French army was attempting to enter Piedmont from Dauphiny, which they could do only through the mountain-passes; and these all the able-bodied Waldenses and some Swiss troops, under the command of General Godin, a Swiss officer, were engaged in defending. "It is among the homes of the Waldenses, thus left defenceless against any plot their popish neighbors might hatch for their destruction, that the scene of this story is laid. "Now, papa, will you be so kind as to read it aloud?" she concluded, handing it to him. "With pleasure," he said, and all having gathered around to listen, he began. * * * * * "On a lovely morning in the middle of May, 1793, a young girl and a little lad might have been seen climbing the side of a mountain overlooking the beautiful Valley of Luserna. They were Lucia and Henri Vittoria, children of a brave Waldensian soldier then serving in the army of his king, against the French, with whom their country was at war. "Lucia had a sweet, innocent face, lighted up by a pair of large, soft, dark eyes, and was altogether very fair to look upon. Her lithe, slender figure bounded from rock to rock with movements as graceful and almost as swift as those of a young gazelle. "'Sister,' cried the lad half pantingly, 'how nimble and fleet of foot you are to-day! I can scarce keep pace with you.' "'Ah, Henri, it is because my heart is so light and glad!' she returned with a silvery laugh, pausing for an instant that he might overtake her. "'Yes,' he said, as he gained her side, 'the good news from my father and Pierre, and Rudolph Goneto--that they are well and yet unharmed by French sword or bullet--has filled all our hearts with joy. Is it not to carry these glad tidings to Rudolph's mother we take this early walk?' "'Yes; a most pleasant errand, Henri;' and the rose deepened on the maiden's cheek, already glowing with health and exercise. "They were now far above the valley, and another moment brought them to their destination--a broad ledge of rock on which stood a cottage with its grove of chestnut-trees, and a little patch of carefully cultivated ground. "Magdalen Goneto, the mother of Rudolph, a matron of placid countenance and sweet and gentle dignity of mien had seen their approach and come forth to meet them. "She embraced Lucia with grave tenderness, bestowed a kind caress upon Henri, and leading the way to her neat dwelling, seated them and herself upon its porch, from which there was a magnificent view of the whole extent of the valley. "To the left, and close at hand, lay San Giovanni, with its pretty villages, smiling vineyards, cornfields and verdant meadows sloping gently away to the waters of the Pelice. On the opposite side of the river, situate upon a slight eminence was the Roman Catholic town of Luserna. To the right, almost at their feet, embowered amid beautiful trees--chestnut, walnut, and mulberry--La Tour, the Waldensian capital and home of Lucia and Henri, nestled among its vineyards and orchards. "Farther up the vale might be seen Bobbi Villar, and many smaller villages scattered amid the fields and vineyards, or hanging on the slopes of the hills, while hamlets and single cottages clung here and there to the rugged mountain-side, wherever a terrace, a little basin or hollow afforded a spot susceptible of cultivation. Beyond all towered the Cottian Alps, that form the barrier between Piedmont and Dauphiny, their snowy pinnacles glittering in the rays of the newly risen sun. "It was thither the able-bodied men of the valley had gone to defend the passes against the French. "Toward those lofty mountains Lucia's soft eyes turned with wistful, questioning gaze; for there were father, brother, lover, hourly exposed to all the dangers of war. "Magdalen noted the look, and softly murmured, 'God, even the God of our fathers, cover their heads in the day of battle!' "'He will, I know He will,' said Lucia, turning to her friend with a bright, sweet smile. "'You bring me tidings, my child,' said Magdalen, taking the maiden's hand in hers, 'good tidings, for your face is full of gladness!' "'Yes, dear friend, your son is well,' Lucia answered with a modest, ingenuous blush; 'my father also, and Pierre; we had word from them only yesternight. But ah me!' she added with a sigh, 'what fearful scenes of blood and carnage are yet enacted in Paris, the gay French capital! for from thence also, the courier brought news. Blood, he says, flows like water, and not content with having taken the life of their king, they force the queen and the rest of the royal family to languish in prison; and the guillotine is constantly at work dispatching its wretched victims, whose only crime, in many instances, is that of wealth and noble birth.' "'Alas, poor wretches! alas poor king and queen!' cried Magdalen; 'and, for ourselves, what danger, should such bloodthirsty ruffians force an entrance into our valleys! The passes had needs be well guarded!' "Lucia lingered not long with her friend, for home duties claimed her attention. "Magdalen went with them to the brow of the hill, and again embracing Lucia, said in tender, joyous accents, 'Though we must now bid adieu, dear child, when the war is over you will come to brighten Rudolph's home and mine with your constant presence.' "'Yes; such was the pledge he won from me ere we parted,' the maiden answered with modest sincerity, a tender smile hovering about the full red lips and a vivid color suffusing for an instant the delicately rounded cheek. "Then with an affectionate good-by, she tripped away down the rocky path, Henri following. "A glad flush still lingered on the sweet, girlish face, a dewy light shone in the soft eyes. Her thoughts were full of Magdalen's parting words and the picture they had called up of the happy married life awaiting Rudolph and herself when he should return to the pursuits of peace. "And he at his post in those more distant mountains, thought of her and his mother; safe, as he fondly trusted, in the homes his strong arm was helping to defend against a foreign foe. The Vaudois, judging others by themselves, were, notwithstanding their many past experiences of the treacherous cruelty of Rome, strangely unsuspicious of their popish neighbors. "The descent was scarcely yet accomplished by our young friends, when startled by the sound of heavy footsteps and gruff voices in their rear, and casting a look behind them, they beheld, rapidly approaching by another path which wound about the base of the mountain, two men of most ruffianly aspect. "A wild terror seized upon the maiden as for an instant she caught the gaze of mingled malice and sensuality they bent upon her; and seizing Henri's hand, she flew over the ground toward La Tour with the fleetness of a hunted doe. "For herself what had she not to fear! and for the child that he might be slain or reserved for a fate esteemed by the Vaudois worse than death, in being carried off to Pignerol and brought up in an idolatrous faith. "The men pursued, calling to her with oaths, curses, obscene words, and jeering laughter. "These but quickened her flight; she gained the bridge over the Angrogna, sped across it, over the intervening ground, and through the gate into the town; the footsteps of her pursuers echoing close behind. "'Ah ha! escaped my embraces for the present, have you, my pretty barbet?' cried one of the miscreants, following her with gloating, cruel eyes as she sped onward up the street, feeling only comparatively safe even there. 'Ah well, it but delays my pleasure a few hours. I know where to find ye and shall pay my respects to-night.' "'And I,' added his companion with a fierce laugh; 'to ye and many another like ye. It's work quite to my taste Holy Mother Church has laid out for us to-night, Andrea.' "'Yes, yes, Giuseppe, we'll not quarrel with the work or the wages; all the plunder we can lay hands on; to say naught of the pretty maids such as yon, or the escape from the fires of purgatory.' "They were wending their way to the convent of the Récollets as they talked. Arrived at its gates they were immediately admitted, to find it filled with cut-throats such as themselves, and soon learned that the church also and the house of the curé were in like condition. "'Good!' they cried, 'how many names in all?' "'Seven hundred,' said one. "'Eight hundred,' asserted another. "'Well, well, be it which it may, we're strong enough for the work, all the able-bodied barbetti being on the frontier,' cried Andrea, exultingly, 'we'll make short shrift with the old men, women and children.' "'Yes; long live the holy Roman Church! Hurrah for the holy faith! Down with the barbetti!' cried a chorus of voices. 'We'll have a second St. Bartholomew in these valleys and rid them of the hated presence of the cursed heretics.' "'That we will,' responded Giuseppe. 'But what's the order of proceedings?' "'All the faithful to meet at Luserna at sunset; the vesper bell of the convent gives the signal shortly after, and we immediately spread ourselves over the valley on a heretic hunt that from San Giovanni to Bobbi shall leave not a soul alive to tell the tale.' "While Magdalen and Lucia conversed in the cottage of the former, M. Brianza, curé of Luserna, seated in the confessional, listened with horror and indignation to a tale of intended wholesale rapine, murder, and arson, which his penitent was unfolding. "'I will have neither part nor lot in this thing,' said the priest to himself, as he left the church a moment later; 'nay more, I shall warn the intended victims of their danger.' "Hurrying to his house, he instantly dispatched messengers in all haste to San Giovanni and La Tour. "About the same time, in the more remote town of Cavour, the fiendish plot was revealed to Captain Odetti, an officer of the Piedmontese militia, then enrolled to act against the French, with a request that he would take part in its execution. Being a rigid Romanist it was confidently expected that he would willingly do so. "But as noble and humane a man as Luserna's good curé, he listened with like horror and detestation, and mounting his horse, instantly set off for La Tour to warn the helpless folk of the threatened calamity, and assist in averting it, if that might yet be possible. "He travelled post haste, for time pressed; the appointed hour for the attack already drew so near that it was doubtful if even the most prompt action could still avail. "Pale and breathless with haste and terror, Lucia and Henri gained the shelter of their home, and in reply to the anxious questioning of mother and grandparents, told of the hot pursuit of the evil men who had chased them into the town. "Their story was heard with much concern, not only by the family, but also by a young man who had entered nearly at the same moment with themselves. "His right arm was in a sling; his face, thin and wan with suffering, wore an expression of anxiety and alarm which deepened momentarily as the narrative proceeded. "'How is Bianca?' he asked, upon its conclusion, the quiet tone telling nothing of the profound solicitude that filled his breast. "'Much the same,' returned Sara Vittoria, the mother. "'A little better, I think,' said a weak but cheerful voice from the next room. 'Maurice, how is your poor arm? come and tell me.' "He rose and complied with the request. "Bianca, the elder sister of Lucia, had been for a year or more the betrothed of Maurice Laborie. He found her lying pale and languid upon a couch. "'What is it, Maurice?' she asked, presently, noticing his troubled look. "'I wish you were well, Bianca.' "'Ah! I am more concerned about your wound.' "His thoughts seemed far away. He rose hastily. "'I must speak to your grandsire. I will be in again;' and he left the room. "Marc Rozel, the father of Sara Vittoria, a venerable, white-haired veteran who had seen his four-score years and ten, sat at the open door of the cottage, leaning upon his staff, his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the towering heights of Mount Vandelin. "'"As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about His people from henceforth even forever,"' Maurice heard him murmur as he drew near. "There was comfort in the words, and the cloud of care partially lifted from the brow of the young Vaudois. But accosting the aged saint with deep respect, and bending down to speak close to his ear, he uttered a few rapid sentences in an undertone. "'There seems a threatening of danger, Father Rozel; evil-looking men, such as Lucia and the lad were but now describing, have been seen coming into the town for the last two or three days; till now, it is said, the Romish church, the convent of Récollets, the house of the curé, and several other Catholic houses are full of them. What errand think you draws them hither just at this time, when nearly every able-bodied Vaudois is absent on the frontier?' Rozel's face reflected somewhat of the agitation and alarm in that of Maurice; but ere he could open his lips to reply, a neighbor, a young woman with a child in her arms, came rushing across the street, and calling to them in tones tremulous with excitement and affright, told of the warning just brought by Brianza's messenger. "Her face was white with terror, and she clasped her infant to her breast with a look of agony, as she asked, 'Can it be, oh can it be that we are all to be slain in our helplessness? Something must be done, and that quickly. But what, alas! can we do? our husbands, brothers, fathers are all at a distance, and the fatal hour draws near.' "The tones of her voice and some of her words had reached the ears of those within the cottage, and they now gathered about her in an intensely excited, terrified group. Question and answer followed in rapid succession till each knew all that she had heard. "'Can it be possible?' cried Sara, 'can even popish cruelty, ingratitude, and treachery go so far? are not our brave defenders theirs also? keeping the passes against a common foe?' "A mournful shake of the head from her aged father was the only reply, save the sobs and cries of the frightened children. "But at that instant a horseman came dashing up the street, suddenly drew rein before their dwelling, and hastily dismounting, hurried toward them. "'Captain Odetti!' exclaimed Rozel in some surprise. "'Yes, Rozel, I come to warn you, though, alas! I fear I am too late to prevent bloodshed,' said the officer, sending a pitying glance from one to another of the terror-stricken group. "'There is a conspiracy against you; the assassins are even now on foot; but if I cannot save, I will perish with you. The honor of my religion is at stake, and I must justify it by sharing your danger.' "'Can it be that such designs are really entertained against us?' asked Rozel, in trembling tones, glancing from one loved face to another with a look of keenest anguish. 'On what pretext? I know of none.' "'The late base and cowardly surrender of Fort Mirabouc.' "'There was but one Vaudois present, and his voice was raised against it.' "'True, but what matters that to foes bent upon your destruction? some one was to blame, and why not make a scapegoat of the hated Vaudois? But let us not waste time in useless discussion. We must act.' "The fearful tidings flew from house to house, and in the wildest terror the feeble folk began to make what preparations they could for self-defence; by Odetti's advice barricading the streets and houses, collecting missiles to hurl down from the upper windows upon the heads of the assassins, and at the same time dispatching messenger after messenger to General Godin, the Swiss officer in command of the troops on the frontier, telling of the danger and praying for instant aid. "But he, alas! unable, in the nobility of his soul, to credit the existence of a plot so atrocious, turned a deaf ear to their entreaties, declaring his conviction that the alarm was groundless--a mere panic--and that his troops could not be spared to go on so useless an errand. "As one courier after another returned with this same disheartening report, the terror and despair were such as to beggar description. "Lucia Vittoria, recalling, with many a shudder of wild affright, the evil looks and fierce words and gestures of her pursuers of the morning, resolved to defend her own, her mother's, and sister's honor to the last gasp. "'The terrible excitement of the hour seemed to give her unnatural strength for her task of lifting and carrying stones and fragments of rock to be used in repelling the expected assault. Assisted by Henri and every member of the family capable of the exertion, she toiled unceasingly while anything yet remained to be done. "In the midst of their exertions Magdalen Goneto suddenly appeared among them. "'I have heard, and I come to live or die with you, dear friends,' she said, and fell to work with the others. "At length all was completed, and they could only await in dreadful suspense the coming of events. They had continued to importune the commandant, but with no better success than at first. "In the closed and barricaded dwellings hearts were going up to God in agonized prayer for help, for deliverance. "In that of the Vittorias few words were spoken save as now and again the voice of the aged Rozel or that of his venerable wife, his daughter, or Magdalen Goneto, broke the awful silence with some promise from the Book of books to those who trust in the Lord. "Maurice, whose father and brothers were away with the army, torn with anxiety for mother, sisters, and betrothed alike, persuaded the former to follow Magdalen's example in repairing to the house of the Vittorias, that such efforts as he was able to put forth in his crippled condition might be made in their common defence. "Freely would he shed the last drop of his blood to shield them from harm, but, alas! what match was he for even one of the horde of desperadoes that would soon be upon them? what could he do? how speedily would he be overpowered! Help _must_ be obtained. "He stole out through the garden to learn the latest news from the frontier. "The fourteenth courier had just returned in sadness; the commandant was still incredulous; still firm in his refusal to render aid. "'We are then given up to the sword of the assassin!' groaned his hearers. "'No, no, never! it must not be!' cried Maurice with sudden stern determination, though there was a quiver of pain in his voice; and sending a glance of mingled love and anguish toward the cottage that sheltered those dearer to him than life, he set off at a brisk pace up the valley. "Love moved him to the task, and spite of weakness and pain, never before had he trodden those steep and dangerous mountain paths with such celerity. "Arrived and admitted to Godin's presence, he poured out his petition with the vehemence of one who can take no denial, urging his suit with all the eloquence of intense anxiety and deep conviction of the terrible extremity of the feeble folk in the valley. "Doubt began to creep into the mind of the brave officer. 'Might there not be some truth in the story after all?' Yet he answered as before. 'A mere panic. I cannot believe in a plot so atrocious. What! murder in cold blood the innocent, helpless wives and children of the brave men who are defending theirs from a common foe? No, no; human nature is not so depraved!'" "'So it was thought on the eve of the Sicilian Vespers; on the eve of St. Bartholomew; at the time when Castracaro, when De La Trinite, when Pianeza--' "'Ah,' interrupted the general with a frown, 'but those were deeds of days long gone by, and men are not now what they then were.' "'Sir,' returned Maurice earnestly, 'for twelve hundred years the she-wolf of Rome has ravaged our fold, slaying sheep and lambs alike--sparing neither age nor sex; and, sir, it is her boast that she never changes. "'Nor are men incapable of the grossest injustice and cruelty even in these days. Look at the fearful scenes of blood enacted even now in France! General, the lives of thousands of his majesty's evangelical subjects are trembling in the balance, and I do most solemnly assure you that unless saved by your speedy interposition, or a direct miracle from Heaven, they will this night fall victims to a sanguinary plot. "'Ah, sir, what more can I say to convince, to move you? The assassins are already assembling, the time wanes fast, and will you stretch forth no hand to save their innocent, helpless victims?' "The general was evidently moved by the appeal. 'Had I but sufficient proof,' he muttered in an undertone of doubt and perplexity. "Maurice caught eagerly at the word. 'Proof, general! would Odetti, would Brianza have warned us, were the danger not imminent? And do not the annals of your own Switzerland furnish examples of similar plots?' "'True, too true! yet--' "But at this moment the sixteenth courier came panting up to pour out, in an agony of haste and fear, the same tale of contemplated wholesale massacre, and the story reaching the ears of the Vaudois troops they gathered about the general, imploring, _demanding_ to be sent instantly to the aid of their menaced wives and children. "General Godin's mind had been filled with conflicting emotions while Maurice spoke; his humanity, his honor as a soldier, his duty to the government, were struggling for the mastery. "'Ought he to march without orders or even the knowledge of his superiors? and that too with no more certain proof of the illegal assembling of those who were said to be plotting against the peace and safety of the Vaudois families?' "Yet there was no time to reconnoitre ere the dire mischief might be done. His humanity at last prevailed over more prudential considerations. He commanded the brigade of Waldenses to march instantly, and himself followed with another division. "Bianca Vittoria had been carried to an upper room, where all the family were now gathered about her bed. "With unutterable anguish the mother looked upon her two lovely daughters in the early bloom of womanhood, the babe sleeping upon her breast, the little ones clinging to her skirts, her aged and infirm parents, all apparently doomed to a speedy, violent death--and worse than death. Her own danger was well-nigh forgotten in theirs. "Utter silence reigned in that room and the adjoining one, at this time occupied by Magdalen and the mother and sisters of Maurice; every ear was strained to catch the sound of the approaching footsteps of the assassins, or of the longed-for deliverers; a very short season would now decide their fate. Oh, would help never come! "Lucia, kneeling beside her sister's couch, clasping one thin, white hand in hers, suddenly dropped it and sprang to her feet. "'How fast it grows dark! and what was that?' as a heavy, rolling sound reverberated among the mountains; 'artillery?' and her tones grew wild with terror. "'Thunder; the heavens are black with clouds,' said Magdalen, coming in and speaking with the calmness of despair. "A heavy clap nearly drowned her words, then followed crash on crash; the rain came down in torrents--the wind, which had suddenly risen to almost a hurricane, dashing it with fury against walls and windows; the darkness became intense except as ever and anon the lurid glare of the lightning lit up the scene for an instant, giving to each a momentary glimpse of the pale, terror-stricken faces of the others. "'Alas, alas, no help can reach us now!' moaned Sara, clasping her babe closer to her breast, 'no troops can march over our fearful mountain-passes in this terrific storm and thick darkness. _We must die_!' "'Oh, God of our fathers, save us! let us not fall into the hands of those ruffians, who--more to be feared than the wild beasts of the forest--would rob us of honor and of life!' cried Lucia, falling upon her knees again, and lifting hands and eyes to heaven. "'Amen!' responded the trembling voice of Rozel. 'Lord, Thine hand is not shortened that it cannot save, neither Thine ear heavy that it cannot hear!' "The scenes that followed what pen may portray! the wild anguish of some expressed in incoherent words, shrieks of terror, and cries for help, as they seemed to hear amid the roar of the elements the hurried footsteps of the assassins, and to see in the lightning's flash the glitter of their steel; the mute agony of others as in the calmness of despair they crouched helplessly together awaiting the coming blow. * * * * * "Meanwhile the fathers, husbands, sons, brothers were hastening homeward, their brave hearts torn with anguish at thought of the impossibility of arriving before the hour set for the murderers to begin their fiendish work. "There was no regular order of march, but each rushed onward at his utmost speed, praying aloud to God for help to increase it, and calling frantically to his fellows to 'hasten, _hasten_ to the rescue of all they held most dear.' "Alas for their hopes! the shades of evening were already falling, and the storm presently came on in terrific violence, the darkness, the blinding momentary glare of the lightning, the crashing thunder peals, the driving, pouring rain and fierce wind greatly increasing the difficulties and perils of their advance. God Himself seemed to be against them. "But urged on by fear and love for their helpless ones, and by parties of distracted women and children sent forward from La Tour--some of whom, in their terror and despair, asserted that the work of blood had already begun--they pressed onward without a moment's pause, springing from rock to rock, sliding down precipices, scaling giddy heights, leaping chasms which at another time they would not have dared to attempt, and tearing through the rushing, roaring mountain torrents already greatly swollen by the rain. "They reached the last of these, and dashing through it, were presently in sight of La Tour, when the tolling of the vesper bell of the convent of the Récollets--the preconcerted signal for the assassins to sally forth--smote upon their ears. "'Too late! too late!' cried Rudolph Goneto hoarsely. "'But if too late to save, we will avenge!' responded a chorus of deep voices, as with frantic haste they sped over the intervening space. "The next moment the tramp of their feet and the clang of their arms were heard in the streets of the town. Windows and doors flew open and with cries and tears of joy and thankfulness, wives, children, and aged parents gathered about them almost smothering them with caresses. "The storm, which had seemed to seal their doom, had proved their salvation--preventing some of the murderers from reaching the rendezvous in season, and so terrifying the others that they dared not attempt the deed alone; especially as it had already begun to be rumored that troops were on the march to the threatened valley. "Rudolph found himself encircled by his mother's arms, her kisses and tears warm upon his cheek. "He held her close, both hearts too full for speech. Then a single word fell from the soldier's lips, 'Lucia?' "'Safe.' "Darting into the house, guided by some subtle instinct, he stood the next moment in the upper room where she knelt by her sister's couch, the two mingling their tears and thanksgivings together. "All was darkness, but at sound of the well-known step Lucia sprang up with a cry of joy. 'Saved!' "Rudolph's emotions, as he held her to his heart, were too big for utterance. "Some one entered with a light. It was Magdalen, and behind her came Maurice, pale, haggard, and dripping with rain. "Bianca's heart gave a joyous bound. He too was safe. "But a tumult of voices from below--some stern, angry, threatening, others sullen, dogged, defiant, or craven with abject terror--attracted their attention. "Magdalen set down the light and hurried away in the direction of the sounds, Rudolph and Lucia following. "A number of the Waldenses, sword in hand, and eyes flashing with righteous indignation, were gathered about two of the would-be assassins, caught by them almost on the threshold of the cottage. "Their errand who could doubt? and Henri had recognized them as his and Lucia's pursuers of the morning. "She too knew them instantly, and clung pale with affright to Rudolph's arm, while he could scarce restrain himself from rushing upon, and running them through with his sword. "'Spare us, sirs,' entreated Andrea, quaking with fear under the wrathful glance of the father of the maidens, 'spare us; we have not harmed you or yours.' "'Nor plotted their destruction? Miserable wretch, ask not your life upon the plea that it is not forfeit. Can I doubt what would have been the fate of my wife and daughters had they fallen into your hands?' "'But your religion teaches you to forgive.' "'True; yet also to protect the helpless ones committed to my care.' "'We will leave your valleys this hour; never to set foot in them again.' "'Ah! yet how far may we trust the word of one whose creed bids him keep no faith with heretics?' "'" Vengeance is Mine, I will repay."' "It was the voice of the aged Rozel which broke the momentary silence. "Vittoria sheathed his sword. Not his to usurp the prerogative of Him who had that night given so signal deliverance to His 'Israel of the Alps.'" "Is that all?" asked Lulu, drawing a long breath, as Mr. Dinsmore refolded the manuscript and gave it back to his daughter. "Yes," he said, "the author has told of the deliverance of the imperilled ones, and that Vittoria refrained from taking vengeance upon their cowardly foes; and so ends the story of that night of terror in the valleys." "But were all the Waldenses equally forbearing, grandpa?" asked Zoe. "They were; in all the valleys not a drop of blood was shed; justly exasperated though the Waldenses were, they contented themselves with sending to the government a list of the names of the baffled conspirators. "But no notice was taken of it; the would-be murderers were never called to account till they appeared before a greater than an earthly tribunal. "But General Godin was presently superseded in his command and shortly after dismissed the service. Two plain indications that the sympathy of the government was with the assassins and not at all with their intended victims." "But is it true, sir?" asked Max. "Yes; it is true that at that time, in those valleys, and under those circumstances, such a plot was hatched and its carrying out prevented in the exact way that this story relates." "Mean, cowardly, wicked fellows they must have been to want to murder the wives and children and burn and plunder the houses of the men that were defending them and theirs from a common enemy!" exclaimed the boy, his face flushing and eyes flashing with righteous indignation. "Very true; but such are the lessons popery teaches and always has taught; 'no faith with heretics,' no mercy to any who deny her dogmas; and that anything is right and commendable which is done to destroy those who do not acknowledge her authority and to increase her power; one of her doctrines being that the end sanctifies the means!" "But what did they mean when they said they were going to have a second St. Bartholomew in the valleys?" asked Grace. "Did you never hear of the massacre of St. Bartholomew, daughter?" her father asked, stroking her hair caressingly as she sat upon his knee. "No, papa; won't you tell me about it?" "It occurred in France a little more than three hundred years ago; it was a dreadful massacre of the Protestants to the number of from sixty to a hundred thousand; and it was begun on the night of the twenty-third of August; which the Papists call St. Bartholomew's Day. "The Protestants were shot, stabbed, murdered in various ways, in their beds, in the street, any where that they could be found; and for no crime but being Protestants." "And popery would do the very same now and here, had she the power," commented Mr. Dinsmore, "for it is her proudest boast that she never changes. She teaches her own infallibility; and what she has done she will do again if she can." "What is infallibility, papa?" asked Grace. "To be infallible is to be incapable of error or of making mistakes," he answered. "So popery teaching that she has never done wrong or made a mistake justifies all the horrible cruelties she practised in former times; and, in fact, she occasionally tells us, through some of her bolder or less wary followers, that what she has done she will do again as soon as she attains the power." "Which she never will in this free land," exclaimed Edward. "Never, provided Columbia's sons are faithful to their trust; remembering that 'eternal vigilance is the price of liberty,'" responded his grandfather. Grace was clinging tightly to her father, and her little face was pale and wore a look of fright. "What is it, darling?" he asked. "O papa, will they come here some time and kill us?" she asked, tremulously. "Do not be frightened, my dear little one," he said, holding her close; "you are in no danger from them." "I don't believe all Roman Catholics would have Protestants persecuted if they could," remarked Betty. "Do you, uncle?" "No; I think there are some truly Christian people among them," he answered; "some who have not yet heard and heeded the call, 'Come out of her, my people, that ye be not partakers of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues.' We were talking, not of Papists, but of Popery. Sincere hatred of the system is not incompatible with sincere love to its deluded followers." CHAPTER XI. "My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning will I direct my prayer unto thee, and will look up."--_Psalm_ 5:3. It was early morning; Captain Raymond was pacing to and fro along the top of the cliffs, now sending a glance seaward, and now toward the door of the cottage which was his temporary home, as if expecting a companion in his ramble. Presently the door opened and Lulu stepped out upon the porch. One eager look showed her father, and she bounded with joyful step to meet him. "Good-morning, my dear papa," she cried, holding up her face for a kiss, which he gave with hearty affection. "Good-morning, my dear little early bird," he responded. "Come, I will help you down the steps and we will pace the sands at the water's edge." This was Lulu's time for having her father to herself, as she phrased it. He was sure to be out at this early hour, if the weather would permit, and she almost equally sure to join him: and as the others liked to lie a little longer in bed, there was seldom any one to share his society with her. He led her down the long flights of stairs and across the level expanse of sand, close to where the booming waves dashed up their spray. For some moments the two stood hand in hand silently gazing upon sea and sky, bright with the morning sunlight; then they turned and paced the beach for a time, and then the captain led his little girl to a seat in the porch of a bathing-house, from which they could still look far out over the sea. "Papa," she said, nestling close to his side, "I am very fond of being down here all alone with you." "Are you, daughter?" he said, bending down to caress her hair and cheek. "Well, I dearly love to have my little girl by my side. How long have you been up?" "I can't tell exactly; because, you know, papa, there is no time-piece in my room. But I wasn't long dressing; for I didn't want to lose a minute of the time I might have out here with you." "Did you do nothing but put on your clothes after leaving your bed?" he asked, gravely. "I washed my hands and face and smoothed my hair." "And was that all?" She glanced up at him in surprise at the deep gravity of his tone; then suddenly comprehending what his questioning meant, hung her head, while her cheek flushed hotly. "Yes, papa," she replied, in a low, abashed tone. "I am very, very sorry to hear it," he said. "If my little girl begins the day without a prayer to God for help to do right, without thanking Him for His kind care over her while she slept, she can hardly expect to escape sins and sorrows which will make it anything but a happy day." "Papa, I do 'most always say my prayers in the morning and at night; but I didn't feel like doing it this time. Do you think people ought to pray when they don't feel like it?" "Yes; I think that is the very time when they most need to pray; they need to ask God to take away the hardness of their hearts; the evil in them that is hiding His love and their own needs; so that they have no gratitude to express for all His great goodness and mercy to them, no petitions to offer up for strength to resist temptation and to walk steadily in His ways; no desire to confess their sins and plead for pardon for Jesus' sake. Ah! that is certainly the time when we have most urgent need to pray. "Jesus taught that men (and in the Bible men stand for the whole human race) 'ought always to pray and not to faint.' And we are commanded to pray without ceasing." "Papa, how can we do that?" she asked. "You know we have to be doing other things sometimes." "It does not mean that we are to be always on our knees," he said; "but that we are to live so near to God, so loving Him, and so feeling our constant dependence upon Him, that our hearts will be very often going up to His throne in silent petition, praise or confession. "And if we live in such union with Him we will highly prize the privilege of drawing especially near to Him at certain seasons; we will be glad to be alone with Him often, and will not forget or neglect to retire to our closets night and morning for a little season of close communion with our best and dearest Friend. "You say you love to be alone with me, your earthly father; I trust the time will come when you will love far better to be alone with your heavenly Father. I must often be far away from you, but He is ever near; I may be powerless to help you, though close at your side, but He is almighty to save, to provide for, and to defend; and He never turns a deaf ear to the cry of His children." "Yes, papa; but oh I wish that you were always near me too," she said, leaning her cheek affectionately against his arm. "I am very, very sorry that ever I have been a trouble to you and spoiled your enjoyment of your visits home." "I know you are, daughter; but you have been very good of late. I have rejoiced to see that you were really trying to rule your own spirit. So far as I know, you have been entirely and cheerfully obedient to me, and have not indulged in a single fit of passion or sullenness." "Yes, papa; but I have been nearly in a passion two or three times; but you gave me a look just in time to help me to resist it. But when you are gone I shall not have that help." "Then, my child, you must remember that your heavenly Father is looking at you; that He bids you fight against the evil of your nature, and if you seek it of Him, will give you strength to overcome. Here is a text for you; I want you to remember it constantly; and to that end repeat it often to yourself, 'Thou, God, seest me.' "And do not forget that He sees not only the outward conduct but the inmost thoughts and feelings of the heart." A boy's glad shout and merry whistle mingled pleasantly with the sound of the dashing of the waves, and Max came bounding over the sands toward their sheltered nook. "Good-morning, papa," he cried. "You too, Lulu. Ahead of me as usual, I see!" "Yes," the captain said, reaching out a hand to grasp the lad's and gazing with fatherly affection and pride into the handsome young face glowing with health and happiness, "she is the earliest young bird in the family nest. However, she seeks her roost earlier than her brother does his." "Yes; and I am not so very late, am I, sir?" "No, my boy, I do not suppose you have taken any more sleep than you need for your health and growth; and I certainly would not have you do with less." "I know you wouldn't, papa; such a good, kind father as you are," responded Max. "I wouldn't swap fathers with any other boy," he added, with a look of mingled fun and affection. "Nor would I exchange my son for any other; not even a better one," returned the captain laughingly, tightening his clasp of the sturdy brown hand he held. "I haven't heard yet the story of yesterday's success in boating and fishing; come sit down here by my side and let me have it." Max obeyed, nothing loath, for he was becoming quite expert in both, and always found in his father an interested listener to the story of his exploits. He and the other lads had returned from their camping at the time of the removal of the family party from 'Sconset to Nantucket Town. On the conclusion of his narrative the captain pronounced it breakfast time, and they returned to the house. After breakfast, as nearly the whole party were gathered upon the porch, discussing the question what should be the amusements of the day, a near neighbor with whom they had some acquaintance, ran in to ask if they would join a company who were going over to Shimmo to have a clam-bake. "The name of the place is new to me," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "Is it a town, Mrs. Atwood?" "Oh, no," replied the lady, "there is only one dwelling; a farmhouse with its barns and other out-houses comprises the whole place. It is on the shore of the harbor some miles beyond Nantucket Town. It is a pleasant spot, and I think we shall have an enjoyable time; particularly if I can persuade you all to go." "A regular New England clam-bake!" said Elsie, "I should really like to attend one, and am much obliged for your invitation, Mrs. Atwood; as we all are, I am sure." No one felt disposed to decline the invitation, and it was soon settled that all would go. The clam-bake was to occupy only the afternoon; so they would have time to make all necessary arrangements, and for the customary surf and still baths. Mrs. Atwood had risen to take leave. "Ah," she said, "I was near forgetting something I meant to say: we never dress for these expeditions, but, on the contrary, wear the oldest and shabbiest dresses we have; considering them altogether the most suitable to the occasion, as then we need not be troubled if they should be wet with spray or soiled by contact with seaweed, grass, or anything else." "A very sensible custom," Mrs. Dinsmore responded, "and one which we shall all probably follow." Mrs. Atwood had hardly reached the gate when Lulu, turning to her father with a very discontented face, exclaimed, "I don't want to wear a shabby old dress! Must I, papa?" "You will wear whatever your Grandma Elsie or mamma directs," he answered, giving her a warning look. Then motioning her to come close to his side, he whispered in her ear, "I see that you are inclined to be ill-tempered and rebellious again, as I feared you would, when I learned that you had begun the day without a prayer for help to do and feel right. Go, now, to your room and ask it." "You needn't fret, Lu; you don't own a dress that any little girl ought to feel ashamed to wear," remarked Betty, as the child turned to obey. "And we are all going to wear the very worst we have here with us, I presume," added Zoe; "at least such is my intention." "Provided your husband approves," whispered Edward sportively. "Anyhow," she answered, drawing herself up in pretended offence; "can't a woman do as she pleases even in such trifles?" "Ah I but it is the privileges of a child-wife which are under discussion now," "Now, sir, after that you shall just have the trouble of telling me what to wear," said Zoe, rising from the couch where they had been sitting side by side; "come along and choose." Lulu was in the room where she slept, obeying her father's order so far as outward actions went; but there was little more than lip-service in the prayer she offered, for her thoughts were wandering upon the subject of dress, and ways and means for obtaining permission to wear what she wished that afternoon. By the time she had finished "saying her prayers," she had also reached a conclusion as to her best plan for securing the desired privilege. Grandma Elsie was so very kind and gentle that there seemed more hope of moving her than any one else; so to her she went, and, delighted to find her comparatively alone, no one being near enough to overhear a low-toned conversation, began at once: "Grandma Elsie, I want to wear a white dress to the clam-bake; and I think it would be suitable, because the weather is very warm, and white will wash, so that it would not matter if I did get it soiled." "My dear child, it is your father's place to decide what concerns his children, when he is with them," Elsie said, drawing the little girl to her and smoothing her hair with soft, caressing touch. "Yes, ma'am; but he says you and Mamma Vi are to decide this. So if you will only say I may wear the white dress, he will let me. Won't you, please?" "If your father is satisfied with your choice I shall certainly raise no objection; nor will your mamma, I am quite sure." "Oh, thank you, ma'am!" and Lulu ran off gleefully in search of her father. She found him on the veranda, busied with the morning paper, and to her satisfaction, he too was alone. "What is it, daughter?" he asked, glancing from his paper to her animated, eager face. "About what I am to wear this afternoon, papa. I would like to wear the white dress I had on yesterday evening, and Grandma Elsie does not object, and says she knows Mamma Vi will not, if you say I may." "Did she say she thought it a suitable dress?" he asked gravely. Lulu hung her head. "No, sir; she didn't say that she did or she didn't." "Go and ask her the question." Lulu went back and asked it. "No, my child, I do not," Elsie answered. "It is very unlikely that any one else will be in white or anything at all dressy, and you will look overdressed, which is in very bad taste; besides, though the weather seems warm enough for such thin material here on shore, it will be a great deal cooler on the water; and should the waves or spray come dashing over us, you would find your dress clinging to you like a wet rag--neither beauty nor comfort in it." "I could wear a waterproof over it while we are sailing," said Lulu. "Even that might not prove a perfect protection," Elsie replied. "I think, my dear, you will do well to content yourself to wear your travelling dress, which is of a light woollen material, neat without being too dressy, and of a color that will not show every little soil. And it is as good and handsome as the dress I shall wear or as Rosie, and probably any one else, will have on." "But you can choose for yourself, Grandma Elsie, and I wish I could." "That is one of the privileges of older years," Elsie answered pleasantly. "I was considerably older than you are before I was allowed to select my own attire. But I repeat that I shall not raise the slightest objection to your wearing anything your father is willing to see on you." Lulu's hopes were almost gone, but she would make one more effort. She went to her father, and putting her arms round his neck, begged in her most coaxing tones for the gratification of her wish. "What did your Grandma Elsie say?" he asked. Lulu faithfully, though with no little reluctance, repeated every word Elsie had said to her on the subject. "I entirely agree with her," said the captain; "so entirely that even had she found no objection to urge against it, I should have forbidden you to wear the dress." Lulu heard him with a clouded brow; in fact, the expression of her face was decidedly sullen. Her father observed it with sorrow and concern. "Sit down here till I am ready to talk to you," he said, indicating a chair close at his side. Lulu obeyed, sitting quietly there while he finished his paper. Throwing it aside at length, he took her hand and drew her in between his knees, putting an arm about her waist. "My little daughter," he said, in his usual kind tone, "I am afraid you care too much for dress and finery. What I desire for you is that you may 'be clothed with humility,' and have 'the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is, in the sight of God, of great price.'" "I never can have that, papa, for it isn't a bit like me," she said, with a sort of despairing impatience and disgust at herself. "No, that is too true; it is not like you as you are by nature--the evil nature inherited from me; but God is able to change that, to give you a clean heart and renew within you a right spirit. Jesus is a Saviour from sin (He saves none in their sins), and He is able to save to the uttermost, able to take away the very last remains of the old corrupt nature with which we were born. "Oh, my child, seek His help to fight against it and to overcome! It grieves me more than I can express to see you again showing an unlovely, wilful temper." "Oh, papa, don't be grieved," she said, throwing her arms round his neck and pressing her lips to his cheek. "I will be good and wear whatever I'm told; look pleasant about it too, for indeed I do love you too well to want to grieve you and spoil your pleasure." "Ah, that is my own dear little girl," he answered, returning her caresses. The sullen expression had vanished from her face and it wore its brightest look, yet it clouded again the next moment, but with sorrow, not anger, as she sighed, "Oh! if you were always with us, papa, I think I might grow good at last; but I need your help so much, and you are gone more than half the time." "Your heavenly Father is never gone, daughter, and will never turn a deaf ear to a cry for strength to resist temptation to sin. He says, 'In me is thine help.' "And we are told, 'God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.'" In the mean time Mrs. Dinsmore, who from choice took most of the housekeeping cares, was ordering an early dinner and various baskets of provisions for the picnic. As the family sat down to the table, these last were being conveyed on board a yacht lying at the little pier near the bathing-place below the cliffs; and almost immediately upon finishing their meal, all, old and young, trooped down the stairways, across the sandy beach, and were themselves soon aboard the vessel. Others of the company were already seated in it, and the rest following a few minutes later, and the last basket of provisions being safely stowed away in some safe corner of the craft, they set sail, dragging at their stern a dory in which was a large quantity of clams in the shell. It was a bright day, and a favorable breeze sent the yacht skimming over the water at an exhilarating rate of speed. All hearts seemed light, every face was bright, not excepting Lulu's, though she was attired in the plain colored dress recommended by Grandma Elsie. There was no greater display of finery than a knot of bright ribbon, on the part of even the gayest young girl present. Betty wore a black bunting--one of her school dresses--with a cardinal ribbon at the throat; Zoe the brown woollen that had for her such mingled associations of pain and pleasure, and looked wonderfully sweet and pretty in it, Edward thought. They sat side by side, and Betty, watching them furtively, said to herself, "They are for all the world just like a pair of lovers yet, though they have been married over a year." Then turning her attention first to Violet and Captain Raymond, then upon her Aunt and Uncle Dinsmore, she came to the same conclusion in regard to them also. "And it was just so with cousin Elsie and her husband," she mused. "I can remember how devoted they were to each other. But she seems very happy now, and she well may be, with father, sons and daughters all so devoted to her. And she's so rich too; never has to consider how to make one dollar do the work of two; a problem I am so often called upon to solve. In fact, it is to her and uncle, Bob and I owe our education, and pretty much everything we have. "I don't envy her her money, but I do the love that has surrounded her all her life. She never knew her own mother, to be sure, but her father petted and fondled her as a child, and was father and mother both to her, I've often heard her say; while mine died before I was born, and mother lost her reason when I was a little thing." But Betty was not much given to melancholy musing, or indeed to musing of any kind; a passing sail presently attracted her attention and turned her thoughts into a new channel. And soon, the wind and tide being favorable, the yacht drew near her destination. There was no wharf, but the passengers were taken to the shore, a few at a time, in the dory. It also landed provision baskets and the clams. Those ladies and gentlemen to whom clam-bakes were a new experience watched with interest the process of cooking the bivalves. A pit of suitable size for the quantity to be prepared was made in the sand, the bottom covered with stones; it was then heated by a fire kindled in it, the brands were removed, seaweed spread over the stones, the clams poured in, abundance of seaweed piled over and about them, a piece of an old sail put over that, and they were left to bake or steam, while another fire was kindled near by, and a large tin bucket, filled with water, set on it to boil for making coffee. While some busied themselves with these culinary operations, others repaired to the dwelling, which stood some little distance back from the beach, the ground sloping gently away from it to the water's edge. The lady of the house met them at the door, and hospitably invited them to come in and rest themselves in her parlor, or sit on the porch; and understanding their errand to the locality, not only gave ready permission for their table to be spread in the shade of her house, but offered to lend anything they might require in the way of utensils. Accepting her offer, they set to work, the men making a rough sort of impromptu table with some boards, and the ladies spreading upon it the contents of the provision baskets. Mrs. Dinsmore, Elsie and the younger ladies of their party, offered to assist in these labors, but were told that they were considered guests, and must be content to look on or wander about and amuse themselves. There was not much to be seen but grassy slopes destitute of tree or shrub, and the harbor and open sea beyond. They seated themselves upon the porch of the dwelling-house, while Captain Raymond and the younger members of their family party wandered here and there about the place. There seemed to be some sport going on among the cooks--those engaged in preparing the coffee. Lulu hurried toward them to see what it was about, then came running back to her father, who stood a little farther up the slope, with Grace clinging to his hand. "Oh!" she said with a face of disgust, "I don't mean to drink any of that coffee; why, would you believe it, they stirred it with a poker?" "Did they?" laughed the captain; "they might have done worse. I presume that was used for lack of a long enough spoon. We must not be too particular on such occasions as this." "But you won't drink any of it, will you, papa?" "I think it altogether likely I shall." "Why, papa! coffee that was stirred with a dirty poker?" "We will suppose the poker was not very dirty," he said, with a good-humored smile; "probably there was nothing worse on it than a little ashes, which, diffused through so large a quantity of liquid, could harm no one." "Must I drink it if they offer me a cup?" "No; there need be no compulsion about it; indeed, I think it better for a child of your age not to take coffee at all." "But you never said I shouldn't, papa." "No; because you had formed the habit in my absence, and, as I am not sure that it is a positive injury to you, I have felt loath to deprive you of the pleasure." "You are so kind, papa," she said, slipping her hand into his and looking up affectionately into his face. "But I will give up coffee if you want me to. I like it, but I can do without it." "I think milk is far more wholesome for you," he said, with a smile of pleased approval. "I should like you to make that your ordinary beverage at meals, but I do not forbid an occasional cup of coffee." "Thank you, papa," she returned. "Grandma Elsie once told me that when she was a little girl her father wouldn't allow her to drink coffee at all, or to eat any kind of hot cakes or rich sweet cake; and oh I don't know how many things that she liked he wouldn't let her have. I don't think he was half as nice a father as ours; do you, Gracie?" "'Course I don't, Lu; I just think we've got the very best in the whole world," responded Grace, laying her cheek affectionately against the hand that held hers in its strong, loving clasp. "That is only because he is your own, my darlings," the captain said, smiling down tenderly upon them. A lady had drawn near, and now said, "Supper is ready, Captain Raymond; will you bring your little girls and come to the table?" "Thank you; we will do so with pleasure," he said, following her as she led the way. The table, covered with a snow-white cloth and heaped with tempting viands, presented a very attractive appearance. The clams were brought on after the most of the company were seated, with their coffee and bread and butter before them. They were served hot from the fire and the shell, in neat paper trays, and eaten with melted butter. Eaten thus they make a dish fit for a king. By the time that all appetites were satisfied, the sun was near his setting, and it was thought best to return without delay. On repairing to the beach, they found the tide so low that even the dory could not come close to dry land; so the ladies and children were carried through the water to the yacht. This gave occasion for some merriment. "You must carry me, Ned, if I've got to be carried," said Zoe; "I'm not going to let anybody else do it." "No; nor am I," he returned, gayly, picking her up and striding forward. "I claim it as my especial privilege." Mr. Dinsmore followed with his wife, then Captain Raymond with his. "Get in, Mr. Dinsmore," said the captain, as they deposited their burdens; "there is no occasion for further exertion on your part; I'll bring mother." "No, sir," said Edward, hurrying shoreward again, "that's my task; you have your children to take care of." "Your mother is my child, Ned, and I think I shall take care of her," Mr. Dinsmore said, hastening back to the little crowd still at the water's edge. "We will have to let her decide which of us shall have the honor," said the captain. "That I won't," Mr. Dinsmore said, laughingly, stepping to his daughter's side and taking her in his arms. "Now, you two may take care of the younger ones," he added, with a triumphant glance at his two rivals. "Ah, Ned, we are completely outwitted," laughed the captain. "Yes; with grandpa about one can't get half a chance to wait upon mother. Betty, shall I have the honor and pleasure of conveying you aboard of yonder vessel?" "Yes, thank you; I see Harold and Herbert are taking Rosie and Walter," she said. "But I warn you that I am a good deal heavier than Zoe." "Nevertheless, I think my strength will prove equal to the exertion," he returned, as he lifted her from the ground. Lulu and Grace stood together, hand in hand, Max on Gracie's other side. "Take Gracie first, please, papa," said Lulu; "she is frightened, I believe." "Frightened?" he said, stooping to take her in his arms; "there is nothing to be afraid of, darling. Do you think papa would leave you behind or drop you into the water?" "No; I know you wouldn't," she said, with a little nervous laugh, and clinging tightly about his neck. "Mayn't I wade out, papa?" Max called after him. "Yes; but stay with your sister till I come for her." "Where's my baby, Levis?" asked Violet, laughingly, as he set Grace down by her side. "The baby! Sure enough, where is it?" he exclaimed, with an anxious glance toward the shore. "Ah, there stands the nurse with it in her arms. You shall have it in yours in a moment." "Here's the baby, papa; please take her first; I don't mind waiting," said Lulu, as he stepped ashore again. He gave her a pleased, approving look. "That is right; it will be but a minute or two," he said, as he took the babe and turned away with it. In a few minutes more, all the passengers were aboard, and they set sail; but they had not gone far when it became evident that something was amiss; they were making no progress. "What is the matter?" asked several voices, and Violet looked inquiringly at her husband. "There is no cause for apprehension," he said; "we are aground, and may possibly have to wait here for the turn of the tide; that's all." "It's the lowest tide I ever saw," remarked the captain of the yacht; "we'll have to lighten her; if some of the heaviest of you will get into the dory, it will help." Quite a number immediately volunteered to do so, among them Edward and Zoe, Bob and Betty, Harold and Herbert. The dory was speedily filled, and then, with a little more exertion the yacht was set afloat. They moved out into deep water, and a gentle breeze wafted them pleasantly toward their desired haven. "Look at the sun, papa," Elsie said, gazing westward. "It has a very peculiar appearance." "Yes," he said, "it looks a good deal like a balloon; it's redness obscured by that leaden-colored cloud. It is very near its setting; we shall not get in till after dark." "But that will not matter?" "Oh, no; our captain is so thoroughly acquainted with his vessel, the harbor and the wharf, that I have no doubt he would land us safely even were it much darker than it will be." Zoe and Edward, in the dory, were talking with a Nantucket lady, a Mrs. Fry. "How do you like our island, and particularly our town?" she asked. "Oh, ever so much!" said Zoe. "We have visited a good many watering-places and sea-side resorts, but never one where there was so much to see and to do; so many delightful ways of passing the time. I think I shall vote for Nantucket again next year, when we are considering where to pass the hot months." "And I," said Edward, "echo my wife's sentiments on the subject under discussion." "Your wife" the lady exclaimed, with a look of surprise. "I took her to be your sister; you are both so very young in appearance." "We are not very old," laughed Edward; "Zoe is but sixteen, but we have been married a year." "You have begun early; it is thought by some that early marriages are apt to be the happiest, and I should think them likely to be, provided the two are willing to conform their tastes and habits each to those of the other. I trust you two have a long life of happiness before you." "Thank you," they both said, Edward adding, "I think we are disposed to accommodate ourselves to each other, and whether our lives be long or short, our trials many or few, I trust we shall always find great happiness in mutual sympathy, love and confidence." The lady asked if they had seen all the places of interest on the island, and in reply they named those they had seen. "Have you been to Mrs. Mack's?" she asked. "No, madam, we have not so much as heard of her existence," returned Edward, sportively. "May I ask who and what she is?" "Yes; she is the widow of a sea-captain, who has a collection of curiosities which she keeps on exhibition, devoting the proceeds, so she says, to benevolent purposes. She is an odd body; herself the greatest curiosity she has to show, I think. You should visit her museum by all means." "We shall be happy to do so if you will kindly put us in the way of it," said Edward. "How shall we proceed in order to gain admittance?" "If we can get up a party it will be easy enough; I shall then send her word, and she will appoint the hour when she will receive us; she likes to show her independence, and will not exhibit unless to a goodly number. "I know of several visitors on the island who want to go, and if your party will join with them there will be no difficulty." "I think I can promise that we will," said Edward. "I will let you know positively to-morrow morning." "That will do nicely. Hark, they are singing aboard the yacht." They listened in silence till the song was finished. "I recognized most of the voices," Mrs. Fry remarked, "but two lovely sopranos were quite new to me. Do you know the owners?" turning smilingly to Edward. "My mother and sister," he answered, with proud satisfaction. "Naturally fine, and very highly cultivated," she said. "You must be proud of them." "I am," Edward admitted, with a happy laugh. The sun was down and twilight had fairly begun. Grace, seated on her father's knee, was gazing out over the harbor. "See, papa, how many little lights close down to the water!" she said. "Yes; they are lamps on the small boats that are sailing or rowing about; they show them for safety from running into each other." "And they look so pretty." "Yes, so they do; and it is a sight one may have every evening from the wharf. Shall I take you down there some evening and let you sit and watch them as they come and go?" "Oh, yes, do, papa; I think it would be so nice! And you would take Max and Lulu too, wouldn't you?" "If they should happen to want to go; there are benches on the wharf where we can sit and have a good view. I think we will try it to-morrow evening if nothing happens to prevent." "Oh, I'm so glad! You are such a good, kind papa," she said, delightedly, giving him a hug. "The very best you have ever had, I suppose," he responded, with a pleased laugh. "Yes, indeed," she answered, naïvely, quite missing the point of his jest. On reaching home Edward and Zoe reported their conversation with the lady in the dory, and asked, "Shall we not go?" "I think so, by all means, since it is for benevolent objects," said Elsie. "Or anyhow, since we feel in duty bound to see all that is to be seen on this island," said Captain Raymond. No dissenting voice was raised, and when the next morning word came that Mrs. Mack would exhibit that afternoon if a party were made up to attend, they all agreed to go. The distance was too great for ladies and children to walk, so carriages were ordered. Captain Raymond and his family filled one. "This is the street that oldest house is on," remarked Lulu, as they turned a corner; "I mean that one we went to see; that has the big horse-shoe on its chimney." "What do they have that for, papa?" asked Grace. "In old times when many people were ignorant and superstitious, it was thought to be a protection from witches." "Witches, papa? what are they?" "I don't think there are any, really," he said, with a kindly smile into the eagerly inquiring little face; "but in old times it was a very common belief that there were people--generally some withered-up old women--who had dealings with Satan, and were given power by him to torment, or bring losses and various calamities upon any one whom they disliked. "When you are a little older you shall hear more about it, and how that foolish belief led to great crimes and cruelties inflicted upon many innocent, harmless people. But now, while my Gracie is so young and timid, I do not want her to know too much about such horrors." "Yes, papa," she responded; "I won't try to know till you think I'm quite old enough." Several vehicles drew up at the same moment in front of Mrs. Mack's door, and greetings and some introductions were exchanged on the sidewalk and door-steps. Edward introduced his mother and Mrs. Fry to each other, and the latter presented to them a Mrs. Glenn, who, she said, was a native of Nantucket, but had only recently returned after an absence of many years. "Mrs. Mack knew me as a young girl," Mrs. Glenn remarked, "and I am quite curious to see whether she will recognize me." At that instant the door was opened in answer to their ring, and they were invited to enter and walk into the parlor. They found it comfortably furnished and neat as wax. Seating themselves they waited patiently for some moments the coming of the lady of the house. At length she made her appearance; a little old lady, neatly attired, and with a pleasant countenance. Mrs. Fry saluted her with a good-afternoon, adding, "I have brought some friends with me to look at your curiosities. This lady," indicating Mrs. Glenn, "you ought to know, as you were acquainted with her in her girlhood." "Do you know me, Mrs. Mack?" asked Mrs. Glenn, offering her hand. "Yes, you look as natural as the pigs," was the rather startling reply; accompanied, however, by a smile and cordial shake of the offered hand. "Now, we'll take the money first to make sure of it," was the next remark, addressed to the company in general. "What is your admission fee?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, producing his pocketbook. "Fifteen cents apiece." "By no means exorbitant if your collection is worth seeing," he returned, good-humoredly. "Never mind your purses, Elsie, Raymond, Ned, I'll act as paymaster for the party." The all-important business of collecting the entrance fees having been duly attended to, Mrs. Mack led the way to an upper room where minerals, shells, sharks' teeth, and various other curiosities and relics were spread out upon tables and shelves, ranged along the sides and in the centre of the apartment. "Now," she said, "the first thing is to register your names. You must all register. You begin," handing the book to Mr. Dinsmore, "you seem to be the oldest." "I presume I am," he said, dryly, taking the book and doing as he was bidden. "Now, you, Raymond," passing it on to the captain, "we'll take it for granted that you are next in age and importance." "That's right, captain," laughed Betty, as he silently took the book and wrote his name, "it wouldn't be at all polite to seem to think yourself younger than any lady present." "Of course not, Miss Betty; will you take your turn next?" "Of course not, sir; do you mean to insinuate that I am older than Aunt Rose?" she asked, passing the book on to Mrs. Dinsmore. "Don't be too particular about going according to ages," said Mrs. Mack, "it takes up too much time." "You may write my name for me, Ned," said Zoe, when he took the book. "Yes, write your sister's name for her; it'll do just as well," said Mrs. Mack. "But I'm not his sister," said Zoe. "What, then? is he your lover?" "No," Edward said, laughing, "we're husband and wife." "You've begun young," she remarked, taking the book and passing it on; "don't look as if you'd cut your wisdom teeth yet, either of you. When the ladies have all registered, some of you grown folks had better do it for the children." Having seen all their names duly inscribed in her register, "Seat yourselves," she said, waving her hand toward some benches and chairs. Then, with the help of a half-grown girl, she set out a small circular table, placed a box upon it, pushed up chairs and a bench or two, and said, "Now, as many of you as can, come and sit round this table; the others shall have their turn afterward." When all the places were filled, she opened the box and took from it a number of beautifully carved articles--napkin-rings, spoons, etc. "Now, all take your turns in looking at this lovely carved work, while I tell you its story," she said, "the story of how it came into my possession." "You see, my husband was a sea-captain, and upon one occasion, when he was about setting sail for a long voyage, a young man, or lad--he was hardly old enough to be called a man--came and asked to be taken as one of the crew. He gave a name, but it wasn't his true name, inherited from his father, as my husband afterward discovered. But not suspecting anything wrong, he engaged the lad, and took him with him on the voyage. "And the lad behaved well aboard the ship, and he used to carve wonderfully well--as you may see by looking at these articles--just with a jack-knife, and finally--keeping at it in his leisure moments--he made all these articles, carving them out of sharks' teeth. "You can see he must have had genius; hadn't he? and yet he'd run away from home to go to sea, as my husband afterward had good reason to believe." She made a long story of it, spinning out her yarn until the first set had examined the carved work to their satisfaction. Then, "Reverse yourselves," she said, indicating by a wave of her hand, that they were to give place at the table to the rest of the company. When all had had an opportunity to examine the specimens of the lad's skill, the young girl was ordered to restore them to the box, but first to count them. That last clause brought an amused smile to nearly every face in the audience, but Lulu frowned, and muttered, "Just as if she thought we would steal them!" Next, Mrs. Mack began the circuit of the room, carrying a long slender stick with which she pointed out those which she considered the most interesting of her specimens or articles of virtu. One of these last was a very large, very old-fashioned back-comb, having a story with a moral attached, the latter recited in doggerel rhyme. She had other stories, in connection with other articles, to tell in the same way. In fact, so many and so long were they, that the listeners grew weary and inattentive ere the exhibition was brought to a close. The afternoon was waning when they left the house. As Captain Raymond and his family drove into the heart of the town on their way home, their attention was attracted by the loud ringing of a hand-bell, followed now and again by noisy vociferation, in a discordant, man's voice. "So the evening boat is in," remarked the captain. "How do you know, papa?" asked Grace. "By hearing the town-crier calling his papers; which could not have come in any other way." "What does he say, papa?" queried Lulu. "I have listened as intently as possible many a time, but I never can make out more than a word or two, sometimes not that." "No more can I," he answered, with a smile; "it sounds to me like 'The first news is um mum, and the second news is mum um mum, and the third news is um um mum." The children all laughed. "Yonder he is, coming this way," said Max, leaning from the carriage window. "Beckon to him," said the captain; "I want a paper." Max obeyed; the carriage stopped, the crier drew near and handed up the paper asked for. "How much?" inquired the captain. "Five cents, sir." "Why, how is that? You asked me but three for yesterday's edition of this same paper." "More news in this one." "Ah, you charge according to the amount of news, do you?" returned the captain, laughing, and handing him a nickel. "Yes, sir; I guess that's about the fair way," said the crier, hastily regaining the sidewalk to renew the clang, clang of his bell and the "um mum mum" of his announcement. CHAPTER XII. "Wave high your torches on each crag and cliff. Let many lights blaze on our battlements; Shout to them in the pauses of the storm, And tell them there is hope." --_Maturings "Bertram."_ The evening was cool, and our whole party were gathered in the parlor of the cottage occupied by the Dinsmores and Travillas--games, fancy-work, reading, and conversation making the time fly. Edward and Zoe had drawn a little apart from the others, and were conversing together in an undertone. "Suppose we go out and promenade the veranda for a little," he said, presently. "I will get you a wrap and that knit affair for your head that I think so pretty and becoming." "Crocheted," she corrected; "yes, I'm quite in the mood for a promenade with my husband; and I'm sure the air outside must be delightful. But you won't have to go farther than that stand in the corner for my things." He brought them, wrapped the shawl carefully about her, and they went out. Betty, looking after them, remarked aside to her Cousin Elsie, "How lover-like they are still!" "Yes," Elsie said, with a glad smile: "they are very fond of each other, and it rejoices my heart to see it." "And one might say exactly the same of the captain and Violet," pursued Betty, in a lower tone, and glancing toward that couple, as they sat side by side on the opposite sofa--Violet with her babe in her arms, the captain clucking and whistling to it, while it cooed and laughed in his face--Violet's ever-beautiful face more beautiful than its wont, with its expression of exceeding love and happiness as her glance rested now upon her husband and now upon her child. "Yes," Elsie said again, watching them, with a joyous smile still wreathing her lips and shining in her eyes; "and it is just so with my dear Elsie and Lester. I am truly blest in seeing my children so well mated and so truly happy." "Zoe, little wife," Edward was saying, out on the veranda, "can you spare me for a day or two?" "Spare you, Ned? How do you mean?" "I should like to join the boys--Bob, Harold, and Herbert--in a little trip on a sailing vessel which leaves here early to-morrow morning and will return on the evening of the next day or the next but one. I should ask my little wife to go with us, but, unfortunately, the vessel has no accommodations for ladies. What do you say, love? I shall not go without your consent." "Thank you, you dear boy, for saying that," she responded, affectionately, squeezing the arm on which she leaned; "go if you want to; I know I can't help missing the kindest and dearest husband in the world, but I shall try to be happy in looking forward to the joy of reunion on your return." "That's a dear," he said, bending down to kiss the ruby lips. "It is a great delight to meet after a short separation, and we should miss that entirely if we never parted at all." "But oh, Ned, if anything should happen to you!" she said, in a quivering voice. "Hush, hush, love," he answered, soothingly; "don't borrow trouble; remember we are under the same protection on the sea as on the land, and perhaps as safe on one as on the other." "Yes; but when I am with you I share your danger, if there is any, and that is what I wish; for oh, Ned, I couldn't live without you!" "I hope you may never have to try it, my darling," he said, in tender tones, "or I be called to endure the trial of having to live without you; yet we can hardly hope to go together. "But let us not vex ourselves with useless fears. We have the promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' And we know that nothing can befall us without the will of our Heavenly Father, whose love and compassion are infinite. 'We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.'" "But if one is not at all sure of belonging to Him?" she said, in a voice so low that he barely caught the words. "Then the way is open to come to Him. He says, 'Come unto me.' 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.' The invitation is to you, love, as truly as if addressed to you alone; as truly as if you could hear His voice speaking the sweet words and see His kind eyes looking directly at you. "It is my ardent wish, my most earnest, constant prayer, that my beloved wife may speedily learn to know, love, and trust in Him who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life!" "You are so good, Ned! I wish I were worthy of such a husband," she murmured, half sighing as she spoke. "Quite a mistake, Zoe," he replied, with unaffected humility; "to hear you talk so makes me feel like a hypocrite. I haves no righteousness of my own to plead, but, thanks be unto God, I may rejoice in the imputed righteousness of Christ! And that may be yours, too, love, for the asking. "'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.' "They are the Master's own words; and He adds: 'For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.'" Meanwhile the contemplated trip of the young men was under discussion in the parlor. "Dear me!" said Betty, who had just heard of it, "how much fun men and boys do have! Don't you wish you were one of them, Lulu?" "No, I don't," returned Lulu, promptly. "I'd like to be allowed to do some of the things they do that we mustn't, but I don't want to be a boy." "That is right," said her father; "there are few things so unpleasant to me as a masculine woman, who wishes herself a man and tries to ape the stronger, coarser sex in dress and manners. I hope my girls will always be content, and more than content, to be what God has made them." "If you meant to hit me that time, captain," remarked Betty, in a lively tone, "let me tell you it was a miserable failure, for I don't wish I was a man, and never did. Coarse creatures, as you say--present company always excepted--who would want to be one of them." "I'd never have anything to do with one of them if I were in your place, Bet," laughed her brother. "Perhaps I shouldn't, only that they seem a sort of necessary evil," she retorted. "But why don't you invite some of us ladies to go along?" "Because you are _not_ necessary evils," returned her brother, with a twinkle of fun in his eye. "You should, one and all, have an invitation if we could make you comfortable," said Harold, gallantly: "but the vessel has absolutely no accommodations for ladies." "Ah, then, you are excusable," returned Betty. The young men left the next morning, after an early breakfast. Zoe and Betty drove down to the wharf with them to see them off, and watched the departing vessel till she disappeared from sight. Zoe went home in tears, Betty doing her best to console her. "Come, now, be a brave little woman; it's for only two or three days at the farthest. Why, I'd never get married if I thought I shouldn't be able to live so long without the fortunate man I bestowed my hand upon." "Oh, you don't know anything about it, Betty!" sobbed Zoe. "Ned's all I have in the world, and it's so lonesome without him! And then, how do I know that he'll ever get back? A storm may come up and the vessel be wrecked." "That's just possible," said Betty, "and it's great folly to make ourselves miserable over bare possibilities--things which may never happen." "Oh, you are a great deal too wise for me!" said Zoe, in disgust. "Oh," cried Betty, "if it's a pleasure and comfort to you to be miserable--to make yourself so by anticipating the worst--do so by all means. I have heard of people who are never happy but when they are miserable." "But I am not one of that sort," said Zoe, in an aggrieved tone. "I am as happy as a lark when Ned is with me. Yes, and I'll show you that I can be cheerful even without him." She accordingly wiped her eyes, put on a smile, and began talking in a sprightly way about the beauty of the sea as they looked upon it, with its waves dancing and sparkling in the brilliant light of the morning sun. "What shall we do to-day?" queried Betty. "Take a drive," said Zoe. "Yes; I wish there was some new route or new place to go to." "There's a pretty drive to the South Shore, that maybe you have not tried yet," suggested the hackman. "South Shore? That's another name for Surfside, isn't it?" asked Betty. "It's another part of the same side of the island I refer to," he answered. "It's a nice drive through the avenue of pines--a road the lovers are fond of--and if the south wind blows, as it does this morning, you have a fine surf to look at when you get there." "If a drive is talked of to-day, let us propose this one, Zoe," said Betty. "Yes; I dare say it is as pleasant as any we could take," assented Zoe. "I wish Edward was here to go with us." Elsie, with her usual thoughtfulness for others, had been considering what could be done to prevent Zoe from feeling lonely in Edward's absence. She saw the hack draw up at the door, and meeting the young girls on the threshold with a bright face and pleasant smile: "You have seen the boys off?" she said, half inquiringly. "The weather is so favorable, that I think they can hardly fail to enjoy themselves greatly." "Yes, mamma, I hope they will; but ah, a storm may come and wreck them before they can get back," sighed Zoe, furtively wiping away a tear. "Possibly; but we won't be so foolish as to make ourselves unhappy by anticipating evils that may never come," was the cheery rejoinder. "The Edna has a skilful captain, a good crew, and is doubtless entirely seaworthy--at least so Edward assured me--and for the rest we must trust in Providence. "Come in, now, and let me give you each a cup of coffee. Your breakfast with the boys was so early and so slight, that you may find appetite for a supplement," she added, sportively, as she led the way into the cosey little dining-room of the cottage, where they found a tempting repast spread especially for them, the others having already taken their morning meal. "How nice in you, Cousin Elsie!" exclaimed Betty. "I wasn't expecting to eat another breakfast, but I find a rapidly coming appetite; these muffins and this coffee are so delicious." "So they are," said Zoe. "I never knew anybody else quite so kindly thoughtful as mamma." "I think I know several," Elsie rejoined; "but it is very pleasant to be so highly appreciated. Now, my dear girls, you will confer a favor if you will tell me in what way I can make the day pass most pleasantly to you." "Thank you, cousin. It is a delightful morning for a drive, I think," said Betty; then went on to repeat what their hackman had said of the drive to the South Shore. "It sounds pleasant. I think we will make up a party and try it," Elsie said. "You would like it, Zoe?" "Yes, mamma, better than anything I know of beside. The man says that just there the beach has not been so thoroughly picked over for shells and other curiosities, and we may be able to find some worth having." No one had made any special plans for the day, so all were ready to fall into this proposed by Zoe and Betty. Hacks were ordered--enough to hold all of their party now at hand--and they started. They found the drive all it had been represented. For some distance their way lay along the bank of a long pond, pretty to look at and interesting as connected with old times and ways of life on the island. Their hackmen told them that formerly large flocks of sheep were raised by the inhabitants, and this pond was one of the places where the sheep were brought at a certain time of year to be washed and shorn. On arriving at their destination, they found a long stretch of sandy beach, with great thundering waves dashing upon it. "Oh," cried Zoe and Betty, in delight, "it is like a bit of 'Sconset!" "Look away yonder," said Lulu; "isn't that a fisherman's cart?" "Yes," replied her father. "Suppose we go nearer and see what he is doing." "Oh, yes; do let us, papa!" cried Lulu, always ready to go everywhere and see everything. "You may run on with Max and Grace," he said; "some of us will follow presently." He turned and offered his arm to Violet. "It is heavy walking in this deep sand; let me help you." "Thank you; it is wearisome, and I am glad to have my husband's strong arm to lean upon," she answered, smiling sweetly up into his eyes as she accepted the offered aid. The young girls and the children came running back to meet them. "He's catching blue-fish," they announced; "he has a good many in his cart." "Now, watch him, Mamma Vi; you haven't had a chance to see just such fishing before," said Max. "See, he's whirling his drail; there! now he has sent it far out into the water. Now he's hauling it in, and--oh yes, a good big fish with it." "What is a drail?" Violet asked. "It is a hook with a long piece of lead above it covered with eel-skin," answered her husband. "There it goes again!" she exclaimed. "It is a really interesting sight, but rather hard work, I should think." When tired of watching the fisherman, they wandered back and forth along the beach in search of curiosities, picking up bits of sponge, rockweed, seaweed, and a greater variety of shells than they had been able to find on other parts of the shore which they had visited. It was only when they had barely time enough left to reach home for a late dinner that they were all willing to enter the carriages and be driven away from the spot. As they passed through the streets of the town, the crier was out with his hand-bell. "Oh yes! oh yes! all the windows to be taken out of the Athenaeum to-day, and the Athenaeum to be elevated to-night." After listening intently to several repetitions of the cry, they succeeded in making it out. "But what on earth does he mean?" exclaimed Betty. "Ventilated, I presume," replied the captain. "There was an exhibition there last night, and complaints were made that the room was close." Toward evening of the next day our friends in the cliff cottages began to look for the return of the Edna with the four young men of their party. But night fell, and yet they had not arrived. Elsie began to feel anxious, but tried not to allow her disturbance to be perceived, especially by Zoe, who seemed restless and ill at ease, going often out to the edge of the cliff and gazing long and intently toward that quarter of the horizon where she had seen the Edna disappear on the morning she sailed out of Nantucket harbor. She sought her post of observation for the twentieth time just before sunset, and remained there till it grew too dark to see much beyond the line of breakers along the shore below. Turning to re-enter the house, she found Captain Raymond standing by her side. "O captain," she cried, "isn't it time the Edna was in?" "I rather supposed they would be in a little earlier than this, but am not at all surprised that they are not," he answered, in a cheery tone. "Indeed, it is quite possible that they may not get in till to-morrow. When they left it was uncertain that they would come back to-day. So, my good sister, I think we have no cause for anxiety." "Then I shall try not to be anxious," she said; "but it seems like a month since I parted from Ned, and it's a sore disappointment not to see him to-night. I don't know how Vi stands your long absences, captain." "Don't you suppose it's about as hard for me as for her, considering how charming she is?" he asked, lightly. "Perhaps it is; but men don't live in their affections as women do; love is only half the world to the most loving of them, I verily believe, while it's all the world to us." "There is some truth in that," he acknowledged; "we men are compelled to give much time and thought to business, yet many of us are ardent lovers or affectionate husbands. I, for one, am extremely fond of wife and children." "Yes, I am sure of it, and quite as sure that Ned is very fond of me." "There isn't a doubt of it. I think I have never seen a happier couple than you seem to be, or than Leland and his Elsie; yet Violet and I will not yield the palm to either of you." "And was there ever such a mother-in-law as mamma?" said Zoe. "I don't remember my own mother very distinctly, but I do not believe I could have loved her much better than I do Edward's mother." "Words would fail me in an attempt to describe all her excellences," he responded. "Well, Lulu, what is it?" as the child came running toward them. "Tea is ready, papa, and Grandma Rose says 'please come to it.'" Shortly after leaving the table, the captain, noticing that Zoe seemed anxious and sad, offered to go into the town and inquire if anything had been seen or heard of the Edna. "Oh, thank you," she said, brightening; "but won't you take me along?" "Certainly, if you think you will not find the walk too long and fatiguing." "Not a bit," she returned, hastily donning hat and shawl. "Have you any objection to my company, Levis?" Violet asked, with sportive look and tone. "My love, I shall be delighted, if you feel equal to the exertion," he answered, with a look of pleasure that said more than the words. "Quite," she said. "Max, I know you like to wait on me; will you please bring my hat and shawl from the bedroom there?" "Yes, indeed, with pleasure, Mamma Vi," the boy answered, with alacrity, as he hastened to obey. "Three won't make as agreeable a number for travelling the sidewalks as four, and I ought to be looking out for Bob," remarked Betty; "so if anybody will ask me to go along perhaps I may consent." "Yes, do come," said Zoe. "I'll take you for my escort." "And we will walk decorously behind the captain and Vi, feeling no fear because under the protection of his wing," added the lively Betty. "But do you think, sir, you have the strength and ability to protect three helpless females?" she asked, suddenly wheeling round upon him. "I have not a doubt I can render them all the aid and protection they are at all likely to need in this peaceful, law-abiding community," he answered, with becoming gravity, as he gave his arm to his wife, and led the way from the house. "It is a rather lonely but by no means dangerous walk, Cousin Betty," he added, holding the gate open for her and the others to pass out. "Lonely enough for me to indulge in a moderate amount of fun and laughter, is it not, sir?" she returned, in an inquiring tone. She seemed full of life and gayety, while Zoe was unusually quiet. They walked into the town and all the way down to the wharf; but the Edna was not there, nor could they hear any news of her. Zoe seemed full of anxiety and distress, though the others tried to convince her there was no occasion for it. "Come, come, cheer up, little woman," the captain said, seeing her eyes fill with tears. "If we do not see or hear from them by this time to-morrow night, we may begin to be anxious; but till then there is really no need." "There, Zoe, you have an opinion that is worth something, the captain being an experienced sailor," remarked Betty. "So thry to be aisy, my dear, and if ye can't be aisy, be as aisy as ye can!" Zoe laughed faintly at Betty's jest; then, with a heroic effort, put on an air of cheerfulness, and contributed her full quota to the sprightly chat on the homeward walk. She kept up her cheerful manner till she had parted from the rest for the night, but wet her solitary pillow with tears ere her anxiety and loneliness were forgotten in sleep. Her spirits revived with the new day, for the sun rose clear and bright, the sea was calm, and she said to herself, "Oh, surely the Edna will come in before night, and Ned and I will be together again!" Many times that day both she and his mother scanned intently the wide waste of waters, and watched with eager eyes the approach of some distant sail, hoping it might prove the one they looked and longed for. But their hopes were disappointed again and again; noon passed, and the Edna was not in sight. "Mamma, what can be keeping them?" sighed Zoe, as the two stood together on the brow of the hill, still engaged in their fruitless search. "Not necessarily anything amiss," Elsie answered. "You remember that when they went it was quite uncertain whether they would return earlier than to-night; so let us not suffer ourselves to be uneasy because they are not yet here." "I am ashamed of myself," Zoe said. "I wish I could learn to be as patient and cheerful as you are, mamma." "I trust you will be more so by the time you are my age," Elsie said, putting an arm about Zoe's waist and drawing her close, with a tender caress. "I still at times feel the risings of impatience; I have not fully learned to 'let patience have her perfect work.' "There is an old proverb, 'A watched pot never boils,'" she added, with sportive look and tone. "Suppose we seat ourselves in the veranda yonder and try to forget the Edna for awhile in an interesting story. I have a new book which looks very interesting, and has been highly commended in some of the reviews. We will get papa to read it aloud to us while we busy ourselves with our fancy-work. Shall we not?" Zoe assented, though with rather an indifferent air, and they returned to the house. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, the only ones they found there, the others being all down on the beach, fell readily into the plan; the book and the work were brought out, and the reading began. It was a good, well-told story, and even Zoe presently became thoroughly interested. Down on the beach Violet and the captain sat together in the sand, he searching sea and sky with a spyglass. She noticed a look of anxiety creeping over his face. "What is it, Levis?" she asked. "I fear there is a heavy storm coming," he said. "I wish with all my heart the Edna was in. But I trust they have been wise enough not to put out to sea and are safe in harbor some where." "I hope so, indeed," she responded, fervently, "for we have much precious freight aboard of her. But the sky does not look very threatening to me, Levis." "Does it not? I wish I could say the same. But, little wife, are you weatherwise or otherwise?" he asked, laughingly. "Not wise in any way except as I may lay claim to the wisdom of my other half," she returned, adopting his sportive tone. "Ah," she exclaimed the next moment, "I, too, begin to see some indications of a storm; it is growing very dark yonder in the northeast!" Betty came hurrying up, panting and frightened. "O captain, be a dear, good man, and say you don't think we are to have a storm directly--before Bob and the rest get safe to shore!" "I should be glad to oblige you, Betty," he said, "but I cannot say that; and what would it avail if I did? Could my opinion stay the storm?" "Zoe will be frightened to death about Edward," she said, turning her face seaward again as she spoke, and gazing with tear-dimmed eyes at the black, threatening cloud fast spreading from horizon to zenith, "and I--oh, Bob is nearer to me than any other creature on earth!" "Let us hope for the best, Betty," the captain said, kindly; "it is quite possible, perhaps I might say probable, that the Edna is now lying at anchor in some safe harbor, and will stay there till this storm is over." "Oh, thank you for telling me that!" she cried. "I'll just try to believe it is so and not fret, though it would pretty nearly kill me if anything should happen to Bob. Still, it will do no good to fret." "Prayer would do far more," said Violet, softly--"prayer to Him whom even the winds and the sea obey. But isn't it time to go in, Levis? the storm seems to be coming up so very fast." "Yes," he said, rising and helping her to get on her feet. "Where are the children?" "Yonder," said Betty, nodding in their direction. "I'll tell them--shall I?" "No, thank you; you and Violet hurry on to the house as fast as you can; I will call the children, follow with them, and probably overtake you in time to help you up the stairs." Before they were all safely housed, the wind had come down upon them and was blowing almost a gale. It was with considerable difficulty the captain succeeded in getting them all up the long steep flights of stairs by which they must reach the top of the cliff. About the time they started for the house the party on the veranda became aware that a storm was rising. Zoe saw it first, and dropped her work in her lap with the cry, "Oh, I knew it would be so! I just knew it! A dreadful storm is coming, and the Edna will be wrecked, and Edward will drown. I shall never see him again!" The others were too much startled and alarmed at the moment to notice her wild words or make any reply. They all rose and hurried into the house, and Mr. Dinsmore began closing windows and doors. "The children, papa!" cried Elsie; "they must be down on the beach, and--" "The captain is with them, and I will go to their assistance," he replied, before she could finish her sentence. He rushed out as he spoke, to return the next moment with Walter in his arms and the rest closely following. "These are all safe, and for the others I must trust the Lord," Elsie said softly to herself as her father set Walter down, and she drew the child to her side. But her cheek was very pale, and her lips trembled as she pressed them to the little fellow's forehead. He looked up wonderingly. "Mamma, what is the matter? You're not afraid of wind and thunder?" "No, dear; but I fear for your brothers out on this stormy sea," she whispered in his ear. "Pray for them, darling, that if God will, they may reach home in safety." "Yes, mamma, I will; and I believe He'll bring them. Is it 'cause Ned's in the ship Zoe's crying so?" "Yes; I must try to comfort her." And putting him gently aside, Elsie went to her young daughter-in-law, who had thrown herself upon a couch, and with her head pillowed on its arm, her face hidden in her hands, was weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break. "Zoe, love," Elsie said, kneeling at her side and putting her arms about her, "do not despair. 'Behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened that it cannot save; neither His ear heavy that it cannot hear.'" "No, but--He does let people drown; and oh, I can never live without my husband!" "Dear child, there is no need to consider that question till it is forced upon you. Try, dear one, to let that alone, and rest in the promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'" The captain had drawn near, and was standing close beside them. "Mother has given you the best of advice, my little sister," he said, in his kind, cheery way; "and for your further comfort let me say that it is altogether likely the Edna is safe in harbor somewhere. I think they probably perceived the approach of the storm in season to be warned not to put out to sea till it should be over." "Do you really think so, captain?" she asked, lifting her head to wipe away her tears. He assured her that he did; and thinking him a competent judge of what seamen would be likely to do in such an emergency, she grew calm for a time, though her face was still sad; and till darkness shut out the sight, she cast many an anxious glance from the window upon the raging waters. "If not in harbor, they must be in great peril?" Mr. Dinsmore remarked, aside, and half inquiringly, to the captain. "Yes, sir; yes, indeed. I am far more anxious than I should like to own to their mother, Zoe, or Violet." It was near their tea hour when the storm burst; they gathered about the table as usual, but there was little eating done except by the children, and the meal was not enlivened, as was customary with them, by cheerful, sprightly chat, though efforts in that direction were not wanting on the part of several of their number. The storm raged on with unabated fury, and Zoe, as she listened to the howling of the wind and the deafening thunder peals, grew wild with terror for her husband. She could not be persuaded to go to bed, even when her accustomed hour for retiring was long past, but would sit in her chair, moaning, "O Ned! Ned! my husband, my dear, dear husband! Oh, if I could only do anything to help you! My darling, my darling! you are all I have, and I can't live without you!" then spring up and pace the floor, sobbing, wringing her hands, and sometimes, as a fierce blast shook the cottage or a more deafening thunder peal crashed over-head, even shrieking out in terror and distress. In vain Elsie tried to soothe and quiet her with reassuring, comforting words or caresses and endearments. "Oh, I can't bear it!" she cried again and again. "Ned is all I have, and it will kill me to lose him. Nobody can know how I suffer at the very thought." "My dear," Elsie said, with a voice trembling with emotion, "you forget that Edward is my dearly loved son, and that I have two others, who are no less dear to their mother's heart, on board that vessel." "Forgive me, mamma," Zoe sobbed, taking Elsie's hand and dropping tears and kisses upon it. "I did forget, and it was very shameful, for you are so kind and loving to me, putting aside your own grief and anxiety to help me in bearing mine. But how is it yon can be so calm?" "Because, dear, I am enabled to stay my heart on God, my Almighty Friend, my kind, wise, Heavenly Father. Listen, love, to these sweet words: 'O Lord God of hosts, who is a strong Lord like unto Thee? or to thy faithfulness round about Thee? Thou rulest the roaring of the sea: when the waves thereof arise, Thou stillest them.'" "They are beautiful," said Betty, who sat near, in a despondent attitude, her elbow on her knee, her cheek in her hand. "Oh, Cousin Elsie, I would give all the world for your faith, and to be able to find the comfort and support in Bible promises and teachings that you do!" The outer door opened, and Mr. Dinsmore and Captain Raymond came in, their waterproof coats dripping with rain. They had been out on the edge of the cliff taking an observation, though it was little they could see through the darkness; but occasionally the lightning's lurid flash lit up the scene for a moment, and afforded a glimpse of the storm-tossed deep. "Be comforted, ladies," the captain said; "there are at least no signs of any vessel in distress; if any such were near, she would undoubtedly be firing signal-guns. So I think we may hope my conjecture that our boys are safe in harbor somewhere, is correct." "And the storm is passing over," said Mr. Dinsmore; "the thunder and lightning have almost ceased." "But the wind has not fallen, and that is what makes the great danger, grandpa, isn't it?" asked Zoe. "Oh, hark, what was that? I heard a step and voice!" And rushing to the outer door as she spoke, she threw it open, and found herself in her husband's arms. "O Ned, Ned!" she cried, in a transport of joy, "is it really you? Oh, I thought I should never see you again, you dear, dear, _dear_ boy!" She clung round his neck, and he held her close, with many a caress and endearing word, drawing her a little to one side to let his brothers step past them and embrace the tender mother, who wept for joy as she received them, almost as if restored to her from the very gates of death. "There, love, I must let you go while I take off this dripping coat," Edward said, at length, releasing Zoe. "How wet I have made you! I fear your pretty dress is quite spoiled," he added, with a tender, regretful smile. "That's nothing," she answered, with a gay laugh; "you'll only have to buy me another, and you've plenty of money." "Plenty to supply all the wants of my little wife, I hope." "Ah, mother dear," as he threw aside his wet overcoat and took her in his arms, "were you alarmed for the safety of your three sons?" "Yes, indeed I was," she said, returning his kisses; "and I feel that I have great cause for thankfulness in that you are all brought back to me unharmed. 'Oh, that men would praise the Lord for His goodness and for His wonderful works to the children of men!'" Betty had started up on the entrance of her cousins, glancing eagerly from one dripping figure to another, then staggered back and leaned, pale and trembling, against the wall. In the excitement no one had noticed her, but now she exclaimed, in tremulous accents, and catching her breath, "Bob--my brother; where is he?" "O Betty," Harold answered, turning hastily at the sound of her voice, "forgive our thoughtlessness in not explaining that at once! Bob went to a hotel; he said we could bring the news of his safety and our own, and it wasn't worth while for him to travel all the way up here through the storm." "No, of course not; I wouldn't have had him do so," she returned, with a sigh of relief, her face resuming its wonted gayety of expression; "but I'm mighty glad he's safe on terra firma." "But your story, boys; let us have it," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, we _have_ a story, grandpa," said Edward, with emphasis and excitement; "but Harold should tell it; he could do it better than I." "No, no," Harold said; "you are as good a story-teller as I." "There!" laughed Herbert. "I believe I'll have to do it myself, or with your extreme politeness to each other you'll keep the audience waiting all night. "The storm came suddenly upon us when we were about half way home, or maybe something more; and it presently became evident that we were in imminent danger of wreck. The captain soon concluded that our only chance was in letting the Edna drive right before the wind, which would take us in exactly the direction we wished to pursue, but with rather startling celerity; and that was what he did. "She flew over the water like a wild winged bird, and into the harbor with immense velocity. Safely enough, though, till we were there, almost at the wharf, when we struck against another vessel anchored near, and actually cut her in two, spilling the crew into the water." "Don't look so horrified, mother dear," said Harold, as Herbert paused for breath; "no one was drowned, no one even hurt." "Barring the wetting and the fright, as the Irish say," added Edward. "But the latter was a real hurt," said Harold; "for the cry they sent up as they made the sudden, involuntary plunge from their berths, where they were probably asleep at the moment of collision, into the cold, deep water of the harbor, was something terrible to hear." "Enough to curdle one's blood," added Herbert. "And you are quite sure all were picked up?" asked Elsie, her sweet face full of pity for the unfortunate sufferers. "Yes, mother, quite sure," answered Edward; "the captain of the craft said, in my hearing, that no one was missing." "And the captain of the other will probably have pretty heavy damages to pay," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "I presume so," said Edward; "but even that would be far better than the loss of his vessel, with all the lives of those on board." "Money could not pay for those last," Elsie said, low and tremulously, as she looked at her three tall sons through a mist of unshed tears; "and I will gladly help the Edna's captain to meet the damages incurred in his efforts to save them." "Just like you, mother," Edward said, giving her a look of proud, fond affection. "I entirely approve, and shall be ready to contribute my share," said her father. "But it is very late, or rather early--long past midnight--and we should be getting to bed. But let us first unite in a prayer of thanksgiving to our God for all His mercies, especially this--that our dear boys are restored to us unharmed." They knelt, and led by him, all hearts united in a fervent outpouring of gratitude and praise to the Giver of all good. CHAPTER XIII. "Hitherto hath the Lord helped us."--1 SAMUEL 7:12. It was a lovely Sabbath afternoon, still and bright; Elsie sat alone on the veranda, enjoying the beauty of the sea and the delicious breeze coming from it. She had been reading, and the book lay in her lap, one hand resting upon the open page; but she was deep in meditation, her eyes following the restless movements of the waves that, with the rising tide, dashed higher and higher upon the beach below. For the last half hour she had been the solitary tenant of the veranda, while the others enjoyed their siesta or a lounge upon the beach. Presently a noiseless step drew near her chair, some one bent down over her and softly kissed her cheek. "Papa" she said, looking up into his face with smiling eyes, "you have come to sit with me? Let me give you this chair," and she would have risen to do so, but he laid his hand on her shoulder, saying, "No; sit still; I will take this," drawing up another and seating himself therein close at her side. "Do you know that I have been watching you from the doorway there for the last five minutes?" he asked. "No, sir; I deemed myself quite alone," she said. "Why did you not let me know that my dear father, whose society I prize so highly, was so near?" "Because you seemed so deep in thought, and evidently such happy thought, that I was loath to disturb it." "Yes," she said, "they were happy thoughts. I have seemed to myself, for the last few days, to be in the very land of Beulah, so delightful has been the sure hope--I may say certainty--that Jesus is mine and I am His; that I am His servant forever, for time and for eternity, as truly and entirely His as words can express. Is it not a sweet thought, papa? is it not untold bliss to know that we may--that we shall serve Him forever? that nothing can ever separate us from the love of Christ?" "It is, indeed--Christ who is our life. He says, 'Because I live, ye shall live also;' thus He is our life. Is He not our life also because He is the dearest of all friends to us--His own people?" "Yes; and how the thought of His love, His perfect sympathy, His infinite power to help and to save, gives strength and courage to face the unknown future. 'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?' 'Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.' "In view of the many dangers that lie around our every path, the many terrible trials that may be sent to any one of us, I often wonder how those who do not trust in this almighty Friend can have the least real, true happiness. Were it my case, I should be devoured with anxiety and fears for myself and my dear ones." "But as it is," her father said, gazing tenderly upon her, "you are able to leave the future, for them and for yourself, in His kind, wise, all-powerful hands, knowing that nothing can befall you without His will, and that He will send no trial that shall not be for your good, and none that He will not give you strength to endure?" "Yes, that is it, papa; and oh, what rest it is! One feels so safe and happy; so free from fear and care; like a little child whose loving earthly father is holding it by the hand or in his strong, kind arms." "And you have loved and trusted Him since you were a very little child," he remarked, half musingly. "Yes, papa; I cannot remember when I did not; and could there be a greater cause for gratitude?" "No; such love and trust are worth more to the happy possessor than the wealth of the universe. But there was a time when, though my little girl had it, I was altogether ignorant of it, and marvelled greatly at her love for God's word and her joy and peace in believing. I shall never cease to bless God for giving me such a child." "Nor I to thank Him for my dear father," she responded, putting her hand into his, with the very same loving, confiding gesture she had been wont to use in childhood's days. His fingers closed over it, and he held it fast in a warm, loving grasp, while they continued their talk concerning the things that lay nearest their hearts--the love of the Master, His infinite perfection, the interests of His kingdom, the many great and precious promises of His word--thus renewing their strength and provoking one another to love and to good works. "Then they that feared the Lord spake often one to another; and the Lord hearkened, and heard it; and a book of remembrance was written before Him for them that feared the Lord, and that thought upon His name. "And they shall be mine, saith the Lord of hosts, in that day when I make up my jewels; and I will spare them, as a man spareth his own son that serveth him." Ere another week had rolled its round, events had occurred which tested the sustaining power of their faith in God, and the joy of the Lord proved to be indeed their strength, keeping their hearts from failing in an hour of sore anxiety and distress. The evening was bright with the radiance of a full moon and unusually warm for the season; so pleasant was it out of doors that most of our friends preferred the veranda to the cottage parlors, and some of the younger ones were strolling about the town or the beach. Betty had gone down to the latter place, taking Lulu with her, with the captain's permission, both promising not to go out of sight of home. "Oh, how lovely the sea is to-night, with the moon shining so brightly on all the little dancing waves!" exclaimed Lulu, as they stood side by side close to the water's edge. "Yes," said Betty; "doesn't it make you feel like going in?" "Do people ever bathe at night?" asked Lulu. "I don't know why they shouldn't," returned her companion. "It might be dangerous, perhaps," suggested Lulu. "Why should it?" said Betty; "it's almost as light as day. Oh, Bob," perceiving her brother close at hand, "don't you want to go in? I will if you will go with me." "I don't care if I do," he answered, after a moment's reflection: "a moonlight bath in the sea would be something out of the common; and there seems to be just surf enough to make it enjoyable." "Yes; and my bathing-suit is in the bath-house yonder. I can be ready in five minutes." "Can you? So can I; we'll go in if only for a few minutes. Won't you go with us, Lulu?" "I'd like to," she said, "but I can't without leave; and I know papa wouldn't give it, for I had a bath this morning, and he says one a day is quite enough." "I was in this morning," said Bob; "Betty, too, I think, and--I say, Bet, it strikes me I've heard that it's a little risky to go in at night." "Not such a night as this, I'm sure, Bob; why, it's as light as day; and if there is danger it can be only about enough to give spice to the undertaking." With the last word she started for the bath-house, and Bob, not to be outdone in courage, hurried toward another appropriated to his use. Lulu stood waiting for their return, not at all afraid to be left alone with not another creature in sight on the beach. Yet the solitude disturbed her as the thought arose that Bob and Betty might be about to put themselves in danger, while no help was at hand for their rescue. The nearest she knew of was at the cottages on the bluff, and for her to climb those long flights of stairs and give the alarm in case anything went wrong with the venturesome bathers, would be a work of time. "I'd better not wait for them to get into danger, for they would surely drown before help could reach them," she said to herself, after a moment's thought. "I'll only wait till I see them really in, and then hurry home to see if somebody can't come down and be ready to help if they should begin to drown." But as they passed her, presently, on their way to the water, Bob said: "We're trusting you to keep our secret, Lulu; don't tell tales on us." She made no reply, but thought within herself, "That shows he doesn't think he's doing exactly right. I'm afraid it must be quite dangerous." But while his remark and injunction increased her apprehensions for them, it also made her hesitate to carry to their friends the news of their escapade till she should see that it brought them into actual danger and need of assistance. She watched them tremblingly as they waded slowly out beyond the surf into the smooth, swelling waves, where they began to swim. For a few moments all seemed to be well; then came a sudden shrill cry from Betty, followed by a hoarser one from Bob, which could mean nothing else than fright and danger. For an instant Lulu was nearly paralyzed with terror; but rousing herself by a determined effort, she shouted at the top of her voice, "Don't give up; I'll go for help as fast as ever I can," and instantly set off for home at her utmost speed. "Help, help! they'll drown, oh, they'll drown!" she screamed as she ran. Harold, who was in the act of descending the last flight of stairs, saw her running toward him, and heard her cry, though the noise of the surf prevented his catching all the words. "What's the matter?" he shouted, clearing the remainder of the flight at a bound. "Betty, Bob--drowning!" she cried, without slackening her speed, "I'm going for help." He waited, to hear no more, but sped on toward the water; and only pausing to divest himself of his outer clothing, plunged in, and, buffeting with the waves, made his way as rapidly as possible toward the struggling forms, which, by the light of the moon, he could dimly discern at some distance from the shore. Faint cries for help and the gleam of Betty's white arm, as for an instant she raised it above the wave, guided him to the spot. Harold was an excellent swimmer, strong and courageous; but he had undertaken a task beyond his strength, and his young life was very near falling a sacrifice to the folly of his cousins and his own generous impulse to fly to their aid. Both Bob and Betty were already so nearly exhausted as to be scarcely capable of doing anything to help themselves, and in their mad struggle for life caught hold of him and so impeded his movements that he was like to perish with them. Mean while Lulu had reached the top of the cliff, then the veranda where the older members of the family party were seated, and, all out of breath with fright and the exertion of climbing and running, she faltered out, "Bob and Betty; they'll drown if they don't get help quickly." "What, are they in the water?" cried Mr. Dinsmore and Captain Raymond, simultaneously springing to their feet; the latter adding, "I fear they'll drown before we can possibly get help to them." "Oh, yes; they're drowning now," sobbed Lulu; "but Harold's gone to help them." "Harold? He's lost if he tries it alone!" "The boy's mad to think of such a thing!" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore and Edward in a breath, while Elsie's cheek turned deathly pale, and her heart went up in an agonized cry that her boy's life might be spared; the others also. The gentlemen held a hasty consultation, then scattered, Mr. Dinsmore hastening in search of other aid, while Captain Raymond and Edward hurried to the beach, the ladies following with entreaties to them to be careful. But fortunately for the endangered ones, other aid had already reached them--a boat that had come out from Nantucket for a moonlight sail, and from the shore a noble Newfoundland dog belonging to a retired sea captain. Strolling along the beach with his master, he heard the cries for help, saw the struggling forms, and instantly plunging in among the waves, swam to the rescue. Seizing Betty by the hair, he held her head above water till the sailboat drew near and strong arms caught hold of her and dragged her in, pale, dripping, and seemingly lifeless. They then picked up the young men, both entirely unconscious, and made for the shore with all possible haste. It was doubtful if the last spark of life had not been extinguished in every one of the three; but the most prompt, wise, and vigorous measures were instantly taken and continued for hours--hours of agonizing suspense to those who loved them. At length Bob gave unmistakable signs of life; and shortly after Betty sighed, opened her eyes, and asked, feebly, "Where am I? what has happened?" But Harold still lay as one dead, and would have been given up as such had not his mother clung to hope, and insisted that the efforts at restoration should be continued. Through the whole trying scene she had maintained an unbroken calmness of demeanor, staying herself upon her God, lifting her heart to His throne in never-ceasing petitions, and in the midst of her bitter grief and anxiety rejoicing that if her boy were taken from her for a time, it would be but to exchange the trials and cares of earth for the joys of heaven; and the parting from him here would soon be followed by a blissful reunion in that blessed land where sin and sorrow and suffering can never enter. But at length, when their efforts were rewarded so that he breathed and spoke, and she knew that he was restored to her, the reaction came. She had given him a gentle, tender kiss, had seen him fall into a natural, refreshing sleep, and passing from his bedside into an adjoining room, she fainted in her father's arms. "My darling, my dear, brave darling!" he murmured, as he laid her down upon a couch and bent over her in tenderest solicitude, while Mrs. Dinsmore hastened to apply restoratives. It was not a long faint; she presently opened her eyes and lifted them with a bewildered look up into her father's face. "What is it, papa?" she murmured; "have I been ill?" "Only a short faint," he answered. "But you must be quite worn out." "Oh, I remember!" she cried. "Harold, my dear son--" "Is doing well, love. And now I want you to go to your bed and try to get some rest. See, day is breaking, and you have had no sleep, no rest." "Nor have you, papa; do go and lie down; but I must watch over my poor boy," she said, trying to rise from the couch. "Lie still," he said, gently detaining her; "lie here, if you are not willing to go to your bed. I am better able to sit up than you are, and will see to Harold." "His brothers are with him, mamma," said Zoe, standing by; "and Edward says they will stay beside him as long as they are needed." "Then you and I will both retire and try to take some rest, shall we not?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, bending over Elsie and softly smoothing her hair. "Yes, papa; but I must first take one peep at the dear son so nearly lost to me." He helped her to rise; then she perceived that Captain Raymond and Violet were in the room. "Dearest mamma," said the latter, coming forward to embrace her, "how glad I am that you are better, and our dear Harold spared to us!" She broke down in sobs and tears. "Yes, my child; oh, let us thank the Lord for His great goodness! But this night has been quite too much for you. Do you go at once and try to get some rest." "I shall see that she obeys, mother," the captain said, in a tenderly sportive tone, taking Elsie's hand and lifting it to his lips. "I think I may trust you," she returned, with a faint smile. "You were with Bob; how is he now?" "Doing as well as possible under the circumstances; as is Betty also; you need trouble your kind heart with no fear or care for them." It had been a terrible night to all the family--the children the only ones who had taken any rest or sleep--and days of nursing followed before the three who had so narrowly escaped death were restored to their wonted health and strength. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and Elsie devoted themselves to that work, and were often assisted in it by Zoe, Edward, and Herbert. Harold was quite a hero with these last and with Max and Lulu; in fact, with all who knew or heard of his brave deed, though he modestly disclaimed any right to the praises heaped upon him, asserting that he had done no more than any one with common courage and humanity would have done in his place. Bob and Betty were heartily ashamed of their escapade, and much sobered at the thought of their narrow escape from sudden death. Both dreaded the severe reproof they had reason to expect from their uncle, but he was very forbearing, and thinking the fright and suffering entailed by their folly sufficient to deter them from a repetition of it, kindly refrained from lecturing them on the subject, though, when a suitable opportunity offered, he did talk seriously and tenderly, with now one and now the other, on the guilt and danger of putting off repentance toward God, and faith toward our Lord Jesus Christ, reminding them that they had had a very solemn warning of the shortness and uncertainty of life, and asking them to consider the question whether they were ready for a sudden call into the immediate presence of their Judge. "Really now, uncle," remarked Bob on one of these occasions, "there are worse fellows in the world than I am--much worse." "I am willing to admit that, my boy," returned Mr. Dinsmore; "but many of those fellows have not enjoyed the privileges and teachings that you have, and responsibility is largely in proportion to one's light and opportunities. "Jesus said, 'That servant, who knew his Lord's will, and prepared not himself, neither did according to His will, shall be beaten with many stripes. But he that knew not, and did commit things worthy of stripes, shall be beaten with few stripes.'" "Yes; and you think I'm one of the first class, I suppose?" "I do, my boy; for you have been well instructed, both in the church and in the family; also you have a Bible, and may study it for yourself as often and carefully as you will." "But I really have never done anything very bad, uncle." "How can you say that, Robert, when you know that you have lived all your life in utter neglect of God's appointed way of salvation? hearing the gracious invitation of Him who died that you might live, 'Come unto me,' and refusing to accept it? "'God so loved the world that He gave His only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life,' and having for years refused to believe, how can you assert that you have done nothing very bad? 'How shall we escape, if we neglect so great salvation?'" Bob made no reply, but looked thoughtful, and his uncle went quietly from the room, thinking it well to leave the lad to his own reflections. Passing the door of the room where Harold lay, he was about to enter, but perceiving that the boy and his mother were in earnest conversation, he moved on, leaving them undisturbed. "Mamma," Harold was saying, "I have been thinking much of sudden death since my very narrow escape from it. You know, mamma, it comes sometimes without a moment's warning; and as we all sin continually in thought and feeling, if not in word and deed, as our very best deeds and services are so stained with sin that they need to be repented of and forgiven, how is it that even a true Christian can get to heaven if called away so suddenly?" "Because when one comes to Jesus Christ and accepts His offered salvation, _all_ his sins, future as well as past and present, are forgiven. 'The blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, cleanseth us from all sin.' "Jesus said, 'He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.' 'I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.'" "But oh, mamma, I find myself so weak and sinful, so ready to yield to temptation, that I sometimes fear I shall never be able to hold out to the end!" "My dear boy, let that fear lead you to cling all the closer to the Master, who is able to save unto the uttermost. If our holding out depended upon ourselves, our own weak wills, we might well be in despair; but 'He will keep the feet of His saints.' "'Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, according to His abundant mercy, hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for you, who are kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation.' Can they be in danger who are _kept by the power of God_?" CHAPTER XIV. "My Father's house on high, Home of my soul, how near At times to Faith's discerning eye Thy pearly gates appear." Harold and his cousins had scarcely more than fully recovered from the effects of their almost drowning when Captain Raymond again received orders to join his ship, and it was decided that the time had come for all to leave the island. Bob and Betty received letters from their brother and sister in Louisiana, giving them a cordial invitation to their homes, Dick proposing that Bob should study medicine with him, with a view to becoming his partner, and Molly giving Betty a cordial invitation from herself and husband to take up her residence at Magnolia Hall. With the approval of their uncle and other relatives, these kind offers were promptly accepted. Letters came about the same time from Lansdale, Ohio, inviting the Dinsmores, Travillas, and Raymonds to attend the celebration of Miss Stanhope's one hundredth birthday, which was now near at hand. Mr. Harry Duncan wrote for her, saying that she had a great longing to see her nephews and nieces once more, and to make the acquaintance of Violet's husband and his children. The captain could not go, but it was decided that all the others should. The necessary arrangements were quickly made, and the whole party left the island together, not without some regret and a resolution to return at some future day to enjoy its refreshing breezes and other delights during the hot season. On reaching New York they parted with the captain, whose vessel lay in that harbor. Bob and Betty left them farther on in the journey, and the remainder of the little company travelled on to Lansdale, arriving the day before the important occasion which called them there. Mrs. Dinsmore's brother, Richard Allison, who, my readers may remember, had married Elsie's old friend, Lottie King, shortly after the close of the war of the rebellion, had taken up his abode in Lansdale years ago. Both he and his sister May's husband, Harry Duncan, had prospered greatly. Each had a large, handsome dwelling adjacent to Miss Stanhope's cottage, in which she still kept house, having never yet seen the time when she could bring herself to give up the comfort of living in a home of her own. She had attached and capable servants, and amid her multitude of nieces and grand-nieces, there was almost always one or more who was willing--nay, glad, to relieve her of the care and labor of housekeeping, taking pleasure in making life's pathway smooth and easy to the aged feet, and her last days bright and happy. She still had possession of all her faculties, was very active for one of her age, and felt unabated interest in the welfare of kindred and friends. She had by no means outlived her usefulness or grown querulous with age, but was ever the same bright, cheerful, happy Christian that she had been in earlier years. The birthday party was to be held under her own roof, and a numerous company of near and dear relatives were gathering there and at the houses of the Duncans and Allisons. Richard and Lottie, Harry and May were at the depot to meet the train on which our travellers arrived. It was an altogether joyous meeting, after years of separation. The whole party repaired at once to Miss Stanhope's cottage, to greet and chat a little with her and others who had come before to the gathering; prominently among them Mr. and Mrs. Keith from Pleasant Plains, Indiana, with their daughters, Mrs. Landreth, Mrs. Ormsby, and Annis, who was still unmarried. Very glad indeed were Mrs. Keith and Mr. Dinsmore, Rose and Mildred, Elsie and Annis to meet and renew the old intimacies of former days. Time had wrought many changes since we first saw them together, more than thirty years ago. Mr. and Mrs. Keith were now old and infirm, yet bright and cheery, looking hopefully forward to that better country, that Celestial City, toward which they were fast hastening, and with no unwilling steps. Dr. and Mrs. Landreth and Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore had changed from youthful married couples into elderly people, while Elsie and Annis had left childhood far behind, and were now--the one a cheery, happy maiden lady, whom aged parents leaned upon as their stay and staff, brothers and sisters dearly loved, and nieces and nephews doated upon; the other a mother whom her children blessed for her faithful love and care, and delighted to honor. This renewal of intercourse, and the reminiscences of early days which it called up, were very delightful to both. The gathering of relatives and friends of course formed far too large a company for all to lodge in one house, but the three--Aunt Wealthy's and those of the Duncans and Allisons--accommodated them comfortably for the few days of their stay, or rather the nights, for during the day they were very apt to assemble in the parlors and porches of the cottage. It was there Elsie and her younger children and Violet and hers took up their quarters, by invitation, for the time of the visit. "But where is the captain, your husband?" inquired Aunt Wealthy of Violet on giving her a welcoming embrace. "I wanted particularly to see him, and he should not have neglected the invitation of a woman a hundred years old." "Dear auntie, I assure you he did so only by compulsion; he would have come gladly if Uncle Sam had not ordered him off in another direction," Violet answered, with pretty playfulness of look and tone. "Ah, then, we must excuse him. But you brought the children, I hope. I want to see them." "Yes; this is his son," Violet said, motioning Max to approach; "and here are the little girls," drawing Lulu and Grace forward. The old lady shook hands with and kissed them, saying, "It will be something for you to remember, dears, that you have seen a woman who has lived a hundred years in this world, and can testify that goodness and mercy have followed her all the days of her life. Trust in the Lord, my children, and you, even if you should live as long as I have, will be able to bear the same testimony that He is faithful to His promises. "I say the same to you, too, Rosie and Walter, my Elsie's children," she added, turning to them with a tenderly affectionate look and smile. They gazed upon her with awe for a moment; then Rosie said, "You don't look so very old, Aunt Wealthy; not older than some ladies of eighty that I've seen." "Perhaps not older than I did when I was only eighty, my dear; but I am glad to know that I am a good deal nearer home now than I was then," Miss Stanhope responded, her face growing bright with joyous anticipation. "Are you really glad to know you must die before very long?" asked Max, in wonder and surprise. "Wouldn't it be strange if I were not?" she asked; "heaven is my home. "'There my best friends, my kindred dwell, There God my Saviour reigns.' "I live in daily, hourly longing expectation of the call." "And yet you are not weary of life? you are happy here, are you not, dear Aunt Wealthy?" asked Mrs. Keith. "Yes, Marcia; I am happy among my kind relatives and friends; and entirely willing to stay till the Master sees fit to call me home, for I know that His will is always best. Oh, the sweet peace and joy of trusting in Him and leaving all to His care and direction! Who that has experienced it could ever again want to choose for him or herself?" "And you have been long in His service, Aunt Wealthy?" Mr. Dinsmore said, half in assertion, half inquiringly. "Since I was ten years old, Horace; and that is ninety years; and let me bear testimony now, before you all, that I have ever found Him faithful to His promises, and His service growing constantly sweeter and sweeter. And so it shall be to all eternity. 'My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.'" Then turning to Mrs. Keith, "How is it with you, Marcia?" she asked; "you have attained to your four-score years, and have been in the service since early childhood. What have you to say for your Master now?" "Just what you have said, dear aunt; never have I had cause to repent of choosing His service; it has been a blessed service to me, full of joy and consolation--joy that even abounds more and more as I draw nearer and nearer to my journey's end. "I know it is the same with my husband," she added, giving him a look of wifely affection; "and I doubt not with my cousins--Horace, Rose, Elsie--with all here present who have had experience as soldiers and servants of Jesus Christ." "In that you are entirely right, Marcia," responded Mr. Dinsmore; "I can speak for myself, my wife, and daughter." Both ladies gave an unqualified confirmation of his words, while their happy countenances testified to the truth of the assertion. "And, Milly dear, you and your husband, your brothers and sisters, can all say the same," remarked Miss Stanhope, laying her withered hand affectionately upon Mrs. Landreth's arm as she sat in a low seat by her side. "We can indeed," Mildred said, with feeling. "What blessed people we are! all knowing and loving the dear Master, and looking forward to an eternity of bliss together at His right hand." The interview between the aged saint and her long-absent relatives was continued for a few moments more; then she dismissed them, with the remark that doubtless they would all like to retire to their rooms for a little, and she must take a short rest in order to be fresh for the evening, when she hoped they would all gather about her again. "I want you all to feel at home and to enjoy yourselves as much as you can," she said, in conclusion. "Play about the grounds, children, whenever you like." Her cottage stood between the houses of the Duncans and Allisons; the grounds of all three were extensive, highly cultivated, and adorned with beautiful trees, shrubbery, and flowers, and there were no separating fences or hedges, so that they seemed to form one large park or garden. Rosie and Walter Travilla, and the young Raymonds were delighted with the permission to roam at will about these lovely grounds, and hastened to avail themselves of it as soon as the removal of the dust of travel and a change of attire rendered them fit. They found a Dutch gardener busied here and there, and presently opened a conversation with him, quite winning his heart by unstinted praises of the beauty of his plants and flowers. "It must be a great deal of work to keep those large gardens in such perfect order," remarked Rose. "Dat it ish, miss," he said; "but I vorks pretty hard mineself, and my son Shakey, he gifs me von leetle lift ven he ton't pees too much in school." "Do you live here?" asked little Grace. "Here in dis garten? no, miss; I lifs oud boud t'ree mile in de country." "That's a long walk for you, isn't it?" said Lulu. "Nein; I don't valks, miss; ven I ish god dings to pring--abbles or botatoes or some dings else--I say to mine Shakey, 'Just hitch de harness on de horse and hang him to de stable door;' or if I got nodings to pring I tells de poy, 'Hitch him up a horseback;' den I comes in to mine vork and I tash! I don't hafs to valk--nod a shtep." "How funny he talks," whispered Grace to Lulu; "I can hardly understand him." "It's because he's Dutch," returned Lulu, in the same low tone. "But I can tell almost all he says. His son's name must be Jakey; the short for Jacob." "What is your name?" asked Max. "Hencle--Shon Hencle. I dinks you all pees come to see Miss Stanhope pe von huntred years olt; ishn't you?" "Yes," said Rosie. "It seems very wonderful to think that she has lived so long." The children, weary with their journey, were sent to bed early that night. Lulu and Grace found they were to sleep together in a small room opening into a larger one, where two beds had been placed for the time to meet the unusual demand for sleeping quarters. These were to be occupied by Grandma Elsie, Violet, Rosie, and Walter. Timid little Grace heard, with great satisfaction, that all these were to be so near; and Lulu, though not at all cowardly, was well pleased with the arrangement. Yet she little thought how severely her courage was to be tested that night. She and Grace had scarcely laid their heads upon their pillows ere they fell into profound slumber. Lulu did not know how long she had slept, but all was darkness and silence within and without the house, when something, she could not have told what, suddenly roused her completely. She lay still, trying to recall the events of the past day and remember where she was; and just as she succeeded in doing so a strange sound, as of restless movements and the clanking of chains, came from beneath the bed. Her heart seemed to stand still with fear; she had never before, in all her short life, felt so terrified and helpless. "What can it be?" she asked herself. "An escaped criminal--a murderer--or a maniac from an insane asylum, I suppose; for who else would wear a clanking chain? and what can he want here but to kill Gracie and me? I suppose he got in the house before they shut the doors for the night, and hid under the bed till everybody should be fast asleep, meaning to begin then to murder and rob. Oh, I do wish I'd looked under the bed while all the gentlemen were about to catch him and keep him from hurting us! But now what shall I do? If I try to get out of the bed, he'll catch hold of my foot and kill me before anybody can come; and if I scream for help, he'll do the same. The best plan is to lie as quiet as I can, so he'll think I'm still asleep; for maybe he only means to rob, and not murder, if nobody wakes up to see what he's about and tell of him. Oh, I do hope Gracie won't wake! for she could never help screaming; and then he'd jump out and kill us both." So with heroic courage she lay there, perfectly quiet and hardly moving a muscle for what seemed to her an age of suffering, every moment expecting the creature under the bed to spring out upon her, and in constant fear that Grace would awake and precipitate the calamity by a scream of affright. All was quiet again for some time, she lying there, straining her ears for a repetition of the dreaded sounds; then, as they came again louder than before, she had great difficulty in restraining herself from springing from the bed and shrieking aloud, in a paroxysm of panic terror. But she did control herself, lay perfectly still, and allowed not the slightest sound to escape her lips. That last clanking noise had awakened Elsie, and she too now lay wide awake, silent and still, while intently listening for a repetition of it. She hardly knew whence the sound had come, or what it was; but when repeated, as it was in a moment or two, she was satisfied that it issued from the room where Lulu and Grace were, and her conjectures in regard to its origin coincided with Lulu's. She, too, was greatly alarmed, but did not lose her presence of mind. Hoping the little girls were still asleep, and judging from the silence that they were, she lay for a few minutes without moving, indeed scarcely breathing, while she tried to decide upon the wisest course to pursue, asking guidance and help from on high, as she always did in every emergency. Her resolution was quickly taken; slipping softly out of bed, she stole noiselessly from the room and into another, on the opposite side of the hall, occupied by Edward and Zoe. "Edward," she said, speaking in a whisper close to his ear, "wake, my son; I am in need of help." "What is it, mother?" he asked, starting up. "Softly," she whispered; "make no noise, but come with me. Somebody or something is in the room where Lulu and Gracie sleep. I distinctly heard the clanking of a chain." "Mother!" he cried, but hardly above his breath, "an escaped lunatic, probably! Stay here and let me encounter him alone. I have loaded pistols--" "Oh, don't use them if you can help it!" she cried. "I shall not," he assured her, "unless it is absolutely necessary." He snatched the weapons from beneath his pillow as he spoke, and went from the room, she closely following. At the instant that they entered hers a low growl came from the inner room, and simultaneously they exclaimed, "A dog!" "Somewhat less to be feared than a lunatic, unless he should be mad, which is not likely," added Edward, striking a light. Lulu sprang up with a low cry of intense relief. "O Grandma Elsie, it's only a dog, and I thought it a crazy man or a wicked murderer!" As she spoke the animal emerged from his hiding-place and walked into the outer room, dragging his chain after him. Edward at once recognized him as a large mastiff Harry Duncan had shown him the previous afternoon. "It's Mr. Duncan's dog," he said; "he must have broken his chain and come in unobserved before the house was closed for the night. Here, Nero, good fellow, this way! You've done mischief enough for one night, and we'll send you home." He led the way to the outer door, the dog following quite peaceably, while Elsie, hearing sobs coming from the other room, hastened in to comfort and relieve the frightened children. Grace still slept on in blessed unconsciousness; but she found Lulu crying hysterically, quite unable to continue her efforts at self-control, now that the necessity for it was past. "Poor child!" Elsie said, folding her in her kind arms, "you have had a terrible fright, have you not?" "Yes, Grandma Elsie; oh, I've been lying here so long, _so long_, thinking a murderer or crazy man was under the bed, just ready to jump out and kill Gracie and me!" she sobbed, clinging convulsively about Elsie's neck. "And did not scream for help! What a brave little girl you are!" "I wanted to, and, oh, I could hardly keep from it! But I thought if I did it would wake Gracie and scare her to death, and the man would be sure to jump out and kill us at once." "Dear child," Elsie said, "you have shown yourself thoughtful, brave, and unselfish; how proud your father will be of his eldest daughter when he hears it!" "O Grandma Elsie, do you think he will? How glad that would make me! It would pay for all the dreadful fright I have had," Lulu said, her tones tremulous with joy, as, but a moment ago, they had been with nervousness and fright. "I am quite sure of it," Elsie answered, smoothing the little girl's hair with caressing hand, "quite sure; because I know he loves you very dearly, and that he admires such courage, unselfishness, and presence of mind as you have shown to-night." These kind words did much to turn Lulu's thoughts into a new channel and thus relieve the bad effects of her fright. But Elsie continued for some time longer her efforts to soothe her into calmness and forgetfulness, using tender, caressing words and endearments; then she left her, with an injunction to try to go immediately to sleep. Lulu promised compliance, and, attempting it, succeeded far sooner than she had thought possible. The whole occurrence seemed like a troubled dream when she awoke in the morning. It was a delicious day in early October, and as soon as dressed she went into the garden, where she found John Hencle already at work, industriously weeding and watering his plants and flowers. "Goot-morning, mine leetle mees," he said, catching sight of her, "Was it so goot a night mit you?" "No," she said, and went on to tell the story of her fright. "Dot ish lige me," he remarked, phlegmatically, at the conclusion of her tale. "Von nighd I hears somedings what make me scare. I know notings what he ish; I shust hears a noise, an' I shumpt de bed out, and ran de shtairs down, and looked de window out, and it wasn't notings but a leetle tog going 'Bow wow.'" "I don't think it was very much like my fright," remarked Lulu, in disgust; "it couldn't have been half so bad." "Vell, maype not; but dat Nero ish a goot, kind tog; he bide dramps, but nefer dose nice leetle girl. Dis ish de great day when dose nice old lady pees von huntred years old. What you dinks? a fery long dime to live?" "Yes; very long," returned Lulu, emphatically. "I wish I knew papa would live to be that old, for then he'd be at home with us almost forty years after he retires from the navy." "Somebody ish call you, I dinks," said John, and at the same moment Grace's clear, bird-like voice came floating on the morning breeze, "Lulu, Lulu!" as her dainty little figure danced gayly down the garden path in search of her missing sister. "Oh, there you are!" she exclaimed, catching sight of Lulu. "Come into Aunt Wealthy's house and see the pretty presents everybody has given her for her hundredth birthday. She hasn't seen them yet, but she is going to when she comes down to eat her breakfast." "Oh, I'd like to see them!" exclaimed Lulu, and she and Grace tripped back to the house together, and on into the sitting-room, where, on a large table, the gifts were displayed. They were many, and some of them costly, for the old lady was very dear to the hearts of these relatives, and they were able as well as willing to show their affection in this substantial way. There were fine paintings and engravings to adorn her walls; fine china, and glittering cut glass, silver and gold ware for her tables; vases for her mantels; richly-bound and illustrated books, whose literary contents were worthy of the costly adornment, and various other things calculated to give her pleasure or add to her ease and comfort. She was not anticipating any such demonstration of affection--not expecting such substantial evidences of the love and esteem in which she was held--and when brought face to face with them was almost overcome, so that tears of joy and gratitude streamed from her aged eyes, They were soon wiped away, however, and she was again her own bright, cheery self, full of thought and care for others--the kindest and most genial of hostesses. She took the head of the breakfast-table herself, and poured the coffee for her guests with her own hands, entertaining them the while with cheerful chat, and causing many a merry laugh with the old-time tripping of her tongue--a laugh in which she always joined with hearty relish. "There is too much butter in this salt," she remarked. "It is some John Hencle brought in this morning. I must see him after breakfast and bid him caution his wife to use less." But as they rose from the table John came in unsummoned, and carrying a fine large goose under each arm. Bowing low: "I ish come to pring two gooses to de von hundredth birthday," he announced; "dey pees goot, peaceable pirds: I ish know dem for twenty years, and dey nefer makes no droubles." A smile went round the little circle, but Miss Stanhope said, with a very pleased look, "Thank you, John; they shall be well fed, and I hope they will like their new quarters. How is Jake doing? I haven't seen him for some time." "No; Shakey is go to school most days. I vants Shakey to knows somedings." "Yes, indeed; I hope Jakey is going to have a good education. But what do you mean to do with him after he is done going to school?" "Vy, I dinks I prings mine Shakey to town and hangs him on to Sheneral Shmicdt and makes a brinting-office out of him." "A printer, John? Well, that might be a very good thing if you don't need him to help you about the farm, or our grounds. I should think you would, though." "Nein, nein," said John, shaking his head; "'tis not so long as I vants Shakey to makes mit me a fence; put I tash! Miss Stanhope, he say he ton't can know how to do it; and I says, 'I tash! Shakey, you peen goin' to school all your life, and you don't know de vay to makes a fence yet.'" "Not so very strange," remarked Edward, with unmoved countenance, "for they don't teach fence-making in ordinary schools." "Vell, den, de more's de bity," returned John, taking his departure. But turning back at the door to say to Miss Stanhope, "I vill put dose gooses in von safe place." "Any place where they can do no mischief, John," she answered, good-humoredly. "Now, Aunt Wealthy," said Annis, "what can we do to make this wonderful day pass most happily to you?" "Whatever will be most enjoyable to my guests," was the smiling reply. "An old body like me can ask nothing better than to sit and look on and listen." "Ah, but we would have you talk, too, auntie, when you don't find it wearisome!" "What are you going to do with all your new treasures, Aunt Wealthy?" asked Edward; "don't you want your pictures hung and a place found for each vase and other household ornament?" "Certainly," she said, with a pleased look, "and this is the very time, while I have you all here to give your opinions and advice." "And help," added Edward, "if you will accept it. As I am tall and strong, I volunteer to hang the pictures after the place for each has been duly considered and decided upon." His offer was promptly accepted, and the work entered upon in a spirit of fun and frolic, which made it enjoyable to all. Whatever the others decided upon met with Miss Stanhope's approval; she watched their proceedings with keen interest, and was greatly delighted with the effect of their labors. "My dears," she said, "you have made my house so beautiful! and whenever I look at these lovely things my thoughts will be full of the dear givers. I shall not be here long, but while I stay my happiness will be the greater because of your kindness," "And the remembrance of these words of yours, dear aunt, will add to ours," said Mr. Keith, with feeling. "But old as you are, Aunt Wealthy," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, "it is quite possible that some of us may reach home before you. It matters little, however, as we are all travelling the same road to the same happy country, being children of one Father, servants of the same blessed Master." "And He shall choose all our changes for us," she said, "calling each one home at such time as He sees best. Ah, it is sweet to leave all our interests in His dear hands, and have Him choose our inheritance for us!" There was a pause in the conversation, while Miss Stanhope seemed lost in thought. Then Mrs. Keith remarked: "You look weary, dear Aunt Wealthy; will you not lie down and rest for a little?" "Yes," she said, "I shall take it as the privilege of age, leaving you all to entertain yourselves and each other for a time." At that Mr. Dinsmore hastened to give her his arm and support her to her bedroom, his wife and Mrs. Keith following to see her comfortably established upon a couch, where they left her to take her rest. The others scattered in various directions, as inclination dictated. Elsie and Annis sought the grounds, and, taking possession of a rustic seat beneath a spreading tree, had a long, quiet talk, recalling incidents of other days, and exchanging mutual confidences. "What changes we have passed through since our first acquaintance !" exclaimed Annis. "What careless, happy children we were then!" "And what happy women we are now!" added Elsie, with a joyous smile. "Yes; and you a grandmother! I hardly know how to believe it! You seem wonderfully young for that." "Do I?" laughed Elsie. "I acknowledge that I feel young--that I have never yet been able to reason myself into feeling old." "Don't try; keep young as long as ever you can," was Annis's advice. "It is what you seem to be doing," said Elsie, sportively, and with an admiring look at her cousin. "Dear Annis, may I ask why it is you have never married? It must certainly have been your own fault." "Really, I hardly know what reply to make to that last remark," returned Annis, in her sprightly way. "But I have not the slightest objection to answering your question. I will tell 'the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.' I have had friends and admirers among the members of the other sex, but have never yet seen the man for love of whom I could for a moment think of leaving father and mother." "How fortunate for them!" Elsie said, with earnest sincerity. "I know they must esteem it a great blessing that they have been able to keep one dear daughter in the old home." "And I esteem myself blest indeed in having had my dear father and mother spared to me all these years," Annis said, with feeling. "What a privilege it is, Elsie, to be permitted to smooth, some of the roughnesses from their pathway now in their declining years; to make life even a trifle easier and happier than it might otherwise be to them--the dear parents who so tenderly watched over me in infancy and youth! I know you can appreciate it--you who love your father so devotedly. "But Cousin Horace is still a comparatively young man, hale and hearty, and to all appearance likely to live many years, while my parents are aged and infirm, and I cannot hope to keep them long." Her voice was husky with emotion as she concluded. "Dear Annis," Elsie said, pressing tenderly the hand she held in hers, "you are never to lose them. They may be called home before you, but the separation will be short and the reunion for eternity--an eternity of unspeakable joy, unclouded bliss at the right hand of Him whom you all love better than you love each other." "That is true," Annis responded, struggling with her tears, "and there is very great comfort in the thought; yet one cannot help dreading the parting, and feeling that death is a thing to be feared for one's dear ones and one's self. Death is a terrible thing, Elsie." "Not half so much so to me as it once was, dear cousin," Elsie said, in a tenderly sympathizing tone. "I have thought much lately on that sweet text, 'Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints;' and that other, 'He shall see of the travail of his soul, and shall be satisfied,' and the contemplation has shown me so much of the love of Jesus for the souls He has bought with His own precious blood and the joyful reception He gives them, as one by one they are gathered home, that it seems to me the death of a Christian should hardly bring sorrow to any heart. Oh, it has comforted me much in my separation from the dear husband of my youth, and made me at times look almost eagerly forward to the day when my dear Lord shall call me home and I shall see His face!" "O Elsie," cried Annis, "I trust that day may be far distant, for many hearts would be like to break at parting with you! But there is consolation for the bereaved in the thoughts you suggest; and I shall try to cherish them and forget the gloom of the grave and the dread, for myself and for those I love, of the parting." They were silent for a moment; then Elsie said, as if struck by a sudden thought, "Annis, why should not you and your father and mother go home with us and spend the fall and winter at Ion and Viamede?" "I cannot think of anything more delightful!" exclaimed Annis, her face lighting up with pleasure; "and I believe it would be for their health to escape the winter in our severer climate, for they are both subject to colds and rheumatism at that season." "Then you will persuade them?" "If I can, Elsie. How kind in you to give the invitation!" "Not at all, Annis; for in so doing I seek my own gratification as well as theirs and yours," Elsie answered, with earnest sincerity. "We purpose going from here to Ion, and from there to Viamede, perhaps two months later, to spend the remainder of the winter. And you and your father and mother will find plenty of room and a warm welcome in both places." "I know it, Elsie," Annis said; "I know you would not say so if it were not entirely true, and I feel certain of a great deal of enjoyment in your loved society, if father and mother accept your kind invitation." While these two conversed together thus in the grounds, a grand banquet was in course of preparation in Miss Stanhope's house, under the supervision of our old friends, May and Lottie. To it Elsie and Annis were presently summoned, in common with the other guests. When the feasting was concluded, and all were again gathered in the parlors, Elsie renewed her invitation already made to Annis, this time addressing herself to Mr. and Mrs. Keith. They heard it with evident pleasure, and after some consideration accepted. Edward and Zoe returned to Ion the following day, Herbert and Harold leaving at the same time for college. The rest of the Travillas, the Dinsmores, and the Raymonds lingered a week or two longer with Miss Stanhope, who was very loath to part with them, Elsie in especial; then bade farewell, scarce expecting to see her again on earth, and turned their faces homeward, rejoicing in the promise of Mr. and Mrs. Keith that they and Annis would soon follow, should nothing happen to prevent. 
14534	----	CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE by MARTHA FINLEY Author of _Elsie Dinsmore_, _Elsie at Nantucket_, _Mildred and Elsie_, _Our Fred_, _Wanted, a Pedigree_, etc. 1888 CHAPTER I. It was about the middle of November. There had been a long rain storm, ending in sleet and snow, and now the sun was shining brightly on a landscape sheeted with ice: walks and roads were slippery with it, every tree and shrub was encased in it, and glittering and sparkling as if loaded with diamonds, as its branches swayed and tossed in the wind. At Ion Mrs. Elsie Travilla stood at the window of her dressing-room gazing with delighted eyes upon the lovely scene. "How beautiful!" she said softly to herself; "and my Father made it all. 'He gives snow like wool: he scattereth the hoar frost like ashes. He casteth forth his ice like morsels.' "Ah, good morning, my dears," as the door opened and Rosie and Walter came in together. "Good morning, dearest mamma," they returned, hastening to her to give and receive the affectionate kiss with which they were accustomed to meet at the beginning of a new day. "I'm so glad the long storm is over at last," said Rosie; "it is really delightful to see the sunshine once more." "And the beautiful work of the Frost king reflecting his rays," added her mother, calling their attention to the new beauties of the ever attractive landscape spread out before them. Both exclaimed in delight "How beautiful, mamma!" Rosie adding, "It must be that the roads are in fine condition for sleighing. I hope we can go." "O mamma, can't we?" cried Walter. "Won't you give us a holiday?" "I shall take the question into consideration," she answered with an indulgent smile; "we will perhaps discuss it at the breakfast table: but now we will have our reading together." At that very time Capt. Raymond and Violet in her boudoir at Woodburn, were also discussing the state of the roads and the advisability of dispensing with school duties for the day that all the family might enjoy the rather rare treat of a sleigh-ride. "You would enjoy it, my love?" he said inquiringly. "Very much--in company with my husband and the children," she returned; "yet I would not wish to influence you to decide against your convictions in regard to what is right and wise." "We will go," he said, smiling fondly upon her, "I can not bear to have you miss the pleasure; nor the children either for that matter, though I am a little afraid I might justly be deemed weakly indulgent in according them a holiday again so soon: it is against my principles to allow lessons to be set aside for other than very weighty reasons; it is a matter of so great importance that they be trained to put duties first, giving pleasure a secondary place." "But they are so good and industrious," said Violet, "and the sleighing is not likely to last long. It seldom does with us." "And they have been so closely confined to the house of late, by the inclemency of the weather," he added. "Yes: they shall go; for it will do them a great deal of good physically, I think, and health is, after all, of more consequence for them than rapid advancement in their studies." "I should think so indeed," said Violet. "Now the next question is where shall we go?" "That is a question for my wife to settle," returned the captain gallantly. "I shall be most happy to accompany her wherever she decides that she wishes to be taken." "Thank you, sir. I want to see mamma, of course." "Then we will call at Ion, and perhaps may be able to persuade mother to join us in a longer ride." "Oh couldn't we hire an omnibus sleigh and ask them all to join us? It would just about hold the two families." "It is a trifle odd that the same idea had just occurred to me," he remarked pleasantly. "I will telephone at once to the town, and if I can engage a suitable sleigh, will call to Ion and give our invitation." The reply from the village was satisfactory; also that from Ion, given by Grandpa Dinsmore, who said he would venture to accept the invitation for all the family without waiting to consult them. The captain reported to Violet, then passed on into the apartments of his little daughters. He found them up and dressed, standing at the window of their sitting-room gazing out into the grounds. "Good morning, my darlings," he said. "Oh good morning, papa," they cried, turning and running into his outstretched arms to give and receive tenderest caresses. "What were you looking at?" he asked presently. "Oh! oh! the loveliest sight!" cried Lulu. "Do, papa, come and look," taking his hand and drawing him toward the window. "There, isn't it?" "Yes; I have seldom seen a finer," he assented. "And the sun is shining so brightly; can't I take a walk with you to-day?" she asked, looking coaxingly up into his face. "Why, my child, the walks and roads are sheeted with ice; you could not stand, much less walk on them." "I think I could, papa, if--if you'd only let me try. But oh don't look troubled, for indeed, indeed, I'm not going to be naughty about it, though I have been shut up in the house for so long, except just riding in the close carriage to church yesterday." "Yes; and I know it has been hard for you," he said, smoothing her hair with caressing hand. Then sitting down he drew her to one knee, Gracie to the other. "How would my little girls like to be excused from lessons to-day and given, instead, a sleigh-ride with papa, mamma, Max and little Elsie?" "Oh ever so much, papa!" they cried, clapping their hands in delight. "How good in you to think of it!" "'Specially for me, considering how very, very naughty I was only last week," added Lulu, in a remorseful tone. "Papa, I really think I oughtn't to be let go." "And I really think I should not be deprived of the pleasure of having my dear eldest daughter with me on this first sleigh-ride of the season," returned her father, drawing her into a closer embrace. "And it would spoil all the fun for me to have you left at home, Lu," said Grace. "And that must not be; we will all go, and I trust will have a very pleasant time," the captain said, rising and taking a hand of each to lead them down to the breakfast-room, for the bell was ringing. At Ion the family were gathering about the table to partake of their morning meal. Walter waited rather impatiently till the blessing had been asked, then, with an entreating look at his mother, said, "Mamma, you know what you promised?" "Yes, my son; but be patient a little longer. I see your grandpa has something to say." "Something that Walter will be glad to hear, I make no doubt," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, giving the child a kindly look and smile. "Capt. Raymond and I have had a little chat through the telephone this morning. He invites us all to join the Woodburn family in a sleigh-ride, he is coming for us in an omnibus sleigh; and I accepted for each and every one of you." Zoe, Rosie and Walter uttered a simultaneous exclamation of delight, while the others looked well pleased with the arrangement. "At what hour are we to expect the captain?" asked Mrs. Dinsmore. "About ten." "And where does he propose to take us?" inquired Zoe. "I presume wherever the ladies of the party decide that they would like to go." "Surely, papa, the gentlemen also should have a voice in that," his daughter said, sending him a bright, affectionate look from behind the coffee-urn, "you at least, in case the question is put to vote." "Not I more than the rest of you," he returned pleasantly. "But I have no doubt we would all enjoy the ride in any direction where the sleighing is good." "I think it will prove fine on all the roads," remarked Edward, "and I presume everybody, would enjoy driving over to Fairview, the Laurels and the Oaks to call on our nearest relatives; perhaps to the Pines and Roselands also, to see the cousins there." "That would be nice," said Zoe, "but don't you suppose they may be improving the sleighing opportunity as well as ourselves? may be driving over here to call on us?" "Then, when we meet, the question will be who shall turn round and go back, and who keep on," laughed Rosie. "But to avoid such an unpleasant state of affairs we have only to ask and, answer a few questions through the telephone," said Edward. "Certainly," said his grandfather, "and we'll attend to it the first thing on leaving the table." Everybody was interested, and presently all were gathered about the telephone, while Edward, acting as spokesman of the party, called to first one and then another of the households nearly related to themselves. The answers came promptly, and it was soon evident that all were intending to avail themselves of the somewhat rare opportunity offered by the snow and ice covered roads, none planning to stay at home to receive calls. They would all visit Ion if the ladies there were likely to be in. "Tell them," said Grandma Elsie, "to take their drives this morning, come to Ion in time for dinner, and spend the rest of the day and evening here. I shall be much pleased to have them all do so." The message went the rounds, everybody accepted the invitation, and Elsie's orders for the day to cook and housekeeper, were given accordingly. The Woodburn party arrived in high spirits, a sleigh, containing the Fairview family, driving up at the same time. They had room for one more and wanted "mamma" to occupy it; but the captain and Violet would not resign their claim, and Evelyn and Lulu showed a strong desire to be together; so the former was transferred to the Woodburn sleigh, and Zoe and Edward took the vacant seats in that from Fairview. The two vehicles kept near together, their occupants, the children especially, were very gay and lively. They talked of last year's holiday sports, and indulged in pleasing anticipations in regard to what might be in store for them in those now drawing near. "We had a fine time at the Oaks, hadn't we, girls?" said Max, addressing Evelyn and Rosie. "Yes," they replied, "but a still better one at Woodburn." "When are you and Lu going to invite us again?" asked Rosie. "When papa gives permission," answered Max, sending a smiling, persuasive glance in his father's direction. "It is quite possible you may not have very long to wait for that, Max," was the kindly indulgent rejoinder from the captain. "It is Rosie's turn this year," remarked Grandma Elsie; "Rosie's and Walter's and mine. I want all the young people of the connection--and as many of the older ones as we can make room for--to come to Ion for the Christmas holidays, or at least the greater part of them; we will settle particulars as to the time of coming and going, later on. Captain, I want you and Violet and all your children for the whole time." "Thank you, mother; you are most kind, and I do not now see anything in the way of our acceptance of your invitation," he said; but added with a playful look at Violet, "unless my wife should object." "If I should, mamma, you will receive my regrets in due season," laughed Violet. The faces of the children were beaming with delight, and their young voices united in a chorus of expressions of pleasure and thanks to Grandma Elsie. "I am glad you are all pleased with the idea," she said. "We will try to provide as great a variety of amusements as possible, and shall be glad of any hints or suggestions from old or young in regard to anything new in that line." "We will all try to help you, mamma," Violet said, "and not be jealous or envious if your party should far outshine ours of last year." "And we have more than a month to get ready in," remarked Rosie with satisfaction. "Oh I'm so glad mamma has decided on it in such good season!" "Hello!" cried Max, glancing back toward an intersecting road which they had just crossed, "Here they come!" "Who?" asked several voices, while all turned their heads to see for themselves. "The Oaks, and the Roselands folks," answered Max, and as he spoke two large sleighs came swiftly up in the rear of their own, their occupants calling out merry greetings, and receiving a return in kind. The wind had fallen, the cold was not intense, and they were so well protected against it by coats and robes of fur, that they scarcely felt it, and found the ride so thoroughly enjoyable that they kept it up through the whole morning, managing their return so that Ion was reached only a few minutes before the dinner hour. Ion was a sort of headquarters for the entire connection, and everybody seemed to feel perfectly at home. Grandma Elsie was a most hospitable hostess, and it was a very cheerful, jovial party that surrounded her well-spread table that day. After dinner, while the older people conversed together in the parlors, the younger ones wandered at will through the house. The girls were together in a small reception-room, chatting about such matters as particularly interested them--their studies, sports, plans for the purchase or making of Christmas gifts, and what they hoped or desired to receive. "I want jewelry," said Sidney Dinsmore. "I'd rather have that than anything else. But it must be handsome: a diamond pin or ring, or ear-rings." "Mamma says diamonds are quite unsuitable for young girls," said Rosie. "So I prefer pearls: and I'm rather in hopes she may give me some for Christmas." "I'd rather have diamonds anyhow," persisted Sydney. "See Maud's new ring, just sent her by a rich old aunt of ours. I'm sure it looks lovely on her finger and shows off the beauty of her hand." "Yes, I've been admiring it," said Lulu, "and I thought I'd never seen it before." Maud held out her hand with, evident pride and satisfaction, while the others gathered round her eager for a close inspection of the ring. They all admired it greatly and Maud seemed gratified. "Yes," she said, "it certainly is a beauty, and Chess says it must be worth a good deal; that centre stone is quite large, you see, and there are six others in a circle around it." "I should think you'd feel very rich," remarked Lulu; "I'd go fairly wild with delight if I had such an one given me." "Well then, why not give your father a hint that you'd like such a Christmas gift from him?" asked Sydney. "I'm afraid it would cost too much," said Lulu, "and I wouldn't want papa to spend more on me than he could well afford." "Why, he could afford it well enough!" exclaimed Maud. "Your father is very rich--worth his millions, I heard Cousin Horace say not long ago; and he knows of course." Lulu looked much surprised. "Papa never talks of how much money he has," she said, "and I never supposed it was more than about enough to keep us comfortable; but millions means a great deal doesn't it?" "I should say so indeed! more than your mind or mine can grasp the idea of." Lulu's eyes sparkled. "I'm ever so glad for papa!" she said; "he's just the right person to have a great deal of money, for he will be sure to make the very best use of it." "And for a part of it, that will be diamonds for you, won't it?" laughed Maud. "I hope the captain will think so by the time she's grown up," remarked Rosie, with a pleasant look at Lulu; "or sooner if they come to be thought suitable for girls of her age." "That's nice in you Rosie," Lulu said, flushing with pleasure, "and I hope you will get your pearls this Christmas." "I join in both wishes," said Evelyn Leland, "and hope everyone of you will receive a Christmas gift quite to her mind: but, oh girls, don't you think it would be nice to give a good time to the poor people about us?" "What poor people?" asked Sydney. "I mean both the whites and the blacks," explained Evelyn. "There are those Jones children that live not far from Woodburn, for instance: their mother's dead and the father gets drunk and beats and abuses them, and altogether I'm sure they are very, very forlorn." "Oh yes," cried Lulu, "it would be just splendid to give them a good time!--nice things to eat and to wear, and toys too. I'll talk to papa about it, and he'll tell us what to give them and how to give it." "And there are a number of other families in the neighborhood probably quite as poor and forlorn," said Lora Howard. "Oh I think it would be delightful to get them all together somewhere and surprise them with a Christmas tree loaded with nice things! Lets do it, girls. We all have some pocket money, and we can get our fathers and mothers to tell us how to use it to the best advantage, and how to manage the giving." "I haven't a bit more pocket money than I need to buy the presents I wish to give my own particular friends," objected Sydney. "It's nice, and right too, I think, to give tokens of love to our dear ones," Evelyn said, "but we need not make them very expensive in order to give pleasure;--often they would prefer some simple little thing that is the work of our own hands--and so we would have something left for the poor and needy, whom the Bible teaches us we should care for and relieve to the best of our ability." "Yes, I daresay you are right," returned Sydney, "but I sha'n't make any rash promises in regard to the matter." CHAPTER II. In the parlor the older people were conversing on somewhat similar topics: first discussing plans for the entertainment and gratification of their children and other young relatives, during the approaching holidays, then of the needs of the poor of the neighborhood, and how to supply them; after that they talked of the claims of Home and Foreign Missions; the perils threatening their country from illiteracy, anarchy, heathenism, Mormonism, Popery, Infidelity, etc., not omitting the danger from vast wealth accumulating in the hands of individuals and corporations; also they spoke of the heavy responsibility entailed by its possession. They were patriots and Christians; anxious first of all for the advancement of Christ's kingdom upon earth, secondly for the welfare and prosperity of the dear land of their birth--the glorious old Union transmitted to us by our revolutionary fathers. It was a personal question with each one, "How can I best use for the salvation of my country and the world, the time, talents, influence and money God has entrusted to my keeping." They acknowledged themselves stewards of God's bounty, and as such desired to be found faithful; neglecting neither the work nearest at hand nor that in far distant lands where the people sit in great darkness and the region and shadow of death, that on them the "Sun of righteousness might arise with healing in his wings." It had been expected that the guests would stay at Ion till bedtime, but a thaw had set in and ice and snow were fast disappearing from the roads; therefore all departed for their homes directly after an early tea. Lulu was very quiet during the homeward drive; her thoughts were full of Maud's surprising assertion in regard to her father's wealth. "I wonder if it is really so," she said to herself. "I'm tempted to ask papa; but he might not like it, and I wouldn't want to do anything to vex or trouble him,--my dear, dear kind father!" An excellent opportunity for a private chat with him was afforded her shortly after their arrival at home. The little ones were fretful and Violet went to the nursery with them; Max hastened to his own room to finish a composition he was expected to hand to his father the next morning, Gracie, weary with the excitement of the day, and the long morning drive, went directly to her bed, and having seen her in it, and left her there with a loving good night, the captain and Lulu presently found themselves the only occupants of the library. Taking possession of a large easy chair, "Come and sit on my knee and tell me how you have enjoyed your day," he said, giving her a fond fatherly smile. "Very much indeed, papa," she answered, accepting his invitation, putting her arm round his neck and laying her cheek to his. His arm was around her waist. He drew her closer, saying softly, "My dear, dear little daughter! I thought you were unusually quiet coming home: is anything amiss with you?" "Oh, no, papa! I've had a lovely time all day long. How kind you were to give us all a holiday and let me go along with the rest of you." "Good to myself as well as to you, my darlings; I could have had very little enjoyment leaving you behind." "Papa, it's so nice to have you love me so!" she said, kissing him with ardent affection. "Oh, I do hope I'll never, _never_ be very naughty again!" "I hope not, dear child," he responded, returning her caresses. "I hope you feel ready to resume your studies to-morrow, with diligence and painstaking?" "Yes, papa, I think I do. It's almost a week since you have heard me recite; except the Sunday lesson yesterday." "Yes," he said gravely, "it has been something of a loss to you in one way, but I trust a decided gain in another. Well to change the subject, are you pleased with the prospect of spending the holidays at Ion?" "Yes, papa; I think it will be lovely; almost as nice as having a party of our own, as we did last year." "Possibly we may add that--a party here for a day or two--if Grandma Elsie does not use up all the holidays with hers," he said in a half jesting tone and with a pleasant laugh. "O papa, do you really think we may?" she cried in delight. "Oh you are just the kindest father!" giving him a hug. He laughed at that, returning the hug with interest. "I suppose you and Eva and the rest were laying out plans for Christmas doings this afternoon?" he said inquiringly. "Yes, papa, we were talking a good deal about games and tableaux, and about the things we could buy or make for gifts to our friends, and what we would like to have given us." She paused, half hoping he would ask what she wanted from him, but he did not. He sat silently caressing her hair and cheek with his hand, and seemingly lost in thought. At length, "Papa," she asked half hesitatingly, "are you very rich?" "Rich?" he repeated, coming suddenly out of his reverie and looking smilingly down into her eyes, "yes; I have a sound constitution, excellent health, a delightful home, a wife and five children, each one of whom I esteem worth at least a million to me; I live in a Christian land," he went on in a graver tone, "I have the Bible with all its great and precious promises, the hope of a blessed eternity at God's right hand, and that all my dear ones are traveling heavenward with me; yes, I am a very rich man!" "Yes, sir; but--I meant have you a great deal of money." "Enough to provide all that is necessary for the comfort of my family, and to gratify any reasonable desire on the part of my little girl. What is it you want, my darling?" "Papa, I'm almost ashamed to tell you," she said, blushing and hanging her head; "but if I do, and you can't afford it, won't you please say so and not feel sorry about it? because I wouldn't ever want you to spend money on me that you need for yourself or some of the others." "I am glad you are thoughtful for others as well as yourself, daughter," he said kindly; "but don't hesitate to tell me all that is in your heart. Nothing pleases me better than to have you, and all my dear children do so." "Thank you, my dear, dear papa. I don't mean ever to hide anything from you," she returned, giving him another hug and kiss, while her eyes sparkled and her cheek flushed with pleasure. "It's a diamond ring I'd like to have." "A diamond ring?" he repeated in surprise. "What would my little girl do with such a thing as that?" "Wear it, papa. Maud Dinsmore has such beautiful one, that a rich aunt sent her the other day," she went on eagerly; "there's a large diamond in the middle and little ones all round it, and it sparkles so, and looks just lovely on her hand! We all admired it ever so much, and I said I'd be wild with delight if I had such an one; then Sydney said, 'Why not give your father a hint that you'd like one for Christmas?' and I said I was afraid you couldn't afford to give me anything that would cost so much; but Maud said I needn't be, for you were worth millions of money. Can you really afford to give it to me, papa? I'd like it better than anything else if you can, but if you can't I don't want it," she concluded with a sigh, and creeping closer into his embrace. He did not speak for a moment, but though grave and thoughtful his countenance was quite free from displeasure,--and when, at length, he spoke, his tones were very kind and affectionate. "If I thought it would really be for my little girl's welfare and happiness in the end," he said, "I should not hesitate for a moment to gratify her in this wish of hers, but, daughter, the ornament you covet would be extremely unsuitable for one of your years, and I fear its possession would foster a love of finery that I do not wish to cultivate in you, because it is not right, and would hinder you in the race I trust you are running for the prize of eternal life. "The Bible tells us we can not serve both God and Mammon; can not love him and the world too. "'If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him.' God has entrusted me with a good deal of money, but I hold it as his steward, and 'it is required in stewards, that a man be found faithful.'" "I don't know what you mean, papa," she said, with look and tone of keen disappointment. "That I must use the Lord's money to do his work, daughter; a great deal of money is needed to help on the advancement of his cause and kingdom in the hearts of individuals, and in the world at large. There are millions of poor creatures in heathen lands who have never so much as heard of Jesus and his dying love; and even in our own favored country there are thousands who are sunk in poverty, ignorance and wretchedness. Money is needed to feed and clothe them, to send them teachers and preachers, and to build churches, schools, and colleges, where they can be educated and fitted for happiness and usefulness. "Suppose I had a thousand, or five thousand dollars, to spare after supplying my family with all that is necessary for health, comfort and happiness; could my dear eldest daughter be so selfish as to wish me to put it into a diamond ring for her at the expense of leaving some poor creature in want and misery? some poor heathen to die without the knowledge of Christ? some soul to be lost that Jesus died to save?" "Oh no, no, papa!" she exclaimed, tears starting to her eyes, "I couldn't be so hard hearted. I couldn't bear to look at my ring if it had cost so much to other people." "No, I am sure you could not; and I believe you would find far more enjoyment, a far sweeter pleasure, in selecting objects for me to benefit by the money the ring might cost." "O papa, how nice, how delightful that would be if you would let me!" she cried joyously. "I will," he said; "I have some thousands to divide among the various religious and benevolent objects, and shall give a certain sum--perhaps as much as a thousand dollars--in the name of each of my three children who are old enough to understand these things, letting each of you select the cause, or causes, to which his or her share is to go." "Which are the causes, papa?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "There are Home and Foreign Missions, the work among the freedmen, and for the destitute in our own neighborhood, beside very many others. We will read about these various objects and talk the matter over together, and finally decide how many we can help, and how much shall be given to each. Perhaps you may choose to support a little Indian girl in one of the Mission schools, or some child in heathen lands; or a missionary who will go and teach them the way to heaven." "Oh I should love to do that!" she exclaimed, "it will be better than having a ring. Papa, how good you are to me! I am so glad God gave me such a father; one who tries always to teach me how to serve Him and to help me to be the right kind of a Christian." "I want to help you in that, my darling," he said; "I think I could do you no greater kindness." Just then Max came into the room, and his father called him to take a seat by his side, saying, "I am glad you have come, my son, for I was about to speak to Lulu on a subject that concerns you quite as nearly." "Yes, sir; I'll be glad to listen," replied Max, doing as directed. The captain went on. "The Bible tells us, 'If any man have not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of his.' If we are like Jesus in spirit, we will love others and be ready to deny ourselves to do them good; especially to save their souls; for to that end he denied himself even to the shameful and painful death of the cross. "He says, 'If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me.... Whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come after me, cannot be my disciple.' "That is we cannot be his disciples without doing something to bring sinners to him that they may be saved; something that will cost us self-denial; it may be of our own ease, or of something we would like to do or have. "And it must be done willingly, cheerfully, from love to the dear Master and the souls he died to save, and not as the way to earn heaven for ourselves. "We can not merit salvation, do what we will; we must take it as God's free, undeserved gift." There was a moment of thoughtful silence; then Max said, "Papa, I think I am willing if I knew just what to do and how to do it. Can you tell me?" "You have some money of your own every week; you can give what you will of that to held spread abroad the glad tidings of salvation; you can pray for others, and when a favorable opportunity offers, speak a word to lead them to Christ. Ask God to show you opportunities and give you grace and wisdom to use them. Try also, so to live, and act, and speak, that all who see and know you will, take knowledge of you that you have been with Jesus and learned of him." "Papa," said Lulu, "won't you tell Max about the money you are going to give in our names?" "No, I will let you have that pleasure," the captain answered with a kindly look and tone, and she eagerly availed herself of the permission. Max was greatly pleased, and Violet, who joined them just in time to hear what Lulu was saying, highly approved. "But you will understand, children," the captain said, "that this involves your gaining a great deal of information on the subject of missions, and other schemes of benevolence, and in order to help you in that, we will spend a short time each evening, when not prevented by company or some more important engagement, in reading and conversing on this topic." "I wish I could earn some money to give," said Lulu. "I'd like to carve pretty things to sell; but who would buy them?" "Possibly papa might become an occasional purchaser," her father said, stroking her hair and smiling kindly upon her. "Or Mamma Vi," added her young step-mother. "And I have another offer to make you both," said the captain; "for every day that I find you obedient, pleasant-tempered and industrious I will give each of you twenty-five cents for benevolent purposes." "Thank you, papa," they both said, their eyes sparkling with pleasure; Max adding, "That will be a dollar and seventy-five cents a week." "Yes; and for every week that either one of you earns the quarter every day, I will add another to bring it up to two dollars." "O papa, how nice!" exclaimed Lulu. "I mean to try very hard, so that I may have enough to support a little Indian girl. And is Gracie to have the same?" "Certainly; and I shall not be greatly surprised if Gracie's missionary box fills faster than either of the others." "I am almost sure it will," said Lulu, sobering down a good deal; "and Max's will be next. But I do mean to try ever so hard to be good." "I am quite sure you do, dear child," her father responded in tender tones. "I know my little girl wants to improve, and I shall do all I can to help her." "Papa, is that quarter a day for good conduct, to be in addition to our usual pocket money?" asked Max. "Certainly, my son; your pocket money is your own, to use for your pleasure or profit, except what you feel that you ought, or desire to give of it; but the quarter is expressly, and only for benevolent purposes." "When may we begin to earn it, papa?" "To-morrow." "I'm glad of that," said Lulu with satisfaction, "because I want to earn a good deal before Christmas." Then she told of Evelyn's suggestions in regard to gifts for the poor in their immediate neighborhood. "A very good idea," her father said, "and I think it may be carried out in a way to yield enjoyment to both givers and receivers." "I hope it will be cold enough at Christmas time to make ice and snow for sleighing and sledding," Max remarked; "for we boys have planned to have a good deal of fun for ourselves and the girls too, if it is." "You mean if there is sleighing and sledding," his father said with an amused look. "It might be cold enough, yet the needed snow or ice be lacking." "Why, yes, sir, to be sure, so it might!" Max returned, laughing good humoredly. "What kind of fun is it you boys have planned for us girls?" asked Lulu. "Never you mind," said Max; "you'll see when the time comes; the surprise will be half of it you know." "My dear, you seem to me a very wise and kind father," Violet remarked to her husband when they found themselves alone together, after Max and Lulu had gone to their beds. "I very highly approve of the plans you have just proposed for them. Though, of course the approval of a silly young thing, such as I, must be a matter of small consequence," she added, with a merry, laughing look up into his face. "Young, but not silly," he returned, with a very lover-like look and smile. "I consider my wife's judgment worth a great deal, and am highly gratified with her approval. I am extremely desirous," he went on more gravely, "to train my darlings to systematic benevolence, a willingness to deny themselves for the cause of Christ, and to take an interest in every branch of the work of the church." CHAPTER III. Lulu's first thought on awaking the next morning, was of the talk of the previous evening, with her father. He had said she might have the pleasure of telling Gracie the good news in regard to the money to be earned by good conduct, and that which was to be given by him in the name of each of his older children; also the privilege he would accord them of selecting the particular cause, or causes, to which the money should go. Eager to avail herself of the permission, and see Gracie's delight, she sprang from her bed, ran to the door of communication between their sleeping rooms, which generally stood open--always at night--and peeped cautiously in. Gracie's head was still on her pillow, but at that instant she stirred, opened her eyes, and called out in a pleased tone, "O Lu, so you are up first!" speaking softly though, for fear of disturbing their father and Violet, in the room beyond, the door there being open also. Lulu hurried to it and closed it gently, then turning toward her sister, "Yes," she said, "but it's early, and you needn't get up just yet. I'm coming to creep in with you for a few minutes while I tell you something that I'm sure will please you." She crept into Grace's bed as she spoke, and they lay for a while clasped in each other's arms, Lulu talking very fast, Grace listening and now and then putting in a word or two. She was quite as much pleased with what Lulu had to tell, as the latter had anticipated. "Oh won't it be just lovely to have so much money to do good with!" she exclaimed when all had been told. "Haven't we got the very best and dearest father in the world? I don't believe, Lu, there's another one half so dear and kind and nice. We ought to be ever such good children!" "Yes, but I'm not," sighed Lulu. "O Gracie, I'd give anything to be as good as you are!" "Now don't talk so, Lu; you make me feel like a hypocrite; because I'm not good," said Grace. "You are; at any rate you're a great deal better than I am," asserted Lulu with warmth. "You never disobey papa, or get into a passion; and I don't think you love finery as I do. Gracie, I want that ring yet; oh I should like to have it ever so much! and I oughtn't to want it; it's very selfish, because to buy it would use up money that ought to go to send missionaries to the heathen, or do good to some poor miserable creature; and it's wrong for me to want it, because papa says it wouldn't be good for me; and if I were as good as I ought to be I'd never want anything he doesn't think best for me to have. But, oh dear, how can I help it when I'm so fond of pretty things!" "Lu," said Grace, softly, "I do believe that if you ask the Lord Jesus to help you to quit wanting it, he will. But if you didn't care for it, it wouldn't be denying yourself to do without it for the sake of the heathen." "Maybe so; but I don't believe papa would let me have it even if I wouldn't consent to give it up, and begged him ever so hard for it." "No, I s'pose not, for he loves us too well to give us anything that he thinks will make it harder for us to love and serve God and go to heaven when we die." "Yes, and of course that's the best way for people to love their children. It's time for me to get up now, but you'd better lie still a little longer." With that Lulu slipped from the bed, ran back to her room, and kneeling down there, gave thanks for the sleep of the past night, for health and strength, a good home, her dear, kind father to take care of, and provide for her, and love her, and all her many, many comforts and blessings; and confessing her sins, she asked to be forgiven for Jesus' sake, and to have strength given her to do all her duty that day,--to be patient, obedient, industrious, kind and helpful to others and willing to deny herself, especially in the matter of the ring she had been wishing for so ardently. When the captain came into the apartments of his little daughters for a few minutes chat before breakfast, as was his custom, he found them both neatly dressed and looking bright and happy. "How are you, my darlings?" he asked, kissing them in turn, then seating himself and drawing them into his arms. "I think we're both very well, papa," answered Lulu. "Yes, indeed!" said Grace, "and I'm ever so glad of what Lu's been telling me 'bout the money you are going to give us if we're good, and the choosing 'bout where the other shall go that you're going to give to help send missionaries to the heathen. Thank you for both, dear papa; but don't you think we ought to be good without being paid for it?" "Yes, I certainly do, my dear little girl; but at the same time I want my children to have the luxury of being able to give something which they have, in some sense, earned for that purpose. I want you to learn in your own experience the truth of the words of the Lord Jesus, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' "Now while you are so young, not capable of earning much in any other way, your proper business the task of gaining knowledge and skill to fit you for future usefulness, I see no more fitting way than this for you to be furnished with money for religious and benevolent purposes." "Papa," asked Lulu, "do you think it is never right for anybody to have diamonds or handsome jewelry of any kind?" "I do not think it my business to judge in such matters for everybody," he answered, caressing her and smiling down tenderly into her eyes; "but I must judge for myself--applying the rules the Bible gives me--and to a great extent for my children also while they are so young." "Not for Mamma Vi?" Lulu asked, with some little hesitation. "No; she is my wife, not my child, and old enough to judge for herself." "She has a great deal of beautiful jewelry," remarked Lulu with an involuntary sigh, "and Grandma Elsie has still more. Rosie asked her once to show it to us children, and she did. Oh she has just the loveliest rings and whole sets of jewelry--pins and ear-rings to match--and chains and bracelets! I'm sure they must be worth a great deal of money; Rosie said they were, and I'm sure Grandma Elsie is a real true Christian--a very, very good one and that Mamma Vi is too." "And I agree with you in that," was the emphatic reply. "But my daughter and I have nothing to do with deciding their duty for them in regard to this or other things. God does not require that of us; indeed forbids it; 'Judge not, that ye be not judged,' Jesus said. "But I see plainly that my duty is as I explained it to you last evening, and I thought then you were convinced that it would be selfish and wrong for you and me to spend a large sum for useless ornament that might otherwise be used for the good of our fellow creatures, and the advancement of Christ's kingdom." "Yes, papa, I was, and I'm trying, and asking God to help me, not to want the ring I asked you for; but I'm afraid it'll take me quite a while to quite stop wishing for it," she sighed. "You will conquer at length, if you keep on trying and asking for help," he said, giving her a tender kiss. "A good plan will be to fill your thoughts with other things," he went on; "your lessons while in the school-room, after that you may find it pleasant to begin planning for Christmas gifts to be made or bought for those you love, and others whom you would like to help. I shall give each of you--including Max--as much extra spending money as I did last year." "Beside all that for benevolence, papa?" they asked in surprise and delight. "Yes; what I provide you with for benevolence, is something aside from your spending money, which you are at liberty to do with as you please, within certain bounds," he said rising and taking a hand of each as the breakfast bell sounded out its summons to the morning meal. Misconduct and poor recitations were alike very rare in the school-room at Woodburn; neither found a place there to-day, so that the captain had only commendations to bestow, and they were heartily and gladly given. The ice and snow had entirely disappeared, and the roads were muddy; too muddy, it was thought, to make travel over them particularly agreeable; but the children obtained sufficient exercise in romping over the wide porches and trotting round the grounds on their ponies. But in spite of the bad condition of the roads, the Ion carriage drove over early in the afternoon, and Grandma Elsie, Mrs. Elsie Leland--her namesake daughter--Rosie and Evelyn alighted from it. Everybody was delighted to see them, and to hear that they would stay to tea. "O girls," said Lulu, "come up to my room and take off your things. I've something to tell you," and she looked so gay and happy that they felt quite sure it was something that pleased her greatly. "I think I can guess what it is," laughed Rosie; "your father has promised you the diamond ring you want so badly." "No, it isn't that; you may have another guess; but I don't believe you could hit the right thing if you should guess fifty or a hundred times." "Then I sha'n't try. I give it up. Don't you, Eva?" "Yes, please tell us, Lu," said Evelyn. Then Lulu, talking fast and eagerly, repeated to them what she had told to Grace, in bed that morning. "Oh how nice!" Evelyn exclaimed. "How I should like to be in your place, Lu!" "I think it's nice, too," Rosie said, "and I'd like mamma or grandpa to do the same by me. But I'd want my pearls too," she added, laughing. "Mamma's rich enough to give me them, and do all she need do for missions and the poor beside." "But so very, very much is needed," remarked Evelyn. "I've read in some of the religious papers, that if every church member would give but a small sum yearly, there would be enough," said Rosie; "and mamma gives hundreds and thousands of dollars; and grandpa gives a great deal too. So I don't see that I ought to do without the set of pearls I've set my heart on. It isn't mamma's place to do other people's duty for them--in the way of giving, any more than in other things." Grandma Elsie and her older daughters were in Violet's boudoir. "I had letters this morning, from your brothers Harold and Herbert, Vi, and have brought them with me to read to you," the mother said, taking the missives from her pocket. "Thank you, mamma; I am always glad to hear what they write; their letters are never dull or uninteresting," Violet replied, her sister Elsie adding, "They are always worth hearing, Lester and I think. What dear boys they are!" "And quite as highly appreciated by my husband as by yours, Elsie," Violet said with a bright, happy look. "They are a great blessing and comfort to their mother," Grandma Elsie remarked, "as indeed all my children are--their letters always a source of pleasure, but these even more so than most; for they show that my college boys are greatly stirred up on the subject of missions at home and abroad; full of renewed zeal for the advancement of the Master's cause and kingdom." She then read the letters which gave abundant evidence of the correctness of her estimate of the state of her sons' minds. They were working as teachers in a mission Sunday school, as Bible readers and tract distributors among the poor and degraded of the city where they were sojourning; doing good to bodies as well as souls--their mother supplying them with means for that purpose in addition to what she allowed them for pocket-money;--also exerting an influence for good among their fellow students. They told of interesting meetings held for prayer and conference upon the things concerning the kingdom; of renewed and higher consecration on the part of many who were already numbered among the Master's followers, and the conversion of others who had hitherto cared for none of these things. The reading of the letters was followed by an earnest talk between the mother and her daughters, in which Violet told of her husband's plans for giving through his children, in addition to what he would give in other ways. "What excellent ideas?" Grandma Elsie exclaimed, her eyes shining with pleasure. "I shall adopt both with my younger two children, one with all of you." "Which is that last, mamma?" asked Violet sportively. "The letting each of you select an object for a certain sum which I shall give." "Mamma, that is very nice and kind," remarked her daughter Elsie, "but we should give of our own means. Do you not think so?" "You may do that in addition," her mother said. "I have seven children on earth--eight counting Zoe, and one in heaven. I shall give a thousand dollars in the name of each." "Mamma, I for one fully appreciate your kindness, but think you would make a wiser choice of objects than we," said Violet, looking lovingly into her mother's eyes. "I want you to have the pleasure," her mother answered, "and I am reserving much the larger part of what I have to give, for objects of my own selection; for it has pleased the Lord to trust me with the stewardship of a good deal of the gold and silver which are his." At that moment the little girls entered the room, and Rosie, hurrying up to her mother, asked, "Mamma, have you heard, has Vi told you what the captain intends doing? how he is going to reward his children for good behavior?" "Yes; and I shall do the same by you and Walter." "That's a dear, good mamma!" exclaimed Rosie with satisfaction. "I thought you would." "And I intend to follow the captain's lead in another matter," Grandma Elsie went on, smiling pleasantly upon her young daughter; "That is in allowing each of my sons and daughters to select some good object for me to give to." "That's nice too," commented Rosie: "I like to be trusted in such things--as well as others," she added laughing, "and I hope you'll trust me with quite a sum of money to give or spend just as I please!" "Ah, my darling, you must not forget that your mother is only a steward," was the sweet toned response, given between a smile and a sigh; for Grandma Elsie was not free from anxiety about this youngest daughter, who had some serious faults, and had not yet entered the service of the Lord Jesus Christ. "Evelyn, dear, you too, as my pupil and a sort of adopted daughter, must share the reward of good behavior," she said, with a tenderly affectionate look at the fatherless niece of her son-in-law. Evelyn flushed with pleasure; but more because of the loving look than the promise of reward. "Dear Grandma Elsie, how very kind and good you always are to me!" she exclaimed feelingly, her eyes filling with tears of love and gratitude. "Dear child, whatever I have done for you has always been both a duty and a pleasure," Mrs. Travilla returned, taking the hand of the little girl, who was standing by her side, and pressing; it affectionately in her own. "Well, Eva," said Rosie, lightly, "you can calculate to a cent what you'll have for benevolence, for you're sure to earn the quarter every day of your life." "Not quite, Rosie," Evelyn answered in her gentle, refined tones, "I am liable to fall as well as others, and may astonish both you and myself some day by behaving very ill indeed." "I certainly should be astonished, Eva," laughed her Aunt Elsie. "I am quite sure it would be only under great provocation that you would be guilty of very bad behavior; and equally certain that you will never find that at Ion." "No," Evelyn said, "I have never received anything but the greatest kindness there." "And you are so sweet-tempered that you would never fly into a passion if you were treated ever so badly," remarked Lulu, with an admiring, appreciative look at her friend, accompanied by a regretful sigh over her own infirmity of temper. "Perhaps my faults lie in another direction; and how much credit do people deserve for refraining from doing what they feel no temptation to do?" said Evelyn, with an arch look and smile directed toward Lulu. "And those that tease quick tempered people, and make them angry, deserve at least half the blame," Rosie said softly in Lulu's ear, putting an arm affectionately about her as she spoke. "I don't mean to do so ever again, Lu, dear." "I'm sure you don't, Rosie," returned Lulu, in the same low key, her eyes shining, "and it's ever so good in you to take part of the blame of my badness." The visitors went away shortly after tea, Violet carried her babies off to bed, and the older three of the Woodburn children were left alone with their father. They clustered about him, Grace on his knee, Lulu on one side, Max on the other, while their tongues ran fast on whatever subject happened to be uppermost in their thoughts, the captain encouraging them to talk freely; for he was most desirous to have their entire confidence in order that he might be the better able to correct wrong ideas and impressions, inculcate right views and motives, and lead them to tread the paths of rectitude, living noble, unselfish lives, serving God and doing good to their fellow creatures. Sensible questions were sure to be patiently answered, requests carefully considered, and granted if reasonable and within his power; and instruction was given in a way to make it interesting and agreeable; reproof, if called for, administered in a kind, fatherly manner that robbed it of its sting. They talked of their sports, their pets, the books they were reading, the coming holidays, the enjoyment they were looking forward to at that time, and their plans for helping to make it a happy time to others. Evidently they were troubled with no doubt of their father's fond affection, or of the fact that he was their best earthly friend and wisest counsellor. "There are so many people I want to give to," said Lulu; "it will take ever so much thinking to know how to manage it." "Yes; because of course we want to give things they'd like to have, and that we'll have money enough to buy, or time to make," said Grace. "Perhaps I can help you with your plans," said their father. "I think it would be well to make out a list of those to whom you wish to give, and then decide what amount to devote to each, and what sort of thing would be likely to prove acceptable, yet not cost more than you have set apart for its purchase." "Oh what a nice plan, papa!" exclaimed Lulu. "We'll each make a list, sha'n't we?" "Yes; if you choose. Max, my son, you may get out paper and pencils for us, and we will set to work at once; no time like the present, is a good motto in most cases." Max hastened to obey and the lists were made out amid a good deal of pleasant chat, now grave, now gay. "We don't have to put down all the names, papa, do we?" Grace asked with an arch look and smile up into his face. "No; we will except present company," he replied, stroking her hair caressingly, and returning her smile with one full of tender fatherly affection. The names were all written down first, then came the task of deciding upon the gifts. "We will take your lists in turn, beginning with Max's and ending with Gracie's," the captain said. That part of the work required no little consultation between the three children; papa's advice was asked in every instance, and almost always decided the question; but, glancing over the lists when completed, "I think, my dears, you have laid out too much work for yourselves," he said. "But I thought you always liked us to be industrious, papa," said Lulu. "Yes, daughter, but not overworked; I can not have that; nor can I allow you to neglect your studies, omit needed exercise, or go without sufficient sleep to keep you in health." "Papa, you always make taking good care of us the first thing," she said gratefully, nestling closer to him. "Don't you know that's what fathers are for?" he said, smiling down on her. "My children were given me to be taken care of, provided for, loved and trained up aright. A precious charge!" he added, looking from one to another with glistening eyes. "Yes, sir, I know," she said, laying her head on his shoulder and slipping a hand into his, "and oh but I'm glad and thankful that God gave me to you instead of to somebody else!" "And Gracie and I are just as glad to belong to papa as you are," said Max, Grace adding, "Yes, indeed!" as she held up her face for a kiss, which her father gave very heartily. "But, papa, what are we to do about the presents if we mustn't take time to make them?" asked Lulu. "Make fewer and buy more." "But maybe the money won't hold out." "You will have to make it hold out by choosing less expensive articles, or giving fewer gifts." "We'll have to try hard to earn the quarter for good behavior every day, Lu," said Max. "Yes, I mean to; but that won't help with Christmas gifts; it's only for benevolence, you know." "But what you give to the poor, simply because they are poor and needy, may be considered benevolence, I think," said their father. "Oh may it?" she exclaimed. "I'm glad of that! Papa, I--haven't liked Dick very much since he chopped up the cradle I'd carved for Gracie's dolls, but I believe I want to give him a Christmas present; it will help me to forgive him and like him better. But I don't know what would please him best." "Something to make a noise with," suggested Max; "a drum or trumpet for instance." "He'd make too much racket," she objected. "How would a hatchet do?" asked Max, with waggish look and smile. "Not at all; he isn't fit to be trusted with one," returned Lulu, promptly. "Papa, what do you think would be a suitable present for him?" "A book with bright pictures and short stories told very simply in words of one or two syllables. Dick is going to school and learning to read, and I think such a gift would be both enjoyable and useful to him." "Yes; that'll be just the right thing!" exclaimed Lulu. "Papa, you always do know best about everything." "I hope you'll stick to that idea, Lu," laughed Max. "You seem to have only just found it out; but Grace and I have known it this long while; haven't we, Gracie?" "Yes, indeed!" returned the little sister. "And so have I," said Lulu, hanging her head and blushing, "only sometimes I've forgotten it for a while. But I hope I won't any more, dear papa," she added softly, with a penitent, beseeching look up into his face. "I hope not, my darling," he responded in tender tones, caressing her hair and cheek with his hand, "and the past shall not be laid up against you." "Papa, will you take us to the city, as you did last year, and let us choose, ourselves, the things we are going to give?" asked Max. "I intend to do so," his father said. "Judging from the length of your lists, I think we will have to take several trips to accomplish it all. So we will make a beginning before long, when the weather has become settled; perhaps the first pleasant day of next week, if you have all been good and industrious about your lessons." "Have we earned our quarters to-day, papa?" asked Grace. "I think you are in a fair way to do so," he answered smiling, "but you still have a chance to lose them between this and your bedtime." "It's just before we get into bed you'll give them to us, papa?" Lulu said inquiringly. "I shall tell you at that time whether you have earned them, but I may sometimes only set the amount down to your credit and pay you the money in a lump at the end of the week." "Yes, sir; we'll like that way just as well," they returned in chorus. Violet had come in and taken possession of an easy chair on the farther side of the glowing grate. Looking smilingly at the little group opposite, "I have a thought," she said lightly; "who can guess it?" "It's something nice about papa; how handsome he is, and how good and kind," ventured Lulu. "A very close guess, Lu," laughed Violet; "for my thought was that the Woodburn children have as good and kind a father as could be found in all the length and breadth of the land." "We know it, Mamma Vi; we all think so," cried the children. But the captain shook his head, saying, "Ah, my dear, flattery is not good for me. If you continue to dose me with it, who knows but I shall become as conceited and vain as a peacock?" "Not a bit of danger of that!" she returned gaily. "But I do not consider the truth flattery." "Suppose we change the subject," he said with a good-humored smile. "We have been making out lists of Christmas gifts and would like to have your opinion and advice in regard to some of them." "You shall have them for what they are worth," she returned, taking the slips of paper Max handed her, and glancing over them. CHAPTER IV. The parlor at Ion, full of light and warmth, looked very pleasant and inviting this evening. The whole family--not so large now as it had been before Capt. Raymond took his wife and children to a home of their own--were gathered there;--Mr. Dinsmore and his wife--generally called Grandma Rose by the children--Grandma Elsie, her son Edward and his wife, Zoe, and the two younger children;--Rosie and Walter. The ladies and Rosie were all knitting or crocheting. Mr. Dinsmore and Edward were playing chess, and Walter was deep in a story book. "Zoe," said Rosie, breaking a pause in the conversation, "do you know, has mamma told you, about her new plans for benevolence? how she is going to let us all help her in distributing her funds?" "Us?" echoed Zoe inquiringly. "Yes; all her children; and that includes you of course." "Most assuredly it does," said Grandma Elsie, smiling tenderly upon her young daughter-in-law. Zoe's eyes sparkled. "Thank you, mamma," she said with feeling. "I should be very sorry to be left out of the number; I am very proud of belonging there. "But what about the new plans, Rosie? if mamma is willing you should tell me now what they are." "Quite willing," responded mamma, and Rosie went on. "You know mamma always gives thousands of dollars every year to home and foreign missions, and other good causes, and she says that this time she will let each of us choose a cause for her to give a thousand to." "I like that!" exclaimed Zoe. "Many thanks, mamma, for my share of the privilege. I shall choose to have my thousand go to help the mission schools in Utah. I feel so sorry for those poor Mormon women. The idea of having to share your husband with another woman, or maybe half a dozen or more! It's simply awful!" "Yes; and that is only a small part of the wickedness Mormonism is responsible for," remarked Grandma Rose. "Think of the tyranny of their priesthood; interfering with the liberty of the people in every possible way--claiming the right to dictate as to what they shall read, where they shall send their children to school, with whom they shall trade, where they shall live, or ordering them to break up their homes, make a forced sale of their property, and move into another state or territory at their own cost, or go on a mission." "Their wicked doctrine and practice of what they call blood atonement, too," sighed Grandma Elsie. "And the bitter hatred they inculcate toward the people and government of these United States," added Zoe. "Oh I am sure both love of country and desire for the advancement of Christ's cause and kingdom, should lead us to do all we can to rescue Utah from Mormonism. Do you not think so, mamma?" "I entirely agree with you, and am well satisfied with your choice," Grandma Elsie replied. "Perhaps I shall choose for mine to go there too," said Rosie. "But I believe I'll take a little more time to consider the claims of other causes." Walter closed his book and came to his mother's side. "Am I to have a share in it, mamma?" he asked. "In selecting an object for me to give to? Yes, my son." "A thousand dollars?" "Yes." "Oh that's good! I think I'll adopt an Indian boy, clothe and educate him." "Adopt?" laughed Rosie; "a boy of ten talking about adopting somebody else!" "Not to be a father to him, Rosie--except in the way of providing for him as fathers do for their children. Mamma knows what I mean." "Yes, my boy, I do; and highly approve. As a nation we have robbed the poor Indians, and owe them a debt that I fear will never be paid." "I mean to do my share toward paying it if I live to be a man," Walter said, "and I'd like to begin now." "I am very glad to hear it, my son," responded his mother. "Would you prefer to have all your thousands go to pay that debt, mamma?" asked Rosie. "No, child, not all; as I have said, I highly approve of Zoe's choice; and I would send the gospel tidings into the dark places of the earth, to the millions who have never heard the name of Jesus." "And there is another race to whom we owe reparation," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, leaning back in his chair, and regarding the chess-board with a half rueful look. "There, Ned, my boy, I think you wouldn't have come off victor if my attention had not been called from the game by the talk of the ladies." "Never mind, Grandpa; we'll take all the blame," laughed Rosie, jumping up to run and put her arms round his neck and give him a kiss. He returned it, drew her to his knee, and went on with his remarks. "You all know, of course, that I refer to the negroes, who were forcibly torn from their own land and enslaved in this. We must educate and evangelize them: as a debt we owe them, and also for the salvation of our country, whose liberties will be greatly imperilled by their presence and possession of the elective franchise, if they are left to ignorance and vice." "Grandpa, what do you mean by the elective franchise?" asked Walter going to the side of the old gentleman's chair. "The right to vote at elections, my son. You can see, can't you, what harm might come from it." "Yes, sir; they might help to put bad men into office; some of themselves maybe; and bad men would be likely to make bad laws, and favor rogues. Oh yes, sir, I understand it!" "Then perhaps you may want to help provide for the instruction of the colored race as well as of the Indians?" "Yes, sir, I would like to. I hope the thousand dollars may be enough to help the work for both." "I think it will; that your mother will be satisfied to have you divide it into two or more portions, that several good objects may receive some aid from it." "Will you, mamma?" asked Walter, turning to her. "Yes, I think it would perhaps be the wisest way." "And besides," said Rosie, "mamma is going to give us young ones a chance to earn money for benevolence by paying us for good behavior. I know we ought to be good without other reward than that of a good conscience, but I'm quite delighted with the plan for all that." "I too," said Walter, looking greatly pleased. "Thank you, mamma dear. How much is it you're going to give us?" "Twenty-five cents for every day on which I have no occasion to find fault with either your conduct or recitations." "A new idea, daughter, isn't it?" queried Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, sir; and not original. I learned at Woodburn to-day, that the captain was going to try the plan with his children. I trust it meets your approval? I might better have consulted with you before announcing my intention to adopt it." "That was not at all necessary," he returned pleasantly. "But I quite approve, and trust, you will find it work to your entire satisfaction." "Talking of helping the blacks, and thinking of the advice so often given, 'Do the work nearest at hand,' it strikes me it would be well for us to begin with those in our own house and on the plantation," remarked Edward. "I think they have never been neglected, Edward," said his grandfather; "a school-house was provided for them years ago, your mother pays a teacher to instruct them, visits the school frequently, often gives religious instruction herself to the pupils there, and to their parents in visiting them in their cabins; sees that they are taken care of in sickness too, and that they do not suffer for the necessaries of life at any time." "Yes, sir, that is all true," returned Edward, "but I was only thinking of giving them some extra care, instruction and gifts during the approaching holidays; says a Christmas tree loaded with, not the substantials of life only, but some of the things that will give pleasure merely--finery for the women and girls, toys for the children and so forth." "Meaning tobacco for the old folks and sweets for all, I suppose?" added Zoe with sportive look and tone. "Yes, my dear, that's about it," he said, smiling affectionately upon her. "O mamma, let us do it!" cried Rosie with enthusiasm; "let's have a fine big tree in their school-room, and have them come there and get their gifts before we have ours here. We should get Vi and the captain to join us in it as the colored children from Woodburn attend school there too." "I am well pleased with the idea," replied her mother, "and have little doubt that the captain and Vi will be also. But let us have your opinion, my dear father," she added, turning upon him a look of mingled love and reverence. "It coincides with yours, daughter," Mr. Dinsmore answered. "And I move that Ned' and Zoe be appointed a committee to find out the needs of the proposed recipients of our bounty; others being permitted to assist if they like." The motion was carried by acclamation, merry jesting and laughter followed, and in the midst of it all the door was thrown open and a visitor announced. "Mr. Lilburn, ladies and gentlemen." Grandma Elsie hastily laid aside her crocheting and hurried forward with both hands extended. "Cousin Ronald! what a joyful surprise! Welcome, welcome to Ion!" "Thanks, a thousand thanks, my fair kinswoman, my bonny leddy, my sweet Cousin Elsie," returned the old gentleman, taking the offered hands in his and imprinting a kiss upon the still round and blooming cheek. "I have ventured to come without previous announcement o' my intention, or query about the inconvenience I might cause in your household arrangements, or--" "No fear of that, sir," Mr. Dinsmore interrupted, offering his hand in return. "I know that you are, and always will be, a most welcome guest in my daughter's house. You have given us a very pleasant surprise, and the fault will not be ours if we do not keep you all winter." The others, from Mrs. Dinsmore down to Walter, followed suit with greetings no less joyous and cordial, for the old gentleman was a great favorite at Ion, and with the whole connection. He was presently installed in the easiest chair, in the warmest corner, and hospitably urged to take some refreshment. But he declined, saying he had had his supper in the village, before driving over, and wanted nothing more till morning. Then he went on to account for his sudden appearance. He had been sojourning some hundreds of miles farther north, had not been well, and his physician advising an immediate change to a more southerly climate, he had set out at once for Ion, without waiting to let them know of his intentions; feeling sure of just such a welcome as he had received. "And a month's warning could not have made you more welcome than you are, cousin," said his hostess. The conversation broken in upon by Mr. Lilburn's arrival, was not renewed that evening, but the subject was introduced again the next morning at the breakfast table, and some questions in regard to it were decided. All could not be, however, without consultation with the captain and Violet, and with Lester and Elsie Leland. Both families were speedily informed, through the telephone, of the arrival of Mr. Lilburn, and that afternoon saw them all gathered at Ion again to do him honor, and to complete their arrangements for the holiday festivities. During the intervening weeks there was a great deal of traveling back and forth between the three houses, and to and from the city; for their plans involved a good deal of shopping on the part of both the older people and the children. The latter were so full of pleasureable excitement that at times they found no little difficulty in giving proper attention to their studies. Such was especially the case with Rosie and Lulu, but both Grandma Elsie and Capt. Raymond were quite firm, though in a kind and gentle way, in requiring tasks to be well learned before permission was given to lay them aside for more congenial employment. Rosie besought her mother very urgently for permission to sit up for an hour beyond her usual bedtime, in order to make greater progress with her fancy work for Christmas, but it was not granted. "No, my dear little daughter," Elsie said, "you need your usual amount of sleep to keep you in health, and I can not have you deprived of it." "But, mamma," returned Rosie, a little impatiently, "I'm sure it couldn't do me any great amount of damage to try it a few times, and I really think you might allow me to do so." "My daughter must try to believe that her mother knows best," was the grave, though gently spoken rejoinder. "I think it is a little hard, mamma," pouted Rosie; "I'm almost grown up and it's so pleasant in the parlor where you are all talking together--especially now that Cousin Ronald is here--that it does seem too bad to have to run away from it all an hour before you older folks separate for the night. I'd feel it hard even if I wasn't wanting more time for my fancy work for Christmas." "A little girl with so foolish and unkind a mother as yours is certainly much to be pitied," Mrs. Travilla remarked in reply. "Mamma, I did not mean that; I could never think or speak of you in that way," returned Rosie, blushing vividly and hanging her head. "If you had overheard Lulu addressing the remarks to her father that you have just made to me, would you have taken them as evidence of her confidence in his wisdom and love for her?" asked her mother; and Rosie was obliged to acknowledge that she would not. "Please forgive me, mamma dear," she said penitently. "I'll not talk so again. I haven't earned my quarter for good behavior to-day. I'm quite aware of that." "No, my child, I am sorry to have to say you have not," sighed her mother. It was one afternoon in the second week after Mr. Lilburn's arrival that this conversation between Rosie and her mother was held. At the same hour Max and Lulu were in their work-room at home, busily carving. Since their dismissal from that morning's tasks, they had spent every moment of time at that work, except what had necessarily been given to the eating of their dinner. Presently their father came in. "You are very industrious, my darlings," he said in a pleasant tone, "but how much exercise have you taken in the open air to-day?" "Not any yet, papa," answered Max. "Then it must be attended to at once by both of you." "O papa, let me keep on at this just a little longer," pleaded Lulu. "No, daughter, not another minute; these winter days are short; the sun will Boon set, and outdoor exercise will not do you half so much good after sundown as before. Put on your hats and coats and we will have a brisk walk together. The roads are quite dry now and I think we will find it enjoyable." The cloud that had begun to gather on Lulu's brow at the refusal of her request, vanished with the words of invitation to walk with papa, for to do so, was one of her dear delights. Both she and Max obeyed the order with cheerful alacrity, and presently the three sallied forth together to return in time for tea, in good spirits and with fine appetites for their meal; the children rosy and merry. Violet was teaching Lulu to crochet, and the little girl had become much interested in her work. When the hour for bedtime came she did not want to give it up, and like Rosie begged for permission to stay up for another hour. "No, dear child," her father said, "it is quite important that little ones like you should keep to regular hours, early hours too, for going to rest." "Then may I get up sooner in the mornings while I'm so busy?" she asked coaxingly. "If you find yourself unable to sleep; not otherwise. My little girl's health is of far more importance than the making of the most beautiful Christmas gifts," he added with a tender caress. "And I sha'n't forget this time that papa knows best," she said in a cheery tone, giving him a hug. He returned it. "I think to-morrow is likely to be a pleasant day," he said, "and if so I hope to take my wife and children to the city for some more of the shopping you all seem to find so necessary and delightful just now. Your Aunt Elsie and Evelyn are going too, so that you can probably have your friend's help in selecting the articles you wish to buy." "Oh how delightful!" she exclaimed. "I ought to be a good girl with such a kind father, always planning something to give me pleasure." "You enjoy such expeditions, don't you, Lu?" queried Violet. "Yes, indeed, Mamma Vi, and I hope papa will take me several times. I want to select my gift for Rosie to-morrow, with Eva to help me; and I'd like Rosie to go with me another time to help me choose one for Evelyn." "I think I shall be able to gratify you in that; and to give you more time for Christmas work, I will release you from the task of taking care of your own rooms, till after the holidays, and have them attended to by one of the servants," said the captain. "But now bid good night and go to your bed." "Oh thank you, dear papa," she cried joyously, and obeyed at once without a murmur. The weather next day was favorable, and the shopping a decided success. The ladies and little girls returned somewhat weary with their exertions, but in fine spirits, Lulu feeling particularly happy over a present for Rosie, which every one thought was sure to be acceptable. A few days later her father took her and Rosie together, Evelyn being left out of the party in order that her present might be selected without her knowledge. Indeed in the afternoon of every pleasant day, from that to the one before Christmas, the Woodburn carriage might have been seen driving to and from the city; and on almost every occasion Lulu was one of its occupants. But on the twenty third she preferred to stay behind--so much that she wanted a share in was going on at, or near home; first the trimmings with evergreens of several rooms in the mansion, then of the school-house for the poor whites of the neighborhood, which Capt. Raymond had caused to be built on a corner of his estate--paying a teacher that the children might be instructed without cost to their parents. A fine large Christmas tree was set up in it, another in the school-house for the blacks at Ion. The colored people employed on the Fairview estate attended there also, and were to have a share in the entertainment provided for those of Woodburn and Ion; so the children of the three families united in the work of ornamenting first one building, then the other, finding it great sport, and flattering themselves that they were of great assistance, though the older people who were overseeing matters, and the servants acting under their direction, were perhaps of a different opinion. Yet the sight of the enjoyment of the little folks more than atoned for the slight inconvenience of having them about. Christmas came on Wednesday and the holidays had begun for them all the Friday before. Lessons would not be taken up again till after New Year's day. It had been decided at Woodburn that they would not go to Ion till Christmas morning, as they all preferred to celebrate Christmas eve at home. The children were going to hang up their stockings, but had not been told that they would have a tree or any gifts. They thought, and had said to each other, that perhaps papa might think the money he had given them to spend and to give, and the privilege of selecting objects for his benevolence, was enough from him, but the friends at Ion and Fairview always had remembered them, and most likely would do so again. "Still they may not," Lulu added with a slight sigh when she talked the matter over with Max and Grace that morning, for the last time; "for they are all giving more than usual to missions and disabled ministers, and poor folks, and I don't know what else; but it's real fun to give to the poor round here; I mean it will be to help put things on the trees and then see how pleased they'll all be when they get 'em: at least I do suppose they will. Don't you, May?" "I shall be very much surprised if they're not," he assented, "though I begin to find out that 'it is more blessed to give than to receive.' And yet for all that if I get some nice presents to-night or to-morrow I--sha'n't be at all sorry," he added with a laugh. "Max," said Lulu reflectively, "you knew about the Christmas tree beforehand last year; hasn't papa told you whether we're to have one this time or not?" "No, not a word; and as he tells me almost always what he intends to have done about the place," the boy went on with a look of pride in the confidence reposed in him, "I'm afraid it's pretty good evidence that we're not to have one." For a moment Grace looked sorely disappointed; then brightening, "But I'm most sure," she said, "that papa and mamma won't let us go without any presents at all. They love us a great deal, and will be sure to remember us with a little bit of something." "Anyway it's nice that we have something for them," remarked Lulu cheerily. "Papa helped us choose Mamma Vi's, and she advised us what to make for papa; so I'm pretty sure they'll both be pleased." It was while waiting for their father to take them to the school-house that they had this talk, and it was brought to a conclusion by his voice summoning them to get into the carriage. "There is no time to lose, my darlings," he said, "for it is likely to take about all the morning to trim the two rooms and two trees." CHAPTER V. Grandma Elsie's college boys, Harold and Herbert Travilla, had come home for the holidays, arriving the latter part of the previous week. This morning they had come over to Woodburn, very soon after breakfast, "to have a chat with Vi while they could catch her alone," they said, "for with all the company that was to be entertained at Ion they might not have so good a chance again." They stood with her at the window watching the carriage as it drove away with the captain and his children. It had hardly reached the gate leading into the high road when Harold turned to his sister with the remark, "Well, Vi, we've had quite a satisfactory talk; and now for action. As I overheard the captain say to the children, 'there's no time to lose.'" "No; we will begin at once," returned Violet, leading the way to the large room where the Christmas tree had been set up last year. A couple of negro men were carrying in its counterpart at one door, as Violet and her brother entered at the other. "Ah that's a fine tree, Jack!" she said addressing one of them; "the captain selected it, I suppose?" "Yes, Miss Wi'let, de cap'n done say dis hyar one was for de Woodburn chillen; an' we's to watch an' fotch 'em in soon's dey's clar gone out ob sight." "Yes," she said, "we want to give them a pleasant surprise. I think they are doubtful as to whether their father intends that they shall have a tree this year," she added, aside to her brothers. "Then the surprise will be the greater," Harold returned; "and it is half the fun. I supposed they were pretty certain of the tree, and would be surprised only by the nature of the gifts." "They will have a goodly supply of those," Violet said, with a pleased look, glancing in the direction of a table heaped with packages of various sizes and shapes. "Do you know, boys, when Christmas times come round I always feel glad I married a man with children; it's such a dear delight to lay plans for their enjoyment and to carry them out." "Just like you, Vi," said Herbert, "and I like to hear you talk in that way; but you have your own two." "Yes; but even Elsie is hardly old enough yet to care very much for such things." The tree was now in place and the work of trimming it began. "It's very good in you boys to come here and help me instead of joining in the fun they are doubtless having at the school-house," remarked Violet, as she handed a glittering fairy to Harold who was mounted upon a step-ladder alongside of the tree. "There, I think that will look well perched on that topmost bough." "Our tastes agree," he said, fastening the fairy in the designated spot. "Yes, I think Herbie and I are entitled to any amount of gratitude on your part, for the great self-denial we are practicing, and the wonderful exertions we shall put forth in carrying out your wishes and directions in regard to this difficult and irksome business." "And the fine phrases and well turned periods contained in the remarks bestowed upon your unsophisticated country sister," laughed Violet. "Of course they must not be forgotten in the reckoning up of your causes for gratitude. Ah, Vi, how my heart goes out in pity and sympathy for you when I reflect that you not only never have shared in the inestimable privileges and delights of college boy life, but are, in the very nature of things, forever debarred from participation in them!" "I entirely appreciate your feelings on the subject," she said, with mock gravity, "but would advise that for the present you forget them, and give your undivided attention to the business in hand. That second fairy does not maintain a very graceful attitude." "True enough," he said, promptly altering its position. "There, how's that for high?" "Is it possible I hear such slang from the educated tongue of a college boy?" she exclaimed with a gesture of astonishment and dismay. "She's high enough," said Herbert, gazing scrutinizingly at the fairy, "but there'd better be more work and less talk if we are to get through before the captain and his party come home." "Herbert, when Mrs. Raymond and I have reached your venerable age you may expect to find us as sedate and industrious as you are now," remarked Harold, proceeding to hang upon the tree various ornaments, as Herbert handed them to him. "And in Harold's case due allowance must be made for the exuberance of spirits of a boy just let out of school," added Violet. "And in your case, my dear madam, for what? a youthful flow of spirits consequent upon a temporary release from the heavy responsibilities of wifehood and motherhood?" "Very temporary," laughed Violet; "my husband will be here again in a few hours, and the call to attend to my babies may come at any moment." "I daresay if the captain had consulted only his own inclination he would be here now, overseeing this job," remarked Harold, half interrogatively. "Yes," replied Violet; "but he thought his duty called him to the other places; and I think my good husband never fails to go where duty calls. We talked it over and concluded that the best plan we could hit upon was for me to stay at home and see to this work, while he should take his children and assist at the decoration of the school-houses." "To secure you an opportunity to prepare a pleasant surprise for them," supplemented Harold. Their work was finished, its results surveyed with satisfaction, and the door of the room closed and locked upon it, before the return of the carriage bringing Capt. Raymond and his merry, happy little flock. Dinner filled up the greater part of the interval between their home-coming and return to the school-house on the corner of the estate, to witness the distribution of gifts to the poor whites of the neighborhood; and by a little management on the part of their father, Violet and her brothers, they were kept from the vicinity of the room where the Christmas tree stood, and got no hint of its existence. Their thoughts were full of the doings of the morning and the coming events of the afternoon, and their tongues ran fast on the two subjects. Their father had to remind them once or twice that older people must be allowed a chance to talk as well as themselves; but his tone was not stern, and the slight reproof, though sufficient to produce the desired effect, threw no damper upon their youthful spirits. They were in the carriage again soon after leaving the table, Violet with them this time, Harold and Herbert riding on horseback alongside of the vehicle, for they desired a share in witnessing the bestowal of the gifts. They found teacher and pupils there before them; every face bright with pleasurable anticipation. The Jones children, whose mother had died the year before, and who had continued to find a good friend in Capt. Raymond, were among the number. Grandma Elsie, Zoe, Rosie, Walter and Evelyn Leland arrived in a body soon after the Woodburn family, and then the exercises began. The captain offered a short prayer, and made a little address appropriate to the occasion; teacher and scholars sang a hymn, a Christmas carol; then the tree was unveiled amid murmurs of admiration and delight, and the distribution of the gifts began. Every child received a suit of warm, comfortable clothes, a book, a bag of candy, a sandwich or two, some cakes and fruit. The tree was hung with rosy-cheeked apples, oranges, bananas, bunches of grapes and strings of popcorn. There were bright tinsel ornaments too, and a goodly array of gaily dressed paper dolls, mostly Gracie's contribution. She had given up all her store for the gratification of the poor children. "I've had such good times myself, playing with them and dressing them, that I do believe the poor children, that don't have half the pleasures I do, will enjoy them too, and I can do very well without," she said to Lulu on deciding to make the sacrifice. So she told her father they were not to be used merely as a temporary ornament for the tree, but to be given away to some of the younger girls attending the school. They, along with other pretty things, were taken from the tree and presented last of all, and the delight manifested by the recipients more than made amends to Gracie for her self-denial. From the Woodburn school-house our friends all repaired to the one at Ion, and a similar scene was enacted there. The exercises and the gifts to the children were very nearly the same, but there were older people--house servants and laborers on the estates--to whom were given more substantial gifts in money and provisions for the support of their families. The afternoon was waning when the Raymonds again entered their family carriage and the captain gave the order, "Home to Woodburn." And now the children began to think of the home celebration of Christmas eve, and to renew their wonderings as to what arrangements might have been made for their own enjoyment of its return. Still they asked no question on the subject, but they sobered down and were very quiet during the short drive. "Tired, children?" queried their father, putting an arm round Grace as she leaned confidingly up against him, and smiling affectionately upon them all. "Oh, no, sir, not at all!" replied Max, quickly, straightening himself with the air of one who had no thought of fatigue. "Not at all, papa," echoed Lulu. "Only just a little bit, papa," Grace said with cheerful look and tone. "We have had such a nice day." "Giving pleasure to others," he remarked, patting the rosy cheek resting against his shoulder; "there is nothing more enjoyable. The little girls were very glad to get your dollies." "Yes, sir; I'm so glad I gave them." The carriage stopped. They were at their own door. In another minute they had all alighted and the children were following their father and Violet into the house. A Newfoundland dog, a magnificent specimen of his race, met them almost at the threshold. "Oh!" cried the children, in excited chorus, "where, did he come from? Whose dog is he?" "Max's; a Christmas gift from papa," answered the captain. "Oh!" exclaimed Max, his face sparkling all over with delight, "what a splendid fellow! Papa, thank you ever so much! You couldn't have given me a more acceptable present." "Ah? I'm glad you like him. But come into the library, all of you, for a moment. It is not quite tea time yet." The captain led the way as he spoke, everybody else following. "Howdy do? Where you been?" called out a rather harsh voice, and sending a surprised, inquiring glance about in search of the speaker, the children presently spied a cage with a parrot in it; an African parrot; grey, with a scarlet tail. "Polly wants a cracker!" screamed the bird. "Time for breakfast, Lu! Where you been?" "How will Polly suit you for a Christmas gift, Lulu?" asked the captain, smiling down into the flushed, delighted face of his eldest daughter. "O papa, is it for me?" she cried half breathlessly. "Yes, if you want it, though I fear she may prove a rather troublesome pet. Here is Gracie's gift from papa," he added, pointing to a beautiful Maltese kitten curled upon the rug before the fire. "We mustn't let Max's big gift swallow your little one. I trust that in time we can teach them to be friends." Grace loved kittens and was no less delighted with her present than her brother and sister with theirs. "O the pretty pet!" she exclaimed, dropping down on the rug beside it and gently stroking its soft fur. "I'd like to take you on my lap, pretty pussy, but you're fast asleep, and I won't wake you." "That is right, my darling; I am glad to see my little girl thoughtful of the comfort of even a cat," her father said, bending down to stroke Gracie's hair with tenderly caressing hand. "I s'pose they have feelings as well as other folks, papa," she said, smiling up affectionately into his face. "I mean to be very kind to this pretty pussy; and oh I'm ever so much obliged to you for her!" His reply was prevented by a sudden, loud bark from the dog, as he spied pussy on the rug. "Turn him out into the hall, May," the captain said, hastily stepping in between dog and cat. "Don't be alarmed for your pet, Gracie; he shall not be permitted to harm her." "Nor my Polly either, shall he, papa?" asked Lulu, who was trying to make acquaintance with her new possession. "No; certainly not. But take care of your fingers, daughter; she may snap at them and give you a bite that you will remember for a long while. Now go and get yourselves ready for tea. It is almost time for the bell to ring." The children made haste to obey. The captain and Violet lingered behind for a moment. "How pleased they are!" she said with a joyous look up into her husband's face. "It's a perfect treat to witness their delight on such occasions. I can hardly wait to show them the tree with all its treasures." "Dear wife, your affection for my darlings is a well-spring of joy to me," he said with tender look and smile; "and theirs for you no less so. I am sure you have completely won their hearts." "You make me very happy," she responded, her eyes shining with joy and love. "But there! do you hear little Elsie calling for papa and mamma?" The faces that surrounded the tea table that evening were very bright, though the children had no expectation of the treat in store for them; each had had a present from papa, and that was almost more than they had ventured to hope for. But they were in gay spirits, looking forward to a time of rare enjoyment in spending the Christmas holidays with Grandma Elsie, at Ion. "We'll be glad to go," remarked Lulu, "and then glad to come back to our own dear home." "So you will be twice glad," said her father. "Yes, that is just the way I feel about it," Violet said. "Mamma's house will always be a home to me--a dear home; and yet my husband's doubly so." "It should, seeing that it is quite as much yours as his," he said, with a gratified smile. "Well, my dear, I see we have all finished eating. Shall we go now?" "Yes, sir; if you please. Our little girls will want to take another peep at their new pets," she said, rising and slipping her hand into his arm. They passed out of the room together, the children following. But on reaching the hall, instead of going into the library they turned toward the parlor on the other side of it, in which, as the children well remembered, last year's Christmas tree had been set up. The captain threw open the door, and then stood a larger and finer tree blazing with lights from many tapers and colored lamps, and loaded with beautiful things. "Oh! oh! what a beauty! what a splendid tree!" cried the children, dancing about and clapping their hands in delight. "And we didn't know we were to have any at all. Mamma Vi you must have had it set up, and trimmed it while we were gone this morning. Didn't you? Oh thank you ever so much!" "Your father provided it, and your thanks are due to him far more than to me," Violet replied, with a smiling-glance in his direction. At that they crowded about him, Max putting a hand affectionately into his and thanking him with hearty words of appreciation, while the little girls hugged and kissed him to his heart's content. The servants had gathered about the door, little Elsie's mammy among them, with her nursling in her arms. "Oh pretty, pretty!" shouted the little one, clapping her hands in an ecstacy of delight. "Let Elsie down, mammy." "Come to papa," the captain said, and taking her in his arms carried her to the tree and all around it, pointing out the pretty things. "What would you like to have?" he asked. "What shall papa give you off this beautiful tree?" "Dolly," she said, reaching out for a lovely bisque doll seated in a tiny chair attached to one of the lower branches. "You shall have it; it was put there on purpose for papa's baby girl," he said, taking it up carefully and putting it into her arms. "Now let us see what we can find for mamma and your brother and sisters." His gift to Violet was some beautiful lace selected with the help of her mother. He had contrived to add it to the adornments of the tree without her knowledge. She was greatly pleased when he detached and handed it to her. Max was delighted to receive a Magic lantern and a Sleight of Hand outfit, Lulu a game of Lawn and Parlor Ring Toss, and a handsome Toilet Case. Grace had the same and beside a brass bedstead for her dolls, with mattress and pillows, and a large and complete assortment of everything needed for making and dressing paper dolls. That last was from Lulu. There were books, periodicals, a type writer and games to be shared by all three, beside other less important gifts from one to the other, and from outside friends. The servants too, were remembered with gifts suited to their needs and tastes, and there were fruits and confections for all. Examining their own and each other's gifts, peeping into the new books, trying the new games, with papa and mamma helping, the children found the evening pass very quickly and delightfully. "We were going to hang up our stockings," Grace remarked as the good nights were being said, "but we've had so many nice things already that it does seem as if we oughtn't to do it." "Oh yes, hang them up," said her father laughingly. "Santa Claus won't feel obliged to put anything into them." "And perhaps if he doesn't find them hanging up he may feel hurt at your low opinion of his generosity," laughed Violet. "Oh I wouldn't like to hurt his feelings, 'cause I'm sure he must be a very nice old fellow," returned the little girl with an arch look and smile. "So I'll hang mine up." "And I mine," said Lulu, twining her arms about her father's neck and looking up lovingly into his face, "for I know he's nice, and generous, and good as gold, though he isn't old or the sort of person to be called a fellow." "Indeed! one might infer that you were quite well acquainted with him," laughed the captain, giving her a hug and kiss. "Yes, hang it up. And, Max, if you don't feel it beneath the dignity of a lad of your size, there will be no harm in your trying the same experiment." "I'm ashamed to think of it, sir, only because I've already had so much," said Max. "But you are always safe in following your father's advice," remarked Violet. "Oh yes, I know that, and I'll do it, Mamma Vi," returned the boy, with ill-concealed satisfaction. "Now all three of you get to bed and to sleep as soon as you can, in order to give the old fellow a chance to pay his visit," said the captain; "for I have always understood that he never does so till all the children in the house are asleep. I'll go in to kiss my little girls good-night after they are snug in bed, but we will reserve our talk till morning." "Yes, papa, we will," they said and hastened away to do his bidding. At Ion too, there was a beautiful Christmas tree, bearing fruit not very dissimilar to that of the one at Woodburn. It had been the occasion of much mirth and rejoicing on the part of the children, and pleasure to the older people: the gifts had been apportioned, those of the servants bestowed and carried away, but most of those belonging to the family, and all the ornaments, were left upon it that the guests of to-morrow might be treated to the spectacle of its beauty. CHAPTER VI. Capt. Raymond, going into Gracie's room to fulfil his promise to give her a good night kiss, found Lulu there also; the two lying clasped in each other's arms. "We thought we'd sleep together to-night, papa," said Lulu, "if you're willing." "I have no objection," he answered. "Gracie was a little afraid to receive Santa Claus alone, was she?" looking down at them with a humorous smile as he stood by the bedside. "Oh no, papa! I'm pretty sure I know who he is, and I'm not one bit afraid of him," answered the little girl, with a merry laugh, catching his hand and carrying it to her lips. "Ah! then it was Lulu who was afraid, was it?" "Oh no, sir! Lu's never afraid of anything." "Indeed; you seem to have a high opinion of her courage! You need never, either of you, be afraid or ashamed of anything but sin, my darlings," he added, more gravely. "If you are God's children, nothing can harm you. He will watch over us through the dark and silent night while we are wrapped in slumber. 'Behold he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber or sleep.'" "I'm so glad the Bible tells us that, papa," she said; "but I'm glad, too, that you sleep in the next room, and have the door open always at night, so that if I should want you, you could easily hear me call, and come to me." "Yes," he said, "and neither of my little girls need ever hesitate for a moment to call for their father if they are ill or troubled in any way. "Ah I see the stockings hanging one on each side of the fire place. But how is Santa Claus to tell which is Lulu's and which Gracie's?" "Why we never thought of that!" exclaimed Lulu, laughing. "But mine's a little the largest, and it's red and Gracie's is blue. Don't you suppose, papa, that he'll be smart enough to guess which is which?" "I think it is likely, but you will have to take the risk," replied her father. Then with a good night kiss he left them to their slumbers. Day was faintly dawning when Lulu awoke. "Merry Christmas, Gracie!" she whispered in her sister's ear. "I'm going to get our stockings and see if there is anything in 'em," and with a bound she was out on the floor and stealing across it to the fireplace, with care to make no noise. She could not refrain, however, from a delighted "Oh!" as she laid hold of the stockings and felt that they were stuffed full of something. "Did he come? is there something in 'em?" whispered Grace, as Lulu came back to the bedside. "Yes, yes, indeed! they're just as full as they can be! I've brought 'em; here's yours," putting it into Gracie's hands and getting into bed again. "Let's pull the things out and feel what they are, though we can't see much till it gets lighter." "Yes, let's," said Grace; "I couldn't bear to wait." They thought they were keeping very quiet, but Lu's "Oh!" had wakened her father and Violet and they were lying quietly listening and laughing softly to themselves. There was a rustle of paper, then Gracie's voice in a loud whisper, "Oh another dolly for me! and I just know it's lovely! I can feel its hair, and its dress; it's all dressed!" Then Lulu's, "A potato! just a horrid, raw Irish potato! What do I want with that?" "And I've got one too!" from Grace. "Oh well, I s'pose that was to fill up, and maybe there's something nice lower down." "A sweet potato or a parsnip or something of that kind in mine," said Lulu, some slight vexation in her tone. "Oh well, I've had so many nice things, and this is only for fun." "And here are some candies in mine," said Grace. "Haven't you got some?" "Yes, oh yes! and nuts and raisins. I'd like to taste them; but I think we'd better leave them till after breakfast. I'm pretty sure papa would say so." "Yes, 'course he would; so we'll wait." "Good obedient children; aren't they?" the captain said in a gratified whisper to Violet. "Very; I'm proud of them," she responded. It was growing light and Lulu, taking up the despised potato, examined it more critically. Presently she uttered an exclamation, "O Gracie, see! It opens and there's something inside!" The captain and Violet listened intently for what might come next. "More candies and--something wrapped up in soft paper. O Gracie! it's a lovely little breastpin!" "Oh, oh, how pretty!" cried Grace. "I wonder if I have one too!" In their excitement they were forgetting the danger of disturbing others and talking quite loud. "Yes, mine opens," Grace went on, "and--oh yes, I've got candies and something with paper round it and--oh yes, yes, it is a pin! Not quite like yours, but just every bit as pretty!" "I think they are having a merry Christmas," said the captain, a happy light in his eyes, "and, my love, I wish you the same." Violet returned the wish; but the children were talking again and they kept quiet to hearken. "Oh this sweet potato opens too," Lulu was saying, "and there's something that feels like a stick. O Gracie, Gracie, look! it's a gold pencil, a lovely little gold pencil! Have you one?" "No; but you haven't a doll." "Well, I think Santa Claus has been very generous and kind to us." "Just as good and kind as if he was our own papa," Gracie said, with a sweet silvery laugh. "The dear, grateful darlings!" exclaimed the captain, his tone half tremulous with feeling. "I sometimes fear I am almost too indulgent; but it is such a dear delight to give them pleasure." "And I don't believe it does them the least harm, so long as you do not indulge them in any wrong doing," said Violet. "Love never hurts anybody." "Merry Christmas, my darlings," he called to them. "Did Santa Claus fill your stockings?" "Oh merry, merry Christmas, papa!" they answered. "Yes, sir, Santa Claus or somebody did, and gave us lovely things. We're very much obliged to him." As they spoke the door into their little sitting-room opened and Max put in his head, crying in his turn, "Merry Christmas to you all--papa and Mamma Vi, Lulu and Gracie." A chorus of merry Christmases answered him; then Lulu asked, "What did Santa Claus put in your stocking, Maxie?" "A good deal: about as much as could be crammed into it; some handsome neckties, candies and nuts and a gold pencil." "Very nice," commented Lulu, and she and Grace, both talking at once, gave a gleeful account of their discoveries in searching their stockings. They had hardly finished their narrative when a glad shout from the nursery interrupted them. "There! little Elsie has found her stocking, I do believe," said Lulu, starting up to a sitting posture that she might look through the open door into the next room. As she did so a tiny toddling figure clothed in a white night dress, and with a well filled stocking in its arms emerged from the nursery door and ran across the room to the bedside, crying gleefully, "See mamma, papa, Elsie got." "What have you got pet?" asked her father, picking her up and setting her in the bed. "There, pull out the things and let papa and mamma see what they are." "Mayn't we come and see too?" asked the other children. "Yes," he said, "you can come and peep in at the door, but first put on your warm slippers and dressing gowns, that you may not take cold." Baby Elsie was a merry, demonstrative little thing, and it was great fun for them all to watch her and hear her shouts of delight as she came upon one treasure after another;--tiny, gaily dressed dolls of both sexes, and other toys suited to her years. It did not take her very long to empty the stocking, and then the captain said to the older ones, "Now you may close the door, my dears, and get yourselves dressed and ready for the duties and pleasures of the day. I shall be in presently for our usual chat before breakfast." They made haste with their dressing, and were quite ready for their father when he came in some half hour later. They were very light-hearted and gay and full of gratitude for all they had received. "Dear papa, you are so good to us," they said, twining their arms about his neck, as they sat one upon each knee. "I want to be," he said, caressing them in turn, "I have no greater pleasure than I find in making my children happy. And your grateful appreciation of my efforts makes me very happy." "But, papa, I--" began Lulu, then paused hesitatingly. "Well, daughter, don't be afraid to let me know the thought in your mind," he said kindly. "I was just wondering why it's right for me to have so many other things, and would be wrong for me to have that ring I wanted so badly. But please, papa," she added quickly and with a vivid blush, "don't think I mean to be naughty about it, or want you to spend any more money on me." "No, dear child, I could not think so ill of you. I did not think it right or wise to buy you the ring, because it would have been spending a great deal for something quite useless, and very unsuitable for my little girl. The things I have given you I considered it right to buy because they will all be useful to you in one way or another." "The games and storybooks, papa?" asked Grace with a look of surprise. "Yes, daughter; people--and especially little folks like Max and Lulu and you--need amusement as a change and rest from work; we can do all the more work in the end if we take time for needed rest and recreation." "So it won't be time wasted to have our Christmas holidays?" remarked Lulu, half inquiringly. "No, I think not," her father answered. "Shall we take our new games to Ion with us, papa?" she asked. "If you wish. I presume Grandma Elsie will not object to your taking any of your possessions with you that you think will be useful or enjoyable to yourselves or others." "I'm just sure she won't; 'cause she's so kind," said Grace. "But I s'pose it won't do to take our live new pets?" "No; but you may safely leave them in Christine's care." Breakfast and family worship were over, such of their effects as they would be likely to need during the few days of their expected stay at Ion, had been packed and sent, the family carriage was at the door, and every body nearly ready to get into it, when there was an arrival. Harold and Herbert had come over on horseback, Rosie and Evelyn in the Ion carriage. They came running in with their "Merry Christmases and Happy New Years," to receive a return in kind. "Don't think for a moment that we have come to prevent you from accepting your invitation to Ion as promptly as possible," said Herbert gaily; "we've come after you, and are glad to perceive, in your attire, signs of readiness to depart." "But we want to peep at your tree first," put in Rosie, "that's one thing that brought us." "And we've a proposal to make," said Harold; "namely that you all accompany us to the Oaks for a short call on Uncle Horace and the rest--and their Christmas tree of course--before going over to Ion. The air is delightfully bracing, the roads are good, and if we find there is time, perhaps we might as well extend our ride to the Laurels, and give Aunt Rose a call, in case we reach there before the family have left home for Ion. What do you say captain? and you Vi?" Both approved, and the children were much pleased with the idea. But they wanted first to have time to show their presents to Rosie and Evelyn. That was granted, the callers were all taken in to see the tree, dog, bird and pussy were exhibited, the pretty things found in the stockings also, and when all had been duly admired they set out upon their jaunt. The four little girls, Rosie, Evelyn, Lulu and Grace, had the Ion carriage to themselves, and full of life and spirits, enjoyed their drive extremely. Both calls were made, only a short time spent at each place--hardly more than enough for an exchange of greetings and a hasty examination, of the Christmas trees and gifts--then they drove on to Ion, and the holiday festivities so long looked forward to by the young people with such eager expectation and delight, began. The first thing of course was to take a view of the Christmas tree and the presents. Rosie and Evelyn had declined to tell what they were until they could show them, even refusing to answer Lulu's eager query, put while they were driving to the Oaks, "O Rosie, did your mamma give you the set of pearls you wanted so badly?" "Wait till we get to Ion and I'll show you all my presents; I received a good many and ought not to fret if I did not get everything I wanted," was what Rosie said in reply, and Lulu, understanding it to mean that there was some disappointment, concluded that the pearls had not been given. She was the more convinced of it when the presents on and about the tree had been displayed and no pearls among them. Rosie seemed in excellent spirits, however, and Lulu thought she had good reason to be, for the gifts she showed as hers were many and desirable. The guests, all relatives or connections, arrived within a few minutes of each other and for a little while were all gathered together in the tree room--as the children called it for the time--and a very merry, lively set they were. But presently they scattered to their respective rooms to dress for dinner, or at least to remove their outside garments. The Raymonds were given the same apartments that had been appropriated to them when living at Ion; Gracie sharing Lulu's room, which communicated directly with the one where the captain and Violet would sleep. Rosie went with the little girls to their room, to see that they had everything to make them comfortable, because, as she said, they were her guests this time. "You don't need to change your dresses, I am sure," she remarked as they threw off their coats. "No," replied Lulu, "these are what papa told us to wear for the rest of the day, and they are as suitable and pretty as any we have." "Yes, they're lovely," said Rosie; "your papa does dress you beautifully. I, too, am dressed for the day, and I'd like you both to come to my room for a while. Eva is there taking off her things; she's to share my room while the house is so full. I thought you would want Eva for your bedfellow, but mamma said your father would want his two little girls close beside him." "Yes, and that's where we like to be," Lulu answered quickly and in a very pleasant tone. "It seems like home here in this room, too. Now we're ready to go with you, Rosie; we've got our things off and seen that our hair is all right." Rosie led the way to her room where they found, not Eva only, but all the little girl cousins, having a chat while waiting for the summons to dinner. Rosie hastily threw off her coat and hat, then opening a bureau drawer, took from it a jewel case saying with a look of exultation, "I have something to show you, girls, mamma's Christmas gift to me;" and raising the lid she displayed a beautiful pearl necklace and bracelets. "So she did give them to you!" they exclaimed in surprised chorus, for they had supposed all the presents had been already shown them. "O Rosie, how lovely!" "I'm ever so glad for you Rosie," said Lulu; "but I'd about made up my mind that Grandma Elsie thought about buying the pearls for you as papa did about the ring I wanted." "Mamma didn't buy them," explained Rosie; "they are a set grandpa gave her when she was a little girl; and I think they are as handsome as any she could have found any where. She said she valued them very highly as his gift, but would never wear them again, and as I am her own little girl, she was willing to give them to me." "I think you're pretty big, Rosie," remarked Grace. "Yes; in my fifteenth year; almost a woman, as grandpa tells me sometimes--when he wants to make me ashamed of not being wiser and better I suppose," returned Rosie with a laugh, closing the casket and returning it to the drawer, just as Betty, the little maid, showed her black face and woolly head at the half open door with the announcement, "Dinnah's ready, Miss Rosie; an' all de folks gwine into de dinnin' room." "Very well; we're not sorry to hear it, are we girls? Let us pair off and go down at once to secure our fair share," said Rosie gaily. "There's just an even number of us--Maud and Lora, Lulu and Eva, Grace and Rosie Lacey, Sydney and I. We're to have a table to ourselves; I asked mamma if we might, and she gave consent." "I like that," remarked Sydney with satisfaction; "we can have our own fun and eat what we please without anybody to trouble us with suggestions that perhaps such and such articles of food may not agree with us." "But we'll be in the same room with the older folks and they can overlook us if they see fit," said Rosie. "And I'd rather have papa to tell me what to eat," said Grace. They were hurrying down the stairs as they talked and reached the dining room just in time to take their places before the blessing was asked--by Mr. Dinsmore at the larger table. It was a grand dinner of many courses, and a good deal of time, enlivened by cheerful chat, was spent at the table. Quiet games--mirth provoking, yet requiring little exertion of mind or body--filled up the remainder of the afternoon. After tea they had romping games, but at nine o'clock were called together for family worship; then the younger ones, including Lulu and Grace, went to their beds; very willingly too, for the day--begun so early because of their eagerness to examine their stockings--had been an unusually long and exciting one; so that they felt ready for rest. Grace indeed was so weary that her father carried her up to her room, and did not leave her till she was snug in bed. She dropped asleep the instant her head touched the pillow and he stood for a moment gazing a little anxiously at her pale face. "You don't think Gracie's sick, papa, do you?" asked Lulu softly. "No, I trust she will be all right in the morning--the darling! but she seems quite worn out now," he sighed. Then sitting down he drew Lulu into his arms. "Has it been a happy day with you, dear child?" he asked. "Yes, papa, very; just full of pleasure; and now that night has come, I'm so glad that I have my own dear papa to hug me up close, and that he's going to sleep in the next room to Gracie and me." "I'm glad too," he said. "Yes, we have a great deal to be thankful for--you and I. Most of all for God's unspeakable gift--the dear Saviour whose birth and life and death have bought all our other blessings for us. "My child, try to keep in mind always, even when engaged in your sports, that you are his and must so act and speak as to bring no disgrace upon his cause; make it your constant endeavor to honor him in all your words and ways." "I do mean to, papa; but oh it is so easy to forget!" "I know it, my darling; I find it so too; but we must watch and pray, asking God earnestly night and morning, on our knees, to keep us from temptation and from sin, and often sending up a swift, silent petition from our hearts at other times when we feel that we need help to overcome. "I want you, my little daughter, to be particularly on the watch against your besetting sin--an inclination to sudden outbursts of passion. It is not to be expected that everything will move on as smoothly, with so many children and young people together, every day, as they have to-day, and I fear you will be strongly tempted at times to give way to your naturally quick temper." "Oh I am afraid so too papa; and it would be perfectly dreadful if I should!" she said with a half shudder, twining her arm round his neck and hiding her face on his shoulder. "Oh won't you ask God to help me to keep from it?" "Yes, I shall, I do every night and morning, and we will ask him together now." CHAPTER VII. It had been growing colder all the afternoon, and continued to do so very rapidly through the night. The next morning at the breakfast table some of the lads announced, with great glee that the lakelet was frozen over; the ice so thick and solid that it was perfectly safe for skating in every part. The news caused quite a flurry of pleasurable excitement among the younger ones of the company. "I move that we spend the morning there," said Zoe. "How many of us have skates, I wonder?" "You have I think, have you not?" said Edward. "Yes; yours and mine are both in good order; I examined them only the other day." The captain asked how many knew how to use skates, and from the replies it seemed that all the lads had been more or less accustomed to their use, some of the girls also. Zoe had had quite a good deal of practice before her marriage, a little since. The winters were usually too mild in this part of the country to give much opportunity for that kind of exercise. She was therefore the more eager to avail herself of this one; for she was very fond of the sport. Edward, Harold, and Herbert were all in the mood to join her in it and were prepared to do so; and Rosie and Max too were equally fortunate; but most of the others had come without skates. But that difficulty could be easily remedied; their homes were not far off, nor was the village, with its stores where such things could be bought. It was decided to despatch messengers for the needed supplies. "Papa," said Lulu, "may they get a pair for me? I'd like to learn to skate." He turned to her with an indulgent smile. "Would you? then you shall; I will send for the skates and give you a lesson in the art myself. I used to be reckoned a good skater in my boyhood. Would my little Grace like to learn too?" "No, thank you, papa, I'd rather walk on the ground, or ride." "You shall ride on the ice if you will, little girlie," said Harold. "I think I can find a conveyance that will suit your taste." "You're kind to think of it, Uncle Harold," she said, with a dubious look, "but I'm afraid the horses would slip and fall on the ice." "I think not," he said; "but if they should they will only have to pick themselves up again, and go on." "But I'm afraid they might get hurt and maybe tip me over too." Harold only smiled at that, as he rose and left the room to attend to the despatching of the messengers. Grace wondered what he meant, but as the older people all about her were busily talking among themselves, she went on quietly with her breakfast and said no more. "Are you a skater, my dear?" asked the captain, addressing his wife. "I used to be a tolerably expert one and moderately fond of the exercise," she replied. "I should like the pleasure of taking you out this morning, for a trial of your skill," he said. "Shall I send for skates for you?" "Thank you, no; I think I have a pair somewhere about the house, and perhaps can find another for you." "There are several pairs of gentlemen's skates," said her mother. "I will have them brought out for the captain to try." He thanked her, adding that in case a pair should be found to fit, he could have the pleasure of taking his wife out without waiting for the return of the servant despatched to the village. Upon leaving the breakfast table they all repaired to the parlor for family worship, as was their custom morning and evening. Then those who had skates, and some who wanted the walk and a near view of the skating, Lulu among them, got themselves ready and went to the lakelet, while the others waited for the return of the messengers; most of them meanwhile gathered about the windows overlooking the lakelet, to watch the movements of the skaters--Edward, Zoe, Harold, Herbert, Rosie, Evelyn and Max; presently joined by Capt. Raymond and Violet, a pair of skates having been found to fit each of them. When all were fairly started the scene became very animated and pretty. The two married couples skated well, but Harold, and especially Herbert, far exceeded them, the swift, easy movement with which they glided over the glassy surface of the lake, the exact balancing of their bodies, and the graceful curves they executed called forth many an admiring and delighted exclamation from the onlookers, both near at hand and farther away at the windows of the mansion. Among the latter were Grandma Elsie, her father and his wife--Grandma Rose--and Cousin Ronald. "Bravo!" cried the two old gentlemen simultaneously, as Herbert performed a feat in which he seemed to fairly outdo himself. Mr. Lilburn adding, "I feel the old ardor for the sport stir within me at sight o' the lad's adroit movements. At his age I might have ventured to compete with as expert a skater as he. What say you, Cousin Horace, to a match atween the two auld chaps o' us down there the noo?" "Agreed," Mr. Dinsmore said with a laugh. "There are skates that will answer our purpose I think, and we will set off at once if you like." At that moment Lulu came running in. "The skates have come, Grandma Elsie," she said, "just as I have got back to the house. Papa sent me in because it was too cold, he said, for me to be standing still out there. He'll come for me when Mamma Vi is tired and wants to come in." "Does she seem to be enjoying it?" asked the person addressed. "Oh yes, ma'am, very much indeed! Aren't you going to try it too?" "Yes, do, Elsie," said her father. "And you too, Rose," to his wife. "Let us all try the sport while we have an opportunity." The ladies were nothing loath, everybody seemed to catch the spirit of the hour, the skates were quickly distributed, and all hurried away to the lake, but Lulu and Grace who were to stay within doors, by their father's orders, till he came, or sent for them. Lulu having taken off her hood and coat, now sat before the fire warming her feet. Grace was watching the skaters from an easy chair by the window. "It does look like good fun," she said. "Is it very cold out there, Lu?" "Not so very; the wind doesn't blow; but when you've been standing still a while your feet feel right cold. I hardly thought about it though, I was so taken up with watching the skating, till papa called to me that it was too cold for me to stand there, and I must come in." "Papa's always taking care of his children," remarked Grace. "Yes," assented Lulu, "he never seems to forget us at all; I most wish he would sometimes," she added laughing, "just once in a while when I feel like having my own way, you know. "Wasn't he good to send for these for me?" she went on, holding up her new skates and regarding them with much satisfaction. "They're nice ones, and it'll be nice to have him teach me how to use them. I've heard of people getting hard falls learning how to skate, but I think I'll be pretty safe not to fall with papa to attend to me." "I should think so," said Grace. "Oh papa and mamma have stopped and I do believe they're taking off their skates! at least papa's taking her's off for her, I think." "Oh then they're coming in and we'll get our turn!" "I don't want to try it." "No, but you can walk down there, and then you're to have a ride on the ice; you know Uncle Harold said so." "I don't know what he meant; and I don't know whether I want to try it either. Yes, papa and mamma are both coming back." Violet had soon tired of the sport, and beside feared her baby was wanting her. She went on up to the nursery while the captain entered the parlor where his little girls were waiting for his coming. "Waiting patiently, my darlings?" he said, with an affectionate smile. "I know it is rather hard sometimes for little folks to wait. But you may bundle up now, and I will take you out to enjoy the sport with the rest. It will be a nice walk for you, Gracie, and when you get there you will have a pleasant time I think." "How papa?" "My little girl will see when she gets there," he said. "Ah, here is Agnes with your hood and coat. Now, while she puts them on you, I will see if Lulu's skates are quite right." They proved to be a good fit and in few minutes the captain was on his way to the lakelet with a little girl clinging to each hand. A pretty boat house stood at the water's edge--on the hither side, under the trees, and now close beside it, on the ice, the children spied a small, light sleigh well supplied with robes of wolf and bear skins. "There, Gracie, how would you like to ride in that?" asked her father. "It looks nice, but--how can it go?" she asked dubiously. "I don't see any horses papa." "No, but you will find that it can move without." Harold had seen them approaching, and now came gliding very rapidly towards them, on his skates. "Ah Gracie, are you ready for your ride?" he asked, "Rosie Lacey and one or two of the other little ones are going to share it with you. Captain will you lift her in while I summon them?" "Here we are, Cousin Harold," called a childish voice, and Rose Lacey came running up almost out of breath with haste and excitement, two other little girl cousins following at her heels; "here we are. Can you take us now?" "Yes," he said, "I was just about to call you." In another minute the four were in the sleigh with the robes well tucked around them. Then, Harold, taking hold of the back of the vehicle, gave it a vigorous shove away from the shore, and keeping a tight grip on it, propelled it quite rapidly around the lake. It required a good deal of exertion, but Herbert and others came to his assistance and the sleigh made the circuit many times, its young occupants laughing, chatting and singing right merrily: the gayest of the gay. Meanwhile the others enjoyed the skating, perhaps quite as much. The older ladies and the two old gentlemen seemed to have renewed their youth, and kept up the sport a good deal longer than they had intended in the beginning; while the younger ones, and especially the children, were full of mirth and jollity, challenging each other to trials of speed and skill, laughing good-naturedly at little mishaps, and exchanging jests and good humored banter. And Cousin Ronald added to the fun by causing them to hear again and again sounds as of jingling sleighbells and prancing horses in their rear. So distinct and natural were these sounds that they could not help springing aside out of the track of the supposed steeds, and turning their heads to see how near they were. Then shouts of laughter would follow from old and young of both sexes, mingled with little shrieks, half of affright and half of amusement from the girls. While all this was going on, Capt. Raymond was giving Lulu her first lesson in the use of skates, holding her hand in his, guarding her carefully from the danger of falling. But for that she would have fallen several times, for it seemed almost impossible to keep her balance; however she gained skill and confidence; and at length asked to be allowed to try it for a little unaided. He permitted her to do so, but kept very near to catch her in case she should slip or stagger. She succeeded very well and after a time he ceased to watch her constantly, remaining near her, but taking his eyes off her now and then to see what others were doing; noting with fatherly pride in his son, how Max was emulating the older skaters, and returning a joyous look and smile given him by Gracie, as she swept past in the sleigh. It presently stopped a few paces away, and he made a movement as if to go and lift her out, but at the sound of a thud on the ice behind him, turned quickly again to find Lulu down. She had thrown out her hands in falling, and he felt a thrill of horror as he perceived that one of them lay directly in the path of a skater, Chester Dinsmore, who was moving with such velocity that he would not be able to check his speed in time to avoid running over her. But even while he perceived her peril the captain had, with an almost lightning like movement, stooped over his child and dragged her backward. Barely in time; Chester's skate just grazed her fingers, cutting off the tip of her mitten. There were drops of blood on the ice, and for a moment her father thought her fingers were off. "Oh my child, my darling!" he groaned, holding her close in his arms and taking the bleeding hand tenderly in his. "I'm not hurt, papa; at least only a very little," she hastened to say, while the others crowded about them with agitated, anxious questioning. "Is Lulu hurt?" "Did Chess run over her!" "Did the fall hurt her?" "My fingers are bleeding a little, but they don't hurt very much," she answered. "I think his skate went over my mitten, and I suppose my fingers would have been cut off if papa hadn't jerked me back out of the way." Chester had just joined the group. "I can never be sufficiently thankful for the escape," he said with a slight tremble in his tones, "I could never have forgiven myself if I had maimed that pretty hand; though it was utterly impossible for me to stop myself in time, at the headlong rate of speed with which I was moving." "Your thankfulness can hardly equal her father's," the captain said with emotion almost too big for utterance, as he gently drew off the mitten, and bound up the wounded fingers with his handkerchief. "That will do till I get you to the house. Shall I carry you, daughter?" "Oh no, papa, I'm quite able to walk," she answered in a very cheerful tone. "Please don't be so troubled; I'm sure I'm not much hurt." "Allow me to take off your skates for you," Chester said, kneeling down on the ice at their feet, and beginning to undo the straps as he spoke. "And I will gladly carry you up to the house, too, if you and your father are willing." "Oh thank you, sir; but I'd really rather walk with papa to help me along." The accident had sobered the party a good deal, and most of them--including the older people and Lulu's mates--went back to the house with her and her father. Violet was quite startled and alarmed to see the child brought in with her hand bound up; but when the blood had been washed away the wounds were found to be little more than skin deep; the bleeding soon ceased, and some court-plaster was all that was needed to cover up the cuts. There were plenty of offers of assistance, but the captain chose to do for her himself all that was required. "There, my dear child, you have had a very narrow escape," he said when he had finished, drawing her into his arms and caressing her with great tenderness; "what a heartbreaking thing it would have been for us both had this little hand," taking it tenderly in his, "been robbed of its fingers; far worse to me than to have lost my own." "And you have saved them for me, you dear father," she said, clinging about his neck and laying her cheek to his, her eyes full of tears, a slight tremble in her voice. "But they are yours, because I am," she added, laughing a little hysterically. "Oh I'm every bit yours; from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet." "Yes, so you are; one of my choice treasures, my darling," he said with emotion; "and my heart is full of thankfulness to God our heavenly Father for enabling me to save you from being so sadly maimed." "And I do think your Mamma Vi is almost as thankful as either of you," Violet said, coming to his side and softly smoothing Lulu's hair. They were in the dressing-room, no one else present but Grace and Max. "I'm pretty thankful myself," observed the latter jocosely, but with a telltale moisture about the eyes; "I shouldn't like to have a sister with a fingerless hand." "Oh don't, Max! don't talk so!" sobbed Grace, "I just can't bear to think of such dreadful things!" Her father turned toward her and held out his hand. She sprang to his side and he put his arm about her. "The danger is happily past, my pet," he said, touching his lips to her cheek; "so dry your eyes and think of something else, something pleasanter." "You've got enough of skating, I suppose, Lu? you won't want to try it again, will you?" asked Max. "Yes; if papa will let me. I'd like to go back this afternoon. But I'd want to keep fast hold of him so that I'd be in no danger of falling," she added, looking lovingly into his eyes. "I'll not let you try it in any other way for some time to come," he said, stroking her hair; "you must become a good deal more proficient in the use of skates before I can again trust you to go alone; especially where there are so many other and more skilful skaters." "I don't care for that, papa, but will you take me there again this afternoon?" "We'll see about it when the time comes," he said smiling at her eager tone, and not ill-pleased at this proof of a persevering disposition. "Oh!" cried Max, glancing toward the window, "it's snowing fast! Dear, dear, it will spoil the skating for all of us!" "But a good fall of snow will provide other pleasures, my son," remarked the captain in a cheery tone. "Yes, sir, so it will," returned Max, echoing the tone. "And beside plenty of indoor amusements have been provided," said Violet. "I think we can all enjoy ourselves vastly, let the weather outside be what it will." "I am sure of it," said her husband. "Gracie, how did you enjoy your ride?" "Oh it was just lovely, papa!" answered the little girl, "the sleigh skimmed along so nicely without a bit of jolting; and then too, it was such fun to watch the skaters." A tap at the door, and Rosie's voice asking, "How is Lulu? Mamma sent me to inquire." "Come in, Rosie," said the captain. "Mother is very kind, and I am glad to be able to report to her that Lulu is only very slightly hurt; so slightly that doubtless she will be ready to join her mates in any sport that may be going on this afternoon." Rosie drew near with a look of commiseration on her face, but exclaimed in surprise, "Why, your hand isn't even bound up!" "No; I have just a patch of court plaster on each of three finger tips," returned Lulu, laughingly displaying them. "But oh what a narrow escape!" cried Rosie half breathlessly. "It fairly frightens me to think of it!" "They'd all have been cut off if it hadn't been for papa," Lulu said with a shudder, hiding her face on his shoulder. "O Lu, I'm so glad they weren't!" said Rosie. "Eva has been crying fit to break her heart because she was sure that at least the tips of your fingers had been taken off; and in fact I couldn't help crying myself," she added, turning away to wipe her eyes. "How good in you both!" exclaimed Lulu, lifting her head and showing flushed cheeks and shining eyes. "Papa, shan't I go and find Eva and comfort her by letting her see how little I am hurt, after all?" "Yes, do, my child," he said, releasing her. The two little girls went from the room together, each with her arm about the other's waist. "Eva's in my room taking her cry out by herself," said Rosie. "I'd like to go there with you, but I must carry your father's answer to mamma first. Then I'll join you." The door of Rosie's room stood open; Evelyn sat with her back toward it, and Lulu, entering softly, had an arm round her friend's neck before she was aware of her presence. "O Lu!" cried Evelyn, with a start, "are you much hurt?" "No, you poor dear; you've been breaking your heart about almost nothing. I hurt my knees a little in falling, and Chester's skate took a tiny slice out of my middle finger, and scratched the one each side of it, but that's all. See, they don't even need to be wrapped up." "Oh, I'm so glad!" exclaimed Eva with a sigh of relief, and smiling through tears; then with a shudder and hugging Lulu close, "It would have been too horrible if they'd been cut off! I think skating is dangerous, and I'm not sorry the snow has come to spoil it; for us girls, I mean; the older folks and the boys can take care of themselves, I suppose." "Oh I like it!" said Lulu. "I wanted papa to let me go back this afternoon and try it again, and I think he would if the snow hadn't come." "You surprise me!" exclaimed Evelyn. "If I had come so near losing my fingers, I'd never care to skate any more." "I always did like boys' sports," remarked Lulu, laughing. "Aunt Beulah used to call me a tom-boy, and even Max would sometimes say he believed I was half boy; I was always so glad of a chance to slip off to the woods with him where I could run and jump and climb without any body by to scold me and tell me I'd tear my clothes. I don't have to do those things without leave now, for papa lets me; he say it's good for my health, and that that's of far more importance than my clothes. Oh, we all do have such good times now, at home in our father's house, with him to take care of us!" "Yes, I'm sure you do, and I'm so glad for you. How happy you all seem! and how brave you are about bearing pain, dear Lu! You are so bright and cheerful, though I'm sure your fingers must ache. Don't they?" "Yes, some; but I don't mind it very much and they'll soon be well." Just then they were joined by several of the other little girls, all anxious to see Lulu and learn whether she were really badly hurt. They crowded round her with eager questions and many expressions of sympathy first, then of delight in finding her so cheerful and suffering so little. The next thing was to plan indoor amusements for the afternoon and evening, as evidently the storm had put outdoor pleasures out of the question for that day. The call to dinner interrupted them in the midst of their talk; a not unwelcome summons, for exercise in the bracing winter air had given them keen appetites. Some of the younger ones, who had particularly enjoyed the skating, felt a good deal disappointed that the storm had come to put a stop to it, and were in consequence quite sober and subdued in their demeanor as they took their seats at the table. A moment of complete silence followed the asking of the blessing, then, as Edward took up a carving-knife, and stuck the fork into a roast duck in front of him, there was a loud "Quack, quack," that startled everybody for an instant, followed by merry peals of laughter from old and young. A loud squeal came next from a young pig in a dish placed before Mr. Dinsmore, and the song of the blackbird from a pie Grandma Elsie was beginning to help. "'Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,'" remarked Mr. Lilburn gravely. "'When the pie was opened the birds began to sing, Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before a king?' "Ah ha! um h'm! ah ha! history repeats itself. But, Cousin Elsie, I didna expect to be treated to a meal o' livin' creatures in your house." "Did you not?" she returned with a smile. "Life is full of surprises." "And grandpa and Ned go on carving without any apparent thought of the cruelty of cutting into living creatures," laughed Zoe. "And what a singular circumstance that chickens baked in a pie should sing like blackbirds," remarked Grandma Elsie. "Very indeed!" said Capt. Raymond. "I move that some one prepare an article on the subject for one of the leading magazines." "No one better qualified for the task than yourself, sir," said his brother-in-law, Mr. Lester Leland. "You will surely except our Cousin Ronald," said the captain; "doubtless he knows more about the phenomenon than any other person present." "O Cousin Ronald," broke in Walter, "as we can't go skating this afternoon, won't you please tell us young ones some of your famous stories?" "Perhaps, laddie; but there may be some other amusement provided, and in that case the tales will keep. It strikes me I heard some o' the leddies laying plans for the afternoon and evening?" he added, turning inquiringly in Zoe's direction. "Yes, sir," she said, "we are getting up some tableaux, but are ready to defer them if any one wishes to do something else." "I think we will not tax Cousin Ronald with story telling to-day," said Grandma Elsie: "he has been making a good deal of exertion in skating, and I know must feel weary." "Are you, Cousin Ronald?" asked Walter. "Well, laddie, I can no deny that there have been times when I've felt a bit brighter and more in the mood for spinning out a yarn, as the sailors say." "And perhaps you'd like to see the tableaux too, sir?" "Yes, I own that I should." That settled the question. "We will have the tableaux," Grandma Elsie said, and every body seemed well satisfied with the decision. Preparations were begun almost immediately on leaving the table, and pretty much all the short winter afternoon occupied with them. They had their exhibition after tea; a very satisfactory one to those who took part, and to the spectators. Every child and young person who was desirous to have it so, was brought in to one or more of the pictures. Lulu, to her great delight, appeared in several and did herself credit. "How are the fingers, dear child? have they been giving you much pain?" the captain asked when he came to her room for the usual good-night talk, sitting down as he spoke, drawing her to a seat upon his knee, and taking the wounded hand tenderly in his. "Only a twinge once in a while, papa," she said, putting the other arm round his neck and smiling into his eyes. "It's been a very nice day for me in spite of my accident; everybody has been so good and kind. I think they tried to give me a pleasant part in as many of the tableaux as they could to comfort me, and really after all it was only a little bit of a hurt." "But narrowly escaped being a very serious one. Ah my heart is full of thankfulness to God for you, my darling, and for myself, that the injury was no greater. You might have lost your fingers or your hand; you might even have been killed by falling in such a way as to strike your head very hard upon the ice." "Did anybody ever get killed in that way, papa?" she asked. "Yes, I have read or heard of one or two such cases, and had it happened to you I could hardly forgive myself for letting go your hand." "I'm sure you might feel that it was all my own fault, papa," she said tightening her clasp of his neck and kissing him with ardent affection; "every bit my own fault because I begged you to let me try it alone." "No, that could not have excused me; because it is a father's duty to take every care of his child, whether she wishes it or not; and it is my settled purpose to do so henceforward," he said, returning her caress with great tenderness. CHAPTER VIII. The storm continued through the night but had ceased before the guests at Ion were astir; the ground was thickly carpeted with snow and clouds still obscured the sun, but there was no wind and the cold was not severe. "Just the day for a snow fight," remarked Frank Dinsmore, as he and the other lads of the company stood grouped together on the veranda shortly after breakfast; "plenty of snow and in prime condition for making into balls." "So it is," said Herbert Travilla, "and I believe I'm boy enough yet to enjoy a scrimmage in it." "I too," said Harold. "Let's build a fort, divide ourselves into two armies, one besiege and the other defend it." The proposition was received with enthusiasm and the work of erecting the snow fort begun at once. Some of the girls wanted to help, but were told their part was to look on. "I can do more than that," said Rosie, and darting into the house, she presently returned with a small flag. "Here, plant this on your ramparts, Harold," she said, "if you are to defend the fort." "I don't know yet to which party I shall belong--besiegers or besieged--but I'm obliged for the flag and shall plant it as you advise," he said. The girls amused themselves snowballing each other, occasionally pausing to watch the progress the lads were making, the older people doing the same from the veranda or the windows of the mansion. The boys were active and soon had their fort--not a large one--constructed, and the flag planted and waving in a slight wind that had sprung up. Lulu standing on the veranda steps, clapped her hands in delight as it was flung to the breeze and started "That Star Spangled Banner," all the others joining in and singing with a will. Then the lads divided themselves into two companies, Harold taking command of the defenders of the fort, Chester of the attacking party. "There are not enough of you fellows," called Sydney; "you'd better let us girls help prepare the ammunition. Women have done such things when men were scarce." "So they have," replied Chester. "I'll accept such assistance from you while you stand back out of danger." "Then we girls will have to divide into two companies," said Rosie; "for the boys in the fort must have the same kind of help the others do. I'll go to them." "No, no," said Harold, "this is going to be too much of a rough and tumble play for girls. I decline with thanks." "Ungrateful fellow!" she retorted. "I don't mean to be a bit sorry for you if you are defeated." "I do not intend that you shall have the opportunity," he returned with a good humored laugh. "O Rosie, I know what we can do!" cried Lulu; "give them some music." "Good!" said Sydney, "wait a minute, boys till we hunt up a drum and fife. The band will play on the veranda." She, Rosie, and Lulu hurried into the house as she spoke. "Yes, I'll lend you mine," shouted Walter, after them. "They're up in the play-room;--two drums, two mouth organs and a fife, and a trumpet." The boys waited, employing the time in preparing piles of snowballs, and presently the girls came rushing back bringing the musical instruments mentioned by Walter, and a jews-harp and accordeon beside. These were quickly distributed and the band struck up--not one tune but several; "Hail Columbia," "Yankee Doodle," and "Star Spangled Banner;"--having forgotten in their haste to agree upon a tune. The music, if music it could be called--was greeted with roars of laughter, and ceased at once. "Oh this will never do!" cried Maud; "we must settle upon some one of the national airs. Shall it be 'Yankee Doodle'?" "Yes," they all said, and began again, with less discord but not keeping very good time. Harold and his party were in the fort, a huge heap of balls beside them. "Now man your guns, my lads, and be ready to give a vigorous repulse to the approaching foe," he said. Chester had drawn up his men in line of battle. Max was among them. "Wait!" he cried, "I'm going into the fort." "What! going to desert in the face of the enemy?" queried Chester. "Yes; I can't fight against that flag," pointing to it with uplifted hand. "Fire on the stars and stripes? _Never_! 'The flag of our Union forever!'" "Oh is that all? Well, we're not going to fight against it, my boy; it's ours, and we're going to take it from them and carry it in triumph at the head of our column." "No, sir; its ours," retorted Harold, "and we stand ready to defend it to the last gasp. Come on; take it if you can! We dare you to do it?" "Up then and at 'em, boys!" shouted Chester. "Go double quick and charge right over the breast works!" The command was instantly obeyed, the works were vigorously assaulted, and as vigorously defended, snowballs flying thick and fast in both directions. Max leaped over the breast works and seized the flag. Harold tore it from his hands, threw him over into the snow on the outside, and replanted the flag on the top of the breast work. Max picked himself up, ran round to the other side of the fort, and finding Harold and the other large boys among the defenders, each engaged in a hand to hand scuffle with a besieger, so that only little Walter was left to oppose him, again leaped over the barrier, seized the flag, leaped back and sped away toward the house waving it in triumph and shouting, "Hurrah! victory is ours!" "Not so fast young man!" shouted back Herbert, bounding over the breast works and giving chase, all the rest following, some to aid him in recovering the lost standard, the others to help Max to keep out of his reach. Herbert was agile and fleet of foot, but so was Max. Back and forth, up and down he ran, now dodging his pursuers behind trees and shrubs, now taking a flying leap over some low obstacle, and speeding on, waving the flag above his head and shouting back derisively at those who were trying to catch him. It was a long and exciting race, but at last he was caught; Herbert overtook him, seized him with one hand, the flag with the other. Max wrenched himself free, but Herbert's superior strength compelled him to yield the flag after a desperate struggle to retain his hold upon it. Then with a wild hue and cry Chester's party chased Herbert till after doubling and turning several times, he at length regained the fort and restored the flag to its place. The next instant Harold and the rest of his command regained and reoccupied the fort, the attacking party following close at their heels, and the battle with the snowballs recommenced with redoubled fury. All this was witnessed with intense interest by the spectators at the windows and on the veranda; at the beginning of the chase the band forgot to play and dropping their instruments employed themselves in encouraging pursuers or pursued with clapping of hands and shouts of exultation over their exploits. The contest was kept up for a long time, the flag taken and retaken again and again till the fort was quite demolished by the repeated assaults, and the snow well trodden down all about the spot where it had stood. The lads, too, found themselves ready to enjoy rest within doors after their continued violent exertion. Some quiet games filled up the remainder of the morning and the afternoon. In the evening they were ready for another romp in which the girls might have a share; so Stage Coach, Blind-man's Buff, and similar games were in vogue. They had been very merry and entirely harmonious, but at length a slight dispute arose, and Capt. Raymond, sitting in an adjoining room conversing with the older guests and members of the family, yet not inattentive to what was going on among the young folks--heard Lulu's voice raised to a higher than its ordinary key. He rose, stepped to the communicating door, and called in a low tone, grave but kindly, "Lulu!" "Sir," she answered, turning her face in his direction. "Come here, daughter," he said; "I want you." She obeyed promptly, though evidently a trifle unwillingly. He took her hand and led her out into the hall, and on into a small reception room, bright and cheery with light and fire, but quite deserted. "What do you want me for, papa?" she asked. "Please don't keep me long; because we were just going to begin a new game." He took possession of an easy chair, and drawing her into his arms, and touching his lips to her cheek, "Can you not spare a few minutes to your father when your mates have had you all day?" he asked. "Why, yes, indeed, you dear papa!" she exclaimed with a sudden change of tone, putting her arms about his neck and looking up into his face with eyes full of ardent filial affection. "How nice in you to love me well enough to want to leave the company in the parlors to give a little time to petting me!" "I love you full well enough for that, my darling," he said, repeating his caresses, "but my call to you was because a tone in my little girl's voice told me she needed her father just at that moment." She looked up inquiringly, then with sudden comprehension, "Oh! you thought I was in danger of getting into a passion, and I'm afraid I was. Papa, you are my good guardian angel, always on the watch to help me in my hard fight with my dreadful temper. Thank you very, very much!" "You are entirely welcome, daughter," he said, softly smoothing her hair; "it could hardly be a sadder thing to you than to me, should that enemy of yours succeed in overcoming you again. Try, dear child, to be constantly on the watch against it. "'Watch ye and pray, lest ye enter into temptation,' Jesus said. The moment that you feel the rising of anger in your breast lift up your heart to him for strength to resist." "I do intend to always, papa," she sighed, tightening her clasp of his neck and laying her cheek to his, "but oh it is so, so easy to forget!" "I know it, dear child, but I can only encourage you to continue the fight with your evil nature, looking ever unto Jesus for help. Press forward in the heavenly way, and if you fall, get up again and go on with redoubled energy and determination; and you will win the victory at last; for 'in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.' "Now, if you feel that you are safe in doing so, you may go back to your mates." There was a very sweet expression on Lulu's face as she rejoined her mates, and her manner was gentle and subdued. "So you've come back," remarked Sydney. "What did your papa want with you?" "O Syd," exclaimed Rosie, "that's private, you know!" "Oh to be sure! I beg pardon, Lu," said Sydney. "You are quite excusable," returned Lulu pleasantly. "Papa had something to say to me, that was all," and she glanced up at him with such a loving look, as at that instant he entered the room, that no one could suspect the talk between them had been other than most pleasant. "Well, you have come back just in time; we are going to play the game of Authors," said Herbert, beginning to distribute the cards. The words had hardly left his lips when a sharp tap at the window made them all jump. Then a woman's voice spoke in piteous accents. "Oh let me in, good people! my baby and I are starving to death, and freezing in this bitter winter wind." "Oh who is it? who is it?" cried several of the girls, sending frightened glances in the direction from which the voice had come. "I'll soon see," said Harold, hurrying toward the window. But a gruff voice spoke from the hall. "Don't mind her, sir; she's a gypsy liar and thief; she stole the baby from its mother." Harold paused, stood uncertainly in the middle of the floor for an instant, then turning quickly, retraced his steps, went to the hall door and glanced this way and that. "There is no one here," he said, then burst into a laugh as, turning round once more, he perceived Mr. Lilburn quietly seated near the open door into the adjoining parlor where the older people were. "Cousin Ronald, may I ask what you know of that gypsy and the stolen child?" "What do I ken about her, laddie?" queried the old gentleman in his turn. "Wad ye insinuate that I associate wi' sic trash as that?" "Oh she's quite a harmless creature, I've no doubt," laughed Harold. "O Uncle Harold, please let her in," pleaded Grace, with tears in her sweet blue eyes. "Why, my dear little Gracie, there's nobody there," he answered. "But how can we be sure if we don't look, Uncle Harold? Her voice did sound so very real." "What is the matter, Gracie dear?" asked a sweet voice, as a beautiful lady came swiftly from the adjoining parlor and laid her soft white hand on the little girl's head. "O Grandma Elsie, we heard a woman begging to come in out of the cold, and--oh there don't you hear her?" "Oh let me in, dear good ladies and gentlemen! I'm freezing, freezing and starving to death!" wailed the voice again. By this time all the occupants of the other parlor were crowding into this. "Captain," said Grandma Elsie, "will you please step to the window and open it?" "Mother, Cousin Ronald is responsible for it all," laughed Harold. "We may as well let Gracie see for herself," Mrs. Travilla replied in a kindly indulgent tone. Harold at once stepped to the window, drew back the curtains, raised the sash and threw open the shutters, giving a full view of all the grounds on that side of the house;--for the clouds had cleared away and the moon was shining down on snowladen trees and shrubs and paths and parterres carpeted with the same; but no living creature was to be seen. Grace holding fast to her father's hand, ventured close to the window and sent searching glances from side to side, then with a sigh of relief, said, "Yes, I do believe it was only Cousin Ronald; and I'm ever so glad the woman and her baby are not freezing." At that everybody laughed, and timid, sensitive little Grace hid her blushing face on her father's shoulder, as he sat down and drew her to his side. "Never mind, darling," he said soothingly, passing an arm affectionately about her and softly smoothing her curls with his other hand, "it is good natured amusement; we all know what you meant and love you all the better for your tenderness of heart toward the poor and suffering." "Yes, dear child, your papa is quite right, and I fear we were not very polite or kind to laugh at your innocent speech," said Grandma Elsie. At that instant the tap on the window was repeated, then the voice spoke again, but in cheerful tones. "Dinna fret ye, bit bonny lassie, I was but crackin' me jokes. I'm neither cauld nor hungry, and my bairns grew to be men and women lang syne." "There now! I know it's Cousin Ronald," laughed Rosie, "and indeed I should hope he was neither cold nor hungry here in our house." "If he is," said Grandma Elsie, giving the old gentleman a pleasant smile, "we will set him in the warmest corner of the ingleside and order refreshments." "I vote that those suggestions be carried out immediately," said Edward. "Harold, if you will conduct our kinsman to the aforesaid seat, I will, with mamma's permission, ring for the refreshments." Both Harold and Herbert stepped promptly forward, each offering an arm to the old gentleman. "Thanks, laddies," he said, "but I'm no' so infirm that I canna cross the room wi'out the help o' your strong young arms, and being particularly comfortable in the chair I now occupy, I shall bide here, by your leave." "Then, if you feel so strong would it tire you to tell us a story, Cousin Ronald?" asked Walter, insinuatingly. "We'd like one ever so much while we're waiting for the refreshments." "The refreshments are ready and waiting in the dining room, and you are all invited to walk out there and partake of them," said Grandma Elsie, as the servants drew back the sliding doors, showing a table glittering with china, cut-glass and silver, loaded with fruits, nuts, cakes, confectionery and ices, and adorned with a profusion of flowers from the conservatories and hothouses. "Don't you wish you were grown up enough to call for whatever you might fancy from that table?" whispered Rosie to Lulu as they followed their elders to its vicinity. "Yes--no; I'm very willing to take whatever papa chooses to give me," returned Lulu. "You see," she added laughing at Rosie's look of mingled surprise and incredulity, "there have been several times he has let me have my own way and I didn't find it at all nice; so now I've really grown willing to be directed and controlled by him." "That's a very good thing." "Yes; especially as I'd have to do it anyhow. Papa, may I have something?" she asked as at that moment he drew near. "Are you hungry?" he queried in turn. "Yes, sir." "Then you may have some ice-cream, a little fruit, and a small piece of sponge cake." "Not any nuts or candies?" "Not to-night, daughter; sometime to-morrow you may." "Thank you, sir; that will do nicely," she responded in a cheerful, pleasant tone and with a loving look and smile up into his face. She felt amply rewarded by the approving, affectionate look he gave her in return. "I shall help you presently when I have waited upon Evelyn and Rosie," he said. "What will you have, my dears?" When the refreshments had been disposed of, it was time for the usual short evening service, then for the younger ones to go to their beds. Capt. Raymond stepped out upon the veranda and paced it to and fro. Presently Max joined him. "I came to say good night, papa," he said. "Ah good night, my son," returned the captain, pausing in his walk, taking the hand Max held out to him and clasping it affectionately in his. "You had a fine, exciting game this morning out there on the lawn. I was glad to hear my boy avow his attachment to the glorious old flag his father has sailed under for so many years. I trust he will always be ready to do so when such an avowal is called for, as long as he lives." "Yes, indeed, sir! It's the most beautiful flag that waves, isn't it?" "None to compare to it in my esteem," his father answered with a pleased laugh. CHAPTER IX. Before morning the weather had moderated very much, a thaw had set in, and the snow was going rapidly. "Well, what sports shall we contrive for to-day?" asked Herbert, at the breakfast table. "Certainly both skating and snow fights are entirely out of the question." "Entirely!" echoed Harold; "all other outdoor sports also; for a drizzling rain is beginning to fall, and the melting snow has covered roads and paths with several inches of water." "We have some games for the house which you have not tried yet," said their mother; "'Table croquet,' 'Parlor Quoits,' 'Parlor Ring Toss,' Jack-straws and others." "And I have a new game that papa gave me this Christmas--'The Flags of all Nations,'" remarked Lulu. "I brought it with me." "We will be glad to see it," said Harold. "It is probably improving as well as entertaining," remarked Zoe. "I should judge so from the name." "I think you will find it both," said the captain. "So you would 'Corn and Beans,' too, Aunt Zoe," said Max. "Papa gave it to me, and we tried it Christmas eve at home, and found it very funny." The morning and most of the afternoon were occupied with these games, which seemed to afford much enjoyment to the children and young people. It was the winding up of their Christmas festivities at Ion, and all were in the mood for making it as gay and mirthful as possible. Some--the Raymonds among others--would leave shortly after tea, the rest by or before bedtime. They finished the sports of the afternoon with two charades. The older people were the spectators, the younger ones the actors. Mendicant was the word chosen for the first. A number of the boys and girls came trooping into the parlor, each carrying an old garment, thimble on finger, and needle and thread in hand. Seating themselves they fell to work. Zoe was patching an old coat, Lulu an apron, Gracie a doll's dress; Eva and Rosie each had a worn stocking drawn over her hand, and was busily engaged in darning it; the other girls were mending gloves, the boys old shoes; and as they worked they talked among themselves. "Zoe," said Maud, "I should mend that coat differently." "How would you mend it?" asked Zoe. "With a patch much larger than that you are sewing on it." "I shouldn't mend it that way," remarked Sydney. "I'd darn it." "Thank you both for your very kind and disinterested advice," sniffed Zoe. "But I learned how to mend before I ever saw you. And I should mend those gloves in a better way than you are taking." "If you know so well how to mend, Madam Zoe, will you please give me some instruction about mending this shoe?" said Herbert. "Cobbling is not in my line." "Neither is it in mine, Sir Herbert," she returned, drawing herself up with a lofty air. "Such silly pride! They should mend their ways if not their garments," remarked Maud, in a scornful aside. "One should think it beneath her to mend even a worn stocking," said Rosie. "No," responded Eva, "and she should mend it well." "Your first syllable is not hard to guess, children," said Mrs. Dinsmore; "evidently it is mend." With that the actors withdrew, and presently Chester Dinsmore returned alone, marching in and around the room with head erect and pompous air. His clothes were of fine material and fashionable cut, he wore handsome jewelry, sported a gold headed cane, and strutted to and fro, gazing about him with an air of lofty disdain as of one who felt himself superior to all upon whom his glances fell. Harold presently followed him into the room. He was dressed as a country swain, came in with modest, diffident air, and for a while stood watching Chester curiously from the opposite side of the apartment, then crossing over, he stood before him, hat in hand, and bowing low. "Sir," he said respectfully, "will you be so kind as to tell me if you are anybody in particular? I'm from the country, and shouldn't like to meet any great man and not know it." "I, sir?" cried Chester, drawing himself up to his full height, and swelling with importance. "I? I am the greatest man in America; the greatest man of the age; I am Mr. Smith, sir, the inventor of the most delicious ices and confectionery ever eaten." "Thank you, sir," returned Harold, with another low bow. "I shall always be proud and happy to have met so great a man." Laughter, clapping of hands, and cries of "I! I!" among the spectators, as the two withdrew by way of the hall. Soon the young actors flocked in again. A book lay on a table, quite near the edge. With a sudden jerk Herbert threw it on the floor. Rosie picked it up and replaced it, saying: "Can't you let things alone?" "Rosie, why can't you let the poor boy alone?" whined her cousin, Lora Howard. "No one has ever known me to be guilty of such an exhibition of temper; it's positively wicked." "Oh, you're very good, Lora," sniffed Zoe. "I can't pretend to be half so perfect." "Certainly I can't," said Eva. "I can't." "I can't," echoed Lulu, Max, and several others. "Come now, children, can't you be quiet a bit?" asked Harold. "I can't auction off these goods unless you are attending and ready with your bids." Setting down a basket he had brought in with him, he took an article from it and held it high in air. "We have here an elegant lace veil worth perhaps a hundred dollars; it is to be sold now to the highest bidder. Somebody give us a bid for this beautiful piece of costly lace, likely to go for a tithe of its real value." "One dollar," said Rosie. "One dollar, indeed! We could never afford to let it go at so low a figure; we can't sell this elegant and desirable article of ladies' attire so ridiculously low." "Ten dollars," said Maud. "Ten dollars, ten dollars! This elegant and costly piece of lace going at ten dollars!" cried the auctioneer, holding it higher still and waving it to and fro. "Who bids higher? It is worth ten times that paltry sum; would be dirt cheap at twenty. Somebody bid twenty; don't let such a chance escape you; you can't expect to have another such. Who bids? Who bids?" "Fifteen," bid Zoe. "Fifteen, fifteen! this lace veil, worth every cent of a hundred dollars, going at fifteen? Who bids higher? Now's your chance; you can't have it much longer. Going, going at fifteen dollars--this elegant veil, worth a cool hundred. Who bids higher? Going, going at fifteen dollars, not a quarter of its value. Will nobody bid higher? Going, going, gone!" "Can't," exclaimed several of the audience, as the veil was handed to Zoe, and the whole company of players retired. They shortly returned, all dressed in shabby clothing, some with wallets on their backs, some with old baskets on their arms, an unmistakable troop of beggars, passing round among the spectators with whining petitions for cold victuals and pennies. A low growl instantly followed by a loud, fierce bark, startled players and spectators alike, and called forth a slight scream from some of the little ones. "That auld dog o' mine always barks at sic a troop o' mendicants," remarked Cousin Ronald quietly. "I ken mendicant's the word, lads and lasses, and ye hae acted it out wi' commendable ingenuity and success." "You couldn't have made a better guess if you had belonged to the universal Yankee nation, cousin," laughed Herbert. They retired again and in a few minutes Eva and Lulu came in dressed in travelling attire, each with a satchel in her hand. "This must be the place, I think," said Eva, glancing from side to side, "but there seems to be no one in." "They may be in directly," said Lulu, "let us sit down and rest in these comfortable looking chairs, while we wait." They seated themselves, and as they did so, Zoe and Maud walked in. They too were dressed as travelers, and carried satchels. The four shook hands, Zoe remarking, "So you got in here before us! How did you come?" "In the stage," answered Lulu. "Ah! one travels so slowly in that! We came in the cars," said Maud. "Yes," said Zoe; "in the train that just passed." "Let us go back in the cars, Lu," said Eva. "Yes; in the same train they take. Oh! who is this coming? He acts like a crazy man!" as Frank Dinsmore entered, gesticulating wildly, rolling his eyes and acting altogether very much like a madman. Chester was following close at his heels. "Don't be alarmed, ladies," he said, "he shall not harm you. I'll take care of that; I have my eye on him all the time; never let him out of my sight. I am his keeper." "But he's dangerous, isn't he?" they asked, shrinking from Frank's approach, as if in great fear. "Not while I am close at hand," said Chester. "I'll see that he disturbs no one." "I think it would be well for us to go now, girls," said Zoe. "Let us ask the driver of that stage to take us in; then we'll be safe from this lunatic." They hurried out and in another minute Chester and Frank followed. Then Edward came in, walked up to the fire and stood leaning against the mantelpiece in seemingly thoughtful mood; but as the lady travelers again appeared at the door, he started and went forward to receive them. "Walk in, ladies," he said; "walk into the parlor. Pray be seated," handing them chairs. "Now what can I do for you?" "You are the innkeeper?" asked Zoe. "At your service, madam. Do you wish a room? or rooms?" "Yes; we will have two; and let them be adjoining, if possible." "Certainly, madam; we can accommodate you in that and will be happy to do so." Then turning to the spectators, "Can you tell us our word, ladies and gentlemen?" he asked. "Innkeeper," was the prompt response from several voices. "Quite correct," he said. Then with a sweeping bow, "This closes our entertainment for the evening, and with many thanks for their kind attention we bid our audience a grateful adieu." Half an hour later tea was served, and upon the conclusion of the meal the guests began to take their departure. The family separated for the night earlier than usual, but Harold and Herbert followed their mother to her dressing-room, asking if she felt too weary for a little chat with them. "Not at all," she said with her own sweet smile. "I know of nothing that would afford me greater satisfaction than one of the oldtime motherly talks with my dear college boys; so come in, my dears, and let us have it." Harold drew forward an easy chair for her, but she declined it. "No, I will sit on the sofa, so that I can have you close to me, one on each side," she said. "That will suit your boys, exactly, mamma, if you will be quite as comfortable," said Herbert, placing a hassock for her feet, as she seated herself. "Quite," she returned, giving a hand to each as they placed themselves beside her. "Now remember that your mother will be glad of your confidence in everything that concerns you, great or small; nothing that interests you or affects your happiness in the very least, can fail to have an interest for her." "We know it, dearest mamma," said Harold, "and are most happy in the assurance that such is the fact." "Yes," assented Herbert, lifting her hand to his lips, "and it is that which makes a private chat with our mother so great a delight; that and our mutual love. Mamma, dear, I can not believe I shall ever meet another woman who will seem to me at all comparable to my dearly loved and honored mother." "Such words from the lips of my son are very sweet to my ear," she responded, a tender light shining in her eyes, "and yet for your own sake I hope you are mistaken; I would have all my children know the happiness to be found in married life where mutual admiration, esteem and love are so great that the two are as one." "Such a marriage as yours, mamma?" "Yes; there could not be a happier. But I am looking far ahead for my college boys," she added with a smile; "at least I trust so; for you are over young yet to be looking for life partners." "I don't think either of us has begun on that thus far, mamma," said Harold. "At present we are more solicitous to decide the important question, what shall our principal life work be? and in that we desire the help of our mother's counsel, and to follow her wishes." "It is a question of very great importance," she said, "for your success and usefulness in life will depend very largely upon your finding the work your heavenly Father intends you to do, and for which you are best fitted by the talents He has given you. "But I thought you had both decided upon the medical profession; and I was well content with your choice, for it is a most noble and useful calling." "So we thought mamma, but recently our hearts have been so moved at thought of the millions perishing for lack of a saving knowledge of Christ, that it has become a momentous question with each of us whether he is called to preach the gospel, especially in the mission-field, at home or abroad." Her eyes shone through glad tears. "My dear boy," she said with emotion, "to have sons in the ministry I should esteem the greatest honor that could be put upon me; for there can be no higher calling than that of an ambassador for Christ, no grander work than that of winning souls." "So we both think," said Herbert, "and, mamma, you are willing we should go and labor wherever we may be called in the providence of God?" "Yes, oh yes! you are more His than mine; I dedicated you to his service even before you were born, and many times afterward. I would not dare stand in your way, nor would I wish to; for dearly as I love you both, sweet as your presence is to me, I am more than willing to deny myself the joy of having you near me for the sake of the Master's cause, and that you may win the reward of those to whom He will say at the last, 'Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of the Lord.' Are you particularly drawn to the foreign field?" "No, mamma," answered Harold, "the cause is one--'the field is the world'--but while we are deeply interested in foreign missions and desirous to do all we can to help there, we feel that their prosperity depends upon the success of the work at home, and that the cause of home missions is the cause of our country also; for that cause we would labor and give as both patriots and Christians. "Look at the dangers threatening our dear native land--and the cause of Christ also--from vice and illiteracy, Popery and Mormonism, all ever on the increase from the rapid influx of undesirable immigrants--paupers, insane, anarchists, criminals. Ah how surely and speedily they will sweep away our liberties, both civil and religious, unless we rouse ourselves and put forth every energy to prevent it! Never a truer saying than that 'eternal vigilance is the price of liberty!' and nothing can secure it to us but the instruction and evangelization of these dangerous classes. Is it not so, mamma?" "Yes," she assented; "I am satisfied that the gospel of Christ is the only remedy for those threatening evils, the only safeguard of our liberties, as well as the only salvation for a lost and ruined world. "And, my dear boys, if you devote yourselves to that work it shall be your mother's part, your mother's joy, to provide the means for your support. I can not go into the work myself, so the sending of my sons and supporting them while they labor, must be my contribution to the cause. "But I see no reason why you should give up the idea of studying medicine, since so many medical missionaries are needed. My plan would be to prepare you for both preaching and practising, if you have talent for both." "We have thought of that," said Harold, "and as you approve, dearest mamma, we will hope to carry it out." "I am so glad, mamma, that you have large means and the heart to use them in the work of spreading abroad the glad tidings of salvation through Christ," Herbert remarked. "Yes," she said "it is both a responsibility and a privilege to be entrusted with so much of my Lord's money; pray for your mother, my dear boys, that she may have grace and wisdom to dispense it aright." "We will, mamma, we do; and oh how often we rejoice in having a mother to whom we can confidently apply in behalf of a good object! You have many times given us the joy of relieving misery and providing instruction for the ignorant and depraved." "It has been a joy to me to be able to do so," she said thoughtfully, "yet I fear I have not denied myself as I ought for the sake of giving largely." "Mamma, you have always given largely since I have been old enough to understand anything about such matters," interrupted Harold warmly; "yes, very largely." "If every one had given, and would give as largely in proportion to means," remarked Herbert, "the Lord's treasury would be full to overflowing. Is it not so, Harold?" "Surely; and mamma has never been one to spend unnecessarily on herself," replied Harold, fondly caressing the hand he held. "It has been my endeavor to be a faithful steward," she sighed, "and yet I might have given more than I have. I have been giving only of my income; I could give some of the principal; and I have a good many valuable jewels that might be turned into money for the Lord's treasury. "I have thought a good deal about that of late and have talked with my daughters in regard to the matter; I thought it but right to consult with them, because the jewels would be a part of their inheritance, and I wish you two to have some say about it also, as fellow heirs with them." She paused and both lads answered quickly that they thought the jewels should all go to their sisters. "No; you and your future wives should have a share also," she replied smilingly; "that is if I retained them all. And that being understood, are you willing to have most of them disposed of and the proceeds used in aid of home and foreign missions?" Both gave a hearty assent. "Thank you, my dears," she said. "And now having already consulted with your grandfather and older brother, winning their consent and approval, I consider the matter settled. "A few of my jewels, dear to me as mementoes of the past, I shall retain; also a few others which would not sell for nearly what they are really worth to us; but the rest I intend to have sold and the money used for the spread of the gospel in our own and heathen lands." "I am convinced you could not make a better investment, mamma," Harold said, his eyes shining with pleasure. "Yes, you are right," she returned, "it is an investment; one that can not possibly fail to give a grand return: for does He not say, 'He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth to the Lord; and that which he hath given will he pay him again?' "Who was it (Dean Swift if I remember aright) who preached a charity sermon from that text--'If you like the security, down with the dust'?" "And you do like the security, mamma; you prefer it to any other, I am quite sure," said Herbert. "But what a fine specimen of a charity sermon that was! both powerful and brief. Doubtless many of the hearers were greatly relieved that they had not to listen to a long, dull harangue on the subject, and all the more disposed to give liberally on that account." "Yes; do not forget to act upon that idea, when your turn comes to preach a sermon on that subject," Harold said, giving his younger brother a mischievous smile. "And let us not forget the lesson of the text when the appeal comes to us," added their mother. "Oh my dear boys, what a privilege it is to be permitted to make such investments! and to be sowers of the good seed whether by personal effort or in providing the means for sending out others as laborers. Let us endeavor to be of the number of those who sow largely in both ways; for 'He which soweth sparingly shall reap also sparingly; and he that soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully.' "And the harvest is sure; at the end of the world; if not sooner. And whether we give in one way or the other, let us not do it 'grudgingly or of necessity,' but joyfully and with all our hearts, for God loveth a cheerful giver." "Mamma," said Harold earnestly, "we do both feel it a great and blessed privilege to be permitted to be co-workers with God for the advancement of his cause and kingdom." With that the conversation turned upon other themes, but presently the boys kissed the dear mother good night and withdrew lest they should rob her of needed rest. CHAPTER X. "Home again, and it's nice to get home!" exclaimed Lulu, skipping up the steps of the veranda and across into the wide hall where all was light and warmth and beauty. Violet and Grace had preceded her and her father was following with little Elsie in his arms. "I am glad to hear you say that; glad my daughter appreciates her home," he said in a cheery tone. "I'd be a queer girl, papa, if I didn't appreciate such a home as this is," she returned with warmth, and smiling up into his face. "Don't you say so, Max?" catching sight of her brother who, riding his pony, had arrived some minutes ahead of the carriage and was now petting and fondling his dog at the farther end of the hall. "Yes, indeed!" he answered; "I think if we weren't happy and contented in this home we oughtn't to have any at all. Papa, Prince is a splendid fellow!" stroking and patting the dog's head as he spoke. "So I think," said the captain. "And I too," said Violet; "he is a very acceptable addition to the family. My dear, home does look exceedingly attractive to me, as well as to the children. But little Elsie's eyes are closing; mamma must see her babies to bed." "I wonder where my pussy is?" Grace was saying, from the library door. "I thought she'd be lying on the rug before the fire here, like she was the other night; but she isn't." "Oh, and my Polly!" cried Lulu. "Is she in there?" "I will carry Elsie to the nursery, my love," said the captain. "Lulu and Gracie, you may perhaps find your pets in your own little sitting room." "Oh yes!" they cried in chorus, and started up the stairs after their father and Violet. Outside the night was cold, but within the house the atmosphere was that of summer; doors stood open, and in the halls, and the rooms used by the family, lights were burning; also the air was sweet and fragrant with a faint odor of roses, heliotrope and mignonette, coming from the conservatory and from vases of cut flowers placed here and there; all the result of Capt. Raymond's kind forethought for the comfort and pleasure of wife and children, and the careful carrying out of his orders by the faithful housekeeper Christine. No wonder home looked so attractive to its returning occupants, even coming from a former one quite as beautiful and luxurious. "Oh how sweet it does look here!" exclaimed both the little girls as they entered their little sitting-room. "Oh! and there is my pussy lying on the rug all curled up like a soft round ball!" added Grace. "You are having a nice nap, pretty kitty, and I don't mean to wake you, but I must pet you just a little bit," dropping down beside her, and gently stroking the soft fur. "And there's my Polly in her cage and fast asleep too, I do believe," said Lulu, "I want ever so much to hear her talk, but I'll be as good to her as you are to your pet, Gracie; I won't wake her. "Now we must take off our things, Gracie, for you know papa always says we mustn't keep them on in the house, and that we must put them away in their places." "Yes; but I'm so tired! Papa would let me wait a minute." "Of course, you poor little weak thing! I'll take them off for you and put them away too; and you need hardly more," Lulu said, hastily throwing off her own coat and hat. Then kneeling on the rug beside her sister, she began undoing the fastenings of her coat. "Dear Lu, you're just as good to me as can be!" sighed Grace in tender, grateful accents. "I really don't know what I'd ever do without my nice big sister." "Somebody else would take care of you," said Lulu, flushing with pleasure nevertheless. "There now, I'll go and put both our things in their right places." When she came back she found Grace brimming over with delight because the kitten had waked, crept into her lap, and curled itself up there for another nap. "O Lu, just see!" she cried. "I do believe she's fond of me. Isn't it nice?" "Yes, very nice; but you're burning your face before that bright fire. Oh you do need your big sister to take care of you!" lifting a screen in between Grace and the glowing grate. Then seating herself on a hassock, "Now put your head in my lap and stretch yourself out on the rug. You can rest nicely that way and we'll have a good talk. Such a nice, big, soft rug as this is! I should think it must have taken several big sheep skins to make it, and it was so good in papa to have it put here for us." "Yes, indeed! our dear papa! how I do love him! he's always doing kind things to us." "Yes, O Gracie, if I were only good like you and didn't ever do and say naughty things that make him feel sad!" sighed Lulu. "Oh do you know we are going to have a party on New Years? All the folks that were at Ion are to come; the grown up ones to be papa's and Mamma Vi's company, and the young ones your's and Maxie's and mine." "Yes, I know. And we're all to go to Fairview to spend Monday." "Won't it be nice?" "Yes--" a rather doubtful yes--"but I--'most think I like being at home the best of all." "Why? didn't you enjoy yourself at Ion?" "Yes; but I believe I'm a little bit tired now." "Tired?" "Yes; of being with so many folks. It's nice for a while, but after that it sort of wears me out; and I'm glad to get back to my own dear home where I can be just as quiet as ever I please." "Oh, there is papa!" exclaimed Lulu, turning her head and seeing him standing in the open doorway. He was smiling on his darlings, thinking what a pretty picture they made--the little slender figure on the rug with the kitten closely cuddled in its arms, the golden head lying in Lulu's lap, while her blooming face bent tenderly over it, one hand toying with its soft ringlets. "Tired, Gracie, my pet?" he asked, coming forward and stooping to scan the small pale face in loving solicitude. "Only a little, dear papa," she answered, with a patient smile up into his face. "I think I shall be quite rested by to-morrow morning, and I'm so glad we're at home again." "Yes; and just now the best place in it for my weary little girl is her bed. Lulu and I will get you there as soon as we can." "Mustn't I stay up for prayers?" "No, darling, you are too tired and sleepy to get any good from the service. I see your eyes can hardly keep themselves open." "I believe they can't, and I shall be so glad to go right to my nice bed," she returned sleepily, pushing the kitten gently from her. So she was lifted to her father's knee and Lulu sent for her night dress. In a few minutes she was resting peacefully in her bed, while the captain and Lulu went down hand in hand to the library, where they found Max sitting alone, reading. He closed his book as they entered, rose and wheeled an easy chair nearer the fire for his father, who took it with a pleasant "Thank you, my son," and drew Lulu to a seat upon his knee. "What were you reading, Max?" he asked. "'Story of United States Navy for Boys,'" answered the lad. "Papa would you be willing for me to go into the navy?" "If you have a strong inclination for the life, my boy, I shall throw no obstacle in your way." "Thank you, sir; I sometimes think I should like it, yet I'm not quite sure I'd rather be there than anywhere else." "You must be quite sure of your inclination before we move in the matter," returned his father. "Is there something you would prefer for me, papa?" asked Max. "If I were quite sure you were called of God to the work, I should rather see you a preacher of the gospel, an ambassador for Christ, than anything else. Yet if you lack the talent, or consecration, you would better be out of the ministry than in it." "I'm glad I'm not a boy and don't have to go away from home and papa," Lulu said, nestling closer in her father's arms. "Home's a delightful place and nobody loves to be with papa more than I do," said Max, "but for all that I'm glad I'm going to be a man and able to do a man's work in the world." "And I," said the captain, "am glad that God has given me both sons and daughters, and that you two are satisfied to be what God has made you." For some moments no one spoke again, then Lulu remarked thoughtfully, "This is the last Saturday, and to-morrow will be the last Sunday of the old year. Papa, do you remember the talk we had together a year ago?" "On the last Sunday of that year? yes, daughter, quite well. And now it is time for another retrospect, and fresh resolutions to try to live better, by the help of Him who is the Strength of His people, their Shield and Helper." "It hasn't been nearly so good a year with me as I hoped it would be," sighed Lulu. "Yet an improvement upon the one before it, I think," remarked her father in a tone of encouragement. "You have not, so far as I know, indulged, even once, in a fit of violent anger--and knowing my little girl as most truthful and very open with me--I certainly believe that if she had been in a passion she would have come to me with an honest confession of her fault." "I'm sure Lu would," said Max; "and I do think she has improved very much." "No; I haven't been in a passion, papa, and I hope if I had, I wouldn't have been deceitful enough to try to hide it from you. But oh I've been very, very naughty two or three times in other ways, you know; and you were so good to forgive me and keep on loving me in spite of it all." "Dear child!" was all he said in reply, accompanying the words with a tender caress. "I, too, have come a good deal short of my resolves," observed Max, with a regretful sigh. "Yet I suppose we have both done better than we should if we hadn't made good resolutions." "No doubt of it," said his father. "I feel it to be so in my case, though I, too, have fallen far short of the standard I set myself. But shall we not try again, my children?" "Oh yes, sir, yes!" "And try, not only to make the new year better--if we are spared to see it--but also the three remaining days of the old?" "Yes," sighed Lulu, "perhaps I may get into a dreadful passion yet before the year is out." "I hope not, daughter," her father said; "but watch and pray, for only so can you be safe. There is One who is able to keep you from falling. Cling close to Him like the limpet to the rock." "Oh I will!" she replied in an earnest tone. "But papa what is a limpet? I don't remember ever having heard of it before." "It is a shell-fish of which there are numerous species exhibiting great variety of form and color. The common limpet is most abundant on the rocky coasts of Britain. They live on the rocks between low and high tide marks. "They move about when the water covers them, but when the tide is out, remain firmly fixed to one spot; so firmly that unless surprised by a sudden seizure, it is almost impossible to drag or tear them from the rock without breaking the shell." "How can they hold so tight?" asked Max. "The animal has a round or oval muscular foot by which it clings, and its ability to do so is increased by a viscous or sticky secretion." "Please tell some more about them, papa," requested Lulu, looking greatly interested. "Have they mouths? and do you know what they eat?" "Yes, they have mouths and they live on seaweed, eating it by means of a long ribbon-like tongue covered with rows of hard teeth; the common limpet--which, as I have told you, lives on the British coast--has no fewer than one hundred and sixty rows, twelve teeth in a row. How many does that make, Max?" "Nineteen hundred and twenty," answered the lad after a moment's thought. "Right," said his father. "The tongue when not in use, lies folded deep in the interior of the limpet." "Are their shells pretty, papa?" Lulu asked. "Those of some of the limpets of warmer climates are very beautiful," he answered; "large too. I have seen them on the western coast of South America, a foot wide; so large that they are often used as basins." "Oh I'd like to have one!" she exclaimed. "Is it for their shells people try to pull them off the rocks?" "It may be so in some instances, but the limpet is used for food and also as bait, by the fisherman. "Try, my children, to remember what I have been telling you about it; but most of all let your thoughts dwell upon the lesson to be drawn from its close clinging to the rock. "God is often spoken of in the Scriptures as his people's rock, because he is their strength, their refuge, their asylum, as the rocks were in those places whither the children of Israel retired in case of an unexpected attack from their foes. "David says; 'The Lord is my rock and my fortress.... Who is a rock save our God?' "Jesus is the rock on which we must build our hope of salvation; any other foundation will be as the sand upon which the foolish man built his house; 'and the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell; and great was the fall of it.' "The limpet is wiser; it never trusts to the shifting sand, but holds firmly to the immovable rock. Be like it in resisting all attempts whether of human or spiritual foes, to drag you from your Rock." "Papa," said Max, slowly and with some hesitation. "I wish to do so--I think it is my settled purpose--but I--I feel afraid that sometime I may let go. I'm a careless, heedless fellow you know, and--and I'm afraid I may forget to hold fast to Jesus, and be overcome by some sudden and great temptation." "There is danger of that, my boy," the captain returned with feeling, "yet I should have greater fear for you if I heard you talk in a self-confident and boasting spirit. Trusting in ourselves we are not safe, but trusting in Jesus we are. We are safe only while we cling to our sure foundation, the Rock Christ Jesus; but our greatest security is in the joyful fact that he holds us fast and will never let us go; if we have indeed given ourselves to him. "He says, 'My sheep hear my voice and I know them, and they follow me; and I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.'" "Such sweet words, papa, aren't they?" Lulu said softly. "Yes, words that have been an untold comfort and support to many of God's dear children on their way Zionward. The sword of the Spirit with which they have fought Satan's lying assertion that they might yet be lost in spite of having fled for refuge to Him who died on Calvary." "Is it those words the Bible means when it speaks of the sword of the Spirit, papa?" asked Max. "Not those alone, but _all_ the word of God. And in order to be prepared to wield that sword we must store our memories with the word, we must hide it in our hearts. David says, 'Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee.' "Christ is our pattern; we must strive to follow his example in all things; and it was with the sword of the Spirit he repelled every temptation of the devil there in the wilderness--beginning each reply to the evil suggestions with 'It is written.'" "That is why you have us learn so many Bible verses, papa?" "Yes; open the Bible lying on the table there, Max, and turn to the sixth chapter of Deuteronomy." Max did so, then read, by his father's direction, the sixth and seventh verses. "And these words which I command thee this day, shall be in thine heart; and thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up." "I think you obey that command, papa," said Lulu; "indeed I think you try to obey every command in God's word." "I do," he replied, "and I want my children to follow my example in that. In the eleventh chapter of the same book the command is repeated and these words are added, 'That your days may be multiplied, and the days of your children, in the land which the Lord sware unto your fathers to give them, as the days of heaven upon the earth.' "Speaking of the law, the testimony, the statutes, the commandments of the Lord, the psalmist tells us that, 'in keeping of them there is great reward.' "True happiness is known by none but those who are at peace with God; but living in the light of his countenance, one may be full of joy even in the midst of great earthly tribulation. "Ah, my darlings, I can wish nothing better for you than that you may thus live!" At that moment Violet joined them. "The babies were unusually wakeful and troublesome to-night," she remarked, "but have at last fallen asleep and so released mamma from attendance upon them." "To our great content," added her husband, gently putting Lulu off his knee and rising to give his wife a seat, while Max sprang up and gallantly placed a chair for her; selecting the most comfortable and placing it close beside his father's. She thanked him with one of her sweetest smiles, the captain remarking, "Max was too quick for me that time." "Like his father, he is extremely polite and attentive to ladies," said Violet. "How cosy you are here! and you two children have been having a pleasant time, no doubt, with papa all to yourselves." "We have missed you, my dear," said her husband; "at least I may speak for myself." "And would have been glad if you could have come to us sooner," added Max. "Have you been laying plans for the entertainment of our expected guests who are to keep New Year's day with us?" she asked. "No, my dear; your help will be needed in that," replied her husband. "Can't we have some charades again?" asked Lulu. "I see no objection," answered her father, "provided something new can be thought of." "Misunderstand, I think might do for one," said Max. "Yes, Max, I think that might be very good," Violet said; "and perhaps madman would do for another." "We'll need several words for our charades, I think," said Lulu, "and a number for the sports at Fairview." "But fortunately we are not responsible for the entertainment there," remarked Violet pleasantly. "No," said the captain, "and I think we will dismiss thought for our own for the present. It is time now for evening worship. Max you may ring for the servants." As usual the captain went into Lulu's room for a bit of good night chat with her, about the time she was ready for bed. "Papa," she said, nestling close in his arms. "I have been thinking more about the kind of year this has been to me, and oh I think I must always remember it as a good one because in it I have learned to love Jesus! I know I have done some very wrong things even since I begun to try to be his servant," she went on, hanging her head in shame and contrition, "but O papa I do love him and want to serve him all my life! How glad I am that he is so loving and forgiving, and that he says he will never let any one pluck me out of his hand!" "Yes, dear child, it is a most precious assurance and we may well rejoice in it;--you and I and all his people. "But ever let us keep in mind and obey those other words of our blessed Master, 'Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation.' "Remember that we are to be good soldiers of Jesus Christ, and that we have a great battle to fight with the evil that is in our own hearts, the snares of the world, and the powers of darkness;--Satan and his hosts of wicked spirits whose great desire and aim is to ruin our souls and drag us down to the dreadful place prepared for them." "Papa, sometimes I feel so afraid of them," she sighed, shuddering. "But Jesus is stronger than any of them, and will not let them hurt me if I trust in him?" "Stronger than all of them put together, and will not let any, or all of them, pluck you out of his hand. We are safe there. In the eighth chapter of Romans we find these triumphant words, "'I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord!'" CHAPTER XI. In all the homes of the Dinsmore connection Sunday was always a peacefully quiet day--kept as a sacred time of rest from toil and worldly cares and pleasures. The quiet and leisure for thought were particularly grateful to Grandma Elsie, in her pleasant home at Ion, on this last Sunday of the old year. She had enjoyed having her friends about her and seeing the hilarity of the children and youth. She was still youthful in her feelings and full of an ever ready sympathy with the young, none of whom could know without loving her, while to all who could claim kin with her--especially her children and grandchildren, she was an object of devoted affection; affection fully reciprocated by her. And so the frequent reunions at Ion were a source of delight to both her and them. Yet there were times when her spirit craved exclusive companionship with her nearest and dearest; other seasons when she would be alone with Him whom her "soul desired above all earthly joy and earthly love." An hour had been spent in secret communion with Him ere Rosie and Walter came for the half hour of Bible study and prayer in mamma's dressing room, before breakfast, to which they had been accustomed since their earliest recollection. And not they only but their older brothers and sisters before them, every one of whom had very tender memories connected with that short service; memories that had been a safeguard to them in times of temptation, a comfort and support in the dark hours that sooner or later come to all the sons and daughters of Adam, and made them feel it even yet a privilege to participate, when circumstances would permit. Sometimes Edward and Zoe joined the little circle, and Harold and Herbert seldom failed to do so when at home. They all did so this morning and with an enjoyment that made the allotted time seem far too short. Their mother had always been able to interest her children in Bible lessons. Breakfast and family worship followed; then attendance upon the morning service of the sanctuary. After that Sunday school for the blacks in the school house on the estate, the mother and all her children acting as teachers. The afternoon and evening were given to reading, conversation and music suited to the sacredness of the day; then all retired to peaceful slumbers, from which they rose in the morning rested and refreshed in body and mind, and ready to enter with zest upon the labors and pleasures of the new week. According to the arrangements made the previous week the whole Ion family, and all who had been guests there at that time, repaired to Fairview at an early hour, where they spent the day together in social festivities similar to those with which they had enlivened their stay with Grandma Elsie. Harold and Herbert gave a magic lantern exhibition, some charades were acted, and Cousin Ronald contrived to add not a little to the fun by timely efforts in his own peculiar line; the very little ones were delighted to hear their toy dogs bark, roosters crow, hens and geese cackle, ducks quack, horses neigh and donkeys bray. They could hardly believe that the sounds which seemed to come from the mouths of the toy animals were really made by Cousin Ronald, and when assured that such was the case, thought him a most wonderful man. Some of the guests departed that evening, but others remained over night; among them the Raymonds. On Tuesday morning they went home to Woodburn taking Grandma Elsie, Rosie, Walter and Evelyn Leland with them. Lulu had been sharing Evelyn's room at Fairview, and now was to have the pleasure of returning the hospitality. There were some preparations to be made for the entertainment of to-morrow's guests, and the children were in a flutter of pleasurable excitement. I could not tell you how much they enjoyed their share of the planning and arranging, and the consultations together and with the older people, or how kindly indulgent the captain was to their wishes and fancies, never saying them nay when it was within his power to grant their request. Evelyn Leland loved to watch Lulu and Grace as they hung affectionately about their father, giving and receiving caresses and endearments; yet the sight often brought tears to her eyes--calling up tender memories of the past. She had not forgotten--she never could forget the dear parent who had been won't to lavish such caresses and endearments upon her, and at times her young heart ached with its longing to hear again the sound of his voice and feel the clasp of his arm, and his kisses upon cheek and lip and brow. Yet life was gliding along very peacefully and happily with her, brightened by the love of kindred and friends, and she could join very heartily in the diversions and merriment of her companions. Tea was over, the babies had had their romp with papa, brothers and sisters, and been carried off to the nursery, leaving the rest of the family--the guests included--in the pleasant library. "Well, my dears, it has been a busy day with you," remarked Grandma Elsie, smiling pleasantly upon the group of children, "but I presume your preparations for to-morrow's sports are quite completed?" "Yes, ma'am," said Lulu. "And we have some very good charades, mamma," said Rosie, "and have arranged for some nice tableaux." "New ones?" "New and old both," answered Rosie and Lulu together. "And oh, Grandma Elsie, we want another with you in it," added Lulu, with eager entreaty in her tones. "And why with me, my dear?" asked Mrs. Travilla, with a pleased little laugh, "are there not more than enough younger people to take part?" "Oh there are plenty of us such as we are!" laughed Evelyn, "but we want all the beautiful people, so that the pictures will be beautiful." "You are coming out in a new character, Eva--that of an adroit flatterer," returned Grandma Elsie, with a look of amusement; "but I am not at all displeased, my dear child, because I credit it entirely to your affection, which I prize very highly," she hastened to add, seeing that her words had called up a blush of painful embarrassment on Eva's usually placid face. "Grandma Elsie, we all love you dearly," said Lulu, "but you _are_ beautiful. I'm sure everybody thinks so. Don't they, papa?" "As far as my knowledge goes," he answered, smiling and pinching her cheek--for as usual she was close at his side--"and indeed I don't know how any one could think otherwise." "Mamma will, I'm sure," said Walter, "because we want her to, and she's always kind." "Will what?" asked Violet coming in at that moment. "Be one in a tableau," replied Walter. "Yes, of course," said Violet. "Oh we'll make a group with mamma, grandpa, Sister Elsie and her little Ned, and call it a picture of four generations. If dear old grandpa were with us still we could make it five." "A very nice idea, my dear," the captain remarked with a glance of affectionate admiration at his young wife, as he rose and handed her a chair; "and I think we must have the group photographed." "Oh yes, Lester can do it beautifully! We'll send him word to bring his apparatus with him." "Yes," said her mother, "and we will ask him to take us all in family groups. The pictures will be pleasant mementoes of this holiday season." "Mamma," said Walter, "I think if you would tell us all about all the New Years days you can remember, it would be a very interesting way of spending the evening." "Yes, mamma, we would all be charmed to hear your story," said Violet, the others chiming in with, "Oh yes, mamma," "Yes, Grandma Elsie, please do tell it." "Since you all seem to desire it, I will try," she answered kindly, "but I fear my reminiscences will hardly deserve the name of story. "The first Christmas and New Years of which I retain a vivid remembrance, were those of the first winter after I had made the acquaintance of my dear father; for, as I believe you all know, I never saw him till I was eight years old. "The occurrences of that Christmas are too familiar to most, if not all of you, to bear repetition." "And you hadn't at all a nice New Year's that time, mamma," said Rosie, softly stroking and patting the hand she held, then lifting it to her lips; for she was sitting on a stool at her mother's feet, while the others had grouped themselves around her, "suffering so with that sprained ankle." "Ah there you are mistaken, my child," Grandma Elsie answered with her own sweet smile, "for I had a most enjoyable day in spite of the injury that kept me a prisoner in my room; my father brought me a beautiful doll-baby, quite as large as some live ones that I have seen, and a quantity of pretty things to be used in its adornment. My little friends and I had a merry, happy time cutting out garments and making them up. "The next Christmas and New Year's Day were spent in our sweet new home at the Oaks, which my papa had bought and furnished in the mean time. "My Christmas gifts were beautiful; from papa books and a pearl necklace and bracelets--now the property of my daughter Rosie"--smiling down at Rosie as she spoke--"and a ring to match from him who was afterward my beloved husband; also books from his mother and my Aunt Adelaide. They were our guests at dinner that day. "Between breakfast and dinner I had the pleasure of distributing gifts among the house servants and the negroes at the quarter; then a ride with papa; and the evening, till my early bedtime, was spent sitting on his knee." "But you are going to tell us about that New Year's, too, mamma, aren't you?" asked Walter, as she paused in her narrative, sitting quietly with a pensive, far off look in her soft brown eyes. "Yes," she said, rousing from her reverie, "I remember it was on the day after Christmas that papa asked me if I was going to make a New Year's present to each of my little friends. "Of course I was delighted with the idea, especially as he allowed me great latitude in regard to the amount to be spent." "And did he take you to the stores and let yon choose the presents, Grandma Elsie?" asked Lulu. "That would be half the fun, I think." "My dear, indulgent father would have done so, had I been able to bear the fatigue," Grandma Elsie replied, "but at that time I was quite feeble from a severe illness. He did not think me strong enough to visit the stores, but ordered goods sent out to the Oaks for me to select from, which gave me nearly as much enjoyment us I could have found in going to the city in search of them." "Did you find gifts to suit, mamma?" queried Walter. "And oh won't you tell us how many and what they were?" "Beside the Roselands little people," replied his mother, "there were Lucy and Herbert Carrington, Carrie Howard, Isabel Carleton, Mary Leslie, and Flora Arnott to be remembered. "For the last named, who was also the youngest, I selected a beautiful wax doll and a complete wardrobe of ready made clothes for it, all neatly packed in a tiny trunk. "To Mary Leslie I gave a ring, and to each of the other girls a handsome bracelet; to Herbert, who was a great reader, a set of handsomely bound books. "All these little friends of mine were spending the Christmas holidays at Pinegrove--the home of the Howards. "Papa and I had been invited too, but had declined because of my feeble state. When my gifts were ready I asked him if they should be sent to Pinegrove. "'We will see about it,' he answered; 'we have plenty of time; there are two days yet, and it will not take a messenger half an hour to travel from here to Pinegrove.' "So I said no more, for I never was allowed to tease. "But when New Year's morning came and the presents had not been sent, I began to feel decidedly uneasy, and papa evidently perceived it; though neither of us said a word on the subject that was uppermost in my mind. "Papa had some beautiful books and pictures for me which he gave me before breakfast, saying he hoped they would help me pass the day pleasantly; he would be glad to make it the happiest New Year I had known yet. "He smiled tenderly upon me as he said it, then held me close in his arms and kissed me over and over again; and I returned his kisses, putting my arms about his neck and hugging him as tight as I could. "After that we had breakfast and family worship, and then he took me on his knee again and asked how I would like to spend the day? "I answered that I would be glad to have a drive if he did not think it too cold. He said he thought it was not if I were well wrapped up. "There was no snow to make sleighing, so the carriage was ordered, I was bundled up in furs, and we drove several miles. "As we were about starting I ventured to ask, 'Papa, haven't you forgotten to send my presents to Pinegrove?' He smiled and said, 'No, my darling,' in a very pleasant tone, but that was all, and when we came back I noticed that the presents were still in a closet in my dressing room where they had lain ever since they were bought. "I was quite puzzled to understand it, but I asked no questions. "Mammy arranged my hair and dress, and I went back to the parlor where papa was sitting reading. He laid aside his book as soon as I entered the room, took me on his knee, and began telling me funny stories that kept me laughing till a carriage drove up to the door. "'There, some one has come!' he said; 'it seems we are not to spend the day alone after all.' "Then in another minute or two, the door opened and in came my six little friends for whom I had bought the presents." Grace clapped her hands in delight. "Oh how nice! and didn't you have a good time, Grandma Elsie?" "Yes, very; they had all come to spend the day; I had the pleasure of presenting my gifts in person and of seeing that they were fully appreciated; we played quiet games and papa told us lovely stories. There was no fretting or quarrelling, everybody was in high good humor, and when the time came to separate, my guests all bade good bye, saying, 'they had never had a more enjoyable day.'" "Now please tell about the next Christmas and New Year's, mamma," urged Walter, as she paused, as though feeling that her tale was ended. "Let mamma have time to breathe and to think what comes next, Walter," said Rosie. "Don't you see that's what she is doing?" "I am thinking of those little friends of mine," sighed their mother; "asking myself 'Where are they now?' Ah what changes life brings! how short and hasty it is, and how soon it will be over! I mean the life in this world. "It is likened in the Bible to a pilgrimage, a tale that is told, a flower that soon withers or is cut down by the mower's scythe, a dream, a sleep, a vapor, a shadow, a handbreadth; a thread cut by the weaver." "Mamma, are those friends of yours all dead?" asked Walter. "I will tell you about them," she answered. "Herbert Carrington died young--he was barely sixteen." With the words a look of pain swept across the still fair, sweet face of the speaker, and she paused for a moment as if almost overcome by some sad recollection. Violet, who had heard the story from Grandma Rose, understood it. "Mamma, dear," she said softly, "what a happy thing it was for him--poor sufferer that he was--to be taken so early to the Father's house on high where pain and sin and sorrow are unknown!" "Yes," returned her mother, furtively wiping away a tear, "and calling to mind the dreadful scenes of the war that followed some years later, and the sore trials that resulted in the Carrington family--I feel that he was taken away from the evil to come. "Of the others forming that little company Flora Arnott too died young. Mary Leslie married and moved away, and I have lost sight of her for many years. Carrie Howard lived to become a wife and mother, but was called away from earth years ago. The same words would tell Isabel Carleton's story. "Lucy Carrington and I are the only ones left, and she, like myself, has children and grandchildren. I hear from her now and then, and we meet occasionally when I go North or she pays a visit to the old home at Ashlands." "Mrs. Ross," said Rosie half in assertion, half inquiringly. "Yes, that is her married name." "And Aunt Sophy who lives at Ashlands now, is--" "The widow of Lucy's older brother Harry, and also your Grandma Rose's sister; as you all know." "Mamma," said Walter, "you didn't mention Grandma Rose at all in telling your story of that Christmas and New Year's. Wasn't she there?" "No, my son; my father--your grandpa--and I were living alone together at that time. The next summer we went North, and while there visited at Elmgrove, Mr. Allison's country seat, which gave papa and Miss Rose an opportunity to become quite well acquainted. "I had known and loved Miss Rose before, and was very glad when papa told me she had consented to become his wife and my mother. "They were married in the fall and when we returned to the Oaks she was with us. "That made my next Christmas and New Year still happier than the last, and when yet another came round my treasures had been increased in number by the advent of a darling little brother." "Uncle Horace," said Walter. "Mamma, were you very glad when God gave him to you?" "Indeed I was!" she answered with a smile. "I had never had a brother or sister and had often been hungry for one. "And he has always been a dear, loving brother to me," she went on, "and your Aunt Rose, who came to us while we were in Europe some eight years later, as sweet a sister as any one could desire." "But about those holidays, mamma, the first when you had a brother?" persisted Walter; "aren't you going to tell about them?" "Yes," she answered; "it was a particularly enjoyable time, for we had our cousins--Mildred and Annis Keith--with us. Mildred, though, had become Mrs. Landreth, and had her husband and baby boy with her. "Annis was a dear, lovable little girl just about my own age. They spent the winter at the Oaks, Annis sharing both my studies and my sports. We had a Christmas party, our guests remaining through the rest of the week." "Oh mamma, do please go on and tell the whole story of that Christmas, and all the good times you had that winter," pleaded Rosie. "I have always enjoyed it so much, and I'm sure Eva and Lulu and Gracie will." Rosie's request was seconded by several other voices in the little crowd, and Grandma Elsie, ever willing to give pleasure, kindly complied. But as my young readers have already had the story in Mildred's Married Life, I shall not repeat it here. Suffice it to say it seemed to greatly interest all her listeners, and Lulu gathered from it a far different impression of Mr. Dinsmore, as a father, from that she had derived from tales told her by some of the old servants in the family connection. They had given her the idea that he was exceedingly stern and tyrannical, but his daughter painted him as a most loving and indulgent parent. Mayhap the truth lay somewhere between the two pictures, for as he himself had often said, Elsie was ever won't to look upon him through rose colored glasses. "You did have a very nice time, Grandma Elsie! I could almost wish I'd been in your place," exclaimed Lulu, when the tale had come to an end. "But no I don't, either, for then I couldn't be my father's child," putting her arm round the captain's neck and laying her cheek to his, "and to belong to him is better than anything else!" "My little Lulu being the judge," laughed the captain, tightening the clasp of his arm about her waist. "Or any other of your children, papa," added Grace from her seat on his knee, affectionately stroking his face with her small white hand as she spoke. "Grandma Elsie, won't you please go on and tell about other Christmases that you remember?" "I think, my dear, I have done my full share of story telling for one evening," replied Mrs. Travilla pleasantly. "It is your father's turn now, as the next in age. Captain, will you not favor us with some of your reminiscences of former holiday experiences? or of something else if you prefer. I know you are a famous story teller." "Oh yes, captain!" "Oh yes, papa do, please," urged the others. "Some other time, perhaps," he said. "Do you know how late it is? time to call the servants in to prayers, and then for the little folks to seek their nests. Max, my son, ring the bell." "Then you don't mean to let us stay up to watch the old year out and the new year in, papa?" queried the lad, as he rose and obeyed the order. "Hardly," his father answered with a slight smile; "You are all too young to be allowed to lose so large a portion of your night's rest. To do so would spoil all the anticipated pleasure of to-morrow." "Then I am sure we don't want to, captain," said Evelyn, "for we are looking forward to a great deal of pleasure." CHAPTER XII. "My little Grace looks tired," the captain said, bending down and taking her in his arms as the little folks were bidding good night. "I shall carry you up stairs, darling, after the old custom." "Thank you, papa; I'm very willing," replied Grace, clasping his neck with her small arms. "Lulu, shall I say good night to you first?" he asked, smiling down at his eldest daughter, standing by his side; "as you have Eva with you, you will perhaps not care for the usual bit of good night chat with your father?" "Yes, indeed I do care for it, papa!" cried Lulu. "Why, I sha'n't have another chance this year! I wouldn't miss it for anything!" "Then you shall not," he said, looking both pleased and amused; "that sounds as though the next opportunity were far in the distance." He passed out of the room as he spoke, and on up the wide stairway, Lulu and Eva following, each with an arm about the other's waist. "Those talks must be so delightful," remarked the latter in a low tone, and with a slight sigh, "I'm very glad you don't let me hinder them, dear Lu." "I knew you wouldn't want me to," said Lulu; "you are always so kind and thoughtful for others; and though papa sometimes gives me a quarter of an hour or more, when we have a great deal to say to each other, I think he won't stay more than a minute or two to-night! so that it won't keep me long away from you." "Oh please don't hurry for my sake," said Eva, adding softly, "You know I, too, shall be glad of a few minutes alone with my best Friend. So if you like, I will go into the little tower room while your papa is with you." "You can have both that and my bedroom to yourself, dear," returned Lulu, "for I shall receive papa in the little sitting room that is Gracie's and mine." They had reached the upper hall. The captain passed into Gracie's bedroom, Lulu into her own, Eva with her. "Such a sweet, pretty room!" Eva said, glancing around it; "I am always struck with that thought on coming into it, though I have seen it so often." "Yes," returned Lulu, her face lighting up with pleasure, "I think it so myself. Our dear father is constantly adding pretty things here and there to our room, and doing oh so much to make his children happy! Yet, would you believe it, Eva? I am sometimes both ill-tempered and disobedient to him." "Not now! not lately?" Evelyn said half in assertion, half inquiringly and with a look of surprise. "Yes," Lulu replied in a low, remorseful tone, her eyes downcast, her face flushing painfully; "only last month, one day Max was teasing me and I was in very bad humor, so answered him very crossly. Papa happened to be in the next room and overheard it all, and called to us both to come to him. His voice sounded stern, and I felt angry and rebellious. Max, never does feel so, I believe, anyway he's always obedient, and he went at once, but I waited to be called a second time, and--O Eva, I'm dreadfully, dreadfully ashamed! but I feel as if I must tell you because I can't bear to have you think me so much better than I am." "Dear Lu, don't tell it if it hurts you so. I'm sure if you were not a good girl you wouldn't feel so very sorry and ashamed," Evelyn interrupted, putting both arms round her friend and kissing her with warmth of affection. "No, indeed, I'm not!" said Lulu; "and I'll tell it, if only to punish myself for my badness. Papa has never punished me for it, though I really did wish he would and asked him to over and over again." "That seems very odd," Eva said, half smiling. "Most people are only too glad to escape punishment." "Maybe I'm different from most folks," said Lulu, "but I always want to beat myself when I've been so hateful, and so if papa punishes me I always feel a good deal happier after it's over. "But I must finish my story. Papa asked, 'Lulu, did you hear me bid you come to me?' and I answered, 'Yes, sir'; then muttered, 'but I'll not come a step till I get ready.'" Evelyn seemed lost in astonishment. "Oh Lu! did you really say that? could you venture to speak so to your father--a man whom everybody respects so highly, and who is so dear and kind to you?" "I did," acknowledged Lulu, her head hanging still lower and her cheek flushing more hotly. "You see when I lived with Aunt Beulah I got into the way of being very saucy to her, and I suppose that's how I came to speak so to papa. Oh don't you think I ought to be dreadfully ashamed, and that papa should have punished me very severely?" "I suppose he is the best judge of that," Eva answered, doubtfully. "But what did he do? Surely he didn't pass it over as of no consequence? I think he couldn't feel it right to allow his own child to refuse obedience to his commands." "No; of course not. The minute I'd said the words I could have bitten my tongue off for it. I hoped papa hadn't heard, but he had, and he rose from his chair and came toward me (very quietly; not at all as if he was in a passion), and I jumped up, saying 'I will, papa; I'm coming.'" "Then he said in a tone as if he were grieved and astonished that his own little girl could talk so to him--'Tardy obedience following upon a most insolent refusal to obey,' and took my hand and led me to the side of his chair. "Then he sat down and talked to Max a little, and sent him up to his room, and after Max had gone he talked to me. "He said he must punish me, but he would try a new way, and for four days I shouldn't be his child at all--at least not be treated like it, but just as if I were only a little girl visitor; he wouldn't give me any orders, or advice, or direction, or instruction; and I mustn't take any liberty with him that I wouldn't feel free to take with a stranger gentleman. "He said I must understand that he did not intend to subject me to any harsh treatment, but would be as polite and attentive to my wants as if I were a guest in the house." "O Lu, did you like it? was it nice?" "No, indeed! I thought they were the longest days I'd ever lived, and wondered how I could ever have thought I'd like to be my own mistress instead of having to obey papa. "He didn't give me one cross word or even look, but he didn't invite me to sit on his knee, and I didn't dare do so; he didn't call me pet names and hug me up in his arms, as he so often does when I haven't been naughty, and I couldn't wait on him as I always love to do; he wouldn't let me do the least thing for him. I just felt as if I wasn't one of the family at all, and would ten times rather have had the hardest of whippings; at least so far as the pain was concerned." "Yes, of course; it wouldn't have been half so hard to bear. At least I can imagine that to be made to feel yourself only a stranger in your father's house would be a great deal worse than having to endure quite severe bodily pain. So I think you may feel that you have been punished." "Not so severely as I deserve," returned Lulu, shaking her head and sighing; "no not half. There, I can hear Gracie calling me to say good-night. Excuse me while I run into her room for a few minutes." She found Grace alone and just getting into bed. "Where's papa?" Lulu asked. "Gone down stairs; but he said he'd be back in a few minutes to have his bit of chat with you in our sitting-room." "Then I'll just kiss you good night and hurry back to get ready for him." When the captain came he found Lulu ready and waiting for him, seated by the fire with her Bible open in her hand. "I was learning my verse for to-morrow morning, papa," she said, closing the book and laying it aside, as she rose to give him the easy chair she had been occupying. "That was right," he replied, sitting down and drawing her to his knee; "one could hardly end the old year, or begin the new, in a better way than by the study of God's word. Well, has my little daughter anything particular to say to her father to-night?" "Only that I wish I'd been a better daughter to you, papa, and that I hope I shall be this--no next year: the year that's to begin in a few hours. I do hope that when its last night comes you can say, 'My daughter Lulu hasn't been once disobedient or in a passion for a whole year.'" "It will be a very happy thing for me--for us both--if I can," he said, "and I am not without hope that it may be so. But my dear child, you will need constant watchfulness lest your besetting sins overcome you when you least expect it." "I wish I could ever get done with the fight," she sighed. "It's such a hard one." "Yes, I know, dear child, for I am engaged in the same conflict; but we must keep on resolutely till the dear Master calls us home. "But we have the promise of His help all the way, and that we shall be 'more than conquerors through Him that loved us.' And the prize is eternal life at God's right hand." "It will be always easy to be good when we get to heaven?" "Yes; the last remains of the old evil nature will have been taken away, and we will have no more inclination to sin." "I am very glad of that! and that God gave me such a good Christian father to help me in my hard fight! And, papa, I must tell you again that I am very, very sorry and ashamed because of my naughtiness last month." "Dear child, my dear humble penitent little girl!" he said tenderly, "it was all long since fully and freely forgiven. Now good night, my darling; and good bye till next year," he added in playful tone, kissing her fondly over and over again, "unless something unforeseen should make you want your father before morning. In that case you will not have far to run to find him." "Oh no; and it makes me glad always at night to remember that you are so near, and the doors all open between our rooms, so that you could hear me if I should call out to you, papa. I know you wouldn't be displeased at being wakened if I were in trouble and needed you." "No, indeed, daughter; in that case I should be only too glad to be roused that I might hasten to your assistance. "But let your greatest rejoicing be in the thought that you and I and all of us are under the care of Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps. 'It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man.'" Rosie in her mamma's room, which she shared at this time, as on a former occasion, was preparing for bed, Grandma Elsie quietly reading in an easy chair beside the fire. Presently Rosie went to the side of the chair and dropping on her knees on the carpet, looked up smilingly into the sweet placid face bent over the book. "Mamma, dear, I have come for my good night kiss before getting into bed," she said softly, adding sportively, "the last I shall solicit from you this year." "And you are going to be satisfied with one?" her mother asked letting the book fall into her lap, while she laid one hand gently on her young daughter's head and gazed tenderly down into the blooming face; with a somewhat sad expression too, Rosie thought. "I say, no to that, mamma," she returned, laying her head in her mother's lap and taking into her own the hand that had been resting on it, to press it again and again to her lips with ardent affection, "for I shall not be satisfied with less than half a dozen." Elsie gave them in quick succession, gathering her child in her arms and making her rest her fair head on the maternal bosom, and Rosie felt a warm tear fall on her cheek. "Mamma!" she exclaimed in concerned surprise, "you are crying! What can be the matter? have I said or done anything to grieve you, dear heart?" reaching up an arm to clasp her mother's neck, while she scanned the loved features with earnest, tender scrutiny. For a minute or more there was no reply. Then Elsie said, in moved tones, softly smoothing the hair back from Rosie's temples as she spoke, and gazing tenderly down into her eyes, "My heart is sad for you, my darling, because, while another year is rapidly drawing to a close, I have yet no reason to hope that you have sought a refuge within the fold of the good Shepherd who gives to his sheep eternal life; the dear Saviour who has been all these years inviting you to come to him and be saved." "Mamma, I am very young yet," murmured Rosie, hanging her head and blushing. "Old enough to have become a disciple of Jesus years ago," her mother said in sorrowful tones. "O my darling, give him the best years of your life; the whole of your life, whether it be long or short. Is he not worthy of it?" "Yes, mamma; surely there can be only one answer to that and I do mean to--to try to turn over a new leaf with the coming of the new year. But, mamma, I know of a number of good Christians who didn't begin to be such till they were many years older than I am. There is grandpa for one." "Yes, my child," sighed her mother, "but he has always deeply regretted having so long delayed beginning the Christian course--entering the service of the dear Master whom now he loves better than wife or child or any created being. There are many reasons, my darling, why delay is both dangerous and unwise as well as basely ungrateful." "You allude to the uncertainty of life, mamma?" "Yes, and of the continuance of health and reason. How many have been suddenly overtaken by fatal illness that at once robbed them of the power to think, so that if preparation for the solemn realities of another world had not been already made, the opportunity for so doing was forever lost! "There is also danger that God's Spirit may cease to strive with you, and without His help you can not come to Christ. "Nor do we know how soon Jesus may come again in the clouds of heaven. He himself has told us that he will come as a thief in the night; that is when he is not expected. "But, Rosie, my dear child, even if you could know certainly that delay will not cost you the loss of your soul, it will bring you other loss great and irreparable." "What, mamma?" Rosie asked with a look of mingled surprise and alarm. "I can not think what you mean." "While it is a precious truth that all who finally repent and accept of Christ as their only Saviour, will inherit eternal life--a life of holiness and unspeakable happiness at God's right hand," answered her mother, "yet there will be a difference in the portions of those who have spent many years in the faithful service of the Master--using their time and talents for the advancement of his cause and kingdom, and striving to win others to know and serve him, and themselves to grow in grace and conformity to his likeness and his will--and that of others who have been saved only at the last and so as by fire. All will be perfectly happy but some will have a greater capacity for happiness than others. "According to the teachings of God's word sin is the greatest folly, the service of God the highest wisdom. "'Doth not wisdom cry? and understanding put forth her voice?... Riches and honor are with me; yea, durable riches and righteousness. My fruit is better than gold, yea, than fine gold; and my revenue than choice silver! "'They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars forever and ever.' "Rosie, my darling, it is the dearest wish of my heart to see you engaged in that work; but you cannot teach others what you do not know yourself; you must first give your heart to God and learn for yourself the sweetness of his love. Will you not do it now? at once? Oh listen to his gracious invitation, 'Give me thine heart.'" For some moments a deep and solemn hush seemed to fill the room, Rosie still kneeling there with her head pillowed on her mother's breast, Elsie's heart going up in an almost agonizing petition for her child. At length Rosie lifted her head looking up into her mother's face with dewy eyes and a very sweet smile. "Mamma," she said in low tremulous tones, "I have tried to do it; I have asked the Lord to forgive all my sins, to cleanse me from mine iniquities, and to take me for his very own; and I think he has heard and granted my petition. "You know when the leper came to him saying, 'Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean,' Jesus at once put forth his hand and touched him saying, 'I will; be thou clean'; and immediately the leprosy departed from him. Mamma, I have been praying the leper's prayer, and I think the dear Lord Jesus has said the same words to me." "I am sure of it," Elsie said with emotion, "for he is the unchangeable God; 'Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to-day, and forever'; as ready to be moved with compassion for a sin-sick soul to-day, as he was for the leper when on earth. And he has said, 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'" Clasping her hands and looking upward, "Bless the Lord, O my soul," she exclaimed; "'and all that is within me, bless his holy name!'" CHAPTER XIII. "Lu! Lu! five o'clock, time to get up!" called a harsh voice in loud, shrill tones. "Who, who was calling?" asked Eva starting out of sleep. "Only Polly," laughed Lulu. "Get up, get up!" screamed the bird. "Time for breakfast. Polly wants her coffee. Polly wants a cracker." "What a smart parrot! how plainly she talks," said Eva. "Yes; but so loud. I'm afraid she will wake everybody in the house." "How has she learned your name so soon?" asked Eva. "I don't think she has," said Lulu. "Papa says there was a girl named Louisa in the place where Polly used to live, that everybody called Lu, and the parrot learned to call her so too." "Happy New Year!" screamed Polly. "Oh just hear her!" cried Lulu in delight. "Papa must have been teaching her that, or having somebody else do it, while we were away. I think she's going to make a great deal of fun for us all. Happy New Year to you, Eva dear," giving her friend a hug, as they lay side by side in the bed. "The same to you, dear Lu," returned Eva. "How nice it is to be here with you lying on this easy couch with this down cover and these soft blankets over us. I never lay on a more delightful bed. Everything about it is beautiful and luxurious too." "Papa was very particular to get the very best of springs and mattresses for all our beds," replied Lulu. "Oh but he is a dear, good father, always careful for the comfort and happiness of all his children!" "And of his wife?" "Oh yes indeed! I'm quite sure no man could take better care of his wife, or be more loving and kind to her, than papa is to Mamma Vi. And I'm pretty sure he was just the same to my mother; he says he loved her very dearly and loves his children--I mean Max and Gracie and me--because they were hers as well as because they are his very own." "Lu! Lu! get up! Time for breakfast!" screamed Polly again. "I suppose it is morning, or she wouldn't be making such a fuss," said Lulu. "Yes," said Eva, "I see a little light coming in at the window." "I'll light the gas in the sitting-room, and give her a cracker to stop her screaming," said Lulu, getting out of bed and feeling about for her warm slippers and dressing gown. "Then I'll run and catch papa and Gracie." "Lulu," said the captain's voice from Gracie's room. "I'm here, papa. Oh a happy New Year to you!" "Thank you, dear child. I wish you the same; but I want you to give Polly a cracker as quickly as you can to stop her screaming; for I fear she will wake both guests and babies." "Yes, sir; I will. I was just going to," replied the little girl. "Then shall I stay up?" "I think you may as well go back to bed and try to take another nap," he answered. "It is very early yet." Lulu hurried into the sitting-room where Polly's cage was hanging, and struck a light. "What you 'bout? Where you been?" demanded the parrot. "Sleeping in my bed as I have a right to, Miss Saucebox," returned Lulu, laughing as she opened a cupboard door and brought out a paper of crackers. "There, take that and see if you can hold your tongue till folks are ready to get up." The bird took the offered cracker and began eating it, standing on one foot, on its perch, and holding the food in the claws of the other, while it bit off a little at a time, Lulu looking on with interest. "You'll have to behave better than this, or you'll get banished to the attic, or the kitchen, or some other far-off place," she said, shaking her finger threateningly at Poll. Then, after turning down the light, she ran back to bed. "Are you asleep, Eva?" she asked in a whisper. "No dear; wide awake." "Then let's talk; for I'm as wide awake as I can be." "But didn't your father say you were to try for another nap?" "I understood him to mean only that I might if I chose, not that I must; but perhaps he meant that he wanted me to; so I'll keep quiet and try." She did so, saying to herself, "I just know it's no use, for I was never wider awake in my life," but to her great astonishment the next thing she knew it was broad daylight and Eva up and brushing out her hair before the mirror over the bureau. "Why, I've been asleep and I hadn't the least idea of such a thing!" cried Lulu springing out upon the floor and beginning to dress in all haste. "Oh, you've had a nice nap and will feel the better for it all day, I'm sure," returned Eva laughing in a kindly way; "and that is your reward for trying to do as your papa probably wished you to. But need you hurry so? isn't it a good while to breakfast time?" "Yes, but I have to dress and say my prayers; and I always like so much to have a little time to chat with papa before the bell rings." "Lu! Lu!" screamed the parrot, "time for breakfast! Polly wants her coffee." "Just hear Polly," exclaimed Lulu; "it does seem as if she must have sense. I suppose she does think it's time for breakfast." "Does she drink coffee?" asked Eva. "Yes; she is very fond of it. She gets a cup every morning." "She's a very amusing pet, I think," remarked Evelyn. "What fun it will be to teach her to say all sorts of cute things!" "Yes," sighed Lulu, "but papa says if she should hear angry, passionate, or willful words from my lips she may learn and repeat them to my shame and sorrow. But oh I hope I never shall let her hear such!" "I don't believe you ever will say such words any more, dear Lu," Eva said with an affectionate look into her friend's face. "I don't believe you have ever been in a passion since--since the time that little Elsie had that sad fall." "No, I have not been in a rage, but I have said some angry words a few times, and oh--as you must remember that I told you--some very rebellious and insolent ones to my dear papa--not so long ago. Oh dear, I'm afraid my tongue can never be tamed! "Papa made me learn that third chapter of James that says 'the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity and that no man can tame it.' Then he talked to me so nicely and kindly about learning to rule my tongue and make it always speak as it ought--wise, kind, pleasant words. And he told me the only way to do it was by getting my heart right--by God's help--because, as the Bible tells us in another place, it is out of the abundance of the heart that the mouth speaketh." "Your father takes a great deal of pains to teach and help you, dear Lu, doesn't he?" said Eva. "Yes, yes, indeed!" returned Lulu, with warmth; "all his children, but especially me, I think, because I'm the naughtiest and have the hardest work trying to be good. I'm often surprised at papa's patience with me and the trouble he takes to help me in my hard fight with my passionate, wilful temper." Just then Grace's voice was heard at the door, "Happy New Year, Eva and Lu! May I come in?" "Yes, come. Happy New Year to you," cried both girls, Lulu running and taking her sister in her arms to hug and kiss her. "You darling child! You look bright and well. Are you?" "Yes, you old woman," laughed Gracie, returning the hug and kisses; "and I'm all ready for breakfast. Are you?" "No, not quite." "I am," said Eva. "Shall we go into the sitting-room, Gracie, and wait there for Lu?" "Yes," answered Grace, leading the way; "and I'll be learning my Bible verse while we wait for her and papa and the breakfast bell." Lulu and her father joined them at the same moment. The captain kissed the little girls all around and presented each with a pretty little portemonnaie. Eva thanked him with smiles, blushes and appreciative words; his own two with hugs and kisses in addition to the thanks given in words. "Mine's ever so pretty, papa," Lulu said, turning it about in her hands. "I am glad you are pleased with it," he said, smiling, "but are you going to be satisfied with looking at the outside? don't you want to examine the lining also?" "Why, yes, sir?" opening it. "Oh, oh, it isn't empty!" she laughed, beginning to take out the contents--two clean, crisp one dollar notes, and a handful of bright new quarters, dimes and five cent pieces. "Papa, how kind and generous you are to me!" Grace had her purse open by this time and found it lined in like manner with Lulu's. "Dear papa, thank you ever so much," she said, looking up into his face with eyes full of love and gratitude. "It's a great deal for me to have beside all the rest you gave me." "You are both as welcome as possible, my darlings; only make good use of it, remembering that money is one of the talents for which we must give account to God at last," he answered to both. "Eva, my dear," turning to her, "you will find the same in yours, and I hope will accept it from me as though you were one of my daughters. Do me the kindness to let me be in some respects, a father to you; since your own is absent in the happy home to which I trust we are all traveling." She was standing near, the present he had given her in her hand. She had been looking from it to Lulu and Grace, thinking the while how good it was in the captain to treat her so much like one of his own, and now at these kind words spoken in tender fatherly tones, both heart and eyes grew full to overflowing. He saw that she could not speak for emotion, and taking her hand, drew her to his knee and kissed her, saying, "Don't try to thank me in words, my dear; your speaking countenance tells me all you would say." "What you 'bout?" screamed Polly at that instant, just as if she were calling the captain to account for his actions. That made them all laugh; even Evelyn, who had been just ready to cry. Then the breakfast bell rang and everybody hastened to obey its summons. Many a "Happy New Year," was exchanged among them as they gathered--a bright faced, cheerful set--in the pleasant breakfast-room and about its bountiful table. Each had a gift to show, for all had been remembered in that way by either the captain or Violet, some by both, and each one had received or did now receive, something from Grandma Elsie--a book, toy or game. The gifts seemed to give universal satisfaction and all were in gayest spirits. Shortly after breakfast--almost before the children had done with comparing and talking about their presents--the other guests began to arrive, and by ten o'clock everybody who had been invited was there. Then began the fun of arranging themselves in groups and having photographs taken; after that the acting of the charades. The picture suggested by Violet was taken first. In it Grandma Elsie was seated between her father on one side, and her namesake daughter on the other, Mrs. Leland having her babe in her arms, while little Ned leaned confidingly against his great-grandfather's knee. The captain and Violet, with their two little ones, made another pretty picture. Then the captain was taken again with his older three grouped about him. Then Grandma Elsie again with her son Edward and his Zoe, standing behind her, Rosie and Walter one on each side. She thought this quite enough, but her college boys insisted on having her taken again, seated between them. It was then proposed that the other members of the company should be taken in turn--singly or in groups;--but all declined, expressing a decided preference for spending the time in a more amusing manner, such as forming tableaux and acting charades. The older people took possession of a large parlor and sat there conversing, while the younger ones consulted together and made their arrangements in the library. Misconstrue was the first word chosen. Presently Evelyn walked into the parlor, followed almost immediately by Harold with a book in his hand. "You are here, Miss?" he said glancing at Evelyn. "And you, Miss?" as Sydney Dinsmore came tripping in from the hall. "Yes; and here comes another Miss;" she replied, as Lulu appeared in the open doorway. "I too, am a miss; there are four of us here now," said Rosie, coming up behind Lulu. "I am a miss," proclaimed Maud Dinsmore, stepping in after Rosie. "And I am a miss," echoed Lora Howard, coming after her. "Well, stand up in a row and let us see if you can say your lesson without a miss," said Harold. "Oh it's a spelling school--all of girls!" remarked Grace in a low aside to her little friend Rosie Lacey; they two having chosen a place among the spectators rather than with the actors on this occasion. "Yes," returned Rosie; "I wonder why they don't have some of the boys in the class too." "When did Columbus discover America, Miss Maud?" asked Harold. "In 1942," returned Maud with the air of one who is quite confident of the correctness of her reply. "A miss for you," said Harold. "Next. When did Columbus discover America?" "In 1620, just after the landing of the pilgrims," answered Sydney. "Another miss," said Harold. "Next." "Something happened in 1775," said Eva meditatively. "Oh!" cried Rosie, "Columbus' discovery was long before that--somewhere about the year 1000, was it not, Mr. Travilla?" "A miss for each of you," replied Harold, shaking his head. "What year was it, Lulu?" "It must have been before I was born," she answered slowly, as if not entirely certain--"Yes, I'm quite sure it was, and I can't remember before I was born." "A miss for you too," said Harold. "You have every one missed and will have to con your task over again." At that each girl opened a book which she held in her hand, and for several minutes they all seemed to be studying diligently. "Ah, ha! ah ha! um h'm! mis-con," murmured Cousin Ronald, half-aloud; "vara weel done, lads and lasses. What's the next syllable? strue? Ah ha, um h'm! we shall see presently," as the books were closed and the young actors vanished through the door into the hall. They were hardly gone when Zoe entered, carrying a small basket filled with flowers which she began to strew here and there over the floor. "Ah ha! ah ha! um h'm!" cried Cousin Ronald, "she strews the flowers; misconstrue is the word na doot." "Ah Cousin Ronald, somebody must have told you," laughed Zoe, tripping from the room. "Oh!" cried Rosie Lacey, "I see now why the boys didn't take part this time; because they couldn't be miss." "Here they come now, boys and girls too," exclaimed Grace. "Why how they're laughing! I wonder what's the joke?" They were all laughing as at something very amusing, and after entering the room did nothing but sit or stand about laughing all the time; fairly shaking with laughter, laughing, laughing till the tears came into their eyes, and the older people joined in without in the least knowing the exciting cause of so much mirth. "Come, children, tell us the joke," said Mr. Dinsmore at length. "O grandpa, can't you see?" asked Rosie Travilla, and they all hurried from the room, to return presently in a procession, each carrying something in his or her hand. Harold had a log of wood, Herbert a post, Max a block, Frank the wooden part of an old musket, while Chester, though empty-handed, wore an old fashioned stock or cravat and held his head very stiffly. Maud, dressed as a huckster, had a basket filled with apples, oranges, nuts and candies. Sydney, wearing an old cloak and straw hat, had a basket on her arm in which were needles, tapes, buttons, pins, and other small wares such as are often hawked about the streets. Lulu and Eva brought up the rear, carrying the parrot and Gracie's kitten. Maud and Sydney made the circuit of the room, the one crying, "Apples and Oranges! buy any apples and oranges?" the other asking, "Want any pins to-day? needles, buttons, shoe-strings?" "No," said Grandma Rose, "Have you nothing else to offer?" "No, ma'am, this is my whole stock in trade," replied Sydney. "I laid in a fresh stock of fruit this morning, ma'am, and it's good enough for anybody," sniffed Maud, with indignant air. "Do you call that a musket, sir?" asked Chester of Frank. "No, sir; I called it the stock of one." "Lulu and Eva, why bring those creatures in here?" asked Herbert, elevating his eyebrows as in astonishment. "Because they're our live stock," replied Lulu. Now Frank began to play the part of a clown or buffoon, acting in a very silly and stupid manner, while the others looked on laughing and pointing their fingers at him in derision. "Frank, can't you behave yourself?" exclaimed Maud. "It mortifies me to see you making yourself the laughing-stock of the whole company." "Laughing-stock--laughing-stock," said several voices among the spectators, the captain adding, "Very well done indeed!" "Thank you, sir," said Harold. "If the company are not tired we will give them one more." "Let us have it," said his grandfather. Some of the girls now joined the spectators, while Harold drew out a little stand, and he, Chester, and Herbert seated themselves about it with paper and pencils before them, assuming a very business-like air. Frank had stepped out to the hall. In a minute or two he returned and walked up to the others, hat in hand. Bowing low, but awkwardly, "You're the school committee I understand, gents?" he remarked inquiringly. "Yes," said Harold, "and we want a teacher for the school at Sharon. Have you come to apply for the situation?" "Yes, sir; I heered tell ye was wantin' a superior kind o' male man to take the school fer the winter, and bein' as I was out o' a job, I thought I mout as well try my hand at that as enny thin' else." "Take a seat and let us inquire into your qualifications," said Herbert, waving his hand in the direction of a vacant chair. "But first tell us your name and where you are from." "My name, sir, is Peter Bones, and I come from the town o' Hardtack in the next county; jest beyant the hill yander. I've a good eddication o' me own, too, though I never rubbed my back agin a college," remarked the applicant, sitting down and tilting his chair back on its hind legs, retaining his balance by holding on to the one occupied by Herbert. "I kin spell the spellin' book right straight through, sir, from kiver to kiver." "But spelling is not the only branch to be taught in the Sharon school," said Chester. "What else do you know." "The three r's, sir; reading, 'ritin,' and 'rithmetic." "You are acquainted with mathematics!" "Well, no, not so much with Mathy as with his brother Bill; but I know him like a book; fact I might say like several books." "Like several books, eh?" echoed Chester in a sarcastic tone; "but how well may you be acquainted with the books? What's the meaning of pathology?" "The science of road making of course, sir; enny fool could answer such a question as that." "Could he, indeed? Well you've made a miss, for your answer is wide of the mark." "How wide is the Atlantic ocean?" asked Herbert. "'Bout a thousand miles." "Another miss; it's three thousand." "I know it useter to be, years ago, but they've got to crossin' it so quick now that you needn't tell me it's more'n a thousand." "In what year was the Declaration of Independence signed?" asked Harold. "Wall now, I don't jist remember," returned the applicant, thrusting both hands deep into his pockets and gazing down meditatively at the carpet, "somewheres 'bout 1860, wuzn't it? no, come to think, I guess 'twas '63." "No, no, no! you are thinking of the proclamation of emancipation. Another miss. We don't find you qualified for the situation; so wish you good day, sir." "Ah, ah! ah, ah! um h'm, um h'm! so I should say," soliloquized Mr. Lilburn, leaning on his goldheaded cane and watching the four lads as they scattered and left the room; "and so this is the end of act the first, I suppose. Miss, miss, miss, ah that's the syllable that begins the new word." Evelyn now came in with an umbrella in her hand, Grace and Rose Lacey walking a little in her rear. Evelyn raised the umbrella and turning to the little girls, said pleasantly, "Come under, children, I can't keep the rain off you unless you are under the umbrella." They accepted the invitation and the three moved slowly back and forth across the room several times. "It's a nice sort of shelter to be under when it rains," remarked Rose Lacey. "Yes, I like to be under it," said Grace. "But it is wearisome to walk all the time; let us stand still for a little," proposed Evelyn. "Yes; by that stand yonder," said Grace. They went to it and stationed themselves there for a moment; then Grace stepped from under the umbrella and seated herself on the carpet under the stand. "Look, look!" laughed Rose Lacey, "there's Miss Grace Raymond under the stand; a miss-under-stand." A storm of applause, and cries of "Well done, little ones! Very prettily done indeed!" and Gracie, rosy with blushes, came out from her retreat and ran to hide her face on her father's shoulder, while he held her close with one arm, softly smoothing her curls with the other hand. "Don't be disturbed, darling," he said; "it is only kind commendation of the way in which Rosie and you have acted your parts." "Why you should feel proud and happy, Gracie," said Zoe, drawing near. "We are going to have that tableau now in which you are to be a little flower girl. So come, won't you? and let me help you dress." Tableaux filled up the rest of the morning. After dinner Harold and Herbert gave an exhibition of tricks of legerdemain, which even the older people found interesting and amusing. The little ones were particularly delighted with a marvellous shower of candy that ended the performance. Some of Cousin Ronald's stories of the heroes of Scottish history and song made the evening pass delightfully. But at an early hour the whole company, led by Grandpa Dinsmore, united in a short service of prayer, praise, and the reading of the scriptures, and at its close the guests bade good-bye and scattered to their homes. "Well," said Max, following the rest of the family into the parlor, after they had seen the last guest depart, "I never had a pleasanter New Year's day." "Nor I either," said Lulu; "and we had such a delightful time last year too, that I really don't know which I enjoyed the most." "And we have good times all the time since we have a home of our own with our dear father in it," remarked Grace, taking his hand and carrying it to her lips, while her sweet azure eyes looked up lovingly into his face. An emphatic endorsement of that sentiment from both Max and Lulu. Then the captain, smiling tenderly upon them, said, "I dearly love to give you pleasure, my darlings, my heart's desire is for my children's happiness in this world and the next; but life can not be all play; so lessons must be taken up again to-morrow morning, and I hope to find you all in an industrious and tractable mood." "I should hope so indeed, papa," returned Max; "if we are not both obedient and industrious we will deserve to be called an ungrateful set." CHAPTER XIV. The weather the next day was so mild and pleasant that Max and Lulu asked and obtained permission to take a ride of several miles on their ponies. They went alone, their father and Violet having driven out in the family carriage, taking the three younger children with them. On their return Max and his sister approached the house from a rear entrance to the grounds, passing through the bit of woods belonging to the estate, the garden and shrubbery, and across the lawn. In traversing the wood they came upon a man leaning idly against a tree, in a lounging attitude, with his hands in his pockets, a half consumed cigar in his mouth. He was a stranger to the children, and from, his shabby, soiled clothing, unkempt locks, and unshaven face, it was evident he belonged to the order of tramps. He stood directly in the path the children were pursuing, just where it made a sudden turn, and Lulu's pony had almost trodden upon his foot before they were aware of his vicinity. Fairy shied, snorting with fright, and almost unseated her young rider. "Look out there, and don't ride a fellow down!" growled the man, catching hold of Fairy's bridle and scowling into the face of her rider. Lulu did not seem to be frightened. Her quick temper rose at the man's insolence, and she exclaimed authoritatively, "Let go of my bridle this instant, and get out of the path." "I will when I get ready, and no sooner," returned the man insolently. "What are you doing in these grounds, sir?" demanded Max, adding, "You have no call to be here. Let go of that bridle and step out of the path at once." "I'm not under your orders, bubby," said the tramp with a disagreeable, mocking laugh. "These are my father's grounds," said Max, drawing himself up with a determined air, "and we don't allow tramps and loafers here; so if you don't let go of that bridle and be off I'll set my dog on you. Here, Prince, Prince!" At the sound of the call, answered by a loud bark, and the sight of Prince's huge form making rapid bounds in his direction, the tramp released Fairy's bridle, and growling out an oath, turned and made his way with all celerity toward the public road, leaping the fence that separated it from Capt. Raymond's grounds, barely in time to escape Prince's teeth, as he made a dash to seize him by the leg. "Oh," cried Lulu, drawing a long breath of relief, "what a happy thing that Prince came running out to meet us!" "Yes," said Max, "and I hope he has given that fellow a fright that will keep him from ever coming into these grounds again. If he isn't a scoundrel his looks certainly belie him very much." They had held their ponies in check while watching the race between man and dog, but now urged them forward in haste to reach the house; for the short winter day was fast closing in. The captain was standing on the veranda as they rode up. "You are a trifle late, children," he said, as he stepped to the side of Fairy and lifted Lulu from the saddle, but his tone was not stern. "Yes, papa," said Max; "I'm afraid we went a little farther than we ought; at any rate it took us longer than we expected to reach home again; and we were detained a minute or two just now, out here in the grove, by a tramp that caught hold of Fairy's bridle and wouldn't let go till I called Prince and he showed his teeth." "What! can it be possible?" cried the captain closing his fingers more firmly over the hand Lulu had slipped into his, and gazing down into her face with a look of mingled concern and relief. "It is well indeed that Lulu was not alone, and that Prince was at hand. Come into the library and tell me all about it." He led Lulu in as he spoke, Max following, while a servant took the ponies to their stable. Capt. Raymond sat down and drew Lulu to his side, putting an arm protectingly around her, while Max, standing near, went on to give the particulars of their encounter with the tramp, Lulu now and then putting in a word. "Now, daughter," the captain said at the conclusion of the story, "I hope you are quite convinced of the wisdom and kindness of your father's prohibition of solitary rides and walks for you?" "Yes, papa, I am, and do not intend ever to disobey you again by taking them. I wasn't much frightened, but I know it would have been very dangerous for me if I'd been alone." "No doubt of it," he said, caressing her with grave tenderness, "it almost makes me shudder to think of what might have happened had you been without a protector." "And I doubt if I could have protected her without Prince's help, papa," said Max. "I think he's a valuable fellow, and pays for his keep." "Yes; I am very glad I selected him as a Christmas gift to you," said his father. "But now I must warn you both to say nothing to, or before Gracie, about this occurrence; for timid as she is, it would be apt to cause her much suffering from apprehension." "We will try to keep it a secret from her, papa," replied both children. "And in order to succeed in that you will have to be on your guard and give no hint of the matter in presence of any of the servants." "We will try to remember, papa," they promised with evident intention to do so. "That is right," he said. "I think I can trust you not to forget or disobey. I know you would be loath to have your little sister tortured with nervous terrors. Now go and get yourselves ready for tea." Lulu was full of excitement over her adventure, and through the evening found it difficult to refrain from speaking of it before Grace; but equally desirous to obey her father and to save her little sister from needless suffering, she resolutely put a curb upon her tongue till she found herself alone with him at bedtime. Then she must needs go over the whole scene again, and seeing that it was a relief to her excitement, he let her run on about it to her heart's content. "Has it made you feel at all timid to-night, daughter?" he asked kindly. "No, papa," she answered promptly; "I don't think the man could get into the house; do you?" "I think it most probable he has walked on till he is miles away from here by this time," the captain answered. "But even did we know him to be prowling round outside, we might rest and sleep in peace and security, assured that nothing can harm us without the will of our heavenly Father who loves us more than any earthly parent loves his child." He drew her very close to his heart and imprinted a tender kiss upon her lips as he spoke. "Yes, papa, it makes me feel very safe to remember that, thinking how dearly you love me; so that I know you would never let anything harm me if you could help it," she returned, putting an arm round his neck and hugging him tight. "Oh I am so glad that the Bible tells us that about God's love to us!" "So am I; and that my children have early learned to love and trust in him. "'Godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come.' That is not a promise that God's faithful followers shall be rich in this world's goods, but faith in God's loving care makes life happy even in the midst of poverty and pain. Riches have not the power to make us happy, but the love of God has. "And those who begin to serve God in the morning of life and press onward and upward all their days, keeping near to Jesus and growing more and more like him, will be happier in heaven--because of their greater capacity for the enjoyment of God and holiness--than the saved ones who sought him late in life, or were less earnest in their endeavors to live in constant communion with him, and to bear more and more resemblance to him. "The Bible speaks of some who are 'scarcely saved,' and of others to whom 'an entrance shall be ministered abundantly into the everlasting kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.'" "Papa," said Lulu earnestly, "I want to be one of those; I want to live near to Jesus and grow every day more like him. (Oh I am so little like him now; sometimes I fear not at all). Won't you help me all you can?" "I will, my darling," he replied, speaking with emotion. "Every day I ask wisdom from on high for that very work;--the work of helping you and all my dear children to be earnest, faithful servants of God." The talk with her father had done much to quiet Lulu's excitement, and she fell asleep very soon after laying her head on her pillow. It was still night when she awoke suddenly with the feeling that something unusual was going on in the house. She sat up in the bed and listened. She thought she heard a faint sound coming from the room below, and slipping from the bed she stole softly across the floor to the chimney, where there was a hot air flue beside the open fireplace. Dropping down on her hands and knees, she put her ear close to the register and listened again, almost holding her breath in the effort to hear. The chimney ran up between her bedroom and the little tower room opening into it; the library was under her bedroom, and opening from it was the ground floor room of the tower, which was very strongly built, had only the one door and very narrow slits of windows set high up in the thick stone walls. In a safe in that small room were kept the family plate, jewelry, and money; though no very great amount of the last named, as the captain considered it far wiser to deposit it in the nearest bank. The door of the strong room, as it was called, was of thick oak plank crossed with iron bars, and had a ponderous bolt and stout lock whose key was carried up stairs every night by the captain. Listening with bated breath, Lulu's ear presently caught again a faint sound as of a file moving cautiously to and fro on metal. "Burglars! I do believe it's burglars trying to steal the money and silver and Mamma Vi's jewelry that are in the safe," she said to herself with a thrill of mingled fear and excitement. With that she crept into the tower room, softly opened the register there, and applied her ear to it. The sound of the file seemed a trifle louder and presently she was sure she heard gruff voices, though she could not distinguish the words. Her first impulse was to hurry to her father and tell him of her discovery; the second thought, "If I do, papa will go down there and maybe they'll kill him; and that would be a great, great deal worse than if they should carry off everything in the house. I wish I could catch them myself and lock them in there before I wake papa. Why couldn't I?" starting to her feet in extreme excitement; "they're in the strong room, the bolt's on the library side of the door, and probably they've left the key there, too, in the lock. If I'm going to try to do it, the sooner the better. I'll ask God to show me how and help me." She knelt on the carpet for a moment, sending up her petition in a few earnest words, then rising, stood for an instant thinking very fast. She could gain the library by a door opening into a back hall and very near that into the strong room, whose door, if open, would be in a position to conceal her approach from the burglars till she could step behind it; so that her scheme seemed not impracticable. She hastily put on a dark dressing-gown over her white night dress, and thick felt slippers on her feet. Her heart beat very fast as the thought occurred to her that there might be an accomplice in the library or hall, or that the door from the one into the other might creak and bring the miscreants rushing out upon her before she could accomplish the task she had set herself. "Well what if they should, Lulu Raymond?" she asked, shutting her teeth hard together, "'twouldn't be half so bad as if they should harm your father. You could be very well spared, but he couldn't; Mamma Vi, Max and Gracie would break their hearts if anything dreadful happened to him, and so would you too; I'll try, trusting to God to take care of me." With swift, noiseless steps she passed out of her room, down a back stairway into the hall just spoken of, and gained the library door, finding it, to her great joy, wide enough open for her to slip in without touching it. She could see nothing there; the room was quite dark; but the sounds she had heard were still going in the strong room, seeming a little louder now. The men must be in there at work on the safe; with the door ajar, for a streak of light at the back between it and the jamb, told her it was not quite shut. She crept to it and peeping in at that crack, saw a man down on his knees working at the lock of the safe, while another stood close beside him, holding a dark lantern, open, so that the rays of light fell full and strongly upon the lock his confederate was trying to break. Lulu could not see the face of the latter, his back being toward her, but as the other bent forward for a moment, to watch the progress of the work, the light fell on his face, and she instantly recognized him as the tramp who had seized Fairy's bridle in the wood. Trembling like a leaf she put up her hand and cautiously felt for the bolt; holding tight to it and exerting all her strength, she suddenly slammed the door to and shot it into its socket. She heard the villains drop their tools, spring toward and try the door with muttered oaths and curses; but she waited to feel for the key and turn it in the lock; even to pull it out and thrust it into the pocket of her gown, as a swift thought came to her, that there might be an accomplice lurking about who would release them if she left it there. Then she ran as fast as her feet could carry her, through the library and hall, up the stairs and on through the rooms, never stopping until she stood panting for breath beside her sleeping father. She could not speak for a moment, but laid her face on the pillow beside his and put her arm round his neck. The touch roused him and he asked, "Who is it? you, Lulu?" "Yes, papa," she panted; "I--I've locked some burglars into the strong room and--" "_You? you_ have locked them in there?" he exclaimed in astonishment starting up and drawing her into his arms. "Surely, my child, you have been dreaming." "No, papa, not a bit; I've locked them in there and here's the key," putting it into his hand. "I slammed the door to on them. I shot the bolt too, and I don't think they can get out. But what will we do? Papa, can you get somebody to help you take them to jail?" "Yes; I shall telephone at once to the sheriff at Union." "Who is it? What's the matter?" asked Violet waking. "I can not wait at this moment to explain matters my love," the captain said hastily picking up Lulu and putting her in the place in the bed which he had just vacated. "I must act, leaving Lulu to tell you her story." With the last word he hurried from the room and the next moment they heard the telephone bell. CHAPTER XV. "What is it, Lu?" Violet asked in trepidation. "Oh what is the meaning of those sounds coming from below? Are burglars trying to break in?" "No, Mamma Vi," returned Lulu with a little nervous laugh, "they are trying to break out." "Break out? what can you mean, child?" "They are locked into the strong room, Mamma Vi, and papa is calling for help to take them to jail. Hark! don't you hear him?" They sat up in the bed, listening intently. "Hello!" the captain called: then in another moment, "Capt. Raymond of Woodburn, wants the sheriff," they heard him say. "Ah are you there Mr. Wright? Burglars in the house. Burglars here. We have them fast, locked into the room with the safe they were trying to break open. Send a constable and several men to help him, as promptly as you can." The reply was of course inaudible to the listeners in the bedroom, but the next moment the captain spoke again. "Yes, I can hold them till you can get here; unless some outside accomplice should come to their aid." He seemed to listen to a response, then a tinkle of his bell told that the conversation was at an end. He turned at once to a private telephone connecting the dwelling house with the outside cabins in which his men-servants lodged, and called them to come to his assistance. Then back he went to his bedroom to reassure Violet and send Lulu to Grace, who had waked and was calling in affright to know what was the matter. "Do not be alarmed, my dear," he said, as he hastily threw on his clothes: "I really think there is no cause for apprehension, but I must hurry down to admit the servants (whether the burglars have left a door open or not, I do not know), see in what condition things are in the lower rooms, and keep guard over my prisoners till the sheriff or constable and his men arrive." "What can I do?" asked Violet. "Stay here out of harm's way, and ready to soothe and quiet the children should they wake in affright," he answered as he again hastened away. Violet sprang from the bed and went with swift, noiseless steps into the nursery. All was quiet there, children and nurse soundly sleeping. She retraced her steps and went on into Grace's room, where the two little girls were lying together in the bed, locked in each other's arms. Grace trembling with fear, Lulu bravely struggling with her own excitement and trying to calm and soothe her little sister. "O Mamma Vi, I'm so glad you've come!" she exclaimed, as Violet drew near, then seated herself on the side of the bed, and bent down to kiss first the one and then the other, "for Gracie is so frightened." "I'm so afraid those wicked men will hurt papa," sobbed Grace. "God will take care of him, dear child," Violet said, repeating her caress. "Beside your papa just told me he thought there was no cause for apprehension. "But, Lulu, I have not heard yet how the burglars came to be locked into the strong room. Tell me about it." "Something waked me, Mamma Vi, and I heard them, and by listening a little I made sure where they were. At first I thought I'd run and call papa; but then I thought there are two of them if not more and papa is only one, so he would hardly have a chance in trying to fight them; but if I should slip quietly down and slam the door to and lock them in, it would save risking papa's life; and if they should catch me and kill me it wouldn't be half so bad as if they hurt papa. "So I asked God to help me and take care of me. Then I ran down the back stairs to the library. "The door into the back hall was far enough open to let me slip in without touching it, so that I did so without making any noise to attract their attention; then seeing by the light coming from the crack at the back of the strong room door, that they were in there, I crept close up and peeped in, and there they were; one down on his knees working at the lock of the safe, the other holding a lantern to give him light. "When I had watched them for a minute, I asked God again to help me; then I felt for the bolt and kept my hand on it while I, all of a sudden, pushed against the door with all my might and slammed it to, and shot the bolt in. "I'd hardly done it when I heard the men drop their tools and run to the door and try to get it open; saying dreadful words too, that frightened me. So I only waited to lock the door also before I started to run upstairs and on through the rooms till I got to papa. "He was asleep and I was so out of breath, and my heart beating so fast I couldn't speak for a minute. But I put my arm round his neck and my cheek on the pillow close to his and he woke." "And it was you who locked the burglars in?" exclaimed Violet in astonishment. "I've heard before now of women doing such things, but never of a little girl like you attempting it. You dear, brave, unselfish child! I am very, very proud of you!" and she bent down again and kissed Lulu several times. The burglars, quite aware that their presence in the house was known, were making desperate efforts to escape, trying to force the lock or break down the door, at the same time cursing, and swearing in tones of concentrated fury. The captain drew near and spoke to them. "Men," he said sternly, "you are caught in a trap you have laid for yourselves, and escape is impossible; both lock and door are strong enough to resist your utmost efforts; therefore you may as well take matters quietly." "That we won't. Let us out or it'll be the worse for you!" growled one of the villians, grinding his teeth with rage. "Have a little patience," returned the captain; "you shall be taken out presently, and off the premises; you are by no means desirable inmates in the home of any honest, law-abiding citizen." The response to that was a threat of vengeance to be taken sooner or later, should he dare to deliver them up to justice. Finding their threats disregarded, they tried persuasion, appeals to his compassion--asserting that it was their first attempt to rob, and that they were driven to it by necessity--they and their families being in sore straits from extreme poverty--and promises to lead honest lives in future. One voice the captain recognized as that of the groom he had dismissed some months before because of his cruelty to Thunderer. "Ajax," he said sternly, "you are lying to me! I know that your family are not in distress, and that you can make an honest living if you choose to be industrious and faithful to your employers. You were well paid here but lost your situation by inexcusable cruelty to dumb animals. "Since discharging you I have more than once supplied the wants of your wife and children; and this is your grateful return;--coming to rob me, bringing with you another, and perhaps more desperate villain than yourself." The men-servants had followed their master into the library and stood listening to the colloquy in open-mouthed astonishment. "How dey git locked up in dar, cap'in?" asked one. "Miss Lulu slammed the door to on them and locked and bolted it," he replied, his eyes shining at thought of the unselfish bravery of his child. "Ki, cap'n! you's jokin', fo' shuah, dat little Miss Lu lock up de bugglars? how she gwine do dat? she one small chile an' dey two big men?" "She undoubtedly did it," returned the captain, smiling at the man's evident amazement. "She heard them at work with their tools, on the safe door, came softly down into this room, peeped at them through the crack behind the door there, and before they were aware of her vicinity, slammed it to and bolted and locked it on them." "Hurrah for little Miss Lu!" cried the men; one of them adding, "Dey mus' hab her fo' a kunnel in de nex' wah." "No, sah; higher'n dat; fo' brigandine gineral at de berry leas'!" said another. Seeing no hope of escape, the prisoners had ceased their efforts and awaited their fate in sullen silence. They did not know who had been their captor, and in telling the story of Lulu's exploit the captain purposely so lowered his tones that scarce a word reached their ears. At this moment Max appeared at the door opening from the library into the front hall; only half dressed and asking in much excitement, what was the matter? what was the meaning of the lights and the noises that had waked him? His father explained in a few words, and as he finished a loud knocking at the front entrance told of the arrival of the sheriff and his posse. They were promptly admitted, filed into the library and formed a semi-circle about the door of the strong room--each man with a revolver in his hand, cocked and ready for instant use. The door was then unfastened and the burglars stepped out only to be immediately handcuffed and carried away to prison, sullenly submitting to their arrest because they saw that resistance was useless. But before being taken from the house they were searched and the captain's watch found upon Ajax. He had evidently visited the dressing-room of his late master to obtain the key to the strong room door, and appropriated the watch at the same time. The lock of the safe was also examined and found but little injured. The scoundrels had not succeeded in getting at the valuables there. They had collected together some from other parts of the house and made them into bundles ready to carry away, but they were uninjured and had only to be restored to their places. Max was greatly excited. "Papa," he said, when the sheriff had departed with his prisoners, and doors and windows were again secured, "we have had a narrow escape from serious loss; perhaps worse than that; for who knows but those fellows meant to murder us in our beds?" "I think not, my son," replied the captain. "I presume their only object was plunder, and that if they had succeeded in rifling the safe without discovery, they would have gone quietly away with their booty. "Had they desired to kill any of us, they would have been likely to attempt it when upstairs in search of the key to the strong room." "And it was Lu who spoiled their plans! Just think of it! I'd like to have had her chance. Papa, I think Lu's splendid!" "She has certainly shown herself very brave and unselfish on this, and several other occasions," the captain said with a happy look in his eyes. "But come, we will do well now to go back to our beds, for it is scarcely four o'clock," he added, consulting his recovered watch. The men servants had returned to their quarters, and father and son were alone. Violet, in dressing-gown and slippers, met them at the head of the stairway. "You have not been able to sleep, my love?" the captain said with a glance of concern at her pale, excited face. "But of course that was not to be expected." "No; we have all been too much excited to close an eye," she answered." They are gone? Do tell me all about it!" "O papa, please come in here and tell it where Gracie and I can hear," called Lulu entreatingly, from the inner room, and the bed where they still lay clasped in each other's arms. "I will; I think you deserve the indulgence," he said going to them, Violet and Max following, the latter asking, "May I come in too, papa?" "Yes," replied his father, placing a chair for Violet. "I presume it will be a relief to you all to talk the matter over together with your mamma and me, and you will perhaps be more inclined for sleep afterward." "Papa, won't you sit down and take me on your knee, and hug me up close, while you tell it?" entreated Grace. "I will," he said, doing as she requested. Then catching a longing look in Lulu's eyes, "You may come too, daughter," he said. "Slip on your dressing-gown and stand here by my side. I have an arm for you as well as one for Gracie." Lulu promptly and joyfully availed herself of the permission. "Lu," said Max, "you're a real heroine! brave as a lion! I'm proud to own you for my sister. I'm afraid I mightn't have been half so brave." "Oh yes, Max, I'm sure you would have done just the same," she returned, blushing with pleasure. "And you see I preferred to do it, because I thought they might kill papa, and that would have been oh so much worse than being killed myself!" clinging lovingly to her father, and hiding her face on his shoulder as she spoke. "Dear child!" he said in moved tones and clasping her close, "you have a very strong and unselfish love for me." "Papa, it would have broken my heart, and Mamma Vi's, and Max's and Gracie's too, if anything dreadful had happened to you." "And what about papa's heart if he should lose his dear little daughter Lulu, or anything dreadful should happen to her?" "I didn't have time to think about that, papa. I know you love me very much, and would be sorry to lose me--naughty as I often am--but you have other children, and I have only one father; so of course it would be a great deal worse for me to lose you, and all the rest to lose you too." "The worst thing that could befall us," said Violet; "but Lulu, dear, we all love you and would feel it a terrible thing to have you killed or badly injured in any way." "Indeed we would!" exclaimed Max, with a slight tremble in his voice. "Oh I couldn't ever, ever bear it!" sobbed Gracie, throwing an arm round her sister's neck. "Well," said the captain cheerfully, hugging both at once, "we have escaped all the evils we have been talking of; our heavenly Father has taken care of us and has not suffered us to even lose our worldly goods, much less our lives; and we may well trust Him for the future and not fear what man can do unto us." "Yes," said Violet, "we know that He has all power in heaven and earth and will never suffer any real evil to befall one of His people. "'He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; he, that keepth thee will not slumber.' "Levis, did you know those men?" "One of them is Ajax." "Is it possible?" she exclaimed. "What a return for all the kindness you have shown to him and his!" "Ajax! There, I was sure I heard Ajax's voice in the hall while the sheriff was here," cried Lulu. "He must have been the one who was down on his knees trying to break the safe lock when I peeped in at the crack. I didn't see his face; but the other was a white man." "Yes," said Max; "a man we'd seen before." "The tramp you saw when out riding?" asked his father. "Yes, sir." "I recognized him too," said Lulu. "Papa, what will be done with him and Ajax?" "They will have to be tried for burglary and if convicted, will be sent to the penitentiary for a term of years." "Papa, will we have to appear as witnesses on the trial?" asked Max. "Yes." "The men did not attempt any resistance to the arrest?" Violet said inquiringly. "No; they saw it would be quite useless." After a little more talk the captain said, "Now I think it will be best for us all to go to our beds again and try to sleep till the usual hour for rising." "Papa, I feel so afraid," said Grace, holding tight to him as he would have laid her in the bed. "My darling, try not to feel so," he said, caressing her; "try to believe that God will take care of you." "Please ask him again, papa," she pleaded. Then they all knelt while the captain asked in a few simple, earnest words that He who neither slumbers nor sleeps would be their shield, defending them from all evil, and that trusting in His protecting care they might be able to banish every fear and lay them down in peace and sleep. "I am not afraid now, papa," Grace said, as they rose from their knees. "You may please put me in my bed, and I think I'll go to sleep directly, for I'm very tired." "You will allow them to sleep past the usual hour, my dear, will you not?" asked Violet. "Yes," he said, "I wish you, children, to sleep on as long as you can, and if possible make up all you have lost by the visit of the burglars; it will not matter if you take your breakfast later than usual by even so much as an hour or two." "But that will make us late for lessons, papa," suggested Max. "Which I will excuse for once," returned his father with an indulgent smile. CHAPTER XVI. Day had fully dawned before the Woodburn household was astir, and it was long past his accustomed hour when the captain paid his usual morning visit to his little daughters. He found them up and dressed and ready with a glad greeting. "Were you able to sleep, my darlings?" he asked, caressing them in turn. "Oh yes, indeed, papa, we slept nicely," they answered. "And feel refreshed and well this morning?" "Yes, papa; thank you very much for letting us sleep so long." "I allowed myself the same privilege," he said pleasantly. "We will have no school to-day, I have already been notified that there will be a preliminary examination of the prisoners, before the magistrate this morning, and that you, Lulu, and Max and I must attend as witnesses." "I'd rather not go, papa; please don't make me," pleaded Lulu. "My child, it is not I, but the law that insists," he said; "but you need not feel disturbed over the matter; you have only to tell a straightforward story of what you heard and saw and did in connection with the attempted robbery. "I am very glad, very thankful," he went on, "that I have always found my little daughter perfectly truthful." "Max too, papa." "Yes, Max too; and when you give your testimony I want you to remember that God--the God of truth, who abhors deceit and the deceitful, and who knows all things--hears every word you say." Taking up her Bible and opening it at the twenty-fourth psalm, he read, "He that hath clean hands and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully, he shall receive the blessing from the Lord, and righteousness from the God of his salvation." Then turning to the twenty-first chapter of Revelation, "All liars shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone." Closing the book and laying it aside, "My dear children," he said earnestly and with grave tenderness, "you see how God hates lying and deceit; how sorely he will punish them if not repented of and forsaken. Speak the truth always though at the risk of torture and death; never tell a lie though it should be no more than to assert that two and two do not make four. "Be courteous to all so far as you can without deceit, but never, _never_ allow your desire to be polite to betray you into words or acts that are not strictly truthful." The children were evidently giving very earnest heed to their father's words. "Papa," said Grace, sighing and hiding her blushing face on his shoulder, "you know I did once say what was not true; but I'm very, very sorry. I've asked God many times to forgive me for Jesus' sake and I believe he has." "No doubt of it, my darling," returned her father; "for, 'if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'" "I don't believe Lu ever did," said Grace. "She's a great deal better girl than I am." "No, it is not that I am better than you," was Lulu's emphatic dissent from that. "It's only that I am not timid like you; if I had been, it's very likely I'd have told many an untruth to hide my faults and keep from being punished." "The telephone bell is ringing, papa," announced Max, looking in at the door. The call was from Ion; a vague report of last night's doings at Woodburn having just reached the family there, they were anxious to learn the exact truth. The captain gave the facts briefly and suggested that some of the Ion friends drive over and hear them in detail. It was replied that several of them would do so shortly; Grandma Elsie among them, and that she would spend the day, keeping Violet company during her husband's absence at Union, if, as she supposed, Vi's preference should be for remaining at home. "Of course it will," said Violet, who was standing near. "Please tell mamma I'll be delighted to have her company." The captain delivered the message, then all hurried down to breakfast. "Everything is in usual order, I see," Violet remarked, glancing about the hall, and in at the library door as they passed it; "really the events of last night seem more like an unpleasant dream than actual occurrences." "Christine has been up for several hours and busied in having everything set to rights," the captain said in reply. As usual family worship followed directly upon breakfast, and it was scarcely over when the Ion carriage drove up with Grandma Elsie; Harold and Herbert accompanying it on horseback. "Captain, I am greatly interested in this affair," said Harold, shaking hands with his brother-in-law; "indeed we all are for that matter, and Herbert and I propose going over to Union to be present at the examination of the prisoners. "Is your strong room on exhibition? I own to a feeling of curiosity in regard to it." "You are privileged to examine it at any time," returned Capt. Raymond, with a good-humored laugh, "I will take you there at once if you wish, for we will have to be setting off on our ride presently. "Mother, would you like to see it also?" "Yes; and to hear the story of the capture while looking upon its scene." The captain led the way, all the rest following, except Lulu, who stole quietly away to her room to get herself ready for the trip to town. She shrank a little from the thought of facing the two desperados and testifying against them, but kept up her courage by thinking that both her heavenly Father and her earthly one would be with her to protect and help her; also by the remembrance of her papa's assurance that she need not feel disturbed; that all she had to do was to tell a plain straightforward, story:--"the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." "I can do that," she said to herself; "it will be quite easy; for I remember perfectly all about it. Those wicked men threatened papa that if he had them sent to jail they'd kill him some day when they are let out again, and I suppose they'll want to kill me too, for telling about it in court; but I know they can't do us any harm while God takes care of us. That must be the meaning of that verse in Proverbs I learned the other day. "'There is no wisdom nor understanding nor counsel against the Lord.' "And the next verse says, 'safety is of the Lord.' So I'm sure we needn't be afraid of them." Capt. Raymond opened the door of the strong room and called attention to the marks of the burglars' tools on the lock of the safe. "It was Lulu who first became aware of their presence in the house," he said; "and she--why where is the child?" as he turned to look for her, and perceived that she had disappeared. "I think she has gone upstairs to put on her hat and coat," Violet said. "Ah yes, I suppose so! leaving me to tell the story of her bravery and presence of mind, myself." He proceeded to do so, and was well satisfied with the encomiums upon his child which it called forth from Grandma Elsie and her sons. "I congratulate you, captain, upon being the father of a little girl who can show such unselfish courage," Grandma Elsie said with enthusiasm, her eyes shining with pleasure, "I am proud of her myself; the dear, brave child!" "And so am I," said Violet; "but of course," with a mischievous laughing glance into her husband's face, "her father is not, but considers her a very ordinary specimen of childhood. Is not that so, my dear?" "Ah, my love, don't question me too closely," he returned with a smile in his eyes that said more plainly than words that he was a proud, fond father to the child whose conduct was under discussion. But at that moment the carriage was announced. Lulu came running down ready for her trip, her father handed her in, then seated himself and put his arm round her looking down into her face with a tenderly affectionate smile. "You will not find it a very severe ordeal, daughter," he said. "You're not afraid, Lu, are you?" asked Max. "No; not with papa close by to take care of me and tell me what to do," she answered, nestling closer to her father. "No," said Max; "and the burglars wouldn't be allowed to hurt you anyhow. The magistrate and the sheriff, and the rest would take care of that you know." "I suppose so," returned Lulu, "but for all that it would be dreadful to have to go there without papa. You wouldn't want to yourself, Max." "I'd a great deal rather have papa along, of course; anybody would want his intimate friend with him on such an occasion, and papa is my most intimate friend," replied the lad with a laughing, but most affectionate look into his father's face. "That's right, my boy; I trust you will always let me be that to you," the captain said, grasping his son's hand and holding it for a moment in a warm affectionate clasp. "You are mine, too, papa; my best and dearest earthly friend," Lulu said, lifting to his, eyes shining with filial love. "Papa, aren't you afraid those bad men will try to harm you some day, if they ever get out of prison?" "We are always safe in the path of duty," he replied, "and it is a duty we owe the community to bring such lawless men to justice, for the protection of those they would prey upon. No, I do not fear them, because I am under the protection of Him 'in whose hand is the soul of every living thing, and the breath of all mankind.' "'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?' "No, daughter, one who fears God need fear nothing else; neither men nor devils, for our God is stronger than Satan and all his hosts." "And wicked men are Satan's servants, aren't they, papa?" "Yes; for they do his will; obey his behests." "It seems to me Christians ought to be very happy, always," remarked Max. "Yes, they ought," said his father; "the command is, 'Rejoice in the Lord always,' and it is only lack of faith that prevents any of us from doing so." Arrived at their destination they found a little crowd of idlers gathered about the door of the magistrate's office whither the two prisoners had been taken a few moments before. As the Woodburn carriage drove up, and the captain and his children alighted from it, the crowd parted to let them pass in, several of the men lifting their hats with a respectful, "Good morning, sir," to the captain. "Good morning, Master Max." Their salutations were politely returned, and the captain stepped into the office, holding Lulu by the hand, and closely followed by Max. Harold and Herbert had arrived a little in advance, and were among the spectators who, with the officers and their prisoners, nearly filled the small room. The children behaved very well indeed, showing by their manner when taking the oath to tell "the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth," that they were duly impressed with the solemnity of the act, and the responsibility they were assuming. Lulu was of course the principal witness, and her modest, self possessed bearing, equally free from boldness and forwardness on the one hand, and bashfulness and timidity on the other, pleased her father extremely and won the admiration of all present; as did also her simple, straightforward way of telling her story. The evidence was so full and clear that the magistrate had no hesitation in committing the accused for trial at the approaching spring term of court. In default of bail they were sent back to prison. "Take me to the nursery, Vi," Grandma Elsie said, when the departure of the party destined for the magistrate's office, had left them alone together. "I feel that an hour with my little grandchildren will be quite refreshing. The darlings are scarcely less dear to me than were their mother and her brothers and sisters in their infancy." "And they are so fond of you, mamma," responded Violet, leading the way. Little Elsie set up a glad shout at sight of her grandmother. "I so glad, I so glad! P'ease take Elsie on your lap, g'amma, and tell pitty 'tories." "Oh don't begin teazing for stories the very first minute," said Violet. "You tire poor, dear grandma." "No, mamma, Elsie won't tease, 'cause papa says it's naughty. But dear g'amma likes to tell Elsie 'tories; don't you, g'amma?"--climbing into her grandma's lap. "Yes, dear; grandma enjoys making her little girl happy," Mrs. Travilla replied, fondly caressing the little prattler. "What story shall it be this time?" "'Bout Adam and Eve eatin' dat apple." Grandma kindly complied, telling the old story of the fall in simple language suited to the infant comprehension of the baby girl, who listened with as deep an interest as though it were a new tale to her, instead of an oft repeated one. On its conclusion she sat for a moment as if in profound thought, then looking up into her grandmother's face, "Where is dey now?" she asked. "In heaven, I trust." "Elsie's goin' to ask dem 'bout dat when Elsie gets to heaven." "About what, darling?" "'Bout eatin' dat apple; what dey do it for." "It was very wicked for them to take it, because God had forbidden them to do so." "Yes, g'amma; Elsie wouldn't take apple if papa say no." "No, I hope not; it is very naughty for children to disobey their papa or mamma. And we must all obey God our heavenly Father." "G'amma, p'ease tell Elsie 'bout heaven." "Yes, darling, I will. It is a beautiful place; with streets of gold, a beautiful river, and trees with delicious fruits; it is never dark, for there is no night there; because Jesus our dear Saviour is there and is the light thereof, so that they do not need the sun or moon. "Nobody is ever sick, or sorry, hungry, or in pain. Nobody is ever naughty; they all love God and one another. There is very sweet music there. They wear white robes and have crowns of gold on their heads and golden harps in their hands." "To make sweet music?" "Yes." "Dey wear white dess?" "Yes." "Do dey button up behind like Elsie's dress?" Violet laughed at that question. "She is very desirous to have her dresses fasten in front like mamma's," she explained in reply to her mother's look of surprised inquiry. "Do dey, g'amma? do dey button up in de back?" "I don't know how they are made, dearie," her grandma answered. "I never was there to see them." "Elsie's never dere." "No, people don't go there till they die." "Elsie's never dere 'cept when Elsie's gettin' made. Wasn't Elsie dere den? didn't Dod make Elsie up in heaven?" "No, darling, you were never there, but if you love Jesus he will take you there some day." "Mamma, how nicely you answer or parry her questions," said Violet. "As her father says, she can ask some that a very wise man could not answer." "Yes, she has an inquiring mind, and I would not discourage her desire to learn by asking questions," Grandma Elsie said, adding with a smile, "I can remember that her mother used to ask me some very puzzling ones twenty years ago." "And I never received a rebuff, but was always answered to the best of your ability, dear mamma. I think of that now when tempted to impatience with my little girl's sometimes wearisome questioning, and resolve to try to be as good a mother to her as you were to me; and still are," she added with a loving smile. "And now that she has gone back to her play and baby Ned is sleeping, I want a quiet chat with you." "Then let us go to your boudoir and have it," her mother answered, rising and moving toward the door. "Mamma, I have not heretofore been timid about burglars," Violet said, when they were seated in the boudoir, each busied with a bit of needlework, "but I fear that I shall be in future; for only think, mamma, how near they were to my husband and myself while we lay sleeping soundly in our own room! How easily they might have murdered us both before we were even aware of their presence in the house." "Could they? had you then no wakeful guardian at hand?" "O mamma, yes! 'Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world,' and 'He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep'; and yet--haven't even Christians sometimes been murdered by burglars?" "I can not assert that they have not," replied her mother. "'According to your faith be it unto you,' and even true Christians are sometimes lacking in faith--putting their trust in their own defences, or some earthly helper, instead of the Keeper of Israel; or they are fearful and doubtful, refusing to take God at his word and rest in his protecting care. "I do not see that we have anything to do with the question you propounded just now; we have only to take God's promises, believe them fully and be without carefulness in regard to that, as well as other things. I am perfectly sure he will suffer no real evil to befall any who thus trust in him. "Death by violence may sometimes be a shorter, easier passage home than death from disease; and come in whatever shape it may, death can be no calamity to the Christian." "Solomon tells us that the day of death is better than the day of one's birth. 'Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.' "My dear Vi, I think one who can claim all the promises of God to his children, should be utterly free from the fear that hath torment; should be afraid of nothing whatever but displeasing and dishonoring God." "Yes, mamma, I see that it is so; and that all I lack to make me perfectly courageous and easy in mind, is stronger faith. "I think my husband has a faith which lifts him above every fear, and that he is perfectly content to leave all future events to the ordering of his heavenly Father." Grandma Elsie's eyes shone. "You are blest in having such a husband, my dear Vi," she said. "I trust you will help each other on in the heavenly way, and be fellow-helpers to your children and his." Violet looked up brightly. "I trust we shall, mamma; we both earnestly desire to be, and I think his three all give good evidence that they have already begun to walk in the straight and narrow way; and no wonder, considering what a faithful, loving, Christian father he is--so constant in prayer and effort on their behalf." "Ah," as the sound of wheels was heard on the driveway, "they have returned; and now we shall have a report of all that was done in the magistrate's office. It must have been quite an ordeal to Max and Lulu." CHAPTER XVII. Capt. Raymond was met at the door by the youngest two of his daughters. "Papa, I'se been yaisin' seeds," announced little Elsie, running into his arms. "Yaisin' seeds," he echoed; "what can that mean?" "She means seeding raisins, papa," explained Grace, with a merry laugh. "We've been in the kitchen helping the cook. At least pretending to help her. Perhaps we hindered more than we helped.'" "I dare say," he responded; "but I hope Elsie didn't eat the raisins, nor you either; they are quite too indigestible for your young stomachs." "We each had one, papa; that was all. I told Elsie we wouldn't eat any more till we asked leave, and she was a good little girl and didn't tease for more." "That was right; but for your own sakes I must say that is all you can have." He had paused for a moment in the hall to pet and fondle the two. Max and Lulu stood looking on; Harold and Herbert were taking off their overcoats near by. "You're a funny talker, Elsie," laughed Max. "Your English is not of the purest, little woman," said her Uncle Harold. "Tell Uncle Harold he must not expect perfection in a beginner," said her father. "Where are grandma and mamma?" "In the parlor I believe," said Grace. "Oh no! see, they are just coming down the stairs." "Yes, here we are," said Violet; "anxious, for a report of the morning's proceedings in the magistrate's office. Won't you walk into the parlor, gentlemen, and let us have it?" "Certainly, we will be very happy to gratify your very excusable curiosity," returned her husband laughingly, as she came to his side, and he stooped his tall form to give her the kiss with which he never failed to greet her after even a brief separation. The older people all repaired to the parlor, but the children did not follow. "I must go and look over my lessons," said Max. "And I'm going to my room," said Lulu. "Gracie, if you will come with me, I'll tell you all about the trial--if that's what they call it." "O yes, do!" responded Grace, as the two started up the stairs together. "Were you scared, Lu?" "No; I didn't feel frightened, for I'm not timid you know, and papa was near me all the time; and he'd told me all I had to do was to tell a straightforward, truthful story. "I did hate to take the oath, but I knew I had to, and that it wasn't wrong, though it does seem a dreadful thing to do." "It isn't like other swearing," remarked Max, who was moving on up the stairs, somewhat ahead of his sisters. "There must be a right kind, because in the psalms, where David is describing a good man, he says of him, 'He that sweareth to his own hurt, and changeth not.'" "Yes, I know," said Lulu, "I can see the difference; and this must be the right kind or papa would never have let us do it." "How do they do it?" asked Grace. "How did you do it, Lu?" "A man said over the words for me--a promise to 'tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth'--and I promised by kissing the Bible; that was all." "That wasn't very hard to do," said Grace, "but oh I'd have been so frightened to have to tell something with so many people listening!" "Of course; because you're such a weak, timid little thing; but I'm big and strong and not afraid of anybody or anything. "There were a good many people there; the room was quite full; but I felt that that did not make much difference, when I thought about God hearing every word I said and knowing if it was really the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. "Ajax's wife was there; crying fit to break her heart too; specially when they took him back to jail. "Papa stopped and spoke to her before we got into the carriage to come home. He said he was very sorry for her, but if she continued to be honest and industrious, he would see that she did not want; and he hoped her husband would some day come out of prison a better man." "Did she seem thankful to papa?" asked Grace. "Yes; and she said she didn't see how Ajax could be so bad and ungrateful as to try to steal papa's money after he'd been so kind to her and the children." "Yes, and I pity 'Liza for being his wife, and the children because they have such a bad father. "Lu, let's ask papa if we mayn't buy some calico and other things, with some of our benevolence money, and make clothes for them." "I wouldn't mind giving the money," said Lulu, "but I hate to sew on such things. You know I never did like plain sewing. I'll see about it though." "You'd do it to please the dear Lord Jesus, even though you don't like it?" said Grace softly. "Yes, that I will, if papa approves," returned Lulu warmly, her eyes shining. "Gracie, it's good--a real pleasure, I mean--to make yourself do distasteful things, for Jesus' sake. "I'll put my hat and coat in their proper places and smooth my hair, so I'll be neat for dinner, and we'll go and talk to papa about it at once. He's sure to approve, and I don't want to give myself any chance to change my mind and give the thing up." "And we won't mind Grandma Elsie hearing," added Grace; "perhaps she'll know what they need the most, and maybe she'll tell Rosie and Eva and they'll offer to do something for the poor things too." "Oh yes: perhaps we can form ourselves into a Dorcas society. That's what they call societies that make garments for the poor you know, because of Dorcas in the Bible who made coats and garments for the poor where she lived." "Yes, Lu; but there's the dinner bell, and we'll have to wait awhile before we can talk to papa about it; for you know he says we mustn't talk a great deal at the table when there's company." "And I have to smooth my hair yet, and that will make me late. I'm so sorry, because it vexes papa to have us unpunctual. Don't wait for me, Gracie, for that will make you late too." "I'd rather wait for you, but I 'spose I ought to go at once," Gracie said, looking regretfully back as she left the room. The blessing had been asked and the captain was carving the turkey when Lulu took her seat at the table, which was close at his right hand. He gave her a grave look. "I'm very sorry I'm late, papa," she said in a low tone, and casting down her eyes. "I'd been so busy talking with Gracie that I hadn't my hair smoothed when the bell rang." "It has been a very exciting morning for you, daughter, and I'll excuse you this time," he returned, speaking kindly and in as low a key as her own; "it is not often I find you unpunctual." Lulu heaved a sigh of relief, her countenance brightened, and her eyes were lifted to her father's face with a grateful, loving look that brought a smile to his lips and eyes. She was very quiet during the meal, speaking only when spoken to, but her father kept an eye on her plate and saw that her wants were abundantly supplied. On leaving the table all repaired to the parlor and Lulu and Grace, seizing the first opportunity offered them by a pause in the talk of their elders, told of their plan, and asked permission to carry it out. It was received with entire approval by all present, their father included. "I have no doubt that Rosie and Evelyn will be glad to join you in forming a Dorcas society," said Grandma Elsie, "and if you like I shall be happy to cut out garments for you to work upon, and to teach you how to do it for yourselves." "Oh thank you, ma'am!" responded the little girls; "we were sure you would and it will be ever so nice." "Taridge tumin'! two taridge tumin'!" cried little Elsie, who had climbed on a chair, and was gazing out of a window looking upon the drive. They proved to be the Ion and Fairview carriages, bringing the whole family of the latter place and all of the other who were not already present. "We have come in a body, as you see, to learn all about the strange occurrences of last night and the consequent doings in the magistrate's office this morning," Grandpa Dinsmore remarked, as he shook hands with the captain and kissed Violet, first on one cheek, then on the other. "Tiss Elsie too, danpa," cried the little one toddling up to him; "oo mustn't fordet to tiss oor 'ittle dirl." "Certainly not," he said, taking her into his arms to kiss her several times, then sitting down with her on his knee. "Do you know that you are my great-granddaughter?" "Ess, Elsie knows dat," she answered, nodding her curly head wisely. Meantime greetings had been exchanged among the others, and the four little girls had got into a corner by themselves. "O Lu, do tell us all about it!" cried Rosie. "I never did hear of such a brave girl as you! Why I'd have been scared to death, and never have thought of such a thing as going down where the burglars were." "Oh I think you would if you'd been in my place," returned Lulu modestly. "You see I was afraid if I waited to tell papa about them, they might come out and see him ready to fight them, and kill him; but I thought if I could get the door shut and fastened on them before they knew anybody was there, nobody would be hurt." "And that's the way it was," said Evelyn. "But you _were_ a brave girl and there's no use in your denying it." "Yes, indeed, you were," said Rosie. "But come now do tell us the whole story; we want to hear it fresh from your lips." "And what went on in the magistrate's office too," added Eva. "Oh didn't you dislike having to go there and testify?" "Yes; I begged papa not to make me, but he said it was the law, and not he, that insisted." "Yes I know, and of course those things have to be done in such cases; but I hope my turn will never come. Now, Lu, please begin. You'll have at least two very attentive listeners." "More than that, I think," said Rosie, as other voices were heard in the hall, quickly followed by the entrance of the relatives from the Oaks, the Pines and Roselands. And greetings were scarcely exchanged with these when the families from Ashlands and the Laurels joined the circle; so that quite a large surprise party had gathered there unexpectedly to themselves as well as to their hosts. The same desire--to learn the full particulars of what had reached them as little more than a vague report--had brought them all. These were given, and Lulu received so much commendation, and was so lauded for her bravery, that her father began to fear she would be puffed up with vanity and conceit. But at length that subject was dropped and the one of the proposed Dorcas society taken up. Evelyn seemed quietly pleased and interested, Zoe, Lora and Rosie ready to enter into the work with enthusiasm, while the Dinsmore girls gave a rather languid attention to the discussion. But when it had been decided to organize a society on the spot, and the business of electing officers was taken up, they roused themselves to a new interest, and Maud was evidently gratified when Evelyn nominated her for the secretaryship. Lulu seconded the motion and Maud was unanimously elected. Zoe had already been made president; Lora was chosen treasurer. These were all the officers considered necessary, but Sydney, Evelyn and Lulu were appointed a committee to visit the poor families in the neighborhood and learn what articles of clothing were most needed by them. It was decided that the society should meet once a fortnight at one or the other of the homes of its members, taking them in turn; that at these meetings reports should be given in as to the state of the finances, work done, and articles needed; finished garments would also be brought in, examined and pronounced upon as well or ill done; the members would busy themselves in cutting and basting new garments while together, and each carry home with her one or more to be made in the interval between that and the next meeting. Also each member was to consider herself under appointment to invite her young girl, or young lady friends, from other families to join with them in the good work. "Now I think that is all," said Grandma Elsie; "you are fully organized and I invite you to hold your first meeting at Ion, next Wednesday afternoon. That will give time for ascertaining the needs of some of those we wish to assist, and the purchase of materials." "But how are your funds to be raised?" asked her father. "By a tax on the members, and contributions from their friends, which will be thankfully accepted," she said with a pleased smile as he took out his pocket-book and handed her a five dollar bill. "We are very much obliged, sir." The captain and other gentlemen present--some of the ladies also--immediately followed Mr. Dinsmore's example. Then the question of the amount of tax on the members was discussed and settled. After that the captain said he had a suggestion to make; namely that it would be well for the little girls to be accompanied by an older person when making their visits to their proposed beneficiaries. "It will require some wisdom and tact to make the necessary investigations without wounding the feelings of those they desire to benefit, or injuring their commendable pride of independence," he said in conclusion. "Thank you for the advice, captain," Grandma Elsie replied; "I think it most wise. What have the members of the society to say about it?" All responded promptly that they would prefer to have an older person with them on those occasions. "And we'd better begin that business to-morrow," said Zoe, "that whoever is to do the buying of materials to be cut and basted at the first meeting, may have the needed information in season." "I hope Grandma Elsie will buy the things," said Lulu. "Don't you all vote for that, girls?" "Yes; yes, indeed; if she will," they all answered, and were pleased that she at once consented to do so. "Are we boys to be shut out of all this?" asked Max. "I don't see why we shouldn't take hold of such work as well as the girls. I'm conceited enough to think I could wield a pair of shears and cut out garments, by a pattern or under instruction; and I know I can run a sewing machine, for I've tried it." "And certainly we could all help with the financial part," said Chester Dinsmore. "Let's take them in," said Sydney. "We want all the money we can get." "Of course we do," said Lora; "the more money we have the more good we may hope to do." The others seemed to see the force of the argument and voted unanimously for the admission of the lads. "What about home and foreign missionary societies?" asked Evelyn. "I thought we had decided to have one of each just among ourselves. Was it the girls only? or will the boys take part in them too?" "Of course we will, if you'll let us," replied Max; "and you can't have too much money for them, seeing there are millions upon millions of heathen to be taught and furnished with Bibles." "Yes," said the captain, "boys should be as much interested in mission work as girls, and I see no reason why you young relatives and friends should not work together. "But with your studies and other duties to attend to, you have hardly time for such a multiplication of societies, and as the work is one, the field the world, I propose that you form only one more society, which shall be for both home and foreign missions." "A very good plan, I think," commented Grandpa Dinsmore. "And I propose that we proceed at once to organize such a society," said Zoe. "And shouldn't we have gentlemen officers?" asked Lulu. "I think Uncle Harold would make a good president." "Thank you," said he, smiling pleasantly on her, "but I could not serve; because I must be off to college directly." "And the same objection applies to all of us except Max and little Walter," added Chester Dinsmore. "We older lads can only pay our dues and perhaps meet with you occasionally when at home on a vacation." "Working for the good cause in the meantime, in whatever place we are," added Harold. "Shall we proceed to organize?" asked Zoe. "Yes, if Grandma Elsie will help us as she did with the Dorcas," said Lulu. The others joined in the request, and Grandma Elsie kindly complied. Eva was chosen president, Rosie treasurer, and they would have made Lulu secretary but that she strenuously declined, insisting that she was not ready enough with her pen to find time for that in addition to all the sewing and other things she was undertaking. "Then I nominate Max," said Rosie, giving him a bright look and smile. "And I second the motion," said Evelyn. Max made no objection and seemed gratified when he was pronounced unanimously elected. They then settled the amount of their yearly subscription to each cause and the time of meeting, deciding that it should be on the same day and hour as the meeting of the other society, but on the alternate week. "And what will we do at our meetings?" asked Sydney. "What other people do at missionary meetings, I presume," answered Zoe; "read the Bible, sing hymns, pray for the missionaries and the heathen at home and abroad." "Pay in our dues too," said Max; "and I suppose each one will try to find some interesting article to take to the meeting to be read aloud to the others." "Yes; of course we must all do that if we want to have very enjoyable meetings," said Zoe. "And we older people must see to it that you are well supplied with literature bearing on the subject," said the captain. He was rejoiced to perceive that the interest of these new enterprises was taking his children's thoughts from the unpleasant occurrences of the previous night. Almost all their talk with him that evening when the guests had gone and the babies were being put to bed, was of the work they hoped to do in connection with their missionary and Dorcas societies. To Lulu had been assigned the duty of visiting the family of Ajax, for the purpose of learning what were their most pressing needs in the line of clothing. Speaking of it, she asked, "Ought I not to go to-morrow, papa? and will you go with me?" "I say yes to both questions," he replied. "You may be ready for your call directly we are done with school duties; that will give us time to go and return in good season for dinner." "Yes, sir; I'll be ready. Thank you very much for promising to take me." "Liza must feel lonesome to-night, thinking about Ajax in jail," remarked Grace thoughtfully; "but I'm glad he's there so that he can't be trying to break into anybody's house. Papa, could he get out and come here again?" "It is hardly possible," answered her father, looking tenderly down into her face, and smoothing her curls with caressing hand; "and he would not want to hurt you if he could come into the house. I don't see how any one could wish to harm my gentle, kindhearted little Grace." "Papa, shall I sleep in her bed with her to-night?" asked Lulu. "Certainly, if she would like it." "Oh I should!" Grace exclaimed. "I know our heavenly Father will take care of me, but it's good to feel Lu's arms round me too." "Then you shall," said Lulu, giving her an affectionate pat, "your big sister likes to take care of you." CHAPTER XVIII. "O Lu, tell me all about it!" exclaimed Grace when Lulu came home the next day, from her visit to Eliza. "Are they very, very poor and needy?" "'Liza and her children? Well, not so very; because papa has been seeing to them for quite a while. They had a good fire ('Liza was ironing for somebody) and pretty good clothes; but the children are growing too big for some of their things and have torn or worn holes in others. So papa says he thinks we should make them some new ones. I'm going to ask Grandma Elsie to buy some flannel with some of my money, and let me make a skirt for the baby." "I'd like to make an apron for one of the little girls," said Grace. "Well I suppose you can. There are two girls and a boy besides the baby. Just think what a lot of trouble it must be to keep them all clothed and fed!" "And poor 'Liza will have to do it all herself while Ajax is in jail." "I don't believe he was much help anyhow," said Lulu, with a scornful little toss of her head; "she says he didn't work half the time and was always getting drunk and beating her and the children. I should think she'd want him kept in jail as long as he lives." "But maybe he'll grow good, and be kind and helpful to her when he gets out." "Papa will do all he can to make him good," said Lulu; "he's gone now to the jail to talk to him. Just think of his taking so much trouble for such an ungrateful wretch." "It's very good in him," responded Grace; "and it's being like the dear Lord Jesus to take trouble to do good to ungrateful wretches." "Yes; so it is, and nobody can be acquainted with papa without seeing that he tries always to be like Jesus." The captain's motive for visiting the jail that day was certainly most kind and Christian; a desire to reason with the two prisoners on the sin and folly of their evil courses, and persuade them to repentance and reformation. He did not approach them in a self-righteous spirit, for the thought in his heart was, "It is only the grace of God that maketh us to differ; and with the same heredity, and like surroundings and influences I might have been even a greater criminal than they;" but he found them sullen and defiant and by no means grateful for his kindly interest in their welfare. Still he continued his efforts, visiting them frequently while they lay in the county jail awaiting trial. Lulu looked forward to the trial with some apprehension, dreading to be placed on the witness-stand before the judges, jurymen, lawyers, and the crowd of spectators likely to be present on the occasion. "It'll be a great, great deal worse than that time in the magistrate's office," she said to herself again and again. But by her father's advice she tried to put away the thought of it and give her mind to other things. She was interested in her studies, amusements, in the books and periodicals furnished for the profit and entertainment of herself and brother and sister, and in the young people's societies just started in the connection. These prospered and grew by the addition of new members from among the young folks who, though of the neighborhood, were yet outside of the connection. Under Grandma Elsie's wise and kindly instruction several of the older members soon became quite expert in preparing work for themselves and the others; also in gathering up information on the subject of missions, and in regard to the needy of their own vicinity. Thus their meetings were made interesting, were well attended and looked forward to with pleasure, while quite an amount of good was accomplished through their means. The Woodburn children were never willing to miss a meeting, and took pride and pleasure in doing their full share of the sewing undertaken by the Dorcas society. That was a more congenial task to Grace than to Lulu, but the latter--partly from pride, partly from a real desire to be useful--insisted each time on carrying home at least as much work as Gracie did. And for some weeks she was very faithful with her self-imposed task; but after that her interest in that particular work began to flag and she delayed doing it, giving her time and thoughts to other matters, till at last Gracie reminded her that there was but a day left in which to do it, if the garment were to be ready for handing in at the next meeting of the society. "Oh dear!" cried Lulu, "I forgot the time was so short, and how I'm ever to finish it so soon I don't see! I'll have to take all my play time for it." "I wish I could help you," Gracie said, with a very sympathizing look, "but you know papa said I mustn't do any more than my own." "Of course not," returned Lulu emphatically; "your own is too much for such a feeble little thing as you; and don't you worry about me, I'll manage it somehow." "But how can you? You have that composition to write, and two lessons to learn to recite to papa in the morning. I should think they would take all your afternoon except what has to be given to exercise; and it's dinner time now." "I'll study hard and try to get the lessons and composition all done before dark, and then I'll sew as fast as I can all the evening while papa is reading or talking to mamma Vi and us." "I'm afraid it's more than you can do," returned Grace, with a doubtful shake of the head; "and perhaps somebody may come in to interrupt us too." "If they do I'll just go on with the sewing, not stopping even if there are games to be played, and I'm asked to take part." "It's very nice in you to be so determined," commented Grace, giving her sister an admiring affectionate look. "It's about time I was determined to do that sewing," said Lulu, laughing a little, "for I've put it off over and over again because I wanted to indulge myself in playing games or reading a story." The ringing of the dinner bell put a stop to their talk. At the table the captain said to his wife that business called him to the city, he must start directly the meal was over, and would not be able to get home till late, long after the usual bedtime; but he did not want any one to sit up for him, as he could let himself in with his latch key. "O papa," cried Lulu, "I'd like to sit up for you, if I may!" "No, my child," he said with his pleasant smile, "I quite appreciate the kind feeling that prompts that offer, but I want you to go to your bed at the usual hour." "Papa," observed Max insinuatingly, and with an arch look, "it wouldn't hurt a boy to sit up and wait for his father." "I'm not so sure of that," laughed the captain; "boys need sleep as well as girls, and should not be deprived of their regular allowance, when there is no necessity." "How about wives?" asked Violet with a twinkle of fun in her eye. "Wives are of course not under orders," he returned gallantly, "but are free to do as they please; but I should be loath to have mine miss her beauty sleep." "Then I suppose she should try to take it for your sake," laughed Violet. "Papa, I wish you didn't ever have to go away," sighed Grace; "we shall miss so much the fun with the babies, and the nice talk with you while they are being put to bed, and then the reading afterwards." "I have not said anything about taking the babies with me, and really have no thought of doing so; as they would not be likely to prove of assistance in transacting my business," returned her father gravely. At that everybody laughed and Violet said to Gracie, "So you see, dearie, you need not despair of some fun with the babies." "Maybe not, mamma, but it won't be just the same as when papa is with us, and while you are away putting them to bed we'll miss papa ever so much." "I hope so," he said, smiling on her; "it is pleasant to feel that one's absence is regretted. But, my dear little daughter, we can't expect to have all our enjoyments every day." "No, sir;" said Lulu; "and we'll miss you when Mamma Vi comes back and you are not there to read to us." "Of course we will," said Violet, "but though your papa is unquestionably the finest reader among us, the rest of us can read intelligibly, and some of us can read aloud to the others; perhaps we may take turns." "A very good plan," said the captain. "But, my dear, I can not endorse that statement of yours in regard to our relative ability as readers. I consider my wife as fine a reader as I ever listened to." "Mamma Vi does read beautifully," remarked Max, with an affectionate, admiring glance at her. "I think so too," assented Lulu, adding "and if she will read to us it will be a great favor, and I am sure will make the time pass quickly and very pleasantly." "No doubt," said the captain, "and I am glad you are ready to appreciate such an effort on your mamma's part; but she may have other plans for the evening." Violet had intended to spend it in writing to her absent brothers, but instantly decided to sacrifice her own wishes to those of the children. "I am sure I shall enjoy reading to so appreciative an audience," she said laughingly, "and feel myself highly honored in filling my husband's place." "Max and Lulu," said the captain, "don't forget the tasks set for this afternoon; you can easily accomplish them before tea and have an hour or more for exercise beside." Both replied with a promise not to forget or neglect his requirements, and immediately upon bidding her father good-bye and seeing him out of sight, Lulu went to her room and applied herself to the study of her lessons first, then to the writing of her composition. She did her work hurriedly, however, with the thought of the sewing for which she now had so little time, ever present with her; consequently the lessons took small hold upon her memory and the remaining task was very indifferently performed. She was in the act of wiping her pen when Max called to her and Grace that the ponies were at the door and they three and Mamma Vi were to have a ride together. "Oh how nice!" cried both little girls, and hastened to don riding hats and habits. They had grown exceedingly fond of their young step-mother; and as she did not very often find it convenient to share their rides, to have her do so was considered quite a treat. On their return Lulu, hardly waiting to remove her out door garments and make herself presentable for the evening, went at the sewing with all the activity and determination of her very energetic nature. "It's got to be done if I have to work like a steam engine!" she exclaimed to Grace, thrusting in and drawing out her needle with a rapidity that surprised her little sister. "I never saw you sew so fast, Lu," she said. "I couldn't do it; I'd have to take more time to be sure my stitches were nice and even." "Oh it's for poor folks and so it's strong, it won't make much difference about the looks," returned Lulu, working away at the same headlong pace. "But Grandma Elsie is particular about the stitches," said Grace; "don't you remember she told us she was, for our own sakes more than the poor folks'; because it would be a sad thing for us to fall into slovenly habits of working?" "Yes, I do remember now you speak of it; and I'll try to make the work neat as well as to do it fast." Lulu worked on not allowing herself a moment's rest or relaxation, till the tea bell rang. Violet invited them all to spend the evening in her boudoir. Lulu carried her sewing there directly after leaving the table, and Violet more than once spoke admiringly of the diligence and energy she displayed in working steadily on till it was time for them to separate for the night. "It isn't done yet; dear me how many stitches it does take to make a garment!" sighed Lulu to Grace when they had retired to the room of the latter. "So it does," said Grace, "but papa says having to take so many of them, one right after another, is a good lesson in patience and perseverance." "Kind of lessons I'm not fond of," laughed Lulu. "And you've worked so hard all the evening! you must be very tired." "Yes, I'm tired; but I'd sit up and work an hour or two longer if it wouldn't be disobedience to papa. "Well I'll see how much I can do before breakfast to-morrow morning. Perhaps I can finish; I hope I can." She carried out her resolution, and when their father came in for the customary bit of chat with his little daughters before breakfast, he found her sewing diligently. He commended her industry, particularly when Grace had told how much of it had been shown the previous evening, but added that he hoped the tasks he had set her had been first properly attended to. "Yes, sir; I learned my lessons and wrote my composition yesterday, before I began the sewing," she replied. "That is well," he said, "I am glad to see you willing to use some of your leisure time in working for the poor, but your education--which is to fit you for greater usefulness in the future--must not be neglected for that or anything else." Lulu blushed with a sudden half conviction that her tasks had not been so faithfully attended to as they should have been. But it was now too late to remedy the failure, as the school hour would come very soon after breakfast and family worship. She wished she had learned her lessons more thoroughly and spent more time and pains upon her composition, but hoped she might be able to acquit her herself better, on being called to recite, than she feared. However, it proved a vain hope; she hesitated and gave incorrect answers several times in the first recitation, and when it came to the second showed herself almost entirely unacquainted with the lesson. Her father looked very grave but only said, as he handed back her book, "These are the poorest recitations I have ever heard from you." Then taking up her composition, which he had found lying on his desk and had already examined, "And this, I am sorry to have to say, is a piece of work that does no credit to my daughter; the writing is slovenly, the sentences are badly constructed, and the spelling is very faulty. It must be re-written this afternoon, and both lessons learned so that you can recite them creditably to me before I can allow you any recreation." "I don't care," she said with a pout and a frown, "I just have too much to do, and that's all there is about it." "My child, are you speaking quite as respectfully as you ought in addressing your father?" he asked in grave, reproving accents. She hung her head in sullen silence. He waited a moment, then said with some sternness, "When I ask you a question, Lucilla, I expect an answer, and it must be given." "No, sir; it wasn't respectful," she replied penitently. "But please forgive me, papa, I hope I'll never speak so again." He drew her to him and kissed her tenderly. "I do, dear child. But now I must know what you mean by saying that you have too much to do." "It's that sewing for the Dorcas society, papa, beside all my lessons and practising, and other things that you bid me do every day." "Then you must undertake less of it, or none at all; for as I have said before, your lessons are of much more importance. I can pay some one to work for the poor, but my little girl's stock of knowledge must be increased, and her mind improved by her own efforts." "I don't want to give it up, papa; because it would be mortifying to have it said I couldn't do as much as the other girls." "You seem to be doing charitable work from a very poor motive," he remarked in a tone of grave concern. "Papa, that isn't my only motive," she replied, hanging her head and blushing. "I do want to please the Lord Jesus and to be kind and helpful to the poor." "I am glad to hear it; but you must be willing to undertake less if you can not do so much without neglecting other, and more important duties. Did you bring home an extra quantity of work from the last meeting of your society?" "No, sir," and she blushed again as she spoke, "but I--I kept putting off doing it because there was always something else I wanted to do--a story to read, or a game to play, or a bit of carving, or something pleasanter than sewing--till Grace reminded me there was only one day left, and then I hurried over my lessons and composition and worked as hard and fast as I could at the sewing." "Ah," he said, "it is an old and very true saying that 'Procrastination is the thief of time.' The only way to accomplish much in this world is to have a time for each duty, and always attend to it at that set time. "If you want to go on with this Dorcas work you must set apart some particular time for it, when it will not interfere with other duties, and resolve not to allow yourself to use that time for anything else." "Unless my father orders me?" she said half inquiringly, half in assertion, and with an arch look and smile. "Yes; there may be exceptions to the rule," he replied returning the smile. "Now we have talked long enough on this subject and must begin to put in practice the rule I have just laid down." "Yes, sir; I have my ciphering to do now. But, papa, must I learn the lessons over and rewrite the composition this afternoon? If you say I must, I'll have to miss the meeting of our society. I'd be very sorry for that and ashamed to have to tell why I wasn't there. Please, papa, won't you let me go, and do my work over after I get back? There'll be an hour, or more before tea and then all the evening." He did not answer immediately, and she added, with a wistful, pleading look, "I know I don't deserve to be let go, but you've often been a great deal better to me than I deserved." "As I well may be, considering how far beyond my deserts are my blessings," he said with a tender smile and another kiss. "Yes, daughter, you may attend the meeting and I shall hope to hear some excellent recitations from you before you go to your bed to-night." "Oh thank you, dear papa! I'll try my very hardest," she exclaimed joyously, giving him a vigorous hug. The society met at Ion that day. The captain and Violet drove over with the children, and leaving them there while they went on some miles farther, called for them again on their return at the close of the hour appropriated to its exercises. Grandma Elsie's face hardly expressed approval as she examined Lulu's work, but she let it pass, only saying in a low aside to the little girl, "It is not quite so well done as the last garment you brought in, my child, but I will overlook the partial failure, hoping the next bit of work will be an improvement upon both." Lulu blushed and was silent; once she would have made an angry retort, but she was slowly learning patience and humility. On arriving at home she set immediately to work at her tasks, nor left off till the tea bell rang. The time had been too short for her to make much progress, and it was quite a trial to have to spend the whole evening in her own room while the others were enjoying the usual pleasant hours of relaxation together;--the sport with the babies, the familiar chat, and interesting reading; but that too she bore with patience. It was not till the call to evening worship that she joined the family. When the service was over she drew near her father. "Papa, I have re-written that composition and hope you will find it a great deal better, I have studied my lessons too, till I think I can recite them creditably." "Ah, that is well," he said, laying a hand tenderly on her head and smiling affectionately down into the eyes upraised to his. "I will go with you presently to hear the lessons and examine your little essay." When he had done so, "I am very glad indeed, daughter," he said, "to be able to bestow hearty praise on you this time; you have greatly improved your composition, and your recitations were quite perfect." He drew her to his knee as he spoke, she blushing with pleasure at his words. "I missed my eldest daughter, from the family circle this evening," he went on smoothing her hair caressingly; "indeed I think we all missed her. I hope we will not be deprived of her company in the same way again." "I hope not, papa; I do mean to be more faithful in preparing my lessons. I'm sure I ought when I have such a kind, kind teacher," she added looking lovingly into his eyes. "Dear papa," putting her arm round his neck and laying her cheek to his, "I do love you so, _so_ much!" "My darling," he responded, "your love is very precious to me, and I don't think it can be greater than mine for you. My daughter's worth to her fond father--could not be computed in dollars and cents," he added with a happy laugh. "I hope Grandma Elsie found your sewing well done?" "Not so very, papa," she replied, her tone expressing some mortification; "she said it was not so nicely done as the last." "That is a pity; it will hardly do to keep on so--going backward instead of forward as regards improvement in that line of work." "No, papa, I don't mean to; I didn't bring home quite so much this time, though some of the girls did look as if they thought I was growing lazy--and it was dreadfully mortifying to have them think so--and I'm going to try Eva's plan. She says she divides her work into as many portions as there are days to do it in, and won't let herself miss doing at least one portion each day. She says she gets it done quite easily in that way, often finished before the day when it is to be handed in." "But it can't be that she puts it off for story-reading, games and what not?" "No, sir; and I don't mean to any more. I'll put that sewing first after what you say are more important duties, and not let myself have any play till it's done. I think I can 'most always do it before breakfast, now that you don't require me to sweep or dust my own rooms. I'm very much obliged to you, papa, for saying I needn't do those things any more while I have so many lessons." "I want my daughters to understand all kinds of housework so that they may be competent to direct servants, if they have them, or be independent of them if they have not," he said; "but now that you have learned how to sweep and dust, I do not think it necessary for you to make use of that knowledge while your time can be better employed, and I am able to pay a servant for doing the work." CHAPTER XIX. One morning at breakfast, Max asked, "Papa, have you told Lu yet?" "No," replied the captain, "I wished her to eat her meal first in peace and comfort; therefore I am sorry you spoke, as I see you have roused her curiosity." "Yes, papa; mayn't I know what you are talking about?" asked Lulu, giving him a disturbed, rather apprehensive look. "Oh does the court meet to-day?" "It's been meeting for several days," returned Max, "and the trial of our burglars comes up to-day." "And we'll have to attend as witnesses?" "Yes; but you needn't be alarmed; you ought to be quite used to it since your experience in the magistrate's office," answered Max sportively. "I don't think I'd ever get used to it, and I just wish there was some way to keep out of it!" sighed Lulu. "But as there isn't, my little girl will make up her mind to go through with it bravely," the captain said, giving her an encouraging smile. "I'll try, papa," she answered, but with a sigh that sounded rather hopeless. Violet and Grace both expressed their sympathy, but were sure Lulu would do herself credit, as she had on the former occasion. Lulu brightened a little and went on with her meal. "How soon do we have to go papa?" she asked. "In about half an hour after breakfast," he answered. "That will take us to the town for the opening of to-day's session of the court. We may not be called on for our testimony for hours, but must be at hand in case we are wanted." Lulu wasted no more breath in vain wishes or objections, but her usual flow of spirits had deserted her. As they drove toward the town her father noticed that she was very quiet and that her face wore a look of patient resignation and fortitude as if she had made up her mind to go courageously through a difficult and trying ordeal. "Don't be anxious and troubled, dear child," he said, taking her hand and pressing it affectionately in his; "you are not going alone into that crowded court room." "No, papa; and I'm ever so glad you will be with me." "And not only I, dear, but a nearer, dearer, more powerful Friend. Jesus says, 'Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the World.' He says it to every one of his disciples, and that always must include this time that you are dreading. "He will be close beside you and you can ask him at any instant for the help you need to know exactly what to say and do; the help to be calm and collected, and to answer clearly and perfectly truthfully every question put to you." "Papa, it's so nice to think of that!" she exclaimed, looking up brightly and with glad tears shinning in her eyes; "thank you so very much for reminding me of it. Now I shall not be at all afraid, even if the lawyers do ask me hard, puzzling questions, as I've read in the papers, that they do to witnesses, sometimes." "No, you need not be afraid; I am not afraid for you; for I am sure you will be helped to say just what you ought; and if--as I believe will happen--you are enabled to acquit yourself well, remember, when people commend you for it, that having done so by help from on high, the honor is not fairly due to you, and you have no reason to be conceited and vain in consequence." "I hope I'll be kept from being that, papa," she returned. "I don't think that for anybody with as good a memory as mine, having told a straightforward truthful story is anything to be puffed up about." "No, certainly not." The wealth and standing in the community of Captain Raymond and his wife's relatives; caused a widespread interest in the case about to be tried; especially in connection with the fact that he and two of his children were to be placed upon the witness stand to testify to the identity of the burglars and their attempt to rob his house. The Court House was crowded, and there were very many of the better class of people among the spectators, including members of the families residing at the Oaks, the Laurels, the Pines, Ion, Fairview and Roselands. Dr. Conly, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Travilla and Mr. Leland were there when the Woodburn party arrived; and presently Grandpa Dinsmore and his wife, and Cousin Ronald, who was still staying at Ion, followed. These all sat near together, and Lulu felt it a comfort to find herself in the midst of such a company of friends. Greetings were exchanged, some kind, encouraging words spoken to her and Max, then their father and the other gentlemen fell into conversation. The children had never been in a court-room before, and were interested in looking about and observing what was going on. They were early; in season to see the judges come in and take their seats on the bench, and the opening of the court. Some lesser matters occupied its attention for a time, then there was a little stir of excitement in the crowd as the sheriff and his deputy entered with Ajax and his fellow burglar, but it quieted down in a moment as the prisoners took their places at the bar, and the voice of the presiding judge sounded distinctly through the room, "Commonwealth against Perry Davis and Ajax Stone. Burglary. Are you ready for trial?" "We are, your Honor," replied the district attorney. "Very well," said the judge, "arraign the prisoners." Then the two prisoners were told to stand up while the district attorney read the indictment, which charged them with "burglariously breaking and entering into the mansion-house of Captain Raymond of Woodburn, on the second day of January last passed," and while there attempting to break into and rob his safe and to carry off articles of value from other parts of the dwelling. The court-room was very quiet during the reading of the indictment, so that Max and Lulu who were listening intently, heard every word. Lulu looked her astonishment when the prisoners pleaded, "Not guilty." "Why they _are_! and they know they are!" she whispered to Max. "Of course," he returned in the same low key, "but do you suppose men who break into houses to steal, will hesitate to lie?" "Oh no, to be sure not! How silly I am!" The next thing was the selecting of jurors; a rather tedious business, taking up all the rest of the time till the court adjourned for the noon recess. That was a rest for Max and Lulu. Their father took them to a hotel for lunch, they chatted a while in its parlor, after satisfying their appetites, then returned to the court-room in season for the opening of the afternoon session. The district attorney made the opening address, giving an outline of the evidence he expected to bring forward to prove the prisoners' guilt. Then Lulu was called to the witness stand. She rose at once and turned to her father, looking a trifle pale, but quite calm and collected. He took her hand and led her to the little railed platform. She stepped upon it and he stood near to encourage her by his presence. "You are very young, my child," the judge said in a kindly tone, "What do you know of the nature of an oath?" "I know, sir, that it is a very solemn promise in the presence of the great God, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." "And what will happen to you if you fail to do so, my dear?" "God will know it, and be angry with me; for he hates lying and has said, 'All liars shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone!'" Lulu's answers were given in a low, but very distinct tone and in the almost breathless silence were quite audible in every part of the large room. "Administer the oath to her," said the judge addressing the clerk of the court, "she is more competent to take it than many an older person." When she had done so, "What is your name?" asked the district attorney. "Lucilla Raymond." "You are the daughter of Capt. Levis Raymond late of United States Navy?" "Yes, sir, his eldest daughter." "How old are you?" "I was twelve on my last birthday; last summer." "Look at the prisoners. Did you ever see them before?" "Yes, sir." "When and where?" "The colored man has lived in our family, and I saw him every day for months." "And the white man?" "I have seen him three times before to-day; first on the second day of last January, when my brother and I were riding home through the bit of wood on my father's estate. That man was leaning against a tree and my pony nearly stepped on him before I knew he was there, and he seized her bridle and said fiercely, 'Look out there and don't ride a fellow down!'" "And what did you answer?" "Let go of my bridle this instant and get out of the path!" "Plucky!" laughed some one in the audience. "What happened next?" asked the lawyer, and Lulu went on to tell the whole story of the adventure in the wood. "That, you have told us, was your first sight of the prisoner calling himself Perry Davis, when did you see him next? and where?" "That night, in what we call the strong room where papa's safe is." She was bidden to tell the whole of that story also, and did so in the same clear, straightforward manner in which she had told it in the magistrate's office, told it simply, artlessly--as not aware of the bravery and unselfishness of her conduct in attempting the capture of the burglars at the risk of being attacked and murdered by them--and in the same calm, even, distinct tones in which she had spoken at first. A murmur of admiration ran through the court-room as she concluded her narrative with, "Papa was asleep and I couldn't speak just at first for want of breath; but when I put my arm round his neck and laid my face on the pillow beside his, he woke and I told him about the burglars and what I had done." The prisoners had listened with close attention and evident interest. "So 'twas her--that chit of a gal, that fastened us in--caught us in a trap, as one may say," muttered Davis, scowling at her and grinding his teeth with rage. "Pity I didn't hold on to that ere bridle and kerry her off afore we ventur'd in thar." A warning look from his counsel silenced him, and the latter addressed himself to Lulu. "You say you had seen Davis three times before to-day. Where and when did you see him the third time?" "In the magistrate's office, the next morning after he and Ajax had been in our house." "Did you then recognize them as the same men you had seen in the strong room of your home the night before at work at the lock of the safe?" "Yes, sir; and Davis as the man who had seized my pony's bridle in the wood." "But you had not seen Ajax Stone's face; how then could you recognize him?" "No, I had not seen his face, but I had the back of his head and how he was dressed, and I knew I had fastened him in there, and that he didn't get out till the sheriff took him out; and then I heard his voice and knew it was Ajax's voice." The cross-questioning went on. It was what Lulu had dreaded, but it did not seem to embarrass or disturb her; nor could she be made to contradict herself. Her father's eyes shone; he looked a proud and happy man as he led her back to her seat, holding her hand in a tender, loving clasp. She was surprised and pleased to find Grandma Elsie and Violet sitting with the other relatives and friends. They had come in while she was on the witness stand. "Dear child," Violet said, making room for her by her side, "you went through your ordeal very successfully, and I am very glad for your sake, that it is over." "Yes, my dear, we are all proud of you," added Grandma Elsie, smiling kindly upon the little girl. But there was not time for anything more. "Max Raymond," some one called. "Here, sir," replied the lad, rising. "Take the witness stand." "Go, my son, and let us see how well you can acquit yourself," the captain said in an encouraging tone, and Max obeyed. He conducted himself quite to his father's satisfaction, behaving in a very manly way, and giving his testimony in the same clear, distinct tones and straightforward manner that had been admired in his sister. But having much less to tell, he was not kept nearly so long upon the stand. There were other witnesses for the prosecution, one of whom was Capt. Raymond himself. He testified that the burglars had evidently entered the house through a window, by prying open a shutter, removing a pane of glass, then reaching in and turning the catch over the lower sash. When the evidence on that side had all been heard, the counsel for the accused opened the case for the defense. He was an able and eloquent lawyer, but his clients had already established an unenviable reputation for themselves, and the weight of the evidence against them was too strong for rebuttal. Their conviction was a foregone conclusion in his mind, and that of almost every one present, even before he began his speech. He had but few witnesses to bring forward, and their testimony was unimportant and availed nothing as disproof of that given by those for the prosecution. After the lawyers on both sides had addressed the jury, and the judge had delivered his charge to them, they retired to consider their verdict. In a few moments they returned and resumed their seats in the jury box. They found both the accused guilty of burglary, and the trial was over. "Is it quite finished, papa?" Lulu asked as they were driving toward home again. "What, my child? the trial? Yes; there will be no more of it." "I'm so glad," she exclaimed with a sigh of relief. "You said they would have to go to the penitentiary if they were found guilty; and the jury said they were; how long will they have to stay there?" "I don't know; they have not been sentenced yet; but it will be for some years." "I'm sorry for them. I wish they hadn't been so wicked." "So do I." "And that I hadn't had to testify against them. I can't help feeling as though it was unkind, and that their friends have a right to hate me for it." "No, not at all. It was a duty you owed the community (because to allow criminals to go unpunished would make honest people unsafe), and indeed to the men themselves; as being brought to justice may prove the means of their reformation. So set your mind at rest about it, my darling; try to forget the whole unpleasant affair, and be happy in the enjoyment of your many blessings." "There's one thing that helps to make my conscience perfectly easy on the score of having testified against them," remarked Max, "and that is I couldn't help myself, but had to obey the law." "True enough," rejoined his father. "And Lulu was no more a free agent than yourself." "No, sir; but she did more to catch the rogues than anybody else," Max went on, giving her a merry, laughing glance. "Don't you wish, sis, that you had let them go on and help themselves to all they wanted, and then leave without being molested?" "No, I don't," she answered with spirit. "I wouldn't want papa to lose his money, or Mamma Vi her jewels. Beside they might have gone upstairs and hurt some of us." "We are all much obliged to you, Lulu dear," Violet remarked, looking affectionately at the little girl. "How brave and unselfish you were! That burglary following so immediately upon the festivities of our delightful Christmas holidays, seemed a most trying and unfortunate afterclap; but we will hope for better things next time." 
14883	----	Proofreading Team. GRANDMOTHER ELSIE A SEQUEL TO "ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD" By MARTHA FINLEY COMPLETE AUTHORIZED EDITION "The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together."--Shakespeare Published by arrangement with Dodd, Mead and Company A.L. BURT COMPANY _PUBLISHERS_ New York Chicago 1882, BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 1910, BY CHARLES B. FINLEY GRANDMOTHER ELSIE CHAPTER I. "Every state, Allotted to the race of man below, Is in proportion, doom'd to taste some sorrow." --_Rowe_. The Ion family were at home again after their summer on the New Jersey coast. It was a delightful morning early in October: the dew-drops on the still green grass of the neatly kept lawn sparkled in the rays of the newly risen sun; the bright waters of the lakelet also, as, ruffled by the breeze, they broke gently about the prow of the pretty row-boat moored to the little wharf; the gardens were gay with bright-hued flowers, the trees gorgeous in their autumnal dress. But though doors and windows were open, the gardener and his assistants at work in the grounds, there seemed a strange quiet about the place: when the men spoke to each other it was in subdued tones; there was no sound--as in other days--of little feet running hither and thither, nor of childish prattle or laughter. Two horses stood ready saddled and bridled before the principal entrance to the mansion, and Mr. Horace Dinsmore was pacing the veranda to and fro with slow, meditative step, while Bruno, crouching beside the door, followed his movements with wistful, questioning eyes, doubtless wondering what had become of his accustomed merry, romping play-mates. A light step came down the hall, and a lady in riding hat and habit stepped from the open doorway, stooped for an instant to touch the dog's head caressingly with a "Poor Bruno! do you miss your playfellows?" then glided quickly toward Mr. Dinsmore, who received her with open arms and tenderest caress. Then holding her off and scrutinizing the sweet, fair face with keen, searching eye, "You are looking better and brighter than I dared to hope, my darling," he said. "Did you get some sleep?" "Yes, papa, thank you, several hours. And you? did you rest well?" "Yes, daughter. How are the children?" "No worse, Arthur says; perhaps a trifle better. He, Elsie and Mammy are with them now, and 'Mamma' can be spared for a short ride with her father," she said, smiling lovingly into the eyes that were gazing with the tenderest fatherly affection upon her. "That is right; you need the air and exercise sorely; a few more days of such close confinement and assiduous nursing would, I very much fear, tell seriously upon your health." He led her to the side of her steed and assisted her into the saddle as he spoke, then vaulted into his own with the agility of youth. "But where are Vi and her brothers?" Elsie asked, sending an inquiring glance from side to side. "I sent them on in advance. I wanted you quite to myself this once," he answered, as they turned and rode at a brisk canter down the avenue. "And I shall enjoy having my dear father all to myself for once," she rejoined, with a touch of old-time gayety in look and tone. "Ah! papa, never a day passes, I think I might almost say never an hour, in which I do not thank God for sparing you to me; you who have loved and cherished me so long and so tenderly." "My own dear child!" he said in reply, "you and your love are among the greatest blessings of my life." As they rode on side by side they talked of the youngest two of her children--Rose and Walter--both quite ill with measles; of her sister's family, where also there was sickness among the little ones, and whither Mrs. Dinsmore had gone to assist in the nursing of her grandchildren; of the recent death of Enna at Magnolia Hall, the home of her daughter Molly; and of the anxiety of the younger Elsie because of a much longer silence than usual on the part of her absent betrothed. She greatly feared that some evil had befallen him, and had not been able to hide her distress from these two--the mother and grandfather who loved her so--though making most earnest, unselfish efforts to conceal it from all, especially her mother, whose tender heart was ever ready to bleed for another's woe, and who had already griefs and anxieties enough of her own. They spoke of her with tenderest compassion, and affectionate pride in her loveliness of person and character, and her brave endurance of her trial. Enna's death could hardly be felt as a personal loss by either, but they sympathized deeply in the grief of her old father, with whom her faults seemed to be buried in her grave, while he cherished a lively remembrance of all that had ever given him pleasure in her looks, words, or ways. He was growing old and feeble, and felt this, the death of his youngest child, a very heavy blow. "My poor old father! I fear we shall not have him with us much longer," Mr. Dinsmore remarked with emotion. Elsie's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Dear old grandpa!" she murmured. "But, dear papa, be comforted! he may live for years yet, and should it please God to take him, we know that our loss will be his infinite gain." "Yes; would that we had the same assurance in regard to all his children and grandchildren." Silence fell between them for some minutes. Elsie knew that her father, when making that last remark, was thinking more particularly of his half sister, Mrs. Conly, and her daughter Virginia. The two had gone to a fashionable watering-place to spend the last fortnight of their summer's sojourn at the North, and ere it expired Virginia had contracted a hasty marriage with a man of reputed wealth, whom she met there for the first time. The match was made with the full consent and approval of her mother--who, on rejoining the Dinsmores and Travillas, boasted much of "Virginia's brilliant position and prospects"--but without the knowledge of any other relative. No opportunity of making inquiries about the character or real circumstances of the stranger to whom she committed the happiness of her life, was afforded by Virginia to grandfather, uncle or brothers. Of late Mrs. Conly had ceased to boast of the match--scarcely mentioned Virginia's name; and Mr. Dinsmore had learned from Calhoun and Arthur that Virginia's letters were no longer shown to any one, and seemed to irritate and depress their mother so unmistakably that they feared more and more there was something very much amiss with their sister; yet the mother steadily evaded all inquiries on the subject. Mr. Dinsmore presently told all this to his daughter, adding that he very much feared Virginia had made an utter wreck of her earthly happiness. "Poor Virgie!" sighed Elsie. "Ah! if only she had been blest with such a father as mine!" turning upon him a look of grateful love. "Or such a mother as my granddaughters have," added Mr. Dinsmore, smiling into the soft, sweet eyes. "What blessings my darlings are! how good and lovable in spite of my failures in right training and example," she said in sincere humility. "Those failures and mistakes have been very few, I think," was his reply; "you have tried very earnestly and prayerfully to train them up in the way they should go. And God is faithful to his promises--your children do not depart from the right way; they do arise and call you blessed." "Papa," she said, in moved tones, after a moment's silence, "we must not forget how much is due to the training, the example, and the prayers of their father." "No, daughter; and we can always plead in their behalf the precious promises to the seed of the righteous. 'I will pour my Spirit upon thy seed, and my blessing upon thine offspring.' 'A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children's children.'" "Yes, father, how often have those promises been my comfort and support as the inheritance of both my children and myself; inherited by me from both you and my sainted mother and her pious ancestors." "And from mine; for my mother was a devoted Christian and came of a long line of God-fearing men and women. But I see nothing yet of Edward and his party; they must have taken another road." "Yes, sir; and shall we not turn now? I ought not to be long away from my poor sick darlings." "I think it would be well to return by the other road; we shall reach it in a moment, and our ride will be lengthened by but a half mile or so." She acquiesced in his decision, as was her custom. On the homeward way, as they neared the cross-road leading to the city, they saw a boy on horseback coming at a hard gallop down it in their direction. On catching sight of them he held aloft what looked like a letter, waving it about his head in evident desire to attract their attention; then as he reached their road he halted and waited for them to come up. "Mr. Dinsmore, from the Oaks or Ion, isn't it?" he queried, lifting his cap and bowing to the lady and her escort as they reined in their steeds close at hand. "Yes." "A telegram for you, sir." Mr. Dinsmore took the missive, tore it open and glanced at the contents, then, handing it to Elsie, paid the boy and dismissed him. "Oh, my poor darling!" she exclaimed, her tears dropping upon the paper. "Father, what shall we do? tell her at once? Perhaps that would be best." "Yes; I think it is her right. But of course it must be done as gently as possible. Dear daughter, do not grieve too sorely for her; try to trust her as well as yourself in your heavenly Father's hands." "I will, papa, I will! but oh my heart bleeds for her!" "Will you break the news to her? or shall I?" "My kindest of fathers! you would if possible spare me every trial, bear all my burdens. But perhaps the dear child may suffer less in hearing the sad news from her mother's lips, as, in her place, I could bear it better from yours than from any other." "Unselfish as ever, my darling," he said, "but I believe you are right--that the blow will be somewhat softened to Elsie coming to her through the medium of her tender and dearly loved mother." "I think, papa," Mrs. Travilla said, checking her horse to a walk as they entered the avenue at Ion, "I shall reserve my communication until my poor child has had her breakfast." He expressed approval of her decision, adding interrogatively, "You will breakfast with the family this morning?" "Yes, sir; if I find all going well in the sick-room." A servant was in waiting to lead the horses away to the stable. Violet, Edward, Harold and Herbert, just returned from their ride, were on the veranda. Edward hastened to assist his mother to alight, and all gathered about her and their grandfather with morning greetings spoken in cheerful but subdued tones; no one forgetting for a moment the illness of the little pet brother and sister, but all inquiring anxiously how they and "Mamma" had passed the night, and what was cousin Arthur's report of their condition this morning. "No worse, my dears; and we will hope that they may soon be decidedly better," the mother answered, returning their greetings with affectionate warmth and smiling sweetly upon them. "But you must let me go at once to the sick-room, and if all is well I shall be down presently to breakfast with grandpa and you." That announcement was heard with the greater pleasure because her loved face had seldom been seen at the table for some days past. The face was bright and hopeful as she spoke, but an unwonted expression of sadness and anxiety came over it as she turned quickly away and went swiftly through the spacious entrance hall and up the broad stairway. No earthly eye saw that look, but the traces of tears on her mother's cheeks had not escaped Vi's keen observation. "Grandpa," she said in low, tremulous tones, following him into the library, whither he went to await the summons to breakfast, "what has been distressing mamma so? is it that she is so anxious about Elsie and Walter? May I not know?" Mr. Dinsmore paused a moment before he replied. "You shall know all about it, my dear child, before very long. Be satisfied for the present with the assurance that your mother's distress is for another's woe. You know what a tender, sympathetic heart she has. I cannot deny that our little ones are seriously ill, but their case is very far from hopeless." CHAPTER II. "Within her heart was his image, Cloth'd in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence." --_Longfellow_. The sick ones ware sleeping quietly when the mother entered; the doctor had already breakfasted, and would assist Aunt Chloe and Dinah in watching beside them for the next hour, so the two Elsies--mother and daughter--went down together to the breakfast parlor. They were a more silent party than usual at meal-time, for no one could forget the two absent members of the family, or that they were suffering upon beds of sickness; yet there was no gloom in any face or voice: their few words were spoken in cheerful tones, and each seemed unselfishly intent upon promoting the comfort and happiness of all the others; on the part of the children, especially of their grandfather and mother; each young heart was evidently full to overflowing of tenderest sympathy and love for her. She had been closely confined to the sick-room for several days, so that it was a treat to have her with them at breakfast and at family worship, which followed directly upon the conclusion of the meal. It surprised them a little that when the short service came to an end, she did not even then return at once to her sick little ones, but putting on a garden hat invited her eldest daughter to do likewise and come with her for a short stroll in the grounds. "It will do us both good," she said as they stepped from the veranda upon the broad, gravelled walk, "the air is so sweet and pure at this early hour; and you have not been out in it at all, have you?" "No, mamma; and what a treat it is to take it in your dear company," Elsie responded, gathering a lovely, sweet-scented flower and placing it in the bosom of her mother's dress. "Thank you, love," Mrs. Travilla said; then went on to speak feelingly of the beauty and fragrance that surrounded them, and the unnumbered blessings of their lot in life. "Mamma, you seem to have a heart always filled with love and gratitude to God, and never to be troubled with the least rebellious feeling, or any doubts or fears for the future," remarked Elsie, sighing slightly as she spoke. "Have we any right or reason to indulge repining, doubts, or fears, when we know that all is ordered for us by One who loves us with an everlasting and infinite love, and who is all-wise and all-powerful? O my darling, no! Well may we say with the Psalmist, 'I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.' Oh what a blessed assurance! goodness and mercy while here in this world of trial--all things working together for our good, that so we may be brought at last safely to our desired haven--and then to be forever with the Lord!" "Mamma, I have been so anxious and troubled about my little brother and sister, and about Lester, I needed the lesson you have just given me, and hope I shall profit by it." "My dearest child, have faith in God; try to believe with all your heart that he will never send you or any of his children one unneeded pang. I am sure you could never think I--your tender mother--would give you the slightest pain except for your certain good; and what is my love for you compared to that of your Saviour? who died that you might live!" "Mamma," cried the young girl, pausing in her walk, laying her hand on her mother's arm and looking searchingly into the sweet, compassionate face, while her own grew deathly pale, "what is it you are trying to prepare me for? O mamma!" A rustic seat stood close at hand. "Let us sit down here for a moment, dear daughter," Mrs. Travilla said, drawing Elsie to it with an arm about her waist. "You are right, my child--I have news for you. Oh, not the worst, dearest!" as Elsie seemed to gasp for breath. "Lester lives, but is very ill with typhoid fever." "Mamma!" cried Elsie, starting to her feet, "I must go to him! go at once. O dearest mother, do not hinder me!" and she clasped her hands in piteous entreaty, the big tears rapidly chasing each other down her pale cheeks. "If I could go with you," faltered the mother, "or your grandfather; but I can neither leave nor take my little ones, and he would never consent to leave me, or his poor old father, who seems just tottering on the verge of the grave." "I know! I see! but, O mother, mother! how can I let him die all alone in a stranger land? Think if it had been you and my father!" "What is your entreaty, daughter?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, coming up and laying his hand affectionately upon his grandchild's shoulder. "To go to him--to Lester, grandpa. Oh, how can I stay away and leave him to die alone? to die for lack of the good nursing I could give him, perhaps to the saving of his life!" "My poor child! my poor dear child!" he said, caressing her; "we will see what can be done in the way of finding a suitable escort, and if that can be obtained your mother will not, I think, withhold her consent." He had been telling the news to the others, and Edward had followed him, anxious to express the sympathy for his sister with which his heart was full. "An escort, grandpa?" he said. "Would mine be sufficient? Mamma, if you will permit me, I shall gladly go to Lester, either with or without Elsie." "My dear boy!" was all his mother said, her tones tremulous with emotion, while his grandfather turned and regarded him with doubtful scrutiny. "Oh, thank you, brother!" cried Elsie. "Mamma, surely you can trust me to him! Who loves me better? except yourself--and who would take such tender care of me?" "Mamma, I would guard her with my life!" exclaimed Edward earnestly. "My dear son, I do not doubt it," Mrs. Travilla answered, turning upon her father a half-inquiring, half-entreating look. "If no older or more experienced person can be found." He paused, and Elsie burst out: "O grandpa, dear grandpa, don't say that! There is no time to lose! no time to look for other escort!" "That is true, my child; and we will not waste any time. Make your preparations as rapidly as you can, and if nothing better offers in the mean while, and your mother consents to Edward's proposition, you shall go with him--and Ben who travelled all over Europe with your father and myself--as your protectors." She thanked him fervently through her tears, while her mother said, "Ah yes, that is a good thought, papa! Ben shall go with them." "Better go now and at once select whatever you wish to take with you, and set some one to packing your trunks," he said. "Edward, do you do likewise, and I will examine the morning papers for information in regard to trains and the sailing of the next steamer. Daughter dear," to Mrs. Travilla, "you need give yourself no concern about any of these matters." "No, I shall trust everything to you, my best of fathers, and go back at once to my sick darlings," she said, giving him a look of grateful love. Then passing her arm affectionately about her daughter's waist, she drew her on toward the house, her father and son accompanying them. She parted with Elsie at the door of the sick-room, embracing her tenderly and bidding her "'Be strong and of a good courage,' my darling, for 'the eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.'" "Dearest mamma, what sweet words!" said the weeping girl. "Oh, how glad I am that God reigns! and that I know he will send to each of his children just what is best." She turned away as the door closed upon her mother, and found Violet close at her side. There was a silent affectionate embrace, and with their arms about each other they sought Elsie's dressing-room. "Grandpa and Edward have told me," Violet said, "and you will let me help you, my poor dear sister? help in thinking and selecting what you will want to carry with you." "Gladly, thankfully, for oh, I seem scarcely able to collect my thoughts! How can I leave mamma and all of you? and the darling little brother and sister so ill! and yet how can I stay away from Lester when he is sick and alone in a strange land, with not a friend to speak a cheering word, smooth his pillow, give his medicine, or see that he has proper food? O Vi, can I help going to him, even at the sacrifice of leaving all other near and dear ones?" "I think our mother would have done it for papa," Violet answered, kissing Elsie's cheek. Mr. Dinsmore having first seen Ben, and found him more than willing to go with the children of the master he had loved as his own soul, went to the library, looked over the papers, and had just found the information he sought, when the sound of horses' hoofs on the avenue drew his attention, and glancing from the window he saw the Roselands carriage drive up with his sister, Mrs. Conly, inside. He hastened out to assist her to alight. "Good-morning, Horace," she said. "Is my son Arthur here?" "Yes, Louise, he has spent the last hour or more in attendance upon our sick little ones. Ah, here he is to speak for himself!" as the young doctor stepped from the open doorway. "But won't you come in?" She demurred. "Is there any danger, Arthur?" "Danger of what, mother?" "You certainly understood me," she said half angrily; "danger of contagion, of course." "None for you, surely, mother, and none you could carry home unless you came in personal contact with the sick children." "I shall sit here for a moment, then," she said, stepping from the carriage and taking a chair upon the veranda. "How are they to-day?" "The sick little ones? The disease has not yet reached its crisis." "I hope they'll get safely over it: it's a good thing to have over. How soon can you be spared from here, Arthur?" "Now, mother, if I am needed elsewhere, I shall not be needed here--at least am not likely to be--for some hours." "Then I wish you'd come home directly to see what you can do for your grandfather. He doesn't seem at all well to-day." "My father ill?" Mr. Dinsmore exclaimed in a tone of alarm and concern. "It hardly amounts to that, I presume," Mrs. Conly answered coldly; "but he is not well; didn't eat a mouthful of breakfast." "Grandpa, did you find what you wanted in the morning paper?" queried Edward, joining them at this moment. "Ah, Aunt Louise, how d'ye do?" She nodded indifferently, listening with some curiosity for her brother's reply. "Yes," he said; "and I think you should leave to-night; for by so doing you will reach New York in time to take the next steamer, if you meet with no great detention on the way. Do you think you can both be ready?" "I certainly can, sir, and have no doubt Elsie will also." "What is it? off to Europe?" asked Mrs. Conly in surprise. "What should call you two children there at this time?" Mr. Dinsmore briefly stated the facts, giving the news of the morning, Elsie's wish, and Edward's offer to be her escort to Italy. "If she were a daughter of mine, I should consider a female companion an absolute necessity," was Mrs. Conly's comment. "She will take her maid of course," said Mr. Dinsmore and Edward, both speaking at once. "Pooh! a maid! I mean a lady relative or friend. I said a companion, and that a maid could not be." "I should be extremely glad if such could be found in the few hours that we have for our preparations," said her brother, "but I know of none; the Fairview family are absent, Violet is too young----" "Of course," interrupted Mrs. Conly; "but there are other relatives. I would go myself if my means would warrant the expense." "If you are in earnest, Louise, you need not hesitate for a moment on that score; it shall not cost you a penny," her brother said, looking at her in pleased but half-incredulous surprise. "I was never more in earnest," she answered. "I don't think you give me much credit for affection for your grandchildren, yet I certainly care too much for the one in question to willingly see her undertake such a journey without the support of female companionship. And I can be spared from home if you and Arthur will look after father; I have no young child now, and Aunt Maria is fully capable of taking charge of all household matters. If you wish me to go you have only to say so and guarantee my expenses, and I shall go home, oversee the packing of my trunks, and be ready as soon as the young people are." "Your offer is a most kind one, Louise, and I accept it even without waiting to consult with my daughter," Mr. Dinsmore said. "Then I must go home at once, and set about my preparations immediately," she said, rising to take leave. Arthur Conly as well as Edward Travilla had been a surprised but silent listener to the short dialogue. "Can you spare your mother, Arthur?" his uncle asked. "We must, sir, if it pleases her to go, and for the sake of my two sweet cousins--Elsie senior and Elsie junior--I willingly consent. You take the night train I understand?" turning to Edward. "Yes; to-night." "I shall see that my mother is at the depôt in season;" and with that they took their departure, Mr. Dinsmore saying, as he bade them adieu, that he should ride over presently to see his father. Turning toward Edward, he saw that the lad's eyes were following the Roselands' carriage down the avenue, his face wearing a rueful look. "Grandpa," he said with a sigh, "I see no necessity for Aunt Louise's company, and, indeed, should very much prefer to be without it." "You forget that you are speaking to your grandfather of his sister," Mr. Dinsmore answered, with a touch of sternness in his tone. "I beg your pardon, sir," returned Edward. "She is so unlike you that I am apt to forget the relationship." "I know you do not always find your aunt's company agreeable," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, "and I do not blame you on that account, yet I think it will be an advantage to you, and especially to your sister, to have with you a woman of her age and knowledge of the world. I wish I could go with you myself, but I cannot think of leaving either my old father or your mother in this time of trial." "No, sir, oh no! Delightful as it would be to both of us for you to make one of our little party, we would not for the world deprive dear mamma of the support and comfort of your presence here; nor our dear old grandfather either." CHAPTER III. "Filial ingratitude? Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to 't?" --_Shaks. Lear_. "This is a very sudden resolve of yours, mother, isn't it?" Dr. Conly asked, as they drove through the great gates at Ion, into the highway. "It is, Arthur, for I had not dreamed of such a wild scheme on the part of those two silly children until I heard of it from their grandfather's lips; nor could have believed he would sanction such folly. They ought to make Elsie stay where she is, and if young Leland dies it will but rid the family of a prospective plebeian alliance." "Very possibly of the sweet girl also," was Arthur's grave response. "Nonsense! it is only in novels that girls die of broken hearts." "Granting that for argument's sake, it must be very hard to live with one." "Well; it seems she is to be allowed to go, and my offer removes the most serious objection; yet I have no idea that the sacrifice on my part will be at all appreciated." "Then why make it, mother? I can readily find a substitute; there is Mrs. Foster, whose health would be greatly benefited by a long sea voyage. She, I feel certain, would think it a great boon to be allowed this opportunity of going without expense and in the company of two young people of whom she is very fond. And you know, mother, that though poor now she was formerly wealthy, is a perfect lady, and her having been to Europe once or twice would make her all the more valuable companion to them." "You are quite too late with your suggestion, Arthur," was the coldly spoken reply. "I have passed my word and shall not break it." Her son gave her a look of keen scrutiny, then turned his face from her with a scarcely audible sigh. He read her motives and feelings far more clearly than she suspected. The truth was she was weary of the dulness of home now that the shadow of bereavement was upon it, and the etiquette of mourning forbade her attendance upon public assemblages of whatever kind, except church, and did not allow even so much as a formal call upon strangers or acquaintance. The society of her now old, feeble, and depressed father was wearisome to her also. Beside she had long had a hankering after a European tour, and this was too good an opportunity to let slip. Also it would give her a chance to see for herself what was the trouble with Virginia, whose letters of late had been of a very disquieting kind; full of reproaches and vague hints of unhappiness and disappointment in her new life. There would probably be a few hours between their arrival in New York and the sailing of the steamer, in which she could call to see Virginia and learn with certainty exactly how she was situated. Mrs. Travilla received the news of her aunt's offer with a gratitude which it by no means merited, and the younger Elsie, though not fond of her Aunt Louise's society, felt that her presence might prove a comfort and support when she and Edward should find themselves strangers in a foreign land. The mother sought this dear eldest child with loving words of cheer and counsel whenever she could be spared from the sick-room, and Violet, Harold, and Herbert hung about her as a treasure soon to be snatched from them, each eager to render any assistance in his or her power. The hour of parting came all too soon, and with many tears and embraces the young travellers were sent on their way. The mother's last words to Elsie, as she held her close to her heart with many a tear and tender caress, were: "'Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them, for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee, he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.' To him, the God of your fathers, do I trust you, my precious child." "You also, my dear, dear boy!" taking Edward's hand: "but rejoice in the thought that you are together, mutual helpers and comforters." "Be sure to telegraph us from New York, Edward, again as soon as possible after landing on the other side, and a third time when you have seen Lester and can report his exact condition," was Mr. Dinsmore's parting injunction, as with a most affectionate farewell he left them in the sleeping-car. Mrs. Conly had joined them at the depôt, according to promise. All three retired at once to their berths, and Elsie wept herself to sleep, thinking of the dear ones left behind; especially the mother who had so tenderly cherished her from her birth and the sick little ones who, she feared, might not be there to welcome her return. Thinking too of him to whom she was going, his probable suffering, and the dread possibility that at her journey's end she should find only his grave. They reached New York in good season, having met with no accident or detention. The steamer would not leave for some hours, but it was Elsie's desire to go directly on board. "I think that will be your best plan," said Mrs. Conly. "You can then settle yourself in your state-room at once; and while Dinah unpacks what you will need on the voyage, you can lie in your berth and rest. You are looking greatly fatigued." "You will come with us, Aunt Louise, will you not?" both the young people asked. "No, I must see Virginia. I shall have time for an hour's chat with her and yet to reach the vessel some time before the hour fixed for her sailing. Edward, you will see that my luggage is taken on board?" "Certainly, aunt; but shall we not first drive to Virginia's residence and leave you there? And I return for you after seeing my sister and the luggage on board the steamer?" "No, not at all!" she answered stiffly. "I am obliged for your offer, but where would be the use? You may tell Ben to call a hack for me. I'll have it wait at Virginia's door and drive me to the wharf when I am ready to go." Edward, thinking he had never known her so considerate and kind, hastened to carry out her wishes, bidding Ben engage two hacks--one for Mrs. Conly and another for themselves. Consideration for her nephew and niece had nothing to do with Mrs. Conly's plans and arrangements. If, as she greatly feared, Virginia were living in other than aristocratic style, she would not for the world have it known among the relatives who had heard her boasts in regard to Virgie's grand match; "so much better than Isa had been led into while under the care of her grandfather and uncle." She had never before heard of the street mentioned in Virginia's last letter, and her heart misgave her as to its being one of the most fashionable for the abodes of the wealthy. The curiously scrutinizing look and odd smile of the hack-driver when she gave him the address did not tend to reassure her. "Drive me there as quickly as you can," she ordered, drawing herself up and flashing an indignant glance at him. "I have no time to waste." "Sure, mum, I'll do that same," he returned, touching his horses with the whip. "Where are you taking me? What do you mean by bringing me into such a vile region as this?" she demanded presently, as the hack turned into a narrow and very dirty street. "It's the shortest cut to the place ye said ye wanted to go till, mum," he answered shortly. She sank back with a sigh and closed her eyes for a moment. She was very weary with her long journey and more depressed than she had ever been in her life before. The drive seemed the longest and most unpleasant she had ever undertaken; she began to wish she had been content to sail for Europe without trying to find Virginia. But at last the vehicle stopped, the driver reached down from his seat and opened the door. His passenger put out her head, glanced this way and that, scanned the house before her, and angrily demanded, "What are you stopping here for?" "Bekase ye tould me to, mum; it's the place ye said ye wanted to come till." Mrs. Conly looked at the number over the door, saw that it was the one she had given him, then in a voice she vainly tried to make coldly indifferent, inquired of some children who had gathered on the sidewalk to gaze in open-mouthed curiosity at her and the hack, if this were ---- street. The answer confirmed the driver's assertion, and she hastily alighted. The house was a large tenement swarming with inhabitants, as was evidenced by the number of heads in nearly every front window, drawn thither by the unusual event of the stopping of a hack before the door of entrance. It stood wide open, giving a view of an unfurnished hall and stairway, both of which were in a very untidy condition. "Does Mr. Henry Neuville live here?" Mrs. Conly asked, addressing the group of staring children. "Dunno," said one. "Guess not," said another. "Mebbe thems the grand folks as moved intill the second story front t'other week," observed a third. "I'll show ye the way, lady," and he rushed past her into the house and ran nimbly up the dirty stairs. Mrs. Conly lifted her skirts and followed, her heart sinking like lead in her bosom. Could it be possible that Virginia had come to this? Halting before the door of the front room on the second floor, the lad gave a thundering rap, then opened it, shouting, "Here's a old lady to see ye, Mrs. Novel; if that's yer name." "What do you mean by rushing in on me in this rude way, you young rascal?" demanded a shrill female voice, which Mrs. Conly instantly recognized as that of her daughter. "Begone instantly! begone, I say!" "Go, go!" Mrs. Conly said to the boy, in half smothered tones, putting a small coin into his hand; then staggering into the room she dropped into a chair, gasping for breath. "Virginia, Virginia! can it be possible that I find you in such a place as this?" she cried, as the latter started up from a lounge on which she had been lying with a paper-covered novel in her hand. Her hair was in crimping-pins, her dress most slatternly, and her surroundings were in keeping with her personal appearance. "Mamma!" she exclaimed in utter astonishment and confusion. "How did you get here? how did you come? You should have sent me word. I have no way to accommodate you." "Don't be alarmed, I have no intention of staying more than an hour. I start for Europe by to-day's steamer, with Elsie and Edward Travilla. Lester Leland's ill, dying I presume, and the silly love-sick girl must needs rush to the rescue." "And why are you to go with her? why don't the mother and grandfather and the whole family accompany her, after their usual fashion of all keeping together?" "Because Rosie and Walter are down with the measles; much too ill to travel." "And you are going to Europe to enjoy yourself, while I must live here in a New York tenement house occupied by the very dregs of society, and as the wife of a drunkard, gambler, and rake; a man--or rather a brute--who lives by his wits, abuses me like the pickpocket that he is, half starves me, and expects me to do all the work, cooking, cleaning, and everything else, even to washing and ironing of the few clothes he hasn't pawned; me! a lady brought up to have servants to wait upon her at every turn!" "O Virgie, Virgie! it can't be so bad as that!" cried her mother, clasping her hands in an agony of distress, and gazing piteously at her, the hot tears streaming down her face. "I tell you it is that and worse! and all your fault, for you made the match! you hurried me into it lest grandpa, uncle, or brothers should interfere, find out that the man's morals were not good according to their high standard, and prevent me from marrying him." "You were in as great haste and as much opposed to their interference as I, Virginia!" the mother retorted, drawing herself up in proud anger. "Well, and what of that! you brought me up, and I was only following out the teachings you have given me from my cradle. I tell you it was your doing; but I must reap what you have sowed. I wish I was dead!" She flung her book from her as she spoke, turned and paced the room, her hands clenched, her eyes flashing, her teeth set hard. She had not drawn near her mother, or given her one word of welcome or thanks for having turned aside from her journey to inquire into her welfare. "'Oh, sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!'" exclaimed Mrs. Conly in anguished accents, rising as if to go, but instantly falling heavily to the floor. Virginia rushed to her side, half frantic with terror. "Oh, mother, mother, what is it? What have I done! what have I done! I know you're the best friend I have in the world!" she cried, stooping over her, loosening her bonnet-strings and dress, and trying vainly to lift her to the lounge, for she was a large, heavy woman and now in a state of utter insensibility, her face purple, her breathing stertorous. The sound of her fall and Virginia's terrified shriek had brought the neighbors flocking upon the scene; some of the boldest opening the door and ushering themselves in without the ceremony of knocking. "The lady's in a fit!" cried a woman, hurrying to Virginia's assistance; "you've druv her to distraction; you shouldn't a ben so abusive; I could hear ye clear into my room a scoldin' and accusin' of her of makin' your match fer ye." "Run for a doctor, some of you!" cried Virginia, standing by the couch where, with the woman's help, she had laid her mother, and wringing her hands in helpless distress. "Oh, she'll die! she'll die! Mother, mother! I'm sorry I was so cruel! Oh, I take it all back. Oh, mother, speak to me!" "'Tain't no use," said the woman, "she don't hear ye. An' if she did she couldn't speak. I've seen folks struck down with apoplexy afore." "Oh, will she die? will she die?" groaned the wretched daughter, dropping on her knees beside the couch. "Can't tell, mum; sometimes they die in a little bit, and sometimes they get purty well over it and live on for years. Here, let me put another pillar under her head, and some o' ye there run and fetch the coldest water that ever ye can git." Some one had summoned a physician, and he presently came hurrying in. His first act was to send every one from the room except the patient and her two attendants. With tears and sobs Virginia besought him to save her mother's life. "I shall certainly do my best, madam," he said, "but very little can be done at present. What was the immediate cause of the attack?" Virginia answered vaguely that her mother was fatigued with a long journey and had been worried and fretted. "This is not her home?" glancing around the meanly furnished dirty room. "No; neither she nor I have been accustomed to such surroundings," answered Virginia haughtily. "Can you not see that we are ladies? We are from the South, and mother has but just arrived. Oh, tell me, is she going to die?" "Her recovery is doubtful. If she has other near relatives who care to see her alive, I advise you to summon them with all speed." "Oh dear! oh dear! you must save her!" cried Virginia frantically, wringing her hands. "I can't have her die. They'll say I killed her! But every word I said was true; she did all in her power to make the match that has ruined my happiness and all my prospects for life." "So you, her own daughter, have brought this on by cruel taunts and reproaches!" the physician said in a tone of mingled contempt and indignation. "I hope you feel that the least you can do now is to take the best possible care of her." "How can I?" sobbed Virginia. "I've no money to pay a nurse or buy comforts for mother, and I know nothing about nursing or cooking for sick or well. I wasn't brought up to work." A boy now came to the door with a message from the hackman; "he couldn't stay any longer if the lady wasn't going to the steamer, and he wanted his pay." Virginia opened a small satchel that had dropped from her mother's hand, found her purse, paid the man his dues, and counting the remainder told the doctor there was enough to provide what would be needed for the patient until other relatives could be summoned, and that should be done at once by telegrams to be paid by the recipients. The doctor approved, and kindly offered to attend to sending the messages for her. CHAPTER IV. "O gloriously upon the deep The gallant vessel rides, And she is mistress of the winds, And mistress of the tides." --_Miss Landon_. Meanwhile Edward had taken his sister on board the steamer, and she, greatly exhausted by grief, anxiety, and fatigue, had at once retired to her berth. Edward also was weary and in need of sleep, so presently went to his state-room, leaving Ben to attend to the luggage and watch for Mrs. Conly's arrival. Faithful Ben waited patiently about for a couple of hours, then began to grow uneasy lest Mrs. Conly should not arrive in season. Another hour passed, and he reluctantly roused his young master to ask what could be done. "What's wanted?" Edward asked, waked by Ben's loud rap on the state-room door. "Miss Louise she hasn't come yet, Marse Ed'ard," he said, "and de steamah'll be startin' fo' long. I don' know whar to go to look her up, so please excuse me for rousin' ye, sah." "Hasn't come yet, do you say, Ben? and the vessel about to sail?" exclaimed Edward in dismay, springing from his berth to open the door. "Why, yes," looking at his watch, "there's barely half an hour left, and I don't see what we can do." "No time now fo' me to go an' hunt up Miss Louise, Marse Ed'ard? Ise berry sorry, sah, dat I didn't come soonah to ax you 'bout it, but I didn't like to 'sturb you," said Ben, looking much distressed. "Never mind, Ben," Edward answered kindly, "you couldn't have gone for her, because she gave me no address, and I have not the least idea where to send for her." "Den what am to be done, sah?" "We will have to sail without her. I could not think of asking my sister to wait for the next steamer," Edward said, more as if thinking aloud than talking to Ben. The latter bowed respectfully and withdrew, but only to come hurrying back the next moment with a telegram from Virginia. "Mother taken suddenly ill. Remains with me. Send luggage to No. ---- street." This news of his aunt's illness caused Edward regret not wholly unmingled with satisfaction in the thought of being spared her companionship on the voyage and afterward. He read the message aloud to Ben. "You see it would have done no good if we could have gone for her," he remarked. "But go, make haste to have the baggage sent ashore to the address given here." Elsie's state-room adjoined her brother's. She too had been roused by Ben's knock and overheard a part of what passed between him and his young master. Dinah also was listening. "What dat dey say, Miss Elsie?" she queried in a startled tone, "Miss Louise sick?" "I think that was what Master Edward said; but go to his door, Dinah, and ask." Edward came himself with his answer and bringing a second telegram; this time from their grandfather, saying the children were decidedly better, all the rest of the family well. "Oh, what good news!" exclaimed Elsie. "But poor Aunt Louise! I wish we knew her exact condition. Do you not think it must have been a sudden seizure?" "Yes, of either illness or desire to remain behind. Don't let it worry you, sister dear. You have already quite enough of anxiety to endure." "No," she said, with a sweet, patient smile, "I am trying not to be anxious or troubled about anything, but to obey the sweet command, 'casting all your care upon Him.'" "'For He careth for you,'" added Edward, completing the quotation. "It is, as you say, a sweet command, most restful to those who obey it. Have you slept?" "Yes, I have had a long and very refreshing nap; still I have not recovered from my fatigue, and shall not leave my state-room for some time yet." "Let me send in your supper," he said. "I hope it will refresh you still more, and that after it you may feel equal to a turn on deck with me. It will be moonlight, and if you wrap up well you will not find the air more than bracingly keen." "Thank you," she said. "It is altogether likely I shall find the exercise of a short promenade rather restful than otherwise, after being so long cramped up in the cars. You are a dear, good brother to me, Ned," she added, laying her hand affectionately on his arm as he sat on the edge of the berth close by her side. "But how strange it seems that we two are starting off on this long voyage alone!" "I'm so proud to be trusted to take care of you, Elsie," he returned, bending over her and tenderly smoothing her luxuriant hair. "I used to look up to you years ago, but now----" "You look down on me?" she interrupted sportively. "No great feat, Master Ned, while I lie here." "Nor when we stand side by side," he returned in the same tone, 'seeing I have grown to be a full head taller than you. But truth compels me to acknowledge that I am your superior in nothing else except physical strength." "You might add knowledge of the world, you have had to rely on your own judgment so much oftener than I who have so seldom left mamma's side. Dear, dear mamma! Oh, Ned, how long will it be before I see her again?" She wept as she spoke, and Edward felt for the moment strongly inclined to join her. But instead he tried to cheer her. "We will hope Cousin Arthur may prescribe a sea voyage for grandpa and the children before long, and then we shall have the whole family joining us in Italy." "How delightful that would be, Ned!" she said, smiling through her tears. "And do you know," he went on gayly, "it is strongly impressed upon me that we shall find Lester convalescent, and by good nursing and our cheering companionship so help it on that we shall have him a well man in a few weeks." "Ah, if it might be so!" she sighed. "'But He doeth all things well,' and oh how precious are His promises! 'As thy days thy strength shall be.' 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' 'When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flames kindle upon thee.' And then that glorious assurance, 'We _know_ that all things work together for good to them that love God.' Oh, Ned, our one great need is more and stronger faith!" "Yes, the faith which worketh by love! Let me read you that eighth chapter of Romans. I do not know what could be more comforting," he said, taking a small Testament from his pocket. "Thank you," she said when he had finished. "Ah, what could be sweeter than those concluding verses! 'For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord!'" "Elsie, I think if our mother had never done anything else for her children," remarked Edward earnestly, "they would owe her an eternal debt of gratitude for storing their minds as she has with the very words of inspiration." "Yes, 'the entrance of Thy words giveth light, it giveth understanding to the simple.' 'The law of Thy mouth is better unto me than thousands of gold and silver.'" Ben came to the door. "Dey says dey's goin' to fotch up de anchor and start de wessel, Marse Ed'ard. Don't you and Miss Elsie want for to see it?" "Yes, sister, do you not wish to see the last you may, for the present, of your dear native land?" queried Edward in a lively tone. "'Twill take but a moment to don hat and shawl, and I shall be proud to give you the support of my arm." "Yes, I do," she said, rising with alacrity and hastily making the needful preparations. Ben preceded them to the deck and found comfortable seats for them in the front rank of those who were there on the same errand. Elsie's tears began to fall as she saw the shore receding. "Oh," she murmured very low and sadly, leaning on her brother's shoulder and clinging more closely to him, "shall we ever return? ever see again the dear land of our birth and all our loved ones left behind?" "There is every reason to hope so, dear sister," he whispered in return. "A voyage to Europe is not the great and perilous undertaking it used to be; and we are under the same protecting care here as on land. 'And the Lord, he it is that doth go before thee, he will be with thee, he will not fail thee, neither forsake thee: fear not, neither be dismayed.'" She looked her thanks. "'Fear not;' sweet command! I must, I will obey it. Oh, how true it is that in keeping His commands there is great reward! I am fully convinced that in the perfect keeping of them all perfect happiness would be found." A gentleman standing near turned suddenly round. The tones of Elsie's voice had reached him, though very few of the words. "Ah, I thought I could not be mistaken in that voice," he said delightedly, and offering his hand in cordial greeting. "How are you, Miss Elsie? and you, Ned? Really you are the last people I expected to meet here, though the very ones I should prefer above all others as _compagnons de voyage_." It was Philip Ross, Jr. Neither of those addressed had ever enjoyed his society, and they were too sincere and true to reciprocate his expressions of gratification at the unexpected meeting. They accepted his offered hand, made kind inquiries in regard to his health and that of the other members of the family, and asked if any of them were on board. "No," he said, "it's merely a business trip that I take quite frequently. But ma and the girls are in Paris now, went last June and expect to stay for another six months or longer. You two aren't here alone, eh?" "Yes," Edward said. "You don't say so!" cried Philip, elevating his eyebrows. "Who'd ever have believed your careful mother--not to speak of your grandfather--would ever trust you so far from home by yourselves!" "Mr. Ross," Edward said, reddening, "I shall reach my majority a few months hence, and have been considered worthy of trust by both mother and grandpa, for years past." "Mamma did not show the slightest hesitation in committing me to his care," added Elsie in her sweet, gentle tones. "Glad to hear it! didn't mean any insinuation that I didn't consider you worthy of all trust, Ned; only that Mrs. Travilla and the old governor have always been so awfully strict and particular." Elsie, to whom the slang term was new, looked at the speaker with a slightly puzzled expression; but Edward, who fully understood it, drew himself up with offended dignity. "Permit me to remark, Mr. Ross, that so disrespectful an allusion to my honored grandfather can never be other than extremely offensive to me, and to all his children and grandchildren." "Beg your pardon, Nod, and yours, Miss Elsie" (he would have liked to drop the Miss, but something in her manner prevented him), "I call my own father the governor--behind his back you know--and meant no offence in applying the term to Mr. Dinsmore." His apology was accepted, and the talk turned upon the various objects of interest within sight as they passed through the harbor. When there was little more to see but sky and water, Elsie retired to her state-room, where she stayed until evening. Then Edward came for her, and they passed an hour very enjoyably in promenading the deck or sitting side by side, looking out upon the moonlit waters. "I wish we hadn't happened upon Phil Ross," Edward remarked in an undertone far from hilarious. "I fear he will, according to custom, make himself very disagreeable to you." "I have been thinking it over, Ned," she answered, "and have come to the conclusion that the better plan will be for you to take the first favorable opportunity to tell him of my engagement and what is the object of our journey." "I presume such a course will be likely to save you a good deal of annoyance," Edward said; "and as we are old acquaintances, and he evidently full of a curiosity that will assuredly lead to his asking some questions, I think it will be no difficult matter to give him the information without seeming to thrust it upon him." At that moment Philip came up and joined them, helping himself to a seat on Elsie's other side. He seemed to be, as of old, on the best of terms with himself and very graciously disposed toward Elsie. He, too, had been thinking of the, to him, fortunate chance (Elsie would have called it providence) which had thrown them together where for some days they were likely to see much of each other. He had heard a report of her engagement, but refused to credit it. "She had always been fond of him and it wasn't likely she would throw herself away on somebody else." And now he had come to the decision to offer her his hand, heart, and fortune without delay. He was rich enough, and why should he keep her in suspense any longer? He indulged in a few trivial commonplaces, then invited her to take a turn with him on the deck. But she declined with thanks, "he must excuse her for she was greatly fatigued and must retire at once." And with a kindly "Good-night," she withdrew to her state-room, Edward again giving her the support of his arm. Philip was literally struck dumb with surprise, and did not recover his speech until she was gone. Edward returned presently, and as he resumed his seat by Philip's side the latter asked, "Is your sister out of health, Ned?" "No; but we are just off a long and fatiguing journey; she was not at her best state either when we left home, because of care and nursing of the sick children. And in addition to all that she is enduring much grief and anxiety." "May I ask on what account?" "Yes; I have no objection to telling you the whole story, considering what old acquaintances we are, and the life-long friendship of our mothers. Lester Leland, Elsie's betrothed, is lying very ill in Rome, and we are making all haste to join him there." "Her betrothed!" cried Philip, starting to his feet, "her betrothed did you say? why--why, I've always expected to marry her myself; thought it was an understood thing in both families, and----" "I am sure I do not know upon what grounds you entertained such an idea," returned Edward in a tone of mingled indignation and disgust. "Grounds, man! I'm sure it would seem the most natural thing in the world--each the eldest child of intimate and dear friends--and I have never made any secret of my preference for her----" "Which amounts to nothing unless it had been reciprocated." "Reciprocated! I've always thought it was, and delayed speaking out plainly only because I considered myself safe in waiting to grow a little richer." "In which you were egregiously mistaken. Now let me assure you once for all, that Elsie never has and never will care for any man in that way but Lester Leland." At that Philip turned and walked rapidly away. "I'd rather have lost all I'm worth!" he muttered to himself. "Yes; every cent of it. But as to her never caring for anybody else if that fellow was out o' the way, I don't believe it. And he may die; may be dead now. Well, if he is I'll keep a sharp look-out that nobody else gets ahead of me." His self-love and self-conceit had received a pretty deep wound, his eyes were opened to the fact that Elsie avoided being alone with him, never appearing on deck without her brother, and he did not trouble her much during the remainder of the voyage, did not make his intended offer. CHAPTER V. "I feel Of this dull sickness at my heart afraid And in my eyes the death sparks flash and fade And something seems to steal Over my bosom like a frozen hand." --_Willis_. Dr. Arthur Conly rode briskly up the avenue at Roselands, dismounted, throwing the bridle to a servant, and went up the steps into the veranda, whistling softly to himself. "You seem in good spirits, Art," remarked Calhoun, who sat there with the morning paper in his hand. "I haven't heard you whistle before for--well I should say something like a fortnight." "I am in good spirits, Cal, the Ion children are out of danger, and uncle has just had a telegram from Ned announcing the safe arrival of their party in New York in good season to take the steamer." "I presume this tells the same story, though I can't think why it isn't directed to grandpa, or to me as the eldest son of the house," Calhoun said, handing an unopened telegram to his brother. Arthur tore it hastily open, glanced at the contents and paled to the very lips. "What is it?" cried Calhoun in alarm. "Mother!" said Arthur huskily, putting the paper into his brother's outstretched hand. "She has been struck down with apoplexy. Cal, I must take the first train for New York. Look at the paper, see when it leaves. Thank God that those children are out of danger! But I must see whom I can get to take charge of them and my other patients during my absence." Then calling to a servant he directed a fresh horse to be saddled and brought to the door with all speed, and hurrying into the house, summoned his old mammy and bade her pack a valise with such clothing as he would need on a journey to the North which might occupy a week or more. "You are acting very promptly," Calhoun said, following him in to give the desired information in regard to the train. "Yes, there's not a minute to lose, Cal." Calhoun's face was full of grief and anxiety. "I think I should go, too, Art, if--if you think there's any probability of--finding her alive." "It's impossible to tell. But we can hardly both be spared from home. It should be kept from grandpa as long as possible, and if he saw us both rushing off in the direction she has taken, he would know at once that something very serious had happened her." "Yes, you are right, and for the first time I envy you your medical knowledge and skill. She's with Virginia, the message is sent by her," glancing again at the paper which he still held in his hand. "I'm glad of that--that she has at least one of her children with her, if----" He paused and Arthur finished the sentence. "If she will be of any use or comfort to her, you were about to say? Well, we can only hope that so terrible an emergency has developed some hitherto unsuspected excellencies in Virginia's character." A horse came galloping up the avenue. Calhoun glanced from the window. "Another telegram!" he cried, and both brothers dashed out upon the veranda. This was directed to Calhoun, sent from Philadelphia by their uncle Edward Allison. He and Adelaide would be with Mrs. Conly in two hours, telegraph at once in what condition they found her, and if practicable start with her immediately for her home. The brothers consulted together, and Arthur decided to go on with his preparations, but delay setting out upon his journey until the coming of the promised message. It came in due time, and from it they learned that their mother was already on her way home. The sad tidings had now to be communicated to the other near relatives, but it was deemed best to keep them from the younger children and the feeble old father until the day when she might be expected to arrive. As gently and tenderly as possible the old gentleman's son broke the news to him. He was much overcome. "She will never get over it, I fear," he sighed, the tears coursing down his furrowed cheeks. "One bereavement is apt to tread closely upon the heels of another, and she will probably soon follow her sister. But oh if I only knew that she had been washed from her sins in the precious blood of Christ, that she had accepted His invitation, 'Come unto me,' so that death would be but falling asleep in Him, safe in His arms, safe on His gentle breast--I think I could let her go almost willingly, for my race is well nigh run, and it can hardly be long ere I too shall get my summons home." "Dear father, if such be the will of God, may you be spared to us for many years yet," returned his son with emotion. "And Louise! We do not know her exact condition, but let us hope that God will in His great mercy give her yet more time--months or years--in which to prepare for eternity. We will cry earnestly for her, and in the name of Christ, to Him who hath said, 'I have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth,' but bids them 'Turn yourselves and live ye.'" "Yes; and whose promise is, 'If two of you shall agree on earth, as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven!'" Silence fell between them for a moment, then the old gentleman asked, "What arrangements have the boys made? She will hardly be able to drive home in a carriage." "Oh no! they will meet her at the depôt with an ambulance, and I shall be there with the carriage for Mr. Allison, Adelaide, and Virginia." "Virginia is coming too?" "We do not know certainly, but expect to see her with the others." "I cannot say that I hope you will. I never saw a more useless person; she will be only in the way; and--I cannot banish a suspicion that she has brought this attack upon her poor mother. I strongly suspect that Virginia's match has turned out a very bad one, and that she has heaped reproaches upon her mother for the hand she had in bringing it about." "I hope not!" his son exclaimed with energy; "for if so it must surely be the cause of life-long self-reproach to her. Will you go with us to the depôt, father?" "No, no, my son! let my first sight of my poor stricken child be where we will not be the gazing stock of an idle, curious crowd. I shall meet her here at my own door." The train steamed into the depôt, and Mrs. Allison, glancing from a window of the parlor-car, saw her brother and nephews standing near the track. They saw her, too, and lifted their hats with a sad sort of smile. All felt that the invalid must be unable to sit up or her face also would have been in sight. In another moment the train had come to a stand-still, and the next the three gentlemen were beside the couch on which Mrs. Conly lay. She looked up at her sons with eyes full of intelligence, made an effort to speak, but in vain; and the big tears rolled down her cheeks. They bent over her with hearts and eyes full to overflowing. "Mother, dear mother, we are glad you have come to us alive," Calhoun said in low, tremulous tones. "And we hope we shall soon have you much better," added Arthur. "Yes," said Adelaide, "she is already better than when we first saw her in New York, but has not yet recovered her speech and can not help herself at all. One side seems to be quite paralyzed." "We have an ambulance waiting," said Calhoun. "As soon as the crowd is out of the way it shall be brought close to the platform of this car and we will lift her into it." Greetings were exchanged while they waited. "Where is Virginia?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "She preferred to remain behind," replied Mrs. Allison in a low-toned aside, "and as she would have been of no use whatever, we did not urge her to come." "It is just as well," was Mr. Dinsmore's comment. Very tenderly and carefully the poor invalid was lifted and placed in the ambulance by her sons and brothers. The former accompanied her in it, while the latter, with Mrs. Allison, entered the Roselands family carriage, and drove thither considerably in advance of the more slowly moving ambulance. "Has Virginia made a really good match?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, addressing his sister Adelaide. "Good! it could hardly be worse!" she exclaimed. "Would you have believed it? we found them in a tenement-house, living most wretchedly." "Is it possible! He was not wealthy then? Or has he lost his means since the marriage?" "As far as I can learn," said Mr. Allison, "he has always lived by his wits; he is a professional gambler now." "Dreadful! How does he treat his wife?" "Very badly indeed, if we may credit her story. They live, as the saying is, like cat and dog, actually coming to blows at times. They are both bitterly disappointed, each having married the other merely for money; which neither had." Mr. Dinsmore looked greatly concerned. "Virginia was never a favorite of mine," he remarked, "but I do not like to think of her as suffering from either poverty or the abusive treatment of a bad husband. Can nothing be done to better her condition?" "I think not at present," said Adelaide; "she has made her bed and will have to lie in it. I don't believe the man would ever proceed to personal violence if she did not exasperate him with taunts and reproaches; with slaps, scratches, and hair pulling also, he says." "O disgraceful!" exclaimed her uncle. "I have no pity for her if she is really guilty of such conduct." "She told me herself that on one occasion she actually threw a cup of coffee in his face in return for his accusation that she and her mother had inveigled him into the marriage by pretences to wealth they did not possess. Poor Louise! I have no doubt her attack was brought on by the discovery of the great mistake she and Virginia had made, and reproaches heaped on her for her share in making the match." "'Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap,'" sighed Mr. Dinsmore. "I presume Virginia was too proud to show herself here among relatives whose approval of the match had not been asked, and acquaintances who had heard of it as a splendid affair?" "Your conjecture is entirely correct," said Adelaide. "She gave vent to her feelings on the subject in her mother's presence, supposing, I presume, as I did, that not being able to speak or move, she was also unable to hear or understand, but it was evident from the piteous expression her countenance assumed and the tears coursing down her cheeky that she did both." "Poor Louise! she has a sad reaping--so far as that ungrateful, undutiful daughter is concerned; but Isa, Calhoun, and Arthur are of quite another stamp." "Yes, indeed! she will surely find great comfort in them. I wish Isa was not so far away. But you have not told me how my dear old father is. How has he borne this shock?" "It was a shock of course, especially to one so old and feeble; but I left him calmly staying himself upon his God." They arrived at Roselands some time before the ambulance. They found the whole household, and also Mrs. Howard, her husband and sons, and Mrs. Travilla, gathered upon the veranda to receive them. Lora stood by her father's side and Elsie too was very near, both full of loving care for him in this time of sore trial. And Adelaide's first thought, first embrace, were for him. They wept a moment in each other's arms. "Is she--is she alive?" he faltered. "Yes, father, and we hope may get up again. Be comforted for her and for yourself; because 'He doeth all things well,' and 'We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.'" "Yes, yes; and who can tell but this may be His appointed means for bringing her into the fold!" There had been time for an exchange of greetings all around and a few comforting words to the younger Conlys, when the ambulance was seen entering the avenue. With beating hearts and tearful eyes they watched its slow progress. Lying helpless and speechless in the shadow of death, Louise Conly seemed nearer and dearer than ever before to father, children, brothers and sisters. The ambulance stopped close to the veranda steps, and the same strong, loving arms that had placed her in it now lifted her anew and bore her into the house, the others looking on in awed and tearful silence. She was carried to her own room, laid upon the bed, and one by one they stood for an instant at her side with a kiss of welcome. It was evident that she knew them all, though able to speak only with those sad, wistful eyes that gazed with new yearning affection into the faces of father and children. But presently Arthur, by virtue of his medical authority, banished all from the room except Lora, Elsie, and a faithful and attached old negress who had lived all her days in the family and was a competent nurse. CHAPTER VI. "Then come the wild weather--come sleet or come snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow; Oppression and sickness, and sorrow and pain, Shall be to our true love as links to the chain." --_Longfellow_. (From the German.) "Courage, sister dear!" whispered Edward Travilla, putting an arm tenderly about Elsie's waist as they found themselves at the very door of Lester Leland's studio. Her face had grown very pale and she was trembling with agitation. Still supporting her with his arm, Edward rapped gently upon the door, and at the same instant it was opened from within by the attending physician, who had just concluded his morning call upon his patient. He was an Italian of gentlemanly appearance and intelligent countenance. "Some friends of Signor Leland: from America?" he said in good English and with a polite bow. "Yes. How is he?" Edward asked, stepping in and drawing his sister on with him. "Sick, signor, very sick, but he will grow better now. I shall expect to see him up in a few weeks," the doctor answered with a significant glance and smile as he turned, with a second and still lower bow, to the sweet, fair maiden. She did not see it, for her eyes were roving round the room--a disorderly and comfortless place enough, but garnished with some gems of art; an unfinished picture was on the easel; there were others with their faces to the wall; models, statues in various stages of completion, and the implements of painter and sculptor were scattered here and there; a screen, an old lounge, a few chairs, and a table littered with books, papers, and drawing materials, completed the furniture of the large, dreary apartment. An open door gave a glimpse into an inner room, from which came a slight sound as of a restless movement, a sigh or groan. Pointing to the chairs, the physician invited the strangers to be seated. Edward put his sister in one and took possession of another close at her side. "How soon can we see Mr. Leland?" he asked, putting his card into the doctor's hand. "I will go and prepare Signor Leland for the interview," the doctor answered, and disappeared through the open doorway. "Good news for you, signor!" they heard him say in a quiet tone. "Ah! let me hear it," sighed a well-known voice. "'As cold water to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.'" "You are right, signor, it comes from far-off America. A friend--a young signor has arrived, and asks to see you." "Ah! his name?" exclaimed the sick man, with a tremor of gladness in his feeble tones. "Here is his card." "'Edward Travilla!'--ah what joy! Let me see him at once. 'Twill be like a breath of home air!" Every word had reached the ears of the two in the studio. "Go! go!" cried Elsie, scarcely above her breath, and Edward rose and went softly in. "Not much talk now, signores," Elsie heard the doctor say. "No; we'll be prudent," Edward said, grasping Lester's hand. "So good! so kind! more than I dared hope! But how is she? my darling?" Elsie heard in feeble, faltering, yet eager accents. "Well, very well, and longing to come here and nurse you back to health." "Ah, a glimpse of her sweet face I think would bring me back from the borders of the grave! But I could not expect or ask such a sacrifice." Elsie could wait no longer; she rose and glided with swift, almost noiseless steps to the bedside. Edward made way for her. Lester looked up, caught sight of her, and a flash of exceeding joy lighted up his pale, emaciated features. "Elsie!" "Lester!" She dropped on her knees, laid her face on the pillow beside his, and their lips met in a long kiss. "O love, love! how sweet, how kind, how dear in you!" he murmured. "I have come to be your nurse," she said, with a lovely blush and smile, "come to stay with you always while God spares our lives." Soon Edward went out and left them together. He had much to attend to, with Dinah and Ben for his helpers. Other and better apartments were speedily rented, cleaned, and comfortably, even elegantly furnished. Their mother had sent them off with full purses and carte blanche to draw upon her bankers for further supplies as they might be needed; and Edward knew it would be her desire to see Elsie and Lester surrounded by the luxuries to which she had been accustomed from her birth. When night came the doctor pronounced his patient already wonderfully improved. "But the signora must leave him to me and the nurse to night," he said; "she is fatigued with her long journey and must take her rest and sleep, or she too will be ill." So Elsie took possession of the pleasant room which had been prepared for her, and casting on the Lord all care for herself and dear ones, and full of glad anticipations for the future, slept long and sweetly. It was early morning when she woke. That day and several succeeding ones were spent at Lester's side in the gentle ministrations love teaches. There was little talk between them, for he was very weak, and love needs few words; but he slept much of the time with her hand in his, and waking gazed tenderly, joyously into the sweet face. Happiness proved the best of medicines, and every hour brought a slight increase of strength, a change for the better in all the symptoms. Meanwhile Edward and the two servants were busy with the laying in of needed supplies and the preparation of the suite of apartments which were to form the new home--Elsie giving a little oversight and direction. At length their labors were completed, and she was called in to take a critical survey and point out any deficiency, if such there were. She could find none. "My dear brother, how can I thank you enough?" she said, with a look of grateful affection. "You are satisfied?" "Oh, entirely! I only wish mamma and the rest could see how comfortable, tasteful, really beautiful you have made these rooms!" "I am very glad our work pleases you. And the doctor tells me that under the combined influence of good nursing and unexpected happiness, Lester is gaining faster than he could have deemed possible. What is the time fixed upon for the ceremony which is to rob you of your patronymic, sister mine?" "Add to it, you should say," she corrected, with a charming blush. "Noon of day after to-morrow is the hour. Edward, do you know that our good doctor is a Waldensian?" "No, I did not, and am pleased to learn it; though I was satisfied that he was no Papist." "Yes, he is one of that long-persecuted noble race, and will take you to see his pastor on our behalf. I have so greatly admired and loved the Waldenses that I really feel that to be married by one of their pastors will be some small compensation for--for being so far from home and--mamma. O Edward, if she were but here!" Her tears were falling fast. He put his arm about her waist, her head dropped upon his shoulder and he smoothed her hair with caressing hand. "It is hard for you," he said tenderly; "so different from what you and all of us have looked forward to. But you have been very brave, dear; and what a blessing that your coming is working such a cure for Lester!" "Yes, oh yes! God is very good to me, His blessings are unnumbered!" "It seems a sad sort of bridal for you," he said, "but I shall telegraph the hour to mamma immediately, and they will all be thinking of and praying for you." "Oh, that is a comfort I had not thought of!" she exclaimed, with glad tears shining in her eyes. "What a blessing you are to me, brother dear!" Lester was not able to leave his bed or likely to be for weeks, but that she might devote herself the more entirely to him Elsie had consented to be married at once. She laid aside her mourning for the occasion, and Dinah helped her to array herself for her bridal in a very beautiful evening dress of some white material which had been worn but once before. "Pity dars no time to get a new dress, Miss Elsie," remarked the handmaiden half regretfully. "Doe sho' nuff you couldn't look no sweeter and beautifuller dan you does in dis." "I prefer this, Dinah, because they all--even dear, dear papa--have seen me in it," Elsie said, hastily wiping away a tear; "and I remember he said it became me well. Oh, I can see his proud, fond smile as he said it, and almost feel the touch of his lips; for he bent down and kissed me so tenderly." "Miss Elsie, I jes b'lieves he's a lookin' at you now dis bressed minute, and ef de res' of dose dat lubs you is far away he'll be sho to stan' close side o' you when de ministah's a saying de words dat'll make you Massa Leland's wife." "Ah, Dinah, what a sweet thought! and who shall say it may not be so!" "Dar's Massa Edward!" exclaimed Dinah, as a quick, manly step was heard, followed by a light rap upon the door. She hastened to open it "We's ready, Marse Ed'ard." He did not seem to hear or heed her; his eyes were fastened upon his beautiful sister, more beautiful at this moment, he thought, than ever before. "Elsie!" he cried. "Oh that mamma could see you! she herself could hardly have been a lovelier bride! yet these are wanted to complete your attire," opening a box he had brought, and taking therefrom a veil of exquisite texture and design and a wreath of orange blossoms. "How kind and thoughtful, Edward!" she said, thanking him with a sweet though tearful smile; "but are they suitable for such a bridal as this?" "Surely," he said. "Come, Dinah, and help me to arrange them." Their labors finished, he stepped back a little to note the effect. "O darling sister," he exclaimed, "never, I am sure, was there a lovelier bride! I wish the whole world could see you!" "Our own little world at Ion is all I should ask for," she responded in tremulous tones. "Yes, it must be very hard for you," he said; "especially not to have mamma here, you who have always clung to her so closely. Such a different wedding as it is from hers! But it's very romantic you know," he added jocosely, trying to raise her drooping spirits. "Ah, I am forgetting a piece of news I have to tell I met an American gentleman and his daughter, the other day, fell into conversation with him, and learned that we have several common acquaintances I think we were mutually pleased, and I have asked him and his daughter in to the wedding; thinking it would not be unpleasant to you, and we should thus have two more witnesses." "Perhaps it is best we should," she returned, in her sweet, gentle way, yet looking somewhat disturbed. "I'm afraid I ought to have consulted you first," he said. "I'm sorry, but it is too late now His name is Love; his daughter--an extremely pretty girl by the way--he calls Zoe." Ben now came to the door to say that all was in readiness--the minister, the doctor, and the other gentleman and a lady had arrived. Edward gave his arm to his sister and led her into the room, to which Lester had been carried a few moments before, and where he lay on a luxurious couch, propped up with pillows into a half-sitting posture. A touch of color came into his pale cheeks, and his eyes shone with love and joy as they rested upon his lovely bride, as Edward led her to the side of his couch. Dinah and Ben followed, taking their places near the door and watching the proceedings with interest and sympathy. The minister stood up, the doctor, the stranger guests, the nurse also, and the ceremony began. Elsie's eyes were full of tears, but her sweet low tones were distinct and clear as she took the marriage vows. So were Lester's; his voice seemed stronger than it had been for weeks, and when he took the small white-gloved hand in his, the grasp was firm as well as tender. "One kiss, my love, my wife!" he pleaded when the ceremony was ended. A soft blush suffused the fair face and neck, but the request was granted; she bent over him and for an instant their lips met. Then Edward embraced her with brotherly affection and good wishes. He grasped Lester's hand in cordial greeting, then turned and introduced his new-made friends to the bride and groom. A table loaded with delicacies stood in an adjoining room, and thither the brother and sister and their guests now repaired, while for a short season the invalid was left to quietness and repose that he might recover from the unwonted excitement and fatigue. CHAPTER VII. "Therein he them fall fair did entertain, Not with such forged shows as fitter been For courting fools, that courtesies would faine, But with entire affection plain." --_Spenser's "Fairy Queen."_ One bright morning in November the Ion family were gathered about the breakfast-table. Rosie and Walter were there for the first time since their severe illness, a trifle pale and thin still, but nearly in usual health, and very glad to be permitted to take their old places at the table. Mrs. Dinsmore had returned from her sojourn at the Laurels, the home of her daughter Rose; the grandchildren there, whom she had been nursing, having also recovered their health; and so the places of the eldest son and daughter of the house were the only vacant ones. Both Elsie and Edward were sorely missed, especially by the mother and Violet. "It seems time we had letters again from our absentees, papa," Mrs. Travilla remarked as she poured the coffee. "We have had none since the telegram giving the hour for the wedding." "No, but perhaps we may hear this morning--the mail has not come yet." "Yes, grandpa; here comes Solon with it," said Harold, glancing from the window. In a few moments the man came in bringing the mail-bag, which he handed to Mr. Dinsmore. All looked on with interest, the younger ones in eager expectation, while their grandfather opened it and examined the contents. "Yes, daughter, there is a letter from each of them, both directed to you," he said, glancing over the addresses on several letters which he now held in his hand. "Here, Tom," to the servant in waiting, "take these to your mistress. Don't read them to the neglecting of your breakfast," he added with a smile, again addressing Mrs. Travilla. "No, sir; they will keep," she answered, returning the smile; "and you shall all share the pleasure of their perusal with me after prayers. Doubtless they give the particulars we all want so much to learn." They all gathered round her at the appointed time. She held the letters open in her hand, having already given them a cursory examination lest there should be some little confidence intended for none but "mother's" eye. "Papa," she said, looking up half tearfully, half smilingly at him as he stood at her side, "the deed is indeed done, and another claims my first-born darling as his own." "You have not lost her, Elsie dearest, but have gained a son; and I trust we shall have them both with us ere long," he responded, bending down to touch his lips to the brow still as smooth and fair as in the days of her girlhood. "Poor dear Elsie! how she must have missed and longed for you, dearest mamma!" Violet sighed, kneeling close to her mother's chair and putting her arms around her. "What is it? all about Elsie's wedding?" asked Herbert. "Please let us hear it, mamma. The telegram told nothing but the hour when it was to be, and I was so surprised, for I never understood that that was what she went away for." "Nor I," said Harold; "though I suppose it was very stupid in us not to understand." "Who did get married with my sister Elsie, mamma?" asked little Walter. "Mr. Leland, my son." "But I thought he was most dead," remarked Rosie in surprise. "He has been very ill," her mother said, "but is improving fast, though not yet able to sit up." Rosie, opening her eyes wide in astonishment, was beginning another question when Harold stopped her. "Wait, Rosie, don't you see mamma is going to read the letters? They will tell us all about it, I presume." "I shall read Edward's first, it gives a very minute account of what they have done since he wrote us last, just after their arrival in Rome," the mother said. "He is a good boy to take the trouble to tell us everything in detail; is he not, papa?" "Yes," Mr. Dinsmore assented, seating himself by her side and taking Rosie upon one knee, Walter on the other; "and so good a mother richly deserves good, thoughtful sons and daughters, ever ready to do all in their power to promote her happiness, or afford her pleasure. Does she not, children?" "Yes, grandpa, indeed she does!" they replied in chorus. Her sweet soft eyes glistened with happy tears as she sent a loving glance round the little circle; then all becoming perfectly quiet and attentive, she began to read. Edward's first item of news was that the marriage had just taken place; the next that Lester's health was steadily improving. Then came a description of the rooms they were occupying; both as they were when first seen by Elsie and himself and as they had become under his renovating and improving hands. After that he drew a vivid picture of Elsie's appearance in her bridal robes, told who were present at the ceremony, who performed it, how the several actors acquitted themselves, and what refreshments were served after it was over. He said he thought happiness was working a rapid cure with Lester, and that from all he could see and hear, his success as both painter and sculptor was already assured. Elsie's themes were the same, but she had much to say of Edward's kind thoughtfulness, his energy and helpfulness; "the best and kindest of brothers," she called him, and as she read the words the mother's eyes shone with love and pride in her eldest son. But her voice trembled, and the tears had to be wiped away once and again when she came to that part of the letter in which Elsie told of her feelings as she robed herself for her bridal with none to assist but Dinah; how sad was her heart, dearly as she loved Lester, and how full of longing for home and mother and all the dear ones so far away; then of the comfort she found in the idea that possibly the dear departed father might be near her in spirit. "Was it wrong, mamma," she asked, "to think he might perhaps be allowed to be a ministering spirit to me in my loneliness? and to find pleasure in the thought?" "Mamma, what do you think about it?" asked Herbert. "I do not know that we have any warrant for the idea in the Scriptures," she answered; "it seems to be one of the things that is not revealed; yet I see no harm in taking comfort in the thought that it may be so. My poor lonely darling! I am glad she had that consolation. Ah, papa, what a different wedding from mine!" "Yes," he said, "and from what we thought hers would be. But I trust she will never see cause to regret the step she has taken. Lester is worth saving even at the sacrifice she has made." His daughter looked at him with glistening eyes. "Thank you, papa, that is a good thought, and consoles me greatly for both our darling and ourselves." She went on with the reading of the letter; there were but a few more sentences; then, while the others discussed its contents, Violet stole quietly from the room, unobserved as she thought. But in that she was mistaken. Her mother's eyes followed her with a look of love and sympathy. "Dear child!" she said in a low aside to her father, "she misses Elsie sorely; I sometimes think almost more than I do, they were so inseparable and so strongly attached." Vi's heart was very full, for Elsie's marriage, though far, far from being so great a sorrow as the death of their father, seemed in some respects even more the breaking up of a life that had been very sweet. She sought the studio she and Elsie had shared together (how lonely and deserted it seemed!) and there gave vent to her feelings in a burst of tears. "O Elsie, darling! we were so happy together! such dear friends! with never a disagreement, hardly a thought unshared! And now I am alone! all alone!" She had unconsciously spoken aloud. A soft sweet voice echoed the last word. "Alone! ah, my darling, no! not while your mother lives. You and I must cling the closer together, Vi dearest," the voice went on, while two loving arms enfolded her and a gentle kiss was imprinted upon cheek and brow. "Dearest mamma!" cried Violet, returning the caress, "forgive me that I should indulge in such grief while you are left me--you and your dear love, the greatest of earthly treasures." "Yes, dear child, your grief is very natural. These changes, though not unmixed calamities, are one of the hard conditions of life in this lower world, dear daughter; but we must not let them mar our peace and happiness; let us rejoice over the blessings that are left, rather than weep for those that are gone." "I will, mamma," Violet said, wiping away her tears. "Ah, how much I still have to rejoice in and be thankful for!" "Yes, dear, we both have! and not the least the love of Him who has said, 'Lo, _I_ am with you _alway_.' Oh the joy, the bliss of knowing that _nothing_ can ever part us from _Him_! And then to know, too, that some day we shall all be together in His immediate presence, beholding His face and bearing His image!" Neither spoke again for some moments, then the mother said, "Vi, dearest, there is nothing more conducive to cheerfulness at such a time as this than being fully employed. So I ask you to take charge of Rosie and Walter for a few hours. They are not yet well enough for tasks or for out door sports, but need to be amused. And your grandpa and grandma want me to drive with them to the Laurels and Roselands." "Yes, do go, mamma, and try to enjoy yourself. You have seen so little of Aunt Adelaide since she came, or of Aunt Rosie, since the sickness began with her children and ours. Thank you for your trust, I shall do my best," Violet said with cheerful alacrity. "Ah, the recovery of the darlings is one of the many mercies we have to be thankful for!" "Yes, Vi, and my heart is full of joy and gratitude to the Great Physician." At Roselands Mrs. Conly still lay helpless on her couch, her condition having changed very slightly for the better; she could now at times, with great effort, speak a word or two, but friends and physicians had scarcely a hope of any further improvement; she might live on thus for years, or another stroke might at any moment bring the end. Cut off from all other means of communicating her thoughts and feelings, she could show them only by the expression of her countenance, which was sullen, fierce, despairing, piteous by turns. She had the best of care and nursing from her sisters, her sons, and her old mammy, assisted occasionally by other friends and relatives, and could not fail to read in their faces and the tones of their voices tender pity and sympathy for her in her sore affliction. They could not tell whether she understood all that was said to her, but hoping that she did, spoke often to her of the loving Saviour and tried to lead her to Him. Hitherto the Ion friends had not been able to be with her a great deal, but it had not been necessary, as Adelaide was still at Roselands. She, however, expected soon to return to her own home, and there would then be greater need of their services; therefore there was double reason for thankfulness for the restoration to health of the little ones at Ion and the Laurels; releasing, as it did, both Mrs. Dinsmore and Mrs. Travilla from the cares and labors which had occupied them for some weeks past. The latter gave expression to that thought while driving to the Laurels with her father and his wife, adding, "I can now hold myself in readiness to take Aunt Adelaide's place at any moment." "Not with my consent," said Mr. Dinsmore emphatically; "if you consider yourself at all under my authority you will take a week at least of entire rest and relaxation." She looked at him with her own sweet smile, full of filial love and reverence, and putting her hand in his, said, "Yes, my dear father, that is still one of my great happinesses, as it has been almost ever since I can remember. Ah, it is often very restful to me just to resign myself to your wise, loving guidance and control!" His fingers closed over the small, daintily gloved hand, holding it in a warm and tender clasp. "Then do not forget that you are not to undertake anything that can tax your strength, without my knowledge and permission. Nor must you, Rose," he added with playful authority, turning an affectionate, smiling glance upon her; "you too are worn out and must have rest." "Well, my dear," she said laughingly, "I make no rash promises. You know I never have equalled Elsie in submissiveness." "No; and yet you have usually shown yourself amenable to authority." "Perhaps because it has so seldom been exerted," she saucily returned. "My dear, we have not yet had our first quarrel." "And have lived together for thirty odd years. I think it would hardly be worth while to begin after so long a delay." "Nor do I," she said, "therefore shall probably yield to your wishes in this matter--or commands, call them what you will; especially as they are in full accord with my own inclinations." "Elsie," he said, turning to his daughter again, "I have taken the liberty of inviting some guests to Ion this morning." "Liberty, papa!" she exclaimed. "It would be impossible for you to take liberties with me or mine; I consider your rights and authority in any house of mine fully equal, if not superior to my own. If the mistress of the mansion be subject to your control," she added, with a bright look up into his face, and much of the old time archness in her smile, "surely all else must be." "Thank you, daughter; then I have not taken a liberty, but I have invited the guests all the same. You do not ask how it happened or who they are, but I proceed to explain. "In glancing over the morning paper, while you and Rose were attiring yourselves for the drive, I saw among the items of news that Donald Keith is in our city. So I dispatched Solon with a carriage and a hastily written note, asking Donald to come out to see us, bringing with him any friend or friends he might choose." "I am glad you did, papa; they shall have a warm welcome. But will it not make it necessary for us to return home earlier than we intended?" "No, not at all, it is not likely they will arrive until near our dinner hour--if they come at all to-day, and if they should be there earlier, Violet is quite capable of entertaining them." "Yes," said Mrs. Dinsmore, "I know of no one more competent to minister to the enjoyment of either grown people or children. As regards talent, sweetness of disposition, and utter unselfishness combined, our Vi is one in a thousand." "Thank you, mamma, for saying it," Elsie said, her eyes shining with pleasure. "She seems all that to me; but I thought it might be that mother love magnified her good qualities and made me blind to her imperfections." Violet, in the nursery at home, was showing herself worthy of these encomiums by her efforts to amuse the little ones and keep them from missing the dear mother who had been so constantly with them of late. She played quiet little games with them, told them beautiful stories, showed them pictures and drew others for them, dressed dolls for Rosie and cut paper horses for Walter. Several hours were passed thus, then seeing them begin to look weary--for they were still weak from their recent illness--she coaxed them to lie down while she sang them to sleep. The closed eyes and soft breathing telling that they slept, she rose and bent over them a moment, gazing tenderly into each little face, then drawing out her watch and turning to the old nurse, whispered, "It is time for me to dress for dinner, mammy. I'll go now, but if they wake and want me let me know at once." Her toilet was scarcely completed when the sound of wheels caught her ears. "There! mamma has come! Dear, dear mamma!" she said half aloud, and presently hastened from the room to meet and welcome her. But instead a servant was coming leisurely up the broad stairway. "Where is mamma, Prilla?" the young girl asked in a slightly disappointed tone. "Miss Elsie not come yet, Miss Wilet. De gentlemen is in de drawin'-room," Prilla answered, handing two visiting-cards to her young mistress. "'Donald Keith, U.S.A.,'" read Violet with a brightening countenance, as she glanced at the first. On the other was inscribed, "L. Raymond, U.S.N." Violet hastening to the drawing-room, met her cousin with outstretched hand and cordial greeting. "I am so glad you have come, Cousin Donald! We have all wanted you to see Ion." "Thank you, Cousin Violet; you can't have wished it more than I, I am sure," he said, with a look of delight. "Allow me to introduce my friend, Captain Raymond, of the navy. You see I took your grandfather at his word and brought a friend with me." Violet had already given her hand to her cousin's friend--as such he must have no doubtful welcome--but at Donald's concluding sentence she turned to him again with a look of surprised inquiry, which he was about to answer, when the door opened and Mr. Dinsmore, his wife and daughter came in. There were fresh greetings and introductions, Mr. Dinsmore saying, as he shook hands with the guests, "So you received my hasty note, Donald, and accepted for yourself and friend? That was right. You are both most welcome, and we hope will find Ion pleasant enough to be willing to prolong your stay and to desire to visit us again." "Thank you, I was certain of that before I came," said Donald. "And I surely am now that I am here," remarked the captain gallantly, and with an admiring glance from Mrs. Dinsmore's still fresh, bright, and comely face to the more beautiful ones of Elsie and her daughter. Elsie's beauty had not faded, she was still young and fair in appearance, with the same sweetly pure and innocent expression which old Mrs. Dinsmore had been wont to stigmatize as "that babyish look." And Violet's face was peerless in its fresh young beauty. As for the captain himself, he was a man of commanding presence, noble countenance, and magnificent physique, with fine dark eyes and an abundance of dark brown curling hair and beard; evidently Donald's senior by some years, yet not looking much, if at all, over thirty. The two older ladies presently left the room to reappear shortly in dinner dress. While they were gone Mr. Dinsmore engaged the captain in conversation, and Donald and Violet talked together in a low aside. "Your sister is well, I hope?" he remarked interrogatively. "Elsie? We had letters from her and Edward this morning. They were well at the time of writing." "They are not at home then?" he said in a tone of surprise and disappointment. "Oh, no! had you not heard?" and Violet's eyes filled. "It is very foolish, I'm afraid," she went on in half tremulous tones, in answer to his inquiring look, "but I can't help feeling that Lester Leland has robbed me of my sister." "She is married? and has gone to a home of her own?" Violet answered by telling the story as succinctly as possible. "He was in Italy pursuing his art studies," she said. "They had become engaged shortly before he went, and a few weeks ago we heard he was very ill with typhoid fever. Elsie at once said she must go to him, she could not let him die for lack of good nursing. So grandpa and mamma consented to her going with Edward and our faithful old Ben--papa's foster-brother and body-servant, who travelled for years with him in Europe--for protectors. "Of course she took a maid too, and Aunt Louise offered to go with them, but was taken sick in New York, so had to be left behind. "They found Lester very but not hopelessly ill, and the joy of seeing them had an excellent effect. So they were married, Cousin Donald. Just think how sad for poor Elsie! away from mamma and all of us except Edward!" "It was sad for her, I am sure!" he said with warm sympathy, "and very, very noble and unselfish in her to leave all for him." "Yes; and yet not more, I think, than any right-minded woman would do for the man she loved well enough to marry." Harold and Herbert came in at that moment full of boyish enthusiasm and delight over the arrival of "Cousin Donald," whom they liked and admired extremely; in especial for his fine figure, soldierly bearing, and pleasant, kindly manner. They had hardly done shaking hands with him and Captain Raymond, to whom their grandfather introduced them with a look of paternal pride, when their mother and "Grandma Rose" returned to the drawing-room, and dinner was announced. CHAPTER VIII. "A man's heart deviseth his way; but the Lord directeth his steps."--_Prov._ 16:9. The boys were greatly disappointed on learning from the talk at the dinner-table that Cousin Donald's furlough was so short that he could give but two days to his Ion friends. There were many expressions of regret. Then Mr. Dinsmore said, "If you must leave us so soon we must make good use of our time, by taking you at once to see relatives, friends, and places of interest in the neighborhood. If you and the captain are not too weary to enjoy a ride or drive, we will go to Roselands for a call this afternoon, then on to the Oaks to take tea with my son Horace and his family." "You can assure us of a welcome at both places?" Donald said inquiringly and with a slight smile. "You need not have the slightest fear on that score," was the quick, earnest rejoinder. "I for one," remarked the captain, "am not in the least fatigued, and if the ladies are to be of the party, accept with pleasure and thanks." "I also," said Donald, with a look at Violet which seemed to express a hope that she was not intending to remain behind. Mrs. Dinsmore and Mrs. Travilla excused themselves from going on the plea of fatigue from recent nursing of the sick and the long drive of the morning, Elsie adding that her little convalescents ought hardly to be deprived of mamma all day. "Then we will take Vi," said Mr. Dinsmore, looking affectionately at her; "she has shut herself up with those same convalescents all the morning and needs air and exercise." "Yes, papa," her mother said, "and I know she would enjoy a gallop on her favorite pony. Cousin," turning to Donald, "we have both riding and carriage horses at your and the captain's service; please do not hesitate to express your preference." They thanked her, and after a little more discussion it was arranged that the whole party, including Harold and Herbert, should ride. The horses were ordered at once and they set out very shortly after leaving the table. Mr. Dinsmore and the captain headed the cavalcade, Donald and Violet came next, riding side by side, and the two lads brought up the rear. Donald was well satisfied with the arrangement, and he and Vi found a good deal of enjoyment in recalling the scenes, doings, and happenings of the past summer; particularly of the weeks spent together on the New Jersey coast. Also Vi rehearsed to him Edward's account of Elsie's wedding and his description of the suite of apartments he had had fitted up for their use. Edward expected to spend the winter there, she said. It was all very interesting to Donald. He thought Lester Leland a man to be envied, yet perhaps less so than he who should secure for his own the fair, sweet maiden riding by his side. They passed a pleasant hour at Roselands, seeing all the family except the invalid, then rode on to the Oaks, where they found a warm welcome and most delightful and hospitable entertainment. Then the return to Ion by moonlight was very enjoyable. It was still early when they arrived; the two older ladies awaited them in the parlor, and some time was spent in pleasant converse before retiring for the night. "I have not yet had the pleasure of seeing my little favorites, Rosie and Walter, Cousin Elsie," remarked Donald. "No," she said, "and they are very eager for an interview with you. They are in bed now, but I hope they will be well enough to join us at breakfast to-morrow." "They have been quite sick?" "Yes, were dangerously ill for a time, and though about again, still need constant care lest they should take cold." The guests given adjoining rooms, opened the door of communication between and had a little private chat together before seeking their pillows. "These relatives of yours, Keith, are extremely nice people," remarked the captain. "Of course they are," returned Donald, "relatives to be proud of." "I never saw a more beautiful woman than Mrs. Travilla," pursued the captain. "I think I may say never one so beautiful; and the most charming part of it is beauty that will last; beauty of heart and intellect. Can she be Miss Violet's own mother? There is a resemblance, though their styles of beauty are quite different, but there does not seem to be sufficient difference in age." "She _is_ own mother, though, and not only to Violet, but to two older ones--a son and daughter." The captain expressed great surprise. "But youthful looks must be a family characteristic," he added meditatively. "Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore look extremely young to be the grandparents of the family." Donald explained that Mr. Dinsmore was really only eighteen years older than his daughter, and Rose, a second wife, but half as many. "And what think you of Violet's beauty?" he asked. "Absolutely faultless! She has an angelic face! If I were a young fellow like you, Keith, I'd certainly not look elsewhere while I could see a ray of hope in that direction. But there's the relationship in the way." "It's too distant to stand in the way," returned Donald a trifle shortly, "I look upon her prospective wealth as a far greater obstacle, having no fancy for playing the rôle of fortune-hunter, or laying myself open to the suspicion of being such." "Then you've no intention of trying for her?" "I haven't said so, have I? Well, good-night, it's getting late." "What do you think of Captain Raymond?" Rose was asking her husband. "You have had by far the best opportunity to cultivate his acquaintance." "He impresses me very favorably as both a man and a Christian," was the emphatic reply. "Ah! I am glad Donald has so nice a friend," was her pleased comment. "Yes, there seems a warm friendship existing between them, though the captain must be the older by several years. Married too, for he mentioned his children incidentally." On coming down to the parlor the next morning the guests found Mr. Dinsmore there fondling his little grandchildren--Rosie on one knee, Walter on the other. Cousin Donald's entrance was hailed with delight, Walter presently transferred to his knee. Then the captain coaxed Rosie to his, saying, "Your dark eyes and hair remind me of my little Lulu's." "Have you a little girl of your own, sir?" Rosie asked with a look of interest. "Yes, my dear, two of them. Lulu is a year or two younger than I take you to be, and Gracie is only seven." "Have you any boys?" inquired Walter. "Yes, my little man; I have one. We call him Max. He is two years older than Lulu." "About as old as I am?" said Rosie half inquiringly. "Yes; if you are eleven, as I suppose." "Yes, sir, I'm eleven and Walter's five." "If they're good children we'd like 'em to come here and play with us," remarked Walter. "I am afraid they are not always good," the captain said with a smile and a half sigh. "I am not with them enough to give them the teaching and training that doubtless you enjoy." "But why doesn't their mamma do it? Our mamma teaches us;" and the child's eyes turned lovingly upon her as at that moment she entered the room. The usual morning greetings were exchanged, and Walter's question remained unanswered. The gentlemen were out nearly all day, riding or driving; the ladies with them a part of the time. The evening was enlivened with music and conversation, and all retired to rest at a seasonable hour; the two guests expecting to take leave of their hospitable entertainers the next morning. Darkness and silence reigned for some hours, then the shining of a bright light into Donald's eyes awoke him. He sprang from his bed, rushed to the window, saw that a cottage not far away, which he had noticed in riding by, was in flames. The next moment he had snatched up a few articles of clothing and was at the captain's side shaking him vigorously. "Up, Raymond! up, man! There's a fire and we'll be needed to help put it out." "What is it? breakers ahead, do you say?'" muttered the captain, only half awake. "Fire! fire!" repeated Keith. "Fire? where?" and the captain sprang up, now wide awake, and began hurrying on his clothes. "That cottage down the road." "That's bad indeed; but not quite so bad as a vessel foundering or burning at sea. Anybody else in the house awake?" "I don't know. Yes, there! I hear steps and voices." They hurried into the hall and down the stairs. Mr. Dinsmore was in the lower hall giving directions to the men-servants, who were all collected there. "Haste! Solon, Tom, Dick--all of you!" he was saying, "gather up all the large buckets about the house, ropes too and ladders, and follow me as fast as you can. Ah, captain! and Donald too! You have seen the fire, I suppose? Will you come with me? There'll be work enough for us all no doubt. We've no engine in this neighborhood." "Certainly, sir!" "That's the port we are bound for." And each catching up a bucket they all three set off at full speed in the direction of the burning house, several of the negroes following close at their heels. They found a crowd already gathered there--men and women, black and white. Some were carrying out furniture from the lower rooms, some bringing water in buckets from a spring near by, others contenting themselves with looking on and giving orders which nobody obeyed. "I see the house will have to go," Mr. Dinsmore said. "Are the family all out of it?" "All but an old colored woman," some one replied, "old Aunt Betsy. Nobody thought of her in time, and now it's too late, for the stairs are burned away. Hark!" as a crash was heard, "there's the last of them." "What! will you leave a helpless old woman to be burnt alive?" cried Captain Raymond. "Where is she?" "Yonder!" cried several voices; "see, she's at the window! and she's screaming for help!" as a wild shriek rent the air, a black face full of terror and despair showing itself at an upper window, where the fire's lurid light fell full upon it. "Oh, ain't dar nobody to help ole Aunt Betsy?" she screamed, stretching out her wrinkled arms and toil-worn hands in passionate entreaty; "will you ebery one ob you leave de po' ole woman to burn up in dis awful fiah? Isn't ye got no pity in yo' souls! Oh, somebody come an' help de po' ole woman to git down 'fore she burn all up!" "A rope!" shouted the captain, "quick! quick! a rope!" "Heah, massa cap'n!" answered Solon close it hand. "Ise brung it jus' in time." "What can you do with a rope, Raymond?" asked Donald. "Make an effort to save her with the help of that lightning-rod." "You risk your own life, and it is worth far more than hers," Donald said entreatingly. "Stay a moment, captain," said Mr. Dinsmore, "they are bringing a ladder." "But there's no time to lose; see! the flames are already bursting out from the next window." "Yes, but here it is," as the negroes halted with it close beside them. "It is to be used to reach that window, boys," he said, turning to them and pointing upward. "Set it up there." "Can't do it, sah! 'Mos' as much as a man's life is wuth to go so near de fire." "Then give it to me!" cried the captain, taking hold of it, Mr. Dinsmore and Donald giving their assistance. It was the work of a moment to set it up against the wall; in another the captain was ascending it, while the other two held it firmly in place. He gained the window and sprang in. "Bress you, massa! bress you!" exclaimed the old negress, "you's gwine to save me I knows." "Get out here on to the ladder and climb down as fast as you can," he said hurriedly, taking hold of her arm to help her. But she drew back shuddering. "I can't, massa! I'se ole and stiff. I can't no how 'tall." There was not a moment to lose. The captain stepped back on to the top round of the ladder, took her in his arms, and began as rapid a descent as was possible so burdened. The ladder shook beneath their weight, for both were heavy, and Aunt Betsy struggled in his grasp, screaming with fright; then a tongue of flame shooting out from below caught her cotton gown, and in her frantic terror she gave a sudden spring that threw her preserver and herself to the ground. Mr. Dinsmore and Donald seized the captain and dragged him out of harm's Way, other hands doing a like service for the woman. She was shrieking and groaning, but her rescuer neither spoke nor moved. They took him up, carried him out of the crowd, and laid him gently down upon a sofa; one of the articles of furniture saved from the fire. "Poor fellow!" sighed Donald with emotion. "I'm afraid he has paid dear for his kindness of heart!" "Solon," said Mr. Dinsmore, "mount the fastest horse here and ride to Roselands for Dr. Arthur. Tell him we don't know how seriously this gentleman is hurt. Hurry! make all possible haste!" Solon was turning to obey, but stopped, exclaiming, "Why, sho' anuff, dar's de doctah hisself just lightin' off his hoss ober yondah!" "Then run and bring him here." Arthur obeyed the summons with all speed. The alarm of the fire had reached Roselands, and he had hastened to the spot to give aid in extinguishing it, or to any who might be injured. He found the captain showing signs of life; he moved his head, then opened his eyes. "Where are you hurt, sir?" asked the doctor. "Not very seriously anywhere, I trust," replied the captain, trying to rise. "Ah!" as he fell back again, "both back and ankle seem to have had a wrench. But, friends, are you not needed over there at the fire? My injuries can wait." "Little or nothing more can be done there, and there are people enough on the ground now to leave us free to attend to you," said Mr. Dinsmore. The doctor was speaking aside to Donald and Solon. Coming back, "We will have a litter ready in a few moments," he said, "and carry you over to Ion." "By all means," said Mr. Dinsmore. "You accompany us, of course, Arthur?" "Certainly, sir." "How is she--the old negress? Was she much injured by the fall?" Captain Raymond asked. No one could tell him, and he begged the doctor to attend to her while the litter was preparing. Arthur went in search of her, and presently returned, saying she had escaped without any broken bones, though apparently a good deal shaken up and bruised. CHAPTER IX. "Man proposes, but God disposes." Donald left Ion the next morning, going away sadly and alone, yet trying to be truly thankful that his friend's injuries, though severe, were not permanent, and that he left him where he would have the best of medical treatment and nursing. "Don't be uneasy about the captain," Mr. Dinsmore said in parting; "I can assure you that Arthur is a skilful physician and surgeon, and we have several negro women who thoroughly understand nursing. Beside my wife, Elsie and I will oversee them and do all in our power for the comfort and restoration of the invalid." "Thank you, cousin. I am sure nothing will be left undone that skill and kindness can do," Donald said, shaking with warmth the hand Mr. Dinsmore held out to him. "Raymond is one in a thousand. I've known him for years, and he has been a good and valuable friend to me. I wish it were possible for me to stay and wait on him myself; but army men are not their own masters, you know. He'll be wanting to get back to his ship before he's able. Don't let him." "Not if I can prevent it," was Mr. Dinsmore's laughing rejoinder. "By the way, should not some word be sent to his wife?" "Wife! She has been dead some two years, I think. I asked him if there was any relative he would wish informed of his condition, and he said no; his parents were not living, he had neither brother nor sister, and his children were too young to be troubled about it." "Poor fellow!" ejaculated Mr. Dinsmore, thinking of his own happier lot--the sweet wife and daughter at Ion, the other daughter and son, father, sisters, grandchildren and nephews who would flock about him in tender solicitude, were he laid low by sickness or accident. Leaving Donald in the city, he drove back to Ion full of sympathy for his injured guest and admiration for his courage and fortitude; for he had made no moan or complaint, though evidently suffering great pain and much solicitude on account of the long prospective detention from official duty. The doctor's verdict was, a week or more in bed, probably six weeks before the ankle could be used. "You must get me up much sooner than that, doctor, if it be a possible thing," Captain Raymond said most emphatically. "I can only promise to do my best," was Arthur's response. "Nature must have time for her work of recuperation." Elsie met her father in the entrance hall on his return. "Ah, papa," she said, looking up smilingly into his face, "I think you will have to rescind your order." "In regard to what?" he asked, stopping to lay a hand lightly on her shoulder, while he smoothed her hair caressingly with the other. "The week of entire rest you bade me take." "No; there is to be no recall of that order." "But our poor injured guest, father? injured in the noble effort to save the life of another!" "He shall have every care and attention without any assistance from you; or Rose either; at least for the present." "But, dear papa, to have you worn out and made ill would be worse than anything else." "That does not follow as an inevitable consequence, and you may safely trust me to take excellent care of number one," he said, with playful look and tone. "Ah, papa, there is not the least use in your trying to make me believe there is any selfishness in you!" "No, I presume not; you have always been persistently blind to my many imperfections. Well, daughter, you need not be troubled lest I should waste too much strength on the poor captain. I do not imagine him to be an exacting person, and we have enough efficient nurses among the servants to do all the work that is needful. My part will be, I think, principally to cheer him, keep up his spirits, and see that he is provided with everything that can contribute to comfort of mind and body. I must leave you now and go to him. I advise a drive for you and your mamma as soon as you can make ready for it; the air is delightfully clear and bracing." "Thank you, papa; the advice shall be followed immediately so far as I am concerned, and the order carefully obeyed," she answered, as he moved on down the hall. The smile with which the captain greeted Mr. Dinsmore's entrance into the room where he lay in pain and despondency was a rather melancholy one. "My dear sir, I feel for you!" Mr. Dinsmore said, seating himself by the bedside, "but you are a brave man and a Christian, and can endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ!" There was a flash of joy in the sufferer's eyes as he turned them upon the speaker, "That, sir, is the most comforting and sustaining thing you could have said to me! Through what suffering was the Captain of our salvation made perfect! And shall I shrink from enduring a little in His service? Ah no! And when I reflect that I might have been killed, and my dear children left fatherless, I feel that I have room for nothing but thankfulness that it is as well with me as it is." "And that some good will be brought out of this trial we cannot doubt," Mr. Dinsmore said; "for 'we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose.'" "Yes; and 'I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.' 'We glory in tribulation also, knowing that tribulation worketh patience, and patience experience, and experience hope, and hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.'" "What a wonderful book the Bible is!" remarked Mr. Dinsmore meditatively; "what stores of comfort and encouragement it contains for all in whatever state or condition! 'The law of thy mouth is better unto me than thousands of gold and silver.'" "Yes; how true it is, Mr. Dinsmore, that 'it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps'! I had so fully resolved to return to-day to my vessel, and now when may I hope to see her? Not in less than six weeks, the doctor tells me." "A weary while it must seem in prospect. But we will do all we can to make it short in passing and prevent you from regretting the necessity of tarrying with us for so much longer time than you had intended," Mr. Dinsmore answered in a cheery tone. "Your great kindness is laying me under lasting obligations, Mr. Dinsmore," the captain responded, with glistening eyes, "obligations which I shall never, I fear, have an opportunity to repay." "My dear sir, I am truly thankful to have it in my power to do what can be done to alleviate your sufferings and restore the health and vigor you so nobly sacrificed for another. Beside, what Christian can recall the Master's assurance that He will consider any kindness done to any follower of His as done to Himself, and not rejoice in the opportunity to be of service to a fellow-disciple, be it man, woman, or child?" "Yes, And the King shall answer and say unto them, 'Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'" "Ah, captain, don't talk of obligation to one who has a recompense such as that in view!" Mr. Dinsmore said, a smile on his lip, a glad light in his eye. The captain stretched out his hand and grasped that of his host. "What cause for gratitude that I have fallen into the care of those who can appreciate and act from such motives!" he exclaimed with emotion. "You are the hero of the hour, my friend," Mr. Dinsmore remarked after a short silence. "I wish you could have seen the faces of my wife, daughter, and granddaughter when they heard of the noble, unselfish, and courageous deed which was the cause of your sore injuries." "Don't mention it!" exclaimed the captain, a manly flush suffusing his face; "who could stand by and see a fellow-creature perish without so much as stretching out a helping hand?" In the weeks that followed Captain Raymond won golden opinions from those with whom he sojourned, showing himself as capable of the courage of endurance as of that more ordinary kind that incites to deeds of daring; he was always patient and cheerful, and sufficiently at leisure from himself and his own troubles to show a keen interest in those about him. After the first week he was able to take possession of an invalid-chair, which was then wheeled into the room where the family were wont to gather for the free and unconstrained enjoyment of each other's society. They made him one of themselves, and he found it a rare treat to be among them thus day after day, getting such an insight into their domestic life and true characters as years of ordinary intercourse would not have given him. He learned to love them all--the kind, cheerful, unselfish older people; the sweet-faced, gentle, tender mother; the fair and lovely maiden, lovely in mind and person; the brave, frank, open-hearted lads, and the dear, innocent little ones. He studied them all furtively and with increasing interest, growing more and more reconciled the while to his involuntary detention among them. Oftentimes they were all there, but occasionally one of the grandparents or the mother would be away at Roselands for a day or two, taking turns in ministering to Mrs. Conly, and comforting and cheering her feeble old father. "You have no idea, my dear sir," the captain one day remarked to his host, "how delightful it is to a man who has passed most of his life on shipboard, away from women and children, to be taken into such a family circle as this! I think you who live in it a highly favored man, sir!" "I quite agree with you," Mr. Dinsmore said "I think we are an exceptionally happy family, though not exempt from the trials incident to life in this world of sin and sorrow." "Your daughter is an admirable mother," the captain went on, "so gentle and affectionate, and yet so firm; her children show by their behavior that their training has been very nearly ii not quite faultless. And in seeing so much of them I realize as never before the hardship of the constant separation from my own which my profession entails, as I ask myself, 'If I were with them thus day after day, should I find them as obedient, docile, and intelligent as these little ones? Will my Max be as fine a lad as Harold or Herbert? Can I hope to see Lulu and Gracie growing up into such lovely maidenhood as that of Miss Violet?" "I sincerely hope you may be so blessed, captain," Mr. Dinsmore said, "but much will depend upon the training to which they are subjected. There is truth in the old proverb, 'Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined.'" "Yes, sir; and a higher authority says, 'Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.' But my difficulty is that I can neither train them myself, nor see that the work is rightly done by others." "That is sad, indeed," Mr. Dinsmore replied with sincere sympathy. "But, my dear sir, is there not strong consolation in the thought that you can pray for them, and that 'the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much'?" "There is indeed, sir!" the captain said with emotion. "And also in the promise, 'I will establish my covenant between me and thee, and thy seed after thee in their generations, for an everlasting covenant, to be a God unto thee, and to thy seed after thee.'" CHAPTER X. "One Pinch, hungry, leanfac'd villain." --_Shake._ Captain Raymond's two little daughters were at this time in a village in one of the Northern States, in charge of Mrs. Beulah Scrimp, a distant relative on the mother's side. Mrs. Scrimp was a widow living in rather genteel style in a house and upon means left her by her late husband. She was a managing woman, fond of money; therefore glad of the increase to her income yielded by the liberal sum Captain Raymond had offered her as compensation for the board and care of his motherless little girls. She had undertaken Max also at first, but given him up as beyond her control; and now, though continuing to attend school in the town, he boarded with the Rev. Thomas Fox, who lived upon its outskirts. Mrs. Scrimp was a woman of economies, keeping vigilant watch over all expenditures, great and small, and employing one servant only, who was cook, housemaid, and laundress all in one, and expected to give every moment of her time to the service of her mistress, and be content with smaller wages than many who did less work. Mrs. Scrimp was a woman of theories also, and her pet one accorded well with the aforementioned characteristic. It was that two meals a day were sufficient for any one, and that none but the very vigorous and hard-working ought to eat anything between three o'clock in the afternoon and breakfast-time the next morning. That was a rule to which neither Max nor Lulu could ever be made to submit; but Grace, the youngest, a delicate, fragile child, with little force of will, had no strength or power to resist, so fell a victim to the theory; each night went supperless to bed, and each day found herself too feeble and languid to take part in the active sports in which her stronger sister delighted. It is quite possible that Mrs. Scrimp had no intention of being cruel, but merely made the not uncommon mistake of supposing that what is good for one person is of course good for everybody else. She was dyspeptic, and insisted that she found her favorite plan exceedingly beneficial in her own case; therefore she was sure so delicate a child as Gracie ought to conform to the same regimen. She seemed fond of the little girl, petted and caressed her, calling her by many an endearing name, and telling her very often that she was "a good, biddable child; far better than fiery-tempered, headstrong Lulu." Lulu would hear the remark with a scornful smile and toss of the head, sometimes saying proudly, "I wouldn't let anybody call you names to me, Gracie; and I wouldn't be such a little goose as to be wheedled and flattered into putting up with being half-starved." There had been a time when Mrs. Scrimp tried to prevent and punish such daring words, but she had given it up long since, and contented herself with sighing sadly over the "depravity of that irrepressible child." She had once or twice threatened to write to Captain Raymond and tell him that Lulu was unmanageable, but the child coolly replied, "I wish you would; for then papa would send Gracie and me somewhere else to stay." "Where you would, perhaps, fare a great deal worse," returned Mrs. Scrimp wrathfully. "I am willing to risk it," Lulu said; and that was the end of it, for Mrs. Scrimp would have been very loath to lose the children's board. One pleasant October morning Lulu came down a trifle late to her breakfast. Mrs. Scrimp and Gracie were already seated at the table and had began their meal. "Lulu," said Mrs. Scrimp with a portentous frown, "you were in the pantry last night, helping yourself." "Of course I was," returned the child as she took her seat at the table. "I told you I wouldn't go without my supper, and you didn't have Ann get any for me; so what could I do but go and help myself?" "You have no right to go to my pantry and take the food that belongs to me. It's neither more nor less than stealing, Miss Lulu Raymond." "Well, Aunt Beulah, what do you call it when you take the money my father pays you for feeding Gracie and me, and don't give us the food he has paid for?" Mrs. Scrimp colored violently at that, but quickly answered, "He doesn't pay for any particular kind or quantity, and doesn't want you overfed; and I don't consider it at all good for you to eat after three o'clock, as I've told you fifty times." "Oftener than that, I dare say," returned Lulu with indifference, "but you might say it five hundred times and I shouldn't believe it a bit the more. Papa and mamma never had us put to bed without our supper; they always gave us plenty to eat whenever we were hungry, and Gracie was far stronger then than she is now." Mrs. Scrimp was exasperated into a return to old tactics. "Lulu, you are the most impudent child I ever saw!" she exclaimed, "and shall go without supper to-night, if it were only to punish you for talking as you have this morning." "No, I'll not. I'll have something to eat if I must go to the neighbors for it." "I'll lock you up." "Then I'll call out to the people in the street and tell them you won't give me enough to eat. And just as soon as papa comes I'll tell him all about it right before you." "You wouldn't dare tell him how you've talked to me; he'd punish you for your impertinence." "No, he would say it was justifiable under the circumstances." "Dear me!" sighed Mrs. Scrimp, lifting hands and eyes in holy horror, "what a time your stepmother will have with you! I shouldn't want to be in her place." "My stepmother!" cried Lulu, growing very red, while her dark eyes flashed with anger. "I haven't any! What do you mean by talking in that way, Aunt Beulah?" Mrs. Scrimp's laugh jarred very unpleasantly upon the nerves of the excited child. "Your father will be presenting you with one some of these days, I'll warrant," she said in a tantalizing tone. Lulu felt ready to burst into passionate weeping, but would not give her tormentor the satisfaction of seeing her do so. She struggled determinedly with her emotion, and presently was able to say in a tone of perfect indifference: "Well, I don't care if he does; anything will be better than staying here with you." "Ungrateful, hateful child!" said Mrs. Scrimp. "Gracie's a real comfort to me, but you are just the opposite." "Aunt Beulah," said Lulu, fixing her keen eyes steadily upon Mrs. Scrimp's face, "you've called me ungrateful ever so many times. Now I'd like to know what I have to be grateful for toward you? My father pays you well for everything you do for Gracie and me." "There are some things that can't be bought with money, and that money can't pay for, Miss Impertinence;" and Mrs. Scrimp, having satisfied her appetite, rose from the table and, taking Gracie by the hand, walked out of the room with her in the most dignified manner. Presently afterward Lulu saw her, through the window, in bonnet and shawl and with a basket on her arm, going out to do the marketing. Having finished her breakfast, Lulu walked into the sitting-room. Gracie lay on the sofa looking pale and weak. Lulu went to her, stroked her hair, and kissed her. "Poor little Gracie! weren't you hungry for some supper last night?" "Yes, Lulu," replied the child, lifting a thin white little hand and stroking her sister's face, "but Aunt Beulah says it makes me worse to eat at night." "I don't believe it!" cried Lulu vehemently, and half stamping her foot, "and I'm going to write a letter to papa and tell him how she starves you, and would starve me too if I'd let her!" "I wish papa would come!" sighed Gracie. "Lulu, did it use to make us sick to eat supper when we lived with papa and mamma?" "No, never a bit! O Gracie, Gracie, why did mamma die? why did God take her away from us when we need her so much? I can't love Him for that! I don't love Him!" she exclaimed with a sudden shower of tears, albeit not much given to shedding them. "Don't cry, Lulu," Gracie said in distress, "maybe papa will find another mamma for us. I wish he would." "I don't! stepmothers are always hateful! I'd hate her and never mind a word she said. O Max, Max! I'm so glad to see you!" as a handsome, dark-eyed, merry-faced boy came rushing in. "I've just come for a minute!" he cried half breathlessly, catching her in his arms, giving her a resounding kiss, then bending over Gracie with a sudden change to extreme gentleness of manner; she was his baby sister and so weak and timid. "Poor little Gracie!" he said softly. "I wish I was a big man to take you and Lulu away and give you a good time!" "I love you, Max," she returned, stroking and patting his cheek. "I wish you'd be a good boy, so you could live here with us." "I don't want to," he answered, frowning. "I mean I don't want to live with her; I sha'n't ever call her aunt again. I wouldn't have come in if I hadn't known she was out. I saw her going to market. I'm going off to Miller's Pond to fish for trout. You know it's Saturday and there's no school. Jim Bates is going with me and we're to be back by noon; that is, old Tommy said I must." Lulu laughed at Max's irreverent manner of alluding to the man who had the oversight of him out of school hours; then jumping up, "O Max!" she cried, "I want to go too! I'll be ready in a minute." "What'll Mrs. Scrimp say?" laughed Max. Lulu tossed her head with a scornful smile which said more plainly than words that she did not care what Mrs. Scrimp might do or say in regard to the matter, ran into the hall, and returned almost instantly with hat and sacque. "Come, Max," she said, "we'd better be off before she gets back. Gracie, you won't mind being left alone for just a little bit? Ann's in the kitchen, you know." "I wish I could go too!" sighed Gracie. "I wish I could run about and have good times like you and Max!" "Maybe you will, some o' these days. Good-by, little one," said Max, giving a parting pat to the little white cheek. "Good-by," cried Lulu from the doorway; "don't fret, because maybe I'll find something pretty to bring you when I come back." She took a small basket from the table in the hall, Max shouldered his fishing-rod, which he had left there behind the front door, and they went out together. CHAPTER XI. "Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted, Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint." --_Shaks._ The children walked very fast, glancing this way and that till satisfied that there was no longer any danger of encountering Mrs. Scrimp, then their pace slackened a little and they breathed more freely. "Won't she be mad because you came without asking her, Lu?" queried Max. "I s'pose so." "What'll she do about it?" "Scold, scold, scold! and threaten to make me fast; but she knows she can't do that. I always manage to get something to eat. I've found a key that fits the pantry door; so I just help myself. She doesn't know about the key and wonders how it happens; thinks she forgot to lock it." "But, Lulu, you wouldn't steal!" "'Taint stealing to take what papa pays for! Max, you're too stupid!" cried Lulu indignantly. Max gave a long, low whistle. "Fact, Lu! that's so! our father does pay for more than we can possibly eat, and expects us to have all we want." "Do you get enough, Max?" "Yes; and right good too. Mrs. Fox is real good and kind; but he's just awful! I tell you, Lu, if I don't thrash him within an inch of his life when I grow to be a man, it'll be queer." "Tell me about him! what is it he does to you?" "Well, in the first place, he pretends to be very good and pious; he preaches and prays and talks to me as if I were the greatest sinner in the world, while all the time he's ten times worse himself and the biggest kind of a hypocrite. He tells me it's very wicked when I get angry at his hateful treatment of me, and gets as mad as a March hare himself while he's talking about it." "Well, I'd let him storm and never care a cent." "Yes, but that isn't all; he beats me dreadfully for the least little thing, and sometimes for nothing at all. One time he bought a new padlock for the barn-door and pretty soon it disappeared. He couldn't find it anywhere, so he called me and asked me what I had done with it. I said I hadn't touched it, hadn't seen it, didn't even know he had bought one; and that was the truth. But he wouldn't believe me; he said I must have taken it, for I was the only mischievous person about the place, and if I didn't own up and show him where it was, he'd horsewhip me till I did." "O Max! the wicked old wretch!" cried Lulu, between her clenched teeth. "What did you do? You couldn't tell a lie!" "No, I thought I couldn't, Lu; and oh, I'm so ashamed!" said Max, growing very red and tears starting to his eyes. "But he beat me, and beat me, and beat me till I thought he'd kill me; and so to stop him at last I said I took it. But I didn't gain anything, for of course he asked next where it was, and I couldn't tell him, because I didn't know. So he began again; but I fainted, and I suppose that scared him and made him stop. He didn't say anything more about the padlock till weeks afterward it was found in the hay, and it was clear that I hadn't anything to do with it." "Oh, the old wretch!" cried Lulu again. "Did he tell you then he was sorry for having abused you so when you were innocent?" "No, indeed! not he! He said, 'Well, you didn't deserve it that time, but I've no doubt you've escaped many a time when you did.'" "Max, I'd never stand it! I'd run away!" exclaimed Lulu, stopping short and facing her brother with eyes that fairly blazed with indignation. "I've thought of that, Lu; I've felt tempted to do it more than once," Max said with a sigh; "but I thought how papa would feel hearing of it. I'd rather bear it all than have him feel that his son had done anything to disgrace him." "Max, you're better than I am!" cried Lulu with affectionate warmth. "I'd never have thought of anything but how to get away as fast as possible from that horrid, horrid beast of a man." "Papa thinks he's good, and that's the reason he put me with him. Oh, but don't I wish he knew the truth!" "I should think the old rascal would be afraid of what papa may do when he comes and hears all the things you'll have to tell." "I suppose he thinks papa will believe his story instead of mine; and perhaps he will," said Max a little sadly. "No; don't you be one bit afraid of that!" cried Lulu, hotly. "Papa knows you're a truthful boy. His children couldn't be liars!" "But you know I can't say any more that I've never told an untruth," said Max, coloring painfully. "Well, you couldn't help it," Lulu said, trying to comfort him. "I'm afraid that I might have done it myself to keep from being killed." "Hello! here comes Jim!" cried Max with a sudden change of tone, his face brightening wonderfully as a lad somewhat older in appearance than himself, and carrying a fishing-rod over his shoulder, came hurrying down a lane and joined them. "Hello! Max," he said; "we've a splendid day for fishing, haven't we?" Then in a whisper, "Who's this you're taking along?" "My sister Lulu," Max answered aloud. "She'll help us dig worms for bait, won't you, Lu?" "Yes, if you'll let me fish a little after you've caught some." "Good-morning, Miss Lulu," said Jim, lifting his hat. "Good-morning," she returned, giving him a careless nod. "It's a long walk for a girl," he remarked. "Oh," said Max, laughing, "she's half boy; ain't you, Lu?" "I s'pose; if you mean in walking, jumping and running. Aunt Beulah calls me a regular tomboy. But I'd rather be that than stay cooped up in the house all the time." They had now left the town behind, and presently they turned from the highway and took a narrow path that led them deep into the woods, now in the very height of their autumnal beauty. The sun shone brightly, but through a mellow haze; the air was deliciously pure, cool, and bracing. The children's pulses bounded, they laughed and jested; the boys whistled and Lulu sang in a voice of birdlike melody. "O Max," she said, "I wish Gracie was well and with us here!" "Yes, so do I," he answered; "but 'tisn't likely she can ever be strong like you and me, Lu." "Well, I'll tell her all about it and take her all the pretty things I can find. Oh, what a lovely place!" as they came out upon the shore of the pond, a tiny sheet of clear still water surrounded by woods and hills except where a rivulet entered it on one side and left it on the other. "Yes," assented Jim, "it's a right nice place, is Miller's Pond, and has lots of nice fish in it." The boys laid down their rods, Lulu her basket, and all three fell to digging for earth-worms. When they deemed that they had a sufficient quantity of bait, the lads seated themselves on the roots of a fallen tree close to the water, each, with fishing-rod in hand, and Lulu, picking up her basket, wandered off among the trees and bushes. "Don't go too far away and get lost," Max called after her. "No," she answered, "I'll not go out of sight of the pond; so I can easily find my way back. But don't you go off and leave me." "No; if you're not here, I'll hallo when we're 'most ready to start." What treasures Lulu found as she wandered here and there, every now and then turning to look for the pond, and make sure that she was not losing herself, there were acorn-cups, lovely mosses, beautiful autumn leaves--red, orange, golden and green; there were wild grapes too, and hazel-nuts, brown and ripe. Of all these she gathered eagerly until her basket was full, thinking that some would delight Gracie, others propitiate Aunt Beulah. And now she made her way back to the spot where the boys still sat, each with his line in the water. "Have you caught any?" she asked. "Yes," said Max, "I've caught six and Jim has eight. There! I've got another!" giving his line a jerk that sent a pretty speckled trout floundering in the grass. "I'll take it off the hook for you," said Lulu, springing forward and dropping on her knees beside it. "And then you'll let me try, won't you?" "Yes," Max answered in a half-reluctant tone, getting up to give her his place. "There are hazel-nuts right over there a little way," Lulu said, pointing with her finger. "Oh, then I'll have some!" cried Max, starting on a run in the direction indicated. He came back after a while bringing some in his hat, picked up some stones, and seating himself near the others, cracked his nuts, sharing generously with them. Presently Lulu had her first bite, succeeded in bringing her prize safely to land, and was quite wild with delight. Max rejoiced with her, taking brotherly pride in her success. "You'll do for a fisherman or fisherwoman," he said gayly. "I sha'n't be much surprised if you beat me at it one o' these days." Then struck with a sudden unwelcome thought, "I wonder what time it is!" he exclaimed, jumping up from the ground in haste and perturbation. "Do you s'pose it's noon yet, Jim?" "Which way's the sun?" queried the latter, glancing toward the sky; "it ought to be right overhead at noon. Why, it's down some toward the west! I shouldn't wonder if it's as late as two o'clock." "Two o'clock!" cried Max in dismay, "and I was to be back by noon! Won't I catch it!" and he began gathering up his fish and fishing-tackle in great haste, Jim doing likewise, with the remark that he would be late to dinner and maybe have to go without. Lulu was giving Max all the assistance in her power, her face full of sympathy. "Max," she whispered, hurrying along close at his side as they started on their homeward way, "don't let that horrid, cruel, wicked man beat you! I wouldn't. I'd fight him like anything!" Max shook his head. "'Twouldn't do any good, Lulu; he's so much bigger and stronger than I am that fighting him would be worse for me than taking the thrashing quietly." "I could never do that!" she said. "But don't wait for me if you want to go faster." "I don't," said Max. "Well, I b'lieve I'd better make all the haste I can," said Jim. "So good-by," and away he sped. "Oh, if papa only knew all about how that brute treats you!" sighed Lulu. "Max, can't we write him a letter?" "I do once in a while, but old Tom always reads it before it goes." "I wouldn't let him. I'd hide away somewhere to write it, and put it in the post-office myself." "I have no chance, he gives me only a sheet of paper at a time, and must always know what I do with it. It's the same way with my pocket money; so I can't buy postage-stamps; and I don't know how to direct the letter either." "Oh dear! and it's just the same way with me!" sighed Lulu. "When will papa come? I'm just sick to see him and tell him everything!" When they reached Mrs. Scrimp's door Max gave Lulu his string of fish, saying, "Here, take them, Sis. It's no use for me to keep 'em, for I shouldn't get a taste; and maybe they'll put her in a good humor with you." "Thank you," she said. "O Max, I wish you could eat them yourself!" Her eyes were full of tears. "I'd rather you'd have 'em; you and Gracie," he said cheerfully. "Good-by." "Good-by," she returned, looking after him as he hurried away, whistling as he went. "He's whistling to keep his courage up. O Max! poor Max! I wish I could give that man the worst kind of a flogging!" Lulu sighed to herself, then turned and went into the house. She heard Mrs. Scrimp's voice in the kitchen scolding Ann for letting the bread burn in the oven. It was an inauspicious moment to appear before her, but Lulu marched boldly in, holding up her string of fish. "See, Aunt Beulah! they're just fresh out of the water, and won't they make us a nice dinner?" "And they're your favorite fish, ma'am, them pretty speckled trout is," put in Ann, glad to make a diversion in her own favor, as well as to help Lulu out of a scrape; "and I'll go right to work to clean 'em and have 'em ready for the frying-pan in less than no time." "Yes, they'll be very nice; and the meat will keep for to-morrow," was the gracious rejoinder. "You oughtn't to have gone off without leave, Lulu; but I suppose Max couldn't wait." "No, Aunt Beulah, he said he couldn't stay more than a minute. Shall I help Ann clean the fish?" "No; go and make yourself tidy. Your hands are dirty, your apron soiled, and your hair looks as if it hadn't been combed for a week." Mrs. Scrimp's face was gathering blackness as she scanned the figure of the young delinquent from head to foot, spying out all that was amiss with it. "I will," said Lulu, moving toward the door with cheerful alacrity. "Oh, I forgot!" and rushing into the hall, she came back the next minute bringing her basket of treasures. "See, Aunt Beulah, I've brought you lots of lovely leaves; you know you said you wanted some to make a wreath; and here are mosses, and grapes, and hazel-nuts." "Why you have made good use of your time," Mrs. Scrimp said, now entirely mollified. "Bring your basket into the sitting-room, where Gracie is; and we'll look over its contents." Max was less fortunate to-day than his sister. His custodian was on the look-out for him, cowhide in hand, and seizing him roughly, as he entered the gate, with a fierce, "I'll teach you to disobey orders another time, you young vagabond! I told you to come home at noon, and you're over two hours behind time!" began to administer an unmerciful flogging. "Stop!" cried Max, trying to dodge the blows. "How could I tell the time? I came as soon as I thought it was noon." But his tormentor was in a towering passion and would not stay his hand to listen to any excuse. "Do you mean to kill me?" screamed Max. "You'll hang for it if you do. And my father----" "Your father believes in enforcing obedience to orders, sir; and I'll----" But at this instant there was an interference from a third party. At a little distance some men were at work hewing timber. They had been working there for weeks, in which Max had made acquaintance and become a great favorite with them, particularly one called by his companions, "Big Bill," because of his great size and strength. He was a rough, good-natured man, with nothing of the bully about him, but regarded with intense scorn and indignation any attempt on the part of the strong to tyrannize over the weak and defenceless. He and his comrades had seen and heard enough in these weeks of labor in the vicinity of Fox's residence to inspire them with contempt and dislike toward him on account of his treatment of Max. They had among themselves already pronounced him "a wolf in sheep's clothing, a hypocrite and a coward." They had seen him watching for the boy with his instrument of torture in his hand, and their wrath had waxed hot. When Max came in sight they dropped their tools and looked to see what would happen, and at the first blow "Big Bill" muttering between his clenched teeth, "I'll settle his hash for him," started for the scene of action. "Stop that!" he roared, "stop that, you old hypocritical scoundrel! You hit that boy another lick and I'll knock you as flat as a flounder!" The hand that held the whip dropped at Fox's side, and the other loosed its hold on Max as he turned and faced his assailant. "What do you mean by coming here to interfere in my business?" he demanded. "I mean to protect the weak against the strong, sir. I consider that my business. You've given that boy more unmerciful beatings already than he ought to have had in a lifetime, and he not at all a bad boy either. I know all about that padlock affair, though he's never breathed a word to me on the subject, and I'd enjoy nothing better than thrashing you soundly; what's more I'll do it if ever I know you to strike him again; or my name's not Bill Simpson. Max, if he ever does, you've only to let 'Big Bill' hear of it and he'll get ten times more than he's given." "Thank you, Bill," said Max, running to the big, kind-hearted fellow and giving him his hand. "I'm glad to be protected from him, though I don't want him hurt if he'll only let me alone." Fox had already stalked away in the direction of the house, swelling with inward wrath, but assuming an air of injured innocence and offended dignity. Standing in wholesome fear of Max's self-constituted defender, he never again ventured to lay violent hands on the lad, but contented himself with inflicting many petty annoyances. CHAPTER XII. "Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale; Unless I look on Silvia in the day, There is no day for me to look upon." --_Shakspeare_. It was already past the middle of November when Captain Raymond received his injuries, so that the six weeks or more of enforced inaction would carry him into the month of January. He had hoped to spend Christmas with his children, but that was now clearly impossible, as he sadly owned to himself, for he was a loving father and felt the disappointment keenly on both his own account and theirs. There would be no festivities at Ion this year, bereavement was still too recent with themselves, too imminent with those very near by the ties of kindred. But there was to be an exchange of gifts; there had been that even last year when but a few months had elapsed since the departure to the better land of the beloved husband and father. Captain Raymond, sitting quietly in his invalid chair, generally to all appearance buried in a book, overheard many a consultation in regard to what would be most acceptable to this or that one who happened to be absent from the room at the moment, for it was intended that most of the gifts, at least, should be a surprise to the recipients. One day when the talk was of those to be provided for Rosie and Walter, Mrs. Dinsmore noticed that their guest was listening with a very interested look. "Captain Raymond," she said, turning to him with an engaging smile, "we purpose to go into the city to-morrow to shop for these things; can we do anything in that line for you?" "Thank you," he said heartily, his face brightening very much; "if it would not be overtaxing you, I should be very glad indeed to do some shopping by proxy; glad to have the benefit of your and Mrs. Travilla's taste and judgment in the selection of some Christmas presents for my children. It will be all I can do for them this year. I had thought of sending money for the purpose, to the persons in charge of them, but it would be far more satisfactory to me to have some share in the choice of the articles." Both ladies assured him that it would give them pleasure to do whatever they could to assist him in making the desired purchases, and Mr. Dinsmore suggested that a variety of goods might be sent out from the city stores for him to select from. He said that was a good idea, but he would leave it to the ladies to have that done, or to choose for him a book for each of his children, a doll for each girl, and writing-desks, fully furnished, for Max and Lulu. "I think," he added with a smile, "whatever I may give will seem to them more valuable if sent from this distance than if bought near at hand." "Yes," Mrs. Dinsmore said, "that is human nature." The shoppers set out the next morning soon after breakfast, expecting to return about the usual dinner-hour. Watching the departure from the window near which he was seated, the captain observed with pleasure that Violet was not of the party, hoping that if left behind, she would give him the enjoyment of her society during the absence of the others. Presently she came in, bringing some needlework; Rosie and Walter with her. The captain closed the book he had been reading and turned toward them with a pleased smile. "So I am not to be left to solitude, as I feared," he remarked. "You must please send us away, sir, whenever you think that preferable to our company," returned Violet lightly. "Do you deem me capable of such rudeness, Miss Travilla?" he asked with playful look and tone. "We will not consider it such," she answered, seating herself and beginning her work, "since we can wander at will all over the house, while, for the present, you, sir, are a prisoner confined to this room and the next." "That reminds me," he said, "that of late you have absented yourself a great deal from this room; to my no small discontent." "It is flattering to my vanity and self-appreciation to learn that you have missed me," she returned sportively, but with a slightly heightened color. "You can never be away from the rest of us without being missed, Vi," remarked Rosie; "especially now that Sister Elsie is away." "And do you not mean to gratify my curiosity as to what has been the cause of your many and prolonged absences, Miss Violet?" queried the captain. "I have been busy elsewhere, sir. But is it not an understood thing that curiosity is a peculiarly feminine trait?" "I am able to plead guiltless to the charge of ever having made such an insinuation," said the captain; "and do now confess to having a full share of inquisitiveness." "May I tell, Vi?" asked Rosie. "We must first learn whether Captain Raymond can keep a secret," Vi answered, glancing at him with a saucy smile. "Yes, indeed!" he said, "as you shall learn if you will but allow me the opportunity." "Then I may tell I!" cried Rosie; and hardly waiting for her sister's nod of acquiescence, went on. "She is preparing such a nice surprise for dear mamma, Captain Raymond, a miniature of papa which she has been painting on ivory. I think it looks more like him than any photograph or painted portrait that we have. And I am sure mamma could not have a more acceptable present. Besides that, Vi has painted two flower-pieces; one for grandpa and one for grandma." "You have certainly been very industrious, Miss Violet," he remarked. "I have heard your studio spoken of. May I hope for the pleasure of visiting it when I recover the free use of my limbs?" "That will not be for some weeks, sir; and in the mean while I will take your request into consideration," she answered demurely. The morning passed very rapidly to the captain; the children amused him with their prattle, and when after an hour or two, Rosie grew tired of the bit of fancy-work she was doing under her sister's supervision, and yielded to Walter's entreaties to "come to the nursery and build block-houses," thus leaving Violet his sole companion, the moments sped faster than before; for he found her a very interesting and entertaining conversationist. On their return the shopping-party brought with them the articles he had mentioned. He pronounced them all entirely satisfactory, and they were packed and sent northward with the addition of some pretty things for the dolls, contributed by Violet and Rosie. Some unusual impulse of fatherly solicitude and affection led the captain to put his own address upon several envelopes in each writing-desk, stamping them also and adding a note to each of the three children. To Max and Lulu he said that he wanted letters from them which should not pass through the hands of a third person, "letters that should be like a bit of private chat with papa." Seeing how tenderly and carefully the little Travillas were nurtured and what love was lavished upon them, had turned his thoughts frequently upon his own motherless ones, and set him to thinking and asking himself rather anxiously how they were faring in those respects. He had come to realize more thoroughly than ever before his responsibility as a parent. The Christmas work which had kept Violet busy in her studio was now finished, and henceforth she spent much more of her time with the rest of the family; greatly to Captain Raymond's satisfaction, for much as he admired the other ladies and enjoyed conversing with them and with Mr. Dinsmore, he was quite conscious of a constant uneasiness and discontent when Violet absented herself from the room. His admiration for her beauty and grace had been unbounded from the first, and gradually as he discovered more and more of her sterling worth, her sweetness and unselfishness of disposition, her talent, industry, and genuine piety, his heart had gone out to her in ardent affection; in fact with a deeper and stronger love than he had ever before known or dreamed of. He began to ask himself how he could ever go away and leave her, and whether he dared seek to make her his own. He was fully as loath as Donald Keith to appear in the rôle of fortune-hunter. Would Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter, so noble themselves, be ready to impute so unworthy a motive to him? He hoped not, he believed they would judge him by themselves. And they who so fully knew and appreciated all that Violet was must see and believe that no man whose affections were not already engaged could be thrown into intimate association with her day after day, as he had been for so many weeks, and not learn to love her for herself alone. Then he had learned incidentally from Dr. Conly, that the older daughter had married a poor artist with the full consent of her parents and grandfather, his lack of wealth being considered no objection to his suit. Captain Raymond did not look upon wealth as the highest patent of nobility even in this republican country, but thought, in his manly independence, that his well-established reputation as an honorable, Christian gentleman, and officer of the United States Navy, made him in rank fully the peer of the Dinsmores and Travillas; and he believed that they would entirely agree with him in that. But he was not a conceited man, and felt by no means sure that Violet herself would give a favorable hearing to his suit. Under the peculiar and trying circumstances of his sojourn at Ion he had not been able to offer her any attention, and her uniform kindness had probably been shown only to her mother's invalid guest. And as he thought of the disparity of years between them, and how many younger, and perhaps in every way more attractive men, must have crossed her path, his hopes sank very low. Yet he was not too proud to allow her the opportunity to reject him. Saying to himself, "Were I certain that she is indifferent to me, I would not give her the pain of doing so--for I know her kind heart would feel it a pain--but as I am not sure of her feelings, it is only fair and just to her to let her know of mine and abide the issue," he decided that he would not go away without speaking, yet that he would first ask the consent of her natural guardians. He therefore seized the first opportunity when alone with Mr. Dinsmore to tell of his love for Violet, and ask if he could obtain his and the mother's consent to the prosecution of his suit. Mr. Dinsmore seemed both surprised and moved. He did not speak for a moment, then, with a heavy sigh, "Has it come to this already," he said "that we are likely to lose our little Vi? I don't know how either her mother or I can ever do without her! ever make up our minds to resign her to any one else!" "I don't wonder at it, sir," the captain said with feeling. "But may I understand that you do not object to me personally?" "No, sir, oh no! I see no objection to you more than to any other, except disparity of years, Violet being so young; and that is not so great as it was between her parents." "Then you give me some hope?" "If you have won her affections, yes. How is it in regard to that?" "I have said no word to her on the subject, Mr. Dinsmore--feeling that the more honorable course was first to ask permission of her mother and yourself--and am by no means certain that she cares for me at all except as a friend of the family and of her cousin, Lieut. Keith. Have I your consent, sir?" "I will talk with my daughter, captain, and let you know the result." He rose as if to leave the room, but the captain detained him. "Let me tell you," he said, coloring in spite of himself, "that I am not rich, having very little beside my pay." "That is a matter of small importance," Mr. Dinsmore answered in a kindly tone, "seeing that riches are so apt to take wings and fly away, and that the Master said, 'A man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.' If her mother's wealth remains, Violet will be well provided for, as I presume you are aware, yet I cannot for a moment suppose you capable of seeking her on that account. In fact," he concluded with a smile, "the child has nothing at all of her own, and her mother can, should she choose, leave her penniless." "And I should be more than willing to take her so, if I could get her," the captain answered, returning the smile; "it would be a dear delight to me to provide her with all things desirable by my own exertions." "Excuse the question, Capt. Raymond, but have you taken into consideration the fact that Violet's extreme youth must render her unfit for the cares and responsibilities of motherhood to your children?" "Mr. Dinsmore, there is not a woman in a thousand of those twice her age whom I would as willingly trust. But she shall have no care or labor that I can save her from, always supposing I can be so happy as to win her for my own." The family had retired for the night to their own apartments. Mrs. Travilla, almost ready to seek her couch, sat alone in her dressing-room in front of the brightly blazing wood fire; her open Bible was in her hand, a lamp burning on a little table by the side of her easy-chair. Her dressing-gown of soft white cashmere became her well, and her unbound hair lying in rich masses on her shoulders lent a very youthful look to face and figure. Her father thought, as he came softly in and stood at her side, gazing down upon her, that he had seldom seen her more rarely beautiful. She lifted her eyes to his with the old sweet smile of filial love and reverence, shut her book and laid it on the table. He laid his hand gently on her head, bent down and kissed her on brow and cheek and lip. "Dear papa, won't you sit down?" she said, rising to draw up a chair for him. "Yes," he answered; "I want a little talk with you. How wonderfully young you look to-night!--so like my little girl of other days that I feel a strong inclination to invite you to your old seat upon my knee. Will you take it?" sitting down and drawing her gently toward him. She yielded to his wish, saying, as she put her arm about his neck and gazed lovingly into his eyes, "I am still child enough to enjoy it greatly, if I am not so heavy as to weary you, my dear father." "I do not feel your weight unpleasantly," he returned. "You must remember I am a very strong man, and you but a slight and delicate woman. Not so plump as I could wish to see you," he added, pushing up the sleeve of her gown and clasping his fingers round the white arm. "Isn't there plenty of flesh there to hide the bones?" she asked laughingly. "The bones are well hidden, but the flesh is not so solid as I would have it." "Ah, papa, you must not be so hard to please!" she said, with playful look and tone. "I think I'm in very good condition; am glad I'm not too heavy to sit here and play at being your own little girl again. What happy days those were! when I had not a care or anxiety except to please my earthly and my heavenly father." "Would you like to go back to them?" "No, dear father, your love and tender care made me a very happy child, but I have no desire to retrace my steps. I should far rather press forward to the heavenly home whither you are travelling with me--'the rest that remaineth to the people of God,' rest from sin as well as from sorrow, pain, and care." "'Casting _all_ you care upon _Him_, for He careth for you.' He who ever liveth; He who hath all power in heaven and in earth; He who has said, 'I have loved thee with an everlasting love,' 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' Dear daughter, if cares and anxieties oppress you, ask yourself what right a Christian has to be troubled with them." "None, papa," she answered humbly; "I am thankful that I can say a belief in His love and power prevents them from pressing very heavily, yet it is my grief and shame that my faith is often too weak to lift the burden entirely." "What is the particular burden to-night?" he asked tenderly. "My absent darlings, papa: my Elsie, now beginning with the cares of married life, my eldest son exposed to I know not what dangers and temptations." "But with the very same Almighty Friend their mother has to watch over and protect, to comfort and sustain them." "Yes, papa! Oh, I ought not to have one anxious thought about them!" "When such thoughts will arise, dear child, turn them into petitions on their behalf, and believing in God's willingness to hear and answer prayer, your heart may grow light. "But this is not exactly what I came to talk about." Then he repeated the substance of his conversation with Capt. Raymond, and asked what answer she would give. Her surprise was as great as her father's had been, and a look of sore pain came into her face as she exclaimed, "Violet! my little Vi! must I lose her too?" "Perhaps not, dearest; it may be that she cares nothing for him. But you need decide nothing to-night, and must try not to let the question keep you awake." For a moment she seemed lost in thought, then lifting to his, eyes brimful of tears, "Papa," she said tremulously, "I cannot stand in the way of my child's happiness, therefore I must let him speak, and learn from her own lips whether she cares for him or not." "Yes, I think you are right. And now, daughter dear, I must bid you good-night. But first I want you to promise me that you will determinately cast this care on the Lord, and not let it rob you of needed sleep." They had both risen, and as he spoke he took her in his arms and held her close to his heart. "I will, papa, in obedience to Him and to you," she said, while for a moment her arm was about his neck, her head laid upon his breast. CHAPTER XIII. "On you most loved, with anxious fear I wait, And from your judgment must expect my fate." --_Addison_. Naturally Elsie's first waking thoughts on the following morning were of Violet and her future. She was not a "match-making mamma," not at all desirous to be rid of her daughters, and had never once thought of Capt. Raymond as a possible suitor for Violet. He was not a very young man, and it was difficult to realize that Vi was grown up enough for her hand to be sought in marriage by even one near her own age, much less by the father of a family whose eldest child could not be very many years younger than she. "She surely cannot fancy him!" the mother said to herself with a sigh of relief; but instantly came the remembrance that the disparity of years had been still greater between herself and the husband she had loved with all the strength of her nature--so loved that never for a moment could she admit the idea of the possibility that any other could fill his place in her heart. What more could she ask for her beloved child, for this life, than such wedded bliss as she herself had known? But how could she spare her! especially so soon after resigning her sweet namesake daughter to another. It was only the unselfishness of her mother love which could at all reconcile her to the thought. She longed to know whether she were likely to be called upon to make the sacrifice, but generously resolved to use no means to discover the state of her child's feelings until the captain had spoken. In the mean while she would neither make an opportunity for him nor throw any obstacle in his way. Her toilet was scarcely complete, and she had just dismissed her maid, when a tap on her dressing-room door was followed by her father's entrance. "Ah, papa! good-morning!" she said, her face growing bright with pleasure. "Are you well, my dear father?" going to him and putting her arms about his neck. "Perfectly, my darling," he said, caressing her. "How are you? how did you sleep?" "I am able to answer, Very well indeed, to both questions, papa," she returned brightly. "You didn't let worrying thoughts keep you awake?" "Oh, no, sir!" "And is your answer to Capt. Raymond still the same?" "Yes, papa," she said, with an involuntary sigh. "I don't believe you wish him success," he remarked, with a slight smile and a keen, searching look into her face. "No," she said, the tears starting to her eyes; "I had thought to keep my sweet child for years to come." "But you have no objection to him, more than you would have to any one else?" "No, papa, I have learned to think very highly of him, and believe my darling's happiness will be safe in his hands--if she loves him. Yet I trust far more to your judgment than to my own. You approve of him, do you not?" "Entirely; yet, like yourself, am so loath to part with Violet that I shall heartily rejoice if she declares herself indifferent to him." "I long to end my suspense in regard to that," Elsie said, "but have decided to endure it until the captain has spoken; because it seems better and kinder not to embarrass her by any hint of the state of his feelings." Her father expressed approval of her resolve, then as her children came trooping in for their loved morning half hour with "mamma," with their bright faces and cheery greetings to her and grandpa, he left her and went down to the parlor, where he found Capt. Raymond, and rejoiced his heart with the favorable response to his request. There was something so peculiar in the mother's gaze into Violet's face as they exchanged their morning greetings, it was so unwontedly keen and searching, half sad and anxious too, that the young girl asked in surprise, "What is it, mamma?" "My darling, you are very sweet, very precious to your mother's heart!" Elsie said with an earnest, tender kiss; then turned quickly away to hide the tell-tale moisture in her eyes. Capt. Raymond was not long in finding or making his opportunity. It was the day before Christmas, and Rosie and Walter made frequent allusion to the exchange of gifts in which they expected to share that evening. They were chatting with the captain about it, in the parlor, soon after breakfast; talking of his children also; asking if he thought they had received his presents by this time, and that they would have a tree. Violet was sitting near, helping Rosie to dress some dolls for the little cousins at the Laurels. Presently, one being quite ready, Rosie must run and show it to mamma, and Walter went with her. The door had scarcely closed on them, leaving Violet and the captain sole occupants of the room, when he rose from his chair and, moving with some care and difficulty, took another close at her side. "Are you not disobeying orders, sir, and in some danger of suffering for it?" she asked, looking at him with a mischievous smile. "No; I have the doctor's permission to try the ankle a little to-day," he answered. Then, with a slightly embarrassed air, "Miss Travilla," he said, "I should like to--would you accept a Christmas gift from me?" "You are very kind, sir," she said, blushing vividly, "but I think I must decline. Mamma highly disapproves of young girls accepting presents from their gentlemen friends." "But I have consulted her and your grandfather in regard to this, and obtained their permission to offer it and ask for a return in kind. Will you accept my hand (the heart you have already won) and give me yours in exchange? Ah, I fear that you must think my presumption very great! I know I am asking what a king might covet. I know that you, in your peerless beauty--so fair, so sweet, so good, so talented, so admired and sought after--are worthy of a throne, and I have not even wealth to offer you--nothing, in fact, but the love of a man whose honor is unstained, and who would cherish you as the apple of his eye. Ah, dearest girl, I have no words to express the strength and power of the passionate affection with which you have inspired me!" All this and much more in the same strain was poured out so rapidly and ardently that Violet seemed overwhelmed by the torrent of words that had come rushing upon her so unexpectedly and without any warning. A deep blush overspread the fair face and neck, while her work fell from her hand and her eyes sought the floor. When at length he paused for a reply, she started up, saying confusedly, in low, tremulous tones, "I--I am far from meriting the praises you have heaped upon me, and I am very young and foolish--not fit for--for so noble and good a man--so worthy to be highly honored. And I--oh, how could I leave my dear, widowed mother!" Then, as approaching footsteps were heard in the hall without, she turned and fled from the room. "Ah, grandpa's little cricket, what is it? what has disturbed you so?" asked a well-known voice, in tones that spoke more pleasure than alarm, and Vi, as she hurried through the hall, half blinded by the tears in her eyes, felt herself closely clasped by two strong arms that held her fast. "Oh, grandpa! I--I wish he hadn't!" she stammered, dropping her face upon his breast and bursting into tears. "Who, my pet? who has dared to ill use you?" he asked, caressing her. Vi lifted her head and looked up at him in surprise, for certainly his tone was rather amused than angry or stern. Then at a sudden remembrance of the captain's assertion that he had sought and obtained her grandfather's permission to offer her his hand, "Oh, grandpa, why did you let him?" she said, again hiding her blushing face on his breast; "you know I could never, never leave mamma! dear, dear mamma!" "I am glad to hear it!" he returned with satisfaction, repeating his caresses, "for I don't know what either she or I could do without you. And that was your answer to Capt. Raymond?" "Yes, sir." "Very well, go and tell mamma about it--she will be as glad as I am to hear that we are not to lose our darling little Vi--while I see what I can say to comfort the captain." He released her as he spoke, and she flew to do his bidding. Rosie and Walter were still with their mother in her boudoir, but as Violet came in with her flushed, agitated face, they were gently bidden to run away for a little while. As the door closed on them, Violet dropped on her knees by her mother's chair and laid her head in her lap, hiding her face. "My dear child! my dear, precious little daughter!" Elsie said, softly smoothing the golden tresses. "Mamma, you know?" "Yes, dearest." "O mamma, I can't leave you! how could I?" "Dear child! it would be a sore trial to have to part with you; and I cannot be sorry that you are not ready or willing to go. You are one of the very great blessings and comforts of your mother's life!" "Dearest mother, thank you! They are very sweet words to hear from your lips," Violet said, lifting her face to look up into her mother's with a beautiful smile. "And so you have said your suitor nay?" Elsie asked, with playful look and tone. "I hardly know what I said, mamma, except that I was too young and foolish and couldn't leave you!" "You do not care for him at all?" "I--I don't know, mamma!" and the sweet, innocent face was suffused with blushes; "I had never thought of his fancying me--hardly more than a child--while he--mamma, is he not very noble and good and wise? and so brave and unselfish!--you know how he risked his life to save a poor old negress; and how much he has suffered in consequence, and how patiently he has borne it all!" "And how handsome he is?" "Yes, mamma, one reads the nobility of his nature in his face, and his bearing is soldierly." "Ah, my little girl! my heart misgives me that I hold you by a very frail tenure!" Elsie sighed between a smile and a tear, as she bent her head to look searchingly into the depths of the azure eyes. Violet's face crimsoned, and her head went down again into her mother's lap. "Mamma, you need not fear," she said, very low and tremulously, "I have rejected his offer, and I cannot leave you." "I am much mistaken if he is so easily repulsed," Elsie said. "He is a brave soldier, and will renew the assault nor raise the siege of my daughter's heart until he has brought it to a full if not unconditional surrender." "Mamma, I wish I could run away." "Come, then, to the Laurels with me, and you need not return until bedtime to-night, unless you choose." Vi's face brightened, then clouded again. "Thank you, mamma, I will go, yet it will be putting off the evil day for but a very little while." "It will give you time to think and analyze your own feelings, so that you will be the better prepared for the next assault," was the playful rejoinder. "Go now, dear child, and make yourself ready. The carriage will be at the door almost immediately--Arthur has consented to my taking the children in a close carriage. They must return before sundown, but you need not be in such haste." Mr. Dinsmore did not find Capt. Raymond looking so completely cast down as he had expected. His face was slightly flushed, his expression somewhat perplexed and disappointed, but by no means despairing. "I fear I have been too precipitate," he said, in answer to his host's inquiring look. "'The more haste the less speed,' as the old proverb has it. I fear I frightened the dear girl by too sudden and vehement an avowal of my passion. Yet I trust it may not be too late to retrieve my error." "She rejected your suit?" Mr. Dinsmore said interrogatively. "Yes, she seemed to do so!" sighed the lover, "yet the objections she urged are not insurmountable. She calls herself too young and foolish, but I hope to convince her that that is a mistake. Young she is indeed, but very far from foolish. She cannot leave her mother is another objection, but that I should not ask her to do--as a landlubber might," he added sportively, "would in all probability. As much of my life must be spent at sea, it would not be worth while to set up a home of my own on land, if I had a wife who preferred to live with her mother." "Well, sir, that is certainly much in your favor," said Mr. Dinsmore; "our greatest, almost our only objection to your suit being the thought of parting with the child of our love." When Violet came home that evening she did not rejoin the family in the parlor, but went directly to her own apartments. "Where is mamma?" she inquired of her maid as she threw off her hat and cloak. "In de parlor, Miss Wi'let." "Are the children in bed and asleep?" "Yes, miss." Violet opened a bureau drawer and took therefrom several small packages. Undoing one, she brought to light the miniature of her father which she had painted. She carried it to the lamp and stood for some minutes gazing down upon the beloved face with fast-falling tears. "Oh, papa, papa!" she murmured, "how hard it is to live without you!" At length closing the case and restoring it to the box whence she had taken it, she gathered up the other parcels and went first to her mother's dressing-room, where she laid the little box on the toilet-table, then on to the rooms occupied by her younger sister and brothers, leaving a gift for each. Going back to her own rooms, she espied a letter directed to herself, which she had not noticed before. She had seen Capt. Raymond's handwriting frequently during the weeks he had been at Ion, and recognized it at a glance. The rich color rushed over face and neck, and her heart beat fast. "Agnes," she said to her maid, "you may go now; I shall not need you any more to-night," and the girl went out, leaving her alone. Even then she did not at once open her letter, but moved slowly back and forth for some minutes, with it in her hand. Then kneeling down she asked earnestly for heavenly guidance in this important crisis of her life. Looking into her own heart that day, she had learned that she was far from indifferent to him who had asked her to exchange with him vows of mutual love and trust, and to be the partner of his joys and sorrows. She was not indifferent, but did she love him well enough to leave, for his sake, the dear home of her childhood and the sweet mother to whom her heart had ever clung with the most ardent affection? CHAPTER XIV. "Nor less was she in heart affected, But that she masked it with modesty, For fear she should of lightness be detected." --_Spenser's "Fairy Queen."_ Violet had lingered at the Laurels, with her Aunt Rose, for some hours after her mother returned to Ion with the children, and in the meanwhile there had been a long talk between Mrs. Travilla and Capt. Raymond, in which he had pleaded his cause with all the eloquence an ardent passion could inspire. Elsie's answer was, "If you have won my daughter's heart, her hand shall not be refused you. But she is yet too young for the grave responsibilities of married life. Nor can I reconcile myself to the thought of parting with her so soon; therefore I should greatly prefer to have the matter dropped, at least for the present." The captain repeated what he had said to Mr. Dinsmore in regard to his willingness to leave Violet with her mother if only he might have her for his wife. "That would be very pleasant," Elsie said her eyes shining; "and so far you have the decided advantage of a suitor who would carry her away from us; but, Captain, you are a father, and the woman whom you marry should be not only a wife to you, but also a mother to your children; but for that care and responsibility my little Vi is, I fear, far too young. Indeed, my mother heart can ill brook the thought of her being so burdened in the very morning of her life." "Nor should I be willing to burden her, my dear Mrs. Travilla," he said with feeling; "she should never bear the lightest burden that I could save her from. But, my dear madam, would my children be any better off if I should remain single? I think not, and I also think that should I marry another while my heart is your daughter's, I should be doing very wrong. But I cannot; if I fail to win her I shall remain as I am to the end of my days." "I trust not," she said; "you may get over this and meet with some one else with whom you can be very happy." He shook his head very decidedly. "I feel that that is impossible. But how was it in your own case, Mrs. Travilla? Mrs. Dinsmore is, I understand, but a few years older than yourself." "That is quite true, sir; and I know papa never let her take any responsibility in regard to me, but taught, trained, and cared for me in all respects himself; he was father and mother both to me," she said with a lovely smile; "but you, my dear sir, are so situated that you could not follow his example; you can neither stay at home with your children nor take them to sea with you." "True, but they can stay where they are quite as well if I am married as if I remain without a wife. I love them very dearly, Mrs. Travilla, and earnestly desire to do my whole duty to them, but I do not think it a part of that either to do without the dear little wife I covet, or to burden her with cares unsuited to her tender years. Are you not willing to let me settle this question of duty for myself?" "I certainly have not the shadow of a right or inclination to attempt to settle any question of duty for you, sir," she answered with sweet gentleness, "but I must, I think, try to help my dear child to consider such questions for herself. And with her, after all, must the decision of this matter remain." Both mother and lover waited with anxiety for that decision, and while waiting the captain wrote his letter, the mother busied herself with her accustomed cares and duties as daughter, mother, mistress, and hostess, each heart lifting up silent petitions that the result might be for God's glory and the best interests of all concerned. Elsie was not surprised that Violet did not join the family that evening on her return from the Laurels. "She doubtless wants a talk with her mother first," was her silent comment on learning that Vi had gone directly to that part of the house in which the private apartments of the family were situated, and presently, as all separated for the night, she sought her own dressing-room, expecting to find Violet waiting for her there. But the room was unoccupied; one swift glance revealed that fact, and also showed her the box Violet had left on her toilet-table, and beside it some little token of love and remembrance from each of the other members of the family. A label on each told who was the giver, and breathed of tender affection to her for whom it was prepared. She looked them over with glistening eyes, a heart full of gratitude for the loves still left her, though sore with the thought, recalled by every anniversary, of him who was gone, and a sweet and beautiful smile playing about her lips. Violet's gift was the last to be taken up and examined. So life-like was the pictured face suddenly exposed to Elsie's view that it startled her almost as if he had come in and stood by her side. The label told her it was from Violet, but even without that she would have recognized it as her work; and that it was so made it all the more precious to the widowed mother. She was gazing intently upon it, her lips quivering, the big tears dropping fast down her cheeks, as Violet, with Capt. Raymond's letter in her hand, opened the door, came softly in, and glided noiselessly to her side. "Dearest mamma," she murmured, stealing an arm about her mother's waist, "does it please you?" "Nothing could be more like him! My darling, thank you a thousand times!" "I painted almost entirely from memory, mamma, and it was emphatically a labor of love--love to you and to him. Oh, how sadly sweet it was to see the dear face growing day by day under my hand!" "Has your grandpa seen it?" "Yes, mamma, he used to come in sometimes and watch me at my work. He thinks as you do of the likeness. Ah, I hear his step!" and she hastened to open the door for him. "I thought I should find you here," he said, kissing her on both cheeks, then drawing her near the light and gazing with keen, loving scrutiny into the blushing face. "Elsie daughter," turning to her--"Ah!" as he perceived her emotion and took note of the miniature in her hand, "is it not a speaking likeness?" "Yes, papa," she said in a trembling voice, going to him to lay her head on his breast while he clasped her in his arms, "but it has roused such an intense longing in my heart! "'Oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!" "Dearest child!" he said tenderly, "the separation is only for time, and a long eternity of reunion will follow. 'Our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.'" "'But for a moment!'" she repeated. "Yes, it will seem like that when it is past, though now the road looks so long and lonely." "Ah, dearest!" he said, softly smoothing her hair, "remember that nearer, dearer Friend whose promise is, 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.'" Presently she lifted her head, wiped away her tears, and as her father released her from his arms, turned to her daughter with a tenderly interested and inquiring look. "What is it, my darling?" she asked, glancing at the letter in the young girl's hand. Violet gave it to her, saying, with downcast eyes and blushing cheeks, "I found it on my dressing-table, mamma. It is from him--Capt. Raymond--and I have written a note in reply." "Shall I go away, Vi, and leave you and your mamma to your confidences?" Mr. Dinsmore asked playfully, putting an arm about each and looking with smiling eyes from one to the other. "No, grandpa, please stay; you know I have no secrets from you," Violet answered, half hiding her face on his shoulder. "And are grandpa and I to read both epistles--yours and his?" asked her mother. "If you please, mamma. But mine is not to be given unless you both approve." The captain's was a straightforward, manly letter, renewing his offer with a hearty avowal of strong and deathless love, and replying to her objections as he had already in talking with her mother and grandfather. Violet's answer did not contain any denial of a return of his affection; she simply thanked him for the honor done her, but said she did not feel old enough or wise enough for the great responsibilities of married life. "Rather non-committal, isn't it, little cricket?" was her grandfather's playful comment. "It strikes me that you neither accept nor reject him." "Why, grandpa," she said confusedly, "I thought it was a rejection." Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter had seated themselves near the table, on which a lamp was burning, and Violet knelt on a hassock at her mother's feet, half hiding her blushing face on her lap. "Ah, my little girl!" Elsie said, with playful tenderness, putting one hand under Vi's chin, and lifting the fair face to look into it with keen, loving scrutiny, "were I the captain, I should not despair; the citadel of my Vi's heart is half won." The cheeks were dyed with hotter blushes at that, but no denial came from the ruby lips. "Mamma, I do not want to marry yet for years," she said, "and I think it will not be easy for any one to win me away from you." "But he says he will not take you away," remarked her grandpa. "Are you on his side, grandpa?" asked Violet. "Only if your heart is, my dear child." "And in that case I am on his side too," said her mother, "because I desire my little girl's happiness even more than her dear companionship as exclusively my own." "Except what belongs to her grandpa and guardian," said Mr. Dinsmore, taking Vi's arm and gently drawing her to a seat upon his knee. Vi put her arms about his neck. "The dearest, kindest grandpa and guardian that ever anybody had!" she said, giving him a kiss of ardent affection. "Well, if you, sir, and mamma are both on the captain's side, I suppose it won't do for me to reject him. But you say my note isn't a rejection, so will you please give it to him? And if he isn't satisfied to take it for no and let me alone on the subject, he may wait a year or two and see if--if he still feels toward me as he does now, and perhaps--only perhaps--if he hasn't changed his mind and asks again----" "You may say yes?" Mr. Dinsmore asked as she broke off in confusion. "Oh, grandpa, say what you think best! only don't make it too easy for him," she said, with an arch smile, but blushing deeply. "I think," said Mr. Dinsmore, "I shall only give him your note without any additions of my own, and leave him to carry on further negotiations, or not, as he sees fit." Capt. Raymond did not take Vi's answer as a decided rejection, and within twenty-four hours had won from her an acknowledgment that she was not indifferent to him, and persuaded her to promise him her hand at some far-off future day. All seemed well contented with the arrangement, and the week that followed was a very delightful one to the lovers. In the mean time his Christmas gifts to his children had been received by them with great joy. Especially did Max and Lulu rejoice over the opportunity now afforded them to open their hearts to their father and tell him all their grievances. He had written to both Mr. Fox and Mrs. Scrimp directing his gifts to be delivered into the children's own hands without any examination, and never to be taken from them. Also that they be allowed to spend their Christmas together. So Max was permitted to go to Mrs. Scrimp's to spend the day with his sisters, and was well pleased to do so when he learned that that lady would not be at home, having accepted an invitation to take her Christmas dinner elsewhere. Ann, who was left at home to look after the children, gave them an excellent dinner, and Max, having found some money in his desk, came provided with candies. They compared presents, and spent some time over the books their father had sent, then Max and Lulu decided that it would be best to write now to their father, thanking him for his gifts and telling him all they had so long wanted him to know. Lulu compressed what she had to say into a few lines--her love, thanks, longing to see papa, Gracie's feebleness, and her own belief that it was all because she did not get enough to eat; an acknowledgment that she was saucy to "Aunt Beulah," and sometimes helped herself to food, but excusing it on the plea that otherwise she too would be half starved; and that poor Max was often beaten and abused by Mr. Fox for just nothing at all. Max's letter was much longer, as he went more into detail, and was not finished for several days. When it was he inclosed it and Lulu's, which she had given into his charge, in one of the envelopes that he had found in his desk ready stamped and directed, and mailed it to his father. These letters reached Ion on New Year's morning. The captain read them with deep concern, first to himself, then to Mrs. Travilla and Violet, as they happened to be alone together in the parlor. The hearts of both ladies were deeply touched, and their eyes filled with tears as they listened to the story of the wrongs of the poor motherless children. "Oh, captain, you will not leave them there where they are so ill used?" Vi said almost imploringly; "it breaks my heart to think of their sufferings!" "Don't let it distress you, my dear girl," he replied soothingly; "we should perhaps make some allowance for unintentional exaggeration. There are always two sides to a story, and we have but one here." "But told in a very straightforward way," Elsie said with warmth. "Both letters seem to me to bear the stamp of truth. Depend upon, it, captain, there is good ground for their complaints." "I fear so," he said, "and am quite as anxious, my dear Mrs. Travilla, as you could wish to set my dear children free from such tyranny; but what can I do? In obedience to orders, I must return to my vessel to-morrow and sail at once for a distant foreign port. I cannot go to see about my darlings, and I know of no better place to put them. I shall, however, write to Mrs. Scrimp, directing her to have immediately the best medical advice for Gracie, and to follow it, feeding her as the doctor directs. Also always to give Lulu as much as she wants of good, plain, wholesome food. I shall also write to Fox, giving very particular directions in regard to the management of my son." CHAPTER XV. "Great minds, like heaven, are pleased in doing good." --_Rowe_. Capt. Raymond's departure left Violet more lonely than his coming had found her, much as she was at that time missing her elder sister and brother. They were to correspond, but as he would sail immediately for a foreign port, the exchange of letters between them could not, of course, be very frequent. Her mother, grandpa, and Grandma Rose all sympathized with her in the grief of separation from the one who had become so dear, and exerted themselves to cheer and comfort her. She and her mamma were bosom companions, and had many a confidential chat about the captain and his poor children, the desire to rescue the latter from their tormentors and make them very happy growing in the hearts of both. As the captain had not enjoined secrecy upon them in regard to the letters of Max and Lulu, and it was so much the habit of both to speak freely to Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore--especially the former--of all that interested themselves, it was not long before they too had heard, with deep commiseration, the story of the unkind treatment to which Max, Lulu, and Gracie were subjected. "We must find a way to be of service to them," Mr. Dinsmore said. "Perhaps by instituting inquiries among our friends and acquaintances we may hear of some kind and capable person able and willing to take charge of them, and to whom their father would be willing to commit them." "I wish we could!" Elsie said with a sigh. "I think I can fully sympathize with the poor things, for I have not forgotten how in my early childhood I used to long and weep for the dear mamma who had gone to heaven, and my dear papa away in Europe." "A very poor sort of father he was then, very culpably neglectful of his little motherless child," Mr. Dinsmore said in a remorseful tone, and regarding her with a tenderly affectionate look. "But afterward and to this day the very best of fathers," she responded, smiling up at him. "Dear papa, what a debt of gratitude do I not owe to you for all the love, care, and kindness shown by you to me and my children!" "I feel fully repaid by the love and obedience I receive in return," he said, seating himself on the sofa by Vi's side and softly stroking her hair. "Children and grandchildren all rise up and call you blessed, dear papa," Elsie said, laying down the embroidery with which she had been busy, and coming to his other side to put her arm about his neck and gaze lovingly into his eyes. A silent caress as he passed his arm around her waist and drew her closer to him was his only response. "Grandpa and mamma," said Vi, "don't you think Capt. Raymond is to be pitied? Just think! he has neither father nor mother, brother nor sister! no near and dear one except his children; and from them he is separated almost all the time." "Yes," said Mr. Dinsmore, "I do indeed! but am not sorry enough for him to give you up to him yet. I would not allow your mamma to marry till she was several years older than you are now." "No, sir," said Elsie, smiling, "I well remember that you utterly forbade me to listen to any declarations of love from man or boy, or to think of such things if I could possibly help it." "Well, you lost nothing by waiting." "Lost! oh, no, no papa!" she cried, dropping her head upon his shoulder, while a scalding tear fell to the memory of the husband so highly honored, so dearly loved. "My dear child! my poor dear child!" her father said very low and tenderly, pressing her closer to his side; "the separation is only for the little while of time, the reunion will be for the endless ages of eternity." "A most sweet and comforting thought, dear father," she said, lifting her head and smiling through her tears; "and with that glad prospect and so many dear ones left me, I am a very happy woman still." At that moment there was an interruption that for a long time put to flight all thought of effort on behalf of Capt. Raymond's children: Herbert and Harold came hurrying in with the news that a summons to Roselands had come for their grandpa, grandma, and mother. Mrs. Conly had had another stroke, was senseless, speechless, and apparently dying; also the shock of her seizure had prostrated her father, and Arthur considered him dangerously ill. The summons was promptly obeyed, and Violet left in the temporary charge of children, house, and servants at Ion. Mrs. Conly died that night, but the old gentleman lingered for several weeks, during which time his son was a constant attendant at his bedside, either Rose or Elsie almost always sharing the watch and labor of love. At length all was over: the spirit had returned to God who gave it, the body had been laid to rest in the family vault. Mr. Dinsmore and his wife and daughter went home to Ion, and life there fell back into its old quiet grooves. They spoke tenderly of the old grandfather, and kept his memory green in their loving hearts, but he had gone to his grave like a shock of corn fully ripe, and they did not mourn over his death with the sadness they might have felt had it been that of a younger member of the family. Toward spring Capt. Raymond's letters became urgent for a speedy marriage. He expected to be ordered home in June and allowed a rest of some weeks or months. Then he might be sent to some distant quarter of the globe, and not see his native land again for a long while, perhaps years. Under such circumstances, how could he wait for his little wife? Would not she and her mother and grandfather consent to let him claim her in June? The tender hearts of Elsie and Violet could not stand out against his appeals. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore felt for him too, and at length consent was given, and preparations for the marriage were set on foot. Then the talk about the captain's children was renewed, and Vi said, with tears in her sweet azure eyes, "Mamma, I do feel like being a mother to them--especially for his sake--it only I were old enough and wise enough to command their respect and obedience. Ah, mamma, if only you could have the training of them! Yet I could not bear to have you so burdened." "I have been thinking of it, Vi, dear," Elsie said; "that perhaps we could give them a happy home here, and help them to grow up to good and noble man and womanhood, if their father would like to delegate his authority to your grandpa and you and me. I think we would not abuse it, but without it 'twould be quite useless to undertake the charge." "Dear mamma!" cried Vi, her eyes shining, "how good, how kind, and unselfish you always are!" Mr. Dinsmore, entering the room at the moment, asked playfully, "What is the particular evidence of that patent at this time, Vi?" She answered his question by repeating what her mother had just said. "I have a voice in that," he remarked, with, a grave shake of the head. "I do not think, daughter, that I can allow you to be so burdened." She rose, went to him where he stood, and putting her arms about his neck, her eyes gazing fondly into his, "Dear papa," she said, "you know I will do nothing against your wishes, but I am sure you will not hinder me from doing any work the Master sends me?" "No, dear child, you are more His than mine, and I dare not, would not interfere if He has sent you work; but the question is, has He done so?" "If you please, papa, we will take a little time to consider that question; shall we not?" "Yes," he said, "it need not be decided to-day. The right training and educating of those children would certainly be a good work, and could it be so managed that I could do all the hard and unpleasant part of it----" he said musingly. "Oh no! no! my dear father," she hastily interposed, as he paused, leaving his sentence unfinished, "the work should be mine if undertaken at all." "Perhaps," he said, "it might be tried for a short time as a mere experiment, to be continued only if the children do not prove ungovernable, or likely to be an injury to our own; for our first duty is to them." "Yes indeed, papa!" responded his daughter earnestly. "And nothing can be really decided upon until Capt. Raymond comes. He may have other plans for his children." "Yes, it is quite possible he may think best to place Max and Lulu at school somewhere." "But poor little sick Gracie!" said Violet, the tears springing to her eyes. "Mamma, I do want to have her to love and pet, and I think if we had her here with our good old mammy to nurse her, and Cousin Arthur to attend her, she might grow to be strong and healthy." "Dear child! I am glad to hear you say that!" said Elsie, "for it is just as I have been thinking and feeling. My heart yearns over the poor motherless children, and that little feeble one very especially." Capt. Raymond was deeply touched when, shortly after his arrival at Ion to claim his bride, he learned what was in her heart and her mother's toward his children. After due deliberation it was settled that the experiment should be tried. Arrangements were made for the whole family to spend the summer in two adjoining cottages at a lovely seaside resort on the New England coast, Mrs. Dinsmore to be mistress of one house, Violet of the other, while the captain could be with her, which he had reason to expect would be for several months. In the fall he would probably be ordered away; then Violet would return to Ion with her mother and the rest of the family, taking his children with her, if Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie should still feel willing to take them in charge. He had a high opinion of Dr. Conly's skill as a physician, and was extremely anxious to place Gracie under his care. Also he thought that to no other persons in the world would he so joyfully commit his children to be trained up and educated as to Mr. Dinsmore, his daughter and granddaughter, and he was more than willing to delegate to them his own authority during his absences from home. The marriage would take place at Ion, the bride and groom start northward the same day on a wedding tour. On the return trip to the spot which was to be their home for the summer, they would call for the captain's children. In the mean time the others would complete their arrangements for the season, journey northward also, and take possession of their seaside cottage. It was a sore disappointment to the whole family at Ion, but especially to Violet and her brother, that Elsie Leland could not be present at the wedding. Lester's health was almost entirely restored, but he felt it important to him as an artist to prolong his stay in Italy for at least some months. Edward had remained with them through the winter, had left them in April, intending to make an extensive European tour before returning to his native land, but would surely hasten home for Vi's wedding if his mother's summons reached him in season. CHAPTER XVI. "Here love his golden shafts employs, here lights His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings." --_Rowly_. It was Saturday evening. Edward Travilla, travelling leisurely through France, had stopped in a village not many miles from Paris, to spend the Sabbath. Having taken his supper and afterward a stroll through the village, he retired to his room to read and answer a budget of letters just received from America. The first he opened was from his mother. It told of Violet's approaching marriage and urged his immediate return that he might be present at the ceremony. "We are all longing to see you," she wrote, "your mother more, I believe, than any one else. If you have not had enough of Europe yet, my dear boy, you can go back again soon, if you wish, perhaps taking some of us with you. And Vi will be sorely disappointed if you are not present on the occasion so important to her." "I must certainly go," he mused, laying down the letter. "I should not like to miss it. Vi will be as lovely a bride as Elsie was. I have never been able to decide which of the two is the more beautiful; but I wonder that she is allowed to marry so young--just nineteen! I should have had her wait a year or two at least." There was a step in the hall without, a rap on the door. "Come in," Edward said, and Ben appeared. "Marse Ed'ard, dey tells me dars a 'Merican gentleman bery sick in de room cross de hall hyar; gwine ter die, I reckon." "Indeed!" Edward said with concern. "I should be glad to be of assistance to him. Is he quite alone, Ben? I mean has he no friends with him?" "I b'lieves dar's a lady long wid him, Marse Ed'ard, but I mos'ly has to guess 'bout de half ob what dese Frenchers say." "You don't know the name, Ben?" "No, sah, couldn't make it out de way dey dispronounces it. But I understands, sah, dat dese folks--meanin' de sick gentleman and de lady--and we's de only 'Mericans in de town." "Then here, Ben, take my card to the lady and ask if I can be of service to them. Say that I am a countryman of theirs and shall be most happy to do anything in my power." Ben came back the next moment with a face full of grave concern. "Marse Ed'ard," he said, "it's Mistah Love and Miss Zoe." "Is it possible!" cried Edward, starting up. "And is he really so very ill?" "Berry sick, Marse Ed'ard, looks like he's dyin' sho nuff." "Oh, dreadful! And no one with him but his daughter?" "Dat's all, sah. De young lady come to de do', and when I give her de card, she look at it and den at me an' say, 'O Ben! I thought we hadn't a friend in all dis country! and papa so very sick! Please tell Mr. Travilla we'll be glad to see him.'" Edward went to them at once, bidding Ben remain near at hand lest he should be needed to do some errand. The Loves had remained in Rome for a few weeks after Elsie's marriage, during which Edward had met them frequently, his liking for the father and admiration of the daughter's beauty and sprightliness increasing with every interview. He had found Mr. Love a sensible, well-informed Christian gentleman. The daughter was a mere child--only fifteen--extremely pretty and engaging, but evidently too much petted and indulged, her father's spoiled darling. Edward knew that she was an only child and motherless, and was much shocked and grieved to hear that she was likely to lose her only remaining parent. Zoe herself opened the door in answer to his gentle rap. "O Mr. Travilla!" she said, giving him both hands in her joy at seeing a friendly face in this hour of sore distress, but with tears streaming down her cheeks, "I am so glad you have come! Papa is so sick, and I don't know what to do, or where to turn." "My poor child! we must hope for the best," Edward said, pressing the little hands compassionately in his. "You must call upon me for help and let me do whatever I can for you and your poor father, just as if I were his son and your brother." "Oh, thank you! you are very kind. Will you come now and speak to him?" and she led the way to the bedside. "Travilla!" the sick man exclaimed, feebly holding out his hand. "Thank God for sending you here!" Edward took the offered hand in his, saying with an effort to steady his tones, "I am glad indeed to be here, sir, if you can make use of me, but very sorry to see you so ill." The hand he held was cold and clammy, and death had plainly set his seal upon the pale face on the pillow. "Shall I send Ben for a physician?" Edward asked. "Thank you. I have had one; he will be here again presently, but can do little for me," the sick man answered, speaking slowly and with frequent pauses. "Zoe, my darling, go into the next room for a moment, dear. I would be alone with Mr. Travilla for a little while." The weeping girl obeyed at once, her father following her with eyes that were full of anguish. "'Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive,'" repeated Edward in low tones, tremulous with deep sympathy. How this scene brought back that other, but a year and a half ago, when his own father lay wrestling with the king of terrors! "Yes, yes, precious promise! for she will soon be that, my poor darling!" groaned the sufferer. "That I must leave her alone in the world, without one near relative, alone in a strange land, penniless too, oh this is the bitterness of death!" "I will be a friend to her, sir," Edward said with emotion, "and so I am sure will my mother and grandfather when they learn her sad story. Tell me your wishes in regard to her, and I will do my best to see them carried out." As briefly as possible, for his strength was waning, Mr. Love made Edward acquainted with the state of his affairs. He had retired from business the previous year with a comfortable competence, and being somewhat out of health, had undertaken a European tour with the hope of benefit, if not entire recovery. The improvement had been very decided for a time, but within the last few days distressing news had reached him from America; news of the failure, through the extensive peculation of one of its officers, of a bank in which the bulk of his savings had been invested. He had other property, but as the law made each stockholder liable for double the amount of his stock, that too was swallowed up and he thus utterly ruined. The terrible shock of the disaster had so increased his malady that it had become mortal; he was too utterly prostrated to rally from it, and knew that his hours on earth were numbered. He had a little ready money with him, enough he thought to pay his funeral expenses and Zoe's passage back to her native land, but such a mere child as she was, always used to depending upon him to see to all their affairs, she would not know how to manage, and would probably be robbed of the little she had. And even if she should arrive safely in her own country, what was to become of her then? Without means, no one upon whom she had any claim for assistance, and too young and ignorant to do anything to earn her own living. Edward was deeply moved by the sad recital. "My dear Mr. Love," he said, "make yourself quite easy about Miss Zoe. I will attend to all these matters about which you have spoken. I am about to return home myself, and will be her companion and protector on the voyage. Nor shall she want for friends or any needed assistance after we arrive." "God bless you! you have lifted a heavy load from my heart!" faltered the dying father, with a look of deep gratitude. "You are young, sir, but I can trust you fully. There are few older men whom I would as willingly trust." "And you can die in peace, trusting in the Saviour of sinners?" "Yes; He is all my hope, all my trust." "I have been told there is a Protestant minister in the village. Shall I send Ben for him?" "Yes, thank you; I should be glad to see him, though I feel that he or any man could be of little assistance to me now, if the work of repentance and faith had been left for this hour." Edward went to the door, called Ben and sent him on the errand, then coming back to the bedside, "Mr. Love," he said, flushing and speaking with some little hesitation, "will you give your daughter to me if she is willing?" "Give her to you?" the sick man asked as if not fully comprehending. "Yes, sir; give her to me to wife, and I will cherish her to life's end." There was a flash of joy in the dying eyes, quickly succeeded by one of hesitation and doubt. "Is it love or compassion only that moves you to this most generous offer?" he asked. "It is both," Edward said. "I have admired and felt strongly attracted to her from the first day of our acquaintance, though I did not recognize it as love until now. We are both so young that I should not have spoken yet but for the peculiar circumstances in which we are placed; but I truly, dearly love the sweet girl and earnestly desire to be given the right to protect, provide for and cherish her as my dearest earthly treasure so long as we both shall live." "But your friends, your relatives?" "I think my mother would not object, if she knew all. But I am of age, so have an undoubted right to act for myself even in so vitally important a matter." "Then if my darling loves you, let me see you united before I die." At this moment the door of the adjoining room opened and Zoe's voice was heard in imploring, tearful accents: "Mayn't I come back now? O papa, I cannot stay away from you any longer!" Edward hastened to her, and taking both her hands in his, "Dear Miss Zoe," he said, "I love you, I feel for you, I want to make you my very own, if you can love me in return, that I may have the right to take care of you. Will you be my dear little wife? will you marry me now, to-night, that your father may be present and feel that he will not leave you alone and unprotected?" She looked up at him in utter surprise, then seeing the love and pity in his face, burst into a passion of grief. "Leave me! papa going to leave me!" she cried. "Oh, no, no! I cannot bear it! He must, he will be better soon! O Mr. Travilla, say that he will!" "No, my darling!" replied a quivering voice from the bed, "I shall not live to see the morning light, and if you love Mr. Travilla tell him so and let me see you married before I die." "Can you, do you love me, dear little Zoe?" Edward asked in tenderest tones, passing his arm about her waist. "Yes," she said half under her breath, with a quick glance up into his face, then hid her own on his breast, sobbing, "Oh, take care of me! for I'll be all alone in the wide world when dear papa is gone." "I will," he said, pressing her closer, softly pushing back the fair hair from the white temple and touching his lips to it again and again. "God helping me, I will be to you a tender, true, and loving husband." "Come here, Zoe, darling," her father said, "our time grows short;" and Edward led her to the bedside. "O papa, papa!" she sobbed, falling on her knees and laying her wet cheek to his. Edward, with heart and eyes full to overflowing, moved softly away to the farther side of the room, that in this last sad interview the constraint of even his presence might not be felt. Low sobs and murmured words of tenderness and fatherly counsel reached his ear, and his heart went up in silent prayer for both the dying one and her just about to be so sorely bereaved. Presently footsteps approached the door opening into the passage, a gentle tap followed, and he admitted the minister who had been sent for, beckoning Ben to come in also. A few whispered words passed between Edward and the minister, then both drew near the bed. A brief talk with the dying man, in which he professed himself ready and willing to depart, trusting in the atoning blood and imputed righteousness of Christ, a short fervent prayer for him and his child, then Edward, leaning over the still kneeling, weeping Zoe, whispered, "Now, dearest!" The tear-dimmed eyes looked up inquiringly. "We are going to belong to each other, are we not?" he said very low and tenderly. "The minister is ready now to speak the words that will make us one for the rest of our lives." Without speaking she rose, wiping away her tears, put her hand within his arm, and the ceremony began. When it was over Edward took her in his arms, saying softly as he pressed his lips again and again to her forehead, her cheek, her lips, "My wife, my own dear little wife!" "My child! my darling!" murmured the father, feebly reaching for her hand. Edward took it and put it into his. The dying fingers closed feebly over it. "Lord, I thank thee for this great mercy! 'Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.'" The words came low and faintly from the lips already growing cold in death, a gasp for breath followed, and all was still, no sound in the room but Zoe's wild weeping, while with silent caresses Edward held her to his heart. They laid him to rest in the nearest Protestant cemetery, for such had been his request. In answer to a question from her young husband, Zoe said, "No, no. I shall not wear mourning! I detest it, and so did papa. He made me promise I would not wear it for him. I shall dress in white whenever it is suitable. That is if you like it," she added quickly. "Oh, I shall try to please you always, dear Edward, for you are all I have in the world, and so, so dear and good to me!" and her head went down upon his breast. "My darling little wife!" he said, holding her close, "you are so dear and lovely in my eyes that I find you beautiful in everything you wear. Yet I am glad you do not care to assume that gloomy dress." There was no time to be lost if they would catch the next steamer for America, which Edward felt it important to do; so within an hour after the funeral they were en route for Paris, and that night found them on board, beginning their homeward voyage. Zoe in her deep grief shrank from contact with strangers and clung to her young husband. So they kept themselves much apart from their fellow-passengers. Edward devoting himself to Zoe, soothing her with fond endearing words and tender caresses, and every day their hearts were more closely knit together. But she seemed half afraid to meet his kindred. "What if they dislike and despise me!" she said. "O Edward, if they do, will you turn against me?" "Never, my love, my darling! Have I not promised to love and cherish you to life's end? But if you knew my sweet mother, you would have no fear of her. She is a tender mother, and her kind heart is large enough to take you in among the rest of her children. You saw my sister Elsie in Rome--would you fear her?" "Oh, no; she was so lovely and sweet!" "But not more so than our mother; they are wonderfully alike, only mamma is, of course, some years the older. Yet I have often heard it remarked that she looks very little older than her eldest daughter." He talked a great deal to her of the different members of the Ion family, trying to make her acquainted with them all and their manner of life, which he described minutely. The picture he drew of mutual love and helpfulness between parents and children, brothers and sisters, was a charming one to Zoe, who had had a lonely, motherless childhood. "Ah, what a happy life is before me, Edward!" she said, "if only they will let me be one of them! But whether they will or no, I shall have you to love me! You will always be my husband and I your own little wife!" "Yes, darling, yes, indeed!" he answered, pressing the slight, girlish figure closer to his side. CHAPTER XVII. "Benedict the married man." --_Shakspeare_. Violet's wedding-day was drawing near and Edward had not been heard from, still they hoped he was on his way home and would yet arrive in season. Each day they looked for a telegram saying what train would bring him to their city, but none came. Edward had not written because a letter would travel no faster than themselves, and did not telegraph because so little could be said in that way. All things considered, it seemed as well to take his mother and the rest entirely by surprise. He had no fear that his little wife would meet with other than a kind reception, astounded as doubtless they would be to learn that he had one. But he would have the surprise come upon them all at home, where no stranger eye would witness the meeting; therefore sent no warning of his coming lest some one of them should meet him at the depôt. Yet the first object that met his eye on turning about from assisting Zoe to alight from the train, was the Ion family carriage, with Solon standing at the horses' heads. "Ki! Marse Ed'ard, you's here sho nuff!" cried the man, grinning with satisfaction. "Yes, Solon," Edward said, shaking hands with him. "Who came in with you?" "Nobody, sah. You wasn't spected particular, kase you didn't send no word. But Miss Elsie tole me fotch de kerridge anyhow, an' mebbe you mout be here." "So I am, Solon, and my wife with me," presenting Zoe, who timidly held out her little gloved hand. Solon took it respectfully, gazing at her in wide-eyed and open-mouthed wonder. "Ki! Marse Ed'ard, you don' say you's ben an' gwine an' got married! Why dere's weddin's an' weddin's in de family!" "So it seems, Solon," laughed Edward, putting Zoe into the carriage and taking his place beside her, "but as I am older than Miss Vi, my turn should come before hers. All well at Ion?" "Yes, sah, an' mighty busy wid de necessary preparations for Miss Wilet's weddin'." "What an elegant, comfortable, easy-rolling carriage!" remarked Zoe, leaning back against the cushions, "it's a pleasant change from the cars." "I am glad you find it so, dear," Edward responded, gazing upon her with fond, admiring eyes. "Yes, but--O Edward, how will I be received?" she cried, creeping closer to him and leaning her head on his shoulder. "I can hardly help wishing I could just be alone with you always." "Don't be afraid, dearest," he said, putting his arm round her and kissing her tenderly again and again. "When you know them all you will be very far from wishing that." The whole family were gathered upon the veranda when the carriage drove up. As it stopped, the door was thrown open, and Edward sprang out. There was a general exclamation, of surprise and delight, a simultaneous springing forward to give him an affectionate, joyous greeting; then a wondering murmur and exchange of inquiring glances, as he turned to hand out a slight girlish figure, and drawing her hand within his arm, came up the veranda steps. Elsie stood nearest of all the waiting group, heart and eyes full of joyous emotion at sight of the handsome face and manly form so like his father's. "Darling mother!" he exclaimed, throwing his free arm about her and giving her an ardent kiss. Then drawing forward the blushing, trembling Zoe. "My little wife, mother dear you will love her now for my sake, and soon for her own. She is all ours--alone in the world but for us." Before the last words had left his lips Zoe felt herself folded in a tender embrace, while the sweetest of voices said, "Dear child! you are alone no longer. I will be a true mother to you--my Edward's wife--and you shall be one of my dear daughters." A gentle, loving kiss accompanied the words, and all Zoe's fears were put to flight; glad tears rained down her cheeks as she clung about the neck of her new-found mother. "Oh, I love you already," she sobbed. Mrs. Dinsmore next embraced the little bride with a kind, "Welcome to Ion, my dear." Then Mr. Dinsmore took her in his arms, saying, with a kiss and a look of keen but kindly scrutiny into the blushing face, "Edward has given us a surprise, but a very pretty and pleasant-looking one. I am your grandpa, my dear." "Oh, I am glad! I never had a grandpa before. But you hardly look old enough, sir," she said, smiling, while the blush deepened on her cheek. The others crowded round; each had a kiss and kind word of welcome for her as well as for Edward. Then the news of the arrival having spread through the house, the servants came flocking about them, eager to see and shake hands with "Marse Ed'ard" and his bride. Zoe went through it all with easy grace, but Elsie noted that her cheek was paling and her figure drooping with weariness. "She is tired, Edward; we will take her to your apartments, where she can lie down and rest," she said. "All this excitement is very trying after her long and fatiguing journey. You both should have some refreshment too. What shall it be?" "Thank you, mamma; I will consult her when I get her up there, then ring and order it," Edward said, putting his arm round Zoe's waist and half carrying her up the stairs, his mother leading the way. "There, Zoe, what think you of your husband's bachelor quarters?" he asked gayly, as he deposited her in an easy-chair, took off her hat, and stood looking fondly down at her, Elsie on the other side, looking at her too with affectionate interest. "Oh, lovely!" cried Zoe, glancing about upon her luxurious surroundings. "I am sure I shall be very happy here with you, Edward," with a fond look up into his face; then turning toward Elsie, she added timidly, "and this sweet mother." "That is right, dear child," Elsie said, bending down to kiss her again, "call me mother or mamma, as Edward does, and never doubt your welcome to my heart and home. Now I shall leave you to rest, and Edward must see that all your wants are supplied." "O Edward, how sweet, how dear, and how beautiful she is!" cried Zoe, as the door closed on her mother-in-law. "Just as I told you, love," he said, caressing her. "She takes you to her heart and home without even waiting to inquire how I came to marry in haste without her knowledge or approval." "Or asking who I am or where I came from. But you will tell her everything as soon as you can?" "Yes; I shall wait only long enough to see you eat something and lying down for a nap, so that you will not miss me while I have my talk with her." Zoe, in this her first appearance among them, had produced a favorable impression upon all her new relatives; but the uppermost feeling with each, from the grandfather down, was one of profound astonishment that Edward had taken so serious a step without consulting those to whom he had hitherto yielded a respectful and loving obedience. Elsie could not fail to be pained to find her dearly loved father and herself so treated by one of her cherished darlings, yet tried to put the feeling aside and suspend her judgment until Edward had been given an opportunity to explain. The younger children gathered about her, with eager questioning as she rejoined them in the veranda. "I can tell you nothing yet, dears," she answered in her accustomed sweet and gentle tones, "but no doubt we shall know all about it soon. I think she is a dear little girl whom we shall all find it easy to love. We will do all we can to make her happy and at home among us, shall we not?" "Yes, mamma, yes indeed!" they all said. Mr. Dinsmore rose, and motioning to his wife and daughter to follow him went to the library. Elsie read grave displeasure in his countenance before he opened his lips. "Dear papa, do not be angry with my boy," she said pleadingly, going to him where he stood, and putting her arms about his neck. "Shall we not wait until we have heard his story?" "I shall try to suspend my judgment for your sake, daughter," Mr. Dinsmore answered, stroking her hair caressingly, "but I cannot help feeling that Edward seems to have strangely failed in the loving respect and obedience he should have shown to such a mother as his. He has taken very prompt advantage of his arrival at his majority." "Yet perhaps with good reason, papa," she returned, still beseechingly, her eyes filling with tears. "We will not condemn him unheard," he answered, his tones softening, "and if he has made a mistake by reason of failing to seek the advice and approval of those who so truly desire his happiness, it is he himself who must be the greatest sufferer thereby." "Yes," she returned with a sigh, "even a mother's love is powerless to save her children from the consequences of their own follies and sins." Edward, scarcely less desirous to make his explanation than his mother was to hear it, hastened in search of her the moment he had seen Zoe comfortably established upon a sofa in his dressing-room. He found her in the library with his grandfather evidently awaiting his coming. They were seated together upon a sofa. "Dearest mother," Edward said, dropping upon his knees by her side and clasping her in his arms, "how can I ever thank you enough for your kindness this day to me and my darling! I fear I must seem to you and grandpa an ungrateful wretch; but when you know all, you will not, I trust, blame me quite so severely." "We are not blaming you, my dear boy, we are waiting to hear first what you have to say for yourself," Elsie answered, laying her hand fondly upon his head. "Sit here by my side while you tell it," she added, making room for him on the sofa. He made his story brief, yet kept nothing back. His hearers were deeply moved as he repeated what Mr. Love had told him of the lonely and forlorn condition in which he must leave his petted only child, and went on to describe the hasty marriage and the death scene, so immediately following. Their kind hearts yearned over the little orphaned bride, and they exonerated Edward from all blame for the part he acted in the short, sad drama. "Cherish her tenderly, my dear boy," his mother said, with tears in her soft eyes, "you are all, everything to her, and must never let her want for love or tenderest care." "Mother," he answered in moved tones, "I shall try to be to my little wife just the husband my father was to you." "That is all any one could ask, my son," she returned, the tears coursing down her cheeks. "Do not expect too much of her, Edward," Mr. Dinsmore said. "She is a mere child, a petted and spoiled one, I presume, from what you have told us, and if she should prove wayward and at times unreasonable, be very patient and forbearing with her." "I trust I shall, grandpa," he answered. "I cannot expect her to be quite the woman she would have made under my mother's training; but she is young enough to profit by mamma's sweet teachings and example even yet. I find her very docile and teachable, very affectionate, and desirous to be and do all I would have her." Zoe came down for the evening simply but tastefully attired in white, looking very sweet and fair. She was evidently disposed to be on friendly terms with her new relatives, yet clung with a pretty sort of shyness to her young husband, who perceived it with delight, regarding her ever and anon with fond, admiring eyes. It excited no jealousy in mother or sisters. Such an emotion was quite foreign to Elsie's nature and found small place in the heart of any one of her children. Violet, spite of the near approach of her own nuptials, was sufficiently at leisure from herself to give time and thought to this new sister, making her feel that she was so esteemed, and winning for herself a large place in Zoe's heart. Indeed all exerted themselves to make Zoe fully aware that they considered her quite one of the family. That very evening she was taken with Edward to Vi's room to look at the trousseau, told of all the arrangements for the wedding and the summer sojourn at the North, and made the recipient of many handsome presents from Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, Elsie, and Violet. But for her recent sad bereavement she would have been a very happy little woman indeed. As it was she was bright and cheerful when with the family, but had occasional paroxysms of grief when alone with Edward, in which she wept bitterly upon his breast, he soothing her with tenderest caresses and words of endearment. Violet's wedding was strictly private, only near relatives being present; but in accordance with the wishes of the whole family, she was richly attired in white silk, orange blossoms, and costly bridal veil. Zoe, leaning on Edward's arm, watched her through the ceremony with admiring eyes, more than half regretting that the haste of her own marriage had precluded the possibility of so rich and becoming a bridal dress for herself--a thought which she afterward expressed to Edward in the privacy of their own apartments. "Never mind, my sweet," he said, holding her close to his heart "I couldn't love you any better if you had given yourself to me in the grandest of wedding-dresses." "How nice in you to say that!" she exclaimed, laying her head on his breast and gazing fondly up into his face. "Didn't Captain Raymond look handsome in his uniform?" "Yes, indeed; don't you think I have as much reason to envy his appearance as a groom as you Vi's as a bride?" "No, indeed!" she cried indignantly, "he's not half so nice as you are! I wouldn't exchange with her for all the world!" "Thank you; that's a very high compliment, I think; for I greatly admire my new brother-in-law," Edward said, with a gleeful laugh, and repeating his caresses. CHAPTER XVIII. "My cake is dough." --_Shakespeare_. It was a warm afternoon late in June. "There! I'm done with lessons for a while anyway, and glad of it too!" exclaimed Lulu Raymond, coming into Mrs. Scrimp's sitting-room and depositing her satchel of school-books upon the table. "So am I, Lu, for now you'll have time to make that new dress for my dollie, won't you?" Gracie said languidly, from the sofa where she lay. "Yes, little pet, and ever so many other things. But oh dear! holidays aren't much after all when you can't go anywhere or have any fun. I do wonder when we'll see papa again." "Pretty soon, Lu," cried a boyish voice in tones of delight, and turning quickly she found Max at the window, wearing a brighter face than he had shown her for many a day, and holding up a bulky letter. "O Max!" she cried, "is it from papa?" "Yes; and I'm coming in to read it to you if you and Gracie are alone." "Yes, we are; Aunt Beulah's gone out calling and Ann's busy in the kitchen." "Then here I am!" he said, vaulting lightly in through the window. Lulu laughed admiringly. "I'd like to try that myself," she said. "Oh, don't, Lu!" said Gracie, "Aunt Beulah would scold you like anything." "Let her scold! who cares!" returned Lulu with a scornful toss of the head, while Max, who had gone to the side of Gracie's sofa, stooped over her, and softly patting the thin pale cheek, asked how she felt to-day. "'Bout the same as usual, Maxie," she said, with a languid smile. "O Max, hurry and tell us what papa says in the letter!" cried Lulu impatiently. "Is it good news?" "First-rate, girls! couldn't be better! He's coming here next week and going to take us all away with him!" "Oh! oh! oh! how delightful!" cried Lulu, clapping her hands and dancing about the room, while Grace clasped her hands in ecstasy, saying, "Oh, I am so glad!" "Come, Lu, sit down here beside us and be quiet," said Max, seating himself beside Grace on the sofa, and motioning toward a low rocking-chair near at hand. "I'm going to read the letter aloud, and then I have something to show you." Lulu took possession of the rocking-chair, folded her hands in her lap, and Max began. The letter was written from Saratoga, where the captain and his bride had paused for a few days on their wedding tour, and was addressed to all three of his children. He told them of his marriage, described Violet, her mother, and the life at Ion in glowing terms, spoke very highly of Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and the younger members of the family, then told of their kind offer to share their happy home with his children if they should prove themselves good and obedient. But here Lulu interrupted the reading with a passionate outburst. "A step-mother! I won't have her! Papa had no business to go and give her to us!" "Why, Lu!" exclaimed Max, "of course he had a right to get married if he wanted to! And I'm very glad he did, for I'm sure they must be much nicer folks to live with than Mr. Fox and Mrs. Scrimp." "Just like a silly boy to talk so!" returned Lulu, with a mixture of anger and scorn in her tones. "Step-mothers are always hateful and cross and abuse the children and won't let their father love them any more, and----" "Now who's been telling you such lies, sis?" interrupted Max. "There are bad ones and good ones among them, the same as among other classes of people. And papa says his new wife is sweet and kind and good to everybody. And if she loves him won't she want to be good to his children? I should think so, I'm sure. Now let me read the rest of his letter." In that the captain went on to tell of the cottages by the sea engaged for the summer, and that thither he and Violet purposed to go the next week, taking his children with them. He wound up with some words of fatherly affection and hope that brighter days than they had known for a long time were now in store for them. There was a postscript from Violet: "I am longing to see the dear children of my husband, especially poor, little sick Gracie. I am sure we shall love each other very much for his dear sake." "There now, Lu, you see she means to be kind to us," was Max's satisfied comment, as he refolded the missive and put it back into the envelope. Lulu was one who never liked to retreat from a position she had once taken. "Oh, it's easy to talk," she said, "acting's another thing. I'm not going to be caught with chaff." "See here!" said Max, showing a photograph. "Oh, what a pretty lady!" cried Gracie, holding out an eager hand for it. Max gave it to her, and Lulu sprang up and bent over her to get a good view of it also. "Who is it?" she asked. "Isn't she pretty? isn't she perfectly beautiful, and sweet-looking as she can be?" said Max, ignoring the question. "Yes, she's just lovely; but why don't you say who she is, if you know?" "She's papa's new wife, the new mamma you are determined to believe is going to be so hateful." "I'm sure she won't. She does look so sweet, I just love her already!" Gracie said. Lulu, too proud to retract, yet strongly drawn toward the possessor of so sweet and lovely a countenance as was pictured there, kept silence, gazing intently upon the photograph which Gracie still held. "Whose is it, Max?" asked the latter. "Mine I suppose, though papa doesn't say; but we'll find out when he comes." "Oh, I'm so glad, so glad he's coming soon! Aren't you, Maxie?" "I never was gladder in my life!" cried Max. "And just think how nice to go and live by the sea all summer! There'll be lots of fun boating and bathing and fishing!" "Oh, yes!" chimed in Lulu, "and papa is always so kind about taking us to places and giving us a good time." "But I can't have any!" sighed Gracie from her couch. "Yes, papa will manage it somehow," said Max; "and the sea air and plenty to eat will soon make you ever so much stronger." They chatted on for some time, growing more and more delighted with the prospect before them; then Max said he must go. He wanted to take the photograph with him, but generously yielded to Gracie's entreaties that it might be left with her till he came again. She and Lulu were still gazing upon it and talking together of the original--Max having gone--when Mrs. Scrimp came in, looking greatly vexed and perturbed. She too had received a letter from Capt. Raymond that day, telling of his marriage and his intentions in regard to his children; directing also that they and their luggage should be in waiting at a hotel near the depôt of the town at the hour of a certain day of the coming week when he and his bride expected to arrive by a train from the West. There would be a two hours' detention there while they waited for the train that was to carry them to their final destination, which would allow time for an interview between the captain and herself. The news was entirely unexpected and very unwelcome to Mrs. Scrimp. She would have much preferred to keep the little girls, for the sake of the gain they were to her and a real affection for Gracie; also because of having neglected to follow out the captain's directions in regard to them--Gracie in particular--she felt no small perturbation at the prospect of meeting and being questioned by him. As was not unusual she vented her displeasure upon Lulu, scolding because her school-books and hat had not been put in their proper places, her hair and dress made neat. "I'll put them away presently, Aunt Beulah. You'll not be bothered with me much longer," remarked the delinquent nonchalantly, her eyes still upon the photograph Gracie was holding. "What's that?" asked Mrs. Scrimp, catching sight of it for the first time. "Our new mamma," the children answered in a breath, Gracie's tones full of gentle joyousness, Lulu's of a sort of defiant exultation, especially as she added, "Papa's coming next week to take us away to live at home with him." "On shipboard?" "No, in a cottage by the sea." "Humph! he'll soon sail away again and leave you with your step-mother, just as I told you." "Well, I don't care, she looks enough kinder and sweeter than you do." "Indeed! I pity her, poor young thing!" sighed Mrs. Scrimp, scanning the photograph with keen curiosity. "She's very young--a mere child I should say--and to think of the trouble she'll have with you and Max!" "We're not going to be a trouble to her," said Lulu, "we're never a trouble to people that treat us decently." "I think your father might have given me an earlier warning of these changes," grumbled Mrs. Scrimp. "I'll have to work myself sick to get you two ready in time." "Oh, no, Aunt Beulah, you needn't," said little Gracie, "the new mamma can get somebody to make our clothes for us. Papa will pay for it." "Of course he will," said Lulu. "You needn't do anything but have those we have now all washed and ironed and packed up ready to go." "That's all you know about it!" returned Mrs. Scrimp sharply. "You haven't either of you a suitable dress for travelling in, especially in company with your father's rich wife. I'll have to go right out now to the stores and buy material, get a dress-maker to come in to-morrow bright and early, and help her myself all I can. There'll be no rest for me now till you're off." There was no rest for anybody else in the interim except Gracie. As Ann remarked rather indignantly to Lulu, adding, "She's as cross as two sticks." "What makes her so cross?" asked Lulu. "I should think she'd be so glad she's going to be rid of me that she'd feel uncommonly good-natured." "Not she!" laughed Ann, "she counted on the money your father pays for years to come; but he's gone and got married and her cake is dough sure enough." "I'm glad he did," returned Lulu emphatically. "I've made up my mind that such a sweet-looking lady as our new mamma must be a great deal nicer and kinder than Aunt Beulah, if she is a step-mother." "She _is_ sweet-lookin', that's a fact," said Ann. "I only wish I was goin' to make the change as well as you." The eventful day came at last to the children; all too soon to Mr. Fox and Mrs. Scrimp, neither of whom relished the task of giving account of past stewardship; for conscience accused both of unfaithfulness to the captain's trust. The three children were gathered in the hotel parlor, impatiently awaiting the arrival of the train. Mrs. Scrimp sat a little apart, fidgety and ill at ease, though ensconced in a most comfortable, cushioned arm-chair; and Mr. Fox paced the veranda outside, wondering if Max had dared or would dare to inform his father of the cruel treatment received at his hands, and if so, whether the captain would credit the story. Violet and the captain had thus far had a delightful honeymoon, finding their mutual love deepening every hour, yet were not so engrossed with each other as to quite forget his children; they had talked of them frequently, and were now looking forward to the coming interview with scarcely less eagerness than the young people themselves. "We are almost there; it's the next station," said the captain with satisfaction, beginning to collect satchels and parcels. "Oh, I am glad!" exclaimed Violet. "I long to see the dear children and to witness their delight in being taken into--their father's arms." The concluding words were spoken tremulously and with starting tears as a gush of tender memories came over her. Her husband understood it, and clasping her hand fondly in his bent over her with a whispered, "My darling! my own sweet precious little wife!" She answered him with a look of love and joy. Then after a moment's silence, "Do you think, Levis, that they will be pleased that--that you have given them a step-mother?" she asked timidly and with a sigh. "If they don't fall in love with your sweet face at first sight I shall be exceedingly surprised," he said, gazing upon her with the fondest admiration. "Ah, I cannot hope so much as that!" she sighed; "children are so apt to hear and treasure up unkind remarks about stepmothers; but I shall hope to win their hearts in time. It seems to me we cannot fail to love each other with such a bond of union as our common love to you." "No, I trust not," he said, with a bright, happy smile. "I think they are warm-hearted children; I'm sure they love their father; and it does seem to me utterly impossible that they should fail to love the dearest, loveliest, sweetest little lady in the world merely because she has become that father's wife." The whistle blew loudly, the train rushed on with redoubled speed, slackened, came to a stand-still, and in another minute the captain had alighted and was handing out Violet. "Papa! oh, I'm so glad you're come at last!" cried a boyish voice at his side. "Max, my dear boy!" There was a hasty, hearty embrace, Violet standing smiling by, then the captain said, "Violet, my love, this is my son," and Max, moved by a sudden impulse, threw his arms about her neck and kissed her in a rapture of delight, so sweet and beautiful did she appear in his eyes. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" he stammered, releasing her and stepping back a little, afraid he had taken too great a liberty. But venturing a second glance into her face, he saw that she was smiling sweetly through her blushes. "No apology is needed, Max," she said cheerily. "My brothers are always ready with a kiss for mamma and sisters. And, since I am not old enough to be your mother, you will let me be your older sister; won't you?" "Oh, thank you, yes!" said Max. "Papa, let me carry the parcels. My sisters are waiting for us there in the hotel on the other side of the street. Gracie couldn't run across as I did, and Lu stayed with her." "That was quite right," said his father. "I am in great haste to see my darlings, but would rather not do so in a crowd." There was a very strong affection between the captain and his children. The hearts of the little girls beat fast, and their eyes filled with tears of joy as they saw him cross the street and come into the room where they were. With a cry of joy they threw themselves into his arms, and he clasped both together to his heart, caressing them over and over again, Violet looking on with eyes brimful of sympathetic tears. The next moment the captain remembered her, and releasing the children, introduced her. "This, my darlings, is the sweet lady whose picture I sent you the other day, I am sure you will love her for papa's sake and her own too." "Will you not, dears?" Vi said, kissing them in turn. "I love you already because you are his." "I think I shall," Lulu said emphatically, after one long, searching look into the sweet azure eyes; then turned to her father again. But Gracie, putting both arms round Violet's neck, held up her face for another kiss, saying in joyous tones, "Oh, I do love you now! my sweet, pretty new mamma!" "You darling!" responded Violet, holding her close. "I've wanted to have you and nurse you well again ever since I heard how weak and sick you were." The words, reaching the ear of Mrs. Scrimp, as she hovered in the background, brought a scowl to her brow. "As if she--an ignorant young thing--could do better for the child than I!" she said to herself. "Ah, Mrs. Scrimp!" the captain said, suddenly becoming aware of her presence, and turning toward her with outstretched hand, "how d'ye do? Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Raymond." Violet offered her hand and was given two fingers, while a pair of sharp black eyes looked coldly and fixedly into hers. Violet dropped the fingers, seated herself, and drew Gracie into her lap. "Am I not too heavy for you to hold?" the child asked, nestling contentedly in the arms that held her. "Heavy!" exclaimed Violet, tears starting to her eyes as they rested upon the little thin, pale face. "You are extremely light, you poor darling! but I hope soon to see you grow fat and rosy in the sea air your papa will take you to." The captain had just left the room in search of Mr. Fox, taking Max with him. "You will have to be very careful not to overfeed that child, or you will have her down sick," remarked Mrs. Scrimp with asperity, addressing Violet. "She ought never to eat anything at all after three o'clock in the afternoon." Vi's heart swelled with indignation. "No wonder she is little more than skin and bone, if that is the way she has been served!" she said, giving Mrs. Scrimp as severe a look as her sweet, gentle countenance was capable of expressing. "She'd have been in her grave long ago if she hadn't been served so!" snapped Mrs. Scrimp. "I'm old enough to be your mother, Mrs. Raymond, and having had that child in charge for over two years--ever since her own mother died--I ought to know what's good for her and what isn't. She is naturally delicate, and to be allowed to overload her stomach would be the death of her. I can't eat after three o'clock, and neither can she." "A grown person is no rule for a child," observed Violet, gently smoothing Gracie's hair; "children need to eat enough to supply material for growth in addition to the waste of the system. Was it by the advice of a competent physician you subjected her to such a regimen?" "I've always had medical advice for her when it was needed," snapped Mrs. Scrimp. The captain re-entered the room at that moment. He had made short work with Mr. Fox, paying his bill, and sending him away with his ears tingling from a well-merited rebuke for his savage treatment of a defenceless child. It was Mrs. Scrimp's turn now; there was no evading the direct, pointed questions of the captain, and she was compelled to acknowledge that she had followed out her own theories in the treatment of Gracie, instead of consulting a physician, even after he had directed her to seek medical advice and treat the child in careful accordance with it. "Well, madam," he remarked with much sternness and indignation, "if my little girl is an invalid for life, I shall always feel that you are responsible for it." "I've been a mother to your children, Capt. Raymond," she exclaimed, growing white with anger, "and this is your gratitude!" "A mother!" he said, glancing from her to Vi, "I hope there are few such mothers in the world. My poor starved baby! papa's heart aches to think of what you have had to endure," he added in moved tones, the big tears shining in his eyes, as he lifted Gracie on his knees and fondled her tenderly. Mrs. Scrimp rose and took an abrupt and indignant leave, her bill having been already settled. CHAPTER XIX. NEW RELATIONSHIPS AND NEW TITLES. "Are you hungry, Gracie darling?" her father asked with tender solicitude. "No, papa," she said, "we had our breakfast just a little while before Aunt Beulah brought us here." "Well, if ever you suffer from hunger again it shall not be your father's fault," he returned with emotion. Taking out his watch, "We have a full half hour yet," he said. "Max, my son, do you know of any place near at hand where oranges, bananas, cakes, and candies are to be had?" "Oh, yes, papa! just at the next corner." "Then go and lay in a store for our journey," handing him some money. "May I go too, papa?" asked Lulu, as Max set off with alacrity. "No, stay here; I want you by my side," he said, smiling affectionately upon her. "I'm glad you do! O papa, I have wanted you so badly!" she exclaimed, leaning her cheek against his arm and looking up lovingly into his face, "and so have Max and Gracie. Haven't we, Gracie?" "Yes, indeed!" sighed the little one. "O papa, I wish you didn't ever have to go away and leave us!" "I hope to stay with you longer than usual this time, and when I must go away again to leave you in a very happy home, where no one will wish to ill-use you," he said, with a glad look and smile directed toward his bride. "No one at Ion or in any house of my dear mother's will ever show them anything but kindness and love if they are good and obedient," said Vi. "We all obey grandpa, but we love to do it, because he is so dear and never at all unreasonable." "No, I am sure he is not," assented the captain, "and I shall esteem it a great favor if he will count my darlings among his grandchildren. How would my little Gracie like to have a dear kind grandpa and grandma?" he asked, smoothing back the curls from the little pale face. "Oh, ever so much, papa!" she responded with a bright and joyous smile. "I never had any, papa, had I?" "Not since you were old enough to remember." Max did his errand promptly and well, returning just in time to go with the others on board the train. They took a parlor car and travelled with great comfort, a happy family party, father and children rejoicing in being together again after a long separation, Violet sympathizing in their joy and finding herself neither forgotten nor neglected by any one of the little group of which she formed a part. Ever and anon her husband's eyes were turned upon her with a look of such proud delight, such ardent affection as thrilled her heart with love, joy, and gratitude to the Giver of all good. Max's eyes too were full of enthusiastic admiration whenever his glance met hers, and with boyish gallantry he watched for opportunities to wait upon her. Gracie regarded her with loving looks and called her mamma, as if the word were very sweet to say. Lulu alone was shy and reserved, never addressing Violet directly and answering in monosyllables when spoken to by her, yet showed nothing like aversion in look or manner. All went well for some hours, Max and Lulu partaking freely of the fruit and confectionery their father had provided, Gracie much more sparingly, eating less than he would have allowed her, being a sensible little girl and fearful of such unwonted indulgence. But so unaccustomed were her digestive powers to anything but the most restricted diet that they gave way under the unusual strain, and she became so ill that Violet and the captain were filled with alarm. Fortunately they were rapidly nearing their destination, and were soon able to lay her upon the pretty, comfortable bed prepared for her and Lulu in the new home by the sea, and summon a physician. The Dinsmores and Travillas had arrived some days before and made all arrangements for a delightful welcome to the bride and groom. Both cottages were in perfect order, and a bountiful feast, comprising all the delicacies of the season, was set out in the dining-room of that over which Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore presided. But Gracie's illness interfered somewhat with the carrying out of their plans, dividing their emotions between pity and concern for the little sufferer, and joy over the return of the newly married pair. The feast waited while the ladies, the captain, Mr. Dinsmore, and the physician were occupied with the sick child. Max and Lulu, quite forgotten for the moment by their father and Violet, and much troubled about their little sister, would have felt very forlorn, had not Harold, Herbert, and Rosie set themselves, with the true politeness to which they had been trained, to making the little strangers comfortable and at home. They seated them in the veranda, where they could enjoy the breeze and a view of the sea, and talked to them entertainingly of the various pleasures--bathing, boating, fishing, etc.--in store for them. Presently Mr. Dinsmore came out with a prescription which he asked Harold to take to the nearest drug-store. "May I go too, sir?" asked Max. "Wouldn't it be well for me to learn the way there, so that I can do the errand next time?" "That is well thought of, my boy," Mr. Dinsmore said, with a pleased look. "But are you not too tired to-night for such a walk? it is fully a quarter of a mile." "No, sir, thank you; a run will do me good after being so long cramped up in the cars." "Ah," Mr. Dinsmore said, taking Max's hand and shaking it cordially, "I think I shall find you a boy after my own heart--active, independent, and ready to make yourself useful. Shall I number you among my grandchildren?" "I shall be very happy to have you do so, sir," returned Max, coloring with pleasure. "Then henceforth you may address me as grandpa, as these other young folks do," glancing at Rosie and her brothers. "You also, my dear, if you like," he added, catching Lulu's dark eyes fixed upon him with a half eager, half wistful look, and bending down to stroke her hair caressingly. "Thank you, sir," she said, "I think I shall like to. But oh, tell me, please, is Gracie very sick?" "I hope not, my dear; the doctor thinks she will be in her usual health in a day or two." The boys were already speeding away. The doctor had sent every one out of the sick-room except Mrs. Dinsmore and Captain Raymond. The child clung to her long-absent father, and he would not leave her until she slept. Elsie led the way to Violet's room, and there they held each other in a long, tender, silent embrace. "My darling!" the mother said at length, "how I have missed you! how glad I am to have you in my arms again!" "Ah, mamma! my own dearest mamma, it seems to me you can hardly be so glad as I am!" cried Vi, lifting her face to gaze with almost rapturous affection into that of her mother. "I do not know how I could ever bear a long separation from you!" "You are happy?" "Yes, mamma, very, very happy. I could never live without my husband now. Ah, I did not dream of half the goodness and lovableness I have already found in him. But ah, I am forgetting his children, Max and Lulu!" she added, hastily releasing herself from her mother's arms. "I must see where they are and that they are made comfortable." "Leave that to me, Vi dear," her mother said; "you should be attending to your toilet. I think the little sick one will fall asleep presently, when she can be left in Mammy's care, while we all gather about the supper-table; and we must have you and Zoe there in bridal attire." "Zoe! I hardly saw her in my anxiety about Gracie!" exclaimed Violet. "Does she seem happy, mamma, and like one of us?" "Yes, she is quite one of us; we all love her, and I think she is happy among us, though of course grieving sadly at times for the loss of her father. The trunks have been brought up, I see. That small one must belong to the two little girls." "Yes, mamma, and suppose we let it stand here for the present so that I can readily help Lulu find what she wishes to wear this evening." "Yes, dear. I will go down and invite her up. Ah, here is mamma!" as Mrs. Dinsmore tapped at the half-open door, then stepped in. She embraced Violet with motherly affection. "A lost treasure recovered!" she said joyously. "Vi, dear, you have no idea how we have missed you." After a moment's chat, Rose and Elsie went down together to the veranda, where they found Lulu, making acquaintance with the other members of the family. "This is a new granddaughter for us, my dear," Mr. Dinsmore said to his wife. "Yes, shall I be your grandma, my child?" asked Rose, giving Lulu an affectionate kiss. "And I too?" Elsie asked, caressing her in her turn. "Two grandmas!" Lulu said, with a slightly bewildered look, "and neither of you looking old enough. How will anybody know which I mean, if I call you both so?" "I think," said Mrs. Dinsmore, smiling, "it will have to be Grandma Rose and Grandma Elsie." "Yes," said Mrs. Travilla, "that will do nicely. Now, my dear little girl, shall I take you upstairs that you may change your dress before tea?" Lulu accepted the invitation with alacrity. They found Violet beginning her toilet while her maid unpacked her trunk. "Lulu, dear," she said, as the child came in, "you want to change your dress I suppose? Have you the key of your trunk?" "Yes, ma'am," taking it from her pocket. "Agnes," said Vi, "leave mine for the present (you have taken out all I want for the evening) and unpack that other." The child drew near her young step-mother with a slightly embarrassed air. "I--I don't know what to call you," she said in a half whisper. Violet paused in what she was doing, and looking lovingly into the blushing face, said, "You may call me cousin or auntie, whichever you please, dear, till you can give me a little place in your heart; then, as I am not old enough to be your mother, you may call me Mamma Vi. What is it you wish to say to me?" "Mayn't I go into some other room to wash and dress?" "Certainly, dear," Violet answered. Turning inquiringly to her mother, "What room can she have, mamma?" "There is a very pleasant little one across the hall," Elsie said. "If Lulu would like to have it for her own, it might be as well to have her trunk sent in before unpacking." "Oh, I should like to have a room all to myself!" exclaimed Lulu. "I had at Aunt Beulah's. Gracie slept with her, in the room next to mine." "I supposed you and Gracie would prefer to be together in a room close to your papa's," Elsie said; "but there are rooms enough for you to have one entirely to yourself." "Then she shall," Violet said, smiling indulgently upon the little girl. "Would you like my mother or me to help you choose what to wear to-night? I want you to put on your best and look as pretty as ever you can." Lulu's face flushed with pleasure. "Yes, ma'am," she said, going to her trunk, which Agnes had now opened; "but I haven't anything half so beautiful as the dress your sister has on." "Haven't you? Well, never mind, you shall soon have dresses and other things quite as pretty as Rosie's," Violet said, stooping over the trunk to see what was there. The child's eyes danced with delight. "Oh, shall I? Aunt Beulah never would get me the pretty things I wanted, to look like other girls, you know, or let my dresses be trimmed with ruffles and lace like theirs. I used to think it would be dreadful to have a step-mother, but now I'm sure it isn't always." Violet smiled. "I hope we shall love each other very much, and be very happy together, Lulu," she said. "Now tell me which dress you want to wear this evening." "This white muslin," said the little girl, lifting it and shaking out the folds. "I believe it's the best I have, but you see it has only two ruffles and not a bit of lace. And this sash she bought for me to wear with it is narrow and not at all thick and handsome." "No, it is not fit for Capt. Raymond's daughter to wear!" Vi exclaimed a little indignantly, taking the ribbon between her thumb and finger. "But I can provide you with a better, and you may cut this up for your doll." "Oh, thank you!" cried Lulu, her eyes sparkling. "Step-mothers are nice after all." "But Lulu, dear," Elsie said, standing beside the little girl, and caressing her hair with her soft white hand, "that is not a pretty or pleasant name to my ear; especially when applied to so young and dear a lady as this daughter of mine," looking tenderly into Vi's fair face. "Try to think of her as one who dearly loves and is dearly loved by your father, and ready to love his children for his sake." "Yes, and for their own too," Violet added, "just as I love my darling little sister Rosie. Now, Lulu, I think you have no more than time to make your toilet. She will find everything needful in that room, will she, mamma?" "Yes; water, soap and towels. Can you do everything for yourself, my child?" "Yes, ma'am, except fastening my dress and sash." "Then run in here or call to me when you are ready to have that done," said Violet. Lulu was greatly pleased with her room. It had a set of cottage furniture, many pretty ornaments, an inviting-looking bed draped in white, and lace curtains to the windows; one of which gave her a fine view of the sea. She made haste to wash and dress, thinking the while that their father's marriage had brought a most delightful change to herself, brother and sister. "What soft, sweet voices they all have in talking," she mused. "Grandma Rose, Grandma Elsie, and Mamma Vi. I'll call her that, if she'll let me, it's a pretty name. I like it, and I believe I have given her a little place in my heart already." Just then Agnes knocked at the door to ask if she wanted anything. "Yes," Lulu said, admitting her, "I'm ready to put on my dress and would like you to button it for me." "An' put dese on fo' you too, Miss?" and Agnes held up to the child's astonished and delighted eyes a set of pink coral, necklace, bracelets and pin, and a sash of broad, rich ribbon just matching in color. "Oh," cried Lulu half breathlessly, "where did they come from?" "Miss Wilet sent 'em," returned Agnes, beginning her work; "an' she tole me to ax you to come in dar when I'se done fixin' ob you, an' let her see if eberyting's right. Humph! 'twon't be, kase you oughter hab ribbon for yo' hair to match wid de sash." CHAPTER XX. GRANDMA ELSIE AND MAMMA VI. Violet's toilet was finished. She wore a white silk trimmed with a great deal of very rich lace, white flowers in her hair and at her throat, and looked very bridelike and beautiful. So Lulu thought as she came dancing in, full of joyous excitement over her own unusual adornment. Catching sight of Violet standing in front of her toilet-table turning over a box of ribbons, "Oh, how beautiful you are!" she cried, "and how very kind to let me wear these," glancing down at the ornaments on her own person. "Let you wear them, dear child! I have given them to you for your own, and am looking now for ribbon for your hair to match the sash. I had forgotten it. Ah, here is just the thing!" "Given me these lovely, lovely bracelets and necklace! and this handsome sash too!" cried Lulu in wide-eyed astonishment. "Oh, you are just too, too good to me! May I kiss you? and may I call you Mamma Vi now?" "Yes, indeed, if you can give me a little place in your heart," Violet answered, taking the little girl in her arms. "Oh, a great big place!" cried Lulu, returning Vi's caresses with ardor. "Mamma Vi! it's a very pretty name, and you are my own sweet, pretty new mamma! A great deal nicer than if you were old enough to be my real mother." "Ah, Lulu, it makes me very happy to hear all that!" said her father's voice behind her, and she felt his hand laid affectionately upon her head. She turned round quickly. "Ah, papa! how nice you look too! How is Gracie?" "I left her sleeping comfortably a half hour ago, and have been making my toilet in another room. Ah, my love!" gazing at Violet with proud, fondly-admiring eyes, "how very lovely you are!" "In my husband's partial eyes," she returned, looking up at him with a bright, sweet smile. "In Lulu's, too, judging from what I heard her say just now," he said, turning his eyes upon his daughter again. "Ah, how you have improved her appearance!" "Yes, papa, only see these lovely things she--Mamma Vi has given me!" cried Lulu, displaying her ornaments. "A most generous gift," he said, examining the jewelry. "These coral ornaments are costly, Lulu, and you must be careful of them. Mamma Vi! Is that the name you have chosen for yourself, my love?" he asked, again turning to his bride. "Yes, if you approve, Levis?" "I like it!" he returned emphatically. "And the other ladies," remarked Lulu, "say I am to call them Grandma Rose and Grandma Elsie. And the gentleman told me and Max to call him grandpa." "May I come in?" asked Max at the door, which stood wide open. "Yes," his father and Violet both answered. "Oh!" he cried, gazing at Violet in undisguised admiration, "how lovely, how splendid you look! What shall I call you?--you said, you know, and of course anybody can see it, that you're not old enough to be my mother." "No," she said, with a look of amusement and pleasure, "so you may use the name Lulu and Gracie will call me--Mamma Vi." "Miss Wilet," said Agnes, appearing at the door, "dey says dey's waitin' suppah fo' you and de captain." "Ah, then we must not linger here! Lulu dear, let Agnes tie this ribbon on your hair. She can do it more tastefully than I. Max, I see you are dressed for the evening." "Yes, Mamma Vi, your brother Herbert showed me my room--a very nice one in the story over this--and had my trunk carried up. Am I all right?" "You'll do very well," his father said laughingly, but with a gleam of fatherly pride in his eye. "Give your arm to your sister and we will go down--if you are ready, little wife." The last words were spoken in a fond whisper, close to Violet's ear, as he drew her hand within his arm, and were answered by a bright, sweet smile as she lifted her azure eyes to his. The two cottages stood but a few feet apart, with no fence or wall of separation between, and were connected by a covered way; so that it was very much as if they were but one house. The room in which the feast was spread was tastefully decorated with evergreens, flags and flowers; the table too was adorned with lovely bouquets and beautifully painted china and sparkled with silver and cut glass. The Dinsmores, Travillas, and Raymonds gathered about it as one family, a bright, happy party. Edward was there with his Zoe, looking extremely pretty in bridal attire, each apparently as devoted as ever to the other. Max and Lulu behaved themselves admirably, the latter feeling quite subdued by the presence of her father and so many elegantly dressed and distinguished-looking people. It was certainly a great change from Mrs. Scrimp's little dining-room with its small, plainly furnished table, the three to sit down to it, and Ann to wait upon them--a very pleasant change to Lulu. She enjoyed it greatly. She and Max scarcely spoke during the meal, occupying themselves in eating and listening to the lively discourse going on around them, but were well waited upon, the servants being attentive, and both Elsie and Violet interesting themselves to see that the little strangers were not neglected. On leaving the table, all repaired to the veranda and front door yard, for the enjoyment of a moonlight evening and the sea breeze. The young Travillas and Raymonds speedily grew quite intimate and were mutually pleased; but the latter, fatigued with the journey and excitements of the day, were ready to retire at an early hour. They waited only for family worship, conducted for both households by Mr. Dinsmore, then Violet and they bade good-night and went back to their own dwelling, leaving the captain to sit some time longer on the veranda with the other gentlemen. "Have you everything you want in your room, Max?" Violet asked in a kindly tone, as the boy took up his bedroom candle. "Yes, thank you, Mamma Vi," he answered cheerfully, but with a longing look at her. "What is it, Max?" she asked, with her sweet smile. "Don't be afraid to tell me if there is anything you want." "I--I'm afraid I oughtn't to ask it," he stammered, blushing vividly, "I've no right, and--and it might be disagreeable, but--oh, I should like to kiss you good-night!" "You may, Max," she said, laughing, then put her arms round his neck and gave the kiss very heartily. "Thank you," he cried in blushing delight; then hurried away, calling back, "Ah, good-night, Lu!" "Good-night," she answered, looking wistfully at Violet. "Shall I have a good-night kiss from you too, dear?" Violet asked, offering her lips. Lulu accepted the invitation in an eager, joyous way, then asked, "May I see Gracie before I go to bed?" "Yes, dear; we will go in very quietly lest we should wake her if she is asleep." They found Gracie awake, Aunt Chloe shaking up her pillow and smoothing the cover over her. "O mamma!" she cried in her little weak voice, "how beautiful you are! And, Lulu, where did you get those pretty things?" "Mamma Vi gave them to me," Lulu said. "O Gracie dear, are you better?" "Yes, I don't feel sick now, only weak. She's very good to me, she and everybody," with a grateful look at her sable nurse. "Yes," Violet said, "mammy is always good and kind, especially to a sick person. Now Lulu and I will kiss you good-night and leave you to go to sleep again." "You are nice and kind to come, both of you," Gracie said, receiving and returning their caresses. "Mammy," Violet said as she turned to leave the room, "I'm afraid you are not able to take the care of her through the night." "Yes, I is, honey darlin'," responded the old woman with warmth. "I'll hab a quilt spread down dar on de flo', and I'll lie dar an' sleep, an' ef de chile stirs I'll wake right up and gib her eberyting she wants." "Mamma Vi, don't you want to see my room?" Lulu asked as they neared its door. "I think it is ever so pretty." "So it is," Violet said, stepping inside with her, "and I am very glad you like it. If you think of anything else you want in it, don't hesitate to ask for it; both your papa and I wish to do all in our power to make his children happy." "Thank you. Oh, it is so nice to have a new mamma! such a sweet, kind one," Lulu exclaimed with impulsive warmth, setting down her candle and throwing her arms about Violet's neck. "Dear child!" Violet said, returning the embrace, "I am very glad you are beginning to love me. I hope we shall all love each other better every day and be very happy together. You won't forget to ask God's protection before you sleep, and thank him for his love and care? What a mercy that we met with no accident on our journey!" "Yes, indeed! and I won't forget to say my prayers, Mamma Vi." They exchanged an affectionate good-night, and Violet went to her own room. Agnes was there, waiting to assist her in disrobing, to take down her hair, and put things in place. As the maid withdrew, her duty finished, Elsie came softly in. "Dearest mamma!" cried Vi joyously, "I am so glad you have come! I thought you would." "Yes, daughter, I have just seen Rosie and Walter in bed, and could not deny myself the pleasure of one of the old-time private talks with my dear Vi. Ah, you don't know how I have missed them ever since Capt. Raymond carried you away from Ion!" They were standing together with their arms about each other. "Mamma," Violet said with an earnest, tenderly affectionate look into her mother's face, "how very beautiful you are! and how youthful in appearance! there is not a line in your face, not a silver thread in your hair, and it still has that exquisite golden tinge it has had ever since I can remember." "Ah, dear child! we can see many beauties in those we love that are imperceptible to other eyes," Elsie returned with a quiet smile. "But, mamma, every one sees you to be both young and beautiful in looks. You look far too young to be addressed as grandma by Max and Lulu, or even Gracie. I wish you would not allow it, but let them call you auntie." "It does not make me really any older, or even to feel or look so," the mother said, with a low silvery laugh of amusement at Violet's earnestness. "But I don't like it, dear mamma." "Then I am sorry I gave them permission; yet having done so, I do not like to recall it. But, daughter dear, old age will come to us all, if we live, and it is quite useless to fight against the inevitable." "Yet we needn't hurry it on, mamma." "No; but consider; had I and my eldest daughter married as early in life as my mother did I might now have own grandchildren as old as Max and Lulu. Beside," she added gayly, "how can I hope to deceive people into supposing me young when I have three married children." "Yes, mamma, that is true," Violet said, after a moment's thought; "and perhaps the children may be more ready to submit to the guidance and control of a grandma than of an aunt. Oh, how thankful I am that when their father is no longer here to govern them, they will not be left to my management alone!" CHAPTER XXI. REBELLION. The next morning Violet began her housekeeping; a not very arduous undertaking, as competent servants had been brought from Ion for her establishment as well as for that next door. It was pleasant to her and the captain to sit down to a well-appointed table of their own. Max and Lulu too, coming in fresh and rosy from a stroll along the beach, thought it extremely nice that at last they had a home of their own with their father and so sweet and pretty a new mamma to take the head of the table. The oysters and fish, just out of the ocean that morning, and Aunt Phillis's corn-bread and muffins were very delicious to the keen young appetites, and as Gracie was reported much better, every one was in good spirits. The captain and Violet had both been in to see her and ask how she had passed the night, before coming down to the breakfast-room. Immediately after the meal the captain conducted family worship. That over, Max and Lulu seized their hats, and were rushing out in the direction of the beach, but their father called them back. "Where are you going?" he asked. "Down by the waves," said Lulu. "To the beach, sir," said Max. "Without a word to any one!" he remarked a little severely. "How do you know that you are not wanted by your mamma or myself? We are going directly for a drive on the beach and I had intended to take you both along. Now I am inclined to leave you behind." The children hung their heads, looking crestfallen and disappointed. "O Levis, please let them go!" pleaded Violet, laying her hand persuasively on her husband's arm. "I am sure they did not mean to do wrong." "Well, my love," he answered, "I will overlook it for this time for your sake. But, Max and Lulu, you must understand that you are under authority and are not to leave the house without first reporting yourselves to your mother or me and asking permission, stating where you desire to go and about how long you expect or wish to stay." "Yes, sir," said Max; "but if you and Mamma Vi should both happen to be out?" "Then you may go to Grandpa Dinsmore or Grandma Elsie." "Yes, sir," Max answered in a pleasant tone; adding, "I'm sorry to have displeased you, papa, and will be careful in future to obey the orders you've just given." But Lulu remained silent, and her countenance was sullen. She had been so long in the habit of defying Mrs. Scrimp's authority that now she was disposed to resist even her father's control in small matters, and think she ought to be permitted to go and come at her own sweet will, and the thought of being subjected to the sway of her new mother and her relatives seemed to the proud, passionate child almost beyond endurance. The expression of her face did not escape her father's observation, but he thought it best to take no notice of it, hoping her angry and rebellious feelings would soon pass away and leave her again the pleasant, lovable child she had been a few moments since. The carriage was already at the door. "I think the air would do Gracie good," he remarked to Vi, "and the drive not prove too fatiguing if I support her in my arms. We have room for one more than our party. Will not your mother go with us?" "Thank you; I'll run in and ask her," Vi said, tripping away. Elsie accepted the invitation, remarking gayly, "I have no housekeeping cares to prevent me. I'm just a daughter at home in her father's house," giving him a loving look and smile, "as I used to be in the glad, free days of my girlhood." The captain came down with Gracie in his arms, hers about his neck, her little pale face on his shoulder. She looked thin and weak, but very happy. Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi greeted her with loving inquiries and tender kisses. "Do you feel strong enough for the drive, dear?" asked the former. "Yes, ma'am; with papa to hold me in his strong arms." "Papa's dear baby girl!" murmured the captain low and tenderly, imprinting a gentle kiss on the pale forehead. Mr. Dinsmore came over, handed the ladies and Lulu into the carriage, then held Gracie till her father was seated in it and ready to take her again. It was a bright, fair morning with a delicious breeze from the sea, and all enjoyed the drive greatly, unless perhaps Lulu, who had not yet recovered her good humor. She sat by her father's side, scarcely speaking, but no one seemed to notice it. Gracie was asleep when they returned, and her father carried her up to her room and laid her down so gently that she did not wake. The others had paused in the veranda below. Zoe and Rosie came running over to say the bathing hour was near at hand, and to ask if they were going in. "I am not," Elsie said. "Nor I," said Violet, "I'm a little tired and should prefer to sit here and chat with mamma." "I'd like to go in," said Max. "When papa comes down I'll ask if I may." "Mamma," said Rosie, "I don't care to go in to-day, but may I go down on the beach and watch the bathers?" "Yes, daughter. Take a servant with you to carry some camp-chairs and to watch over Walter, if he wants to go with you." "You'll come too, won't you?" Rosie said to Lulu; "it's good fun to watch the people in the water." "I'll have to ask leave first," replied Lulu in a sullen tone. "Can you wait till papa comes down?" "That is not necessary since your father has invested me with authority to give you permission," remarked Violet pleasantly. "You may go if you will keep with Rosie and the others. But, Lulu, my dear, I wish you would first go up to your room, take off those coral ornaments and put them away carefully. They do not correspond well with the dress you have on, and are not suitable for you to wear down on the beach at this time of day." She had noticed, on first seeing the child that morning, that she had them on, but said nothing about it till now. "You said you gave them to me to keep!" cried Lulu, turning a flushed and angry face toward her young step-mother; "and if they are my own, I have a right to wear them when and where I please, and I shall do so." "Lucilla Raymond, to whom were you speaking?" asked her father sternly, stepping into their midst from the open door-way. The child hung her head in sullen silence, while Vi's face was full of distress; Elsie's but little less so. "Answer me!" commanded the captain in a tone that frightened even insolent Lulu. "I overheard you speaking in an extremely impertinent manner to some one. Who was it?" "Your new wife," muttered the angry child. The captain was silent for a moment, trying to gain control over himself. Then he said calmly, but not less sternly than he had spoken before, "Come here." Lulu obeyed, looking pale and frightened. He leaned down over her, unclasped the coral ornaments from her neck and arms, and handing them to Violet, said, "My dear, I must ask you to take these back. I cannot allow her to keep or wear them." "O Levis!" began Vi in a tone of entreaty; but a look and a gentle "Hush, love!" silenced her. "Now, Lucilla," he said, resuming his stern tone of command, "ask your mamma's pardon for your impertinence, and tell her you will never be guilty of the like again." "I won't!" exclaimed Lulu passionately. At that, her father, with a look of utter astonishment at her presumption, took her by the hand and led her into the house, upstairs and to her own room. "My daughter," he said, "I must be obeyed. I could not have believed you would be so naughty and disobedient so soon after my return to you, for I thought you loved me." He paused for a reply, and Lulu burst out with passionate vehemence, "You don't love me, papa! I knew you wouldn't when you got a new wife. I knew she'd steal all your love away from your own children!" In that moment of fierce, ungovernable anger all Vi's sweet kindness was forgotten and old prejudices returned in full force. The captain was too much shocked and astonished to speak for a moment. He had not dreamed that his child possessed so terrible a temper. "You were never more mistaken, Lulu," he said at length in a moved tone; "I never loved my children better than I love them now. Are you not sorry for your rebellious reply to me a moment since? will you not tell me so, and do at once what I have bidden you?" "No; I'll never ask her pardon!" "You will stay in this room in solitary confinement until you do, though it should be all summer," he said firmly, went out, locked the door on the outside, and put the key into his pocket. Zoe and Rosie had hastened away the moment the captain appeared upon the scene in the veranda, and as he led Lulu into the house Violet burst into tears. "O mamma!" she sobbed, "what shall I do? I wish I had not said a word about the ornaments, but just let her wear them! I never meant to make trouble between my husband and his children! I never should have done so intentionally." "My dear child, you have no cause to blame yourself," Elsie said soothingly. "No, not a bit of it, Mamma Vi," cried Max, coming to her side. "I love Lu dearly, but I know she has a very bad temper, and I think it's for her own good that papa has found it out already, so that he can take means to help her conquer it. Dear me! I should never dare to say 'I won't' to him. Nor I shouldn't want to, because he's such a good father to us, and I love him dearly." "Dear Max," Violet said, smiling through her tears as she took his hand and pressed it affectionately in hers. "I am sure he is a good, kind, loving father; his children could never doubt it if they had heard all he has said to me about them, and I trust you will never do anything to give him pain." The captain rejoined them presently, asking the ladies with an assumed cheerfulness if they intended bathing. They answered in the negative, and turning to Max he said kindly, "My son, if you wish to do so, I will take you with me. The surf is fine this morning and I feel inclined to go in." "Oh, thank you, papa!" cried Max, "it will be splendid to go in with you!" The captain re-entered the house and Violet followed. He turned at the sound of her quick, light step, saw the distress in her face, the tears in her eyes, and was much moved thereby. "My love, my darling!" he said, taking her in his arms, "do not let this thing trouble you. Ah, it pains me deeply that a child of mine should have already brought tears to those sweet eyes." "O Levis!" she sobbed, hiding her face on his breast, "forgive her for my sake. Don't insist on her asking my pardon. I would not have her so humiliated." "There are few things you would ask, love, that I would not grant," he said tenderly, softly smoothing the golden hair; "but for my daughter's own sake I must compel her obedience. What would become of her if left to the unrestrained indulgence of such a temper and spirit of insubordination as she has shown this morning?" "I know you are right," she sighed, "but I cannot help feeling sorry for her, and oh it almost breaks my heart to think that I was the cause of the trouble." "Ah, but in that you are mistaken, sweet wife," he said, repeating his caresses; "Lulu's own evil temper was the exciting cause. I could see that she was in a sullen, rebellious mood from the time that I called her in before our drive. That I must begin already to discipline one of my children gives me a sad heart, but I must try to do my duty by her at what ever cost of pain to her or myself." As her father turned the key in the lock, Lulu stamped with passion, and clenched her fists until the nails were buried in the flesh. "I'll never do it!" she hissed between her tightly-shut teeth, "no, never! if he keeps me here till I die. I just wish I could die and make him sorry for treating me so!" Then throwing herself on the bed she sobbed herself to sleep. She must have slept several hours, for she was waked by the opening of her door, and starting up found her father standing beside her with a small salver in his hand. On it were a plate of graham bread, a china bowl containing milk, and a silver spoon. "Here is your dinner, Lucilla," he said, speaking in a quiet, grave tone, as he set the salver on a little stand in a corner between the windows; "unless you are ready to obey me. In that case, I shall take you down to your mamma, and when you have begged her pardon and told me you are sorry for your rebellious words and conduct toward me, you can eat your dinner with us." "I don't want to go downstairs, papa," she said, turning her face away from him. "I'd rather stay here. But I should think you'd feel mean to eat all sorts of good things and give me nothing but skim-milk and that black bread." "I give you that bread because it contains more nutriment than the white," he said. "As to the good things the rest of us may have to eat, you shall share them as soon as you are ready to submit to my authority, but not till then." He waited a moment for a reply, but receiving none, went out and locked the door. When he came again at tea-time, bringing a fresh supply of the same sort of fare, he found the first still untouched. Lulu was very hungry, and really for the last hour had quite longed to eat the bread and milk, but from sheer obstinacy would not touch it. She thought if she held out long enough in her refusal to eat it, something better would be furnished her. But now she fairly quailed before the glance of her father's eye as he set the second salver down and seating himself said, "Come here to me!" She obeyed, looking pale and frightened. He drew her in between his knees, put one arm round her, and taking the bowl he had just brought in the other hand, held it to her lips, with the command, "Drink this! every drop of it!" When that was done, he commanded, "Now break this bread into that other bowl of milk, take your spoon and eat it." Now thoroughly frightened, she did not dare disobey. He sat and watched her till the meal was finished, she feeling that his stern eye was upon her, but never once venturing to look at him. "Have you anything to say to me, Lucilla?" he asked as he rose to go. "No, sir," she answered, with her eyes upon the carpet. "My child, you are grieving me very much," he said, took up the salver and went out. Lulu did love her father--though not nearly so well as her own self-will--and his parting words brought a gush of tears from her eyes. She was half inclined to call to him to come back, and say she would obey. But no! her heart rose up in fierce rebellion at the thought of asking pardon of his "new wife." "I'll never do it!" she repeated half aloud, "and when I get sick and die from being kept shut up here papa will wish he hadn't tried to make me." So she hardened her heart day after day and refused to yield. Her fare continued the same, her father bringing it to her three times daily, now in silence, now asking if she were ready to obey. She saw no one else but the maid who came each morning to put her room in order; except as she caught sight of one or another from the window. She liked to look at the sea and watch the vessels sailing by, but was often seized with a great longing to get down close to the waves. After the second day she grew very, very weary of her imprisonment and indulged in frequent fits of crying as she heard the gay voices of Max and the young Travillas at sport on the veranda, in the yards below, or knew from the sound of wheels, followed by an hour or more of quiet, that drives were being taken. She knew she was missing a great deal of enjoyment. Being of an active temperament, extremely fond of out-door exercise, made this close confinement even more irksome to her than it would have been to many another. She had nothing to do. She had turned over the contents of her trunk several times, had found her doll, and tried to amuse herself with it, but there was little fun in that without a playmate. She had no book but her Bible, and that she did not care to read; there was too much in it to condemn her. "Papa," she said, when he came with her breakfast on the fourth day, "mayn't I go and run on the beach for ten minutes and then come back?" "What did I tell you about leaving this room?" he asked. "I know you said I shouldn't do it till I asked her pardon," she replied, bursting into a fit of passionate weeping, "but I'll never do that, and if I get sick and die you'll be sorry for keeping me shut up so." "You must not talk to your father in that impertinent manner," he said sternly. "It is not I who keep you here, it is your own self-will; and just so long as that lasts you will remain here." "I haven't a friend in the world," she sobbed; "my own father is cruel to me since he----" "Hush!" he said in stern indignation. "I will have no more of that impertinence! Will you force me to try the virtue of a rod with you, Lucilla?" She started and looked up at him with frightened eyes. "I should be very loath to do so, but advise you to be very careful how you tempt me to it any farther," he said, and left her. He went down with a heavy heart to the breakfast-room where his wife, Max and Gracie awaited his coming. All three greeted his entrance with loving smiles. Vi was looking very lovely, and he noticed with gratitude that Gracie's eyes were bright and her cheeks faintly tinged with pink. She was improving rapidly in the bracing sea-air and winning all hearts by her pretty ways. She ran to meet him, crying, "Good-morning, my dear papa!" He took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly two or three times, longing to be able to do the same by the other one upstairs, put her in her place at the table and took his own. A tempting meal was spread upon it, but he felt that he could scarcely enjoy it because it must not be shared with Lulu. Vi read it all in his face, and her heart bled for him. She had seen through all these days of conflict with his stubborn, rebellious child, that his heart was sore over it, though he made great efforts to appear as usual, and never spoke of Lulu except when it was quite necessary. He had had to explain to Gracie why her sister was not to be seen, and to entreat Vi not to grieve over her unintentional share in occasioning the struggle, or let it hinder her enjoyment. Elsie had made a generous settlement upon each of her married children; so Vi had abundant means of her own. She longed to spend some of her money on her husband's children, especially in pretty, tasteful dress for the two little girls. She asked his consent, deeming it mot right to act without it. He seemed pleased that she had it in her heart to care for them in that way, but said nothing could be done for Lulu at present, she might do what she would for Gracie, but the expense must be his; nor could she move him from that decision. She had begun to carry out her plans for Gracie, delighting herself in making her look as pretty as possible, and each day hoping that Lulu's submission would make it possible to do the same by her. She knew this morning, by her husband's countenance and his coming in alone, that that hope had again failed, and her heart sank; but for his sake she assumed an air of cheerfulness and chatted of other things with a sprightliness and gayety that won him from sad thoughts in spite of himself. CHAPTER XXII. "Prithee, forgive me!" "Papa, can't I see Gracie?" Lulu asked when he came in with her dinner. "Certainly, if you are ready to obey." The child's lip quivered. "I'm so tired of that bread and milk," she said. "Can't I have something else? I'm sure you and everybody in the house have a great many good things." "We have, and it is a great grief to me that I cannot share them with my little Lulu. I have very little enjoyment in them because of that." "Papa, I'm sorry I've been so naughty, so impertinent to you. I don't mean ever to be so again; and I'll be a good girl every way after this, if you'll let me out." "Then come with me to your mamma," he said, holding out his hand. "I can't ask pardon of her," she said, turning away with a sob. "You must, Lucilla," he said in a tone that made her tremble. "You need not think to conquer your father. I shall keep you here on this plain fare and in solitary confinement until you are entirely penitent and submissive." He waited a moment, but receiving no reply, went out and locked the door. "She is still stubborn," he said to Violet, whom he found alone in their room across the hall, sighing deeply as he spoke; "and the close confinement is telling upon her; she grows pale and thin. Oh, how my heart bleeds for her, my dear child! But I must be firm. This is an important crisis in her life, and her future character--therefore her happiness for time and eternity--will depend greatly upon how this struggle ends." The next day was the Sabbath, and on returning from church, he went to Lulu's room. Little had passed between them since the talk of yesterday when he carried in her dinner. He found her now sitting in a listless attitude, and she did not look up on his entrance. He lifted her from her chair, sat down in it himself, and took her on his knee. "Has this holy day brought no good thoughts or feelings to my little girl?" he asked, gently smoothing the hair back from her forehead. "You know I couldn't go to church, papa," she said, without looking at him. "No; I know you could have gone, had you chosen to be a good, obedient child." "Papa, how can you go on trying to make me tell a lie when you have always taught me it was such a wicked, wicked thing to do?" "I try to make you tell a lie! what can you mean, daughter?" he asked in great surprise. "Yes, papa, you are trying to make me ask Mamma Vi's pardon after I have said I wouldn't." "Ah, my child, that was a wicked promise because it was rebellion against your father's authority, which God commands you to respect. Therefore the sin was in making it, and it is your duty to break it." Then he made her repeat the fifth commandment, and called her attention to its promise of long life and prosperity, as far as it shall be for God's glory and their own good, to all such as keep it. "I want you to inherit that blessing, my child," he said, "and to escape the curses pronounced against those who refuse obedience to their parents." Opening the Bible, he read to her, "The eye that mocketh at his father and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it." She gave him a frightened look, then, with a slight shudder, hid her face on his breast, but did not speak. "Lulu," he said, again softly stroking her hair, "about nine years ago I came home from a long voyage to find a dear little dark-eyed baby daughter, and as I took her in my arms, oh how my heart went out in love to her and gratitude to God for giving her to me! I loved her dearly then. I have loved her ever since with unabated affection, and never doubted her love to me until now." "Papa, I do love you," she said, hastily brushing away a tear. "I've said I was sorry for being naughty to you and didn't mean to do so any more." "And yet are continuing to be naughty and disobedient all the time. It is quite possible, Lulu, that you may some day be fatherless; if that time should come, do you think you will look back with pleasure to these days of rebellion?" At that she cried quite bitterly, but her father waited in vain for a word of reply. He put her on her knees on the floor, knelt beside her, and with his hand on her head prayed earnestly, tenderly that the Lord would cast out her wicked temper, forgive her sins, give her a new heart, and make her his own dear child. Rising, he took her in his arms again for a moment, she still sobbing, but saying not a word, then putting her gently aside, he left the room. To her surprise her dinner of bread and milk was presently brought up by Agnes, who set it down and went out without exchanging a word with her. The same thing occurred at supper-time. Lulu began to be filled with curiosity not unmingled with apprehension, but was too proud to question the girl. All through the afternoon and evening her thoughts dwelt much upon what her father had said to her, and the words and tender tones of his prayer rang in her ears and melted her heart. Beside she had become thoroughly convinced that what he had said he would do, so that there was no hope of release until won by obedience. She was disappointed that he did not come with her supper nor afterward, for she had almost resolved to submit. She cried herself to sleep that night, feeling such a love for her father as she had never known before, and an intense longing for his kiss of forgiveness. She became not willing only, but eager to do his bidding that she might receive it. In the morning she dressed herself with neatness and care and impatiently awaited his coming. She was sure it must be long past the usual hour when at last the door opened and Violet came in with the waiter of bread and milk. She set it down and turned to the little girl, who stood gazing at her in silent surprise. "Lulu, dear, your father is very ill," she said in tones quivering with emotion, and then the child noticed that there were traces of tears about her eyes and on her cheeks, "He was in terrible pain all night, and is very little better this morning," she went on. "O Lulu, I had a dear, dear father once, and he was taken ill very much as yours has been and--in a few days. Oh, how I loved him! and while he lived I thought I was a good daughter to him, for I don't remember ever being wilfully disobedient, but after he was gone my heart reproached me with having neglected opportunities to give him pleasure, and not having always obeyed quite so promptly and cheerfully as I might, and I would have given worlds to go back and be and do all I ought." She ended with a burst of tears, covering her face with her hands and sobbing, "O papa, papa! O my husband, my dear, dear husband!" "O Mamma Vi! I will ask your pardon--I do! won't you please forgive me for being so very, very naughty and impertinent? when you have been so good and kind to me too," sobbed Lulu, dropping on her knees at Violet's feet. "I do with all my heart," Violet said, lifting her up and kissing her. "And shall we not always love each other for your dear father's sake?" "Oh, yes, yes, indeed! I do love you! I don't know what made me be so wicked and stubborn. Mayn't I go to papa and tell him how sorry I am, and ask him to forgive me too?" "Yes, dear, come; perhaps it may help him to grow better, for I know he has grieved very much over this," Vi said, taking the child's hand and leading her into the room where the captain lay. As he saw them come in thus his eye brightened in spite of the severe pain he was enduring. With one bound, Lulu was at his side, sobbing, "Papa, papa! I'm so sorry for all my badness, and all your pain. Please, please forgive me. I've done it--asked Mamma Vi's pardon, and--and I'll never talk so to her again, nor ever disobey you any more." "I hope not, my darling," he said, drawing her down to give her a tender fatherly kiss of forgiveness. "I am rejoiced that you have given up your rebellion so that now I can love and pet you to my heart's content--if God spares me to get up from this bed of pain. I do forgive you gladly, dear daughter." For several days the captain was very ill, but the best of medical advice was at hand, the best of nursing was given him by Elsie and Violet, assisted by Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and others, and, by the blessing of Providence, upon these means he recovered. Lulu seemed very unhappy and remorseful until it was quite certain that he would get well, took little interest in any kind of recreation, and was often found hovering about the door of his room, eager to learn how he was and if possible gain admission to his presence, or permission to do something for his relief. She was a changed child from that time, perfectly respectful, obedient, and affectionate toward both her father and Violet. When the captain had once begun to mend, the improvement was very rapid, and he was soon able to share in the drives and other recreations of their party. During his illness Grandma Elsie had been very kind to his children, acting a mother's part by them, attending to their wants, comforting and encouraging them with hope of his recovery, and they had grown very fond of her. At first Lulu shrank from all her new mamma's relatives, and even from Max and Gracie, ashamed of her misconduct and expecting to receive unpleasant reminders of it. But she met with nothing of the kind, except that Max, when she first came downstairs, said. "It does seem strange, Lulu, that when so many men have to obey papa the instant he speaks, his own little girl should stand out so long and stubbornly against his authority;" and Gracie, with her arms about her sister's neck, sobbed, "O Lu how could you make dear papa so sorry for so many days?" "Was he so sorry?" sobbed Lulu. "Yes, indeed; sometimes he hardly ate anything, and looked so sad that the tears came in my eyes, and in Mamma Vi's too." "Oh, I hope that wasn't what made him sick!" cried Lulu, the tears streaming down her face. "I'll never, never behave so to him again." Lulu was still more remorseful as time went on and everybody was so kind to her, seeming never to remember her naughtiness and disgrace, but giving her a share in all the pleasures devised for themselves which were suitable to her age. She was especially touched and subdued by the interest Violet took in seeing her provided with new dresses made and trimmed in the fashion (which, to her extreme vexation, Mrs. Scrimp had always disregarded), and with many other pretty things. When she thanked her new mamma, she was told, "Your father pays for them all, dear." Then she went to him with tears in her eyes, and putting her arms round his neck, thanked him for all his goodness, confessing that she did not deserve it. "You are very welcome nevertheless, daughter," he said, "and all I ask in return is that you will be good and obedient." Vi wished to return to Lulu the pink coral ornaments, but that he would not allow. It was a great disappointment to Lulu, for she admired them extremely, but she showed herself entirely submissive under it. CHAPTER XXIII MAX. "Papa," said Max one morning, as they rose from the breakfast-table, "I feel as if a long walk would do me good. I'd like to go farther down the beach than I ever have yet." "Very well, my son, you may go, only keep out of danger and come home in time for dinner," was the indulgent rejoinder, and the lad set off at once. He presently fell in with two other lads a little older than himself, boarders in one of the near hotels, and casual acquaintances of his. They joined him and the three rambled on together, whistling, talking, and occasionally stooping to pick up a shell, pebble, or bit of seaweed or sponge. At length they reached an inlet that seemed to bar their farther progress, but looking about they spied an old boat stranded by yesterday's tide a little higher up the inlet, and were of course instantly seized with a great desire to get her into the water and set sail in her. "Wouldn't it be jolly fun?" cried Bob Masters, the eldest of the trio. "Come on, boys." Max was a rather heedless fellow, and never stopping to consider the right or wrong of the thing, or whether he were running into danger or not, went with the others. They found the boat, as they thought, in fair condition; there were two oars in her, and both Max and John Cox, the other lad, thought they knew pretty well how to use them, while Masters was sure he could steer. With a good deal of exertion they set the little craft afloat; then climbing in they pushed boldly out into deep water and bore down toward the ocean. Max had thought they were only going to cross to the farther side of the inlet and continue their walk; but almost before he knew it, they were out upon the sea, and the boat was rocking upon the waves in a way that seemed to him decidedly alarming. "Boys," he said, "let's put back as fast as we can. We don't know anything about managing a boat out here, and see how big the waves are!" "That's because the tide's coming in," laughed Masters, "so if we should upset it'll wash us ashore." "I don't know," said Max, "I'd rather not risk it; there's the undertow to carry us out again." "Oh, you're a coward!" sneered Cox. "I'm not going to turn back yet," said Masters; "so stick to your oar, Raymond, and if the sight of the big waves frightens you, just turn your back to 'em." At that moment a hail came from a fishing-smack not far away. "Halloo! boys, you'd better put back as fast as you can; that boat's not safe, especially in the hands of such green-horns as you." At the same moment a big incoming wave washed over them, carrying away their hats and Max's coat, which he had pulled off when taking the oar. Masters and Cox were now sufficiently frightened to be willing to turn back; they made the attempt at once, but found it far more difficult than they had anticipated. They struggled hard, and several times nearly gave themselves up for lost; but at last, after many narrow escapes, a huge wave carried them high on to the beach, and left them there with barely strength to crawl up out of the way of the next. It was a good while before they were able to do anything but lie panting and gasping on the sand. Max had not been long gone when Zoe ran into the cottage of the Raymonds, to tell of a plan just set on foot in the other house to get up a party to visit some points of interest several miles distant. They were to go in carriages, take a lunch with them, and not return till late in the afternoon, when all would dine together at Mrs. Dinsmore's table. "Mamma is not going," she said, "and offers to take care of Gracie, if the child stays behind. Every one seems to fear the ride would be too long and wearisome for her." "Yes, I think so," the captain said, fondling her, for she was sitting on his knee. "I'd like to go, papa," she said, looking up coaxingly into his face, "I like to go driving, and to sit on your knee." "And I love to have my baby girl in my arms, and to give her pleasure," he responded, repeating his caresses, "but I should feel very sad to see her made sick." "Then I'll be good and not ask to go, papa," she said, with a slight sigh, laying her head on his shoulder. "That's my dear, good little Gracie! You shall have a short drive every day when I can manage it. Perhaps a moonlight drive along the beach, to-morrow evening. Will not that be nice?" "Oh, ever so nice, dear papa!" she cried, clapping her hands in delight. "Mamma not going, Zoe!" exclaimed Violet in a tone of disappointment. "That will rob the excursion of half its charm for me. Is she not well?" "She has a very slight headache, she says, and fears the sun would increase it. Besides she is so much interested in a book she is reading that she prefers staying at home to finish it. We had hard work to persuade grandpa to go without her, but he has consented at last; only, I believe, because Grandma Rose refused to go without him, and mamma insists that she is in no danger of a bad headache if she keeps quiet." "Yes, grandpa is so fond and careful of her." "We have two large carriages, so that there is abundance of room for everybody," pursued Zoe; "and we hope, Captain, that you will let Max and Lulu go." "Lulu shall certainly, if she chooses," he said, turning with a kind, fatherly smile to the little girl who stood silently at his side, waiting with a wistful, eager look, to hear if she were to be of the party, but ashamed to ask the indulgence because of a vivid remembrance of her late rebellion and disgrace. "Oh, thank you, papa!" she cried joyously, giving him a hug and kiss. "Mamma Vi, what shall I wear?" "Your travelling dress will be the most suitable I think," said Violet. "Then I'll run and put it on," returned Lulu, hastening away with cheerful alacrity. "Max shall go too, Captain, shan't he?" queried Zoe, with whom the boy was a great favorite. "He might if he were here," the father answered; "but unfortunately he has gone off for a long walk and may not be back before dinner-time." "And we must start in a few minutes," remarked Vi; "I am really sorry, for I know Max will regret missing it. Gracie, dear, I'm going over to speak to mamma; shall I take you with me?" "Yes, if you please, Mamma Vi, when I've kissed my dear papa good-by." Having done so, she took her doll in her arms and gave her hand to Violet. She felt a little lonely at the thought of being left behind, but was quite comforted on learning that little Walter Travilla had decided to stay at home and play with her. The excursionists drove off, and Elsie, having provided the little ones with amusement, gave herself up to the enjoyment of her book and an easy-chair set where she could catch the pleasant sea breeze without feeling the sun. Still, she did not forget the children, but now and then laid aside her book for a little, while she suggested or invented some new game for their entertainment. So the morning passed quietly and pleasantly. It was a little past noon when, stepping out upon the veranda, she caught sight of a forlorn figure, hatless, coatless, and dishevelled generally, yet bearing a strangely familiar look, slowly approaching the other cottage. A second glance told her who it was. "Max!" she exclaimed in astonishment, and forgetting all about her headache, caught up a sunshade and hurried to meet him. "Max! can it be you?" she asked. "Why, my poor boy, where have you been? and what has happened to you?" "O Grandma Elsie!" he said, looking much mortified and ready to cry, "I did hope I'd be able to get into the house without anybody seeing me! Do you know where my father is?" "Yes; the two families have all gone on an excursion except Gracie, Walter, and me. But come in out of the sun," she added, leading the way into the Raymonds' cottage. Max followed her, and won to confidence by her sweet and kindly sympathy, told her the whole story of his morning's adventure. "O Max, my dear boy! what a narrow escape!" she said, with tears in her eyes. "What a mercy that you are alive to tell the tale! What a terrible, terrible shock it would have been to your father to learn that his only son was drowned! and that while in the act of disobeying him, for you say he bade you not to go into any danger." "Yes, Grandma Elsie, and if he finds it out I'll be pretty sure to get a severe flogging. I deserve it, I know; but I don't want to take it. You won't tell on me, will you? Perhaps he'll find it out through the loss of the coat and hat, but I hope he won't miss them, at I have several others." "No, Max, I shall certainly not tell on you; no one shall ever learn from me what you have told me in confidence; but I do hope, my dear boy, that you will not try to deceive your kind, loving father, but will confess all to him as soon as he comes home, and patiently bear whatever punishment he sees fit to inflict. It is the only right and honorable course, Max, and will save you a great deal of suffering from remorse and fear of detection." "But it will be dreadfully hard to confess!" sighed Max. "I believe I really dread that more than the flogging." "Yet take courage, my boy, and do it. Do not allow yourself to indulge in moral cowardice, but dare to do right, asking help of God, who is able and willing to give it." Max made no reply, but sat there before her, looking very guilty and miserable. "You must be hungry," she said presently, "and it is not easy to be brave and strong on an empty stomach. Suppose you go to your room and make yourself neat, then come into the other house and join me and the little folks in a nice luncheon." The proposal was accepted with thankfulness. Max looked several degrees less miserable after satisfying his appetite, yet all the afternoon seemed restless and unhappy. Elsie said little to him, but many times silently lifted up her heart on his behalf, asking that he might have strength given him to do the duty he felt to be so difficult and painful. As the time drew near when the pleasure-seekers might be expected to return, he slipped away out of her sight. Presently the carriages drove up and deposited their load. Max stood waiting in the veranda, his heart beating very fast and loud, as his father, Violet, and Lulu came up the path that led from the garden-gate. All three greeted him affectionately, expressing their regret that he had missed the pleasure of the excursion; then Vi and Lulu passed into the house and on upstairs. The captain was about to follow when Max, stepping close to his side, said, with a slight tremble in his voice, "Papa, I--want to speak to you." "Very well, my son, say on," answered the captain, stopping and turning toward him. "It's something I want to tell you, sir," and Max hung his head, his cheeks flushing hotly. His father gave him a searching look, took his hand, and led him into the parlor. "Don't be afraid of your father, Max," he said kindly, "why should you?" "Because I've been a bad boy, sir, deserving of a flogging, and expect you to give it to me," Max burst out desperately. "Tell me all about it, my son," the captain said in a moved tone, "and tell it here," seating himself and drawing the boy to his knee. "Perhaps it will be easier." "Oh, yes, papa, because it makes me know you love me even if I am bad; but it makes me more ashamed and sorry for having disobeyed you," sobbed Max, no longer able to refrain from tears as he felt the affectionate clasp of his father's enfolding arm. "Then it has a right effect. My boy, I think if you knew how much I love you, you would never disobey. It will be a sore trial to me, as well as to you, if I find it my duty to inflict any severe punishment upon you. But let me hear your story." Max told it in broken accents, for he was full of remorse for having behaved so ill to so kind a parent. When he had finished there was a moment of silence. It was the captain who broke it. "My boy," he said, with emotion, "it was a really wonderful escape, and we must thank God for it. If you had been drowned, Max, do you know that it would have gone near to break your father's heart? To lose my first-born, my only son, and in the very act of disobedience--oh, how terrible!" "Papa, I didn't, I really didn't think about its being disobedience when I got into the boat, because it didn't seem dangerous till we were fairly out among the waves." "Do you think I ought to excuse you on that account?" "No, sir; you've reproved me so often for not thinking, and for not being careful to obey your orders; and I know I deserve a flogging. But, O papa, please don't let Mamma Vi know about it, or anybody else. Can't you take me upstairs here when they are all in the other house?" "I shall not use corporal punishment this time, Max," the captain said, in a moved tone. Dressing the boy closer to his side, "I shall try free forgiveness, for I think you are truly sorry. And then you have made so frank and full a confession of wrong-doing, that I might perhaps never have discovered in any other way." "O papa, how good you are to me! I don't think I can ever be so mean and ungrateful as to disobey you again," exclaimed Max, feelingly. "But I don't deserve to be praised, or let off from punishment, because of confessing, for I shouldn't have done it if Grandma Elsie hadn't talked to me about the duty of it, and persuaded me to take courage to do it because it was right." "Bless her for it! the dear, good woman!" the captain said, with earnest gratitude. "But I think, Max, you do deserve commendation for taking her advice. I have something more to say to you, my son, but not now, for the call to dinner will come directly, and I must go and prepare for it." There was a hearty embrace between them, and they separated, the captain going to his room to make his toilet and Max to the other house, where he soon managed to let Grandma Elsie into the secret of his confession and its happy result, thanking her with tears in his eyes for her kind, wise advice. Elsie rejoiced with and for him, telling him he had made her heart glad and that she hoped he would always have courage to do right. As Max prepared for bed that night he was wondering to himself what more his father had to say to him, when he heard the captain's step on the stairs, and the next moment he came in. Max started a little apprehensively. Could it be that his father had changed his mind, and was about to give him the dreaded flogging after all? But with one glance up into the grave yet kindly face looking down at him, all his fear vanished. He drew a long breath of relief. "My boy," the captain said, laying his hand on Max's shoulder, "I told you I had something more to say to you, and I have come to say it now. You are 'my first-born, my might and the beginning of my strength.' Never until you are a father yourself can you know or understand the tide of love, joy, and thankfulness that swept over me at the news of your birth. Nor do you know how often, on land and on sea, in storm and in calm, my thoughts dwell with deep anxiety upon the future of my son, not only for time, Max, but for eternity." The captain paused for a moment, his emotions seemingly too big for utterance, and Max, throwing his arms around his neck, hid his face on his breast. "Papa," he sobbed, "I didn't know you loved me so much! Oh, I wish I'd always been a good boy!" The captain sat down and drew him to his knee. "My dear son," he said, "I have no doubt that you are sorry for every act of disobedience toward me, and I fully and freely forgive them all; but what I want you to consider now is your sinfulness toward God, and your need of forgiveness from him. You are old enough to be a Christian now, Max, and it is what I desire for you more than anything else. Think what blessedness to be made a child of God, an heir of glory! to have Jesus, the sinner's Friend, for your own Saviour, your sins all washed away in his precious blood, his righteousness put upon you." "Papa, I don't know how." "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved,' the Bible says. It tells us that we have all broken God's holy law, that we all deserve his wrath and curse forever, and cannot be saved by anything that we can do or Buffer; but that 'God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish but have everlasting life.' He offers this salvation to us as his free gift, and so we are to take it, for we can have it in no other way. Go to God, my son, just as you have come to me, with confession of your sins and acknowledging that you deserve only punishment; but pleading for pardon through the blood and merits of Jesus Christ. Accept the salvation offered you by the Lord Jesus, giving yourself to him to be his, his only forever. 'Him hath God exalted with his right hand to be a Prince and a Saviour, to give repentance to Israel and remission of sins,' and he will give them to you if you ask for them with all your heart. He says, 'Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.' My son, my dear son, will not you come now? God's time is always _now_, and only the present is ours." "Papa, I will try; I am sorry for my sins against God, and I do want to belong to him. Papa, won't you pray for me?" They knelt down together, and with his son's hand in his the captain poured out a fervent prayer on the boy's behalf, of confession and entreaty for pardon and acceptance in the name and for the sake of Him "who was delivered for our offences, and was raised again for our justification." Then, with a silent, tender embrace he left him. CHAPTER XXIV. "Home again, home again, from a foreign shore, And oh it fills my soul with Joy to see my friends once more." The rest of the summer and early fall passed delightfully to our sojourners by the sea; though the happiness of the captain and Violet was somewhat marred by the knowledge that soon they must part for a season of greater or less duration, he to be exposed to all the dangers of the treacherous deep. But they did not indulge in repining or lose the enjoyment of the present in vexing thoughts concerning the probable trials of the future. It was necessary, however, to give it some consideration, and make arrangements in regard to his children. Thinking of the guidance and control they all needed, the temper and stubbornness Lulu had shown, the watchful care requisite for Gracie in her feeble state, he hesitated to ask Mrs. Dinsmore and Elsie if they still felt inclined to undertake the charge of them. But to his great relief and gratitude, those kind friends did not wait for him to broach the subject, but renewed their offer, saying they had become much attached to the children, and desired more than ever to give them a happy home with themselves; upon the conditions formerly stated, namely, that he would delegate his authority to them during his absence, and give the children distinctly to understand that he had done so. These conditions the captain gladly accepted. He told the children all about the arrangement he had made for them, and in the presence of the whole family, bade them obey Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi as they would himself. "One master and three mistresses!" Edward remarked lightly; "are you not imposing rather hard conditions, Captain?" "No, I think not, Ned, for I am satisfied that their commands will never conflict; but should they do so, Mr. Dinsmore, as patriarch of the whole tribe, is of course the highest authority." It had been decided that Harold and Herbert should now enter college. The others, on being left by the captain, would all return to Ion and spend the winter there or at Viamede. Edward would take charge of the Ion plantation, his grandfather giving him some slight supervision at the start. This arrangement would leave Mr. Dinsmore almost without employment, and, as he liked to be busy, he said he would gladly act the part of tutor to Max, and also hear some of the recitations of Rosie and Lulu. Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi would for the present undertake the rest of the work of educating the girls and little Walter. Their plans settled, they gave themselves up to quiet enjoyment of each other's society while Capt. Raymond waited for orders. Early in October there came a great and joyful surprise. A train had steamed into the neighboring depôt a few moments before, but as they were not looking for any addition to their party, no one had taken particular note of the fact. But a carriage came driving from that direction, and drew up before the gate of Mr. Dinsmore's cottage, where the whole family were gathered. A gentleman hastily alighted, handed out a lady; a servant-woman followed--having first handed him an odd-looking, rather large bundle, which he received with care--then turned to collect packages and parcels, while the other two hurried to the house, the lady a little in advance. "Elsie!" was the simultaneous exclamation of many voices in varied tones of astonishment and delight, and the next instant there was a wonderful confusion of greetings and embraces mingled with tears of joy and thankfulness. Lester and his wife had been heard from frequently during the past months, their letters always cheerful and full of bright hopes and anticipations, but containing no hint of any intention of returning to America before the coming spring. As they afterward explained, it had been a very sudden resolve, caused by a severe fit of homesickness, and there really was no time to write. Lester shared the joyous welcome given to Elsie; the servant woman having relieved him of his bundle, of which, in their joyous excitement, no one had taken particular notice. Only waiting, a trifle impatiently, till the greetings and introductions were over, Elsie Leland took it from her, and with a proud, happy, yet tearful smile laid it--a lovely sleeping babe--in her mother's arms. "Our boy, mother dear. We have named him for his grandpa--Edward Travilla." Elsie Travilla folded the child to her heart, kissed it softly, tenderly, the great silent tears rolling down her cheeks. "Ah, could he but have seen it! our first grandchild," she sighed. Then, wiping away her tears, and sending a glance of mingled joy and maternal pride around the little circle, she folded the babe still closer, saying, with an arch, sweet smile, "Ah, no one now can deny that I am in very truth Grandma Elsie!" THE END. * * * * * =THE MERRY LYNN SERIES= By HARRIET PYNE GROVE Cloth Bound. Jackets in Colors. * * * * * The charm of school and camp life, out-door sports and European travel is found in these winning tales of Merilyn and her friends at boarding school and college. These realistic stories of the everyday life, the fun, frolic and special adventures of the Beechwood girls will be enjoyed by all girls of high school age. MERILYN ENTERS BEECHWOLD MERILYN AT CAMP MEENAHGA MERILYN TESTS LOYALTY MERILYN'S NEW ADVENTURE MERILYN FORRESTER, CO-ED. THE "MERRY LYNN" MINE * * * * * A.L. BURT COMPANY, _Publishers_ 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK [Illustration] =The Ann Sterling Series= By HARRIET PYNE GROVE Stories of Ranch Life and Adventure. For Girls 12 to 16 Years. Handsome Cloth Binding with Attractive Jackets in Color * * * * * ANN STERLING THE COURAGE OF ANN ANN AND THE JOLLY SIX ANN CROSSES A SECRET TRAIL ANN'S SEARCH REWARDED ANN'S AMBITIONS * * * * * For sale by all booksellers, or sent on receipt of price by the Publishers =A.L. BURT COMPANY, 114-120 E. 23d St., NEW YORK= * * * * * [Illustration] =MARJORIE DEAN= =POST-GRADUATE= =SERIES= By PAULINE LESTER Author of the Famous Marjorie Dean High School and College Series. All Cloth Bound. Copyright Titles. _With Individual Jackets in Colors._ MARJORIE DEAN, POST GRADUATE MARJORIE DEAN, MARVELOUS MANAGER MARJORIE DEAN AT HAMILTON ARMS MARJORIE DEAN'S ROMANCE MARJORIE DEAN MACY * * * * * For sale by all booksellers, or sent on receipt of price by the Publishers =A.L. BURT COMPANY, 114-120 E. 23d St., NEW YORK= 
14488	----	ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN by MARTHA FINLEY 1886 CHAPTER I. "O married love! each heart shall own; Where two congenial souls unite, Thy golden chains inlaid with down, Thy lamp with heaven's own splendor bright." LANGHORNE. "There, there, little woman! light of my eyes, and core of my heart! if you don't stop this pretty soon, I very much fear I shall be compelled to join you," Edward Travilla said, between a laugh and a sigh, drawing Zoe closer to him, laying her head against his breast, and kissing her tenderly on lip and cheek and brow. "I shall begin to think you already regret having staid behind with me." "No, no, no!" she cried, dashing away her tears, then putting her arms about his neck, and returning his caresses with ardor of affection. "Dear Ned, you know you're more than all the rest of the world to your silly little wife. But it seems lonely just at first, to have them all gone at once, especially mamma; and to think we'll not see her again for months! I do believe you'd cry yourself, if you were a girl." "Altogether likely," he said, laughing, and giving her another hug; "but, being a man, it wouldn't do at all to allow my feelings to overcome me in that manner. Besides, with my darling little wife still left me, I'd be an ungrateful wretch to repine at the absence of other dear ones." "What a neat little speech, Ned!" she exclaimed, lifting her head to look up into his face, and laughing through her tears--for her eyes had filled again. "Well, you know I can't help feeling a little lonely and sad just at first; but, for all that, I wouldn't for the world be anywhere else than here in your arms:" and with a sigh of content and thankfulness, she let her pretty head drop upon his breast again. "My darling! may it ever be to you the happiest place on earth! God helping me, I shall always try to make it so," he said, with a sudden change to gravity, and in low, moved tones. "My dear, dear husband!" she murmured, clinging closer to him. Then, wiping her eyes, "I sha'n't cry any more; for, if I'm not the happiest woman in the world, I ought to be. And what a nice time we shall have together, dear Ned! each wholly devoted to the other all winter long. I have it all planned out: while you are out about the plantation in the mornings, I'll attend to my housekeeping and my studies; and in the afternoons and evenings,--after I've recited,--we can write our letters, or entertain ourselves and each other with music or books; you can read to me while I work, you know." "Yes: a book is twice as enjoyable read in that way--sharing the pleasure with you," he said, softly stroking her hair, and smiling down into her eyes. "Especially if it is a good story, or a bit of lovely poetry," she added. "Yes," he said: "we'll have both those in turn, and some solid reading besides." "I don't like solid reading," she returned, with a charming pout. "One may cultivate a taste for it, I think," he answered pleasantly. "But you can't cultivate what you haven't got," she objected. "True enough," he said, laughing. "Well, then, we'll try to get a little first, and cultivate it carefully afterward. I must go now, love," he added, releasing her: "the men need some directions from me, in regard to their work." "And the women some from me," said Zoe. "Oh! you needn't laugh, Ned," shaking her finger at him, as he turned in the doorway to give her an amused glance: "perhaps some of these days you'll find out that I am really an accomplished housewife, capable of giving orders and directions too." "No doubt, my dear; for I am already proud of you in that capacity," he said, throwing her a smiling kiss, then hurrying away. Zoe summoned Aunt Dicey, the housekeeper, gave her orders for the day, and the needed supplies from pantry and storeroom, they went to the sewing-room, to give some directions to Christine and Alma. She lingered there for a little, trying on a morning-dress they were making for her, then repaired to her boudoir, intent upon beginning her studies, which had been rather neglected of late, in the excitement of the preparations for the departure of the greater part of the family for a winter at Viamede. But she had scarcely taken out her books, when the sound of wheels on the avenue attracted her attention; and glancing from the window, she saw the Roselands carriage draw up at the front entrance, and Ella Conly alight from it, and run up the veranda steps. "There, I'll not do much studying to-day, I'm afraid," said Zoe, half aloud; "for, even if it's only a call she has come for, she'll not leave under an hour." She hastily replaced the books in the drawer from which she had taken them,--for she had a feeling, only half acknowledged even to herself, of repugnance to having Ella know of her studies,--Ella, who had graduated from boarding-school, and evidently felt herself thoroughly educated,--and hurried down to meet and welcome her guest. "I told Cal and Art, I thought you'd be sure to feel dreadfully lonely to-day, after seeing everybody but Ned start off on a long journey, and so I'd come and spend the day with you," said Ella, when the two had exchanged kisses, and inquiries after each other's health. "It was very kind and thoughtful in you," returned Zoe, leading the way into the parlor usually occupied by the family, where an open wood fire blazed cheerily on the hearth. "Take this easy-chair, won't you?" she said, wheeling it a little nearer the grate; "and Dinah shall carry away your wraps when it suits you to doff them. I wish cousins Cal and Art would invite themselves to dine with us too." "Art's very busy just now," said Ella: "there's a good deal of sickness, and I don't believe he's spent a whole night at home for the last week or more." "Dear me! I wouldn't be a doctor for any thing, nor a doctor's wife!" exclaimed Zoe. "Well, I don't know: there's something to be said on both sides of that question," laughed Ella. "I can tell you, Art would make a mighty good husband; and it's very handy, in ease of sickness, to have the doctor in the house." "Yes; but, according to your account, he's generally somewhere else than in his own house," returned Zoe playfully. Ella laughed. "Yes," she said, "doctors do have a hard life; but, if you say so to Art, he always says he has never regretted having chosen the medical profession, because it affords so many opportunities for doing good. It's plain he makes that the business of his life. I'm proud of Art. I don't believe there's a better man anywhere. I was sick last summer, and you wouldn't believe how kindly he nursed me." "You can't tell me any thing about him that I should think too good to believe," said Zoe. "He's our family doctor, you remember; and, of course, we are all attached to him on that account, as well as because of the relationship." "Yes, to be sure. There, Dinah, you may carry away my hat and cloak," Ella said, divesting herself of them as she spoke, "but leave the satchel. I brought my fancy-work, Zoe: one has to be industrious now, as Christmas is coming. I decided to embroider a pair of slippers for each of my three brothers. Walter does not expect to get home; so I made his first, as they had to travel so far. I'm nearly done with Art's, and then I have Cal's to do." "Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed Zoe, examining the work: "and that's a new stitch; won't you teach it to me?" "Yes, indeed, with pleasure. And I want you to teach me how to crochet that lace I saw you making the other day. I thought it so pretty." The two spent a pleasant morning chatting together over their fancy-work, saying nothing very wise, perhaps, but neither did they say any thing harmful: an innocent jest now and again, something--usually laudatory--about some member of the family connection, and remarks and directions about their work, formed the staple of their talk. "Oh! how did it come that you and Ned staid behind when all the rest went to Viamede for the winter?" asked Ella. "Business kept my husband, and love for him and his society kept me," returned Zoe, with a look and smile that altogether belied any suspicion Ella might have had that she was fretting over the disappointment. "Didn't you want to go?" "Yes, indeed, if Edward could have gone with me; but any place with him is better than any other without him." "Well, I don't believe I should have been willing to stay behind, even in your place. I've always had a longing to spend a winter there visiting my sister Isa, and my cousins Elsie and Molly. Cal and Art say, perhaps one or both of them may go on to spend two or three weeks this winter; and in that case I shall go along." "Perhaps we may go at the same time, and what a nice party we will make!" said Zoe. "There," glancing from the window, "I see my husband coming, and I want to run out and speak to him. Will you excuse me a moment?" and scarcely waiting for a reply, she ran gayly away. Meeting Edward on the threshold, "I have no lessons to recite this time," she said; "but you are not to scold, because I've been prevented from studying by company. Ella is spending the day with me." "Ah! I hope you have had a pleasant time together--not too much troubled by fear of a lecture from the old tyrant who bears your lessons," he said laughingly, as he bent his head to press a kiss of ardent affection upon the rosy lips she held up to him. "No," she laughed in return: "I'm not a bit afraid of him." Zoe had feared the hours when Edward was unavoidably absent from her side would be very lonely now while the other members of the Ion family were away; but she did not find it so; her studies, and the work of making various pretty things for Christmas gifts, keeping her very busy. And, when he was with her, time flew on very rapid wings. She had grown quite industrious, and generally plied her needle in the evenings while he read or talked to her. But occasionally he would take the embroidery, or whatever it was, out of her hands, and toss it aside, saying she was trying her eyes by such constant use; and, besides, he wanted her undivided attention. And she would resign herself to her fate, nothing loath to be drawn close to his side, or to a seat upon his knee, to be petted and caressed like a child, which, indeed, he persisted in calling her. This was when they were alone: but very frequently they had company to spend the day, afternoon, or evening; for Ion had always been noted for its hospitality; and scarcely a week passed in which they did not pay a visit to the Oaks, the Laurels, the Pines, or Roselands. Also a brisk correspondence was carried on with the absent members of the family. And Zoe's housekeeping cares and duties were just enough to be an agreeable variety in her occupations: every day, too, when the weather permitted, she walked or rode out with her husband. And so the time passed quite delightfully for the first two months after the departure of the Viamede party. It was a disappointment that Edward found himself too busy to make the hoped-for trip to Viamede at Christmas-time; yet Zoe did not fret over it, and really enjoyed the holidays extremely, giving and receiving numerous handsome presents, and, with Edward's assistance, making it a merry and happy time for the servants and other dependants, as well as for the relatives and friends still in the neighborhood. The necessary shopping, with Edward to help her, and the packing and sending off of the Christmas-boxes to Viamede, to the college-boys,--Herbert and Harold,--and numerous other relatives and friends far and near, Zoe thought altogether the most delightful business she had ever taken in hand. A very merry, happy little woman she was through all those weeks and months, Edward as devoted as any lover, and as gay and light-hearted as herself. "Zoe, darling," Edward said one day at dinner, "I must drive over into our little village of Union--by the way, do you know that we have more than a hundred towns of that name in these United States?" "No, I did not know, or suspect, that we had nearly so many," she interrupted, laughing: "no wonder letters go astray when people are not particular to give the names of both county and State. But what were you going to say about driving over there?" "I must see a gentleman on business, who will be there to meet the five-o'clock train, and leave on it; and, in order to be certain of seeing him, I must be there at least fifteen or twenty minutes before it is due. Shall I have the pleasure of my wife's company in the carriage? I have ordered it to be at the door by fifteen or twenty minutes past four, which will give us plenty of time, as it is an easy matter to drive from here to Union in ten minutes." "Thank you," she said. "I accept the invitation with pleasure, and promise to be ready at the minute." "You are the best little woman about that," he returned, with an appreciative look and smile. "I don't remember that you have ever yet kept me waiting, when told beforehand at what time I intended to start." "Of course not," she said, with a pleased laugh; "because I was afraid, if I did, I shouldn't be invited so often: and I'm always so glad to go with you." "Not gladder than I am to have you," he said, with a very lover-like glance and smile. "I always enjoy your society, and am always proud to show my friends and acquaintances what a dear little wife I have. I dare say I'm looked upon as a very fortunate fellow in that respect, and sometimes envied on account of having drawn such a prize in the matrimonial lottery." They had left the table while he spoke, and with the last words he passed his arm round her waist. "Dear me, Ned, what a gallant speech!" she said, flushing with delight; "you deserve a reward:" and she held up her face for a kiss. "I am overpaid," he said, when he had bestowed it. "In spite of the coin being such as you have a right to help yourself to whenever you will?" she returned with a merry laugh. "O Ned, my lover-husband!" she added, laying her head on his breast, "I am so happy in belonging to you, and I can never love you enough for all your goodness to me!" "Darling, are you not equally good and loving to me?" he asked in tender tones, and holding her close. "But I owe every thing to you," she responded with emotion. "If you had not come to my aid when my dear father was taken from me, what would have become of me, a mere child, without a near relative in the world, alone and destitute in a foreign land?" "But I loved you, dearest. I sought my own happiness, as well as yours, in asking you to be my wife. So you need never feel burdened by the idea that you are under any special obligation to me, to whom you are the very sunshine of life." "Dear Ned, how very kind in you to say so," she responded, gazing with ardent affection into his eyes; "but it isn't burdensome to be under obligation to you, any more than it is a trial to be ruled by you," she added, with playful tenderness; "and I love to think of all your goodness to me." It was five minutes past four by Zoe's watch, and she just about to go to her dressing-room to put on her hat and cloak, when visitors were announced,--some ladies who always made a lengthened call at Ion; so she at once resigned herself to the loss of her anticipated drive with her husband. "O Ned!" she whispered in a hasty, vexed aside, "you'll have to go alone." "Yes, dear," he returned; "but I'll try to get back in time to take you a drive in the other direction." They stepped forward, and greeted their guests with hospitable cordiality. They were friends whose visits were prized and enjoyed, though their coming just at this time was causing Zoe a real disappointment. However, Edward's promise of a drive with him at a later hour so far made amends for it, that she could truthfully express pleasure in seeing her guests. Edward chatted with them for a few moments, then, excusing himself on the plea of business that could not be deferred, left them to be entertained by Zoe, while he entered his waiting carriage, and went on his way to the village, where he expected to meet his business acquaintance. CHAPTER II. "The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness."--SHAKSPEARE. Edward had met and held his desired interview with his business acquaintance, seen him aboard his train, and was standing watching it as it steamed away and disappeared in the distance, when a feminine voice, close at hand, suddenly accosted him. "O Mr. Travilla! how are you? I consider myself very fortunate in finding you here." He turned toward the speaker, and was not too greatly pleased at sight of her. "Ah! good-evening, Miss Deane," he said, taking her offered hand, and speaking with gentlemanly courtesy. "In what can I be of service to you?" "By inviting me to Ion to spend the night," she returned laughingly. "I've missed my train, and was quite in despair at the thought of staying alone over night in one of the miserable little hotels of this miserable little village. So I was delighted to see your carriage standing there, and you yourself beside it; for, knowing you to be one of the most hospitable of men, I am sure you will be moved to pity, and take me home with you." Edward's heart sank at thought of Zoe, but, seeing no way out of the dilemma, "Certainly," he said, and helped his self-invited guest to a seat in his carriage, placed himself by her side, and bade the coachman drive on to Ion. "Now, really, this is very good in you, Mr. Travilla," remarked Miss Deane: "there is no place I like better to visit than Ion, and I begin to think it was rather a fortunate mishap--missing my train." "Very unfortunate for me, I fear," sighed Edward to himself. "The loss of her drive will be a great disappointment to Zoe, and the sight of such a guest far from making it up to her. I am thankful the visit is to be for only a night." Aloud he said, "I fear you will find it less pleasant than on former occasions,--in fact, rather lonely; as all the family are absent--spending the winter at Viamede, my mother's Louisiana plantation--except my wife and myself." "Ah! but your wife is a charming little girl,--I never can think of her as a woman, you know,--and you are a host in yourself," returned the lady laughingly. Zoe's callers had left; and she, having donned hat and cloak, not to keep her husband a single moment, was at the window watching for his coming, when the carriage came driving up the avenue, and drew up at the door. She hurried out, expecting to find no one there but himself, and to be at once handed to a seat in the vehicle, and the next minute be speeding away with him, enjoying her drive all the more for the little disappointment that had preceded it. What, then, was her chagrin to see a visitor handed out, and that visitor the woman for whom she had conceived the most violent antipathy! "Miss Deane, my dear," Edward said, with an entreating look at Zoe, which she did not see, her eyes being at that instant fixed upon the face of her uninvited and unwelcome guest. "How do you do, my dear Mrs. Travilla? I hope you are glad to see me?" laughed the intruder, holding out a delicately gloved hand, "your husband has played the Good Samaritan to me to-night--saving me from having to stay in one of those wretched little hotels in the village till two o'clock to-morrow morning." "I am in usual health, thank you. Will you walk in?" returned Zoe in a freezing tone, and utterly ignoring the offered hand. "Will you step into the parlor? or would you prefer being shown to your room first?" "The latter, if you please," Miss Deane answered sweetly, apparently quite unaware that Zoe's manner was in the least ungracious. "Dinah," said Zoe, to a maid-in-waiting, "show Miss Deane to the room she occupied on her last visit. Carry up her satchel, and see that she has every thing she wants." Having given the order, Zoe stepped out to the veranda where Edward still was, having staid behind to give directions in regard to the horses. "Zoe, love, I am very sorry," he said, as the man turned his horses' heads, and drove away toward the stables. "O Edward! how could you?" she exclaimed reproachfully, tears of disappointment and vexation springing to her eyes. "Darling, I really could not help it," he replied soothingly, drawing her to him with a caress, and went on to tell exactly what had occurred. "She is not a real lady," said Zoe, "or she never would have done a thing like that." "I agree with you, love," he said; "but I was sorry your reception of her was so extremely ungracious and cold." "Would you have had me play the hypocrite, Ned?" she asked indignantly. "No, Zoe, I should be very far from approving of that," he answered gravely: "but while it was right and truthful not to express pleasure which you did not feel, at her coming, you might, on the other hand, have avoided absolute rudeness; you might have shaken hands with her, and asked after her health and that of her father's family." "I treated her as well as she deserved; and it does not make her any the more welcome to me, that she has already been the means of drawing down upon me a reproof from my husband's lips," Zoe said in tremulous tones, and turning away from him with her eyes full of tears. "My words were hardly intended as that, little wife," Edward responded in a kindly tone, following her into the hall, catching her in his arms, and imprinting a kiss on her ruby lips. "And I wanted my drive with you so badly," she murmured, half hiding her face on his breast; "but she has robbed us of that, and--O Ned! is she to come between us again, and make us quarrel, and be so dreadfully unhappy?" Her voice was full of tears and sobs before she had ended. "No, no; I could not endure that any more than you," he said with emotion, and clasping her very close: "and it is only for to-night you will have to bear the annoyance of her presence; she is to leave in the morning." "Is she? that is some comfort. I hope somebody will come in for the evening, and share with us the infliction of her society," Zoe said, concluding with a forlorn attempt at a laugh. "Won't you take off that very becoming hat and cloak, Mrs. Travilla, and spend the evening?" asked Edward playfully. "Thank you. I believe I will, if you will accompany me to the dressing-room," she returned, with a smiling look up into his face. "That I will with pleasure," he said, "provided you will reward me with some assistance with my toilet." "Such as brushing your hair, and tying your cravat? Yes, sir, I will: it's a bargain." And so, laughing and chatting, they went up to their own private apartments. Halt an hour later they came down again together, to find Miss Deane in the parlor, seated by a window overlooking the avenue. "There's a carriage just drawing up before your front entrance," she remarked: "the Roselands family carriage, I think it is." Zoe gave her husband a bright, pleased look. It seemed her wish for an addition to their party for the evening had been granted. The next moment the room-door was thrown, open, and Dr. Conly and Miss Ella were announced. They were cordially welcomed, asked to tea, and staid the evening, greatly relieving Zoe in the matter of entertaining her unwelcome guest, who devoted herself to the doctor, and left Edward to his wife and cousin, a condition of things decidedly agreeable to Zoe. A little after nine the Roselands carriage was announced; and the doctor and Ella took their departure, Edward and Zoe accompanying them to the outer door. The sky was black with clouds, and the wind roaring through the trees on the lawn. "We are going to have a heavy storm. I think," remarked Arthur, glancing upward: "there is not a star to be seen, and the wind blows almost a gale. I hope no patient of mine will want the doctor very badly to-night," he added with a slight laugh. "Step in out of the wind, cousin Zoe, or you may be the very one to send for me." Doing as directed, "No, indeed," she said: "I'm sure I couldn't have the heart to call anybody up out of a warm bed to face such a cutting wind as this." "No, no; never hesitate when there is a real necessity," he returned, speaking from his seat in the carriage, where he had already taken his place beside his sister, whom Edward had handed in. "Good-night, and hurry in, both of you, for my sake if not for your own." But they lingered a moment till the carriage turned, and drove swiftly down the avenue. "I am so glad they came," remarked Zoe, as Edward shut the door and locked it for the night. "Yes," he said: "they added a good deal to the pleasure of the evening. As we couldn't be alone together, three guests were more acceptable than one." "Decidedly; and that one was delighted, I'm sure, to have an opportunity to exercise her conversational gifts for the benefit of a single man instead of a married one." "Zoe, love, don't allow yourself to grow bitter and sarcastic," Edward said, turning toward her, laying a hand lightly, affectionately, upon her shoulder, and gazing down into her eyes with a look of grave concern. She colored under it, and turned away with a pout that almost spoiled the beauty of her fair face. She was more than ever impatient to be rid of their self-invited guest. "She always sets Ned to scolding me," was the bitter thought in her heart as she went slowly back to the parlor, where they had left Miss Deane, Edward following, sighing inwardly at the change in his darling always wrought by that unwelcome presence in the house. "How the wind roars down the chimney!" Miss Deane remarked as her host and hostess re-entered the room, where she was comfortably seated in an easy-chair beside the glowing grate. "I fear to-morrow will prove a stormy day; but in that case I shall feel all the more delighted with my comfortable quarters here,--all the more grateful to you, Mr. Travilla, for saving me from a long detention in one of those miserable little country taverns, where I should have died of _ennui_." "You seem kindly disposed, my dear madam, to make a great deal of a small service," returned Edward gallantly. But Zoe said not a word. She stood gazing into the fire, apparently lost in thought; but the color deepened on her cheek, and a slight frown contracted her brows. Presently she turned to her guest, saying courteously, "You must be weary with your journey, Miss Deane: would you like to retire?" "Thank you, I should," was the reply; and thereupon the good-nights were said, and they sought their respective rooms. "You are not displeased with me, dear?" Zoe asked, lifting her eyes inquiringly to her husband's face as she stood before their dressing-room fire with his arm about her waist: "you are looking so very grave." "No, dearest, I am not disposed to find fault with you," he said, softly caressing her hair and cheek with his disengaged hand; "though I should be glad if you could be a trifle more cordial to our uninvited guest." "It's my nature to act just as I feel; and, if there's a creature on earth I thoroughly detest, it is she!" returned the child-wife with almost passionate vehemence. "I know she hates me,--for all her purring manner and sweet tones and words,--and that she likes nothing better than to make trouble between my husband and me." "My dear child, you really must try not to be so uncharitable and suspicious," Edward said in a slightly reproving tone. "I do not perceive any such designs or any hypocrisy in her conduct toward you." "No: men are as blind as a bat in their intercourse with such women; never can see through their designs; always take them to be as sweet and amiable as they pretend to be. It takes a woman to understand her own sex." "Maybe so," he said soothingly; "but we will leave the disagreeable subject for to-night at least, shall we not?" "Yes; and, oh, I do hope the weather to-morrow will not be such as to afford her an excuse for prolonging her stay!" "I hope not, indeed, love," he responded; "but let us resolve, that, if it does, we will try to bear the infliction patiently, and give our self-invited guest no right to accuse us of a lack of hospitality toward her. Let us not forget or disobey the Bible injunction, to 'use hospitality one to another without grudging.'" "I'll try not to. I'll be as good to her as I can, without feeling that I am acting insincerely." "And that is all I ask, love. Your perfect freedom from any thing approaching to deceit is one of your greatest charms, in your husband's eyes," he said, tenderly caressing her. "It would, I am sure, be quite impossible for me to love a wife in whose absolute truth and sincerity I had not entire confidence." "And you do love me, your foolish, faulty little wife?" she said, in a tone that was a mixture of assertion and inquiry, while her lovely eyes gazed searchingly into his. "Dearly, dearly, my sweet!" he said, smiling fondly down upon her. "And now to bed, lest these bright eyes and rosy cheeks should lose something of their brilliance and beauty." "Suppose they should," she said, turning slightly pale, as with sudden pain. "O Ned! if I live, I must some day grow old and gray and wrinkled, my eyes dim and sunken: shall you love me then, darling?" "Better than ever, love," he whispered, holding her closer to his heart; "for how long we shall have lived and loved together! We shall have come to be as one indeed, each with hardly a thought or feeling unshared by the other." CHAPTER III. "One woman reads another's character, without the tedious trouble of deciphering."--JONSON. Zoe's sleep that night was profound and refreshing, and she woke in perfect health and vigor of body and mind; but the first sound that smote upon her ear--the dashing of sleet against the window-pane--sent a pang of disappointment and dismay to her heart. She sprang from her bed, and, running to the window, drew aside the curtain, and looked out. "O Ned!" she groaned, "the ground is covered with sleet and snow,--about a foot deep, I should think,--and just hear how the wind shrieks and howls round the house!" "Well, love," he answered in a cheery tone, "we are well sheltered, and supplied with all needful things for comfort and enjoyment." "And one that will destroy every bit of my enjoyment in any or all the others," she sighed; "but," eagerly and half hopefully, "do you think it is quite certain to be too bad for her to go?" "Quite, I am afraid. If she should offer to go," he added mischievously, "we will not be more urgent against it than politeness demands, and, if she persists, will not refuse the use of the close carriage as far as the depot." "She offer to go!" exclaimed Zoe scornfully: "you may depend, she'll stay as long as she has the least vestige of an excuse for doing so." "Oh, now, little woman! don't begin the day with being quite so hard and uncharitable," Edward said, half seriously, half laughingly. Zoe was not far wrong in her estimate of her guest. Miss Deane was both insincere and a thoroughly selfish person, caring nothing for the comfort or happiness of others. She had perceived Zoe's antipathy from the first day of their acquaintance, and took a revengeful, malicious delight in tormenting her; and she had sufficient penetration to see that the most effectual way to accomplish her end was through Edward. The young wife's ardent and jealous affection for her husband was very evident; plainly, it was pain to her to see him show Miss Deane the slightest attention, or seem interested in any thing she did or said; therefore the intruder put forth every effort to interest him, and monopolize his attention, and at the same time contrived to draw out into exhibition the most unamiable traits in Zoe's character, doing it so adroitly that Edward did not perceive her agency in the matter, and thought Zoe alone to blame. To him Miss Deane's behavior appeared unexceptionable, her manner most polite and courteous, Zoe's just the reverse. It was so through all that day and week; for the storm continued, and the uninvited guest never so much as hinted at a wish to leave the shelter of their hospitable roof. Zoe began each day with heroic resolve to be patient and forbearing, sweet-tempered and polite, toward her tormentor, and ended it with a deep sense of humiliating failure, and of having lost something of the high esteem and admiration in which her almost idolized husband had been wont to hold her. Feeling that, more or less of change in her manner toward him was inevitable; less sure than formerly of his entire approval and ardent affection, a certain timidity and hesitation crept into her manner of approaching him, even when they were quite alone together; she grew sad, silent, and reserved: and he, thinking her sullen and jealous without reason, ceased to lavish endearments upon her, and, more than that, half unconsciously allowed both his looks and tones to express disapprobation and reproof. That almost broke Zoe's heart; but she strove to hide her wounds from him, and especially from her tormentor. The storm kept Edward in the house: at another time that would have been a joy to Zoe, but now it only added to her troubles, affording constant opportunity to the wily foe to carry out her evil designs. On the evening of the second day from the setting in of the storm, Miss Deane challenged Edward to a game of chess. He accepted at once, and with an air of quiet satisfaction brought out the board, and placed the men. He was fond of the game; but Zoe had never fancied it, and he had played but seldom since their marriage. Miss Deane was a more than ordinarily skilful player, and so was he; indeed, so well matched were they, that neither found it an easy matter to checkmate the other: and that first game proved a long one,--so long that Zoe, who had watched its progress with some interest in the beginning, eager to see Edward win, at length grew so weary as to find it difficult to keep her eyes open, or refrain from yawning. But Edward, usually so tenderly careful of her, took no notice,--indeed, as she said bitterly to herself, seemed to have forgotten her existence. Still, it was with a thrill of delight that she at length perceived that he had come off victorious. Miss Deane took her defeat with very good grace, and smilingly challenged him to another contest. "Rather late, isn't it?" he said with a glance at the clock, whose hands pointed to half-past eleven. "Suppose we sign a truce until to-morrow?" "Certainly: that will be decidedly best," she promptly replied, following the direction of his glance. "I feel so fresh, and have enjoyed myself so much, that I had no idea of the hour, and am quite ashamed of having kept my youthful hostess up so late," she added, looking sweetly at Zoe. "Very young people need a large amount of sleep, and can't keep up health and strength without it." "You are most kind," said Zoe, a touch of sarcasm in her tones: "it must be a very sympathetic nature that has enabled you to remember so long how young people feel." A twinkle of fun shone in Edward's eyes at that. Miss Deane colored furiously, bade a hasty good-night, and departed to her own room. "That was a rather hard thrust, my dear," remarked Edward, laughing, as he led the way into their dressing-room; "not quite polite, I'm afraid." "I don't care if it wasn't!" said Zoe. "She is always twitting me on my extreme youth." "Sour grapes," he said lightly: "she will never see twenty-five again, and would give a great deal for your youth. And since you are exactly the age to suit me, why should you care a fig for her sneers?" "I don't, when I seem to suit you in all respects," returned Zoe with tears in her voice. Her back was toward him; but he caught sight of her face in a mirror, and saw that tears were also glistening in her eyes. Putting his arm round her waist, and drawing her to him, "I don't want a piece of perfection for my wife," he said; "she would be decidedly too great a contrast to her husband: and I have never yet seen the woman or girl I should be willing to take in exchange for the one belonging to me. And I'm very sure such a one doesn't exist." "How good in you to say it!" she said, clinging about his neck, and lifting to his, eyes shining with joy and love. "O Ned! we were so happy by ourselves!" "So we were," he assented, "and so we may hope to be again very soon." "Not so very, I'm afraid," she answered with a rueful shake of the head; "for just hark how it is storming still!" "Yes; but it may be all over by morning. How weary you look, love! Get to bed as fast as you can. You should not have waited for the conclusion of that long game, that, I know, did not interest you." "I was interested for your sake," she said, "and so glad to see you win." "Wife-like," he returned with a smile, adding, "It was a very close game, and you needn't be surprised to see me beaten in the next battle." "I'm afraid she will stay for that, even if the storm is over," sighed Zoe. "Dear me! I don't see how anybody can have the face to stay where she is self-invited, and must know she isn't a welcome guest to the lady of the house. I'd go through any storm rather than prolong a visit under such circumstances." "You would never have put yourself in such a position," Edward said. "But I wish you could manage to treat her with a little more cordiality. I should feel more comfortable. I could not avoid bringing her here, as you know; nor can I send her away in such inclement weather, or, indeed, at all, till she offers to go; and your want of courtesy toward her--to put it mildly--is a constant mortification to me." "Why don't you say at once that you are ashamed of me?" she exclaimed, tears starting to her eyes again, as with a determined effort she freed herself from his grasp, and moved away to the farther side of the room. "I am usually very proud of you," he answered in a quiet tone; "but this woman seems to exert a strangely malign influence over you." To that, Zoe made no response; she could not trust herself to speak; so prepared for bed, and laid herself down there in silence, wiped away a tear or two, and presently fell asleep. Morning brought no abatement of the storm, and consequently no relief to Zoe from the annoyance of Miss Deane's presence in the house. On waking, she found that Edward had risen before her; she heard him moving about in the dressing-room; then he came to the door, looked in, and, seeing her eyes open, said, "Ah, so you are awake! I hope you slept well? I'm sorry for your sake that it is still storming." "Yes, I slept soundly, thank you; and as for the storm, I'll just have to try to bear with it and its consequences as patiently as possible," she sighed. "A wise resolve, my dear. I hope you will try to carry it out." he returned. "Now I must run away, and leave you to make your toilet, as I have some little matters to attend to before breakfast." She made no reply; and he passed out of the room, and down the stairs. "Poor little woman!" he said to himself: "she looks depressed, though usually she is so bright and cheery. I hope, from my heart, Miss Deane may never darken these doors again." Zoe was feeling quite out of spirits over the prospect of another day to be spent in society so distasteful: she lay for a moment contemplating it ruefully. "The worst of it is, that she manages to make me appear so unamiable and unattractive in my husband's eyes," she sighed to herself. "But I'll foil her efforts," she added, between her shut teeth, springing up, and beginning her toilet as she spoke: "he likes to have me bright and cheery, and well and becomingly dressed, and so I will be." She made haste to arrange her hair in the style he considered most becoming, and to don the morning-dress he most admired. As she put the finishing touches to her attire, she thought she heard his step on the stairs, and ran out eagerly to meet him, and claim a morning kiss. But the bright, joyous expression of her face suddenly changed to one of anger and chagrin as she caught the sound of his and Miss Deane's voices in the hall below, and, looking over the balustrade, saw them go into the library together. "She begins early! It's a pity if I can't have my own husband to myself even before breakfast," Zoe muttered, stepping back into the dressing-room. Her first impulse was to remain where she was; the second, to go down at once, and join them. She hastened to do so, but, before she reached the foot of the stairway, the breakfast-bell rang; and, instead of going into the library, she passed on directly to the dining-room, and, as the other two entered a moment later, gave Miss Deane a cold "Good-morning," and Edward a half reproachful, half pleading look, which he, however, returned with one so kind and re-assuring that she immediately recovered her spirits, and was able to do the honors of the table with ease and grace. Coming upon her in that room alone, an hour later, just as she had dismissed Aunt Dicey with her orders for the day, "Little wife," he said, bending down to give her the coveted caress, "I owe you an explanation." "No, Ned, dear, I don't ask it of you: I know it is all right," she answered, flushing with happiness, and her eyes smiling up into his. "Still, I think it best to explain," he said. "I had finished attending to the little matters I spoke of,--writing a note, and giving some directions to Uncle Ben,--and was on my way back to our apartments, when Miss Deane met me on the stairway, and asked if I would go into the library with her, and help her to look up a certain passage in one of Shakspeare's plays, which she wished to quote in a letter she was writing. She was anxious to have it perfectly correct, she said, and would be extremely obliged for my assistance in finding it." "And you could not in politeness refuse. I know that, Ned, and please don't think me jealous." "I know, dear, that you try not to be; and it shall be my care to avoid giving you the least occasion. And I do again earnestly assure you, you need have no fear that the first place in my heart will not always be yours." "I don't fear it," she said; "and yet,--O Ned! it is misery to me to have to share your society with that woman, even for a day or two!" "I don't know how I can help you out of it," he said, after a moment's consideration, "unless by shutting myself up alone,--to attend to correspondence or something,--and leaving you to entertain her by yourself. Shall I do that?" "Oh, no! unless you much prefer it. I think it would set me wild to have her whole attention concentrated upon me," Zoe answered with an uneasy laugh. So they went together to the parlor, where Miss Deane sat waiting for them, or rather for Edward. She had the chess-board out, the men placed, and at once challenged him to a renewal of last night's contest. He accepted, of course; and they played without intermission till lunch-time, Zoe sitting by, for the most part silent, and wishing Miss Deane miles away from Ion. This proved a worse day to her than either of the preceding ones. Miss Deane succeeded several times in rousing her to an exhibition of temper that very much mortified and displeased Edward; and his manner, when they retired that night to their private apartments, was many degrees colder than it had been in the morning. He considered himself forbearing in refraining from remark to Zoe on her behavior; while she said to herself, she would rather he would scold her, and have done with it, than keep on looking like a thunder-cloud, and not speaking at all. He was not more disgusted with her conduct than she was herself, and she would own it in a minute if he would but say a kind word to open the way. But he did not; and they made their preparations for the night and sought their pillows in uncomfortable silence, Zoe wetting hers with tears before she slept. CHAPTER IV. "Forbear sharp speeches to her. She's a lady So tender of rebukes, that words are strokes, And strokes death to her."--SHAKSPEARE. As we have said, the storm lasted for a week; and all that time Edward and Zoe were slowly drifting farther and farther apart. But at last the clouds broke and the sun shone out cheerily. It was about the middle of the forenoon when this occurred. "Oh," cried Miss Deane, "do see the sun! Now I shall no longer need to encroach upon your hospitality, my kind entertainers. I can go home by this afternoon's train, if you, Mr. Travilla, will be so very good as to take or send me to the depot." "The Ion carriage is quite at your service," he returned politely. "Thanks," she said; "then I'll just run up to my room, and do my bit of packing." She hurried out to the hall, then the front door was heard to open; and the next minute a piercing shriek brought master, mistress, and servants running out to the veranda to inquire the cause. Miss Deane lay there groaning, and crying out "that she had sprained her ankle terribly; she had slipped on a bit of ice, and fallen; and oh! when now would she be able to go home?" The question found an echo in Zoe's heart, and she groaned inwardly at the thought of having this most unwelcome guest fastened upon her for weeks longer. Yet she pitied her pain, and was anxious to do what she could for her relief. She hastened to the medicine-closet in search of remedies; while Edward and Uncle Ben gently lifted the sufferer, carried her in, and laid her on the sofa. Also a messenger was at once despatched for Dr. Conly. Zoe stationed herself at a front window of the drawing-room to watch for his coming. Presently Edward came to her side. "Zoe," he said, "can't you go to Miss Deane?" "What for?" she asked, without turning her head to look at him. "To show your kind feeling." "I'm not sure that I have any." "Zoe! I am shocked! She is in great pain." "She has plenty of helpers about her,--Christine, Aunt Dicey, and a servant-maid or two,--who will do all they can to relieve her. If I could do any thing more, I would; but I can't, and should only be in the way. You forget what a mere child you have always considered me, and that I have had no experience in nursing." "It isn't nursing, I am asking you to give her, but a little kindly sympathy." A carriage was coming swiftly up the avenue. "There's the doctor," said Zoe. "You'd better consult with him about his patient; and, if he thinks my presence in her room will hasten her recovery, she shall have all I can give her of it, that we may get her out of the house as soon as possible." "Zoe! I had no idea you could be so heartless," he said, with much displeasure, as he turned and left the room. Zoe remained where she was, shedding some tears of mingled anger and grief, then hastily endeavoring to remove their traces; for Arthur would be sure to step into the parlor, to see her before leaving, if it were but for a moment. She had barely recovered her composure when he came in, having found his patient not in need of a lengthened visit. His face was bright, his tone cheery and kind, as he bade her good-morning, and asked after her health. "I'm very well, thank you," she said, giving him her hand. "Is Miss Deane's accident a very bad one?" "It is a severe sprain," he said: "she will not be able to bear her weight upon that ankle for six weeks." Then seeing Zoe's look of dismay, shrewdly guessing at the cause, he hastened to add, "But she might be sent home in an ambulance a few days hence, without the least injury." Zoe looked greatly relieved, Edward scarcely less so. "I can't understand how she came to fall," remarked Arthur reflectively. "Nor I," said Zoe. "Wouldn't it be well for you to advise her never to set foot on that dangerous veranda again?" Arthur smiled. "That would be a waste of breath," he said, "while Ion is so delightful a place to visit." "How are they all at Viamede?" he asked, turning to Edward. "Quite well at last accounts, thank you," Edward replied, adding, with a slight sigh, "I wish they were here,--my mother at least, if none of the others." Zoe colored violently. "Cousin Arthur, do you think I am needed in your patient's room?" she asked. "Only to cheer and amuse her with your pleasant society," he answered. "She would find neither pleasure nor amusement in my society," said Zoe; "and hers is most distasteful to me." "That's a pity," said Arthur, with a look of concern. "Suppose I lend you Ella for a few days? She, I think, would rather enjoy taking the entertainment of your guest off your hands." "Oh, thank you!" said Zoe, brightening; "that would be a relief: and, besides, I should enjoy Ella myself, between times, and after Miss Deane goes home." "Please tell Ella we will both be greatly obliged if she will come," Edward said. "I'll do so," said Arthur, rising to go; "but I have a long drive to take, in another direction, before returning to Roselands. And you must remember," he added with a smile, "that I lend her for only a few days. Cal and I wouldn't know how to do without her very long." With that, he took his departure, leaving Edward and Zoe alone together. "I am sorry, Zoe, that you thought it necessary to let Arthur into the secret of the mutual dislike between Miss Deane and yourself," remarked Edward, in a grave, reproving tone. Zoe colored angrily. "I don't care who knows it," she retorted, with a little toss of her head. "I did not think it _necessary_ to let Arthur into the secret, as you call it (I don't consider it one), but neither did I see any objection to his knowing about it." "Then, let me request you to say no more on the subject to any one," he said, with vexation. "I sha'n't promise," she muttered, half under her breath. But he heard it. "Very well, then, I forbid it; and you have promised to obey me." "And you promised that it should always be love and coaxing," she said, in tones trembling with pain and passion. "I'll have to tell Ella something about it." "Then, say only what is quite necessary," he returned, his tones softening. Then, after a moment's silence, in which Zoe's face was turned from him so that he could not see its expression, "Won't you go now, and ask if Miss Deane is any easier? Surely, as her hostess, you should do so much." "No, I won't! I'll do all I can to make her comfortable; I'll provide her with society more agreeable to her than mine; I'll see that she has interesting reading-matter, if she wants it; I'll do any thing and every thing I can, except that; but you needn't ask that of me." "O Zoe! I had thought you would do a harder thing than that at my request," he said reproachfully. Ignoring his remark, she went on, "I just believe she fell and hurt herself purposely, that she might have an excuse for prolonging her visit, and continuing to torment me." "Zoe, Zoe, how shockingly uncharitable you are!" he exclaimed. "I could never have believed it of you! We are told, 'Charity thinketh no evil.' Do try not to judge so harshly." He left the room; and Zoe indulged in a hearty cry, but hastily dried her eyes, and turned her back toward the door, as she heard his step approaching again. He just looked in, saying, "Zoe, I am going to drive over to Roselands for Ella: will you go along?" "No. I've been lectured enough for one day," was her ungracious rejoinder; and he closed the door, and went away. He was dumb with astonishment and pain. "What has come over her?" he asked himself. "She has always before been so delighted to go any and every where with me. Have I been too ready to reprove her of late? I have thought myself rather forbearing, considering how much ill-temper she has shown. She has had provocation, to be sure; but it is high time she learned to exercise some self-control. Yet perhaps I should have been more sympathizing, more forbearing and affectionate." He had stepped into his carriage, and was driving down the avenue. He passed through the great gates, and turned into the road, still thinking of Zoe, and mentally reviewing their behavior toward each other since the unfortunate day in which Miss Deane had crossed their threshold. The conclusion he presently arrived at was, that he had not been altogether blameless; that, if his reproofs had been given in more loving fashion, they would have been received in a better spirit; that he had not been faithful to his promise always to try "love and coaxing" with the impulsive, sensitive child-wife, who, he doubted not, loved him with her whole heart; and, once convinced of that, he determined to say so on his return, and make it up with her. True, it seemed to him that she ought to make the first advances toward an adjustment of their slight differences (quarrels they could scarcely be called; a slight coldness, a cessation of accustomed manifestations of conjugal affection, a few sharp or impatient words on each side), but he would be too generous to wait for that; he loved her dearly enough to sacrifice his pride to some extent; he could better afford that than the sight of her unhappiness. In the mean time Zoe was bitterly repenting of the rebuff she had given him. He had hardly closed the door when she started up, and ran to it to call him back, apologize for her curt refusal to go with him, and ask if she might still accept his invitation. But it was too late: he was already beyond hearing. She could not refrain from another cry, and was very angry with herself for her petulance. She regretted the loss of the drive, too, which would have been a real treat after the week of confinement to the house. She had refused to comply with her husband's request that she would go to Miss Deane and ask how she was: now she repented, and went as soon as she had removed the traces of her tears. "Ah! you have come at last!" was the salutation she received on entering the room where Miss Deane lay on a sofa, with the injured limb propped upon pillows. "I began to fear," sweetly, "that your delicate nerves had given way under the sight of my sufferings." "My nerves are not delicate," returned Zoe coldly; "in fact, I never discovered that I had any; so please do not trouble yourself with anxiety on that account. I trust the applications have relieved you somewhat." "Very little, thank you. I suppose it was hardly to be expected that they would take effect so soon. Ah, me!" she added with a profound sigh, "I fear I am tied to this couch for weeks." "No; do not disturb yourself with that idea," said Zoe. "The doctor told me you could easily be taken home in a few days in an ambulance." "I shall certainly avail myself of the first opportunity to do so," said Miss Deane, her eyes flashing with anger, "for I plainly perceive that I have worn out my welcome." "No, not at all," said Zoe; "at least, not so far as I am concerned." Miss Deane looked her incredulity and surprise, and Zoe explained,--"I think I may as well be perfectly frank with you," she said. "You have not worn out your welcome with me, because I had none for you when you came. How could I, knowing that you invariably make trouble between my husband and myself?" "Truly, a polite speech to make to a guest!" sniffled Miss Deane. "I hope you pride yourself on your very polished manners." "I prefer truth and sincerity." said Zoe, "I shall do all I can to make you comfortable while you are here; and, if you choose to avoid the line of conduct I have objected to, we may learn to like each other. I very well know that you do not love me now." "Since frankness is in fashion at this moment," was the contemptuous retort, "I will own that there is no love lost between us. Stay," as Zoe was about to leave the room, "let me give you a piece of disinterested advice. Learn to control your quick temper, and show yourself more amiable, or you may find one of these days, when it is too late, that you have lost your husband's heart." At that, Zoe turned away, and went swiftly from the room. She was beyond speaking, her whole frame quivering from head to foot with the agitation of her feelings. Lose the love of her idolized husband? That would be worse than death. But it should never be: he loved her dearly now (it could not be possible that these last few wretched days had robbed her quite of the devoted affection she had known beyond a doubt to be hers before); and she would tell him, as soon as he came in, how sorry she was for the conduct that had vexed him, and never, no, never again, would she do or say any thing to displease him, or lower herself in his estimation. As she thought thus, hurrying down the hall, she caught the sound of wheels on the drive, and ran out, expecting to see him, as it was about time for his return from Roselands. It was the Ion carriage she had heard, but only Ella Conly alighted from it. They exchanged greetings, then Zoe asked half breathlessly, "Where's Edward?" "Gone," Ella responded, moving on into the hall. "Come, let's go into the parlor, and sit down, and I'll tell you all I know about it. Why, Zoe," as she turned and caught sight of her companion's face, "you are as pale as death, and look ready to faint! There's nothing to be scared about, and you mustn't mind my nonsense." "Oh, tell me! tell me quickly!" gasped Zoe, sinking into a chair, her hands clasped beseechingly, her eyes wild with terror: "what, what has happened?" "Nothing, child, nothing, except that we met cousin Horace on our way here, and he carried Ned off to Union. They had to hurry to catch a train, in order to be in time for some business matter in the city, I didn't understand what: so Ned couldn't wait to write the least bit of a note to tell you about it; and he told me to explain every thing to you, and say you were not to fret or worry, not even if he shouldn't get home to-night; for he might not be able to finish up the business in time for even the last train that would bring him." The color had come back to Zoe's cheek, but her countenance was still distressed; and as Ella concluded, two scalding tears rolled quickly down her face, and plashed upon the small white hands lying clasped in her lap. "Dear me!" said Ella, "how fond you are of him!" "Yes," said Zoe, with a not very successful effort to smile through her tears: "who wouldn't be, in my place? I owe every thing to Ned, and he pets and indulges me to the greatest extent. Besides, he is so good, noble, and true, that any woman might be proud to be his wife." "Yes: I admit every word of it; but all that doesn't explain your tears," returned Ella, half sympathizingly, half teasingly. "Now, I should have supposed that anybody who could boast of such a piece of perfection for a husband would be very happy." "But I--we've hardly ever been separated over night," stammered Zoe, blushing rosy red; "and--and--O Ella! I hadn't a chance to say good-by to him, and--and you know accidents so often happen"-- She broke down with a burst of tears and sobs that quite dismayed her cousin. "Why, Zoe, I'm afraid you cannot be well," she said. "Come, cheer up, and don't borrow trouble." "I'm afraid I'm very silly, and have been making you very uncomfortable," said Zoe, hastily wiping away her tears, "and it's a great shame; particularly, considering that you have kindly come on purpose to help me through with a disagreeable task. "I'll show you to your room now, if you like," she added, rising, "and try to behave myself better during the rest of your visit." "Apologies are quite uncalled for," returned Ella lightly, as they went up-stairs together. "I have always had a good time at Ion, and don't believe this is going to be an exception to the general rule. But do you know," lowering her voice a little, "I don't propose to spend nearly all my time with that hateful Miss Deane. I never could bear her." "Then, how good it was in you to come!" exclaimed Zoe gratefully. "But I should never have asked it of you, if I had thought you disliked her as well as I." They were now in the room Ella was to occupy, and she was taking off her hat and cloak. "Oh, never mind! I was delighted to come anyhow," she answered gayly, as she threw aside the latter garment, and took possession of an easy-chair beside the open fire. "To tell you a secret," she went on laughingly, "I like my cousins Ned and Zoe Travilla immensely, and am always glad of an excuse to pay them a visit. But that Miss Deane,--oh! she's just _too sweet_ for _any thing!_" making a grimace expressive of disgust and aversion, "and a consummate, incorrigible flirt: any one of the male sex can be made to serve her turn, from a boy of sixteen to a man of seventy-five." "I think you are correct about that," said Zoe. "And, do you know, she is forever making covert sneers at my youth; and it's perfectly exasperating to me." "Sour grapes," laughed Ella. "I wouldn't let it vex me in the least: it's all to hide her envy of you, because you are really young, and married too. I know very well she's dreadfully afraid of being called an old maid." "I suspected as much," Zoe remarked. "But don't you think gentlemen are more apt to be pleased with her than ladies?" "Yes: they don't see through her as her own sex do. And she is handsome, and certainly a brilliant talker. I'd give a good deal for conversational powers equal to hers." "So would I," Zoe said, with an involuntary sigh. Ella gave her a keen, inquiring look; and Zoe flushed hotly under it. "Shall we go down now?" she asked. "It is nearly dinner-time; and we shall have to dine alone unless some one drops in unexpectedly," she added, as they left the room together, and passed down the stairs, arm in arm. "If Arthur should, wouldn't it be a trial to Miss Deane to have to dine in her own room?" exclaimed Ella, with a gleeful laugh. "Why, what do you mean?" asked Zoe, opening her eyes wide with surprise. "That she would not have the slightest objection to becoming Mrs. Dr. Conly." "But you don't think there's any danger?" queried Zoe, by no means pleased with the idea of having the lady in question made a member of the family connection. "No, and I certainly hope not. It wouldn't be I that would want to call her sister," returned Ella emphatically. "I should think Art had sufficient penetration to see through her," said Zoe. "But no; on second thoughts, I'm not so sure; for Ned will have it that it's more than half my imagination when I say she sneers at me." "That's too bad," said Ella. "But Art is older than Ned by some years, and has probably had more opportunity to study character." "Yes," replied Zoe, speaking with some hesitation, not liking to admit that any one was wiser than her husband, little as she was inclined to own herself in the wrong when he differed from her. CHAPTER V. "Is there no constancy in earthly things? No happiness in us, but what must alter?" Zoe drove over to the village in good season to meet the last train for that day, coming from the direction in which Edward had gone, ardently hoping he might be on board. The carriage was brought to a stand-still near the depot; and she eagerly watched the arrival of the train, and scanned the little crowd of passengers who alighted from it. But Edward was not among them, and now it was quite certain that she could not see him before another day. Just as she reached that conclusion, a telegram was handed her:-- "Can't be home before to-morrow or next day. Will return as soon as possible. E. TRAVILLA." To the girl-wife the message seemed but cold and formal. "So different from the way he talks to me when he is not vexed or displeased, as he hardly ever is," she whispered to herself with starting tears during the solitary drive back to Ion. "I know it's silly--telegrams can't be loving and kind: it wouldn't do, of course--but I can't help feeling as if he is angry with me, because there's not a bit of love in what he says. And, oh, dear! to think he may be away two nights, and I'm longing so to tell him how sorry I am for being so cross this morning, and before that, too, and to have him take me in his arms and kiss me, and say all is right between us, that I don't know how to wait a single minute!" She reached home in a sad and tearful mood. Ella, however, proved so entertaining and mirth-provoking a companion, that the evening passed quickly, and by no means unpleasantly. But when the two had retired to their respective apartments, Zoe felt very lonely, and said to herself that she would rather have Edward there, even silent and displeased, as he had been for several days past, than be without him. Her last thought before falling asleep, and her first on awaking next morning, were of him. "Oh, dear!" she sighed half aloud, as she opened her eyes, and glanced round the room, "what shall I do if he doesn't come to-day? I'll have to stand it, of course; but what does a woman do who has no husband?" And for the first time she began to feel some sympathy for Miss Deane, as a lonely maiden lady. She thought a good deal about her unwelcome guest while attending to the duties of the toilet, and determined to treat her with all possible kindness during the remainder of her enforced stay at Ion. So, meeting, on her way to the breakfast-room, the old negress who had been given charge of Miss Deane through the night, she stopped her, and asked how her patient was. "Jes' pow'ful cross dis hyar mawnin', Miss Zoe," was the reply, in a tone of disgust. "Dar isn't one ob de fambly dat would be makin' half de fuss ef dey'd sprained bofe dey's ankles. Doan ye go nigh her, honey, fear she bite yo' head off." "Indeed I sha'n't, Aunt Phillis, if there's any danger of that," laughed Zoe. "But as she can't jump up and run after me, I think I shall be quite safe if I don't go within arm's-length of her sofa." "She's pow'ful cross," repeated Aunt Phillis: "she done gone call dis chile up time an' again fru de night; an' when I ax her, 'Whar yo' misery at?' she say, 'In my ankle, ob c'ose, yo' ole fool you! Cayn't yo' hab nuff sense to change de dressin'?'" "Who is that has been so polite and complimentary to you, Aunt Phillis?" cried a merry voice in their rear. Ella was descending the stairway at whose foot they stood, as they perceived, on turning at the sound of her voice. "Good-morning, cousin: how bright and well you are looking!" said Zoe. "Just as I feel. And how are you, Mrs. Travilla? I trust you did not spend the night in crying over Ned's absence?" was the gay rejoinder. "No, not nearly all of it," returned Zoe, catching her spirit of fun. "Mawnin', Miss Ella," said the old nurse, dropping a courtesy. "'Twas de lady what sprain her foot yisteday I was talkin' bout to Miss Zoe." "Ah! how is she?" "I doan' t'ink she gwine die dis day, Miss Ella," laughed the nurse, "she so pow'ful cross; and dey do say folks is dat way when dey's gittin' bettah." "Yes, I have always heard it was a hopeful sign, if not an agreeable one," Ella remarked, "Was that the breakfast-bell I heard just now?" "Yes," said Zoe. "I hope you feel ready to do justice to your meal?" As they seated themselves at the table, Zoe, glancing toward Edward's vacant chair, remarked, with a sigh, that it seemed very lonely to sit down without him. "Well, now," said Ella, "I think it's quite nice to take a meal occasionally without the presence of anybody of the masculine gender." "Perhaps that is because you have never been married," said Zoe. "Perhaps so," returned her cousin, laughing; "yet I don't think that can be all that ails me, for I have heard married women express the same opinion quite frequently. What shall we do with ourselves to-day, Zoe? I've no notion of devoting myself exclusively to Miss Deane's entertainment, especially if she is really as cross as reported." "No, indeed! I couldn't bear to let you, even if you were willing," replied Zoe with decision. "I consented to your taking my place in that, only because I supposed you found her agreeable; while to me she is any thing else." "Suppose we call on her together, after a little, and let the length of our stay depend upon the enjoyment our presence seems to afford her," suggested Ella. "Agreed," said Zoe. "Then I will supply her with plenty of reading-matter, which, as she professes to be so very intellectual, ought to entertain her far better than we can. Shall we ride after that?" "Yes, and take a promenade on the verandas. We'll have to take our exercise in those ways, as the roads are not yet fit for walking." "Yes," said Zoe; "but I hope that by afternoon they will be good enough for driving; as I mean to drive over to the depot to meet the late train, hoping to find Ned on it." "Don't expect him till to-morrow," said Ella. "Why not?" queried Zoe, looking as if she could hardly endure the thought. "Because, in that case, your disappointment, if you have one, will be agreeable." "Yes; but, on the other hand, I should lose all the enjoyment of looking forward through the whole day, to seeing him this evening. Following your plan, I shouldn't have half so happy a day as if I keep to my own." "Ah! that's an entirely new view of the case," Ella said in her merry, laughing tones. Miss Deane did not seem to enjoy their society, and they soon withdrew from her room; Zoe having done all in her power to provide her with every comfort and amusement available in her case. "I'm glad that's over," sighed Zoe, when they were alone again. "And now for our ride, if you are ready, Ella. I ordered my pony for myself, and mamma's for you; and I see they are at the door." "Then let us don our riding-habits, and be off at once," said Ella. "Where are we going?" she asked, as they cantered down the avenue. "To the village, if you like. I want to call at the post-office." "In hopes of finding a note from Ned, I suppose. I don't believe there can be one there that would bring you later news than yesterday's telegram. But I have no objection to making sure, and would as soon ride in that direction as any other." Nothing from Edward was found at the office; and the young wife seemed much disappointed, till Ella suggested that that looked as if he expected to be at home before night. It was a cheering idea to Zoe: she brightened up at once, and in the afternoon drove over the same road, feeling almost certain Edward would be on the incoming train, due about the time she would reach the village, or rather at the time she had planned to be there. Ella, who had asked to accompany her, was slow with her dressing, taxing Zoe's patience pretty severely by thus causing ten minutes' detention. "Come, now, don't be worried: it won't kill Ned to have to wait ten or fifteen minutes," she said laughingly, as she stepped into the carriage, and seated herself by Zoe's side. "No, I dare say not," returned the latter, trying to speak with perfect pleasantness of tone and manner; "and he isn't one of the impatient ones, who can never bear to be kept waiting a minute, like myself," she added with a smile. "Now, Uncle Ben, drive pretty fast, so that we won't be so very far behind time." "Fas' as I kin widout damagin' de hosses, Miss Zoe," answered the old coachman. "Marso Ed'ard allus tole me be keerful ob dem, and de roads am putty bad sence de big storm." Zoe glanced at her watch as they entered the village. "Drive directly to the depot, Uncle Ben," she said. "It's fully fifteen minutes past the time for the train to be in." "I ain't heard de whistle, Miss Zoe," he remarked, as he turned his horses' heads in the desired direction. "No, nor have I," said Ella; "and we ought to have heard it fully five minutes before it got in. There may have been a detention. That is nothing very unusual," she hastened to add, as she saw that Zoe had suddenly grown very pale. The carriage drew up before the door of the depot; and the girls leaned from its windows, sending eager, searching glances from side to side, and up and down the track. No train was in sight, and the depot seemed strangely silent and deserted. "Oh!" cried Zoe, "what can be the matter?" "I suppose the train must have got in some time ago,--perhaps before we left Ion," replied Ella, in a re-assuring tone; "and all the passengers have dispersed to their homes, or wherever they were going." "No, there could not have been time for all that," Zoe responded, in accents full of anxiety and alarm. "Our watches may be much too slow," suggested Ella, trying to re-assure both herself and her cousin, yet trembling with apprehension as she spoke. "No, it isn't possible that they and all the timepieces in the house could be so far from correct," said Zoe despairingly. "Dar doan' 'pear to be nobody 'bout dis hyar depot," remarked Uncle Ben reflectively; "but I reckon dar's somebody comin' to 'splain de mattah. Wha's de 'casion ob dis mos' onusual state ob t'ings?" he added, as a woman, who been watching the carriage and its occupants, the open door of a neighboring house, came miming in their direction. "What de mattah, Aunt Rhoda?" he queried, as she reached the side of the vehicle, almost breathless with excitement and exertion. "Why, Uncle Ben, dar--dar's been a accident to de kyars, dey say, an' dey's all broke up, and de folks roun' here is all"-- "Where? where?" exclaimed Ella, while Zoe sank back against the cushions, quite unable to speak for the moment. "Dunno, Miss," was the reply; "but," pointing up the road, "it's out dat way, 'bout a mile, I reckon. Yo see, de kyars was a comin' fas' dis way, and 'nudder ole injine whiskin' 'long dat way, and dey bofe comes togedder wid a big crash, breakin' de kyars, and de injines bofe of em, till dey's good for nuffin' but kin'lin' wood; and de folks what's ridin' in de kyars is all broke up too, dey says; and de doctahs and body"-- "Edward!" gasped Zoe. "Drive us there, Uncle Ben, drive with all your might! O Edward, my husband, my husband!" and she burst into hysterical weeping. Ella threw her arms about her. "Don't, dear Zoe, oh, don't cry so! He may not be hurt. He may not have been on that train at all." Ben had already turned and whipped up his horses, and now they dashed along the road at a furious rate. Zoe dropped her head on Ella's shoulder, answering only with tears and sobs and moans, till the carriage came to a sudden stand-still. "We's got dar, Miss Zoe," said Uncle Ben, in a subdued tone full of grief and sympathy. She lifted her head; and her eye instantly fell upon a little group, scarcely a yard distant, consisting of several men, among whom she recognized Dr. Conly, gathered about an apparently insensible form lying on the ground. Ella and Ben saw it too. She suddenly caught the reins from his hands: he sprang from the carriage, and, lifting Zoe in his strong arms as if she had been but a child, set her on her feet, and supported her to the side of the prostrate man; the little crowd respectfully making way for her, at the words spoken by Ben in a voice half choked with emotion, "Hit's Marse Ed'ard's wife, gen'lemen." It was Edward lying there motionless, and with a face like that of a corpse. With an agonized cry, Zoe dropped on her knees at his side, and pressed her lips passionately to his. There was no response, no movement, not the quiver of an eyelid; and she lifted her grief-stricken face to that of the doctor, with a look of anguished inquiry in the beautiful eyes fit to move a heart of stone. "I do not despair of him yet, dear cousin Zoe," Arthur said in a low, moved tone. "I lave found no external injury, and it may be that he is only stunned." The words had scarcely left his lips when Edward drew a sighing breath, and opened his eyes, glancing up into Zoe's face bending over Mm in deepest, tenderest solicitude. "Ah, love! is it you?" he murmured faintly, and with a smile. "Where am I? What has happened?" "O Ned! dear, _dear_ Ned! I thought you were killed!" she sobbed, covering his face with kisses and tears. "There has been an accident, and you got a blow that stunned you," answered the doctor; "but I think you are all right now, or will be soon." "An accident!" Edward repeated, with a bewildered look, and putting his hand to his head. "What was it?" "A collision on the railroad," Arthur said. "There is an ambulance here: I think I will put you in it, and have you taken home at once. 'Tis only a few miles, and not a rough road." "Yes, yes: home is much the best place," he sighed, again putting his hand to his head. "Are you in pain?" asked Arthur. "Not much, but I feel strangely confused. I should like to be taken home as soon as possible. But not to the neglect of any one who may have been more seriously hurt than I," he added, feebly raising his head to look about him. "There are none such," Arthur answered. "You perhaps remember that the cars were nearly empty of passengers: no lives were lost and no one, I think, worse hurt than yourself." "And I?" returned Edward, in a tone of inquiry. "Have escaped without any broken bones, and I trust will be all right in a few days." "O Ned! how glad I am it is no worse!" sobbed Zoe, clinging to his hand, while the tears rolled fast down her cheeks. "Yes, little wife," he said, gazing lovingly into her eyes. "There, I positively forbid any more talking," said Arthur, with a mixture of authority and playfulness. "Here is the ambulance. Help me to lift him in, men," to the by-standers. "And you, cousin Zoe, get into your carriage, and drive on behind it, or ahead if you choose." "Can't I ride in the ambulance beside him?" she asked, almost imploringly. "No, no: you will both be more comfortable In doing as I have directed." "Then, please go with him yourself," she entreated. "I shall do so, certainly," he answered, motioning her away, then stooping to assist the others in lifting the injured man. Zoe would not stir till she had seen Edward put into the ambulance, and made as comfortable for his ride home as circumstances would permit. Then, as the vehicle moved slowly off, she hurried to her carriage. Ben helped her in, sprang into his own seat, and, as he took the reins from Ella, Zoe gave the order, "Home now, Uncle Ben, keeping as close behind the ambulance as you can." "Oh, don't, Zoe! you oughtn't to!" expostulated Ella, perceiving that her cousin was crying violently behind her veil. "I don't think Ned is very badly hurt. Didn't you hear Arthur say so?" "He only expressed such a hope: he didn't say certainly," sobbed Zoe. "And when people are in danger, doctors always try to hide it from their friends." "Arthur is perfectly truthful," asserted Ella, with some warmth. "He may keep his opinions to himself at times, but he never builds people up with false hopes. So cheer up, coz," she added, squeezing Zoe's hand affectionately. "I know that what you say of cousin Arthur is all true," sobbed Zoe; "but I could see he had fears as well as hopes: and--and--Ned doesn't seem a bit like himself; he has such a dazed look, as if not quite in his right mind." "But he knew you and Art; and it is to be expected that a man would feel dazed after such a shock as he must have had." "Yes, of course. Oh, I'm afraid he's dreadfully, dreadfully hurt, and will never get over it!" "Still," returned Ella, "try to hope for the best. Don't you think that is the wiser plan always?" "I suppose so," said Zoe, laughing and crying hysterically; "but I can't be wise to-night; indeed, I never can." CHAPTER VI. "And, if division come, it soon is past, Too sharp, too strange an agony to last." MRS. NORTON. Christine and Aunt Phillis, who had been left in charge of Miss Deane, had had a sore trial of patience in waiting upon her, humoring her whims, listening to her fretting and complaints, and trying to soothe and entertain her. She was extremely irritable, and seemed determined not to be pleased with any thing they could do for her. "Where is your mistress?" she asked at length. "Pretty manners she has, to leave a suffering guest to the sole care of servants." "Yes, Miss, Ise alluz t'ought Miss Zoe hab pretty manners and a pretty face," replied Aunt Phillis; "but dere is ladies what habn't none, an' doan' git pleased wid nuffin' nor nobody, an eayn't stan' no misery nowhars 'bout deirselves, but jes' keep frettin' and concessantly displainin' 'bout dis t'ing and dat, like dey hasn't got nuffin' to be thankful for." "Impudence!" muttered Miss Deane, her eyes flashing angrily. Then bidding her attendants be quiet, she settled herself for a nap. She was waked by a slight bustle in the house, accompanied by sounds as if a number of men were carrying a heavy burden through the entrance-hall, and up the wide stairway leading to the second story. "What's the matter? What's going on? Has any thing happened?" she asked, starting up to a sitting posture. Christine had risen to her feet, pale and trembling, and stood listening intently. "I must go and see," she said, and hurried from the room, Aunt Phillis shambling after her in haste and trepidation. "Stay!" cried Miss Deane: "don't leave me alone. What are you thinking of?" But they were already out of hearing. "I was never so shamefully treated anywhere as I am here," muttered the angry lady, sinking back upon her pillows. "I'll leave this house to-morrow, if it is a possible thing, and never darken its doors again." Listening again, she thought she heard sounds of grief, sobbing and wailing, groans and sighs. She was by no means deficient in curiosity, and it was exceedingly trying to be compelled to lie there in doubt and suspense. The time seemed very much longer than it really was before Aunt Phillis came back, sobbing, and wiping her eyes on her apron. "What is the matter?" asked Miss Deane impatiently. "Dere's--dere's been a awful commission on de railroad," sobbed Aunt Phillis; "and Marse Ed'ard's 'most killed." "Oh, dreadful!" cried Miss Deane. "Have they sent for his mother?" Aunt Phillis only shook her head doubtfully, and burst into fresh and louder sobs. "Most killed! Dear me!" sighed the lady. "And he was so young and handsome! It will quite break his mother's heart, I suppose. But she'll get over it. It takes a vast deal of grief to kill." "P'raps Marse Ed'ard ain't gwine ter die," said the old nurse, checking her sobs. "Dey does say Doctah Arthur kin 'most raise de dead." "Well, I'm sure I hope Mr. Travilla won't die," responded Miss Deane, "or prove to be permanently injured in any way.--Ah, Christine!" as the latter re-entered the room: "what is all this story about a railroad accident? Is Mr. Travilla killed?" "No, no, he not killed," replied Christine, in her broken English. "How bad hurt, I not know to say; but not killed." Meantime Edward had been taken to his room, and put comfortably to bed; while Zoe, seated in her boudoir, waited anxiously for the doctor's report of his condition. Ella was with her, and now and then tried to speak a comforting word, which Zoe scarcely seemed to hear. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, listening intently to catch every sound from the room where her injured husband lay. She looked pale and anxious, and occasionally a tear would roll quickly down her cheek. At last the door opened, and Arthur stepped softly across the room to her side. "Cheer up, little cousin," he said kindly. "Edward seems to be doing very well; and if you will be a good, quiet little woman, you may go and sit by his side." "Oh, thank you! I'll try," she said, starting up at once. "But mayn't I talk to him at all?" "Not much to-night," was the reply; "not more than seems absolutely necessary; and you must be particularly careful not to say any thing that would have the least tendency to excite him." "Oh, then he must be very, very ill,--terribly injured!" she cried, with a burst of tears and sobs. "That does not necessarily follow," Arthur said, taking her hand, and holding it in a kindly pressure. "But you must be more composed, or," playfully, "I shall be compelled to exert my authority so far as to forbid you to go to him." "Oh, no, no! don't do that!" she cried pleadingly. "I'll be calm and quiet; indeed, indeed I will." "That's right," he said. "I think I may venture to try you." "But won't you please tell me just how much you think he is hurt?" she pleaded, clinging to his hand, and looking up beseechingly into his face. "My dear little cousin," he said in a tenderly sympathizing tone, "I wish to do all in my power to relieve your anxiety, but am as yet in some doubt myself as to the extent of his injuries. He is a good deal shaken and bruised; but, as I have said before, there are no broken bones; and, unless there should be some internal injury which I have not yet discovered, he is likely to recover entirely in a few days or weeks." "But you are not sure? Oh! how could I ever bear it if he should"--she broke off with a burst of violent weeping. He led her to a seat, for she seemed hardly able to stand: her whole frame was shaking with emotion. "Try not to meet trouble half way, little cousin," he said gently. "'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,' and 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' It is God's promise to all who put their trust in him, and cannot fail; all his promises are yea and amen in Christ Jesus." "Yes, I know," she said, making a strong effort to control herself. "And you do hope Ned will soon be well?" "I certainly do," he responded in cheerful accents. "And now, if you will wipe away your tears, and promise to be very good and quiet, I will take you to him. He was asking for you when I left the room." She gave the desired promise, and he led her to the bedside. "I have brought you your wife, Ned," he said in a quiet tone, "and mean to leave her with you for a while; but you are to be a good boy, and not indulge in much chatter with her." "We'll be good: I'll answer for her, and myself too," Edward returned, with a tenderly affectionate smile up into Zoe's face, as she bent over him, and touched her lips to his forehead. She dared not trust herself to speak, but silently put her hand in his, dropped on her knees by the bedside, and laid her pretty head on the pillow on which his rested. "My own darling!" he murmured, softly pressing the hand he held: "my own precious little wife!" Once more Arthur enjoined quiet, then went out, and left them alone together. He paid a professional visit to Miss Deane, satisfied her curiosity in regard to Edward's injuries, and learned with pleasure that she was quite resolved to go home the next morning. "Of course Mrs. Travilla should give all her attention to her husband now," she remarked; "and I shall be only in the way. One disabled person is quite enough to have in a house at one time. So if you, doctor, will be so kind as to have the ambulance sent out for me directly after breakfast, I'll be much obliged." "I will do so," he said. "The journey will do you no harm, and you will probably be better cared for and happier in your own home than here, under the circumstances." Zoe's poor heart was longing to pour itself out into her husband's ear in words of contrition, penitence, and love; and only the fear of injuring him enabled her to restrain her feelings, and remain calm and quiet, kneeling there close by his side, with her hand in his. She couldn't rest till she told him how very, very sorry she was for the petulance of the past few days, and especially for the cold rejection of his invitation to accompany him on his drive to Roselands, how firmly resolved never again to give him like cause to be displeased with her, and how dearly she loved him. But she must refrain, from fear of exciting him: she must wait till all danger from that was past. It was hard; yet there was strong consolation in the certainty that his dear love was still hers. She read it in his eyes, as they gazed fondly into hers; felt it in the tender pressure of his hand; heard it in the tones of his voice, as he called her his "darling, his own precious little wife." Yet she was tormented with the fear that his accident had affected his mind and memory for the time, so that he had forgotten the unkindness of the morning; and that, when returning health and vigor should recall the facts to his remembrance, he would again treat her with the coldness and displeasure merited by her behavior. "But," she comforted herself, "if he does, it will not last long: he is sure to forgive and love me as soon as I tell him how sorry I am." She did not want to leave him to take either food or rest; but Arthur insisted that she should go down to tea, and later to bed, leaving Edward in his care; and she finally yielded to his persuasions, and exertion of medical authority. She objected that it was quite useless to go to bed; she was positively sure she could not sleep a wink: but her head had scarcely touched the pillow before she fell into a profound slumber, for she was quite worn out with anxiety and grief. It was broad daylight when she woke. The events of yesterday flashed instantly upon her mind; and she sprang from her bed and began dressing in haste. She must learn as speedily as possible how Edward was; not worse, surely, for Arthur had promised faithfully to call her at once if there should be any unfavorable change during the night. Still, a light tap at the door made her start, and turn pale; and she opened it with a trembling hand. Ella stood there with a bright, smiling countenance. "Good-morning, coz," she said gayly. "I bring you good news,--two pieces of it. Ned is almost himself again; Arthur is entirely satisfied that there is no serious injury,--internal or otherwise; and Miss Deane has already set out for her home, leaving me to give you her adieus. Now are you not happy?" "Indeed, indeed I am!" cried Zoe, dancing about the room in ecstasy, her eyes shining, and her cheeks flushing with joy. "May I go to him at once?" she asked, stopping short, with an eager, questioning look. "Yes. Art says you may, and Ned is asking for you. How fond he is of you, Zoe! though, I think, no fonder than you are of him." "I don't deserve it," responded Zoe, with unwonted humility, answering the first part of the remark. "I don't see but you do," said Ella. "Can I help you with your dressing? I know you are in a hurry to get to him." "Thank you. I don't think you can, but I'll be done in five minutes." Edward lay watching for her coming, listening for the sound of her light footsteps, and, as she opened the door, looked up, and greeted her with a tenderly affectionate smile. "O Ned! dear, dear Ned!" she cried, hastening to the bedside; "how like yourself you look again!" "And feel, too, love," he said, drawing her down till their lips met in a long kiss. Arthur had stepped out on her entrance, and they were quite alone together. "God has been very good to us, darling, in sparing us to each other," Edward said, in low, moved tones. "Oh, yes, yes!" she sobbed. "And I didn't deserve it; for I was so cross to you day before yesterday, when you asked me to go with you: and I'd been cross for days before that. Can you, will you, forgive me, dear Ned?" "I have not been blameless, and we will exchange forgiveness," he said, drawing her closer, till her head rested against his breast. "It is so good in you to say that," she sobbed. "Oh, if you had been killed, as I thought for one minute you were, I could never have had an hour of peace or comfort in this world! Those unkind words would have been the last I ever spoke to you; and I should never have been able to forget them, or the sad look that your face must have worn as you turned away. I didn't see it, for I had rudely turned my back to you; but I could imagine it: for I knew you must have been hurt, and grieved too." "So I was, little wife," he said tenderly, and passing his hand caressingly over her hair and cheek: "but a few moments' honest retrospect showed me that I was not blameless, had not been as forbearing and affectionate in my treatment of my darling little wife, for the past few days, as I ought to have been; and I resolved to tell her so, on the first opportunity." "O Ned! I don't deserve such a kind, loving husband!" she sighed; "and you ought to have a great deal better wife." "I am entirely satisfied with the one I have," lifting her hand to his lips. "There isn't a woman in the world I would exchange her for." "But I often do and say things you don't approve," she murmured, with a regretful sigh. "Yes; but have I not told you more than once, that I do not want a piece of perfection for my wife, lest there should be far too strong a contrast between her and myself?" "But there wouldn't be," she asserted. "I don't believe there's another man in all the world quite so dear and good as my husband." "Sweet flattery from your lips," he returned laughingly. "Now, dearest, go and eat your breakfast. I have had mine." "Ned, do you know our tormentor is gone?" she asked, lifting her head, and looking into his eyes, with a glad light in her own. "Yes, and am much relieved to know it," he replied. "And, dearest, she shall never come again, if I can prevent it." CHAPTER VII. "Tell me the old, old story." "My dear Zoe! what a happy face!" was Ella's pleased exclamation, as the two met in the breakfast-room. "Very bright, indeed!" said Arthur, who had come in with Zoe, smiling kindly upon her as he spoke. "Because it reflects the light and joy in my heart," she returned. "Wouldn't it be strange if I were not happy in knowing that my husband is not seriously hurt? Oh, we have been so happy together, that I have often feared it could not last!" "There seems every reasonable prospect that it will," Arthur said, as they seated themselves at the table. "You are both young and healthy, your tastes are congenial, and you have enough of this world's goods to enable you to live free from carking cares and exhausting labors." Zoe was in so great haste to return to Edward, that she could scarce refrain from eating her breakfast more rapidly than was consistent with either politeness toward her guests or a due regard for her own health: but she tried to restrain her impatience; and Arthur, who perceived and sympathized with it, exerted himself for her entertainment, telling amusing anecdotes, and making mirth-provoking remarks. Ella, perceiving his designs, joined in, in the same strain. Zoe presently entered into their mood, and they seemed, as in fact they were, a light-hearted and happy little breakfast party; both Arthur and Ella feeling greatly relieved by the favorable change in their cousin, not for Zoe's sake alone, but also because of their own affection for him. Edward no longer needed Arthur as nurse: indeed, Zoe claimed the right to a monopoly of the, to her, sweet task of waiting upon him, and attending to all his wants. So Arthur resigned in that capacity, but was to continue his visits as physician. He and Ella returned to Roselands shortly after leaving the breakfast-table; and Zoe, in joyous, tender mood, took her place by her husband's bedside. He welcomed her with a loving smile, taking her hand in his, and carrying it to his lips. "Arthur has condemned me to lie here for a full week," he said. "It would seem a weary while in the prospect, but for the thought of having, through it all, the sweet companionship of my darling little wife." "Dear Ned, how good in you to say so!" she murmured, kneeling beside the bed, and laying her cheek to his. "I don't believe there's another creature in the world that thinks my society of much account." "If you are right in that, which I very much doubt," he said with a smile of incredulity, "it only shows their want of taste, and makes no difference to us, does it, love, since we are all the world to each other?" "I am sure it makes no difference to me," she responded: "if you love, and are pleased with, me, it's very little I care what anybody else may think or say about me. But, oh! isn't it nice to be alone together again?" "Very nice." "And remember, you are to make all possible use of me,--as nurse, reader,--when you feel that you would like to listen to book or news-paper,--as amanuensis, every thing." "Yes, dearest, I expect to employ you in all those capacities by and by; but at present, I want nothing but to have you sit by my side, and talk to me, while I hold your hand, and feast my eyes on the face that is to me the dearest in all the world." At that, the pretty face was suffused with blushes and smiles. "I'm so happy! so very happy!" she murmured, stealing an arm round his neck. "It is such a change from yesterday, when for a little while, I--I thought you--were gone, and--and without my having had a chance to ask your forgiveness." The sobs came thick and fast as she went on. "O Ned! dear, dear Ned! I--I don't mean ever to be cross to you again, especially when we are going to part even for an hour." "No," he said, with emotion, and drawing her closer to him; "we should not have parted so; we had promised each other we would not; and I should have gone to you and made it up with you before leaving the house." "It was all my fault," she sobbed; "and if--if you had been taken from me, I could never have had another happy moment." "Thank God that we are spared to each other!" he said with fervent gratitude. "And now, dear wife, let us try to forget that there has been ever any coldness or clashing between us. Let us enjoy the present, and be as happy in each other as if no cloud, even the slightest, had ever come over our intercourse as husband and wife." "Yes," she said. Then, lifting her face, and gazing earnestly into his, "How pale and exhausted you look!" she cried in alarm. "I have talked, and let you talk, too much and too excitingly. I'm afraid cousin Arthur will say I am but a poor sort of nurse. Now," withdrawing herself from his embrace, and gently re-arranging his pillows, and smoothing the bed-clothes, "shut your eyes, and try to sleep. I'll stay close beside you, and be as quiet as a mouse." With a faint smile, he did as he was bidden; and she fulfilled her promise to the letter, watching beside him with love and solicitude for two hours, till his eyes again unclosed, and met hers, gazing so tenderly upon him, with an answering look of ardent affection. "You have had a good nap, and look quite refreshed, dear," she said, bending over him, and softly stroking his hair with her little white hand. "Yes; I feel much better," he said. "And you, love,--have you been sitting there all this time?" "Of course I have," she answered gayly: "did you think I would break my word, or feel any desire to go away and leave you?" "I know you to be the most devoted of nurses, when it is I who require your services," he returned, with a tenderly appreciative smile. "You are the best of little wives. But you must be very weary, and I want you now to go and take some exercise in the open air." "Is that an order?" she asked playfully. "Not yet," he returned, in the same tone; "but, if not obeyed as a request, it may become--something stronger." "Well," she said laughing, "it won't hurt me if it does: you can't hurt me in that way any more; for do you know, Ned," and she bent lovingly over him, pressing a kiss upon his forehead, "I have become such a silly thing, that I actually enjoy obeying you,--when you don't order me as if you thought I wouldn't do as you wish, and you meant to force me to it." "Forgive me, love, that I have ever done it in that spirit," he said remorsefully, and coloring deeply. "Ned, I haven't any thing to forgive," she said, with sudden energy and warmth of affection. "Then you will obey about the air and exercise?" he asked, returning to his playful tone. "Presently, sir, when I have seen you eat something. It's time for that now, according to the doctor's directions." She rang for refreshment, saw him take it, then left him for a short time in the care of old Aunt Phillis, while she donned riding hat and habit, mounted her pony, and flew over several miles of road and back again. She seemed to bring a breath of fresh air with her when she returned to his side. "My darling," he said, smiling up at her, "how the roses glow on your cheeks, and how bright your eyes are! Give me a kiss, and then sit down close by my side." "I obey both orders most willingly," she said merrily, as she bent down and kissed him on lips and forehead and cheek, then took possession of the chair she had vacated on leaving the room. "Now, sir, what next?" "Move your chair round a trifle, so that I can have a better view of your face." She smilingly obeyed. "There! does that satisfy your lordship?" "Quite. Now talk to me." "About what?" "Any thing you please: the principal thing is to hear the music of your voice." "Suppose I sing, then." "Yes, yes!" eagerly; "that's just what I should enjoy. Let it be, 'I love to tell the story.'" Zoe had a beautiful voice. Soft and sweet and clear it rose,-- "'I love to tell the story Of unseen things above, Of Jesus and his glory, Of Jesus and his love. I love to tell the story, Because I know it's true: It satisfies my longings As nothing else can do. "I love to tell the story: 'Twill be my theme in glory, To tell the old, old story, Of Jesus and his love. "I love to tell the story: More wonderful it seems, Than all the golden fancies Of all our golden dreams. I love to tell the story, It did so much for me; And that is just the reason I tell it now to thee. "I love to tell the story; 'Tis pleasant to repeat What seems, each time I tell it, More wonderfully sweet. I love to tell the story, For some have never heard The message of salvation From God's own Holy Word. "I love to tell the story; For those who know it best, Seem hungering and thirsting To hear it like the rest. And when in scenes of glory, I sing the new, new song, 'Twill be the old, old story, That I have loved so long.'" The last note died away, and for a moment there was silence in the room. Edward lay gazing into his wife's eyes with a look of sad, yearning tenderness. "O Ned! why, why do you look so at me?" she asked, with a sudden burst of tears, and dropping her face on the pillow beside his. He had been holding her hand while she sang; he kept it still, and, laying his other one gently on her head, "Zoe, my darling," he said, in tones tremulous with emotion, "it is the one longing desire of my heart that you may learn the full sweetness of that old, old story. O love! sometimes the thought, 'What if my precious wife should miss heaven, and our union be only for time, and not for eternity,' sends so keen a pang to my heart, that I know not how to endure it." "O Ned! surely I shall not miss it," she said, with a sob: "my father and mother were such good Christians; and you, my own husband, are so good too." "Ah, my darling!" he sighed, "that hope is but as a spider's web. Do you not remember that passage in Ezekiel, 'Though these three men, Noah, Daniel, and Job, were in it, they should deliver but their own souls by their righteousness, saith the Lord God'? And it is repeated again and again, 'Though Noah, Daniel, and Job, were in it, as I live, saith the Lord God, they shall deliver neither son nor daughter; they shall but deliver their own souls by their righteousness.' Zoe, dear, no righteousness but the imputed righteousness of Christ can save the soul from death. He offers it to you, love; and will you continue to reject it?" "Ned," she sobbed, "I wish I had it: I often think I would be a Christian if I only knew how, but I don't." "Do you not?" he asked, in some surprise. "I will try to make it plain. Jesus offers you a full and free salvation, purchased by what he has done and suffered in your stead, that 'God might be just, and yet the justifier of him who believeth in Jesus.' "'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' "He bids you come to him, and says, 'Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.'" "But how shall I come?" she asked. "Tell me just how." "How do you come to me, love, when you feel that you have displeased me, and want to be reconciled?" "Oh! you know I just come and acknowledge that I've been hateful and cross, and say how sorry I am, and that I don't mean to behave so any more, and ask you to forgive and love me; and, dear Ned, you are always so willing and ready to do that, you hardly wait till I've said my say, before you put your arms round me, and hug and kiss me, and it's all right between us." "Yes, dearest; and God, our heavenly Father, is far more ready to receive and forgive us when we turn to him with sorrow for our sins, confessing them and pleading for pardon in the name, and for the sake, of his dear Son, our Saviour," "I'm afraid I don't feel half so sorry as I ought." "Who of us does? but we are not to wait for that. We must come to him, to be shown the evil of our natures, the sinfulness of our lives. "'Him hath God exalted with his right hand to be a Prince and a Saviour, for to give repentance to Israel, and forgiveness of sins.'" "But how am I to make myself believe?" she asked. "'By grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God.' So you see, we have to go to Jesus for it all,--for repentance, for faith, for salvation from the guilt and love of sin, and from eternal death. "The plan of salvation is very simple,--its very simplicity seems to stumble many; they don't know how to believe that it is offered them as a free gift; they think they must do something to merit it; but it cannot be bought, it is 'without money and without price.' 'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely,' Come to Jesus, dear one; come now, for only the present moment is yours; delay is most dangerous, for the invitation may be withdrawn at any time." "If I could only see him! If I could hear his voice!" she sighed. "That you cannot; yet you know I am not nearer to you, or more willing to hear a petition from you, than he is." At that moment a well-known step was heard in the hall without; and as Zoe rose hastily, wiping her eyes, Arthur tapped at the door. CHAPTER VIII. "I bless thee for kind looks and words Showered on my path like dew, For all the love in those deep eyes, A gladness ever new." --MRS. HEMANS. A week had passed since Edward's accident; and he now exchanged his bed, during the day, for an easy-chair. He and Zoe had just finished taking their breakfast together in her boudoir when a servant came in with the mail. There were letters from Viamede,--one for Edward from his mother, one for Zoe from Betty Johnson. Both brought the unwelcome tidings that little Grace Raymond and Violet's babe were very ill with scarlet-fever. Edward read aloud his mother's announcement of the fact. "Yes," said Zoe. "Betty tells me the same thing. O Ned! how sorry I am for poor Vi! It would be hard enough for her if she had the captain with her, to help bear the burden and responsibility, and to share in her grief if they should die." "Yes, it is hard for her; and I am glad she has mamma and grandpa and grandma with her. Mamma says Dick Percival is attending the children, and there is talk of telegraphing for Arthur. "Ah," glancing from the window, "here he comes! He will perhaps bring us later news." Arthur did so: the children were worse than at the date of the letters. He had just received his summons, and would obey it immediately, taking the next train; had called to tell them, and see how Edward was. "Almost entirely recovered, tell my mother," Edward said, in reply to the query; "and you needn't go feeling any anxiety in regard to this one of your patients," he added playfully. "I leave him in your care, Zoe," said Arthur; "and, if he does not do well, I shall hold you responsible." "Then you must lay your commands upon him to obey my orders," she said, with a merry glance from one to the other. "Would that be any thing new in his experience?" asked the doctor with mock gravity. "It won't do to question us too closely," returned Zoe, coloring and laughing. "She is a very good little wife, and tolerably obedient," laughed Edward. "Really, would you believe it? she told me once she actually enjoyed obeying--under certain circumstances; and so, I suppose, should I. Zoe, you mustn't be too hard on me." "Oh! I intend to be very strict in seeing the doctor's orders carried out," she said; "and I expect to enjoy my brief authority immensely." Dr. Conly took leave almost immediately, for he had no time to spare; and the reading of the letters was resumed. Betty's was a long one, giving a full account, from her point of view, of the contest between Mr. Dinsmore and Lulu Raymond in regard to her refusal to take music-lessons of Signor Foresti after he had struck her. None of the family had mentioned the affair in their letters, even Rosie feeling that she had no warrant to do so; and the story was both new and interesting to Zoe. Lulu had not yet submitted when Betty wrote, so the story as told in her letter left the little girl still in banishment at Oakdale Academy. Zoe read the letter aloud to Edward. "Lulu is certainly the most ungovernable child I have ever seen or heard of," he remarked, at its conclusion. "I often wonder at the patience and forbearance grandpa and mamma have shown toward her. In their place, I should have had her banished to a boarding-school long ago, one at a distance, too, so that she could not trouble me, even during holidays." "So should I," said Zoe: "she hasn't the least shadow of a claim upon them." "No: the captain feels that, and is duly grateful. It is evident, too, that Lulu's lack of gratitude, and her bad behavior, are extremely mortifying to him." "But don't you think, Ned, it was rather hard to insist on her going back to that ill-tempered, abusive old music-teacher?" "Yes," he acknowledged with some hesitation. "I rather wonder at grandpa." "I wonder how it is going to end," said Zoe: "they are both so very determined, I should not like to stand in Lulu's shoes, nor yet in his." A second letter from Betty, received a fort-night later, told how it had ended: though Betty, not being in Lulu's confidence as Evelyn was, knew nothing of Capt. Raymond's letter to his daughter, or of Lulu's confession in reply to it; so her story ended with the statement that Lulu had at last submitted, been restored to favor, and was at Magnolia Hall with Evelyn as a companion, all the children who were in health having been banished from Viamede to save them from the danger of catching the dreaded fever. But to go back to the morning when the first instalment of her story was received. "It must be a very anxious time for them,--the family at Viamede, I mean," remarked Edward musingly. "And poor, dear Vi is so young to have such burdens to bear. What a blessing that she has mamma with her!" "Yes," said Zoe. "And, oh! I hope the children will get well, they are such darlings, both Gracie and the baby. I feel very sorry they are so ill, and yet I can't help rejoicing that my dear husband is able to sit up again. "Is that quite heartless in me?" she asked, laying her hand on one of his, which rested on the arm of his easy-chair; for she was seated in a low rocker, close at his side. "I think not," he answered, smiling down into her eyes. "It will do them no good for us to make ourselves unhappy. We will sympathize with, and pray for, them, but at the same time be thankful and joyful because of all God's goodness to us and them. 'Rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, Rejoice.' 'Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation.'" "You have certainly obeyed that last injunction," remarked Zoe, looking at him with affectionate admiration; "so patient and cheerful as you have been ever since your injury! Many a man would have grumbled and growled from morning to night; while you have been so pleasant, it was a privilege to wait on you." "Thank you," he said, laughing: "it is uncommonly good in you to say that, but I'm afraid you are rather uncharitable in your judgment of 'many men.' "Mamma has not yet heard of my accident," he remarked presently, "and wonders over my long silence. I'll write to her now, if you will be so kind as to bring me my writing-desk." "I'm doubtful about allowing such exertion," she said: "you are left under my orders, you remember, and I'm to be held responsible for your continued improvement." "Nonsense! that wouldn't hurt me," he returned, with an amused smile; "and if you won't get the desk, I'll go after it myself." "No, you mustn't: I sha'n't allow it," she said, knitting her brows, and trying to look stern. "Then get it for me." "Well," she said reflectively, "I suppose there'll have to be a compromise. I'll get the desk, if you'll let me act as your amanuensis." "We'll consider that arrangement after you have brought it." "No: you must agree to my proposition first." "Why, what a little tyrant you are!" he laughed. "Well, I consent. Now will you please to bring the desk?" "Yes," she said, jumping up, and crossing the room to where it stood; "and if you are very good, you may write a postscript with your own hand." "I'll do it all with my own hand," he said as she returned to his side. "Why, Ned!" she exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you were a man of your word!" "And so I am, I trust," he said, smiling at her astonished look, then catching her right hand in his. "Is not this mine?" he asked: "did you not give it to me?--Let me see--nearly two years ago?" "Yes, I did," she answered, laughing and blushing with pleasure and happiness: "you are right; it is yours. So you have every right to use it, and must do so." "Ah!" he said, "'a wilful woman will have her way,' I see: there never was a truer saying. No, that won't do," as she seated herself with the desk on her lap: "put it on the table. I can't have you bending over to write on your lap, and so growing round-shouldered, especially in my service." "Any thing to please you," she returned gayly, doing as he directed. "I suppose my right hand is not all of me that you lay claim to?" "No, indeed! I claim you altogether, as my better and dearer half," he said, his tone changing from jest to earnest, and the light of love shining in his eyes. She ran to him at that, put her arms round his neck, and laid her cheek to his. "No, Ned, I can't have you say that," she murmured, "you who are so good and wise, while I am such a silly and faulty thing, not at all worthy to be your wife. Whatever made you marry me?" "Love," he answered, drawing her closer, and fondly caressing her hair and cheek,--"love that grows stronger and deeper with every day we live together, dearest." "Dear Ned, my own dear husband!" she said, hugging him tighter. "Words could never tell how much I love you, or how I rejoice in your love for me: you are truly my other, my best, half, and I don't know how I could live without you." "Our mutual love is a cause for great gratitude to God," he said reverently. "There are so many miserably unhappy couples, I feel that I can never be thankful enough for the little wife who suits me so entirely." "You are my very greatest earthly blessing," she replied, lifting her head, and gazing into his face with eyes shining with joy and love; "and your words make me very, very happy. Now," releasing herself from his embrace, "it's time to attend to business, isn't it? I am ready to write if you will dictate." And she seated herself before the desk, and took up her pen. It was not a lengthened epistle. He began with an acknowledgment of the receipt of his mother's letter, expressed his sympathy in the sorrow and suffering at Viamede, gave a brief account of his accident, consequent illness, and partial recovery, highly eulogizing Zoe as the best of wives and nurses. When he began that, her pen ceased its movement, and was held suspended over the paper, while, blushing deeply, she turned to him with a remonstrance. "Don't ask me to write that: I am ashamed to have mamma see it in my handwriting." "Go on," he said: "she will know they are my words, and not yours." "Well, I obey orders," she replied with a smile; "but I don't half like to do it." "Then let me," he said. "If you will hold the desk on the arm of my chair for five minutes, and give me the pen, I can finish up the thing easily, and without the least danger of hurting my precious self." She did as directed. "There, now lie back in your chair, and rest," she said, when he had finished his note, and signed his name. "You do look a little tired," she added, with an anxious glance at him as she returned the desk to the table. "Nonsense! tired with that slight exertion!" he responded gayly. "You may read that over, and see if it wants any correction." She did so, then, turning toward him with an arch smile, asked, "May I criticise?" "I should be happy to have the benefit of your criticism," he said, laughing; "but don't make it too severe, please." "Oh, no! I was only thinking that mamma, judging of her by myself, would not be half satisfied with such a bare statement of facts, and that I had better write a supplement, giving her more of the particulars." "I highly approve the suggestion," he answered, "only stipulating that you shall not spend too much time over it, and shall read it to me when finished." "I'm afraid it won't be worth your hearing." "Let me judge of that. If not worth my hearing, can it be worth mamma's reading?" "Perhaps so," she said with a blush; "because what I tell will be news to her, but not to you." "Ah! I hadn't thought of that. But I shall want to hear it all the same, and take my turn at criticism." "If you are not more severe than I was, I can stand it," she said. "And now please keep quiet till I am done." He complied, lying back at his ease, and amusing himself with watching her, admiring the graceful pose of her figure, the pretty face bending over the paper, and the small, white, shapely hand that was gliding swiftly back and forth. "Come," he said at last, "you are making quite too long a story of it." "Mamma won't think so," she retorted, without looking up; "and you know you are not obliged to hear it." "Ah! but that is not the objection; I want to hear every word of it: but I can't spare my companion and nurse so long." She turned to him with a bright smile. "What can I do for you, dear? Just tell me. The letter can be finished afterward, you know." "I want nothing but you," was the smiling rejoinder. "Finish your letter, and then come and sit close by my side. "But no; you must take your accustomed exercise in the open air." Considering a moment, "I think," he said, "I'll have you order the carriage for about the time you are likely to be done there, and we'll have a drive together." She shook her head gravely. "You are not fit for any such exertion." "Uncle Ben and Solon shall help me down the stairs and into the carriage, so there need be no exertion about it." "I won't consent," she said. "The doctor left you in my charge; and his orders were, that you should keep quiet for the next few days." "You prefer to go alone, do you?" "Yes, rather than have you injured by going with me." "Come here," he said; and, laying down her pen, she obeyed. He took both her hands in his, and, gazing with mock gravity up into her face as she stood over him, "What a little tyrant you are developing into!" he remarked, knitting his brows. "Will you order the carriage, and take a drive in my company?" "No." "Then what will you do?" "Go by myself, or stay at home with you, just as you bid me." "What a remarkable mixture of tyranny and submission," he exclaimed, laughing, as he pulled her down to put his arm round her, and kiss her first on one cheek, then on the other. "I'll tell you what we'll do: you finish that letter, read it to me, and take the benefit of my able criticisms; then I'll try to get a nap while you take your drive or walk, whichever you prefer." "That will do nicely," she said, returning his caresses; "if you will be pleased to let me go, I'll order the carriage, finish the letter in five minutes, hear the able criticisms, put my patient to bed, and be off for my drive." "Do so," he said, releasing her. From this time forward, till the children were considered out of danger, and Edward was able to go about and attend to his affairs as usual, there were daily letters and telegrams passing between Viamede and Ion. Then Dr. Conly came home, and almost immediately on his arrival drove over to Ion to see for himself if his patient there had entirely recovered, and to carry some messages and tokens of affection from the absent members of the family. It was late in the afternoon that he reached Ion, and he found Edward and Zoe sitting together in the parlor; she with a bit of embroidery in her hands, he reading aloud to her. Arthur was very warmly welcomed by both. "Cousin Arthur, I'm delighted to see you!" cried Zoe, giving him her hand. "And I no less so," added Edward, offering his. "How did you leave them all at Viamede?" "All in health, except, of course, the two little ones who have been so ill," he said, taking the chair Edward drew forward for him; "and them we consider out of danger, with the careful attention they are sure to have." "How have mamma and Vi stood the anxiety and nursing?" asked Edward. "Quite as well as could have been expected. They have lost a little in flesh and color, but will, I think, soon regain both, now that their anxiety is relieved. "And you, Ned, are quite yourself again, I should say, from appearances?" "Yes; and I desire to give all credit to the nurse in whose charge you left me," returned Edward, with a smiling glance at Zoe. "As is but fair," said Arthur. "I discovered her capabilities before I left." "She made the most of her delegated authority," remarked Edward gravely. "I was allowed no will of my own, till I had so entirely recovered from my injuries that she had no longer the shadow of an excuse for depriving me of my liberty." "I thought it was a good lesson for him," retorted Zoe. "I've read somewhere that nobody is fit to rule who hasn't first learned to obey." "Ah! but that I learned before I was a year old," said Edward, laughing. "Nobody would have thought it, seeing the trouble I had to make you obey," said Zoe. "Now, cousin Arthur, tell us all about Viamede, and what you did and saw there." "It is a lovely place," he said. "I expected to be disappointed after the glowing accounts I had heard, but I feel like saying, 'The half has not been told me;'" and he plunged into an enthusiastic description of the mansion, its grounds, and the surrounding country. "I was loath to leave it," he said in conclusion. "And you make me more desirous to see it than ever," said Zoe. "Oh, do tell us! had Capt. Raymond been heard from before you left? We have seen by the papers that the report of the loss of his vessel was untrue, and, of course, we were greatly relieved." "Yes: letters came from him the day before I started for home. Fortunately, they had been able to keep the report from Vi and little Gracie; but May and Lulu had heard it, and were terribly distressed, I was told." "They are very fond of their father," remarked Zoe. "Yes, as they have good reason to be," said Arthur: "he is a noble fellow, and one of the best of husbands and fathers." "Did you hear any thing in particular about Lulu?" Zoe asked. "No, I think not," he said reflectively; "nothing but that she, May, and Evelyn Leland were staying, by invitation, at Magnolia Hall. "Ah, yes! I remember now that Betty told me there had been some trouble between uncle Horace and Lulu in regard to her taking lessons of a music-teacher whom she greatly disliked; that, because of her obstinate refusal, he had banished her from Viamede, entering her as a boarder at the academy the children were all attending; but that her distress of mind over the illness of her little sisters, and the sad report about her father, had led her to submit." "Much to Vi's relief, no doubt," remarked Edward. "Poor Vi! She is devotedly attached to her husband, but Lulu is a sore thorn in her side." "I don't believe she has ever acknowledged as much, or could be induced to," said Zoe. "No," assented Edward; "but it is evident to those who know her well, nevertheless. She tries hard to conceal the fact, and has wonderful patience with the wilful passionate child, really loving her for her father's sake." "And for her own, too, if I mistake not," Arthur said. "There is something quite lovable about Lulu, in spite of her very serious faults." "There is," said Edward. "I have felt it strongly myself at times. She is warm-hearted, energetic, very generous, and remarkably straight-forward, truthful, and honest." Dr. Conly had risen, as if to take leave. "Now, cousin Arthur," said Zoe, "please sit down again; for we cannot let you leave us till after tea." Edward seconded the invitation. "Thank you both," Arthur said, "but"-- "But--no buts," interrupted Zoe gayly. "I know you were about to plead haste; but there is the tea-bell now, so you will not be delayed; for you have to take time for your meals." "Then I accept," he said, "rejoicing in the opportunity to spend a little longer time in your very pleasant society." CHAPTER IX. "Here are a few of the unpleasantest words that ever blotted paper." Edward and Zoe now began to look forward to the return of the family as a desirable event not very far in the future. They had been extremely happy in each other during almost the whole time of separation from the rest; but now they were hungering for a sight of "mamma's sweet face," and would by no means object to a glimpse of those of grandparents, sisters, and children. At length a letter was received, fixing the date of the intended departure from Viamede, and stating by what train the party would probably reach the neighboring village of Union, where carriages must be in readiness to receive and convey them to Ion. And now Edward and Zoe began counting the days: the little matron put on more housewifely airs than was her wont, and was in great glee over her preparations for a grand reception and welcoming feast to the loved travellers. She insisted on much cleaning and renovating, and on the day of the arrival robbed the green-houses and conservatories for the adornment of the house, the table, and her own person. Edward laughingly asserted that he was almost, if not quite, as much under her orders at that time as when left in her charge by the doctor, and could have no peace but in showing himself entirely submissive, and ready to carry out all her schemes and wishes. Fairview also was getting ready to receive its master and mistress; but the indoor preparations there were overseen by Mrs. Lacey of the Laurels,--Edward's aunt Rose. It was the last of April: lovely spring weather had come, and the head gardeners and their subordinates of both places found much to do in making all trim and neat against the expected arrival of the respective owners; and of these matters Edward took a general oversight. He and Zoe were up earlier than their wont on the morning of the long-looked-for day, wandering about the gardens before breakfast. "How lovely every thing looks!" exclaimed Zoe, in delight. "I am sure mamma will be greatly pleased, and praise you to your heart's content, Cuff," she added, turning to the gardener at work near by. "Ya'as, Miss Zoe," he answered, with a broad grin of satisfaction; "dat's what I'se been a workin' for, an' spects to hab sho', kase Miss Elsie, she doan' nebber grudge nuffin' in de way ob praise nor ob wages, when yo's done yo' bes', ob co'se; an' dis chile done do dat, sho's yo' bawn." "Yes, I'm sure you have, Cuff," said Edward kindly: "the flowers look very flourishing; there's not a dead leaf or a weed to be seen anywhere; the walks are clean and smooth as a floor; nothing amiss anywhere, so far as I can perceive." They moved on, walking slowly, and inspecting carefully as they went, yet finding nothing to mar their satisfaction. They had reached the front of the house, and were about to go in, when a boy on horseback came cantering up the avenue, and handed a telegram to Edward. Tearing it hastily open, "From grandpa," he said. "Ah! they will be here by the next train!" "Half a day sooner than they or we expected," cried Zoe, half joyfully, half in dismay, struck with a momentary fear that her preparations could not be quite complete in season. Edward hastened to re-assure her. "Altogether, good news, isn't it?" he said. "We can be quite ready, I am sure, and will escape some hours of waiting; while they will gain time for rest and refreshment before the arrival of the family party who are to gather here from the Oaks, Roselands, the Laurels, and the Pines." "Oh, yes, yes! it is ever so nice! and I'm as glad as I can be," she cried rapturously. "Now let us make haste to get our breakfast, and then attend to the finishing touches needed by the house and our own persons." "Stay," said Edward, detaining her as she was starting up the steps into the veranda. "We should send word to Fairview, but it will be time enough after breakfast. Suppose we ride over there immediately upon leaving the table, and carry the news ourselves? The air and exercise will do you good." "It would be very nice," she returned meditatively; "but I'm afraid I shall hardly have time." "Yes, you will," he said. "You can give your orders, and let Christine and Aunt Dicey see them carried out." "But I want my taste consulted in the arrangement of the flowers," she objected. "Plenty of time for that after we get back," he said. "And I want your help in deciding whether every thing is exactly as it should be in the grounds at Fairview. Shall I order the horses?" "Yes. I'll go, of course, if you wish it, and enjoy it greatly, I know." They were very gay over their breakfast and during their ride; for they were young, healthy, happy in each other; the morning air was delicious, and not a cloud was to be perceived in either the natural sky above their heads, or in that of their future; all was bright and joyous, and they seemed to have naught to do with sorrow or care, or any of the evils that oppressed the hearts and darkened the lives of many of their fellow-creatures. Their tidings were received with joy by the retainers at Fairview, nearly every thing being in readiness for the reception of its master and mistress. Edward and Zoe had agreed that it was not at all necessary to inform the expected guests of the evening of the change in the hour for the arrival of the home-coming party they intended to welcome. "The meeting will be quite as early as anticipated," remarked Edward; "and it will do no harm for mamma and the others to have a chance to rest a little before seeing so many." "They will enjoy themselves all the better, I'm sure," said Zoe. They were cantering homeward as they talked. Arrived there, Zoe set to work at the pleasant task of adorning the house--"mamma's" boudoir in particular--with beautiful and sweet-scented flowers, and contrived to be delightfully busy in their arrangement till some little time after Edward had gone with the carriages to meet and bring home the travellers. All came directly to Ion, except the Fairview family, who sought their own home first, but promised to be present at the evening festivities. The journey had been taken leisurely; and no one seemed fatigued but the little convalescents, who were glad to be put immediately to bed. "Mamma, dear, dearest mamma!" cried Zoe, as the two clasped each other in a close embrace. "I am so, so glad to see you!" "Tired of housekeeping, little woman?" Elsie asked, with an arch look and smile. "No, mamma, not that, though willing enough to resign my position to you," was the gay rejoinder. "But my delight is altogether because you are so dear and sweet, that everybody must be the happier for your presence." "Dear child, I prize and fully return your affection," Elsie said in reply. For each one, Zoe had a joyous and affectionate greeting, till it came to Lulu's turn. At her she glanced doubtfully for an instant, then gave her a hearty kiss, saying to herself, "Though she did behave so badly, I'm sure she had a good deal of provocation." Lulu had noted the momentary hesitation, and flushed hotly under it; but the kiss set all right, and she returned it as warmly as it was given. "It seems nice to see you and uncle Edward again, aunt Zoe!" she said, "and nice to get back to Ion, though Viamede is so lovely." "Yes," chimed in Rosie. "Viamede is almost an earthly paradise, but Ion is the homiest home of the two." Lulu had been on her very best behavior ever since the termination of the controversy between Mr. Dinsmore and herself in regard to her tuition by Signor Foresti; and she had returned to Ion full of good resolutions, promising herself, that, if permitted to continue to live at Ion, she would henceforward be submissive, obedient, and very determined in her efforts to control her unruly temper. But was she to be allowed to stay there? No objection had been raised by any of the family; but remembering her father's repeated warning, that, if she proved troublesome to these kind friends, he would feel compelled to take her away from Ion, and send her to a boarding-school, she awaited his decision with much secret apprehension. It was quite too soon to look for a response to her confession, written from Magnolia Hall, or a letter from him to her mamma, grandma Elsie, or grandpa Dinsmore, giving his verdict in regard to her; and, at times, she found the suspense very hard to bear. Thus far, Evelyn Leland had been the sole confidant of her doubts, fears, and anxieties on the subject; not even Max having been made acquainted with the contents of either her father's letter to her, or her reply to it. She had managed to conceal her uneasiness from him, and also from grandma Elsie and Violet; the time and attention of both ladies being much occupied with the care of the little invalids. But, on the evening of this day, Grace and baby Elsie were fast asleep, the one in bed, the other in her dainty crib, at an early hour; and Violet bethought her of Lulu in connection with the expected assembling of a large family party. "I must see that the child is suitably attired," she said to herself, and, deferring her own toilet, went at once to the little girl's room. She found her already dressed,--suitably and tastefully too,--and sitting by a window in an attitude of dejection, her elbow on the sill, her head on her hand; but she was not looking out; her eyes were downcast, and her countenance was sad. "What is the matter, Lulu, dear?" Violet asked in gentle tones, as she drew near, and laid her soft white hand caressingly on the bowed head: "are you sorry to be at home again?" "Ok, no, no, mamma Vi! it's not that. I should be very glad to get back, if I were only sure of being allowed to stay," Lulu answered, lifting her head, and hastily wiping a tear out of the corner of her eye. "But I--I'm dreadfully afraid papa will say I can't; that I must be sent away somewhere, because of having been so disobedient and obstinate." "I hope not, dear," Violet said: "you have been so good ever since you gave up, and consented to do as grandpa wished." "Thank you for saying that, mamma Vi. I have been trying with all my might,--asking God to help me too," she added low and reverentially; "but papa doesn't know that, and he has been very near banishing me two or three times before. Oh, I don't know how to wait to hear from him! I wish a letter would come!" "It is almost too soon to hope for it yet, dear child; but I trust we may hear before very long," said Violet. At that moment there came a little tap at the door; and the sweetest of voices asked, "Shall I come in?" "Oh, yes, mamma!" "Yes, grandma Elsie!" answered the two addressed. "I thought our little girl might like some help with her toilet for the evening," Elsie said, advancing into the room. "But--is any thing wrong? I think you are looking troubled and unhappy, Lulu." Violet explained the cause; and Elsie said, very kindly, "I don't want you sent away, Lulu, dear. No one could desire a better behaved child than you have been of late; and I have written to your father to tell him so, and ask that you may stay with us still. So cheer up, and hope for the best, little girl," she added, with a smile and an affectionate kiss. Lulu had risen, and was standing by Elsie's side. As the latter bent down to bestow the caress, her arms were thrown impulsively about her neck with a glad, grateful exclamation, "O grandma Elsie! how good you are to me! I don't know how you could want to keep me here, when I've been so bad and troublesome so many times." "I trust you have been so for the very last time, dear child," Elsie responded. "Think how it will rejoice your father's heart if he learns that you have at length conquered in the fight with your naturally quick, wilful temper, which has been the cause of so much distress to both him and yourself." "I do think of it very often, grandma Elsie," Lulu returned, with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her heart. "And I do want to please papa, and make him happy: but,--oh, dear! when something happens to make me angry, I forget all about it and my good resolutions till it's too late; the first thing I know, I've been acting like a fury, and disgracing myself and him." "Yet don't be discouraged, or ever give up the fight," Elsie said. "Persevere, using all your own strength, and asking help from on high, and you will come off conqueror at last." About the same time that this little scene was enacting at Ion, Elsie Leland, passing the door of Evelyn's room, thought she heard a low sob coming from within. She paused and listened. The sound was repeated, and she tapped lightly on the door. There was no answer; and opening it, she stole softly in. Evelyn sat in an easy-chair at the farther side of the room, her face hidden in her hands, an open letter lying in her lap. "My poor child! Is it bad news?" Elsie asked, going up to the little girl, and touching her hair caressingly. "It is heart-breaking to me, aunt Elsie; but read and judge for yourself," Evelyn replied, in a voice choking with sobs; and taking up the letter, she put it into her aunt's hand. Elsie gave it a hasty perusal, then, tossing it indignantly aside, took the young weeper in her arms, bestowing upon her tender caresses and soothing words. "It is hard, very hard for you, dear, I know; it would be for me in your place; but we must just try to make the best of it." "Yes," sobbed Evelyn; "but I could hardly feel more fully orphaned if my mother were dead. And papa has not been gone a year. Oh, how could she! how could she! You see, aunt Elsie, she talks of my joining her as soon as I am my own mistress; but how can I ever think of it now?" "We--your uncle and I--would be very loath to give you up, darling; and, if you can only be content, I think you may always have a happy home here, with us," Elsie said, with another tender caress. "Dear auntie, you and uncle have made it a very happy home to me," returned Evelyn gratefully, wiping away her tears as she spoke, and forcing a rather sad sort of smile. "I should be as sorry to leave it as you could possibly be to have me do so." Evelyn was of a very quiet temperament, rarely indulging in bursts of emotion of any kind; and Elsie soon succeeded in restoring her to calmness, though her eyes still showed traces of tears; and her expressive features again wore the look of gentle sadness that was their wont in the first weeks of her sojourn at Fairview, but which had gradually changed to one of cheerfulness and content. "Now, Eva, dear, it is time we were getting ready for our drive to Ion," Elsie said. "Shall I help you change your dress?" "I--I think, if you will excuse me, auntie," Evelyn returned, with hesitation, "I should prefer to stay at home. I'm scarcely in the mood for merry-making." "Of course, you shall do just as you like, dear child," was the kindly response; "but it is only to be a family party, and you need not be mixed up with any fun or frolic,--I don't suppose there will be any thing of the kind going on,--and you will probably enjoy a private chat with your bosom-friend, Lulu. You know, there are plenty of corners where you can get together by yourselves. I think you would find it lonely staying here, and Lulu would not half enjoy her evening without you." "You are right, auntie: I will go," Evelyn answered, more cheerfully than she had spoken since reading her letter. "I will dress at once, but shall not need any help except advice about what I shall wear." Elsie gave it, and, saying the carriage would be at the door in half an hour, went back to her own apartments, to attend to the proper adornment of her own pretty person. Soon after her little talk with grandma Elsie and mamma Vi, Lulu, still unable to banish the anxiety which made her restless and uneasy, wandered out into the shrubbery, where she presently met Max. "I've been all round the place," he said; "and I tell you, Lu, it's in prime order: every thing's as neat as a pin. Don't the grounds look lovely, even after Viamede?" "Yes," she sighed, glancing round from side to side with a melancholy expression of countenance quite unusual with her. "What's the matter, sis?" he asked with some surprise: "I hope you're not sick?" "No, I'm perfectly well," she answered; "but, the prettier the place looks, the sorrier I feel to think I may have to go away and leave it." "Who says you are to go away?" he demanded,--"not grandma Elsie, or mamma Vi either, I am sure, for they're both too kind; and, in fact, I don't believe anybody here wants to send you off." "Maybe not," she said, "but I'll have to go if papa says so; and, O Max! I'm so afraid he will, because of--all that--all the trouble between grandpa Dinsmore and me about the music-lessons." "I didn't suppose papa had been told about it?" he remarked, half inquiringly. "Yes," she said: "I confessed every bit of it to him in that letter I wrote at Magnolia Hall." "Bully for you!" cried Max heartily. "I knew you'd own up at last, like a brick, as you are." "O Max! you forget that mamma Vi does not approve of slang," she said. "But I don't deserve a bit of praise for confessing, because I had to. Papa wrote to me that he was sure I'd been misbehaving,--though nobody had told him a single word about it,--and that I must write at once, and tell him every thing." "Well, I'm glad you did; and I hope he won't be hard on you, Lu. Still, I wouldn't like to be in your place, for papa can be quite severe when he thinks it necessary. I wouldn't fret, though," he added in a consolatory tone, "because there's no use trying to cross the bridge before you come to it, 'specially when you mayn't come at all." "That's quite true, but it's a great deal easier to preach than to practise," she said. "Maxie, would you be sorry to have me sent away?" she asked, her voice taking on a beseeching tone. "Why, of course I should," he said. "We've gone through a good deal together, and you know we've always been rather fond of each other, considering that we're brother and sister," he added laughingly. "Ah, here comes Eva!" and he lifted his hat with a profound bow as a turn in the walk brought them face to face with her. "O Eva! I'm so glad you've come early!" exclaimed Lulu. "I too," said Max; "but, if you have any secrets for each other's private ear, I'll be off." "Your company is always agreeable, Max," Evelyn said with a faint smile, "and I should be sorry to drive you away." "Thanks," he said; "but I'll have to go, for I hear grandpa Dinsmore calling me." He hastened to obey the call; and the two girls, each putting an arm about the other's waist, paced to and fro along the gravel-walk. "How is Fairview looking?" asked Lulu. "Lovely: it couldn't be in better order, and there are a great many flowers in bloom. One might say just the same of Ion." "Yes: it is even prettier than Fairview, I have always thought. But that's a sweet place too and aunt Elsie and uncle Lester are delightful to live with. I only wish I was as sure as you are of such a sweet home." "Don't worry, Lu. I hope your father will let you stay on here," Evelyn said in an affectionate tone; "but, indeed, I don't think you have any reason to envy me." She ended with so profound a sigh, that Lulu turned a surprised, inquiring look upon her, asking, "Have you had any bad news, Eva? I know you have been looking anxiously for a letter from your mother." "Yes, it has come: I found it waiting for me at Fairview, and"--She paused for a moment, her heart too full for speech. "And it was bad news? Oh, I am so sorry!" said Lulu. "I hope it wasn't that she wants you to go away from here--unless I have to go too, and we can be together somewhere." "No, it was not that--not now. Mamma knows that, because of the way papa made his will, I must stay with uncle Lester till I come of age. She talks of my going to her then; but I cannot,--oh, I never can! for,--Lulu, she's married again, to an Italian count; and it is not a year since my dear, dear father was taken from us." Evelyn's voice was tremulous with pain, and she ended with a burst of bitter weeping. "Oh, how could she!" exclaimed Lulu. "I don't wonder you feel so about it, Eva. A horrid Italian too!" she added, thinking of Signor Foresti. "I'd never call him father!" "Indeed, I've no idea of doing that," Eva said indignantly. "I only hope he may never cross my path; and so I--feel as if my mother is lost to me. You are far better off than I, Lulu: you have your own dear father still living, and aunt Vi is so lovely and sweet." "Yes, I am better off than you," Lulu acknowledged emphatically; "and if I hadn't such a bad temper, always getting me into trouble, I'd be a girl to be envied." CHAPTER X. LULU'S SENTENCE. Pending Capt. Raymond's verdict in regard to Lulu, life at Ion fell into the old grooves, for her as well as the other members of the family. Studies were taken up again by all the children, including Evelyn Leland, where they had been dropped; Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter giving instruction, and hearing recitations, as formerly. This interval of waiting lasted for over two months, a longer period of silence on the part of the husband and father than usual; but, as they learned afterward, letters had been delayed in both going and coming. Capt. Raymond, in his good ship, far out on the ocean, was wearying for news from home, when his pressing want was most opportunely supplied by a passing vessel. She had a heavy mail for the man-of-war, and a generous share of it fell to her commander. He was soon seated in the privacy of his own cabin, with Violet's letter open in his hand. It was sure to receive his attention before that of any other correspondent. With a swelling heart he read of the sore trial she had been passing through, in the severe illness of Gracie and the babe. Deeply he regretted not having been there to lighten her burdens with his sympathy and help in the nursing; and though, at the time of writing, she was able to report that the little sufferers were considered out of danger, he could not repress a fear, amid his thankfulness, that there might be a relapse, or the dread disease might leave behind it, as it so often does, some lasting ill effect. He lingered over the letter, re-reading passages here and there, but at length laid it aside, and gave his attention to others bearing the same post-mark. There was a short one from Max, which stirred his heart with fatherly love and pride in his boy; that came next after Violet's: then he opened Lulu's bulky packet. He sighed deeply as he laid it down after a careful perusal, during which his face had grown stern and troubled, and, rising, paced the cabin to and fro, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed on his breast, which again and again heaved with a deep-drawn sigh. "What I am to do with that child, I do not know," he groaned within himself. "If I could make a home for her, and have her constantly with me, I might perhaps be able to train her up aright, and help her to learn the hard lesson how to rule her own spirit. "I could not do that, however, without resigning from the service; and that would be giving up my only means of earning a livelihood for her as well as the others and myself. That is not to be thought of: nor could I forsake the service without heartfelt regret, were I a millionnaire." The captain was a man of prayer. Some moments were spent on his knees, asking guidance and help for himself, and a change of heart for his wayward little daughter; then, again seating himself at his writing-table, he opened yet another letter, one whose superscription he recognized as that of a business agent in one of our far Western States. His face lighted up as he read, and a text flashed across his mind: "And it shall come to pass, that before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear." That sheet of paper was the bearer of most strange, unlooked-for tidings: a tract of wild land, bought by him for a trifle years before, and long considered of little or no value, had suddenly become--by the discovery that it contained rich mineral deposits, and the consequent opening of mines, and laying out of a town upon it--worth many thousands, perhaps millions of money. And he--Capt. Raymond--was the undisputed owner of it all,--of wealth beyond his wildest dreams. He could scarce believe it: it seemed impossible. Yet it was undoubtedly true; and a bright vision of a lovely home, with wife and children about him, rose up before his mind's eye, and filled him with joy and gratitude to the Giver of all good. He would send in his resignation, and realize the vision at the earliest possible moment. But stay! could he now, in the prime of life, forsake the service for which he had been educated, and to which he had already given many of his best years? Could he be content to bid a final farewell to the glorious old ocean so long his home, so beautiful and lovable in its varied moods, and settle down upon the unchanging land, quite reconciled to its sameness? Would he not find in himself an insatiable longing to be again upon the ever restless sea, treading once more the deck of his gallant ship, monarch of her little world, director of all her movements? It was not a question to be decided in a moment; it required time for thought; a careful consideration of seemingly conflicting duties; a careful balancing of inclinations and interests, and for seeking counsel of his best, his almighty and all-wise, Friend. At Ion, as the summer heats approached, the question was mooted, "Where shall we spend the next two or three months?" After some discussion, it was decided that all should go North to Cape May for a time: afterward they would break up into smaller parties, and scatter to different points of interest, as they might fancy. Lester and Elsie Leland would spend a portion of the season at Cliff Cottage,--Evelyn's old home,--taking her and Lulu with them. Edward and Zoe, too, and probably some of the others, would visit there. All necessary arrangements had been made, and they were to start the next day, when at last letters were received from Capt. Raymond. Lulu's heart beat very fast at sight of them. She had been full of delight at the prospect of her Northern trip, especially the visit to be paid with Evelyn to her former home; the latter having in their private talks dwelt much upon its many attractions, and the life she had led there in the sweet companionship of her beloved father. "Would there be any thing in papa's letter to prevent the carrying out of the cherished plans?" Lulu asked herself as, in fear and trembling, she watched Violet opening with eager fingers the packet handed her at the breakfast-table. Max and Gracie, too, looked on with interest quite equal to Lulu's; but in their case there was only joyous expectancy unmingled with dread. "There is something for each of us, as usual," Violet said presently, with a smiling glance from one to another,--"Max, Lulu, Gracie, and myself." Lulu received hers,--only a folded slip of paper,--and, asking to be excused, stole away to the privacy of her own room to read it. "MY DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER [it ran],--The story of your misconduct has given a very sad heart to the father who loves you so dearly. I forgive you, my child, but can no longer let you remain at Ion to be a trouble and torment to our kind friends there. I shall remove you elsewhere as soon as I can settle upon a suitable place. In the mean time, if you are truly sorry for the past, you will, I am sure, earnestly strive to be patient, submissive and obedient to those who have you in charge. "Your loving father, "L. RAYMOND." The paper fell from Lulu's hand, and fluttered to the floor, as she folded her arms upon the sill of the window beside which she had seated herself, and rested her head upon them. "And that's all; just that I am to go away, nobody knows where; to be separated from Max and Gracie and every one else that I care for: and when papa comes home, maybe he won't visit me at all; or, if he does, it will be for only a little bit, because, of course, he will want to spend most of his leave where the others are. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish I'd been good! I wish I'd been born sweet-tempered and patient, like Gracie. I wonder if papa will ever, _ever_ let me come back! "But perhaps grandpa Dinsmore and grandma Elsie will never invite me again. I wouldn't in their place, I'm sure." The captain's letter to his wife made the same announcement of his intentions in regard to Lulu; adding, that, for the present he would have her disposed of as should seem best to them--Mr. Dinsmore, his daughter, and Violet herself--upon consultation together; he had entire confidence, he said, in their wisdom and their kind feeling toward his wayward, troublesome, yet still beloved child; so that he could trust her to their tender mercies without hesitation. He went on to say (and, ah, with what a smile of exultation and delight those words were penned!), that "there was a possibility that he might be with them again in the fall, long enough to find a suitable home for Lulu; and, in the mean time, would they kindly seize any opportunity that presented itself, to make inquiries in regard to such a place?" Violet read that portion of his letter aloud to her mother and grandfather, then asked if they saw in it any thing necessitating a change in their plans for the summer. They did not, and were glad for Lulu's sake that it was so. Lulu, in the solitude of her room, was anxiously considering the same question, and presently went with it to her mamma, taking her father's note in her hand. Finding Violet alone in her dressing-room, giving the captain's missive another perusal, "Mamma Vi," she said, "what--what does papa tell you about me?" She spoke hesitatingly, her head drooping, her cheeks hot with blushes. "I mean, what does he say is to be done with me?" Violet pitied the child from the bottom of her heart. "I wish, dear," she said, "that I could tell you he consented to mamma's request to let us try you here a little longer; but--doesn't he say something about it in his note to you?" "Yes, mamma Vi," Lulu answered chokingly: "he says he can't let me stay here any longer, to be such a trouble and torment to you all, and will put me somewhere else as soon as he can find a suitable place; but he doesn't say what is to be done with me just now." "No, dear: he leaves that to us,--grandpa, mamma, and me,--and we have decided that no change in the arrangements for the summer need be made." "O mamma Vi! how good and kind you all are!" cried Lulu, in a burst of irrestrainable gratitude; and her tears began to fall. Violet was quite moved by the child's emotion. "You have been a dear good girl of late, and we feel glad to take you with us," she said, drawing her to her side, and giving her an affectionate kiss. "Your father says there is a possibility that he may be at home with us again for a while, in the fall; he expects to settle you somewhere then: but if you continue to be so good, perhaps he may relent, and allow you still to have a home with us. I am quite sure that such a child as you have been for the last two or three months, would be heartily welcome to us all." "It's ever so good in you to say that, mamma Vi," returned the little girl, furtively wiping her eyes; "and I'm determined to try with all my might. I'd want to do it to please papa, even if I knew there wasn't one bit of hope of his letting me stay. I don't think there is much, because, if he decides a thing positively, he's very apt to stick to it." "Yes, I know; but he will doubtless take into account that circumstances alter cases," Violet answered lightly, and with a pleasant smile. "And at all events, you may be quite sure that whatever small influence I may possess will be exerted in your behalf." "I am sure you have a great deal, mamma Vi; and I thank you very much for that promise," Lulu said, turning to go. But at that instant a quick, boyish step sounded in the hall without; and Max's voice at the door asked, "Mamma Vi, may I come in?" "Yes," she said; and in he rushed, with a face full of excitement. "Lu, I've been looking everywhere for you!" he cried. "What do you think? just see that!" and he held up a bit of paper, waving it triumphantly in the air, while he capered round the room in an ecstasy of delight. "What is it?" asked Lulu. "Nothing but a strip of paper, as far as I can see." "That's because you haven't had a chance to examine it," he said, laughing with pleasure. "It's a check with papa's name to it, and it's good for fifty dollars. Now, do you wonder I'm delighted?" "No, not if it's yours. Did he give it to you?" "Half of it; the other half's to be divided between you and Gracie; and it's just for pocket-money for this summer." "Oh, that is nice!" exclaimed Violet. "I am very glad for you all." Lulu looked astounded for an instant; then the tears welled up into her eyes as she said falteringly, "I--don't deserve it; and--I thought papa was so vexed with me, I should never have expected he'd give me a single cent." "He's just a splendid father, that's what he is!" cried Max, with another bound of exultant delight. "He says that if we go to the mountains, and grandpa thinks I can be trusted with a gun, I'm to have one of the best that can be bought; and, if I'm a splendid boy all the time, when he comes home I shall have a fine pony of my own." Then sobering down, "I'm afraid, though, that he can't afford all that; and I shall tell him so, and that I don't want him to spend too much of his hard-earned pay on his only son." "Good boy!" Violet said with an approving smile; "but I know it gives your father far more pleasure to lay out money for his children than to spend it on himself." Still, she wondered within herself, for a moment, if her husband had in some way become a little richer than he was when last he described his circumstances to her. Had he had a legacy from some lately deceased relative or friend? (surely no one could be more deserving of such remembrance) or an increase of pay? But no, he would surely have told her if either of those things had happened; and with that thought, the subject was dismissed from her mind. He had not told her of his good fortune--the sudden, unexpected change in his circumstances: he wanted to keep it secret till he could see the shining of her eyes, the lighting up of her face, as she learned that their long separations were a thing of the past; that in future they would have a home of their own, and be as constantly together as Lester and Elsie, Edward and Zoe. But his mind was full of plans for making her and his children happy by means of his newly acquired wealth, and he had not been able to refrain from some attempt to do so at once. "I don't want papa to waste his money on me, either," Lulu said. "I'd rather never have any pocket-money than have him do without a single thing to give it to me." "Dear child, I know you would," Violet said. "But take what he has sent, and be happy with it; that is what he desires you to do; and I think you need have no fear that he will want for any thing because of having sent it to you." "Let me see that, won't you, Maxie?" Lulu asked, following her brother from the room. He handed her the check, and she examined it curiously. "It has your name on it," she remarked. "Yes: it is drawn payable to me," returned Max, assuming an air of importance. "But," said Lulu, still examining it critically, "how can you turn it into money?" "Oh! I know all about that," laughed Max. "Papa explained it to me the last time he was at home: I just write my name on the back of that, and take it to a bank, and they'll give me the fifty dollars." "And then you'll keep half, and divide the other half between Gracie and me. That will be twelve dollars and fifty cents for each of us, won't it?" "No, it isn't to be divided equally: papa says you are to have fifteen dollars, and Gracie ten,--because you are older than she is, you know." "But she's better, and deserves more than I," said Lulu. "Anyway, she shall have half, if she wants it." "No, she doesn't," said Max. "I told her about it; and she thinks ten dollars, to do just what she pleases with, is a great fortune." "When will you get it, Max?" "What,--the money? Not till after we go North. Grandpa Dinsmore says it will be best to wait till then, as we won't care to spend any of it here. O Lu!--you are going along, I suppose?--what does papa say about--about what you told him in your last letter?" "You may read for yourself, Max," replied Lulu, putting the note into his hand. She watched his face while he read, and knew by its expression that he was sorry for her, even before he said so, as he handed it back. "But perhaps papa may change his mind, if you keep on being as good as you have been ever since you left that school," he added. "But you haven't told me yet whether you are still to go North with us, or not." "Yes: mamma Vi says I am. She says papa says in his letter to her, that they may do what they think best with me for the present: and they will take me along. It's good in them, isn't it?" To that Max gave a hearty assent. "They are the kindest people in the world," he said. CHAPTER XI. "How terrible is passion!" The summer passed quickly and pleasantly to our friends of Ion and Fairview. The plans they had made for themselves before leaving home were carried out, with, perhaps, some slight variations. Lulu had her greatly desired visit to Cliff Cottage, and enjoyed it nearly as much as she had hoped to; a good deal less than she would if she could have quite forgotten her past misconduct, and its impending consequences. As matters stood, she could seldom entirely banish the thought that the time was daily drawing nearer when her father's sentence would be carried out, to her sad exclusion from the pleasant family circle of which she had now been so long a member. She experienced the truth of the saying, that blessings brighten as they take their flight, and would have given much to undo the past, so that she might prove herself worthy of a continuance of those she had rated so far below their real value, that, in spite of her father's repeated warnings, she had wantonly thrown them away. She kept her promise to Violet, and strove earnestly to deserve a repeal of her sentence, though her hope of gaining it was very faint. All summer long she had exercised sufficient control over her temper to avoid any outbursts of passion, and generally had behaved quite amiably. By the 1st of October the two families were again at home at Ion and Fairview, pursuing the even tenor of their way, Lulu with them, as of old, no new home having yet been found for her. No one had cared to make much effort in that direction. It was just as well, Mr. Dinsmore, Elsie his daughter, and Violet thought, simply to let things take their course till her father should return, and take matters into his own hands. There was no certainty when that would be: his letters still alluded to his coming that fall as merely a possibility. But Lulu had been so amiable and docile for months past, that no one was in haste to be rid of her presence. Even Rosie was quite friendly with her, had ceased to tease and vex her; and mutual forbearance had given each a better opinion of the other than she had formerly entertained. But Lulu grew self-confident, and began to relax her vigilance: it was so long since her temper had got decidedly the better of her, that she thought it conquered, or so nearly so that she need not be continually on the watch against it. Rosie had brought home with her a new pet,--a beautiful puppy as mischievous as he was handsome. Unfortunately it happened again and again that something belonging to Lulu attracted his attention, and was seriously damaged or totally destroyed by his teeth and claws. He chewed up a pair of kid gloves belonging to her; and it did not mend matters that Rosie laughed as though it were a good joke, and then told her it was her own fault for not putting them in their proper place when she took them off: he tore her garden-hat into shreds; he upset her inkstand; tumbled over her work-basket, tangling the spools of sewing-silk and cotton; jumped upon her with muddy paws, soiling a new dress and handsome sash; and at last capped the climax by defacing a book of engravings, belonging to Mr. Dinsmore, which she had carelessly left in his way. Then her anger burst forth, and she kicked the dog till his howls brought Rosie running to the rescue. "How dare you, Lulu Raymond!" she exclaimed, with flashing eyes, as she gathered Trip in her arms, and soothed him with caresses. "I'll not allow my pet to be so ill used in my own mother's house!" "He deserves a great deal more than I gave him," retorted Lulu, quivering with passion; "and if you don't want him hurt, you'll have to keep him out of mischief. Just look what he has done to this book!" "One of grandpa's handsome volumes of engravings!" cried Rosie, aghast. "But who left it lying there?" "I did." "Then you are the one to blame, and not my poor little Trip, who, of course, knew no better. How is he to tell that books are not meant for gnawing quite as much as bones?" "What is the matter, children?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, stepping out upon the veranda where the little scene was enacting. "It surprises me to hear such loud and angry tones." For a moment each girlish head drooped in silence, hot blushes dyeing their cheeks; then Lulu, lifting hers, said, "I'm very sorry, grandpa Dinsmore. I oughtn't to have brought this book out here; but it wouldn't have come to any harm if it hadn't been for that troublesome dog, that's as full of mischief as he can be. I don't believe it was more than five minutes that I left the book lying there on the settee; and when I ran back to get it, and put it away in its place, he had torn out a leaf, and nibbled and soiled the cover, as you see. "But if you'll please not be angry, I'll save up all my pocket-money till I can buy you another copy." "That would take a good while, child," Mr. Dinsmore answered. "It is a great pity you were so careless. But I'll not scold you, since you are so penitent, and so ready to make all the amends in your power. Rosie, you really must try to restrain the mischievous propensities of your pet." "I do, grandpa," she said, flashing an angry glance at Lulu; "but I can't keep him in sight every minute; and, if people will leave things in his way, I think they are more to blame than he is if he spoils them." "Tut, tut! don't speak to me in that manner," said her grandfather. "If your dog continues to damage valuable property, he shall be sent away." Rosie made no reply, but colored deeply as she turned and walked away with her pet in her arms. "Now, Lulu," said Mr. Dinsmore, not unkindly, "remember that in future you are not to bring a valuable book such as this, out here. If you want to look at them, do so in the library." "Yes, sir, I will. I'm very sorry about that; but if you'll tell me, please, how much it would cost to buy another just like it, I'll write to papa, and I know he will pay for it." "I thought you proposed to pay for it yourself," remarked Mr. Dinsmore grimly. "Yes, sir; but I don't wish to keep you waiting; papa wouldn't wish it. He sends his children pocket-money every once in a while, and I'd ask him to keep back what he considered my share till it would count up to as much as the price of the book." "Well, child, that is honorable and right," Mr. Dinsmore said in a pleasanter tone; "but I think we will let the matter rest now till your father comes, which I trust will be before a very great while." Rosie, knowing that her grandfather was quite capable of carrying out his threat, lacking neither the ability nor the will to do so, curtailed the liberty of her pet, and exerted herself to keep him out of mischief. Still, he occasionally came in Lulu's way, and when he did was very apt to receive a blow or kick. He had a fashion of catching at her skirts with his teeth, and giving them a jerk, which was very exasperating to her--all the more so, that Rosie evidently enjoyed seeing him do it. A stop would have been put to the "fun" if the older people of the family had happened to be aware of what was going on; but the dog always seemed to seize the opportunity when none of them were by, and Lulu scorned to tell tales. One morning, about a week after the accident to the book, Lulu, coming down a little before the ringing of the breakfast-bell, found Max on the veranda. "Don't you want to take a ride with me after breakfast, Lu?" he asked. "Mamma Vi says I can have her pony; and, as Rosie doesn't care to go, of course you can ride hers." "How do you know Rosie doesn't want to ride?" asked Lulu. "Because I heard her tell her mother she didn't; that she meant to drive over to Roselands with grandpa Dinsmore instead; that he had told her he expected to go there to see Cal about some business matter, and would take her with him. So you see, her pony won't be wanted; and grandma Elsie has often said we could have it whenever it wasn't in use or tired, and of course it must be quite fresh this morning." "Then I'll go," said Lulu with satisfaction; for she was extremely fond of riding, especially when her steed was Rosie's pretty, easy-going pony, Gyp. So Max ordered the two ponies to be in readiness; and, as soon as breakfast was over, Lulu hastened to her room to prepare for her ride. But in the mean time Mr. Dinsmore had told Rosie he had, for some reason, changed his plans, and should wait till afternoon to make his call at Roselands. Then Rosie, glancing from the window, and seeing her pony at the door, ready saddled and bridled, suddenly decided to take a ride, ran to her room, donned riding hat and habit, and was down again a little in advance of Lulu. Max, who was on the veranda, waiting for his sister, felt rather dismayed at sight of Rosie, as she came tripping out in riding-attire. "O Rosie! excuse me," he said. "I heard you say you were going to drive to Roselands with your grandpa, and so, as I was sure you wouldn't be wanting your pony, I ordered him saddled for Lu." "That happened very well, because he is here now all ready for me," returned Rosie, laughing, as she vaulted into the saddle, hardly giving Max a chance to help her. "Lu can have him another time. Come, will you go with me?" For an instant Max hesitated. He did not like to refuse Rosie's request, as she was not allowed to go alone outside the grounds, yet was equally averse to seem to desert Lu. "But," he thought, "she's sure to be in a passion when she finds this out, and I can't bear to see it." So he sprang upon his waiting steed; and as Lulu, ready dressed for her ride, and eager to take it, stepped out upon the veranda, she just caught a glimpse of the two horses and their riders disappearing down the avenue. She turned white with anger at the sight, and stamped her foot in fury, exclaiming between her clinched teeth, "It's the meanest trick I ever saw!" There were several servants standing near, one of them little Elsie's nurse, an old negress, Aunt Dinah, who, having lived in the family for more than twenty years, felt herself privileged to speak her mind upon occasion, particularly to its younger members. "Now, Miss Lu," she said, "dat's not de propah way fo' you to talk 'bout dis t'ing; kase dat pony b'longs to Miss Rosie, an' co'se she hab de right to ride him befo' anybody else." "You've no call to put in your word, and I'm not going to be lectured and reproved by a servant!" retorted Lulu passionately; and turning quickly away, she strode to the head of the short flight of steps leading down into the avenue, and stood there leaning against a pillar, with her back toward the other occupants of the veranda. Her left arm was round the pillar, and in her right hand she held her little riding-whip. She was angry at Dinah, furiously angry at Rosie; and when the next minute something--Rosie's dog, she supposed--tugged at her skirts, she gave a vicious backward kick without turning her head. Instantly a sound of something falling, accompanied by a faint, frightened little cry, and chorus of shrieks of dismay from older voices flashed upon her the terrible knowledge that she had sent her baby sister rolling down the steps to the hard gravel-walk below. She clutched at her pillar, almost losing consciousness for one brief moment, in her dreadful fright. Violet's agonized cry, as she came rushing from the open doorway, "My baby! oh, my baby! she's killed!" roused her: and she saw Dinah pick up the little creature from the ground, and place it in its mother's arms, where it lay limp and white, like a dead thing, without sense or motion; the whole household, young and old, black and white, gathering round in wild excitement and grief. No one so much as glanced at her, or seemed to think of her at all: their attention was wholly occupied with the injured little one. She shuddered as she caught a glimpse of its deathlike face, then put her hand over her eyes to shut out the fearful sight. She felt as if she were turning to stone with a sense of the awful thing she had done in her mad passion; then suddenly seized with an overwhelming desire to hide herself from all these eyes, that would presently be gazing accusingly and threateningly at her, she hurried away to her own room, and shut and locked herself in. Her riding-whip was still in her hand. She tossed it on to the window-sill, tore off her gloves, hat, and habit, and threw them aside, then, dropping on her knees beside the bed, buried her face in the clothes, sobbing wildly, "Oh, I've killed my little sister! my own dear little baby sister! What shall I do? what shall I do?" Moments passed that seemed like hours: faint sounds came up from below. She heard steps and voices, and, "Was that mamma Vi crying,--crying as if her heart would break? saying over and over again, 'My baby's dead! my baby's dead! killed by her sister, her cruel, passionate sister!' Would they come and take her (Lulu) to jail? Would they try her for murder, and hang her? Oh! then papa's heart would break, losing two of his children in such dreadful ways. "Oh! wouldn't it break anyhow when he heard what she had done,--when he knew the baby was dead, and that she had killed it, even if she should not be sent to prison, and tried for murder?" At length some one tried the door; and a little, sobbing voice said, "Lulu, please let me in." She rose, staggered to the door, and unlocked it. "Is it only you, Gracie?" she asked in a terrified whisper, opening it just far enough to admit the little slender figure. "Yes: there's nobody else here," said the child. "I came to tell you the baby isn't dead; but the doctor has come, and, I believe, he doesn't feel sure she won't die. O Lu! how could you?" she asked with a burst of sobs. "O Gracie! I didn't do it on purpose! how could you think so? I mean, I didn't know it was the baby: I thought it was that hateful dog." "Oh, I'm glad! I couldn't b'lieve it, though some of them do!" exclaimed Gracie in a tone of relief. Then, with a fresh burst of tears and sobs, "But she's dreadfully hurt, the dear little thing! I heard the doctor tell grandpa Dinsmore he was afraid she'd never get over it; but he mustn't let mamma know yet, 'cause maybe she might." Lulu paced the room, wringing her hands and sobbing like one distracted. "O Gracie!" she cried, "I'd like to beat myself black and blue! I just hope papa will come home and do it, because I ought to be made to suffer ever so much for hurting the baby so." "O Lu, no!" cried Gracie, aghast at the very idea. "It wouldn't do the baby any good. Oh, I hope papa won't whip you!" "But he will! I know he will; and he ought to," returned Lulu vehemently. "Oh, hark!" She stood still, listening intently, Grace doing the same. They had seemed to hear a familiar step that they had not heard for many a long month; yes, there it was again: and with a low cry of joy, Grace bounded to the door, threw it open, but closed it quickly behind her, and sprang into her father's arms. "My darling, my precious little daughter!" he said, clasping her close, and showering kisses on her face. "Where is every one? you are the first I have seen, and--why, how you have been crying! What is wrong?" "O papa! the baby--the baby's most killed," she sobbed. "Come, I'll take you to her and mamma!" Fairly stunned by the sudden dreadful announcement, he silently submitted himself to her guidance, and suffered her to lead him into the nursery, where Violet sat in a low chair with the apparently dying babe on her lap, her mother, grandfather and his wife, and the doctor, grouped about her. No one noticed his entrance, so intent were they all upon the little sufferer; but just as he gained her side, Violet looked up, and recognized him with a low cry of mingled joy and grief. "O Levis, my husband! Thank God that you have come in time--to see her alive." He bent down and kissed the sweet, tremulous lips, his features working with emotion, "My wife, my dear love, what--what is this? what ails our little one?" he asked in anguished accents, turning his eyes upon the waxen baby face; and, bending still lower, he softly touched his lips to its forehead. No one replied to his question; and gazing with close scrutiny at the child, "She has been hurt?" he said, half in assertion, half inquiringly. "Yes, captain," said Dr. Conly: "she has had a fall,--a very severe one for so young and tender a creature." "How did it happen?" he asked, in tones of mingled grief and sternness. No one answered; and after waiting a moment, he repeated the question, addressing it directly to his wife. "Oh, do not ask me, love!" she said entreatingly, and he reluctantly yielded to her request; but light began to dawn upon him, sending an added pang to his heart; suddenly he remembered Lulu's former jealousy of the baby, her displeasure at its birth; and with a thrill of horror, he asked himself if this could be her work. He glanced about the room in search of her and Max. Neither was there. He passed noiselessly into the next room, then into the one beyond,--his wife's boudoir,--and there found his son. Max sat gazing abstractedly from a window, his eyes showing traces of tears. Turning his head as the captain entered, he started up with a joyful but subdued cry, "Papa!" then threw himself with bitter sobbing into the arms outstretched to receive him. "My boy, my dear boy!" the captain said, in moved tones. "What is this dreadful thing that has happened? Can you tell me how your baby sister came to get so sad a fall?" "I didn't see it, papa: I was out riding at the time." "But you have heard about it from those who did see it?" "Yes, sir," the lad answered reluctantly; "but--please, papa, don't ask me what they said." "Was Lulu at home at the time?" "Yes, sir." "Would she be able to tell me all about it, do you think?" "I haven't seen her, papa, since I came in," Max answered evasively. The captain sighed. His suspicions had deepened to almost certainty. "Where is she?" he asked, releasing Max from his embrace, and turning to leave the room. "I do not know, papa," answered Max. "Where was the baby when she fell? can you tell me that?" asked his father. "On the veranda, sir: so the servants told me." "Which of them saw it?" "Aunt Dinah, Agnes, Aunt Dicey,--nearly all the women, I believe, sir." The captain mused a moment. "Was Lulu there?" he asked. "Yes, sir; and papa,--if you _must_ know just how it happened,--I think she could tell you all about it as well as anybody else, or maybe better. And you know she always speaks the truth." "Yes," the captain said, as if considering the suggestion: "however, I prefer to hear the story first from some one else." He passed on through the upper hall and down the stairs, then on out to the veranda, where he found a group of servants--of whom Aunt Dicey was one--excitedly discussing the very occurrence he wished to inquire about. They did not share the reluctance of Violet and Max, but answered his questions promptly, with a very full and detailed account of the affair. They gave a graphic description of the rage Lulu was thrown into at the sight of Rosie galloping away on the pony she had expected to ride, repeated her angry retort in reply to Aunt Dinah's reproof, and told, without any extenuation of the hard facts, how the baby girl, escaping from her nurse's watchful care for a moment, had toddled along to her sister, caught at her skirts for support, and received a savage kick, that sent her down the steps to the gravel-walk below. The captain heard the story with ever increasing, burning indignation. Lulu's act seemed the very wantonness of cruelty,--a most cowardly attack of a big, strong girl upon a tiny, helpless creature, who had an indisputable claim upon her tenderest protecting care. By the time the story had come to an end, he was exceedingly angry with Lulu; he felt that in this instance it would be no painful task to him to chastise her with extreme severity; in fact, he dared not go to her at once, lest he should do her some injury; he had never yet punished a child in anger; he had often resolved that he never would, but would always wait till the feeling of love for the delinquent was uppermost in his heart, so that he could be entirely sure his motive was a desire for the reformation of the offender, and not the gratification of his own passion. Feeling that he had a battle to fight with himself ere he dared venture to discipline his child, and that he must have solitude for it, he strode away down the avenue, turned into a part of the grounds but little frequented, and there paced back and forth, his arms folded on his breast, his head bent, his heart going up in silent prayer for strength to rule his own spirit, for patience and wisdom according to his need. Then he strove to recall all that was lovable about his wayward little daughter, and to think of every possible excuse for the dreadful deed she had done, yet without being able to find any that deserved the name. At length, feeling that the victory was at least partially won, and filled with anxiety about the baby, he began to retrace his steps toward the house. In the avenue, he met Edward and Zoe, who greeted him with joyful surprise, not having before known of his arrival. The expression of his countenance told them that he was already informed of the sad occurrence of the morning; and Edward said with heartfelt sympathy, "It is but a sad home-coming for you, captain, but let us try to hope for the best: it is possible the little darling has not received any lasting injury." A silent pressure of the hand was the captain's only reply for the moment. He seemed too much overcome for speech. "Such a darling as she is!" said Zoe; "the pet of the whole house, and just the loveliest little creature I ever saw." "Did you--either of you--see her fall?" asked the captain huskily. "Yes," said Zoe, "I did. Violet and I happened to be at the window of the little reception-room overlooking the veranda, and were watching the little creature as she toddled along, and"--But Zoe paused, suddenly remembering that her listener was the father of Lulu as well as of her poor little victim. "Please go on," he said with emotion. "What was it that sent her down the steps?" "Lulu was standing there," Zoe went on, hesitating, and coloring with embarrassment, "and I saw the baby-hands clutch at her skirts"-- Again she paused. "And Lulu, giving the tender, toddling thing a savage kick, caused the dreadful catastrophe?" he groaned, turning away his face. "You need not have feared to tell me. I had already heard it from the servants who were eye-witnesses, and I only wanted further and undoubtedly reliable testimony." "I think," said Edward, "that Lulu really had no idea what it was she was kicking at. I happened to be out in the grounds, and coming round the corner of the house just in time to catch her look of horror and despair as she half turned her head and saw the baby fall." "Thank you," the captain said feelingly. "It is some relief to her unhappy father to learn of the least extenuating circumstance." CHAPTER XII. "Anger resteth in the bosom of fools."--ECCLES. vii. 9. "Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him."--PROV. xxii. 15. "He seems to feel terribly about it, poor man!" remarked Zoe with a backward glance at the retreating form of Capt. Raymond, as he left them and pursued his way to the house. "Yes, and no wonder," said Edward. "Not for worlds would I be the father of such a child as Lulu!" "Nor I her mother," said Zoe. "So I'm glad it was you I got for a husband instead of Capt. Raymond." "Only for that reason?" he queried, facing round upon her in mock astonishment and wrath. "Oh, of course!" she returned, laughing, then sobering down with a sudden recollection of the sorrow in the house. "But, O Ned! how heartless we are to be joking and laughing when poor Vi and the captain are in such distress!" "I'm afraid you are right," he assented with a sigh. "Yet I am quite sure we both feel deeply for them, and are personally grieved for the injury to our darling little niece." "Yes, indeed! the pretty pet that she is!" returned Zoe, wiping her eyes. Gracie was on the veranda looking for her father, and, catching sight of him in the avenue, ran to meet him. "How is baby now? Can you tell me?" he asked, taking her hand, and stooping to give her a kiss. "Just the same, I suppose, papa," she said. "Oh, it's very hard to see it suffer so! isn't it, papa?" He nodded a silent assent. "Papa," she asked, lifting her tearful eyes to his face with a pleading look, "have you seen Lulu yet?" "No." "O papa! do go now! It must be so hard for her to wait so long to see you, when you've just come home." "I doubt if she wants to see me," he said, with some sternness of look and tone. "O dear papa! don't punish her very hard. She didn't hurt the baby on purpose." "I shall try to do what is best for her, my little girl, though I very much doubt if that is exemption from punishment," he said with an involuntary sigh. "But if she is in haste to see me," he added, "there is nothing, so far as I am aware, to prevent her from coming to me." "But she's afraid, papa, because she has been so very, very naughty." "In that case, is it not kinder for me to keep away from her?" "O papa! you know she always wants things--bad things--over." "The bad thing she has brought upon the poor baby will not be over very soon," he said sternly. "I must go now to it and your mamma." He did so; and sharing Violet's deep grief and anxiety, and perceiving that his very presence was a comfort and support to her, he remained at her side for hours. Hours, that to Lulu seemed like weeks or months. Alone in her room, in an agony of remorse and fear, she waited and watched and listened for her father's coming, longing for, and yet dreading it, more than words could express. "What would his anger be like?" she asked herself. "What terrible punishment would he inflict? Would he ever love her again, especially if the baby should die? "Perhaps he would send her away to some very far-off place, and never, never come near her any more." Naturally of a very impatient temperament, suspense and passive waiting were well-nigh intolerable to her. By turns she walked the floor, fell on her knees by the bedside, and buried her face in a pillow, or threw herself into a chair by table or window, and hid it on her folded arms. "Oh! would this long day, this dreadful, _dreadful_ waiting for--_what_? ever come to an end?" she asked herself over and over again. Yet, when at last the expected step drew near, she shuddered, trembled, and turned pale with affright, and, starting to her feet, looked this way and that with a wild impulse to flee: then, as the door opened, she dropped into her chair again, and covered her face with her shaking hands. She heard the door close: the step drew nearer, nearer, and stopped close at her side. She dared not look up, but felt her father's eyes gazing sternly upon her. "Miserable child!" he said at length, "do you know what your terrible temper has wrought?--that in your mad passion you have nearly or quite killed your little sister? that, even should she live, she may be a life-long sufferer, in consequence of your fiendish act?" "O papa, don't!" she pleaded in broken accents, cowering and shrinking as if he had struck her a deadly blow. "You deserve it," he said: "indeed, I could not possibly inflict a worse punishment than your conduct merits. But what is the use of punishing you? nothing reforms you! I am in despair of you! You seem determined to make yourself a curse to me instead of the blessing I once esteemed you. What am I to do with you? Will you compel me to cage or chain you up like a wild beast, lest you do some one a fatal injury?" A cry of pain was her only answer, and he turned and left the room. "Oh!" she moaned, "it's worse than if he had beaten me half to death! he thinks I'm too bad, even to be punished; because nothing will make me good: he says I'm a curse to him, so he must hate me; though he used to love me dearly, and I loved him so too! I suppose everybody hates me now, and always will. I wish I was dead and out of their way. But, oh! no, I don't; for I'm not fit to die. Oh! what shall I do? I wish it was I that was hurt instead of the baby. I'd like to go away and hide from everybody that knows me; then I shouldn't be a curse and trouble to papa or any of them." She lifted her head, and looked about her. It was growing dusk. Quick as a flash came the thought that now was her time; now, while almost everybody was so taken up with the critical condition of the injured little one; now, before the servants had lighted the lamps in rooms and halls. She would slip down a back stairway, out into the grounds, and away, she cared not whither. Always impulsive, and now full of mental distress, she did not pause a moment to consider, but, snatching up a hat and coat lying conveniently at hand, stole noiselessly from the room, putting them on as she went. She gained a side-door without meeting any one; and the grounds seemed deserted as she passed round the house and entered the avenue, down which she ran with swift footsteps, after one hasty glance around to make sure that she was not seen. She reached the great gates, pushed them open, stepped out, letting them swing to after her, and started on a run down the road. But the next instant some one had caught her: a hand was on her shoulder, and a stern, astonished voice cried, "Lulu! is it possible this can be you? What are you doing out here in the public road alone, and in the darkness of evening? Where were you going?" "I--I--don't want--to tell you, papa," she faltered. "_Where_ were you going?" he repeated, in a tone that said an answer he would have, and that at once. "Nowhere--anywhere to get away from this place, where everybody hates me!" she replied sullenly, trying to wrench herself free. "Please let me go, and I'll never come back to trouble you any more." He made no reply to that, but simply took her band in a firm grasp, and led her back to the house, back to her own room, where he shut himself in with her, locking the door on the inside. Then he dropped her hand, and began pacing the floor to and fro, seemingly in deep and troubled thought, his arms folded, his head bowed upon his breast. A servant had brought in a light during Lulu's absence; and now, looking timidly up at her father, she saw his face for the first time since they had bidden each other farewell a year before. It struck her as not only very pale, stern, and grief-stricken, but very much older and more deeply lined than she remembered it: she did not know that the change had been wrought almost entirely in the last few hours, yet recognized it with a pang nevertheless. "Papa is growing old," she thought: "are there gray hairs in his head, I wonder?" Then there came dimly to her recollection some Bible words about bringing a father's gray hairs down with sorrow to the grave. "Was her misconduct killing her father?" She burst into an agony of sobs and tears at the thought. He lifted his head, and looked at her gravely, and with mingled sternness and compassion. "Take off that hat and coat, get your night-dress, and make yourself ready for bed," he commanded, then, stepping to the table, sat down, drew the lamp nearer, opened her Bible, lying there, and slowly turned over the leaves as if in search of some particular passage, while she moved slowly about the room, tremblingly and tearfully obeying his order. "Shall I get into bed, papa?" she asked tremulously, when she had finished. "No, not yet. Come here." She went and stood at his side, with drooping head and fast-beating heart, her eyes on the carpet, for she dared not look in his face. He seemed to have found the passage he sought; and, keeping the book open with his left hand, he turned to her as she stood at his right. "Lucilla," he said, and his accents were not stern, though very grave and sad, "you cannot have forgotten that I have repeatedly and positively forbidden you to go wandering alone about unfrequented streets and roads, even in broad daylight; yet you attempted to do that very thing to-night in the darkness, which, of course, makes it much worse." "Yes, papa; but I--I didn't mean ever to come back." "You were running away?" "Yes, sir: I--I thought you would be glad to get rid of me," she sobbed. He did not speak again for a moment; and when he did, it was in moved tones. "Supposing I did desire to be rid of you,--which is very far from being the case,--I should have no right to let you go; for you are my own child, whom God has given to me to take care of, provide for, and train up for his service. You and I belong to each other as parent and child: you have no right to run away from my care and authority, and I have none to let you do so. In fact, I feel compelled to punish the attempt quite severely, lest there should be a repetition of it." "Oh, don't, papa!" she sobbed. "I'll never do it again." "It was an act of daring, wilful disobedience," he said, "and I must punish you for it. Also, for the fury of passion indulged in this morning. Read this, and this, aloud," he added, pointing to the open page; and she obeyed, reading faltering, sobbingly,-- "'Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.' ... 'Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.'" "You see, my child, that my orders are too plain to be misunderstood," he said, when she had finished; "and they must be obeyed, however unwelcome to me or to you." "Yes, papa; and--and I--I--'most want you to whip me for hurting the baby so. I suppose nobody believes I'm sorry, but I am. I could beat myself for it, though I didn't know it was the baby pulling at my skirt. I thought it was Rosie's dog." "It is not exactly for hurting the baby," he said; "if you had done that by accident, I should never think of punishing you for it: but for the fury of passion that betrayed you into doing it, I must punish you very severely. "I shudder to think what you may come to, if I let you go on indulging your fiery, ungovernable temper: yes, and to think what it has already brought you to," he added, with a heavy sigh. "You can never enter heaven unless you gain the victory over that, as well as every other sin: and, my daughter, there are but two places to choose from as our eternal home,--heaven and hell; and I must use every effort to deliver your soul from going to that last--dreadful place!" He rose, stepped to the window where her little riding-whip still lay, came back to her; and for the next few minutes she forgot mental distress in sharp, physical pain, as the stinging, though not heavy, blows fell thick and fast on her thinly covered back and shoulders. She writhed and sobbed under them, but neither screamed, nor pleaded for mercy. When he had finished, he sat down again, and drew the weeping, writhing child in between his knees, put his arm about her in tender, fatherly fashion, and made her lay her head on his shoulder; but he said not a word. Perhaps his heart was too full for speech. Presently Lulu's arm crept round his neck. "Papa," she sobbed, "I--I do love you, and I--I'm glad you wouldn't let me run away,--and that you try to save me from losing my soul. But oh, I _can't_ be good! I wish, I _wish_ I _could!_" she ended, with a bitter, despairing cry. He was much moved. "We will kneel down, and ask God to help you, my poor, dear child," he said. He did so, making her kneel beside him, while, with his arm still about her, he poured out a prayer so earnest and tender, so exactly describing her feelings and her needs, that she could join in it with all her heart. He prayed like one talking to his Father and Friend, who he knew was both able and willing to do great things for him and his. When they had risen from their knees, she lifted her eyes to his face with a timid, pleading look. He understood the mute petition, and, sitting down again, drew her to his knee, and kissed her several times with grave tenderness. "I wanted a kiss so badly, papa," she said. "You know, it is a whole year since I had one; and you never came home before without giving me one just as soon as we met." "No; but I never before had so little reason to bestow a caress on you," he said. "When I heard of your deed of this morning, I felt that I ought not to show you any mark of favor, at least not until I had given you the punishment you so richly deserved. Do you not think I was right?" "Yes, sir," she answered, hanging her head, and blushing deeply. "I will put you in your bed now, and leave you for to-night," he said. "I must go back to my little suffering baby and her almost heart-broken mother." He led her to the bed, and lifted her into it as he spoke. "Papa, can't I have a piece of bread?" she asked humbly. "I'm _so_ hungry!" "Hungry!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Had you no supper?" "No, sir, nor dinner either. I haven't had a bite to eat since breakfast." "Strange!" he said; "but I suppose you were forgotten in the excitement and anxiety every one in the house has felt ever since the baby's sad fall. And they may have felt it unnecessary to bring any thing to you, as you were quite able to go to the dining-room for it." "I couldn't bear to, papa," she said, with tears of shame and grief; "and, indeed, I wasn't hungry till a little while ago; but now I feel faint and sick for something to eat." "You shall have it," he replied, and went hastily from the room, to return in a few minutes, bringing a bowl of milk and a plentiful supply of bread and butter. He set them on the table, and bade her come and eat. "Papa, you are very kind to me, ever so much kinder than I deserve," she said tremulously, as she made haste to obey the order. "I think some fathers would say I must go hungry for to-night." "I have already punished you in what I consider a better way, because it could not injure your health," he said; "while going a long time without food would be almost sure to do so. It is not my intention ever to punish my children in a way to do them injury. Present pain is all I am at all willing to inflict, and that only for their good." "Yes, papa, I know that," she said with a sob, setting down her bowl of milk to wipe her eyes; "so, when you punish me, it doesn't make me quit loving you." "If I did not love you, if you were not my own dear child," he said, laying his hand on her head as he stood by her side, "I don't think I could be at the trouble and pain of disciplining you as I have to-night. But eat your supper: I can't stay with you much longer, and I want to see you in bed before I go." As she laid her head on her pillow again, there was a flash of lightning, followed instantly by a .crash of thunder and a heavy downpour of rain. "Do you hear that?" he asked. "Now, suppose I had let you go when I caught you trying to run away, how would you feel, alone out of doors, in the darkness and storm, no shelter, no home, no friends, no father to take care of you, and provide for your wants?" "O papa! it would be very, very dreadful!" she sobbed, putting her arm round his neck as he bent over her. "I'm very glad you brought me back, even to punish me so severely; and I don't think I'll ever want to run away again." "I trust not," he said, kissing her good-night; "and you must not leave this room till I give you permission. I intend that you shall spend some days in solitude,--except when I see fit to come to you,--that you may have plenty of time and opportunity to think over your sinful conduct and its dire consequences." CHAPTER XIII. "I'm on the rack; For sure, the greatest evil man can know, Bears no proportion to the dread suspense." "Is there any change, doctor?" asked Capt. Raymond, meeting Arthur Conly in the hall. "Hardly," was the reply: "certainly none for the worse." "Will she get over it, do you think?" The father's tones were unsteady as he asked the question. "My dear captain, it is impossible to tell yet," Arthur said feelingly; "but we must try to hope for the best." Their hands met in a warm clasp. "I shall certainly do so," the captain said. "But you are not going to leave us,--especially not in this storm?" "No: I expect to pass the night in the house, ready to be summoned at a moment's notice, should any change take place." "Thank you: it will be a great satisfaction to us to know we have you close at hand." And the captain turned and entered the nursery, which Arthur had just left. Violet, seated by the side of the crib where her baby lay, looked up on her husband's entrance, greeting him with a smile of mingled love and sadness. "Your dear presence is such a comfort and support!" she murmured as he drew near. "I don't like to lose sight of you for a single moment." "Nor I of you, dearest," he answered, bending down to kiss her pale cheek, then taking a seat close beside her; "but I had to seek solitude for a time while fighting a battle with myself. Since that I have been with Lulu." He concluded with a heavy sigh, and for a moment both were silent; then he said with grave tenderness,-- "I fear you will find it hard to forgive her: it has been no easy thing for me to do so." "I cannot yet," returned Violet, a hard look that he had never seen there before stealing over her face; "and that is an added distress, for 'if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.' I think I can if my baby recovers; but should it--be taken away--or--or, worse by far, live to be a constant sufferer--oh, how can I ever forgive the author of that suffering! Pray for me, my dear husband," she sobbed, laying her head on his shoulder. "I will, I do, my darling," he whispered, passing his arm about her, and drawing her closer; "and I know the help you need will be given. "'Ask, and it shall be given you.' "Perhaps it may aid the effort, if I tell you Lulu did not intentionally harm her little sister, and is greatly distressed at her state. She thought it was Rosie's dog pulling at her skirts; and I own that that explanation makes the sad affair a little less heart-rending to me, though I could not accept it as any excuse for an act done in a fury of passion, and have punished her very severely for it; that is, for her passion. I think it is right, under the circumstances, that you should know that I have, and that it is my fixed purpose to keep her in solitary confinement, at least so long as the baby continues in a critical condition." "Oh! I am glad to know it was not done purposely," Violet exclaimed,--though in a tone hardly raised above a whisper,--lifting her tearful eyes to his face with a look of something like relief: "knowing that, I begin to feel that it may be possible to forgive and forget, especially if the consequences do not prove lasting," she added with a sob, and turning her eyes to the little wan face on the pillow. "But I certainly take no delight in the severity of her punishment: in fact, I fear it may destroy any little affection she has had for her baby sister." "No," he said, "I am not at all apprehensive of that. When she found I was about to punish her, she said she almost wanted me to; that she felt like beating herself for hurting the baby, then went on to explain her mistake,--thinking it was the dog tugging at her dress,--and I then gave her fully to understand, that the chastisement was not for hurting the baby, but for indulging in such a fury of passion, a fault that I have punished her for on more than one former occasion; telling her, too, that I intended to chastise her every time I knew of her being guilty of it." The sound of a low sob caused the captain to turn his head, to find his little Grace standing at the back of his chair, and crying bitterly, though without much noise. He took her hand, and drew her to his side. "What is the matter, daughter?" he asked tenderly. "O papa! I'm so sorry for Lulu," she sobbed; "please, mayn't I go to her for a little while?" "No, Gracie. I cannot allow her the pleasure of seeing you, either to-night, or for some days." "But, papa, you said--you told mamma just now--that you had already punished her very severely; and must you keep on?" "Yes, my child, so far as to keep her in solitude, that she may have plenty of time to think about what she has brought upon herself and others by the indulgence of an ungovernable temper. She needs to have the lesson impressed upon her as deeply as possible." "I'm so sorry for her, papa!" repeated the gentle little pleader. "So am I, daughter," he said; "but I think, that to see that she has the full benefit of this sad lesson, will be the greatest kindness I can do her. And my little Grace must try to believe that papa knows best. "Now, give me a good-night kiss, and go to your bed, for it is quite time you were there." As he spoke, he took her in his arms, and held her for a moment in a close embrace. "Papa's dear little girl!" he said softly: "_you_ have never given me a pang, except by your feeble health." "I don't want to, papa: I hope I never, never shall!" she returned, hugging him tight. Leaving him, she went to Violet, put her arms about her neck, and said in her sweet, childish treble, "Dear mamma, don't feel so dreadfully about baby: I've been asking God to make her quite, quite well; and I do believe he will." When she had left the room, the captain found himself alone with his young wife and their little one. Again her head was on his shoulder, his arm about her waist. "My husband, my dear, dear husband," she murmured, "I am so glad to have you here! I cannot tell you how I longed for you when the children were so ill. Oh, if we could only be together always, as Lester and Elsie, Edward and Zoe, are!" "My love, my life," he said in low tones, tremulous with feeling, "what if I should tell you that your wish is already accomplished?" She gave him a glance of astonishment and incredulity. "It is even so: I mean all I have said," he answered to the look. "I have sent in my resignation: it has been accepted, and I have come home--no, I have come _here_ to _make_ a home for you and my children, hoping to live in it with you and them for the rest of my days." Her face had grown radiant. "Oh! can it be true?" she cried, half under her breath; for even in her glad surprise, the thought of her suffering babe and its critical condition was present with her: "are we not to be forced apart again in a few days or weeks? not to go on spending more than half our lives at a distance from each other?" "It is quite true, my darling," he answered, then went on to tell, in a few brief sentences, how it had come about. "It cost me a struggle to give up the service," he said in conclusion; "and perhaps I might not have decided as I did, but for the thought that, if I should be needed by my country at some future day, I could offer her my services; and the thought that, at present, wife and children needed me more, probably, than she. I felt that Lulu, in particular, needed my oversight and training; that the task of bringing her up was too difficult, too trying, to be left to other hands than those of her father; and I feel that still more sensibly since hearing of this day's doings," he added in a tone of heartfelt sorrow. "I think you are right," Violet said. "She is more willing to submit to your authority than to that of anybody else; as, indeed, she ought to be: and in a home that she will feel is really her own, her father's house, and with him constantly at hand, to watch over, and help her to correct her faults, there is hope, I think, that she may grow to be all you desire." "Thank you, love, for saying it," he responded with emotion. "I could not blame you if now you thought her utterly irreclaimable." "No, oh, no!" she answered earnestly. "I have great hopes of her, with her father at hand to help her in the struggle with her temper; for I am sure she does struggle against it; and I must acknowledge, that, for months past, she has been as good and lovable a child as one could desire. I don't know a more lovable one than she is when her temper does not get the better of her; and, as Gracie says, whenever it does, 'she gets sorry very soon.'" "My darling," he said, pressing the hand he held, "you are most kind to be so ready to see what is commendable in my wayward child. I cannot reasonably expect even you to look at her with her father's partial eyes. And dearly as I certainly do love her, I have been exceedingly angry with her to-day; so angry, that, for a time, I dared not trust myself to go near her, I, who ought to have unlimited patience with her, knowing, as I do, that she inherits her temper from me." "I don't know how to believe that, my dear, good husband," Violet said, gazing up into his face with fond, admiring eyes; "for I have never seen any evidence of it. If you have such a temper, you have certainly gained complete mastery of it. And that may well give us hope for Lulu." "I do not despair of her," he said; "though I was near doing so to-day--for a time--after hearing a full account of her passionate behavior--her savage assault, as it seemed to be, upon her baby sister." "Oh!" moaned Violet, bending over the little one with fast-falling tears,--for it was moaning as if in pain,--"my baby, my poor, precious baby! how gladly mamma would bear all your suffering for you, if she could! O Levis! what shall we do if she is taken from us?" "Dear wife, I hope we may not be called to endure that trial," he said; "but, in any case, we have the gracious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' And that blessed assurance, for our consolation, in regard to her, 'He shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom.'" "'Tis a very sweet promise; but, oh! I don't know how to resign her, even to Him," she said, weeping bitterly. "Nor I; but we will try to leave it all with Him. We will rejoice if she is spared to us; and, if not, we will be glad to know that she is so safe, so happy with Him--gathered with His arm, carried in His bosom." "Yes, yes," she sobbed: "it would be only for ourselves we would need to grieve, not for her, sweet pet." Elsie, Violet's mother, came into the room at that moment. "My dear Vi," she said tenderly, "you are looking sadly worn and weary. I want you and the captain to take your rest to-night, while Arthur and I will care for baby." "Thank you, dearest mamma," Violet replied; "but rest and sleep are quite as necessary to you as to me; and, besides, I could not bear to leave her." "I took a nap on purpose to be able to sit up to-night," Elsie said; "also, I am less exhausted by mental distress than her mother is, dearly as I love her. Can you not trust her to me, with the doctor sharing my vigil?" "I could trust your nursing sooner than my own, mother," Violet answered; "it is not that; but I cannot tear myself away from my darling, while she is in so critical a state." "And I," said the captain, "while warmly thanking you and the doctor, cannot consent to leave either wife or baby to-night." So, finding they were not to be persuaded to rest, the others left them to watch over the little one through that night. The morning brought a slight change for the better, yet no certainty of recovery; but even that barely perceptible improvement, joined to the delightful prospect of always having her husband at home, cheered Violet greatly. They had talked much of that through the night, beguiling the long hours of their tedium with many a bright plan for the future, always hoping that "baby" would be a sharer in their realization. The captain hoped to buy or build in the near neighborhood of Ion, that Violet need not be separated from her mother,--a separation he was most desirous to avoid on his own account, also; for he entertained a very high regard and warm affection for his mother-in-law, averring that it would be scarcely possible for him to love her better were he her own son. He had resigned to Violet the pleasure of telling the joyful news to her mother and the whole family, except his children; reserving to himself the right to communicate the glad tidings to them when, and in what way, he should deem best. Lulu, he said, was to be kept in ignorance of it till the time of her imprisonment expired. At a very early hour in the morning, Elsie and the doctor came to the relief of the watchers. Arthur noted and announced the improvement, thus reviving hope in the anxious hearts of the parents; and before retiring for a few hours' rest and sleep, Violet whispered to them the news that had gladdened her heart in spite of its heavy load of grief and fear. They both rejoiced with her, and bade her hope for the best in regard to her babe. Pain, mental and physical, kept Lulu awake a good while after her father left her; but at length she fell into a deep sleep, which lasted far beyond her customary hour for rising, the house being very still, because of the baby's illness, and the blinds down in her room, so that there was neither light nor noise to rouse her. Her first thoughts on awaking were a little confused: then, as with a flash, all the events of yesterday came to her remembrance, bringing with them bitter upbraidings of conscience, and torturing anxieties and fears. Would the baby die? oh! perhaps it was already dead, and she a murderess! the murderess of her own little sister--her father's child! If that were so, how could she ever look him, or anybody else, in the face again? And what would be done to her? was there any danger that she would be put in prison? oh! that would be far worse than being sent to a boarding-school, even where the people were as strict and as disagreeable as possible! And she would be sorry, oh, so sorry! to lose the baby sister, or to have her a sufferer from what she had done, for life, or for years, even could she herself escape all evil consequences. All the time she was attending to the duties of the toilet, these thoughts and feelings were in her mind and heart; and her fingers trembled so that it was with difficulty she could manage buttons and hooks and eyes, or stick in a pin. She started at every sound, longing, yet dreading,--as she had done the previous day,--to see her father; for who could tell what news he might bring her from the nursery? Glancing at the little clock on the mantel, when at last she was quite dressed, and ready for her breakfast, she saw that it was more than an hour past the usual time for that meal; yet no one had been near her, and she was very hungry; but, even if her father had not forbidden her to leave the room, she would have preferred the pangs of hunger to showing her face in the dining-room. Presently, however, footsteps--not those of her father--approached her door. "Miss Lu," said a voice she recognized as that of her mamma's maid, "please open de doah: hyar's yo' breakfus." The request was promptly complied with; and Agnes entered, carrying a waiter laden with a bountiful supply of savory and toothsome viands. "Dar it am," she remarked, when she had set it on the table. "I s'pose mos' likely yo' kin eat ef de precious little darlin' is mos' killed by means ob yo' bein' in a passion an' kickin' ob her--de sweet honey!--down de steps." And turning swiftly about, her head in the air, the girl swept from the room, leaving Lulu standing in the middle of the floor, fairly struck dumb with indignation, astonishment, and dismay. "How dared Agnes--a mulatto servant-girl,--talk so to her! But was the baby really dying? Would papa never come to tell her the truth about it? She wouldn't believe any thing so dreadful till she heard it from him: very likely Agnes was only trying to torment her, and make her as miserable as possible." She had sunk, trembling, into a chair, feeling as if she should never want to eat again; but with that last thought, her hopes revived, hunger once more asserted its sway, and she ate her breakfast with a good deal of appetite and relish. But, when hunger was appeased, fears and anxieties renewed their assault: she grew half distracted with them, as hour after hour passed on, and no one came near her except another maid, to take away the breakfast-dishes and tidy the room. On her, Lulu turned her back, holding an open book in her hand, and pretending to be deeply absorbed in its contents, though not a word of the sense was she taking in; for, intense as was her desire to learn the baby's condition, she would not risk any more such stabs to her sensitiveness and pride as had been given by Agnes. This one came, did her work, and went away again in silence; but all the time she was in the room, Lulu felt that she was casting glances of disgust and disfavor at her. She could not breathe freely till the girl had left the room. She thought surely the dinner-hour would bring her father; but it did not: her wants were again supplied by a servant. CHAPTER XIV. "The dread of evil is the worst of ill." On leaving the breakfast-room, Violet hastened back to the nursery; but the captain, calling Max and Grace into her boudoir, said, as he took the little girl on his knee, and motioned Max to sit by his side,-- "I have some news for you, my children: can you guess what it is?" "Something good, I hope, papa," said Max: "you look as if it was." "I am very much pleased with my share of it," the captain said, smiling; "and I shall know presently, I presume, what you two think of yours. What would you like it to be, Gracie?" "That my papa was never, never going away any more," she answered promptly, lifting loving eyes to his face. "There couldn't be better news than that," remarked Max; "but," with a profound sigh, "of course it can't be that." "Ah! don't be quite so sure, young man," laughed his father. "Papa, you don't mean to say that that is it?" queried Max breathlessly. "I do: I have resigned from the navy, and hope soon to have a home ready for my wife and children, and to live in it with them as long as it shall please God to spare our lives." Tears of joy actually came into the boy's eyes; while Gracie threw her arms round their father's neck, and half smothered him with kisses. "O papa, papa!" she cried, "I'm so glad, I don't know what to do! I'm the happiest girl in the world!--or should be, if only the dear baby was well," she added, with springing tears. "Yes," he sighed: "we cannot feel other than sad, while she is suffering and in danger. But she is a trifle better this morning, and we will hope the improvement may continue till she is entirely restored." "She's such a darling!" said Max; "just the brightest, cutest baby that ever was seen! Mamma Vi has taught her to know your photograph; and, whenever she sees it, she says, 'Papa,' as plainly as I can. She calls me too, and Lu. Oh! I don't know how Lulu could"--He broke off, without finishing his sentence. "Lu didn't do it on purpose," sobbed Gracie, pulling out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes. "No," sighed the captain: "I am quite sure she had no intention of harming her little sister, yet she is responsible for it as the consequence of indulging in a fit of rage; she feels that: and I hope the distress of mind she is now suffering because of the dreadful deed she has done in her passion, will be such a lesson to her, that she will learn to rule her own spirit in future." "Oh, I do hope so!" said Grace. "Papa, does Lulu know your good news?" "No. I have not told her yet; and I intend to keep her in ignorance of it for some days, as part of her deserved punishment. I do not want her to have any thing to divert her mind from the consideration of the great sin and danger of such indulgence of temper." "You haven't quit loving her, papa? you won't?" Grace said, half entreatingly, half inquiringly. "No, daughter, oh, no!" he replied with emotion. "I don't know what would ever make me quit loving any one of my dear children." He drew her closer, and kissed her fondly as he spoke. "I am very glad of that, papa," said Max feelingly; "for though I do mean to be always a good son to you, if I ever should do any thing very, very bad, I'd not be afraid to confess it to you. I could stand punishment, you know; but I don't think I could bear to have you give up being fond of me." A warm pressure of the lad's hand was the captain's only reply at first; but presently he said, "I trust you will always be perfectly open with me, my dear boy. You don't think, do you, that you could have a better--more disinterested--earthly friend than your father?" "No, sir! oh, no, indeed!" "Then make me your confidant," his father said, with a smile and look that spoke volumes of fatherly pride and affection; "let me into all your secrets. Now that I am to be with you constantly, I shall take a deeper interest than ever in all that concerns you,--if that be possible,--in your studies, your sports, your thoughts and feelings. You may always be sure of my sympathy, and such help as I can give in every right and wise undertaking." "I'll do that, papa!" Max exclaimed with a sudden, glad, lighting-up of the face. "Why, it'll be as good as having the brother I've often wished for!" he added with a pleased laugh; "better, in some ways, anyhow; for you'll be so much wiser than any boy, and keep me out of scrapes with your good advice." "Papa," queried Grace, with a little bashful hesitation, "mayn't I have you for my friend too?" "Yes, indeed, my darling little girl!" he answered with a hug and kiss. "I should like to be quite as intimate with you as I hope to be with Max." "With Lulu too?" she asked. "Yes; with every one of my children." Max had averted his face to hide his amusement at his little sister's question in regard to her father's friendship for herself, for the timid, sensitive little girl could hardly bear to be laughed at; but now he turned to his father again with the query,-- "Papa, where are we going to live?" "I don't know yet, Max," the captain answered; "but I hope to be able to buy or build somewhere in this neighborhood, as I should be loath to take your mamma far away from her mother,--myself either, for that matter; and I presume you would all prefer to live near these kind friends?" "I am sure I should," said Max. "But, papa,"--he paused, coloring, and casting down his eyes. "Well, my boy, what is it? don't be afraid to talk freely to your intimate friend," his father said in a kindly tone, and laying a hand affectionately on the lad's shoulder. "Please don't think me impertinent, papa," Max said, coloring still more, "but I was just going to ask how you could live without your pay; as I have heard you say it was nearly all you had." "I am not at all offended at the inquiry," was the kindly reply. "The intimacy and confidences are not to be all on one side, my boy. "I am quite willing you should know that am able now to do without the pay, some land belonging to me in the Far West having so risen in value as to afford me sufficient means for the proper support of my family, and education of my children." "Oh, that is good!" cried Max, clapping his hands in delight. "And if it is used up by the time I'm grown and educated, I hope I'll be able to take care of you, and provide for you as you do now for me." "Thank you, my dear boy," the captain said with feeling; "the day may come when you will be the stay and staff of my old age; but, however that may be, you may be sure that nothing can add more to your father's happiness than seeing you growing up to honorable and Christian manhood." "Yes, sir: it's what I want to do." Then, a little anxiously, after a moment's thought, "Am I to be sent away to school, sir?" "I have not quite decided that question, and your wishes will have great weight with me in making the decision. I shall keep Lulu at home, and educate her myself,--act as her tutor, I mean,--and if my boy would like to become my pupil also"-- "O papa! indeed, indeed I should!" exclaimed Max joyfully, as his father paused, looking smilingly at him; "and I'll try hard to do you credit as my teacher as well as my father." "Then we will make the trial," said the captain. "If it should not prove a success, there will be time enough after that to try a school." "What about me, papa?" asked Grace wistfully, feeling as if she were being overlooked in the arrangements. "You, too, shall say lessons to papa," he answered with tender look and tone. "Shall you like that?" "Ever so much!" she exclaimed, lifting glad, shining eyes to his face. "Now you may go back to your play," he said, gently putting her off his knee. "I must go to your mamma and our poor, suffering baby." He went; but the children lingered a while where they were, talking over this wonderfully good news. "Now," said Max, "if Lu had only controlled her temper yesterday, what a happy family we'd be!" "Yes," sighed Grace; "how I do wish she had! Oh, I'm so sorry for her, that she doesn't know this about papa going to stay with us all the time! 'Sides, she's 'specting to be sent away somewhere; and how dreadfully she must feel! Papa's punishing her very hard, and very long; but of course he knows best, and he loves her." "Yes, I'm sure he does," assented Max: "so he won't give her any more punishment than he thinks she needs. It'll be a fine thing for her, and all the rest of us too, if this hard lesson teaches her never to get into a passion again." Capt. Raymond had intended going to Lulu early in the day; but anxiety about the babe, and sympathy with Violet, kept him with them till late in the afternoon. When at last he did go to his prisoner, he found her feverish with anxiety and fear for the consequences of her mad act of the day before. She had been longing for his coming, moving restlessly about the room, feeling that she could not endure the suspense another moment; had at length thrown herself into a chair beside the window, and, as was her wont in times of over-wrought feeling, buried her face on her folded arms, laid on the window-sill. She started up wildly at the sound of his step and the opening of the door. "Papa," she cried breathlessly, "O papa! what--what have you come to tell me? Is--is the baby"-- "She is living, but far from out of danger," he said, regarding her with a very grave, stern expression; but it softened as he marked the anguish in her face. He sat down, and drew her to his knee, putting his arm about her waist, and with the other hand clasping one of hers. He was startled to feel how hot and dry it was. "My child!" he exclaimed, "you are not well." She dropped her head on his shoulder, and burst into a passion of tears and sobs. "Papa, papa! what shall I do if baby dies? Oh! I would do or bear any thing in the world to make her well." "I don't doubt it, daughter," he said; "but a bitter lesson we all have to learn is, that we cannot undo the evil deeds we have done. Oh! let this dreadful occurrence be a warning to you to keep a tight rein upon your quick temper." "Oh! I do mean to, indeed I do," she sobbed; "but that won't cure the dear baby's hurt. Papa, all day long I have been asking God to forgive me. Do you think he will?" "I am sure that he has already done so, if you have asked with your heart, and for Jesus' sake. But we will ask him again for that, and to give you strength to fight against your evil nature as you never have fought, and to conquer." "And to make the baby well, papa," she added sobbingly, as he knelt with her. "Yes," he said. When they had risen from their knees, he bade her get her hat and coat, saying, "You need fresh air and exercise. I will take you for a walk." "I'd like to go, papa," she said; "but"-- "But what?" "I--I'm afraid of--of meeting some of the family; and--and I don't want to see any of them." "Perhaps we shall not meet them," he said; "and, if we do, you need not look toward them; and they will not speak to you. Put on your hat and coat at once: we have no time to lose." She obeyed; and presently they were walking down the avenue, not having met any one on their way out of the house. The captain moved on in silence, seemingly absorbed in sad thought, and hardly conscious that Lulu was by his side. She glanced wistfully up into his grave, stern face two or three times, then said humbly, pleadingly, "Papa, please may I put my hand in yours?" "Certainly," he said, looking down at her very kindly, as he took her hand, and held it in a warm, affectionate clasp. "Child, you have not lost your father's love. You are very dear to me, in spite of all your naughtiness." He slackened his pace, for he saw she was finding it difficult to keep up with him; and his attention was again attracted to the heat of her hand. "You are not well, perhaps not able to walk?" he said inquiringly, and in tenderly solicitous accents. "It is pleasant to be out in the air, papa," she answered; "but it tires me a good deal more than usual." "We will not go far, then," he said; "and, if your strength gives out before we get back to the house, I will carry you." They were in the road now, some distance beyond the avenue-gates; and at this moment a number of horsemen came in sight, approaching from the direction opposite to that they were taking. Perceiving them, Lulu uttered a sharp cry of terror, and shrank behind her father, though still clinging to his hand. "What is it, daughter?" he asked in surprise: "what do you fear?" "O papa, papa!" she sobbed, "are they coming to take me and put me in prison? Oh, don't let them have me!" "Don't be frightened," he said soothingly. "Don't you see it is only some men who have been out hunting, and are going home with their game?" "Oh! is that all?" she gasped, the color coming back to her face, which had grown deadly pale. "I thought it was the sheriff coming to put me in jail for hurting the baby. Will they do it, papa? Oh! you won't let them, will you?" she cried entreatingly. "I could not protect you from the law," he said, in a moved tone; "but I think there is no danger that it will interfere. You did not hurt your sister intentionally, and she is still living. You are very young too; and, doubtless, everybody will think your punishment should be left to me, your father." She was trembling like a leaf. He turned aside to a fallen tree, sat down on it, and took her in his arms. She dropped her head on his shoulder, panting like a hunted thing. "These two days have been too much for you," he said pityingly. "And that fear has tormented you all the time?" "Yes, papa: oh, I thought I might have to be hung if baby died, and--it was--so--dreadful--to think I'd killed her--even if they didn't do any thing to me for it," she sobbed. "Yes; very, very dreadful; perhaps more so to me--the father of you both--than to any one else," he groaned. "Papa, I'm heart-broken about it," she sobbed "Oh, if I only could undo it!" He was silent for a moment; then he said, "I know you are suffering very much from remorse; this is a bitter lesson to you; let it be a lasting one. I can relieve you of the fear of punishment from the law of the land; there is no danger of that now: but, if you do not lay this lesson to heart, there may come a time when that danger will be real; for there is no knowing what awful deed such an ungovernable temper as yours may lead you to commit. "But don't despair: you can conquer it by determination, constant watchfulness, and the help from on high which will be given in answer to earnest prayer." "Then it shall be conquered!" she cried vehemently. "I will fight it with all my might. And you will help me, papa, all you can, won't you, by watching me, and warning me when you see I'm beginning to get angry, and punishing me for the least little bit of a passion? But oh, I forget that you can't stay with me, or take me with you!" she cried with a fresh burst of sobs and tears. "Must you go back to your ship soon?" "Not very soon," he said; "and I gladly promise to help you all I can in every way. I can do it with my prayers, even when not close beside you. But, my child, the struggle must be your own; all I can do will be of no avail unless you fight the battle yourself with all your strength. "We will go home now," he added, rising, and taking her hand in his. But they had gone only a few steps when he stooped, and took her in his arms, saying. "You are not able to walk. I shall carry you." "But I am so heavy, papa," she objected. "No, darling: I can carry you very easily," he said. "There, put your arm round my neck, and lay your head on my shoulder." The pet name from his lips sent a thrill of joy to her heart; and it was very pleasant, very restful, to feel herself infolded in his strong arms. He carried her carefully, tenderly along, holding her close, as something precious that he began to fear might slip from his grasp. She had always been a strong, healthy child, and heretofore he had scarcely thought of sickness in connection with her; but now he was alarmed at her state. "Are you in pain, daughter?" he asked. "Only a headache, papa; I suppose because I've cried so much." "I think I must have the doctor see you." "Oh, no, no, papa! please don't," she sobbed. "I don't want to see him or anybody." "Then we will wait a little; perhaps you will be all right again by to-morrow." He did not set her down till they had almost reached the house; and he took her in his arms again at the foot of the stairway, and carried her to her room, where he sat down with her on his knee. "Papa, aren't you very tired, carrying such a big, heavy girl?" she asked, looking regretfully into his face. "No; very little," he answered, taking off her hat, and laying his cool hand on her forehead. "Your head is very hot. I'll take off your coat, and lay you on the bed; and I want you to stay there for the rest of the day; go to sleep if you can." "I will, papa," she answered submissively; then as he laid her down, and turned to leave her, "Oh, I wish you could stay with me!" she cried, clinging to him. "I cannot now, daughter," he said, smoothing her hair caressingly. "I must go back to your mamma and the baby. But I will come in again to bid you good-night, and see that you are as comfortable as I can make you. Can you eat some supper?" "I don't know, papa," she answered doubtfully. "Well, I will send you some; and you can eat it, or not, as you feel inclined." CHAPTER XV. "After the storm, a calm; after the rain, sunlight." As Capt. Raymond passed through the hall on which Lulu's room opened, a little girl, dressed in deep mourning, rose from the broad, low sill of the front window, where she had been sitting waiting for the last few minutes, and came forward to meet him. She was a rather delicate-looking, sweet-faced child, with large dark eyes, full of intelligence. "Capt. Raymond?" she said inquiringly, and with a timid look up into his face. "Yes," he said, holding out his hand to her with a fatherly smile: "and you, I suppose, are my Lulu's little friend, Evelyn Leland?" "Yes, sir: we--uncle Lester, aunt Elsie, little Ned, and I--have been away visiting at some distance, and did not hear of--of the baby's bad fall till we came home this afternoon. We are all so sorry, so very sorry! Aunt Elsie is with aunt Vi now; and I--oh! please, sir, may I go to Lulu?" "My dear little girl, I should like to say yes, for your sake,--and Lulu's too,--but for the present I think best not to allow her to see any one," he said in a kindly tone, and affectionately pressing the little hand she had put into his. "But," seeing the disappointment in her face, "I entirely approve of the intimacy, and hope it will be kept up; for I think it has been of benefit to Lulu." "Thank you, sir," she returned, coloring with pleasure. "But Lulu told me you had quite determined to send her away from here: I hope you will reconsider, and--let her stay," with a very coaxing look up into his face. He smiled. "Can you keep a secret?" he asked,--"one from Lulu only, and that for but a few days?" "Try me, sir," she answered brightly. "I will. I have left the navy, and expect to settle down in this neighborhood. In that case, you and Lulu will not be separated; for my strongest reason for the change was, that I might have her constantly with me, and train her up as I think she should be trained; as perhaps no one but her father can train her." Evelyn's face had grown very bright. "Oh, how delighted, how happy Lu will be when she hears it!" she exclaimed; "for, do you know, sir, she thinks there is nobody in the world to compare to her father?" Those words brought a glad look into his face for the moment. "Yes," he said, "she is a warm-hearted, affectionate child; a dear child, in spite of her quick temper." A door had opened and closed: a step was coming down the hall, and a cheerful voice in his rear said, "Captain, I have good news for you: there has been a great, a really wonderful change for the better in the last hour; the child will live, and I hope, I believe, entirely recover from the injuries caused by her fall." Before the doctor's sentence was finished, the captain had turned, and caught his hand in a vice-like grasp: his eyes filled, his breast heaved with emotions too big for utterance; he shook the hand warmly, dropped it, and, without a word, hurried into the nursery. He found nearly the whole family gathered there, every face full of a great gladness. The doctor, however, following him in, speedily cleared the room of all but two or three: only the two Elsies, besides himself and the parents, were left. Violet looked up at her husband as he entered, with a face so bright and joyous that it recalled the days of their honeymoon. "Oh, how happy I am! how good God has been to us!" she whispered, as he bent down to kiss her: "our darling is spared to us! See how sweetly she is sleeping!" "Yes," he returned, in the same low tone, his features working with emotion: "and what double reason for joy and gratitude have I--the father of both the injurer and the injured!" "Forgive me that I have felt a little hard to Lulu. I can and do forgive her now," she said, her sweet eyes looking penitently into his. "Darling," he returned with emotion, "I have nothing to forgive, but shall be very glad if you can find any love in your heart, after this, for my wayward child, little as she merits it." Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned to Mrs. Leland with a brotherly greeting, not having seen her before since his arrival at Ion. "Vi has told me the glad tidings you brought her yesterday," she said, as he held her hand in his; "and I can't tell you how delighted we all are to know that you have come to stay among us." "And now I can rejoice in that to the full, my dear, dear husband," Violet said, dropping her head on his shoulder as he sat down by her side, and put his arm about her. For a little while they all sat silently watching the sleeping babe; then Arthur glanced at the clock, and, with a low-toned promise to be back in an hour, rose, and left the room. "Excuse me for a little, dear," the captain said to Violet, and softly followed Arthur out to the hall. "Can you spare me a moment?" he asked. "Yes, full five of them, if necessary," was the jovial reply. Arthur's heart was so light in consequence of the improvement in his young patient, that a jest came readily to his lips. "Thank you," returned the captain warmly, then went on to describe Lulu's condition, and ask what should be done for her. "Relieve her mind as speedily as possible with the good news of the certainty of the baby's recovery, and, if you choose, the other glad tidings you brought us yesterday," Arthur answered. "The mental strain of the past two days has evidently been too much for her: she must have suffered greatly from grief, remorse, and terror. Relief from those will be the best medicine she could have, and probably work a speedy cure. Good-evening." He hurried away, and the captain went at once to Lulu. She was on the bed where he had left her, but, at the opening of the door, started up, and turned to him with a look of wild affright. "Papa!" she cried breathlessly, "is--is the baby?--Oh, no! for how glad your face is!" "Yes, baby is very much better; in fact, quite out of danger, the doctor thinks. And you? have you not slept?" he asked, bending over her in tender solicitude; for she had fallen back on her pillow, and was sobbing as if her heart would break, weeping for joy as she had before wept with sorrow, remorse, and penitence. He lifted her from the bed, and sat down with her in his arms. "Don't cry so, daughter, dear," he said soothingly, softly caressing her hair and cheek: "it will make your head ache still more." "I can't help it, papa: I'm so glad, so very, very glad!" she sobbed; "so glad the dear baby will get well, and that I--I'm not a murderess. Papa, won't you thank God for me?" "Yes," he said with emotion,--"for you and myself and all of us." When they had risen from their knees, "Now I hope you can sleep a while, and afterward eat some supper," he said, lifting her, and gently laying her on the bed again. "O papa! I wish you could stay with me a little longer," she cried, clinging to his hand. "I cannot stay now, daughter," he said; "but I will come in again to bid you good-night." He leaned over her, and kissed her several times. She threw her arm round his neck, and drew him down closer. "Dear, dear papa!" she sobbed: "you are the best father in the world! and oh, I wish I was a better girl! Do you think I--I'm a curse to you now?" "I think--I believe you are going to be a very great blessing to me, my own darling," he answered in tones tremulous with emotion. "I fear I was hard and cruel in what I said when I came to you that first time last night." "No, papa, I deserved it every bit; but it 'most broke my heart, because I love you so. Oh, I do want to be a blessing to you, and I mean to try with all my might!" "My dear little girl, my own little daughter, that is all I can ask," he said, repeating his caresses. Then he covered her up with tender care, and left her, weary and exhausted with the mental suffering of the last two days, but with a heart singing for joy over his restored affection and the assurance of the baby's final recovery. She expected to stay awake till he came again, but in less than five minutes was fast asleep. The captain found Max and Gracie hovering near as he passed out into the hall. "Papa," they said, coming hastily forward, "may we go in to see Lulu now?" Max adding, "I was too angry with her at first to want to see her, but I've got over that now." Grace: "And mayn't she know now that we're going to keep you always at home?" taking his hand in both of hers, and looking up coaxingly into his face. "No, my dears, not to-night," he said: "she has cried herself sick--has a bad headache, and I want her to try to sleep it off." "Poor Lu! she must have been feeling awfully all this time," Max said. "I wish I hadn't been so very angry with her." "You look very happy--you two," their father said, smiling down at them. "So do you, sir," returned Max; "and I'm so glad, for you've been looking heart-broken ever since you came home." "Pretty much as I have felt," he sighed, patting Gracie's cheek as he spoke. "We are just as happy as we can be, papa," she said; "only I"-- "Well?" he said inquiringly as she paused, leaving her sentence unfinished. "I'm just hungry to sit on your knee a little while; but," ruefully, "I s'pose you haven't time." "Come into the nursery with me, and you shall sit there as long as you like, and are willing to keep perfectly quiet, so as not to disturb baby." "Oh! thank you, papa," she returned joyously, slipping her hand into his. "I'll be as quiet as a mouse." "I hope my turn will come to-morrow," remarked Max. "I've a hundred questions I want to ask." "As many as you like, my boy, when I have time to listen; though I don't promise to answer them all to your entire satisfaction," his father replied, as he passed on into the nursery, taking Grace with him. Max went down-stairs, where he found Evelyn Leland sitting alone in one of the parlors, waiting till her aunt Elsie should be ready to go back to Fairview. "Max," she said, as he came in, and took a seat at her side, "you have just the nicest kind of a father!" "Yes, that's so!" he returned heartily: "there couldn't be a better one." "I wish he would let me see Lu," Evelyn went on: "I was in hopes he would after the doctor had told him the baby was sure to get well." "I think he would, but that Lu has cried herself sick, and he wants her to sleep off her headache. He refused to let Gracie and me in for that reason." "Poor thing!" Evelyn exclaimed, tears springing to her eyes. "I should think it must have been almost enough to set her crazy. But how happy she will be when she hears that your father isn't going away again, and means to keep her at home with him." "Yes, indeed; she'll go wild with joy; it's what all three of us have wanted to have happen more than any thing else we could think of. "I've often envied boys that could live at home with their fathers; though," he added with a happy laugh, "I've said to myself many a time, that mine was enough nicer than theirs to make up for having to do without him so much of the time; at least, I'd never have been willing to swap fathers with one of 'em. No, indeed!" "Of course not," said Evelyn. "And I'm so delighted that Lu and I are not to be separated! I can hardly wait to talk with her about it, and the good times we'll have together." A nap and a nice supper had refreshed Lulu a good deal; but she felt weak and languid, and was lying on the bed again when her father returned to her room. She looked up at him wistfully as he came and stood beside her, then her eyes filled with tears. "What is it?" he asked, lifting her from the bed, seating himself, and drawing her into his arms: "what is your petition? for I read in your eyes that you have one to make." "Papa, you won't send me away--very--soon, will you?" she pleaded in tremulous tones, her arm round his neck, her face hidden on his shoulder. "Not till I go myself; then I shall take you with me." "To a boarding-school?" she faltered. "No: I'm going to put you in a private family." Her face was still hidden, and she did not see the smile in his eyes. "What kind of people are they, papa?" she asked with a deep-drawn sigh. "Very nice people, I think: the wife and mother is a very lovely woman, and the four children--a boy and three girls--are, I presume, neither better nor worse than my own four. The gentleman, who will teach you himself, along with the others, and have the particular care and oversight of you, is perhaps rather stern and severe with any one who ventures to disobey his orders; but I am quite certain, that, if you are good and obedient, he will be very kind and indulgent, possibly a trifle more indulgent than he ought to be." Lulu began to cry again. "I don't like men-teachers!" she sobbed. "I don't like a man to have any thing to do with me. Please, please don't send me there, papa!" "You want me to relent, and let you stay on here if they will have you?" "No, no, papa! I don't want to stay here! I don't want to see anybody here again, except Max and Gracie; because I'm so ashamed of--of what I've done. I couldn't look any of them in the face, for I know they must despise me." "I am sure you are mistaken in that, my child," he said gravely. "But what is it you do desire?" "To be with you, papa. Oh, if I could only go with you!" "And leave Max and Gracie?" "I'll have to leave them, anyhow, if you take me away from here; and, though I love them very much, I love you a great deal better." "I'm afraid you would have a doleful time on shipboard, with no young companions, nobody to see or speak to but your father and the other officers." "I wouldn't care for that, or any thing, if I could only be with you. Papa, you don't _know_ how I love you!" "Then, I'll take you with me when I leave here; and you need never live away from me any more, unless you choose." "Papa," she cried, lifting her head to look up into his face, with glad, astonished eyes, "do you really mean it? _May_ I go with you?" He held her close, with a joyous laugh. "Why, I understood you to say, a moment since, that you didn't want to be in the care of a man,--_any_ man." "But you know I didn't mean you, papa." "But I am the gentleman I spoke of a little while ago, as the one in whose care I intended to put you." "Papa," she said, with a bewildered look, "I don't understand." Then he told her; and she was, as Max had foreseen, almost wild with delight. "Oh!" she cried, "how nice, _nice_ it will be to have a home of our very own, and our father with us all the time! Papa, I think I sha'n't sleep a wink to-night, I'm so glad." "I trust it will not have that effect," he said, "I hesitated a little about telling you to-night, lest it might interfere with your rest; but you seemed so unhappy about your future prospects, that I felt I must relieve you of the fear of being sent away among strangers." "You are so very good and kind to me, papa," she returned gratefully. "Where is our dear home to be?" "I don't know, yet," he said. "I have not had time to look about in search of house or land; but I hope to be able to buy or build a house somewhere in this region, as near Ion as a pleasant location can be found." "I hope you'll find a house ready built, papa," she said. "I shouldn't know how to wait for one to be built." "Not if, by waiting, we should, in the end, have a much nicer, pleasanter one?" She considered a moment. "Couldn't we rent a house to live in while we get our own built?" "I think that plan might answer quite well," he said with a smile. "I had no idea you were such a business woman. Probably that is what we will do, for I am as anxious to get to housekeeping as even you can be." "But, papa," she exclaimed, with a look as if struck by a sudden and not very pleasant thought, "may I--will you be vexed if I ask you something?" "Suppose you find out by asking?" "I--I hope you won't think it's impertinence, papa, I don't mean it for that," she said with hesitation, hanging her head, and blushing; "but--but--I hope it isn't mamma Vi's money we're to live on?" He put his hand under her chin, and lifted her face, so that he could look down into her eyes; and she drew a long breath of relief as she perceived that he was smiling at her. "No," he said. "You come honestly by your pride of independence. I would no more live on mamma Vi's money than you would." "Oh, I'm so glad! But--then, how can you do without your pay, papa?" "Because my heavenly Father has prospered me, and given me money enough of my own (or, rather, lent it to me; for all we have belongs to him, and is only lent to us for a time) to provide all that is necessary for my family, and educate my children. "Now we have had a long talk, which has, I trust, made my dear little girl much happier; and it is time for you to go to your bed for the night." "I don't like to have you leave me," she said, clinging about his neck; "but you were very kind to stay so long. Won't you come soon in the morning?" "You are not a prisoner any longer," he said, caressing her: "you are free to leave this room, and go where you choose about the house and grounds to-morrow." "But I don't want to. O papa! I can't face them! Mayn't I stay in my room till you are ready to take me to our own home?" "You will have to face them sometime," he said; "but we will see what can be done about it. Would you like to see Max and Gracie to-night?" "Gracie, ever so much; but Max--I--I don't know how he feels toward me, papa." "Very kindly. He has been asking permission to come in to see you; and Gracie has pleaded quite hard for it, and to have you forgiven, and told the good news." "Gracie always is so dear and kind," she said tremulously; "and Maxie isn't often cross with me. Yes, papa, I should like to see them both." "Your friend Evelyn was here this afternoon, asking permission to come in to see you, but is gone now. You may see her to-morrow, if you want to. Ah! I hear your brother and sister in the hall." He opened the door, and called to them. They came bounding in, so full of delight over the pleasant prospect opening before them, as hardly to remember that Lulu had been in such dreadful disgrace. "O Lu! has papa told you the good news?" they cried. "Yes." "And aren't you glad?" "Yes; glad as glad can be. But, oh, I wish the home was ready to go into to-night!" Her father laughed. "I think you were born in a hurry, Lulu," he said. "You are never willing to wait a minute for any thing. "Well, I suppose you children would prefer to be left to yourselves for a while; so I will leave you. You may talk fifteen minutes together, but no longer; as it is your bedtime now, Gracie's at least." "O papa! don't go!" they all exclaimed in a breath. "Please stay with us: we'd rather have you, a great deal rather!" He could not resist their entreaties, so sat down, and drew his two little girls into his arms, while Max stationed himself close at his side. "My dear children," he said, "you can hardly be happier in the prospect before us than your father is." "Is mamma Vi glad?" asked Lulu. "Yes; quite as much rejoiced, I think, as any of the rest of us." "But doesn't she want me sent away to school or somewhere?" with a wistful, anxious gaze into his face. "Is she willing to have me in the new home, papa?" "Yes, daughter, more than willing: she wants you to be under your father's constant care and watchfulness, hoping that so he may succeed in teaching you to control your temper." "She's very good and forgiving," was Lulu's comment in a low and not unmoved tone. "Papa, when will you begin to look for the new home?" asked Grace, affectionately stroking his cheek and whiskers with her small white hand. "I have been looking at advertisements," he said; "and, now that baby is out of danger, I shall begin the search in earnest." "Can we afford a big house, and handsome furniture, papa?" queried Lulu. "And to keep carriage and riding horses?" asked Max. "I hope my children have not been so thoroughly spoiled by living in the midst of wealth and luxury, that they could not content themselves with a moderately large house, and plain furniture?" he said gravely. "I'd rather live that way with you, than have all the fine things, and you not with us, dear papa," Lulu said, putting her arm round his neck, and laying her cheek to his. "I too." "And I," said Max and Grace. "And I," he responded, smiling affectionately upon them, "would prefer such a home with my children about me, to earth's grandest palace without them. Millions of money could not buy one of my treasures!" "Not me, papa?" whispered Lulu tremulously, with her lips close to his ear. "No, dear child, not even you," he answered, pressing her closer to his side. "You are no less dear than the others." "I deserve to be," she said with tears in her voice. "It would be just and right, papa, if you did not love me half so well as any of your other children." She spoke aloud this time, as her father had. "We all have our faults, Lu," remarked Max, "but papa loves us in spite of them." "'God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us,'" quoted the captain. "If God so loved me, while yet his enemy, a rebel against his rightful authority, I may well love my own children in spite of all their faults, even were those faults more and greater by far than they are." "Then, papa, I think we should love you well enough to try very hard to get rid of them," returned Max. "And the wonderful love of God for us should constrain us to hate and forsake all sin," said his father. "The Bible bids us to 'be followers of God as dear children.' And oh, how we should hate sin when we remember that it crucified our Lord!" There was a momentary silence: then the children began talking joyfully again of the new home in prospect for them, and their hopes and wishes in regard to it. Their father entered heartily into their pleasure, and encouraged them to express themselves freely, until the clock, striking nine, reminded him that more than the allotted time for the interview had passed. Then he bade them say good-night, and go to their beds, promising that they should have other opportunities for saying all they wished on the subject. CHAPTER XVI. "'Tis easier for the generous to forgive Than for offence to ask it." In passing through the hall on his way from Lulu's room to the nursery, Capt. Raymond met "grandma Elsie." She stopped him, and asked, in a tone of kindly concern, if Lulu was ill, adding, that something she had accidentally overheard him saying to the doctor had made her fear the child was not well. "Thank you, mother," he said: "you are very kind to take any interest in Lulu after what has occurred. No, she is not quite well: the mental distress of the last two days has been very great, and has exhausted her physically. It could not, of course, be otherwise, unless she were quite heartless. She is full of remorse for her passion and its consequences, and my only consolation is the hope that this terrible lesson may prove a lasting one to her." "I hope so, indeed," Elsie said, with emotion. "Yes, she must have suffered greatly; for she is a warm-hearted, affectionate child, and would not, I am sure, have intentionally done her baby sister an injury." "No, it was not intentional; yet, as the result of allowing herself to get into a passion, she is responsible for it, as she feels and acknowledges. "And so deeply ashamed is she, that she knows not how to face the family, or any one of them, and therefore entreats me to allow her to seclude herself in her own room till I can take her to the home I hope to make for my wife and children ere long." "Poor child!" sighed Elsie. "Tell her, Levis, that she need not shrink from us as if we were not sinners, as well as herself. Shall I go in to-morrow morning, and have a talk with her before breakfast?" "It will be a great kindness," he said, flushing with pleasure, "and make it much easier for her to show herself afterwards at the table. But I ought to ask if you are willing to see her there in her accustomed seat?" "I shall be glad to do so," Elsie answered, with earnest kindliness of look and tone. "She was not banished by any edict of mine or papa's." "No: I forbade her to leave her room while the baby was in a critical condition. Yet I think she had no disposition to leave it,--shame and remorse causing a desire to hide herself from everybody." "It strikes me as a hopeful sign," Elsie said; "and I do not despair of one day seeing Lulu a noble woman, the joy and pride of her father's heart." She held out her hand as she spoke. The captain grasped it warmly. "Thank you, mother, for those kind and hopeful words," he said with emotion. "For the last year or two, she has been alternately my joy and my despair; and I am resolved to leave no effort untried to rescue her from the dominion of her fierce temper. "The task would doubtless have been far easier could I have undertaken it years ago, in her early infancy. But I trust it is not yet too late to accomplish it, with the help and the wisdom I may have in answer to prayer. "No, I am sure it is by no means a hopeless undertaking, looking where you do for needed strength and wisdom; and I rejoice almost as much for Lulu's sake as for Vi's, that you have now come among us to stay. I will try to see her in the morning, and do what I can to make it easy for her to join the family circle again. "And now good-night. I must not keep you longer from the wife who grudges every moment that you are absent from her side," she concluded, with a smile as sweet and beautiful as that of her girlhood's days. While the captain and his mother-in-law held this little conversation in the upper hall, Zoe and Rosie were promenading the veranda, arm in arm. They had been talking of Violet and her baby, rejoicing together over its improved condition. "How dreadful the last two days have been to poor Vi!" exclaimed Rosie, "even in spite of the home-coming of her husband, which has always before this made her so happy. In fact, it has been a dreadful time to all of us; and nobody to blame except that bad-tempered Lulu. "At least, so _I_ think," she added, conscience giving her a twinge; "though mamma says I ought to have let her have my pony, and taken my own ride later in the day, if I wanted one." "It would have been more polite and unselfish, wouldn't it?" queried Zoe, in a teasing tone. "I dare say it is what mamma herself would have done under the same circumstances." "I have no doubt of that," returned Rosie; "but mamma and I are two very different people. I can never hope to be as good and unselfish as she is, and always has been so far as I can learn." "Ah! but there's nothing like trying," laughed Zoe. "Suppose you tell Lulu that, advising her to undertake the task of controlling her temper." "She was quite a good while without an outbreak," said Zoe; "and really, Rosie, that dog of yours is extremely trying at times." "It's quite trying to me, that I've had to send him away, and can't have him about any more till Lulu's gone. I'll be sorry to have Vi leave Ion, but rejoiced to be rid of Lulu. I wonder if the captain still intends to send her away? I sincerely hope so, for Vi's sake. Poor little Elsie may be killed outright the next time Lulu has an opportunity to vent her spite upon her." "O Rosie! how can you talk so?" exclaimed Zoe. "haven't you heard that Lulu says she thought it was your dog she was kicking at? and that she has been really sick with distress about the baby? As to sending her away to be trained and taught by strangers--her father has no idea of doing it: in fact,--so Vi told Ned,--the conviction that Lulu needed his constant oversight and control had a great deal to do in leading him to resign from the service and come home to live." "Then, he's a very good father,--a great deal better one than she deserves. But I'm sorry for Vi and her baby." "You needn't be: surely the captain should be able to protect them from Lulu," laughed Zoe. Rosie laughed too, remarked that it must be getting late; and they went into the house. * * * * * "I do wish papa would come for me. I can't bear to go down alone to breakfast," Lulu was saying to herself the next morning, when a light step in the hall without caught her ear: then there was a tap at the door; and, opening it, she found the lady of the house standing on the threshold. "Good-morning, my child," she said in pleasant, cheery tones, and smiling sweetly as she spoke; then, bending clown, she gave the little girl a kiss. "Good-morning, grandma Elsie," murmured Lulu, blushing deeply, and casting down her eyes: "you are very kind to come to see me, and to kiss me too, when I have been so bad. Please take a chair," she added, drawing one forward. "Thank you, dear; but I would rather sit on the sofa yonder, with you by my side," Elsie said, taking Lulu's hand, and leading her to it, then, when they had seated themselves, putting the other arm about the child's waist, and drawing her close to her side. "I feel that I have been neglecting you," she went on; "but my thoughts have been much taken up with other things, and"-- "O grandma Elsie!" cried Lulu, bursting into tears. "I didn't deserve that you should show me the least kindness, or think of me at all except as a very bad, disagreeable girl. I should think you'd want to turn me out of your house, and say I should never come into it again." "No, dear child, I have no such feeling toward you: if I had, should I not be very much like that wicked servant to whom his lord had forgiven a debt of ten thousand talents, yet who refused to have compassion on his fellow-servant who owed him a hundred pence? I should, indeed; for my sins against God have been far greater, and more heinous, than yours against me or mine." "But you were always such a good child when you were a little girl, and I am such a bad one." "No, my dear; that is quite a mistake; I was not always good as a child, and I am very far from being perfect as a woman." "You seem so to me, grandma Elsie: I never know of your doing and saying any thing the least bit wrong." "But you, my child, see only the outward appearance, while God looks at the heart; and he knows that, though I am truly his servant, trying earnestly to do his will, I fall lamentably short of it." "Grandma Elsie, I didn't know it was the baby: I didn't mean to hurt her." "No, my dear, I know you didn't." "But papa said he must punish me all the same, because it was being in a passion that made me do it. Grandma Elsie, if you had such a dreadful temper as mine, wouldn't you be discouraged about ever conquering it?" "No, my child, not while I could find such words as these in the Bible: 'O Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself: but in Me is thine help.' 'Thou shalt call his name Jesus; for he shall save his people from their sins.' 'He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him.' 'God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.'" "'His people,'" repeated Lulu; then with a sigh, "But I am not one of them, grandma Elsie; so those promises are not for me." "He invites you to become one of his people, and then they will be for you. "'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,' Jesus says, 'and I will give you rest.' "You feel yourself heavy laden with that unconquerable temper, do you not?" "Yes, ma'am." "Then, that invitation is for you; and it will not be unconquerable with the Lord to help you. "'The God of Israel is he that giveth strength and power unto his people.' 'And they that stumbled are girded with strength.' You cannot doubt that you are included in the invitation, for it is, 'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.' And the time to come is now: 'Now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.'" The breakfast-bell rang at that moment; and grandma Elsie, rising, took Lulu's hand, saying, "Come, my dear, you need not shrink from joining us at the table: no one will be disposed to treat you unkindly." As she spoke, the door opened, and Capt. Raymond and Violet came in. They exchanged morning greetings with their mother; while Lulu, with eyes cast down, and cheeks aflame, half shrank behind her, ashamed and afraid to meet Violet's gaze. But Violet bent down and kissed her affectionately, saying in a kindly tone, "I hope you are feeling better than you did yesterday?" "O mamma Vi!" Lulu cried, throwing her arm round her young step-mother's neck, and bursting into tears, "is baby still getting better? and will you forgive me? I am, oh, so sorry!" "Yes, dear, baby is improving fast; and it is all forgiven, so far as I am concerned," was the gentle reply. Then the captain kissed his little girl good-morning, and they all went down to the breakfast-room together. The worst was over to Lulu in having seen Violet, yet it was quite an ordeal to her to face the rest of the large family; but each one spoke pleasantly to her. Rosie alone bestowed so much an unkind look upon her, and that was wasted; for Lulu, expecting it from that quarter more than any other, constantly averted her gaze from Rosie, keeping her eyes down, or turned in another direction. Dr. Conly had joined them as they sat down, and presently he addressed the captain:-- "I hear, Raymond, that you would like to buy in this neighborhood." "Yes, if I can find a suitable place,--one that will satisfy my wife as well as myself," the captain answered with a smiling glance at Violet. "Well, Vi, how would Woodburn answer, so far as you are concerned?" queried Arthur. "Woodburn! is it for sale?" she cried delightedly. "O Levis!" turning to her husband, "it is a lovely old place! A visit there was always a great treat to me as a child." "And it is really for sale?" exclaimed several voices in chorus, all eyes turning inquiringly upon Dr. Conly. "Yes, so Miss Elliott told me yesterday," replied Arthur. "She was slightly indisposed, and sent for me, and, while telling of her ailments, remarked that she was very lonely since her sister Margaret had married and gone, leaving her sole occupant--not taking servants into account--of that large house, with its extensive grounds. So she had at last decided, she said, to comply with her sister's urgent request to sell the place, and take up her abode with them. "She had thought of advertising, and asked my advice about it. Of course, I thought at once of you and Vi, captain, told her I knew of a gentleman who might like to become a purchaser, and that I would promise her a call from him to-day to look at the place. Will you redeem my promise?" "Gladly," responded the captain, "especially as Vi expresses so strong a liking for the place. Will you go with me, my dear?" "I hardly like to leave my baby yet," she answered dubiously. "But if you should feel entirely satisfied with the house, the grounds, and the price asked for them, you could not please me better than by making the purchase." "There! if Miss Elliott only knew it, she might consider the estate as good as sold," remarked Zoe. "If she is willing to take a reasonable price, I presume she might," said Arthur. "Captain, I will go there directly from here: will you drive over with me, and take a look at the place?" "Yes, thank you; and have a talk with the lady, if you will give me an introduction." Max and Lulu, sitting side by side at the table, exchanged glances,--Lulu's full of delight, Max's only interested. He shook his head in response to her's. "What do you mean? wouldn't you like it?" she asked in an undertone. "Yes, indeed! but I'm pretty sure papa couldn't afford such a place as that: it must be worth a good many thousands." Lulu's look lost much of its brightness; still, she did not quite give up hope, as the conversation went on among their elders, Woodburn and the Elliotts continuing to be the theme. "Will it be near enough to Ion?" Capt. Raymond asked, addressing Violet more particularly. "What is the distance?" "Something over a mile, they call it," said Mr. Dinsmore. "That is as near as we can expect to be, I suppose," said Violet. "And with carriages and horses, bicycles, tricycles, and telephones, we may feel ourselves very near neighbors indeed," remarked Edward. "When the weather is too inclement for mamma or Vi to venture out, they can talk together by the hour through the telephone, if they wish." "And it won't often be too inclement to go back and forth," said Zoe; "almost always good enough for a close carriage, if for nothing else." "We are talking as if the place were already secured," remarked Violet, with a smiling glance at her husband. "I think you may feel pretty sure of it if you want it, love; unless Miss Elliott should change her mind about selling," he responded, in a tone too low to reach any ear but hers. She gave him a bright, glad look, that quite settled the matter so far as he was concerned; he would, if necessary, give even an exorbitant price for the place, to please her. "Have you never seen Woodburn, captain?" asked Mrs. Dinsmore. "I have some recollection of driving past it," he replied meditatively; "but--is not the house nearly concealed from view from the road, by a thick growth of trees and shrubbery?" "Yes: you will thin them out a little, I hope, for the mansion is well worth looking at; it is a very aristocratic-looking dwelling,--large, substantial, and handsome architecturally." "Papa, are you going to buy it?" asked Grace. "It is too soon to answer that question, daughter," he said pleasantly; and Max and Lulu again exchanged glances, which said this time, "Maybe he will, after all." Both ardently wished their father would propose taking them along; he did not: but when Dr. Conly said, with a kindly glance at Grace, "There will be room in my carriage for a little friend of mine, if papa is willing to let her go with us," he at once said,-- "Certainly, Gracie may go, if she will be ready in season, and not keep the doctor waiting." "Indeed I will, papa," she cried delightedly, and ran away to don hat and coat; for the meal was concluded, and everybody leaving the table. Lulu followed her father, till, in the hall, she found an opportunity to speak to him without being overheard. "Papa," she asked, "what am I to do with myself to-day?" "Stay in your room, and learn your lessons, beginning just where you left off the other day. You will recite to me after I come back; then we will consider what you shall do for the rest of the day." "Yes, sir: may I see Evelyn when she comes?" "If she chooses to go to you in your room." "Must I stay in my room all the time?" she asked dejectedly. "While I am away. I will take you out after I return." Then, noticing her downcast look, "You shall have more liberty when we get into our own home," he said kindly. At that she looked up with a bright, glad smile. "Papa, it will be _so nice_!" Max had drawn near. "Papa," he said, "won't you let Lu take a walk with me? Mayn't we run over to Fairview, and bring Evelyn back with us? I know she'd be glad to have company coming over to school." "Yes, you may go, both of you, if you like. But, Lulu, when you get home, go at once to your room: don't stop in the grounds or on the veranda." "I won't, papa," she said: "I'll go straight to my room, and, oh, thank you for letting me go!" CHAPTER XVII. "Home, sweet home!" "How large is the estate, doctor?" asked Capt. Raymond, as they were on their way to Woodburn. "I cannot say exactly," replied Arthur. "There is a bit of woodland comprising several acres; and lawn, gardens, and shrubbery cover several more. I believe that is all." "About as much as I care for," returned the captain. "The estate was formerly very large," Arthur went on,--"some thousands of acres,--and the family was a very wealthy one; but, like many others, they lost heavily by the war, and were compelled to part with one portion of the estate after another, till little more than the homestead was left; and now it seems that it, too, must go." "Are they so reduced?" the captain asked in a tone of deep sympathy. "I think Miss Elliott does not feel compelled to part with it, and would still live on there, if it were not for the loneliness of the situation, and a natural desire to be with her sister, the only remaining member of their once large family, besides herself." "Yes, yes: I see. I understand, and shall feel much more comfortable in buying it, than if I knew that poverty compelled her to part with it against her will." "That shows your kindness of heart," Arthur said, turning toward his friend with an appreciative smile. The next moment they had entered the Woodburn grounds, and Capt. Raymond and Grace were glancing from side to side in a very interested manner. "The place is a good deal run down," remarked Arthur. "They have not had the means to keep it up, I suppose; but if it comes into your hands, captain, you can soon set matters right in regard to that; and I, for one, shall greatly enjoy seeing the improvement." "And I making it," was the cheery rejoinder; "more, I think, than taking possession of a place that was too perfect to be improved." "Papa, I'd just love to have this for our home!" cried Gracie, flushing with pleasure as she glanced here and there, and then up into his face with an eager, questioning look, "Won't you buy it, papa?" coaxingly. "It is still too soon for that question, my child," he said, smiling down at her. "But I hope to be able to answer it before very long." They had reached the house, and were presently ushered into the presence of its owner. She was desirous to sell, the captain to buy,--willing also to give not only a fair, but a liberal, price; so it took but a short time for them to come to an agreement. He bought the land, house, furniture, every thing just as it stood; was promised possession in two weeks, and accorded the privilege of at once beginning any repairs or alterations he might deem desirable. Before making the agreement, he had inspected the whole house. He found it large, conveniently arranged, and in very tolerable repair. The furniture had evidently been very handsome in its day, and would do quite well, he thought, to begin with: much of it might, with re-upholstering and varnishing, please Violet as well as any that could be bought elsewhere. He was eager to bring her to look at it, the house and the grounds. These last delighted both himself and Grace, although lawn and gardens were far from being as trim and neat as those of Ion and Fairview: there was an air of neglect about the whole place, but that could soon be remedied. The bit of woodland was beautiful; and through it, and across lawn and gardens, ran a little stream of clear, sparkling water,--a pretty feature in the landscape, without being deep enough to be dangerous to the little ones. Grace went everywhere with her father, up-stairs and down, indoors and out, quietly looking and listening, but seldom speaking, unless addressed. Once or twice she said, in a low aside, "Papa, I'd like to live here, if you can 'ford to buy it. "Papa, this is such a pretty room, and the view from that window is so nice!" He would reply only by a kind smile, or a word or two of assent. She did not understand all the talk in the library after they had finished their round, and when they left was still in some doubt as to her father's intentions. "Papa," she asked eagerly, as soon as they were fairly on their homeward way, "have you bought it?" "We have come to an agreement," he answered. "Then, is it ours?" "It will be, as soon as I have got the deed, and handed over the money." "Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried, clapping her hands with delight. "And we're to be 'lowed to go there to stay in two weeks, aren't we? I thought that was what Miss Elliott said." "Yes: can you get all your possessions packed up by that time?" "Yes, indeed, papa: one day would be enough time for that." "And if you should happen to forget one of the dollies, you could go back for her," remarked the doctor. "Or replace it with a new one," said the captain. "But I love all my dollies, papa," she returned, with a wistful look up into his face: "they're my children, you know. Would you be satisfied with another new little girl 'stead of me?" "No, indeed!" he replied, bending down to kiss her cheek. "If I had another new little girl given me, I should want to hold fast to my little Gracie too; and you shall keep all your dollies as long as you please." Lulu and Max started on their walk to Fairview about the same time that Dr. Conly drove away with their father and Grace. Their talk was principally of the new home in prospect. Lulu had only driven past Woodburn several times; but Max had been taken there once by Dr. Conly, with whom he was almost as great a favorite as his sister Grace, and had seen not only the grounds, but one or two rooms of the mansion. Lulu was eager to hear all he had to tell about the place, and he not at all averse to describing what he had seen. So interested were they in the topic, that they reached the entrance to the Fairview grounds almost ere they were aware of it. "Oh, we're here!" exclaimed Lulu, in some surprise. "Max, I'll stay outside, while you go up to the house, for--I--I can't bear to see aunt Elsie and the others." Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks burning with blushes as she spoke. "But you may as well get it over," said Max: "you'll have to see them all sometime." "You don't care a bit, _do_ you?" she said, in a hurt tone. "Yes, I do; I'm right sorry for you; but I can't help your having to meet them sooner or later." "But I'm afraid I won't be welcome to aunt Elsie. What if she should tell me to go out of the house, she didn't want such a bad girl there?" "She isn't that kind of person," said Max. "But here comes Eva," as the little girl came tripping down the avenue to meet them. She shook hands with Max, then threw her arms round Lulu, and kissed her. "O Eva! I'm 'most ashamed to look at you," murmured Lulu, half averting her blushing face. "I shouldn't think you'd want me for your friend any more." "I do, though: I love you dearly, and should have gone to your room yesterday if your papa had not refused to allow it," responded Evelyn, repeating her caress. "Come in and rest, both of you: aunt Elsie told me to ask you." "I'm not sure that papa meant to give me permission to go into the house," said Lulu, hanging back. "No,--come to think of it,--I don't believe he did," said Max. "Besides, it must be pretty near school-time; so if you are ready, Eva, and want to walk, we'll start back directly, and be glad to take you with us." "Yes, I prefer to walk," she said: "I'll be ready in five minutes, and glad to have your company." Mrs. Leland was on the veranda. "Won't they come in?" she asked of Evelyn, as the child came hurrying up the steps. "No, auntie: Lu is not quite certain that her papa gave her permission." "Then, I'll go to them." Lulu's eyes were on the ground, her cheeks hot with blushes, as Mrs. Leland drew near the rustic bench on which she and Max had seated themselves. "Good-morning, my dears: I am sorry you cannot come in and sit a while," was her pleasant greeting. Then she shook hands with Max and kissed Lulu. "I heard you were not well yesterday, Lulu: I hope you feel quite so this morning?" "Yes, ma'am, thank you." "I heard from Ion before breakfast, and am delighted that baby is still improving, as, no doubt, you are, both of you." "Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Max. "And I am gladder than words can tell," said Lulu, a tear rolling quickly down her cheek. "Aunt Elsie, I do love her! I think she is the nicest, sweetest baby I ever saw." "Yes, my dear; and I have no doubt you intend to be the best of sisters to her." "Oh, I do! I can't ever make up to her for--for hurting her so, though I did not mean to do it." "Of course not: you couldn't be so cruel toward any baby, but especially your own sweet little sister," was the gentle, sweet-toned reply. "I am rejoiced, especially for you, my dears, and for your mamma, that your father is going to settle down here; for I know it will add greatly to your happiness, he is such a good husband and father, and you will so enjoy having a home of your own." "Yes, aunt Elsie: we think it is the best thing that could have happened to us," replied Max. Evelyn joined them at that moment; so they said good-by, and started on their way back to Ion. "Eva," said Max, "have you heard about Woodburn?" "No; what about it?" "It's for sale, and perhaps papa will buy it." "Oh, how nice that would be!" she exclaimed. "I've been there with aunt Elsie, and it's just a lovely place! It has a rather neglected look now; but it wouldn't take long to remedy that, and then it would be quite as handsome as Ion or Fairview, or any other place about here. Aren't you happy, Lu?" "I shall be if papa gets it; but the best thing of all is, that he is to be with us all the time." "Yes, of course," sighed Evelyn, thinking of the happy days when she had her father with her. "Lu," she said presently, "I know you are not to be sent away; but where are you to go to school?" "To papa," replied Lulu, with a glad look and smile. Evelyn sighed again. "The only part I regret," she remarked, "is that we have to give up being together in our studies,--you and I. Unless," she added the next moment, as if struck by a sudden thought, "your father would take me as a pupil too. But I wouldn't dare to ask it." "I would," said Max: "I dare ask papa almost any thing,--unless it was leave to do something wrong,--and I'll undertake to sound him on the subject." "I'm not afraid to ask him, either," said Lulu; "and he's so kind, I do believe he'll say yes, or at least that he'll do it if everybody else is agreed. Have you seen him, Eva?" "Yes; and he had such a kind, fatherly manner toward me, that I fell in love with him at once. I believe I'd be glad to have him adopt me if he was badly in want of another daughter about my age," she added, with a merry look and smile. "I believe he'd be the gainer if he could swap me off for you," said Lulu, catching her friend's tone; "but I'm very happy in feeling quite sure he would rather have me, bad as I am, just because I am his own." "That makes all the difference in the world," said Evelyn; "and perhaps, on becoming acquainted with my faults, he might think them worse than yours." It was not quite school-time when they reached Ion, and Evelyn proposed that they should spend the few intervening minutes in the grounds. "I'd like to, ever so much," said Lulu; "but papa bade me go directly to my own room on getting home. So good-by," and she moved on resolutely in the direction of the house. "Good-by. I'll see you again when school is out, if I can," Evelyn called after her. Lulu's thoughts were so full of other things, she found great difficulty in fixing them upon her lessons. But saying to herself that it would be much too bad to fail in her first recitations to her father, she exerted her strong will to the utmost, and succeeded. She was quite ready for him when, at length, he came in. But looking up eagerly from her book, "Papa," she asked, "have you, oh! have you, bought it?" "Bought what?" he asked smilingly, as he sat down and drew her to his side. "O papa! you know! Woodburn, I mean." "I think I have secured it," he said, "and that it will make a very delightful home for us all." "Oh, I am so glad!" she cried, throwing her arms round his neck, and giving him a vigorous hug. "When can we move in, papa?" "In about two weeks, probably: can you stand having to wait for that length of time?" "I s'pose I'll have to," she said, laughing a little ruefully. "It'll help very much that I'll have you here, and see you every day. Are you going to keep me shut up in this room all the time?" "No: did I not tell you, you were no longer a prisoner?" "Oh, yes, sir! but I--I don't care very much to--to be with Rosie and the rest." "I prefer that you should not be, except when I am present," he returned gravely. "I want to keep you with me as much as possible; and would rather have you alone, or with Evelyn, Max, and Gracie only, when I am not with you." "I like that best, too, papa," she replied humbly; "for I can't trust myself not to get into a passion with Rosie and her dog, and I suppose you can't trust me either." "Not yet, daughter," he said gently; "but I hope the time will come when I can. Now we will attend to the lessons." When the recitations were finished, "Papa," she said, with an affectionate, admiring look up into his face, "I think you are a _very_ nice teacher: you make every thing so clear and plain, and so interesting. I'm so glad you're the gentleman who is to have charge of me," she added with a happy laugh. "So am I," he said, caressing her. "I am very glad, very thankful, to be able to take charge of all my own children; and whatever I may lack in experience and ability as a teacher, I hope to make up in the deep interest I shall always feel in the welfare and progress of my pupils." She then told him of Evelyn's wish, concluding With, "Won't you, dear papa? I'd like it so much, and Eva is such a good girl you wouldn't have a bit of trouble managing her. She's just as different from me as possible." "Quite a recommendation; and if I were as sure of proving a competent teacher, I should not hesitate to grant your request. But it is a new business to me, and perhaps it would not be wise for me to undertake the tuition of more than my own three at present. However," he added, seeing her look of disappointment, "I will take the matter into consideration." "Oh, thank you, sir! Papa, I've just thought of two things I want to talk to you about." "Very well; let me hear them." "The first is about my being so naughty at Viamede," she went on, hanging her head, and blushing deeply; "in such a passion at Signor Foresti, and so obstinate and disobedient to grandpa Dinsmore." "I was very sorry to hear of it all," he said gravely: "but what about it?" "Don't you have to punish me for it?" she asked, half under her breath. "No: the punishment I gave you the other night settled all accounts up to that date." She breathed more freely. "Papa, would you have made me go back to that horrid man after he struck me?" "It is not worth while to consider that question at this late day. Now, what else?" he asked. "Papa, I spoiled one of those valuable books of engravings belonging to grandpa Dinsmore; no, I didn't exactly spoil it myself, but I took it out on the veranda without leave, and carelessly left it where Rosie's dog could get at it; and he scratched and gnawed and tore it, till it is almost ruined." "I shall replace it at once," he said. "I am sorry you were so careless, and particularly that you took the book out there without permission; but that was not half so bad as flying into a passion, even if you hurt nothing or no one but yourself." "But I did get into a passion, papa, at the dog and at Rosie," she acknowledged, in a frightened tone, and blushing more deeply than before. "I am deeply grieved to hear it," he said. "And won't you have to punish me for that, and for getting the book spoiled?" "No: didn't I tell you just now that all accounts were settled up to the other night?" "Papa, you're very, very kind," she said, putting her arm round his neck, and laying her head on his shoulder. "I am very glad, that, with all her faults, my dear little daughter is so truthful and so open with me," he said, smoothing her hair. "Papa, I'm ever so sorry you'll have to pay so much money to replace that book," she said. "But--you often give me some pocket-money, and--won't you please keep all you would give me till it counts up enough to pay for the book?" "It is a right feeling, a feeling that pleases me, which prompts you to make that request," he said in a kind tone, and pressing his lips to her cheek; "and probably another time I may let you pay for such a piece of carelessness, but you need not in this instance. I feel rich enough to spare the money quite easily for that and an increase in my children's weekly allowance. What is yours now?" "Fifty cents, papa." "Where is your purse?" She took it from her pocket, and put it into his hand. "Only five cents in it," he remarked, with a smile, when he had examined. Then, taking a handful of loose change from his pocket, he counted out four bright quarters and ten dimes, and poured them into her purse. "O papa! so much!" she cried delightedly, "I feel ever so rich!" He laughed at that. "Now," he said, "you shall have a dollar every week, unless I should have to withdraw it on account of some sort of bad behavior on your part. Max is to have the same; Gracie half a dollar till she is a little older: and you are all to keep an account of your spendings." He took from another pocket, three little blank-books. "One of these is for you: the others are for your brother and sister," he said. "See, there is a blank space for every day in the week; and, Whenever you lay out any money, you must write down in the proper place what it was that you bought, and how much it cost." "And show it to you, papa?" "Once in a while: probably, whenever I hand you your allowance, I shall look over your account for the week that is just past, and tell you what I think of the way you have laid out your money, in order to help you to learn to spend it judiciously." CHAPTER XVIII. "Fortune is merry, And in this mood will give us any thing." There was a sound of small, hurrying feet in the hall without, a tap at the door; and Max's voice asked, "May we come in?" "Yes," said his father; and instantly the door was thrown wide. Evelyn came in with a quiet, lady-like step, and Max and Grace more boisterously. The captain rose, shook hands with Eva, set her a chair, and sat down again, drawing Gracie to his arms, while Max stood at his side. "Oh! what are those for?" he asked, catching sight of the blank-books. "This is for you, this for Grace," the captain answered, bestowing them as he spoke, then went on to repeat substantially what he had just been saying to Lulu, and to replenish their purses as he had hers. They were both delighted, both grateful. Evelyn looked on, well pleased. "Now your allowance is just the same as mine, and I am so glad," she said to Lulu. "I have never kept an account; but I think it must be a good plan, and I mean to after this." "There is another thing, children," said the captain: "any money that we have, is only lent to us by our heavenly Father; and it is our duty to set aside a certain portion for giving to his cause." "How much, papa?" asked Max. "People have different ideas about that," was the reply. "In Old-Testament times, the rule was one-tenth of all; and I think most people should not give less now: many are able to give a great deal more. I hope each of you will be glad to give as much as that." He opened Lulu's Bible, lying on the table, and read aloud, "'He who soweth sparingly, shall reap also sparingly; and he who soweth bountifully, shall reap also bountifully. Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity; for God loveth a cheerful giver.'" "I'll give a tenth of all," said Lulu. "I mean to buy a little purse on purpose to keep my tenth in, and I'll put two of these dimes in it. That will be the tenth of the two dollars you've given me, won't it, papa?" "Yes," he said. "And I'll do the same," said Max. "I too," added Gracie. "It is just what my papa taught me to do," remarked Evelyn modestly. "Would you children all like to take a drive with me this afternoon?" asked the captain. There was a simultaneous and joyful assent from his own three: then Evelyn said, "Thank you, sir. I should like it extremely, if I can get permission. Aunt Elsie expects me home to dinner; but I will go now to the telephone, and ask if I may stay and accept your invitation." "And while you are doing that, I will go to my wife, and try to persuade her to join our party," the captain said, leaving the room. Evelyn had no difficulty in gaining permission to stay at Ion for the rest of the day, or go anywhere Capt. Raymond might propose to take her; and he found but little difficulty in persuading Violet to accompany him in a drive that would take her from her baby for an hour or two, the little one being so much better that she did not fear to leave it in charge of her mother and the nurse, thinking it might die before her return. "The carriage will be at the door in ten or fifteen minutes after we leave the dinner-table," the captain told them all; and each one promised to be ready to start at once. The children all came down the stairs and out upon the veranda together, and only a little in advance of the captain and Violet. There was a simultaneous exclamation of surprise as they saw, not the Ion family carriage, but a new and very handsome one, with a pair of fine match-horses, which none of them had ever seen before, drawn up at the foot of the veranda-steps, while, a few feet beyond, a servant held the bridle of a beautiful, spirited pony, whose long mane, gracefully arched neck, and glossy coat, struck them all with admiration. The carriage-horses were no less handsome or spirited: they were tossing their manes, and pawing the ground, with impatience to be off. Violet turned a bright, inquiring look upon her husband, while all three of his children were asking in eager, excited tones, "Papa, papa, whose carriage and horses are these?" "Ours," he said, handing Violet to a seat in the vehicle; then, as he helped Evelyn in, "Max, my son, if you will ride that pony, there will be more room here for the rest of us." "O papa! may I?" cried the boy in tones of delight. "Did you hire it for me?" "No: I only bought it for you. Mount, and let me see how well you can manage him--how well you have improved your opportunities for learning to ride." Max needed no second invitation, but had vaulted into the saddle before his father was done speaking. "Now put him through his paces," was the next order. Max wheeled about, dashed down the avenue at a rapid gallop, turned, and came back at an easy canter; his father and sisters, Violet also, watching him in proud delight, he was so handsome, and sat his pony so well. "Ah! that will do," his father said when the lad was within easy hearing-distance: "these fellows," glancing at the horses attached to the carriage, "are getting too restless to stand any longer; so you may finish your exhibition at another time. I have seen enough to feel that you are quite equal to the management of your pony." "O papa! he's just splendid!" Max burst out, bending down to pat and stroke the neck of his steed; "and I can never thank you enough for such a gift." "Enjoy him, and use him kindly: that is all I ask," the captain said, entering the carriage, where he had already placed his two little girls. "Drive on, Scipio. Max, you may ride along-side." "I 'spect I know where we're going," remarked Grace gleefully, and with an arch smile up into her father's face, as she noticed the direction they were taking on turning out of the avenue into the high-road. "Do you?" he said. "Well, wait a little, and you will find out how good a guess you have made." "To Woodburn, papa?" queried Lulu eagerly. "Have patience, and you will see presently," he answered with a smile. "Mamma Vi, do you know?" she asked. "It is your father's secret," said Violet. "I should not presume to tell you when he declines doing so." "We shall know in a very few minutes, Lu," said Evelyn: "it is only a short drive to Woodburn." "I was thinking about that name," said Grace. "Papa, why do they call it Woodburn? There's woods,--do they burn them sometimes? They don't look as if they'd ever been burned." "I don't think they have," he said, "except such parts of them as dry twigs and fallen branches, that could be picked up from the ground, or now and then a tree that it was thought best to cut down, or that fell of itself. But you know, there is a pretty little brook running across the estate, and in Scotland such a stream is called a burn; so, having a wood and a burn, Woodburn is a very appropriate name." "Yes, papa, I think it is, and a pretty name too. Thank you for explaining it, and not laughing at my mistake." "Even papa doesn't know nearly every thing, little daughter," he said, stroking and patting the small hand she had laid on his knee, "so it would be quite out of place for him to laugh at you for asking a sensible question. We should never be ashamed to ask for information that we need. It is much wiser than to remain in ignorance for fear of being laughed at." "And her father always gives information so kindly and patiently," remarked Violet. "And I think he knows '_most_ every thing," said Grace. "Oh, I did guess right! for here we are at Woodburn." They drove and walked about the grounds, admiring, criticising, planning improvements; then called on Miss Elliott, and, with her readily accorded permission, went over the house. Violet and the captain selected a suite of rooms for their own occupation, and he decided which the children should use. A bedroom opening from their own was selected for Grace, the adjoining room beyond for Lulu; and another, into which both these latter opened, they were told should be their own little sitting-room. Besides these, a tiny apartment in a tower, communicating with Lulu's bedroom, was given to her. The sitting-room opened into the hall also, so that it was not necessary to pass through one bedroom to reach the other. They were all bright, cheerful rooms, with a pleasant outlook from every window: in the sitting-room there were French windows opening upon a balcony. The little girls were almost speechless with delight when told by their father that these four apartments were to be appropriated solely to their use. Lulu caught his hand, and kissed it, tears of mingled joy and penitence springing to her eyes. He smiled down at her, and laid his other hand tenderly on her head for an instant. Then turning to Max, "Now, my boy," he said, "we must settle where you are to lodge. Have you any choice?" "Is it to be more than one room for me, papa?" he asked, with an arch smile. "I believe boys don't usually fare quite so well as girls in such things." "My boy does," returned his father: "you shall have two or three rooms if you want them, and quite as well furnished as those of your sisters." "Then, if you please, papa, I'll take those over Lu's, and thank you very much. But as you have already given me several things that my sisters haven't got,--a gun, a watch, and that splendid pony,--I think it would be quite fair that they should have better and prettier furniture in their rooms than I in mine." "That makes no difference, Max," his father answered with a pleased laugh. "I should hardly want the girls to have guns, but watches and ponies they shall have by the time they are as old as you are now." At that the two little girls, standing near, exchanged glances of delight. They had been unselfishly glad for Max, and now they rejoiced each for herself and for the other. Though, in common with all the rest, deeply interested in the new home, Max was not sorry when his father and Violet decided that it was time to return to Ion; for he was eager to show his pony to grandma Elsie, Zoe, and Rosie, who had not yet seen it. "Papa, do you require me to keep along-side of the carriage?" he asked, as he remounted. "No: if you wish, you may act as our _avant-courier_," was the smiling reply. "I quite understand that you are in haste to display your new treasure." "Yes, sir: that was why I asked. Thank you, sir;" and away the lad flew, urging his pony to a rapid gallop. He reached Ion some minutes in advance of the carriage, found nearly all of the family who had remained at home on the veranda, and greatly enjoyed their exclamations of surprise and admiration at sight of his steed. As he drew rein at the foot of the steps, and lifted his hat to the ladies, Zoe and Rosie came hurriedly forward to get a nearer view. The first exclaimed,-- "What a beautiful pony! Where did he come from, Max?" Rosie asking, "Whose is he?" "Mine; a present from papa," replied Max, sitting proudly erect, and patting the pony's neck; "but I don't know where he came from, aunt Zoe. You'll have to ask papa if you want to know." "You're in luck, Maxie," she said lightly. "Yes, indeed. I was born in luck when I was born my father's son." "Of course you were," she returned, laughing. "Where are the others? Oh, here they come!" as she caught sight of the captain's new carriage just turning in at the avenue-gates. Those who were in it were a gay and happy party, who, all the way as they came, had been discussing plans for making the new home more convenient, comfortable, and beautiful, and for the life they were to live in it. Woodburn was the principal theme of conversation in the evening also, the entire family being gathered together in the parlor, and no visitors present. "Tell us about your nursery, Vi," said her mother: "where is it to be?" "Next to our sleeping-room, mamma, on the other side from Gracie's: you may be sure we want our little ones near us." "But is it a pleasant room?" "None brighter or cheerier in the house, mamma; it is of good size too; and we mean to have it furnished with every comfort, and in a way to make it as attractive as possible." "Pleasantly suggestive pictures among other things?" "Yes, mamma. I know, from my own happy experience, that they have a great deal to do with educating a child." "In both morals and art?" said the captain, looking smilingly at her. "I should think so, judging from what my wife is; and surely, it is reasonable to expect a child to be, to some extent, a reflection of its surroundings; refined or vulgar, according to the style of faces--living or pictured--it is constantly gazing upon, etc. But, however that may be, we will try to keep upon the safe side, furnishing only what must have a good influence, so far as it has any at all." Lulu was there, sitting as close to her father as she could well get. She had a feeling that it was the only safe place for her. "Shall I have some pictures on my walls, papa?" she asked in a low aside. "Yes: we will go some day soon to the city, and choose some fine engravings for your rooms, Max's and Gracie's; furniture, too, carpets, curtains, and new paper for the walls." "Oh, but that will be delightful!" she exclaimed. "Papa, you are just too good and kind for any thing." Max, who was near at hand, had overheard. "That's so!" he said. "I suppose you mean that I am to go too, papa?" "Yes; Gracie also. My dear," to Violet, "when will it suit you to accompany us?--to-morrow?" "To-morrow is Saturday," she said reflectively. "Suppose we say Monday? I hope baby will be so much better by that time, that I shall feel easy in leaving her for a long day's shopping." "Very well," he said: "we will go Monday morning if nothing happens to prevent." "Lulu looks as if she did not know how to wait so long," Violet said, smiling kindly on the little girl. "Can't you take her and Max and Gracie to-morrow, and again on Monday? Surely, they can select some things for their own rooms, with you to help them." "No. I want your taste as well as my own and theirs, and Lulu must learn to wait: it is a lesson she needs," he added, looking down at her with grave kindliness, and pressing affectionately the hand she had slipped into his. She flushed, and cast down her eyes. "Yes, papa," she murmured, "I will try to be good and patient. I'm sure I ought to be when you are so very good to me." "Now, captain, if my taste and judgment were considered equal to Vi's, and Lulu might be spared that lesson," remarked Zoe laughingly, "I'd offer to go in her place,--Vi's, I mean. I think it would be great fun to help choose pictures, carpets, and furniture." "Thank you, Zoe; that is a kind offer," said Violet: "and if mamma thinks it an enjoyable errand, and will consent to supplement your taste and judgment with hers, they will be a good deal more than equal to mine," she concluded, with a smiling glance at her mother. "I am quite of Zoe's opinion as to the pleasantness of the object of the expedition, Vi," Elsie said, "and quite at the service of the captain and yourself, to go, or to take your place in watching over baby while you go; and I think you will find it necessary to spend more than one or two days in the work of selecting what you will want for the furnishing of your home." "I dare say you are right about that, mother," said the captain; "and as it seems to be the desire of all parties that the work should be begun to-morrow, I think I will take the children and as many of you ladies as may like to accompany us." "Papa, mayn't we drive to the city in the new carriage?" pleaded Lulu. "I'd like it ever so much better than going in the cars; and then we can drive from one store to another, without having to take the street-cars or a hack." "It shall be as the ladies who decide to go with us may wish," he said. "I think Lulu's plan a very good one," said grandma Elsie, kindly desirous to see the child gratified. "And I would greatly prefer it, if I should be one of the party," added Zoe. "As I trust you will," returned the captain gallantly. "Gracie, daughter, it is time little ones like you were in their nests. Bid good-night, and go." The child obeyed instantly and cheerfully. "And I must go back to my baby," Violet remarked, as she rose and left the room along with the little girl. "You may go to your room, Lulu," the captain said, in a quiet aside; "but you need not say good-night to me now: I shall step in to look at you before I go to mine." "Yes, papa," she returned, with a glad look, and followed Grace's example. "Max, what do you say to a promenade on the veranda with your father?" Capt. Raymond asked, with a smiling glance at his son. Max jumped up with alacrity. "That I'd like nothing better, sir," he said; and they went out together. "You are pleased with your pony, Max?" the captain said inquiringly, striking a match and lighting a cigar as he spoke. "Yes, indeed, papa!" was the enthusiastic reply. "I feel very rich owning him." "And mean to be a kind master to him, I trust?" "Yes, sir; oh, yes, indeed! I don't intend ever to speak a cross word to him, much less give him a blow." "He has always been used to kind treatment, I was told, and has nothing vicious in his disposition," the captain continued, puffing at his cigar, and pacing the veranda with measured tread, Max keeping close at his side: "so I think he will always give you satisfaction, if you are gentle and kind, never ill-treating him in any way." "I mean to make quite a pet of him, sir," Max said. Then, with an arch look up into his father's face,--a full moon making it light enough for each to see the other's countenance quite distinctly,--"Papa, you are very generous to me, but you never offer me a cigar." The captain stopped short in his walk, and faced his son with some sternness of look and tone. "Max, you haven't learned to smoke? tell me: have you ever smoked a cigar? or tobacco in any shape?" "Yes, sir; but"-- "Don't do it again: I utterly and positively forbid it." "Yes, sir: I'll obey; and, in fact, I have no desire to smoke again: it was just one cigar I tried; and it made me so deathly sick, that I've never wanted another. I wouldn't have done it, papa, if you had ever forbidden me; but--but you had never said any thing to me on the subject, and I'd seen"--Max hesitated, and left his sentence unfinished. "You had seen your father smoke, and naturally thought you might follow his example?" "Yes, sir." "Well, my son, I can hardly blame you for that; but there are some things a man may do with impunity, that a boy may not. Tobacco is said to be far more injurious to one who has not attained his growth, than to an adult. But it is not seldom injurious to the latter also: some seem to use it with no bad effect, but it has wrought horrible suffering for many. I am sorry I ever formed the habit, and I would save you from the same regret, or something worse: indeed, so anxious am I to do so, that I would much rather hand you a thousand dollars than a cigar, if I thought you would smoke it." "Papa, I promise you I will never try the thing again; never touch tobacco in any shape," Max said earnestly. "Thank you, my son; and I will give up the habit for your sake," returned his father, grasping the lad's hand with one of his, and, with the other, flinging his cigar far down the avenue. "Oh, no, papa! don't do it for my sake," said Max. "Cousin Arthur told me that when a man had smoked for years, it cost him a good deal of suffering to give it up; and I couldn't bear to see you suffer so. I'll refrain all the same, without your stopping." "I don't doubt that you would, my dear boy; and I fully appreciate the affection for me that prompts you to talk in that way," the captain said: "but I have set a bad example quite long enough, not to my own son alone, but to other people's; and whatever I may have to endure in breaking off from the bad habit, will be no more than I deserve for contracting it. I should be very sorry, Max, to have you feel that you have a coward for a father,--a man who would shrink from the course he felt to be right, rather than endure pain, mental or physical." "A coward! O papa! I could never think that of you!" cried the boy, flushing hotly; "and if ever any fellow should dare to hint such a thing in my hearing, I'd knock him down as quick as a flash." The corners of the captain's lips twitched; but his tones were grave enough as he said, "I don't want you to do any fighting on my account, Max; and if anybody slanders me, I shall try to live it down. "There is another thing I want to talk to you about," he went on presently, "and that is the danger of tampering with intoxicating drinks. The only safe plan is to let them entirely alone. I am thankful to be able to say that I have not set you a bad example in that direction. My good mother taught me to 'touch not, taste not, handle not;' and I have never taken so much as a glass of wine; though there have been times, my boy, when it required some moral courage to stand out against the persuasions, and especially the ridicule, of my companions." Max's eyes sparkled. "I know it must, papa," he said; "and when I am tried in the same way, I'll remember my father's example, and try to act as bravely as he did." CHAPTER XIX. "Train up a child in the way he should go."--PROV. xxii. 6. "Papa, I want to ask you for something," was Lulu's eager salutation, as, in accordance with his promise, he stepped into her room, on the way to his own, to bid her good-night. "Well, daughter," he said, sitting down, and drawing her into his arms, "there is scarcely any thing that gives me more pleasure than gratifying any reasonable request from you. What is it you want?" "Leave to invite Evelyn to go with us to-morrow, if you don't think it will make too many, papa." "I suppose it would add greatly to your enjoyment to have her with you," he said reflectively. "Yes, you may ask her; or I will do so, early in the morning, through the telephone, if the weather is such that we can go." "Thank you, you dear papa." she said, giving him a hug and kiss. "I ought to be a very good girl, for you are always so kind to me." She was up betimes the next morning, eagerly scanning the sky, which, to her great delight, gave every indication of fair weather for the day. She hastened to array herself in suitable attire for her trip to the city,--having consulted grandma Elsie on the subject the night before,--and had just finished when she heard her father's step in the hall. She ran to open the door. "Good-morning, little daughter," he said with a smile, and stooping to give her a caress. "I have just been to the telephone. Evelyn will go with us, and I trust you will both enjoy your day." "Oh, I know I shall!" she cried: "it will be just delightful! Are we all to go in the carriage, papa?" "All but Max: he prefers to ride his pony." "I should think he would. I'm so glad you gave it to him, papa!" There was not a trace of envy or jealousy in her look or tone. "Wouldn't you like to have one?" he asked. "Oh, yes, indeed, papa! but," hanging her head, and blushing deeply, "I don't deserve it." "I intend to give you one as soon as you have learned to have patience under provocation, so that I shall be able to trust you to treat him kindly," he said. "How soon do you think that will be?" "I don't know, papa. It will be a good while before I can feel at all sure of myself," she answered humbly. "I hope it will," he said; then, as she looked up in surprise, "The apostle says, 'When I am weak, then am I strong.' When we feel our own weakness, and look to God for help, then we are strong with a strength far greater than our own; but when we grow self-confident, and trust in our own strength, we are very apt to find it but weakness. "And now I must caution you to be on your guard to-day against any exhibition of self-will and ill temper, if your wishes are overruled by those older and wiser than yourself." "Why, papa, am I not to be allowed to choose the things for my own rooms?" she asked, in a tone of deep disappointment. "I intend that your taste shall be consulted, my child," he said; "but I cannot promise that you shall have, in every case, exactly what you most prefer. You might select carpets, curtains, and upholstery of material and colors that would wear poorly, or fade very soon. Therefore we must take grandma Elsie into our counsels, and get her help in deciding what to take; for I am sure you would like neither to have your rooms disfigured with faded, worn-out furnishings, or to put your father to the expense of refurnishing for you very soon." "Oh, no, papa! No, indeed," she said. "Besides," he went on, "don't you wish to consult _my_ taste too? Would you not have your rooms pleasing to my eyes when I pay a visit to them, as I shall every day?" "Oh, yes, papa! Yes, indeed! I think I shall care more for that than to have them look pretty to myself," she answered, with a look of eager delight, the cloud having entirely cleared from her brow. "Then, I think we are not likely to have any trouble," he said, smoothing her hair caressingly, and smiling approvingly upon her. "Now we will go down to breakfast, and we are to set out very soon after the meal is over." He rose, and took her hand in his, to lead her down to the breakfast-room. "Papa," she said, looking up at him with eyes shining with filial love, "how kind you were to reason with me in that nice way, instead of saying sternly, as you might have done, 'Now, Lulu, if you are naughty about the choice of things for furnishing your rooms, you sha'n't have any thing pretty for them, and when we get home I'll punish you severely!'" "Certainly, I might have done that, and probably with the effect of securing your good behavior," he said; "but I think neither of us would have felt quite so happy as we do now." "I am sure I should not," she said, lifting his hand to her lips. That little talk had a most happy effect upon Lulu, so that throughout the entire day she showed herself as docile and amiable as any one could have desired. Her father, on his part, was extremely indulgent toward all three of his children, in every case in which he felt that it was right and wise to be so, sparing no reasonable expense to gratify their tastes and wishes. But in several matters they yielded readily to his or grandma Elsie's better judgment; indeed, always, when asked to do so, seeming, too, well satisfied with the final decision. They returned home, a very happy set of children, except, in Lulu's case, when memory recalled the passionate outburst of the early part of the week with its dire consequences: that remembrance would be a sore spot in her heart, and a bitter humiliation, for many a day, probably for the rest of her life. Rosie was on the veranda awaiting their arrival. "Well, have you had a good time, and bought great quantities of pretty things?" she asked, addressing the company in general. It was Zoe who answered first. "Yes: if these young Raymonds are not satisfied with the furnishing of their apartments, I, for one, shall deem them the most unreasonable and ungrateful of human kind." "She won't have a chance to, though," said Max; "for we're delighted with every thing papa has got us. Aren't we, Lu and Gracie?" "Yes, indeed!" they both replied. "Oh, we have ever so many beautiful things! Papa and grandma Elsie helped us to choose them; so, of course, they are all just right," added Lulu, looking gratefully from one to the other. "She takes no account of _my_ very valuable assistance," laughed Zoe. "Never mind: you are sure to be appreciated in one quarter," said Edward, coming up at that moment, catching her round the waist, and bestowing a hearty kiss upon each cheek. "I have been lost without my wife all day." "How good of you!" she returned merrily. "I doubt if it isn't a very good plan to run away occasionally, that I may be the more highly appreciated on my return." "Would you advise me to do likewise, and for the same reason, lady mine?" he asked, drawing her caressingly aside from the little group now busily occupied in telling and hearing about the day's purchases. "No, sir," she said, tossing back her curls, and looking up into his face with a bewitchingly saucy smile: "you'd better not attempt it, lest there should be mutiny in the camp. When you go, I go too." "Turn about, fair play," he said, knitting his brows. "I claim the privilege of being quite as independent as you are--when you can't plead delegated authority from the doctor;" and, drawing her hand within his arm, he led her away to their private apartments. Violet, hurrying down to welcome her husband home, passed them on the stairway. "You two happy children!" she said, glancing smilingly back at them. "Children!" echoed Edward. "Mrs. Raymond, how can you be so disrespectful to your elder brother?--your senior by some two years." "Ah! but your united ages are much less than Levis's and mine; and husband and wife make but one, don't they?" she returned gayly, as she tripped away. Baby was almost herself again, and the young mother's heart was full of gladness. She joined the group on the veranda, her husband receiving her with a glad smile and tender caress, and standing by his side, her hand on his shoulder, his arm half supporting her slight, girlish form, listened with lively interest to the story his children were telling so eagerly, of papa's kindness and generosity to them, and the many lovely things bought to make beautiful and attractive the rooms in the new home that were to be especially theirs. He let them talk without restraint for some moments, then said pleasantly, "Now, my dears, it is time for you to go and make yourselves neat for the tea-table. Any thing more you think of that would be likely to interest Rosie and Walter, you can tell them afterwards." The order was obeyed promptly and cheerfully, even by Lulu. When the excitement of telling about their purchases, and all the day's experiences, was over, the children found themselves very weary,--the two little girls at least: Max wouldn't acknowledge that he was at all fatigued, but was quite willing to comply with his father's suggestion that it would be wise for him, as well as for his sisters, to go early to bed. While Lulu was making ready for hers, her thoughts turned upon the morrow, bringing with them a new source of disquiet. "Papa," she said pleadingly, when he came in to bid her good-night, "mayn't I stay at home to-morrow?" "Stay at home from church? Not unless you are sick, or the weather quite too bad for you to go out. Why should you wish it?" "Because--because--I--I'm afraid people have heard about--about how bad I was the other day; and--so I--I can't bear to go where I'll--be seen by strangers. No, I mean by folks out of the house that know who I am, and what happened the other day." "My child, I am sorry for you," he said, taking her on his knee; "but it is a part of the punishment you have brought upon yourself, and will have to bear." "But let me stay at home to-morrow, won't you?" "No: it is a duty to go to church, as well as a privilege to be allowed to do so. "'Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is,' the Bible says; so I cannot allow you to absent yourself from the services of the sanctuary when you are able to attend. "As I have told you before, I must obey the directions I find in God's Word, and, as far as lies in my power, see that my children obey them too." "I'd rather take a whipping than go to-morrow," she muttered, half under her breath. "I hope you are not going to be so naughty that you will have to do both," he said very gravely. "You have been a very good girl to-day, and I want you to end it as such." "I mean to, papa; I'd be ashamed to be naughty after all you have done for me, and given me to-day: and I mean to be pleasant about going to church to-morrow; though it'll be ever so hard, and I'm sure you wouldn't want to go if you were me." "If you were I," he corrected. "No: if I were you, I suppose I should feel just as you do; but the question is not what we want to do, but what God bids us do. "Jesus said, 'If ye love me, keep my commandments.' 'He that hath my commandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me.' "It is the dearest wish of my heart to see my children his followers, showing their love to him by an earnest endeavor to keep all his commandments." "Papa, you always want to do right, don't you?" she asked. "I mean, you like it; and so it's never hard for you as it is for me?" "No, daughter, it is sometimes very far from being easy and pleasant for me to do what I feel to be my duty; for instance, when it is to inflict pain upon you, or another of my dear children, or deny you some indulgence that you crave. I should like to grant your request of to-night, if I could feel that it would be right; but I cannot, and therefore must deny it." Lulu acquiesced in the decision with a deep sigh, and half hoped that something--a storm, or even a fit of sickness--might come to prevent her from having to go to church. But Sunday morning was as bright and clear as the one before it, and she in perfect health; so there was no escape from the dreaded ordeal. She ventured upon no further entreaty, knowing it would be altogether useless, and quite as much from love to her father, and a real desire to please him, as from fear of punishment, behaved herself as well as possible. But she kept as entirely in the background as she could, not looking at or speaking to any one unless directly addressed. No one, however, gave her any reason to suppose her agency in the baby's accident was known; and she returned to Ion with a lighter heart than she had carried with her when she went. She had not seen the baby yet, since its fall, and though longing to do so, having an ardent affection for the winsome little creature, did not dare to ask that she might. But as she was about to go into her own room, on reaching home, her father said, "Would you like to go with me to the nursery, Lulu, and see your little sister?" "Oh, so much, papa, if I may!" she cried eagerly. "But," half drawing back, "perhaps she--will be afraid of me." "I trust not," he said, with emotion. "I hope she does not know that you had any thing to do with her fall. Come and see." He took her hand, and led her to the nursery. The baby was awake, sitting in its nurse's lap, and looking bright, but so much thinner and paler than before her fall, that tears sprang to Lulu's eyes, and she could scarce refrain from sobbing aloud. But the little one, catching sight of her, held out its arms, with a joyful cry, "Lu!" At that, Lulu's tears fell fast. "May I take her, papa?" she asked sobbingly, and with an entreating look up into his face. "I won't hurt her, I wouldn't for all the world!" "You may take her," he said, his tones a trifle tremulous: "I am quite sure you would never hurt her intentionally." Lulu gladly availed herself of the permission, took the baby in her arms, and sat down with it on her lap. "Lu, Lu!" the little one repeated in her sweet baby voice; and Lulu hugged her close, kissing her again and again, and saying softly, "You dear, sweet darling; sister loves you, indeed, indeed she does!" The captain looked on, his heart swelling with joy and thankfulness over the evident mutual affection of the two; for there had been a time when he feared Lulu would never love the child of her step-mother as she did Max and Grace. Violet entered the room at that moment, and the little scene caused her eyes to fill with tears of gladness. She was ready for the shopping expedition the next day: the children were allowed to go too, and again had a most enjoyable time. After that they were told lessons must be taken up again: and Lulu passed most of her time in her own room, generally engaged in preparing her tasks for her father to hear in the evening; for he was now so busy with the improvements being carried forward at Woodburn, that very often he could not attend to her recitations till after tea. She continued to think him the kindest and most interesting teacher she had ever had; while he found, to his surprise, that he had a liking for the occupation, aside from his fatherly interest in his pupil: and Max and Grace, listening to Lulu's report, grew anxious for the time when they could share her privileges. But their waiting-time would not be very long. As soon as Miss Elliott's stipulated two weeks had expired, she would leave Woodburn, and they would take possession immediately. Their father and his young wife were quite as eager as they to begin the new order of things. CHAPTER XX. IN THE NEW HOME. The moving to Woodburn was not a formidable affair, there being little to carry from Ion besides the personal belongings of parents and children; and, indeed, nearly every thing, even of that kind, had been sent over beforehand. Miss Elliott went one morning; and the Raymonds drove over scarcely an hour later, to find the greater part of the house in perfect order, a full staff of competent servants, and an excellent dinner in course of preparation. Max and his sisters had been directed to stay away from the place ever since the day when their rooms were assigned them, and now a glad surprise awaited them. "Come up-stairs," their father said, when they had made the circuit of the lower rooms. "My dear," to Violet, "will you please come too?" "With all my heart," she returned gayly, and tripped lightly after him up the broad stairway, the children following. He led them first to her apartments, and on through them into those of the little girls, greatly enjoying the exclamations of wonder and delight from her and the children. They had all supposed the work of renovation and improvement was not to be begun till after the departure of Miss Elliott; but they found it not only begun, but finished; the new papers they had chosen were already on the walls, the carpets down, the curtains up, mirrors and pictures hung, and furniture in place. Max's rooms, visited last, were found to be in like condition,--not at all inferior to those of his sisters in any respect. Violet was greatly pleased; the children were wild with delight; every thing was so dainty and fresh, there was such an air of elegance and refinement about the appointments of each room, that all were charmed with the effect. They were hardly yet satisfied with gazing and commenting, when the summons to dinner came. They trooped down to the dining-room, the captain and Violet leading the way, and seated themselves at the table. Here, too, all was new and handsome; the napery, china, glass and silver ware, such as would not have suffered by comparison with what they had been accustomed to at Ion and Viamede. Lulu was beginning to express that opinion, when her father silenced her by a gesture. All quieted down at once, while he reverently gave thanks for their food, and asked God's blessing upon it. "May I talk now, papa?" she asked, a moment after he had finished. "Yes, if you have any thing to say worth our hearing." "I'm not sure about that," she said; "but I wanted to tell you how beautiful I think the china and glass and silver are." "Ah!" he said, smiling, "I am glad they meet your approval." "O papa! such a nice, _nice_ home as you have made for us!" exclaimed Grace in her turn. "Isn't it, Maxie?" turning to her brother. "Yes, indeed! and we'll have to be nice, nice children to fit the home, won't we, Gracie?" "Yes, and to fit papa and mamma," she responded, sending a merry glance from one to the other. Both smiled upon her in return. "We are going to have a house-warming this evening, Gracie," said her father: "do you know what that is?" "No, papa; but I think it's very nice and warm now in all the rooms. Don't you?" "It is quite comfortable, I think; but the house-warming will be an assembling of our relatives and friends to celebrate our coming into it, by having a pleasant, social time with us." "Oh, that will be nice!" she exclaimed. "How many are coming, papa? I s'pose you've 'vited grandma Elsie and all the rest of the folks from Ion, and all the folks at Fairview?" "Yes, and from the Oaks, the Pines, the Laurels, Roselands, and Ashlands; and we hope they will all come." She gave him a wistful look. "Well," he said with a smile, "what is it?" "Papa, you know I 'most always have to go to bed at eight o'clock. I'd like ever so much to stay up till nine to-night, if you are willing." "If you will take a nap after dinner, you may," he replied in an indulgent tone. "Max and Lulu may stay up later than usual if they will do likewise." They all accepted the condition with thanks, and at the conclusion of the meal retired to their respective rooms to fulfil it. Violet also, having not yet entirely recovered from the ill effects of anxiety and nursing, consequent upon the baby's injury, retired to her apartments to rest and sleep. Capt. Raymond went to the library to busy himself with some correspondence first, afterwards with books and papers. He had one of these last in his hand, a pile of them on the table before him, when, from the open doorway into the hall, Lulu's voice asked,-- "Papa, may I come in? are you very busy?" "Not too busy to be glad of my little girl's company," he said, glancing up from his paper with a pleasant smile. "Come and sit on my knee." She availed herself of the invitation with joyful haste. "I thought you were taking a nap," he remarked, as he put his arm round her, and kissed the ruby lips she held up in mute request. "So I was, papa; but you didn't intend me to sleep all the afternoon, did you?" she asked, with a gleeful laugh, and nestling closer to him. "No, hardly," he returned, joining in her mirth: "so much sleep in the daytime would be apt to interfere with your night's rest. I want you all to have sufficient sleep in the twenty-four hours to keep you in health of body and mind, but should be very sorry to have you become sluggards,--so fond of your beds as to waste time in drowsing there, that should be spent in the exercise and training of body or mind. What have you been doing besides napping?" "Enjoying my lovely, lovely rooms, papa, and examining the closets and wardrobe and bureau, to find out just where all my things have been put." "That was well. Do you know any thing about housework,--sweeping, dusting, and keeping things neat and tidy?" "Not very much, papa." "That is to be a part of your education," he said. "I want my daughters to become thorough housekeepers, conversant with all the details of every branch of the business. Gracie is not old enough or strong enough to begin that part of her training yet, but you are; so you must take care of your rooms yourself, except when something more than sweeping, dusting, and bed-making is needed." "I'd like well enough to do it sometimes, papa," she said, looking a little crestfallen; "but I don't like to be tied down to doing it every day, because some days I shall want to be busy at something else; and besides, it is so much like being a servant." "My little girl, that isn't a right kind of pride; honest labor is no disgrace; and 'Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work,' is as much a command of God as the 'In it (the sabbath) thou shalt not do any work.'" "Yes, papa: and I don't think I'm lazy; I like to be busy, and sometimes work for hours together at my fret-sawing." "No, I have never thought you an indolent child," he said, smoothing her hair caressingly; "but I am afraid you are wilful, and inclined to think yourself wiser than your elders, even your father." "Please, papa, don't think that," she said, blushing, and hanging her head: "I know you are much wiser than I am." "Is it, then, that you doubt my affection for you?" he asked seriously. "Why, papa, how could I, when you are so good to me, and often tell me that you love me dearly?" "What, then, is the trouble? if you believe your father to be both wise and loving, and if you love him, and want to please him, how can you object to his plans and wishes for you?" "But, papa, who is to teach me how to take care of my rooms? Not mamma Vi, I suppose? I never saw her do any such work; and--would you want me taught by one of the servants?" she queried, blushing vividly. "No," he said: "I have a better plan than that. I have engaged Christine to be housekeeper here, and she will instruct you in all housewifely arts. She is a lady in education and manners, and you need feel it no degradation to be instructed by her." "Oh, that will be nice! and I'll try to learn to do the work well, and to like it, too, to please you, my own, dear papa," she said, looking up lovingly into his face, her own growing very bright again. "That is right, my dear little daughter," he returned, smiling kindly upon her. "You asked just now," he went on, "if your mamma Vi would teach you these things. When I asked her to become my wife, I promised that she should have no care or responsibility in the matter of training and looking after the welfare of the three children I then had; because her mother objected, that she was too young for such a burden: so now that I can live at home with my children, and have no business that need interfere, I shall do my best to be father and mother both to them." "How nice, papa!" she exclaimed joyfully. "Oh, I do think we ought to be the happiest children in the world, with such a dear, kind father, and such a lovely home! But"--her face clouded, and she sighed deeply. "But what, my child?" "I was thinking of that dreadful temper that is always getting the better of me. But you will help me to conquer it, papa?" she added, half inquiringly, half in assertion. "I fully intend to do all in my power to that end," he said in a tender tone; "but, my beloved child, the hardest part of the battle must inevitably be your own. You must watch and pray against that, your besetting sin, never allowing yourself to be a moment off your guard." "I mean to, papa; and you will watch me, and warn me when you see that I am forgetting?" "I shall be constantly endeavoring to do so," he answered,--"trying to guard and guide all my children, looking carefully after their welfare, physical, mental, moral, and spiritual. "To that end, I have just been examining some of the reading-matter which has been provided for them in my absence; and, so far as I have made myself acquainted with it, I decidedly approve it, as I expected I should; having all confidence in those who chose it for you,--grandpa Dinsmore and grandma Elsie. "This little paper, 'The Youth's Companion,' strikes me as very entertaining and instructive, also of excellent moral tone. Do you like it?" "Oh, yes, indeed, papa! we are all very fond of it, and find a great deal of useful information in it. I wouldn't be without it for a great deal, nor Max wouldn't either; and Gracie likes the part for the little folks ever so much." "Then, we will continue to take it," he said; "also this magazine, 'St. Nicholas,' if you like it, as I can hardly doubt that you do." "Indeed we do!" she exclaimed: "we wouldn't any of us like to do without that, either. Oh, I am glad you will let us go on with both that and the paper! "Papa, where is the schoolroom? You haven't shown us that yet." "No; and here come Max and Gracie," he said, as the two came hurrying in together. "I will show it to you now." "What, papa?" asked Max. "Oh! is there something more to see?" exclaimed Grace, running to her father, and putting her hand in his. "Oh, it's ever so nice to have such a beautiful home, and so many beautiful new things to look at!" "It is only your schoolroom this time," her father said, closing his fingers lovingly over the little hand, and smiling down into the sweet blue eyes upraised so gratefully to his. "Oh, yes, I want to see that! I'd 'most forgotten 'bout it," she said, skipping along by his side as he led the way, Max and Lulu following. The room he had selected for the purpose was in a wing attached to the main building at the end farthest removed from Violet's apartments; for he did not want her to be disturbed by any noise the children might make, or them to feel constrained to keep very quiet when not engaged in study or recitation. There was a simultaneous burst of delight from the three, as he threw open the door, and ushered them in. Every thing had been done to render that as attractive as any other part of the mansion: the windows reached almost from floor to ceiling, some opening on to the veranda, one looking directly out upon lawn and flower-garden, with a glimpse of the wood and the brook beyond; a handsome rug covered the centre of the stained and polished floor. In an open fireplace a bright wood fire was blazing, an easy-chair on each side of it; and a sofa on the farther side of the room seemed to invite to repose: but the handsome writing-table, and three pretty rosewood desks, were suggestive of work to be done ere the occupants of the room might feel entitled to rest. The walls were tinted a delicate gray, an excellent background for the pictures that adorned them here and there: most of these were marine views,--that over the fireplace, a very large and fine one, of a storm at sea. On the mantel-shelf were heaped sea-mosses, shells, and coral; but the tiles below it represented Scripture scenes. Blinds and curtains shaded the windows; and the broad, low sills were cushioned, making pleasant places to sit in. "It will be just a pleasure to study in such a place as this," cried Max, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and smiling all over his face. "Indeed it will! especially with such a teacher as we are to have," chimed in Lulu. "Oh, I'm just in ever such a hurry to begin!" said Grace. "Papa, which is my desk?" "They are exactly alike," he said. "I thought of having yours made a trifle lower than the others, but concluded to give you a foot-rest instead, as you will soon grow tall enough to want it the height it now is. Max and Lulu, shall we give your little sister the first choice, as she is the youngest?" "Yes, indeed, papa! yes, indeed!" they both answered with hearty good will, Max adding, "And Lu must have the next, if you please, papa." That matter being speedily settled, the next question was when school was to begin. They were all three asking it. "You may have your choice--we will put it to vote--whether we will begin to-morrow morning, or not till Monday," replied their father; "to-morrow, you will remember, is Thursday: we will begin school regularly at nine o'clock each morning; and it is to last four hours, not including five or ten minutes at the end of every hour for rest." "That'll be ever so nice!" was Lulu's comment. "That's so," said Max. "I see you are not going to be hard on a fellow, papa." "Wait till you are sure," said his father: "there's to be no idling, no half attention to study, in those hours; you are to give your whole minds to your lessons, and I shall be very strict in exacting perfect recitations." "Do you mean, sir, that we are to repeat the answers in the book, word for word?" "No, not at all. I shall very much prefer to have you give the sense in your own words: then I shall know that you understand the meaning of the text, and are not repeating sounds merely like a parrot; that you have not been going over the words without trying to take in the ideas they are meant to express." "But suppose we can't catch the writer's meaning?" "If you fail to do so, after giving your best efforts to the task, your teacher will always be ready to explain to the best of his ability," was the smiling rejoinder. "But remember, all of you, that I intend you to use your own brains with as little assistance from other people's as possible. Mind as well as body grows strong by exercise." "But we haven't decided when we are to begin," said Lulu. "I vote for to-morrow," said Max: "afternoons will give us time enough to do any thing else we want to." "Yes: I second the motion," she said. "And I third it," added Grace. "Now, papa, you are laughing at me, and so is Max. Wasn't that the right way to say it?" "It was 'most as right as Lu's," said Max. "And both will do well enough," said their father. "I was going to ask if I might have Eva here to visit me to-morrow, papa," said Lulu; "but she'll be busy with lessons in the morning too. May I ask her to come in the afternoon?" "Yes: you can ask her this evening; she will be here with the rest. "Now I have something else to show you. Come with me." He took Gracie's hand again, and led them to a small, detached building, only a few yards distant,--a one-story frame, so prettily designed that it was quite an ornament to the grounds. The children exclaimed in surprise; for, though it had been there on their former visit to Woodburn, it was so greatly changed that they failed to recognize it. "It wasn't here before, papa, was it?" asked Grace. "I'm sure I didn't see it." "Yes, it was here," he said, as he ushered them in, "but I have had it altered and fitted up expressly for my children's use: you see, it is a little away from the house, so that the noise of saws and hammers will not be likely to prove an annoyance to your mamma and visitors. See, this is a workroom furnished with fret and scroll saws, and every sort of tool that I know of which would be likely to prove useful to you, Max and Lulu." "Papa, thank you! how good and kind you are to us!" they both exclaimed, glancing about them, then up into his face, with sparkling eyes. "You must have spent a great deal of money on us, sir," added Max thoughtfully. "Yes, indeed," chimed in Lulu with a slight look of uneasiness. "Papa, I do hope you won't have to go without any thing you want, because you've used up so much on these and other things for us." "No, my dears; and if you are only good and obedient, and make the best use of what I have provided, I shall never regret any thing of what I have done for you. "See here, Gracie." He opened an inner door as he spoke, and showed a playroom as completely fitted up for its intended use as the room they were in. It was about the same size as the workroom, the two occupying the whole of the small building. A pretty carpet covered the floor, a few pictures hung on the delicately tinted walls; there were chairs and a sofa of suitable size for the comfort of the intended occupants, and smaller ones on which Gracie's numerous dolls were seated; a cupboard with glass doors showed sets of toy china dishes, and all the accessories for dinner and tea table; there were also a bureau, wash-stand, and table corresponding in size with the rest of the furniture; and the captain, pulling open the drawers of the first named, showed them well stocked with material of various kinds, suitable for making into new garments for the dolls, and with all the necessary implements,--needles, thread, thimbles, scissors, etc. The two little girls were almost breathless with astonishment and delight. "Papa!" cried Gracie, "you haven't left one single thing for Santa Claus to bring us on Christmas!" "Haven't I?" he returned, laughing, and pinching her round, rosy cheek. "Ah, well wouldn't you as soon have them as presents from your own papa?" "Oh, yes, papa! I know he's just pretend, and it would be you or some of the folks that love me," she said, laying her cheek against his hand; "but I like to pretend it, 'cause it's such fun." "There are a good many weeks yet to Christmas-time," remarked Lulu; "and perhaps our Santa Claus folks will think up something else for you, Gracie." "Perhaps they may," said the captain, "if she is good: good children are not apt to be forgotten or neglected, and I hope mine are all going to be such." "I'm quite sure we all intend to try hard, papa," Max said, "not hoping to gain more presents by it, but because you've been so good to us already." "Indeed we do!" added his sisters. CHAPTER XXI. "Then all was jollity, Feasting and mirth, light wantonness and laughter." "It seems nice and warm here," remarked Lulu; "but," glancing about, "I don't see any fire." Her father pointed to a register. "There is a cellar underneath, and a furnace in it," he said. "I thought that the safest way to heat these rooms for the use of very little people. I do not want to expose you to any danger of setting yourselves on fire." "It's getting a little dark," remarked Grace. "Yes," he said. "We will go in now. It is time for you to be dressed for the evening." "Papa, who is to tell us what to wear,--you, or mamma Vi?" asked Lulu, as they pursued their way back to the house. "You may wear your cream-colored cashmere with the cherry trimmings; Gracie, hers with the blue," he replied. "That's just what I wanted you to say, papa! I like those dresses," remarked Lulu with satisfaction. "That is well: and Gracie, of course, is pleased; for she never objects to any thing papa or mamma wishes her to do," he said, with a loving glance down into the little girl's face. "'Course not, papa; 'cause I know you and mamma always know best," she said, her blue eyes smiling up into his. "And I mean to try to be like her in that, papa," Lulu said with unwonted humility. "I hope so: I have no fault to find with your behavior of late," he returned kindly. They passed into the house, and in the hall met Christine and Alma. "Ah! you have come, my good girls?" the captain said to them with a pleased look. "Jane," to the girl who had admitted them, "show them to their rooms." Christine had come to assume her duties as housekeeper at Woodburn; Alma was to make her home there while still continuing to sew for the families at Ion and Fairview--an arrangement which suited the sisters admirably. "Thanks, sir: it ees one grand place you haf here," said Christine. "We shall be very pleased to haf so nice a home." "I hope it will prove a happy one to you both," he returned kindly. Then, as they followed Jane to the rear of the mansion,-- "Now, children," he said, "make haste with your dressing." "Yes, sir," they replied, hurrying up the broad stairway with willing feet. At its head they met Agnes, their mamma's maid. "I'se to help yo' dress, Miss Lu and Miss Gracie," she said. "Miss Wi'let tole me so, and I'se laid out yo' things on yo' beds." "What things? What dress for me?" asked Lulu sharply. "De cream-colored cashmere, what Miss Wi'let corrected me to." Lulu laughed. "Directed, you mean, Agnes. You may tie my sash when I'm ready. I can do all the rest myself," she said, passing on into her bedroom, while Grace skipped gayly into hers. "Mamma's very good to send you, Agnes," she said; "and you may please dress me as fast as you can, 'cause papa told us to make haste." Grace was a favorite with Agnes as with all the servants at Ion. "Ya'as, I'll dress yo' up fine, Miss Gracie, and make yo' look putty as a pink," she said, beginning her task. "Lots ob folks comin' to-night, honey, and grand doin's gwine on in de kitchen and de dinin'-room. Dere's a long table sot out in de bigges' dinin'-room, and heaps and heaps ob splendiferous china dishes, wid fruits and flowahs painted onto 'em, and silverware bright as de sun, and glass dishes dat sparkle like Miss Elsie's di'mon's; and in de kitchen dey's cookin' turkeys and chickens, and wild game ob warious kinds, and oysters in warious styles; 'sides all de pastry and cakes and fruits and ices, and--oh, I cayn't begin to tell yo' all de good things the captain has perwided! dere wasn't never nuffin' grander at Ion or Wiamede or de Oaks, or any ob de grand places belongin' to our fam'lies." Grace was a highly interested listener. "Oh," she said, "I want to see the table when it's all set and the good things on it! I wonder if papa will let me eat any of them." "Maybe," said Agnes; "but you know, Miss Grace, yo's sickly,--leastways, not bery strong,--and de doctah doan' let you eat rich things." "No," returned the little girl, sighing slightly, "but I do have a good many nice things; and I'd rather eat plain victuals than be weak and sick. Wouldn't you, Agnes?" "Yaas, I reckon. Dere, you's done finished, Miss Gracie, and looks sweet as a rosebud." "So she does," said Lulu, coming hurrying in from her room, arrayed in her pretty cashmere, and with a wide, rich sash-ribbon in her hand. "Now, Agnes, if you will please tie my sash, I'll be 'done finished' too." "O Lu!" exclaimed Grace in loving admiration, "I'm sure you must look twice as sweet and pretty as I do." Their father opened the door, and stepped in just in time to hear her words, and, glancing smilingly from one to the other, said, "To papa's eyes, both his dear little girls look sweet and lovable. Agnes, their appearance does you credit. Now, my darlings, we will go down to tea, for there is the bell." "Have the folks come, papa?" asked Grace, putting her hand into his. "No, daughter: they will probably not begin to come for an hour or so." "Then, are we going to have two suppers?" "Yes, one for ourselves--the children especially--at the usual hour, and a later one for the company. That last will be too late, and too heavy, for your weak digestion." "But not for Max's and mine, will it, papa?" questioned Lulu. "Yes, I fear so." "But we are strong and healthy." "And I wish to keep you so," he said pleasantly; "but you may rest assured that I shall not deny you any enjoyment I think it safe to grant you. Now sit down and be quiet till the blessing has been asked,"--for they had reached the dining-room, and found Violet and Max there waiting for them. Lulu had overheard a good deal of the glowing account of the coming feast to which Agnes had treated Grace, and, when at liberty to speak again, asked, in a rather discontented tone, if she and Max were not to have any share in the good supper being prepared for the expected guests. Instead of answering directly, the captain turned to his son, and asked, "Max, what do you think of this supper?" "It's good enough for a king, sir," returned the lad heartily, glancing over the table as he spoke,--"the nicest of bread and butter, plenty of rich milk and cream, canned peaches and plums, and splendid gingerbread. Why, Lu, what more could you ask?" Lulu only blushed and hung her head in reply. "I think it is a meal to be thankful for," remarked Violet cheerily; "but, my dear, you will let them share in some of the lighter refreshments provided for the guests, won't you?" "Yes, I intend they shall," replied her husband. "Even Gracie can, I think, eat some ice-cream with safety." "Thank you, papa: I'll be satisfied with that, if you don't think it is best for me to have any thing else," Lulu said, recovering her spirits. They had scarcely left the table when the guests began to arrive, those from Ion and Fairview coming first. "Mamma, dearest mamma! welcome, a thousand times welcome, to our home!" exclaimed Violet, embracing her mother with ardent affection. "I wish it were yours also, mother," the captain said: "there could be no more welcome inmate." There were cordial, affectionate greetings for each of the others also: then, when outdoor garments had been laid aside, all were conducted over the house, to be shown the improvements already made, and told of those still in contemplation. It was a great delight to Lulu and Grace to exhibit their pretty rooms to Evelyn and Rosie, and hear their expressions of surprise and admiration; and the pleasure was repeated several times, as the little folks from the Laurels, the Oaks, and the Pines arrived, and in succession went the same round. "I am pleased with all I have seen, Vi; but this room is especially charming to me," grandma Elsie said, when Violet led her a second time into the nursery, the rest of the Ion party having passed on down to the parlors. "Baby should be a merry, happy child, if pleasant, cheerful surroundings can make her so." "I trust she will, mamma," returned the young mother, leading the way to the dainty crib where the little one lay sweetly sleeping. Elsie bent over the little form, gazing at the sweet baby face with eyes brimful of motherly love and tenderness. "The lovely, precious darling!" she murmured softly. "I am so rejoiced, so thankful, to see her looking almost herself again!" "As we are," said Violet, in low, tremulous tones. "Her father is extremely fond of her, mamma, as he is of all his children. I think he has no favorite among them, but loves each one devotedly." "As I do mine," Elsie responded, a bright, sweet smile lighting up her face. "I love you, my Vi, and all your brothers and sisters, very dearly,--each with a love differing somewhat in kind from that given to the others, but not at all in intensity." They lingered a moment longer, watching the young sleeper: then with a parting injunction to the nurse to be very careful of her, not leaving her alone for an instant, they went down-stairs again, and rejoined the rest of the company. Everybody had come, the last party of children just descended from the inspection of the rooms of Max and his sisters. "Now, have we seen positively every thing?" asked Rosie Travilla. "Why, no!" cried Max, as with sudden recollection. Then hurrying to his father, who was talking on the other side of the room to Dr. Conly, and Mr. Horace Dinsmore of the Oaks, he stood waiting respectfully for an opportunity to speak. The gentlemen paused in their conversations and the captain asked, "What is it, my son?" "We haven't shown the workroom or the playroom, papa." "Ah, sure enough! We must have them lighted first. Send Scipio out to put a lamp in each. Then the ladies' wraps will have to be brought down, for they would be in danger of taking cold going even that short distance without." "I'll attend to it all, sir," Max rejoined with cheerful alacrity, and hastened away to do so. In a few minutes all was in readiness. Max, announcing the fact to his father, and the company in general, said dubiously, "I'm afraid we can't go all at once: the rooms aren't big enough to take in so many." "So we will go in divisions," said Mr. Dinsmore. "There are thirty of us--not counting the Woodburn family proper: we will make five divisions, six in each, in addition to the guide and exhibiter. Does everybody consent?" "Yes, yes," was heard on every side. Then ensued a merry time forming the divisions, and deciding the order of precedence; for every one was in mirthful mood. It was all settled at last. The visits of inspection were made: everybody agreed in praising all they saw, and congratulating Max and his sisters on the good fortune that had befallen them. The rest of the evening passed off very pleasantly. The feast was enjoyed, every dish being pronounced a success: the Woodburn children were satisfied with the share of it allowed them,--all the more, perhaps, that a like care was exercised by the parents and guardians of the other young folks in respect to their indulgence of appetite. Grace bade good-night, and went to her nest at nine o'clock, a cheerful, happy child; but, as the party broke up at ten, Max and Lulu were allowed to remain up to see them off. Lulu had taken an early opportunity to give the invitation for the next day to Evelyn, and it was joyfully accepted, "uncle Lester" giving ready permission. "You'll come as soon as lessons are over at Ion, won't you?" asked Lulu in parting. "Yes, you may be sure I'll come the first minute I can," Eva answered gayly. "I expect to have a lovely time with you in those beautiful rooms, and I've had a lovely time to-night. Good-by," giving her friend a hearty embrace. "Well, children," the captain said at breakfast the next morning, "remember, I expect every one of you to be in the schoolroom at five minutes before nine, and to begin studying exactly at the hour." "Every thing to be done with naval precision, I suppose," remarked Violet, giving him a bright half-saucy smile; "that being, I understand, about on a par with military." "Yes," he said, smiling in return, "that is to be the rule in this house for every one but my wife: she is to follow her own sweet will in all things." "Ah!" she responded gayly, "I fear you do not realize what a rash promise you are making; or, rather, how rash you are in according such a privilege." "It is hardly that," he answered: "acknowledging a right, would be my way of expressing it." They had left the table and the breakfast-room, and were alone at the moment, the children having scattered to their work or play. "How good you are to me, my dear husband!" she said, looking up fondly into his face as they stood together before the parlor fire. "Not a whit better than I ought to be, my darling," he responded, bending to kiss the sweet, upturned face. "I have taken you from a tender mother and a most luxurious home, and it must be my care to see that you lose nothing by the transplantation--sweet and delicate flower that you are!" "In my place, Zoe would call you an old flatterer," she returned with a light laugh, but a tell-tale moisture gathering in her eyes. "And what do you call me, my Violet?" he asked, putting his arm about her, and drawing her close to his side. "The kindest, best, dearest of husbands, the noblest of men!" "Ah, my dear! who is the flatterer now?" he laughed. "I'm afraid you and I might be accused of forming a mutual admiration society." "Well, what if we do? isn't it the very best sort of a society for husband and wife to form? Levis, am I to have no duties in this house? none of the cares and labors that the mistress of an establishment is usually expected to assume?" "You shall have no care of housekeeping that I can save you from," he said. "I undertake that, with Christine as my head assistant; though you, of course, are mistress, with the right to give orders and directions whenever you will--to housekeeper, servants, children, even to your husband if you see fit," he concluded with a humorous look and smile. "The idea of my ordering you whom I have promised to obey," she returned merrily. "But I'm afraid you are going to spoil me. Am I to have nothing to do?" "You are to do exactly what you please," he said: "the care and training of our little one, aside from all the assistance to be had from servants, will furnish you with no small amount of employment." "But you will help me with that?" "Certainly, love; I intend to be as good and faithful a father to her as I know how to be: but you are her mother, and will do a mother's part by her, I know. Then, there are wifely duties which you would not wish to delegate to any one else." "No, never!" she cried. "O my dear husband! it is the greatest pleasure in life to do any thing I can to add to your comfort and happiness." "I know it, sweet wife. Ah!" glancing at his watch, "I must tear myself away now from your dear society, and attend to the duties of employer and teacher. I have some directions to give both _employees_ and children." Grace ran and opened the schoolroom door at the sound of her father's approaching footsteps. "See, papa," she said, "we are all here, waiting for you to come, and tell us what lessons to learn." "Yes, you are good, punctual children," he replied, glancing at the pretty little clock on the mantel; "for it still wants five minutes to nine." "Papa, I know what lessons to learn, of course," remarked Lulu; "but the others are waiting for you to tell them." "Yes. I shall examine Max first," the captain said, seating himself at his writing-table. "Bring your books here, my son." "Are you dreadfully frightened, Maxie? very afraid of your new teacher?" Lulu asked laughingly as her brother obeyed the order. "I don't expect to faint with fright," he returned; "for I've a notion he's pretty fond of me." "Of you and of all his pupils," the captain said. "Lulu, you may take out your books, and begin to study." When the tasks had been assigned to each, "Now children," he said, "I am going to leave you for a while. I can do so without fear that you will take advantage of my absence to idle away your time; for I know that you are honorable and trustworthy, also obedient. I have seldom known any one of you to disobey an order from me." "Thank you, papa," Max said, answering for both himself and sisters, and coloring with pleasure as he spoke. "We'll try to deserve your praise and your confidence. But are we to consider ourselves forbidden to speak at all to each other while you are gone?" "No, not entirely; but do not engage in unnecessary talk, to the neglect of your studies." So saying, he went out and left them. Returning exactly at the expiration of the first hour for study, he found them all busily at work. He commended their industry, and gave permission for five minutes' rest. They were prompt to avail themselves of it, and gathered about him full of gleeful chat, the girls seating themselves one on each knee, Max standing close at his side. School was a decided success that day, and neither teacher nor pupils saw any reason to regret the establishment of the new order of things. Evelyn came soon after they were dismissed, spent the afternoon and evening, and, when she left, averred that it had been the most delightful visit she had ever paid. CHAPTER XXII. LIFE AT WOODBURN. Lulu's temper was not conquered, but she was more successful than formerly in combating it. The terrible lesson she had had in the injury to her baby sister, consequent upon her outburst of passion, could not easily be forgotten: the bitter recollection was often a great restraint upon her, and her father's loving watchfulness saved her many a time, when, without it, she would have fallen; he kept her with him almost constantly when at home,--and he was rarely absent,--scarcely allowed her to go anywhere off the estate without him, and seemed never for a moment to forget her and her special temptation: the slightest elevation in the tones of her voice was sure to catch his ear; and a warning look generally proved sufficient to put her on her guard, and check the rising storm of anger. There were several reasons why it was--as she often asserted--easier to be good with him than with Mr. Dinsmore: he was more patient and sympathizing, less ready to speak with stern authority, though he could be stern enough when he deemed it necessary. Besides, he was her father, whom she greatly reverenced and dearly loved, and who had, as she expressed it, a right to rule her and to punish her when she deserved it. One morning, after several very happy weeks at Woodburn, the quiet of the schoolroom, which had been profound for many minutes, was broken by a slight exclamation of impatience from Lulu. Her father, glancing up from the letter he was writing, saw an ominous frown on her brow, as she bent over her slate, setting down figures upon it, and quickly erasing them again, with a sort of feverish haste, shrugging her shoulders fretfully, and pushing her arithmetic peevishly aside with the free hand. "Lulu, my daughter," he said, in a quiet tone, "put on your hat and coat, and take a five-minutes' run on the driveway." "Just now, papa?" she asked, looking up in surprise. "Yes, just now. When you think you have been out the specified number of minutes, you may come back; but I shall not find fault with you if you are not quite punctual, as you will not have a timepiece with you." "Thank you, sir," she said, obeying with alacrity. She came in again presently, with cheeks glowing and eyes sparkling, not a cloud on her brow. "Ah! I see you feel better," her father remarked, smiling kindly upon her; "and I have finished my letter, so have time to talk with you. Max and Gracie, you may take your turn at a run in the fresh air now." Donning their outdoor garments, while Lulu took hers off, and put them in their proper place, they hurried away. "Bring your slate and book here, daughter," was the next order, in the kindest of tones, "and let me see what was troubling you so." "It's these vulgar fractions, papa," she said, giving herself an impatient shake. "I don't wonder they call them vulgar, for they're so hateful! I can't understand the rule, and I can't get the examples right. I wish you wouldn't make me learn them." "Daughter, daughter!" he said, in grave, reproving accents, "don't give way to an impatient temper. It will only make matters worse." "But, papa," she said, bringing the book and slate as directed, "won't you please let me skip these vulgar fractions?" "I thought," he said, "that my Lulu was a brave, persevering little girl, not ready to be overcome by a slight difficulty." "Oh! but it isn't a slight one, papa: it's big and hard," she pleaded. "I will go over the rule with you, and try to make it clear," he returned, still speaking in a pleasant tone; "and then we will see what we can do with these troublesome examples." She sighed almost hopelessly, but gave her attention fully to his explanation, and presently cried out joyfully, "Oh, I do understand it now, papa! and I believe I can get the sums right." "I think you can," he said. "Stand here by my side, and let me see you try." She succeeded, and was full of joy. "There is nothing like trying, my little girl," he said, smiling at her exultation and delight. She came to him again after lessons were done, and Max and Grace had left the room once more. "May I talk a little to you, papa?" she asked. "Yes, more than a little, if you wish," he replied, laying aside the book he had taken up. "What is it?" "Papa, I want to thank you for sending me out to take that run, and then helping me so nicely and kindly with my arithmetic." "You are very welcome, my darling," he said, drawing her to a seat upon his knee. "If you hadn't done it, papa, or if you had spoken sternly to me, as grandpa Dinsmore would have done in your place, I'd have been in a great passion in a minute. I was feeling like just picking up my slate, and dashing it to pieces against the corner of the desk." "How grieved I should have been had you done so!" he said; "very, very sorry for your wrong-doing, and that I should have to keep my word in regard to the punishment to be meted out for such conduct." "Yes, papa," she murmured, hanging her head, and blushing deeply. "Would breaking the slate have helped you?" he asked with grave seriousness. "Oh, no, papa! you cannot suppose I'm so foolish as to think it would." "Was it the fault of the slate that you had such difficulty with your examples?" "Why, no, papa, of course not." "Then, was it not extremely foolish, as well as wrong, to want to break it just because of your want of success with your ciphering?" "Yes, sir," she reluctantly admitted. He went on, "Anger is great folly. The Bible says, 'Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry; for anger resteth in the bosom of fools.' It seems to be the sort of foolishness that, more than any other, is bound in the heart of this child of mine. It seems, too, that nothing but 'the rod of correction' will drive it out." She gave him a frightened look. "No," he said, "you need not be alarmed: as you did not indulge your passionate impulse, I have no punishment to inflict. "My dear, dear child, try, _try_ to conquer the propensity! Watch and pray against this besetting sin." "I will, papa," she murmured with a half despairing sigh. Some weeks later--it was on an afternoon early in December--Lulu and Grace were in their own little sitting-room, busied in the manufacture of some small gifts for "papa and Maxie," who were, of course, to be kept in profound ignorance on the subject till the time for presentation; therefore, the young workers sat with locked doors; and when presently Maxie's boyish footsteps were heard rapidly approaching, their materials were hastily gathered up, thrust into a closet close at hand, and the key turned upon them. Then Lulu ran and opened the door. "Hollo!" cried Max, in a perfectly good-humored tone, "what do you lock a fellow out for? It looks as if you're up to some mischief. I just came to tell you there's company in the parlor, and they've asked for you, both of you." "Who are they?" asked Lulu, glancing at her reflection in a pier-glass opposite, to make sure that dress and hair were in order. She was neat and orderly by nature, and her father very particular about the appearance of his children; not caring to have them expensively attired, but always neat and tidy. "The Oaks young folks," replied Max,--"Horace and Frank and their two sisters, Maud and Sydney." "Come, Gracie," said Lulu, turning to her little sister: "we both look nice, and we'll go right down." The children all felt rather flattered by the call, because the Oaks young people were older than themselves. Horace, Frank, and Maud were all older than Max, and Sydney was between him and Lulu in age. With the Dinsmore girls, the Raymonds were quite well acquainted, having seen them frequently at Ion, and sometimes met them elsewhere; but the boys, who had been away at school, were comparative strangers. Violet was in the parlor chatting pleasantly with her young cousins, the call being intended for her also; and her cheerful presence set her little step-daughters more at their ease than they would otherwise have been. They had not been long in the room ere they learned that the special object of the visit was to invite them and Max to the Oaks, to spend the greater part of Christmas week. "It is to be a young people's party, you must all understand," said Maud, who seemed to be the chief speaker, "and so the captain and cousin Vi are not invited: not that cousin Vi is not young, you know, for she is that; but there are to be no married folks asked. "There is to be the usual Christmas-eve party at Ion for all the family connection, Christmas-tree and all that, and the grand dinner-party on Christmas Day; then all the boys and girls of the connection are invited to the Oaks to stay till the next Saturday evening. "We hope, cousin Vi, that Max and his sisters may come?" "If it depended upon me," returned Violet pleasantly, "I presume I should say yes; but of course it will have to be as their father says." "Oh, yes! certainly. Is he in?" "No, and I fear he will not be for an hour or two; but if you will stay to tea, you will be pretty sure to see him." The invitation was declined with thanks; "they had other calls to make, and must be going presently:" but they sat for some minutes longer, the whole four joining in an animated description of various diversions planned for the entertainment of their expected guests, and repeating again and again that they hoped Max and his sisters would be permitted to come. "I do wish papa may let us go!" cried Lulu, the moment the visitors had departed. "I'm sure it will be perfectly delightful!" "So do I," said Max. "Mamma Vi, do you think papa will consent?" "I really cannot say, Max," she answered doubtfully. "Do you want to go, too, Gracie?" drawing the child to her side, and softly smoothing her hair. "Yes, mamma, if--if I could have you or papa there with me. I don't want to go very much 'less one of you goes too." "And you are such a delicate little darling, that I hardly think your papa will feel willing to have you go, without either of us along to take care of you." "I can take perfectly good care of Gracie, mamma Vi," asserted Lulu with dignity. "Here comes papa," cried Max, as a step was heard in the hall. Then the door opened, and the captain came in. "We've had an invitation, papa, and hope you will let us accept it," Max said, coming eagerly forward. "O papa! please, please do!" cried Lulu, running to him, and taking hold of his hand. "Let me hear about it," he said, sitting down, and allowing Lulu to take possession of one knee, Gracie of the other; "but speak one at a time. Max, you are the eldest: we will let you have the first turn." Violet sat quietly listening, and watching her husband's face, while the eager children told their tale, and expressed their wishes. He looked grave and thoughtful; and before he spoke, she had a tolerably correct idea what he was about to say. "I am glad my little Gracie does not care to go," he said, caressing the child as he spoke, "because she is too feeble and too young to be so long among comparative strangers, without papa or mamma to take care of her. I am sorry Lulu does want to accept the invitation, as there is an insuperable objection to letting her do so." Lulu's countenance had assumed an expression of woful disappointment not unmingled with anger and wilfulness. "I want to go, papa, and I do think you might let me," she said with an ominous frown. "I'm not sickly, and I'm a good deal older than Gracie." "You cannot go, Lucilla," he said gravely, and with some sternness of tone. "Max," in answer to the eagerly questioning look in the lad's eyes, "if you are particularly desirous to go, you have my permission." "Thank you, sir," said the boy heartily. "Papa, why can't I go?" grumbled Lulu. "I think a moment's reflection will tell you why," he answered. "I will talk with you about it at another time. And now not another word on the subject till I mention it to you first." Lulu was silenced for the time; but after tea, going into the library, and finding her father sitting there alone, she went up to him, and in her most coaxing tones said, "O papa! won't you _please_ let me go? I'll be"-- "Lulu," he interrupted sternly, "go immediately to your room and your bed." "Papa, it isn't my bedtime for two hours yet," she said, in a half pleading tone, "and I want to read this new 'Companion' that has just come." "Don't let me have to repeat my order," was the stern rejoinder; and she obeyed, trembling and in haste. She felt sorely disappointed, angry, and rebellious; but, as her father had said, a few moments' reflection showed her the reason of his refusal to allow her to accept the invitation to the Oaks: and, as she glanced round her rooms at the many pretty things his indulgent kindness had supplied, her anger changed to penitence and love. "Of course, papa was right," she sighed to herself, as she moved about, getting ready for bed; "and it wasn't because he doesn't love to see me happy; and I wish, oh, _how_ I wish, I'd been good about it!" She was not at all drowsy; and it seemed a long, long time that she had been lying there awake, when at last she heard her father's step in the hall: then he opened the door, and came in. He had a lighted lamp in his hand. He set it on the mantel, and drew near the bed. "You are awake, I see," he said. "Yes, papa; and I'm sorry I was naughty." "You understand why I sent you to bed? and why I refused to grant your request?" "Yes, sir; you can't trust me to pay that visit, because of my bad temper; and you sent me to bed for disobeying you, by asking again, after you had told me to say no more about it." "Yes: you must learn to be more obedient, less wilful. Did you obey me about going immediately to bed?" he asked, drawing up a chair, and seating himself close beside her. "Yes, papa,--just as quickly as I could get ready." "I hope you did not neglect to kneel down and ask forgiveness of God?" he said inquiringly, in a gentle, tender tone, bending over her, and smoothing her hair as he spoke. "You do not need to be told, that, when you are rebellious and disobedient to your earthly father, you are so toward your heavenly Father also; because he bids you 'honor thy father and thy mother.'" "Yes, papa, I know; I did ask him; and won't you forgive me too?" "Yes," he said, giving her a kiss. "I am sorry to have to deprive you of the pleasure of accepting that invitation, but I cannot yet trust you anywhere away from me; and it was to spare your feelings that I did not state my reason before your mamma and brother and sister." "Oh! I'm sorry I was naughty about it, papa," he said, again putting her hand into his. He held it in a kindly pressure, while he went on talking to her. "I intend you shall go to Ion to the Christmas-eve party, and the dinner-party the next day, as I shall be there too." "Thank you, dear papa: I'd like to go ever so much, but I don't deserve to," she said humbly, "or to have any Christmas gifts. If I were you, and had such a bad child, I wouldn't give her a single thing." "I hope she is going to be a better girl, in future," he said, kissing her good-night. It was a joyful surprise to Lulu when, at the breakfast-table the next morning, her father said, "Children, your mamma and I are going to drive into the city, and will take you all along: and, as I suppose you would like to do some Christmas shopping, I shall advance your next week's allowance,--perhaps furnish something over," he added, with a kindly smile. All three young faces had grown very bright, and there was a chorus of thanks. "We expect to start in a few minutes after prayers," the captain went on, "and so there will be no school to-day." "We like school, papa," said Grace. "I never liked it half so well before." "Nor I." "Nor I," cried the other two. "But you are glad of a holiday once in a while, nevertheless?" their father said, with a pleased look. "Oh, yes, indeed, papa! 'specially when it is to go somewhere with you," replied Grace; and again the others gave a hearty assent. When family worship was over, the captain handed a little roll of bank-notes to each, saying, "Now run away, and get yourselves ready for your ride. Put on your warmest clothing, for the wind is sharp." They flurried out into the hall; then Lulu hesitated, turned about, and ran back. "Papa," she said, rushing up to him, where he sat beside a table, with some papers before him, and throwing her arm round his neck, "dear papa! you are just too good and kind to me! Oh, I don't mean to be disobedient, wilful, or passionate ever again!" "I am rejoiced to hear you say that, my dear little daughter," he replied, putting his arm round her, hugging her close, and kissing her tenderly; "and I do not think I shall ever regret any thing I have done for you or either of the others. It is, to me, the greatest pleasure in life to do whatever I can to make my children happy." "I am so, _so_ sorry I was naughty and disobedient last night," she murmured, laying her cheek to his. "Dear child," he said, "it is fully and freely forgiven. Now run up to your room and dress." Grace called to Lulu as she came up the stairs, "O Lu! come in here a minute, into my room. Look, look, on the bed! see how many papa has given me,--ten nice new one dollars." Lulu counted them as they lay spread out in a row. "Yes, ten," she said. "O Gracie! isn't it nice? isn't papa kind?" "'Course he is; kindest man ever was made," said Grace. "Now see how many you have." Lulu hastily spread out her roll, and counted the bills. "Nine ones, and one two," she announced. "Just as many as mine," said Grace; "and I've got this besides," holding up a bright new silver half-dollar. "So mine's the most this time, isn't it?" "No, because one of my bills counts two: that makes mine fifty cents the most. Papa has given us each ten dollars besides our regular allowance." CHAPTER XXIII. "At Christmas play, and make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year." --TUSSER. The morning of the twenty-fourth found Grace almost too ill, with a heavy cold, to be out of bed; and it was quite evident that she would not be able to go to the Christmas-eve party at Ion, or the dinner on Christmas Day. The captain was just finishing his morning toilet when Lulu knocked at his dressing-room door. She had come with the news of Grace's illness, and he followed her at once to the bedside of the sick child. "My poor darling," he said, bending over her in tender concern, "you seem quite feverish. I think you must stay in bed, and we will send for your doctor." "And can't I go to-night, papa?" she asked, the tears starting to her eyes. "I'm afraid not, darling; but don't fret; papa will try to find some way to make it up to you." "I'll stay with her, papa, and read her stories, and do every thing I can to help her enjoy herself," cried Lulu eagerly. "I may, mayn't I?" "You may, if you choose," he said; "but I thought you were very anxious to go." "I was, but I'm not now," she said. "I'd rather stay with Gracie. I shouldn't be one bit happy there without her." "O Lu! I'd love to have you! but I don't want you to lose all that fun just for me," Grace said, with a wistful, loving look into her sister's eyes. "It wouldn't be fun without you, my Gracie," was the quick rejoinder. "I am glad indeed that my little daughters love each other so dearly," the captain said, kissing first one and then the other. "Well, we will see what can be done. If it were not for the disappointment to your mamma, I should stay at home with you, my darlings; as it is, I shall spend at least a part of the evening with you." He left them, and sought Violet in her dressing-room. "My dear, what has happened? I am sure you look anxious and troubled!" she exclaimed, the instant she caught sight of his face. "I confess that I am a little troubled about Gracie," he replied: "she seems to have taken a very heavy cold. I shall send at once for the doctor. And, of course, she has to be disappointed in her expectations for this evening." "Then, let us all stay at home," returned Violet promptly. "I could not enjoy myself, leaving the poor darling at home, sick. Besides," glancing from the window, "do you see? it is snowing fast, and I should not like to expose baby to the storm. So I propose that we change our plans entirely, and have a private Christmas of our own," she went on in a lively tone. "What do you say to it, my dear?" They discussed the idea for some minutes, presently growing quite enthusiastic over it. Their plans were nearly matured when the breakfast-bell rang; and, shortly after leaving the table, they began carrying them out. Max was taken into their confidence, and allowed to assist; and a proud and happy boy was he, going about with an air of mystery, as one to whom secret and important business is intrusted. The little girls, shut up in their own apartments,--Grace reclining on a couch, Lulu with her as constant companion, and making every exertion for her entertainment, while papa, mamma, and Maxie came running in now and then to ask how she was,--knew nothing of messages sent back and forth through the telephone, of packages of various shapes and sizes brought into the house, of mysterious goings and comings, and much time spent by papa, mamma, Maxie, Christine, and others in a certain large room, hitherto but little used. Grace frequently fell asleep: then Lulu would darken the room, go into the adjoining one, leaving the door ajar, so that she could hear the slightest movement her little sick sister might make on waking, and amuse herself with a book or her own thoughts. Their meals were brought to them, and set out in their sitting-room upon a little round table, covered with a snowy damask cloth, whereon were arranged a set of dainty china dishes of a size just suited to the occasion, and toothsome viands such as "papa" deemed they might eat and enjoy without danger to health. It was very nice, they thought; almost nicer, just for a change, than going to the larger table down-stairs with the rest of the family. Soon after they had had their supper, their father came in, bringing the doctor with him, for his second visit that day. "Ah! she is a good deal better," Dr. Conly said, when he had examined his little patient. "Hardly well enough yet to go to Ion," he added with a humorous look and smile; "but I think, if well wrapped up, she may venture a trip down-stairs in papa's arms, and even stay a little while, if she finds the change to the parlor a pleasant one." "Should you like it, papa's dear pet?" the captain asked, leaning over her. "Yes, sir, if you and my doctor think it will be good for me," was the reply, in a submissive and rather languid tone, "and if my Lulu is to come too," she added, with a loving look at her sister. "Oh, yes, indeed! we would not think of going without Lulu!" their father said, smiling affectionately upon her also. So a large shawl was brought, and carefully wrapped about Gracie's little slender figure; and she made the short journey in her father's strong arms, the doctor and Lulu going on before, hand in hand, chatting and laughing merrily. Max heard them, and threw open the parlor-door just as they reached it. Then what a surprise for the little girls! A large, handsome Christmas-tree, loaded with beautiful things, burst upon their astonished sight, and was greeted by them with exclamations of wonder and delight. "Oh! oh! oh! it's the very prettiest Christmas-tree we ever saw! And we didn't know we were to have any at all! And how many, _many_ lovely things are on it! Papa, papa, how good and kind you are to us!" He looked as if he enjoyed their surprise and delight quite as much as they did the tree. "Other folks have been kind to you, too, my darlings," he said, seating himself, with Gracie still in his arms, "as you will see presently, when the gifts are distributed." "Who, papa?" asked Gracie, laying her head on his shoulder, and gazing with delighted eyes, beginning to single out one beautiful object from another as she sent her glances up and down, here and there. "Grandma Elsie, and everybody else in the Ion family, I believe; the Oaks and Laurels and Fairview friends; and Roselands people too; to say nothing of mamma and Maxie." "They're ever so good and kind! they always are," she said in grateful tones. "Oh!" for the first time perceiving that Violet stood near her with the baby in her arms, "mamma and baby too! and how pleased baby looks at the tree!" for the little one was stretching her arms toward it, and cooing and smiling, her pretty blue eyes shining with delight. When all, children and servants,--for the latter had been called in to enjoy the sight also,--had looked to their full, the gifts were distributed. They were very numerous,--nearly everybody having given to nearly everybody else,--and many of those received by the parents and children were very handsome. But their father's gift--a tiny watch to each, to help them to be punctual with all their duties, he said--was what gave the greatest amount of pleasure to Lulu and Grace. Both they and their brother went to bed that night, and woke the next morning, very happy children. The weather being still too severe for the little ones to be taken out, the captain and Violet went to Ion only for a call, and returned early in the day, bringing a portion of the party that usually gathered there, to dine with them at Woodburn. Among these, to Lulu's extreme satisfaction, was Evelyn. She staid till after tea; and all the afternoon, there was much passing to and fro of the different members of the large family connection. Evelyn was to be at the Oaks for the next few days, with the other young people, and regretted greatly that Lulu was not to go too. But Lulu's rebellious feeling about it was a thing of the past. She told Evelyn frankly her father's reason for refusing his consent, adding that she felt that he was right, and that he was so dear, so kind and indulgent in every thing that he thought best to allow, that she was now entirely satisfied to stay at home; particularly as Gracie was not well, and needed her nursing. Grace went early to bed and to sleep. Max and Evelyn had gone to the Oaks: there were only grown people in the parlors now; and Lulu did not care to be there, even if she had not wanted to be near her sleeping sister. There was an open, glowing fire in their little sitting-room, a high fender of polished brass obviating all danger from it to the children's skirts. Lulu seated herself in an easy-chair beside it, and fell into a reverie, unusually deep and prolonged for her. She called to mind all the Christmases she could remember,--not very many,--the last two spent very pleasantly with her new mamma's relatives; the two previous ones passed not half so agreeably, in the poor apology for a home that had been hers and Grade's before their father's second marriage. But what a change for the better that had brought! What forlorn little things she and Gracie were then! and what favored children now! What a sweet, sweet home of their very own, with their father in it!--as she had said to Eva that afternoon, "such a dear, kind father; interested in every thing that concerned his children; so thoughtful about providing pleasures for them, as well as needful food, shelter, and clothing; about their health, too, and the improvement of their minds; reading with them, even in other than school-hours; talking with them of what they read, and explaining so clearly and patiently any thing they did not quite understand; but, above all, striving to lead them to Christ, and train them for his service in this world and the next." He had read with them that morning the story of our Saviour's birth, and spoken feelingly to them of God's wonderful love shown in the "unspeakable gift" of his dear Son. "Certainly, there could not be in all the world a better, dearer father, than theirs. How strange that she could ever grieve him by being naughty, rebellious, passionate! Oh, if she could only be good! always a comfort and blessing to him! she would try, she _would_, with all her might!" Just then the door opened softly; and he came in, came noiselessly to her side, lifted her in his arms, and sat down with her on his knee. "What has my little girl been thinking of sitting here all by herself?" he asked, pressing his lips to her cheek. She told him in a few words, finishing with her longing desire to be to him a better child, a comfort and blessing. "Indeed I ought to be, papa," she said; "and you are such a dear, kind father! you have given me--and all of us--such a lovely home, and such a happy, happy Christmas,--the very happiest we have ever known!" "And it is God our heavenly Father who has put it in my power to do all that I have done for you, and for all my darlings," he said with emotion, drawing her closer, and holding her tenderly to his heart; "and, O my dear child! if I could know that you had begun this day to truly love and serve him, it would be to _me_ the happiest Christmas that _I_ have ever known." 
14566	----	ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD A Sequel to _Elsie's Womanhood_ by MARTHA FINLEY (FARQUHARSON) Author of _The Story of Elsie_, _Casella_, _Wanted, a Pedigree_, _Old-Fashioned Boy_, etc. 1876 "Sweet is the image of the brooding dove! Holy as heaven a mother's tender love! The love of many prayers and many tears, Which changes not with dim declining years-- The only love which, on this teeming earth, Asks no return for passion's wayward birth." MRS. NORTON. PREFACE. In compliance with the expressed desire of many of Elsie's friends and admirers, the story of her life is continued in this, the fifth volume of the series. When about to undertake its preparation the suggestion was made to the author that to bring in the doings of the Ku Klux would add interest to the story, and at the same time give a truer picture of life in the South during the years 1867-68 in which its events take place. The published reports of the Congressional Committee of Investigation were resorted to as the most reliable source of information, diligently examined, and care taken not to go beyond the facts there given as regards the proceedings of the Klan, the clemency and paternal acts of the Government, or the kindly, fraternal feelings and deeds of the people of the North toward their impoverished and suffering brethren of the South. These things have become matters of history: vice and crime should be condemned wherever found; and naught has been set down in malice; for the author has a warm love for the South as part and parcel of the dear land of her birth. May this child of her brain give pain to none, but prove pleasant and profitable to all who peruse its pages, and especially helpful to young parents, M. F. Chapter First. "Meantime a smiling offspring rises round, And mingles both their graces. By degrees The human blossom blows, and every day, Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm, The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom." --Thomson's Seasons "Mamma! Papa too!" It was a glad shout of a chorus of young voices as four pairs of little feet came pattering up the avenue and into the veranda; then as many ruby lips were held up for the morning kiss from the children's dearly loved father. They had already had their half hour with mamma, which made so sweet a beginning of each day, yet she too must have a liberal share of the eagerly bestowed caresses; while Bruno, a great Newfoundland, the pet, playfellow, and guardian of the little flock, testified his delight in the scene by leaping about among them, fawning upon one and another, wagging his tail, and uttering again and again a short, joyous bark. Then followed a merry romp, cut short by the ringing of the breakfast bell, when all trooped into the house, Harold riding on papa's shoulder, mamma following with Elsie, Eddie and Vi; while Dinah, with Baby Herbert in her arms; brought up the rear. The children had been very gay, full of laughter and sweet innocent prattle, but a sudden hush fell upon them when seated about the table in the bright, cheerful breakfast parlor; little hands were meekly folded and each young head bent reverently over the plate, while in a few simple words which all could understand, their father gave God thanks for their food and asked his blessing upon it. The Ion children were never rude even in their play, and their table manners were almost perfect; made the constant companions of cultivated, refined parents--whose politeness springing from genuine unselfishness, was never laid aside, but shown on all occasions and to rich and poor, old and young alike--and governed with a wise mixture of indulgence and restraint, mildness and firmness, they imitated the copies set before them and were seldom other than gentle and amiable in their deportment, not only toward their superiors, but to equals and inferiors also. They were never told that "children should be seen and not heard," but when no guests were present, were allowed to talk in moderation; a gentle word or look of reproof from papa or mamma being quite sufficient to check any tendency to boisterousness or undue loquacity. "I think we should celebrate this anniversary, Elsie," remarked Mr. Travilla, stirring his coffee and gazing with fond admiration into the sweet face at the opposite end of the table. "Yes, sir, though we are rather late in thinking of it," she answered smilingly, the rose deepening slightly on her cheek as delicately rounded and tinted as it had been ten years ago. Little Elsie looked up inquiringly. "What is it, papa? I do not remember." "Do you not? Ten years ago to-day there was a grand wedding at the Oaks, and your mamma and I were there." "I too?" asked Eddie. "Yes, course, Eddie," spoke up five year old Violet, "grandpa would 'vite you and all of us; and I b'lieve I 'member a _little_ about it." "Me too," piped the baby voice of Harold, "me sat on papa's knee." There was a general laugh, the two little prattlers joining in right merrily. "I really don't remember that part of it, Harold," said papa, while wee Elsie--as she was often called by way of distinguishing her from mamma, for whom she was named--shook her curly head at him with a merry "Oh, you dear little rogue, you don't know what you are talking about;" and mamma remarked, "Vi has perhaps a slight recollection of May Allison's wedding." "But this one at the Oaks must have been before I was born," said Elsie, "because you said it was ten years ago, and I'm only nine. O, mamma, was it _your_ wedding?" "Yes, daughter. Shall we invite our friends for this evening, Edward?" "Yes, wife; suppose we make it a family party, inviting only relatives, connections and very intimate friends." After a little more discussion it was decided they would do so; also that the children should have a full holiday, and while their mother was giving orders and overseeing the necessary preparations for the entertainment, papa should take them all in the roomy family carriage and drive over to the Oaks, Roselands, Ashlands and Pinegrove to give the invitations. Beside these near friends only the minister and his wife were to be asked; but as Adelaide and her family were at this time paying a visit to Roselands, and Lucy Ross was doing the same at her old home, and all the younger generation except the mere babies, were to be included in the invitation, should all accept it would be by no means a small assemblage. Early hours were named for the sake of the little ones; guests to come at six, refreshments to be served at eight, and the Ion children, if each would take a nap in the afternoon, to be allowed to stay up till nine. How delighted they were: how the little eyes danced and sparkled, and how eagerly they engaged to fulfill the conditions, and not to fret or look cross when summoned at nine, to leave the drawing-room and be put to bed. "O, mamma, won't you wear your wedding dress?" cried little Elsie; "do, dear mamma, so that we may all see just how you looked when you were married." Elsie smiled, "You forget, daughter, that I am ten years older now, and the face cannot be quite the same." "The years have robbed it of none of its beauty," said Mr. Travilla. "Ah, love is blind," she returned with a blush and smile as charming as those of her girlhood's days. "And the dress is quite out of date." "No matter for that. It would gratify me as well as the children to see you in it." "Then it shall be worn, if it fits or can be altered in season." "Veil and all, mamma," pleaded Elsie, "it is so beautiful--Mammy showed it to me only the other day and told me you looked so, _so_ lovely; and she will put the orange blossoms in your hair and on your dress just as they were that night; for she remembers all about it." The children, ready dressed for their drive, were gathered in a merry group on the veranda, Eddie astride of Bruno, waiting for papa and the carriage, when a horse came cantering up the avenue, and Mr. Horace Dinsmore alighted and stepped into their midst. "Oh, grandpa, what you turn for?" cried Harold in a tone of disappointment, "we was dus doin to 'vite you!" "Indeed!" "Yes, grandpa, it's a 'versary to-day" explained Vi. "And mamma's going to be married over again," said Eddie. "No, no; only to have a party and wear her wedding dress," corrected Elsie. "Papa, good morning," cried their mother, coming swiftly through, the hall, "I'm so glad, always so glad to see you." "I know it," he said, pressing a fatherly kiss on the sweet lips, then holding her off for an instant to gaze fondly into the fair face. "And it is ten years to-day since I gave Travilla a share in my treasure. I was thinking of it as I rode over and that you should celebrate this anniversary at your father's house." "No, no, Dinsmore, you must be our guest," said Travilla, coming out and shaking hands cordially with his old friend. "We have it all arranged,--a family gathering, and Elsie to gratify us by wearing her bridal robes. Do you not agree with me that she would make as lovely a bride to-day as she did ten years ago?" "Quite. I relinquish my plan for yours; and don't let me detain you and these eager children." "I thank you: I will go then, as the invitations will be late enough with all the haste we can make." The carriage was at the door and in a trice grandpa and papa had helped the little ones in: not even Baby Herbert was left behind, but seated on his mammy's lap crowed and laughed as merrily as the rest. "Ah, mamma, you come too!" pleaded the little voices, as their father took his place beside them. "Can't mammy and Aunt Dicey and the rest know what to do without you to tell them?" "Not this time, dears; and you know I must make haste to try on the dress, to see if it fits." "Oh, yes, mamma!" and throwing a shower of kisses, they drove off. "A carriage load of precious jewels," Elsie said, looking after it as it rolled away: "how the ten years have added to my wealth, papa." She stood by his side, her hand on his arm, and the soft sweet eyes lifted to his were full of a content and gladness beyond the power of words to express. "I thank God every day for my darling's happiness," he said low and tenderly, and softly smoothing her shining hair. "Ah, it is very great, and my father's dear love forms no small part of it. But come in, papa, I want to consult you about one or two little matters; Edward and I rely very much upon your taste and judgment." "To Roselands first," was Mr. Travilla's order to the coachman. The old home of the Dinsmores, though shorn of the glory of its grand old trees, was again a beautiful place: the new house was in every respect a finer one than its predecessor, of a higher style of architecture, more conveniently arranged, more tastefully and handsomely furnished; lawns, gardens and fields had become neat and trim as in the days before the war, and a double row of young, thrifty trees bordered the avenue. Old Mr. Dinsmore now resided there and gave a home to his two widowed and impoverished daughters--Mrs. Louise Conly, and Mrs. Enna Johnson--and their families. These two aunts loved Elsie no better than in earlier years: it was gall and wormwood to them to know that they owed all these comforts to her generosity; nor could they forgive her that she was more wealthy, beautiful, lovely and beloved than themselves. Enna was the more bitter and outspoken of the two, but even Louise seldom treated her niece to anything better than the most distant and frigid politeness. In a truly Christian spirit Elsie returned them pity and compassion, because of their widowhood and straitened circumstances, invited them to her house, and when they came received them with kindness and cordiality. Her grandfather had grown very fond of her and her children, was often at Ion, and for his sake she occasionally visited Roselands. Adelaide's presence had drawn her there more frequently of late. The invitation Mr. Travilla carried was to the grandfather, three aunts and all their children. Adelaide and Enna were in the drawing-room when the Ion carriage drew up at the door. "There's Travilla, the old scalawag: how I hate him! Elsie too, I presume," exclaimed the latter, glancing from the window; "I'll leave you to entertain them," and she hastily left the room. Adelaide flashed an indignant look after her, and hurried out to meet and welcome the callers. Mr. Travilla had alighted and was coming up the steps of the veranda. "How d'ye do. I'm _very_ glad to see you," cried Adelaide, extending her hand, "but where is Elsie?" "Left at home for once," he answered gayly, "but I come this morning merely as her ladyship's messenger." "But won't you come in; you and the children?" "Thanks, no, if you will permit me just to deliver my message and go; for I am in haste." Mrs. Allison accepted the invitation for herself and children with evident pleasure, engaged that her sisters would do the same; then went to the carriage window for a moment's chat with the little ones, each of whom held a large place in her warm heart. "Aunt Addie," said Elsie in an undertone, "mamma's going to wear her wedding dress to-night, veil and all." "Is she? why that's an excellent idea. But don't tell it anywhere else that you go; it will be such a nice surprise to the rest if we can keep it a secret." "That was a good suggestion of Aunt Addie's," Mr. Travilla remarked as they drove down the avenue. "Suppose we carry it out. How many of you can refrain from telling what mamma is to wear to-night? how many can I trust to keep a secret?" "All of us, papa!" "Me, papa, me, I won't tell," cried the little voices in chorus. "Yes, I believe I can trust you all," he answered in his bright cheery way. "Now on to the Oaks, Solon, then to Pinegrove, Springbrook, and Ashlands. That will be the last place, children, and as our hurry will then be over, you shall get out of the carriage and have a little time to rest before we start for home." Re-entering the house Mrs. Allison went to the family sitting-room where she found both her sisters and several of the younger members of the household. "So they have asked for us?" exclaimed Louise in a tone of vexation, "at such an unreasonable hour too. Well," with a sigh of resignation, "I suppose we must show ourselves or papa will be displeased: so wonderfully fond of Elsie as he has grown of late." "As well he may," returned Adelaide pointedly; "but Elsie is not here nor has any one inquired for you." "No, I presume not," interrupted Enna with a sneer, "we are not worth inquiring for." Indignation kept Adelaide silent for a moment, she was sorely tempted to administer a severe and cutting rebuke. But Enna was no longer a child, and controlling herself she calmly delivered Mr. Travilla's message. "Oh, delightful! Cousin Elsie always does give such splendid parties, such elegant refreshments!" cried Virginia and Isadore Conly, girls of ten and twelve, "mamma, you'll never think of declining?" "No, your grandfather wouldn't like it," said Louise, as anxious as her daughters to enjoy the entertainment, yet glad to save her pride, by putting her acceptance on the score of pleasing her father. "And you'll go too, and take us, mamma, won't you?" anxiously queried Molly Percival, who was between her cousins in age. "Of course I'll go; we all want our share of the good things, and the pleasure of seeing and being seen," answered Enna, scorning Louise's subterfuge; "and if you and Dick will promise to make me no trouble, I'll take you along. But Bob and Betty may stay at home, I'm not going to be bothered with them,--babies of five and three. But what shall we wear, Lu? I do say it's real mean in them to give us so short a notice. But of course Elsie enjoys making me feel my changed circumstances. I've no such stock of jewels, silks and laces as she, nor the full purse that makes it an easy matter for her to order a fresh supply at a moment's warning." "You have all, and more than the occasion calls for," remarked Adelaide quietly; "it is to be only a family gathering." Chapter Second. "Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, We, who improve his golden hours, By sweet experience know That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good A paradise below." --Cotton Mr. Allison had fully kept his promise to Sophie, and Ashlands was again the fine old place it had been prior to the war. The family, consisting of the elder Mrs. Carrington, a young man, named George Boyd, a nephew of hers who had taken charge of the plantation, Sophie and her four children, had now been in possession for over a year. Sophie, still an almost inconsolable mourner for the husband of her youth, lived a very retired life, devoting herself to his mother and his orphaned little ones. Mrs. Ross, expecting to spend the fall and winter with them, had brought all her children and a governess, Miss Fisk, who undertook the tuition of the little Carringtons also during her stay at Ashlands, thus leaving the mothers more at liberty for the enjoyment of each other's society. It was in the midst of school-hours that the Ion carriage came driving up the avenue, and Philip Ross, lifting his head from the slate over which he had been bending for the last half hour, rose hastily, threw down his pencil and hurried from the room, paying no attention to Miss Fisk's query, "Where are you going, Philip?" or her command, "Come back instantly: it is quite contrary to rules for pupils to leave the school-room during the hours of recitation, without permission." Indeed he had reached the foot of the staircase before the last word had left her lips; she being very slow and precise in speech and action, while his movements were of the quickest. "What now is to be done in this emergency?" soliloquized the governess, unconsciously thinking aloud. "Miss Gertrude Ross," turning to a girl of nine whose merry blue eyes were twinkling with fun, "follow your brother at once and inform him that I cannot permit any such act of insubordination; and he must return instantly to the performance of his duties." "Yes ma'am," and Gertrude vanished; glad enough of the opportunity to see for herself who were the new arrivals. "Phil," she said, entering the drawing-room where the guests were already seated, "Miss Fisk says you're an insubordination and must come back instantly." "Gertude," said her mother, laughing "come and speak to Mr. Travilla and your little friends. Why yes, Phil, to be sure; how came you here when you ought to be at your lessons?" "Because I wanted to see Elsie Travilla," he answered nonchalantly. "Yes, but you should have asked for permission. I ought to send you back." "But you won't, ma, you know that as well as I do. I'll not go back a step while Elsie stays." "Well, well, it seems you are bound to have your own way, as usual," Lucy answered, half laughing, half sighing, then resumed her talk with Mr. Travilla. Seeing that the little Travillas had listened to this colloquy in blank amazement, she felt much mortified at Phil's behavior, and on receiving the invitation threatened to leave him at home as a punishment. But this only made matters worse: he insisted that go he would, and if she refused permission he should never, never love her again as long as he lived. And she weakly yielded. "Lucy," said her mother, when the guests were gone, and the children had left the room, "you are ruining that boy." "Well, I don't see how I can help it, mamma how could I bear to lose his affection?" "You are taking the very course to bring that about; it is the weakly indulged, not the wisely controlled, children who lose, first respect, and then affection for their parents. Look at Elsie's little family for instance; where can you find children ruled with a firmer hand, or more devotedly attached to their parents?" Eddie was at that moment saying to his father, "Papa, isn't Phil Ross a very, _very_ naughty boy, to be so saucy and disobedient to his mamma?" "My son," answered Mr. Travilla with gentle gravity, "when you have corrected all Eddie Travilla's faults it will be time enough to attend to those of others." And the child hung his head and blushed for shame. It was Mr. and Mrs. Horace Dinsmore who did the honors at Ion early in the evening, receiving and welcoming each bevy of guests, and replying to the oft repeated inquiry for the master and mistress of the establishment, that they would make their appearance shortly. Elsie's children, most sweetly and becomingly dressed, had gathered about "Aunt Rosie," in a corner of the drawing-room, and seemed to be waiting with a sort of intense but quiet eagerness for the coming of some expected event. At length every invited guest had arrived. All being so thoroughly acquainted, nearly all related, there was an entire absence of stiffness and constraint, and much lively chat had been carried on; but a sudden hush fell upon them, and every eye turned toward the doors opening into the hall, expecting--they knew not what. There were soft foot-falls, a slight rustle of silk, and Adelaide entered followed by Mr. Travilla with Elsie on his arm, in bridal attire. The shimmering satin, rich, soft lace and orange blossoms became her well; and never, even on that memorable night ten years ago, had she looked lovelier or more bride-like; never had her husband bent a prouder, fonder look upon her fair face than now as he led her to the centre of the room, where they paused in front of their pastor. A low murmur of surprise and delight ran round the room, but was suddenly stilled, as the venerable man rose and began to speak. "Ten years ago to-night, dear friends, I united you in marriage. Edward Travilla, you then vowed to love, honor and cherish till life's end the woman whom you now hold by the hand. Have you repented of that vow? and would you be released?" "Not for worlds: there has been no repentance, but my love has grown deeper and stronger day by day." "And you, Elsie Dinsmore Travilla, also vowed to love, honor and obey the man you hold by the hand. Have you repented?" "Never, sir; never for one moment." The accents were low, sweet, clear, and full of pleasure. "I pronounce you a faithful man and wife: and may God, in his good providence, grant you many returns of this happy anniversary." Old Mr. Dinsmore stepped up, kissed the bride and shook hands with the groom. "Blessings on you for making her so happy," he said in quivering tones. His son followed, then the others in their turn, and a merry scene ensued. "Mamma, it was so pretty, _so_ pretty," little Elsie said, clasping her arms about her mother's neck, "and now I just feel as if I'd been to your wedding. Thank you, dear mamma and papa." "Mamma, you are so beautiful, I'll just marry you myself, when I'm a man," remarked Eddie, giving her a hearty kiss, then gazing into her face with his great dark eyes full of love and admiration. "I too," chimed in Violet. "No, no, I forget, I shall be a lady myself: so I'll have to marry papa." "No, Vi, oo tan't have my papa; he's dus' my papa always," objected Harold, climbing his father's knee. "What a splendid idea, Elsie," Lucy Ross was saying to her friend, "you have made me regret, for the first time, not having kept my wedding dress; for I believe my Phil and I could go through that catechism quite as well as you and Mr. Travilla. The whole thing, I suppose, was quite original?" "Among us: my namesake daughter proposed the wearing of the dress: and the ceremony," turning to the minister, "was your idea, Mr. Wood, was it not?" "Partly, Mrs. Travilla; your father, Mrs. Dinsmore, and I planned it together." "Your dress is as perfect a fit as when made, but I presume you had it altered," observed Lucy, making a critical examination of her friend's toilet. "No, not in the least," answered Elsie, smiling. The banquet to which the guests were presently summoned, though gotten up so hastily, more than fulfilled the expectation of the Misses Conly, who as well as their mother and Aunt Enna did it ample justice; there was a good deal of gormandizing done by the spoiled children present, spite of feeble protests from their parents; but Elsie's well trained little ones ate contentedly what was given them, nor even asked for the rich dainties on which others were feasting; knowing that papa and mamma loved them too dearly to deny them any real good. "Holloa, Neddie and Vi, why you've been overlooked!" said Philip Ross, coming toward the two little ones with a plate heaped up with rich viands, "you've nothing but ice cream and plain sugar biscuit; here, take some of this pound cake and these bonbons. They're delicious, I tell you!" "No, no, thank you: mamma says pound cake is much too rich for us, and would make us sick," said Eddie. "'Specially at night," added Vi, "and we're to have some bonbons to-morrow." "Goodest little tots ever I saw," returned Philip laughing. "Ma wanted me to let 'em alone, but I told her I'd risk the getting sick," he added with a pompous grown-up air. "Phil, you certainly are an insubordination, as Miss Fisk said," remarked his sister Gertrude, standing near, "I believe you think you're 'most a man, but it's a great mistake." "Pooh, Ger! people that live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. I heard you telling ma you wouldn't wear the dress she'd laid out for you. Elsie Travilla, allow me the pleasure of refilling your saucer." "No, thank you, Phil, I've had all mamma thinks good for me." "Time to go to bed, chillens," said mammy, approaching the little group, "de clock jes gwine strike nine. Here, Uncle Joe, take dese empty saucers." Promptly and without a murmur the four little folks prepared to obey the summons, but cast wistful longing glances toward mamma, who was gayly chatting with her guests on the other side of the room. Just then the clock on the mantel struck, and excusing herself she came quickly toward them. "That is right, dears; come and say good-night to papa and our friends; then go with mammy and mamma will follow in a few moments." "What dear sweet creatures they are! perfect little ladies and gentlemen," remarked Mrs. Wood, as, after a courteous good-night to all, they went cheerfully away with their mammy. "I wish mine were half as good," said Mrs. Ross. "Now ma, don't expose us," cried Phil. "I've often heard you say Mrs. Travilla was a far better little girl than you; so of course her children ought to be better than yours." "Some children keep their good behavior for company," sneered Enna, "and I've no doubt these little paragons have their naughty fits as well as ours." "It is quite true that they are not always good," Elsie said with patient sweetness. "And now I beg you will all excuse me for a few moments, as they never feel quite comfortable going to bed without a last word or two with mamma." "Before I'd make myself such a slave to my children!" muttered Enna, looking after her as she glided from the room. "If they couldn't be content to be put to bed by their mammies, they might stay up all night." "I think Mrs. Travilla is right," observed the pastor; "the responsibilities of parents are very great. God says to each one, 'Take this child and nurse it for me, and I will give thee thy wages.'" Chapter Third. "Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot, To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, To breathe the enlivening spirit and to fix The generous purpose in the glowing breast!" --THOMSON'S SEASONS. The Ion little folks were allowed an extra nap the next morning, their parents wisely considering plenty of sleep necessary to the healthful development of their mental and physical powers. They themselves, however, felt no necessity for a like indulgence, their guests having departed in season to admit of their retiring at the usual hour, and were early in the saddle, keenly enjoying a brisk canter of several miles before breakfast. On their return Elsie went to the nursery, Mr. Travilla to the field where his men were at work. Half an hour later they and their children met at the breakfast table. Solon came in for orders. "You may leave Beppo saddled, Solon," said Mr. Travilla, "and have Prince and Princess at the door also, immediately after prayers." The last named were a pair of pretty little grey ponies belonging respectively to Eddie and his sister Elsie. They were gentle and well trained for both saddle and harness. Nearly every day the children rode them, one on each side of their father, mounted on Beppo, his beautiful bay; and occasionally they drove behind them in the phaeton with their mother or some older person; and one or the other of the children would often be allowed to hold the reins when on a straight and level road; for their father wished them to learn to both ride and drive with ease and skill. Little Elsie's great ambition was "to be like mamma" in the ease and grace with which she sat her horse, as well as in every thing else; while Eddie was equally anxious to copy his father. Violet and Harold ran out to the veranda to watch them mount and ride away. "Papa," said Vi, "shall we, too, have ponies and ride with you, when we're as big as Elsie and Eddie?" "I intend you shall, little daughter, and if you and Harold will be here with your hats on, all ready to start at once when we come back, I will give you each a short ride before the ponies are put away." "Oh, thank you, papa! we'll be sure to be ready," they answered, and ran in to their mother to tell her of papa's kind promise, and to have their hats put on. Elsie, who was in the sitting-room with Herbert on her lap, rejoiced in their joy, and bade Dinah prepare them at once for their ride. "Bress dere little hearts! dey grows hansomer ebery day," exclaimed an elderly negress, who had just come in with a basket on her arm. "Don't say such things before them, Aunt Sally," said her mistress in a tone of gentle reproof, "their young hearts are only too ready to be puffed up with vanity and pride. Now what is your report from the quarter." "Well, missus, dere's lots ob miseries down dere dis mornin'; ole Lize she's took wid a misery in her side; an' Uncle Jack, he got um in his head; ole Aunt Delie's got de misery in de joints wid de rheumatiz, an' ole Uncle Mose he's 'plainin ob de misery in his back; can't stan' up straight no how: an' Hannah's baby got a mighty bad cold, can't hardly draw its breff; 'twas took dat way in de night; an' Silvy's boy tore his foot on a nail." "Quite a list," said Elsie. And giving her babe to Aunt Chloe, she selected a key from a bright bunch lying in a little basket, held by a small dusky maid at her side, unlocked a closet door and looked over her medical store. "Here's a plaster for Uncle Mose to put on his back, and one for Lize's side," she said, handing each article in turn to Aunt Sally, who bestowed it in her basket. "This small bottle has some drops that will do Uncle Jack's head good; and this larger one is for Aunt Delia. Tell her to rub her joints with it. There is medicine for the baby, and Hannah must give it a warm bath. If it is not better directly we must send for the doctor. Now, here is a box of salve, excellent for cuts, burns and bruises; spread some on a bit of rag, and tie it on Silvy's boy's foot. There, I think that is all. I'll be down after a while, to see how they are all doing," and with some added directions concerning the use of each remedy, Aunt Sally was dismissed. Then Aunt Dicey, the housekeeper, came for her orders for the day, and such supplies from pantry and storehouse as were needed in carrying them out. In the meantime the riding party had returned, Harold and Violet had been treated to a ride about the grounds, the one in his father's arms, Beppo stepping carefully as if he knew he carried a tender babe, the other on one of the ponies close at papa's side and under his watchful eye. It was a rosy merry group mamma found upon the veranda, chatting to each other and laughing gayly as they watched their father cantering down the avenue on his way to the fields to oversee the work going on there. They did not hear their mother's step till she was close at hand asking in her own sweet, gentle tones, "My darlings, had you a pleasant time?" "O, yes, mamma, so nice!" and they gathered about her, eager to claim her ever ready sympathy, interested in their joys no less than their sorrows. They had been taught to notice the beauties of nature--the changing clouds, the bright autumn foliage, plants and flowers, insects, birds, stones; all the handiwork of God; and the elder ones now never returned from walk or ride without something to tell of what they had seen and enjoyed. It was surprising how much they learned in this easy pleasant way, how much they gained almost imperceptibly in manners, correctness of speech, and general information, by this habit of their parents of keeping them always with themselves and patiently answering every proper question. They were encouraged not only to observe, but to think, to reason, and to repeat what they had learned; thus fixing it more firmly in their minds. They were not burdened with long tasks or many studies, but required to learn thoroughly such as were set them, and trained to a love for wholesome mental food; the books put into their hands being carefully chosen by their parents. Though abundantly able to employ a governess, Elsie preferred teaching her darlings her self. There was a large, airy room set apart for the purpose, and furnished with every suitable appliance, books, maps, globes, pictures, an orrery, a piano, etc., etc. There were pretty rosewood desks and chairs, the floor was a mosaic of beautifully grained and polished woods, the walls, adorned with a few rare engravings, were of a delicate neutral tint, and tasteful curtains draped each window. Thither mother and children now repaired, and spent two happy hours in giving and receiving instruction. Harold had not yet quite mastered the alphabet. His task was, of course, soon done, and he was permitted to betake himself to the nursery or elsewhere, with his mammy to take care of him; or if he chose to submit to the restraint of the school-room rather than leave mamma and the others, he might do so. Violet could already read fluently, in any book suited to her years, and was learning to spell, write and sew. Eddie was somewhat further advanced, and Elsie had begun arithmetic, history and geography; music, also, and drawing; for both of which she already shown decided talent. School over, she had a half hour of rest, then went to the piano for an hour's practice, her mamma sitting by to aid and encourage her. Mr. Travilla came in, asking, "Where is Eddie?" "Here, papa," and the boy came running in with face all aglow with delight. "O, are you going to teach me how to shoot? I saw you coming with that pistol in your hand, and I'm so glad." "Yes," his father answered, smiling at the eager face. "You will not be anxious, little wife?" turning to her with a tender loving look. "No, my husband; surely I can trust him with you, his own wise, careful, loving father;" she answered with a confiding smile. "O papa, mayn't I go along with you? and won't you teach me too?" cried Violet, who was always ready for any excitement. "Not to-day, daughter: only Eddie and I are going now; but sometime I will teach you all. It is well enough for even ladies to handle a pistol on occasion, and your mamma is quite a good shot." Vi looked disappointed but did not fret, pout, or ask a second time; for such things were not allowed in the family by either parent. "Mamma's good little girl," the mother said, drawing her caressingly to her side, as Mr. Travilla and Eddie left the room. "I am going to walk down to the quarter this afternoon and will take you and your brother and sister with me, if you care to go." "O, mamma, thank you! yes indeed, I do want to go," cried the little one, her face growing bright as its wont. "May we be there when the bell rings? 'cause I do like to see the dogs." And she clapped her tiny hands with a laugh like the chiming of silver bells. Her sister laughed too, saying, "O, yes, mamma, do let us." The Ion negroes were paid liberal wages, and yet as kind and generously cared for as in the old days of slavery; even more so, for now Elsie might lawfully carry out her desire to educate and elevate them to a higher standard of intelligence and morality. To this end Mr. Travilla had added to the quarter a neat school-house, where the children received instruction in the rudiments during the day, the adults in the evening, from one of their own race whose advantages had been such as to qualify him for the work. There, too, the master and mistress themselves held a Sunday school on Sabbath afternoons. Aunt Sally, the nurse, also instructed the women in housewifely ways, and Dinah taught them sewing; Elsie encouraging and stimulating them to effort by bestowing prizes on the most diligent and proficient. Eddie came in from his first lesson in the use of firearms, flushed and excited. "Mamma, I did shoot," he cried exultingly, "I shooted many times, and papa says I'll make a good shot some day if I keep on trying." "Ah! did you hit the mark?" "Not quite this time, mamma," and the bright face clouded slightly. "Not quite," laughed Mr. Travilla, drawing his boy caressingly toward him. "If you please, mamma, do not question us too closely; we expect to do better another time. He really did fairly well considering his age and that it was his first lesson." "Papa," asked Vi, climbing his knee, "were you 'fraid Eddie would shoot us if we went along?" "I thought it safer to leave you at home." "Papa, mamma's going to take us walking down to the quarter this afternoon; we're to be there when the bell rings, so we can see those funny dogs." "Ah, then I think I shall meet you there and walk home with you." This announcement was received with a chorus of exclamations of delight; his loved companionship would double their enjoyment; it always did. 'Twas a pleasant, shady walk, not too long for the older children, and Harold's mammy would carry him when he grew weary. They called at the school-room, witnessed the closing exercises, then visited all the aged and ailing ones, Elsie inquiring tenderly concerning their "miseries," speaking words of sympathy and consolation and giving additional advice; remedies too, and some little delicacies to whet the sickly appetites (these last being contained in a basket, carried by a servant). As they left the last cabin, in the near vicinity of the post where hung the bell, which summoned the men to their meals, and gave notice of the hour for quitting work, they saw the ringer hurrying toward it. "Oh, mamma, we're just in time!" cried Vi, "how nice!" "Yes," said her sister, "mamma always knows how to make things come out right." Every negro family owned a cur, and at the first tap of the bell they always, with a united yelp, rushed for the spot, where they formed a ring round the post, each seated on his haunches and brushing the ground with his tail, with a rapid motion, from side to side, nose in the air, eyes fixed upon the bell, and throat sending out a prolonged howl so long as the ringing continued. The din was deafening, and far from musical, but it was a comical sight, vastly enjoyed by the young Travillas, who saw it only occasionally. Mr. and Mrs. Travilla were walking slowly homeward, the children and Bruno frolicking, jumping, dancing, running on before. After a while the two little girls grew somewhat weary, and subsided into a soberer pace. "Vi," said Elsie, "Don't you believe Aunt Delia might get better of those 'miseries' in her bones, if she had some nice new red flannel things to wear?" "Yes; let's buy her some," and a pretty dimpled hand went into her pocket, and out came a dainty, silken purse, mamma's gift on her last birthday, when she began to have a weekly allowance, like Elsie and Eddie. "Yes, if mamma approves." "'Course we'll 'sult mamma 'bout it first, and she'll say yes; she always likes us to be kind and--char--char--" "Charitable? yes, 'specially to Jesus' people, and I know Aunt Delia's one of his. How much money have you, Vi?" "I don't know; mamma or papa will count when we get home." "I have two dollars and fifty cents; maybe Eddie will give some if we haven't enough." "Enough of what?" queried Eddie, over-hearing the last words as he and Bruno neared the others in their gambols. Elsie explained, asking, "Would you like to help?" "Yes, and I'm going to buy some 'baccy' as he calls it, for old Uncle Jack." Mamma was duly consulted, approved of their plans, took them the next day to the nearest village, let them select the goods themselves, then helped them to cut out and make the garments. Eddie assisted by threading needles and sewing on buttons, saying "that would do for a boy because he had heard papa say he had sometimes sewed on a button for himself when he was away at college." To be sure the work might have been given to the seamstress, but it was the desire of these parents to train their little ones to give time and effort as well as money. Chapter Fourth. "O, what a state is guilt! how wild! how wretched!" --HAVARD. The war had wrought many changes in the neighborhood where our friends resided; some who had been reared in the lap of luxury were now in absolute want, having sacrificed almost their last dollar in the cause of secession; to which also in numerous instances, the husbands, sons and brothers had fallen victims. Though through the clemency of the Government there had been no executions for treason, no confiscation of property, many plantations had changed hands because of the inability of the original owners to work them, for lack of means to pay the laborers. Elsie's tender sympathies were strongly enlisted for these old friends and acquaintances, and their necessities often relieved by her bounty when they little guessed whence help had come. Her favors were doubled by the delicate kindness of the manner of their bestowal. The ability to give largely was the greatest pleasure her wealth afforded her, and one in which she indulged to the extent of disposing yearly in that way, of the whole surplus of her ample income; not waiting to be importuned, but constantly seeking out worthy objects upon whom to bestow that of which she truly considered herself but a steward who must one day render a strict account unto her Lord. It was she who had repaired the ravages of war in Springbrook, the residence of Mr. Wood, her pastor; she who, when the Fosters of Fairview, a plantation adjoining Ion, had been compelled to sell it, had bought a neat cottage in the vicinity and given them the use of it at a merely nominal rent. And in any another like deed had she done; always with the entire approval of her husband, who was scarcely less generous than herself. The purchaser of Fairview was a Mr. Leland, a northern man who had been an officer in the Union army. Pleased with the southern climate and the appearance of that section of country, he felt inclined to settle there and assist in the development of its resources; he therefore returned some time after the conclusion of peace, bought this place, and removed his family thither. They were people of refinement and culture, quiet and peaceable, steady attendants upon Mr. Wood's ministry, and in every way conducted themselves as good citizens. Yet they were not popular: the Fosters, particularly Wilkins, the only son, hated them as their supplanters, and saw with bitter envy the rapid improvement of Fairview under Mr. Leland's careful cultivation. It was no fault of his that they had been compelled to part with it, and he had paid a fair price: but envy and jealousy are ever unreasonable; and their mildest term of reproach in speaking of him was "carpet-bagger." Others found fault with Mr. Leland as paying too liberal wages to the negroes (including Mr. Horace Dinsmore and Mr. Travilla in the same charge), and hated him for his outspoken loyalty to the Government; for though he showed no disposition to seek for office or meddle in any way with the politics of others, he made no secret of his views when occasion seemed to call for their expression. It was not a prudent course under existing circumstances, but accorded well with the frank and fearless nature of the man. Messrs. Dinsmore and Travilla, themselves strong Unionists, though the latter was more discreet in the utterance of his sentiments, found in him a kindred spirit. Rose and Elsie were equally pleased with Mrs. Leland, and pitying her loneliness, called frequently, inviting a return of their visits, until now the three families had become tolerably intimate. This state of things was extremely displeasing to Louise and Enna; scarcely less so to their father; but the others, convinced that they were in the path of duty in thus extending kindness and sympathy to deserving strangers, who were also "of the household of _faith_," were not to be deterred by remonstrances or vituperation. "Scalawags"--a term of reproach applied by the Democrats of the South to the Republicans, who were natives of that section--was what Enna called her brother, his son-in-law and daughter, when out of hearing of her father, who though vexed at their notice of the Lelands, was too strongly attached to his only remaining son, and too sensible of the kindness he had received at the hands of Mr. Travilla and Elsie, to permit anything of that sort. The Lelands had several young children, well-bred and of good principles, and it angered Louise and Enna that Elsie evidently preferred them to their own rude, deceitful, spoiled offspring as companions and playmates for her little ones. Elsie and her husband were very desirous to live on good terms with these near relatives, but not to the extent of sacrificing their children's morals; therefore did not encourage a close intimacy with their Roselands cousins; yet ever treated them politely and kindly, and made a valuable present to each on every return of his or her birthday, and on Christmas; always managing to select something specially desired by the recipient of the favor. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore pursued a similar course; Rosie was allowed to be as intimate as she chose at Ion, and with her Aunt Sophie's children, but never visited Roselands except with her parents or sister; nor were the Roseland cousins ever invited to make a lengthened stay at the Oaks. One afternoon, several weeks subsequent to the events related in the last chapter, Mary and Archie Leland came over to Ion to spend an hour with their young friends. The weather was delightful, and the children preferred playing out of doors; the girls took their dolls to a summer-house in the garden, while with kite, ball and marbles, the boys repaired to the avenue. "Who are those?" asked Archie, as looking up at the sound of approaching footsteps he saw two boys, a good deal older than themselves, coming leisurely toward them. "My cousins, Wal Conly and Dick Percival," answered Eddie. "I wish they hadn't come, they always tease me so." "Hilloa!" cried Dick, "what! Ed Travilla, you play with carpet-baggers, eh? fie on you! I wouldn't be seen with one." "That's not polite, Dick. Archie's a good boy; mamma and papa says so; and I like him for a playfellow." "You do? ah, that's because you're a scalawag." "What's that?" "What your father is and your grandfather too." "Then I don't care; I want to be just like my papa." "But it isn't nice," put in Walter, laughing, "a scalawag's the meanest thing alive." "Then you shall not call papa that, nor grandpa!" and the child's great dark eyes flashed with anger. "Whew! I'd like to see you hinder me. Look here, Ed," and Dick pulled out a pistol, "what d'ye think o' that? don't you wish you had one? don't you wish you could shoot?" "I can," returned Eddie, proudly, "papa's been teaching me, and he's given me a better pistol than that." "Hey! a likely story!" cried the two tormentors, with an incredulous laugh. "Let's see it now?" "It's in the house, but papa said I should never touch it 'cept when he gives it to me; not till I grow a big boy." "Nonsense!" cried Dick, "if 'twas there, you'd bring it out fast enough. I sha'n't believe a word of the story until I see the pistol." "I'll show you if I'm not telling the truth;" exclaimed Eddie, flushing hotly, and turning about as if to go into the house. But Archie laid a hand on his arm, and speaking for the first time since the others had joined them, "Don't, Eddie," he said persuasively, "don't disobey your father; I know you'll be sorry for it afterwards." "Hold your tongue, you young carpet-bagger," said Dick. "Run and get it, Ed." "No, never mind about his pistol, he can't shoot," said Walter, mockingly. "If he can, let him take yours and prove it." Eddie remembered well that his father had also forbidden him to touch firearms at all, except when with him; but the boy was naturally proud and wilful, and spite of all the careful training of his parents, these faults would occasionally show themselves. He did not like to have his word doubted, he was eager to prove his skill, which he conceived to be far greater than it was, and as his cousins continued to twit and tease him, daring him to show what he could do, he was sorely tempted to disobey. They were slowly walking on farther from the house as they talked, and finally when Dick said, "why, Ed, you couldn't hit that big tree yonder, I dare you to try it," at the same time offering him the pistol, the little fellow's sense of duty suddenly gave way, and snatching the weapon from Dick's hand, he fired, not allowing himself time, in his haste and passion, to take proper aim. In their excitement and pre-occupation, none of the boys had noticed Mr. Travilla riding into the avenue a moment before, closely followed by his body servant Ben. Almost simultaneously with the report of the pistol the former tumbled from the saddle and fell heavily to the ground. With a cry, "O, Mass Edard's killed!" Ben sprang from his horse and bent over the prostrate form, wringing his hands in fright and grief. He was his master's foster-brother and devotedly attached to him. The fall, the cry, the snorting and running of the frightened horses, instantly told the boys what had happened, and Eddie threw himself on the ground screaming in an agony of grief and remorse, "O, I've killed my father, my dear, dear father! O, papa, papa! what shall I do? what shall I do?" Mr. Leland coming in search of his children, the men passing the gate returning from their work, all heard and rushed to the spot. The blacks crowded about the scene of the accident, sobbing like children at the sight of their loved master and friend lying there apparently lifeless. Mr. Leland, his features working with emotion, at once assumed the direction of affairs. "Catch the horses," he said, "and you, Ben, mount the fleetest and fly for the doctor. And you," turning to another, "take the other and hurry to the Oaks for Mr. Dinsmore. Now the rest of you help me to carry your master to the house. I will lift his head, there gently, gently, my good fellows, I think he still breathes. But Mrs. Travilla!" he added, looking toward the dwelling, "all seems quiet there; they have not heard, I think, and she should be warned. I wish--" "I will go, I will tell mamma," interrupted a quivering child voice at his side. Little Elsie had pushed her way through the crowd and dropping on her knees on the grass was raining kisses and tears upon the pale, unconscious face. "You? poor child!" Mr. Leland began in piteous tones; but she had already sprung to her feet and was flying toward the house with the fleetness of the wind. One moment she paused in the spacious entrance hall, to recover her breath, calm her features, and remove the traces of her tears. "Mamma, mamma," she was saying to herself, "O Lord Jesus give me the right words to speak to her." She hardly knew to which apartment to direct her steps, but "Hark! there was the sound of the piano and mamma's sweet voice singing a song papa had brought home only the other day, and that he liked. Ah would she ever sing again now that he--" But no, not even in thought could she say that dreadful word; but she knew now that mamma was in the music room; and earnestly repeating her silent petition for help, she hurried thither. The door was open; with swift, noiseless steps she gained her mother's side; passing an arm about her neck, and half averting her own pale, agitated face, "Mamma," she said in low, tremulous tones, "'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble!' Mamma, Jesus loves you, Jesus loves you! He will help you to bear--" "My daughter, what is it?" asked the mother in a tone of forced calmness, a terrible pang shooting through her heart, "your father? Eddie? Vi?"--then starting up at a sound as of the feet of those who bore some heavy burden, she ran into the hail. For a moment she stood as one transfixed with grief and horror. "He breathes, he lives," Mr. Leland hastened to say. Her lips moved but no words came from them. Silently motioning them to follow her, she led the way to his room and pointed to the bed. They laid him on it and at that instant consciousness returned. "Dear wife, it is nothing," he faintly murmured, lifting his eyes to her face as she bent over him in speechless anguish. She softly pressed her lips to his brow, her heart too full for utterance. The words sent a thrill of gladness to the heart of little Elsie, who had crept in behind the men, and stood near the bed silently weeping; her father lived; and now Eddie's frantic screams seemed to ring in her ears (in her fear for her father she had scarcely noticed them before) and she must go and tell him the glad news. She was not needed here; mamma was not conscious of her presence, and she could do nothing for the dear injured father. She stole quietly from the room. On the veranda she found Violet crying bitterly, while Mary Leland vainly tried to comfort her. "Don't cry so, little sister," Elsie said, going to her and taking her in her arms in tender motherly fashion, "our dear papa is not killed; I saw him open his eyes, and heard him say to mamma, 'Dear wife, it is nothing.'" Vi clung to her sister with a fresh burst of tears, but this time they were tears of joy. "O, I'm so glad! I thought I had no papa any more." A few more soothing words and caresses and Elsie said, "Now I must go and tell poor Eddie. Do you know where he is?" "Hark! don't you hear him crying way off in the grounds?" said Mary, "I think he's just where he was." "O, yes, yes!" and Elsie hastened in the direction of the sounds. She found him lying on the grass still crying in heart-broken accents, "Oh, I've killed my father, my dear, dear father! what shall I do! what shall I do!" Dick and Walter were gone; like the guilty wretches they were, they had fled as soon as they saw what mischief they had caused. But Archie too kind-hearted and noble to forsake a friend in distress, was still there. "You didn't mean to do it, Eddie," he was saying, as Elsie came within hearing. "No, no," burst out the half distracted child, "I wouldn't hurt my dear papa one bit for all the world! but it was 'cause I disobeyed him. He told me never to touch firearms when he wasn't by to help me do it right. Oh, oh, oh, I didn't think I'd ever be such a wicked boy! I've killed my father, oh! oh!" "No, Eddie, no, you haven't; papa opened his eyes and spoke to mamma," said his sister hurrying to his side. "Did he? O Elsie, is he alive? Isn't he hurt much?" asked the child, ceasing his cries for the moment, and lifting his tear-swollen face to hers. "I don't know, Eddie dear, but I hope not," she said, low and tremulously, the tears rolling fast down her own cheeks, while she took out her handkerchief and gently wiped them away from his. He dropped his head again, with a bitter, wailing cry. "O, I'm afraid he is, and I shooted him! I shooted him!" Fortunately Dr. Burton's residence was not far distant, and Ben urging Beppo to his utmost speed and finding the doctor at home, had him at Mr. Travilla's bedside in a wonderfully short space of time. The doctor found the injury not nearly so great as he had feared: the ball had struck the side of the head and glanced off, making a mere scalp-wound, which, though causing insensibility for a time, would have no very serious or lasting consequences; the blood had been already sponged away, and the wound closed with sticking plaster. But the fall had jarred the whole system and caused some bruises; so that altogether the patient was likely to have to keep his bed for some days, and the doctor said must be kept quiet and as free from excitement as possible. Elsie, leaving Aunt Chloe at the bedside, followed the physician from the room. "You need give yourself no anxiety, my dear Mrs. Travilla," he said cheerily, taking her hand in his for a moment, in his kind fatherly way--for he was an old man now, and had known her from her early childhood--"the injuries are not at all serious, and there is no reason why your husband should not be about again in a week or so. But how did it happen? What hand fired the shot?" "Indeed I do not know, have not asked," she answered, with an emotion of surprise at herself for the omission. "It seems strange I should not, but I was so taken up with grief and fear for him, and anxiety to relieve his suffering that I had room for no other thought. Can you tell us, sir?" turning to Mr. Leland, who was standing near. "I--did not see the shot," he replied with some hesitation. "But you know; tell me, I beg of you." "It was an accident, madam, entirely an accident: there can be no question about that." "But tell me all you know," she entreated, growing very pale. "I see you fear to wound me, but it were far better I should know the whole truth." "I suppose your little son must have been playing with a pistol," he answered, with evident reluctance. "I heard him screaming, 'O, I've killed my father, my dear, dear father!'" "Eddie!" she groaned, staggering back against the wall, and putting her hand over her eyes. "My dear madam!" "My dear Mrs. Travilla," the gentlemen exclaimed simultaneously, "do not let it distress you so, since it must have been the merest accident, and the consequences are not so serious as they might have been." "But he was disobeying his father, and has nearly taken his life," she moaned low and tremulously, the big tears coursing down her cheeks. "Oh, my son, my son!" The gentlemen looked uneasily at each other, scarcely knowing what consolation to offer; but a well known step approached, hastily, yet with caution, and the next instant Elsie was clasped in her father's arms. "My darling, my poor darling!" he said with emotion, as she laid her head on his breast, with a burst of almost hysterical weeping. He caressed her silently. How could he ask the question trembling on his lips? what meant this bitter weeping? His eye sought that of the physician, who promptly answered the unspoken query with the same cheering report he had just given her. Mr. Dinsmore was intensely relieved. "Thank God that it is no worse!" he said in low, reverent tones. "Elsie, daughter, cheer up, he will soon be well again." Mr. Leland, taking leave, offered to return and watch by the sick bed that night; but Mr. Dinsmore, while joining Elsie in cordial thanks, claimed it as his privilege. "Ah, well, don't hesitate to call upon me whenever I can be of use," said Mr. Leland, and with a kindly "Good evening," he and the doctor retired, Mr. Dinsmore seeing them to the door. Returning, he found Elsie still in the parlor where he had left her. She was speaking to a servant, "Go, Prilla, look for the children, and bring them in. It is getting late for them to be out." The girl went, and Elsie saying to her father that Prilla had brought word that Mr. Travilla was now sleeping, begged him to sit down and talk with her for a moment. The tears fell fast as she spoke. It was long since he had seen her so moved. "Dear daughter, why distress yourself thus?" he said, folding her in his arms, and drawing her head to a resting place upon his breast; "your husband's injuries are not very serious. Dr. Burton is not one to deceive us with false hopes." "No, papa, oh, how thankful I am to know he is not in danger; but--oh, papa, papa! to think that Eddie did it! that my own son should have so nearly taken his father's life! I grow sick with horror at the very thought!" "Yet it must have been the merest accident, the child almost idolizes his father." "I had thought so, but he must have been disobeying that father's positive command else this could not have happened. I could never have believed my son could be so disobedient, and it breaks my heart to think of it all." "The best of us do not always resist temptation successfully, and doubtless in this case it has been very strong. And he is bitterly repenting; I heard him crying somewhere in the grounds as I rode up the avenue, but could not then take time to go to him, not knowing how much you and Travilla might be needing my assistance." "My poor boy; he does love his father," she said, wiping her eyes. "There can be no question about that, and this will be a life-long lesson to him." "Papa, you always bring me comfort," she said gratefully. "And you will stay with us to-night?" "Yes; I could not leave you at such a time. I shall send a note to Rose, to relieve her anxiety in regard to Edward's accident, and let her know that she need not expect me home till morning. Well, Prilla," as the girl reappeared, "what is it? why have you not brought the children as your mistress directed?" "Please, sah, Massa Dinsmore, Mars Eddie won't come; he jes' lie on de ground an' scream an' cry, 'O, I've killed my fader, my dear, dear fader,' an Miss Elsie she comfortin' an' coaxin', an' pleadin', but he won't pay no pretention to nobody." Elsie wept anew. "My poor child! my poor little son! what am I to do with him?" "I will go to him; trust him to me," Mr. Dinsmore said, leaving the room with a quick firm step. Chapter Fifth. "If hearty sorrow Be a sufficient ransom for offence, I tender it here; I do as truly suffer, As e'er I did commit." --SHAKESPEARE. "O Eddie, dear, do get up and come into the house!" entreated his sister. "I must leave you if you don't, for Prilla said mamma had sent for us; and you know we must obey." "Oh I can't, I can't go in! I can't see mamma! she will never, never love me any more!" "Yes, she will, Eddie; nothing will ever make her stop loving us; and if you're really sorry for having disobeyed poor, dear papa, you'll not go on and disobey her now." "But oh I've been such a wicked, wicked boy. O Elsie, what shall I do? Jesus won't love me now, nor mamma nor anybody." "O Eddie," sobbed his sister, "don't talk so. Jesus does love you and will forgive you, if you ask him; and so will mamma and papa; for they both love you and I love you dearly, dearly." The two were alone, Archie having gone home with his father. A step drew near, and Mr. Dinsmore's voice spoke close at hand in tones sterner and more peremptory than he really meant them to be. "Edward, get up from that damp grass and come into the house immediately. Do you intend to add to your poor mother's troubles by your disobedience, and by making yourself sick?" The child arose instantly. He was accustomed to yield to his grandfather's authority quite as readily as to that of his parents. "O grandpa, please don't be hard to him! His heart's almost broken, and he wouldn't have hurt papa on purpose for all the world," pleaded little Elsie, hastening to Mr. Dinsmore's side, taking his hand in both hers, and lifting her tear-dimmed eyes beseechingly to his face. "Yes, grandpa ought," sobbed Eddie, "I've been such a wicked, wicked boy, I deserve the dreadfulest whipping that ever was. And papa can't do it now!" he cried with a fresh burst of grief and remorse, "and mamma won't like to. Grandpa, it'll have to be you. Please do it quick, 'cause I want it over." "And has all this distress been for fear of punishment?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, taking the child's hand, and bending down to look searchingly into his face. "Oh no, no, no, grandpa! I'd rather be whipped any day than to know I've hurt my dear papa so. Grandpa, won't you do it quick?" "No, my son, I am not fond of such business and shall not punish you unless requested to do so by your father or mother. The doctor hopes your father will be about again in a week or two, and he can then attend to your case himself." "Oh then he won't die! he won't die, our dear, dear papa!" cried both children in a breath. "No; God has been very good to us all in causing the ball to strike where it could do but little injury. And Edward, I hope this will be such a lesson to you all your life as will keep you from ever disobeying again." They were passing up the avenue, Eddie moving submissively along by his grandfather's side, but with tottering steps; for the dreadful excitement of the last hour had exhausted him greatly. Perceiving this Mr. Dinsmore presently took him in his arms and carried him to the house. Low pitiful sobs and sighs were the only sounds the little fellow made till set down in the veranda; but then clinging to his grandfather's hand, he burst out afresh, "O grandpa, I can't go in! I can't, I can't see mamma, for she can't love me any more." The mother heard and came quickly out. The tears were coursing down her cheeks, her mother heart yearned over her guilty, miserable child: stooping down and stretching out her arms, "Eddie, my little son," she said in tender tremulous accents, "come to mother. If my boy is truly sorry for his sin, mamma has no reproaches for him: nothing but forgiveness and love." He threw himself upon her bosom, "Mamma, mamma, I am sorry, oh, _so_ sorry! I will never, never disobey papa or you again." "God helping you, my son; if you trust in your own strength you will be sure to fall." "Yes mamma; oh, mamma, I've been the wickedest boy! I disobeyed my father and shooted him; and oughtn't I to have a dreadful whipping? Shall grandpa do it?" Mrs. Travilla lifted her full eyes inquiringly to her father's face. "It is all his own idea," said Mr. Dinsmore with emotion, "I think he has already had a worse punishment by far in his grief and remorse." Elsie heaved a sigh of relief. "I think his father would say so too; it shall be decided by him when he is able. Eddie, my son, papa is too ill now to say what shall be done with you. I think he does not even know of your disobedience. You will have to wait some days. The suspense will be hard to bear, I know, but my little boy must try to be patient, remembering that he has brought all this suffering on himself. And in the meantime he has mamma's forgiveness and love," she added folding him to her heart with a tender caress. Sorely the children missed their precious half hour with mamma that night, and every night and morning of their papa's illness; she could leave him only long enough each time to give them a few loving words and a kiss all round, and they scarcely saw her through the day--were not admitted to their father's room at all. But they were very good; lessons went on nearly as usual, little Elsie keeping order in the school-room, even wilful Eddie quietly submitting to her gentle sway, and grandpa kindly attending to the recitations. He rode out with them too, and he, Aunt Rosie or their mammies, took them for a pleasant walk every fine day. Friends and neighbors were very kind and attentive, none more so than the Lelands. Archie told his father how, and by whom, poor Eddie had been teased, provoked and dared into firing the pistol; Mr. Leland told Mr. Dinsmore the story, and he repeated it to his father and sisters. The old gentleman was sufficiently incensed against the two culprits to administer a severe castigation to each, while Elsie was thankful to learn that her son had not yielded readily to the temptation to disobedience. She pitied him deeply, as she noted how weary to him were these days of waiting, how his gay spirits had forsaken him, how anxious he was for his father's recovery; how he longed for the time when he should be permitted to go to him with his confession and petition for pardon. At length that time came. Mr. Travilla was so much better that Dr. Burton said it would do him no harm to see his children, and to hear all the details of his accident. The others were brought in first and allowed to spend a few minutes in giving and receiving caresses, their little tongues running very fast in their exuberant joy over their restored father. "Elsie, Vi, Harold, baby--but where is Eddie?" he asked, looking a little anxiously at his wife; "not sick, I hope?" "No, my dear, he will be in presently," she answered, the tears starting to her eyes, "no one of them all has found it harder to be kept away from you than he. But there is something he has begged me to tell you before he comes." "Ah!" he said with a troubled look in his eyes, a suspicion of the truth dawning upon him. "Well, darlings, you may go now, and mamma will let you come in again before your bedtime." They withdrew and Elsie told her story, dwelling more particularly upon the strength of the temptation and the child's agony of grief and remorse. "Bring him here, wife," Mr. Travilla said, his eyes full, his voice husky with emotion. There was a sound of sobs in the hall without as she opened the door. "Come, son," she said, taking his hand in hers, "papa knows it all now." Half eagerly, half tremblingly he suffered her to lead him in. "Papa," he burst out sobbingly, scarcely daring to lift his eyes from the floor, "I've been a very wicked, bad boy; I disobeyed you and--and--" "Come here to me, my little son." How gentle and tender were the tones. Eddie lifted his head and with one joyous bound was in his fathers arms, clinging about his neck and sobbing out upon his breast his grief, his joy, his penitence. "Papa, papa, can you forgive such a naughty disobedient boy? I'm so sorry I did it! I'm so glad you didn't die, dear, dear papa! so glad you love me yet." "Love you, son? I think if you knew how much, you would never want to disobey again." "I don't, papa, oh, I don't! I ask God earnestly every day to give me a new heart, and help me always to be good. But mustn't I be punished? mamma said it was for you to say, and grandpa didn't whip me and he won't 'less you ask him." "And I shall not ask him, my son. I fully and freely forgive you, because I am sure you are very sorry and do not mean to disobey again." How happy the child was that at last his father knew and had forgiven all. Mr. Travilla improved the occasion for a short but very serious talk with him on the sin and danger of disobedience, and his words, so tenderly spoken, made a deep and lasting impression. But Eddie was not yet done with the pain and mortification consequent upon his wrong doing. That afternoon the Ashland ladies called bringing with them the elder children of both families. While their mammas conversed in the drawing-room the little people gathered in the veranda. All was harmony and good-will among them till Philip Ross, fixing his eyes on Eddie, said with a sneer, "So, Master Ed, though you told me one day you'd never talk to your mamma as I did to mine, you've done a good deal worse. I don't set up for a pattern good boy, but I'd die before I'd shoot my father." Eddie's eyes sought the floor while his lips trembled and two great tears rolled down his burning cheeks. "Phil Ross," cried Gertrude, "I'm ashamed of you! of course he didn't do it a-purpose." "May be not; he didn't disobey on purpose? hadn't his father--" But catching a reproachful, entreating look from Elsie's soft, brown eyes, he stopped short and turning away, began to whistle carelessly, while Vi, putting her small arms about Eddie's neck, said, "Phil Ross, you shouldn't 'sult my brother so, 'cause he wouldn't 'tend to hurt papa; no, not for all the world;" Harold chiming in, "'Course my Eddie wouldn't!" and Bruno, whom he was petting and stroking with his chubby hands, giving a short, sharp bark, as if he too had a word to say in defence of his young master. "Is that your welcome to visitors, Bruno?" queried a young man of eighteen or twenty, alighting from his horse and coming up the steps into the veranda. "You must please excuse him for being so ill-mannered, Cousin Cal," little Elsie said, coming forward and offering her hand with a graceful courtesy very like her mamma's. "Will you walk into the drawing-room? our mammas are all there." "Presently, thank you," he said, bending down to snatch a kiss from the sweet lips. She shrank from the caress almost with aversion. "What's the use of being so shy with a cousin?" he asked, laughing, "why Molly Percival likes to kiss me." "I think Molly would not be pleased if she knew you said that," remarked the little girl, in a quiet tone, and moving farther from him as she spoke. "Holding a levee, eh?" he said, glancing about upon the group. "How d'ye, young ladies and gentlemen? Holloa, Ed! so you're the brave fellow that shot his father? Hope your grandfather dealt out justice to you in the same fashion that Wal and Dick's did to them." Eddie could bear no more, but burst into an agony of tears and sobs. "Calhoun Conly, do you think it very manly for a big fellow like you to torment such a little one as our Eddie?" queried Elsie, with rising indignation. "No, I don't," he said frankly. "Never mind, Eddie, I take it all back, and own that the other two deserve the lion's share of the blame, and punishment too. Come, shake hands and let's make up." Eddie gave his hand, saying in broken tones, "I was a naughty boy, but papa has forgiven me, and I don't mean ever to disobey him any more." Chapter Sixth. "So false is faction, and so smooth a liar, As that it never had a side entire." --DANIEL. By the first of December Mr. Travilla had entirely recovered from the ill effects of his accident--which had occurred early in November--and life at Ion resumed its usual quiet, regular, but pleasant routine, varied only by frequent exchange of visits with the other families of the connection, and near neighbors, especially the Lelands. Because of the presence among them of their northern relatives, this winter was made a gayer one than either of the last two, which had seen little mirth or jovialty among the older ones, subdued as they were by recent, repeated bereavements. Time had now somewhat assuaged their grief, and only the widowed ones still wore the garb of mourning. A round of family parties for old and young filled up the holidays; and again just before the departure of the Rosses and Allisons in the early spring, they were all gathered at Ion for a farewell day together. Some of the blacks in Mr. Leland's employ had been beaten and otherwise maltreated only the previous night by a band of armed and disguised men, and the conversation naturally turned upon that occurrence. "So the Ku Klux outrages have begun in our neighborhood," remarked Mr. Horace Dinsmore, and went on to denounce their proceedings in unmeasured terms. The faces of several of his auditors flushed angrily. Enna shot a fierce glance at him, muttering "scalawag," half under her breath, while his old father said testily, "Horace, you speak too strongly. I haven't a doubt the rascals deserved all they got. I'm told one of them at least, had insulted some lady, Mrs. Foster, I believe, and that the others had been robbing hen-roosts and smoke-houses." "That may perhaps be so, but at all events every man has a right to a fair trial," replied his son, "and so long as there is no difficulty in bringing such matters before the civil courts, there is no excuse for Lynch law, which is apt to visit its penalties upon the innocent as well as the guilty." At this, George Boyd, who, as the nephew of the elder Mrs. Carrington and a member of the Ashlands household, had been invited with the others, spoke warmly in defence of the organization, asserting that its main object was to defend the helpless, particularly in guarding against the danger of an insurrection of the blacks. "There is not the slightest fear of that," remarked Mr. Travilla, "there may be some few turbulent spirits among them, but as a class they are quiet and inoffensive." "Begging your pardon, sir," said Boyd, "I find them quite the reverse;--demanding their wages directly they are due, and not satisfied with what one chooses to give. And that reminds me that you, sir, and Mr. Horace Dinsmore, and that carpet-bagger of Fairview are entirely too liberal in the wages you pay." "That is altogether our own affair, sir," returned Mr. Dinsmore, haughtily. "No man or set of men shall dictate to me as to how I spend my money. What do you say, Travilla?" "I take the same position; shall submit to no such infringement of my liberty to do as I will with my own." Elsie's eyes sparkled: she was proud of her husband and father. Rose, too, smiled approval. "Sounds very fine," growled Boyd, "but I say you've no right to put up the price of labor." "Papa," cried young Horace, straightening himself and casting a withering look upon Boyd, "I hope neither you nor Brother Edward will ever give in to them a single inch. Such insolence!" "Let us change the subject," said old Mr. Dinsmore, "it is not an agreeable one." It so happened that a few days after this Messrs. Dinsmore, Travilla and Leland were talking together just within the entrance to the avenue at Ion when Wilkins Foster, George Boyd and Calhoun Conly came riding by. They brought their horses to a walk as they neared the gate, and Foster called out sneeringly, "Two scalawags and a carpet-bagger! fit company for each other." "So we think, sir," returned Travilla coolly, "though we do not accept the epithets you so generously bestow upon us." "It is an easy thing to call names; any fool is equal to that," said Mr. Leland, in a tone of unruffled good-nature. "True; and the weapon of vituperation is generally used by those who lack brains for argument or are upon the wrong side," observed Mr. Dinsmore. "Is that remark intended to apply to me sir?" asked Foster, drawing himself up with an air of hauteur and defiance. "Not particularly: but if you wish to prove yourself skilled in the other and more manly weapon, we are ready to give you the opportunity." "Yes; come in, gentlemen, and let us have a free and friendly discussion," said Mr. Travilla. Boyd and Conly at once accepted the invitation, but Foster, reining in his horse in the shade of a tree at the gate, said, "No, thank you; I don't care to alight, can talk from the saddle as well as anyway. I call you scalawags, Messrs. Dinsmore and Travilla, because though natives of the South, you have turned against her." "Altogether a mistake," observed Travilla. "I deny the charge and call upon you to prove it," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Easy task; you kept away and took no part in our struggle for independence." "That is we (I speak for Travilla as well as myself) had no share in the effort to overthrow the best government in the world, the hope of the down-trodden and oppressed of all the earth a struggle which we foresaw would prove, as it has, the almost utter destruction of our beloved South. They who inaugurated secession were no true friends to her." "Sir!" cried Boyd, with angry excitement, "ours was as righteous a cause as that of our Revolutionary fathers." Mr. Dinsmore shook his head. "They fought against unbearable tyranny; and that after having exhausted every other means of obtaining a redress of their grievances; and we had suffered no oppression at the hands of the general government." "Hadn't we?" interrupted Foster fiercely. "Were the provisions of the Fugitive Slave Law carried out by the North? didn't some of the Northern States pass laws in direct opposition to it? and didn't Yankee abolitionists come down here interfering with our institutions and enticing our negroes to run away, or something worse?" "Those were the acts of private individuals, and individual states, entirely unsanctioned by the general government, which really had always rather favored us than otherwise." "But uncle," said Conly, "there would have been no secession but for the election of Lincoln, an abolition candidate." "And who elected him? who but the Democrats of the South? They made a division in the Democratic party, purposely to enable the Republicans to elect their man, that they might use his election as a pretext for secession." A long and hot discussion followed, each one present taking more or less part in it. It was first the causes of the war, then the war itself; after that the reconstruction policy of Congress, which was bitterly denounced by Foster and Boyd. "Never was a conquered people treated so shamefully!" cried the former, "it is a thing hitherto unheard of in the history of the world, that gentlemen should be put under the rule of their former slaves." "Softly, softly, sir," said Leland, "surely you forget that the terms proposed by the fourteenth amendment, substantially left the power of the State governments in your hands, and enabled you to limit suffrage and office to the white race. But you rejected it, and refused to take part in the preliminary steps for reorganizing your State governments. So the blacks acquired the right to vote and hold office: they were, as a class, well meaning, but ignorant, and their old masters refusing to accept office at their hands, or advise them in regard to their new duties, they fell an easy prey to unscrupulous white men, whose only care was to enrich themselves by robbing the already impoverished states, through corrupt legislation.[A] Now, sir, who was it that really put you under the rule of your former slaves, if you are there?" [Footnote A: See report of Congressional Committee of Investigation] Foster attempted no reply, but merely reiterated his assertion that no conquered people had ever been so cruelly used; to which Messrs. Travilla, Dinsmore and Leland replied with a statement of facts, i.e., that before the war was fairly over, the Government began to feed, clothe, shelter and care for the destitute of both colors, and millions were distributed in supplies; that in 1865 a bureau was organized for this purpose, and expended in relief, education and aid to people of both colors, and all conditions, thirteen millions, two hundred and thirty thousand, three hundred and twenty-seven dollars, and forty cents; while millions more were given by charitable associations and citizens of the North: that the Government sold thousands of farm animals in the South, at low rates, and large quantities of clothing and supplies at merely nominal prices, that there had been no executions for treason, no confiscation of lands, but that some estates abandoned by the owners during the war, and taken possession of and cultivated by the Government, had been returned in better condition than they would have been in if permitted to lie idle; that the railroads of the South were worn out by the war, woodwork rotted, rails and machinery worn out; that the Government forces as they advanced, captured the lines, repaired the tracks, rebuilt bridges and restored and renewed the rolling stock; that at the close of the war the Government might have held all these lines, but instead turned them over to the stockholders, sold them the rolling stock at low rates, and on long time, and advanced millions of dollars to the southern railroads; that there were debts estimated, when the war began, at three hundred millions of dollars due the merchants of the North; that they compounded with their southern debtors, abating more than half their dues, and extending time for the payment of the remainder; that a bankrupt act was passed enabling those hopelessly involved to begin business anew. Sound institutions took the places of the old broken banks, and United States currency that of Confederate notes, etc. etc.[B] [Footnote B: See Reports of Congressional Committee of Investigation.] Foster attempted no denial of these facts, but spoke bitterly of corruption among the state government officials, resulting in ruinous taxation etc. His antagonists freely admitted that there had been frauds and great extravagance, yet claimed that neither party was responsible for these, but members of both and persons belonging to neither who cared only for their own gains.[C] "And who," they asked, "are responsible for their success in obtaining the positions which enable them thus to rob the community?" [Footnote C: See Reports of Congressional Committee of Investigation.] "They had no vote from me," said Foster. "But, I say it again, we have been shamefully treated; if they'd confiscated my property and cut off my head, I'd have suffered less than I have as things have gone." "Why not petition Congress for those little favors? Possibly it may not yet be too late;" returned Leland, laughing. This ended the talk, Foster put spurs to his horse and rode off in a rage. "Come, Conly, we've surely had enough of this Republican discourse: let us go also," said Boyd, and with a haughty wave of his hand to the others, he hurried into the road and remounted. But Conly did not follow. Elsie joined the group at that moment and laying her hand on his arm, said with one of her sweetest smiles, "Don't go, Cal, you must stay and take tea with us; it is already on the table." "Thank you, I will," he said with a pleased look. He was one of his cousin's ardent admirers, thinking her the most beautiful, intelligent, fascinating woman he had ever seen. She extended her invitation to Leland and Boyd, Mr. Travilla seconding it warmly, but it was courteously declined by both, and each went his way. "Papa, you will not forsake us?" Elsie said gayly, putting both hands into his and smiling up into his face, her sweet soft eyes, brimful of fond, filial affection; "but you know you are at home and need no invitation." "Yes," he said, returning the smile, and holding the hands fast for a moment, "I am at home and shall stay for an hour or so." Chapter Seventh. "Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness, Wherein the pregnant enemy does much." --SHAKESPEARE'S TWELFTH NIGHT. "Will you walk into the library, gentlemen? I have just received a package of new books, which, perhaps, you would like to examine," said Mr. Travilla to his guests as they left the tea-table. "Presently, thank you," Mr. Dinsmore answered, catching Elsie's eye, and perceiving that she had something for his private ear. She took his arm and drew him out to her flower garden, while her husband and Calhoun sought the library. "Papa, I want a word with you about Cal. I do not like Foster and Boyd; that is, they seem to me to be unprincipled men, of violent temper and altogether very bad associates for him; and you must have noticed how intimate he is with them of late." "Yes, I regret it, but have no authority to forbid the intimacy." "I know; but, papa, you have great influence; he is proud to be known as your nephew; and don't you think you might be able to induce him to give them up for some better friend; my brother, for instance? Papa, he is twenty-one now, and are not his principles sufficiently fixed to enable him to lead Cal and Arthur, doing them good instead of being injured by association with them?" "Yes, you are right; Horace is not one to be easily led, and Calhoun is. I am glad you have spoken and reminded me of my duty." "My dear father, please do not think I was meaning to do that," she cried, blushing, "it would be stepping out of my place. But Edward and I have had several talks about Cal of late, and decided that we will make him very welcome here, and try to do him good. Edward suggested, too, what a good and helpful friend Horace might be to him, if you approved, and I said I would speak to you first, and perhaps to my brother afterward." "Quite right. I think Horace will be very willing. I should be loth to have him drawn into intimacy with Boyd or Foster, but as he likes neither their conduct nor their principles, I have little fear of that." They sauntered about the garden a few moments longer, then rejoined the others, who were still in the library. The children were romping with each other and Bruno on the veranda without; the merry shouts, the silvery laughter coming pleasantly in through the open windows. "How happy they seem, Cousin Elsie," remarked Calhoun, turning to her. "Yes, they are," she answered, smiling. "You are fond of children, Cal?" "Yes; suppose you let me join them." "Suppose we all do," suggested Mr. Dinsmore, seeing Travilla lay aside his book, and listen with a pleased smile to the glad young voices. "With all my heart," said the latter as he rose and led the way, "I find nothing more refreshing after the day's duties are done, than a romp with my children." For the next half hour they were all children together; then Aunt Chloe and Dinah came to take the little ones to bed, and Elsie, after seeing her guests depart, followed to the nursery. Mr. Dinsmore rode over to Roselands with his nephew, conversing all the way in a most entertaining manner, making no allusion to politics or to Boyd or Foster. Calhoun was charmed, and when his uncle urged him to visit the Oaks more frequently, observing that he had been there but once since Horace's return from college, and proposing that he should begin by coming to dinner the next day and staying as long as suited his convenience, the invitation was accepted with alacrity and delight. On returning home Mr. Dinsmore explained his views and wishes, with regard to Calhoun, to his wife and son, who at once cordially fell in with them in doing all they could to make his visit enjoyable. In fact, so agreeable did he find it that his stay was prolonged to several days. The morning papers one day brought news of several fresh Ku Klux outrages, beatings, shootings, hanging. Mr. Dinsmore read the account aloud at the breakfast table, and again made some remarks against the organization. Calhoun listened in silence, then as Mr. Dinsmore laid the paper down, "Uncle," said he doubtfully, and with downcast troubled look, "don't you think the reconstruction acts form some excuse for the starting of such an organisation?" "Let the facts answer," returned Mr. Dinsmore: "the organization existed as early as 1866; the reconstruction acts were passed in March, 1867."[D] [Footnote D: See Reports of Congressional Committee of Investigation.] "Ah, yes, sir, I had forgotten the dates; I've heard that reason given; and another excuse is the fear of a conspiracy among the negroes to rob and murder the whites: and I think you can't deny that they are thievish." "I don't deny, Cal, that some individuals among them have been guilty of lawless acts, particularly stealing articles of food; but they are poor and ignorant; have been kept in ignorance so long that we cannot reasonably expect in them a very strong sense of the rights of property and the duty of obedience to law; yet I have never been able to discover any indications of combined lawlessness among them. On the contrary they are themselves fearful of attack." "Well, sir, then there were those organizations in the other--the Republican party; the Union Leagues and Redstrings. I've been told the Ku Klux Klan was gotten up in opposition to them." "I presume so, but Union Leaguers and Redstrings do not go about in disguise, robbing, beating, murdering." "But then the carpet-baggers," said Calhoun, waxing warm, "putting mischief into the negroes' heads, getting into office and robbing the state in the most shameless wholesale manner; they're excuse enough for the doings of the Ku Klux." "Ah!" said his uncle, "but you forget that their organization was in existence before the robberies of the state began: also that they do not trouble corruptionists: and why? because they are men of both parties; some of them men who direct and control, and might easily suppress the Klan. No, no, Cal, judged out of their own mouths, by their words to their victims, with some of whom I have conversed, their ruling motives are hostility to the Government, to the enjoyment of the negro of the rights given him by the amendments to the Constitution, and by the laws which they are organized to oppose.[E] Their real object is the overthrow of the State governments and the return of the negro to bondage. And tell me, Cal, do you look upon these midnight attacks of overpowering numbers of disguised men upon the weak and helpless, some of them women, as manly deeds? Is it a noble act for white men to steal from the poor ignorant black his mule, his arms, his crops, the fruit of his hard labor?" [Footnote E: See Reports of Congressional Committee of Investigation.] "No, sir," returned Calhoun half-reluctantly, his face flushing hotly. "No, emphatically no, say I!" cried Horace, Jr., "what could be more base, mean, or cowardly?" "You don't belong, do you, Cal?" asked Rosie, suddenly. He dropped his knife and fork, his face fairly ablaze, "What--what could make you think that, Rosie? No, no, I--don't belong to any organization that acknowledges that name." A suspicion for the first time flashed upon Mr. Dinsmore, a suspicion of the truth. Calhoun Conly was already a member of the White Brotherhood, the name by which the Klan was known among themselves, Ku Klux being the one given to the world at large; that thus they might avail themselves of the miserable, Jesuitical subterfuge Calhoun had just used. He had been wheedled into joining it by Foster and Boyd, who utterly deceived him in regard to its objects. He had never taken part in the outrages and was now fully determined that he never would; resolving that while keeping its secrets, the penalty of the exposure of which was death, he would quietly withdraw and attend no more of its meetings. He understood the language of the searching look Mr. Dinsmore gave him and seized the first opportunity for a word in private, to vindicate himself. "Uncle," he said with frank sincerity, "I am not free to tell you everything, as I could wish, but I hope you will believe me when I assure you that I never had any share in the violent doings of the Ku Klux, and never will." Mr. Dinsmore bent upon him a second look of keen scrutiny. Conly bore it without flinching; and extending his hand, his uncle replied, "I think I understand the situation: but I will trust you, Cal, and not fear that in entertaining you here I am harboring a hypocrite and spy who may betray my family and myself into the hands of midnight assassins." "Thanks, uncle, you shall never have cause to repent of your confidence," the lad answered with a flush of honest pride. He returned to Roselands the next day, and went directly to an upper room, at some distance from those usually occupied by the family, from whence came the busy hum of a sewing machine. The door was securely fastened on the inner side, but opened immediately in response to three quick, sharp taps of a pencil which Calhoun took from his pocket. It was his mother's face that looked cautiously out upon him. "Oh, you have returned," she said in an undertone; "well, come in. I'm glad to see you." He stepped in, and she locked the door again, and sitting down, resumed the work, which it seemed had been laid aside to admit him. She was making odd looking rolls of cotton cloth; stuffing them with cotton wool. Mrs. Johnson, the only other person present, was seated before the sewing machine, stitching a seam in a long garment of coarse, white linen. "How d'ye do, Cal?" she said, looking up for an instant to give him a nod. He returned the greeting, and taking a chair by Mrs. Conly's side, "All well, mother?" he asked. "Quite. You're just in time to tell me whether these are going to look right. You know we've never seen any, and have only your description to go by." She held up a completed roll. It looked like a horn, tapering nearly to a point. "I think so," he said; "but, mother, you needn't finish mine: I shall never use it." "Calhoun Conly, what do you mean?" she cried, dropping the roll into her lap, and gazing at him with kindling eyes. "You're not going to back out of it now?" exclaimed Enna, leaving her machine, and approaching him in sudden and violent anger. "You'd better take care, coward, they'll kill you if you turn traitor; and right they should too." "I shall not turn traitor," he said quietly, "but neither shall I go any farther than I have gone. I should never have joined, if Boyd and Foster hadn't deceived me as to the objects of the organization." "But you have joined, Cal, and I'll not consent to your giving it up," said his mother. "I don't like to vex you, mother," he answered, reddening, "but--" "But you'll have your own way, whether it displeases me or not? A dutiful son, truly." "This is Horace's work, and he's a scalawag, if he is my brother," cried Enna, with growing passion, "but if I were you, Cal Conly, I'd be man enough to have an opinion of my own, and stick to it." "Exactly what I'm doing, Aunt Enna. I went into the thing blindfold; I have found out what it really is--a cruel, cowardly, lawless concern--and I wash my hands of it and its doings." Bowing ceremoniously he unlocked the door, and left the room. Enna sprang to it and fastened it after him. "If he was my son, I'd turn him out of the house." "Father would hardly consent," replied her sister, "and if he did, what good would it do? Horace or Travilla would take him in of course." "Well, thank heaven, Boyd and Foster are made of sterner stuff and our labor's not all lost," said Enna, returning to her machine. The two ladies had been spending many hours every day in that room for a week past, no one but Calhoun being admitted to their secrets, for whether in the room or out of it they kept the door always carefully locked. The curiosity of servants and children was strongly excited, but vain had been all their questions and coaxing, futile every attempt to solve the mystery up to the present time. But three or four days after Calhoun's return from the Oaks, the thought suggested itself to mischievous, prying Dick and his coadjutor Walter, that the key of some other lock in the house might fit that of the door they so ardently desired to open. They only waited for a favorable opportunity to test the question in the temporary absence of their mothers from that part of the building, and to their great joy discovered that the key of the bedroom they shared together was the duplicate of the one which had so long kept their masculine curiosity at bay. It turned readily in the lock and with a smothered exclamation of delight they rushed in and glanced eagerly about. At first they saw nothing in any way remarkable--the familiar furniture, the sewing machine, the work-table and baskets of their mothers, a few shreds of white cotton and linen, a scrap here and there of red braid littering the carpet near the machine, and the low rocking-chair used by Mrs. Conly. "Pooh! nothing here to be so secret about," cried Walter, but Dick, nodding his head wisely said, "Let's look a little further. What's in that closet?" They ran to it, opened the door, and started back in sudden momentary affright. "'Taint alive," said Dick, the bolder of the two, quickly recovering himself; "horrid thing! I reckon I know what 'tis," and he whispered a few words in his companion's ear. Walter gave a nod of acquiescence of the opinion. "Here's another 'most finished," pursued Dick, dragging out and examining a bundle he found lying on the closet floor. (The one which had so startled them hung on the wall.) "We'll have some fun out of 'em one of these times when it's ready, eh, Wal?" "Yes, but let's put 'em back, and hurry off now, for fear somebody should come and catch us. I'm afraid those folks in the drawing-room may go, and our mothers come up to their work again." "So they might, to be sure," said Dick, rolling up the bundle and bestowing it in its former resting place. "We must be on the watch, Wal, or we'll miss our chance; they'll be sending them out o' this about as soon as they're finished." "Yes. Who do you think they're for?" (The boys scorned the rules of English grammar, and refused to be fettered by them. Was not theirs a land of free speech--for the aristocratic class to which they undoubtedly belonged?) "Cal and Art, of course." "Don't you believe it, Art cares for nothing but his books and Silverheels. Wasn't that a jolly birthday present, Dick? I wish Travilla and Cousin Elsie would remember ours the same way." "Reckon I do. There, everything's just as we found it. Now let's skedaddle." Chapter Eighth. "A horrid spectre rises to my sight, Close by my side, and plain, and palpable In all good seeming and close circumstance As man meets man." --JOANNA BAILLIE. It was a sultry summer night, silent and still, not a leaf stirring, hardly so much as the chirp of an insect to be heard. The moon looked down from a cloudless sky upon green lawns and meadows, fields and forests clothed in richest verdure; gardens, where bloomed lovely flowers in the greatest variety and profusion, filling the air in their immediate vicinity with an almost overpowering sweetness; a river flowing silently to the sea; cabins where the laborer rested from his toil, and lordlier dwellings where, perchance, the rich man tossed restlessly on his more luxurious couch. Mr. and Mrs. Travilla had spent the earlier part of the evening at the Oaks, and after their return, tempted by the beauty of the night, had sat conversing together in the veranda long after their usual hour for retiring. Now they were both sleeping soundly. Perhaps the only creature awake about the house or on the plantation, was Bungy the great watch dog, who, released from the chain that bound him during the day, was going his rounds keeping guard over his master's property. A tiny figure, clothed in white, stole noiselessly from the house, flitted down the avenue, out into the road beyond, and on and on till lost to view in the distance. So light was the tread of the little bare feet, that Bungy did not hear it, nor was Bruno, sleeping on the veranda, aroused. On and on it glided, the little figure, now in the shadow of the trees that skirted the road-side, now out in the broad moonbeams where they fell unimpeded upon dew-laden grass and dusty highway alike. Ion had been left more than a mile behind, yet farther and farther the bit feetie were straying, farther from home and love, and safety, when a grotesque, hideous form suddenly emerged from a wood on the opposite side of the road. Seemingly of gigantic stature, it wore a long, white garment, that, enveloping it from head to foot, trailed upon the ground, rattling as it moved, and glistening in the moonlight; the head was adorned with three immense horns, white, striped with red, a nose of proportional size, red eyes and eyebrows, and a wide, grinning red mouth, filled with horrible tusks, out of which roiled a long red tongue. Catching sight of the small white form gliding along on the other side of the road, it uttered a low exclamation of mingled wonder, awe and superstitious dread. But at that instant a distant sound was heard like the rumble of approaching wheels, and it stepped quickly behind a tree. Another minute or so and a stage came rattling down the road, the hideous monster stepped boldly out from the shadow of the tree, there was the sharp crack of a rifle, and the driver of the stage tumbled from his high seat into the road. The horses started madly forward, but some one caught the reins and presently brought them to a standstill. "Ku Klux!" exclaimed several voices, as the trailing, rattling white gown disappeared in the recesses of the wood. The stage door was thrown open, three or four men alighted, and going to the body stooped over it, touched it, spoke to it, asking, "Are you badly hurt, Jones?" But there was no answer. "Dead, quite dead," said one. "Yes, what shall we do with him?" "Lift him into the stage and take him to the next town." The last speaker took hold of the head of the corpse, the others assisted, and in a few moments the vehicle was on its way again with its load of living and dead. No one had noticed the tiny white figure which now crouched behind a clump of bushes weeping bitterly and talking to itself, but, in a subdued way as if fearful of being overheard. "Where am I? O mamma, papa, come and help your little Vi! I don't know how I got here. Oh, where are you, my own mamma?" A burst of sobs; then "Oh, I'm so 'fraid! and mamma can't hear me, nor papa; but Jesus can; I'll ask him to take care of me; and he will." The small white hands folded themselves together and the low sobbing cry went up, "Dear Jesus, take care of your little Vi, and don't let anything hurt her; and please bring papa to take her home." At Ion little Elsie woke and missed her sister. They slept together in a room opening into the nursery on one side, and the bedroom of their parents on the other. Doors and windows stood wide open and the moon gave sufficient light for the child to see at a glance that Vi was no longer by her side. Slipping out of bed, she went softly about searching for her, thinking to herself the while, "She's walking in her sleep again, dear little pet, and I'm afraid she may get hurt; perhaps fall down stairs." She had heard such fears expressed by her papa and mamma since of late Violet had several times risen and strayed about the house in a state of somnambulism. Elsie passed from room to room growing more and more anxious and alarmed every moment at her continued failure to find any trace of the missing one. She must have help. Dinah, who had care of the little ones, slept in the nursery. Going up to her bed, Elsie shook her gently. "What's de matter, honey?" asked the girl, opening her eyes and raising herself to a sitting posture. "Where's Violet? I can't find her." "Miss Wi'let? aint she fas' asleep side o' you, Miss Elsie?" "No, no, she isn't there, nor in any of mamma's rooms. I've looked through them all. Dinah where is she? We must find her: come with me, quick!" Dinah was already out of bed and turning up the night lamp. "I'll go all ober de house, honey," she said, "but 'spect you better wake yo' pa. He'll want to look for Miss Wi'let hisself." Elsie nodded assent, and hastening to his side softly stroked his face with her hand, kissed him, and putting her lips close to his ear, whispered half sobbingly, "Papa, papa, Vi's gone: we can't find her." He was wide awake instantly. "Run back to your bed, darling," he said: "and don't cry; papa will soon find her." He succeeded in throwing on his clothes and leaving the room without rousing his wife. He felt some anxiety, but the idea that the child had left the house never entered his mind until a thorough search seemed to give convincing proof that she was not in it. He went out upon the veranda. Bruno rose, stretched himself and uttered a low whine. "Bruno, where is our little Violet?" asked Mr. Travilla, stooping to pat the dog's head and showing him the child's slipper, "lead the way, sir; we must find her." There was a slight tremble in his tones. "Dinah," he said, turning to the girl, who stood sobbing in the doorway, "if your mistress wakes while I am gone, tell her not to be alarmed; no doubt with Bruno's help I shall very soon find the child and bring her safely back. See he has the scent already," as the dog who had been snuffing about suddenly started off at a brisk trot down the avenue. Mr. Travilla hurried after, his fatherly heart beating with mingled hope and fear. On and on they went closely following in the footsteps of the little runaway. The dog presently left the road that passed directly in front of Ion, and turned into another, crossing it at right angles, which was the stage route between the next town and the neighboring city. It was now some ten or fifteen minutes since the stage had passed this spot bearing the dead body of the driver who had met his tragical end some quarter of a mile beyond. The loud rumble of the wheels had waked little Vi, and as in a flash she had seen the whole--the horrible apparition in its glistening, rattling robes, step out from behind a tree and fire, and the tumble of its victim into the dusty road. Then she had sunk down upon the ground overpowered with terror. But the thought of the almighty Friend who, she had been taught, was ever near and able to help, calmed her fears somewhat. She was still on her knees sobbing out her little prayer over and over again, when a dark object bounded to her side, and Bruno's nose was thrust rather unceremoniously into her face. "Bruno, you good Bruno!" she cried clasping her arms about his neck, "take me home! take me home!" "Ah, papa will do that, now he has found his lost darling," said a loved voice, as a strong arm put aside the bushes, and grasped her slight form with a firm, but tender hold. "How came my little pet here so far away from home?" he asked, drawing her to his breast. "I don't know, papa," she sobbed, nestling in his arms and clinging about his neck, her wet cheek laid close to his, "that carriage waked me, and I was 'way out here, and that dreadful thing was over there by a tree, and it shooted the man, and he tumbled off on the ground. O papa, hurry, hurry fast, and let's go home; it might come back and shoot us too." "What thing, daughter?" he asked, soothing her with tender caresses, as still holding her to his breast, he walked rapidly toward home. "Great big white thing, with horns, papa." "I think my pet has been dreaming?" "No, no, papa, I did see it, and it fired, and the man tumbled off, and the horses snorted and ran so fast; then they stopped, and the other mans came back, and I heard them say, 'He's killed; he's quite dead.' O papa, I'm so frightened!" and she clung to him with convulsive grasp, sobbing almost hysterically. "There, there, darling: papa has you safe in his arms. Thank God for taking care of my little pet," he said, clasping her closer, and quickening his pace, while Bruno wagging his tail and barking joyously, gamboled about them, now leaping up to touch his tongue to the little dusty toes now bounding on ahead, and anon returning to repeat his loving caress; and so at last they arrived at home. Mr. Travilla had scarcely left the house, ere the babe waked his mother. She missed her husband at once, and hearing a half smothered sob coming from the room occupied by her daughters; she rose and with the babe in her arms, hastened to ascertain the cause. She found Elsie alone, crying on the bed with her face half hidden in the pillows. "My darling, what is it?" asked the mother's sweet voice. "But where is Vi?" "O, mamma, I don't know; that is the reason I can't help crying," said the child, raising herself and putting her arms about her mother's neck, as the latter sat down on the side of the bed. "But don't be alarmed, mamma, for papa has gone to find her." "Where, daughter? she cannot have gone out of the house, surely?" At this instant Dinah appeared and delivered her master's message. To obey his injunction not to be alarmed, was quite impossible to the loving mother heart, but she endeavored to conceal her anxiety and to overcome it by casting her care on the Lord. The babe had fallen asleep again, and laying him gently down, she took Elsie in her arms and comforted her with caresses and words of hope and cheer. "Mamma," said the little girl, "I cannot go to sleep again till papa comes back." "No, I see you can't, nor can I so we will put on our dressing-gowns and slippers, and sit together at the window, to watch for him, and when we see him coming up the avenue with Vi in his arms, we will run to meet them." So they did, and the little lost one, found again, was welcomed by mother and sister, and afterward by nurse and mammy, with tender, loving words, caresses and tears of joy. Then Dinah carried her to the nursery, washed the soiled, tired little feet, changed the draggled night-gown for a fresh and clean one, and with many a hug and honeyed word, carried her back to bed, saying, as she laid her down in it, "Now, darlin', don't you git out ob heyah no mo' till mornin'." "No, I'll hold her fast; and papa has locked the doors so she can't get out of these rooms," said Elsie, throwing an arm over Vi. "Yes, hold me tight, tight" murmured Vi, cuddling down close to her sister, and almost immediately falling asleep, for she was worn out with fatigue and excitement. Elsie lay awake some time longer, her young heart singing for joy over her recovered treasure, but at length fell asleep also, with the murmur of her parents' voices in her ears. They were talking of Violet, expressing their gratitude to God that no worse consequences had resulted from her escapade, and consulting together how to prevent a repetition of it. Mr. Travilla repeated to his wife the child's story of her awaking and what she had seen and heard. "Oh my poor darling, what a terrible fright for her!" Elsie exclaimed, "but do you not think it must have been all a dream?" "That was my first thought; but on further consideration I fear it may have been another Ku Klux outrage. I dare say, the disguise worn by them may answer to her description of 'the horrible thing that shooted the man;' I judge so from what I have heard of it." "But who could have been the victim?" she asked with a shudder. "I do not know. But her carriage was probably the stage: it was about the hour for it to pass." Day was already dawning and they did not sleep again. Mr. Travilla had gone on his regular morning round over the plantation, and Elsie stole softly into the room of her little daughters. Though past their usual hour for rising they still slept and she meant to let them do so as long as they would. They made a lovely picture lying there clasped in each other's arms. Her heart swelled with tender emotions, love, joy and gratitude to Him who had given these treasures and preserved them thus far from all danger and evil. She bent over them pressing a gentle kiss upon each round rosy cheek. Little Elsie's brown eyes opened wide, and putting her arm about her mother's neck, "Mamma," she whispered, with a sweet, glad smile, "was not God very good to give us back our Vi?" "Yes, dearest, oh, so much better than we deserve!" Violet started up to a sitting posture. "Mamma, oh mamma, I did have a dreadful, dreadful dream!--that I was 'way off from you and papa, out in the night in the woods, and I saw--" She ended with a burst of frightened sobs and tears, hiding her face on the bosom of her mother who already held her closely clasped to her beating heart. "Don't think of it, darling, you are safe now in your own dear home with papa and mamma and sister and brothers." Tender soothing caresses accompanied the loving words. "Mamma, did I dream it?" asked the child lifting her tearful face, and shuddering as she spoke. The mother was too truthful to say yes, though she would have been glad her child should think it but a dream. "Perhaps some of it was, daughter," she said, "though my pet did walk out in her sleep; but papa is going to manage things so that she can never do it again. And God will take care of us, my darling." The sobs grew fainter and softly sighing, "Yes mamma," she said, "I asked him to send papa to bring me home, and he did." "And papa came in here this morning and kissed both his girls before he went down stairs. Did you know that?" "Did he? Oh I wish I'd waked to give him a good hug!" "I too;" said Elsie, "Papa loves us very much, doesn't he, mamma?" "Dearly, dearly, my child; you and all his little ones." Vi's tears were dried and when her father came in she met him with a cheerful face, quite ready for the customary romp, but days passed ere she was again her own bright, merry self, or seemed content unless clinging close to one or the other of her parents. While the family were at the breakfast table, Uncle Joe came in with the mail, his face full of excitement and terror. "Dem Ku Kluxes dey's gettin' awful dangerous, Massa," he said, laying down the bag with a trembling hand, "dey's gone an' shot the stage drivah an' killed 'um dead on the spot. Las' night, sah, jes ober yondah in de road todder side o' Mars Leland's place, and--" Mr. Travilla stopped him in the midst of his story, with a warning gesture and an anxious glance from one to another of the wondering, half frightened little faces about the table. "Another time and place, Uncle Joe." "Yes, sah, beg pardon, sah, Massa Edard," and the old man, now growing quite infirm from age, hobbled away talking to himself. "Sure nuff, you ole fool, Joe, might 'a knowed you shouldn't tole no such tings fo' de chillum." "Was it 'bout my dream, papa?" Vi asked with quivering lip and fast filling eyes. "Never mind, little daughter; we needn't trouble about our dreams," he said cheerily, and began talking of something else, in a lively strain that soon set them all to laughing. It was not until family worship was over and the children had left the room that he said to his wife, "The Ku Klux were abroad last night and I have no doubt Uncle Joe's story is quite true, and that our poor little Vi really saw the murder." Elsie gave him a startled, inquiring look. "You have other proof?" "Yes; Leland and I met in going our rounds this morning, and he told me he had found a threatening note, signed 'K.K.K,' tacked to his gate, and had torn it down immediately, hoping to conceal the matter from his wife, who, he says is growing nervously fearful for his safety." "Oh, what a dreadful state of things! Do these madmen realize that they are ruining their country?" "Little they care for that, if they can but gain their ends,--the subversion of the Government, and the return of the negro to his former state of bondage." She was standing by his side, her hand on his arm. "My husband," she said in trembling tones, looking up into his face with brimming eyes, "what may they not do next? I begin to fear for you and my father and brother." "I think you need not, little wife," he said, drawing her head to a resting place on his shoulder, and passing his hand caressingly over her hair, "I think they will hardly meddle with us, natives of the place, and men of wealth and influence. And," he added low and reverently, "are we not all in the keeping of Him without whom not one hair of our heads can fall to the ground?" "Yes, yes, I will trust and not be afraid," she answered, smiling sweetly through her tears. Then catching sight, through the open window, of a couple of horsemen coming up the avenue, "Ah, there are papa and Horace now!" she cried, running joyfully out to meet them. "Have you heard of last night's doings of the Ku Klux?" were the first words of Horace Jr. when the greetings had been exchanged. "Run away, dears, run away to your play," Elsie said to her children, and at once they obeyed. "Uncle Joe came in this morning with a story that Jones, the stage driver had been shot by them last night in this vicinity," Mr. Travilla answered, "but I stopped him in the midst of it, as the children were present. Is it a fact?" "Only too true," replied Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes," said Horace, "I rode into the town, before breakfast, found it full of excitement; the story on everybody's tongue, and quite a large crowd about the door of the house where the body of the murdered man lay." "And is the murderer still at large," asked Elsie. "Yes; and the worst of it is that no one seems to have the least idea who he is." "The disguise preventing recognition, of course," said Mr. Travilla. Then the grandfather and uncle were surprised with an account of little Vi's escapade. "If Violet were my child," said Mr. Dinsmore, "I should consult Dr. Burton about her at once. There must be undue excitement of the brain that might be remedied by proper treatment." Elsie cast an anxious look at her husband. "I shall send for the doctor immediately," he said, and summoning a servant dispatched him at once upon the errand. "Don't be alarmed, daughter," Mr. Dinsmore said; "doubtless a little care will soon set matters right with the child." "Yes; I do not apprehend any thing serious, if the thing is attended to in time," Mr. Travilla added cheerfully; then went on to tell of the notice affixed to Fairview gate. They were all of the opinion that these evil doers, should, if possible, be brought to justice; but the nature and extent of the organization rendered it no easy matter for the civil courts to deal with them. The order being secret, the members were known as such only among themselves, when strangers, recognizing each other by secret signs. They were sworn to aid and defend a brother member under all circumstances; were one justly accused of crime, others would come forward and prove an alibi by false swearing; were they on the jury, they would acquit him though perfectly cognizant of his guilt. In some places the sheriff and his deputies were members, perhaps the judge also[F]. Thus it happened that though one or two persons who had been heard to talk threateningly about Jones, as "a carpet-agger and Republican, who should be gotten rid of, by fair means or foul," were arrested on suspicion, they were soon set at liberty again, and his death remained unavenged. [Footnote F: See Reports of Congressional Committee of Investigation.] Chapter Ninth. "I feel my sinews slackened with the fright, And a cold sweat thrills down o'er all my limbs As if I were dissolving into water." --DRYDEN. Early one evening, a few days subsequent to the tragical death of Jones, the Ion family carriage, well freighted, was bowling along the road leading toward the Oaks. A heavy shower had laid the dust and cooled the air, and the ride past blooming hedgerows, and fertile fields was very delightful. The parents were in cheerful mood, the children gay and full of life and fun. "Oh, yonder is grandpa's carriage coming this way!" cried Eddie as they neared the cross-road which must be taken to reach Roselands in the one direction, and Ashlands in the other. "Yes, turn out here, Solon, and wait for them to come up," said Mr. Travilla. "On your way to the Oaks?" Mr. Dinsmore queried as his carriage halted along side of the other. "Well, we will turn about and go with you." "No, we were going to Roselands but will put off the call to another day, if you were coming to Ion," Mr. Travilla answered. "No, the Dinsmores had not set out for Ion, but to visit Sophie at Ashlands; Daisy, her youngest child, was very ill." "I wish you would go with us, Elsie," Rose said to Mrs. Travilla. "I know it would be a comfort to Sophie to see you." "Yes, we have plenty of room here," added Mr. Dinsmore, "and your husband and children can certainly spare you for an hour or so." Elsie looked inquiringly at her husband. "Yes, go, wife, if you feel inclined," he said pleasantly. "The children shall not lose their ride. I will go on to Roselands with them, make a short call, as I have a little business with your grandfather, then take them home." "And we will have their mother there probably shortly after," said Mr. Dinsmore. So the exchange was made and the carriages drove on, taking opposite directions when they came to the cross-road. Arrived at Roselands, Mr. Travilla found only the younger members of the family at home, the old gentleman having driven out with his daughters. Calhoun thought however that they would return shortly, and was hospitably urgent that the visitors should all come in and rest and refresh themselves. The younger cousins joined in the entreaty, and his own children seeming desirous to accept the invitation, Mr. Travilla permitted them to do so. They, with Aunt Chloe and Dinah, were presently carried off to the nursery by Molly Percival and the Conly girls, while their father walked into the grounds with Calhoun and Arthur. "Wal," whispered Dick to his cousin, drawing him aside unnoticed by the rest, who were wholly taken up with each other, "now's our time for some fun with those Ku Klux things. They must be about done, and I reckon will be packed off out o' the house before long." Walter nodded assent; they stole unobserved from the room, flew up to their own for the key, hurried to the sewing-room of their mothers, and finding there two disguises nearly completed, sufficiently so for their purpose, arrayed themselves in them, slipped unseen down a back staircase, and dashing open the nursery door, bounded with a loud whoop, into the midst of its occupants. Children and nurses joined in one wild shriek of terror, and made a simultaneous rush for the doors, tumbling over each other in their haste and affright. But fortunately for them, Mr. Travilla and Calhoun had come in from the grounds, were on their way to the nursery, and entered it from the hall but a moment later than the boys did by the opposite door. Mr. Travilla instantly seized Dick, (Calhoun doing the same by Walter), tore off his disguise, and picking up a riding-whip, lying conveniently at hand, administered a castigation that made the offender yell and roar for mercy. "You scoundrel!" replied the gentleman, still laying on his blows, "I have scant mercy for a great strong boy who amuses himself by frightening women and helpless little children." "But you're not my father, and have no right, oh, oh, oh!" blubbered Dick, trying to dodge the blows and wrench himself free, "I'll--I'll sue you for assault and battery." "Very well, I'll give you plenty while I'm about it, and if you don't want a second dose, you will refrain from frightening my children in future." It was an exciting scene, Walter getting almost as severe handling from Calhoun, nurses and children huddling together in the farthest corner of the room, Baby Herbert screaming at the top of his voice, and the others crying and sobbing while shrinking in nervous terror from the hideous disguises lying in a heap upon the floor. "O, take them away! take them away, the horrid things!" screamed Virginia Conly, shuddering and hiding her face. "Wal and Dick, you wicked wretches, I don't care if they half kill you." "Papa, papa, please stop. O, Cal, don't whip him any more. I'm sure they'll never do it again," pleaded little Elsie amid her sobs and tears, holding Vi fast and trying to soothe and comfort her. "There, go," said Calhoun, pushing Walter from the room, "and if ever I catch you at such a trick again, I'll give you twice as much." Dick, released by his captor with a like threat, hastened after his fellow delinquent, blubbering and muttering angrily as he went. Calhoun gathered up the disguises, threw them into a closet, locked the door and put the key into his pocket. "There!" said he, "they're out of sight and couldn't come after us if they were alive; and there's no life in them; and little else but linen and cotton." Baby Herbert ceased his cries and cuddled down on Aunt Chloe's shoulder; the other four ran to their father. He encircled them all in his arms, soothing them with caresses and words of fatherly endearment. "There, there, my darlings, dry your tears; papa will take care of you; nothing shall hurt you." "Papa, they's like that horrid thing that shooted the man," sobbed Vi, clinging to him in almost frantic terror. "Oh don't let's ever come here any more!" "I so frightened, papa, I so frightened; p'ease tate Harold home," sobbed the little fellow, the others joining in the entreaty. "Yes, we will go at once," said Mr. Travilla, rising, Vi in one arm Harold in the other; and motioning to the servants to follow, he was about to leave the room, when Calhoun spoke. "Do not go yet, Mr. Travilla: I think grandpa and the ladies will be here directly." "Thanks, but I will see Mr. Dinsmore at another time. Now my first duty is to these terrified little ones." "I am exceedingly sorry for what has occurred; more mortified than I can express--" "No need for apology, Conly; but you must see the necessity for our abrupt departure. Good evening to you all." Calhoun followed to the carriage door, helped to put the children in, then addressing Mr. Travilla, "I see you doubt me, sir," he said, "and not without reason, I own; yet I assure you I have no property in those disguises, never have worn, and never will wear such a thing: much less take part in the violence they are meant to protect from punishment." "I am glad to hear you say so, Cal. Good evening." And the carriage whirled away down the avenue. The rapid motion and the feeling that the objects of their affright were being left far behind, seemed to soothe and reassure the children, yet each sought to be as near as possible to their loved protector. Harold and the babe soon fell asleep, and on reaching home were carried directly to bed; but the older ones begged so hard to be allowed to "stay with papa till mamma came home" that he could not find it in his heart to refuse them. The Dinsmore party found Sophie devoting herself to her sick child; the attack had been sudden and severe, and all the previous night the mother had watched by the couch of the little sufferer with an aching heart, fearing she was to be taken from her; but now the danger seemed nearly over, a favorable change having taken place during the day. Daisy had fallen into a quiet slumber, and leaving the nurse to watch at the bedside, the mother received and conversed with her friends in an adjoining room. Though evidently very glad to see them, she seemed, after the first few moments, so depressed and anxious, that at length her sister remarked it, and asked if there were any other cause than Daisy's illness. "Yes, Rose," she said, "I must own that I am growing very timid in regard to these Ku Klux outrages. Since they have taken to beating and shooting whites as well as blacks, women as well as men, who shall say that we are safe? I a Northern woman too and without a protector." "I do not think they will molest a lady of your standing," said Mr. Dinsmore, "the widow too of a Confederate officer. But where is Boyd, that you say you are without a protector?" A slight shudder ran over Sophie's frame. "Boyd?" she said, drawing her chair nearer and speaking in an undertone, "he is my great dread, and for fear of wounding mother's feelings I have had to keep my terrors to myself. I know that he is often out, away from the plantation, all night. I have for weeks past suspected that he was a Ku Klux, and last night, or rather early this morning, my suspicions were so fully confirmed that they now amount almost to certainty. I had been up all night with Daisy, and a little before sunrise happening to be at the window, I saw him stealing into the house with a bundle under his arm,--something white rolled up in the careless sort of way a man would do it." "I am not surprised," said Mr. Dinsmore, "he is just the sort of man one would expect to be at such work,--headstrong, violent tempered, and utterly selfish and unscrupulous. Yet I think you may dismiss your fears of him, and feel it rather a safeguard than otherwise to have a member of the Klan in your family." "It may be so," she said, musingly, the cloud of care partially lifting from her brow. "And at all events you are not without a protector, dear sister," whispered Rose, as she bade adieu. "'A father of the fatherless, and a judge of the widows is God in his holy habitation.'" Elsie too had a word of sympathy and hope for her childhood's friend, and with warm invitations to both the Oaks and Ion as soon as Daisy could be moved with safety, they left her, greatly cheered and refreshed by their visit. "My heart aches for her," Elsie said as they drove away, "what a sad, sad thing to be a widow!" "Yes;" responded Rose, "and to have lost your husband so,--fighting against the land of your birth and love." There was a long pause broken by a sudden, half frightened exclamation from Rosie. "Papa! what if we should meet the Ku Klux!" "Not much danger, I think: they are not apt to be abroad so early. And we are nearing Ion." "I presume Edward has reached home before us," remarked Elsie, "I wonder how my little ones enjoyed their first visit to Roselands without their mother." She soon learned; for she had scarcely set foot in the veranda ere they were clinging about her and pouring out the story of their terrible fright. She pitied, soothed and comforted them, trying to dispel their fears and lead them to forgive those who had so ill-used them, though it cost no small effort to do so herself. Chapter Tenth. "Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven." --Luke vi, 87. Calhoun Conly was much perturbed by the occurrences of the evening. He was fond of his cousin Elsie and her children, and very sorry, for both her sake and theirs, that they had suffered this fright; he greatly respected and liked Mr. Travilla too, and would fain have stood well in his esteem; he had hoped that he did; and also with his Uncle Horace,--he had been so kindly treated, especially of late, at both Ion and the Oaks; but now this unfortunate episode had placed him in a false position, and he could hardly expect to be again trusted or believed in. Such were his cogitations as he sat alone in the veranda, after the Ion carriage had driven away. "What shall I do?" he asked himself, "what shall I do to recover their good opinion?" Just then Walter appeared before him, looking crestfallen and angry. "I say, Cal, it's bad enough for you to have thrashed me as you did, without bringing mother and Aunt Enna, and maybe grandfather too, down on me about those wretched masks and things; so give 'em up and let Dick and me put 'em back before they get home." "Of course put them back as fast as you can; pity you hadn't let them alone," said Calhoun, rising and with a quick step leading the way toward the nursery, "and," he added, "we must see what we can do to keep the young ones from blabbing; else putting them back will help your case very little." "Oh we'll never be able to do that!" exclaimed Walter, despairingly, "one or another of 'em is sure to let it out directly. And there come the folks now," as the rolling of wheels was heard in the avenue. "It's of no use; they'll know all about it in five minutes." "Yes, sir, you and Dick have got yourselves into a fine box, beside all the trouble you've made for other people," said Calhoun angrily. Then laying his hand on Walter's arm as he perceived that he was meditating flight, "No, sir, stay and face the music like a man; don't add cowardice to all the rest of it." They heard the clatter of little feet running through the house and out upon the veranda, the carriage draw up before the door, then the voices of the children pouring out the story of their fright, and the punishment of its authors, and the answering tones of their grandfather and the ladies; Mr. Dinsmore's expressing surprise and indignation, Enna's full of passion, and Mrs. Conly's of cold displeasure. "Let go o' me! they're coming this way," cried Walter, trying to wrench himself free. But the inexorable Calhoun only tightened his grasp and dragged him on to the nursery. Dick was there trying to pick the lock of the closet door with his pocket knife. "What are you about, sir? No more mischief to-day, if you please," exclaimed Calhoun, seizing him with the free hand, the other having enough to do to hold Walter. "Give me that key then," cried Dick, vainly struggling to shake off his cousin's strong grip. The words were hardly on the boy's tongue, when the door was thrown open, and Mr. Dinsmore and his daughters entered hastily, followed by the whole crowd of younger children. "Give you the key indeed! I'd like to know how you got hold of mine, and how you dared to make use of it as you have, you young villain! There, take that, and that and that! Hold him fast, Cal, till I give him a little of what he deserves," cried Mrs. Johnson, rushing upon her son, in a towering passion, and cuffing him right and left with all her strength. "Let me alone!" he roared; "'taint fair; old Travilla's half killed me already." "I'm glad of it! You ought to be half killed, and you won't get any sympathy from me, I can tell you." "And you had a share in it too, Walter?" Mrs. Conly was saying in freezing tones. "If you think he deserves any more than you gave him, Cal, you have my full permission to repeat the dose." "Where is the cause of all this unseemly disturbance?" demanded Mr. Dinsmore severely. "Calhoun, if you have the key of that closet and those wretched disguises are there, produce them at once." The young man obeyed, while Enna, holding Dick fast, turned a half frightened look upon her sister; to which the latter, standing with her arms folded and her back braced against the wall, replied with one of cold, haughty indifference. Calhoun drew out the obnoxious articles and held them up to view, a flush of mortification upon his face. The children screamed and ran. "Be quiet! they can't hurt you," said the grandfather, stamping his foot; then turning to Calhoun, "Ku Klux--your property and Arthur's, I presume, you are members doubtless?" and he glanced from one to the other of his older grandsons in mingled anger and scorn; Arthur having just entered the room to ascertain the cause of the unusual commotion. He flushed hotly at his grandsire's words and look. "I, sir! I a Ku Klux?" he exclaimed in a hurt, indignant tone, "I a midnight assassin stealing upon my helpless victims under cover of darkness and a hideous disguise? No, sir. How could you think so ill of me? What have I done to deserve it?" "Nothing, my boy; I take it all back," said the old gentleman, with a grim smile, "it is not like you--a quiet bookish lad, with nothing of the coward or the bully about you. But you, Calhoun?" "I have no property in these, sir; and I should scorn to wear one, or to take part in the deeds you have spoken of." "Right. I am no Republican, and was as strong for secession as any man in the South, but I am for open, fair fight with my own enemies or those of my country; no underhand dealings for me; no cowardly attacks in overwhelming numbers upon the weak and defenceless. But if these disguises are not yours, whose are they? and how came they here?" "I must beg leave to decline answering that question, sir," replied Calhoun respectfully. His mother and aunt exchanged glances. "Ah!" exclaimed their father, turning to Enna, as with a sudden recollection, "I think I heard you claiming some property in these scarecrows speak out; are they yours?" "No, sir; but I'm not ashamed to own that I helped to make them, and that if I were a man, I would wear one." "You? you helped make them? and who, pray, helped you? Louise--" "Yes, sir, Louise it was," replied Mrs. Conly drawing herself up to her full height, "and she is no more ashamed to own it, than is her sister. And if Calhoun was a dutiful son he would be more than willing to wear one." "If you were a dutiful daughter, you would never have engaged in such business in my house without my knowledge and consent," retorted her father, "and I'll have no more of it, let me tell you, Madams Conly and Johnson; no aiding or abetting of these midnight raiders." Then turning to a servant he ordered her to "take the hideous things into the yard and make a bonfire of them." "No, no!" cried Enna. "Papa, do you understand that you are ordering the destruction of other men's property?" "It makes no difference," he answered coolly, "they are forfeit by having been brought surreptitiously into my house. Carry them out, Fanny, do you hear? carry them out and burn them." "And pray, sir, what am I to say to the owners when they claim their property?" asked Enna with flashing eyes. "Refer them to me," replied her father leaving the room to see that his orders were duly executed. Calhoun and Arthur had already slipped away. Dick was about to follow, but his mother again seized him by the arm, this time shaking him violently; she must have some one on whom to vent the rage that was consuming her. "You--you bad, troublesome, wicked boy! I could shake the very life out of you!" she hissed through her shut teeth, suiting the action to the word. "A pretty mess you've made of it, you and Walter. Your birthday coming next week too; there'll be no presents from Ion for you, you may rest assured. I hoped Mr. Travilla would send you each a handsome suit, as he did last year; but of course you'll get nothing now." "Well, I don't care," muttered Dick, "it's your fault for making the ugly things." And freeing himself by a sudden jerk, he darted from the room. Children and servants had trooped after Mr. Dinsmore to witness the conflagration, and Dick's sudden exit left the ladies sole occupants of the apartment. "I declare it's too bad! too provoking for endurance!" exclaimed Enna, bursting into a flood of angry tears. "What's the use of taking it so hard?" returned her sister. "You're a perfect iceberg," retorted Enna. "That accounts for my not crying over our misfortune, I presume; my tears being all frozen up," returned Mrs. Conly with an exasperating smile. "Well there is comfort in all things: we may now congratulate ourselves that Foster and Boyd did not wait for these but supplied themselves elsewhere." There was a difference of two years in the ages of Dick Percival and Walter Conly, but they were born on the same day of the same month, and their birthday would occur in less than a week. "I say, Wal, what precious fools we've been," remarked Dick as the two were preparing to retire that night; "why didn't we remember how near it was to our birthday? Of course, as mother says, there'll be no presents from Ion this time." "No, and I wish I'd never seen the hateful things," grumbled Walter, "but there's no use crying over spilt milk." "No; and we'll pretend we don't care a cent. Mother sha'n't have the satisfaction of knowing that I do anyhow;" and Dick whistled a lively tune as he pulled off his boots and tossed them into a corner. At about the same time Elsie and her husband, seated alone together in their veranda, were conversing on the same subject. Mr. Travilla introduced it. They had been regretting the effect of the fright of the evening upon their children--Vi especially as the one predisposed to undue excitement of the brain--yet hoping it might not prove lasting. Elsie had just returned from seeing them to bed. "I left them much calmed and comforted," she said, "by our little talk together of God's constant watch over us, His all-power and His protecting care and love; and by our prayer that He would have them in his keeping." He pressed her hand in silence; then presently remarked, "The birthday of those boys is near at hand. They certainly deserve no remembrance from us; but how do you feel about it?" "Just as my noble, generous husband does," she said, looking up into his face with a proud, fond smile. "Ah! and how is that?" "Like giving them a costlier and more acceptable present than ever before; thus 'heaping coals of fire upon their heads.'" "And what shall it be?" "Whatever you think they would prefer, and would not that be a pony a-piece?" "No doubt of it; and I will try to procure two worth having, before the day comes round." Talking with her little ones the next morning, Elsie told them of the near approach of the birthday of Dick and Walter, spoke of the duty of forgiveness and the return of good for evil, and asked who of them would like to make their cousins some nice present. "I should, mamma," said little Elsie. Eddie looked up into his mother's face, dropped his head, and blushing deeply muttered, "I'd rather flog them like papa and Cal did." "So would I; they're naughty boys!" cried Vi, the tears starting to her eyes at the remembrance of the panic of fear their conduct had cost herself, brothers and sister. Their mother explained that it was papa's duty to protect his children from injury, and that that was why he had flogged naughty Dick; but now he had forgiven him and was going to return good for evil, as the Bible bids us. "And you must forgive them too, dears, if you want God to forgive you," she concluded; "for Jesus says, 'If you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.'" "I can't, mamma: I don't love them," said Eddie, stoutly. "Ask God to help you, then, my son." "But mamma, I can't ask him with my heart, 'cause I don't want to love them or forgive them." "Can my boy do without God's forgiveness? without Jesus' love?" she asked, drawing him to her side. "You feel very unhappy when papa or mamma is offended with you, and can you bear your heavenly Father's frown?" "Don't look so sorry, dear mamma: I love you ever so much," he said, putting his arms about her neck and kissing her again and again. "I cannot be happy while my dear little son indulges such sinful feelings," she said, softly smoothing his hair, while a tear rolled down her cheek. "Mamma, how can I help it?" "Try to think kind thoughts of your cousins, do them all the kindness you can, and ask God to bless them, and to help you to love them. I want my little Vi to do so too," she added, turning to her. "Mamma, I will; I don't 'tend to say cross things 'bout 'em any more," Violet answered impulsively; "and I'll give 'em the nicest present I can get with all my pocket-money." "Mamma, must I give them presents?" asked Eddie. "No, son, I do not say must; you shall decide for yourself whether you ought, and whether you will." "Mamma, they made me hurt my dear father." "No, Eddie, no one can _make_ us do wrong; we choose for ourselves whether we will resist temptation or yield to it." "Mamma, what shall we give," asked the little girls. "Talk it over between yourselves, daughters, decide how much you are willing to spend on them, and what your cousins would probably like best. I want my children to think and choose for themselves, where it is proper that they should." "But mamma, you will 'vise us." "Yes, Vi, you may consult me, and shall have the benefit of my opinion." The little girls held several private consultations during the day, and in the evening came with a report to their mother. Elsie was willing to appropriate five dollars to the purpose, Vi three, and the gifts were to be books, if mamma approved, and would help them select suitable ones. "I think you have decided wisely," she said, "and as it is too warm for us to drive to the city, we will ask papa to order a variety sent out here, and he and I will help you in making a choice." Eddie was standing by. Nothing had been said to him on the subject, since his morning talk with his mother, but all day he had been unusually quiet and thoughtful. "Mamma," he now said, coming close to her side, "I've been trying to forgive them, and I'm going to buy two riding whips, one for Dick, and one for Wal; if you and papa like me to." Her smile was very sweet and tender as she commended his choice, and told him his resolve had made her very happy. The birthday found Dick and Walter in sullen, discontented mood, spite of their resolve not to care for the loss of all prospect of gifts in honor of the anniversary. "What's the use of getting up?" growled Dick, "it's an awful bore, the way we've been sent to Coventry ever since we got into that scrape with the young ones. I've a great mind to lie a-bed and pretend sick; just to scare mother and pay her off for her crossness." "Maybe you might get sick in earnest," suggested Walter. "I'm going to get up anyhow," and he tumbled out upon the floor, "for it's too hot to lie in bed. Hark! there's Pomp coming up the stairs to call us now. Why, what's all that, Pomp?" as the servant rapped, then pushing open the door, handed in a number of brown paper parcels. "Dunno, Mars Wal," replied the man grinning from ear to ear; "somethin' from Ion, an de rest's down stairs; one for each ob you." "One what?" queried Dick, starting up and with one bound placing himself at Walter's side. "Birthday present, sahs. Wish you many happy returns, Mars Wal and Mars Dick, an' hope you'll neber wear no mo' Ku Klux doins." But the lads were too busily engaged in opening the parcels and examining their contents, to hear or heed his words. "Two riding whips--splendid ones--and four books!" exclaimed Walter; "and here's a note." "Here let me read it," said Dick. "I declare, Wal, I'm positively ashamed to have them send me anything after the way I've behaved." "I too. But what do they say?" "It's from Travilla and Cousin Elsie," said Dick turning to the signature. "I'll read it out." He did so. It was very kind and pleasant, made no allusion to their wrong doing, but congratulated them on the return of the day, begged their acceptance of the accompanying gifts, stating from whom each came, the largest a joint present from themselves; and closed with an invitation to spend the day at Ion. "I'm more ashamed than ever, aren't you, Wal?" Dick said, his face flushing hotly as he laid the note down. "Yes, never felt so mean in my life. To think of that little Ed sending us these splendid whips, and the little girls these pretty books. I 'most wish they hadn't." "But where's 'the larger gift' they say is 'a joint present from themselves'?" "Oh that must be what Pomp called the rest left down stairs. Come, let's hurry and get down there to see what it is." Toilet duties were attended to in hot haste and in a wonderfully short time the two were on the front veranda in eager quest of the mysterious present. Each boyish heart gave a wild bound of delight as their eyes fell upon a group in the avenue, just before the entrance;--two beautiful ponies, ready saddled and bridled, in charge of an Ion servant; old Mr. Dinsmore, Calhoun and Arthur standing near examining and commenting upon them with evident admiration. "O, what beauties!" cried Dick, bounding into the midst of the group. "Whose are they, Uncle Joe?" "Well, sah," answered the old negro, pulling off his hat and bowing first to one, then to the other, "dey's sent heyah, by Massa Travilla and Miss Elsie, for two boys 'bout de size o' you, dat don' neber mean to frighten young chillen no mo'." The lads hung their heads in silence, the blush of shame on their cheeks. "Do you answer the description?" asked Calhoun, a touch of scorn in his tones. "Yes; for we'll never do it again," said Walter. "But it's too much: they're too kind!" and he fairly broke down, and turned away his head to hide the tears that would come into his eyes. "That's a fact!" assented Dick, nearly as much moved. "You don't deserve it," said their grandfather, severely, "and I'm much inclined to send them back, with a request that if they're offered you again it shall not be till a year of good conduct on your part has atoned for the past." "O, grandpa, you couldn't be so hard, so very hard!" cried Dick imploringly, stroking and patting the pony nearest to him, "they're such beauties." "I should think you'd be ashamed to accept such gifts after the way you've behaved," said Arthur. "So we are; but wouldn't it be worse to send 'em back? Awful rude, I should say." And Dick turned a half saucy, half beseeching look upon his grandfather. The old gentleman smiled in spite of himself, and consented, in consideration of the boys' penitence for the past, and fair promises for the future, to allow them to accept the generous gifts. Uncle Joe explained which was for Dick, and which for Walter, and springing into their saddles, they were off like a shot, their grandfather calling after them to be back in ten minutes if they wanted any breakfast. Chapter Eleventh. "If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst give him drink; for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good." --ROMANS XII. 20, 21. "Splendid!" cried Dick, wheeling about toward home, now half a mile away, "but we must hurry back or grandpa will be mad. I say Wal, what _do_ you s'pose makes Travilla and Cousin Elsie so different from us? I mean all of us at Roselands." "I don't know," returned Walter reflectively; "maybe because they're Christians. You know it says in the Bible we're to return good for evil." "Yes, and so heap coals of fire on our enemies' heads. And, Wal, I feel 'em burn now. I'd give anything not to have coaxed and teased Ed into shooting that time, and not to have scared him and the others with those frightful disguises." "So would I: and we'll never do the like again, Dick, never; will we?" "I reckon not: and we must ride over to Ion after breakfast, and tell 'em so, and thank 'em for these beauties and the other things." "Yes; didn't the note invite us to spend the day there?" "Why so it did! But I'd forgot; the sight of the ponies knocked it all out of my head." So great was the delight of the lads in their new acquisitions, that not even the repeated assertions of their mothers and other members of the family--seconded by the reproaches of their own consciences--that they did not deserve it, could materially damp their joy. An ungracious permission to accept the invitation to Ion, was granted them with the remark that Calhoun and Arthur, who were included in it, would be there to keep them in order, and also to report upon their conduct. Calhoun, troubled and mortified by the suspicions which he imagined must have been entertained against him at both the Oaks and Ion since the escapade of Dick and Walter, had kept himself closely at home during the past week, and studiously avoided meeting either his uncle or Travilla: but this invitation, as the holding out of the olive branch of peace, was joyfully accepted. The four rode over to Ion together, directly after breakfast, and found themselves greeted with the greatest kindness and cordiality by Mr. Travilla, Elsie and the children, all gathered in the veranda awaiting their coming. The two culprits, shame-faced in view of their ill-deserts, yet overflowing with delight in their ponies, poured out mingled thanks and apologies, and promises for the future. "Never mind, my lads, we'll say nothing more about it," Mr. Travilla said in his kind, cheery way, Elsie adding, "You are very welcome, and we are sure you do not intend ever again to try to alarm our darlings, or tempt them to do wrong." She led the way to her beautiful summer parlor, a large, lofty apartment, with frescoed walls and ceiling; the floor a mosaic of various colored marbles; a bubbling fountain in the centre, gold and silver fish swimming in its basin, windows draped with vines, and at the farther end a lovely grotto, where a second fountain threw showers of spray over moss-grown rocks and pieces of exquisite statuary. Here they were presently joined by their Cousin Horace. Ices and fruits were served, and the morning passed in a most agreeable manner, enlivened by music, conversation, and a variety of quiet games; Mr. and Mrs. Travilla laying themselves out for the entertainment of their guests. Their children had been excused from lessons in honor of the day, and with their sweet prattle, and merry pretty ways, contributed not a little to the enjoyment of their elders. Mr. Dinsmore came to dinner. Calhoun fancied his manner rather cool toward him, while Dick and Walter were left in no doubt of his stern disapproval of them, until their Cousin Elsie said a few words to him in a quiet aside, after which there was a decided change for the better. Calhoun watched his cousin furtively, as he had of late formed a habit of doing: and as he studied her character, his respect, admiration, and affection grew apace; he found her so utterly unselfish and sincere, so patient and forbearing, yet firm for the right, so unaffectedly gay and happy. Something of this he remarked to her when for a few moments they chanced to be alone together. "Ah," she said smiling and blushing, "it is not lover love alone that is blind; you have been looking at me through rose colored spectacles, as so many of my relatives and friends do." "But are you not really happy, cousin?" "Happy? Ah yes, indeed! Have I not everything to make me so? the best of husbands and fathers, five darling children; comparative youth, health, wealth that enables me to prove in my own sweet experience the truth of those words of the Lord Jesus, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive'; and the best of all" she added low and reverently, the soft eyes shining through glad tears, "His love and tender care surrounding me. His strong arm to lean upon; His blood to wash away my sins. His perfect righteousness put upon me. These, cousin, are more than all the rest, and you and every one may have them if you will; for His own words are, 'Ask, and ye shall receive; seek and ye shall find.' 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.'" "You give me a new view of religion," he said after a moment's surprised, thoughtful silence. "I have been accustomed to look upon it as something suitable, perhaps desirable, for old age, and certainly very necessary for a death bed; but too great a restraint upon youthful pleasures." "Sinful pleasures must indeed be given up by those who would follow Christ; but they are like apples of Sodom,--beautiful in appearance, but bitter and nauseous to the taste; while the joys that he gives are pure, sweet, abundant and satisfying. 'Godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come.' 'They shall be abundantly satisfied with the fatness of thy house; and thou shalt make them drink of the river of thy pleasures.' Ah, Cal, if one might safely die without the Christian's faith and hope, I should still want them to sweeten life's journey." Another thoughtful pause; then the young man said, frankly, "Cousin Elsie, I'm afraid I'm very stupid, but it's a fact that I never have been quite able to understand exactly what it is to be a Christian, or how to become one." She considered a moment, her heart going up in silent prayer for help to make the matter plain to him, and for a blessing on her words; for well she knew that without the influence of the Holy Spirit they would avail nothing. "To be a Christian," she said, "is to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, receiving and resting upon him alone for salvation. 'He hath made him to be sin for us, who knew no sin; that we might be made the righteousness of God in him.' 'God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' Do not these texts answer both your queries? We have broken God's holy law, but Jesus, the God man, has borne the penalty in our stead; 'all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags'; we dare not appear before the King clothed in them; but Jesus offers to each of us the pure and spotless robe of his righteousness, and we have only to accept it as a free gift; we can have it on no other terms. It is believe and be saved; look and live." "But there is something beside for us to do surely? we must live right." "Yes, true faith will bring forth the fruits of holy living; but good works are the proofs and effects of our faith, not the ground of the true Christian's hope; having nothing whatever to do with our justification." The entrance of Arthur and young Horace put an end to the conversation. Horace was not less devoted to his elder sister now than in childhood's days; Arthur, distant and reserved with most people, had of late learned to be very frank and open with her, sure of an attentive hearing, of sympathy, and that his confidence would never be betrayed. She never sneered, never laughed in contempt, nor ever seemed to think herself better or wiser, than others. Her advice, when asked, was given with sweet simplicity and humility, as of one not qualified, in her own estimation, to teach, or desirous to usurp authority over others: yet she had a clear intellect and sound judgment, she opened her mouth with wisdom and in her tongue was the law of kindness. There seemed a sort of magnetism about her, the attraction of a loving, sympathetic nature, that always drew to her the young of both sexes, and the large majority of older people also. The three young men gathered round her, hanging upon her sweet looks, her words, her smiles, as ardent lovers do upon those of their mistress. Somehow the conversation presently turned upon love and marriage, and she lectured them, half-playfully, half seriously, upon the duties of husbands. She bade them be careful in their choice, remembering that it was for life, and looking for worth rather than beauty or wealth; then after marriage not to be afraid of spoiling the wife with too much care and thoughtfulness for her comfort, and happiness, or the keeping up of the little attentions so pleasant to give and receive, and so lavishly bestowed in the days of courtship. "Ah, Elsie, you are thinking of your own husband, and holding him up as a model to us," said Horace laughingly. "Yes," she answered, with a blush and smile, a tender light shining in the soft brown eyes, "that is true. Ah, the world would be full of happy wives if all the husbands would copy his example! He is as much a lover now as the day he asked me to be his wife; more indeed, for we grow dearer and dearer to each other as the years roll on. Never a day passes that he does not tell me of his love by word and deed, and the story is as sweet to me now, as when first I heard it." "Ah, good wives make good husbands," said Mr. Travilla, who had entered unobserved, just in time to hear the eulogy upon him. "Boys, let each of you get a wife like mine, and you can not fail to be good husbands." "Good husbands make good wives," she retorted, looking up into his face with a fond smile as he came to her side. "The trouble is to find such," remarked Horace, regarding his sister with tender admiration. "True enough," said Travilla, "I know not of her like in all the length and breadth of the land." Catching sight of Mr. Dinsmore pacing the veranda alone, Calhoun slipped quietly away from the rest and joined him. "Uncle," he said, coloring and dropping his eyes, "I think you doubt me." "Have I not reason, Calhoun?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, looking searchingly into the lad's face. "Yes, sir, I own that appearances are strongly against me, and I can not disprove the tale they tell; but--oh, if you could trust me still, uncle!" He lifted his head, and gazed fearlessly into the keen dark eyes still bent searchingly upon him. Mr. Dinsmore held out his hand, and cordially grasped the one Calhoun placed in it. "Well, my boy, I will try: it is far pleasanter than to doubt you. But there is some one at Roselands who is disposed to aid and abet the Ku Klux in their lawless proceedings." "I can not deny that," said the nephew, "yet it would ill become me to say who it is; and I think, sir, since grandpa has set down his foot so decidedly in opposition, there will be no more of it. Travilla and Cousin Elsie have given me their confidence again, and I assure you, sir, I am deeply grateful to you all." Chapter Twelfth. "If thou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps, Fill all thy bones with aches; make thee roar, That beasts shall tremble at thy din." --SHAKESPEARE'S TEMPEST. The Ion family were spending the day at the Oaks. It was now early in the fall of 1868 and political excitement ran high over the coming presidential election. There had been as yet no effectual check given to the lawless proceedings of the Ku Klux, and their frequent raids and numerous deeds of violence had inaugurated a reign of terror that was a shame and reproach to our boasted civilization and free institutions. Many of the poorer class, both blacks and whites, dared not pass the night in their houses, but when darkness fell, fled for safety to the shelter of the nearest woods, carrying their beds with them, and sleeping in the open air. That the Ku Klux Klan was a political organization working in the interests of the Democratic party, their words to their victims left no doubt. The latter were told that they were punished for belonging to the Union League or for favoring the Republican party or using their influence in its behalf, and threatened with severer treatment if they dared vote its ticket or persuade others to do so. The outrages were highly disapproved by all Republicans and by most of the better class in the opposite party; but many were afraid to express their opinions of the doings of the Klan, lest they should be visited with its terrors; while for the same reason, many of its victims preferred to suffer in silence rather than institute proceedings, or testify against their foes. It was a state of things greatly deplored by our friends of the Oaks and Ion, and Messrs. Dinsmore and Travilla, who were not of the timid sort, had been making efforts to bring some of the guilty ones to justice; though thus far with very little success. Such an errand had taken them to the town on this particular day. They were returning late in the afternoon and were still several miles from home, when, passing through a bit of woods, a sudden turn of the road brought them face to face with a band of mounted men, some thirty or forty in number, not disguised but rough and ruffianly in appearance and armed with clubs, pistols and bowie knives. The encounter was evidently a surprise to both parties, and reining in their steeds, they regarded each other for a moment in grim silence. Then the leader of the band, a profane, drunken wretch, who had been a surgeon in the Confederate army, scowling fiercely upon our friends and laying his hand on a pistol in his belt, growled out, "A couple of scalawags! mean dirty rascals, what mischief have you been at now, eh?" Disdaining a reply to his insolence, the gentlemen drew their revolvers, cocked them ready for instant use, and whirling their horses half way round and backing them out of the road so that they faced it, while leaving room for the others to pass, politely requested them to do so. "Not so fast!" returned the leader, pouring out a torrent of oaths and curses; "we've a little account to settle with you two, and no time's like the present." "Yes, shoot 'em down!" cried a voice from the crowd. "Hang 'em!" yelled another, "the ---- ---- rascals!" "Yes," roared a third, "pull 'em from their horses and string 'em up to the limb o' that big oak yonder." Our friends faced them with dauntless air. "You will do neither," said Mr. Dinsmore, in a firm, quiet tone; "we are well armed and shall defend ourselves to the last extremity." Travilla threw his riding whip into the road a foot or two in front of his horse's head, saying, as he looked steadily into the leader's eyes, "The first one who passes that to come nearer to us is that instant a dead man." The two were well known in the community as men of undoubted courage and determination; also as excellent marksmen. A whisper ran along the lines of their opponents. "He's a dead shot; and so's Dinsmore; and they're not afraid o' the devil himself. Better let 'em go for this time." The leader gave the word, "Forward!" and with hisses, groans and a variety of hideous noises, they swept along the road and passed out of sight, leaving our friends masters of the field. "Cruelty and cowardice go hand in hand," observed Mr. Travilla, as they resumed their homeward way. "Yes, those brave fellows prefer waging war upon sleeping unarmed men, and helpless women and children, to risking life and limb in fair and open fight with such as you and I," returned his companion. "They are Ku Klux, you think?" "I am morally certain of it, though I could not bring proof to convict even that rascally Dr. Savage." They agreed not to mention the occurrence in presence of their wives: also that it would be best for Travilla to take his family home early, Mr. Dinsmore and Horace Jr. accompanying them as an escort. This they could readily do without arousing the fears of the ladies, as both were constantly coming and going between the two places. The sun was nearing the horizon when they reached the Oaks. Rose and Elsie were in the veranda awaiting their coming in some anxiety. "Oh," they cried, "we are so rejoiced to see you! so thankful that you are safe. We feared you had met some of those dreadful Ku Klux." "Yes, little wife, we are safe, thanks to the protecting care which is over us all in every place," Mr. Travilla said, embracing her as though they had been long parted. "Ah yes," she sighed, "how I have been forgetting to-day the lessons of faith and trust I have tried to impress upon Mrs. Leland. It is far easier to preach than to practice." Little feet came running in from the grounds, little voices shouted, "Papa has come! Papa and grandpa too," and a merry scene ensued--hugging, kissing, romping--presently interrupted by the call to tea. There was nothing unusual in the manner of either gentleman and the wives had no suspicion that they had been in peril of their lives. "I think it would be well to return home early to-night," Mr. Travilla remarked to Elsie. "Yes," she said, "on account of the children." So the carriage was ordered at once, and shortly after leaving the table they were on their way--Elsie, children and nurses in the carriage, with Mr. Travilla, Mr. Dinsmore and son, all well armed, as their mounted escort. Horace had been taken aside by his father and told of the afternoon's adventure, and in his indignation was almost eager for "a brush with the insolent ruffians." None appeared, however; Ion was reached in safety, they tarried there an hour or more, then returned without perceiving any traces of the foe. The hush of midnight has fallen upon the Oaks, Ion, Fairview and all the surrounding region; the blinking stars and young moon, hanging a golden crescent just above the horizon, look down upon a sleeping world; yet not all asleep, for far down the road skirting yonder wood, a strange procession approaches;--goblin-like figures, hideous with enormous horns, glaring eye-balls and lolling red tongues, and mounted upon weird-looking steeds, are moving silently onward. They reach a small house hard by the road-side, pause before it, and with a heavy riding whip the leader thunders at the door. The frightened inmates, startled from their sleep, cry out in alarm, and a man's voice asks, "Who's there?" "Open the door," commands the leader in a strange sepulchral voice. "I must know first who is there and what's wanted," returns the other, hurrying on his clothes. A shot is fired, and penetrating the door, strikes the opposite wall. "Open instantly, or we'll break in, and it'll be the worse for you," thunders the leader; and with trembling hands, amid the cries of wife and children, the man removes the bars, draws back the bolts, and looks out, repeating his question, "What's wanted?" "Nothing, this time, Jim White, but to warn you that if you vote the Republican ticket, we'll call again, take you to the woods, and flog you within an inch of your life--Beware! Forward, men!" and the troop sweeps onward, while White closes and bars the door again, and creeps back to bed. "Ku Klux!" says the wife shuddering. "Jim, we'll have to hide o' nights now, like the rest. Hush, hush, children, they're gone now; so go to sleep; nothing'll hurt ye. Jim, ye'll mind?" "Yes, yes, Betsy, though it galls me to be ordered round like a nigger; me with as white a skin as any o' them." Onward, still onward sweeps the goblin train, and again and again the same scene is enacted, the victim now a poor white, and now a freedman. At length they have reached Fairview; they pause before the gate, two dismount, make off into the woods, and presently reappear bearing on their shoulders a long dark object; a little square of white visible on the top. They pass through the gate, up the avenue, and silently deposit their burden at the door, return to their companions, and with them repair to the negro quarter. Dismounting, they tie their horses to the fence, and leaving them in charge of one of their number, betake themselves to the nearest cabin, surround it, break open the door, drag out the man, carry him to a little distance, and with clubs and leathern straps, give him a terrible beating. Leaving him half dead with pain and fright, they return to his cabin, threaten his wife and children, rob him of his gun, and pass on to repeat their lawless deeds; menacing some, beating and shooting others; not always sparing women or children; the latter perhaps, being hurt accidentally in the melee. From the quarter at Fairview, they passed on to that of Ion, continuing there the same threats and acts of violence; winding up by setting fire to the school-house, and burning it to the ground. The bright light shining in at the open windows of her room, awoke the little Elsie. She sprang from her bed, and ran to the window. She could see the flames bursting from every aperture in the walls of the small building, and here and there through the roof, curling about the rafters, sending up volumes of smoke, and showers of sparks; and in their light the demon-like forms of the mischief-doers, some seated upon their horses and looking quietly on, others flitting to and fro in the lurid glare; while the roar and crackling of the flames, and the sound of falling timbers came distinctly to her ear. At the sight a panic terror seized the child. She flew into the room where her parents lay sleeping, but with habitual thoughtfulness for others, refrained from screaming out in her fright, lest she should rouse the little ones. She went to her father's side, put her lips to his ear, and said in low tremulous tones, "Papa, papa, please wake up, I'm so frightened; there's a fire and the Ku Klux are there. O papa, I'm afraid they'll come here and kill you!" and she ended with a burst of almost hysterical weeping, rousing both father and mother. "What is it, darling?" asked Mr. Travilla, starting up to a sitting posture, and throwing an arm about the child, "what has alarmed my pet?" while the mother, exclaiming "Vi! is she gone again?" sprang out upon the floor, and hastily threw on a dressing-gown. "No, no, no, mamma; Vi's safe in bed, but look at that red light on the wall yonder! it's fire, and the Ku Klux!" In another moment all three were at the window overlooking the scene. "The school-house!" exclaimed Mr. Travilla. "I am not surprised; for the Klan is greatly opposed to the education of the negro, and has burned down buildings used for that purpose in other places. Do you see them, wife? those frightful looking horned animals." "Yes," she said with a shudder, followed by a deep sigh, "and O Edward what may they not be doing to our poor people? can we do anything to save them?" He shook his head sadly. "No: they are out in considerable force, and I could do nothing, single-handed, against twenty or thirty armed men." "O papa, mamma, I am so frightened!" cried little Elsie, clinging to them both. "Will they come here and hurt us?" "I think not, daughter," her father said soothingly; "their raids have hitherto been almost entirely confined to the blacks, and poor whites, with now and then one of those from the North whom they style carpet-baggers." "Be calm, dearest, and put your trust in the Lord," the mother said, folding the trembling, sobbing child to her breast. "'The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by him, and the Lord shall cover him all the day long.' 'Not an hair of your head shall fall to the ground without your Father.'" "Yes, sweet words," said Mr. Travilla; "and remember what the Lord Jesus said to Pilate, 'Thou couldst have no power at all against me, except it were given thee from above.'" A short pause, in which all three gazed intently at the scene of conflagration, then, "Do you see how the walls are tottering?" said Mr. Travilla, and even as he spoke they tumbled together into one burning mass, the flames shot up higher than before, burning with a fierce heat and roar, while by their lurid light the Ku Klux could be seen taking up their line of march again. The two Elsies watched in almost breathless suspense till they saw them turn in a direction to take them farther from Ion. "Thank God they are not coming here!" ejaculated Mrs. Travilla, in low, reverent, grateful tones. "Hark, mamma, papa, I hear cries and screams!" exclaimed little Elsie. "Oh it must be some of the poor women and children coming up from the quarter!" As the child spoke there came a quick sharp tap, that seemed to tell of fright and excitement, at the outer door of the suite of apartments, and an old servant, hardly waiting for the permission to enter, thrust in his head, saying in tremulous tones, "Mars Ed'ard, de people's all comin' up from de quarter, an' knockin' an' cryin' to get in. Dere's been awful times down dere; de Ku Klu--" "Yes, yes, Jack, I know; but be quiet or you'll wake the children. Open the hall door and let the poor things in, of course," said Mr. Travilla, "and I'll be down in a moment." "Plenty room on de back veranda, Mars Ed'ard, an' 'tween dat an' de kitchen." "Very well, they'll be safe there, but if they don't feel so let them into the hall." "Yes, sah." The head was withdrawn, the door closed, and Jack's shuffling feet could be heard descending the stairs. Mr. and Mrs. Travilla, having each completed a hasty toilet, were about to go down; but little Elsie clung to her mother. "Mamma, mamma, don't go and leave me! please let me go too." "My darling, you would be quite safe here; and it is much earlier than your usual hour for rising." "But day is breaking, mamma, and I could not sleep any more: besides maybe I could help to comfort them." "I think she could," said her father, and mamma gave consent at once. They found the back veranda, the kitchen, and the space between, filled with an excited crowd of blacks, old and young, talking, gesticulating, crying, moaning and groaning. "De Ku Klux, de Ku Klux!" was on every tongue. "Tell ye what, darkies," one was saying, "dey's debbils! why two ob dem stop befo' my doah an' say 'You black rascal, give us some watah! quick now fo' we shoot you tru the head': den I hand up a gourd full--'bout a quart min' yo',--an de fust snatch it an' pour it right down his troat, an' hand de gourd back quick's a flash; den he turn roun' an' ride off, while I fill de gourd for de udder, an' he do jes de same. Tell ye what dey's debbils! didn't you see de horns, an' de big red tongues waggin'?" There was a murmur of assent, and a shudder ran through the throng. But Mr. Travilla's voice was heard in cheerful reassuring tones. "No, boys, they are men, though they do the work of devils. I have seen their disguise, and under that long red tongue, which is made of flannel, and moved by the wearer's real tongue, there is a leather bag, inside of the disguise--and into it they pour the water; not down their throats." "Dat so, Mars Ed'ard?" cried several, drawing a long breath of relief. "Yes, that is so, boys. And they've been threatening and abusing you to-night?" "Yes, sah, dat dey hab!" cried a score of voices, and one after another showed his wounds, and told a piteous tale. Elsie and her namesake daughter wept over their losses and sufferings: the medicine closet was unlocked and its stores liberally drawn upon for materials to dress their wounds, both master and mistress attending to them with their own hands; and at the same time speaking soothing, comforting words, and promising help to repair the damage to their property, and make good their losses: also to bring their enemies to justice if that might be possible. It was broad daylight ere the work was finished. The veranda was nearly empty now, the people slowly returning to their homes--Mr. Travilla having assured them the danger was past for the present--when Elsie caught sight of a woman whom she had not observed till that moment. The poor creature had dropped down upon a bench at the kitchen door. Her right arm hung useless at her side; with the left she held the bloody corpse of a puny infant to her breast, and the eyes she lifted to the face of her mistress were full of a mute, tearless agony. Elsie's overflowed at the piteous sight. "O my poor Minerva," she said, "what is this they have done to you and poor little Ben?" "Oh, oh, oh, Miss Elsie! de Ku Kluxes dey shot tru de doah, an' de balls flyin' all roun', an'--an'--one hit me on de arm, an' killed my baby!" she sobbed, "oh! oh! oh! de doctah mend de arm, but de baby, he--he--done gone foreber;" and the sobs burst forth with renewed violence, while she hugged the still form closer, and rocked herself to and fro in her grief. "Gone to heaven, my poor Minerva, to be forever safe and happy with the dear Lord Jesus," her mistress said in quivering tones, the tears rolling fast down her own cheeks. "An' he neber hab no mo' miseries, honey," said Aunt Dicey, drawing near; "no Ku Klux come into de garden ob de Lord to scare him or hurt him; bress his little heart!" "Wish we all dere, safe an' happy like he! Let me wash off de blood an' dress him clean for de grave," said Aunt Sally, the nurse of the quarter, gently taking the child, while Mr. Travilla and Elsie bound up the wounded arm, speaking soothingly to the sufferer, and promising the doctor's aid as soon as it could be procured. Aunt Sally sat near attending to the last offices for the tiny corpse, little Elsie looking on, with big tears coursing down her cheeks. Presently going to her mother's side, she whispered a few words in her ear. "Yes, dear, you may go to the bureau drawer and choose it yourself," was the prompt reply, and the child ran into the house, returning directly with a baby's slip of fine white muslin, delicately embroidered. "Put this on him, Aunt Sally," she said; "mamma gave me leave to get it." Then going to the bereaved mother, and clasping the dusky, toil-worn hand with her soft, white fingers, "Don't cry, Minerva," she said, "you know poor little Ben was always sick, and now he is well and happy. And if you love Jesus, you will go to be with him again some day." Evidently much gratified by the honor done her dead babe, Minerva sobbed out her thanks for that, and the dressing of her wounded arm, and dropping a courtesy, followed Aunt Sally as she bore the corpse into Aunt Dicey's cabin close by. The scanty furniture of Minerva's own had been completely demolished by the desperadoes, and her husband terribly beaten. He and one or two others had not come up with the crowd, presumably from inability to do so, and Mr. Travilla now mounted his horse and went in search of them. They had been left by their assailants in the woods, where one--"Uncle Mose"--dreadfully crippled by rheumatism, still lay on the ground half dead with bruises, cuts, and pistol shot wounds. Another had crawled to his cabin and fainted upon its threshold; while a third lay weltering in his gore some yards distant from his. Mr. Travilla had them all carried into their houses, and made as comfortable as circumstances would permit, and a messenger was dispatched in all haste for Dr. Barton. The family at Fairview had slept through the night undisturbed by the vicinity, or acts of the raiders. Mr. Leland's first intimation of their visit was received as he opened the front door at his usual early hour for beginning his morning round of the plantation. He almost started back at the sight of a rude pine coffin directly before him; but recovering himself instantly, stooped to read a label affixed to the lid. "Beware, odious carpet-bagger! this is your third and last warning. Leave the country within ten days, or your carcass fills this." He read it deliberately through, carefully weighing each word, not a muscle of his face moving, not a tremor agitating his nerves. Turning to his overseer, who at that moment appeared before him, "Bring me a hatchet," he said in stern, calm tones, "and be quick, Park; I would not have your mistress see this on any account." Stepping upon the lid as he spoke, he broke it in with a crash, finishing his work when the hatchet came, by quickly chopping and splitting the coffin up into kindling-wood. "There!" he said, bidding the man gather up the fragments and carry them to the kitchen, "they'll not put me into that, at all events. What mischief have they been at in the quarter, I wonder?" he added, springing into the saddle. "Dreffle bad work, sah; mos' killed two ob de boys; scared de rest to deff," said Park, hastily obeying the order to gather up the bits of wood, "jes' gwine tell ye, sah, when you tole me go for de hatchet." "Indeed! hellish work! Follow me, Park, as quickly as you can. And mind, not a word of this," pointing to the demolished coffin, "to any one," and putting spurs to his horse, he galloped off in the direction of the quarter. But presently catching sight of the still smoking embers of the Ion school-house, he drew rein for an instant with a sudden exclamation of surprise and regret. "The wretches, what will they do next? burn our houses about our ears?" and sighing, he pursued his way. Indignant anger, and tender pity and compassion filled his breast by turns, on reaching the quarter and discovering the state of things there; worse even than Park's report had made it. He rode from cabin to cabin inquiring into the condition of the inmates and speaking words of pity and of hope. Finding several badly bruised and cut, and others suffering from gunshot wounds, he sent to the house for lint, salve and bandages, and directed a lad to run to the stables, saddle a horse; and go immediately for Dr. Barton. "De doctah ober to Ion now, sah," returned the boy, "debbils dore las' night, too, sah." "Run over to Ion, then, and ask the doctor to come here when he is through there," said Mr. Leland. Mr. Travilla came with the doctor and the two planters compared notes, in regard to damages, Mr. Leland also telling the story of the coffin laid at his door. "What do you intend doing?" asked Mr. Travilla. "Inclination says, 'Stay and brave it out;' but I have not yet fully decided. I have invested all my means in this enterprise, and have a wife and family of helpless little ones to support." "That makes it hard indeed; yet I fear your life is in great danger. But come what may, Leland, I stand your friend. If you should be attacked, fly to Ion; you will find an open door, a hearty welcome, and such protection as I am able to give. I think we could conceal you so that it would be a matter of difficulty for your foes to find you." "A thousand thanks! God bless you for your kindness, sir!" exclaimed Leland, with emotion, warmly grasping the hand held out to him; and the two parted, each wending his homeward way. Chapter Thirteenth. "Humble love, And not proud reason, keeps the door of heaven; Love finds admission, where proud science fails." --Young Elsie was on the veranda looking for her husband's return to breakfast; for it was already past the usual hour. "All alone, little wife?" he asked as he dismounted and came up the steps. "Not now," she answered, putting her arms about his neck and looking up at him with her own fond, beautiful smile. "But your face is sad, my husband! What news?" "Sad enough, my little friend; poor old Uncle Mose has been so barbarously handled that he cannot live through the day, Dr. Barton says: and two of the others are suffering very much." Elsie's eyes were full. "Does Uncle Mose know it?" she asked. "Yes, I told him, as tenderly as I could, and asked if he was ready to go. 'Yes, Mars Edard,' he said, with a triumphant smile, 'for I'se got fast hold ob Jesus.'" Elsie's head was laid on her husband's shoulder, the bright drops were coming fast down her cheeks. "I have sent word to Mr. Wood," he went on, "the poor old fellow is anxious to see him; and you also." "Yes, yes, I will go down directly after prayers," she said. Then he told her of the coffin laid at the door of Fairview, and the threatening words on its lid. She heard it with a shudder and a sigh. "Oh poor Mr. Leland! Edward, don't you think it would be wise in him to leave for the present?" "Perhaps so. I fear they will really attempt his life if he stays; but all his means being invested in Fairview makes it very hard. Where are our children?" "They went to deck the corpse of Baby Ben with flowers. Ah, here they come, the darlings!" as little feet came pattering through the hall. They hastened to their father for their usual morning kiss, and hung about him with tender loving caresses; but their manner was subdued, and Vi and Harold told with a sort of wondering awe of the poor little dead baby so still and cold. "Are you going out, mamma?" asked little Elsie an hour later, as Mrs. Travilla appeared, dressed in walking costume, in the midst of the group of children and nurses gathered under a tree on the shady side of the house. "Yes, daughter, I am going down to the quarter to see poor old Uncle Mose who is very ill; and I want you to be mother to the little ones while I am away." "O mamma, mayn't we go with you?" cried Eddie and Vi in a breath, Harold chiming in, "And me too, mamma, me too!" "No, dears, not to-day, but some other time you shall," the mother answered, giving each a good-bye kiss. "Mamma, stay wis us; I'se 'f'aid de Kluxes get 'oo!" said Harold coaxingly, clinging about her neck with his chubby arms, while the big tears gathered in his great dark eyes. "No, dear, they don't come in the day-time. And God will take care of me. Papa is down at the quarter, too; and Uncle Joe and mammy will go with me;" and with another tender caress, she gently released herself from his hold and turned away. The children gazed wistfully after her graceful figure as it disappeared among the trees, Uncle Joe holding a great umbrella over her to shield her from the sun, while mammy and Aunt Sally followed, each with a basket on her arm. Uncle Mose was rapidly nearing that bourne whence no traveler returns. As his mistress laid her soft white hand on his, she felt that the chill of death was there. "You are almost home, Uncle Mose," she said, bending over him, her sweet face full of tender sympathy. "Yes, my dear young Missus, I'se in de valley," he answered, speaking slowly and with difficulty, "but bress de Lord, it's not dark!" "Jesus is with you?" "Yes, Missus, he is my strength and my song: de riber's deep, but he'll neber let me sink. De pain in dis ole body's dreffle, but I'll neber hab no mo', bress de Lord!" "Do your good works give you this comfortable assurance that you are going to heaven, Uncle Mose?" "Bress yo' heart, honey, I ain't neber done none; but de bressed Lord Jesus covers me all ober wid his goodness, and God de Fader 'cepts me for his sake." "Yes, that is it, 'He hath made him to be sin for us, who knew no sin; that we might be made the righteousness of God in him.' 'There is none other name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved;' and 'he that believeth on him shall not be confounded.'" "Yes, honey, dose de words ob de good book. Now will you please sing de twenty-third Psalm, an' den ask de Lord Jesus keep fas' hold dis ole niggah, till Jordan am past, an' de gate into de city." The request was granted; the sweet voice that had thrilled the hearts of many of the rich and noble of earth, freely poured forth its richest strains to soothe the dying throes of agony of a poor old negro. Then kneeling by the humble couch, in a few simple, touching words she commended the departing spirit to the almighty love and care of Him who had shed His blood to redeem it, earnestly pleading that the dying one might be enabled to cast himself wholly on Jesus, and in doing so be granted a speedy and abundant entrance into His kingdom and glory. The fervent "Amen!" of Uncle Mose joined in with hers; then low and feebly he added, "De good--Lord--bress you--my dear--young--Missus." A shadow had fallen on Elsie, and as she rose from her knees, she turned her head to find her father standing at her side. He drew her to him and pressed his lips tenderly to her forehead. "You must go now; the heat of the sun is already too great for you to be out with safety." The low quiet tone was one of authority as of old. He only waited for her good-bye to Uncle Mose, and to speak a few kindly words of farewell himself, then led her out and placed her in his carriage, which stood at the door. Mr. Travilla rode up at that instant. "That's right," he said. "Little wife, I am loth to have you exposed to the heat of this sultry day." "And you, Edward? can you not come home now?" she asked. "Not yet, wife; there are several matters I must attend to first, and I want to speak to Mr. Wood, who, I see, is just coming." He kissed his hand to her with the gallantry of the days of their courtship, and cantered off, while the carriage rolled on its way toward the mansion. "Daughter, if you must visit the quarter during this sultry weather, can you not choose an earlier hour?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "I think I can after this, papa;" and she went on to explain how her time had been taken up before breakfast that morning. "Do you know about Mr. Leland?" she asked in conclusion. "Yes; their next outrage will, I fear, be an attack upon him." "Then upon you and Edward!" she said, her cheek growing very pale, and her eyes filling. "Papa I am becoming very anxious." "'I would have you without carefulness,'" he answered taking her hand in his. "They can have no power at all against us except it be given them from above. My child, God reigns, and if God be for us, who can be against us?" "Yes, dear papa, and with David let us say, 'In the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast.'" Mr. Dinsmore was still with his daughter when Mr. Travilla returned with the news that Uncle Mose's sufferings were over, and it had been arranged that he and Baby Ben should be buried that evening at dusk. The children begged to be permitted to attend the double funeral; but their parents judged it best to deny them, fearing an onslaught by the Ku Klux; of which there was certainly a possibility. "I have been talking with Leland," Mr. Travilla remarked aside to his friend, "and he proposes that we accompany the procession as a mounted guard." "Good!" said Mr. Dinsmore, "Horace and I will join you: and let us all go armed to the teeth." "Certainly, and I accept your offer with thanks. Some of the boys themselves are pretty fair marksmen but they were all robbed of their arms last night." "Let us supply them again, Edward," exclaimed Elsie, with energy "and have them practice shooting at a mark." Her husband assented with a smile. "You are growing warlike in your feelings," he said. "Yes, I believe in the privilege and duty of self-defence." Toward evening Mr. Dinsmore rode back to the Oaks, returning to Ion with his son, shortly before the appointed hour for the obsequies. Elsie saw them and her husband ride away in the direction of the quarter, not without some fluttering of the heart, and with a silent prayer for their safety, retired with her children, to the observatory at the top of the house, from whence a full view might be obtained of the whole route from the cabin of Uncle Mose to the somewhat distant place of sepulture; the spot chosen for that purpose in accommodation to the superstitious feelings of the blacks, which led them to prefer to lay their dead at a distance from their own habitations. The children watched with deep interest as the procession formed, each man carrying a blazing pine-knot, passed down the one street of the quarter, and wound its slow way along the road that skirted two sides of the plantation, then half way up a little hill, where it gathered in a circle about the open grave. Twilight was past, thick clouds hid the moon and the torches shone out like stars in the darkness. "Mamma, what dey doin' now?" asked Harold. "Listen! perhaps you may hear something," she answered, and as they almost held their breath to hear, a wild, sweet negro melody came floating upon the still night air. "They're singing," whispered Vi, "singing Canaan, 'cause Uncle Mose, and little Baby Ben have got safe there." No one spoke again till the strains had ceased with the ending of the hymn. "Now Mr. Wood is talking, I suppose," remarked Eddie, in a subdued tone, "telling them we must all die, and which is the way to get to heaven." "Else praying," said Vi. "Mamma, what is die?" asked Harold leaning on her lap. "If we love Jesus, darling, it is going home to be with him, and oh, so happy." "But Baby Ben die, and me saw him in Aunt Dicey's house." "That was only his body, son; the soul--the part that thinks and feels and loves--has gone away to heaven, and after a while God will take the body there too." For obvious reasons the services at the grave were made very short, and in another moment they could see the line of torches drawing rapidly nearer, till it reached the quarter and broke into fragments. "We will go down now," Elsie said, rising and taking Harold's hand, "papa, grandpa and Uncle Horace will be here in a moment." "Mamma," whispered her namesake daughter, "how good God was to keep them safe from the Ku Klux!" "Yes, dearest, let us thank him with all our hearts." Chapter Fourteenth. "The more the bold, the bustling, and the bad, Press to usurp the reins of power, the more Behooves it virtue, with indignant zeal, To check their combination." --THOMSON The spirit of resistance was now fully aroused within the breasts of our friends of Ion and the Oaks. Mr. Travilla's was a type of the American character; he would bear long with his injuries, vexations, encroachments upon his rights, but when once the end of his forbearance was reached, woe to the aggressor; for he would find himself opposed by a man of great resources, unconquerable determination and undaunted courage. His measures were taken quietly, but with promptness and energy. He had been seeking proofs of the identity of the raiders, and found them in the case of one of the party; whose gait had been recognized by several, his voice by one or two, while the mark of his bloody hand laid upon the clothing of one of the women as he roughly pushed her out of his way, seemed to furnish the strongest circumstantial evidence against him. George Boyd's right hand had been maimed in a peculiar manner during the war, and this bloody mark upon the woman's night-dress was its exact imprint. Already Mr. Travilla had procured his arrest, and had him imprisoned for trial, in the county jail. Yet this was but a small part of the day's work: lumber had been ordered, and men engaged for the rebuilding of the school-house; merchandise also to replace the furniture and clothing destroyed; and arms for every man at the quarter capable of using them. All this Elsie knew and approved, as did her father and brother. For Mrs. Carrington's sake they deeply regretted that Boyd was implicated in the outrage; but all agreed that justice must have its course. The question had been mooted in both families whether any or all of them should leave the South until the restoration of law and order should render it a safe abiding place for honest, peaceable folk, but unanimously decided in the negative. The gentlemen scorned to fly from the desperadoes and resign to their despotic rule their poor dependents and the land of their love; nay they would stay and defend both to the utmost of their power; and the wives upheld their husbands in their determination and refused to leave them to meet the peril alone. Returning from the burial of Uncle Mose, Mr. Dinsmore and Horace spent an hour at Ion before riding back to the Oaks. The three gentlemen were in the library earnestly discussing the state of affairs, when Elsie, coming down from seeing her little ones settled for the night, heard the sound of wheels in the avenue, and stepping to the door saw the Ashlands carriage just drawing up in front of it. The vehicle had scarcely come to a standstill ere its door was thrown hastily open and the elder Mrs. Carrington alighted. Elsie sprang to meet her with outstretched arms, and the exclamation, "My dear old friend!" though her heart beat quickly, her cheek crimsoned, and tears filled her eyes. The old lady, speechless with grief, fell upon her neck and wept there silently for a moment; then low and gaspingly, in a voice broken with sobs, "I--have--come to--ask about--George," she said, "can it, oh can it be that he has done this dreadful thing?" and shuddering she hid her face on Elsie's shoulder her slight frame shaken with the sobs she vainly strove to suppress. "Dear Mrs. Carrington, I am so sorry, so _very_ sorry to think it," Elsie said, in a voice full of tears, "my heart aches for you who love him so; you who have been so sorely afflicted: may the Lord give you strength to bear up under this new trial." "He will! he does! My sister's son! oh tis sad, 'tis heart-breaking! But the proofs: what are they?" Elsie named them; first drawing her friend to a seat where she supported her with her arm. "Yes, yes, his voice, his gait are both peculiar, and--his hand. Let me see that--that garment." Leading her into a private room, and seating her comfortably there Elsie had it brought and laid before her. Mrs. Carrington gave it one glance, and motioning it away with a look and gesture of horror, dropped her face into her hands and groaned aloud. Elsie kneeling by her side, clasped her arms about her and wept with her. "A slayer of the weak and helpless--a murderer--a midnight assassin!" groaned the half distracted aunt. "May there not possibly be some mistake. Let us give him the benefit of the doubt," whispered Elsie. "Alas there seems scarcely room for doubt!" sighed Mrs. Carrington, then, with a determined effort to recover her composure, "But don't think, dear Elsie, that I blame you or your husband. Can I see him? and your father if he is here?" "Yes, they are both here and will rejoice if they can be of any comfort or service to you. Ah, I hear papa's voice in the hall, asking for me!" and stepping to the door, she called to him and her husband, "Please come in here," she said, "Mrs. Carrington wishes to see you both." "You here and alone at this late hour, my dear madam!" Mr. Dinsmore exclaimed, taking the old lady's hand in a cordial grasp, "your courage surprises me." "Ah, my good friend, they who have little to lose, need not have much to do with fear," she answered. "That was what I told Sophie who would have had me defer my call till to-morrow." "My dear madam, you are surely right in thinking that no one would molest you--a lady whom all classes unite in loving and honoring," Mr. Travilla said, greeting her with almost filial respect and affection. She bowed in acknowledgment. "Do not think for a moment that I have come to upbraid you, gentlemen. Justice demands that those who break the laws suffer the penalty, and I have nothing to say against it; though the criminal be my own flesh and blood. But I want to hear all about this sad affair." They told her briefly all they knew, she listening with calm though sad demeanor. "Thank you," she said when they had finished. "That George is guilty, I dare hardly doubt, and I am far from upholding him in his wickedness. As you all know, I was strong for accession, and am no Republican now, but I say perish the cause that can be upheld only by such measures as these. I would have every member of this wicked, dreadful conspiracy brought to punishment; they are ruining their country; but their deeds are not chargeable upon the secessionists of the war time, as a class." "That is certainly true, madam." "We are fully convinced of that, Mrs. Carrington," the gentlemen replied. She rose to take leave. Mr. Travilla requested her to delay a little till his horse could be brought to the door, and he would see her home. "No, no, Travilla," said Mr. Dinsmore, "Horace and I will do that, if Mrs. Carrington will accept our escort." "Many thanks to you both, gentlemen," she said, "but I assure you I am not in the least afraid; and it would be putting you to unnecessary trouble." "On the contrary, my dear madam, it would be a pleasure; and as our horses are already at the door, we need not delay you a moment," said Mr. Dinsmore. "It will not take us so very far out of our way, either: and I should like to have a word with Sophie." Upon that Mrs. Carrington gratefully accepted his offer, and the three went away together. Convinced of his guilt, Mrs. Carrington made no effort to obtain the release of her nephew, but several of his confederates having perjured themselves to prove an alibi in his favor, he was soon at large again. He showed his face no more at the Oaks or Ion, and upon occasion of an accidental meeting with Travilla or either of the Dinsmores, regarded him with dark, scowling looks, sometimes adding a muttered word or two of anger and defiance. In the meantime damages had been repaired in the quarters at Fairview and Ion, and the men at the latter, secretly supplied with arms; also the rebuilding of the school-house was going rapidly forward. A threatening notice was presently served upon Mr. Travilla, ordering him to desist from the attempt, as the teaching of the blacks would not be allowed by the Ku Klux. He however paid no attention to the insolent demand, and the work went on as before. Mr. Leland had succeeded in keeping the affair of the coffin from his wife thus saving her much anxiety and distress. To leave just at this time would be a great pecuniary loss, and he had decided to remain; but had laid his plans carefully for either resistance or escape in case of an attack. A couple of large, powerful, and very fine watch dogs were added to his establishment, and a brace of loaded pistols and a bowie knife were always within reach of his hand. One night the family were aroused by the furious barking of the dogs. Instantly Mr. Leland was out upon the floor hastily throwing on his clothes, while his wife, with the frightened cry. "The Ku Klux!" ran to the window. "Yes it is! they are surrounding the house! O Robert, fly for your life!" she cried in the wildest terror. "O God save my poor husband from these cruel foes!" she added, dropping upon her knees and lifting hands and eyes to heaven. "He will, Mary, never fear, wife," Mr. Leland said almost cheerfully, snatching up his weapons as he spoke. "Pray on, it's the best thing you can do to help me." "You must fly!" she said, "you can't fight twenty men and I think there are at least that many." "I'll slip out at the back door then, and make for the woods," he answered, rushing from the room. Children and servants were screaming with affright, the ruffians thundering at the front door, calling loudly upon Mr. Leland to come out, and threatening to break it down if he did not immediately appear. Summoning all her courage, the wife went again to the window and called to them, asking what was wanted. "Leland. Tell him to come out here at once or it will be the worse for him," returned the leader, in a feigned, unnatural voice. "He is not here," she said. "He'd better show himself at once," returned the ruffian, "he'll not escape by refusing to do so; we'll search every corner till we find him." "That will be as God pleases," she said in a calm, firm tone, her courage rising with the emergency. She was answered with a yell of rage, and a repeated order to come down and open the door. "I shall do no such thing," she said; "and what is more, I shall shoot down the first man that sets foot on the stairs." It was a sudden resolution that had come to her. Encouraged by Mrs. Travilla's precept and example, she had been, for months past, industriously training herself in the use of firearms, and kept her loaded revolver at hand; and now she would create a diversion in her husband's favor, keeping the raiders at bay at the front of the building while he escaped at the back; they believed him to be in the upper story: if she could prevent it, they should not learn their mistake, till he had had time to gain the woods and distance pursuit. The door could not much longer withstand the heavy blows dealt it; already there were sounds as if it were about to give way. "Archie," she said, turning to her son and speaking very rapidly, "those men are here to kill your father; you must help me to prevent them from coming up to hunt him. The rest of you children stop that loud crying, which won't do any good. Kneel down and pray, pray, _pray_ to God to help your father to get away from them. Archie, throw this black cloak round you. Here are two loaded pistols. I will take one, you the other; we will station ourselves on the landing at the head of the first flight of stairs. It is darker in the house than out of doors, and they will not be able to see us, but as the door falls and they rush in we can see them in their white gowns, and against the light. Come!" They hurried to the landing. "Now we must not be in too great haste," she whispered in his ear; "keep cool, take sure aim, and fire low." The words had scarcely left her lips when the door fell with a crash, and with a yell like an Indian war whoop several disguised men rushed into the hall and hastily advanced toward the stairway; but the instant the foremost set foot upon it, two shots were fired from above, evidently not without effect; for with an oath he staggered back and fell into the arms of his comrades. He was borne away by two of them, while the others returned the fire at random, for they could not see their adversaries. The balls whistled past Mrs. Leland and her son, but they stood their ground bravely, and as two of their assailants attempted to ascend the stairs; fired again and again driving them back for a moment. At the same time sounds of conflict came from the rear of the dwelling,--an exchange of shots, whoops and yells, the hurried tramp of many feet, and the yelping, barking and howling of the dogs--and instantly the hall was cleared, every man there hastening to join in this new struggle, apparently satisfied that their intended victim was endeavoring to make his escape in that direction. Seeing this, Mrs. Leland and her son ran to a window overlooking the new scene of contest, their hearts beating between hope and fear. Mr. Leland had slipped cautiously out of the back door, and, revolver in hand, stepped into the yard, but only to find himself surrounded by his foes. They attempted to seize him, but eluding their grasp, he fired right and left, several shots in succession, the others returning his fire, and following in hot pursuit. There was no moon that night, and the darkness and a simple suit of black, were favorable to Leland, for while the long white gowns of the Ku Klux not only trammelled their movements, but rendered each an easy target for his shot, they could take but uncertain aim at him, and on gaining the woods, he was soon lost to their view in the deepened gloom of its recesses. But the balls had been falling about him like hailstones, and as the sounds of pursuit grew fainter, he found himself bleeding profusely from a wound in the leg. He dropped behind a fallen tree, and partially stanched the wound with some leaves which he bound on with a handkerchief, fortunately left in his coat pocket on retiring that night. This was scarcely accomplished, when sounds of approaching footsteps and voices told him the danger was not yet over. He crouched close in his hiding place, and hardly dared breathe as they passed and repassed, some almost stepping on him. But he remained undiscovered, and at length they abandoned the search, and returning to the vicinity of the house, gathered up their wounded and went away. Yet Leland felt that it was not safe for him to venture back to his home, as they might return at any moment; but to remain where he was with his wound undressed was almost certain death. He resolved to accept Mr. Travilla's offered hospitality, if his strength would carry him so far, and was rising to make the attempt, when the cracking of a dead branch told him that some living thing was near, and he fell back again, listening intently for the coming footsteps. "Robert! Robert!" called a low tremulous voice. "O Mary, is it you?" he responded, in low but joyous accents, and the next moment his wife's arms were about his neck, her tears warm upon his cheek, while Archie stood sobbing beside them. "Thank God, thank God that you are alive!" she said, "But are you unhurt?" "No, I am bleeding fast from a wound in my leg," Leland answered faintly. "I've brought lint and bandages," she said, "let me bind it up as well as I can in the dark." "Daren't we strike a light?" asked Archie. "No, my son, it might bring them on us again, and we must speak low too." "Yes, father; but oh what will you do? you can't come back home again?" "No; I must go to Ion at once, while I can do so under cover of the darkness. Travilla has offered to hide me there. Archie, my brave boy, I can trust you with this secret." "Father, they shall kill me before I'll tell it." "I trust you will not be tried so far," Leland said with emotion. "I would not save my life at the sacrifice of yours. I leave your mother in your care, my boy; be dutiful and affectionate to her, and kind to your little brother and sisters. Mary, dear, you and Archie will have to manage the plantation in my absence," and he went on to give some directions. "I will do my best," she said tearfully, "and as we have been for months past frequent visitors at Ion, I can surely go to see you there occasionally without exciting suspicion." "Yes, I think so." "Father," said Archie, "you can never walk to Ion; let me bring my pony and help you to mount him; then I will lead him to Ion and bring him back again." "That is a bright thought; we will do so, if you can saddle him in the dark and bring him here very quietly." "I'll try, father," and the boy hastened away in the direction of the stables. He returned sooner than they dared hope, with the pony saddled and bridled. Husband and wife bade a mournful adieu. Mr. Leland mounted with his son's assistance, and silently they threaded their way through the woods to Ion. "Hoo! hoo! hoo!" the cry came in loud and clear through the open windows of the bedroom of the master and mistress of Ion, and startled them both from their slumbers. "Hoo, hoo! hoo!" it came again, and with a light laugh, Elsie said, "Ah it is only an owl; but to my sleeping ear it seemed like a human cry of distress. But Edward--" He had sprung from the bed and was hurrying on his clothes. "I doubt if it is not, little wife," he said. "It is the signal of distress Leland and I had agreed upon, and he may be in sore need of aid." "Let me go with you!" she cried tremulously, hastening to don dressing-gown and slippers. "Shall I strike a light?" "No, not till we go down below where the shutters are closed. There is no knowing what foe may be lurking near." Seizing his revolvers, he left the room as he spoke, she following close behind, a pistol in one hand, a lamp and match-box in the other. Silently they groped their way over the stairs, through the halls and corridors, till they reached a side door, which Mr. Travilla cautiously unbarred. "Who is there?" he asked scarcely above his breath. "I, sir," and Mr. Leland stepped in and fell fainting to the floor. Elsie had set her lamp upon a table, and laid her pistol beside it, and while her husband carefully secured the door again, she struck a light and brought it near. Together they stooped over the prostrate form. "He is not dead?" she asked with a shudder. "No, no: only a faint; but, see, he is wounded! Your keys, wife!" "Here," she said, taking them from her pocket, where, with rare presence of mind, she had thrust them ere leaving her room. They hastened to apply restoratives, and bind up the wound more thoroughly than Mrs. Leland had been able to do it. Restored to consciousness, Leland gave a brief account of the affair, refreshed himself with food and drink set before him by Elsie's fair hands, and then was conducted by Mr. Travilla to an upper room in a wing of the building, dating back to the old days of Indian warfare. It was distant from the apartments in use by the family, and had a large closet entered by a concealed door in the wainscoting. "Here I think you will be safe," remarked his host. "No one but my wife and myself yet knows of your coming, and it shall be kept secret from all but Aunt Chloe and Uncle Joe, two tried and faithful servants. Except Dr. Barton; he is safe and will be needed to extract the ball." "Yes; and my wife and boy and the Dinsmores," added Leland with a faint smile. "Travilla, my good friend, I can never thank you enough for this kindness." "Tut, man! 'tis nothing! are we not told to lay down our lives for the brethren? Let me help you to bed; I fear that leg will keep you there for some days." "I fear so indeed, but am sincerely thankful to have gotten off so well," replied Leland, accepting the offered assistance. "A most comfortable, nay luxurious prison cell," he remarked cheerily, glancing about upon the elegant and tasteful furniture, "truly the lines have fallen to me in pleasant places." Mr. Travilla smiled. "We will do what we can to make amends for the loss of liberty. It can not be far from daybreak now: I will remove the light, throw open the shutters and leave you to rest. You must of course be anxious about your family. I will ride over to Fairview and bring you news of them within the hour." Chapter Fifteenth. "It gives me wonder, great is my content, To see you here before me." --SHAKESPEARE'S OTHELLO. "Sir, you are very welcome to our house." --SHAKESPEARE Day had fully dawned when Mr. Travilla re-entered his sleeping apartment to find Elsie in bed again, but lying there with wide open eyes. "How very quietly you came in; careful not to disturb me I suppose, my good, kind husband," she said greeting him with a loving look and smile, as he drew near her couch. "Yes," he answered, bending over her and fondly stroking her hair. "I hoped you were taking another nap." "No, I feel as if I should never be sleepy again. I'm thinking of poor Mrs. Leland. How troubled, anxious and distressed she must feel." "Yes; I shall ride over there directly." "And take me with you?" "Gladly, if you like to go. You will do her more good than I." "I doubt it; but perhaps both together may be better than either one alone. Didn't she act bravely?" "Yes; she's a noble woman." They spent some moments in consulting together how to make their guest comfortable and at the same time effectually conceal his presence in the house. They rejoiced in the fact that no one but themselves--his own son excepted--had been cognizant of his arrival, and Elsie agreed with her husband that it should be kept secret from the children; servants also save Aunt Chloe and Uncle Joe, whose services would be needed, and who could be trusted not to divulge the matter. "Mammy will manage about his meals, I know," said Elsie, "and Dr. Barton's visits may be supposed to be paid to Violet. The darling! how glad and thankful I am that she seems to be losing her inclination to sleep-walking." "And I," said her husband; "thankful to God for his blessing on the means used, and to Barton, who is certainly an excellent physician." Their talk ended, husband and wife separated to their different dressing-rooms. Elsie rang for her maid and Aunt Chloe appeared in answer to the summons. Aunt Chloe was no longer young, or even elderly, but had attained to a healthy and vigorous old age and still so delighted in her old pleasant task of busying herself about the person of her young mistress, that she would only occasionally resign it to other hands. She was a household dignitary, head tire-woman, and head nurse, and much looked up to by the younger servants. She came in quietly and dropping a courtesy said, "Good mornin', Miss Elsie, I hope you's well, honey, but you's up so mighty early." "Ah, mammy, I'm glad it is you, for I have something to tell you. Yes, I'm quite well, thank you," Elsie answered, then while making a rapid toilet, went on to relate the occurrences of the last few hours, winding up by putting the wounded guest in charge of Aunt Chloe and her husband. The faithful old creature accepted the trust with evident pride in the confidence reposed in her. "Dis chile an' Uncle Joe'll take care of him, honey, neber fear," she said, carefully adjusting the folds of her mistress's riding habit. "I'll nuss him to de best ob my disability, an' de good Lord'll soon make um well, I hope." "And you and Uncle Joe will be careful not to let any of the other servants know that he's here?" "Dat we will, darlin', for shuah." The sun was just peeping above the horizon, as Mr. and Mrs. Travilla drew rein before the main entrance to the Fairview mansion. Mrs. Leland came out to welcome them. She was looking pale and worn, yet met them with a smile, and words of grateful appreciation of all their kindness, then, with the quick tears springing to her eyes, asked anxiously after her husband's welfare. "I think he is safe and will do well," Mr. Travilla said. "It seems to be only a flesh wound, and will soon heal with proper treatment and good nursing. I shall go from here to Dr. Barton's; calling for my wife on my return. But first what can I do for you? Ah, I see your door is quite demolished. We must have it replaced with a new and stronger one before night." "Yes, that is the most pressing need just now," said Mrs. Leland. "Come in and look; there is really no other damage except a few bullet holes in the walls, and these blood-stains on the matting," she said with a slight shudder; "and I am truly thankful to have escaped so well." They stepped into the hall, (their talk so far had been on the veranda,) and gazed with interest upon the marks of the night's conflict, Mrs. Leland meanwhile giving a graphic account of it. A servant was diligently at work cleaning the matting, and had nearly obliterated the stains left by the wounded Ku Klux. "And you shot him, Mrs. Leland?" Elsie said inquiringly. "Archie or I, or perhaps both of us," Mrs. Leland answered, leading the way to the parlor. They sat there a few moments, conversing still upon the same theme. "You will hardly dare stay here at night now?" Elsie remarked. "Yes; where else? I should feel very little safer from the Ku Klux in the woods, and the malaria might rob us all of health and even life." "Come to Ion," said both her visitors in a breath, "you will be most welcome." "A thousand thanks," she answered with emotion. "I do not doubt my welcome; yet fear to give a clue to my husband's hiding place." "There might be danger of that," Mr. Travilla said thoughtfully, "but what better, my dear madam, can you do?" "Stay here and put my trust in the Lord. He will take care of me and my helpless little ones. "I have been thinking of one of our noble pioneer women of the West, whose husband was killed by the Indians, leaving her alone in the wilderness with six small children, no white person within several miles. "Her friends urged her to leave the dangerous spot, but she said, 'No, this farm is all I have for my own and my children's support, and I must stay here. God will protect and help us.' And he did; the Indians, though they knew she was alone, never attacked her. She lay sometimes all night with a broadax in her hands, ready to defend her babes; but though she could see the savages come into her yard and light their pipes at her brushwood fire, they never approached the house?" Elsie's eyes kindled with enthusiastic admiration, then filled with tears. "Dear, brave Christian woman! and you will emulate her courage and faith." "I shall try; the hearts of the Ku Klux of to-day are no less in His hands than those of the Indians of that day or this." "That is certainly true and he never fails those who put their trust in him," Mr. Travilla said, rising. "Now, wife, I will leave you here while I go for Barton." "Oh stay a moment, Edward," she exclaimed, "a thought has struck me: it is not usual for you to go for the doctor yourself: might it not excite suspicion? And can you not trust Uncle Joe as your messenger?" "Your plan is best," he said with a pleased smile. "Let us then hasten home and dispatch him on the errand at once." Dr. Barton found the wound not dangerous, extracted the ball with little difficulty, and left the patient doing well. The attack on Fairview and the disappearance of its owner, caused considerable excitement in the neighborhood; there was a good deal of speculation as to what had become of him: some thought it probable that he had hidden in the woods and died there of his wounds; others that he had gone North to stay until the reign of terror should be over. No one, perhaps, suspected the truth, yet the wrath of the Ku Klux was excited against the Travillas, and the Dinsmores of the Oaks, by the kindness they showed to Leland's wife and children; and threatening notices were sent ordering them to desist from giving aid and comfort to "the carpet-bagger's family." They however paid no heed to the insolent demand, but exerted themselves to discover who were the men wounded in the raid; for that more than one had been hurt, was evidenced by the bloody tracks in and around the house at Fairview. In this they were not successful; doubtless because the men were from a distance, it being the custom for the organization so to arrange matters that thus they might the more readily escape recognition. The Ion children were at play in the front veranda one morning shortly after breakfast, when a strange gentleman came riding leisurely up the avenue. Harold was the first to notice his approach. "Mammy, mammy! see who's tumin! dat one de Kluxes?" he asked, running in affright to Aunt Chloe, who sat in their midst with the babe on her lap. "Spect not, honey; don't be 'fraid," she said soothingly, putting her arm about the little trembler. The little girls were dressing their dolls, Eddie and Bruno racing back and forth, in and out, having a grand romp: but at Harold's question, Eddie suddenly stood still, with an imperative, "Down, Bruno! down sir! be quiet now!" and turned to look at the stranger. The gentleman, now close at hand, reined in his horse, lifted his hat, and with a winning smile, said "Good morning, my little lads and lasses. Is your mother in?" "No, sir, she and papa have gone out riding," replied Eddie, returning the bow and smile. Elsie laid aside her doll and stepping forward, said with a graceful little courtesy, "Good morning, sir, will you dismount and come in? Papa and mamma will probably be here in a few minutes." "Ah, ha! um h'm; ah ha! Yes, my little lady, I will do so, thank you," returned the gentleman, giving his horse into the care of a servant, summoned by Eddie. "Will you walk into the drawing-room sir?" Elsie asked. "No, thank you," he replied seating himself among them, and sending a glance of keen interest from one to another. One look into the pleasant, genial face, banished Harold's fears, and when the stranger held out his hand, saying, "I am your mamma's cousin, won't you come and sit on my knee?" the child went to him at once; while the others gathered eagerly about. "Mamma's cousin! then she will be very glad to see you," said Elsie. "But she never told us about you," observed Eddie. "Ah ha, ah ha! um h'm! ah ha! But did she ever tell you about any of her mother's kin?" "No, sir," said Elsie, "I asked her once, and she said she didn't know anything about them; she wished she did." "Ah ha! ah ha, um h'm! ah ha! Well, she soon will. Child, you look very like a picture of your great-grandmother that hangs in my house in Edinburgh. A bonny lassie she must have been when it was taken." "Yes, sir; and she's the picture of mamma;" remarked Eddie; "everybody says so." "Ah ha, ah ha! um h'm, ah ha!" "Has you dot any 'ittle boys and dirls at your house?" asked Harold. "Yes, my man, a quiver full of them." "Are they good? do they love Jesus?" asked Vi. "Please tell us about them." "If you like to, sir," said Elsie, with a sweet and gentle gravity. "Vi, dear, you know we mustn't tease." "No, I didn't mean to tease," Vi answered, blushing. "Please excuse me, sir, and don't tell it 'less you want to." "No, no; it will give me pleasure, my dear. I enjoy talking of my darlings; especially now when they are so far away." He seemed about to begin, when Elsie, blushing deeply, said, "Excuse me, sir, I have been very remiss in my hospitalities. It is early, and perhaps you have not breakfasted." "Yes, thank you my dear, I took breakfast at the village hotel, where I arrived last night." "But you will take a cup of coffee and some fruit--" Her sentence was broken off; for at that instant a lady and gentleman came galloping up the avenue and the little ones hailed them with a joyous shout, "Papa and mamma!" Another moment and Mr. Travilla had dismounted, gallantly assisted his wife to do the same and together they stepped into the veranda. Both bowed politely to the stranger, and the children running to them cried, "Mamma, mamma, it is your cousin from Scotland." She turned inquiringly to him, a flush of pleasure on her face. He had risen from his seat, and was coming toward her with outstretched hand and earnest, admiring gaze. "My name is Ronald Lilburn; your maternal grandmother and mine were sisters," he said, "your grandmother's marriage was displeasing to her father and all intercourse between her and the rest of the family was broken off in obedience to his stern command; and thus they lost sight of each other. I have brought proofs of--" But Elsie's hand was already laid in his, while glad tears sprang to her eyes. "You shall show us them at another time if you will; but I could never doubt such a face as yours, and can not tell you how glad I am to have at last found a relative on my mother's side of the house. Cousin, you are welcome, welcome to Ion!" And she turned to her husband. "Yes," he said, offering his hand with the greatest cordiality, "welcome indeed, and not more so to my little wife than to myself." "Thanks to you both," he said with a bow and smile. "Cousin," with an earnest look at his hostess, "you are _very_ like a picture I have of your grandmother. But," with a glance at the wide-eyed little ones, looking on and listening in wonder and surprise, "can it be that you are the mother of all these? yourself scarce more than a bairn in appearance." Elsie laughed lightly. "Ah, cousin, you have not examined me closely yet I have not been a bairn for many years. How glad papa will be, Edward, to see a relative of my mother's!" "No doubt of it, wife, and we must send him word immediately." Mr. Lilburn had no reason to complain of his reception: he was treated with the utmost hospitality, and his coming made the occasion of general rejoicing in the household. Refreshments were promptly set before him, a handsome suite of apartments appropriated to his use, and a man-servant directed to attend upon his person. A note was sent to the Oaks inviting the whole family to Ion; the children were given a holiday, and Elsie, her husband, and father, spent the morning in conversation with their guest, and in examining family records, miniatures and photographs which he had brought with him. The day passed most agreeably to all; the new found relatives were mutually pleased and interested in each other. Mr. Lilburn was evidently a gentleman of intelligence, polish and refinement; seemed to be an earnest Christian, too, and in easy circumstances. The little folks made friends with him at once, and as children are apt to be quick at reading character, the older ones felt this to be a confirmation of the good opinion he had already won from them. Chapter Sixteenth. "I know that there are angry spirits And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason, Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out Muffled to whisper curses to the night. Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians And desperate libertines who lurk in taverns." --BYRON. A bright, warm day, some hours after sunrise. A man of rather gentlemanly appearance, well, though not handsomely dressed, is riding leisurely along the public highway. He wears a broad-brimmed straw hat as a protection from the sun, and a linen duster somewhat soiled by the dust of travel. He has a shrewd though not unkindly face, and a keen grey eye whose quick glances seem to take in everything within its range of vision. It is a lonely bit of road he is traveling and he moves with caution evidently on the alert for any appearance of danger. Presently he perceives another solitary horseman approaching from the opposite direction, and at the sight lays his hand on the pistols in his belt concealed by the duster, to make sure that they are ready for instant use; but at the same time keeping steadily on his way. The new comer is a slender boy of eighteen or twenty, not at all dangerous looking. As the two near each other each lifts his hat with a courteous, "Good morning, sir," the lad at the same time carelessly sliding his right hand down the left lappel of his coat. The movement, slight as it was, had not escaped the watchful grey eyes, and instantly their owner replied by sliding his left hand in the same manner down the right lappel of his coat. The lad then ran his fingers lightly through his hair; the other imitated his action; the lad opened his coat and seemed to be searching for a pin; the man opened his, took out a pin and handed it to him with a polite bow. "Thanks! all right sir; I perceive you are one of us," said the boy, drawing a paper from his pocket and presenting it to the man. "Miller's Woods!" and touching his hat he galloped away. There was a twinkle in the grey eyes as they shot one swift glance after him; then the paper was opened and examined with minute care. On it was a half moon with several dates written in different places about it, and that was all; yet its new possessor regarded it with great satisfaction, and after a careful scrutiny bestowed it safely in his breast pocket. "I'll be on hand without fail," he said, in a low, confidential tone, perhaps addressing his horse, as there was no one else within hearing. "To-night! they're late serving my notice; but better late than never; for me, though perhaps not for themselves," he added with a grim smile. "Well, my preparations won't take long: dress-suit's all ready." He kept on his way at the old leisurely pace, presently came in sight of Fairview, passed it, then Ion, diligently using his eyes as he went, made a circuit of several miles and returned to the town which he had left some hours previously. Dismounting at the village tavern, he gave his horse into the care of the hostler, and joined a group of idlers about the bar-room door. They were talking politics and one appealed to him for his opinion. "Don't ask me," he said with a deprecatory gesture! "I'm no party man and never meddle with politics." "On the fence, hey? Just the place for a coward and a sneak," returned his interlocutor contemptuously. The other half drew his bowie knife, then thrusting it back again, said good-humoredly, "I'll let that pass, Green; you've taken a drop too much and are not quite compos mentis just now." "Be quiet, will you, Green;" spoke up one of his companions, "you know well enough Snell's no coward. Why didn't he risk his life the other day, to save your boy from drowning?" "Yes; I'd forgot. I take that back, Snell. Will you have a glass?" "Thank you, no, it's too hot, and your wife and babies need the money, Green." The words were half drowned in the clang of the dinner bell, and the group scattered, Snell, and most of the others hurrying into the dining-room in answer to the welcome call. After dinner Snell sauntered out in the direction of the stable, passed with a seemingly careless glance in at the door, and strolled onward; but in that momentary glimpse had noted the exact position of his horse. About ten o'clock that night he stole quietly out again, made his way unobserved to the stable, saddled and bridled his steed, all in the dark, mounted and rode away, passing through the village streets at a very moderate pace, but breaking into a round trot as soon as he had fairly reached the open country. He pressed on for several miles, but slackened his speed as he neared the forest known as Miller's Woods. For the last mile or more he had heard, both in front and rear, the thumping of horses' hoofs, and occasionally a word or two spoken in an undertone, by gruff voices. He was anxious to avoid an encounter with their owners, and on reaching the outskirts of the wood, suddenly left the road, and springing to the ground, took his horse by the bridle, and led him along for some rods under the trees; then fastening him securely, opened a bundle he had brought with him, and speedily arrayed himself in the hideous Ku Klux disguise. He stood a moment intently listening. The same sounds still coming from the road; evidently many men were traveling it that night; and Snell reflected with grave concern, though without a shadow of fear, that if seen and recognized by any one of them his life would speedily pay the forfeit of his temerity; for spite of his acquaintance with their secret signs, he was not a member of the order. He was, in fact, a detective in pursuit of evidence to convict the perpetrators of the outrages which had been so frequent of late in that vicinity. Making sure that his arms were in readiness for instant use, he hastened on his way, threading the mazes of the wood with firm, quick, but light step. He had proceeded but a short distance, when he came upon a sentinel who halted him. Snell slapped his hands together twice, quick and loud. The sentinel answered in the same manner, and permitted him to pass; the same thing was repeated twice, and then a few steps brought him into the midst of the assembled Klan; for it was a general meeting of all the camps in the county which together composed a Klan. Snell glided, silently and unquestioned, to a place among the others, the disguise and the fact of his having passed the sentinels, lulling all suspicion. Most of those present were in disguise, but some were not, and several of these the officer recognized as men whom he knew by name and by sight, among them Green and George Boyd. A good deal of business was transacted; several raids were decided upon, the victims named, the punishment to be meted out to each prescribed, and the men to execute each order appointed. One member after another would mention the name of some individual who had become obnoxious to him personally, or to the Klan, saying that he ought to be punished; and the matter would be at once taken up, and arrangements made to carry out his suggestion. Boyd mentioned the name of "Edward Travilla, owner of Ion," cursing him bitterly as a scalawag, a friend of carpet-baggers, and of the education and elevation of the negroes. "Right! his case shall receive prompt attention!" said the chief. "Let it be a severe whipping administered to-morrow night, between the hours of twelve and two," proposed Green, and the motion was put to vote and carried without a dissenting voice. "And let me have a hand in it!" cried Boyd, fiercely. "You belong to the neighborhood and might be recognized," objected the chief. "I'll risk it. I owe him a sound flogging, or something worse," returned Boyd. "We all do, for he'd have every mother's son of us sent to jail or hanged, if he could," growled another voice on Snell's right, while from a mask on the left there came in sepulchral tones, the words, "It had better be hands off with you then, man," the speaker pointing significantly to Boyd's maimed member. "It shall!" cried he, "but I flatter myself this right hand, mutilated though it be, can lay on the lash as vigorously as yours, sir." After a little more discussion, Boyd's wish was granted, his fellow raiders were named, and presently the meeting was closed, and the members began to disperse. Snell thought he had escaped suspicion thus far, but his heart leaped into his mouth as a man whom he had heard addressed as Jim Blake, suddenly clapped his hand on his shoulder, exclaiming, "Ah, ha, I know you, old chap!" "You do? who am I then?" queried the spy in a feigned, unnatural voice, steady and cool, spite of the terrible danger that menaced him. "Who? Hal Williams, no disguise could hide you from me." Snell drew a breath of relief. "Ha! ha! Jim, I didn't think you were so cute," he returned in his feigned voice, and glided away presently disappearing, as others were doing, in the deeper shadows of the wood. He thought it not prudent to go directly to the spot where he had left his horse, but reached it by a circuitous route, doffing his disguise and rolling it into a bundle again as he went. He paused a moment to recover breath and listen. All was darkness and silence; the conspirators had left the vicinity. Satisfied of this, he led his horse into the road, mounted and rode back to the town. There every one seemed to be asleep except in a drinking saloon, whence came sounds of drunken revelry, and the bar room of the tavern where he put up. A light was burning there, but he avoided it attended to his horse himself, returning it to the precise spot where he had found it, then slipped stealthily up to his room, and without undressing threw himself upon the bed and almost immediately fell into a profound slumber. Chapter Seventeenth. "Abate the edge of traitors, gracious lord, That would reduce these bloody days again, And make poor England weep in streams of blood." --SHAKESPEARE The sun had just risen above the tree-tops as Solon led Beppo, ready saddled and bridled for his master's use, from the stables to the front of the mansion. A moment later Mr. Travilla came out, gave some orders to the servant, and was about to mount, when his attention was attracted by the approach of a man on horseback who came cantering briskly up the avenue. "Good morning," he said, as the stranger drew near. "Solon, you may hitch Beppo and go to your work." "Good morning, Mr. Travilla, sir," returned the horseman, lifting his hat and bowing respectfully, as Solon obeyed the order in regard to Beppo, and with a backward glance of curiosity, disappeared around the corner of the building. "You bring news, Martin?" said Mr. Travilla, stepping nearer to the stranger and looking earnestly into his face. "Yes, sir and very bad, I'm sorry to say, unless," and he bent low over his saddle-bow and spoke in an undertone, "unless you can defend yourself against a band of thirty-five or forty ruffians." "Fasten your horse to that post yonder and come with me to my private room," said Travilla, in calm, quiet tones. Martin, alias Snell, immediately complied with the request, and as soon as he found himself closeted with Mr. Travilla, proceeded to give a full account of his last night's adventure. "I assure you, sir," he concluded, "I look upon it as a piece of rare good fortune that I came upon that lad yesterday, and that he mistook me for one of the Klan; as otherwise you'd have had no warning." "It was a kind providence, Martin," returned Mr. Travilla, with grave earnestness, "'If God be for us who can be against us?'" "Nobody, sir; and that's the most Christian way of looking at the thing, no doubt. But, if I may ask, what will you do? fight or fly?" "How do you know that I shall do either?" Mr. Travilla asked with a slight twinkle in his eye. "Because you're not the man to tamely submit to such an outrage." "No, as my wife says, 'I believe in the duty and privilege of self-defense;' and for her sake and my children's, even more than my own, I shall attempt it. I am extremely obliged to you, Martin." "Not at all, sir; it was all in the way of business, and in the interests of humanity, law and order. No, no, sir, thank you; I'm not to be paid for doing my duty!" he added, hastily putting back a check which his host had filled out and now handed him. "I think you may take it without scruple," said Mr. Travilla; "it is not a bribe, but simply a slight expression of my appreciation of an invaluable service you have already rendered me." "Still I'd rather not, sir, thank you," returned the detective rising to go. "Good morning. I shall hope to hear to-morrow that the raiders have got the worst of it." Left alone, Mr. Travilla sat for a moment in deep thought; then hearing Mr. Lilburn's voice in the hall, stepped out and exchanged with him the usual morning salutations. "So you are not off yet?" remarked the guest. "No, but am about to ride over to the Oaks. Will you give me the pleasure of your company?" "With all my heart." Elsie was descending the stairs. "Wife," Mr. Travilla said, turning to her, "your cousin and I are going to ride over to the Oaks immediately; will you go with us?" "Yes, thank you," she answered brightly, as she stepped to the floor; then catching sight of her husband's face, and seeing something unusual there, "What is it, Edward?" she asked, gliding swiftly to his side and laying her hand upon his arm, while the soft eyes met his with a loving, anxious look. He could scarce refrain from touching the sweet lips with his own. "My little friend, my brave, true wife," he said, with a tender sadness in his tone, "I will conceal nothing from you; I have just learned through a detective, that the Ku Klux will make a raid upon Ion to-night, between twelve and two; and my errand to the Oaks is to consult with your father about the best means of defense--unless your voice is for instant flight for ourselves, our children, and guests." Her cheek paled, but her eye did not quail, and her tones were calm and firm as she answered, "It is a question for you and papa to decide; I am ready for whatever you think best." "Bravo!" cried her cousin, who had listened in surprise to Mr. Travilla's communication, "there's no coward blood in my kinswoman's veins. She is worthy of her descent from the old Whigs of Scotland; eh, Travilla?" "Worthy of anything and everything good and great," returned her husband, with a proud, fond glance at the sweet face and graceful form by his side. "Ah ha! um h'm! so I think. And they are really about to attack you,--those cowardly ruffians? Well, sir, my voice is for war; I'd like to help you give them their deserts." "It would seem cowardly to run away and leave our wounded friend and helpless dependents at their mercy," Elsie exclaimed, her eye kindling and her cheek flushing, while she drew up her slender figure to its full height; "our beautiful land, too, given up to anarchy and ruin; this dear sunny South that I love so well." Her voice trembled with the last words, and tears gathered in her eyes. "Yes, that is it," said her husband; "we must stay and battle for her liberties, and the rights guaranteed by her laws to all her citizens." Horses were ordered, Elsie returned to her apartments to don a riding habit, and in a few minutes the three were on their way to the Oaks. The vote there also was unanimous in favor of the policy of resistance. Mr. Dinsmore and Horace, Jr. at once offered their services, and Arthur Conly, who happened to be spending a few days at his uncle's just at that time, did the same. "I was brought up a secessionist and my sympathies are still with the Democratic party," he said, "but these Ku Klux outrages I cannot tolerate; especially," he added, looking at Elsie with an affectionate smile, "when they are directed against the home and husband if not the person of my sweet cousin." "You are to me 'a kinsman born, a clansman true,' Art," she said, thanking him with one of her sweetest smiles. "That's right, old fellow!" cried Horace, clapping his cousin on the shoulder. "We shall muster pretty strong;--papa, Brother Edward, Mr. Lilburn, you and I--six able-bodied men within the fortress, with plenty of the best small arms and ammunition; all of us fair shots, too, some excellent marksmen--we ought to do considerable execution among our assailants." "And God being on our side," said Mr. Lilburn, reverently, "we may have strong hope of being able to beat them back." "Yes, 'the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong,'" remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "'Some trust in chariots, and some in horses: but we will remember the name of the Lord our God.'" "And if we do so truly, fully, he will take hold of shield and buckler and stand up for our help," added Mr. Travilla. The plan of defense was next discussed, but not fully decided upon; it was agreed that that could be done most readily upon the spot, and that accordingly Mr. Dinsmore and the two young men should ride over to Ion shortly after breakfast, to view the ground and consult again with the other two. "Why not return with us and breakfast at Ion?" asked Elsie. "Why not stay and breakfast with us?" said Rose. "Certainly," said her husband. "Take off your hat, daughter, and sit down to your father's table as of old." "Ah, my little ones! I know they are watching now for mamma and wondering at her long delay." "Then I shall not detain, but rather speed you on your way," he said, leading her out and assisting her to mount her horse. The children had thought mamma's ride a long one that morning, and much they wondered at papa's unusual silence and abstraction. He quite forgot to romp with them, but indeed there was scarcely time, as he did not come in from the fields till the breakfast bell had begun to ring. Grace had just been said, every one was sitting silent, quietly waiting to be helped (the children were all at the table, for "Cousin Ronald" who had been with them for a week, was now considered quite one of the family). Mr. Travilla took up the carving knife and fork with the intent to use them upon a chicken that lay in a dish before him; but the instant he touched it with the fork, a loud squawk made every body start, and Harold nearly tumbled from his chair. "Why dey fordot to kill it!" he cried breathlessly. "But its head's off!" said Eddie, gazing into the dish in wide-eyed astonishment. "Ah ha nn h'm! is that the way your American fowls behave at table?" asked Cousin Ronald, gravely, but with a slight twinkle in his eye, pushing back his chair a little while keeping his eyes steadily fixed upon the ill-mannered bird, as if fearful that its next escapade might be to fly in his face; "a singular breed they must be." Elsie and her husband began to recover from their momentary surprise and bewilderment, and exchanged laughing glances, while the latter, turning to his guest, said, "Capitally done, cousin! wouldn't have disgraced Signor Blitz himself or any of his guild. But I had no suspicion that ventriloquism was one of your many accomplishments. What part shall I help you to?" "The leg, if you please; who knows but I may have use for more than two to-night?" A gleam of intelligence lighted up little Elsie's face. "Oh! I understand it now," she said, with a low silvery laugh; "cousin is a ventriloquist." "What's that?" asked Vi. "Oh I know!" cried Eddie. "Cousin Ronald, don't you have a great deal of fun doing it?" "Well, my boy, perhaps rather more than I ought, seeing it's very apt to be at other folks' expense." The guest, mamma and Elsie having been helped, it was now Vi's turn to claim papa's attention. "What shall I send you, daughter?" he asked. "Oh nothing, papa, please! no, no, I can't eat live things," she said half shuddering. "It is not alive my child." Violet looked utterly bewildered: she had never known her father to say anything that was not perfectly true, yet how could she disbelieve the evidence of her own senses? "Papa, could it hollow so loud when it was dead?" she asked deprecatingly. "It did not, my little darling; 'twas I," said Cousin Ronald, preventing papa's reply, "the chick seemed to make the noise but it was really I." Papa and mamma both confirmed this statement and the puzzled child consented to partake of the mysterious fowl. Minna, standing with her basket of keys at the back of her mistress's chair, Tom and Prilla, waiting on the table, had been as much startled and mystified by the chicken's sudden outcry as Vi herself, and seized with superstitious fears, turned almost pale with terror. Mr. Lilburn's assertion and the concurrent assurance of their master and mistress, relieved their fright; but they were still full of astonishment, and gazed at the guest with wonder and awe. Of course the story was told in the kitchen and created much curiosity and excitement there. This excitement was, however, soon lost in a greater when the news of the expected attack from the Ku Klux circulated among them an hour or two later. It could not be kept from the children, but they were calmed and soothed by mamma's assurance, "God will take care of us, my darlings, and help papa, grandpa and the rest to drive the bad men away." "Mamma," said Vi, "we little ones can't fight, but if we pray a good deal to God, will that help?" "Yes, daughter, for the Bible tells us God is the hearer and answerer of prayer." Elsie herself seemed entirely free from agitation and alarm; full of hope and courage, she inspired those about her with the same feelings; the domestic machinery moved on in its usual quiet, regular fashion. The kitchen department it is true, was the scene of much earnest talk, but the words were spoken with bated breath, and many an anxious glance from door and window, as if the speakers feared the vicinity of some lurking foe. Aunt Dicey was overseeing the making of a huge kettle of soft soap. "Tears like dis yer's a long time a comin'," she said, giving the liquid a vigorous stir, then lifting her paddle and holding it over the kettle to see if it dripped off in the desired ropy condition; "but dere, dis ole sinnah no business growlin' 'bout dat; yah! yah!" and dropping the paddle, she put her hands on her hips, rolled up her eyes and fairly shook with half suppressed laughter. "What you larfin' at, Aunt Dicey? 'pears you's mighty tickled 'bout suffin'," remarked the cook, looking up in wonder and curiosity from the eggs she was beating. "What's de fun, Aunt Dicey?" asked Uncle Joe, who sat in the doorway busily engaged in cleaning a gun. "Why, don't you see, darkies? de soap ain't gwine to come till 'bout de time de Kluxes roun' heyah; den dis chile gib 'em a berry warm deception, yah! yah! yah!" "A powerful hot one," observed the cook, joining in the laugh; "but dey won't min' it; dey's cobered up, you know." "'Taint no diffence," remarked Uncle Joe, "de gowns an' masks, dey's nuffin but cotton cloth, an' de hot soap'll permeate right tru, an' scald de rascal's skins!" "Dat's so; an' take de skin off too." Uncle Joe stopped work and mused a moment, scratching his head and gazing into vacancy. "'Clar to goodness dat's a splendid idea, Aunt Dicey!" he burst out at length. "An' let's hab a kettle ob boilin' lye to tote up stairs in da house, 'bout de time we see de Kluxes comin' up de road; den Aunt Chloe an' Prilla can expense it out ob de windows; a dippah full at a time. Kin you git um ready fo' den?" "Dat I kin," she replied with energy, "dis consecrated lye don't take no time to fix. I'll hab it ready, sho' as you lib." Meanwhile the party from the Oaks had arrived according to appointment, and with Mr. Travilla and his guest, were busy with their arrangements for the coming conflict, when quite unexpectedly old Mr. Dinsmore and Calhoun Conly appeared upon the scene. "We have broken in upon a conference, I think," remarked the old gentleman, glancing from one to another and noticing that the entrance of himself and grandson seemed to thrown a slight constraint over them. "Rest assured, sir, that you are most welcome," replied Mr. Travilla. "We were conferring together on a matter of importance, but one which I am satisfied need not be concealed from you or Cal. I have had certain information that the Ku Klux--" "Stay!" cried Calhoun, springing to his feet, a burning flush rising to his very hair, "don't, I beg of you, cousin, say another word in my presence. I--I know I'm liable to be misunderstood--a wrong construction put upon my conduct," he continued glancing in an agony of shame and entreaty from one astonished face to another, "but I beg you will judge me leniently and never, _never_, doubt my loyalty to you all," and bowing courteously to the company he hastily left the room, and hurrying out of the house, mounted his horse and galloped swiftly down the avenue. For a moment those left behind looked at each other in dumb surprise; then old Mr. Dinsmore broke the silence by a muttered exclamation, "Has the boy gone daft?" "I think I understand it, sir," said his son, "poor Cal has been deceived and cajoled into joining that organization, under a misapprehension of its deeds and aims, but having learned how base, cruel, and insurrectionary they are, has ceased to act with them--or rather never has acted with them--yet is bound by oath to keep their secrets and do nothing against them." "Would be perilling his life by taking part against them," added Mr. Travilla. "I think he has done the very best he could under the circumstances." He then went on with his communication to the old gentleman, who received it with a storm of wrath and indignation. "It is time indeed to put them down when it has come to this!" he exclaimed, "The idea of their daring to attack a man of your standing, an old family like this,--of the best blood in the country! I say it's downright insolence, and I'll come over myself and help chastise them for their temerity." "Then you counsel resistance, sir?" queried his son. "Counsel it? of course I do! nobody but a coward and poltroon would think of anything else. But what are your plans, Travilla?" "To barricade the verandas with bags of sand and bales of cotton, leaving loopholes here and there, post ourselves behind these defenses, and do what execution we can upon the assailants." "Good! Who's your captain?" "Your son, sir." "Very good; he has had little or no experience in actual warfare, but I think his maiden effort will prove a success." "If on seeing our preparations they depart peaceably, well and good," remarked Travilla. "But if they insist on forcing an entrance, we shall feel no scruples about firing upon them." "Humph! I should think not, indeed!" grunted the old gentleman; "'Self-defense is the first law of nature.'" "And we are told by our Lord, 'all they that take the sword, shall perish with the sword,'" observed his son. The arrangements completed, the Dinsmores returned to their homes for the rest of the day. About dusk the work of barricading was begun, all the able-bodied men on the plantation, both house-servants and field-hands, being set to work at it. The materials had been brought up to the near vicinity of the house during the day. The men's hearts were in the undertaking (not one of them but would have risked his own life freely in defense of their loved master and mistress), and many hands made light and speedy work. While this was in progress, old Mr. Dinsmore and the whole family from the Oaks arrived; Rose and her daughter preferring to be there rather than left at home without their natural protectors. Elsie welcomed them joyfully and at once engaged their assistance in loading for the gentlemen. The little ones were already in bed and sleeping sweetly, secure in the love and protecting care of their earthly and their heavenly Father. Little Elsie, now ten years old, was no longer required to retire quite so early, but when her regular hour came she went without a murmur. She was quite ready for bed, had just risen from her knees, when her mother came softly in and clasped her in a tender embrace. "Mamma, dear, dear mamma, how I love you! and papa too!" whispered the child, twining her arms about her mother's neck. "Don't let us be afraid of those wicked men, mamma. I am sure God will not let them get papa, because we have all prayed so much for his help; all of us together in worship this morning and this evening, and we children up here; and Jesus said, 'If two of you shall agree on earth, as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.'" "Yes, darling, and he will fulfill his word; he will not suffer anything to befall but what shall be for his glory and our good. Now, dear daughter, lie down and take that promise for a pillow to sleep upon; and if waked by sounds of conflict, lift up your heart to God for your dear father, and mine, and all of us." "I will, mamma, I will." Leaving a loving kiss on the sweet young lips, and another on the brow of her sleeping Violet, the mother glided noiselessly from the room. "What is it, mammy?" she asked on finding her faithful old nurse waiting to speak with her in the outer room. "Miss Elsie, honey, is you willin' to let us scald dem Kluxes wid boilin' soap an' lye?" "Scald them, mammy?" she exclaimed with a slight shudder. "I can hardly bear the thought of treating a dog so cruelly!" "But dey's worse dan dogs. Miss Elsie; dogs neber come and detack folks dat's sleepin' quietly in dere beds; does dey now?" "No; and these men would take my husband's life. You may all fight them with any weapon you can lay hands on." Aunt Chloe returned her thanks and proceeded to give an account of the plan concocted by Aunt Dicey and Uncle Joe. Elsie, returning to the dining-room, repeated it there. "Excellent!" exclaimed her brother. "Come, Art, let's hang a bell in the kitchen and attach a string to it, taking the other end up to the observatory." The suggestion was immediately carried out. It had been previously arranged that the two young men should repair to the observatory, and there watch for the coming of the foe, and on their first appearance, probably a mile or more distant, give the alarm to those below, by pulling a wire attached to that from which the front door bell was suspended; thus setting it to ringing loudly. Now they were prepared to sound the tocsin in the kitchen, also, thus giving time for the removal of the boiling lye from the fire there to the second story of the mansion, where it was to be used according to Uncle Joe's plan. The detective had reported the assailing party as numbering from thirty-five to forty; but the Ion force, though much inferior in point of numbers, even with the addition of eight or ten negro men belonging to the Oaks and Ion, who were tolerably proficient in the use of firearms, certainly had the advantage of position, and of being on the side of right and justice. The gentlemen seemed full of a cheerful courage, the ladies calm and hopeful. Yet they refused to retire, though strongly urged to do so, insisting that to sleep would be simply impossible. It was but ten o'clock when all was ready, yet the young men deemed it most prudent to betake themselves at once to their outlook, since there might possibly have been some change in the plans of the enemy. The others gathered in one of the lower rooms to while away the tedious time of waiting as best they could. Conversation flagged; they tried music, but it had lost its charms for the time being; they turned away from the piano and harp and sank into silence; the house seemed strangely silent, and the pattering of Bruno's feet as he passed slowly down the whole length of the corridor without, came to their ears with almost startling distinctness. Then he appeared in the doorway, where he stood turning his eyes from one to another with a wistful, questioning gaze: then words seemed to come from his lips in tones of wonder and inquiry. "What are you all doing here at this time o' night, when honest folk should be a-bed?" "Just what I've been asking myself for the last hour," gravely remarked a statue in a niche in the opposite wall. The effect was startling even to those who understood the thing; more so to the others, Rosie screamed and ran to her father for protection. "Why, why, why!" cried old Mr. Dinsmore, in momentary perplexity and astonishment. "Don't be afraid Miss Rosie; I'm a faithful friend, and the woman over there couldn't hurt you if she would," said Bruno, going up to the young girl, wagging his tail and touching his cold nose to her hand. She drew it away with another scream. "Dear child," said her sister, "it is only a trick of ventriloquism." "Meant to amuse, not alarm," added Mr. Lilburn. Rosie, nestling in her father's arms, drew a long breath of relief, and half laughing, half crying, looked up saucily into Mr. Lilburn's face. "And it was you, sir? oh, how you scared me!" "I beg your pardon, my bonnie lassie," he said, "I thought to relieve, somewhat, the tediousness of the hour." "For which accept our thanks," said Mr. Dinsmore. "But I perceive it is not the first time that Travilla and Elsie have been witnesses of your skill." "No," said Elsie, laughing. "My dear, you are good at a story, tell them what happened at breakfast this morning." Mr. Travilla complied with the request. He was an excellent story-teller and made his narrative very entertaining. But in the midst of their mirth a sudden awe-struck silence fell upon them. There was a sound as of the rattling of stiffly starched robes; then a gruff voice from the hall exclaimed, "There he is, the old scalawag! Dinsmore too. Now take good aim, Bill, and let's make sure work." Rosie was near screaming again, but catching sight of Mr. Lilburn's face, laughed instead; a little hysterical nervous laugh. "Oh t's you again, sir!" she cried. "Please don't frighten me any more." "Ah, no, I will not," he said, and at that moment a toy man and woman on the table began a vastly amusing conversation about their own private affairs. In the kitchen and the domiciles of the house-servants, there was the same waiting and watching; old and young, all up and wide awake, gathered in groups and talked in undertones, of the doings of the Ku Klux, and of the reception they hoped to give them that night. Aunt Dicey glorying in the prospect of doing good service in the defense of "her family" as she proudly termed her master, mistress and the children, kept her kettles of soap and lye at boiling heat, and two stalwart fellows close at hand to obey her orders. Aunt Chloe and Dinah were not with the others, but in the nursery watching over the slumbers of "de chillens." Uncle Joe was with Mr. Leland, who was not yet able to use the wounded limb and was to be assisted to his hiding place upon the first note of alarm. In the observatory the two young men kept a vigilant eye upon every avenue of approach to the plantation. There was no moon that night, but the clear bright starlight made it possible to discern moving white objects at a considerable distance. Horace was full of excitement and almost eager for the affray, Arthur calm and quiet. "This waiting is intolerable!" exclaimed the former when they had been nearly an hour at their post. "How do you stand it, Art?" "I find it tedious, and there is in all probability, at least an hour of it yet before us. But my impatience is quelled by the thought that it may be to me the last hour of life." "True; and to me also. A solemn thought, Art, and yet might not the same be said of any day or hour of our lives?" From that they fell into a very serious conversation in which each learned more of the other's inner life than he had ever known before: both were trusting in Christ and seeking to know and do his will, and from that hour their hearts were knit together as the hearts of David and Jonathan. Gradually their talk ceased till but a word or two was dropped now and then, while the vigilance of their watch was redoubled; for the hour of midnight had struck--the silver chimes of a clock in the hall below coming distinctly to their ears--and any moment might bring the raiders into view. Below stairs too a solemn hush had fallen upon each with the first stroke of the clock, and hearts were going up in silent prayer to God. Horace was gazing intently in the direction of Fairview but at a point somewhat beyond. "Look, Art!" he cried in an excited whisper, "do my eyes deceive me? or are there really some white objects creeping slowly along yonder road?" "I--I think--yes, yes it is they!" returned Arthur, giving a rigorous pull to the string attached to the bell in the kitchen, while Horace did the same by the wire connected with the other; then springing to the stairway they descended with all haste. Loudly the alarm pealed out in both places, bringing all to their feet, and paling the cheeks of the ladies. Mr. Dinsmore's orders were given promptly, in calm, firm tones, and each repaired to his post. Aunt Dicey, assuming command in the kitchen, delivered her orders with equal promptness and decision. "Yo' Ben an' Jack, tote dis yer pot ob lye up stairs quick as lightnin', an' set it whar Aunt Chloe tells yo'. An' yo' Venus, stan' by de pot ob soap wid a dippah in yo' hand, an' fire away at de fust Klux dat shows his debbil horns an' tongue at de do'. Min' now, yo' take um in de eye, an' he neber come roun' heyah no mo' tryin' to kill Marse Ed'ard." Mr. Leland had fallen asleep in the early part of the evening, but woke with the ringing of the alarm bells. "Ah, they must be in sight, Uncle Joe," he said; "help me to my hiding place and leave me there. You will be needed below." "Yes, Massa Leland, dey's coming" said the old man, instantly complying with his request, "an' dis niggah's to demand de boilin' lye compartment ob dis army ob defense." A narrow couch had been spread in the little concealed apartment, and in a trice Mr. Leland found himself stretched upon it. "There, I'm quite comfortable, Uncle Joe," he said; "lay my pistols here, close to my hand; then close the panel with all care, and when you leave the room, lock the door behind you and hide the key in the usual place." "Yes, sah; an' please, sah, as yo's got nuffin' else for to do, keep askin' de Lord ob armies to help de right." "That I will," answered Leland heartily. Uncle Joe, moving with almost youthful alacrity, obeyed the orders given, and hastened to join his wife and Dinah whom he found on the upper veranda in front of the nursery windows, standing ladle in hand, one by the kettle of lye, the other leaning over the railing watching for the coming of the foe. The old man, arming himself also with a ladle of large capacity, took his station beside the latter. "Aunt Chloe," said he, "yo' bettah go back to de chillens, fear dey might wake up an' be powerful scared." "Yes, spect I bettah; dere ole mammy do best to be wid de darlins," she replied, resigning her ladle to Prilla, who joined them at that moment, and hurrying back to her charge. She found her mistress bending over the crib of the sleeping babe. "I am so thankful they were not roused by the noise, mammy," she said softly, glancing at the bed where the older two lay in profound slumber, "but don't leave them alone even for a moment." "Deed I won't, darlin'; de bressed little lambs! dere ole mammy'd fight de Kluxes to her last breff, fo' dey should hurt a hair ob deir heads. But don't ye fret, Miss Elsie, honey; dey'll not come yere; de good Lord 'll not let dem get into de house," she added, big tears filling her old eyes, while she clasped her idolized mistress in her arms as if she were still the little girl she had so loved to caress and fondle years ago. Elsie returned the embrace, gave a few whispered directions, and glided into the next room, there to linger a moment by the couch of her little girls, who were also sleeping sweetly, then hastened to rejoin Mrs. Dinsmore and Rosie, in one of the rooms opening upon the lower front veranda. They sat at a table covered with arms and ammunition. Rose was a little pale, but calm and composed, as was Elsie also; Rosie, making a great effort to be brave, could not still the loud beating of her heart as she sat listening intently for sounds from without. Elsie placing herself beside her young sister and taking her hand, pressed it tenderly, whispering with a glad smile, "'They that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion, which can not be removed, but abideth forever.'" Rosie nodded a half-tearful assent. Horace looked in. "They are just entering the avenue. Mother and sisters, be brave and help us with your prayers," he said, low and earnestly, and was gone. The ladies exchanged one swift glance, then bent forward in a listening attitude and for the next few moments every other sense seemed lost in that of hearing. The raiders, as was their usual custom, had dismounted at the gate, and leaving their horses in the care of two of their number, approached the house on foot. They came on three abreast, but as they neared the dwelling, one line branched off and passed around it in the direction of the kitchen. In an instant more the double column, headed by the leader of the troop, had reached the steps of the veranda, where it came to a sudden halt, a sort of half smothered grunt of astonishment coming from the captain as he hastily ran his eye along the barricade, which till that moment had been concealed from himself and comrades, by the semi-darkness and a profusion of flowering vines. The darkness and silence of death seemed to reign within: yet each one of the little garrison was at his post, looking out through a loophole, and covering one or another of the foe with his revolver, while with his finger upon the trigger, he only awaited the word of command to send the bullet to its mark. Young Horace found it hard to restrain his impatience. "What a splendid opportunity his father was letting slip! why did he hesitate to give the signal?" For, perhaps, the first time in his life, the young man thought his father unwise. But Mr. Dinsmore knew what he was about; blood should not be shed till the absolute necessity was placed beyond question. A moment of suspense, of apparent hesitation on the part of the raiders, then in stentorian tones the leader, stepping back a little, called; "Edward Travilla!" No answer. An instant of dead silence; then the call was repeated. Elsie shuddered and hid her face, faltering out a prayer for her husband's safety. Still no reply, and the third time the man called, adding, with a volley of oaths and curses, "We want you, sir: come out at once or it'll be the worse for you." Then Mr. Dinsmore answered in calm, firm tones, "Your purpose is known; your demand is unreasonable and lawless, and will not be complied with; withdraw your men at once or it will be the worse for you." "Boys!" cried the leader, turning to his men, "up with your axes and clubs, we've got to batter down this breastwork, and it must be done!" With a yell of fury the hideous forms rushed forward to the attack. "Fire!" rang out Mr. Dinsmore's voice in clarion tones, and instantly the crack of half a dozen revolvers was heard, a light blaze ran along the line of loopholes, and at the same instant a sudden, scalding shower fell upon the assailants from above. Several of them dropped upon the ground and as many more threw away their clubs, and ran screaming and swearing down the avenue. But the others rallied and came on again yelling with redoubled fury; while simultaneously similar sounds came from the sides and rear of the dwelling. The scalding shower was descending there, also; Uncle Joe and his command were busy, and bullets were flying and doing some execution, though sent with less certain aim than from the front. Aunt Dicey, too, and her satellites were winning the laurels they coveted. As she had expected, several of the assailants came thundering at her door, loudly demanding admittance, at the same time that the attack was made in front. "Who dar? What you want?" she called. "We want in; open the door instantly!" "No, sah! dis chile don' do no sich ting! Dis Marse Ed'ard's kitchen, an' Miss Elsie's." Then in an undertone, "Now Venus an' Lize, fill yo' dippahs quick! an' when dis niggah says fire, slam de contentions--dat's de bilin' soap, min'--right into dar ugly faces." "An' Sally Ann, yo' creep up dem stairs, quick as lightnin' an' hide under the bed. It's yo' dey's after; somebody mus' a tole 'em yo' sleeps yere sense de night dat bloody hand ben laid on yo' shouldah." These orders were scarcely issued and obeyed when the door fell in with a loud crash, and a hideous horned head appeared in the opening; but only to receive three ladles-full of the boiling soap full in its face, and fall back with a terrible, unearthly yell of agony and rage, into the arms of its companions, who quickly bore it shrieking away. "Tank de Lord, dat shot tole!" ejaculated Aunt Dicey. "Now stan' ready for de nex'." The party in front were received with the same galling fire as before, and at the same moment a sound, coming apparently from the road beyond the avenue, a sound as of the steady tramp, tramp of infantry, and the heavy rumbling and rolling of artillery, smote upon their ears. There had been a report that Federal troops were on the march to suppress the outrages, and protect the helpless victims, and seized with panic terror, the raiders gathered up their dead and wounded and fled. Chapter Eighteenth. "Thus far our fortune keeps an onward course And we are grac'd with wreaths of victory." "Victory!" shouted Horace, Jr., waving his handkerchief about his head, "victory, and an end to the reign of terror! Hurrah for the brave troops of Uncle Sam that came so opportunely to the rescue! Come, let us sally forth to meet them. Elsie, unlock your stores and furnish the refreshments they have so well earned." "They draw nearer!" cried Arthur, who had been listening intently. "Haste! they must be about entering the avenue. They will meet the raiders. Travilla, uncle, shall we make an opening here in our breastworks?" "Yes," answered both in a breath, then, as if struck by a sudden thought, "No, no, let us reconnoitre first!" cried Mr. Dinsmore. "Horace, run up to the observatory, take a careful survey, and report as promptly as possible." Horace bounded away, hardly waiting to hear the conclusion of the sentence. "I counsel delay," said old Mr. Dinsmore who was peering through a loophole, "the troops have not entered the avenue, the Ku Klux may return; though I do not expect it after the severe repulse we have twice given them; but 'discretion is the better part of valor.'" "Right, sir," said Mr. Lilburn, "let us give them no chance for a more successful onslaught." "Oh, yes, do be careful!" cried the ladies, joining them, "don't tear down the least part of our defences yet." "Have they really fled? Are you all unhurt?" asked Rose in trembling tones. "Edward! papa!" faltered Elsie. "Safe and sound," they both answered. "Thank God! thank God!" she cried as her husband folded her in his arms, and her father took her hand in his, while with the other arm he embraced Rose. "We have indeed cause for thankfulness," said Arthur, returning from a hurried circuit of the verandas, "not one on our side has received a scratch. But I have ordered the men to remain at their posts for the present." Horace came rushing back. "I can not understand it! I see no sign of troops, though--" "The darkness," suggested his mother. "Hark! hark! the bugle call; they are charging on the Ku Klux!" exclaimed Arthur, as a silvery sound came floating on the night breeze. "Oh they have come! they have come!" cried Rosie, clapping her hands and dancing up and down with delight. "Now our troubles are over and there will be no more of these dreadful raids." And in the exuberance of her joy she embraced first her mother, then her sister, and lastly threw herself into her father's arms. "Ah I wish it were so," he said caressing her, "but I begin to fear that the sounds we have heard with so much relief and pleasure, were as unreal as Bruno's talking a while ago." "Oh, was it you, Mr. Lilburn?" she cried in a tone of sore disappointment. "Ah well, my bonnie lassie, the Ku Klux are gone at all events: let us be thankful for that," he answered. "What, what does it all mean?" asked the two young men in a breath, "what strange deception has been practiced upon us?" "My cousin is a ventriloquist," replied Elsie, "and has done us good service in using his talent to help in driving away the Ku Klux." He instantly received a unanimous vote of thanks, and the young people began pouring out eager questions and remarks: "Another time; my work is but half done! I must pursue!" he cried, hastily leaving them to seek an exit from the house. Elsie hurried away to see if her little ones still slept. All did but little Elsie, and she was full of joy and thankfulness that her dear papa's cruel foes had been driven away. "Ah, mamma, God has heard our prayers and helped us out of this great trouble!" she said, receiving and returning a tender embrace. "Indeed he has, daughter, let us thank him for his goodness, and ever put our trust in him. Have you been long awake?" "It was their dreadful screams that waked me, mamma. I couldn't help crying for one man; it seemed as if he must be in such an agony of pain. Uncle Joe says Aunt Dicey and the others threw boiling soap into his eyes, and all over his face and head. Mamma aren't you sorry for him?" "Yes, indeed!" and the child felt a great tear fall on her head, resting on her mother's bosom, "poor, poor fellow! he finds the way of transgressors hard, as the Bible says it is. Now, darling, lie down again and try to sleep, I think the danger is all over for to-night." Returning she met her husband in the hall, "I have been to tell Leland the good news!" he said; "he is very happy over it. And now, dear wife, go to bed and sleep, if you can; you are looking very weary, and I think need fear no further disturbance. Your grandfather, Mrs. Dinsmore and Rosie have yielded to our persuasions and retired." "And you and papa?" "Can easily stand the loss of one night's sleep, but may perhaps get an hour or so of repose upon the sofas. But we will keep a constant watch till sunrise. Arthur and Horace are going up to the observatory again, while the rest of us will pace the veranda by turns." Morning found the Ion mansion wearing much the appearance of a recently besieged fortress. How many of the Klan had lost their lives it was impossible to tell, but probably only a small number, as the aim of the party of defense had been, by mutual agreement, to disable and not to slay; but it was thought the assailants had suffered a sufficiently severe punishment to deter them from a renewal of the attack. Also Mr. Lilburn's pursuit keeping up the delusion that troops were at hand, had greatly frightened and demoralized them. So the barricades were presently taken down, and gradually the dwelling and its surroundings resumed their usual aspect of neatness, order, and elegance. All the friends remained to breakfast, but their presence did not exclude the children from the table. While the guests were being helped, there was a momentary silence broken by a faint squeal that seemed to come from under Eddie's plate. "Mousie at de table!" cried Harold; then "Oh me dot a bird!" as the notes of a canary came from underneath his plate. "Pick up your plates and let us see the mouse and the bird," said their papa, smiling. They obeyed. "Ah, I knew there was nothing there," said Eddie, laughing and looking at Cousin Ronald, while Harold gazing at the table-cloth in disappointed surprise, cried, "Ah it's gone! it must have flewed away." Calhoun Conly, knowing nothing, but suspecting a great deal, and full of anxiety, repaired to Ion directly after breakfast. Blood-stains on the ground without and within the gate, and here and there along the avenue as he rode up to the house, confirmed his surmise that his friends had been attacked by the Ku Klux the previous night. He found them all in the library talking the matter over. "Ah, sir! like a brave man and a true friend, you come when the fight is over," was his grandfather's sarcastic greeting. "It was my misfortune, sir, to be unable in this instance, to follow my inclination," returned the young man, coloring to the very roots of his hair with mortification. "But"--glancing around the circle--"heaven be thanked that I find you all unhurt," he added with a sigh that told that a great load had been taken from his heart. "May I hear the story? I see the men are tearing down a breastwork and I suppose the attacking party must have been a large one." "Not too large, however, for us to beat back and defeat without your assistance," growled his grandfather. "Ah, grandpa, he would have helped if he could," said Mrs. Travilla. "Sit down, Cal, we are very glad to see you." His uncle and Travilla joined in the assurance, but Horace and Arthur regarded him rather coldly, and "Cousin Ronald" thought he deserved some slight punishment. As he attempted to take the offered seat, "Squeal! squeal! squeal!" came from his coat pocket, causing him to start and redden again, with renewed embarrassment. "O Cousin Cal! _has_ you dot a wee little piggie in your pocket? Let me see him," cried Harold, running up and trying to get a peep at it; then starting back with a cry of alarm, at a sudden loud barking, as of an infuriated dog, at Calhoun's heels. Bruno came bounding in with an answering bark; Calhoun thrusting his hand into his pocket with purpose to summarily eject the pig, and at the same time wheeling about to confront his canine antagonist, looked utterly confounded at finding none there, while to add to his confusion and perplexity, a bee seemed to be circling round his head, now buzzing at one ear, now at the other. He tried to dodge it, he put up his hand to drive it away, then wheeled about a second time, as the furious bark was renewed in his rear but turned pale and looked absolutely frightened at the discovery that the dog was still invisible; then reddened again at perceiving that everybody was laughing. His cousin Elsie was trying to explain, but could not make herself heard above the furious barking. She looked imploringly at Mr. Lilburn, and it ceased on the instant. Calhoun dropped into a chair and glanced inquiringly from one to another. His uncle answered him in a single word, "Ventriloquism." "Sold!" exclaimed the youth, joining faintly in the mirth. "Strange I did not think of that, though how could I suppose there was a ventriloquist here?" "An excellent one, is he not? You must hear what good service he did last night," said Mr. Travilla, and went on to tell the story of the attack and defense. Elsie and Eddie listened to the account with keen interest. Vi, who had been devoting herself in motherly fashion to a favorite doll, laid it aside to hear what was said; but Harold was playing with Bruno, who seemed hardly yet to have recovered from his wonder at not finding the strange canine intruder who had so roused his ire. Harold had climbed upon his back, and with his arms around his neck, was talking to him in an undertone. "Now you's my horse, Bruno; let's go ridin' like papa and Beppo." The dog started toward the door. "With all my heart, little master; which way shall we go?" "Why, Bruno, you s'prise me! can you talk?" cried the little fellow in great delight. "Why didn't you begin sooner? Mamma, oh mamma, did you hear Bruno talk?" Mamma smiled, and said gently, "Be quiet, son, while papa and the rest are talking: or else take Bruno out to the veranda." Cousin Ronald was amusing himself with the children. Vi's doll presently began to cry and call upon her to be taken up, and she ran to it in surprised delight, till she remembered that it was "only Cousin Ronald and not dolly at all." But Cousin Ronald had a higher object than his own or the children's amusement: he was trying to divert their thoughts from the doings of the Ku Klux, lest they should grow timid and fearful. Chapter Nineteenth. "Revenge at first though sweet, Bitter ere long, back on itself recoils." --MILTON. George Boyd, who was of most vindictive temper, had laid his plans for the night of the raid upon Ion, to wreak his vengeance not upon Travilla only, but also upon the woman on whose clothing he had left the impress of his bloody hand. With this in view, he went first to the kitchen department where, as he had learned through the gossip of the servants, she now passed the night, intending afterward to have a hand in the brutal flogging to be meted out to Mr. Travilla. He headed the attacking party there, and it was he who received upon his person the full broadside from Aunt Dicey's battery of soap ladles. The pain was horrible, the scorching mass clinging to the flesh and burning deeper and deeper as he was borne shrieking away in the arms of his comrades. "Oh take it off! take it off! I'm burning up, I tell you!" he yelled as they carried him swiftly down the avenue; but they hurried on, seemingly unmindful of his cries, mingled though they were with oaths and imprecations, nor paused till they had reached the shelter of the woods at some little distance on the opposite side of the road. "Curse you!" he said between his clenched teeth, as they laid him down at the foot of a tree, "curse you! for keeping me in this agony. Help me off with these--duds. Unbutton it, quick! quick! I'm burning up, I tell you; and my hands are nearly as bad as my face. Oh! oh! you fiends! do you want to murder me outright? you're bringing all the skin with it!" he roared, writhing in unendurable torture, as they dragged off the disguise. "Oh kill me! Bill, shoot me through the head and put me out of this torment, will you?" "No, no, I daren't. Come, come, pluck up courage and bear it like a man." "Bear it indeed! I only wish you had it to bear. I tell you it can't be borne! Water, water, for the love of heaven! carry me to the river and throw me in. My eyes are put out; they burn like balls of fire." "Stop that yelling, will you!" cried a voice from a little distance, "you'll betray us. We're whipped, and there's troops coming up too." "Sure, Smith?" "Yes, heard their tramp, tramp distinctly ramble of artillery too. Can't be more'n a mile off, if that. Hurry, boys, no time to lose! Who's this groaning at such an awful rate? What's the matter?" "Scalded; horribly scalded." "He ain't the only one, though maybe he's the worst. And Blake's killed outright; two or three more, I believe; some with pretty bad pistol-shot wounds. Tell you they made warm work for us. There's been a traitor among us; betrayed our plans and put 'em on their guard." He concluded with a torrent of oaths and fearful imprecations upon the traitor, whoever he might be. "Hist!" cried the one Boyd had addressed as Bill, "hist boys! the bugle call! they're on us. Stop your noise, Boyd, can't you!" as the latter, seized, and borne onward again, not too gently, yelled and roared with redoubled vigor: "Be quiet or you'll have 'em after us in no time." "Shoot me through the head then: it's the only thing that'll help me to stop it." Mr. Lilburn, keeping well in the shadow of the trees, had hurried after the retreating foe, and concealing himself behind a clump of bushes close to the gate, caused his bugle note to sound in their ears as if coming from a point some half a mile distant. Convinced that a detachment of United States troops were almost upon them, those carrying the dead and wounded dashed into the wood with their burdens, while in hot haste the others mounted and away, never drawing rein until they had put several miles between them and the scene of their attempted outrage. Meantime those in the wood, moving as rapidly as possible under the circumstances, were plunging deeper and deeper into its recesses. There was an occasional groan or half suppressed shriek from others of the wounded, but Boyd's cries were incessant and heart-rending, till a handkerchief was suddenly thrust into his mouth with a muttered exclamation, "Necessity knows no law! it's to save your own life and liberty as well as ours." At length, well nigh spent with their exertions, the bearers paused, resting their burdens for a moment upon the ground, while they listened intently for the sounds of pursuit. "We've baffled 'em, I think," panted Bill, "I don't hear no more of that--tramp, tramp, and the bugle's stopped too." "That's so and I reckon we're pretty safe now," returned another voice. "But what's to be done with these fellows? where'll we take 'em?" "To Rood's still-house," was the answer. "It's about half a mile further on, and deep in the woods. And I say you, Tom Arnold, pull off your disguise and go after Dr. Savage as fast as you can. Tell him to come to the still-house on the fleetest horse he can get hold of; and bring along everything necessary to dress scalds and pistol-shot wounds. Say there's no time to lose or Boyd'll die on our hands. Now up with your load, boys, and on again." The voice had a tone of command and the orders were instantly obeyed. The still-house was an old, dilapidated frame building, whose rude accommodations differed widely from those to which, save during his army life, Boyd had been accustomed from infancy. They carried him in and laid him down upon a rough pallet of straw furnished with coarse cotton sheets and an army blanket or two, not over clean. But in his dire extremity of pain he heeded naught of this, and his blinded eyes could not see the bare rafters overhead, the filthy uncarpeted floor, the few broken chairs and rude board seats, or the little unpainted pine table with its bit of flickering, flaming tallow candle, stuck in an old bottle. His comrades did what they could for his relief; but it was not much, and their clumsy handling was exquisite torture to the raw, quivering flesh, and his entreaties that they would put him out of his misery at once, by sending a bullet through his brain, were piteous to hear. They had taken his arms from him, or he would have destroyed himself. The room was filled with doleful sounds,--the groans and sighs of men in sore pain, but his rose above all others. Dr. Savage arrived at length, but half drunk, and, an unskillful surgeon at his best, made but clumsy work with his patients on this occasion. Yet the applications brought, in time, some slight alleviation of even Boyd's unendurable agony; his cries grew fainter and less frequent, till they ceased altogether, and like the other wounded he relieved himself only with an occasional moan or groan. The doctor had finished his task, and lay in a drunken sleep on the floor. The uninjured raiders had followed his example, the candle had burned itself out and all was darkness and silence save the low, fitful sounds of suffering. To Boyd sleep was impossible, the pain of his burns was still very great; especially in his eyes, the injury to which he feared must result in total blindness. How could he bear it? he asked himself, to go groping his way through life in utter darkness? Horrible! horrible! he would _not_ endure it; they had put the means of self-destruction out of his way now, but on the first opportunity to get hold of a pistol, he would blow his own brains out and be done with this agony. The Bible was a fable; death an eternal sleep; he had been saying it for years, till he thought his belief--or more correctly unbelief--firmly fixed: but now the early teachings of a pious mother came back to him and he trembled with the fear that they might be true. "It is appointed unto men once to die, but after that the judgment." "Every one of us shall give an account of himself to God." "These shall go away into everlasting punishment." "Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched." Fire, fire! oh how unendurable he had found it! dare he risk its torment throughout the endless ages of eternity? Self-destruction might be but a plunge into deeper depths of anguish: from which there could be no return. For days and weeks he lay in his miserable hiding place, almost untended save for the doctor's visits, and the bringing of his meals by one or another of his confederates, who would feed him with a rough sort of kindness, then go away again, leaving him to the solitary companionship of his own bitter thoughts. He longed for the pleasant society and gentle ministrations of his aunt, and he knew that if sent for she would come to him, and that his secret would be safe with her; but alas, how could he bear that she should know of his crime and its punishment? She who had so earnestly besought him to forsake his evil ways and live in peace and love with all men: she who had warned him again and again that "the way of transgressors is hard," and that "though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not be unpunished." She who had loved, cared for, and watched over him with almost a mother's undying, unalterable tenderness and devotion. How ungrateful she would deem his repeated attempt against the home and husband of one whom she loved as her own child. She would not reprove him, she would not betray him, but he would know that in her secret heart she condemned him as a guilty wretch, a disgrace to her and all his relatives; and that would be worse, far worse to his proud spirit than the dreary loneliness of his present condition, and the lack of the bodily comforts she would provide. No, he would bear his bitter fate as best he might, and though he had proved the truth of her warning words, she should never know it, if he could keep it from her. Troops had arrived in the neighborhood the day after the raid on Ion; so to Boyd's other causes of distress was added the constant fear of detection and apprehension. This was one reason why the visits of his confreres were few and short. The Klan was said to have disbanded and outrages had ceased, but an investigation was going on and search being made for the guilty parties; also United States revenue officers were known to be in quest of illicit distilleries; to which class this one of Rood's belonged. "What's the news?" asked Boyd one morning while Savage was engaged in dressing his hurts. "Very bad; you'll have to get out of this at once if you don't want to be nabbed. A jail might be more comfortable in some respects, eh, old boy? but I s'pose you prefer liberty. "'Better to sit in Freedom's hall, With a cold damp floor, and a mouldering wall, Than to bend the neck or to bow the knee In the proudest palace of Slavery.' "Fine sentiment, eh, Boyd?" The doctor was just drunk enough to spout poetry without knowing or caring whether it was exactly apropos or not. "Very fine, though not quite to the point, it strikes me," answered Boyd, wincing under the not too gentle touch of the inebriate's shaking hand. "But how am I to get out of this? blind and nearly helpless as I am?" "Well, sir, we've planned it all out for you--never forsake a brother in distress, you know. There's a warrant out for Bill Dobbs and he has to skedaddle too. He starts for Texas to-night, and will take charge of you." Savage went on to give the details of the plan, then left with a promise to return at night-fall. He did so, bringing Dobbs and Smith with him. Boyd's wounds were attended to again, Dobbs looking on to learn the _modus operandi_; then the invalid, aided by Smith on one side and Dobbs on the other, was conducted to an opening in the woods where a horse and wagon stood in readiness, placed in it, Dobbs taking a seat by his side and supporting him with his arm, and driven a few miles along an unfrequented road to a little country station, where they took the night train going south. The conductor asked no questions; merely exchanged glances with Dobbs, and seeing him apparently in search of a pin in the inside of his coat, opened his own and handed him one, then passed on through the car. Boyd was missed from the breakfast table at Ashlands on the morning after the raid upon Ion. His aunt sent a servant to his room to see if he had overslept himself. The man returned with the report that "Marse George" was not there and that his bed had certainly not been occupied during the night. Still as his movements were at all times rather uncertain, and the ladies, having had no communication with the Oaks or Ion on the previous day, were in ignorance of all that had transpired there, his absence occasioned them no particular anxiety or alarm. The meal went on, enlivened by cheerful chat. "Mamma," said Herbert, "it's a lovely morning: do give us a holiday and let's drive over to the Oaks; we haven't seen Aunt Rose and the rest for ever so long." The other children joined in the petition; grandma put in a word of approval, and mamma finally consented, if the truth were told nothing loth to give, or to share the treat. The carriage was ordered at once, and they set out shortly after leaving the table. Arrived at their destination they found Mrs. Murray on the veranda, looking out with an eager, anxious face. "Ah!" she said, coming forward as the ladies alighted, "I didna expect--my sight is no so keen as in my younger days, and I thocht till this moment 'twas Mr. Dinsmore's carriage, bringing them hame again after their dreadfu' nicht at Ion." Both ladies turned pale, and old Mrs. Carrington leaned heavily upon her daughter-in-law for support. Her lips moved but no sound same from them, and she gasped for breath. "Oh tell us!" cried Sophie, "what, what has happened?" The children too were putting the same question in varying tones and words. "The Ku Klux," faltered the housekeeper. "An' ye hadna heard aboot it, my leddies?" "No, no, not a word," exclaimed Sophie, "but see, my mother is fainting. Help me to carry her into the house." "No, no, I can walk: I am better now, thank you," said Mrs. Carrington, in low, faltering tones, "Just give me the support of your arm, Mrs. Murray." They led her in between them, and laid her on a sofa. "And that's where George was!" she sighed, closing her eyes wearily. Then half starting up, "Tell me, oh tell me, was--was--Mr. Travilla injured?" "No, my leddy, he had been warned, and was ready for them." "Thank God! thank God!" came faintly from the white quivering lips, as she sank back upon her pillow again, and two great tears stealing from beneath the closed eyelids rolled slowly down the furrowed cheeks. "You have heard the particulars then?" said Sophie, addressing the housekeeper. "And my brother and sister were there?" "Yes, ma'am, and Master Horace, and Miss Rosie too. Yes; and some of the men-servants. Mr. Dinsmore's man John was one o' them, and he's come back, and frae him I learned a' was richt with our friends." "Oh call him in and let me hear all he can tell!" entreated the old lady. The request was immediately complied with, and John gave a graphic and in the main correct account of the whole affair. His tale was to all his auditors one of intense, thrilling, painful interest. They lost not a word and when he had finished his story the old lady cross-questioned him closely. "Did he know who had warned Mr. Travilla? were any of the raiders recognized?" Both of these questions John answered in the negative. "At least," he corrected himself, "he had not heard that any one was recognized: they were all completely disguised, and they had carried away their dead and wounded; both the shot and the scalded." At that moment Mr. Dinsmore's family carriage drove up, and John bowed and retired. There were tearful embraces between the sisters and other relatives, and between Rose and the elder Mrs. Carrington. "I feel as if you had been in terrible danger." said Sophie, wiping her eyes. "John has just been telling us all about it. What a mercy that Mr. Travilla was warned in time!" "By whom, Horace? if it be not an improper question," asked the old lady, turning to Mr. Dinsmore. "By a detective, Mrs. Carrington, who was secretly present at their meeting and heard all the arrangements." "He then knew who were the members appointed to be of the attacking party?" Mr. Dinsmore bowed assent. "Was George one?" "My dear madam I did not see the detective, but their raids are usually made by men coming from a distance." "You are evading my question. I implore you to tell me all you know. George did not come down to breakfast; had evidently not occupied his bed last night, and this seems to explain his absence. I know, too, that he has bitterly hated Travilla since--since his arrest and imprisonment. Will you not tell me? Any certainty is to be preferred to this--this horrible suspense. I would know the worst." Thus adjured Mr. Dinsmore told her George had been appointed one of the party, but that he could not say that he was actually there. Also he suppressed the fact that the appointment had been by George's own request. She received the communication in silence, but the anguish in her face told that she felt little doubt of her nephew's guilt. And as days and weeks rolled on bringing no news of him, her suspicions settled into a sad certainty; with the added sorrowful doubt whether he were living or dead. Chapter Twentieth. "Before We end our pilgrimage, 'tis fit that we Should leave corruption, and foul sin behind us. But with washed feet and hands, the heathen dared not Enter their profane temples: and for me To hope my passage to eternity Can be made easy, till I have shook off The burthen of my sins in free confession, Aided with sorrow and repentance for them, Is against reason." --MASSINGER. It began to be noticed that Wilkins Foster also had disappeared. It was said that he had not been seen since the raid upon Fairview, and the general supposition was that he had taken part in the outrage, received a wound in the affray and, on the advent of the troops, had fled the country. His mother and sisters led a very retired life seldom going from home except to attend church and even there they had been frequently missing of late. Elsie had been much engaged in efforts to comfort her old friend, Mrs. Carrington, and to entertain Mr. Lilburn, who was still at Ion; little excursions to points of interest in the vicinity, and visits to the plantations of the different families of the connection, who vied with each other in doing him honor, filled up the time to the exclusion of almost everything else, except the home duties which she would never allow herself to neglect. Baskets of fruit and game, accompanied by kind messages, had found their way now and again from Ion to the cottage home of the Fosters, but weeks had passed since the sweet face of Ion's mistress had been seen within its walls. Elsie's tender conscience reproached her for this, when after an absence of several Sabbaths Mrs. Foster again occupied her pew in the church of which both were members. The poor lady was clad in rusty black, seemed to be aging fast, and the pale, thin face had a weary, heart-broken expression that brought the tears to Elsie's eyes. When the service closed she took pains to intercept Mrs. Foster, who was trying to slip away unnoticed, and taking her hand in a warm clasp, kindly inquired concerning the health of herself and family. "About as usual, Mrs. Travilla," was the reply. "I am glad to hear it. I feared you were ill. You are looking weary; and no wonder after your long walk. You must let us take you home. There is plenty of room in the carriage, as the gentlemen came on horseback; and it will be a real pleasure to me to have your company." The sincere, earnest, kindly tone and manner quite disarmed the pride of the fallen gentlewoman, and a momentary glow of grateful pleasure lighted up her sad face. "But it will take you fully a mile out of your way," she said, hesitating to accept the proffered kindness. "Ah, that is no objection; it is so lovely a day for a drive," said Elsie, leading the way to the carriage. "This seems like a return of the good old times before the war!" sighed Mrs. Foster leaning back upon the softly cushioned seat, as they bowled rapidly along. "Ah Mrs. Travilla, if we could but have been content to let well enough alone! I have grown weary, inexpressibly weary of all this hate, bitterness and contention; and the poverty--Ah well, I will not complain!" and she closed her lips resolutely. "It was a sad mistake," Elsie answered; echoing the sigh, "and it will take many years to recover from it." "Yes, I shall not live to see it." "Nor I, perhaps; not here, but yonder in the better land," Elsie answered with a smile of hope and gladness. Mrs. Foster nodded assent; her heart too full for utterance, nor did she speak again till the carriage drew up before her own door. Then repeating her thanks, "You have not been here for a long time, Mrs. Travilla," she said, "I know I have not returned your calls, but--" she paused seemingly again overcome with emotion. "Ah, that shall not keep me away, if you wish me to come," returned Elsie. "We would be very glad; hardly any one else so welcome." "I fear I have neglected you, but shall try to come soon. And shall be pleased at any time to see you at Ion," Elsie answered as the carriage drove on. A day or two afterward she fulfilled her promise, and was admitted by Annie, the eldest daughter. She, too, looked pale and careworn, and had evidently been weeping. "O, Mrs. Travilla!" she exclaimed, and burst into a fresh flood of tears. Elsie, her own eyes filling with sympathetic drops, put her arm about her, whispering, "My poor dear child! what can I do to comfort you?" "Nothing! nothing!" sobbed the girl, resting her head for a moment on Elsie's shoulder; "But come into the parlor, dear Mrs. Travilla, and let me call mamma." "Ah, stay a moment," Elsie said, detaining her, "are you sure, quite sure that I can do nothing to help you?" Annie shook her head. "This trouble is beyond human help. Yes, yes, you can pray for us, and for him." The last words were almost inaudible from emotion, and she hurried away, leaving the guest sole occupant of the room. Involuntarily Elsie glanced about her, and a pang went to her heart as she noticed that every article of luxury, almost of comfort, had disappeared; the pictures were gone from the walls, the pretty ornaments from mantel and centre-table; coarse cheap matting covered the floor in lieu of the costly carpet of other days, and rosewood and damask had given place to cottage furniture of the simplest and most inexpensive kind. "How they must feel the change!" she thought within herself, "and yet perhaps not just now; these minor trials are probably swallowed up in a greater one." Mrs. Foster came in looking shabbier and more heart-broken than at their last interview. "My dear Mrs. Travilla, this is kind!" she said making a strong effort to speak with composure but failing utterly as she met the tender sympathizing look in the sweet soft eyes of her visitor. Elsie put her arms about her and wept with her. "Some one is ill, I fear?" she said at length. "Yes--my son. O Mrs. Travilla, I am going to lose him!" and she was well nigh convulsed with bitter, choking sobs. "While there is life there is hope," whispered Elsie, "who can say what God may do for us in answer to our prayers?" The mother shook her head in sad hopelessness. "The doctor has given him up; says nothing more can be done." "Dr. Barton?" "No, no, Savage. Oh if we could but have had Barton at first the result might have been different. I have no confidence in Savage, even when sober, and he's drunk nearly all the time now." "Oh then things may not be so bad as he represents them. Let me send over for Dr. Barton at once." "Thank you, but I must ask Wilkins first. He was wounded some weeks ago; injured internally, and has been suffering agonies of pain ever since. I wanted Dr. Barton sent for at once, but he would not hear of it, said the risk was too great and he must trust to Savage. But now--" she paused, overcome with grief. "But now the greater risk is in doing without him," suggested Elsie. "May I not send immediately?" "Excuse me one moment, and I will ask," the mother said, leaving the room. She returned shortly to say that Wilkins had consented that Dr. Barton should be summoned; accepted Mrs. Travilla's kind offer with thanks. Elsie at once sent her servant and carriage upon the errand, and meanwhile engaged in conversation with her hostess. It was principally an account by the latter of her son's illness. His sufferings, she said, had been intense: at first borne with fierce impatience and muttered imprecations upon the hand that had inflicted the wound. He had likened himself to a caged tiger, so unbearable was the confinement to him,--almost more so than the torturing pain--but of late a great change had come over him; he had grown quiet and submissive, and the bitter hate seemed to have died out of his heart. "As it has out of mine, I hope," continued the mother, the big tears rolling down her cheeks. "I am now sensible that the feelings I have indulged against some persons--the Lelands principally--were most unchristian, and I hope the Lord has helped me to put them away. It has been hard for us to see strangers occupying our dear old home; and yet it was certainly no fault of theirs that we were compelled to give it up." "That is all true," Elsie said, "I think I can understand both your feelings and theirs, but they are dear good Christian people, and I assure you bear you no ill-will." "Ah, is that so? I am told Leland has not really gone North, as was supposed, but has returned to the plantation since--since the coming of the troops." "He has, and is nearly recovered from his wound." "He was wounded, then?" "Yes, pretty badly." "And was in hiding somewhere; and his wife staying on alone with her children and servants? I wonder she had the courage." "She put her trust in the Lord, as I believe both you and I do, my dear Mrs. Foster; and he has not failed her." Mrs. Foster mused sadly for a moment. "I have felt hard to her," she murmured at length, in low, trembling tones; "and she a Christian, whom I should love for the Master's sake, and it was quite natural for her to--defend her husband and children. I should have done the same for mine." She had not mentioned when or where Wilkins had received his wound, but Elsie knew now that it was at Fairview and that Mrs. Leland's or Archie's hand had sped the bullet that had done such fearful work. Dr. Barton came: Mrs. Foster went with him to the sick-room and Elsie lingered, anxious to hear his opinion of the case. But Annie came hurrying in with her tear-swollen face. "Dear Mrs. Travilla, won't you come too?" she sobbed. "Mamma will be so glad; and--and Wilkins begs you will come." Elsie rose and put her arm about the waist of the weeping girl. "I will gladly do all I can for him, your mamma or any of you," she whispered. There was no want of comfort or luxury in the sick-room. Mother and sisters had sacrificed every such thing to this idol of their hearts, this only son and brother. He lay propped up with pillows, his face pale as that of a corpse, and breathing with great difficulty. Dr. Barton sat at the bedside with his finger on the patient's pulse while he asked a few brief questions, then relapsed into a thoughtful silence. All eyes were turned upon him with intense anxiety, waiting in almost breathless suspense for his verdict; but his countenance betrayed nothing. "O doctor!" sighed the mother at length, "have you no word of hope to speak?" "Let us have none of false hope, doctor," gasped the sufferer, "I would know--the--worst." "My poor lad," said the kind-hearted old physician, in tender, fatherly tones, "I will not deceive you. Whatever preparation you have to make for your last long journey, let it be made at once." With a burst of uncontrollable anguish the mother and sisters fell upon their knees at the bedside. "How--long--doctor?" faltered the sick man. "You will hardly see the rising of another sun." The low, gently-spoken words pierced more than one heart as with a dagger's point. "Was--this--wound--mortal in the--first place?" asked Wilkins. "I think not if it had had prompt and proper attention. But that is a question of little importance now: you are beyond human skill. Is there anything in which I can assist you?" "Yes--yes--pray for--my guilty soul." It was no new thing for Dr. Barton to do: an earnest Christian, he ministered to the souls as well as the bodies of his patients. He knelt and offered up a fervent prayer for the dying one, that repentance and remission of sins might be given him, that he might have a saving faith in the Lord Jesus, and trusting only in His imputed righteousness, be granted an abundant entrance into His kingdom and glory. "Thanks--doctor," gasped Wilkins, "I--I've been a bad man; a--very bad, wicked--man; can there be any hope for--me?" "'Whosoever _will_ let him take the water of life freely.' 'Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.'" "Isn't it--too--late?" The hollow eyes gazed despairingly into the doctor's face. "'Whosoever will': you may come if you will; so long as death has not fixed your eternal state." "I will! Lord, help--save me! me a poor--lost--vile--helpless--sinner!" he cried, lifting his eyes and clasped hands to heaven, while great tears coursed down his sunken cheeks. "I cast myself--at--thy feet; oh pardon, save me or--I am--lost--lost forever." The eyes closed, the hands dropped, and for a moment they thought he had passed away with that agonized cry for mercy and forgiveness; but a deep sigh heaved his breast, his lips moved, and his mother bent over him to catch the words. "Leland; send--for--him." With streaming eyes she turned to Elsie and repeated the words, adding, "Do you think he would come?" "I am quite sure of it. I will go for him at once." The white lips were moving again. The mother explained, amid her choking sobs. "He says the wife too, and--and your husband and father. Oh, will they come? Tell them my boy is dying and would go at peace with all the world." "I will; and they will come," Elsie answered, weeping, and hurried away. She drove directly to Fairview and was so fortunate as to find her husband and father there conversing with Mr. and Mrs. Leland. Her sad story was quickly told, and listened to by all with deep commiseration for the impoverished and afflicted family. "You will not refuse the poor dying man's request, papa? Edward?" she said in conclusion. "Certainly not!" they answered, speaking both together, "we will set out immediately. And you, Leland?" "Will gladly accompany you. I bear the poor man no malice, and would rejoice to do him any good in my power. What do you say, Mary?" She looked at him a little anxiously, "Is it quite safe for you?" "Quite, I think," he replied, appealing to the other gentlemen for their opinion. They agreed with him, Mr. Dinsmore adding, "I have no doubt the man is sincere; and I have still more confidence in his mother, whom I have long looked upon as a truly Christian woman." "Besides," remarked Mr. Travilla, "the Ku Klux would hardly dare venture an outrage now. The most desperate have fled the country, and the rest stand in wholesome awe of the troops." "I am quite, quite sure there is no risk in going," said Elsie earnestly, "but whatever is done must be done quickly, for Wilkins is evidently very near his end; may, perhaps, expire before we arrive, even though we make all haste." At that there was a general, hurried movement, and in less time than it takes to tell it, they were on their way; Mrs. Leland in the carriage with Elsie, and the gentlemen on horseback. Under the influence of restoratives administered by Dr. Barton, great apparent improvement had taken place in Wilkins' condition; he was in less pain, breathed more freely, and spoke with less difficulty. At sight of his visitors his pale face flushed slightly, and an expression of regret and mortification swept over his features. "Thank you all for coming;" he said feebly. "Please be seated. I am at the very brink of the grave, and--and I would go at peace with all men. I--I've hated you every one. And you--Leland, I would have killed if I could. It was in the attempt to do so that I--received my own death wound at the hands of your wife." Mrs. Leland started, trembled and burst into tears. That part of the story Elsie had omitted, and she now heard it for the first time. "Don't be disturbed," he said, "you were doing right--in defending yourself, husband and children." "Yes, yes," she sobbed, "but oh, I would save you now if I could! Can nothing be done?" He shook his head sadly. "Will you, can you all forgive me?" he asked in tones so faint and low, that only the death-like silence of the room made the words audible. "With all my heart, my poor fellow, as I hope to be forgiven my infinitely greater debt to my Lord," Mr. Leland answered with emotion, taking the wasted hand and clasping it warmly in his. Foster was deeply touched. "God bless you for the words," he whispered. "How I've been mistaken in you, sir!" His eyes sought the faces of Dinsmore and Travilla, and drawing near the bed, each took his hand in turn and gave him the same assurance he had already received from Leland. Then the last named said, "I ask your forgiveness, Foster, for any exasperating word I may have spoken, or anything else I have done to rouse unkind feelings toward me." In reply the dying man pressed Leland's hand in moved silence. Mrs. Leland rose impetuously and dropped on her knees at the bedside. "And me!" she cried, with a gush of tears, "will you forgive me your death? I cannot bear to think it was my work, even though done in lawful self-defense, and to save my dear ones." "It is--all--right between us," he murmured, and relapsed into unconsciousness. "We are too many here," said the physician, dismissing all but the mother. Elsie remained in an adjoining room, trying to comfort the sisters, while Mrs. Leland and the gentlemen repaired to the veranda, where they found Mr. Wood, who had just arrived; having been sent for to converse and pray with the dying man. "How does he seem?" he asked, "can I go at once to the room?" "Not now; he is unconscious," said Mr. Dinsmore and went on to describe Foster's condition, mental, moral, and physical, as evidenced in his interview with them and the earlier one with Dr. Barton; of which Elsie had given them an account. "Ah, God grant he may indeed find mercy, and be enabled to lay hold upon Christ to the saving of his soul, even at this eleventh hour!" ejaculated the pastor. "A death-bed repentance is poor ground for hope. I have seen many of them in my fifty years ministry, but of all those who recovered from what had seemed mortal illness, but one held fast to his profession. "The others all went back to their former evil ways, showing conclusively that they had been self-deceived and theirs but the hope of the hypocrite which 'shall perish: whose hope shall be cut off, and whose trust shall be a spider's web.' "Yet with our God all things are possible, and the invitation is to all who are yet on praying ground; 'Whosoever will.'" At this moment Elsie glided into their midst, and putting her hand into that of her pastor, said in low, tearful tones, "I am so glad you have come! He is conscious again, and asking for you." He went with her to the bedside. The glazing eyes grew bright for an instant. "You have--come: oh tell me--what--I must--do--to--be saved!" "I can only point you to 'the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world,'" returned the pastor, deeply moved: "only repeat his invitation, 'Look unto me, and be ye saved all ye ends of the earth.'" "I--am--trying--trying," came faintly from the pale lips, while the hands moved slowly, feebly, from side to side as if groping in the dark, "Lord save--" A deep hush filled the room, broken presently by the mother's wail as she fell on her knees at the bedside, and taking the cold hand in hers covered it with kisses and tears. With the last word the spirit had taken its flight; to him time should be no longer, eternity had begun. Few and evil had been his days; he was not yet thirty, and, possessed of a fine constitution and vigorous health, had every prospect of long life had he been content to live at peace with his fellow-men; but by violent dealing he had passed away in the midst of his years. "Bloody and deceitful men shall not live out half their days." "The wages of sin is death." Chapter Twenty-first. "Kindness has resistless charms." --Rochester. Through all the trying scenes that followed, Elsie was with the Fosters, giving aid and comfort such as the tenderest sympathy and most delicate kindness could give. She and her husband and father took upon themselves all the care and trouble of the arrangements for the funeral, quietly settled the bills, and afterward sent them, receipted, to Mrs. Foster. Wilkins had been the chief support of the family, the ladies earning a mere pittance by the use of the needle and sewing-machine. Nothing had been laid by for a rainy day, and the expenses of his illness had to be met by the sale of the few articles of value left from the wreck of their fortunes. And now, but for the timely aid of these kind friends, absolute want had stared them in the face. They made neither complaint nor parade of their poverty, but it was unavoidable that Elsie should learn much of it at this time, and her heart ached for them in this accumulation of trials. The girls were educated and accomplished, but shrank with timidity and sensitive pride from exerting themselves to push their way in the world. "I think they could teach," Mrs. Poster said to Elsie, who, calling the day after the funeral, had with delicate tact made known her desire to assist them in obtaining some employment more lucrative and better adapted to their tastes and social position; "I think they have the necessary education and ability, and I know the will to earn an honest livelihood is not lacking; but where are pupils to be found?" "Are you willing to leave that to Mr. Travilla and me?" asked Elsie, with gentle kindliness. "Ah, you are too good, too kind," said Mrs. Foster, weeping. "No, no, my dear friend," returned Elsie; "does not the Master say, 'This is my commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved you?' Now tell me, please, what sort of situations they would like, and what branches they feel competent to teach." "Annie is a good musician and draws well. She would be glad indeed to get a class of pupils in the neighborhood to whom she might give lessons, here or at their own homes, in drawing and on the piano and harp. Lucinda thinks she could teach the English branches, the higher mathematics, and French. "But, indeed, my dear Mrs. Travilla, they will be thankful for anything: especially if it does not take them away from me." "We will see what can be done,--my husband, papa, and I," Elsie said, rising to take leave. "And do not be anxious; remember those precious words, 'Casting all your care on Him for He careth for you.'" "Do not go yet!" entreated Mrs. Foster, taking and holding fast the hand held out to her, "if you only knew what a comfort your presence is--Ah, dear, kind friend, God has made you a daughter of consolation to his bereaved, afflicted ones!" Elsie's eyes filled. "It is what I have prayed that he would do for me," she whispered. "But I think I must go now: my husband was to call for me, and I see him at the gate." Elsie repeated the conversation to her husband as they rode homeward, and consulted him in regard to a plan which had occurred to her. He approved, and instead of stopping at Ion they rode on to Roselands. Arrived there, Mr. Travilla joined the gentlemen in the library, while Elsie sought her aunts in the pretty parlor usually occupied by them when not entertaining company. After a little desultory chat on ordinary topics, she spoke of the Fosters, their indigent circumstances, and her desire to find employment for the girls in teaching. "Always concerning yourself in other people's business;" remarked Enna. "Why don't you do like the rest of us, and leave them to mind their own affairs?" "Because I see that they need help, and we are told, 'Look not every man on his own things but every man also on the things of others.' And again, 'As we have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith.' "I heard you, not long since, Aunt Louise, wishing you could afford a day governess and knew of a suitable person. Would you--would you be willing to employ one at my expense, and give the situation to Lucinda Foster?" "And let her give it out among our acquaintance that you were paying for the education of my children!" exclaimed Louise, coloring angrily. "No, I thank you." "Not at all; she need know nothing of the arrangement except that you employ her to instruct your children, and pay her for it. You and Enna, if she will accept the same from me, for herself." "Dear me," exclaimed Enna, "how you're always spending money on strangers, when your own relations could find plenty of use for it!" Elsie smiled slightly at this peculiar view taken of her generous offer, but only added, "I would, if you would accept--" "I'm no object of charity," interrupted Louise, coldly. "Certainly not," Elsie said, coloring, "yet why should you object to giving so near a relative the pleasure of--But in this instance 'tis I who am asking a favor of you. I want to help the Fosters and cannot do so directly, without wounding their honest pride of independence." "You will of course employ Lucinda to teach your own?" "No, I am not in want of a governess. Would you like to have Anna give lessons to your girls in music and drawing?" "Is she to teach yours?" asked Enna. "No; M. Reboul has them under his instruction, and as he gives entire satisfaction, I could not feel it right to turn him away." "H'm! teachers that are not good enough for your children, are not good enough for ours." "If I were in want of teachers, I should employ the Misses Foster," was Elsie's quiet reply. Nothing more was said for a moment, then rising to go, "I am then to consider my proposition declined?" she remarked, inquiringly. "Well no, since you put it on the ground of a favor to yourself, I should be sorry to refuse to gratify you," said Louise. "Thank you. And you, Enna?" "She can teach mine if she wants to, and if I could afford it, Annie should give music lessons to Molly; drawing too; but if I can't, I can't." "It need be no expense to you," said Elsie. "Very well then, you can engage her and fix the terms to suit yourself." "Thank you; I shall enjoy their pleasure in hearing that they have so many pupils already secured." Elsie's benevolent kindness did not stop here; she called on a number of families in the vicinity, and succeeded in obtaining almost as many pupils for the girls as they could well attend to. Then another difficulty arose:--the distances were too great for the young ladies to traverse on foot, and they had no means of conveyance. But this was obviated for the present by giving them the use of Prince and Princess, either with or without the phaeton, during the hours of the day that such help was needed. The ponies were sent over to the cottage every morning, after the children had had their ride, by an Ion servant, who returned for them in the afternoon. Mrs. Leland heard of her friend's efforts, and going over to Ion, asked, "Why did you not call on me? my children need instruction." "I hardly liked to ask it of you." "And I feel a delicacy about proposing the thing to the Fosters, but--I would be very glad to help them; and if you can learn that they would not mind coming to Fairview for the sake of several more scholars, I authorize you to make the engagement for me." Elsie undertook the errand and did it so well that the Fosters were deeply touched by this kindness on the part of one whom they had formerly hated and reviled, and whose husband their brother had tried to kill. The offer was gratefully accepted, the young Lelands became the pupils of these former foes, little courtesies and kind offices were exchanged, and in the end warm friendship took the place of enmity. Chapter Twenty-second. "The mother, in her office holds the key Of the soul; and she it is who stamps the coin Of character, and makes the being who would be a savage, But for her gentle cares, a Christian man. Then crown her queen of the world." --OLD PLAY The families from the Oaks and Ashlands had been spending the day at Ion. It was late in the afternoon and while awaiting the call to tea, they had all gathered in the drawing-room, whose windows overlooked the avenue and lawn on one side, on the other a very beautiful part of the grounds, and a range of richly wooded hills beyond. A pause in the conversation was broken by Mr. Travilla. "Wife," he said, turning to Elsie, "Cousin Ronald should see Viamede: our old friend here, Mrs. Carrington, needs change of scene and climate; two good things that would not hurt any one present: shall we not invite them all to go and spend the winter with us there?" "O, yes, yes indeed! what a delightful plan!" she cried with youthful enthusiasm. "Ah, I hope you will all accept; the place is almost a paradise upon earth, and we would do all in our power to make the time pass agreeably. Cousin Ronald, don't refuse. Papa dear, don't try to hunt up objections." "Ah ha! um h'm! I've not the least idea of it, cousin," said the one. "I am not," said the other, smiling fondly upon her, "but must be allowed a little time to consider." "O papa, don't say no!" cried Rosie. "Mamma, coax him quick before he has time to say it." "I think there's no need," laughed Rose. "Can't you see that he is nearly as eager as the rest of us? and how could he do a whole winter without your sister? How could any of us, for that matter?" "You have advanced an unanswerable argument, my dear," said Mr. Dinsmore, "and I may as well give consent at once." "Thank you, mamma," said Elsie, "thank you both. Now if the rest of you will only be as good!" and she glanced persuasively from one to another. "As good!" said Sophie smiling, "if to be ready to accept the kindest and most delightful of invitations be goodness, then I am not at all inclined to be bad. Mother, shall we not go?" "O grandma, you will not say no?" cried the young Carringtons who had listened to the proposition with eager delight. "No, please don't," added little Elsie, putting her arms coaxingly about the old lady's neck. "Mamma, papa, grandpa and mammy all say it is so lovely there, and we want you along." "Thanks, dear, thanks to your papa and mamma too," said the old lady, clasping the little girl close, while tears filled her aged eyes, "yes, yes, I'll go; we will all go; how could I reject such kindness!" The children, from Rosie Dinsmore--who would hardly have consented to be put into that list--down to Harold Travilla, were wild with delight, and for the rest of the evening could scarce speak or think of anything else than Viamede and the pleasures they hoped to enjoy there. "Now all have spoken but you, brother mine," Elsie said, turning to Horace Jr. "You surely do not intend to reject our invitation?" "Not entirely, sister, but papa seems to have left the considering for me, and I've been at it. There should be some one to look after the plantations here, and upon whom but myself should that duty devolve?" "We all have good overseers." "Yes, but there should be some one to take a general supervision over them. I think I will go with you, make a short visit and return; if you all like to trust me with the care of your property." "You're welcome to take care of Ashlands, Cousin Horace, and I'll be obliged to you too," spoke up young Herbert Carrington "and so will mother and grandma, I know." "Indeed we will," said the old lady. "And it will leave us quite free from care, you good boy," added the younger. Mr. Travilla expressed similar sentiments in regard to Horace's offer as it concerned Ion, and Mr. Dinsmore was quite as willing to leave the Oaks in his son's care. As it was now late in the fall and no very extensive preparations were needed, it was agreed that they would start in a few days. "We shall make a large party," remarked Sophie, "Are you sure, Elsie, that you will have room for so many?" "Abundance; the house is very large; and the more the merrier. I wish I could persuade Aunt Wealthy, May and Harry to come, with their babies too, of course. I shall write to Lansdale to-night." "That would be a delightful addition to the party," remarked Mr. Dinsmore; "but aunt is now in her eightieth year, and I fear will think herself much too old for so long a journey." "Ah, yes, papa, but she is more active than most women of seventy and can go nearly all the way by water;--down the Ohio and the Mississippi and along the Gulf. At all events I shall do my best to persuade her." "And you are so great a favorite that your eloquence will not be wasted, I think," said Mr. Travilla. He was right; the old lady could not resist the urgent entreaties of her dearly loved grand-niece, joined to the pleasant prospect of spending some months with her and the other relatives and friends, each of whom held a place in her warm, loving heart. An answering letter was sent from Lansdale by return of mail, promising that their party would follow the other to Viamede at an early day. May too was enchanted with the thought of a winter in that lovely spot, and the society of her two sisters, and Elsie, who was almost as near. But to return. As soon as the children learned that the winter was really to be spent at Viamede, and that they would set off in a few days, the whole flock--leaving their elders to settle the dry details--hastened in quest of "mammy." They found her in the nursery, seated before a crackling wood fire, with little Herbert in her arms. Quickly their news was told, and gathering round her, they plied her with questions about her old Louisiana home. "Well, chillins," she said, her old eyes growing bright with joy at the thought of soon seeing it again--for of course she would be included in the party--"it's jes lubly as lubly kin be! de grand ole house, an' de lawn, an' de shrubbery, an' de gardens, an' fields, an' orchards, an' eberyting:--yes, it am de lubliest place dis chile eber see." "Horses to ride," said Eddie. "Yes, Mars Eddie, hosses to ride, an' kerridges to drive out in; 'sides a beautiful boat on de bayou, an' fish dere dat you kin ketch wid a hook an' line. Ole Uncle Joe he kotch dem mos' ebery day for de table, an Massa Ed'ard an' Miss Elsie say dey's bery fine." "And what else?" asked the eager voice of little Daisy Carrington. "Oranges! ripe oranges growing out of doors on the trees!" cried her brother Harry, clapping his hands and capering about the room, smacking his lips in anticipation of the coming feast. "Yes, chillins, orange trees on de lawn, an' a 'mense orchard wid hundreds an' millions ob dem on de branches an' on de ground. An' den de gardens full ob roses an' all lubly flowers, an' vines climbin' ober de verandas an' roun' de pillahs an' de windows, an' clar up to de roof." "Oh how sweet!" cried the children, their eyes dancing with delight. "But Aunt Chloe, will there be room for us all?" asked Meta Carrington, who was next to Herbert in age. "Yes, chile: dere's rooms, an' rooms an' rooms in dat house." "A play-room, mammy?" asked Eddie. "Yes, chillins, a big room whar yo' grandma used to play when she was a little chile." Mammy's voice grew low and husky for a moment, and great tears stood in her eyes. But she struggled with her emotion and went on, "Her dolls are dere yet, an' de baby house ole marster hab made for her; an' de beautiful sets ob little dishes, an' a great many tings mo'; for she hab lots ob toys an' neber destroyed nuffin. An' nobody eber goes dar but Aunt Phillis when she hab a clarin' up time in dat part ob de house." "Yes," said little Elsie, who had been as silent and intent a listener as though the tale were quite new to her, "mamma has told us about those things, and that they are always to be kept very carefully because they belonged to her dear mamma." "And we can't ever play with them!" exclaimed Vi, "but mamma will show them all to us; she said she would when she takes us to Viamede." "Oh I'd like to play with them!" exclaimed Meta, "Doesn't anybody ever?" "No, chile," said mammy, shaking her head gravely, "dere ain't nobody eber 'lowed to go in dat room but Aunt Phillis, when Miss Elsie not dar. But run away now, chillins, dere's de tea-bell a ringin'." Mamma, too, on coming up at the usual hour to see her darlings safe in bed, had many questions put to her on the same subject. They were all patiently answered, some further details given, and sweet sympathy shown in their gladness over the pleasant prospect before them; then with the accustomed tender good-night kiss, and with a parting injunction not to lie awake talking, she left them. "Did anybody ever have such a dear mamma as ours!" exclaimed Vi, nestling close to her sister. "No, I think not," replied Elsie in a tone of grave consideration. "But now we mus'n't talk anymore; because she bade us not: and I've come to bed early to-night to please you--" "Yes, you dear, good sister, you very dearest girl in all the world!" interrupted Vi, rising on her elbow for a moment to rain a perfect shower of kisses upon the sweet face by her side. Elsie laughed low and musically and hugging her tight returned the caresses, then went on, "But I mus'n't keep you awake. So now let's lie down and not say one word more." "No; not a single one," returned Vi, cuddling down again. "Mamma," said Eddie, coming into the school-room next morning with a slight frown on his usually pleasant face, "why do you call us to lessons? can't we have holidays now that we are going away so soon?" "No, my son; I think it best to attend now to our regular duties. You will have a rest from study while taking the journey, and for a few days after we reach Viamede. Will not that be better?" she asked, with a motherly smile, as she softly smoothed back the dark clustering curls from his broad open brow. "But I don't want to say lessons to-day," he answered with a pout, and resolutely refusing to meet her glance. "My little son," she said, with tender gravity, "were we sent into this world to please ourselves?" "No, mamma." "No; 'even Christ pleased not himself,' and we are to try to be like him. Whose will did he do?" "His Father's, mamma." "Yes, and whose will are you to do?" "God's will, you've taught me, mamma, but--" "Well, son?" "Mamma, will you be angry if I say my thought?" "I think not: let me hear it." "Mamma, isn't--isn't it your will this time? About the lessons I mean. Please mamma, don't think I want to be naughty, asking it?" She drew him closer, and bending down pressed her lips to his forehead. "No, my son, you want it explained, and I am glad you told me your thought. Yes, it is my will this time, but as God bids children honor and obey their parents, is it not his will also?" "I s'pose so, mamma. But I wish it didn't be your will to have me learn lessons to-day." Elsie was forced to smile in spite of herself. With another slight caress she asked, "Do you think I love you, Eddie?" "Oh yes, yes mamma, I know you do, and I love you too: indeed I do dearly, dearly!" he burst out, throwing his arms about her neck. "And I know you just want to make me good and happy and that your way's always best. So I won't be naughty any more." At that there was a general exclamation of delight from the other three, who had been silent, but deeply interested listeners, and all crowded round mamma vying with each other in bestowing upon her tender caresses and words of love. Each had felt more or less disinclination for the regular routine of work, but that vanished now, and they went through their allotted tasks with more than usual spirit and determination. Ah what a sweetener of toil is love! love to a dear earthly parent, and still more love to Christ: there is no drudgery in the most menial employment where that is the motive power. Chapter Twenty-third. "Put a knife to thy throat, if thou be a man given to appetite." --PROVERBS xxiii. 2. The happy day came, full soon to the fathers and mothers, at long last to the eager expectant children. Old Mr. Dinsmore had accepted a pressing invitation from his granddaughter and her husband, to join the party, and with the addition of servants it was a large one. As they were in no haste, and the confinement of a railroad car would be very irksome to the younger children, it had been decided to make the journey by water. It was late in the afternoon of an unusually warm, bright November day that they found themselves comfortably established on board a fine steamer bound for New Orleans. There were no sad leave-takings to mar their pleasure, the children were in wild spirits, and all seemed cheerful and happy as they sat or stood upon the deck watching the receding shore as the vessel steamed out of the harbor. At length the land had quite disappeared; nothing could be seen but the sky overhead and a vast expanse of water all around, and the passengers found leisure to turn their attention upon each other. "There are some nice looking people on board," remarked Mr. Travilla, in an undertone, to his wife. "Beside ourselves," added Cousin Ronald, laughing. "Yes," she answered; "that little group yonder: a young minister and his wife and child, I suppose. And what a dear little fellow he is just about the age of our Harold, I should judge." "Yes, mamma," chimed in the last named young gentleman, "he's a nice little boy. May I go speak to him? May I, papa?" Permission was given and the next moment the two stood close together each gazing admiringly into the other's face. "Papa," remarked the little stranger, looking up at his father, "I very much wish I had a face like this little boy's." "Do you, son?" was the smiling rejoinder. "He certainly looks like a very nice little boy. Suppose you and he shake hands, Frank." "Yes, sir," said the child, holding out a small, plump hand, "What's your name, little boy?" "Harold Travilla, and yours is Fank?" "Yes, Frank Daly. Don't you like this nice big boat?" "Yes I do. Won't you come wis me and speak to my mamma and papa?" Frank looked inquiringly at his father. "Yes, you may go if you wish," returned the latter, and the two started off hand in hand. "Mamma, see! isn't he a dear little boy?" asked Harold, leading his new friend up before her with an air of proud ownership. "Yes indeed," she said, bending down to kiss Frank and stroke his hair. "I think he's a good boy, 'cause he didn't come till his papa told him to," continued Harold. "A very good way to judge of a boy," said Cousin Ronald. "His name is Fank," said Harold. "Fank, that's Cousin Ronald, and this is papa, and this is grandpa," and so on, leading him from one to another till he had introduced him to the whole party, not even omitting Baby Herbert and mammy. Then Frank's papa came for him, saying the air was growing very cool, and it was time to go in. Our friends were of the same opinion and all repaired to the ladies' saloon, where, through the children, they and the Dalys soon made acquaintance. Mr. Daly was a minister going South for the winter for the sake of his own and his wife's health. Cousin Ronald took Frank on his knee and asked, "What are you going to do, my little fellow, when you get to be a man." "Preach the gospel, sir." "Ah ha, ah ha! um h'm, um h'm! and what will you say?" "I'll tell the people we'll sing the twenty-third piece of ham. How will that sound?" "Rather comical, I think, my man. Are ye no afraid the folk might laugh?" "No sir: they don't laugh when papa says it." "Ah ha, ah ha! um h'm!" Mr. Daly smiled. "I never knew before," said he, "that my boy intended to follow my profession." The ladies were weary, and retired to their state rooms shortly after tea, but the gentlemen sought the open air again and paced the deck for some time. "Have a cigar, sir?" asked Mr. Lilburn, addressing Mr. Daly. "Thank you, no; I don't smoke." "Ah ha! um h'm! In that you seem to be of one mind with my friends here, the Dinsmores and Travilla," remarked Lilburn, lighting one for himself and placing it between his lips. "I wonder now if you know what you miss by your abstinence?" "Well, sir, as to that, I know what some of my friends and acquaintance would have missed if they had abstained from the use of the weed. One would have missed a terrible dyspepsia that laid him in his grave in the prime of life; another cancer of the lip which did the same by him after years of horrible suffering." "Ah ha! um h'm! ah ha! But surely those were rare cases?" "I think not very." "You don't think the majority of those who use it feel any ill effects?" "I do indeed; though probably comparatively few are aware that tobacco is the cause of their ailments." "Doubtless that is the case," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "I was a moderate smoker for years before I discovered that I was undermining my constitution by the indulgence; at length, however, I became convinced of that fact, and gave it up at once: for that reason and for the sake of the example to my boy here, who has been willing to profit by his father's experience, and abstain altogether." "I have never used the weed in any way," said Horace, Jr. "And I," remarked Travilla, "abandoned its use about the same time that Dinsmore did, and for the same reasons. By the way, I met with a very strong article on the subject, lately, which I cut out and placed in my pocket-book." "Ah ha! um h'm! suppose you give us the benefit of it," suggested Lilburn good naturally, "I'm open to conviction." "With all my heart, if you will step into the gentlemen's cabin where there's a light." He led the way, the others all following, and taking out a slip of paper read from it in a distinct tone, loud enough to be heard by those about him, without disturbing the other passengers. "'One drop of nicotine--extract of tobacco--placed on the tongue of a dog, will kill him in a minute; the hundredth part of a grain picked under the skin of a man's arm, will produce nausea and fainting. That which blackens old tobacco pipes is empyreumatic oil, a grain of which would kill a man in a few seconds. "'The half dozen cigars which most smokers use a day, contain six or seven grains--enough, if concentrated and absorbed, to kill three men, and a pound of tobacco, according to its quality, contains from one-quarter to one and a quarter ounces. "'Is it strange, then that smokers and chewers have a thousand ailments? that German physicians attribute one half of the deaths among the young men of that country to tobacco? that the French Polytechnic Institute had to prohibit its use on account of its effects on the mind? that men grow dyspeptic, hypochondriac, insane, delirious from its use? "'One of the direct effects of tobacco is to weaken the heart. Notice the multitude of sudden deaths and see how many are smokers and chewers. In a small country town seven of these 'mysterious providences' occurred within the circuit of a mile, all directly traceable to tobacco; and any physician, on a few moments' reflection, can match this fact by his own observation. "'And then such powerful acids produce intense irritation and thirst--thirst which water does not quench. Hence a resort to cider and beer. The more this thirst is fed, the more insatiate it becomes, and more fiery drink is needed. "'Out of seven hundred convicts examined at the New York state prison, six hundred were confined for crimes committed under the influence of liquor, and five hundred said they had been led to drink by the use of tobacco."[G] [Footnote G: J.E. Vose, in the "Family Christian Almanac," for 1876.] "Ah ha, ah ha! um h'm! ah ha! that's strongly put," remarked Mr. Lilburn, reflectively. "I'm afraid I'll have to give it up. What say you, sir?" turning to Mr. Daly, "has a man a right to a choice in such a matter as this? a right to injure his body--to say nothing of the mind--by a self-indulgence the pleasure of which seems to him to overbalance the possible or probable suffering it may cause?" "No, sir; 'What! know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own? For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit which are God's.'" "Right, sir, I was thinking of those words of the apostle, and also of these other, 'If any man defile the temple of God, him shall God destroy: for the temple of God is holy, which temple ye are.' "We certainly have no right to injure our bodies either by neglect or self-indulgence. 'Know ye not that your bodies are the members of Christ?' and again, 'I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service.'" "It must require a good deal of resolution for one who has become fond of the indulgence to give it up," remarked Mr. Daly. "No doubt, no doubt," returned Mr. Lilburn, "but, 'If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee, for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.'" There was a pause broken by young Horace, who had been watching a group of men gathered about a table at the further end of the room. "They are gambling yonder, and I'm afraid that young fellow is being badly fleeced by that middle aged man opposite." The eyes of the whole party were at once turned in that direction. "I'm afraid you're right, Horace," said Mr. Travilla, recalling with an inward shudder, the scene he had witnessed in a gambling hell many years ago, in which the son of his friend Beresford so nearly lost his life. "What can be done to save him? some effort must be made!" and he started up as if with the intention of approaching the players. "Stay a moment," exclaimed Lilburn in an undertone, and laying a detaining hand upon Travilla's arm, but with his gaze intently fixed upon the older gamester. "Ah ha! um h'm! that fellow is certainly cheating. I saw him slip a card from his coat sleeve." The words had scarcely passed his lips when a voice spoke apparently close at the villain's side. "Ah ha, I zees you vell, how you runs de goat shleeve down mit de gards and sheats dat boor poy vat ish blay mit you. Yoh, sir, you ish von pig sheat!" "How dare you, sir? who are you?" cried the rascal, starting up white with rage and turning to face his accuser. "Who was it? where is that Dutch scoundrel that dared accuse me of cheating?" he cried, sending a fierce glance about the room. "Vat ish dat you galls me? von Dutch scoundrel? you man mit de proken nose; I say it again: you ish von pig sheat." This time the voice seemed to come from a stateroom behind the gambler. Towering with rage, he rushed to the door and tried to open it. Failing in that, he demanded admittance in loud angry tones, at the same time shaking the door violently, and kicking against it with a force that seemed likely to break in the panels. There was an answering yell, a sound as of some one bouncing out of his berth upon the floor, the key turned hastily in the lock, the door was thrown wide open, and a little Frenchman appeared on its threshold in night attire, bowie knife and pistol in hand, and black eyes flashing with indignant anger. "Sir, Monsieur, I vil know vat for is dis disturbance of mine slumbers?" "Sir!" said the other, stepping back, instantly cooled down at sight of the weapons, "I beg pardon: was looking for a scoundrel of a Dutchman who has been abusing me, but I see he's not here." "No sir, he is not here!" and the door was slammed violently to. "Ha, ha! man mit de proken nose, you vake up de wrong bassenger. Ha, ha! I dells you again you ish von pig sheat!" Now the voice came from the skylight overhead, apparently, and with a fierce imprecation the irate gamester rushed upon deck, and ran hither and thither in search of his tormentor. His victim, who had been looking on during the little scene and listening to the mysterious voice in silent wide-eyed wonder and fear, now rose hastily, his face deathly pale, with trembling hands gathered up the money he had staked, and hurrying into his state room, locked himself in. The remaining passengers looked at each other. "What does it mean?" cried one. "A ventriloquist aboard, of course," returned another. "Let's follow and see the fun." "I wonder which of us it is!" remarked the first, looking hard at our party. "I don't know, but come on. That fellow Nick Ward, is a noted blackleg and ruffian: had his nose broken in a fight and is sensitive on the subject; was cheating of course." They passed out, our party close in their rear. "Where's that Dutch villain?" Ward was screaming, following up his question with a volley of oaths. "Who?" asked the mate, "I've seen none up here; though there are some in the steerage." Down to the steerage flew the gambler without waiting to reply, and bounding into the midst of a group of German emigrants seated there, quietly smoking their pipes, angrily demanded which of them it was who had been on the upper deck just now, abusing him, and calling him a cheat, and a man with a broken nose. They heard him in silence, with a cool, phlegmatic indifference most exasperating to one in his present mood. Drawing his revolver, "Speak!" he shouted, "tell me which one it was, or I'll--I'll shoot every mother's son of you!" His arms were suddenly pinioned from behind while a deep voice grunted, "You vill, vill you? I dinks not; you ish mine brisoner. Dere ish nopody here as did gall you names, and you vill put up dat leetle gun." A man of giant size and herculean strength, had laid aside his pipe and slowly rising to his feet, seized the scoundrel in his powerful grasp. "Let me go!" yelled Ward, making a desperate effort to free his arms. "Ha, ha! man mit de proken nose, you ish vake up de wrong bassenger again," came mockingly from above. "It ish me as galls you von pig sheat; and I dells you it again." "There, the villain's up on the deck now!" cried Ward, grinding his teeth in impotent rage. "Let go my arms I let go, I say, and I'll teach him a lesson." "I dinks no; I dinks I deach you von lesson," returned his captor, not relaxing his grasp in the least. But the captain's voice was heard asking in stern tones, "What's the cause of all this disturbance? what are you doing down here, Ward? I'll have no fighting aboard." The German released his prisoner, and the latter slunk away with muttered threats and imprecations upon the head of his tormentor. Both that night and the next day there was much speculation among the passengers in regard to the occurrence; but our friends kept their own counsel, and the children, cautioned not to divulge Cousin Ronald's secret, guarded it carefully, for all had been trained to obedience, and besides were anxious not to lose the fun he made for them. Mr. Lilburn and Mr. Daly each at a different time, sought out the young man, Ward's intended victim, and tried to influence him for good. He thought he had been rescued by the interposition of some supernatural agency, and solemnly declared his fixed determination never again to approach a gaming table, and throughout the voyage adhered to his resolution, spite of every influence Ward could bring to bear upon him to break it. Yet there was gambling again the second night, between Ward and several others of his profession. They kept it up till after midnight. Then Mr. Lilburn, waking from his first sleep, in a stateroom near by, thought he would break it up once more. A deep stillness reigned in the cabin: it would seem that every one on board the vessel, except themselves and the watch on deck, was wrapped in profound slumber. An intense voiceless excitement possessed the players, for the game was a close one, and the stakes were very heavy. They bent eagerly over the board, each watching with feverish anxiety his companion's movements, each casting, now and again, a gloating eye upon the heap of gold and greenbacks that lay between them, and at times half stretching out his hand to clutch it. A deep groan startled them and they sprang to their feet, pale and trembling with sudden terror, each holding his breath and straining his ear to catch a repetition of the dread sound. But all was silent, and after a moment of anxious waiting, they sat down to their game again; trying to conceal and shake off their fears with a forced, unnatural laugh. But scarcely had they taken the cards into their hands when a second groan, deeper, louder and more prolonged than the first, again started them to their feet. "I tell you this is growing serious," whispered one in a shaking voice, his very lips white with fear. "It came from under the table," gasped Ward, "look what's there." "Look yourself." "Both together then," and simultaneously they bent down and peered into the space underneath the board. There was nothing there. "What can it have been?" they asked each other. "Oh, nonsense! what fools we are! of course somebody's ill in one of the state-rooms." And they resumed their game for the second time. But a voice full of unutterable anguish, came from beneath their feet, "'Father Abraham have mercy on me, and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue: for I am tormented in this flame," and in mortal terror they sprang up, dashed down their cards and fled, not even waiting to gather up the "filthy lucre" for which they wore selling their souls. It was the last game of cards for that trip. The captain coming in shortly after the sudden flight of the gamblers, took charge of the money, and the next day restored it to the owners. To Elsie's observant eyes it presently became evident that the Dalys were in very straitened circumstances. They made no complaint, but with her warm sympathy and delicate tact, she soon drew from the wife all the information she needed to convince her that here was a case that called for the pecuniary assistance Providence had put it in her power to give. She consulted with her husband, and the result was a warm invitation to the Dalys to spend the winter at Viamede, where they would have all the benefit of the mild climate, congenial society, use of the library, horses, etc., and be at no expense. "Oh how kind, how very kind!" Mrs. Daly said with tears of joy and gratitude, "we have hardly known how we should meet the most necessary expenses of this trip, but have been trying to cast our care upon the Lord, asking him to provide. And how wonderfully he has answered our petitions. But--it seems too much, too much for you to do for strangers." "Strangers, my dear friend!" Elsie answered, pressing her hand affectionately, "art we not sisters in Christ? 'Ye are all the children of God by faith in Christ Jesus.' 'Ye are all one in Christ Jesus.' "We feel, my husband and I, that we are only the stewards of his bounty; and that because he has said, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me,' it is the greatest privilege and delight to do anything for his people." Mr. Travilla had already expressed the same sentiments to Mr. Daly, and so the poor minister and his wife accepted the invitation with glad and thankful hearts, and Harold and Frank learned with delight that they were to live together for what to their infant minds seemed an almost interminable length of time. The passage to New Orleans was made without accident or detention. As our party left the vessel a voice was heard from the hold, crying in dolorous accents, and a rich Irish brogue, "Och captin dear, help me out, help me out! I've got fast betwane these boxes here, bad cess to 'em! an' can't hilp mesilf at all, at all!" "Help you out, you passage thief!" roared the captain in return, "yes I'll help you out with a vengeance, and put you into the hands of the police." "Ah ha! um h'm ah ha, you'll have to catch him first," remarked Mr. Lilburn with a quiet smile; stepping from the plank to the wharf as he spoke. "Ah, cousin, you are incorrigible!" said Elsie, laughingly. Chapter Twenty-fourth. "The fields did laugh, the flowers did freshly spring, The trees did bud and early blossoms bear, And all the quire of birds did sweetly sing, And told that garden's pleasures in their caroling." --SPENSER'S FAERY QUEEN Nothing could be lovelier than was Viamede as they found it on their arrival. The children, one and all, were in an ecstasy of delight over the orange orchard with its wealth of golden fruit, glossy leaves, and delicate blossoms, the velvety lawn with its magnificent shade trees, the variety and profusion of beautiful flowers, and the spacious lordly mansion. They ran hither and thither jumping, dancing, clapping their hands and calling to each other with shouts of glee. The pleasure and admiration of the older people were scarcely less, though shown after a soberer fashion. But no check was put upon the demonstrations of joy of the younger ones: they were allowed to gambol, frolic, and play, and to feast themselves upon the luscious fruit to their hearts' content. Nor was the gladness all on the side of the new arrivals: to the old house servants, many of whom still remained, the coming of their beloved young mistress and her children had been an event looked forward to with longing for years. They wept for joy as they gathered about her, kissed her hand and clasped her little ones in their arms, fondling them and calling them by every endearing name known to the negro vocabulary. And the children, having heard a great deal, from both mamma and mammy, about these old people and their love and loyalty to the family, were neither surprised, nor displeased, but quite ready to receive and return the affection lavished upon them. The party from Lansdale arrived only a few days after the others, and were welcomed with great rejoicings, in which even Bruno must have a share: he jumped and gamboled about Harry and May, tried to kiss the babies, and finally put his nose into Aunt Wealthy's lap, saying, "Ye're a dear auld leddy, ma'am, and I'm glad ye've come!" "Ah," she answered, patting his head and laughing her low, sweet silvery laugh, "you betray your Scotch accent, my fine follow; and I'm too old a chaff to be caught with a bird." Mr. Mason was still chaplain at Viamede, and with his wife and children occupied a pretty and commodious cottage which had been built on the estate expressly for their use. When he and Mr. Daly met they instantly and delightedly recognized each other as former classmates and intimate friends, and the Dalys, by urgent invitation, took up their abode for the winter in the cottage; but Mr. and Mrs. Travilla were careful that it should still be entirely at their expense. A suite of apartments in the mansion was appropriated to each of the other families, and it was unanimously agreed that each should feel at perfect liberty to withdraw into the privacy of these, having their meals served to them there, if they so desired; or at their pleasure to mingle with the others in the breakfast parlor, dining-room, drawing-rooms, library, etc. The first fortnight was made a complete holiday to all, the days being filled up with games, walks, rides, drives and excursions by land and water. In consequence of the changes occasioned by the war, they found but little society in the neighborhood now, yet scarcely missed it; having so much within themselves. But at length even the children began to grow somewhat weary of constant play. Harry Duncan and Horace Jr. announced their speedy departure to attend to business, and the other adults of the party felt that it was time to take up again the ordinary duties of life. Mr. Daly, anxious to make some return for the kindness shown him, offered to act as tutor to all the children who were old enough for school duties; but Rosie put her arms about her father's neck and looking beseechingly into his eyes, said she preferred her old tutor;--at which he smiled, and stroking her hair, said she should keep him then, for he would be quite as loth to give up his pupil,--and Elsie's children, clinging about her, entreated that their lessons might still be said to mamma. "So they shall, my darlings," she answered, "for mamma loves to teach you." The young Carringtons too, and their mother preferred the old way. So Mr. Daly's kind offer was declined with thanks: and perhaps he was not sorry; being weak and languid and in no danger of suffering from ennui with horses to ride and plenty of books at hand. A school-room was prepared, but only the Travillas occupied it, Sophie preferring to use her dressing-room, and Rosie studying in her own room, and reciting to her papa in his or the library. Elsie expected her children to find it a little hard to go back to the old routine; but it was not so. They came to her with bright, happy faces, were quiet and diligent and when the recitations were over, gathered about her for a little chat before returning to their play. "Mamma," said Eddie, "we've had a nice long holiday, and it's really pleasant to get back to lessons again." "So it is!" said Vi, "don't you think so, Elsie?" "Yes, indeed! nice to get back to our books, but we've had lessons almost every day, grandpa and papa and mamma teaching us so much about the birds, insects, and all sorts of living things, and the flowers and plants, trees, stones and oh, I don't know how many things that are different here from what we have at home." "At home! why this is home; isn't it, mamma?" exclaimed Eddie. "Yes, my son, one of our homes." "Yes, and so beautiful," said Vi; "but Ion 'pears the homest to me." "Does it, darling?" asked mamma, giving her a smile and a kiss. "Yes, mamma; and I love Ion dearly: Viamede 'most as well, though, because you were born here, and your dear mamma." "And because that dear grandma is buried here;" remarked her sister, "and because of all those dear graves. Mamma, I do like those lessons I was speaking of, and so do Eddie and Vi; but Herbert and Meta and Harry don't; they say they think them very stupid and dull." "I am glad, my children, that you love knowledge," their mother said, "because it is useful; the more knowledge we have the more good we can do if we will." "And then it is a lasting pleasure. God's works are so wonderful that we can never learn all about them while we live in this world, and I suppose throughout the endless ages of eternity, we shall be ever learning, yet always finding still more to learn." "Mamma, how pleasant that will be," said Elsie thoughtfully. "And oh, mamma!" cried Vi, "that reminds me that we've been out of doors 'most all the day-times, and haven't seen grandma's play-room and things yet. Won't you show them to us?" "Yes, we will go now." "Me too, mamma?" asked Harold. "Yes, all of you come. I want you all to see everything that I have that once belonged to my dear mother." "Aunt Rosie wants to see them too," said Vi. "And Herbert and Meta and the others," added Elsie. "They shall see them afterwards. I want no one but my own little children now," replied mamma, taking Harold's hand, and leading the way. She led them to the room, a large and very pleasant one, light and airy, where flowers were blooming and birds singing, vines trailing over and about the windows, lovely pictures on the walls, cosy chairs and couches, work-tables, well supplied with all the implements for sewing, others suited for drawing, writing or cutting out upon, standing here and there, quantities of books, games and toys; nothing seemed to have been forgotten that could give pleasant employment for their leisure hours, or minister to their amusement. There was a burst of united exclamations of wondering delight from the children, as the door was thrown open and they entered. Now they understood why mamma had put them off when several times they had asked to be brought to this room: she was having it fitted up in a way to give them a joyful surprise. "Do you like it, my darlings?" she asked with a pleased smile. "Oh, yes, yes! yes indeed!" they cried, jumping, dancing and clapping their hands, "dear, dear mamma, how good, how good you are to us!" and they nearly smothered her with caresses. Releasing herself, she opened another door leading into an adjoining room which, to Eddie's increased delight, was fitted up as a work-room for boys, with every sort of tool used by carpenters and cabinet makers. He had such at Ion and was somewhat acquainted with their use. "Oh what nice times Herbert and Harry and I shall have!" he exclaimed. "What pretty things we'll make! Mamma, I don't know how to thank you and my dear father!" he added, catching her hand and pressing it to his lips with passionate affection. "Be good and obedient to us, kind and affectionate to your brothers, sisters and playmates," she said, stroking his hair: "that is the kind of thanks we want, my boy; we have no greater joy than to see our children good and happy." "If we don't be, it's just our own fault, and we're ever so wicked and bad!" cried Vi, vehemently. Mamma smiled at her little girl's impetuosity, then in grave, tender tones, said, "And is there not some One else more deserving of love and thanks than even papa and mamma?" "God, our kind heavenly Father," murmured little Elsie, happy, grateful tears shining in her soft eyes. "Yes, it is from his kind hand all our blessings come." "I love God," said Harold, "and so does Fank: Mamma, can Fank come up here to play wis me?" "Yes, indeed: Frank is a dear, good little boy, and I like to have you together." Mamma unlocked the door of a large light closet, as she spoke, and the children, looking eagerly in, saw that its shelves were filled with beautiful toys. "Grandma's things!" they said softly. "Yes, these are what my dear mother played with when she was a little girl like Elsie and Vi" said mamma. "You may look at them." There was a large babyhouse, beautifully furnished; there were many dolls of various sizes, and little chests and trunks full of nicely made clothes for them to wear--night-clothes, morning wrappers, gay silks and lovely white dresses, bonnets and hats, shoes and stockings too, and ribbons and laces, for the lady dolls; and for the gentlemen, coats, hats, vests, cravats and everything that real grown-up men wear; and for the baby dolls there were many suits of beautiful baby clothes; and all made so that they could be easily taken off and put on again. There were cradles to rock the babies in, and coaches for them to ride in; there were dinner and tea-sets of the finest china and of solid silver; indeed almost everything in the shape of toys that the childish heart could desire. The lonely little girl had not lacked for any pleasure that money could procure: but she had hungered for that best earthly gift--the love of father, mother, brothers and sisters--which can be neither bought nor sold. The children examined all these things with intense interest and a sort of wondering awe, then begged their mother to tell them again about "dear grandma." They had heard the story--all that mamma and mammy could tell--many times, but it never lost its charm. "Yes, dears, I will: I love to think and speak of her," Elsie said, sitting down in a low chair while they gathered closely round her, the older two, one on each side, the others leaning upon her lap. "Mamma, it is a sad story; but I love it," little Elsie said, drawing a deep sigh, as the tale came to an end. "Yes, poor little girl, playing up here all alone," said Eddie. "'Cept mammy," corrected Vi. "Yes, mammy to love her and take care of her, but no brother or sister to play with, and no dear mamma or papa like ours." "Yes, poor dear grandma!" sighed little Elsie. "And it was almost as hard for you, mamma, when you were a little girl: didn't you feel very sad?" "Ah, daughter, I had Jesus to love me, and help me in all my childish griefs and troubles," the mother answered, with a glad smile; "and mammy to hug and kiss and love me just as she does you." "But oh, didn't you want your mamma and papa?" "Yes, sorely, sorely at times; but I think no little child could be happier than I was when at last; my dear father came home, and I found that he loved me dearly. Ah, I am so glad, so thankful that my darlings have never suffered for lack of love." "I too, mamma." "And I." "And I," they exclaimed, clinging about her and loading her with caresses. "Hark!" she said, "I hear your dear grandpa's step, and there, he is knocking at the door." Eddie ran to open it. "Ah, I thought I should find you here, daughter," Mr. Dinsmore said, coming in. "I, too, want to see these things; it is long since I looked at them." She gave him a pleased look and smile, and stepping to the closet he stood for some moments silently gazing upon its treasures. "You do well to preserve them with care as mementoes of your mother," he remarked, coming back and seating himself by her side. "O grandpa, you could tell us more about her, and dear mamma too, when she was a little girl!" said little Elsie, seating herself upon his knee, twining her arms about his neck, and looking coaxingly into his face. "Ah, what a dear little girl your mamma was at your age!" he said, stroking her hair and gazing fondly first at her and then at her mother, "the very joy of my heart and delight of my eyes! though not dearer than she is now." Elsie returned the loving glance and smile, while her namesake daughter remarked, "Mamma couldn't be nicer or sweeter than she is now; nobody could." "No, no! no indeed!" chimed in the rest of the little flock. "But grandpa please tell the story. You never did tell it to us." "No," he said, half sighing, "but you shall have it now." Then went on to relate how he had first met their mother's mother, then a very beautiful girl of fifteen. An acquaintance took him to call upon a young lady friend of his, to whom Elsie Grayson was paying a visit, and the two were in the drawing-room together when the young men entered. "What did you think the first minute you saw her, grandpa?" asked Eddie. "That she had the sweetest, most beautiful face and perfect form I had ever laid eyes on, and that I would give all I was worth to have her for my own." "Love at first sight," his daughter remarked, with a smile, "and it was mutual." "Yes she told me afterward that she had loved me from the first; though the longer I live the more I wonder it should have been so, for I was a wild, wayward youth. But she, poor thing, had none to love or cherish her but her mammy." "Grandpa, I think you're very nice," put in little Vi, leaning on his knee, and gazing affectionately into his face. "I'm glad you do," he said, patting her soft round cheek. "But to go on with my story. I could not keep away from my charmer, and for the next few weeks we saw each other daily. "I asked her to be my own little wife and she consented. Then early one morning we went to a church and were married; no one being present except the minister, the sexton, and her friend and mine, who were engaged to each other, and her faithful mammy. "Her guardian was away in a distant city and knew nothing about the matter. He was taken sick there and did not return for three months, and during that time Elsie and I lived together in a house she owned in New Orleans. "We thought that now that we were safely married, no one could ever separate us, and we were very, very happy. "But one evening her guardian came suddenly upon us, as we sat together in her boudoir, and in a great passion ordered me out of the house. "Elsie was terribly frightened and I said, 'I will go to-night for peace sake; but Elsie is my wife, and to-morrow I shall come and claim her as such, and I think you'll find I have the law on my side.' Elsie clung to me and wept bitterly; but I comforted her with the assurance that the parting was only for a few hours." Mr. Dinsmore's voice faltered. He paused a moment, then went on in tones husky with emotion. "We never saw each other again. When I went back in the morning the house was closed and quite deserted; not even a servant in it, and I knew not where to look for my lost wife. "I went back to my hotel and there found my father waiting for me in my room. He was very angry about my marriage, the news of which had brought him from home. He made me go back with him at once and sent me North to college. I heard nothing of my wife for months, and then only that she was dead and had left me a little daughter." "And that was our mamma!" cried the children, once more crowding about her to lavish caresses upon her. They thanked their grandfather for his story, and Vi looking in at the closet door again, said in her most coaxing tones, "Mamma, I should so, _so_ like to play a little with some of those lovely things; and I would be very careful not to spoil them." "Not now, daughter, though perhaps I may allow it some day when you are older. But see here! will not these do quite as well?" And rising, Mrs. Travilla opened the door of another closet displaying to the children's delighted eyes other toys as fine and in as great profusion and variety as those she considered sacred to her mother's memory. "Oh, yes, yes, mamma! how lovely! how kind you are! are they for us?" they exclaimed in joyous tones. "Yes," she said, "I bought them for you while we were in New Orleans, and you shall play with them whenever you like. And now we will lock the doors and go down to dress for dinner. The first bell is ringing." After dinner the play-room and the contents of the two closets were shown to Mrs. Dinsmore, Rosie, and the Carringtons: then Mrs. Travilla locked the door of the one that held the treasured relics of her departed mother, and carried away the key. Chapter Twenty-fifth. "She'd lift the teapot lid To peep at what was in it, Or tilt the kettle if you did But turn your back a minute." Meta Carrington had many excellent traits of character; was frank, generous, unselfish and sincere; but these good qualities were offset by some very serious faults; she was prying and full of desire for whatever was forbidden. The other children played contentedly with the toys provided for them; but Meta secretly nursed a great longing for those Mrs. Travilla had chosen to withhold; and was constantly endeavoring to devise some plan by which to get possession of them. She attempted to pick the lock with a nail, then with a knife, but failing in that, seized every opportunity of doing so unobserved, to try the keys from other doors in different parts of the house, till at length she found one that would answer her purpose; then she watched her chance to use it in the absence of her mates. At length such a time came. The ladies had all gone out for an airing, the little ones, too, in charge of their nurses, Vi and the boys were sporting on the lawn, and Elsie was at the piano practicing; certain, faithful little worker that she was, not to leave it till the allotted hour had expired. Having satisfied herself of all this, Meta flew to the play-room, and half trembling at her own temerity, admitted herself to the forbidden treasures. There was no hesitancy in regard to her further proceedings; for weeks past, she had had them all carefully arranged in her mind; she would have a tea-party, though, unfortunately, there could be no guests present but the dolls; yet at all events, she could have the great pleasure of handling that beautiful china and silver and seeing how a table would look set out with them. A pleasure doubled by the fact that she was enjoying it in opposition to the known wishes and commands of her mother and the owner; for in Meta's esteem 'stolen waters were sweet' indeed. She selected a damask table cloth from a pile that lay on one of the lower shelves, several napkins to match, slipping each of these last into a silver ring taken from a little basket that stood alongside, and proceeded with quiet glee, to deck a table with them, and the sets of china and silver she most admired. "Beautiful! beautiful! I never saw anything so pretty!" she exclaimed half aloud, as, her task finished, she stood gazing in rapt delight at the result of her labors. "Oh I think it's real mean in Aunt Elsie, to say we sha'n't play with these, and to lock them up away from us. But now for the company!" and running into the closet again, she brought out several of the largest dolls. "I'll dress them for dinner," she said, still talking to herself in an undertone: "that'll be fun. What lots of lovely things I shall find in these trunks; I'll look them over and select what I like best to have them wear. I'll have time enough: it isn't at all likely anybody will come to disturb me for an hour:" and as she opened the first trunk, she glanced hastily at the clock on the mantel. She was mistaken. Time flew away much faster than she was aware of, and scarce half an hour had passed when a pair of little feet came dancing along the hall, the door--which in her haste and pre-occupation Meta had forgotten to lock--flew open, and Vi stood before her. The great blue eyes turning toward the table opened wide with astonishment. "Why, why, Meta!" Meta's face flushed deeply for a moment, but thinking the best plan would be to brave it out, "Isn't it pretty?" she asked, as unconcernedly as she could. "Yes, oh lovely! but--where did you--aren't they my grandma's things? O Meta, how could you ever dare--" "Pooh! I'm not going to hurt 'em. And why should you think they were hers? can't other people have pretty things?" "Yes, but I know they're grandma's, I rec--recog--recognize them. Oh what shall we do? I wouldn't venture to touch 'em, even to put them back." "What a big word that was you used just now," said Meta, laughing, "It 'most choked you." "Well when I'm bigger it won't," returned Vi, still gazing at the table. "Oh how lovely they are! I do wish mamma would let us play with them." "So do I: and these dolls too. It's just delightful to dress and undress them. Here, Vi, help me put this one's shoes on." The temptation to handle the tiny, dainty shoes and see how well they fitted the feet of the pretty doll, was great, and not giving herself time to think, Violet dropped down on the carpet by Meta's side and complied with the request. "Just to slip on those lovely shoes, now that they were there right before her, was not much," so said the tempter: then, "Now having done a little, what difference if she did a little more?" Thoughtless and excitable, she presently forgot mamma and her commands, and became as eagerly engaged as Meta herself in the fascinating employment of looking over the contents of the trunks, and trying now one, and now another suit upon the dollies. "Now this one's dressed, and I'll set her up to the table," said Meta, jumping up. "Oh my!" Something fell with a little crash on the lid of the trunk by Vi's side, and there at her feet lay one of the beautiful old china plates broken into a dozen pieces. The child started up perfectly aghast, the whole extent of her delinquency flashing upon her in that instant. "Oh, oh! what have I done! what a wicked, wicked girl I am! what will mamma say!" And she burst into an agony of grief and remorse. "You didn't do it, nor I either," said Meta; stooping to gather up the fragments, "the doll kicked it off. There, Vi, don't cry so; I'll put the things all back just as they were, and never, never touch one of them again." "But you can't; because this one's broken. Oh dear, oh dear! I wish you had let them alone, Meta. I wish, I wish I'd been a good girl and obeyed mamma!" "Never mind: if she goes to whip you, I'll tell her it was 'most all my fault. But she needn't know: it won't be a story to put them back and say nothing about it. And most likely it won't be found out for years and years; maybe never. You see I'll just put this plate between the others in the pile and it won't be noticed at all that it's broken; unless somebody takes them all down to look." "But I must tell mamma," sobbed Violet. "I couldn't hide it; I always tell her everything; and I'd feel so wicked." "Violet Travilla, I'd never have believed you'd be so mean as to tell tales," remarked Meta, severely. "I'd never have played with you if I'd known it." "I'll not; I didn't mean that. I'll only tell on myself." "But you can't do that without telling on me too, and I say it's real mean. I'll never tell a story about it, but I don't see any harm in just getting the things away and saying nothing. 'Taint as if you were throwing the blame on somebody else," pursued Meta, gathering up the articles abstracted from the closet and replacing them, as nearly as possible as she had found them. "Come, dry your eyes, Vi," she went on, "or somebody'll see you've been crying and ask what it was about." "But I must tell mamma," reiterated the little girl, sobbing anew. "And make her feel worried and sorry because the plate's broken, when it can't do any good, and she needn't ever know about it. I call that real selfishness." This, to Vi, was a new view of the situation. She stopped crying to consider it. It certainly would grieve mamma to know that the plate was broken, and perhaps even more to hear of her child's disobedience, and if not told she would be spared all that pain. But on the other hand, mamma had always taught her children that wrong doing should never be concealed. The longer Vi pondered the question the more puzzled she grew. Meta perceived that she wavered and immediately seized her advantage. "Come now, Vi, I'm sure you don't want to give pain to your mamma, or to get me into trouble. Do you?" "No, Meta, indeed I don't, but--" "Hush! somebody's coming," exclaimed Meta, locking the closet door, having just finished her work, and hastily dropping the key into her pocket. "Come, girls, come quick! we're sending up a balloon, from the lawn!" cried Eddie throwing open the door to make his announcement, then rushing away again. The girls ran after him, in much excitement, and forgetting for the time the trouble they were in; for spite of Meta's sophistry her conscience was by no means easy. The ladies had returned and in dinner dress were gathered on the veranda. Mr. Travilla seemed to be managing the affair, with Mr. Dinsmore's assistance, while the other gentlemen, children and servants, were grouped about them on the lawn. Meta and Violet quickly took their places with the rest and just at that moment the balloon, released from its fastenings, shot up into the air. There was a general shout and clapping of hands, but instantly hushed by a shrill sharp cry of distress from overhead. "Oh! oh! pull it down again! pull it down! pull it down! I only got in for fun, and I'm so frightened! I shall fall out! I shall be killed! oh! oh! oh!" The voice grew fainter and fainter, till it quickly died away in the distance as the balloon rose rapidly higher and higher into the deep blue of the sky. A wild excitement seized upon the little crowd. "Oh, oh, oh I which ob de chillins am up dar?" the mammies were asking, each sending a hasty glance around the throng to assure herself of the safety of her own particular charge. "Who is it? who is it?" asked the children, the little girls beginning to sob and cry. "Oh it's Fank! it's Fank!" screamed Harold. "Papa, papa, please stop it quick. Fank, don't cry, any more: papa will get you down. Won't you, papa?" And he clung to his father's arm, sobbing bitterly. "Son, Frank is not there," said Mr. Travilla; taking the little weeper in his arms. "There is no one in the balloon; it is not big enough to hold even a little boy like you or Frank." "Isn't it, papa?" returned the child, dropping his head on his father's shoulder with a sigh of relief. "Oh it's Cousin Ronald, it's just Cousin Ronald!" exclaimed the children, their tears changing at once to laughter. "Ah ha, ah ha! um h'm, um h'm! so it is, bairnies, just Cousin Ronald at his old tricks again," laughed Mr. Lilburn. "Oh there's nobody in it; so we needn't care how high it goes," cried Eddie, jumping and clapping his hands, "See! see! it's up in the clouds now, and doesn't look as big as my cap." "Not half so big, I should say," remarked Herbert. "And there, it's quite gone." The dinner bell rang and all repaired to the dining-room. Chapter Twenty-sixth. "Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old, he will not depart from it." --PROVERBS, xxii: 6. As naturally as the helianthus to the sun, did the faces of Elsie's little ones turn to her when in her loved presence. At the table, at their sports, their lessons, everywhere and however employed, it was always the same, the young eyes turning ever and anon to catch the tender, sympathetic glance of mamma's. But at dinner to-day, Vi's great blue orbs met hers but once and instantly dropped upon her plate again, while a vivid blush suffused the fair face and neck. And when the meal was ended and all gathered in the drawing-room, Vi still seemed to be unlike her usual gay, sunny self, the merriest prattler of all the little crowd of children, the one whose sweet silvery laugh rang out the oftenest. She stood alone at a side table turning over some engravings, but evidently with very little interest. The mother, engaged in conversation with the other ladies, watched her furtively, a little troubled and anxious, yet deeming it best to wait for a voluntary confidence on the part of her child. Longing, yet dreading to make it, Vi was again puzzling her young brain with the question whether Meta was right in saying it would be selfish to do so. Ah, if she could only ask mamma which was the right way to do! This was the first perplexity she had not been able to carry to her for disentanglement. Remembering the words of the Lord Jesus, "Sanctify them through thy truth: thy word is truth," Elsie had been careful to store her children's minds with the blessed teachings and precious promises of God's holy Book. She had also taught them to go to God their heavenly Father, with every care, sorrow, doubt and difficulty. "I'll ask Jesus," thought Vi; "he'll help me to know, because the Bible says, 'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God that giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.'" She slipped into an adjoining room, where she was quite alone, and kneeling down, whispered softly, with low sobs and many tears, "Dear Father in heaven, I've been a very, very naughty girl; I disobeyed my dear mamma; please forgive me for Jesus' sake and make me good. Please Lord Jesus, help me to know if I ought to tell mamma." A text--one of the many she had learned to recite to her mother in that precious morning half hour--came to her mind as she rose from her knees. "He that covereth his sins shall not prosper: but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy." "I didn't cover them;" she said to herself, "I told God: but then God knew all about it before; he sees and knows everything; but mamma doesn't know. Perhaps it means I musn't cover them from her. I think Jesus did tell me." Wiping away her tears she went back into the drawing-room. The gentlemen were just leaving it, her father among the rest. A sudden resolution seized her and she ran after them. "Papa!" He turned at the sound of her voice. "Well daughter?" "I--I just want to ask you something." "Another time then, pet, papa's in a hurry now." But seeing the distress in the dear little face he came to her and laying his hand on her head in tender fatherly fashion, said, "Tell papa what it is that troubles you. I will wait to hear it now." "Papa," she said, choking down a sob, "I--I don't know what to do." "About what, daughter?" "Papa, s'pose--s'pose I'd done something naughty, and--and it would grieve dear mamma to hear it; ought I to tell her and--and make her sorry?" "My dear little daughter," he said bending down to look with grave, tender eyes into the troubled face, "never, _never_ conceal anything from your mother; it is not safe for you, pet; and she would far rather bear the pain of knowing. If our children knew how much, how very much we both love them, they would never want to hide anything from us." "Papa, I don't; but--somebody says it would be selfish to hurt mamma so." "The selfishness was in doing the naughty thing, not in confessing it. Go, my child, and tell mamma all about it." He hastened away, and Violet crept back to the drawing-room. The other children were leaving it. "Come, Vi," they said, "we're going for a walk." "Thank you, I don't wish to go this time," she answered with gravity. "I've something to attend to." "What a grown up way of talking you have, you little midget," laughed Meta. Then putting her lips close to Vi's ear, "Violet Travilla," she whispered, "don't you tell tales, or I'll never, never play with you again as long as I live." "My mamma says it's wicked to say that;" returned Vi, "and I don't tell tales." Then as Meta ran away, Violet drew near her mother's chair. Mamma was talking, and she must not interrupt, so she waited, longing to have the confession over, yet feeling her courage almost fail with the delay. Elsie saw it all, and at length seized an opportunity while the rest were conversing among themselves, to take Vi's hand and draw her to her side. "I think my little girl has something to say to mother," she whispered softly, smoothing back the clustering curls, and looking tenderly into the tear-stained face. Violet nodded assent; her heart was so full she could not have spoken a word without bursting into tears and sobs. Mamma understood, rose and led her from the room; led her to her own dressing-room where they could be quite secure from intrusion. Then seating herself and taking the child on her lap, "What is wrong with my dear little daughter?" she asked. "O, mamma, mamma, I'm so sorry, so sorry!" cried the child, bursting into a passion of tears and sobs, putting her arms about her mother's neck and hiding her face on her breast. "Mamma is sorry, too, dear, sorry for anything that makes her Vi unhappy. What is it? what can mother do to comfort you." "Mamma I don't deserve for you to be so kind, and you'll have to punish, 'stead of comforting. But I just want to tell about my own self; you know I can't tell tales, mamma." "No, daughter, I do not ask, or wish it; but tell me about yourself." "Mamma, it will make you sorry, ever so sorry." "Yes, dear, but I must bear it for your sake." "O mamma, I don't like to make you sorry I--I wish I hadn't, hadn't been naughty, oh so naughty, mamma! for I played with some of your mamma's things that you forbade us to touch, and--and one lovely plate got broken all up." "I am very sorry to hear that," returned the mother, "yet far more grieved by my child's sin. But how did you get the door open and the plates off the shelf?" "I didn't, mamma: they were out." "Some one else did it?" "Yes, mamma; but you know I can't tell tales. It wasn't any of our children, though, none of them were naughty but just me." "Were you playing with the plate? did you break it?" "No mamma, I didn't touch the plates, but I was dressing one of the dollies. They are all locked up again now, mamma, and I don't think anybody will touch them any more." A little tender, serious talk on the sin and danger of disobedience to parents, and the mother knelt with her child, and in a few simple words asked God's forgiveness for her. Then telling Vi she must remain alone in that room till bedtime, she left her. Not one harsh or angry word had been spoken, and the young heart was full of a passionate love to her mother that made the thought of having grieved her a far bitterer punishment than the enforced solitude, though that was at any time irksome enough to one of Vi's social, fun-loving temperament. It cost the mother a pang to inflict the punishment and leave the darling alone in her trouble; but Elsie was not one to weakly yield to inclination when it came in conflict with duty. Hers was not a selfish love; she would bear any present pain to secure the future welfare of her children. She rejoined her friends in the drawing-room apparently as serenely happy as her wont, but through all the afternoon and evening her heart was with her little one in her banishment and grief, yearning over her with tenderest mother love. Little Elsie, too, missed her sister, and returning from her walk, went in search of her. She found her at last in their mamma's dressing-room seated at the window, her cheek resting on her hand, the tears coursing slowly down, while her eyes gazed longingly out over the beautiful fields and lovely orange groves. "Oh my own Vi, my darling little sister! what's the matter?" asked Elsie, clasping her in her arms, and kissing the wet cheek. A burst of bitter sobs, while the small arms clung about the sister's neck, and the golden head rested for an instant on her shoulder, then the words, "Ah I'd tell you, but I can't now, for you must run right away, because mamma said I must stay here all alone till bedtime." "Then I must go, pet; but don't cry so: if you've been naughty and are sorry, Jesus, and mamma too, will forgive you and love you just the same," Elsie said, kissing her again, then releasing her, hurried from the room, crying heartily in sympathy. On the upper veranda, whither she went to recover her composure, before rejoining her mates, she found her mother pacing slowly to and fro. "Is my Elsie in trouble, too?" Mrs. Travilla asked, pausing in her walk and holding out her hand. "For my Vi, mamma," sobbed Elsie, taking the hand and pressing it to her lips. "Yes, poor little pet! mother's heart aches for her too," Mrs. Travilla answered, her own eyes filling. "I am glad my little daughters love and sympathize with each other." "Mamma, I would rather stay with Vi, than be with the others. May I?" "No, daughter, I have told her she must spend the rest of the day alone." "Yes, mamma, she told me so and wouldn't let me stay even one minute to hear about her trouble." "That was right." Time crept by very slowly to Violet. She thought that afternoon the longest she had ever known. After a while she heard a familiar step, and almost before she knew it papa had her in his arms. With a little cry of joy she put hers around his neck and returned the kiss he had just given her. "Oh I'm so glad!" she said, "but, papa, you'll have to go away, because nobody must stay with me; I'm--" "Papa may," he said, sitting down with her on his knee. "So you told mamma about the naughtiness?" "Yes, sir." "I am glad you did. Always tell mamma everything. If you have disobeyed her never delay a moment to go and confess it." "Yes, papa: but if it's you?" "Then come to me in the same way. If you want to be a happy child have no concealment from father or mother." "Shall I tell you about it now, papa?" "You may do as you like about that since your mother knows it all." "Papa, I'm afraid you wouldn't love such a naughty girl any more." "Mamma loves you quite as well, and so shall I; because you are our own, own little daughter. There were tears in mamma's eyes when she told me that she had had to punish our little Vi." "Oh I'm so sorry to have made mamma cry," sobbed the child. "Sin always brings sorrow and suffering sooner or later, my little girl; remember that; and that it is because Jesus loves us that he would save us from our sins." After a little more talk, in which Violet repeated to him the same story of her wrong doing that she had already told her mother, her papa left her and she was again alone till mammy came with her supper--a bowl of rich sweet milk and bread from the unbolted flour, that might have tempted the appetite of an epicure. "Come, honey, dry dose wet eyes an' eat yo' supper," said mammy, setting it out daintily on a little table which she placed before the child and covered with a fine damask cloth fresh from the iron. "De milk's mos' all cream, an' de bread good as kin be: an' you kin hab much as eber you want ob both ob dem." "Did mamma say so, mammy?" "Yes, chile; an' don't shed no mo' dose tears now; ole mammy lubs you like her life." "But I've been very naughty, mammy," sobbed the little girl. "Yes, Miss Wi'let, honey: an' we's all been naughty, but de good Lord forgib us for Jesus' sake if we's sorry an' don't 'tend neber to do so no mo'." "Yes, mammy, Oh I wish you could stay with me I but you musn't: for mamma said I must be all alone." "Yes, darlin'; an' if you wants mo' supper, jes ring dis, an' mammy'll come." She placed a small silver bell on the table beside Vi, and with a tender, compassionate look at the tear-swollen face, went away. The young Travillas were sometimes denied dainties because of misconduct, but always allowed to satisfy their youthful appetites with an abundance of wholesome, nourishing food. Vi ate her supper with a keen relish, and found herself greatly comforted by it. How much one's views of life are brightened by a good comfortable meal that does not overtax the digestive organs. Vi suddenly remembered with a feeling of relief that the worst of her trouble--the confession--was over, and the punishment nearly so. It was only a little while till mamma came, took her on her lap, kissed and forgave her. "Mamma, I'm so, _so_ sorry for having disobeyed and grieved you!" whispered the child, weeping afresh: "for I do love you very, very much, my own mamma." "I know it, dearest; but I want you to be far more sorry for having disobeyed God, who loves you more, a great deal, than your parents do, and has given you every good thing you have." "Yes, mamma, I've asked God many times to forgive me for Jesus's sake, and I think he has." "Yes, if you asked with your heart, I am sure he has; for Jesus said, 'Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, he will give it you.'" There was a little pause, Vi nestling close in her mother's arms; then with a quiver in her voice, "Mamma," she sighed, "will you ever trust me again?" "Just the same as before, my child; because I believe you are truly sorry for your sin against God and against me." "Thank you, dear, dear mamma! oh I hope God will help me to keep from ever being naughty any more." Chapter Twenty-seventh. "Conscience makes cowards of us all." Meta was not in a cheerful or companionable mood during the walk that afternoon; the stings of conscience goaded her and she was haunted by the fear that Violet, so young and innocent, so utterly unused to concealments, would betray her share in the mischief done, even without intending to do so. "Meta, what's the matter with you?" Herbert asked at length; "you haven't spoken a pleasant word since we came out." "I'm not ill," was the laconic reply. "Then you must be in the sulks, and ought to have staid at home," returned the plain-spoken brother. "Oh don't tease her," said little Elsie. "Perhaps she has a headache, and I know by myself that that makes one feel dull, and sometimes even cross." "You cross! I don't believe you ever were in your life," said Herbert. "I've never seen you any thing but pleasant as a May morning." "Don't quarrel, children, but help me to gather some of these lovely flowers to scatter over the graves up there on the hill," said Rosie Dinsmore. "Our graves," said Eddie, softly. "Yes I'd like to; but, Aunt Rosie, I don't believe we can get in." "Yes, we can," she answered. "Uncle Joe's up there at work, weeding and trimming the rosebushes." "Then I'll gather plenty of these beauties," said Eddie, stooping to pluck the lovely, many-hued blossoms that spangled the velvety grass at their feet in every direction. "How beautiful! how beautiful they are! and some of them so fragrant!" exclaimed Elsie, rapidly filling a pretty basket she carried in her hand. "How good God is to give us so many lovely things!" "Yes," returned Rosie, "it seems a pity to pluck them from their stems and make them wither and die; but there is such a profusion that what we take can hardly be missed." "And it's honoring our graves to scatter flowers over them: isn't it, Aunt Rosie?" Eddie asked. "Why do you say our graves? just as if you were already buried there," laughed Herbert. "Come," said Rosie, "I think we have enough now." "O Aunt Rosie, down in that little dell yonder they are still thicker than here, and more beautiful, I think," exclaimed Elsie. "But we have enough now; your basket is full. We'll go to that dell as we come back, and gather some to take home to our mammas." "Oh yes, that will be best," Elsie said, with cheerful acquiescence. "I shall go now and get some worthy to honor the dead," said Meta, starting off in the direction of the dell. "Meta likes to show her independence," said Rosie, smiling; "we won't wait for her." They climbed the hill, pushed open the gate of the little enclosure and passed in; very quietly, for their youthful spirits were subdued by the solemn stillness of the place, and a feeling of awe crept over them at thought of the dead whose dust lay sleeping there. Silently they scattered the flowers over each lowly resting place, reserving the most beautiful for that of her who was best known to them all--the first who had borne the name of Elsie Dinsmore. "Our dear grandma!" whispered Elsie and Eddie, softly. "I can't help feeling as if she was some relation to me too," said Rosie, "because she was my sister's mother, and papa's wife." The breeze carried the words to the ear of Uncle Joe, who was at work on the farther side of the enclosure, and had not till that moment been aware of the vicinity of the young people. He rose and came hobbling toward them, pulling off his hat and bowing respectfully. "Dat's so, Miss Rosie, ef you lubs de Lord, like she did, de dear young Missus dat lays heyah; for don't de 'postle say ob de Lord's chillen dat dey's all one in Christ Jesus? all one, Miss Rosie: heirs ob God and joint heirs wid Christ." "Yes, Uncle Joe, that is true." "Ah, she was lubly an' lubbed de Master well," he went on, leaning upon his staff and gazing fixedly at the name engraved on the stone, "She's not dead, chillen: her soul's wid de Lord in dat land ob light an' glory, an' de body planted heyah till de mornin' ob de resurrection." "And then she will rise more beautiful than ever," said little Elsie. "Mamma has told me about it. 'The dead in Christ shall rise first.'" "Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord," repeated Rosie. "Yes, Miss Rosie. Bressed hope." And Uncle Joe hobbled back to his work. "Here, look at these!" said Meta hurrying up, heated and out of breath with running, "Aren't they beauties?" She emptied her apron upon the grave as she spoke, then pulled out her handkerchief with a jerk, to wipe the perspiration from her face Something fell against the tombstone with a ringing, metallic sound. "A key! a door key!" cried Herbert, stooping to pick it up. "Why, Meta, what key is it? and what are you doing with it?" "I never heard that it had any particular name," she answered tartly, snatching it from him and restoring it to her pocket, while her cheeks flushed crimson. The others exchanged surprised glances, but said nothing. "But what door does it belong to? and what are you doing with it?" persisted Herbert. "Talk of the curiosity of women and girls!" sneered Meta: "men and boys have quite as much; but it's against my principles to gratify it." "Your principles!" laughed Herbert "You, prying, meddling Meta; talking about other people's curiosity! Well, that's a good one!" "You insulting boy! I'll tell mamma of you," retorted Meta, beginning to cry. "Ha! ha! I wish you would! tell her my remarks about the key, and she'll soon make you explain where it belongs, and how it came into your possession." At that Meta, deigning no reply, put her handkerchief to her eyes and hurried away toward the house. "There, she's gone to tell mamma," said Harry. "Not she," said Herbert, "she knows better; she'd only get reproved for telling tales, and be forced to tell all about that key. She's been at some mischief, I haven't a doubt: she's always prying, and meddling with what she's been told not to touch. Mamma says that's her besetting sin." "And what does she say is yours?" asked Rosie, looking him steadily in the eye. Herbert colored and turned away. His mother had told him more than once or twice, that he was quite too much disposed to domineer over, and reprove his younger brother and sisters. "Well, I don't care!" he muttered to himself, "'tisn't half so mean a fault as Meta's. I'm the oldest, and Harry and the girls ought to be willing to let me tell them of it when they go wrong." The key, which belonged to a closet in Mr. Lilburn's dressing-room, seemed to burn in Meta's pocket. She was frightened that Herbert and the others had seen it. "They all looked as if they knew something was wrong," she said to herself, "and to be sure what business could I have with a door-key. Dear me! why wasn't I more careful. But it's like 'murder will out;' or what the Bible says; 'Be sure your sin will find you out.'" She was afraid to meet her mother with the key in her possession, so took so circuitous a route to reach the house, and walked so slowly that the others were there some time before her. Her mother was on the veranda looking out for her. "Why, how late you are, Meta," she said. "Make haste to your room and have your hair and dress made neat; for the tea-bell will soon ring." "Yes, ma'am," and Meta flew into the house and up to her room, only too glad of an excuse for not stopping to be questioned. She was down again barely in time to take her seat at the table with the others. She glanced furtively at the faces of her mother, grandmother, and Aunt Elsie, and drew a sigh of relief as she perceived that they had evidently learned nothing yet of her misconduct. After tea she watched Mr. Lilburn's movements and was glad to see him step into the library, seat himself before the fire, and take up a book. "He's safe to stay there for awhile," she thought, "so fond of reading as he is," and ran up to her room for the key, which she had left there hidden under her pillow. She secured it unobserved and stole cautiously to the door of his dressing-room. She found it slightly ajar, pushed it a little wider open, crept in, gained the closet door, and was in the act of putting the key into the lock, when a deep groan, coming from within the closet, apparently, so startled her that she uttered a faint cry, and dropped the key on the floor; then a hollow voice said, "If you ever touch that again, I'll--" But Meta waited to hear no more; fear seemed to lend her wings, and she flew from the room in a panic of terror. "Ah ha! ah ha! um h'm! ah ha! you were at some mischief, no doubt, my lassie. 'The wicked flee when no man pursueth,' the good Book tells us," said the occupant of the room, stepping out from the shadow of the window-curtain. He had laid down his book almost immediately, remembering that he had some letters to write, and had come up to his apartments in search of one he wished to answer. It was already dark, except for the light of a young moon, but by some oversight of the servants the lamps had not yet been lighted here. He was feeling about for matches, when hearing approaching footsteps he stepped behind the curtain and waited to see who the intruder was. He recognized Meta's form and movements, and sure that no legitimate errand had brought her there at that time, resolved to give her a fright. Tearing down the hall, Meta suddenly encountered her mother, who, coming up to her own apartments, had reached the head of the stairs just in time to witness Meta's exit from those of Mr. Lilburn. "Oh I'm so frightened! so frightened, mamma!" cried the child, throwing herself into her mother's arms. "As you richly deserve to be," said Mrs. Carrington, taking her by the hand and leading her into her dressing-room. "What were you doing in Mr. Lilburn's apartments?" Meta hung her head in silence. "Speak, Meta; I will have an answer," her mother said, with determination. "I wasn't doing any harm; only putting away something that belonged there." "What was it?" "A key." "Meddling again! prying even into the affairs of a strange gentleman!" groaned her mother. "Meta, what am I to do with you? this dreadful fault of yours mortifies me beyond everything. I feel like taking you back to Ashlands at once, and never allowing you to go from home at all; lest you should bring a life-long disgrace upon yourself and me." "Mother, I wasn't prying or meddling with Mr. Lilburn's affairs," said Meta, bursting into sobs and tears. "What were you doing there? tell me all about it without any more ado." Knowing that her mother was a determined woman, and seeing that there was now no escape from a full confession, Meta made it. Mrs. Carrington was much distressed. "Meta, you have robbed your Aunt Elsie, your Aunt Elsie who has always been so good, so kind to me and to you: and I can never make good her loss; never replace that plate." "Just that one tiny plate couldn't be worth so very much," muttered the offender. "Its intrinsic value was perhaps not very great," replied Mrs. Carrington, "but to my dear friend it was worth much as a memento of her dead mother. Meta, you shall not go with us to-morrow, but shall spend the day locked up in your own room at home." An excursion had been planned for the next day, in which the whole party, adults and children, were to have a share. They were to leave at an early hour in the morning, travel several miles by boat, and spend the day picnicking on a deserted plantation--one Meta had not yet seen, but had heard spoken of as a very lovely place. She had set her heart on going, and this decree of her mother came upon her as a great blow. She was very fond of being on the water, and of seeing new places, and had pictured to herself the delights of roaming over the large old house, which she had heard was still standing, peeping into the closets, pulling open drawers, perhaps discovering secret stairways and--oh delightful thought!--possibly coming upon some hidden treasure forgotten by the owners in their hasty flight. She wept bitterly, coaxed, pleaded, and made fair promises for the future, but all in vain. Her mother was firm. "You must stay at home, Meta," she said. "It grieves me to deprive you of so great a pleasure, but I must do what I can to help you to overcome this dreadful fault. You have chosen stolen pleasures at the expense of disobedience to me, and most ungrateful, wicked behavior toward my kind friend; and as a just and necessary punishment you must be deprived of the share you were to have had in the innocent enjoyments planned for to-morrow. You shall also make a full confession to your Aunt Elsie and ask her forgiveness." "I won't!" exclaimed Meta angrily; then catching the look of pained surprise in her mother's face, she ran to her and throwing her arms about her neck, "O mamma! mamma! forgive me!" she cried. "I can't bear to see you look so grieved: I will never say that again; I will do whatever you bid me." Mrs. Carrington kissed her child in silence, then taking her by the hand, "Come and let us have this painful business over," she said, and led the way to Mrs. Travilla's boudoir. Elsie had no reproaches for Meta, but kindly forgave her, and even requested that she might be permitted to share in the morrow's enjoyment, but Mrs. Carrington would not hear of it. Chapter Twenty-eighth. "Mature I'll court in her sequester'd haunts, By mountain, meadow, streamlet grove or cell." --SMOLLET. Mr. Dinsmore was pacing the front veranda, enjoying the cool, fresh morning air, when little feet came pattering through the hall and a sweet child voice hailed him with, "Good morning, my dear grandpa." "Ah, grandpa's little cricket, where were you last evening?" he asked, sitting down and taking her on his knee. It was his pet name for Vi, because she was so merry. The fair face flushed, but putting her arms about his neck, her lips to his ear, "I was in mamma's dressing-room, grandpa," she whispered. "I was 'bliged to stay there, 'cause I'd been naughty and disobeyed mamma." "Ah, I am sorry to hear that I but I hope you don't intend to disobey any more." "No, indeed, grandpa." "Are you considered good enough to go with us to-day?" "Yes, grandpa, mamma says I was punished yesterday, and I don't be punished twice for the same thing." "Mamma is quite right," he said, "and grandpa is very glad she allows you to go." "I don't think I deserve it, grandpa, but she's such a dear, kind mamma." "So she is, pet, and I hope you will always be a dear good daughter to her," said grandpa, holding the little face close to his. Meta was not allowed to come down to breakfast. Vi missed her from the table, and at prayers, and going up to Mrs. Carrington, asked, "Is Meta sick, Aunt Sophie?" "No, dear, but she has been too naughty to be with us. I have said she must stay in her own room all day." "And not go to the picnic? Oh please let her go, auntie!" The other children joined their entreaties to Vi's, but without avail; and with streaming eyes Meta, at her window, saw the embarkation, and watched the boats glide away till lost to view in the distance. "Too bad!" she sobbed, "it's too, too bad that I must stay here and learn long hard lessons while all the rest are having such a good time!" Then she thought remorsefully of her mother's sad look, as she bade her good-bye and said how sorry she was to be obliged to leave her behind, and as some atonement set to work diligently at her tasks. The weather was very fine, the sun shone, the birds filled the air with melody, and a delicious breeze danced in the tree-tops, rippled the water, and played with the brown and golden ringlets of little Elsie and Vi, and the flaxen curls of Daisy Carrington. The combined influences of the clear, pure air, the pleasant motion, as the rowers bent to their oars, and the lovely scenery meeting the eye at every turn, were not to be resisted; and all, old and young, were soon in gayest spirits. They sang songs, cracked jokes, told anecdotes, and were altogether a very merry company. After a delightful row of two hours or more the rounding of a point brought suddenly into view the place of their destination. The boats were made fast and the party stepped ashore, followed by the men servants bearing rugs and wraps and several large well-filled hampers of provisions. With joyous shouts the children ran hither and thither; the boys tumbled on the grass, the girls gathered great bouquets of the beautiful flowers, twisted them in their curls, and wore garlands for their hats. "Walk up to de house, ladies an' gentlemen; Massa an' Missus not at home now, but be berry glad to see you when dey gets back," said a pleasant voice close at hand. All but Mr. Lilburn looked about for the speaker, wondered at seeing no one, then laughed at themselves for being so often and so easily deceived. "Suppose we accept the invitation," said Mr. Travilla, leading the way. The two old ladies preferred a seat under a wide-spreading tree on the lawn; but the others accompanied him in a tour of the deserted mansion already falling rapidly to decay. They climbed the creaking stairs, passed along the silent corridors, looked into the empty rooms, and out of the broken windows upon the flower gardens, once trim and gay, now choked with rubbish, and overgrown with weeds, and sighed over the desolations of war. Some of the lower rooms were still in a pretty good state of preservation, and in one of these the servants were directed to build a fire and prepare tea and coffee. Plenty of dry branches strewed the ground in a bit of woods but a few rods distant. Some of these were quickly gathered and a brightly blazing fire presently crackled upon the hearth and roared up the wide chimney. Leaving the house, which in its loneliness and dilapidation inspired only feelings of sadness and gloom, our party wandered over the grounds, still beautiful even in their forlornly neglected state. The domain was extensive, and the older boys having taken an opposite direction from their parents, were presently out of their sight and hearing, the house being directly between. Uncle Joe, however, was with the lads, so no anxiety was felt for their safety. Wandering on, they came to a stream of limpid water flowing between high grassy banks, and spanned by a little rustic bridge. "Let's cross over," said Herbert, "that's such a pretty bridge, and it looks lovely on the other side." "No, no, 'tain't safe, boys, don't you go for to try it," exclaimed Uncle Joe. "Pooh! what do you know about it?" returned Herbert, who always had great confidence in his own opinion. "If it won't bear us all at once, it certainly will one at a time. What do you say, Ed?" "I think Uncle Joe can judge better whether it's safe than little boys like us." "Don't you believe it: his eyes are getting old and he can't see half so well as you or I." "I kin see dat some ob de planks is gone, Marse Herbert; an' de ole timbahs looks shaky." "Shaky! nonsense! they'll not shake under my weight, and I'm going to cross." "Now, Herbie, don't you do it," said his brother. "You know mamma wouldn't allow it if she was here." "'Twon't be disobedience though; as she isn't here, and never has forbidden me to go on that bridge," persisted Herbert. "Mamma and papa say that truly obedient children don't do what they know their parents would forbid if they were present," said Eddie. "I say nobody but a coward would be afraid to venture on that bridge," said Herbert, ignoring Eddie's last remark. "Suppose it should break and let you fall! the worst would be a ducking." "De watah's deep, Marse Herbert, and you might git drownded!" said Uncle Joe. "Or maybe some ob de timbahs fall on you an' break yo' leg or yo' back." They were now close to the bridge. "It's very high up above the water," said Harry, "and a good many boards are off: I'd be afraid to go on it." "Coward!" sneered his brother. "Are you afraid too, Ed?" "Yes, I'm afraid to disobey my father; because that's disobeying God." "Did your father ever say a word about not going on this bridge?" "No; but he's told me never to run into danger needlessly; that is when there's nothing to be gained by it for myself or anybody else." "Before I'd be such a coward!" muttered Herbert, deliberately walking on to the bridge. The other two boys watched his movements in trembling, breathless silence, while Uncle Joe began looking about for some means of rescue in case of accident. Herbert picked his way carefully over the half-rotten timbers till he had gained the middle of the bridge, then stopped, looked back at his companions and pulling off his cap, waved it around his head, "Hurrah! here I am: who's afraid? who was right this time?" Then leaning over the low railing, "Oh!" he cried, "you ought just to see the fish! splendid big fellows. Come on, boys, and look at 'em!" But at that instant the treacherous railing gave way with a loud crack, and with a wild scream for help, over he went, headforemost, falling with a sudden plunge into the water and disappearing at once beneath the surface. "Oh he'll drown! he'll drown!" shrieked Harry, wringing his hands, while Eddie echoed the cry for help. "Run to de house, Marse Ed, an' fotch some ob de boys to git him out," said Uncle Joe, hurrying to the edge of the stream with an old fishing-rod he had found lying among the weeds on its bank. But a dark object sprang past him, plunged into the stream, and as Herbert rose to the surface, seized him by the coat-collar, and so holding his head above water, swam with him to the shore. "Good Bruno! brave fellow! good dog!" said a voice near at hand, and turning to look for the speaker, Uncle Joe found Mr. Daly standing by his side. Leaving his gayer companions, the minister had wandered away, book in hand, to this sequestered spot. Together he and Uncle Joe assisted the dog to drag Herbert up the bank, and laid him on the grass. The fall had stunned the boy, but now consciousness returned. "I'm not hurt," he said, opening his eyes. "But don't tell mother: she'd be frightened half to death." "We'll save her as much as we can; and I hope you've learned a lesson, young sir, and will not be so foolhardy another time," said Mr. Daly. "P'raps he'll tink ole folks not such fools, nex' time," remarked Uncle Joe. "Bless de Lord dat he didn't get drownded!" The men and boys came running from the house, bringing cloaks and shawls to wrap about the dripping boy. They would have carried him back with them, but he stoutly resisted, declaring himself quite as able to walk as anybody. "Let him do so, the exercise will help to prevent his taking cold provided he is well wrapped up;" said Mr. Daly, throwing a cloak over the lad's shoulders and folding it carefully about him. "Ill news flies fast," says the proverb. Mrs. Carrington met them upon the threshold, pale and trembling with affright. She clasped her boy in her arms with a heart too full for utterance. "Never mind, mother," he said, "I've only had a ducking, that's all." "But it may not be all: you may get your death of cold," she said, "I've no dry clothes for you here." By this time the whole party had hurried to the spot. "Here's a good fire; suppose we hang him up to dry before it," said old Mr. Dinsmore with a grim smile. "His clothes rather; rolling him up in cloaks and shawls in the meantime," suggested Herbert's grandmother. "Let us ladies go back to the lawn, and leave his uncle to oversee the business." Herbert had spoiled his holiday so far as the remainder of the visit to this old estate was concerned: he could not join the others at the feast presently spread under the trees on the lawn, or in the sports that followed; but had to pass the time lying idly on a pallet beside the fire, with nothing to entertain him but his own thoughts and watching the servants, until, their work done, they too wandered away in search of amusement. Most of the afternoon was spent by the gentlemen in fishing in that same stream into which Herbert's folly and self-conceit had plunged him. Eddie had his own little fishing-rod, and with it in his hand sat on a log beside his father, a little apart from the rest, patiently waiting for the fish to bite. Mr. Travilla had thrown several out upon the grass, but Eddie's bait did not seem to attract a single one. He began to grow weary of sitting still and silent, and creeping closer to his father whispered, "Papa, I'm tired, and I want to ask you something. Do you think the fish will hear if I speak low?" "Perhaps not; you may try it if you like," returned Mr. Travilla, looking somewhat amused. "Thank you, papa. Well, Herbert said nobody but a coward would be afraid to go on that bridge. Do you think he was right, papa?" "No, my boy; but if you had gone upon it to avoid being laughed at or called a coward, I should say you showed a great lack of true courage. He is a brave man or boy who dares to do right without regard to consequences." "But, papa, if you'd been there and said I might if I wanted to?" "Hardly a supposable case, my son." "Well, if I'd been a man and could do as I chose?" "Men have no more right to do as they please than boys; they must obey God. If his will is theirs, they may do as they please, just as you may if it is your pleasure to be good and obedient." "Papa, I don't understand. Does God say we must not go into dangerous places?" "He says, 'Thou shalt not kill;' we have no right to kill ourselves, or to run the risk of doing so merely for amusement or to be considered brave or dexterous." "But if somebody needs us to do it to save them from being hurt or killed, papa?" "Then it becomes quite a different matter: it is brave, generous, and right to risk our own life or limbs to save those of others." "Then I may do it, papa?" "Yes, my son; Jesus laid down his life to save others, and in all things he is to be our example." A hand was laid lightly on the shoulder of each, and a sweet voice said, "May my boy heed his father's instructions in this and in every thing else." "Wife!" Mr. Travilla said, turning to look up into the fair face bent over them. "Mamma, dear mamma, I do mean to," said Eddie. "Is it not time to go home?" she asked. "The little ones are growing weary." "Yes, the sun is getting low." In a few moments the whole party had reembarked; in less exuberant spirits than in the morning, yet perhaps not less happy: little disposed to talk, but with hearts filled with a quiet, peaceful content. Viamede was reached without accident, a bountiful supper awaiting them there partaken of with keen appetites, and the little ones went gladly to bed. Returning from the nursery to the drawing-room, Elsie found her namesake daughter sitting apart in a bay window, silently gazing out over the beautiful landscape sleeping in the moonlight. She looked up with a smile as her mother took a seat by her side and passed an arm about her waist. "Isn't it lovely, mamma? see how the waters of our lakelet shine in the moonbeams like molten silver! and the fields, the groves, the hills! how charming they look in the soft light." "Yes, darling: and that was what you were thinking of, sitting here alone?" "Yes, mamma; and of how good God is to us to give us this lovely home and dear, kind father and mother to take care of us. It is always so sweet to come back to my home when I've been away. I was enjoying it all the way coming in the boat to-night; that and thinking of the glad time when we shall all be gathered into the lovelier home Jesus is preparing for us." "God grant we may!" said the mother, with emotion, "it is my heart's desire and prayer to God for all my dear ones, especially my children. 'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.'" 
14910	----	ELSIE AT THE WORLD'S FAIR by MARTHA FINLEY Author of "The Elsie Books," "The Mildred Books," _Wanted, A Pedigree_, etc., etc. New York Dodd, Mead & Company Publishers 1894 NOTE--The author desires to acknowledge her indebtedness to the "_Chicago Record's_ History of the World's Fair," "The Historical Fine Art Series," published by H.S. Smith and C.R. Graham, for Historical Publishing Company, Philadelphia, and the "_World's_ Fine Art Series," published by N.D. Thompson Publishing Company, St. Louis, Mo., for descriptions and statistics in regard to the White City and its exhibits. CHAPTER I. Hugh Lilburn was very urgent with his betrothed for a speedy marriage, pleading that as her brother had robbed him and his father of their expected housekeeper--his cousin Marian--he could not long do without the wife who was to supply her place. Her sisters, Isadore and Virginia, who had come up from the far South to be present at the ceremony, joined with him in his plea for haste. They wanted to see her in her own home, they said, and that without remaining too long away from theirs. Ella finally yielded to their wishes so far as to complete her preparations within a month after the home-coming from the North. The wedding was a really brilliant affair, and followed up by parties given by the different members of the family connection; but no bridal trip was taken, neither bride nor groom caring for it, and Hugh's business requiring his presence at home. A few weeks later Calhoun Conly went North for his bride. Some festivities followed his return; then all settled down for the winter, Harold and Herbert Travilla taking up their medical studies with Dr. Conly, and Captain Raymond's pupils resuming such of their lessons as had been dropped for the time, though the wedding festivities had been allowed to interfere but little with them, as--with the exception of Marian, now Mrs. Conly--they were considered too young to attend the parties. A matter of regret to none of them except Rosie Travilla and Lucilla Raymond, and even they, though they would have been glad to be permitted to go, made no remonstrance or complaint, but submitted cheerfully to the decision of their elders. A busy, happy winter and spring followed, bringing no unusual event to any branch of the family. Max was frequently heard from, his father continuing to send him daily letters, several of which would be replied to together by one from the lad--always frank, candid, and affectionate, sometimes expressing a great longing for a sight of home and the dear ones there. After receiving such a letter the captain was very apt to pay a flying visit to the Academy, in case there were no special reasons for remaining closely at home, sometimes going alone, at others taking one or more members of the family with him; his wife, if she could make it convenient to go, or one or more of his daughters, by whom the little trip and the sight of their brother were esteemed a great reward for good conduct and perfect recitations. Both they and the lad himself looked forward with ardent desire and joyous anticipation to the June commencement, after which would begin the one long holiday Max would have during the six years of his course at the Academy. The holidays for the home pupils began a day or two earlier, and a merry party, including, besides the captain and his immediate family, the rest of his pupils, with Grandma Elsie, her father and his wife, boarded the _Dolphin_ and set sail for Annapolis to attend the commencement at the Naval Academy. The weather was delightful, and all greatly enjoyed the little trip. On their arrival they found Max well and in fine spirits. The reports of both his studies and conduct were all that could be desired, and the home friends--his father in especial--regarded him with both pride and affection, and expressed much pleasure in the fact that he was to accompany them on the return trip. Max dearly loved his home, and during the nearly two years of his absence from it had had occasional fits of excessive homesickness; more, however, for the dear ones dwelling there than for the place. So that he was full of joy on learning that every one of the family was on board the _Dolphin_. No one cared to tarry long at Annapolis, and they set out on the return trip as soon as Max was free to go with them. The lovely weather continued, there was nothing to mar the pleasure of the short voyage, the drive and ride that succeeded it--for the carriages and Max's pony, Rex, which he hailed with almost a shout of delight and hastened to mount, were found awaiting them at the wharf--or the arrival at their homes, Ion and Woodburn, which seemed to the young cadet to be looking even more beautiful than ever before. "Oh, was there ever a lovelier place!" was his delighted exclamation as the carriage, closely followed by Rex, turned in at the great gates giving admission to the Woodburn driveway. "I thought that of it before I left, but it is vastly improved; almost an earthly paradise." "So I think," said Violet. "It does credit to your father's taste." "And yours," added her husband, with a pleased smile; "for have I not always consulted with my wife before making any alteration or adding what I thought would be an improvement? And has not the first suggestion come from her more than once?" "Quite true," she returned, giving him a look of loving appreciation; "in fact, my dear, you are so ready to humor and indulge me in every possible way that I am half afraid to make a suggestion." "Lest I should have too much pleasure in carrying it out?" he queried, with playful look and tone. "Oh, certainly!" she replied with a musical laugh; "it would be a sad pity to spoil so good a husband." "Father, may I ride over the grounds before alighting?" asked Max's voice in eager tones, just at that moment. "If you wish, my son," the captain answered pleasantly. "But suppose you delay a little and let some of us accompany you?" "Yes, sir; that will be better," was the prompt, cheerful rejoinder, and in another minute Max had dismounted at the door of the mansion, and stood ready to assist the occupants of the carriage to alight. "Ah, I see you have been making some changes and improvements here, father," he said, glancing about as he entered the hall door. "Yes, and in other parts of the house," said Violet. "Perhaps you might as well go over it before visiting the grounds." "I am at liberty to go everywhere, as of old?" he returned, half in assertion, half enquiringly and turning from her to his father. "Certainly, my son; it is as truly your father's house, therefore open in every part to you, as it was before you left its shelter for Uncle Sam's Naval Academy," replied the captain, regarding the lad with mingled fatherly affection, pride, and amusement. "Thank you, sir," returned Max heartily. "Ah, Christine!" as the housekeeper, whom something had detained in another part of the house at the moment of their arrival, now appeared among them, "I'm pleased to see you again; looking so well, too. I really don't think you have changed in the least in all the time I have been away," shaking her hand warmly as he spoke. "Ah, Master Max, sir, I can't say the same of you," she returned with a pleasant smile into the bright young face. "You are growing up fast and looking more than ever like your father." "Thank you," laughed Max, his eyes shining, "you couldn't possibly give me a higher compliment than that, Christine." "Ah, who shall say that I am not the complimented one, Max?" laughed the captain. "I, papa," cried Lulu. "O Maxie, come upstairs and see the improvements there. You can look at the downstairs rooms and grounds afterward." "Yes, run along, children," said their father, "and make yourselves ready for the tea table before you come down again." "Yes, sir," they answered in cheerful tones, Max catching up little Ned as he spoke, and setting him on his shoulder. "Hold on tight, laddie, and your big brother will carry you up," he said, and one chubby arm instantly went round his neck, a gleeful laugh accompanying it as Max began the ascent, his sisters following, Violet and the captain presently bringing up the rear. "Into our rooms first, Max," said Violet. "You, too, Lulu and Gracie, that you may hear what he has to say about things there." "Thank you, Mamma Vi," returned Max. "I want to visit every room in the house and have all the family go with me if they like." "You will find a few additions here and there to the furnishings, but no great changes anywhere, Max," said his father. "I should hope not, sir, as things seemed to me pretty nearly perfect before I went away," returned Max in a lively tone, "I only wish every one of my mates had as sweet a home to spend his long vacation in, and as kind a father and friends to help him enjoy it." "Ah, we may well pity the lad who lacks the blessings of a good home and affectionate parents," said the captain. "I can never forget how much they were to me in my boyhood." "I think you must have forgotten how long I have been away, papa," laughed Max as they finished the circuit of the rooms on that floor, "for I have come upon a good many new things." "Ah! well, they have been added so gradually that I did not realize how numerous they were," returned his father, adding, "Now you may as well go on to the upper rooms and tarry long enough in your own to make yourself neat for the tea table." "Yes, sir;" and the lad hurried up the stairs, the captain, Lulu, and Grace following. "Hurrah!" he cried joyously as he reached the open door of his own room, "why, this is lovely! prettier than ever, and it was like a room in a palace before compared to the one I share with Hunt at the Academy." "Suppose you walk in and take a nearer view," said his father, and Max obeyed with alacrity, the others following. "Mamma and papa said there was nothing too good for you, and so we all thought, Maxie," said Grace, Lulu adding, "Indeed we do all think so." "Indeed, I'm afraid it is," returned Max, gazing admiringly at the beautiful carpet, the lace curtains looped back with wreaths of flowers, the fine engravings on the walls, the easy chairs, tasteful mantel ornaments, and the many other articles of adornment and convenience. "Your mamma and I have made some changes, improvements, as we thought," the captain said in gratified and affectionate tones, "hoping you would be pleased with then; and I rather think you are." "Pleased, papa? I'm delighted!" cried Max. "The only drawback to my pleasure is the thought of the very short time I can stay to enjoy all this beauty and luxury." "Yet I am sure my boy does not want to settle down here to a life of inglorious ease," remarked the captain in a tone of mingled assertion and enquiry. "I rejoice in the firm conviction that his great desire is to serve God and his country to the best of his ability." "Yes, father, it is," said Max earnestly. "But," he added with a smile, "if you don't want me to love to be with you in this sweet home you should not make it so attractive and be so very kind and affectionate to me." "My boy," the captain said with emotion and laying a hand affectionately on his son's shoulder, "there is never a day when I do not thank my heavenly Father for his gift to me of so good and dutiful a son." "I don't know how any fellow could help being dutiful and affectionate to such a father as mine, sir," returned Max, his eyes shining. By his own desire Max's vacation was spent at home and in its vicinity, with the occasional variety of a short voyage in his father's yacht, the _Dolphin_, which gave the lad opportunities for the display of the seafaring knowledge gained in the past two years, and adding to it from his father's store of the same, under that father's instruction. They were generally accompanied by the whole Woodburn family, always by Lulu and Grace, Grandma Elsie, Rose, Walter, and Evelyn Leland. Thus the weeks flew by very enjoyably and on swift wings, and the time came for Max's return to Annapolis. So the _Dolphin_ was headed for that port and presently steamed away again, leaving the lad behind with a rather sad heart at the thought that years must pass before he could again spend even a brief season under his father's roof. CHAPTER II. It is summer again, the summer of 1893, for two years have passed away since the occurrence of the events related in our former chapter. There have been few changes among our friends at Ion, Woodburn, and the other plantations belonging to the family connection, except such as time brings to all. The elder ones seem scarcely any older, but the younger ones are growing up. Elsie's sons, Harold and Herbert, are now practising physicians, still making their home at Ion, but having an office in a neighboring village; Rosie has attained her twentieth year and entered society; but Walter is still one of Captain Raymond's pupils, as are Lulu and Grace, now blooming girls of fifteen and seventeen, their father's joy and pride and as devotedly attached to him as ever. Max is still a cadet in the Naval Academy, pursuing his course there in a manner altogether satisfactory to his father and friends. The captain thinks no man ever had a brighter, better son than his first-born, or one more likely to do good service to his country in his chosen profession. It seems hard at times, a sad thing to have to do without his boy, yet he never really regrets that Max has made choice of the naval service as his life work. He did, however, regret that Max would not be able to go to Chicago to visit the World's Fair, in which they were all much interested. Some of the connection had attended the dedication ceremonies of the previous autumn, and nearly all talked of going to the formal opening, appointed for the first of May; among them Grandma Elsie, her father and his wife, Captain Raymond and his wife and family. The captain's plan was to go by water--in his yacht--up along the coast to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, through that up the river of the same name, through the Welland Canal and round Michigan by the great lakes to Chicago, and he invited as many as his vessel could well accommodate--including, of course, his wife's mother and grandparents--to be his guests for the trip. The younger gentlemen and their wives all preferred going by rail as the speedier way, but Mr. Dinsmore, having no longer any business to attend to, and both he and his wife being fond of the sea and desirous of keeping with his eldest daughter, accepted the invitation promptly and with pleasure. Mr. Ronald Lilburn, too, having a like taste as to his mode of travel, and no business engagements to hurry him, availed himself of the opportunity to make the journey by water. The other passengers were Evelyn Leland and Rosie and Walter Travilla. Something, however, occurred to change their plans, and it was the latter part of June when they left home for their trip to the North. They had a pleasant voyage, making few pauses by the way, and reached their destination on Monday, the second day of July. It was early in the evening when the _Dolphin_ neared the White City; the little ones were already in bed and sweetly sleeping, but all the others had gathered on deck to catch the first glimpse of the fairy-like scene. They had passed the mouth of the Chicago River and were steaming on down the lake. "Oh, papa, what is that?" asked Grace, pointing to a bright light in the water. "A lighted buoy," he replied; "a spar buoy with an incandescent lamp of one hundred candle power. It is a wrought-iron cage at the end of a spar which is held in place by a heavy cast-iron anchor. You will see another presently, for there are thirteen between the river and the White City." "To warn vessels to keep off shoals?" she asked. "Yes," he said, and went on to explain how the electrical current was supplied, winding up with a promise to take her, and anyone else who wished to go, to the Electrical Building to gaze upon its wonders, and also for a ride in the electric launches. "But," he added, "I think there is nothing you will enjoy more than the sight of the electric lights which you will get presently in the Peristyle and the Court of Honor." "Oh, I am very eager to see it all, papa!" she exclaimed. "As we all are," said Lulu. "Well, my dears, I think we can all go there at once and spend an hour or two; all but the little ones, who can be left in the care of their nurse." He turned enquiringly toward his wife and her mother as he spoke. "Oh, yes," said Violet; "they will not be likely to wake, and Agnes will take good care of them." "I think we are all probably ready to accept your invitation with pleasure, captain," Elsie said. "Surely none of us are fatigued--unless with lack of exercise." "No, surely not," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, "and I, as well as Grace, am eager to see the beauties of that much talked of Court of Honor." "I think we will find some other objects worthy of our attention before we reach even the Peristyle," remarked Captain Raymond. "Oh, yes!" exclaimed Lulu, "there is another of those lights." "I am so glad you brought us in the yacht, captain," said Evelyn; "for we can start out at once to see the sights--not being in the least fatigued with our long journey." "And we have already a beautiful view of water and sky," remarked Grandma Elsie; "those sunset clouds are certainly lovelier than any work of man's hands." "Yes, mamma; and they are beautifully reflected in the water," said Violet. "But such things can be seen at home," Rosie remarked in a sprightly tone, "and I propose to give my particular attention to such as are to be found only in this part of the world and at the present time." "What will there be worth looking at before we reach the Peristyle?" asked Walter, apparently addressing his query to no one in particular. It was Captain Raymond who replied, "I hope to be able to point out to you presently some exhibits worthy of your attention," he said. "Oh, yes; the battleship _Illinois_ for one, I suppose." "Yes; she will come into sight presently and we will have an outside view of her. Some day I hope to take all of you who may desire to go on board to have a look at her internal arrangements." "You may put my name into that list, captain," said Mr. Lilburn. "I'm a bit too auld to take part in a fight, even in a righteous cause, but not for taking an interest in the means provided for ither folk." "And I want to see it, too, though I hardly expect to ever make one of the crew of such a vessel," said Walter. "And we girls will want to visit her also," laughed Rosie, "though I am very sure no one of us will ever form part of such a crew." "Well, as my father has and my brother expects to, I shall be very much interested," said Grace. "Especially as we shall have a retired officer to explain everything to us," added Lulu with a smiling look up into her father's face. He returned the smile, then pointing southward, "Yonder it is," he said, "still too distant for a critical survey, but a better view will be afforded us presently, as we pass it." As he spoke all eyes turned in that direction. "Oh, what a big vessel she is!" exclaimed Grace, as they drew near enough to obtain a good idea of her size. "Yes," returned the captain, "she is a full sized model, above water line, of our coast line battleships _Oregon_, _Massachusetts_, _Indiana_." "Not a real ship, papa?" "No; only a model: she is built of brick, on the bottom of the lake, and merely simulates a man-of-war." "Only a model!" repeated Walter. "And how about her guns, sir? are they real?" "Some of them are wood; but there are enough genuine machines on board to destroy almost anything of ordinary resisting power within three miles range. But I expect to go more into particulars when we pay our contemplated visit." "I suppose she must have cost a good deal?" "One hundred thousand dollars." "How much this Fair is costing!" remarked Evelyn. "Do you think it will pay, captain?" "I hope so," he returned cheerfully. "What is worth doing at all is worth doing well." But they were drawing near their port, and there was much on both land and water to attract their attention. Presently they were in front of the beautiful Peristyle, gazing in awed admiration upon its grand Arch of Triumph, its noble colonnade and statuary, and catching glimpses here and there between its pillars of the beauties beyond. It was impetuous Lulu who broke the silence with an exclamation of delighted admiration and an eager request that they might land at once and get a nearer view of the fairy scenes that lay before them on the farther side. The other members of their party, old and young, seemed scarcely less eager, and in a very few moments they were all pacing that grand colonnade to and fro, and gazing out delightedly now upon the blue waters of the lake and anon upon the fairy scene--the Court of Honor--on the inner side. And soon they hurried their steps thitherward. "Oh, there," cried Lulu, "is the statue of our great republic! Is she not magnificent?" "She is, indeed!" replied Grandma Elsie. "See in one hand she holds a pole bearing a liberty cap, in the other a globe, an eagle with outstretched wings resting upon it; that symbolizes protection, which she has ever been ready to extend to the oppressed of all the earth." "She is a large woman," remarked Walter; "as she should be to adequately represent our great country. Grandpa, do you know her size?" "I saw it stated the other day," replied Mr. Dinsmore. "Her face is fifteen feet long, her arms thirty feet, forefingers forty-five inches, and ten inches in diameter. Her cost was twenty-five thousand dollars; the gilding alone amounting to fourteen hundred dollars; quite an expensive dress for my lady." "But we don't grudge it to her, papa," remarked Grandma Elsie pleasantly. "No," he said; "nor anything else the liberty she represents has cost--in money or in life and limb." "But what is her height, grandpa?" asked Rosie; "it should be very considerable to go with a face fifteen feet long." "Sixty-five feet, and the pedestal on which she stands is thirty feet above water. There is a stairway inside which you can climb one of these days if you wish." All were gazing with great admiration and interest upon the beautiful statue, though seeing it somewhat dimly through the gathering shades of evening, when suddenly the electric lights blazed out from all sides, causing an exclamation of surprise and delight from almost everyone in our party and from others who witnessed the wonderful and inspiring sight; words failed them to express their sense of the loveliness of the scene; that mighty statue of the Republic dominating the eastern end of the lagoon, that grandly beautiful Macmonie's Fountain at the other, its Goddess of Liberty seated aloft in her chair on the deck of her bark, erect and beautiful, with her eight maiden gondoliers plying the oars at the sides, while old Father Time steered the vessel, his scythe fastened to the tiller, Fame as a trumpet-herald stood on the prow with her trumpet in her hand, while in the gushing waters below sported the tritons with their plunging horses, the terraced fountain still lower with its clouds of spray showing all the colors of the rainbow, as did that of the smaller ones to the right and left. And what a ravishing sight was that of the Administration Building with its corona of light, its dome, arches, and angles outlined with those brilliant lights, as were those of the Peristyle also, and of the grand structures between--Manufactures, Electricity, and Arts on the north side, Machinery and Agriculture on the south--and the beautiful fountains throwing spray of all the colors of the rainbow. "What a magnificent sight!" "How lovely!" "How beautiful!" exclaimed one and another as they moved slowly onward, gazing from side to side. "Let us go into the Administration Building," said Mr. Dinsmore. All were willing, and they sauntered on toward it, still gazing delightedly as they went. Reaching its doorway they paused for a few moments to look at the statue of Columbus, represented as landing with the Spanish flag in his hand, and to listen to the inspiring music of the bands; then passed on into the interior which they found as artistic and wondrously beautiful as the outside. After feasting their eyes upon the lower part they took an elevator--of which there were six--and went up to the upper promenade, which they found also very beautiful, giving lovely views of the surrounding grounds. The vault of the dome was ornamented with allegorical paintings, some of them commemorating Columbus' discovery of America. Looking out from the promenade under the dome they saw the Ferris Wheel, upon which they gazed with a good deal of interest. "I must have a ride in that," said Walter emphatically, "and mamma, you will go with me, will you not?" "Is it quite safe?" she asked, looking from her father to the captain. "Oh, yes," they both replied, Mr. Dinsmore adding, "and I think we will all want to go once if not oftener." "Go where, grandpa?" asked a familiar voice, and turning quickly about they found Harold and Herbert close at hand. Then there was an exchange of joyous greetings, and enquiries were made concerning some others of the family connection who had come by rail. The answer was that some of the little ones were in bed at the hotel where boarding had been taken by the party, and in charge of the faithful attendants brought from home, while the older ones were scattered about the Court of Honor and other portions of the Fair. "We have been on the lookout for you," continued Harold, "and only a few minutes ago discovered the _Dolphin_ lying at anchor down yonder on the lake. We had hoped you would be here sooner." "Yes, we thought we should have been here weeks ago," replied his mother, "but as the delays were providential we did not fret over them." "If you had fretted, mother, it would have been truly surprising, as I never knew you to do so about anything," Herbert said, smiling affectionately into her eyes. "No, that was never one of her faults," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "No, indeed!" exclaimed Rosie. "But Harold, can you take us to the others? I am sure it would be pleasanter for us all to be together." "I cannot promise certainly," he replied, "but if we walk about the Court of Honor we will come across each other finally, no doubt, as they will presently discover the _Dolphin_ and look about here for you." "Yes," returned his mother, "they will surely know that we could not persuade ourselves to go farther to-night than this bewitchingly beautiful Court of Honor." Even as she spoke all were moving toward the elevator nearest them, and in a few moments they were again strolling along the shores of the lagoon, gazing with delighted eyes upon the fairylike scene--imposing buildings, playing fountains, the waters of the lagoon dancing in the moonbeams, and the pretty crafts gliding over them filled with excursionists whose merry voices and laughter mingled pleasantly with the music of the bands. "Oh, this is just delightful, delightful!" exclaimed Lulu. "Father, dear, I hope you will let us stay a long, long while." "I have not thought of fixing the time for departure yet," returned the captain, "and if our friends intend to go home in the _Dolphin_, as they came, there will be a number of voices entitled to a vote on the question. My wife for one," glancing down fondly upon the beautiful, graceful lady on his arm. "Thank you, my dear," returned Violet. "I certainly feel no desire to start for home yet, dear and lovely as I esteem it." "Oh, here they are!" cried a familiar voice at that instant, and the two sets of relatives had found each other. Glad greetings and kind enquiries were exchanged. Then they broke up into little groups and sauntered on through the beautiful scene till it was time to seek their resting places for the night, when, after making some arrangements for the sight-seeing of the next day, they bade good-night and hied them to their several places of temporary abode. CHAPTER III. "On, we have a lovely view from here!" remarked Lulu as they reached the _Dolphin's_ deck. "I'm not at all sleepy, papa; can't I sit here for a while?" Grace was saying, "Good-night, papa." He returned it with a fatherly caress, then answered Lulu's query. "No, daughter; it is long past your usual hour for retiring, and as I want you to feel fresh and bright for to-morrow's pleasure, you, too, may bid me good-night and go at once to your berth." "Oh, yes, sir, that will be the best, I know," she said, rising promptly from the seat she had taken, and with a loving look up into his face--for he was close at her side now. "What a happy thing it is for me that I have such a kind, wise father to take care of me!" "A father whose strong desire it certainly is to make you and all his children as happy as possible," he said, laying a hand on her head and looking fondly down into her eyes. "Good-night, daughter, and don't hesitate to call me if anything should go wrong with you or Grace." "Am I also under orders to retire, sir?" asked Violet with a mischievous smile up into his face, as Lulu bade good-night to the rest of the company and disappeared down the companion-way. "Not from me," he said, pleasantly taking a seat at her side as he spoke. "Have I not told you many times that my wife does what she pleases? At least, if she fails to do so it is in consequence of no order from me." "No; you have never given me one yet, and I believe I should like you to do so for once that I may see how it feels," she added with a low, musical laugh, slipping her hand confidingly into his. "Perhaps you might not find it particularly agreeable," he returned, pressing the little hand tenderly in his. "But just to satisfy you I may try it one of these days. You are not disappointed in the Fair so far?" "No, no, not in the least! Oh, how lovely it is! and what a beautiful view we have from here! How delighted our little Elsie and Ned will be with it all to-morrow. I hardly know how to wait for the time to come when I can see and share their pleasure." But now the others were saying good-night and going down to their state-rooms, and the captain remarked laughingly that he thought the longed-for time would seem to come sooner if he and she should follow their good example. "So it will," returned Violet, promptly rising and slipping her hand into his arm. She went first to her mother's state-room, and the door being opened in answer to her gentle rap, "Are you quite comfortable, mamma, dear?" she asked. "Is there anything I can do or furnish to make you more so?" "I am perfectly comfortable and I need nothing but a good night's rest, Vi, dear," was the smiling response. "Something which I want you to be taking as soon as possible. We find ourselves here surrounded by so much that is wondrously enticing to look at, that I fear we will be tempted to neglect needed rest, and so make ourselves ill." "Ah, mamma, you and my husband are of one mind, as usual," laughed Violet, and then with a tenderly affectionate good-night they parted. Both the captain and Lulu retained their old habit of early rising, and she joined him upon the deck the next morning just as the sun came peeping above the horizon. "Good-morning, papa," she cried, running to him to put her arms about his neck and give and receive the usual morning caress. "Isn't this a lovely day? How we shall enjoy it at the Fair--that beautiful Court of Honor is just like the loveliest of fairylands." "With which my eldest daughter is quite familiar, of course," he returned with amused look and tone, and smoothing her hair caressingly as he spoke. "Well, I think I can begin to imagine now what fairyland may be like," was her smiling rejoinder. "Papa, mayn't I keep close at your side, going wherever you go?" "That is exactly what I want you to do," he said. "I should be troubled indeed by losing sight of any one of my children, unless after putting him or her in the care of someone whom I could implicitly trust." "I don't want to be in the care of anyone else, papa," she hastened to say. "But it will be quite impossible to see everything here that is well worth looking at," he said, "and our tastes may differ greatly in regard to the things we care to examine." "Still I care most of all to be with you, papa. I'm not afraid of getting lost, because I could easily find my way back to the Peristyle and wait and watch there for you and the rest, but I want to share in your enjoyment, and have you share in mine," laying her rosy cheek against his shoulder and lifting to his, eyes full of ardent affection. "That is right," he said, smiling, and patting her cheek. "Ah, here come your mamma, Gracie, and the little ones. You are early, my dear," to Violet as he handed her to a seat, took one at her side, drawing Grace to his knee for a moment's petting and fondling, then letting her give place to the younger two, both eagerly waiting for their turn. "Yes," Violet replied, "we are all ready for an early start for the Fair." "As I expected," he said pleasantly. "I have ordered breakfast to be on the table an hour earlier than usual, and if our guests appear in season we will have prayers before eating; so that we may be able to start soon after leaving the table." "Judging by some slight sounds I have heard, I think they are all up and will join us presently," said Violet. "Yes, mamma, I do believe we are all in a great hurry to get to the Fair," remarked her little Elsie. "Oh, papa, is that it over there where that arch is with all those pillars on each side of it?" "And, oh, papa, what big ship is that?" cried Ned, catching sight of the _Illinois_. "I like ships, and I want to go there. Can't I?" "I intend to take you there one of these days," his father answered. Just then the rest of the party came trooping up from the cabin. Morning salutations were exchanged, family worship followed, and then breakfast, during which plans for the day were again discussed and further arrangements made. They had scarcely left the table when Harold and Herbert appeared, bringing further plans and suggestions in regard to the sight-seeing, for they were anxious to help the newer arrivals--particularly their mother--to the greatest possible enjoyment of the day. After a little discussion it was finally decided that they would go first to the Ferris Wheel, from which they would have a fine view of the whole extent of the White City. "Then to the Wooded Island, where we will probably find enough to keep us busy until dinner time," said Harold; "perhaps even longer." "No matter if it should," said his grandfather; "since we are not hurried for time, we may as well let all get their fill of everything; and if some want to tarry longer than others we can break up into smaller parties." "Yes, sir, I rather think we will find that the better plan, as our party is so uncommonly large." It was large, but they were congenial and greatly enjoyed being together, sharing the same pleasures of sight and sound. In another half hour they were all on shore enjoying a second view of the lovely Peristyle and Court of Honor, through which they passed on their way to the Ferris Wheel, the ride in which they found so delightful that at the earnest solicitation of little Ned they retained their seats during a second revolution. Then they left it and walked on to the Wooded Island. "I want to take you to the Hunter's Cabin," said Harold. "See, yonder it is." "What! that old log building?" exclaimed his sister Rose, catching sight of it among the trees. "Who cares to look at such a thing as that?" "I do," he returned lightly, "since it is a museum and memorial of Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett,--two historical characters who were very interesting to me in my youth,--and also gives one a very good idea of the manner of life of our Western pioneers forty or more years ago." He led the way as he spoke, the others following. They found that the building consisted of one large room divided by a rope into two apartments, a public and a private one. There was a broad fireplace such as belonged to the dwellings of the pioneers of fifty or more years ago; there were beds and settees made of stretched skins, and skins of wild animals covered the floor; there were also tin dishes, candles, a stool made of a section of a log, and such cooking apparatus as was used in the kind of dwelling represented. The cabin was occupied by a hunter who wore long hair and a wide-brimmed felt hat. He was ready to answer questions, many of which were asked by the younger members of our party, who, as well as their elders, seemed much interested in this representation of pioneer life in the olden times. "Where now?" asked Mr. Dinsmore as they left the Hunter's Cabin. "I think Master Neddie here would enjoy a look at the ostriches," remarked Herbert, with a smiling glance at the rosy, happy face of his little nephew, who was trudging along with his hand in that of his father. "Oh, yes!" cried the child in a tone of eager delight. "I should like to see them ever so much!" "Then if no one objects, that is where we will go," said Harold, and as the only rejoinders from the other members of the party were those of assent, he led the way. "Is it a very expensive entertainment?" asked Walter soberly. "Costs all of ten cents apiece," replied Herbert. "An enormous sum, but one cannot expect to see Old Abe, General Grant, Jim Blaine, and Grover Cleveland for just nothing at all." "Oh, uncle!" cried little Elsie, "are all those great men there? Oh, no, of course they can't be--'cause some of them are dead. I know it was dear, good Mr. Lincoln they called Old Abe, and that a wicked man shot him long, long ago; and that General Grant was sick and died." "That is all true," returned her uncle, "but these fellows still wear their feathers, and are very much alive." "Oh, I know now," laughed the little girl. "You mean the ostrich man has named some of his birds after those famous men." They were now on the northern side of Midway Plaisance, and presently reached the enclosure where the ostriches were. There were twenty-three, full-grown, all from California. The sight was an interesting one to both the grown people and the children, and all listened attentively to the remarks of the exhibitor, delivered in solemn tones, in regard to the habits of the birds. He spoke of the male bird as most kind and self-forgetful in his treatment of his mate, or mates, saying it was he who built the nest and obtained the food; also that he would sit on the eggs in the nest for sixteen hours at a stretch, while the mother did the same for only eight hours. He had other things also to tell of the domineering of the female over the male, which caused some merriment among the ladies and girls of our party; to the gentlemen also, though they pretended to highly disapprove. But all laughed together over the ridiculous movements of the flock in passing from one side of the grounds to another. "What do they eat, papa?" asked Ned. "Corn, grasses, seeds of various kinds," replied his father. "They swallow large stones too, as smaller birds swallow sand to help grind up the food in the gizzard, and, indeed, ostriches have been known to swallow bits of iron, shoes, copper coins, glass, bricks, and other things such as you would think no living creature would want to eat." "They look very big and strong, papa," remarked the little boy, gazing at them with great interest. "Yes; they are so strong that one can easily carry two men on his back." "Is that what they are good for, papa?" "That is one thing; and their feathers are very valuable. For that reason ostrich farms have been established for the raising of the birds, and have proved very profitable." "Don't folks eat ostriches, papa?" asked Elsie. "Sometimes a young one; and their eggs are eaten too. They are so large that each one is about equal to two dozen ordinary hen's eggs; to cook one they usually set it up on end over a fire, and having first broken a hole in the top, they stir it with a forked stick while it is cooking. The shells are very thick and strong and the Africans use them for water vessels." "Do they have nests to lay their eggs in, like our chickens?" asked Ned. "They do not take the pains in building a nest that most other birds do," replied his father, "but merely scoop a hole in the sand. One male usually appropriates to himself from two to seven females and each hen lays ten eggs--so it is supposed--all in the same nest, and each egg is stood up on end." "It must take a big, big nest to hold them; such great big eggs as you say they are, papa!" "Yes, and generally there are some to be found lying on the sand outside of the nest; perhaps laid there by hens who came to lay in it but found another in possession; one who had got there before them." "I have often heard or read that the ostrich leaves her eggs lying in the sand to be hatched by the heat of the sun," remarked Evelyn. "Perhaps she does in those very hot countries," said the exhibitor, "but not in California; though, as I've been telling you, she makes the male bird do the most of the setting." "Maybe that's because the eggs are all his, but don't all belong to any of the females," laughed Walter. "Perhaps that is it, sir," returned the man. "Can they run very fast?" asked Neddie. "I should think they could with such great long legs." "Yes," said his father, "the ostrich is supposed to be able to run at the rate of sixty miles an hour when it first sets out, but is not able to keep up that rate of speed very long. And it has a habit of running in a curve instead of a straight line. It is thus possible for men on horseback to meet it and get a shot at it." "I think it's a great pity to shoot them when they are not even good to eat," remarked the little fellow in indignant tones. "Besides, they might save them to grow feathers." "Yes," returned the exhibitor, "that's what we're raising them for in California." "Papa, I'd like to have some," said Neddie as they walked away. "Some what, son?" "Ostriches, papa." "About how many?" "Couldn't we have an ostrich farm?" asked the little fellow after a moment's consideration of the question. "Well, not to-day, my son," returned his father with an amused look. "There will be plenty of time to talk it over before we are ready to go into the business." CHAPTER IV. "I think the little folks are getting tired," said Harold. "and yonder on the lagoon is a gondola waiting for passengers. Shall we take it?" Everybody seemed pleased with the suggestion, and presently they were in the gondola gliding over the water. They found it both restful and enjoyable. It was past noon when they stepped ashore again, and Ned announced that he was hungry and wanted something to eat. "You shall have it, my son," said his father. "And suppose we go to the New England Cabin for it," suggested Grandma Elsie. They did so and were served with an excellent repast, handsome young Puritan ladies in colonial costumes acting as waitresses. After satisfying their appetites they visited the other room of the cabin, which was fitted up as the living room of a family of the olden time. It had log walls, bare rafters overhead, a tall old-fashioned clock in a corner, a canoe cradle, a great spinning-wheel on which the ladies, dressed like the women of the olden times, spun yarn, and gourds used for drinking vessels. Some of the ladies were knitting socks, some carding wool, while they talked together, after the fashion of the good, industrious dames of the olden time they represented. Our friends, especially the young girls, were greatly interested and amused. "Suppose we visit some of the State buildings now," said Mrs. Dinsmore, as they left the cabin. "Pennsylvania's in particular, my dear?" returned her husband. "Well, it is a grand old State; we could hardly do better than to show to these little great-grandchildren the famous old bell that proclaimed liberty to this land and all its inhabitants." "So I think," she said. "Do not you agree with us, captain?" "I do, indeed," he replied; "my older ones have seen the bell, but I want to show it to Elsie and Ned." "It won't hurt any of us to look again at that old relic of the Revolution," remarked Walter, "and of course we want to see the building." So the whole party at once turned their steps in that direction. Arrived in front of the building they paused there and scanned the outside. All pronounced it very handsome. "Its front seems to be a reproduction of Independence Hall," remarked Mr. Dinsmore; "it has its entrances and tower." "Yes," said his wife, "I like that and the quarter-circling in of those front corners; those balconies, too." "Is that the State coat-of-arms above the pediment over the front doors, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes," was the reply; "and the statues on the sides are those of Penn and Franklin." Just at that moment two women, evidently from the country, came sauntering along and halted near our party. "What building 's that?" asked one of the other. "It's right nice-lookin', isn't it?" "Yes; and don't you see the name there up over the door?" "Oh, yes, to be sure! Pennsylvany! Goin' in, Elmiry?" "Of course; that's the thing to do. Do you see? There's the old bell, at the door there, that they talk so much about. What they make such a fuss over it fur I don't know; it's ugly as can be and has a great crack in it; but it's quite the thing to talk about it and say you've seen it; so we must do like the rest." "Yes, I suppose we must, though I don't see why anybody should, any more than you do," returned her companion. "It's ugly enough and certainly wouldn't bring first price if 'twas put up for sale. But just see what handsome fellows those policemen are that's got charge of it! Enough sight better-lookin' than it is." With that the two went nearer, looked the old bell carefully over, then walked on into the building. While they talked merry, mischievous glances had been exchanged among the young people of our party. "I wonder where they have lived all their days," laughed Walter, looking after them as they disappeared through the doorway. "I hope they are not Americans! I'm ashamed of them if they are!" exclaimed Lulu. "The very idea of such ignorance!" "Descendants of Tories, perhaps," said Rosie, laughing. "Do you know its story, Elsie? that of the old bell, I mean." "Yes, indeed, Aunt Rosie! We've got a picture of it at home, and papa and mamma, and Lu and Gracie have all told me the story about it--how when those brave men had signed their names to that paper, it proclaimed liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof; for it rang out to let the people know they had done it. Oh, papa, please show me those words on it." "Yes," the captain said, "come nearer and you can see and read them for yourself." The little girl obeyed with alacrity, and when she had read the inscription, "Wasn't it very strange, papa," she said, "that those words were put on it when nobody knew that it was going to proclaim liberty?" "Yes, very strange indeed; and that proclamation has made it a very famous old bell." "Is that the reason why they brought it here, papa?" "Yes, for many people will see it here who will never get to Philadelphia to look at it." "I'm glad for them that they can see it," she said with satisfaction. "Do they ring it when it's at its home in Philadelphia, papa?" "No, my child; that great crack you see there has spoiled it for ringing, but it is highly valued and cherished for what it did in those days when our fathers had to risk everything to secure freedom for themselves and their children." "They were good and brave men to do it; weren't they, papa?" "They were, indeed, and deserve to be kept in loving remembrance because of their brave deed." The rest of the party were standing near listening to the talk between the captain and his little girl; also regarding the old bell with interest, though nearly all of them had seen it before. But it was time for them to move on, for others were coming to view the old relic of Revolutionary days, and Mr. Dinsmore led the way into the interior of the building, the rest closely following. They went all over it, finding much to admire, and Mrs. Dinsmore expressed herself as entirely satisfied with the building of her native State. From there they went to the Woman's Building, hoping to find in it some, if not all the relatives who had come with Harold and Herbert to the Fair. And they were not disappointed, for Zoe and Edward hastened to meet them immediately on their entrance and led them into the nursery, saying they had their little ones there with their nurse, and intended leaving them in that pleasant place for a time while they themselves should be going about from one building to another. "Uncle Horace is here with his wife and children; the Lelands also with theirs," added Zoe, as she led the way to where were gathered the group of little folks from Ion and its vicinity. Pleasant greetings were quickly exchanged; the children were full of delight at sight of their relatives, whom they had not seen on the previous day--Grandma Elsie in especial, for they all loved her dearly. But time pressed--there was so much to see--and after viewing with approval and admiration the arrangements for the comfort of its young occupants the older people left that apartment for others in the building; reconciling the little ones to a temporary separation by the promise that on their return all should go aboard the _Dolphin_ and have their supper there; for the captain and Violet had given them all a cordial invitation to do so. Taking with them those who were old enough to appreciate and enjoy the sight, they went into the Gymnasium, which they found furnished with every kind of machine and mechanical means for developing the muscles and increasing the strength of both boys and girls. There were many children of both sexes engaged in the various exercises, and with evident enjoyment. Our friends, both older and younger, watched them for some time with interest. Leaving there they visited in turn the court of the Woman's Building, the main hall, the east vestibule, the library, the Cincinnati parlor, the invention room, the nursing section, the scientific department, and the ethnological room. All this took a good while, there was so much to see, examine, and admire. The ladies showed a deep interest in the various exhibits of needlework, the embroideries from Siam, table covers and rugs from Norway, and the dolls dressed as brides; the fine lace-work and wood-carving from Sweden. There was needlework from France too, and there were large and very pretty vases from the same country. Zoe was much interested in the dainty needlework for infant's clothes, the beautiful laces and ribbon flowers; and famous paintings reproduced in silk. They found the Italian exhibits also, especially the laces of the queen,--valued at one hundred thousand dollars,--worthy of particular attention. Yet perhaps not more so than some from Mexico, including a lace-edged handkerchief crocheted out of pineapple fibre; and the very delicately beautiful wood-carving, so delicate as to be called etching. There were embroideries and laces from other countries also--Austria, Spain, Belgium, Ceylon. As they came near the exhibit from Germany Lulu exclaimed in an undertone. "Oh, papa, what is that woman doing?" "We will go nearer and see if we can find out," replied the captain. The woman sat at a table and they found that she was making bent iron-work into candle-holders, inkstands, hanging lamps, etc., and it was very interesting to watch her as she did so. There was a good deal of leather work also in Germany's exhibit, shown in screens and tables. But when they had all looked their fill they found it was nearly tea time, so they hurried back to the nursery, where they had left their little ones, and soon they were all on the _Dolphin_, where an excellent supper was awaiting them. They were hungry enough to enjoy it greatly. Everyone was weary with the day's excitement and exertion, poor Grace--still far from strong, though perfectly healthy--so much so that by her father's advice she went directly from the table to her bed. The others sat for an hour or more upon the deck enjoying a friendly chat and a view of some of the beauties of both the lake and the Fair; then were about to bid good-night and return with their little folks and nurses to their hotel. "Wait a little," said the captain. "I am sorry I cannot furnish comfortable lodgings for the night for so many, but I can take you to the city, and so shorten your journey by land to your hotel. I have ordered steam gotten up and we can start in another half hour." His offer was received with hearty thanks and the plan carried out to the great contentment of all concerned. The _Dolphin_ then returned to her old anchorage. Violet had gone down into the cabin to put her little ones in bed and Lulu promptly seized the opportunity to take possession of the vacated seat by her father's side. He smiled and stroked her hair with caressing hand. "I fear my little girl must be very tired with all the standing, walking, and sight-seeing of the day," he said. "Pretty tired, papa, yet I should like to go back to that lovely Peristyle for an hour or two if you would let me." "Not to-night, daughter; as soon as we have had prayers you must go immediately to bed." "Your father is wise, Lulu; I think we are all weary enough to obey such an order as that," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore. "And I found out years ago that papa always knows what is best for me," returned Lulu cheerfully. "Besides he's so dear and kind that it is just a pleasure to be controlled by him," she added, laying her head against his shoulder and lifting to his, eyes full of ardent affection. "I agree with you, Lu," said Evelyn, "for in all the years that he has been my teacher I have always found that he knew what was best for me." "Take care, girls, that you don't make my biggest and oldest brother conceited," laughed Rosie. "There's not the least bit of danger. Nothing could make papa that!" exclaimed Lulu rather indignantly. "Hush, hush!" her father said, laying a finger on her lips. "Rosie does but jest, and your father is by no means sure to be proof against the evil effects of flattery." "I think he is," said Rosie, "and I was only jesting, Lu; so don't take my nonsense to heart." "No, I will not, Rosie; I ought to have known you were but jesting, and I beg your pardon," Lulu said, and her father smiled approvingly upon her. "Cousin Ronald," said Walter, "can't you make some fun for us to-morrow with your ventriloquism?" "Oh, do, Cousin Ronald, do!" cried the girls in eager chorus. "Well, well, bairns," returned the old gentleman good-humoredly, "I'll be on the lookout for an opportunity for so doing without harming or frightening anyone--unless there might be some rascal deserving of a fright," he added with a low chuckle, as if enjoying the thought of discomfiting such an one. "Which I don't believe there will be," said Walter, "for everybody I saw to-day looked the picture of good nature." "Yes," said his mother, "and no wonder; the thought has come to me again and again, when gazing upon the beauties of that wonderful Court of Honor, especially at night when we have the added charm of the electric lights and the fountains in full play, if earthly scenes can be made so lovely what must the glories of heaven be! Ah, it makes one long for the sight of them." "Oh, mamma, don't, don't say that," murmured Rosie in low, tremulous tones; taking her mother's hand in a tender clasp, for they were sitting side by side, "we can't spare you yet." "The longing is not likely to hasten my departure, dear," replied the sweet voice of her mother, "and I am well content to stay a while longer with my dear ones here if the will of God be so." "Oh!" exclaimed Lulu, suddenly breaking the momentary silence, "to-morrow is the Fourth, the glorious Fourth! I wonder what is going to be done here to celebrate it?" "I presume it will be celebrated in much the usual way," replied Mr. Dinsmore. "To-day's papers say there have been great preparations on the part of Exposition officials and exhibitors, and that there are to be a number of patriotic addresses delivered in different parts of the grounds. Also there will be, without doubt, a great display of bunting, abundance of fire crackers, the thunder of cannon and so forth." "And we, I suppose, will pass the day on shore doing our part in the business of celebrating our nation's birthday," remarked Rosie. "Why, of course," said Walter. "Such patriotic Americans as we are would never think of neglecting our duty in that line." "No, certainly not," replied his mother, with a smile; "we are all too patriotic not to do our full share to show our many foreign guests how we love this free land of ours, and how highly we value her liberties." "I propose," said the captain, "that we spend the day on shore, first consulting the morning papers as to where we will be likely to find the smallest crowd or the best speaker, and after hearing the oration we will doubtless find abundance of amusement in the Court of Honor and Midway Plaisance." "And perhaps Cousin Ronald can and will make some fun for us," remarked Walter, giving the old gentleman a laughing, persuasive look. "Ah, laddie, you must not expect or ask too much of your auld kinsman," returned Mr. Lilburn with a slight smile and a dubious shake of the head. At that moment Violet rejoined them, the short evening service was held, and then all retired to rest, leaving further discussion of the morrow's doings to be carried on in the morning. CHAPTER V. Everybody was ready for an early start the next morning and Harold and Herbert were waiting for them in the Peristyle. Some time was spent there and in the Court of Honor, then in the Midway Plaisance. Watching the crowds was very amusing--the wild people from Dahomey wearing American flags around their dusky thighs, the Turks, the Arabs, and men, women, and children of many other nations all in their peculiar costumes, so different from the dress of our own people. Then the hundred thousand flags, very many of our own with their stripes and stars, and those of perhaps every other nation that has one to display--were flung to the breeze, while bands from Cincinnati and Iowa, from Vienna, Suabia, and Arabia had all got together and were playing Yankee Doodle. There were besides many curious bands of Oriental musicians--some of them making great but futile efforts to play our national airs--producing sounds that were by no means delightsome to the American ear; not half so pleasing as the sight of the multi-colored flags decorating the huts and castles of foreign architecture. It turned out to be a day of pleasant surprises. As they neared the end of the Plaisance they came suddenly and unexpectedly upon Chester and Frank Dinsmore and Will Croley, the old college mate of Harold and Herbert, whom none of them had seen since the summer spent together on the New England coast several years before. All were delighted; cordial greetings on both sides were exchanged, and scarcely were these over when in a lady passing by Grandma Elsie recognized, with a little cry of joyous surprise, her old time friend and cousin, Annis Keith. "Annis! oh, how glad I am to see you!" she exclaimed. "Elsie! my dear, dearest cousin!" cried Annis in return, as they grasped each other's hands and looked with ardent affection each into the other's eyes. "Oh, how delightful to have come upon you so quickly! I was wondering if I could ever find you in all this crowd, and to have fairly stumbled upon you almost the first thing after leaving the cars is most fortunate." "Yes; for us as well as you, Annis," Mr. Dinsmore said with a smile, offering his hand as he spoke. "Are you just from Pleasant Plains?" "Yes, sir; we left there this morning, and but a moment since stepped off the train that brought us--nearly all the family of brothers and sisters with their children." "Why, yes, to be sure, here are Mildred and the doctor and--well, really Charley,"--shaking hands with Mildred and her husband--"I will have to be introduced to all these younger folks." There was quite a crowd of them--young, middle-aged, and elderly, for the families had been increasing in numbers, the younger ones growing in size, and all in years. All wanted to be together for a time, the older ones to be able to talk freely of absent dear ones and other family matters, the younger to make acquaintance with each other. "Suppose we take a car in the Ferris Wheel," suggested Harold Travilla; "we can then have a ride, a grand view of the Fair grounds, and a chat, all at one and the same time." Everyone seemed to favor the proposition and without further discussion they all started in that direction. Arriving at the place they climbed a broad stairway very much like the approach to an Elevated station. "This way, ladies and gentleman," said a man in a blue coat, pointing to a doorway between two knotted beams, and they passed into a sunshiny room with two rows of chairs at each side. There were windows all about it barred with iron. "This is one of the cars," remarked Captain Raymond, in answer to an enquiring look from Annis, and he and the other gentlemen of the party busied themselves in seeing the ladies comfortably seated, then took possession of chairs as near them as might be. Other people were coming in, and in a very few moments the car was in motion, the click of a latch having told that they were locked in. Some of our party who were trying the wheel for the first time looked a trifle pale and alarmed as the movement began, and one or two of the girls asked low and tremulously if it were certainly quite safe. "Yes, I am entirely sure of that," replied Harold with his pleasant smile; "but don't look out of the windows just yet." "You are not at all frightened, I see," said Chester Dinsmore in a low tone to Lulu, having contrived to secure a seat close at her side. "Oh, no, indeed!" she returned. "This is my second trip and I hardly felt at all timid even the first time, because my father had assured us it was perfectly safe, and I have entire confidence in his opinion and his word." "I don't know any man whose word or opinion I would be more ready to take," returned Chester, giving her a look that seemed to say he would be no less willing to take the captain's daughter, were the opportunity afforded him. But Lucilla did not notice the look, for she was already gazing out of the window and thinking of nothing but the prospect from it. "Oh, look, Chester!" she said eagerly, "This gives us such a grand view of the Plaisance. It is the second time our party have made this trip--no, not that--the second time we have been in these cars; we went round twice that day, and I hope will go at least as often to-day. Presently, when we get to the highest part the people down below will look like the merest black dots and the houses like toy ones." "Yes," he returned, "it is a trip worth taking. I should not have liked to miss it." "Nor should I," said Lucilla. "I think of asking papa to bring us here several times more." "In that case I hope I may be permitted to be one of the party every time, for it is a fine sight indeed." "Are you and Frank new arrivals?" she asked. "Yes, we got into the city last evening. We would have hunted up your party at once, but did not know just where to look for you." "We are making the yacht our home," she returned, "and it is anchored for the greater part of the time at no great distance from the Peristyle. We spend our nights on it, but so far our days have been passed in visiting different parts of the Fair." "And you haven't seen everything in it yet?" he queried laughingly. "No, indeed! I heard someone estimate the other day that it would take more than forty years to do that." "And in a few months the vast majority of the sights will be withdrawn," he said with a half sigh; "so we will have to content ourselves with seeing a few of such things as interest us most. How long will you stay?" "I don't know; that depends upon the decisions of the higher powers; in other words of the older people. How long do you?" "Perhaps two or three weeks. It will depend probably upon how we enjoy ourselves." "Then you will be likely to stay a good while, I think," she returned. "There! we are at the top of the wheel, and is not the view magnificent?" They made the circuit a second time, then seeing that very many people were awaiting an opportunity to fill their places in the car, they vacated them and wandered elsewhere about the Fair grounds for a little. Then Grandma Elsie expressed a desire to visit the building of her native State--Louisiana--and invited all in the party to go with her and dine there as her guests. All accepted the invitation with apparent pleasure and immediately turned their steps thitherward. "Where is it?" someone asked, and Harold answered: "At the northern curve of the horseshoe formed by the State sites around the Fine Art Galleries and just west of the Missouri building. It is not a long walk." "Ah," exclaimed Grandma Elsie when they caught sight of their destination, "see those trees in front laden with moss from our Southern bayous! The sight almost carries one back to the old days at Viamede." "Yes; that and the foliage generally, which is of the tropical order," remarked her father in reply; "see, the cacti are conspicuous. And I like the simple style of the building with its galleries and verandas." "And the site is a fine one," remarked the captain, "not far from the cable car entrance and fronting the Art Palace." "Shall we dine first and then look at the exhibits?" asked Grandma Elsie. "I want to give you all a real Southern dinner, hoping it may prove agreeable to your palates." "I presume we can stand it for once, mother dear," returned Herbert, and the rest of the party seemed equally willing. They passed in and were presently regaling themselves with gumbo soup, opossum, and various other dishes peculiar to the part of the country represented by the building and its appurtenances, being served by cooks and waiters directly from the plantations of the river country. Then, having satisfied their appetites, they spent some time in examining the relics on exhibit in the building. One of these was a picture of the Madonna by Raphael. There was also an exhibition of carvings done by women, which excited both admiration and surprise, and in one of the rooms was some richly carved furniture from the State museum at Baton Rouge, which had once belonged to Governor Galvez. They went next to the Florida building, which was a reproduction of old Fort Marion, whose foundations were laid in 1620, the year of the landing of the Pilgrims in Massachusetts. The captain mentioned that fact, then asked: "Do you know, Grace, how long that fort was in building?" "No, papa," she replied, "can you tell us?" "It took one hundred and fifty years of toil by exiles, convicts, and slaves to construct the heavy walls, curtains, bastions, and towers of defence. Its bloodiest days were more than a century before our Civil War, in which it did not take a very prominent part." "Where are the curtains, papa?" asked little Elsie. "I don't see any." "It is the name given to that part of the rampart which connects the flanks of two bastions," replied her father. "And it was here that the Apaches were imprisoned," remarked Walter. "Yes," returned his mother, "and a most gloomy prison it must have proved to them, used as they were to the free life of the mountains, prairies, and forests." Some little time longer was spent in viewing the tropical plants and trees that adorned the exterior of the fort, then they passed inside and examined the many beautiful things to be seen there. Their next visit was to the headquarters of the State of Washington, where they were much interested in the display of her native woods and the rockery built of native ores, showing pure streaks of gold and silver, so illustrating the mineral wealth of the State. "Where next?" asked Mr. Dinsmore as they passed out. "Papa, I'm so tired," little Elsie was saying at the same moment, in a low aside to her father. "I, too," added Ned, overhearing her. "Please can't we take a ride now?" "Surely," said Grandpa Dinsmore, overhearing the request. "I invite you all to try an electric boat on the lagoon." No one seemed disposed to decline the invitation; some time was spent on the water, then on the Intramural Railway. After that the whole party, at the invitation of Violet and the captain, went aboard the yacht, still lying in the lake at no great distance from the Peristyle, and partook of a supper which was no unpleasant contrast to the enjoyable dinner with which Grandma Elsie had provided them. The little folks were ready for bed, on leaving the table; the older ones rested for a time on the _Dolphin's_ deck, chatting together while enjoying the sunset, then they returned to the Court of Honor, to revel in its beauties as seen by the witchery of the electric light. CHAPTER VI. Morning found them all rested, refreshed, and eager to spend another day amid the beauties of the Fair. They started early, as on the previous day, found Harold and Herbert with the other young gentlemen friends waiting for them in the Peristyle, spent a little time enjoying its beauties and the never wearying view it afforded of the lake on the one side, and the Court of Honor on the other, then at the earnest solicitation of the little ones they again entered an electric launch and glided swiftly along the quiet waters of the lagoon. "Let us go to the Transportation Building," proposed Rosie as they landed again. "I want to see that golden doorway, and have not the least objection to passing through it and examining things inside." "As no one else has, I presume," said her grandfather. "No doubt we shall find a great deal there worthy of examination." "Yes, sir; much more than we can attend to in one visit," replied Harold, leading the way, as everyone seemed well pleased to carry out Rosie's suggestion. They had heard and read of the beautiful golden doorway and viewed it with interest and satisfaction. "It is very, very beautiful," said Grandma Elsie, "a nest of arches covered with silver and gold." "And that border is lovely, lovely!" exclaimed Rosie; "such delicate tracery!" "Papa, is it solid gold?" asked little Elsie, who was clinging to her father's hand on one side, while Ned had fast hold of the other. "No, daughter," the captain replied, "not solid, though there is a good deal of both gold and silver covering the other and cheaper materials." Then he called her attention to a relief on the left side of the arch, showing an ox-cart with its clumsy wheels dragging slowly along through heavy sand, the travellers in it looking most uncomfortable. "That, children," he said, "is the way people used to travel years ago when I was a little fellow, such as you are now, Neddie boy; and this"--going to the other side of the arch and pointing to the contrasting relief--"shows how we travel now. See, it is a section of a palace-car; some of the people reading, others gazing from its plate-glass windows, and a porter serving them with luncheon." "Yes, papa; that's the way we travel when we don't go in the _Dolphin_ or in our carriage, and it's a great deal nicer than that ox-cart," said Elsie. "Oh, papa, there are some words up there!" exclaimed Ned, pointing up to a higher part of the arch. "Please read them." "I will, son," replied the captain, "though I think you are hardly old enough to fully understand them. This"--pointing it out--"was written by Macaulay, of whom you will learn more when you are older: 'Of all inventions, the alphabet and the printing-press alone excepted, those inventions which abridge distance have done the most for civilization.' This other is by Lord Bacon: 'There are three things which make a nation great and prosperous: a fertile soil, busy workshops, and easy conveyance for men and goods from place to place.' Those words are put upon this building because in it are shown the different modes of travel in different countries--on the sea also--at different times." They stood for some little time longer examining into the details of that wondrously beautiful doorway, noticing the splendor of the arches and pylon, the stairway on each side, the roof of the pavilion and all the other beauties. "It is very beautiful, and a great satisfaction to have seen it," remarked Mr. Dinsmore at length, "but perhaps it would be as well for us to go on into the inside of the building now, reserving further examination of this golden doorway for some future time." With that he passed in, the others following. Many of the exhibits there were more interesting to the older members of the party, especially the gentlemen, than to the ladies and younger people; locomotives and trains of cars such as were in use at different periods of time, showing the vast improvement in their construction since steam was first put to that use, models of vessels teaching the same lesson in regard to increased convenience and comfort of travel upon the water. "Oh, there is the _Victoria_--that grandest of battleships, sunk only the other day in collision with her sister ship, the _Camperdown_!" exclaimed Herbert. "See what a crowd of men and women are gazing upon it!" "Oh, yes," said Rosie, "I remember reading a description of it in the papers. One of England's finest battleships, was she not?" "Yes," said Captain Raymond, drawing near and examining the model with interest; "she was a grand vessel, the pride of the British navy. I should like to have seen her and am glad to have the opportunity to examine even a model. Ah, what a sad accident it was! especially considering that it sent to the bottom of the sea her entire crew of nearly four hundred men and officers." "Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful!" said Grace in tearful tones. "Especially because they had no time to think and prepare for death." "Yes, that is the saddest part of all," sighed Grandma Elsie. Our friends presently moved on, and all, from Grandpa Dinsmore down to little Ned, found many objects that interested them greatly. But the most attractive thing of all to the young folks--because of the story connected with it--was Grace Darling's boat. It was the captain who pointed it out to his children. "Who was she, papa? and what did they put her boat here for?" asked little Elsie. "She was the daughter of William Darling, the lighthouse keeper on Longstone, one of the Fame Islands." "Where are they, papa?" "In the North Sea, on the coast of Northumberland, the most northern county of England. They form, a group of seventeen islets and rocks, some of them so small and low-lying as to be covered with water and not visible except when the tide is low; and the passage between them is very dangerous in rough weather. "Two of the islands have each a lighthouse, and it was in one of those that Grace Darling and her father lived. "In 1838 a vessel called the _Forfarshire_ was wrecked among those islands. William Darling, from his lighthouse, saw it lying broken on the rocks, and sixty-three persons on it in danger of drowning. His daughter Grace, a girl of twenty-two, begged him to go and try to rescue them. It was a very dangerous thing to attempt, but he did it, she going with him. "Both father and daughter were very strong and skilful, and by exerting themselves to the utmost they succeeded in saving nine of the poor wrecked creatures who were crouching there on the rocks in momentary expectation of being washed off by the raging waves and drowned. They bore them safely to Longstone." "And that made Grace Darling famous," remarked Lulu. "Yes," said her father. "Many people, many of the great and wealthy, went to see the brave girl who had thus risked her own life to save others, and they heaped upon her money and valuable presents; so that she was no longer poor. But she did not live long to enjoy the good things bestowed upon her. She died of consumption about four years after her famous adventure." "What a pity, papa! wasn't it?" "For those who loved her, yes; but not for her, if she was ready for heaven. Do you think it was?" "No, sir, 'cause it is the happy land where Jesus is, and nobody is ever sick or sorry or in pain. But I don't want to go there yet; I'd rather stay a good while longer here with you and mamma." "I want you to, darling, if such be God's will," he returned low and tenderly, bending down to press a fatherly kiss on her round, rosy cheek. "Your father would hardly know how to do without his little Elsie." She looked up into his face with shining eyes. "We love each other, don't we, papa?" she said with satisfaction. "Mamma too, and brothers and sisters, and grandma, and--oh, all the folks." "Where now?" asked Grandma Elsie as they left the Transportation Building. "I want to show you the German castle," answered Harold. "It is here on the Midway Plaisance, and is a reproduction of a castle of the middle centuries. It is viewed by most people who have read of moat-surrounded castles with great curiosity and interest." "There is a German village connected with it, is there not?" she asked. "There is, mamma, and I think you will all enjoy looking at both it and the castle." "Oh, I am sure we shall if it is a faithful reproduction of the old castles of feudal times that we have read of!" exclaimed Rosie. "It is said to be," returned Harold, "and is considered very curious and interesting." "Is there a moat about it, Uncle Harold?" asked Grace. "Yes; and a drawbridge and portcullis." "Oh, what is that?" asked little Elsie. "A framework of timbers crossing each other, pointed on the lower edge with iron and hung by chains in grooves in the chief gateway of the castle, so that on the sudden appearance of an enemy it could be let down to keep him out more quickly than the drawbridge could be raised to prevent his crossing the moat, or the gates shut." "And what is a moat?" "A ditch or canal. But you shall see one presently, and a portcullis also." "Oh, I'm so glad we came here to the White City!" cried Elsie, skipping along by her father's side; "it's so lovely and there are so many curious things to see." "Yes, it is a pleasant way of gaining knowledge; pleasanter than learning lessons and reciting them to papa; is it not, daughter?" asked the captain, smiling down into the bright little face. "Yes, sir; but that's not a hard way, either, 'cause my papa is so kind, and loves me and makes the lessons easy." They soon reached the castle, crossed the moat by the drawbridge, passed through the arched gateway, under the portcullis, the young folks, and indeed the older ones also, gazing at it with much curiosity, and entered a spacious hall, the walls of which were hung with bows and ancient weapons, and armor such as was worn by warriors of feudal times. From the hall was an entrance to a museum, where were shown many articles interesting as having belonged to those old times when the homes of knights and barons were such castles as this. When they had looked their fill at all these they left the castle for the village surrounding it, which consisted of reproductions of very old German houses with small porticos and sharp gables. These covered three or four acres of ground and were built around a court, in the centre of which was a music stand where a band of twenty musicians, in white uniforms and military caps, were almost constantly playing upon their instruments, making such delightful music that crowds of people flocked to hear them. Our friends enjoyed it greatly, and for a time did nothing but stay there and listen while watching the players and the crowd. But the children began to show signs of weariness and the captain, Violet, Grandma Elsie, and several of the others rose and moved on with them into a cottage which stood in the back part of the grounds. It was a picturesque-looking building and there were a number of Germans in and about it, many of them evidently sight-seers like our friends. It was furnished in truly German style, with quaint old-fashioned mantels, holding old pieces of bric-a-brac, and quaint dishes and cabinets hanging on the walls. One room on the left as they entered seemed to be attracting particular attention, and they presently turned to it, paused an instant at the open door, then walked in, the captain and Violet with their two little ones leading the way. The principal objects in the apartment were two wax figures, life size, representing a man and woman seated at a table apparently dining together. Our party stood for a moment silently gazing, then Mr. Lilburn and Walter Travilla followed them into the room, though hardly seeming to belong to their party. Catching sight of the figures at the table, Walter nudged the old gentleman, gave him a significant, laughing glance, then stepping forward addressed the waxen man in a serious tone as though he thought him a living person. "Excuse me, sir, but I am a stranger here and would like to ask a little information in regard to what may be seen that is really worth looking at." At that there was a general laugh among the other spectators, and an exchange of glances that seemed to say he must be either very blind or extremely simple. Walter did not seem to notice, however, but went on: "Are the upper floors open to visitors, sir? and are there refreshments served there, or in any other part of the building?" At that the laugh among the people in the room and about the doorway grew louder,--it seemed so good a joke that anyone should take those wax figures for living people--and a burly German, taking pity on Walter's stupidity, said; "Mine frient, dose vos vax beobles, ha, ha, ha! dey don't can't say nodings." With that the laughter grew louder, and another German, evidently good-naturedly desirous to relieve Walter's embarrassment, spoke, turning as he did so to the first speaker: "Dat vasn't no sign de young shentlemans vas dumb; he don't can't help it; he t'ot dey vas life beoples." "Nefer you mine dose silly fellows, young shentleman, dey doan' know noddings." The words seemed to come from the lips of the waxen man, and struck the crowd with astonishment. "I would tell you vat you vants to know," he added, "but I pees von stranger in dose barts mineself." Then the woman seemed to speak: "Come to de dable, mine frient, and eat somedings mit us." "Thank you, very much," returned Walter, "you are most kind and hospitable, but I cannot think of intruding upon your hospitality." And with a bow directed toward her and her spouse, he turned and left the room, the rest of his party following and leaving the little crowd of Germans gazing at each other and the waxen figures in wide-eyed, open-mouthed astonishment. "Papa," complained little Ned as they left the German quarter, "I'm so tired and sleepy." "Hungry, too, papa's boy, aren't you?" was the kindly enquiring rejoinder. "Well, papa will take you back to our floating home, and leave you there with your nurse to be fed and have a good, long nap. I think Elsie would like to go too. Wouldn't you, daughter?" The little girl gave a glad assent, and arranging with his wife and older daughters where to meet them on his return, the captain set off with the two little ones for the _Dolphin_. CHAPTER VII. Captain Raymond was not gone very long, and on his return found the others sitting quietly listening to the music of the German band. But they were ready to go at his invitation and test the excellence of the fare to be obtained at the Woman's Building. "There are _cafés_ at each end of the roof covered with Oriental awnings," he said, "and surely we may expect as good fare at a woman's establishment as anywhere else." "I think we certainly should," said Rosie in a sprightly tone; "and there must be a lovely view or views from that roof and the loggias." "Doubtless," returned the captain, "and though we visited all the lower apartments of the building the other day, we did not go up to the roof; so that a visit to it will have for us the charm of novelty." "Yes," said Grandma Elsie; "let us go by boat up the lagoon. Gracie looks as if she needed a rest from walking, and I confess I should not object to it myself." The words had scarcely left her lips before Harold had signalled a boat, and the whole party was presently seated in it. A short but delightful row brought them to the landing in front of the Woman's Building, and climbing the stone stairway that led up to the terrace, they passed through the triple-arched colonnade that led into the interior of the building, nor paused till they had reached one of the _cafés_, where they might rest and also satisfy their appetites with the good things abundantly provided. Those important matters duly attended to, some minutes were given to the enjoyment of the fine views to be obtained from the loggias, and looking at the statues of Miss Rideout, representing Sacrifice, Charity, Virtue, and Wisdom. They then spent a short time over the exhibit in the lower part of the building; and there Captain Raymond and Lucilla met with a pleasant surprise in coming suddenly and unexpectedly upon Mr. Austin and his son Albert, the English gentleman whose acquaintance they had made in their visit to Minersville some years before. The pleasure was evidently mutual; very hearty greetings were exchanged, then Captain Raymond introduced his accompanying friends, and Mr. Austin a daughter who was with him. A few moments were spent in conversation, in the course of which an invitation was extended to the Austins to take supper upon the yacht that evening, and they parted for a time; the Austins having an engagement to meet some friends in the meanwhile in another part of the Fair. "Shall we go now to the Electrical Building?" asked Captain Raymond, addressing his party, and receiving a hearty assent from all, he led the way. They found much in the building to greatly interest them; great electric lenses used in lighthouses, the Edison electric column--covered with five thousand electric globes--and many other wonderful things; a beautiful scene in the daytime, but far more gorgeous at night, as they readily perceived that it would be; so they decided to pay a second visit after the lighting up that evening. Still their present visit was so prolonged that on leaving they found it time to return to the yacht. They met the Austins again at the Peristyle, and took them on board in the first boat load. The guests were numerous, including all the cousins from Pleasant Plains, and the three young gentlemen friends--Chester and Frank Dinsmore and Will Croly. The meal to which they presently sat down, though Captain Raymond had called it supper, was an excellent dinner of several courses, and enlivened by pleasant chat, proved most enjoyable to the entire company. At its conclusion they adjourned to the deck. A pleasant air was stirring, the sun drawing near his setting, the western sky glowing with brilliant hues, while the sounds of life on water and land came softly to the ear. The young people formed one group, the older ones another, conversing among themselves, mostly in rather subdued tones. "You have hardly been in America ever since I saw you last?" Lucilla said enquiringly, addressing Albert Austin. "Oh, no; we went home shortly upon bidding you good-by after our brief acquaintance in Minersville," he replied; adding, "And I presume you had very nearly forgotten us?" "No," she said; "we have spoken of you occasionally,--papa, Max, and I,--and I recognized your father the moment I saw him to-day; you also, though I am not sure that I should have done so had you been alone; for of course you have changed much more than he has." "Not more than you have, Miss Raymond," he returned with a look of undisguised admiration; "yet I knew you instantly, though I saw you before I perceived that the captain made one of the company you were in." "Indeed!" she said with a merry little laugh. "I am afraid I hoped I had grown and improved more than that would seem to imply." "But you are still as proud as ever of being an American, and as proud of your Stripes and Stars?" he remarked enquiringly and with an amused smile. "Yes, most emphatically, yes," she replied, lifting her eyes to the flag floating overhead, "I still think it the most beautiful banner ever flung to the breeze." "And I suppose--from its constant display here, there, and everywhere--that that must be the idea of Americans in general," remarked Miss Austin in a slightly sneering tone. "I must say I have--naturally, I suppose,--a far greater admiration for England's flag, yet I should not want to see it so ostentatiously displayed on all occasions as yours is." Lucilla colored, but was silent, fearing she might speak too warmly in defence of her favorite banner should she attempt a reply; but Chester took it up. "Miss Austin must remember," he said, speaking in calm, polite tones, "that ours is a very large country, to which immigrants from other lands are constantly flocking; and they, as well as the ignorant among ourselves, need to have constantly kept before them the fact that we, though spread over so many States, form but one nation; for otherwise our Union could not be maintained; we must continually impress upon all our people that this one glorious nation is never to be separated into parts; and the flag is the emblem of our Union; a symbol that is unmistakable; and so it is displayed as the chief glory of our nation; and therefore we love it and cannot see too much of it." Even as he spoke the sun neared the horizon, all on the _Dolphin's_ deck rose to their feet, and as he sank out of sight, the firing of a gun from the _Illinois_ announcing the fact, saluted the flag as, at the same moment, it came fluttering down from its lofty perch. "Thank you, for your explanation, Mr. Dinsmore," Miss Austin said pleasantly, as they resumed their seats; "it has given me an entirely new view of the matter, so that I now think you Americans are quite right in your devotion to your flag, and your constant display of it. And this Fair," she went on, "is wonderful--the White City a perfect fairyland; especially at night, with its blaze of electrical lights and its many colored electric fountains." "So we all think," said Harold Travilla. "Have you been in the Electric Building yet?" "Not yet," she replied, and her brother added: "But we intend going. The evening is the best time for a sight of its wonders, I presume?" "Yes; we have planned to go to-night, and would be glad to have you accompany us." The invitation, overheard by the older people and cordially endorsed by the captain, was promptly accepted by the three Austins, and as the shades of evening began to fall, all but the little ones, already in their nests, returned to the shore and were presently in the Electrical Building, enjoying to the full its magical splendor. Croly was devoting himself to Rosie Travilla, Frank Dinsmore endeavoring to make himself useful and entertaining to Grace Raymond and Evelyn Leland, while his brother and Percy Landreth, Jr., vied with each other and Albert Austin in attentions to Lucilla, leaving Miss Austin to the charge of Harold and Herbert, who were careful to make sure that she should have no cause to feel herself neglected. They spent some time in viewing the marvels of the Electric Building, finding the lights giving it a truly magical splendor not perceptible by day. It seemed full of enchantment, a veritable hall of marvels; they were delighted and fascinated with the glories of the displays, and lingered there longer than they had intended. On passing out, the party broke up, the Austins bidding good-by and going in one direction, Croly carrying off Rosie in another, the Pleasant Plains people vanishing in still another. "Will you take a boat ride with me, Lucilla?" asked Chester in a rather low aside. "If the rest are going," she returned laughingly. "I'm such a baby that I cling to my father and don't want to go anywhere without him." "You mean the captain does not allow it?" Chester said enquiringly, and with a look of slight vexation. "Oh," she laughed, "I'm not apt to ask for what I don't want, and I never want to be without papa's companionship." "Humph! I had really labored under the delusion that you were grown up." "Does that mean, ready to dispense with my father's society? In that case I don't mean ever to be grown up," she returned with spirit. "Well, really!" laughed Chester, "if I am not mistaken, my sisters considered themselves about grown up, and altogether their own mistresses when they were no older than you are now; though, to be sure, I don't profess to know your age exactly." "You may look at the record in the family Bible the next time you visit Woodburn, if you care to," Lucilla said, with a careless little toss of her head. "Yon will find the date of my birth there in papa's handwriting, from which your knowledge of arithmetic will enable you to compute my present age." "Thank you," he said, laughing, but with a look of slight embarrassment, "I am entirely satisfied with the amount of knowledge I already possess on that subject." "Ah, what subject is that upon which you are so well informed, Chester?" queried Captain Raymond pleasantly, overhearing the last remark, and turning toward the young couple. "Your daughter's age, sir. I invited her to take a ride with me upon the lagoon, in one of those electrical launches; but find she is but a young thing and cannot leave her father." "Ah?" laughed the captain, "then suppose we all go together." "Willingly, sir, if that will suit her better," answered Chester, turning enquiringly to Lucilla. "I think nothing could be pleasanter," she said, and the others being of like opinion, they were presently gliding over the waters of the lagoon intensely enjoying the swift easy movement and the fairylike scenes through which they were passing. CHAPTER VIII. It was late when at last all the _Dolphin's_ passengers were gathered in. The party to which the Raymonds belonged were the first, the young men who had accompanied them in the electric launch bidding good-night at the Peristyle, and all had retired to their respective state-rooms before the coming of the others; all except the captain, who was pacing the deck while awaiting their arrival. His thoughts seemed not altogether agreeable, for he walked with drooping head and downcast eyes and sighed rather heavily once or twice. "Papa dear, what is the matter? Oh, have I done anything to vex or trouble you?" asked Lucilla's voice close at his side. "Why, daughter, are you there?" he exclaimed, turning toward her with a fatherly smile, then taking her hand and drawing her into his arms, stroking her hair, patting her cheeks, and pressing a fond kiss upon her lips. "No, I have no fault to find with my eldest daughter, and yet----" He paused, gazing searchingly and somewhat sadly into the bright young face. "Oh, papa, what is it?" she asked, putting her arms about his neck and gazing with ardent affection and questioning anxiety up into his eyes. "You looked at me so strangely two or three times to-night, and I so feared you were displeased with me that I could not go to my bed without first coming to ask you about it, and get a kiss of forgiveness if I have displeased you in any way." "No, daughter, you have not displeased me, but--your father is so selfish," he sighed, "that he can scarce brook the thought that someone else may some day oust him from the first place in his dear child's heart." "Oh, papa!" she exclaimed in half reproachful tones, "how can you be troubled with any such idea as that? don't you know that I love _you_ ten thousand times better than anybody else in the whole wide world? I just _love_ to belong to you, and I always shall," she added, laying her head on his breast and gazing with ardent affection up into his eyes. "Besides, I am only a little girl yet, as you've told me over and over again, and must not think about beaux and lovers for at least five or six years to come; and I'm sure I don't want to think of them at all so long as I have my own dear father to love and care for me." "That is right," he said, holding her close; "I think I can say with truth that I love my dear daughter much too well ever to intentionally stand in the way of her happiness, but I feel sure that the best place for her, for the next six or eight years at least, will be in her father's house, trusting in his love and care." "I haven't a doubt of it, father," she said, lifting loving, laughing eyes to his, "and really I don't believe Chester or anybody else cares half so much about me as you do, or wants to get me away from you. I like right well to laugh and talk with him and the others just as I do with the girls, but I'm, oh, so glad I belong to you, and will for years to come, if not always. Yes, I do hope it will be always, while we both live. And Gracie feels just the same. We had a little talk about it not very long ago, and agreed that we could not bear to think the time would ever come when we would have to leave our dear father, and the sweet home he has made for us, to live with anybody else in the loveliest that could be imagined." "That pleases me well," he said, his eyes shining; "Gracie is no less dear to me than you are, and so frail that I should be far from willing to resign the care of her to another. But now, dear child, it is high time you were resting in your bed; so give me another good-night kiss and go at once." "I will, papa, and are not you going too? for I am sure you must be needing rest as well as I." "Presently," he replied, glancing toward the pier. "I have been waiting to see the last of our party on board, and here they come." Lucilla went to her bed a very happy girl, her heart full of love to her father and singing for joy in the thought of his love for her. She had a long dreamless sleep, but woke at her usual early hour and, when morning duties had been attended to, went noiselessly up to the deck where, as she had expected, the captain had preceded her by a moment or more. She ran to him to claim the usual morning caress. "You look bright and well, dear child," he said, holding her close for a moment, then a little further off to gaze searchingly into the smiling, happy face. "As I feel, father," she said, laying her head against his breast. "I went to sleep last night thinking of all you had been saying to me and feeling so glad of your dear love and that you want to keep me all your own for ever so long." Then she added, with an arch look up into his face, "Don't you think, papa, it will be best for you to have me under eye all the time wherever we go?" "I am not afraid to trust you, my darling," he answered with a smile, "but of course I want you near me that I may take the very best care of you always and all the time." "Well, then, I'll get and keep just as close to you as I can," she answered with a merry look and smile. "But, papa----" "Well, daughter, what is it?" he asked, as she paused and hesitated, as if fearful that he might be displeased with what she was about to say. "I was just thinking,--please don't be vexed with me,--but wasn't Mamma Vi only nineteen when you married her?" "Yes," he said, with a slight smile, "but circumstances alter cases, and I have changed my views somewhat since then." "Yes," she said, reflectively; "she had no father, and it was you she married, you who know so well how to take care of both her and your daughters." At that her father merely smiled again and patted her cheek, saying. "I am glad you are so well content with my guardianship." He did not think it necessary to tell her of a talk with Violet the night before, in which he had expressed his determination to keep his daughters single for some years to come,--certainly not less than five or six,--and his fear that Chester and one or two others had already begun to perceive their charms, and might succeed all too soon in winning their affections; in reply to which Violet had, with a very mirthful look, reminded him how young she herself was at the time of their marriage, and that he did not seem to think it at all necessary to wait for her to grow older. In answer to that he had laughingly insisted that she was far more mature than his daughters bid fair to be at the same age; adding that besides he certainly ought to have gained something in wisdom in the years which had passed since their marriage. "Ah," said Violet giving him a look of ardent affection, "after all I am glad you had not attained to all that wisdom some years earlier, my dear husband, for my life with you has been such a happy, happy one. Your dear love is my greatest earthly treasure, our little son and daughter scarcely less a joy of heart to me." "To me also," he said, drawing her into his arms and giving her tenderest caresses, "yet not quite so dear as their mother; for you, my love, have the very first place in my heart." "And you in mine," she returned, her eyes dewy with happy tears; "and I love your daughters dearly, dearly; I could hardly bear to part with them, and I am glad to perceive that they, as yet, care nothing for beaux, but are devoted to their father and happy in his love." "Yes, I think they are, and fondly hope they will continue to be, for a number of years to come," was his pleased response. "I have no doubt they will," said Violet, and there the conversation ended. * * * * * "More than content, papa; for as I have often said, I just delight in belonging to you," was Lucilla's glad response to his last remark in that morning talk. "Yes, I know you do, and so we are a very happy father and daughter," he said. "I often think no man was ever more blest in his children than I am in mine." The talk about the breakfast table that morning was of the places it might be most desirable to visit that day, and the final conclusion that they would go first to the battleship _Illinois_, then to the lighthouse and life-saving station, both near at hand. "I am glad we are going aboard a battleship--or rather the model of one, I presume I should say, and especially in company with a naval officer who can explain everything to us," remarked Rosie in a lively tone. "Yes, we are very fortunate in that," said Mrs. Dinsmore, giving Captain Raymond an appreciative look and smile. "Papa, didn't you say she wasn't a real ship?" asked little Elsie, looking up enquiringly into her father's face. "Yes, my child, but in all you could perceive in going aboard of her she is exactly like one--a fac-simile of the coast-line battleship _Illinois_, which is a very powerful vessel." "And are her guns real, papa? Mightn't they go off and shoot us?" "No, daughter, there is no danger of that. The largest ones are wooden models, and though quite a number are real and capable of doing terrible execution, there is not the slightest danger of their being used on us." "I'm not one bit afraid of them!" cried little Ned, straightening himself up with a very brave, defiant air. "Not with papa along, anyhow." "No, you needn't be, Ned," laughed Walter, "for most assuredly nobody would dare to shoot Captain Raymond or anybody under his care." "No, indeed, I should think not," chuckled the little fellow, with a proudly affectionate look up into his father's face. "No, nor any other visitor to the ship," said the captain. "We may go there without feeling the least apprehension of such a reception." "So we will start for the _Illinois_ as soon as we are ready for the day's pleasures," said Violet, smiling into the bright little face of her boy. Harold and Herbert joined them at the usual early hour, bringing Chester and Frank Dinsmore with them, and in a few minutes they were all upon the deck of the model battleship. They were treated very politely and shown every department from sleeping quarters to gun-deck. They were told that she was steel armor-plated below the berth-deck, and were shown that above the decks were steel turrets, through portholes of which deep-mouthed wooden guns projected. Also that she was fully manned and officered with a crew of two hundred men, who gave daily drills and performed all the duties required of them when in actual service on the high seas. From the battleship they went to the lighthouse and life-saving station. On the plaza in front of the Government Building was the camp of the life-saving corps. It was neat and pretty, and close beside it was the model of a government lighthouse. Some of our party went to the top of that, and all of them viewed the paraphernalia used in the saving of life when a vessel is wrecked within sight of the shore. Some of them had already seen it on the Eastern shore, but were sufficiently interested to care to look at it again, while to the others it was altogether new, as was the drill through which the company of life guards were presently put, for both the benefit to themselves of the practice, and the edification of visitors. That over Grandma Elsie asked, "Shall we not, now we are here, go into the Government Building and look at the military exhibit?" "I should like to do so," said Mr. Dinsmore. "In what part of the building is it, Harold?" "The southeastern, sir. I have been in once, and found many things well worth looking at more than once." Harold led the way as he spoke, the others following. The first department they entered contained exhibits of metal work, gun and cartridge-making machines, campaign materials, and battleflags. All were interesting to the gentlemen, and to some of the ladies also, but to the others and the children the battleflags were far more so than anything else. It was the greatest collection ever seen outside of a government museum; for they were mementoes of all the wars our country has passed through since the settlement of Jamestown, Va. There were also mountain howitzers mounted on mules, forage wagons, propeller torpedoes, and every kind of camp appliance, garrison equipage, pack saddles, etc. Famous relics, too, such as a beautifully carved bronze cannon captured from the British at Yorktown in 1781, and a great gun called "Long Tom," with which the privateer _General Armstrong_ repelled a British squadron off the shores of the Azores in 1814, and many other souvenirs of American history. "'Long Tom,'" repeated little Elsie, gazing curiously at the great gun, about which some remark had been made a moment before, "I s'pose there's a story to it. I wish somebody would tell it to Neddie and me." "You shall hear it one of these times," said her father, "but not here and now;" and with that she was content, for papa's promises were sure to be kept. "Don't refrain on my account from telling it here and now, captain," said Cousin Ronald with a humorous look and smile. "I'm not so patriotic as to endorse wrong-doing even on the part of Britons." "We are all sure of that, sir," returned the captain, "but this time and place are not the most favorable for the telling of a story of that length." "And grandma will sit down somewhere with the children presently for a rest, in some quiet place, and tell them the story of the gun should they wish to hear it," said Mrs. Travilla; and with that promise the children seemed well content. CHAPTER IX. By the middle of the afternoon Grandma Elsie, Grace, and the little ones were all weary enough to be glad to return to the _Dolphin_ for a rest. After a refreshing nap Grace and the children gathered about Mrs. Travilla and begged for the fulfilment of her promise to tell the story of "Long Tom," and she kindly complied. "The _General Armstrong_ was a privateer, and the fight I am now going to tell about was one of the most famous of the war of 1812-14," she said. "The vessel was commanded by Captain Samuel C. Reid, a native of Connecticut. He went to sea when only eleven years old and was a midshipman with Commodore Truxton. He was still a young man--only thirty--when the event of which we are talking occurred. That was on the 26th of September, 1814, in the harbor of Fayal, one of the Azores islands belonging to Portugal. "While lying there at anchor the _Armstrong_ was attacked by a large British squadron. That was in flagrant violation of the laws of neutrality. Commodore Lloyd was the commander of the squadron. At eight o'clock in the evening he sent four large well-armed launches, each manned by about forty men, to attack the American vessel. "The moon shone brightly, and Captain Reid, who had noticed the movements of the British and suspecting that their design was to attack him, was getting his vessel under the guns of the castle. Those guns and his own opened fire at almost the same instant and drove off the launches with heavy loss." "That means a great many men killed, grandma?" queried little Elsie. "Yes, dear, a great many of the British; on our side there was one man killed, and a lieutenant was wounded. But that was not the end of the affair. At midnight another attack was made with fourteen launches and about five hundred men. "A terrible fight ensued, but at length the British were driven off with a hundred and twenty killed and one hundred and eighty wounded." "That was a great many," commented the little girl. "Did they give it up then, grandma?" "No; at daybreak one of the British vessels, the _Carnation_, made another attempt. She began with a heavy fire, but the gunners of the _Armstrong_ fired shots at her so rapidly and so well directed that she was soon so badly cut up that she hastened to get out of their range. "In all this fighting the British had lost over three hundred in killed and wounded, while only two Americans were killed and seven wounded. But the _Armstrong_ was a good deal damaged and Captain Reid saw that he could not stand another fight such as she had just gone through, so he directed her to be scuttled to prevent her from falling into the hands of the enemy." "Scuttled? What's that, grandma?" asked little Ned. "Making holes in the bottom or sides of a vessel, so that the water can get in and sink her, is called scuttling. It was done to prevent the British from taking possession of her. After our men had left her, however, they boarded, and set her on fire." "Grandma Elsie," said Grace, "I think I remember reading that that victory of Reid's--or perhaps I should say successful resistance--had much to do with the saving of New Orleans." "Yes; that British squadron was on its way to Jamaica, where the British vessels were gathering for the expedition to move against and take New Orleans, and their object in attacking the _Armstrong_ was to secure her for themselves and make her useful in that work. Had they succeeded in taking her they would have reached New Orleans while it was utterly defenceless, General Jackson having not yet arrived there. But Reid, in his splendid defence of his vessel, so crippled those of the enemy that they did not reach Jamaica until fully ten days later than the time when the expedition was expected to sail from there; Lloyd was waited for and the expedition thus delayed until Jackson had reached the city and was making haste with arrangements for its defence." "Yes, grandma, I've heard the story about that," said little Elsie; "how the British tried to take that city and General Jackson and his soldiers killed so very many of them, and drove the rest away." Neddie was looking very grave and thoughtful. "Isn't it wicked to kill folks, grandma?" he asked. "Yes, dear, unless it is necessary to prevent them from killing or badly injuring us or someone else. The British were terribly abusing our poor sailors and it was right for our government to fight them, because they would not stop it until they were forced to do so." "But you haven't told about 'Long Tom' yet, grandma," said Elsie; "that big gun, you know, that we saw to-day." "Yes; it was one of those on the _Armstrong_ with which Captain Reid defended his ship." "Weren't the Americans glad when they heard about it, grandma? and didn't they praise Captain Reid?" "Indeed they did! and also made him many handsome presents. The State of New York thanked him and gave him a sword." "Hadn't he afterward something to do with a change in our flag, Grandma Elsie?" asked Grace. "Yes; our flag at first bore thirteen stars and thirteen stripes, and as new States were admitted another star and stripe were added for each one. But it was soon found that that was making the flag very large unless the stripes became narrower and narrower, while there was nothing to show what had been the original number of States. Captain Reid suggested the plan of retaining the thirteen stripes to indicate that, and the adding of a new star every time a new State was admitted, and Congress adopted that plan. He was certainly a talented man. He invented and erected the signal telegraphs at the Battery and the Narrows." "I'm proud of him, Grandma Elsie!" said Grace, her face lighting up with enthusiasm. "His defence at Fayal against such overwhelming numbers was wonderful. And so was Jackson's at New Orleans. England was a great and powerful nation while ours was but small and weak, but we were in the right--fighting against dreadful wrongs done to our sailors--and God helped us to drive away our haughty, powerful foe, and deliver our brave tars from her unendurable oppression." "Yes, dear; and to Him let us ever give all the glory and the praise. Oh, may our nation always serve God and trust in him! then no foe shall ever prevail against her." "I hope we do, grandma," said little Elsie, "for on a quarter papa gave me the other day, I saw the words, 'In God we trust.'" "Oh!" cried Ned at that moment, "the folks are coming! I see them there on the Peristyle--papa and mamma, Grandpa and Grandma Dinsmore, Lu and the others." "Yes, and the boat is waiting for them," added Elsie "and see, they are getting in." "Oh, I am so glad," said Grace, "though they are earlier than usual." "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, "I suppose because it is Saturday evening and we are all so tired with going and sight-seeing that we need to get early to bed and rest that we may not be too weary to enjoy the coming Sabbath day." "I 'spect so," said Ned, and running forward as his father and the others stepped upon the deck, "Papa," he asked, "did you come home soon to get ready to keep Sunday?" "Yes," was the reply; "we all need a good rest that we may be able to enjoy God's holy day and spend it in his service." "Where have you been since we left you, Lu?" asked Grace, as her sister took a seat by her side. "Papa took us to look at the Krupp gun," was the reply. "It is a wonderful one; weighs two hundred and forty-eight thousand pounds; just think! one hundred and twenty-four tons! It was certainly a great undertaking to bring it all the way from Essen, Germany, to Chicago. They told us that at Hamburg and at Baltimore great cranes were used, one of which could lift a sixty-five ton locomotive, to lift the gun to the trucks that were to carry it on the railroad; they had to put eight trucks under it, fastening two together, then the two pair together, and so on till they had the eight all well fastened to each other, when they laid the gun on them and started it off. "And only think, Gracie, it takes half a ton of powder and costs one thousand two hundred and fifty dollars to fire that great gun once. We saw the steel plate, sixteen inches thick, through which a twelve-inch shot had been fired. It had cracked the plate and thrown the upper corner half a yard away. I forgot to say the projectile fired from that gun weighs a ton, and goes sixteen miles." "Oh," cried Grace, "that's just dreadful! I hope there will never be a war where such terrible guns will be used--never any more at all; but that very soon, as the Bible says, the people 'shall beat their swords into plough-shares, and their spears into pruning-hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.'" "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, overhearing her, "that will be a blessed time." "Yes, indeed!" said Lucilla. "Where else did you go?" asked Grace. "Oh, we have been promenading along the lake shore, sitting down now and then on the seats to watch the many boats of various sorts and sizes, our own among the rest; and now, here we are to stay for the night, I suppose. I must, at least, for papa has said so." She looked smilingly up into his face as she spoke, for he was now standing by her side. "I think that will be best for each of my children, and hope that my dear eldest daughter does not feel at all rebellious in regard to the matter," he said in his pleasant, fatherly way. "No, indeed, papa!" she responded heartily, "though the beautiful Court of Honor is so fascinating--especially at night--that if you had given me permission to go back there after tea I should have been very glad to do so." "And I should take pleasure in allowing you that gratification if I thought it best and right." "I don't doubt that in the least, papa, and I am very glad to have you to decide all such questions for me," she replied. "Will we go over there, to the Court of Honor, to-morrow, papa?" asked little Elsie. "No, daughter, we must keep the Sabbath day holy, and if we go anywhere it will be to church." "And if we don't, we'll have a meeting here on our own deck as we have on some other Sundays; won't we, papa?" "Yes; and the Lord Jesus will be with us; for he has said, 'Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.'" "Oh, papa, I shall like to think of that--that the dear Lord Jesus is here with us--but I do wish I could see him." "I too," said little Ned. "Please, papa, sit down now and let your baby boy sit on your knee a little while. You have been gone so long away from me." "So long, papa's dear boy!" the captain repeated with a smile of fatherly affection into the bright, coaxing little face, then seating himself, he took the little fellow in his arms, and petted and caressed him to his heart's content. "Papa missed his dear little boy," he said, "but hoped he was having a good time here with dear grandma." "Yes, papa, so I was. Grandma's ever so nice, but I want my papa and mamma, too." "That's right, darling! mamma and papa would never know how to do without their dear baby boy," Violet said, adding her caresses to those of his father, the captain having taken a seat close at her side. "Nor me either, mamma?" asked Elsie, drawing near, putting one hand into that of her mother and laying the other on her father's knee, her look and tones a trifle wistful, as if she were half fearful that she was less highly appreciated than her brother. "No, indeed, dear child!" they replied, speaking together, "we love you just the same." "Gracie also," the captain added, turning toward her with a tenderly appreciative smile. "You were looking very weary, daughter, when you left us some hours ago. Are you feeling better now? "Yes, thank you, papa," she replied with a sweet, glad smile. "How kindly careful of me you always are!" "Yes," he returned, "one is apt to be careful of his choicest treasures." "It is so delightful to be one of your treasures, you dear papa," she said, going to his side in response to an inviting gesture, as Neddie got down from his knee to run to the side of the vessel to look at a passing boat. "And so delightful to have you for one," he said, drawing her to the seat Neddie had vacated. "Papa feels that he must be very careful to see that the strength and endurance of his feeble little girl are not overtaxed." "Mamma too," said Violet. "Dear child, I hope the rest of to-night, to-morrow, and the following night may entirely relieve your fatigue." "Thank you, mamma, I hope and believe that it will," responded Grace in cheerful tones. "We will go to church to-morrow, I suppose, papa?" turning enquiringly to him. "Those of us who feel able and wish to," he replied. "I intend moving on up the lake to Chicago when you have all retired to your state-rooms, and to lie at anchor there until the Sabbath is past. We will have our Bible lesson as usual in the afternoon, and service on board in the evening." "I am glad of that, papa," said Grace, "for I always greatly enjoy a Bible lesson with you for my teacher." CHAPTER X. Most of the _Dolphin's_ passengers went into the city to attend church the next morning, but Grandma Elsie and Grace, not yet entirely recovered from their fatigue, remained behind with the little ones. They watched the departure of the others, then Elsie, taking a seat close at her grandma's side, asked for a Bible story. "I like so much better to hear you or papa or mamma read or tell it than to have to read it for myself," she said. "Yes, dear, and I always enjoy reading or telling those sweet stories to you," replied Mrs. Travilla, turning over the leaves of her Bible. "Please read 'bout Jesus walking on the water, grandma," pleaded Neddie. "Yes," she said. "Here in this chapter Mark tells about Jesus feeding the multitude--five thousand men--with five loaves and two fishes; making so much of that small quantity of food that they all ate and were filled, and there were twelve baskets full of fragments left. Then he constrained his disciples to get into the ship and go to the other side before unto Bethsaida, while he sent away the people. Now, do you remember what he did after the disciples and the people were gone?" "Went up into a mountain to pray," answered Elsie. "Grandma, why did he pray when he was God and could do everything?" "We cannot fully understand it, dear, but he was both God and man and loved to talk with his Father, God." "Yes, grandma, I love to talk to my father," said Ned. "So do I," said Elsie; "he is such a dear, kind papa, and we all love him so much." "That is right," grandma said with her sweet smile; "and I hope you sometimes thank God, our heavenly Father, for giving you such a good, kind papa." "Yes, grandma, yes indeed!" "Now listen while I read," she said, and began: "'And when even was come, the ship was in the midst of the sea, and he alone on the land. And he saw them toiling in rowing; for the wind was contrary unto them: and about the fourth watch of the night he cometh unto them, walking upon the sea, and would have passed by them. But when they saw him walking upon the sea, they supposed it had been a spirit, and they cried out: (For they all saw him, and were troubled.) And immediately he talked with them, and saith unto them, Be of good cheer: it is I; be not afraid. And he went up unto them into the ship; and the wind ceased: and they were sore amazed in themselves beyond measure, and wondered. For they considered not the miracle of the loaves: for their heart was hardened.'" "Oh, grandma, I don't want my heart to be hardened like that--so that I won't believe in Jesus and love and trust him," Elsie said earnestly. "No, dear child; ask God very often not to let it ever be so hardened; but to give you strong and abiding faith; faith that will never for an instant doubt his power or love. Remember he says, 'I love them that love me, and those that seek me early shall find me.'" "Early in the morning, grandma?" asked. Ned. "Yes, dear; and early in life--while you are a little child." "How, grandma? What's the way to do it?" "Perhaps you may sometimes want papa when you do riot know exactly where he is, and you go about the house and grounds looking for him; that is seeking him; and when you have found papa you say to him what you wish to say. But Jesus, being God, is every where; he sees you and hears all you say, knows all your thoughts; so if you speak to him only in your heart he will know it--know all you want and listen to your prayer; for he is so good, so kind, so condescending that he will not turn away from anyone who really prays--asks with all his heart to be cleansed from his sins and made truly good--such an one as will be pleasing in the sight of God." "Yes, grandma," said Elsie, "that's what papa and mamma, too, have told Neddie and me many times; and I do ask God earnestly very, very often to give me a new heart and make me his own dear child. Grandma, papa often tells me he loves me very dearly, but that Jesus loves me still more." "Yes, dear child, the Bible tells us so and it is very sweet and comforting to think of. Jesus loves to have us carry our troubles to him and he feels for us in them all. He says, 'As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you; and ye shall be comforted.'" "And mamma is such a dear comforter when we are in any trouble or suffering pain," remarked Elsie. "Yes, your mamma loves you very dearly, but Jesus' love is still stronger. Now I will read of another time when Jesus stilled the waves with a word. "'Now it came to pass on a certain day, that he went into a ship with his disciples: and he said unto them, let us go over unto the other side of the lake. And they launched forth. But as they sailed he fell asleep: and there came down a storm of wind on the lake; and they were filled with water, and were in jeopardy. And they came to him, and awoke him, saying, Master, master, we perish. Then he arose, and rebuked the wind, and the raging of the water: and they ceased, and there was a calm. And he said unto them, Where is your faith? And they being afraid wondered, saying one to another, What manner of man is this! for he commandeth even the winds and water, and they obey him.'" "Nobody but God could do that," Neddie remarked, half in assertion, half enquiringly. "No, dear child, it is only the voice of God the winds and waters will obey, or the dead when summoned to come forth from their graves. Jesus is God; and he is able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God, by him. The Bible tells us so; the Bible which from beginning to end is God's own holy word. Listen to its closing words;" and again she read aloud from the Bible in her hands. "'I Jesus have sent mine angel to testify unto you these things in the churches. I am the root and the offspring of David, and the bright and morning star. And the spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely. For I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book. If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book: And if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy God shall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city and from the things which are written in this book. He which testifieth these things saith, Surely I come quickly: Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.'" "Is it Jesus who says, 'Surely I come quickly, grandma?" asked Elsie. "Yes, dear; and he says to each one of us: 'Take ye heed, watch and pray: for ye know not when the time is. For the Son of man is as a man taking a far journey, who left his house, and gave authority to his servants, and to every man his work, and commanded the porter to watch. Watch ye therefore: for ye know not when the master of the house cometh, at even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the morning: Lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping. And what I say unto you I say unto all, Watch.'" "Watch," repeated Neddie. "What for, grandma?" "That we may be ready to meet him with joy; our hearts full of love to him and his cause, caring little for the things of earth, but very much for things heavenly and divine; setting our affections on things above." "Oh, there they come!" cried Neddie the next moment; "papa and mamma and all the rest," and he ran to the side of the vessel to give them a joyous greeting as they presently stepped upon the deck. In the afternoon the captain gathered his young people together for a Bible lesson, which all liked as he was sure to make it both interesting and instructive. The subject was the miracle of Christ wrought in the healing of the paralytic as related in Mark II. 1-12. "'Seeing their faith?' How did they show their faith, Lucilla?" asked the captain. "By their works, papa. I think that if they had not believed that Jesus could and would heal their friend they would hardly have taken the trouble to break up the roof that they might let him down before the Lord. And the paralytic too must have had faith in the power and willingness of Jesus to heal him or surely he would have objected to being moved so much--carried from this house along the street to the place where Jesus was, then up to the roof, and let down from there in his bed." "Yes, he, too, surely must have had faith in the power and willingness of Christ to heal him, and is included in the number of those spoken of as having faith. Let it never be forgotten that faith in Christ is necessary to salvation; for without faith it is impossible to please him'; but, 'all things are possible to him that believeth.' 'Ye believe in God, believe also in me,' Jesus said to his disciples in his farewell talk with them the night before his crucifixion. If we would be saved we must have 'the righteousness of God which is by faith of Jesus Christ unto all and upon all them that believe.' None can be justified by works, 'for all have sinned and come short of the glory of God,' and if we are justified it must be 'freely by his grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus.' Ah, let us all pray as did the disciples, 'Lord, increase our faith.'" "Why did Jesus say to the man 'Son, thy sins be forgiven thee,' papa?" asked little Elsie. "I thought it was to be cured of his sickness the man came." "Yes, daughter, but sin is the cause of all sickness and disease; if man had not sinned there would never have been any sickness or pain, and there will be none in heaven where all are holy. "And in pronouncing the man's sins forgiven Jesus asserted himself to be God. The Scribes sitting there understood it to be so, and said in their hearts, 'Why doth this man thus speak blasphemies? Who can forgive sins but God only?' And Jesus knew their thoughts, for he asked, 'Why reason ye these things in your hearts?'" "That he could see their thoughts I should think was another proof that he was God," remarked Walter, "and when that was followed by the instantaneous healing of the man, it seems to me wondrous strange that they were not convinced beyond the possibility of a doubt." "The trouble with them was the same with that of many in these days," returned the captain; "their hearts were more in the wrong than their heads; they did not want to be convinced." CHAPTER XI. Monday morning found all on board the _Dolphin_ feeling well, bright, and ready to enjoy a further examination of the wonders and beauties of the White City beside the lake. As usual the question which of them all should claim attention first, came up for discussion at the breakfast table. "I for one would like extremely to pay a visit to Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show," said Walter. "I think my little nephew and niece would enjoy it too, and possibly older folks might find some amusement there also." "Oh, what is it, Uncle Walter?" asked Ned eagerly. "I'd like to see some buffaloes." "Well, so you will if we go," replied Walter, "for there's a herd of them to be seen there. It is outside the Exposition grounds, but worth going to see, I should think. There are rifle experts, bucking ponies, dancing dervishes, athletes, female riders, besides American, German, French, English, Cossack, Mexican, and Arabian cavalry, to say nothing of cowboys, and other attractions too many to mention." "Oh!" cried Ned, "I want to go. Can't I, papa?" "All alone?" asked his father laughingly. "No, my son, I fear you are rather young for that." "Oh, no, papa; I didn't mean all alone. But won't you take mamma and Elsie and all the rest, and me too?" "Yes, if mamma and all the rest want to go." "There are two hundred Indians there, Ned. Won't you be afraid of them?" asked Lucilla. "No, Lu; not with our papa along to take care of us. If you're afraid, I s'pose you can stay on the _Dolphin_ here till we come back." "Thank you, Ned," she said laughing; "but I believe I feel quite as safe where papa is as you do. And I think I should like to see that show myself, though I'm neither a baby boy like you, nor a sixteen year old laddie like Walter." "No, not a boy at all; only a girl. I'm glad I was made a boy so I can grow up into a man like papa." "I'd rather be a woman like mamma and Grandma Elsie," said his little sister. "But I'd like to see the buffaloes and all the rest of it. Can't we go, papa?" "I will go and take my little girl and boy," replied her father, "and will be glad of the company of anyone else who feels inclined to go with us." No one seemed disinclined, and finally all decided to go. They were well entertained, and, when the exhibition was over, passed out upon the elevated platform at the entrance. The crowd moved slowly, and as they stood awaiting an opportunity to descend to the street below, there arose a sudden cry of "Fire!" and at the same instant they perceived a flame creeping up within the centre tower of the Cold Storage Building near at hand. Scarcely was the cry raised before twenty-five brave and experienced firemen were on the scene, and ascending to the platform of observation that had been built near the summit. The tower was built of pine wood and plaster, which had been dried by the sun without and hot sheet-iron chimneys within, so that it burned fiercely. The firemen saw that it was a very dangerous place for anyone to venture into, therefore they hesitated and drew back; but their leader swore at them, calling them cowards, and at once they climbed to the perilous place; but scarcely had they reached it when there was an explosion of gases; the roof heaved and fell in, carrying with it sixteen men down into a pit of gaseous flame, and a shriek of horror went up from the fifty thousand people who stood looking on, unable to give the least assistance to the poor perishing men. The party from the _Dolphin_ saw it all and were sick with horror. Grace fainted, and but for the support of her father's arm, quickly thrown about her, would have fallen to the floor of the platform where they stood. He held her up, and with the help of Harold and Herbert, hastily pushed his way through the crowd. "Lay her down as quickly as you can, captain!" exclaimed Harold; "it is important." "Yes, I know," returned Captain Raymond, glancing down at the white, unconscious face of his precious burden. But at that instant Grace's eyes opened, and looking up in a bewildered way into her father's eyes, "Papa, I'm too heavy for you to carry," she said faintly. "No, my darling, not at all," he replied. "There, Uncle Harold has summoned a boat and we will take you back at once to our floating home." "Am I sick? did I faint, papa?" she asked. "Oh,"--with a burst of tears and sobs--"I remember now! Oh, those poor, poor men! Papa, were they all killed?" "Don't be so distressed, dear child," he said with emotion. "I think they must have been almost instantly suffocated by the gas, and did not feel anything that followed." "Your father is right," said Harold, close at her side; "and though it was a very dreadful thing for them to be sacrificed in that way, and hurried into eternity without a moment's warning, they are not suffering pain of body now, and we can only hope that with their last breath they cried to the God of all grace for pardon and salvation." As he concluded his sentence the boat he had signalled was close at hands the rest of their party came up at that moment, all embarked, and they were soon on board the _Dolphin_, where they remained for the rest of that day, feeling too much shocked over the dreadful catastrophe at the Storage Building to care to go anywhere else. Poor, feeble Grace was almost overwhelmed with pity and horror, weeping bitterly much of the time. The others, especially her father, did all in their power to comfort her with the hope that at least some of the killed were prepared for heaven, and with plans for giving aid and consolation to their bereaved wives, children, and other relatives who had been dependent upon their exertions for support. The next day brought a very pleasant surprise in the arrival among them of their cousin, Dr. Conly, with his wife and her brother, Sandy McAlpin. The sight of her old physician, and Marian, of whom she was very fond, did much to restore Grace to her usual spirits, and all went together to view various interesting exhibits. The first to which they gave their attention was that of the relics of the Cliff Dwellers. It was in the southeastern part of the grounds, and was a reproduction of Battle Rock Mountain, Colorado. As you neared it you seemed to see before you a cliff, for though built of timbers, iron, stone, staff, and boards, it wore the appearance of rock and earth. There was a cavernous opening which had the effect of a canyon, and in niches high up were the dwellings, in miniature, of the ancient people who once lived among the tablelands of our southwestern territories; but portions of the real houses were shown in order to give a perfectly truthful impression to visitors; also there were relics of the old cliff dwellers shown, such as weapons wrought from bones, stone, and wood; pottery, and cloths and mattings woven from blades of the alfalfa plant. There were to be seen also ledges of fallen rock with houses crushed beneath and other houses built over them. Also winding paths led up the cliffs and through to the outer air, and up these our friends climbed to the summit, where they stood for a little enjoying the prospect now on this side, now on that. "Papa," asked little Elsie, "how long ago did people live in those houses so high up among the rocks?" "Nobody knows just how long ago, my child," he replied, "but probably hundreds of years before Columbus discovered America." The rest of the day was spent in the Midway Plaisance, a street three hundred feet wide, beginning at the rear of the Woman's Building, extending about a mile in length, and so full of interesting sights that one might tarry there many hours, and go again day after day, without wearying of them, but always finding something by which to be greatly entertained. "A good and most entertaining place for the study of mankind," as Mr. Dinsmore remarked. As they entered it the sound of the sweetly piercing music of a bagpipe smote upon their ears. "Ah," exclaimed Mr. Lilburn, "that sound is sweetly homelike to my ear. Let us see, my friends, to what sight it summons us." "The Beauty Show, sir," said Herbert. "Probably you have all heard of it--some thirty or forty belles collected from different parts of the world and dressed in their national costumes." They went in, passing the handsome Highlander playing the bagpipes at the door. They found the women who were on exhibition ranged in pens around a large room. "Beauties!" sniffed Rosie as she glanced about upon them, "there is scarcely one who I should have selected as such." "Hush, hush, Rosie!" said her mother warningly; "we do not know but some of them may understand English, and surely you would be sorry to hurt their feelings." "Yes, I should indeed, mamma," she returned in a regretful tone, and they passed out. "That countryman of yours has much the handsomest face about that establishment. Cousin Ronald," remarked Lucilla, with a smile, as they proceeded on their way. "I agree with you in that opinion, lassie," laughed the old gentleman, "and I have no doubt that he would also, had he heard you express it." "How very much there is to see here!" remarked Dr. Conly--"men, women, and children from all parts of the world, clad in their own odd, native attire; Chinese, Japanese, Dahomeyans, Nubians, wild Arabs, Persians, Soudanese, Algerians, Javanese, and Cingalese." "And some of the buildings are as singular in appearance as the people who occupy them," added his wife. "Let us visit the village and castle of Blarney," said Rosie. "You want to kiss the Blarney Stone, do you?" asked Herbert laughingly. "No need of that," said Walter; "she can blarney fast enough if she wants to, and that without ever having seen the stone." "What is blarney, papa?" asked little Elsie. "Coaxing, wheedling, and flattering," he replied. "The village we are going to see is said to be a fair representation of one of that name in Ireland, about four miles from the city of Cork, in which there is a castle called Blarney Castle, which has stood there for more than four hundred years. The castle has a tower, as you will see, and on the top of it is a stone the kissing of which is said to confer the gift of ability to wheedle and flatter. But the true stone is said to be another in a wall where it can be kissed only by a person held over the parapet." "Oh, I shouldn't like that at all, papa!" Elsie exclaimed. "I'd be afraid of falling, and I shouldn't like to kiss a dirty stone." "Well, daughter, I shall never ask you to do so," he answered, with a kindly smile down into the bright, rosy little face. They were entering the village as he spoke. Some little time was spent there very agreeably, after which they returned to the _Dolphin_ for the night. CHAPTER XII. There was a gathering of friends and relatives on the _Dolphin_ that evening: all from Pleasant Plains were there; Chester and Frank Dinsmore also and the Ion family. The brother and sister of Grandma Elsie, and her eldest daughter with her husband and children, had paid their visit to the Fair at an earlier date and returned home. Expecting to do a good deal of entertaining Captain Raymond had taken care to have his boat well provisioned, and all were cordially invited to stay and take dinner on board. No one declined, and they were a pleasant, lively party, each having something interesting to tell of the experiences of the day, and all agreeing that the Fair was well worth the trouble and expense of the journey to reach it, and the hundred and one demands upon the purse while there. Grace alone was very quiet, seeming to have little or nothing to say, and looking at times both sad and distressed. Her father noticed it and seizing the first opportunity to speak with her in private, asked in tenderly solicitous tones if she were feeling perfectly well, adding: "I fear I have allowed you to exert yourself too much in the past few days, my darling." "I don't know whether or not I have gone about too much, papa, but it was very kind in you to let me," she replied, laying her head on his shoulder, for they were sitting side by side on a sofa in the cabin, while the others had all gone up to the deck, "but oh, I can't forget those poor men who perished in the flames yesterday, or their wives and children, perhaps left very poor and helpless. Papa, if you are willing, I'd like to give all my pocket money to help them. My own dear father pays my way all the time and I don't need to buy any of the fine things I see for sale here and there." "My dear child," he said, with emotion, "you may do just as you please about that. I am very glad that my little girl is so willing to deny herself to help others, and I must tell you for your comfort that a good deal of money has already been raised for the benefit of those sadly bereaved ones." "You gave some, papa? Oh, I know you did!" "Yes, daughter, I gave out of the abundance of means which God has put into my hands, certainly not that it may all be spent upon myself and dearest ones, but entrusted to me that some of it may be used for the relief of suffering humanity; and it is a very great pleasure--an inestimable privilege--to be permitted thus to ally to some extent the woes of poverty and bereavement." "Yes, papa; I feel it so, and am thankful that you approve of my doing what I can to help those poor, bereaved ones." "I am very glad my little girl is unselfish enough to desire to do so," he responded. He passed a hand tenderly over her golden curls as he spoke, and kissed her again and again with warmth of affection. "Do you want to join the others on the deck?" he asked presently, "or would you rather go at once to your bed and rest? You are looking very weary." "I am tired, papa," she replied, "but I think that to lie in one of the steamer chairs on deck, and listen to the talk, will rest me nicely." "You may do so for an hour or two," he said. "I will help you up there; but when the others scatter--as they probably will by that time--I want you to go to your bed and try to get a good, long night's sleep. I must take good care of my feeble, delicate little girl that she may gain, and not lose, by this trip to the North and visit to the World's Fair." He took her in his arms as he spoke, carried her to the deck and deposited her in a vacant lounging chair, then seated himself by her side and took Neddie on his knee. Violet was on her husband's other side, and Dr. Conly and his Marian near at hand on the farther side of Grace. "You are looking weary, little cousin," he remarked, giving her a searching look; "so weary that were I asked for a prescription it should be an early retirement to your berth, to be followed by a long night's rest. However, I suppose you are Harold's patient now." "Yours too, Cousin Arthur," she said with a smile; "also papa's, and he has already given me the very same prescription." "As I do, if I am consulted," said Harold, "and when three such physicians agree, you surely will not venture to disregard their advice." "No, indeed!" she returned, with her own sweet smile again, "nor would I, if any of the three had given it. I do really feel the need of rest for to-night, but hope you will all agree to let me go at least as far as the Court of Honor to-morrow." "That will depend upon how you are feeling in the morning," returned her father, Violet adding: "And if you should have to stay here and rest for a day or two you need not feel so very badly about it, Gracie, because our time for remaining in and about the White City is not limited like that of some less fortunate people." "No, mamma, and that is something to be thankful for. Oh, I do think myself a most fortunate girl," Grace said in reply, directing a look of ardent affection toward her father as she spoke. The other young folks were chatting together near by, principally of the beauties of the Fair, and indulging in many a merry jest and much light laughter. "The Court of Honor is, in my opinion, the most beautiful place in the world," remarked Rosie; "at least the most beautiful I have ever seen or can imagine; especially at night, when the magnificent MacMonnie's fountain, and the electric fountains are all at play. What beautiful rainbow-colored showers they send up! I never dreamed of anything so lovely and can never weary of looking at them." "Nor have I," said Croly. "I move that we all go over there presently; in time to witness the lighting up." There was a general assent, and young Percy Landreth, who had managed to secure a seat close at Lucilla's side, said to her in an undertone: "You will go surely, and may I have the pleasure of acting as your escort?" "I don't know," she returned with a slight laugh and an arch look at Chester Dinsmore, who, sitting near on her other side, had overheard the request, and was looking slightly vexed and disappointed; "papa hasn't told me yet whether I may go to-night or not; and I'm 'a young thing who cannot leave her father' or go anywhere without his knowledge and consent. I'll ask him, however," she concluded, jumping up and hastening to the captain's side. "Papa," she asked, "can I go presently to the Court of Honor with the others--and you? for I suppose you are going?" "I think it likely that your mamma and I will be going after a little," he said in reply; "but Grace is too weary to return there to-night, and you too would be the better able to enjoy yourself at the Fair to-morrow should you go early to bed to-night; so that is what I wish you to do." "Indeed, papa, I am not so very tired," she said half imploringly, half in vexation. "Mayn't I go?" "You have my answer to that question, daughter," he replied in a tone so low that the words scarce reached any ear but hers. "I think it best for both you and Grace that you should stay here with her, and surely you love your sister well enough to do so willingly, even if you had your father's consent to your going ashore for the evening?" "Papa," said Grace, overhearing the last sentence, "I would not have Lu miss the pleasant evening on shore on my account. I will go directly to bed and probably fall asleep at once." "As I hope and believe Lucilla will also," he returned, with a glance of grieved displeasure bestowed upon his eldest daughter, which sent a remorseful pang to her heart. "Oh, father, don't be vexed with me," she entreated low and tremulously, putting a hand into his as she spoke; "I am glad that I am under your orders; I am, indeed, and would not for anything leave dear Gracie alone." "I am sure of it, daughter," he returned, pressing the hand affectionately as he spoke. "Also I think that to-morrow you will be thankful to me that you have had a rest from exertion and excitement." "Yes, papa, I always find that your way is best, and I am very glad and thankful that I have such a kind, wise father." "Well, Lu, did you get leave to go?" asked Rosie as Lucilla rejoined the circle of young people. "No; papa wishes me to stay here and get to bed early that I may be well rested for to-morrow's exertion in seeing the sights of the White City," Lucilla answered in a lively, cheerful tone, that seemed to indicate entire satisfaction with her father's decision. She was in fact so remorseful over her momentary exhibition of wilfulness that she felt as if she no longer cared for anything but to convince her dearly loved father of her penitence on account of it, and her desire to do exactly as he directed. "A wise and kind decision, Lu," remarked Herbert Travilla, overhearing what she said. "A rest now may save you from a serious break-down some days or weeks hence." "Yes, Uncle Herbert, I am well aware that such a father as mine is a very great blessing," she returned with a smile. "I only wish I were as good a daughter." Just at that moment the guns announced the setting of the sun, and the flags on the _Dolphin_ and other vessels came down with the usual ceremonies. That over, those who intended going ashore for the evening or the night began their preparations, which were such as to occupy but a few minutes. Violet put her little ones to bed, and the captain, who had carried sleepy little Ned down to the state-room, on coming out into the saloon found Lucilla there waiting to speak to him. "Papa," she said humbly, "have you quite forgiven my crossness to-night when you refused to let me go ashore? I am very, very sorry for it, but I am perfectly satisfied now with your decision; I was, the next minute, and oh, I do love you dearly, dearly, though I can hardly expect you to believe it when--when I'm so ready to be rebellious," she added, hiding her face on his breast, for he had taken her into his arms the moment she began to speak. "Yet I do believe it, my own darling," he replied in tender tones, smoothing her hair caressingly as he spoke. "I fully believe that you love me devotedly, though for a moment you indulged in the old rebellious spirit that used to cause so much pain to both you and me. However, this is almost the first time I have seen any show of it for two or three years. In all that time you have been as willingly and cheerfully obedient as anyone could ask or expect a daughter to be." "Oh, thank you, my dear father, for saying that!" she responded, lifting to his, eyes beaming with happiness, "and I do intend that it shall be my very last failure to be as promptly and cheerfully obedient as possible, for I know you never deny me anything, unless you see that it is for my good, and I have never known you to make a mistake about that. Do you want Grace and me to go to bed as soon as you and the others are gone?" "I think it would be well for you to do so, but if you both prefer it you may stay on deck for another half hour." "Then I will get ready for bed at once, papa, for I want to do exactly as you think best, and I know Gracie does also." "Yes, I know she does; and, by the way, I must carry her down before I go; she is so weary, poor child," he said, hurrying up to the deck. Lucilla waited only to see the others off, then joined her sister in their state-room. "You poor dear, you are so tired!" she exclaimed, noticing Grace's weary expression and heavy eyes. "You must let me help you with your preparations for bed." "Thank you, Lu," returned Grace; "you are such a dear sister--always so kind and helpful to me; but I am sorry that for my sake you should lose the pleasure of going to the Court of Honor with the others to-night." "O Gracie, you know we always find out in the end that papa's way is the best for us both, and he refused my request for my own sake as well as yours." "Yes; he is the very kindest and best of fathers," said Grace; "he never refuses any one of his children anything he can give them when he thinks it good for them." "But now I must stop talking and go to sleep as quickly as possible, as he bade me when he brought me down here." Both she and Lucilla were asleep in a few minutes and awoke the next morning feeling greatly refreshed and rested. "Shall we visit the Turkish village to-day?" asked Violet at the breakfast table. "I say aye to that," said Walter. "I want to see it and make some purchases there. I've heard that there is a street there with booths along on the side and a bazaar where one can buy various kinds of Turkish goods. I want to get some if only for curiosities." "And for a quarter you can go up in the restaurant and see the girls dance," said his sister Rosie; "or into the theatre to look at a representation of Mohammedan home life and adventure. So Mr. Will Croly told me." "Well, I don't know about going to the theatre," returned Walter, "but I'd like to see their mosque with its minaret, at noon or sunset, when a real muezzin comes out and calls upon the faithful to remember Allah and give him glory." "He does it at sunrise too, doesn't he?" asked Evelyn Leland. "Yes; but we'll never get over there in time for that. Some of our American folks don't know what he is about,--not understanding his language--and imagine that he's selling popcorn or advertising the dance-house, or maybe calling for somebody to come and help him down." "How, Uncle Wal?" asked Neddie. "With a ladder, I suppose." "Do they bring it to him?" "I don't think they have yet, Neddie; at least I haven't heard of it. But wouldn't you like to go and see it all?" "Yes; if papa will take me; and mamma will go too." "How many would like to go?" asked the captain, and everyone responding in favor of so doing the question was considered settled. They set out at their usual early hour, met Harold and Herbert in the Peristyle, lingered a little in the Court of Honor, then made their way to the Turkish village, went through the booths and bazaar, making a number of purchases, looked at the mosque and heard the noon cry of the muezzin. Then they visited an Arabian tent and the fac-simile of a house in Damascus. In the tent there were male and female Arabs sitting cross-legged; some of them boiling coffee, or making thin wafer cakes, while others played on odd looking instruments and chanted in monotonous tones. The party went into the house, found that it contained but one room, oblong in shape, with high ceiling, and windows just beneath the cornice. "That would hardly do for Americans," remarked Walter, gazing up at them, "for we could not see into the street." "We could go to the door, Uncle Walter," said Elsie. "Or have a step-ladder to carry about from one window to another," laughed Rosie. "I like the festooned walls, the fountain in the centre, and the thick rugs on the floors," remarked Violet; "the hanging lamps too, and ornaments of rich woods inlaid with ivory; also the divans that look like such comfortable resting-places." "Yes, madame would find them pleasant to rest upon," responded a young Turk in excellent, but quaintly intoned, English; then he went on to explain everything in the same tongue. Their next visit was to Cairo Street, at the gate of which ten cents was asked for the admission of each one of the party; a small sum they thought, to give in payment for a sight of all that was on exhibition inside. Having passed through the gate they found themselves in a street square, with a cafe opening into it on one side. Entering it they sat down and looked about them. Captain Raymond, who had been more than once in Cairo itself, pronounced the scene an exact copy of what was to be found there, and they presently learned that the doors and wooden-grated windows had been brought bodily from that city. They could see projecting balconies, mysterious archways, airy loggias, and tiny shops filled to overflowing with such things as many a one would want to buy, and being in easy circumstances they bought a number of articles such as were not too heavy or cumbersome to be easily carried. Soon, however, their attention was turned to the crowds in the streets. Near by was a donkey and camel stand--donkeys standing and camels lying down in their own peculiar fashion. "Oh, what funny fellows!" laughed little Ned. "Yes," said his father, "those are camels. Would you like to take a ride on one?" "No, sir; I might fall off." "Yes, Ned, and hurt yourself; maybe break your leg; and it would take even Cousin Arthur a good while to mend it; so that you would miss the pleasure of going about with the rest of us," said Walter. "I don't want to ride just now," said Ned, "but if I did I'd rather try one of those little horses." "Donkeys, Ned," corrected his sister Lucilla, "and what little fellows they are! no bigger than Max's dog Prince!" "Oh, see!" cried Rosie with a merry laugh, "that one going down the street knocked against that big fat man and almost upset him." "Notice the drivers," said Evelyn, "all so swarthy and with such black eyes, naked feet, long caftans, fez, and turbans. And what a keen watch they keep for customers. Evidently they do not despise American dollars, dimes, or cents." "No, indeed! not they," said Walter. "Oh, there are a couple who evidently contemplate taking a ride on a camel; see, the young fellow seems to be bargaining with one of the drivers; and how the people are crowding round to look and listen!" "What's the price?" they heard the young man ask. They did not catch the reply, but he went on with his questions: "Will he bite? Is he quite tame? Is there any danger at all?" "No-a bite," returned the driver; "good camel," and as he spoke he reached for the girl, who shrank back a little. But he quickly lifted her to the saddle and showed her how to hold on. Then the young man climbed up behind her, reached around her waist and seized the hand-hold as if determined that nothing should tear it from his grasp. The girl noticed it and grew more frightened, turning a trifle paler and asking: "Is there any danger?" But the driver was already tugging at the halter and striking the camel over the neck with his stick, and slowly it spread out its hind legs, rising on them first, and throwing its riders forward till it seemed as if they must slide down his sloping neck and fall to the ground. The girl screamed, as her hat fell over her eyes, but both she and her escort held on with a deathlike grip. The camel paused for a moment, then swayed back and forth sideways; the girl screamed again, but the camel was only untangling his legs, and the next instant settled himself on them in a way that threw his riders backward so that they would have fallen off behind but for their firm grasp of the ropes. But now the camel was fairly upon his four feet, and slowly turning round with a wobbling motion like a boat caught in a trough of waves; the riders had recovered from their fright, and were both laughing. All this time the crowd had been standing round watching the two, and laughing and tittering, for, risky as the whole proceeding looked, there was really very little, if any, danger. CHAPTER XIII. "Let us go now to the Guatemala Building," said Harold as they left Cairo Street. "I should like you all to see the grotto with its specimens of the fauna of the country, among which is a remarkable bird called the gavila, which sings the half-hours with unvarying regularity, showing itself as correct as a sundial, and almost as useful as a government observatory." "Is it sure to wake and sing every half-hour in the night, uncle?" asked little Elsie. "Oh, no! It is only a day clock; stops attending to the business at sundown and begins again in the morning." They were interested in the strange bird; the older people in a map also, showing the locations of the principal towns and railways, and in the exhibit, in an open court and about a fountain, of the flora of the country; also some pictures hung about the balcony, showing the principal places in the city of Guatemala and other large towns. "I feel a particular interest in Korea just at present," remarked Grandma Elsie as they left the Guatemalan Building, "and if entirely agreeable to the rest of you, I should like, now, to look at their exhibit in the Manufacturers' Building." "Yes, mother; it is in the southwestern part," returned Harold, leading the way. "The booth is small, but crowded with exhibits. The Korean Royal Commissioner--with the singular name of Jeung Kiung Wow--has charge of it. "That is a funny name, uncle," laughed Ned. "And yet our names may have just as funny a sound to him," Violet said, smiling down at her little son. When they reached the Korean booth the first thing that attracted their attention was the flag hanging from it. The captain was able to explain its design, and did so, the others listening with interest. "It represents the male and female elements of nature," he said. "You see it is blue and yellow: the blue represents the heavenly, or male element, the yellow the earthly, or female. You see the heavens across the eastern sea and they seem to lap over and embrace the earth, while the earth to landward rises in lofty mountains and folds the heavens in its embrace, so making a harmonious whole. The four characters around the central figure represent the four points of the compass." They passed in and found a good many sights which interested them--banners and lanterns, and bronze table and dinner set for one person, a cupboard with dishes, a fire pot and tools, boots and shoes of leather, wood, and straw; a kite and reel, a board on which is played a game resembling chess, white and blue vases, and a very old brass cannon used in the American attack on Korean forts in the seventies. Also there were banners hanging on the walls of the booth, and here and there stood screens, one of which was hand-embroidered by the ladies of the palace. On dummies in the centre of the room were shown ancient warriors' costumes, the court dress of both a military and a civil official, and a lady's dress for the dance. And in an upright glass case were shown an embroidered silk cushion, various dress fabrics, a lady's dress and a lady's court dress and various articles of footgear. There was a map showing Korea and adjacent countries, and attached to it was a paper headed, "Questions Answered." Mr. Dinsmore stood before it and read of them aloud: "Korea and Corea are both correct, but the former is preferred. "Korea is not a part of China, but is independent. "The Koreans do not speak the Chinese language, and their language resembles neither the Chinese nor the Japanese. "Korea made treaties in 1882. "All the articles are owned by the government. "Korea has electric lights, steamships, telegraph, but no railroads. "Koreans live in comfortable houses, heated by flues under the floor. "Korean civilization is ancient and high; area one hundred thousand square miles; population sixteen million; climate like that of Chicago, country mountainous, mineral wealth undeveloped, agricultural products chiefly rice, beans, wheat, and corn." "I am glad we came," remarked Rosie as they passed out of the booth, "for I know a good deal more about Korea than I did before, and find it a far more interesting country than I had any idea that it was." The next visit was to the rotunda of the Government Building, where they found many mural paintings of famous incidents in American history and scenes in our largest cities, so that it was a good representation of our whole country. In the rotunda was a hollow section of one of the largest trees that grow in the Maraposa grove of red woods in California. The interior was brilliantly lighted by means of incandescent lights, and a platform at the top of the trunk was reached by an inside, winding stairway. The chamber walls were covered with photographs showing the grove from which the tree trunk was cut, and how it was conveyed to the Fair and set up. There were besides eight alcoves in the rotunda, in which were many articles, Colonial relics--such as the pipe which Miles Standish smoked, the first Bible brought to this country, in 1620, the year of the landing of the Pilgrims--a piece of the torch Putnam used when he entered the wolf's cave, the fife of Benedict Arnold, and many another scarcely less interesting. "I think my two elder daughters have borne well the exertions of the day," the captain remarked, with a smiling glance at them, as again they stood upon the deck of the _Dolphin_. "Yes, father; thanks to your kind thoughtfulness in sending us so early to bed last night," returned Lucilla, with a grateful, loving look up into his face. "The longer I live the more thoroughly convinced I am that you always know what is best for me." "That is just my experience, Lu," laughed Violet, standing near, "and I'll venture to assert that Grace can say the same." "Indeed I can!" responded Grace heartily, "and it is a great satisfaction to have one so wise, kind, and good almost always at hand to decide doubtful questions for you." "Tut! tut! I wonder if any other man was ever tried with so much gross flattery," exclaimed the captain in feigned displeasure. But at that moment others stepped upon the deck and their presence put an end to the bit of familiar family chat, Violet and her husband hastening to welcome their guests; for among the arrivals were Annis and several others from Pleasant Plains, whom they had not seen for some days--it being an easy matter for friends to miss each other among the crowds and the various buildings at the Fair; also Chester and Frank Dinsmore and Mr. Hugh Milburn, who had not been seen there before. "Why, how do you do, cousin? I did not know you had arrived in the city," said Violet, offering her hand. "Very well, thank you. I arrived only last night," he said, "and was not able to hunt you up till now. Ah, father, Cousin Elsie, captain,"--shaking hands with each in turn--"it does one good to see all your kind, pleasant faces." "And us to see yours," returned Violet. "But where are Ella and the boy?" "At home," he answered; "at least that's where I left them." "But why didn't you bring them along?" asked his father; "the bit laddie is not likely to have another chance to look at such sights as one may see here to-day." "His mother thought him rather young for that, seeing he is not very far along in his second year," replied Hugh, "nor could she be persuaded to leave him behind. He is a person of consequence in his mother's eyes, is my little Ronald, if in no other." "Ah, I can understand that," laughed Violet. "But now, Cousin Hugh, you must let me have the pleasure of introducing you to the cousins from Pleasant Plains." It was quite a gathering of relatives and friends, all weary enough with the day's exertions in sight-seeing to enjoy resting in comfortable chairs on the vessel's deck, while comparing notes as to their experiences since coming to the Fair; what each had seen and heard, what they were planning yet to see, some caring more especially for one class of curiosities, some for another. But hardly a half hour had passed when they were summoned to an excellent repast, after which they again repaired to the deck, where they gathered in groups and indulged in further chat. Grace was a little apart from the others, reclining in a steamer chair. "Are you very, very tired, Gracie?" asked Walter, coming to her side. "Pretty tired," she answered, smiling up into his face. "Why? did you want me to do anything?" "Oh, no! no, indeed! but I was just thinking that now that we have two ventriloquists here, we might have some fun--for so far as I know the folks from Pleasant Plains don't know anything about the extraordinary powers of Cousins Ronald and Hugh--and I hoped you weren't too tired to enjoy it." "I don't believe I am," she laughed; "and I think I shall enjoy it if papa doesn't send me to bed too soon. It was very good in you to think of me, Walter." "Was it, when you are the girl that always thinks of everybody else?" "Not always, Walter. I am afraid I very often think of myself first." "Do you? I never knew it before," he laughed; then hurrying to old Mr. Lilburn's side, whispered something in his ear. The old gentleman smiled, and gave a nod of assent. "I like to please you, laddie," he said in an undertone. "So does Hugh, and mayhap atween us we can accomplish something worth while." "Oh, thank you," returned Walter. "I do think, cousin, that a little fun would do us all good. We've been dining heartily--at least I have--and I think a good laugh assists digestion." Hugh sat near, chatting with Captain Raymond. Walter now turned to him with a whispered request which he seemed to grant as readily as his father had the one made of him. At that Rosie and Lucilla, who were watching Walter with apparent interest in his proceedings, exchanged a glance of mingled amusement and satisfaction, while Grace, whose eyes were following his movements, laughed softly to herself; for she was in the mood for a bit of fun, and saw in all this the promise of some. "Dear me, what a lot o' folks! and all lookin' so comfortable-like. They've had a good dinner,--or supper, whichever they call it--you bet, Joe, while we're as hungry as bears," said a rough, masculine voice which seemed to come from a spot close in Captain Raymond's rear. Before the sentence was half finished every other voice was hushed and all eyes were turned in the direction from which the sound seemed to come. Everyone was startled for an instant, but by the time the sentence was finished the captain looked perfectly calm and cool. "Who are you? and how did you come aboard the vessel?" he asked. "In the boat, sir; same as the rest o'e company," was the reply in the same voice. "Without waiting for an invitation, eh?" "Humph! might 'a' missed it if we'd waited. Say, capting, are you mean enough to let us fellows go hungry when you have a vessel full o' good things for eatin'? To say nothing of a pocket full o' tin?" "If any would not work, neither should he eat," quoted the captain. "What work have you two been about to-day?" "Same as yerself, sir; lookin' at the exhibits in this here big World's Fair." "Very well; you may go and ask the steward for some supper." A sound of retreating footsteps followed, and those of the guests who were not in the secret looked about here and there in blank astonishment. "Well, really! am I going blind?" ejaculated young Percy Landreth, passing his hand over his eyes in a bewildered way. "I couldn't see those fellows at all." "Oh, no!" said Lucilla, "one can sometimes hear what one cannot see." But at that instant there was a "cluck, cluck," as of a hen which seemed to come from Annis' lap, and at which she sprang to her feet with a slight cry of astonishment and dismay, but seeing nothing, "Why, where is it?" she asked half breathlessly, and the "cluck, cluck," was repeated apparently from behind the chair of her next neighbor, and immediately followed by a loud barking as if a dog were in chase of the chicken. "Oh!" exclaimed Annis, turning her eyes upon the elder Mr. Lilburn, "I think I know--I've heard----" But a warning gesture from Violet, whose face was full of amusement, stopped her, and she dropped into her chair again with a slight, mirthful laugh and a look of relief and diversion. Percy saw it and suddenly comprehended pretty accurately what was going on. Yet at the same moment he was startled and annoyed by a loud buzzing about his ears as though a bee were flying round and round his head. He put up his hand and tried to knock it away. Then it seemed to fly to Chester and though he was not wholly unacquainted with the powers of Cousin Ronald and Hugh, he too involuntarily made an effort to dodge and drive it away. Then the squeak of a mouse came from a reticule on Lucilla's lap, and that so unexpectedly that she gave a little scream, at the same time springing to her feet, and throwing the reticule from her. At that her father laughed, and she picked it up again and reseated herself with a slightly mortified air. "Let me get that mouse out for you, Lu," said Herbert, holding out his hand for the reticule; but scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the meow of a kitten, coming from his coat pocket, caused him to suddenly and almost involuntarily clap his hand upon it. "Yes, Uncle Herbert, take the mouse out and give it to the cat," returned Lulu quickly, handing the reticule to him as she spoke. "Thank you," he returned laughingly, "but I really don't believe the creature is hungry." "Oh, uncle, let me see that pussy!" cried Ned, running to him. "Put your hand into my pocket and try if you can find it," was the good-humored reply, and Neddie at once availed himself of the permission. "Why, it isn't there!" he exclaimed. "How do you s'pose it got out?" "I'm inclined to think it never got in, Ned," said his uncle. "Oh, it's in mine!" cried the little fellow excitedly, and clapping his hand upon his pocket, as a pitiful meow seemed to come from it. "Why, I can't feel it. Papa,"--running to him,--"please take it out, I can't." The captain took hold of the pocket. "You made a mistake, son; it isn't there. I feel nothing but your handkerchief and a few other little soft articles." "Why--why, how queer!" exclaimed the little fellow, "I was sure I heard it in there, papa. Oh, what is that?" as the squeal of a young pig seemed to come from his father's pocket; but at that instant the loud and furious bark of a big dog seemed to come from some place in his rear very near at hand, and with a little cry of affright he made haste to climb upon his father's knee for protection, putting his arms about his neck and clinging tightly to him. But just then a loud cry came from below: "Help! help! these rascally fellows are stealing the silver! Captain Raymond, sir, help, or they'll throttle me!" At that the captain sprang to his feet, set Ned in his mother's lap, and hurried below, while the young men rose hastily to go to his assistance, even those of them who were well acquainted with Cousin Ronald's powers, thinking for an instant that the alarm was real. But a laugh of amusement from him and his son let them into the secret that it was but a false alarm, the trick of a ventriloquist, and they resumed their seats as hastily as they had arisen from them. "Oh, oh," cried Ned, "I'm so afraid my dear papa will get hurt! Uncle Harold and Uncle Herbert, won't you go and help papa fight those bad men? Please go quick! Oh, please do!" "Oh, no, Neddie, papa is so big and strong that he doesn't need any help to make such fellows behave themselves," said Lucilla. "And here he comes all safe and sound," as the captain stepped upon the deck again. "Well, captain," said Grandma Elsie, looking up smilingly into his face as he drew near, "did you catch the rogues?" "No, mother, I could not find the least trace of them," he answered gravely. Then, turning to the elder Mr. Lilburn: "Cousin Ronald," he asked, "do you think you would know them if you were to see them?" "I know them, cousin captain!" exclaimed the old gentleman in well-feigned astonishment. "Can it be possible you mean to insinuate that I am the associate of beggars and thieves?" "I mean no offence, sir," returned the captain with a twinkle of fun in his eye, "but it sometimes happens that a very honest and honorable man may be well acquainted with the appearance of some dastardly villain." "I'm no sich a character as that," snarled a rough voice that seemingly came from a part of the deck in Mr. Lilburn's rear, and sounded very much like the one which had demanded some supper a short time before, "an' I hope it isn't me you're ameanin', fer I'm as honest an' decent a man as any in this crowd, ef I do say it, that shouldn't." "Who is that man? I couldn't see him the other time, and I can't see him now," exclaimed little Elsie, gazing round in wide-eyed wonder; for she had never quite understood Cousin Ronald's performances, and was much puzzled to comprehend all that was now being done and said. "I say, capting," cried another strange voice, it also coming apparently from an invisible speaker, "why upon airth don't you put that impident critter off the boat? I'd do it in a jiffy if 'twas me." "You have my permission to do so, sir," returned the captain, "but perhaps he will go presently of his own accord." "Hollo!" shouted a strange voice that seemed to come from the water near at hand, and was followed immediately by the dip of an oar, "I say, what's the matter up there on that deck? If I was capting o' that yacht, there shouldn't be no such goings on aboard it." "The impudence of the fellow!" exclaimed Lucilla, forgetting for the moment the presence of two ventriloquists, and, springing up, she was about to rush to the side of the vessel to get a sight of the boatman; but her father, turning toward her with a smile, laid a detaining hand on her arm, while at the same time he called out in good-humored tones: "Suppose you board us then, sir, and show what you can do." "Humph!" snarled the voice that seemed so near at hand, "you'd better try it, old feller, whomsoever you be, but I bet you'll find me an' Joe here more'n a match fer you." "Oh, Bill, I say, let's git out o' this!" exclaimed a third voice, apparently close at hand; "we've had our fill o' grub and might as well make ourselves scarce now." "All right, Joe," returned the voice of the first speaker; "we'll git inter that feller's boat, and no doubt he'll take us ashore to git rid of us." A sound as of retreating footsteps followed, then all was quiet. "Very well done, Cousin Ronald; one could almost see those fellows," laughed the captain. "I couldn't see them, papa," said little Elsie. "I could only hear them. What was the reason?" "Suppose you ask Cousin Ronald," was her father's reply. "So you are a ventriloquist, sir?" remarked Percy Landreth, in a tone between assertion and enquiry, and giving the old gentleman a look of mingled curiosity and amusement. "You think so, do you, sir? But why should I be suspected more than anyone else in this company of friends and relatives?" asked Cousin Ronald in a quiet tone. "Well, sir, it seems to me evident from all I have seen and heard. All appear to look to you as one who is probably at the bottom of all these mysterious doings." "No, not quite all, Percy," Violet said with a smile. "So there are two, are there?" queried Percy. "Then the other, I presume, is Mr. Hugh Lilburn." "O Percy!" cried Lucilla in half reproachful tones, "I wish you hadn't found out quite so soon; because it spoils the fun." "Oh, no, not quite, I think," he returned, "for I noticed that even those who must have been in the secret were occasionally taken by surprise." "Yes," she admitted with a laugh, "I did think for a moment that there was a man calling to us from a boat down there on the lake, and that there was a mouse in my reticule." CHAPTER XIV. Sight-seeing was resumed again the next day, much time being spent in the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building, the marvel of the Exposition, covering more than forty acres of ground, and filled with curious and beautiful things from almost every quarter of the globe. Hours were spent there, then a ride in an electric boat on the lagoon was taken as a restful form of recreation. The greater part of the afternoon was spent in the ever-fascinating Midway Plaisance, then they returned to the yacht for their evening meal and an hour or two of restful chat in the easy-chairs on its deck, and with the setting of the sun the older ones returned to the Court of Honor, leaving the children in bed and under the ever-watchful care of their nurse. Much the same sort of life continued for a week or more; then many of the friends found it necessary to return to their homes. The cousins from Pleasant Plains were among that number, and the day before leaving young Percy seized a rare opportunity for a word in private with Captain Raymond. "I have been coveting such a chance as this, sir," he said, coloring with embarrassment, "but--but couldn't find it till now. I--I--want----" "Speak out, my young friend," said the captain kindly, "I am ready to listen to whatever you may have to say, and if in my power to assist you in any way, shall feel it a pleasure to do so; particularly as you are a relative of my wife." Percy had had but little opportunity for showing his penchant for Lucilla, and the young girl's father was not thinking of her, but imagined there might be some business venture in which the young man desired his assistance. "You have perhaps something to tell me of your plans and prospects for the future," he said enquiringly, "and if so, possibly I may be able to exert influence, or render assistance, in some way; it will give me pleasure, I assure you, to do anything in my power; so do not be afraid to speak out." "You are very kind, captain, very kind indeed," stammered Percy, flushing more hotly than before, "but that--that is not it exactly. I hope you won't be angry, but I have been trying to screw up my courage to ask for--something far more valuable than money, influence, or anything else that could be thought of. I--I love your daughter, sir,--Miss Lucilla--and--and I hope you won't forbid me to tell her so." He drew a sigh of relief that at last the Rubicon was crossed--his desire and purpose made known; but a glance at the captain's grave and troubled face dashed his hopes to the ground. A moment of silence followed, then Captain Raymond spoke in gentle, sympathetic tones. "I am sorry, very sorry to disappoint you, my young friend; but I cannot grant your request. Lucilla is but a child yet--a mere school-girl; and such I intend to keep her for some six years or more to come. I have no objection to you more than to any other man, but cannot consent to allowing her to be approached on that subject until she reaches much more mature years." "And in the meantime somebody else will in all probability get ahead of me," sighed Percy. "Oh, sir, can I not persuade you to revoke that decision and let me at least learn from her own lips whether or not she cares for me?" "I think I can furnish all the information you wish in that line," returned the captain, laying a kindly hand on the young man's shoulder, "for hardly an hour ago she told me--as she has many times before--that she loved no one else in the wide world half so dearly as her father." "Well, sir, I am glad of it, since you won't let me speak yet," said Percy with a rueful sort of smile. "But--please don't blame me for it--but I can't feel satisfied to be forbidden to speak a word, considering how very far apart our homes are, and that we may not meet again for years--if ever--and that--Chester Dinsmore, who is, I can see plainly enough, over head and ears in love with her--will be near her all the time and have every chance to cut me out." "No," said the captain, "I shall give him no chance either. I fully intend keeping my little girl to myself--as I have already told you--for at least six or eight years to come." "And you have no objection to me personally, sir?" "None whatever; in fact, from all I have seen and heard I am inclined to think you a fine fellow; almost equal to my own boy, Max," Captain Raymond said with a smile: "and if my daughter were of the right age, and quite ready and willing to leave her father, I should have but one objection to your suit--that you would take her so far away from me." "Possibly I might not, sir, should there be an opening for me near where you reside. I think the Bible says it is the man who is to leave father and mother and cleave to his wife." "True, my young friend," returned the captain; "but the time I have set is too far away to make it worth our while to consider that question at present." With that the interview closed, and the two parted, the captain to be confronted a few minutes later by Chester Dinsmore, with a like request to that just denied to Percy. "No, no, Chester," he said, "it is not to be thought of; Lucilla is entirely too young to leave her father's fostering care and take up the duties and trials of married life. I cannot consent to your saying a word to her on the subject for years to come." "You have no objection to me personally, I trust, sir?" returned the young man, looking chagrined and mortified. "None whatever," Captain Raymond hastened to say. "I have just given the same answer to another suitor, and there is one consideration which inclines me to prefer you to him; namely, that you are a near neighbor to us at Woodburn; so that in giving up my daughter to you I should feel the parting much less than if she were about to make her home so far North as this." "Well, sir, that's a crumb of comfort, though to be often in her company--seeing her lovely face and watching her pretty ways--will make it all the more difficult to refrain from showing my esteem, admiration, love. In fact, I don't know how to stand it. Excuse me, captain, but what harm could there be in telling her my story and trying to win my way to her heart, provided--I spoke of marriage only as something to be looked for in the far-off future?" "No, I cannot consent to that," returned the captain with decision. "It would only put mischief into her head and rob her of her child-like simplicity. She is still too young to know her own mind on that subject and might fancy that she had given her heart to one who would, a few years later, be entirely distasteful to her. But I trust you, Chester, not to breathe a word to her of your--what shall I call it?--admiration until you have my consent." "It is more than admiration, sir!" exclaimed Chester. "I love her as I never loved anything before in my life, and it would just about kill me to see her in the possession of another." "Then comfort yourself that for years to come no one's suit will be listened to any more favorably than yours," returned the father of the girl he so coveted, and with that the interview came to an end. Their conversation had been held at one end of the deck while the rest of the party sat chatting together at the other. The captain and Chester joined them now and entered into the talk, which ran principally upon the fact that all the relatives from Pleasant Plains must leave for home the next day. "How would you all like to go by water?" asked Captain Raymond, as if the thought of such a possibility had just struck him. "I do not believe the idea has occurred to any of us," replied Annis, "and since the building of the railroad so few make the journey by water that the boats running on our river are few, small, and I presume not remarkably comfortable." "How would this one answer?" he asked. "It is but thirty-eight miles across the lake; I think we would find your river navigable nearly or quite up to your town, and to reach it from here would not take more than six or eight hours." "Then they could all go, as they need not all spend the night, or any part of it, on board," exclaimed Violet in tones of delight. "Oh, Cousin Annis, and all of you, do agree to it, and we will have a charming little trip!" "Indeed, so far as I am concerned nothing could be pleasanter, I am sure," said Annis, looking highly pleased; "but--I fear it would be giving you a great deal of trouble, captain." "Not at all," he returned, "but on the contrary it will, I think, be a very enjoyable little trip to me and my wife and children." "Oh, I should like it very much!" exclaimed Lucilla; "there would be such a nice large party of us all the way to Pleasant Plains--supposing your river is navigable so far for a vessel of this size--and then the trip up the lake, a little visit to Mackinaw, and the sail back again, would be a restful and enjoyable break in the visit here to the Fair." "What do you say to the plan, Grandpa and Grandma Dinsmore, and mother?" asked the captain, turning toward them. "And you, Cousin Ronald?" All expressed themselves as well pleased with the idea, and it was decided to carry it out. "We will be happy to have you accompany us also, Chester and Frank, should you care to do so," said the captain cordially, "though I fear it will rob you of some of the time you had planned to spend at the Fair." "Thank you, captain," said Frank, "I, for one, accept your very kind invitation with great pleasure. It will give me a glimpse of a part of our big country that I have never seen--in the pleasantest of company, too; and as to our visit to the Fair, we can prolong it by another week, if we choose." "So we can," said his brother, "and I, too, accept your kind invitation, captain, with cordial thanks." "Then let me advise you of Pleasant Plains to be on board here, bag and baggage, by eight, or at the latest nine, o'clock to-morrow morning," said Captain Raymond. "We will be happy to have you take breakfast here with us, and we may as well be on our way across the lake while eating. Then I hope to have you at your destination by seven or eight in the evening, and, leaving you there, steam on down the river and up the lake, the rest of my passengers resting in their berths as usual." "Then it will take about all of the next day to get to Mackinaw, won't it, papa?" asked Grace. "Probably." "And how long will we stay there?" "I suppose that will depend upon how we enjoy ourselves. I think it likely you will all be satisfied with a day or two, as there is so much that will interest you here which you have not yet seen." "Cousin Annis," said Violet, "would you not be willing to make one of our party? I am sure that with a little crowding we could accommodate you very easily." "Thank you very much, cousin," replied Annis, "but I fear my company would not repay you for the necessary crowding." At that several voices exclaimed that it certainly would; the young girls adding that they could crowd a little closer together without feeling it any inconvenience, and the captain saying laughingly that impromptu beds would have to be provided in the saloon for Chester and Frank, and he would join them there, so leaving a vacant place for her with his wife; and with a little more persuasion Annis accepted the invitation, knowing that she could be well spared for a time from the large circle of brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces: the dear old father and mother having been taken, some years before, to their heavenly home. "I wish we could take Cousin Arthur, Marian, and Hugh with us," said Violet; "though they are not here to-night, they must still be in the city, I think." "Yes," said her husband, "and I think we might manage to accommodate them also, should they care to go; but probably they will prefer having that much more time to spend at the Fair." It was a beautiful moonlight evening, and after a little more chat in regard to the arrangements to be made for the morrow's journey, all except the children, who were already in bed, went together to the Court of Honor: from there to the Midway Plaisance, then to the Ferris Wheel, in which everyone was desirous to take a ride by moonlight; nor were they by any means disappointed in it. On leaving the Wheel they bade each other good-night and scattered to their several resting places--the cousins to their boarding-house, the others to the yacht. A little before eight o'clock the next morning there was a cheerful bustle on board the _Dolphin_. The extra passengers arrived safely and in good season, with their luggage, and found everything on the boat in good trim, and an excellent breakfast awaiting them and the others. The weather was all that could be desired; they were congenial spirits, and the day passed most delightfully. But though the young people were very sociable, no one seeming to be under any restraint, neither Chester nor Percy found an opportunity for any private chat with Lucilla. The fact was that the captain had had a bit of private talk with his wife and her mother, in which he gave them an inkling into the state of affairs as concerned the two young men and his eldest daughter, and requested their assistance in preventing either one from so far monopolizing the young girl as to be tempted into letting her into the secret of his feelings toward her. They reached Pleasant Plains early in the evening, landed the cousins belonging there, with the single exception of Miss Annis Keith, then turned immediately and went down the river again, reaching the lake about the usual time for retiring to their berths. The rest of their voyage was as delightful as that of the first day had been, and spent in a similar manner. As they sat together on the deck, toward evening, Grace asked her father if Mackinaw had not been the scene of something interesting in history. "There was a dreadful massacre there many years ago," he replied; "it was in 1763, by the Indians under Pontiac, an Indian chief. It was at the time of his attack on Detroit. There is a cave shown on the island in which the whites took refuge, but the Indians kindled a fire at its mouth and smoked them--men, women, and children--to death." "Oh, how dreadful, papa! how very dreadful!" she exclaimed. "Yes," he said, "those were dreadful times; but often the poor Indians were really less to blame than the whites, who urged them on--the French against the English and the English against the Americans. "Pontiac was the son of an Ojibway woman, and chief of that tribe, also of the Ottawas and the Pottawattamies, who were in alliance with the Ojibways. In 1746 he and his warriors defended the French at Detroit against an attack by some of the northern tribes, and in 1755 he took part in their fight with Braddock, acting as the leader of the Ottawas." "I wonder," said Grace, as her father paused for a moment in his narrative, "if he was the Indian who, in that fight, aimed so many times at Washington, yet failed to hit him, and at last gave up the attempt to kill him, concluding that he must be under the special protection of the Great Spirit." "That I cannot tell," her father said. "But whoever that Indian may have been I think he was right in his conclusion--that God protected and preserved our Washington that he might play the important part he did in securing his country's freedom. "But to return to my story. Pontiac hated the English, though after the surrender of Quebec, some years after Braddock's defeat--finding that the French had been driven from Canada, he acquiesced in the surrender of Detroit to the English, and persuaded four hundred Detroit Indians, who were lying in ambush, intending to cut off the English there, to relinquish their design. "But he hated the English, and in 1762 he sent messengers to every tribe between the Ottawa and the Mississippi to engage them all in a war of extermination against the English." "Americans too, papa?" asked little Elsie, who, sitting upon his knee, was listening very attentively to his narrative. "Yes," he replied, "our States were English colonies then, for the War of the Revolution did not begin until about thirteen years later. The messengers of Pontiac carried with them the red-stained tomahawk and a wampum war-belt, the Indian fashion of indicating that war was purposed, and those to whom the articles were sent were invited to take part in the conflict. "All the tribes to whom they were sent joined in the conspiracy, and the end of May was decided upon as the time when their bloody purpose should be carried out, each tribe disposing of the garrison of the nearest fort; then all were to act together in an attack upon the settlements. "On the 27th of April, 1763, a great council was held near Detroit, at which Pontiac made an oration detailing the wrongs and indignities the Indians had suffered at the hands of the English, and prophesying their extermination. "He told also of a tradition that a Delaware Indian had been admitted into the presence of the Great Spirit, who told him that his race must return to the customs and weapons of their ancestors, throw away those they had gotten from the white men, abjure whiskey, and take up the hatchet against the English. 'These dogs dressed in red,' he called them, 'who have come to rob you of your hunting-grounds and drive away the game.' "Pontiac's own particular task was the taking of Detroit. The attack was to be made on the 7th of May. But the commander of the fort was warned of their intentions by an Indian girl, and in consequence when Pontiac and his warriors arrived on the scene they found the garrison prepared to receive them. Yet on the 12th he surrounded the fort with his Indians, but was not able to keep a close siege, and the garrison was provided with food by the Canadian settlers." "They supplied the Indians also, did they not, my dear?" asked Violet. "Yes," replied the captain, "receiving in return promissory notes drawn on birch bark and signed with the figure of an otter, and it is said that all of them were afterward redeemed by Pontiac, who had issued them." "That speaks well for the honesty of the Indians if they were savage and cruel," remarked Walter; "and in fact they were hardly more cruel than some of the whites have been to them, and to other whites with whom they were at war." "Quite true," said the captain. "But didn't the rest of the English try to help those folks in that fort at Detroit, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes; supplies and reinforcements were sent in schooners, by way of Lake Erie, but they were captured by the Indians, who then compelled their prisoners to row them to Detroit, concealed in the bottom of the boat, hoping in that way to take the fort by stratagem; but, fortunately for the besieged, they were discovered before they could land. "Afterward another schooner, filled with supplies and ammunition, succeeded in reaching the fort, though the Indians repeatedly tried to destroy it by fire-rafts. "Now the English thought themselves strong enough to attack the Indians, and in the night of July 31 two hundred and fifty men set out for that purpose. "But the Canadians had learned their intention and told the Indians; so Pontiac was ready and waiting to make an attack, which he did as soon as the English were far enough from their fort for him to do so with advantage, firing upon them from all sides and killing and wounding fifty-nine of them. That fight is known as the fight of 'Bloody Bridge.' "On the 12th of the next October the siege was raised, and the chiefs of the hostile tribes, with the exception of Pontiac, sued for pardon and peace. Pontiac was not conquered and retired to the country of the Illinois. In 1769 he was murdered in Cahokia, a village on the Mississippi, near St. Louis. The deed was done by an Indian, who had been bribed to do it by an English trader." "Papa, you have not told us yet what happened at Mackinaw," said Lucilla. "It, as well as many other forts, was taken by Pontiac's Indians and all the inhabitants of the island were massacred," replied the captain. "There is a cave shown in a hill-side some little distance out from the village in which the French sought refuge, and where they were smoked to death, the Indians kindling fires at its mouth." "Oh," exclaimed Grace, "I am glad I didn't live in those dreadful days!" "Yes," said her father, "we have great reason for gratitude that the lines have fallen to us in such pleasant places, and times of peace." CHAPTER XV. The _Dolphin_ lay at anchor in Mackinaw Bay only a day or two, in which time her passengers visited the fort, the village, and the cave of which Captain Raymond had spoken as the scene of that dreadful slaughter of the French by the Indians; then started on the return voyage to Chicago. They were still favored with pleasant weather, and passed most of the time on deck. Mr. Lilburn seemed to appreciate the society of Miss Annis Keith, generally contriving to get a seat in her immediate vicinity, and to engage her in conversation; that did not strike anyone as strange, however, for Annis was a general favorite with both old and young, she showing a cousinly regard for all her relatives; especially for Mrs. Travilla; for the two had been almost lifelong friends. In these few days that they had been together they had had many private chats in which they recalled their early experiences at Pleasant Plains and the Oaks, and Elsie had urged Annis to return with her to Ion and spend the coming winter there. This invitation Annis was considering, and the more she thought upon it the stronger grew her inclination to accept it. But she must go home first to make some arrangements and preparations, she said. The two were conversing together thus, as they drew near the end of their little trip, not caring that their talk might be audible to those about them. "Surely it is not necessary that you should take much time for preparation, Annis," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "We of Ion and its vicinity have abundance of stores and dress-makers near at hand. And you would better see all that you can of the Fair now, for it will soon be a thing of the past." "That is true, Cousin Annis," said the captain; "you would better stay with us and see as much as possible." "You are all very kind, cousins," she answered. "But I fear I am crowding you." "Not at all," he and Violet replied, speaking together; the latter adding, "We have all slept comfortably, and in the daytime there is certainly abundance of room." "If you don't stay, Cousin Annis," Rosie said, with a merry look, "we will have to conclude that you have not had room enough to make you quite comfortable." "Then I certainly must stay," returned Annis, with a smile, "if my going would give so entirely false an impression; since I have had abundance of room and a most delightful time." "Then you will stay on?" "Yes, for a while; but I must go home for a day or two at least before leaving for the South." "We will let you know our plans in season for that," the captain promised, and the thing was considered settled. When her passengers awoke the next morning the _Dolphin_ was lying at her old anchorage near the beautiful Peristyle. All had returned rested and refreshed, and were eager to go on shore in search of further entertainment and instruction. The greater part of the day was spent in the Midway Plaisance. They visited the Lapland family of King Bull, the most prominent character in that village, and found them all seated beside their odd-looking hut, which, like the others in the village, was made of skin, tent-like in shape, and banked up with moss. The entrance was very small, the door made of a piece of wood. A fire was kept burning in the centre of the house, in the ground. There was no chimney; some of the smoke escaped through a little hole in the roof, if the wind was right. But if the wind comes from the wrong direction the smoke stays in the house, and the people enjoy it. It does not, however, improve their complexions, which are said to be, in their native state, not unlike the color of a well-cured ham. King Bull they found had the largest house, and a very large family. The Laplanders marry young, and it is not unusual for a grandfather to be under twenty-five years of age. King Bull was one hundred and twelve years old and had great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren, and every day he played for a little while with the youngest of those. Our friends learned that he had with him a son, Bals Bull, ninety years old, that he had a son aged seventy-three, he had a daughter aged fifty-nine, she a son aged forty-one, who had a son aged twenty-nine, who had a daughter aged fourteen, and she a daughter two years old. "Dear me!" exclaimed Rosie, on hearing this, "how old it makes a body feel! Why, just think! the mother of that two-year-old child is a year younger than you, Grace Raymond; and you don't consider yourself much more than a child yet, do you?" "No, indeed! and don't want to be anything but my father's own little girl," returned Grace, giving him a loving look that said more than her words. "Can you tell us if this looks like the real Lapland village, Harold!" asked Walter. "I am told it does," replied his brother; "that it is as nearly as possible a reproduction of one, though of course it is not very large, there being but twenty-four Laplanders here." "What do they eat, papa?" asked little Elsie. "Fish and reindeer meat, and cheese made of the milk. The reindeer is their most valuable possession: its skin is used for clothing, the fur is woven into cloth, they drink the milk, and use the bones in the making of their sledges. They live entirely on such food during their winters, which are nine months long." "And their summer only three months," said Evelyn, "I shouldn't like that." "No, nor should I," said Herbert. "I think it must be by far the most enjoyable part of the year, for it is usually spent at the seashore." "Are they heathen folks, papa?" asked Elsie. "Most of them are Lutherans," he answered. "Now let us go to the reindeer park." They did so, found nine of the gentle creatures there, saw them get a bath of Lake Michigan water from a hose-pipe, which they were told was given them three times daily. Then they were harnessed to their sledges and driven around the park, just as they are driven in their own country. After that they ran races, then they were fed and milked. The children had been deeply interested in the gentle reindeer and seemed almost loath to leave them when the performance was over. But those with which they were most delighted were three baby ones, two born on the way over to this country, and one shortly after they reached Chicago, and which was named Columbia. "Now where shall we go next?" asked Rosie. "Suppose we try the diving exhibit," said Walter. "It is something I should like to see." They found it on the south side of Midway Plaisance in a small building surrounding a huge tank of water. On the balcony of its second story stood a man turning a force-pump, which seemed to attract a good deal of attention from the passers-by. Each visitor paid ten cents at the door, then passed up a rude stairway by which he reached the surface of the water. There a lecturer was seated, who explained how the air was made to enter the diver's armor, and how to leave it. Then people were invited to throw small coins into the water. Captain Raymond put a bright dime into the hand of each of his younger children and they gleefully tossed them in. The diver was in the bubbling water, they could not see him, but presently, through a telephone, he gave the dates on the coins. Then he came up to the surface of the water carrying a dummy that looked like a drowned man and let the visitors see him in his armor. "He looks just like that picture of him that we saw outside," remarked little Elsie. "Ugh! I don't think I should ever be willing to wear such clothes." "Armor!" corrected her mother in a mirthful tone. "No, dear, I should not want to see you dressed in that style, unless to save you from drowning." But just then Mr. Dinsmore rose and led the way down another rough pine staircase, the others following. Reaching the lower story they found a great many peep-holes through which they could look in upon the water of the tank. To each of these holes the diver came in turn, holding up a card on which was printed a farewell compliment. His hands looked shrivelled and soaked, and Grace and the other young girls afterward expressed sincere pity for him, saying they thought his life must be a hard one. On leaving the diving exhibit they went to the Fisheries Building, which they found very beautiful. In its east pavilion was a double row of grottoed and illuminated aquaria containing the strangest inhabitants of the deep. Here they saw bluefish, sharks, catfish, bill-fish, goldfish, rays, trout, eels, sturgeon, anemones, the king-crab, burr-fish, flounders, toad-fish, and many other beautiful or remarkable inhabitants of the great deep; and the illuminated and decorated aquaria showed them to great advantage. It was said that nothing so beautiful had hitherto been seen west of London. The surface of the water in the aquaria was many feet above the heads of even the gentlemen of the party, but there were nearly six hundred feet of glass front, so that everybody could have a good view of the strange and beautiful creatures within. They all watched them for some time with curiosity and interest, the little folks questioning their papa about one and another variety, new to them, but old acquaintances to one who had spent many years upon the sea. "Papa," said Elsie, "there is one that looks a good deal like a flower. Is it a live thing? What is its name?" "That is what is called the sea anemone," he replied. "It is not a flower though, but an animal. It is said to have been called by the name of that flower about a hundred years ago, by a celebrated investigator in the department of natural history, named Ellis. He thought it a suitable name because their tentacles are in regular circles and tinged with bright, lively colors, nearly representing some of our elegantly fringed flowers, such as the carnation, marigold, and anemone. And so they do while in the water, and undisturbed. But when a receding tide leaves them on the shore they contract into a jelly-like mass with a puckered hole in the top. There"--pointing it out--"is the most common of the British species of sea anemone. It attaches itself to rocks and stones from low-water almost to high-water mark. The tentacula--these feelers that look like the fringe of a flower--you see are nearly as long as the body is high, and nearly of the same color. See, there is an azure line around the base, and on the base are dark green lines converging toward the centre; and around the edge of the mouth is a circle of azure tubercles, like turquoise beads of the greatest beauty. I wish I could show them to you, but the mouth must be expanded in order to make them visible. Ah, that is just the thing!" as someone standing near threw in a bit of meat which had the desired effect, the mouth of the anemone opening wide to receive it. "Oh, they are very beautiful!" exclaimed Rosie, watching the appearance of the beadlike tubercles of which the captain had just spoken. "Don't they eat anything but meat, papa?" asked Neddie. "Yes; crabs, sea-worms, and fish; the tentacula are furnished with minute spears with which they wound their prey and probably convey poison into the wounds." "I suppose this is salt water they are all in?" Walter said enquiringly, and was told that he was correct in his conjecture. On leaving the building they spent some time in examining its outside, finding its columns and arches wrought with calamus, fishes, frogs, serpents, and tortoises, making them very appropriate and beautiful. CHAPTER XVI. "Papa, I wish we might go back to the Fair directly after supper and spend the evening there," Lucilla said, as again they stood on the _Dolphin's_ deck. "I want so much to see the lighting up of the Court of Honor, then go to the wooded island to see it with the lamps lighted; after that to the Ferris Wheel again, to have the view from it by moonlight." "Anything more, my child?" returned the captain, with his pleasant smile. "I think it likely that may do for one evening, sir," she replied; "unless my father wants to take me somewhere else." "I think we will then come back through the Court of Honor and go to our beds," he said; "that is, should we make the visits proposed, which will depend at least somewhat upon the wishes of others. Violet, my dear, how does that programme suit you?" "I really do not know of any way of spending the evening that I should enjoy more," answered Violet. "Indeed Lu and I were talking together of our desire to see those sights, not longer ago than yesterday. And you, mother, would like it, would you not?" she asked, turning to Grandma Elsie. "Very much!" was the reply. "The tired little ones will be left in their bed of course?" "Yes, indeed! they will be ready for that as soon as they have had their supper," Violet replied, with a loving look into each weary little face. "Come, dears, we will go to our state-room, wash hands and faces, and smooth your hair, and by that time supper will be on the table." Every one of the company approved of Lucilla's plan for the spending of the evening, and before the sun had quite set they were again in the Court of Honor. They were in season to secure seats from which they could get a good view of the lighting up. They found there were thousands of people who seemed as anxious as themselves to witness the sudden change from deepening twilight to the grand illumination that made fairyland of the Court of Honor. But they were there for some minutes, sitting silently in the growing darkness, finding the buildings taking on a new beauty by the dim, uncertain light, and feeling it pleasant just to rest, listen to the subdued hum of the thousands of voices of the multitude thronging about the white railing guarding the fountains, the doorways, the stone steps leading down to the water, and every place where a human creature could find room to sit down and rest while waiting for a sight of the expected lighting up. There seemed no ill-humor among the great throng, no loud, angry talk, but a subdued buzz like many telephone messages coming over the wire at the same time. Our friends sat where they could see both the Administration Dome and the Golden Statue at the other end of the lagoon. They had sat in silence there for some minutes, the darkness deepening, when suddenly there was a blare of music, the fountains threw up a few thin columns of spray, the front of a dark building was instantly illumined with a thousand jewel-like lights, then another and another blazed out in the same manner till all were alight with tiny jets of flame; three rows, the first or highest following the cornices all round the court: these were of a golden hue; while some distance lower down was a second silver-colored row, then the last, ranged just under the parapet of the lagoon, were golden like the first. The mingled light of all three shone on the dark waters of the lagoon, the gondolas skimming silently to and fro, and the electric launches gliding swiftly onward. And the great dome of the Administration Building looked grandly beautiful with its line of flaming torches about its base, its triumphal arches of glittering fire above, and the golden crown sparkling on its summit. Great search-lights were flaming out from the ends of the Main Building, making visible the lovely seated Liberty in the MacMonnie's fountain which was foaming and rustling; and suddenly the two electric fountains sent up tall columns of water which changed from white to yellow, from that to purple, then to crimson, and from that to emerald green. "Oh, it is just too beautiful!" exclaimed Rosie, "too lovely for anything. I feel as if I could never weary of gazing upon it." "No, nor I," murmured Evelyn in low, moved tones. "I never imagined anything so grandly beautiful!" "No, nor did I; and yet it cannot be anything to compare to heaven," said Grandma Elsie; "'for eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for them that love him!'" They sat for some time gazing upon the enchanting scene, then rose, and still keeping together, wandered on till they reached the wooded island. The scene there was lovelier than in the daylight. Little glass cups of various colors held tiny lights of wick in oil, giving a charming appearance to the scene, and there were thousands of visitors moving here and there among them. So did our party from the _Dolphin_, for a half hour or more; then they returned to Midway Plaisance, and finding that the moon had risen, sought the Ferris Wheel, and ascending in it had a beautiful view of the White City, the lake beyond, and the surrounding country. They made the circuit several times, then leaving the wheel, wandered slowly through the fairylike scene that lay between them and the Peristyle, where the young men who lodged on shore bade good-night and the others entered their waiting boat and returned for the night to their floating home. All were weary with the day's sight-seeing and soon retired to their state-rooms; but Lucilla, noticing that her father had remained on deck, hastened back again for the bit of private chat with him of which she was so fond, yet in these days could so seldom get. He welcomed her with a smile, and drawing her into his arms added a tender caress. "And what has my little girl, my dear eldest daughter, to say to her father to-night?" he asked. "Oh, not very much of anything, papa," she replied, "but I'm hungry for a little petting and a chance to hug and kiss my dear father; without anybody by to criticise," she concluded, with a low, happy laugh. "Very well, my darling, you have my full permission to do all you care to in that line," he said, patting her cheek and pressing his lips to it again and again. "I haven't lost the first place in my little girl's heart yet?" "No, indeed, papa; and you need not have the least bit of fear that you ever will." "That is good news; if something I have heard so many times can be properly called news." "Are you tired hearing it, father, dear?" she asked half entreatingly, half incredulously. "Indeed no, my darling," he returned, holding her close. "I can hardly bear to think there will ever be a time when I shall have to relinquish the very first place in your heart; though I do not believe the time will ever come when your love for me will fail entirely or even be very small." "I can't believe there is the very least danger of that, my own dear, dear father," she returned earnestly, "and oh, it would break my heart to think that you would ever love me any less than you do now." "It would take a great deal to lessen my love for you, dear one," he replied, repeating his caresses. "Has this been a happy and enjoyable day to you, daughter?" "Oh, very, papa! what a delightful time we are having!" "You will be almost sorry when the time comes for returning home?" "Oh, no, indeed, sir! we have such a sweet home that I am always glad to be back to it when we have been away for a few weeks." "But then playtime will be over and studies must be renewed." "And that, with such a cross, cross teacher whom nobody loves," she returned sportively, and laying her head on his shoulder, for he had sat down, drawing her to his side and putting an arm about her waist. "Ah, indeed! I had thought it was your father who was to teach you." "And you didn't know how cross and tyrannical he was?" she laughed. "So cross and tyrannical that he says now that it is time his eldest daughter was in her bed." "Oh, please don't say I must go just yet, papa!" she begged. "There are so many of us here that I can hardly ever get a word with you in private, and it is so--so pleasant to get you all to myself for a few minutes." "Well," he said, taking out his watch, "you may have five----" "Oh, papa," she interrupted eagerly, "say ten, please do! and I'll try to be ever so good to-morrow," she concluded, with a merry look and smile. "Ten then, but not another one unless you want me to say you must stay here and rest all day to-morrow." "Oh, no, sir, please don't! That would be worse than being sent to bed immediately. I'll go without a word of objection, whenever you tell me to. But oh, papa, wasn't it lovely to see the Court of Honor light up to-night? and what could have been more beautiful than the view from the Ferris Wheel?" "They were fine sights, and I am glad you enjoyed them," he returned. "To-morrow we will, I think, go into the Manufactures Building, and perhaps make some purchases. Would you like to do so?" "Oh, yes, sir! yes, indeed! I want to get some gifts for Christine and Alma, and the servants at home." "I highly approve of that," he said, "and have no doubt we will be able to find something for each which will be acceptable. Now the ten minutes are up, daughter; so bid me good-night and go to your room and get to bed as quickly as you can." "Good-night and pleasant dreams to you, my own dear, dear father," she returned, hugging him tightly for an instant, then hastened to do his bidding. "I presume you will all be ready to start out early, as usual?" the captain said at the breakfast table the next morning, adding with a quick glance about from one to another, "I am happy to see that everyone is looking well and bright." "As we are feeling," said Mr. Dinsmore, "and it is certainly a cause for gratitude to the Giver of all good. What have you to propose in regard to our movements for the day, captain?" "It makes but little difference to me where we go, so that all are content," replied Captain Raymond; "but if no one else cares to decide the question, I propose that our first visit be to the Manufactures Building. We have been there before, but there are thousands of things well worth our attention which we have not yet looked at." "Oh, yes; let us go there first," responded several voices, and so it was decided. They set out, as usual, shortly after leaving the table; found their young gentlemen friends waiting for them in the Peristyle, and all proceeded at once to the Manufactures Building. It was easy to spend a long time there, and they did; visiting one section after another, admiring all that was worthy of admiration in the architecture and exhibits--the German pavilion with its towers, domes, and arches, its Ionic pillars upholding golden eagles, the fountains at the base, the Germania group in hammered copper surmounting the highest pedestal, and, most beautiful and impressive of all, the great wrought-iron gates that form its main entrance, and were considered the finest and most remarkable specimens of that kind of work ever yet seen in our country. The pavilion of France next challenged their attention, being close at hand. In front of its arched entrance stood two blue and green vases which they learned were from the national porcelain factories of Sèvres, both very handsome. That factory had sent about two thousand pieces of its beautiful and costly china. Most of them had been already sold, but the captain and his party secured a few. Germany, France, and Great Britain occupied three great squares grouped around the central circle of the immense building. On the fourth square were the exhibits of the United States. Three New York firms had accepted the task of making for their country's section such a pavilion as should maintain her dignity and reputation, and had succeeded in so doing. It was of the Doric order of architecture and enriched with a pale color and a profusion of gold, while from the centre of the façade rose a column to a height of one hundred feet, having a ball and eagle on the top. "Oh, let us go in and look at the exhibits here! those of our own country," exclaimed Lucilla, after some moments had been spent by their party in an admiring examination of the outside. Such seemed to be the inclination of the others also, and they passed quietly in and about. The exhibit of jewelry there was the one which seemed to have the greatest attraction for the young girls of the party, Lucilla especially; and her father presented her with a pin and ring which gave her great delight; nor was he less liberal to his wife or Grace. "Ah, ha! um, hum! ah, ha! I see, captain, that you believe in encouraging home industries," laughed Mr. Lilburn. "Yes, sir; especially when they are the best," returned the captain good-humoredly. "I have been examining jewelry in the various foreign exhibits and find none to excel, few to compare with, those of these United States." "Yes," said Harold; "some of our country-men excel in those things, as they do in the art of the silversmith. Look at those translucent enamels worked on silver fret-work--there in the Gorham exhibit; and those fine pitchers and vases made of silver worked into open engraved designs, having pieces of colored glass blown into it; and those of Rockwood pottery and silver." "And yonder is Tiffany's exhibit," said Evelyn. "He is one of our finest jewelers, so let us go and look at it." There was no objection raised, but all followed her as she led the way to the pavilion of which she had spoken. They found it well worth examination, for none of them had ever seen a finer display, or greater variety of precious stones in costly and beautiful settings. Our friends lingered some time longer in what the young people called "our section." There were other fine collections from other cities and countries, too numerous to mention, and far too many to be seen and examined in one day, or even in several. After a time, however the little ones grew very weary and indeed all were ready to enjoy a rest. So an electric boat on the lagoon was entered, and quite a while spent upon the water. After that they had luncheon at a restaurant, then went to see the Spanish caravels. "What are caravels, papa?" asked Elsie, as they went on their way. "You'll see presently," he replied. "You have heard the story of the discovery of America. These little vessels which we are going to see are made as nearly as possible like those he came over in; the men who built them looking up old pictures and descriptions and making these vessels as exact copies of the old ones as they could." "Was it in Spain they made them, papa?" "Yes; they sailed from Palos in Spain, about a year ago, and exactly four hundred years from the time when Columbus sailed from there to look for the land he felt sure was here, on this side of the ocean. They took, as nearly as they could, just the course he did, and finally came on to New York, where they had a part in the international review of April, 1893." "That's the name of this year isn't it, papa?" "Yes; that review took place last April; and after it they sailed for the St. Lawrence River, came round the lakes as we did, and here into this harbor." "How many are there, papa?" "Three: the _Santa Maria_--in which Columbus himself sailed--the _Nina_, and the _Pinta_. There they are, daughter," as at that moment they came in sight of the three small vessels. "Why, how little they are!" she exclaimed; "not nearly so big as the _Illinois_ that we see all the time from our deck." "You are quite right about that," her father said, with a smile. "But what does anybody want with such little bits of ships?" she asked. "Only to show people with what little vessels Columbus accomplished his great work of discovering America." "I'm glad he discovered it," Elsie said, with satisfaction; "because, if he hadn't, we couldn't have been here living in it." "Unless somebody else had discovered it between that time and this, Elsie," laughed her uncle Walter, overhearing her last remark. All were interested in looking at the little vessels, but their curiosity was soon satisfied and they returned to the Court of Honor for a time, then to the _Dolphin_. CHAPTER XVII. It was Sunday afternoon. Most of the _Dolphin's_ passengers were in their own state-rooms enjoying the Sabbath rest, after the fatigue of the sight-seeing of the past week, but Captain Raymond sat on the deck with Neddie on his knee and the three girls grouped about him. The father and daughters had each a Bible, for even little Elsie could read fluently and had been given one of her own, which she valued highly. "Papa," she said, "you know you bade each of us to have a verse to recite to you to-day. May I say mine now?" "Yes; we will begin with the youngest to-day," he replied. "But that's I, papa; your Neddie boy!" exclaimed the little fellow on his knee. "Why, yes, to be sure! But I hardly expected him to have one," the captain returned, with a fatherly smile down into the dear little face upturned to his. "Let me hear it, son?" "It's only a very little one, papa: 'The Son of man hath power on earth to forgive sins.'" "A very sweet verse. Does my little son know who said these words?" "Grandma said they were Jesus' words. She taught me the verse." "Yes, it was Jesus our Saviour who said it; and do you know whom he meant by the Son of man?" "Grandma said it was himself, and that he can forgive all our sins and take away the love of sinning and make us truly good, really holy." "That is true, a blessed truth; and to him alone, to Jesus who was God and man both, we must go to get our sins forgiven, and be taught to love holiness; that holiness without which no man can see the Lord." "Now mine, papa," said Elsie: "'He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.' Doesn't that mean that to believe on Jesus will take us to heaven at last--when we die?" "Yes; and as soon as we really and truly believe on him--trust and love him, giving ourselves to him and taking him for our Saviour--he gives us a life that will last forever, so that we will always be his in this world and in the next, and dying will be but going home to our Father's house on high, to be forever there with the Lord, and free from sin and suffering and death." "Never any more naughtiness, and never any more pain or sickness," said Elsie thoughtfully. "Oh, how delightful that will be!" "Yes, and to be with Jesus and like him," said Grace softly. "This is my verse: 'We love him because he first loved us.'" "Oh, what love it was!" exclaimed her father. "'Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and everyone that loveth is born of God. He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love.'" "I have the next three verses, papa," said Lucilla: "'In this was manifested the love of God toward us, because that God sent his only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through him. Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another.'" "Yes," said her father; "if we would be followers of Christ, he must be our example; he who did no sin, neither was guile found in his mouth; who, when he was reviled, reviled not again; when he suffered, he threatened not; but committed himself to Him that judgeth righteously: who his own self bare our sins in his own body on the tree, that we, being dead to sins, should live unto righteousness: by whose stripes ye were healed." "What does that mean?" asked little Ned. "That the dear Lord Jesus suffered in our stead; taking the punishment due to us for our sins, the punishment we deserved, and letting us have the life bought with his righteousness and his blood." "What is righteousness, papa?" asked the little fellow. "Holiness, goodness. Jesus was perfectly holy, and those who truly love him will be ever trying to be like him; will go from strength to strength till everyone of them in Zion appears before God. That is, till they get to heaven; and there they will be so like Jesus that they will never sin any more." "And what does that other part, 'by whose stripes ye are healed,' mean, papa?" asked Elsie. "That Jesus suffered for the sins of his people (there was no sin of his own for him to suffer for), and that because he bore the punishment in their stead they will not have to bear it, and will be delivered from the love of it; that is the healing--the being made well of that disease--the love of sinning, the vile nature that we are all born with, because our first parents disobeyed God there in the garden of Eden." "God teaches his people to hate sin and try bard--asking help of him--to forsake it and be always good, doing just what is right; doesn't he, papa? That's what grandma says." "Yes, dear child, it is what God teaches us in his Word--the Holy Bible." "And he will send his Holy Spirit to help us--if we ask him to?" "Yes." "But how can we know it, papa? we can't see him." "No, daughter, but we may know it by the help he gives us, and others will recognize the fact by the fruit of the Spirit seen in our lives. Lucilla, can you tell me what is the fruit of the Spirit?" "Yes, sir; the Bible says 'the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance." "Yes; and 'against such there is no law.' Jesus has kept the law perfectly in their stead, and his righteousness being imputed to them, they are treated as if they had never broken the law--never sinned--but had been always holy and obedient to all the commands of God, as he was." Elsie was looking very thoughtful. "I think I understand it now, papa," she said. "Jesus has kept God's law in our stead, and borne the punishment for our breaking it, and gives his goodness to us, so that we are treated just as if we had been really good when we haven't at all, and that is what it means where it says, 'by whose stripes ye were healed.'" "Yes, dear child, that is just it; and oh, how can we help loving him, who died and suffered so much for us! Oh, how we ought to love him!" "I do love him, papa. I ask him every day to help me to love him more and serve him better. I ask earnestly for a new heart; for he is the hearer and answerer of prayer. The Bible tells us so." "And it is so sweet to know it," said Grace, speaking low and softly, "for he is always near and able to help us, no matter what our trouble may be." "Yes," said her father. "'Call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver thee and thou shalt glorify me.' 'Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you. And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.' God looks at the heart, my children, and will not hear and answer us if we approach him with lip service only, not really wanting what we are asking for." "Yes, papa," said Elsie; "but I do really want the new heart I ask him for. So he will give it to me; won't he?" "Yes, daughter, for he has said so, and his promises never fail." "I want to go to mamma now," said Neddie, getting down from his father's knee. "Yes, run along," said the captain. "Our lesson has been long enough for to-day, I think, daughters, and you are all at liberty to go. You, Grace, are looking weary, and it would be well for both you and Elsie to take a nap: Lucilla also, if she wishes," he added, with a kindly glance at her. "Thank you, papa, but I do not care to," she answered, as the others hastened away; "the breeze makes it very pleasant here on deck." "Yes, and you can rest nicely in one of these steamer chairs." Then, taking a keener look into her face, "But something seems to be troubling you, dear child. Tell your father what it is, that he may help and comfort you," he added, in very tender tones, taking her hands and drawing her to a seat close at his side. "Oh, papa, it is that I am--I am afraid I have been deceiving myself and am not really a Christian," she said, with a half sob and hiding her face on his shoulders. "There is so little, if any, of the fruit of the Spirit in me--no gentleness, goodness, meekness--though I do love Jesus and long to be like him." "In that case, dear child, I am sure you are one of his," he answered low and tenderly. "Love is put first in the list and I have seen, to my great joy, a steady growth in you of longsuffering, gentleness, and meekness. Jesus said, 'By their fruits ye shall know them,' and I think that, though far from perfect, yet my dear eldest daughter does show by her life that she is earnestly striving to bring forth in it the fruit of the Spirit. 'The path of the just is as the shining light that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.' We are not made perfect in a moment, but are to grow in grace, becoming more and more like the Master, and when the work of grace is completed--so that we are made perfect in holiness--we do immediately pass into glory, to be forever with the Lord." "Yes, papa; and oh, I want you to pray for me that I may grow in grace every day and hour of my life." "I will, I do, daughter; and you must pray for your father too, for he is by no means perfect yet." "Papa, you do seem perfect to me," she said, with a look of reverent love up into his face. "I never forget you in my prayers; never forget to thank God for giving me such a dear, kind father. Papa, are you never troubled with fears that you might be mistaken in thinking yourself a Christian? Oh, no! I am sure not; for how could you be when you are such a good Christian that no one who sees you every day, and knows you as your daughter does, could have the least doubt about it?" "My daughter looks at me with the partial eyes of filial love," he replied, tenderly smoothing her hair, "but I too, in view of my sins and shortcomings, am sometimes sorely troubled by doubts and fears. But then I find peace and happiness in just giving myself anew to Jesus, and asking him to take me for his very own and deliver me from all my sins and fears; then, knowing that he is a hearer and answerer of prayers, I can go on my way rejoicing. Can you not do the same?" "Oh, yes, papa, I will. I remember now that you told me once to do so--to come then to Him and he would receive me, and I need not trouble about the question whether I had really come before. And I did and found, oh, such rest and peace!" "Yes; 'the peace of God which passeth all understanding! May it ever keep your heart and mind through Christ Jesus.'" CHAPTER XVIII. "Where are we going to-day, papa?" asked little Elsie the next morning at the breakfast table. "I do not know yet, my child," he replied. "I have been thinking," he continued, addressing the company in general, "that it would probably be better for us to break up into quite small parties, each going its own way, now that the Fair has become so crowded." "Yes," Mr. Dinsmore said, "I will take my wife and daughter with me, if they do not object; you, I presume, will do likewise with your wife and children, and the others--Rosie, Walter, and Evelyn--can make up a third party, and dispose of their time and efforts at sight-seeing as they please." At that Mr. Lilburn turned toward Miss Annis Keith and said, with a humorous look and smile, "You and I seem to be left entirely out of the calculation, Miss Keith. Shall we compose a fourth party, and see what we can find to amuse and interest us?" "Thank you, sir," she replied; "but are you sure I might not prove a hindrance and burden?" "Quite sure; and your companionship, if I can secure it, will be all-sufficient for me." "Then we will consider the arrangement made, for I should be sorry indeed to intrude my companionship upon those who do not desire it," she said, with a sportive look at the captain. "Cousin Ronald," said the latter gravely, "I think you owe me a vote of thanks for leaving Cousin Annis to you. I am sure it should be accounted a very generous thing for me to do." "Certainly, captain, when you have only Cousin Vi, those two half-grown daughters, and two sweet children for your share," laughed Annis. "As many as he can keep together," remarked Walter. "Well, I'm going off by myself, as I happen to know that my sister Rosie and Evelyn have been already engaged by other escorts." "Walter, you deserve to be left at home," said Rosie severely. "At home?" laughed Walter, "you would have to get me there first." "You know what I mean; this yacht is home to us while we are living on it." "And a very pleasant one it is; a delightful place to rest in when one is tired; as I realize every evening, coming back to it from the Fair." "Then we won't try to punish you by condemning you to imprisonment in it," said the captain. "Papa, I should like to go to the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building again to-day, unless the rest of our party prefer some other place," said Grace. "That would suit me as well as any," said Violet. "Me also," added Lucilla. "Then that shall be our destination," returned the captain. The young men--Harold and Herbert Travilla, Chester and Frank Dinsmore, and Will Croly--joined the party from the _Dolphin_, as usual, in the Peristyle; good-mornings were exchanged, then they broke up into smaller parties and scattered in different directions; Captain Raymond with his wife and children going first into the great Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building, where they spent some hours in looking at such of the beautiful and interesting exhibits as they had not examined in former visits; making a good many purchases of gifts for each other for friends and relatives and the servants and caretakers left at home. Chester was disappointed and chagrined that he was not invited to accompany them, particularly as it was his and Frank's last day at the Fair--but he joined Walter and Herbert, while Harold took charge of their mother, and the other young folks went off in couples. "Where shall we betake ourselves, Miss Annis?" asked Mr. Lilburn. "I think I should like to look at some of the paintings in the Fine Arts Building, if you care to do so," replied Annis. "I should like nothing better," he returned; "so we will go there first." They spent all the morning there--there were so many pictures worthy of long study that it was difficult to tear themselves away from any one of them. "'The return of the _Mayflower_,'" read Mr. Lilburn as they paused before a picture of a young girl standing upon the seashore, looking out eagerly over the water toward a sail which she sees in the distance; such an impatience and tender longing in her face that one knew it seemed almost impossible for her to wait the coming of some dear one she believes to be on board; one whose love and care are to shelter her from cold and storm and savage foes who might at any moment come upon and assail her. "Ah, the dear lass is evidently hoping, expecting, waiting for the coming of her lover," he said. "Happy man! What a joyous meeting it will be when the good ship comes to anchor and he steps ashore to meet her loving welcome." "Yes, I can imagine it," Annis said. "They have doubtless been separated for months or years, and a glad reunion awaits them if he is really on the vessel." For a moment they gazed in silence, then with a sigh he said, "She's a bonny lass and doubtless he a brave, well-favored young fellow; both on the sunny side of life, while I--ah, Miss Annis, if I were but twenty years younger----" "What then, Mr. Lilburn?" she asked sportively. "You would be looking about for such a sweet young creature and trying to win her heart?" "Not if I might hope to win that of the dear lady by my side," he returned in low, loverlike tones. "She is full young enough and fair enough for me. Miss Annis, do you think I--I could ever make myself a place in your heart? I am no longer young, but there's an auld saying that 'it is better to be 'an auld man's darling than a young man's slave.'" "I have not intended to be either," she answered, blushing deeply and drawing a little away from him. "Single life has its charms, and I am by no means sure that--that I care to--to give it up." "I hope to be able some day to convince you that you do," he returned entreatingly, as she turned hastily away and moved on toward another picture. She had liked the old gentleman very much indeed; he was so genuinely kind and polite, so intelligent and well informed; and he had evidently enjoyed her society too, but she had never dreamed of this--that he would want her as a wife; she would sooner have thought of looking up to him in a daughterly way--but as he had said he wanted a wifely affection from her, could she--could she give it? For a brief space her brain seemed in a whirl; she saw nothing, heard nothing that was going on about her--could think of nothing but this surprising, astonishing offer, and could not decide whether she could ever accept it or not. She could not, at that moment she rather thought she never could. She kept her face turned away from him as he stood patiently waiting by her side. Both had lost interest in the paintings. He was watching her and saw that she was much disturbed, yet he could not decide whether that disturbance was likely to be favorable to his suit or not. Presently he drew out his watch. "It is past noon, Miss Keith," he said; "suppose we take a gondola and cross the pond to the Japanese Tea House, where we can get a lunch." "I am willing if you wish it," returned Annis in low, steady tones, but without giving him so much as a glimpse of her face. He caught sight of it, however, as they entered the boat; then their eyes met, and he was satisfied that she was not altogether indifferent to his suit. But he did not think it wise to renew it at that moment. They sat in silence for a little, then he spoke of the scenes about them; and while they took their lunch, the talking they did ran upon matters of indifference. As they left the building they came unexpectedly upon the captain and his party. "Ah! where now, friends?" he asked. "That is a question that has not yet been decided," replied Mr. Lilburn. "Where are you going?" "I am about to take Grace, Elsie, and Ned back to our floating home," returned the captain, "for I fear they have already become more fatigued than is good for them." "And if you will allow it, I will go with you, captain," said Annis. "Certainly," he returned; "your company is always acceptable, Cousin Annis, and I see that you look as though a few hours of rest would not come amiss to you. Let us take this steam launch, which is just approaching, and we will be at our destination in a few minutes." "Let us all get on board and go as far as the Peristyle, where Lu and I will wait for you, Levis," said Violet. "A good idea," he replied. "Why, there is Walter on the boat, and I can leave you in his care, if Cousin Ronald does not wish to make one of the party." "Ah! then I will wander along by my ain sel,'" returned the old gentleman laughingly as he lifted his hat to Annis and the others, then went on his way, musing as to the best course to pursue to bring about an acceptance of his suit. "I want you and your little brother and sister to retire promptly to your berths, Grace, and try to get a good nap," the captain said when they had reached the deck of the _Dolphin_. "And, Cousin Annis, I hope you'll not think me impertinent if I advise you to do the same." "Not at all," she returned, with a smile, "it is just what I was intending to do. I have a slight headache, but hope to sleep it off." "I hope you may, indeed," he said in a kindly, sympathetic tone. "I presume it is the result of fatigue and that a few hours of rest and sleep will make all right again." She went at once to her state-room, and changing her dress for a loose wrapper lay down with the determination to forget everything in sleep. But thought was too busy in her brain; she was too much excited over the surprising offer made her that morning. She knew instinctively that Mr. Lilburn had not given up the hope of securing what he had asked for--that his suit would be renewed at the first opportunity--and what should she--what could she say? It was not the first offer she had had, but--no other suitor was ever so good, so noble, so--oh, he was everything one could ask or desire (what difference that he was old enough to be her father), but would his sons welcome her advent into the family? And her own dear ones--sisters, brothers, nieces, and nephews--be willing to part with her. Perhaps not; but surely they could do very well without her and he--the dear old gentleman--ought surely to be considered; if she could make his last days happier and more comfortable--it could not be wrong for her to do so, for the others could be happy without her. Ah, perhaps they would soon almost forget her. And there with Elsie Travilla her dear, dearest friend and cousin; how pleasant to live near enough for almost daily intercourse with her! "I will ask for guidance," she finally said half aloud, and, rising, knelt beside her couch, earnestly beseeching her best friend to make her way plain before her face, to lead and guide her all her journey through. Then, calmed and quieted by casting her burden on the Lord, she lay down again and presently fell into a deep, sweet sleep. She was awakened by a gentle tap on the door, then Violet's voice asking: "Can I come in for one moment, Cousin Annis?" At that she rose and opened the door, saying. "Indeed you can, Vi. But what--who----?" as Violet handed her a bunch of Scotch heather, her eyes dancing with mirth and pleasure as she did so, for at the sight of the flowers a crimson flush had suddenly suffused Annis' cheek. "You see what," she said, "and the who is Cousin Ronald. Oh, Cousin Annis, I am so glad if only you won't reject him! and he's a dear old man; almost too old for you, I acknowledge, but don't say no on that account. Be 'an old man's darling,' there's a dear! for then we'll have you close beside us in that lovely Beechwood." A silent caress was Annis' only reply, and Violet slipped away, leaving her once more alone. For a brief space Annis stood gazing down at the flowers in her hand with a tender smile on her lips, the roses coming and going on her cheek. They seemed to be whispering to her of priceless love and tenderness; for Mr. Lilburn was a hale, hearty man, looking much younger than his years: he might outlive her, but years of genial companionship might well be hoped for in this world, to be eventually followed by a blissful eternity in another and better land, for they were followers of the same Master, travelling the same road--toward the city which hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God. Yes, she did indeed love the dear old man; she knew it now, and her heart sang for joy as she hastened to array herself in the most becoming dress she had at hand and pinned his flowers in the bosom of her gown. He was alone in the saloon as she entered it, and turning at the sound of her light step, came forward to greet her with outstretched hand, his eyes shining with pleasure at the sight of his flowers and the sweet, blushing face above them. "Ah, my darling! you do not despise my little gift," he said low and tenderly, taking quiet possession of her hand. "May I hope you will show equal favor to the giver?" "If--if you think--if you are sure, quite sure, you will never repent and grow weary of your choice," she stammered, speaking scarcely above her breath. "Perfectly sure!" he returned. "My only fear is that I may fail to make this dear lady as happy as she might be with a younger and more attractive companion." "I have never seen such an one yet," she said, with a half smile, "and I do not fear to risk it. I shall be only too glad to do so," with a low half laugh, "if you have no fear of being disappointed in me." "Not a ghost of a fear!" he responded. As he spoke the door of Mrs. Travilla's state-room opened and she stepped out upon them. Catching sight of them standing there hand in hand, she was about to retreat into her room again, but Mr. Lilburn spoke: "Congratulate me, Cousin Elsie, upon having won the heart of the sweetest lady in the land; or if that be too strong, one of the sweetest." "I do, I do," Elsie said, coming forward and bestowing a warm embrace upon Annis, "and I could not have asked anything better, seeing it will bring one whom I so dearly love into our immediate neighborhood." Even as she spoke they were joined by other members of the party, the news of the state of affairs was instantly conjectured by them, and joyful congratulations were showered upon Cousin Ronald, tender embraces and words of love upon Annis. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore were there, but the young couples who had left the older people that morning and gone off to explore other parts of the Fair had not returned; but presently a slight commotion on deck, followed by the sound of their voices, told of their arrival; in another minute they were in the saloon, and Croly, leading Rosie to her mother, said: "Will you give this dear girl to me, Mrs. Travilla? She doesn't deny that she loves me, and she is dearer to me than words can tell." "Then I cannot refuse," returned the mother, with emotion, "knowing as I do that you are all a mother could ask in a suitor for her dear daughter's hand. But do not ask me to part from her yet; she is--you are both--young enough to wait at least a year or two longer." "So I think," said Rosie's grandfather, coming up and laying a hand on her shoulder. "It would be hard to rob my dear eldest daughter of the last of her daughters; to say nothing about grandparents and brothers." "Well, sir, I thank both her mother and yourself for your willingness to let her engage herself to me, but I at least shall find it a little hard to wait," said Croly. "I am well able to support a wife now, and--don't you think we know each other well enough, and that early marriages are more likely to prove happy than later ones?" "No, I don't agree to any such sentiment as that; old folks may as reasonably look for happiness--perhaps a trifle more reasonably--than young ones." The words seemed to be spoken by someone coming down the cabin stairway, and everybody turned to look at the speaker; but he was not to be seen. "Oh, that was Cousin Ronald!" exclaimed Violet, with a merry look at him, "and no wonder, since he has gone courting again in his latter days." "What! is that possible!" exclaimed Mr. Hugh Lilburn, in evident astonishment. "And who? Ah, I see and am well content," catching sight of Annis' sweet, blushing face. "Father, I offer my hearty congratulations." A merry, lively scene followed, mutual congratulations were exchanged, jests and badinage and spirited retorts were indulged in, and in the midst of it all there were other arrivals; Walter returned bringing with him the two Dinsmores and the Conly brothers and their wives; they were told the news, and the captain noticed that Chester cast a longing glance at Lulu, then turned with an entreating, appealing one to him. But the captain shook his head in silent refusal, and Chester seemed to give it up, and with another furtive glance at Lucilla, which she did not see, her attention being fully occupied with the others, he too joined in the mirthful congratulations and good wishes. CHAPTER XIX. Upon leaving the supper table the whole company resorted to the deck, where most of them spent the evening, being very weary with the sight-seeing of the day and finding restful seats there and a view of much that was interesting and enjoyable. Chester and his brother left early to take an evening train for the South. "I am sorry for you that you must leave without having seen everything at the Fair, Chester," Lucilla said in bidding him good-by, "but we can't any of us stay the necessary forty-two years. I'll see all I can, though, and give you a full account of it after I get home; that is, if you care to come over to Woodburn and hear it." "You may be sure I will and thank you, too," he returned, giving the pretty white hand she had put into his an affectionate squeeze. "Good-by. I'm glad you have your father to take good care of you." "So am I," she said, with a happy laugh; "I'm sure there's no better caretaker in the world." It was somewhat later before the others went and Lucilia, sitting a little apart from them, watched furtively the behavior toward each other of the newly engaged couples. "A penny for your thoughts, Lu," said Violet, coming up from seeing her little ones in bed, and taking a seat by Lucilla's side. "Really, they are not worth it, Mamma Vi," laughed the young girl. "I was watching Rosie, and wondering how she could ever think of leaving such a dear mother as hers to--marry and live with even so good and agreeable a young man as Mr. Croly." "And what do you think of my leaving that very mother (the very best and dearest of mothers she is, too) for a husband when I was a full year younger than Rosie is now?" returned Violet, with a mischievous twinkle of amusement in her eyes. "Oh, that was to live with papa--the dearest and best of men! I can see how one might well forsake father and mother and everybody else to live with him." "I agree with you," said Violet. "I love my mother dearly; it would break my heart to lose her; and yet I love my husband still more." "I don't believe I shall ever be able to say that," said Lulu emphatically. "I feel perfectly sure that I shall never love anybody else half so well as I do my own dear father." "I know it would trouble him sorely to think you did," said Violet; "so I hope you will not think of such a thing for at least five or six years to come." "Five or six years! Indeed, Mamma Vi, you may be sure I will never leave him while he lives. I know I could not be happy away from him. I have always looked to him for loving care and protection, and I hope that if ever he should grow old and feeble, I may be able to give the same to him." "I can scarcely bear to think that that time will ever come," said Violet, gazing at her husband with loving, admiring eyes. "But I hope it is far off, for he really seems to have grown younger of late--since coming here to the Fair." "I think so too, Mamma Vi," said Lucilla; "and indeed it seems as though everybody was younger--they all look so happy and interested; at least until they get worn out; as one does with all the walking and the thousands of things to look at, and feeling all the time in fear that you may miss the very things you would care most to see." "Yes, that is the fatiguing part of it. But we had a nice time to-day, Lu. Aren't you pleased with our purchases?" "Yes, indeed, Mamma Vi! I am sure Christine, Alma, and the servants cannot fail to be delighted with the gifts we have for them. And papa has been so very generous in supplying Grace and me with money. I hope Max will be pleased with all we bought for him. Poor, dear fellow! It is just a shame he couldn't have been allowed to come here with us." "Yes, I regret it very much," said Violet. "It has been one great drawback upon our pleasure. O Lu, do look at Cousin Annis! She seems to have grown ten years younger with happiness. I am so glad for her, and that we are to have her for a near neighbor." "I too; but judging from Mr. Lilburn's looks I should say he is gladder than anybody else. Oh, I wish they would get married at once! Wouldn't it be fun, Mamma Vi, to have a wedding here on the yacht?" "Yes, indeed! Here comes your father," as the captain rose and came toward them; "we will suggest it to him and see what he thinks of the idea," she added, making room for him at her side. "Thank you, my dear," he said, taking the offered seat. "You two seem to have found some very interesting topic of conversation. May I ask what it is?" "We are ready to let you into the secret without waiting to be questioned," returned Violet. "We have been planning to have a wedding on board, should you and the parties more particularly interested give consent." "And who may they be?" he asked lightly. "Not that couple, I hope," glancing in the direction of Croly and his lady-love. "Rosie is, in my opinion, rather young to assume the cares and duties of married life." "As you said before, quite forgetting how you coaxed and persuaded a still younger girl to undertake them--under your supervision," laughed Violet. "Ah, Captain Raymond, have you forgotten that consistency is a jewel?" "Ah, my dear, have you forgotten that circumstances alter cases?" he returned in sportive tone. "But allow me to remind you that you have not yet answered my question." "But I do now; it is the older couple of lovers Lu and I are benevolently inclined to assist into the bonds of matrimony." "Ah! Well, I am pleased with the idea, and have no doubt that it will be an easy matter to secure the gentleman's consent; as regards that of the lady I am somewhat doubtful." "I presume," said Violet, "she will veto it at first; that is only natural; but we may succeed in coaxing her into it." "I should think that if they are going to get married the sooner the better," observed Lucilla gravely. "Why so, daughter?" asked the captain. "Because neither is very young, you know, papa, so that they can hardly expect to have many years to live together, and the longer they wait the shorter the time will be." "Of their life together on earth, yes; but being Christians, they may hope to spend a blessed eternity in each other's society." "Shall we make any move in the matter to-night, my dear?" asked Violet. "I think not, except to talk it over with your mother and grandparents." "Yes, that will be the better plan," said Violet. "And mother will be the one to make the suggestion to Cousin Annis and persuade her to adopt it." "Yes; there will be no need of persuasion as regards the gentleman's share in the matter." "There, the Conlys are making a move as if about to go," said Lucilla. "And I hope they will, for I do want to know what Grandma Elsie and the others will think of the plan." "Always in a hurry, daughter mine," the captain said, giving her an amused smile as they rose and went forward to speed the parting guests and assure them of a hearty welcome whenever they should see fit to return. Not long after their departure the others retired to their state-rooms, Violet, however, going first into that of her mother to tell of her own and husband's plans concerning the nuptials of their cousins, Mr. Lilburn and Annis. "That would be quite romantic for the youthful pair," Mrs. Travilla said with her low, sweet laugh, "I doubt very much, however, if you can persuade Annis to give her consent to so sudden a relinquishment of all the rights and privileges of maidenhood. Besides she will hardly like to deprive her brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, of the pleasure of witnessing the ceremony." "They might be invited to come and be present at the marriage," Violet suggested a little doubtfully. "I fear there are too many of them," her mother said in reply; "so that they will think it would be far easier for Aunt Annis to go to them; and more suitable for her to be married in her own old home." "Do you really think so, mamma? Well, please don't suggest it to her. I am sure that if our plan can be carried out it will be a great saving to them of both expense and trouble; for of course my husband will provide the wedding feast." "Well, dear, I should like to see your plan carried out, and I must insist upon sharing the expense. But we will talk it over again in the morning. We are both weary now and ought to go at once to our beds." "Then good-night, mamma, dear. May you sleep sweetly and peacefully and wake again fully rested," Violet said, giving her mother a fond embrace. "And you also, daughter. May He who neither slumbers nor sleeps have you and yours in his safe keeping through the silent watches of the night," responded her mother, returning the embrace. The captain had lingered on the deck as usual, to give his orders for the night, and Lucilla waited about for the bit of petting as she termed it, of which she was so fond. "Ah, so you are still here, daughter!" he said in his usual kind, fatherly tones as he turned and found her at his side. "Have you something to say to your father?" putting his arm about her and holding her close as something precious. "Only the usual story--that I love my father dearly, dearly, and don't like to go to bed without telling him so and getting a caress that nobody else will know anything about." "A great secret that doubtless the whole world would be glad to discover!" he laughed, bestowing them without stint. "Is my little girl unhappy, about--anything? and wanting her father to comfort her?" he asked, looking keenly into her face. "Unhappy, father? here in your arms and perfectly certain of your dear love?" she exclaimed, lifting to his eyes full of joy and love. "No, indeed! I don't believe there is a happier girl in the land or in the whole world for that matter. Oh, you are so good to me and all your children! How very generous you were to-day to Grace and me in letting us buy so many lovely presents to carry home with us! I am often afraid, papa, that you do without things yourself to give the more to us. Oh, I hope you don't!" "You need not be at all troubled on that score" he said, patting her cheek and smiling down into her eyes. "I have abundance of means and can well allow my daughters such pleasures. 'It is more blessed to give than to receive,' and when I give to you, and you use my gift in procuring something for another, it gives us both a taste of that blessedness." "So it does, papa, and oh, what a good place this is for making purchases! there are so many, many lovely things to be found in the various buildings." "And we meet so many relatives and friends from various quarters. But that gives us the pain of a good many partings," and again he looked keenly at her as he spoke. "Yes, sir," she said, "but one can always hope to meet again with those one cares particularly about; so I don't feel that I need to mourn while I have you, my dear father, and Mamma Vi and the little brother and sisters left; and I'm content and more than content, except that I miss dear Max and can't help wishing he were here to see and enjoy all that we do." "Yes; dear boy! I wish he could be," sighed the captain. Then, with another caress, "Go now to your bed, daughter; it is high time you were there," he said. "Just one minute more, please, papa, dear," she entreated, with her arm about his neck. "Oh, I can't understand how Rosie can think of leaving her mother for Mr. Croly or any other man. I could never, never want to leave you for anybody else in the wide world." "I am glad and thankful to hear it, dear child," he said, with another tender caress and good-night. CHAPTER XX. Circumstances seemed to favor the scheme of the captain, Violet, and Lucilla, for the family and their guests had scarcely left the breakfast table when there was a new arrival, a boat hailing the yacht and discharging several passengers, who proved to be Annis' sisters, Mildred and Zillah, and her brother, the Rev. Cyril Keith. It was an unexpected arrival, but they were most cordially welcomed and urgently invited to spend as much of their time on the yacht as could be spared from sight-seeing on shore. They were of course soon introduced to Mr. Lilburn--already known to them by reputation--and presently informed of the state of affairs between him and their sister. They were decidedly pleased with the old gentleman, yet grieved at the thought of so wide a separation between their dear youngest sister and themselves. Violet afterward, seizing a momentary opportunity when neither Mr. Lilburn nor Annis was near, told of her plans in regard to the wedding, adding that the subject had not yet been mentioned to Annis, but that she herself hoped no objection would be raised; and it seemed to her that Cyril's arrival, thus providing a minister to perform the ceremony, the very one Annis would have chosen of course, seemed providential. At first both brother and sisters were decidedly opposed to it--they wanted Annis to be married at home where all the family could be gathered to witness the ceremony; it was bad enough to lose her without being deprived of that privilege; besides time and thought must be given to the preparation of a suitable trousseau. But in the course of a day or two they were won over to the plan. Then the consent of those most particularly interested had to be gained. There was no difficulty so far as concerned Mr. Lilburn; he was really delighted with the idea, but Annis at first positively refused. She wished to be married at home and she must have a trousseau: not that she cared so much about it for herself, but Mr. Lilburn must not be disgraced by a bride not suitably adorned. "Well, Annis dear," said Mildred, who was the one selected for the task of obtaining her consent to the proposed plan, "you shall have all that you desire in the way of dress. I would not have you do without a single thing you want or think would be suitable and becoming. You shall have abundance of money to make such purchases without applying to your husband for any one of them. You have some money of your own, you know, and it will be a great pleasure to your brothers and sisters to give to the dear girl who was such a help and comfort to our loved father and mother, anything and everything she wants, and will accept at our hands." "Yes, I know I have the best and kindest of brothers and sisters, and oh, I can hardly keep the tears back when I think of the separation that awaits us," said Annis with a sob, putting her arms round Mildred's neck and clinging to her. "Yes, dear, I know. I feel just the same, though I believe you will be very happy with the kind, genial old gentleman who is stealing you away from us; but I can see that he is in great haste to get full possession of his dear little lady-love--at which I do not wonder at all--and I really think it would be better to take the plunge into matrimony suddenly and have it over," she added, with a smile. "Have what over?" asked Annis, smiling faintly. "Not the matrimony," laughed her sister, "but the plunge into it." "Oh, Milly dear, you wouldn't have liked to be hurried so!" "Ah, but wasn't I?" laughed Mildred; "and that by this very brother of ours who expects to perform the ceremony for you." "Ah, I don't remember about that," returned Annis, in a tone of enquiry. "No, you were such a little girl then that I don't wonder it has slipped your memory. But Cyril was about starting for college and so determined to see me married, so fearful that he would miss the sight if he went off before-hand, that he coaxed, planned, and insisted till he actually gained his point--hurrying me into wedlock before I had even one wedding dress made up." "Oh, yes! and you were married in mother's wedding dress, I remember now. But, Milly, I haven't a single handsome dress with me! I did not think they would be at all suitable to wear in tramping about the White City and its buildings, or needed in the hotel, where I spent but little time except at night. And so far, what I brought with me have answered every purpose." "Never mind," said Mildred; "handsome ready-made dresses can be bought in Chicago, and it will not take long to procure one. You will of course want to select one that is well fitting and becoming in color; gray would, I think, be very becoming and altogether suitable for a--not very young bride." "No, I do not want to be too youthfully dressed, or to look too bridelike on my wedding tour; so I think I will have a dark navy blue." "So she has about consented to the desired arrangement," said Mildred, a little triumphantly to herself; then aloud: "Yes, that will be quite as becoming and a trifle more suitable; but let us go and talk it over with our cousins, Rose, Elsie, and Vi." "There is no hurry," said Annis, blushing. "If I should give up to you enough to consent to have the ceremony performed here on the yacht, I shall put it off till the very last day of your stay, for I don't intend to miss seeing all that I possibly can of you, Cyril, and Zillah, and of the Fair." "Very well," Mildred answered. "I incline to think myself that that would be the best plan; for really I want to see all I can of the dear sister who is going to leave us. O Annis, dear, whatever shall I do without you!" she exclaimed, putting an arm about her and kissing her with tears in her eyes. "Ah, it seems that in this world we cannot have any unalloyed good!" "No, Milly, dear sister; but when we get home to the Father's house on high, there will be no more partings, no sorrow, no sin--nothing but everlasting joy and peace and love. "'Tis there we'll meet At Jesus' feet, When we meet to part no more. "Oh, doesn't it sometimes seem as if you could hardly wait for the time when you will be there with all the dear ones gone before? There at the Master's feet, seeing him and bearing his image--like him; for we shall see him as he is?" "Yes, there are times when I do; and yet I am glad to stay a little longer in this world for the sake of husband and children; and to work for the Master too, doing what I can to bring others to him. I want some jewels in the crown I cast at his dear feet." "Yes; and so do I." A moment of silence followed;--then Mildred said: "Let us go now and have our talk with the cousins, for it will not be very long before we will be summoned to the supper table." Annis made no objection, and they went up to the deck, where they found the three ladies they sought--Zillah with them too--sitting in a little group apart from the young girls and gentlemen. They joined the group and Mildred quickly and briefly reported Annis' decision. All approved, saying they would be very glad to keep her to the last minute, and there was a good deal more well worth looking at in the Fair than she had already seen; also the delay would give plenty of time for the selection of a wedding dress and other needed articles of apparel. "Now I am going to relieve the anxiety of the gentlemen, particularly the one belonging especially to me," said Violet, in a lively tone, rising with the last word and hurrying away in their direction. The others sat silently watching her and her auditors. "Ah," laughed Mildred presently, "they are all well satisfied with the arrangement except Mr. Lilburn. He wears a dubious, disappointed look. Ah, Annis, how can you have the heart to disappoint him so?" "Never mind, Annis, he will prize you all the more for not being able to get possession of you too quickly and easily," said Mrs. Dinsmore. "So I think," returned Annis demurely; "also that it will be quite as well for him to have a little more time to learn about all my faults and failings." "I do not believe he will be able to find them," said Mrs. Dinsmore, with an admiring look into the sweet face of the speaker, "since I have not succeeded in so doing." Lucilla and Grace, seated a little apart from the others, had been watching with keen interest all that passed among both ladies and gentlemen. "There, just look at Cousin Ronald!" exclaimed Lucilla. "He isn't smiling--looks rather disappointed I think; so I suppose we are not to be allowed to carry out our plan. And I think it would be just splendid to have a wedding here on board our yacht." "Yes; so did I," returned Grace; "but I suppose she doesn't like the idea of being married in a hurry. I'm sure I shouldn't. I don't believe Rosie would mind that though; and Mr. Croly seems to say by his looks that he would like to take possession of her as soon as possible." "Yes, no doubt he would. He ought to wait till he can have his father and mother present, however; and besides Grandpa Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie won't consent to let her marry for at least a year. I shouldn't think she would feel willing to leave her mother even then; unless as Mamma Vi did, for such a man as our father." "But there isn't any other," asserted Grace more positively than she often spoke. "Papa is just one by himself for lovableness, goodness, kindness--oh, everything that is admirable!" "Indeed he is all that!" responded Lucilla heartily. "Oh, I could never bear to leave him and cannot help wondering at Rosie--how she can think of leaving her mother! Her father being dead, she wouldn't be leaving him, but Grandma Elsie is so sweet and lovable. To be sure, just as I said, Mamma Vi did leave her, but then it seems all right since it was for love of papa. But what are you looking so searchingly at me for, Gracie?" "Oh, something that Rosie said last night quite astonished me, and I was wondering if it were possible she could be right." "Right about what?" "Why, that Chester Dinsmore is deeply in love with you, and that you care something for him too." "Oh, what nonsense!" exclaimed Lucilla with a half vexed, yet mirthful look. "I am only half grown up, as papa always says, and really I don't care a continental for that young man. I like him quite well as a friend--he has always been very polite and kind to me since that time when he came so near cutting my fingers off with his skates--but it is absurd to think he wants to be anything more than a friend; besides papa doesn't want me to think about beaux for years to come, and I don't want to either." "I believe you, Lu," said Grace, "for you are as perfectly truthful a person as anybody could be. Besides I know I love our father too dearly ever to want to leave him for the best man that ever lived; there couldn't be a better one than he is, or one who could have a more unselfish love for you and me." "Exactly what I think," returned Lucilla. "But there's the call to supper." CHAPTER XXI. "Annis, dear, my ain love, my bonny lass," Mr. Lilburn said, when at last he could get a moment's private chat with her, "why condemn me to wait longer for my sweet young wife? Is it that you fear to trust your happiness to my keeping?" "Oh, no, not that," she replied, casting down her eyes, and half turning away her face to hide the vivid blush that mantled her cheek; "but you hardly know yet, hardly understand, what a risk you run in asking me to share your life." "Ah," he said, "my only fear is that you may be disappointed in me; and yet if so, it shall not be for lack of love and tenderest care, for to me it seems that no dearer, sweeter lass ever trod this earth." "Ah, you don't know me!" she repeated, with a slight smile. "I am not afraid to trust you, and yet I think it would be better for us to wait a little and enjoy the days of courtship. One reason why I would defer matters is that we will never again have an opportunity to see this wonderful Fair, and I have seen but little of it yet; also I would not willingly miss spending as much time as possible with my dear brother and sisters whom I am about to leave for a home with you, and I must make some preparation in the matter of dress too." "Ah, well, my bonny lass, 'if a woman will, she will you may depend on't, and if she won't, she won't and there's an end on't.' So I'll even give up to you, comforting mysel' that ye'll be mine at last; and that in the mean time I shall have your dear companionship while together we explore the streets and buildings of this wonderful White City." At that moment others came upon the scene and put an end to the private talk. The next two weeks were those of delightful experience to all our friends, to Annis in particular, spent in visits to that beautiful Court of Honor, and to various interesting exhibits to be found in other parts of the Fair, with an occasional change of scene and occupation by a shopping excursion to Chicago in search of wedding finery. She would not allow herself to anticipate the pain of the partings from the dear brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, that lay before her, but gave herself up to the enjoyment of the present; in especial of the intercourse with him who was the chosen companion of her future life on earth. The yacht could not furnish night accommodations for all, but usually all the relatives and friends gathered about its supper table and afterward spent an hour or more upon its deck in rest that was particularly enjoyable after the day's exertion, and in cheerful chat over their varied experiences since separating in the morning; for they were now much too large a company to keep together in their wanderings in and about the White City. But the time approached when they must separate. The trousseau--with the exception of such articles as it was considered more desirable to purchase in New York or Philadelphia--was ready, all the arrangements for the wedding feast had been made, and but a day or two intervened between that and the one which was to see Annis become a bride and set out upon her wedding tour. The evening meal was over, and leaving the table they assembled upon the deck. "Has anyone seen the evening paper or the morning one either?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, addressing his query to the company in general. "Yes, sir; I have," answered Harold. "There has been an awful railroad collision, one section of the train running into another; a good many killed; one lady meeting with a most terrible fate," he added with emotion, "but she was an earnest, active Christian worker, and no doubt is now rejoicing before the throne of God." "But oh, couldn't they have saved her?" asked his mother, in tones tremulous with feeling. "How was it? what was the difficulty?" "The car was crushed and broken, her limbs caught between broken timbers in such a way that it was impossible to free her in season to prevent the flames--for the car was on fire--from burning her to death. The upper part of her body was free, and she close to a window, so that she could speak to the gathered crowd who, though greatly distressed by the sight of her agony, were powerless to help her. She sent messages to her dear ones and her Sunday-school class and died like a martyr." "Poor dear woman!" said Violet, in low, tender tones. "Oh, how well that her peace was made with God before the accident, for she could do little thinking in such an agony of pain." "Yes; and such sudden calls should make us all careful to be ready at any moment for the coming of the Master," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes," assented the captain, "and we do not know that he may not come at any moment, for any of us; either by death or in the clouds of heaven. 'Be ye also ready; for in such an hour as ye think not, the Son of Man cometh,' is his own warning to us all." "Dear Christian woman, how happy she is now!" said Grandma Elsie; "that agony of pain all over, and an eternity of bliss at God's right hand--an eternity of the Master's love and presence already hers." A moment of deep and solemn silence followed, then from the lake they seemed to hear two voices sweetly singing: "I would not live alway: I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here, Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer. "I would not live alway, thus fetter'd by sin, Temptation without and corruption within: E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears. "I would not live alway; no, welcome the tomb: Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom; There, sweet be my rest, till he bid me arise To hail him in triumph descending the skies. "Who, who would live alway, away from his God; Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; "Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren, transported, to greet; While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul." Hugh Lilburn was present among the guests of the evening, and before the finishing of the first verse, the voices seemingly coming from the water had been recognized by more than one of the company as those of his father and himself. As the last notes died upon the air, a solemn silence again fell upon them all. It was broken by Mrs. Travilla saying softly, and in tones tremulous with emotion: "I have always loved that hymn of Muhlenberg's. Ah, who would wish to live alway in this world of sin and sorrow, never entering, never seeing, the many mansions Jesus has gone to prepare for those that love him?" As the last word left her lips, the seemingly distant voices again rose in song, the words coming distinctly to every ear: "Jerusalem the golden, With milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice opprest. I know not, O I know not What joys await us there, What radiancy of glory, What bliss beyond compare. "They stand, those halls of Zion, All jubilant with song, And bright with many an angel, And all the martyr throng. The Prince is ever in them, The daylight is serene; The pastures of the blessèd Are decked in glorious sheen, "There is the throne of David; And there, from care released, The shout of them that triumph, The song of them that feast. And they, who with their Leader, Have conquered in the fight, For ever and for ever Are clad in robes of white. "O sweet and blessèd country, The home of God's elect! O sweet and blessèd country, That eager hearts expect! Jesus, in mercy bring us To that dear land of rest; Who art, with God the Father, And Spirit, ever blest," "Thank you very much, gentlemen," said Mildred as the last notes died away. "What lovely words those are! Ah, they make one almost envious of that dear woman who has already reached that happy land where sin and sorrow are unknown." "And death never enters," added Grandma Elsie low and feelingly. "Oh, 'blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.'" CHAPTER XXII. The wedding morning dawned bright and clear. All the invited guests who had passed the night on shore were early arrivals upon the yacht, which then immediately started across the lake, heading for Michigan City. The crew had outdone themselves in making everything about the vessel even more than ordinarily clean and bright, and everyone was arrayed in holiday attire. The young men of the party had taken care to provide abundance of flowers, especially for the saloon where the ceremony was to take place. There they all assembled, drawn by the familiar strains of the Bridal Chorus from "Lohengrin," played by Violet on the small pipe organ which the captain's thoughtfulness had provided for his wife's amusement and his own pleasure, as well as that of his daughters. A hush fell upon them as Cyril entered and took his appointed place, followed closely by the bridal party, which consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and the bride and groom; Annis preferring to be without bridesmaids, and Mr. Dinsmore having expressed a desire to take a father's part and give her away. The short and simple ceremony was soon over, and after the customary congratulations and good wishes, all repaired to the dining saloon where they partook of a delicious breakfast. All this time the vessel was speeding on her way, and the lake being calm, and such breeze as there was favorable, she made excellent headway, carrying them into their port in good season for catching their trains without being unpleasantly hurried. Then the _Dolphin_ turned and retraced her course, arriving at her old station near the Peristyle before nightfall; so that the returned passengers were able to spend their evening, as usual, in the beautiful Court of Honor. Captain Raymond and his wife and daughters returned to the yacht rather earlier than was their wont, and sat on its deck awaiting the coming of the others. "Papa," said Lucilla, breaking a momentary silence, "I have been wondering why you took the cousins to Michigan City rather than to Pleasant Plains as you did before." "Because it would have taken a good deal longer to go to Pleasant Plains; for which reason they preferred Michigan City, not wishing to take the cars here because of the great crowds about the stations, causing much inconvenience and some peril to those who must push their way through them." "I wondered that the bride and groom were willing to go on the cars at all after hearing of the many accidents on the trains of late, papa," said Grace. "I trust they will not meet with any," said her father. "The crowds are coming in this direction, and I think it is on those trains that most of the accidents occur. But we will all pray for them, asking the Lord to have them in his kind care and keeping." "Yes, indeed, papa!" she replied, in earnest tones. "I am so glad that we may, and that we know--because he has told us so--that he is the hearer and answerer of prayer. Still I am glad we are not going home by rail." "So am I," he said; "yet yachts are sometimes wrecked; and in fact there is no place where we could be certain of safety except as our heavenly Father cares for and protects us; and in his kind care and keeping we are safe wherever we may be." 
17496	----	ELSIE AT HOME by MARTHA FINLEY Author of "Elsie Dinsmore," "Elsie's Vacation," etc. Special Authorized Edition [Illustration] M. A. Donohue & Co Chicago New York Copyright, 1887. by Dodd, Mead and Company All rights reserved. Made in U.S.A. ELSIE AT HOME. CHAPTER I. The shades of evening were closing in upon a stormy March day; rain and sleet falling fast while a blustering northeast wind sent them sweeping across the desolate-looking fields and gardens, and over the wet road where a hack was lumbering along, drawn by two weary-looking steeds; its solitary passenger sighing and groaning with impatience over its slow progress and her own fatigue. "Driver," she called, "are we ever going to arrive at Fairview?" "One o' these days, I reckon, ma'am," drawled the man in reply. "It's been a dreadful tedious ride for you, but a trifle worse for me, seein' I get a lot more o' the wet out here than you do in thar." "Yes," she returned in a tone of exasperation, "but I am a weak, ailing woman and you a big, strong man, used to exertion and exposure." The sentence ended in a distressing fit of coughing that seemed to shake her whole frame. "I'm right sorry fur ye, ma'am," he said, turning a pitying glance upon her, "but just hold on a bit longer and we'll be there. We're e'n a'most in sight o' the place now. Kin o' yourn and expecting ye, I s'pose?" "It is the home of my daughter--my only child," she returned, bridling, "and it will be strange indeed if she is not glad to see the mother whom she has not seen for years." "Surely, ma'am; and yonder's the house. We'll be there in five minutes--more or less." His passenger looked eagerly in the direction indicated. "A large house, isn't it?" she queried. "One can't see much out of this little pane of glass and through the rain and mist." "It's a fine place, ma'am, and a good, big house," he returned. "I wouldn't mind ownin' such a place myself. It's grand in the summer time, and not so bad to look at even now through all this storm o' mist, hail, and rain." "Yes; I dare say," she said, shivering; "and if it was little better than a hovel I'd be glad to reach it and get out of this chilling wind. It penetrates to one's very bones." She drew her cloak closer about her as she spoke, and as the hack turned in at the avenue gates took up her satchel and umbrella in evident haste to alight. In the home-like parlour of the mansion they were approaching sat a lovely-looking lady of mature years, a little group of children gathered about her listening intently and with great interest to a story she was telling them, while a sweet-faced young girl, sitting near with a bit of tatting in her hands, seemed an equally interested hearer, ready to join in the outburst of merriment that now and again greeted something in the narrative. "There is a hack coming up the avenue, Eva. Can we be going to have a visitor this stormy day?" suddenly exclaimed the eldest boy, glancing out of the window near where he stood. "Yes, it has come to a standstill at the foot of the veranda steps, and the driver seems to be getting ready to help someone out." "A lady! Why, who can she be?" cried Eric, the next in age, as the hack door was thrown open and the driver assisted his passenger to alight, while Evelyn laid down her work and hastened into the hall to greet and welcome the guest, whoever she might be; for the Fairview family, like nearly every other in that region of country, was exceedingly hospitable. A servant had already opened the outer door and now another stepped forward to take the lady's satchel and umbrella. "Who can she be?" Evelyn asked herself as she hastily crossed the veranda and held out a welcoming hand with a word or two of pleasant greeting. "Is it you, Evelyn?" asked the stranger in tones that trembled with emotion. "And do you not know me--your own mother!" "Mother; oh, mother, can it be you?" cried Evelyn, catching the stranger in her arms and holding her fast with sobs and tears and kisses. "I had not heard from you for so long, and have been feeling as if I should never see you again. And oh, how thin and weak you look! You are sick, mother!" she added in tones of grief and anxiety, as she drew her into the hall, where by this time the rest of the family--Grandma Elsie, and Mr. and Mrs. Leland and their children--were gathered. "Sister Laura! is it possible! Welcome to Fairview," was Mrs. Leland's greeting, accompanied by a warm embrace. "Laura! we did not even know you were in America!" Mr. Leland said, grasping her hand in brotherly fashion. "And how weary and ill you are looking! Let me help you off with your bonnet and cloak and to a couch here in the parlour." "Thank you; yes, I'll be very glad to lie down, for I'm worn out with my journey and this troublesome cough," she said, struggling with a renewed paroxysm and gasping for breath. "But my luggage and----" "We'll attend to all that," he said, half carrying her to the couch where his wife and her mother were arranging the pillows for her comfort, and laying her gently down upon it. "Oh, mother; my poor dear mother!" sighed Evelyn, as she leaned over her, smoothing her hair with caressing hand, "it breaks my heart to see you looking so weary and ill. But we will soon nurse you back to health and strength--uncle and aunt and I." "I hope so, indeed," Mrs. Leland said in her sweet, gentle tones. "You have had most unpleasant weather for your journey, Laura, so that it is not to be wondered at that you are exhausted. You must have some refreshment at once," and with the last word she hastened away in search of it. "And here is something to relieve that dreadful cough," said Mrs. Travilla, presenting herself with a delicate china cup in her hand. Evelyn introduced the two ladies, and her mother, being assured that the cup contained nothing unpleasant to the taste, quickly swallowed its contents, then lay back quietly upon her pillows, still keeping fast hold of her daughter's hand, while Grandma Elsie, giving the cup to a servant to carry away, resumed her easy chair on the farther side of the room--near enough to be ready to render assistance should it be needed, yet not so near as to interfere with any private talk between the long separated mother and daughter--and her grandchildren again gathered about her. But they seemed awed into silence by the presence of the stranger invalid, whom they gazed upon with pitying curiosity, while her attention seemed equally occupied with them. "Your uncle's children?" she asked of Evelyn in a tone scarcely louder than a whisper. "Yes, mamma. Edward, the eldest, you saw when he was a mere baby boy. Eric, the next, is papa's namesake. The eldest of the little girls--she is in her fifth year--is Elsie Alicia, named for her two grandmothers; we call her Alie. And the youngest--that two-year-old darling--we call Vi. She is named for her aunt, Mrs. Raymond." "And Mrs. Travilla lives here with her daughter?" "No; she is paying a visit of a few days, as she often does since her daughter-in-law, Aunt Zoe, has undertaken the most of the housekeeping at Ion." "She certainly looks very young to be mother and grandmother to so many," sighed the invalid, catching sight of her own sallow, prematurely wrinkled face reflected in a large mirror on the opposite side of the room. "But she has had an easy life, surrounded by kind, affectionate, sympathising friends, while I--miserable woman that I am--have been worried, brow-beaten, robbed, till nothing is left me but ill-health and grinding poverty." "Mother, mother dear, don't talk so while I am left you and have enough to keep us both, with care and economy," entreated Evelyn in a voice half choked with sobs. "It will be joy to me to share with you and do all I can to make your last days comfortable and happy." "Then you haven't lost all your love for your mother in our years of separation?" "No, no indeed!" answered Evelyn earnestly. But there the conversation ended for the time, Mrs. Leland returning with the promised refreshment. It seemed to give some strength to the invalid, and after taking it she was, by her own request, assisted to her room, an apartment opening into that of her daughter, with whose good help she was soon made ready for her bed, the most comfortable she had lain upon for weeks or months, she remarked, as she stretched her tired limbs upon it. "I am very glad you find it so, mother dear," said Evelyn. "And now, if you like, I will unpack your trunks and arrange their contents in wardrobe, bureau drawers, and closet." "There is no hurry about that, and isn't that your supper bell I hear?" "Yes'm, suppah's on de table, an' I's come to set yere and 'tend to you uns while Miss Eva gwine eat wif de res' of de folks," said a neatly dressed, pleasant-faced, elderly coloured woman, who had entered the room just in time to hear the query in regard to the bell. "But, missus, Miss Elsie she tole me for to ax you could you take somethin' mo'?" "She says Aunt Elsie wants to know could you eat something more, mother dear?" explained Eva, seeing a puzzled look on her mother's face. "Oh, no! that excellent broth fully satisfied my appetite," replied Laura. "Go and get your supper, Eva, child, but come back when you have finished; for we have been so long separated that now I can hardly bear to have you out of my sight." "Oh, mother, how sweet to hear you say that!" exclaimed Evelyn, bending down to bestow another ardent caress upon her newly restored parent. "Indeed, I shall not stay away a moment longer than necessary." The new arrival and her sad condition were the principal topics of conversation at the table. "I am so glad we have such a good doctor in Cousin Arthur," said Evelyn. "I hope he can cure mamma's cough. I wish the weather was such that we could reasonably ask him to come and see her to-night," she added with a sigh. "Yes," said her uncle, "but as it is so bad I think we will just give him a full account of her symptoms and ask his advice through the telephone. Then he will tell us what would better be done to-night, and call in to see her to-morrow morning." The ladies all agreed that that would be the better plan and it was presently carried out. The doctor would have come at once, in spite of the storm, had it seemed necessary, but from the account given he deemed it not so. "I will come directly after breakfast to-morrow morning," he concluded, after giving his advice in regard to what should be done immediately. "That is satisfactory; and now I will go at once to mamma and carry out his directions for to-night," said Evelyn. "Remembering that we are all ready to assist in any and every possible way," added her uncle, smiling kindly upon her. "Yes, indeed!" said Grandma Elsie; "and you must not hesitate to call upon me if you need help." "No, no, mother dear. I put my veto upon that!" exclaimed Mrs. Leland. "You are not a really old-looking woman yet, but are not as vigorous as you were some years ago, and I cannot afford to let you run any risk of diminishing your stock of health and strength by loss of sleep or over-exertion. Call upon me, Eva, should you need any assistance." "Very well, daughter, I shall not insist upon the privilege of losing sleep," returned Grandma Elsie with a smile, "but may perhaps be permitted to make myself slightly useful during the day." "Yes, slightly, mother dear, and at such time as you would not be otherwise improving by taking needed rest or recreation," Mrs. Leland replied as she hastened away with Eva, with the purpose to make sure that her newly arrived guest lacked for nothing which she could provide. "At last, Evelyn, child! I suppose you have not been long gone, but it seemed so to my impatience," was Laura's salutation as Eva reentered her room. "It is sweet to hear you say that, mother dear; sweet to know that you love me so," Evelyn said in moved tones, bending down to press a kiss on the wan cheek, "and I mean to fairly surfeit you with my company in the days and weeks that lie before us." "And she only waited with the rest of us to consult our good doctor for you, Laura," added Mrs. Leland. "He has prescribed a sleeping potion for to-night, and will call to see you and prescribe further in the morning." "I think I should have been consulted," returned the invalid in a tone of irritation; "my money is all gone and he may never get his pay." "Oh, don't trouble about that!" exclaimed Mrs. Leland and Evelyn in a breath, the former adding, "His charges are not heavy and it will be strange indeed if we cannot find a way to meet and defray them." "Of course we can and will, and you are not to concern yourself any more about it, mamma," added Evelyn in a tone of playful authority. "What would be the use when you have a tolerably rich, grown-up daughter, whose principal business and pleasure it will be to take care of and provide for her long-lost, but now happily recovered mother. And here comes uncle with your sleeping potion," she added, as Mr. Leland at that moment appeared in the doorway, cup in hand. "Here is something which I hope will quiet your cough, Laura," he said, coming to the bedside. "It is not bad to take, either, and will be likely to secure you a good night's rest." "I don't know," she returned doubtfully, eyeing the cup with evident disfavour, "I was never good at dosing." "You prefer lying awake, racked with that distressing cough?" "No," she sighed, taking the cup from his hand, "even quite a bad dose would be better than that. And it was not so bad after all," she concluded as she returned the cup, after swallowing its contents. "Glad to hear you say so," he said in reply. "And now take my further advice--lie still and go to sleep, leaving all the talk with Eva till to-morrow. Good-night to you both." And he left the room, followed presently by his wife, who lingered only until she had made sure that all the wants of the invalid were fully supplied. Laura had already fallen into a sweet sleep, under the soothing influence of the draught, and Eva presently stretched herself beside her, and with a heart filled with contending emotions--love for this her only remaining parent, joy in their reunion, sorrow and care in view of her evident exhaustion and ill-health, and plans for making her remaining days happy--lay awake for a time silently asking for guidance and help from on high, then fell into dreamless, refreshing sleep. CHAPTER II. Morning found the invalid somewhat refreshed by her night's rest, yet too languid and feeble to leave her room, and her day was spent reclining upon a couch, with her daughter by her side. Dr. Conly made an early call, prescribed, talked to her and Eva in a cheerful strain, saying he hoped that rest and a change of weather would soon bring her at least a measure of relief and strength; but in reply to the anxious questioning of Mr. and Mrs. Leland, he acknowledged that he found her far gone in consumption, and did not think she could last many weeks. "Poor dear Eva! how very sad it will be for her to lose her mother so soon after recovering her!" sighed Mrs. Leland. "I think we must let her remain in ignorance of the danger for a time at least." "Yes," assented her husband; "though we must not neglect any effort in our power to prepare Laura for the great change which awaits her," he added with a look of anxiety and care. "Nor fail to offer up earnest petitions for her at the Throne of Grace," said Grandma Elsie, in her low, sweet tones. "Oh, what a blessing, what a comfort it is that we may take there all our fears, cares, and anxieties for ourselves and others! And how precious the Saviour's promise, 'If two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that you shall ask, it shall be done for you of my Father which is in heaven'!" "Yes, mother dear," assented Mrs. Leland, "and we will claim and plead it for our poor dear Laura, and for Eva, that she may be sustained under the bereavement which awaits her." "Yes," said Dr. Conly, "and there are many of our friends who will be ready to join us in the petition. I am going now to Woodburn--the captain having telephoned me that one of the servants is ill--and we all know that he and his will be full of sympathy for Eva and her sick mother." "No doubt they will," said Grandma Elsie, "both as Christians and as warm friends of Evelyn. And it will be quite the same with our other friends." With that the doctor bade good-morning and took his departure in the direction of Woodburn. The family there were surprised and interested by the news he had to tell of the arrival at Fairview, and of Laura's feeble and ailing condition. They were evidently full of sympathy for both mother and daughter, and had any help been needed would have given it gladly. But the doctor assured them that rest and quiet were at present the sick one's most pressing need. "Poor dear Eva! I am so sorry for her!" sighed Lucilla when the doctor had gone. "Papa, don't you think I might make myself of use helping her with the nursing?" "Not at present, daughter; though I can testify to your ability in that line, and your services may possibly be needed at some future time," he answered with an affectionate look and smile. "Yes, Lu is a capital nurse, I think," said Violet, "but whatever she does is sure to be well done." "Thank you, Mamma Vi," returned the young girl, blushing with pleasure; "it is most kind in you to say that; but if I am thorough in anything, most of the credit belongs to my father, who has never allowed me to content myself with a slovenly performance of my duties." "No," he said, "what is worth doing at all is worth doing well; that is a lesson I have endeavoured to impress upon each one of my children, and one which I think they have all learned pretty thoroughly." "And they have always had the teaching of example as well as precept, from their father," remarked Violet with a look of loving appreciation up into his face; "so that it would be strange indeed if they had not learned it." "Indeed that is true, mamma," said Grace. "It does seem to me that papa does everything he undertakes as thoroughly well as anyone possibly could." "A very good idea for one's children to cultivate," laughed the captain. Then consulting his watch, "But it is high time we were in the schoolroom, daughters. Elsie and Ned have been there this half hour, and probably have a lesson or two ready to recite." "And Eva will not be with us to-day; probably not for many more days," remarked Lucilla with a slight sigh of disappointment and regret, as she and Grace rose and gave prompt obedience to her father's implied order. "Yes," he said, "I fear so; but her first duty is to her mother." So Evelyn herself felt, and nobly she discharged it; neglecting nothing in her power for the relief and enjoyment of the invalid who, though often fretful, exacting, and unreasonable, was yet nearest and dearest to her of all earthly creatures. The young girl's loving patience seemed never to fail, and her heart was continually going up in earnest, silent petitions that her beloved parent might be made meet for the inheritance of the saints in light; that she might learn to love Him who had died to redeem her from death and the power of the grave, and to give her an abundant entrance into his kingdom and glory. The doubt of Laura's preparation for death and eternity, amounting to almost certainty that it was lacking, made this nursing an even sadder one than had been that of Eric, Evelyn's father, years ago. To him talk of things heavenly and divine had ever seemed easy and natural, and with the certainty that he was passing away from earth came the full assurance that he was ready to depart and be with Christ in glory. But Laura hastily repelled the slightest allusion to eternity and a preparation for it. Evelyn's only consolation was in the knowledge that others were uniting their earnest petitions with hers, and that God is the hearer and answerer of prayer. It was Grandma Elsie who at length succeeded in speaking a word in season to the dying woman. "Oh, this racking cough! Shall I never be done with it?" gasped Laura, as she lay panting upon her pillow after an unusually severe and exhausting paroxysm. "Yes; when you reach the other side of Jordan; for there in that blessed land the inhabitant shall not say 'I am sick,'" returned Grandma Elsie in low, sympathising tones. "The Bible tells us that 'God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.'" "Oh, but I am not fit for that place yet!" exclaimed Laura with a look of alarm, "and I don't want to die for years to come, though it is hard to suffer as I do. You don't think I'm a dying woman, Mrs. Travilla?" "You know, dear friend, that no one of us is certain of life for a day or an hour," returned Grandma Elsie gently, taking the wasted hand in hers and gazing tenderly into the anxious, troubled face, "and surely it is the part of wisdom to make careful preparation for that which we must inevitably meet, sooner or later. And if our peace is made with God--if Jesus is our Friend and Saviour--it will only be joy unspeakable to be called into his immediate presence, there to dwell forevermore." "Yes, yes, if one is fitted for it, as Eric, Eva's father, was. Death seemed only joy to him, except for leaving us. But oh, I am afraid of death! Hard as life is in my weak, ailing condition, I don't want to die, I can't bear to think of it." "My poor friend, my heart bleeds for you," said Grandma Elsie in low, tender tones. "'The sting of death is sin and the strength of sin is the law.' But 'Christ is the end of the law for righteousness to everyone that believeth.' He fulfilled its conditions, he bore the penalty God's justice required against those who had broken it; and now salvation is offered as his free gift to all who will accept it: 'Even the righteousness of God which is by faith of Jesus Christ unto all and upon all them that believe: for there is no difference: For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God; Being justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus: Whom God hath set forth to be a propitiation through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of God; To declare, I say, at this time his righteousness: that he might be just and the justifier of him which believeth in Jesus.'" "Is that all? only to believe in Jesus?" Laura asked with a look of mingled anxiety, hope, and fear. "But one must repent deeply, sincerely, and oh, I'm afraid I cannot!" "He will help you," returned Grandma Elsie in moved tones. "'Him hath God exalted with his right hand to be a Prince and a Saviour, for to give repentance to Israel, and forgiveness of sins.' Ask him, remembering his own gracious promise, 'Ask and it shall be given you; seek and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened unto you. For everyone that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.'" "Ah, I see the way as I never did before," said Laura, after a moment's silence in which she seemed in deep thought. "What wonderful love and condescension it was for him, the God-man, to die that painful and shameful death that we--sinful worms of the dust--might live! Oh, I do begin to love him and to hate and abhor my sins that helped nail him to the tree." With the last words tears coursed down her cheeks. "I want to be his, whether I live or die," she added; and from that hour a great change came over her; her sufferings were borne with patience and resignation; and when the end came she passed peacefully and quietly away, leaving her bereaved daughter mourning the separation, but not as those without hope of a blessed reunion at some future day, in that land where sin and sorrow, sickness and pain are unknown. CHAPTER III. Through all the six long weeks of her mother's illness at Fairview Evelyn had been a most devoted, tender nurse, scarcely leaving the sick room for an hour by day or by night. She bore up wonderfully until all was over and the worn-out body laid to rest in the quiet grave; but then came the reaction; strength and energy seemed suddenly to forsake her, and thin, pale, sad, and heavy-eyed, she was but the shadow of her former self. Change of air and scene was the doctor's prescription. She was very reluctant to leave home and friends for a sojourn in new scenes and among strangers, but receiving an urgent invitation from Captain and Mrs. Raymond to spend some weeks at Woodburn with her loved friend Lucilla, and finding that her uncle and aunt--Dr. Conly also--highly approved, she gladly accepted; all the more so because she had learned that Grandma Elsie too, whom she loved even better than ever for her kindness to the dear departed, was about to spend some days or weeks with her daughter Violet. That was an added attraction to what Evelyn esteemed one of the most delightful places, and inhabited by the dearest, kindest, most lovable people anywhere to be found. She was most heartily welcomed by the entire family, Lucilla and Grace being particularly joyful over her arrival. It was delightful spring weather, and family and guests, older and younger, spent much of the time in the beautiful grounds or in driving and riding about the country. The captain pronounced Eva hardly in a fit condition for study, and for her sake required his daughters Lucilla and Grace to pass only an hour or two daily in the schoolroom; so that they were able to give to Eva as much of their society as he considered desirable for her under the circumstances--seeing that she needed a good deal of quiet rest and sleep in order to regain the youthful vigour she had lost during the exhausting nursing of her invalid mother. His kindness was highly appreciated by all three, and under its benign influence Eva made rapid improvement in health and spirits, enjoying every day of her sojourn at Woodburn, the Sabbath even more than any other, especially the afternoon study of the Bible in which all took part, from Grandma Elsie and Captain Raymond down to little Ned. The subject chosen for the first lesson after Eva's coming was the resurrection, probably selected especially for Eva's comfort in her sorrow over her mother's recent departure, to be with her no more in this life. "Mother," the captain said, addressing Grandma Elsie, when they were all seated, each with a Bible in hand, "as you are somewhat older and certainly much wiser than I--especially as regards spiritual things--will you not take the lead to-day?" "Older I certainly am," returned Mrs. Travilla, with her own sweet smile, "but I think not wiser than yourself, captain; and certainly I have not made the preparation for this occasion which doubtless you have. So please lead the exercises just as you would if I were not present." "You would prefer my doing so?" he asked. "Very much," she replied. "The resurrection is the subject?" "Yes; and what a glorious one! how full of comfort for all who believe in Christ! 'For I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though after my death my body is destroyed, yet in my flesh shall I see God; whom I shall see for myself and mine eyes shall behold, and not another,' said the patriarch Job; comforting himself in his affliction with that blessed prospect. The doctrine of a general resurrection is expressly taught in both the Old Testament and the New, and I think we cannot spend our lesson hour more profitably than in looking up the texts on the subject. Can you give us one, mother?" At that Grandma Elsie opened her Bible. "Beginning with the Old Testament," she said, "here in Psalms xlix. 15 we read: 'But God will redeem my soul from the power of the grave: for he shall receive me. Selah.' Then here in Isaiah; 'Thy dead men shall live, together with my dead body shall they arise. Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust: for thy dew is as the dew of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the dead.'" Then Violet, sitting next, read from her open Bible: "'The same day came to him the Sadducees, which say that there is no resurrection, and asked him, saying, Master, Moses said, if a man die, having no children, his brother shall marry his wife, and raise up seed unto his brother. Now there were with us seven brethren: and the first, when he had married a wife, deceased, and having no issue, left his wife unto his brother: likewise the second also, and the third unto the seventh. And last of all the woman died also. Therefore in the resurrection, whose wife shall she be? for they all had her. Jesus answered and said unto them, Ye do err, not knowing the Scriptures, nor the power of God. For in the resurrection they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven. But as touching the resurrection of the dead, have ye not read that which was spoken unto you by God, saying, I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob? God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.'" Eva's turn came next and she read: "'And the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose, and came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many.'" Then Lucilla: "'Women received their dead raised to life again: and others were tortured, not accepting deliverance; that they might obtain a better resurrection.'" "Will the resurrection be of all the dead, Grace? the wicked as well as the righteous?" asked her father. "Yes, papa," she answered; then read aloud: "'Marvel not at this: for the hour is coming, in the which all that are in the graves shall hear his voice, and shall come forth; they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation.'" It was little Elsie's turn and she read a verse in Acts pointed out by her mother: "'And have hope toward God, which they themselves also allow, that there shall be a resurrection of the dead, both of the just and unjust.'" It was Ned's turn now and he read a passage selected for him by his mother: "'For I delivered unto you first of all that which I also received, how that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures; and that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day according to the Scriptures.'" It was the captain's turn again and he went on with the reading: "'Now if Christ be preached that he rose from the dead, how say some among you that there is no resurrection of the dead? But if there be no resurrection of the dead, then is Christ not risen: and if Christ be not risen, then is our preaching vain, and your faith is also vain. Yea, and we are found false witnesses of God; because we have testified of God that he raised up Christ: whom he raised not up, if so be that the dead rise not. For if the dead rise not, then is not Christ raised, and if Christ be not raised, your faith is vain; ye are yet in your sins. Then they also which are fallen asleep in Christ are perished. If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable. But now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the first fruits of them that slept. For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.'" "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, "we needed a divine Saviour, and Christ's resurrection proved his divinity; as Paul tells us here in the first chapter of Romans, 'And declared to be the Son of God with power, according to the Spirit of holiness, by the resurrection from the dead.' Peter too teaches us that the resurrection of Christ was necessary to our salvation. It seems plainly taught in this verse of the fifth chapter of his first Epistle. 'Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead.'" "Yes," said Violet, "Jesus said to his disciples, 'Because I live, ye shall live also.' His resurrection is surely the pledge and assurance of that of his people." "Papa, does everybody have to die?" asked little Ned. "Everybody except those who are alive when Jesus comes again, as he will some day in the clouds of heaven. This is what the Apostle Paul tells us about it in the letter he wrote to the Thessalonians. 'Them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him. For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we which are alive and remain unto the coming of the Lord, shall not prevent them which are asleep. For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first; then we which are alive and remain, shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air, and so shall we ever be with the Lord.'" "'Wherefore comfort one another with these words,'" added Evelyn softly, finishing the quotation; "and oh, what a comfort it is!" "There could be none greater," said Grandma Elsie. "Think of being reunited with all the dear ones gone before, and in the immediate presence of Jesus; never again to be parted from them or him or to know sin or sorrow or pain. Oh, what joy to be permitted to look upon the face of our Redeemer, to kneel at his feet, to hear his voice speaking to each one of us. 'Whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold and not another.'" CHAPTER IV. "Oh, Rosie, you here? I'm delighted! I hope you have come to spend the day?" exclaimed Lucilla, as on Monday she and Grace, on leaving the schoolroom where they had been reciting to their father, passed out upon the veranda in search of Evelyn and the older ladies and found Rose Travilla seated with the others. "Thank you; but suppose I have come intending to stay longer than that? as long as mamma does, for instance?" laughed Rose, giving and receiving an affectionate caress; for they had seen nothing of each other for several days. "The longer the better," was Lucilla's hearty rejoinder. "Do you not say so too, Mamma Vi?" turning to her. "Indeed I do," said Violet. "She will certainly make a most pleasant addition to our party." "I think you may as well accept the invitation, Rosie," her mother said with a pleased smile; "and as I know you do not care to keep your errand a secret from any of your friends here, we can call a family council and talk the matter over." "Yes, mamma; that sounds as though you accept Solomon's teaching that 'In the multitude of counsellors there is safety.' And since he was the wisest of men we may surely consider ourselves safe in so doing. So, if you like, you may tell Lu and Gracie on what errand I came." "Tell it yourself, child," returned her mother with an amused look. At that Rosie held up a letter to the view of Lucilla and Grace, saying, with a smile and blush, "It is from Will Croly. He has grown tired of waiting and begs to have matters hurried up somewhat: proposes that I change my name next month, though the prescribed year of waiting would thereby be shortened by two months or more." "Oh, do let him have his way, then!" exclaimed Grace--"at least if he will promise not to carry you off at once after the wedding--for there could not be a lovelier month for it than beautiful June, the month of roses." "So I should say," chimed in Lucilla, then added hastily, "though I think I'd make him wait till June of next year, rather than leave such a mother as Grandma Elsie so soon." At that Rosie glanced at her mother and her eyes filled with unbidden tears. "I can't bear to think of that," she said with a tremble in her voice, "but perhaps I can coax Will to settle down somewhere in this neighbourhood--bringing his father and mother along so that they won't be lonely." "A very nice plan, Rosie dear, if you can manage to carry it out," remarked Violet. "And I have hope that Will, at least, will favour the plan; for he seemed much pleased with this neighbourhood when he was here," said Rosie, adding with a laugh and blush, "and I know my wishes carry great weight with him." "And we will hope that those of his parents may coincide with yours," added her mother gently; "for I am sure my Rosie would not wish to be the cause of unhappiness to them." "No, indeed, mamma; I can assure you it is my earnest desire to add to their happiness; not to take from it. I am strongly in hopes, however, that when they come to know you and all the rest of my dear relatives here, they will esteem it a delight to live in your midst." "And I don't believe they can help it," said Grace. "I am sure everybody who knows Grandma Elsie, mamma, and papa--not to mention all the other dear people--loves them and their pleasant society." "In all of which I am sure you are quite right, Gracie," said Evelyn. "I, too," said Lulu. "But now let us hear the plans for the wedding." "They are yet to be made," laughed Rosie. "You will want a grand one?" Lulu said in a tone of mingled assertion and inquiry. "Not so very," Rosie answered with a slight shake of her pretty head. "I think only the relatives and most intimate friends. They alone will make quite a party, you know. I'll want some bridesmaids. You'll be one, Lu, won't you? Unless you fear the truth of the old saying, 'Twice a bridesmaid never a bride.'" "Pooh! what difference need that make?" returned Lulu; "since I don't intend ever to marry." "You don't?" exclaimed Rosie. "No; for there is not another man in the world whom I could love half so dearly as I love my father." "Oh, well! that is only because you and the right one haven't happened to meet yet." "Yes, Lulu," said Grandma Elsie, "at your age I thought and felt just as you do now, but some years later I found that another had gained the first place in my heart." "But my father is so much kinder and more lovable than ever yours was," was the answering thought in Lucilla's mind, but unwilling to hurt the dear lady's feelings she refrained from expressing it, and only said with a little laugh of incredulity, "I suppose I should not be too certain, but I am entirely willing to run the risk of again acting as bridesmaid." "So that much is settled," returned Rosie in a tone of satisfaction. "I have always counted upon Eva as another," she continued, "but----" "Thank you, Rosie dear, but of course I cannot serve--under present circumstances," returned Evelyn in a tone of gentle sadness. No one spoke again for a moment; then Violet broke the silence by asking, "How many do you think of having, Rosie?" "Perhaps six," was the reply, in a musing tone, "at least including flower girls and maid of honour. Gracie, you will be one of the bridesmaids, will you not?" "If papa does not object, as I hardly think he will." "Maud and Sydney Dinsmore I think will serve," continued Rosie. "And wouldn't it be a pretty idea to have Elsie Raymond and Uncle Horace's Elsie, who is about the same size, as either bridesmaids or flower girls?" Everyone approved of that idea. "Now, it will be in order, I suppose, to settle about the material and colour of our dresses," remarked Lucilla. "Perhaps it might be as well to first decide at what time of year they are to be worn," suggested Mrs. Travilla in her gentle tones. "Yes, mamma, but--you do not want to disappoint Will, do you? And June is really the prettiest month in the year for a wedding, I think," said Rose. "None lovelier, daughter," her mother responded with a slight sigh, "but October, my own wedding month, seems to me no less suitable." "Why, yes, to be sure! if only Will could be satisfied to wait till then." "It will be hardly longer than the time he was given to understand he must expect to wait," returned her mother pleasantly, "or than he ought to think my Rose worth waiting for. But at all events, daughter, we must consult with your grandpa before deciding. Have you had any talk with him on the subject?" "No, mamma; I preferred coming to you first, and am almost sure grandpa will think it a matter for you to decide." "Probably; yet I shall want his opinion; and besides he is your guardian as well as your grandfather." "Along with you, mamma; and I love him as both, he is so dear and kind." "He is indeed," assented her mother. "He has told me more than once or twice that my children are scarcely less dear to him than his own." "Partly because our father was his dear friend as well as his son-in-law," added Violet softly. "Yes; they were bosom friends before I was born," her mother said with a far-away look in her eyes. "Then you must have been very much younger than he, Grandma Elsie," remarked Grace, half inquiringly. "Sixteen years younger. I was in my ninth year when I saw him first, and more than twice that age before I thought of him as anything but a dear, kind friend--my father's friend and mine." "And after that he seemed to you to grow younger, did he not, mamma?" asked Rosie. "Yes; when he joined us in Europe I had not seen him for two years, and as regarded age he seemed to have been standing still while I grew up to him; and in the daily and intimate intercourse of those months I learned that his worth was far greater than that of any other man of my acquaintance--excepting my father. Ah, there was never a better man, a truer friend, a kinder, more devoted husband and father than he." The sweet voice trembled with emotion; she paused for a moment, then went on: "He does not seem dead to me--he is not dead, but only gone before into the immediate presence of the dear Master, where I hope one day to join him for an eternity of bliss. "''Tis there we'll meet At Jesus' feet, When we meet to part no more.'" Again there was a brief silence, presently broken by the coming of the captain and his two younger children. All three seemed pleased to find Rosie there, greeted her affectionately, and then the captain remarked, glancing from one to another: "It strikes me that you are all looking about as grave as if assembled to discuss the affairs of the nation. Can I have a voice in the subject, whatever it is?" "Yes, Brother Levis," replied Rosie, "I am trying to make arrangements for--doing what you have done twice. And perhaps, since you have had so much practice, you may be more capable than these other friends and relatives of giving me advice." "Something that I have done twice? What can that be?" "Will Croly wants to help me," returned Rosie with a laugh and a blush. "Ah! now I understand. Is the vexing question as to the colour and material of the wedding gown?" "Mamma thinks the first thing is to settle when the ceremony is to be performed. She does not seem to sympathise in Will's haste to have it over." "Which is not at all surprising," returned the captain, glancing at his two older daughters. "I can quite understand the feeling. But what is the time proposed by Will?" "June of this year." "June seems a very suitable month, but if you were my daughter I should say not June of this year--since you are both young enough to wait for that of next or the year after." "Ah, sir! that was not the way you talked when you wanted to rob mamma of one of her daughters." "No; but I was some years older than Mr. Croly is now, and your sister Violet very womanly in her ways." "And I am not? Ah, well! perhaps it is fortunate for me that the decision rest with mamma and grandpa." "So you, too, are in haste?" queried the captain, regarding her with a look of amusement. "Not at all," she returned, drawing herself up with an air of pretended indignation. "Who would be in haste to leave such a home and mother as mine? If I consulted only my own feelings I should be more than willing to wait another year." "Then why not decide to do so?" he asked with a quizzical look. "Because I really have some regard for the wishes of my betrothed." "And it makes it hard for you that the different ones you love cannot agree so that you might please them all," remarked Grace, then exclaimed, "Ah, here comes grandpa!" as at that moment the Ion carriage turned in at the great gates. Mr. Dinsmore seldom let a day pass without a more or less extended interview with his eldest daughter, and had now come for a call at Woodburn, bringing his wife with him. When the usual greetings had been exchanged the subject of Rosie's approaching marriage and the letter from Mr. Croly, urging that it take place speedily, were introduced, and after some discussion it was decided to let him have his own way. The day was not fixed upon any farther than that it should be near the end of the month of June, and with that Rosie seemed satisfied. "Now, mamma," she said, "I think we may go on and discuss minor details, such as dresses and ornaments for bride and attendants." "Very well, daughter; you may give us your views on the subject. You will want your own dress of some rich white material, I suppose?" "Yes, mamma; of Bengaline silk, richly trimmed with lace; and I must have a veil and orange blossoms; also a bouquet of bride roses and smilax. Lu and Grace, you will want white silk dresses, won't you?" "Yes," they replied. "And bouquets of white flowers," added Lucilla. "Oh, papa, you will let me act as one of the bridesmaids, will you not?" asked Grace, turning to him. "I have no objection," he replied. "You may both serve, since Rosie wishes it and I see you are pleased with the idea. As for the matter of dress you may settle that for yourselves." "Oh, thank you, sir!" both exclaimed joyously, Grace adding, "But won't you please tell us, papa, just how much we may spend?" "Any amount which your mamma and Grandma Elsie do not consider too great," he replied in an indulgent tone. "However, I think I should not hesitate to leave that matter to the judgment of my daughters themselves; for I know that neither of you is inclined to be at all extravagant." "No, indeed," said Violet, "they are always very careful to make sure that papa is able to afford them what they want." "It would be strange if we weren't, Mamma Vi," said Lucilla with a happy laugh, "for we know that papa loves us so dearly that he would go without things himself any time rather than deny us anything desirable." "And I expect to put him to the additional expense of dressing Elsie handsomely for the occasion," laughed Rosie. "Ah! is she also to be a bridesmaid?" asked the captain with a smiling glance at his little girl, who was turning her bright eyes from one to another with a surprised, pleased, yet puzzled look. "Not just that," replied Rosie; then went on to explain her plan for giving the two little Elsies a part in the ceremony. "Should you like to do that, daughter?" asked the captain, taking the hand of the little girl and drawing her to his side. "I'm 'most afraid I would not know how to do it right, papa," she answered with doubtful look and tone. "You can take lessons beforehand," he said; "but you shall do just as you please about it." "And the question need not be decided at once," remarked Grandma Elsie. "We will let the matter rest till we learn what your cousin Elsie Dinsmore thinks about joining you in it." "Yes," said Rosie, "and fortunately we do not need to settle anything more to-day. Maud and Sydney must be consulted before we quite decide on the colour and material of the bridesmaids' dresses." CHAPTER V. A pause in the conversation upon the veranda was broken by an exclamation from little Ned. "Cousin Arthur is coming!" he cried as a carriage turned in at the great gates and came swiftly up the driveway. "Yes," said his father, stepping forward to meet and welcome Dr. Conly, "always a visitor we are delighted to see, whether we are sick or well. Good-morning, sir! We are all glad to see you as friend and guest, though fortunately not in need of your professional services at present. I hope the demands of other patients are not so pressing that we may not keep you here till after dinner." "Thank you, but I can stay for only a hasty call," replied the doctor, alighting and shaking hands with one after another as they crowded about him. "You look like the bringer of good news, cousin," said Grandma Elsie, regarding him with a pleased smile. "Yes," he said, "I feel myself a very fortunate and happy man to-day, and have come to tell my news and ask the sympathy and congratulations of you my relatives and friends. My Marian and I have a son--a fine healthy babe, now some hours old--mother and child are doing as well as possible." The congratulations were poured forth without stint. Then Mr. Dinsmore asked, "What do you propose to call the lad?" "Ronald. It is Marian's choice and I am well content, for it is a good name, and I highly esteem the dear old cousin who has showed such kindness to the mother." "Yes, he is worthy of it," said Grandma Elsie. "I have always felt proud to own him as my kinsman." "And Ronald and Conly go well together, making a very pretty name, to my thinking," said Rosie. "Have they heard the news at Beechwood yet?" asked Lucilla. "I think not," replied the doctor; "but I shall take it in my way home, as it will make the drive only a little longer and I need delay there but a moment." Then with a hasty adieu he took his departure. "Art is a very happy man to-day," Mr. Dinsmore remarked with a pleased smile, as they watched the doctor's gig on its way down the drive. "Yes; I know of no one more worthy of happiness, and it does me good to see it," said the captain. "And no doubt dear Marian's heart is overflowing with love and gratitude," said Grandma Elsie in low, soft tones. "I quite want to see her and her new treasure." "Both she and Art will be very proud to show it to their friends and relatives," remarked Violet with a smile, "though he will be careful not to admit even relatives for some days yet. He is very kind and careful as both husband and physician." "Yes," said Rosie; "he will take excellent care of Marian and have her well in time to attend the wedding, I hope." "I think we can manage that, daughter, as we have not fixed upon the day," her mother said with playful look and tone. "Oh, yes, mamma! and I do intend it to be at least six weeks before I leave girlhood for married life," returned Rosie, laughing and blushing as she spoke. "It is too serious a step to be taken hastily, my dear young sister," remarked the captain in a tone between jest and earnest; "a step that once taken cannot be retraced--a venture involving the happiness or misery of perhaps a lifetime; certainly the lifetime of one if not of both." "Oh, you frighten me!" cried Rosie, drawing a long breath and lifting her hands with a gesture of alarm and despair; "what shall I do? Would you recommend single blessedness--you who have twice tried laying hold of the other horn of the dilemma?" "Only for a time," he said. "Look well before you leap, as I did, and then you will be in little danger of wanting to leap back again." "You don't? you never do?" she queried in mock surprise and doubt. "Never!" he said with a smiling, admiring glance into Violet's beautiful eyes, watching him with not a shade of doubt or distrust in their azure depths; "never for a moment have I been conscious of the slightest inclination to do so." "Thank you, my dear," Violet said. "And, Rosie, let me tell you for your encouragement that I have known no more regret than has he. I am very sure that if it were in our power to reconsider, the question would be decided exactly as it was years ago." "I believe it," responded Rosie heartily, "and that Will and I will be able to say the same when we too have lived together for years. He is good as gold, I know, and I shall try to be worthy of him." The call to dinner here put an end to the conversation and the talk at the table was upon other themes. Shortly after the conclusion of the meal Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore returned to Ion, while the others, some on horseback, the rest in the family carriage, went over to the Oaks to call upon the relatives there and consult with them on the arrangements for the wedding, particularly the dress of the bride and her attendants--a subject of great interest to the ladies, especially such to the young girls, but one which the two gentlemen--Captain Raymond and young Mr. Dinsmore--were so entirely willing to leave to their decision that they presently excused themselves and walked out into the grounds, Mr. Dinsmore wishing to consult the captain in regard to some improvements that he had in contemplation. Then Rosie announced her errand and gave her invitation to Maud and Sydney. It was accepted promptly and with evident pleasure by both. Then Rosie went on to speak of her idea of having the two little Elsies act as flower girls. "My niece and my cousin, and both bearing mamma's name; about the same size, too; would it not be pretty?" she asked, and received a chorus of approving replies. "Oh, I'd like to!" cried Elsie Dinsmore, clapping her hands in delight. "It's ever so good in you, Cousin Rosie, to choose us! and I suppose we will be dressed alike, won't we?" "That is my idea," said Rosie, "and I presume your mothers will not withhold their consent." "Oh, you will let us, mamma--you and Cousin Vi--won't you?" cried the child, turning to them. "I am entirely willing, if that suits Cousin Vi and her Elsie," replied her mother. "As it will, I am sure," said Violet. "Yes, mamma," said her Elsie, "I shall like it, for I am sure you and the other ladies will choose a pretty dress for us." "Probably no prettier than some that you already own," Violet returned with an amused look. "Try not to think or care too much for dress, daughter; there are so many things which are much more important." "But it isn't wrong to like to be tastefully dressed, is it, mamma?" asked the little girl with a slightly troubled look. "No, I think not, dear," returned her mother with a loving smile into the inquiring eyes; "if it were wrong to love pretty things, surely God would not have made so many for our eyes to look upon--the beautiful flowers and fruits, the sunset clouds, the stars, to mention only a few--but he--our kind Heavenly Father--loves to give us enjoyment." "And I do enjoy all the pretty things very much indeed, mamma," responded the little girl with a look of relief and pleasure, "and I'm glad it isn't wrong; I like to see pretty clothes on you and my sisters quite as much as on myself. And don't you think papa likes to have us all nicely dressed?" "I am sure he does; and you may feel very certain that papa approves of nothing but what is right." "Those are exactly mine and my husband's sentiments upon the subject in question," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore in a lively tone. "But now let us hear what those girls are talking about." "You will be married in church?" Maud was saying inquiringly. "No," said Rosie in a tone of decision; "I mean to follow the good example of my mother and older sisters in having a home wedding." "And you will want ushers? I was just going to ask who were to serve in that capacity." "I believe Mr. Croly has engaged my brothers Harold and Herbert, who are his most intimate friends," replied Rosie; "but of course there will be plenty of time for all those arrangements." "I dare say he will ask Uncle Harold to be best man," said Grace. "Very likely," said Rosie, "and Herbert, Chester, and Frank for ushers. We may as well make it a family affair," she added with a satisfied little laugh. "And if either you or Will conclude that you would prefer a larger number it will be an easy matter to think of, and invite them to serve a little later," remarked Violet. "Yes, there is plenty of time," said their mother, smiling lovingly into Rosie's bright eyes. "I am in no hurry to give my youngest daughter to even so entirely a good, worthy, and amiable young man as William Croly." "Please do not look at it in that way, mother dear. Please remember that you are not to lose your daughter, but to gain another good son." "That is right, Rosie; I do believe it is going to prove a gain all round," said Violet. "Why, of course it is," said Maud; "that is settled; so now let us consider and decide the important question what colours we are to wear on the grand occasion. Lu, you wore canary colour at Betty Norris' wedding; suppose I take that this time and you wear pink; it will become you quite as well, I think." "I suppose so," said Lucilla, "and am perfectly willing to wear it." "And pink beside my white will look very pretty," said Rosie. "Lu is to be maid of honor, you know, girls." "Yes; and I for one highly approve your choice, Rosie," said Evelyn with an affectionate, admiring look at Lucilla. "Yes; and suppose we dress your little flower girls in pink, also," suggested Mrs. Dinsmore. That idea seemed to suit everybody. "I like that colour," remarked Elsie Dinsmore sagely, "but I shall be particular about having very handsome material." "It shall be handsome enough to accord well with the others," said her mother with an amused laugh. "I think straw colour becomes me," remarked Maud; "so that is what I shall wear, if the rest of the party approve." "And blue will be the thing for Gracie and me," said Sydney. "What do you say to that, Gracie?" "I am satisfied if Rosie and the rest approve," was Grace's pleasant-toned reply. "So that is settled," said Sydney. "Wouldn't it be well for us all to go into the city to-morrow, see what we can find there to suit us, and order other things sent for?" "What do you say to that, mamma?" asked Rosie. "I see no objection to it," replied Grandma Elsie. "But we will consult the captain in regard to that matter," she added, as at that moment he and her brother came in. "Ah! upon what is my valuable opinion desired, mother?" he asked in playful tones; then, in response to the explanation given, said that he thought it a very good plan, as it would surely do no harm to begin needed preparations promptly. "Then, papa, won't you excuse Gracie and me from lessons for the next few days?" asked Lucilla. "I will; you may consider the remainder of the week a holiday," he replied. "For Ned and me too, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes; if you think you can assist in the shopping." "I should like to help choose my own things if you and mamma are willing," she said with a persuasive look from one to the other. "I think you will be allowed a voice in the selection," he replied, patting her cheek as she leaned upon his knee, looking up affectionately and pleadingly into his face. "Yes," said Violet, "and I am sure we shall be able to find dress goods and whatever else is needed, that will suit all three of us." "And it will be four days' holiday we'll have," remarked Ned with satisfaction. "You are planning to have your wedding a good deal after the pattern of Cousin Betty's, Rosie," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore. "Yes; in some respects, for I thought it a very pretty wedding; but that ceremony took place in the church, while I mean to be married at home; also there will probably be a difference in the number of attendants and their dress," replied Rosie. "And by the way, mamma," she added, turning to her mother, "we must send Betty an invitation in good season for her to arrange matters so that she can come to my wedding. I was one of her bridesmaids, you remember, and should be sorry indeed to neglect her at this time." "She shall not be forgotten, daughter," was Grandma Elsie's ready response; "we will shortly make out a list of those you wish to invite, that none may be forgotten or overlooked." "Yes, mamma; if our list contains only relatives and very intimate friends we will be quite a large party, should all accept." "Now about to-morrow's shopping," said Sydney. "We need to settle when we will set out on our expedition, where we will meet, or whether we will divide our forces and each division decide questions of taste and expense independently of the others." "As there are so many of us I think the latter plan would be the better one," said Grandma Elsie. "And as regards dress goods, we can secure samples and hold a consultation over them before making the purchases," said Violet; adding with a smiling glance at her Elsie, "that will be only fair where two or more are to be dressed alike." "I like that plan, mamma," said the little girl, "and I do intend to be satisfied with whatever you and papa choose for me." "With some help from my mamma and me," said the other Elsie in a tone that seemed to imply some fear that their choice might not be altogether to her taste. "Tut! tut!" said her father. "You need not be in the least afraid that such good judges will fail to select as handsome and suitable material as could be desired." "But please, Uncle Horace, let her have a vote on the question," said Violet pleasantly. "There may be several pieces of goods of the chosen colour, equally desirable; nor is it necessary that the two dresses should be off the same piece; only that they match in colour." "And I feel sure there will be no difficulty in settling upon which will be satisfactory to all parties," added Mrs. Dinsmore. With a little more chat all the arrangements for the morrow's shopping expedition were concluded. Then the Woodburn party bade good-bye and returned to their home. CHAPTER VI. The weather the next morning proved all that could be desired, and the shopping expedition a grand success--everybody being not only satisfied but charmed with the results. Mrs. Travilla and Rosie returned to Ion that evening, but scarcely a day passed while the preparations for the wedding were going on, without more or less interchange of visits among the young people of that place, Woodburn, Fairview, and the Oaks and Pinegrove. Naturally the deepest interest was felt and shown by the ladies and young girls, but brothers and cousins were by no means indifferent. Harold and Herbert, though well pleased with the idea of taking their friend Croly into the family, were loath to part with Rosie, their youngest and only single sister, the only one now left in the Ion family. She had always been somewhat of a pet with them, and during these last weeks of her life with them they treated her as one for whom they could not do enough; while her manner toward them showed full appreciation of their kindness and affection. Much of her time and thoughts was necessarily taken up with the preparations for her approaching marriage; but in leisure moments she had many sad thoughts in regard to the coming separation from home and all there whom she so loved; especially the tender mother who had been, until within a few months, her dearest earthly friend. "Mamma dear, dearest mamma, I can hardly endure the thought of leaving you," she sighed one day with starting tears, as they sat together over their needlework in Mrs. Travilla's dressing room. They were quite alone at the moment, Zoe, who had been with them, having just gone out with her little ones. "No one can ever take your place in my heart or home," continued Rosie with almost a sob, "and oh, how I shall miss you--your love, your sweet motherly counsels, your tender sympathy in all my joys and sorrows--oh, mamma, mamma! at times the very thought of it all is almost unendurable, and I am tempted to say to Will that he may come to me if he likes, but that I can never tear myself away from my dear home and the precious mother who has been everything to me since I first drew the breath of life!" and dropping her work she knelt at her mother's feet, lifting to hers eyes full of tears. "Dear child," her mother responded in tones tremulous with emotion, and bending down to press a kiss on the quivering lips, "it gives me a sad and sore heart to think of it. And yet, daughter dear, we may hope to see each other very often--to spend weeks and months of every year in each other's society, and when we are apart to exchange letters daily; and best of all, to be in a few brief years together in the better land, never to part again." "Ah, mamma dear, that last seems a long look ahead. At least--oh, mamma, I cannot bear the thought of--of death coming between us; and yet we can hardly hope to go together." "No, daughter dear, but time is short, as you will realize when you have seen as many years in this world as I have; and after it will come the never-ending ages of eternity--eternity, which we are hoping to spend with our dear ones in the immediate presence of our Redeemer--united, never to part again." "Yes, mamma; oh, that is indeed a sweet thought. But," she added with a heavy sigh, "sometimes I fear I may miss heaven; I seem so far, so very far from fit for its employments and its joys--so often indulging in wrong thoughts and feelings--so taken up with earthly cares and interests." "Dear daughter, look to God for help to fight against your sinful nature," replied her mother in moved tones. "He says 'In me is thine help'; 'He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.' 'They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.' 'Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.' These are some of his gracious promises." "Ah, mamma, but the question with me is, is he really my God? am I his?--truly one of his redeemed ones, his adopted children? How shall I make sure of that?" "By accepting his conditions and believing his word, 'Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden and I will give you rest.' 'Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.' Come now and accept his offered salvation, whether you have done so before or not; come, believing his word; 'I will in no wise cast out,' 'I have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and as a cloud, thy sins: return unto me; for I have redeemed thee.' 'Surely shall one say, In the Lord have I righteousness and strength; even to him shall all men come.' 'In the Lord shall all the seed of Israel be justified, and shall glory.' 'The just shall live by faith,' and faith is the gift of God, as we are told again and again in his Holy Word; a gift that he will grant to all who ask it of him." There was a sound of approaching footsteps and Rosie resumed her seat, taking up the work she had dropped. They recognised the step as Harold's, and the next moment he stood in the open doorway. "Mamma," he said, "I am going over to Roselands and should like to take you along. You have not seen that youngest Conly yet, and Arthur considers Marian now quite well enough for a call from you. I know, too, that she is wanting to see you." "And I to see her, the dear girl," responded his mother, laying aside her work. "Come in and sit down while I don my bonnet and mantle." "Let me get them out for you, mamma," said Rosie, dropping her embroidery and hastening to do so. "I should include you in the invitation, Rosie," said Harold, "but we think it safer not to let Marian have the excitement of many callers until she gains more strength." "I thought she was doing finely," returned Rosie, bringing her mother's mantle and putting it about her with loving care. "So she is," replied Harold with a light laugh; "but we cannot be too careful of her to satisfy her doting husband, and though eager to exhibit her new treasure to all her friends and relatives, she is entirely submissive to his will in the matter." "Oh, well, I can wait," laughed Rosie. "Give her my love, mamma, and tell her I am not staying away from any indifference to her or the little newcomer." "No fear that she would ever suspect you of that, Rosie dear," her mother said, with a slight smile; "but I will assure her of your interest in both herself and baby boy. Now good-bye till my return, which I presume will be in the course of an hour or two." "Don't hurry home on my account, mamma dear," returned Rosie. "I shall not be lonely. I have letters to write, and that will make the time pass quickly." "It is a lovely day and the short drive with my son will be very enjoyable," Mrs. Travilla remarked, as Harold handed her into the vehicle. "To us both, I hope, mother," he returned, giving her an affectionate look and smile. "Yours is to me the best company in the world. The roads are in fine condition," he added as he took up the reins and they started down the avenue, "the fields and gardens along the way also, and the air full of the fragrance of flower and shrub. Oh, on such a morning as this it seems a joy just to be alive and well!" "Yes," she responded, "oh, what cause for gratitude to the Giver of all good that you and I, and all our nearest and dearest in this world, are alive and well." "Yes, mother; attendance upon the sick and suffering has given me a higher appreciation of the greatness of the blessing of sound health than I had in earlier days. It is saddening to witness suffering from accident and disease, but a great privilege to be able in many cases to relieve it. That last makes me thankful that I was led to choose the medical profession." "And you have often an opportunity to minister to souls as well as bodies; one which I hope you do not neglect." "I am afraid I have sometimes neglected it, mother," he acknowledged with a sigh, "and at others performed it in a very halting and imperfect way. But as you know--for I could not keep from you such gladness as the knowledge of that fact brought me--I have been privileged to win some souls to Christ--smooth some dying pillows--and to lead some recovering ones to devote their spared lives and restored health to the service of the Master--the Physician of souls--in whose footsteps I ardently desire to tread." "I know it, my dear son, and it has filled me with joy and gratitude for you, for them, and for myself--that I am the mother of one whom God has so honoured and blessed." Then she inquired about the condition and needs of some of his poorer patients; for she made it her business to provide for their necessities and to furnish many a little luxury that helped on convalescence or smoothed the passage to the grave. As they drove up the avenue at Roselands Dr. Conly came out upon the veranda, his face beaming with smiles. "Ah, Cousin Elsie," he said as he assisted her to alight, "this is kind. Marian has been looking forward to your visit with longing, both to see you and to exhibit to your appreciative eyes the little one who seems to her the greatest and loveliest darling the world ever saw." "Ah, I can understand that," she returned with a low, pleased laugh. "I have not forgotten how lovely and what an inestimable treasure my first baby seemed to me; though I am by no means sure that each one who followed was not an equal joy and delight." "Your second son among the rest, I hope, mother," laughed Harold. She gave him a loving smile in response. "Will you go up with us, Harold?" asked Arthur. "No, thank you," he said. "I will busy myself here with the morning paper while mother makes her little call." It was a most inviting looking apartment into which the doctor conducted his cousin, tastefully furnished and redolent of the breath of flowers; in pretty vases set here and there on bureau, mantel, and table, and blooming in the garden beneath the open windows whence the soft, warm air came stealing in through the lace curtains. But the chief ornaments of the room were its living occupants--the young mother lying amid her snowy pillows and the little one sleeping in its dainty crib close at her side. "Dear Cousin Elsie, you have come at last, and I am, oh, so glad to see you!" Marian exclaimed with a look of eager delight, and holding out her hand in joyous welcome. "I have hardly known how to wait to show you our treasure and receive your congratulations." "Dear girl, I can quite understand that," Mrs. Travilla said with a smile and a tender caress, "and I wanted to come sooner; should have done so had your good husband deemed it entirely safe for you." "Ah, he is very careful of me," returned Marian, giving him a glance of ardent affection. "But, oh, look at our darling! His father and mother think him the sweetest creature that ever was made," she added with a happy laugh, laying a hand on the edge of the crib and gazing with eyes full of mother love at the tiny pink face nestling among the pillows there. Elsie bent over it too in tender motherly fashion. "He is a dear little fellow," she said softly. "I congratulate you both on this good gift from our Heavenly Father, and wish for you that he may grow up into a God-fearing man, a blessing to his parents, to the Church and the world." "I hope he may indeed, cousin, and I want you to join your prayers to ours that we may have grace and wisdom to train him up aright, should it please the Lord to spare him to us," said the doctor with emotion. "I think his mother needs those prayers the most," said Marian low and softly. "I am but a foolish young thing; scarcely fit for so great a responsibility; but I am more glad and thankful than words can tell that the darling has a good, wise, Christian father to both train him and set him a good example." "It is a cause for great thankfulness," Elsie said, "but never forget, dear girl, how very great and important is a mother's influence; especially in the early years when the strongest and most lasting impressions are apt to be made. No doubt you feel--as I often have, often do--like crying out in the midst of it all, 'Alas, who is sufficient for these things!' but what a blessing, what a comfort is the promise, 'If any of you lack wisdom let him ask of God that giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.'" "Oh, those are comforting texts!" Marian said with a look of relief. "I wish I were as well acquainted with the Bible as you are, cousin." "I know more of it now than I did at your age," Elsie returned in a reassuring tone, "and you, as well as I, have it at hand to turn to in every perplexity; and if you do so you will find the truth of the words of the Psalmist, 'Thy word is a lamp to my feet and a light unto my path.'" "Ah, yes! an open Bible is an inestimable blessing," said Arthur, "and my Marian and I will endeavour to make it the rule of our life, the man of our counsel." At that moment the babe stirred and opened its eyes. "Ah, he is awake, the darling!" said Marian. "Don't you want to take him up, papa, and let Cousin Elsie have a better look at him?" "Yes, mamma; as you know, I am very proud to exhibit my son and heir," laughed the doctor, bending over the crib, gently lifting the babe and placing it in Elsie's arms, smilingly outstretched to receive it. "He is indeed a lovely little darling," she said, gazing on it with admiring eyes, then softly pressing her lips to the velvet cheek. "There is nothing sweeter to me than a little helpless babe. I hope he may live to grow up if the will of God be so, and I think he is going to resemble his father," she added with a most affectionate look up into the doctor's face. "If he equals his father in all respects, his mother will be fully satisfied," Marian said with a happy little laugh. "Ah, love is blind, dearest," was Arthur's smiling response. "And well for me that it is in your case, as I have often thought," she said in sportive tone, "for it seems to hide all my imperfections and show you virtues that are wholly imaginary." "Then it is a very good and desirable kind of blindness, I think," remarked Grandma Elsie with her pleasant smile. "Now, Cousin Elsie, please tell me about Rosie," Marian requested with a look of keen interest. "I suppose she is both very busy and very happy." "Quite busy and happy too, I think, except when her thoughts turn upon the approaching separation--partial at least--from home and its loved ones." "And doubtless that thought makes you sad too, cousin," sighed Marian. "Ah, what a world of partings it is! and how sudden and unexpected many of them are." "Yes; but there are none in that happy land to which we are journeying. Ah, what a blessed land it must be! no sin, no sorrow, pain or care, no death, but eternal life at the foot of the dear Master whose love for his redeemed ones is greater, tenderer than that of a mother for her own little helpless child." "How intense it must be!" said Marian musingly. "I can realise that now as I never could before my little darling came. But now, about Rosie and her betrothed. Do they not expect to settle somewhere in this region, cousin?" "I think that question remains yet to be fully discussed; it is certainly still undecided. Probably they will not for some time settle permanently in any one spot. Mrs. Croly is an invalid, almost constantly being taken from place to place in search of health, and never satisfied to be long separated from either husband or son--her only child." "Ah, I'm afraid that will make it hard for Rosie," said Marian. "By the way, I think they would better bring her here and put her in our doctor's care," she added with a smiling and arch look up into her husband's face. "Ah, my dear!" he said with a slight smile and a warning shake of the head, "don't allow yourself to take to the business of hunting up cases for me; especially chronic and incurable ones." "But is she so bad as that?" asked Marian, turning to her cousin Elsie again. "I suppose so," Elsie replied. "I have never been told that her case was considered incurable, but I know that she has been an invalid for many years." "And with no daughter to nurse and care for her! She may well deem herself fortunate in getting one so sweet and bright as Rosie." "Rosie has had no experience as a nurse," said her mother, "but she is kind-hearted and I hope will prove a pleasant and helpful daughter to her husband's mother; as she has been to her own." "I haven't a doubt of it. And is the wedding to come off soon, cousin?" "The day has not yet been set," replied Mrs. Travilla, with a slight sigh at thought of the parting that must follow, "but we expect to fix upon one in the latter part of June; which I hope will give you time to grow strong enough to make one of our party. But I fear I am keeping you talking too long," she added, rising and laying the babe, who had fallen asleep again, gently back among its pillows. "I am sure your call has done me good, and I hope you will come again soon, dear cousin," Marian said, receiving and returning a farewell caress. "Sometime when your doctor gives permission," was Elsie's smiling reply. "Never mind coming down with me, Arthur," she added, "I know the way and have a son waiting there on the veranda to hand me into the carriage. So good-bye, and don't consider it necessary to wait for sickness among us to call you to Ion." CHAPTER VII. Left alone upon the veranda, Harold sat scanning the columns of the morning paper, when a light step drew near, a pleasant voice said, "Good-morning," and looking up he found Mrs. Calhoun Conly, with a babe in her arms, close by his side. "Oh! good-morning to you, Cousin Mary," he returned, hastily rising and gallantly handing her to a seat. "I am glad to see you and the little one looking so well." "Thank you," she returned merrily, "it would be a pity if we failed to keep well with so many doctors about. Were you waiting to see Arthur? I believe he is in the house--probably up in his wife's room--though I have not seen him since breakfast." "Yes, he is there, sharing with Marian a call from my mother." "Ah! that is nice for Marian; she has been wanting to see Cousin Elsie badly. I want a call from her too, and hope she will not forget me when through with my sister-in-law." "Hardly, I think; it is not mother's way to forget anyone; especially so near and dear a relative as yourself, Cousin Mary. But don't set your heart on a long call this morning, for some other folks want the doctor if you don't." "Ah! and your mother has taken up the practice of medicine, has she?" "Well, I don't say that exactly, but certainly her advice and suggestions are sometimes more beneficial to the patient than those of her doctor son; then think of the enviable condition of the patient who can have both," returned Harold laughingly. "Ah, here comes Cousin Cal!" as a horseman came galloping up the avenue. "Good-morning, Harold!" Calhoun said, as he alighted, giving his steed in charge to a servant, and came up the veranda steps. "I have been out in the field for some hours, overseeing the work of my men, saw you passing a few moments since with your mother, and could not resist the temptation to leave them and come in for a bit of chat with her and yourself." "Especially with me, of course," laughed Harold as the two shook hands and Calhoun, seating himself near his wife, took the babe, which was stretching out its arms to him with a cooing invitation not to be resisted by the doting father. "Mother's particular errand this morning was a call upon Marian; she is paying it now, and I presume will be down in the course of ten or fifteen minutes," added Harold. "You will both stay to dinner, won't you?" queried Calhoun hospitably. "We'd be delighted to have you do so." "That we would," added his wife heartily. "Thank you," returned Harold, "but I have some rather urgent calls to make and hope to get mother to accompany me. I know of no one else who can say such comforting things to the sick and depressed." "Nor do I," responded Mrs. Conly. "If I am in the least depressed, a call from her, or a chat with her, always raises my spirits; she can always show you a silver lining to the cloud, however dark it may be." "Yes," said Harold, "her faith in the goodness and love of God is so strong and unwavering, and she realizes so perfectly that life in this world is short and fleeting, that which follows unending and full of bliss to all who believe in the Lord Jesus, that she is ever content with whatever Providence sends her. I never knew a happier Christian." "Nor I," said Mary. "I only wish we were all more like her in that respect." "Yes," said Calhoun, "and I believe we are every one of us the happier and better for knowing her. I have been thinking that it will be hard for Rosie to leave such a mother." "That it will," sighed Harold; "and hard for mother, and all of us indeed, to part with Rosie. But of course the members of so large a family as ours cannot expect to remain together all through life." "Yes; weddings are apt to bring both joy and sorrow," remarked Mrs. Conly reflectively; "the forming of new ties and the breaking of old ones. One cannot altogether forget the old loves, however sweet the new may be; but when we get to the better land we may hope to have them all," she added with an appreciative glance at her husband. "Ah, how delightful that will be!" There was a moment's silence; then Harold said, "The wedding day having not been fixed yet the invitations have not been sent out, but I know mother is hoping to see your parents here at that time, Cousin Mary." "That is kind," she returned with a pleased smile; "I supposed they would be invited, and that so I should have the better prospect of getting a long promised visit from them myself. But if you invite all the relatives you will have a great many guests to entertain--that is should all, or nearly all, accept. However, it is more than likely that by far the larger number will feel constrained to content themselves with sending regrets, congratulations, and gifts." "I hope," said Harold quickly and earnestly, "I am sure we all do--that no one will feel called upon for that last. I trust that will be fully understood. The parents of both bride and groom being abundantly able to provide everything necessary or desirable, why should distant relatives and friends assist in it, perhaps at the cost of embarrassment or self-denial?" "But you should not deny the privilege to those who are abundantly able and would feel it a pleasure," returned Mary with playful look and tone; "which I am sure is the case with some of the relatives," she added. "No," said Harold, "I should not deny it, but would have a distinct understanding that it was not expected or desired, at the cost of hardship or self-denial to the giver, or his or her nearer and dearer ones." At that moment his mother stepped from the doorway into the veranda. Very warmly affectionate greetings were exchanged, she was quickly installed in an easy-chair, and some moments were spent in lively chat. "Do take off your bonnet, Cousin Elsie, and stay and dine with us," urged Calhoun hospitably. "Our young doctor here insists that he cannot; but let him go on and visit the patients he thinks need his services, and call here again for you; unless you will allow me the pleasure of seeing you safely home later in the day." "Thank you, Cal," she said in reply, "but Rosie will be looking out for her mother--as I promised her I would not be gone very long--and I want to see some of my boy's patients myself, and to make a little call at Beechwood. You know they are all relatives there, and Annis and I very old and dear friends." "Yes; and it is growing late," said Harold, consulting his watch; "so, whenever you are ready, mother, we will start." "I am that now," she answered, rising with the words. "Good-bye, Cousin Mary. Come over to Ion whenever you can make it convenient. And when you write home be as urgent as possible in your entreaties that your parents will come to the wedding and be prepared to remain in the neighbourhood for a long visit after it is over." "You may rest assured that I will do my very best to bring them here and for as long a stay as possible," was Mary's smiling and earnest reply. "And never doubt, cousin, that I will do my best to second her efforts," said Calhoun, handing her into the carriage as he spoke. "Will there be time for a call at Beechwood, Harold?" she asked as they drove down the avenue. "Oh, yes, mother! I think so," he replied. "I have but two calls to make on the way, and it is not likely either need be very long." "I would not have anyone neglected for my convenience," she remarked in a cheery tone, "but should be glad to spend a half hour with Annis if I can do so without loss or inconvenience to anyone else." "Always thoughtful for others, mother dear," Harold said, giving her a most affectionate look and smile. "I think you may trust me not to neglect my patients." "I hope so, indeed," she responded; "and that you will never be less careful and considerate of the poor than of the rich." Fortunately they found all doing so well that no lengthened call was necessary, and they reached Beechwood in season to allow quite a long chat between the lady cousins before it would be time for Mrs. Travilla and her son to set out on their return to Ion. They found Mr. Lilburn and Annis seated upon the front veranda, she with a bit of needlework in her hands, he reading aloud to her. He closed his book as the carriage drove up, and laying it aside, hastened to assist his Cousin Elsie to alight, greeting her with warmth of affection as he did so. Annis dropped her work and hastened to meet and embrace her, saying: "Oh, but I am glad to see you, Elsie! I had letters this morning from Mildred and Zilla, both bringing a great deal of love to you and a cordial invitation to you and yours--as well as my husband and myself--to pay them a visit this summer. They have not yet heard of Rosie's approaching marriage, I find." "But must hear of it very soon," Elsie said with a smile. "As soon as the important day is fixed upon I must send out my invitations; and you may rest assured that none of our relatives will be forgotten or neglected; certainly not one of your sisters or brothers." "No, my dear cousin, it would not be at all like you to neglect any of them," returned Annis with a smile of loving appreciation. "Ah, Harold!" turning to him as, having secured his horse, he came up the veranda steps and joined their little group, "I am glad to see you; especially as, like a dear, good boy, you have brought your mother along." "Yes," he said, grasping cordially the hand she held out, "I find I am sure of a welcome anywhere when I am fortunate enough to induce mother to accompany me. Sick or well, everybody is glad to see her." "You also, I presume; especially if they are sick." "And can't get Cousin Arthur," he added. "A young doctor is better than none; though an old and tried physician is deemed the best--by sensible people." "Ah, ha; ah, ha; um, hm! so it would seem, laddie, yet sometimes the young fellows hae a new trick the auld hardly ken aboot," remarked Cousin Ronald with a good-humoured smile. "And for my ain sel' I should care little--were I ill--whether it were Doctor Arthur or Doctor Harold that prescribed the remedies to be used." "Or Doctor Herbert; Herbert might do just as well as either of the two, I presume," added Annis. "We have just come from a call at Roselands to see Marian and your little namesake, Cousin Ronald," said Mrs. Travilla. "He is a dear little fellow, and I hope will grow up in a way to do honour to the name." "I hope he may, and to be a great comfort and blessing to the parents who have done me the honour to call their firstborn for me," returned the old gentleman, a gleam of pleasure lighting up his face. "I want to see the bit bairn myself when the mother is well enough to enjoy a call from her auld kinsman. And how soon do you think that may be, doctor?" he asked, turning to Harold. "In a few days, sir, should she continue to gain strength as she seems to be doing now. I have no doubt she will be very glad to see both you and Cousin Annis." "Yes; I must go along, for I want to see both the boy and his mother. Marian will make a sweet mother, I think; and Arthur an excellent father," said Annis. "I quite agree with you in that idea," Elsie said, "and their joy in the possession of the little fellow is a pleasant thing to see. By the way, where are Cousin Ella and her little ones?" "Hugh has taken them out driving," replied Mr. Lilburn. "There is nothing the bit bairnies like better than that." "I am sorry to miss seeing them, but it is time we were on our homeward route," Elsie said, consulting her watch. They were kindly urged to remain longer, but declined, bade adieu, and were presently driving on toward Ion. CHAPTER VIII. At Ion Rosie was pacing the veranda as her mother and Harold drove up. She hailed them eagerly as they alighted. "At last! I began to think you must have yielded to a most urgent invitation to stay to dinner at Roselands, Beechwood, or Woodburn." "No," said her mother; "invitations were not lacking, but were steadily declined for the sake of my daughter Rosie, who I knew would be sadly disappointed if her mother failed to keep her promise not to remain long away from her to-day. So here we are; and I see you have news to impart," she added with a smiling glance at a letter in Rosie's hand. "Yes, mamma," returned the young girl, smiling and blushing as she spoke. "It is from Will, and incloses a little note from his mother--such a nice, kind, affectionate one--saying she is glad she is to have a daughter at last, and she wants to make my acquaintance as soon as possible." They had seated themselves, and Harold, having given his horse into the care of a stable boy, now followed them, asking in a gay, bantering tone: "Am I intruding upon a private conference, Rosie? I know mother may be intrusted with secrets which you might prefer not to give into my keeping." "Certainly that is so, but this is not one of that kind, and you may listen if you care to," returned Rosie with a light laugh; then she repeated the item of news just given her mother. "Ah! I wonder if she does not want an invitation to pay us a visit," said Harold. "Wait," laughed Rosie; "I have not told you all yet. She goes on to speak of Cousin Arthur as a physician in whom she has great confidence, and to say that she would like to be in his care for at least a time; so if we can recommend a good boarding place somewhere in this neighbourhood she, her husband, and son will come and take possession for weeks or months; at least until after the wedding." "By the way," said Harold, "I thought I had heard that Mrs. Croly had nearly or quite recovered her health while in Europe a few years ago. You know at the time Will was so nearly drowned they had just returned from a visit there." "Yes," replied Rosie; "she had been greatly benefited, but her health has failed again within the last year or two--so Will has told me. I do hope she may come here--into this neighbourhood--and that Cousin Arthur may succeed in helping her very much." "Yes, I hope so," said Harold. "He will be glad indeed of an opportunity to make some return for their very liberal treatment of him in acknowledgment of his service to their son. They feel that they owe that son's life to Arthur's persistent efforts to resuscitate him when he was taken from the sea apparently dead." "Will himself is very grateful to him," said Rosie. "He has told me that he feels he owes his life to Doctor Arthur and that nothing can ever fully repay the obligation." "Yes; he has talked to me in the same strain more than once or twice," said Harold. "Now I think of it, I should not be at all surprised if they would be willing to take the Crolys in at Roselands for a time. There is a good deal of unoccupied room in the house, and having her there would enable Arthur to watch the case closely and do everything possible for her restoration to health." "Oh, that would be a grand plan!" exclaimed Rosie. "Though perhaps it would make too much care for our lady cousins--Mary and Marian." "Well, we won't suggest it," returned Harold, "but just tell Arthur her wishes--Mrs. Croly's, I mean--and let him give his opinion in regard to possible boarding places. Would not that be the better plan, mother?" "I think so," she said, taking out her watch, as she spoke. "Ah! it wants but five minutes of the dinner hour. I must go at once to my rooms and make ready for the summons to the table." It was not thought worth while to make Mrs. Croly's request a secret from any member of the family, so the matter was talked over among them as they sat together on the veranda that evening, and the different boarding places in the vicinity were considered. It was feared none of them could furnish quite such accommodations as might be desired without placing the invalid farther from her physician than would be convenient for the constant oversight of the case which they supposed he would want to exercise. "Well, evidently," remarked Herbert at length, "we will have to refer the question to Cousin Arthur himself. And here he comes, most opportunely," as a horseman turned in at the avenue gates. He was greeted with warmth of cordiality and speedily installed in a luxuriously easy chair. "I was passing," he said, "and though I don't like to be long away from my wife and boy, I felt an irresistible inclination to give my Ion relatives and friends a brief call." "And omitting that ugly word brief, it is just exactly what we are all delighted to receive," laughed Zoe. "Yes," said Mr. Dinsmore, "we were talking of you and wanting your opinion on a certain matter under discussion." "Ah, what was that?" Arthur asked in return, and Mr. Dinsmore went on to explain, telling of the desire of Mrs. Croly to put herself under his care for at least a time, and asking his opinion of the various boarding places in the vicinity. "Boarding places!" he exclaimed. "We would be only too glad to receive her as a guest at Roselands; for as you all know I feel under great obligation to Mr. Croly, her husband; besides, it would make it much easier for me to take charge of her case. Poor dear woman! I hope she may be at least partially, if not entirely, restored to health." "That proposal is just what one might expect of you, Cousin Arthur," said Grandma Elsie, giving him a look of affectionate appreciation; "but are you quite sure it would suit Cal's convenience, and that of your wife and his?" "Knowing all three as I do, I can scarcely doubt it," replied Arthur; "but perhaps I would better consult them before sending the invitation to the Crolys. I will do so, and you shall hear from me early to-morrow or possibly to-night," he added. "Marian, I am sure, will feel very much as I do about it," he went on presently, "but just now the burden would fall more upon Sister Mary; so that I think I must not give the invitation unless she is entirely willing." "Which I feel almost certain she will be," said Rosie. "But I will wait to hear from you, Cousin Arthur, before answering my letters." "You shall hear at an early hour," he returned. "Mary is hoping to have her parents here for the wedding and for a long visit afterward," remarked Grandma Elsie, "but you have room enough to accommodate both them and the Crolys, I think." "Oh, yes!" replied Arthur, "there need be no difficulty about that. Our house is large and the regular dwellers in it are far less numerous than they were in my young days. Ah, how widely scattered they are," he continued half musingly--"my sisters Isadore and Virginia in Louisiana--Molly and Dick Percival there too, with Betty and Bob Johnson; my brothers Walter and Ralph--the one in the army, the other in California. Sister Ella, the only one near at hand, living at Beechwood; Cal and I the only ones left in the old home." "Where you are very happy; are you not?" asked his cousin Elsie in a cheery tone and with an affectionate smile into his eyes. "Yes," he answered, returning the smile; "Cal with his charming wife and two dear little children, I with my sweet Marian and a baby boy of whom any father might well be proud and fond. And I must be going back to them," he added, rising, and with a hasty good-night to all, he took his departure. He was scarcely out of sight when the Beechwood and Woodburn carriages turned in at the gates, the one bringing Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Lilburn, the other Captain Raymond, his wife, and his daughters Lucilla and Grace. All were received with warm and joyous greetings. They had started out for a drive, met and exchanged salutations, had then decided to call together upon their Ion relatives; a not very unusual proceeding. And scarcely were they seated when Mr. and Mrs. Leland and Evelyn were seen coming up the drive, having walked over from Fairview, tempted to do so by the beauty of the evening and the prospect of the pleasure of a chat with the very near and dear dwellers in the old home at Ion, who never seemed weary of their companionship, though scarcely a day passed in which they had not more or less of it. Nor was the communication with Woodburn much less frequent, though it was farther away by a mile or more; for with their abundance of steeds and conveyances of various sorts, it could be traversed with such ease, expedition, and comfort that it seemed little or no inconvenience; the short ride or drive was really a pleasure; though not infrequently it was made a walk when roads were in good condition and the weather was propitious. The welcome of the Fairview party was not less cordial than had been that of the others, and presently all were seated and a buzz of conversation ensued. The young girls made a little group by themselves and of course the approaching wedding, with the preparations for it, was the principal theme of their talk. Rosie, not caring to have secrets from these very near and dear young friends, told of the letters received that morning and the talk just held with Dr. Conly. "Oh, that was noble in Cousin Arthur!" exclaimed Lucilla. "The Crolys were very generous to him, to be sure, but not at all more so than he deserved." "No," said Rosie; "they were quite able to pay him what they did; but it isn't everyone who would have done so, and I have always thought well of them for it; and I am glad Cousin Arthur can make them some small return." "But should he succeed in restoring Mrs. Croly to health, that will not be a very small return, I think," said Evelyn with a smile. "No; for good health is the greatest of earthly blessings," said Grace. "One can hardly fully enjoy anything without it." "As you know by experience, you poor thing!" said Rosie. "Oh, no! not now." "Have you fixed upon the wedding day yet, Rosie?" asked Lucilla. "No, not definitely; we have only decided that it shall be somewhere about the middle of June; or perhaps a little later. I want to make sure of having Walter here; for it would be too bad to have him miss his youngest sister's wedding." "And you want Marian to have time to get well, too, don't you?" said Grace. "Oh, yes, indeed! and she will be by that time; at least she seems altogether likely to be. Mamma was there to-day and found her doing nicely." "Hark! What is that Cousin Ronald is saying?" exclaimed Lucilla, and they paused in their talk to listen. "I want you all, old and young," he said in his blithe, cordial tones, "to come and have as good and merry a time as possible, to celebrate the third birthday of my little namesake grandson. We talked the thing over at the dinner table and all agreed that there could be no better way of celebrating that most important event." "It certainly is a delightful time of year for an outdoor party in this region of country," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore, "and I, for one, accept the invitation with pleasure." "As I do," said her husband. "And I!" "And I!" "And I!" added the others in turn. The young girls were highly pleased: it was by no means their first invitation to Beechwood, and they felt sure of being hospitably and well entertained. Ella, Hugh's wife, had been mistress of the mansion before the marriage of the old gentleman and Annis, and so continued to be, with Annis' full consent, but there was no jarring between them; they were congenial spirits, and enjoyed each other's society. Ella was fond of the old gentleman, too,--the only father she had ever known,--and her little ones, Ronald and his baby sister, were to all a strong bond of union. "It is to be an afternoon party, I suppose?" remarked Mrs. Dinsmore in a tone of inquiry. "Yes," said Mr. Lilburn. "Come as early as you please, bringing all the little folks as the guests of our bit laddie. We will have an early supper for their sakes, and after that the parents can carry them home and see them in their nests as early as they like." "And both parents and little folks may stay as late as they like," added Annis with a smile. "Yes," said her husband, "each and every guest may feel free to do that." "I hope you are not too busy to come, Rosie?" said Annis, turning to her. "Thank you, no; I should not like to miss the fun of attending little Ronald's birthday party," returned Rosie in a sprightly tone, "and you must be sure to bring him to the party I am to have some weeks later." "That, of course, will have to be as his father and mother say," laughed Annis. "Well, he shall not lack an invitation," said Rosie. "I do not intend that any of my relatives shall. By the way, I hope your nephew, Cousin Donald Keith, will be able to get a furlough, so that he can come. He has visited us several times, here and at the seashore, and I like him very much indeed." "Yes, so do I," said Annis, "and I hope he may be able to come. I should enjoy showing him my new home and entertaining him there." "He will be in demand if he comes," said Captain Raymond. "I shall want him as my guest; for he and I are old attached friends." "Ah, yes, I remember," said Annis. "No doubt he will want to be with you a part of his time." "Yes," said Grandma Elsie; "and as we will all want him we will have to divide the pleasure of his visit among us--if he will allow it." "I have always liked and admired Cousin Donald," said Violet, "and often wondered that he has remained single all these years." "He has not happened to meet the right one yet, I suppose, my dear," the captain said with a smile. "Or, if he has met her, has failed to secure her." "And in doing so has caused her to miss securing an excellent husband, I think," said Violet. "In which I certainly agree with you," Annis said. "All my married nephews seem to me to be admirable husbands. I hope, Elsie, that Cyril Keith and his Isadore may be able to come to the wedding." "So do I," responded Mrs. Travilla heartily; "and if they fail to come you may be assured it was not for lack of a warm invitation." "I hope they and all the other cousins from that region will come," remarked Mrs. Leland. Just then the telephone bell rang. "There! that is Cousin Arthur, I presume," said Edward Travilla, hastening to the instrument. His answering ring and "Hello!" were quickly replied to, and the next moment he announced to the company, "It was Arthur. He says all is right, and Rosie may send as warm an invitation as possible. They will be only too glad to receive the three Crolys as their guests." "Oh, that is good!" cried Rosie. "Now I shall be able to send my reply by to-morrow's early mail." "Yes, Cousin Arthur was very kindly prompt; as indeed he always is," said her mother. "Quite true, mother," said Harold; "and Herbert and I try to copy him in that, feeling that it is very necessary in a physician to be ready, able, and willing to answer a call for his services with expedition." "That it is, laddie," responded Cousin Ronald, "for a life sometimes depends on getting quick help frae the doctor. The life of a faithfu' medical mon is one of toil and self-denial; a fact that has made me wonder that you and your Cousin Herbert, here, chose it rather than a vocation that wad be somewhat easier." "It is a hard life in some respects," Harold answered; "but there is something very delightful in having and using the ability to relieve suffering, and surely one who professes to be a follower of Christ should be seeking to do good to others rather than courting his own ease and enjoyment." "Yes; copying the dear Master's own example," returned the old gentleman with a smile. "The dear Master who should be our pattern in all things." "Yes," said Herbert, low and feelingly, "that is what we both sincerely desire to do." It was still early when the callers bade good-night and took their departure; the Lilburns going first, then the Raymonds, and lastly the Lelands. All met again the next day at Beechwood, where they were joined by the other members of the family connexion and had a very pleasant afternoon, mostly taken up with sports suited to the entertainment of the little ones--three-year-old Ronald and his baby cousins. The invitations had been sent out too late to allow time for the purchase of many gifts, but there were fruits and flowers, and some few toys; among these last, animals which ventriloquism caused apparently to say very amusing things, to the surprise and merriment of the little folks. Then, when they began to tire of fun and frolic, they were seated about a table under the trees on the lawn, and regaled with toothsome viands, not too rich for their powers of digestion. After that they were allowed to sport upon the verandas and the grass, while the elder people gathered about the table and satisfied their appetites with somewhat richer and more elaborate viands. They had finished their meal and were gathered in groups under the trees or on the verandas, when the sound of a banjo caused a sudden hush of expectancy. Glances were sent here and there in search of the musician, yet no one was greatly surprised that he was not visible. Several tunes were played; then followed a song in the negro dialect, which made everybody laugh. That was the winding up of the entertainment, and, as it was nearing the bedtime of the little ones, all presently bade good-bye, with truthful assurances of having greatly enjoyed themselves, and returned to their homes. CHAPTER IX. The Woodburn carriage was quite full with the captain and his entire family, excepting, of course, his eldest son, Max, who was far away on board a man-of-war. "Well," said Violet, as they drove out of Beechwood Avenue into the highway, "I have enjoyed little Ronald's birthday party very much, and hope you can all say the same." "Oh, yes, mamma! I think we had good fun," exclaimed Neddie. "To be sure Ronald is only a baby boy--just about half as old as I am--but he's a very dear little fellow; and then his grandpa made a great deal of fun for us." "Sometimes it was his papa who did it, I think," said Elsie. "Oh, yes!" said Ned. "Papa, why don't you do such things for us sometimes?" "Really, my son, I do not seem to have any talent in that line," returned the captain with a smile. "Your brother Max has, however, and I hope that, some of these days, he will come home and make the fun for you that you are so eager for." "Oh, I'll be so glad! And will he teach me how to do it, too?" "I hardly think he can," his father answered, with an amused look; "at least, not till you are a good deal older than you are now." "Well, I'm getting older every day; mamma tells me so when she wants me to behave like a little gentleman." "Which is always, Neddie boy," Violet said, with an amused look. "Yes, my son, both mamma and papa want their little boy to be always a little gentleman--kind, courteous, and thoughtful for others," the captain said, softly patting the little hand laid confidingly on his knee. "Lu, do you know if Rosie sent off those important letters this morning?" asked Violet. "Yes, she told me she did; also that she had learned from Cousin Mary that Cousin Arthur had written a warm invitation from himself and his wife, and from her and Cousin Cal, and sent it by the early morning mail. I presume they will be received by the Crolys to-morrow and that two or three days later the reply will come." "I think it can hardly fail to be an acceptance," said Violet. "I shall be glad of the opportunity to make the acquaintance of Rosie's future mother-in-law,--the father-in-law too,--and I dare say Will is anxious to have them know mamma, and perhaps the rest of us." "And, having done so they will be all the more pleased with the match," added the captain. "By the way, my dear, we must keep open house for the entertainment of family connections when they are here to attend the wedding." "I am entirely willing," Violet answered with a smile; "as well I may be when my husband bears all the expense and does the planning, with the housekeeper's assistance, and she directs the servants, who do all the work. Really I do not know where a more fortunate woman than I can be found." "Nor I where a more appreciative wife could be discovered," returned the captain, regarding her with a smile of profound affection. "I hope Captain Keith will be one of our guests," said Grace. "I liked him very much when he visited us that time at the seashore. Didn't you, Lu?" As the question was asked the captain turned a quick, inquiring look upon his eldest daughter, which, however, she did not seem to notice. "Yes," she said rather indifferently, "I liked him well enough; and I remember he was pleasant and kind at West Point--showing us about and explaining things. But even if he hadn't been so kind and obliging I should be glad to entertain him as papa's friend," she added. "Were you boys together, father?" "No," laughed the captain; "if I am not mistaken I am fully ten years older than Captain Keith." "Why, papa, I don't think you look like it. And you are such great friends," exclaimed Lucilla. "Well, my child, people may be great friends without being very near of an age," laughed her father. "For instance, are not you and I great friends?" "Oh, we are lovers," she answered with a bright smile up into his eyes. "But then we are not of the same sex." "And that, you think, makes a difference, eh?" he laughed. "But Max and Ned seem to love me nearly as well as my daughters do." "Every bit as much, papa!" exclaimed Ned earnestly. "I do, I'm sure." "That is pleasant to hear, my boy," his father said, smiling fondly upon the little fellow. "And I presume brother Max would say the same if he were here. Ah, we have reached home"; for at that moment the carriage turned in at the great gates. "Our own sweet, lovely home!" said Grace, looking out upon the beautiful grounds with shining eyes. "I am always glad to get back to it, no matter where I have been." "I too," said Lucilla; "unless my father is somewhere else," she added, giving him a most loving look. "Ah, I wasn't thinking of being in it without papa," said Grace. "I'd rather live in a hovel with him than in a palace without him." "I don't doubt it, my darling," he returned. "I am entirely sure of the love of both of you, and of all my children." "And of your wife, I hope," added Violet in a sprightly tone. "Yes, indeed, my love, or I should not be the happy man I am," he responded; then, as the carriage drew up before the entrance to the mansion, he threw open the door, alighted, and handed them out in turn. "The children seem to be tired," remarked Violet; "do you not think they might as well go at once to their beds, my dear?" "Yes," he said. "Grace also; for she looks as weary as they." "Thank you, papa," she said. "I am tired enough to be glad to do so. But don't be anxious," she added with a smile, as he gave her a troubled look; "I am not at all sick; it is only weariness." And she held up her face for a kiss, which he gave heartily and with a look of tenderest fatherly affection. The two little ones claimed their turn; then Violet and the three went upstairs, leaving the captain and Lucilla alone together. "Didn't you say you had some letters to write when you came home, papa?" she asked; "and can't I help you?" "I say yes to both questions," he answered pleasantly. "Take off your hat and come with me into the library. But perhaps you are too tired," he added hastily, as if just struck by the thought. "If so, daughter, I would not have you exert yourself to do the work now. It can wait till to-morrow morning. Or, if I find anything needing an immediate reply, I can attend to it myself, without my little girl's assistance." "But I am not tired, papa, and I dearly love to help you in any and every way that I can," she answered, smiling up into his eyes. "I do not doubt it in the least, my child," he said, laying his hand on her head in tender, fatherly fashion; "and you are a very great help and comfort to me; so much so that I shall be extremely loath ever to let anybody rob me of my dear eldest daughter." "I hardly think anybody wants to yet, papa," she laughed; "nobody seems to set anything like the value upon me that you do. So you needn't be in the least afraid of ever being robbed of this one of your treasures. Ah, papa, it is so nice--such a happiness to have you esteem me a treasure, and to know that I belong to you." "A happiness to me as well as to you, dear child," he said. "Well, we will look at the letters and decide whether it is necessary to answer any of them to-night." They had entered the library and drawn near the table while they talked. A pile of letters lay upon it. He took them up and glanced at the superscription upon each. "Ah! here is one directed to you, daughter," he said, "and from someone in this neighborhood; for it is without a stamp." "Probably from Maud or Sydney," she remarked. "No," said her father, "the handwriting is evidently that of a man. Well, you may open it and see who the writer is," handing it to her as he spoke. "If you would rather I did not, papa, I do not want to," she said, not offering to take it. "Please read it first." "I can trust you, daughter, and you have my full permission to read it," he said in a kindly indulgent tone. "Thank you, papa; but I really prefer to have you read it first," she replied. He smiled approval, broke the seal, and glanced over the missive. "It is from Chester Dinsmore," he said; "merely an invitation to you to go with him to a boating party on the river, if your father gives consent." "Which I don't believe my father will," laughed Lucilla. "And you are not anxious that he should?" he queried with a smile. "Not unless he is entirely willing to have me go; and hardly even then, as he is not to be one of the party." "That is my own good little girl," he said, putting an arm about her, drawing her close to his side, and kissing her several times. "I am not willing to have you a young lady yet,--as I think you know,--but I want to keep you my own little girl for some time longer." "I am very glad that you do, papa," she returned, laying her head against his breast and putting her arms about his neck, "and I hope you won't ever, ever grow tired of keeping me for your own, altogether yours, with no partner in the concern," she added with a low, gleeful laugh. "You need have no fear that I will grow tired of it until you do," he said with a smile, and repeating his caresses. "But when that time comes do not hesitate to tell me: for, rest assured, your happiness is very dear to your father's heart. And if you would like to accept this invitation, you may do so with my full consent." "Thank you, father dear, but I really do not care to go; I should much prefer to keep the engagement already made for that day." "Ah! what is that?" "Now, papa, have you forgotten that you are to take Mamma Vi, Gracie, and me into the city to do some shopping?" "Ah, yes; I had forgotten it for the moment. But I dare say both your mamma and Grace would be willing to defer that for a day or two." "But I wouldn't, because my father has taught me not to break engagements without very strong reasons; which I don't think I have in this case." He laughed a little at that. "Well, daughter," he said, "you shall do as you please about it, and I am glad to see that you are so good at remembering your father's instructions and so ready to obey them." "Thank you, sir. And now must I answer Chester's note--or will you do it for me?" "That shall be just as you please, daughter. Perhaps it would be as well for you to write the answer; but, if you greatly prefer to have me do so, I shall not refuse." "May I do it on the typewriter?" "If you prefer it, I see no objection." "I do prefer it; it is so much easier and quicker than working with a pen," she said. "Perhaps you would better wait until to-morrow morning, however," he suggested; "for, on thinking the matter over, you may find that you prefer to accept the invitation after all." He was examining the rest of his mail, and she considered his proposition for a moment before replying to it. "Yes, papa," she said at length, "I will wait a little--perhaps till to-morrow morning--before writing my answer. And now I will get ready to write replies to those letters at your dictation." "Yes, daughter; fortunately there are but few that call for a reply, and it need not be long in any case." He laid down the letters and took the cover from the machine as he spoke, then supplied her with paper and envelopes, put a sheet into the machine, and began dictating. They made quick work of it, and had finished in about half an hour. Violet joined them just as Lulu took the last sheet from the machine. "Oh," she said, "I see you are busy; but I will not interrupt." "We are just done, my dear, and very glad to have you with us," said her husband. "Yes, Mamma Vi, this is the last letter papa wants written for him, and you are just in time to help me decide on a reply to one of my own." "Willingly, if you wish it; but I should say your father's advice would be worth far more than mine," returned Violet in a sprightly tone. "Levis, my dear, do you refuse to tell her what to do or say?" "I only advise her to follow her own inclination--if she can find out what that is," he answered, regarding Lucilla with a smile that seemed a mixture of fatherly affection and amusement. "Yes, papa is so dear and kind he won't give me any order at all, and I am so used to being directed and controlled by him that it really seems hard work to decide for myself," laughed Lucilla. "But what about? My curiosity is keenly aroused," said Violet, glancing from one to the other. "An invitation for me to go boating and picnicking day after to-morrow," returned Lucilla. "You may read it," handing Chester's note to Violet. "I have no very strong inclination to accept,--especially as we are expecting to take that day for our shopping expedition to the city,--but papa seems to think I should hardly decline on that account. Still he leaves me free to decline or accept as I please, and though I have often wished he would, when he wouldn't, this time I wish he wouldn't when he will"; she ended with a hearty laugh. "And I suppose your conclusion is that fathers are sometimes very doubtful blessings," the captain said, assuming a grave and troubled air. She gave him a startled look. "Oh, papa! surely you are not in earnest? surely you know that I was not?" she exclaimed beseechingly. He smiled and held out his hand. She sprang to his side and he drew her to a seat upon his knee. "Yes, daughter, dear, I do," he said, caressing her hair and cheek with his hand, "and I, too, was but jesting; I am troubled with no doubts of the sincere, ardent affection of my eldest daughter." "Yes," said Violet with a smile, "I think she very nearly makes an idol of her father--which is not surprising considering what a dear, good father he is. Well, I have read the note, Lu, and I think, if I were you, I would accept the invitation. Don't you think, my dear, that we might do the shopping to-morrow?" "Certainly, if it suits you, my love," he replied. "I do not know why to-morrow would not suit for that business as well as the next day." "And that leaves you free to accept Chester's invitation, Lu." "Yes, and I begin to feel as if I might enjoy it right well if----" "If what, daughter?" her father asked, as she paused, leaving her sentence unfinished. "If I were perfectly sure you would not rather I did not go, papa." "I think I can trust you to behave well, even out of my sight," he returned with a smile, and in a jesting tone; "and though I still call you my little girl, that is more as a term of endearment than anything else; and I really think you are large enough, old enough, and good enough to be trusted, occasionally, out of my sight--away from my side." "Thank you, papa dear," she said, her eyes shining; "it is a great pleasure to hear you say that, and I certainly do intend to conduct myself exactly as I think you would wish; so now I will answer Chester's note with an acceptance of his invitation," she added, leaving her father's knee and seating herself before the typewriter. "I'll make it short and submit it to you, papa, for approval." "About that, too, you may do exactly as you please," he responded, stepping to her side and putting the paper in for her, as when she was about to write for him. She made quick work, saying only what seemed necessary, submitted it to her father's and Violet's verdict, which was altogether favourable, then directed an envelope, placed the note in it, and sealed it, saying, "There! it is all ready to go early to-morrow morning, and will be no hindrance to me in getting ready for the shopping expedition." "Which, perhaps, you will enjoy nearly as much as the boating party," remarked Violet in a jesting tone. "Probably more," responded Lucilla; "at least if we are successful in finding very suitable and handsome wedding gifts for Rosie. Father, how much may I spend on one?" "I think not more than a hundred dollars." "Oh! may I have so much as that for it? You dear, good papa!" she exclaimed. "I am well able to afford it," he returned pleasantly, "and should be sorry to let my daughters give other than valuable wedding gifts to my wife's sister." "Thank you, my dear," said Violet with a gratified look. "I have no doubt Rosie will appreciate your and your daughter's kindness, as she certainly ought to." "Grandma Elsie has been very, very kind to us," said Lucilla, and her father added: "She has, indeed! I can never forget how kindly she took my children in when I was unable to provide them with a good and happy home." "Hark! I hear carriage wheels on the drive; we are going to have callers," exclaimed Lucilla, and, as she spoke, they all rose and went out upon the veranda to receive their guests. They proved to be Maud, Sydney, and Frank Dinsmore, from the Oaks; and, when greetings had been exchanged, they said their errand was to speak of the boating party, and ask if Grace could go; also if Lucilla had received Chester's invitation and meant to accept it. Chester would have come himself but had an unavoidable business engagement for the evening. "I have given Lucilla permission to go," the captain replied, "but Grace is not strong enough for the exertion she would be likely to make without her father at hand to caution and care for her." "Oh, I am sorry!" said Maud. "I hoped Gracie could go and would enjoy it. But I am glad we may tell Chester that Lu can." "I have written my acceptance of his kind invitation," Lulu said, "and will send it in the morning." "Captain," said Frank, "if you will let Miss Grace go I promise to take all possible care of her. Won't it seem a trifle hard to her to have to stay at home while her sister and the rest of us are having such a good time?" "I think not," the captain answered. "Grace is the best and most dutiful of daughters, always satisfied with her father's decisions; thinking he knows what is best for her. Also she loves her home and home pleasures; indeed thinks there is no other place quite equal to home." "It is a lovely place, that's a fact," Frank returned with a slight laugh, "but variety is the spice of life, and possibly Miss Grace's health might be better if she tried more of that spice." "I think that if you ask her you will learn that a pleasant variety is not, and has not been, lacking in her experience of life," was the captain's pleasant-toned rejoinder. "I am sure of it," remarked Maud. "I never knew anybody who seemed to me happier or more light-hearted than Gracie. And, oh, but she dotes upon her father!" "As all his children do," said Lucilla, giving him a look of ardent affection. "You will not keep my daughter out very late?" the captain said, addressing Frank in a tone of inquiry. "No, sir; we expect to get home before dark. But if anything should happen to detain us you need not be uneasy. We will take good care of her and return her to you in safety." "We are staying out rather late now ourselves, Frank, and I think should be starting for home," said Maud, rising and turning to Violet to begin her adieus. "Father," said Lucilla, turning to him when their callers had gone, "please don't let me go at all if you expect to be the least bit anxious about me. I would far rather stay at home than cause you a moment's uneasiness." "My dear child, I must allow you a little liberty--let you out of my sight sometimes," he said with a smile. "But it pleases me that you are so ready and willing to do whatever you find most pleasing to your father," he added, pressing affectionately the hand she had put into his. "Are you not afraid my father will make me miserably conceited--giving me so much more commendation than I deserve?" she asked with a roguish look and pleased laugh. "I hope not; you will fall very much in my estimation if you grow conceited and vain. I do not think you that now; but, remember, love is blind, and your father's love for you is very great." "Yes, you dear papa, I know that and it makes me, oh, so happy," she said with joyous look and tone. "As I think you have reason to be, Lu," Violet said, regarding her husband and his daughter with a smile of pleased sympathy. "It is time for our evening service, and then for my daughter to go to her bed and take her beauty sleep," remarked the captain looking at his watch. "Yes, papa," laughed Lucilla, "I need all of that kind of sleep that I can get." CHAPTER X. "Ah! so you are up, Gracie dear," Lucilla said, looking in the next morning at the communicating door between their rooms. "I have been down in the grounds with papa for the last half hour, and he bade me come and tell you to dress for a drive; for we are to go on our shopping expedition to-day instead of to-morrow." "Are we?" exclaimed Grace. "To-day will suit me as well as to-morrow; but why have papa and mamma changed their plans?" "It is all for my benefit," laughed Lucilla. "You must know that Chester Dinsmore has been so good as to invite me to attend a boat ride and picnic with him to-morrow, and, to my surprise, papa gave me full permission to go." "That was very kind of him," remarked Grace, "and I hope you will have a delightful time." "I don't know," Lulu returned, with doubtful tone and look. "I think I shall not half enjoy it without you; and papa says you are too feeble to go on such an expedition without him; you would need him to take care of you and see that you did not overexert yourself." "Yes; and, of course, papa is right; he always knows what is best for me and all of us." "So I think, and I did not at all expect him to say I could go. I wasn't very anxious that he should, either; though I dare say it will be very pleasant as the Dinsmore girls are going, and, perhaps, Rosie Travilla too." "Oh, I think you will enjoy it! I hope so, I am sure," exclaimed Grace, looking both pleased and interested. "Now please tell me what dress you are going to wear to the city to-day, and advise me about mine." "I hadn't thought about it, yet," said Lucilla; "but there, I hear papa coming into our sitting room. I'll run and ask him what he would advise or direct about it. It is a matter of great importance, you know"; and with that she laughed merrily, turned about, and ran to meet their father. He decided the knotty question, promptly saying: "The gray dresses made for you both a few weeks ago will be very suitable, I think." Then he bade her help Grace and also change her own dress, because they would make an early start for the city, going very soon after leaving the table. "I am glad to hear that, papa," she returned, "for a drive in the early morning air is so pleasant. But I wish I had no occasion to change my dress, because I fear that will take up all the time of your morning call here on Gracie and me." "I think not, if you are prompt in your movements," he said. "I shall sit here for some little time reading the morning paper." "Oh, I am glad of that! and perhaps, papa, if you look over the advertisements you may find something that will help us in the search for the pretty things we want to buy." "Very possibly," he replied. "I will look them over at once." "Thank you, sir. I'll do as you bid me and be back again as soon as ever I can; for I don't like to lose a minute of my father's morning call," she said, giving him a bright, loving look, then hurrying back to her sister. "We'll have to make haste, Gracie," she said, "if we don't want to miss altogether our morning chat with papa. We are to wear our new gray dresses, he says." "That suits me nicely, for I think them becoming, pretty, and suitable. Don't you?" "Yes; I think nobody has better taste or judgment about dress than our father." "Just my opinion; and we may well think so, considering how many lovely dresses and ornaments he has bought for us, selecting them without the help or advice of anyone. There, sister dear, your dress is on all right and I shall make haste to change mine while you put the finishing touches to your attire." They joined their father in a few moments, talked over the advertisements he had been examining and the question of the desirability of this and that article as a wedding gift to Rosie, but had reached no decision when the breakfast bell rang. "Well, daughters," the captain said, "we will go down now to our breakfast and, while we are eating, talk the matter over with your mamma. She probably knows better than we what would be likely to please Rosie." "But we do not need to decide until we see the things, do we, papa?" asked Lucilla. "No, certainly not, and we may find something very handsome and suitable that we have not thought of. I hope it will be a pleasure to both of you to look over the pretty things and make a selection." "You dear father," Grace said, smiling up into his eyes, "you are always thinking of something to give your children pleasure." "Yes," he said, returning her smile, "perhaps because it reacts upon myself, giving me a great deal of pleasure." They found Violet and the little ones already in the breakfast room; morning greetings were exchanged, then they seated themselves at the table, the captain asked a blessing, and the meal began. They chatted pleasantly while eating, the principal subject of discourse being their errand to the city. Violet had not heard Rosie express a desire for any particular thing, but thought they would probably see something in the stores that would strike them as handsome and suitable. "Is Elsie going with you to-day, papa? and am I?" asked Neddie. "Yes, my son, if you want to go," the captain replied. "And would you like to buy some gifts for Aunt Rosie, too?" "Oh, yes, yes indeed, papa!" cried, both children, Elsie adding: "But I have only a little money. I'm afraid it won't be enough to buy anything handsome enough for a wedding present." "Well," their father said reflectively, "you have been good children, and I feel inclined to give you each a present of ten dollars, which you may dispose of as you like." "Oh, thank you, papa!" both cried delightedly, Ned adding: "I s'pose it's for us to buy something for Aunt Rosie with; isn't it, papa?" "If you want to use it for that you may; but you are not compelled to do so; you can spend it for someone else, or for yourself if you choose." "I'm going to spend mine for Aunt Rosie," Elsie announced. "It was very nice and kind in her to choose me for a flower girl at her wedding, and I'd like to give her something very pretty; something that she would like. Mamma, you will help me to choose my present, won't you?" "With pleasure, daughter; and I am sure your papa and sisters will help us in our selection. They all have good taste." "And y'll all help me, too, won't you?" asked Ned. "I want to buy the prettiest thing I can find for Aunt Rosie." "Yes; you shall have all the advice you want, my son," his father said. "And now, as you have all finished eating, we will go to the library and have family worship; then make ourselves ready and set off upon our trip to the city." "I think we couldn't have selected a better time for our expedition," Violet said as they entered their carriage; "the air is bracing, the weather delightful, and the roads are in excellent order, are they not, my dear?" "Yes," the captain answered, "we could ask no improvement, and I think will travel rapidly enough to reach the city in very good season." They did so and were successful in finding what they esteemed beautiful gifts for the coming bridal. And Rosie's pleasure on receiving them was as great as they, the givers, had hoped. She had many handsome and valuable presents, but none seemed to gratify her more than these from her Woodburn relatives and friends. "I like those gray dresses of yours, girls; they are both pretty and becoming, and very suitable for such a trip as we have taken to-day," remarked Violet as they rode homeward. "You will wear yours to the picnic to-morrow, I suppose, Lu?" "If papa approves," answered Lucilla with a laughing look at him. "Entirely," he said; "though I shall not insist if you prefer something else." "That reminds me of some of my Nantucket experiences of years ago," she remarked. "Do you remember, papa, how I missed going to the 'squantum' with the rest of you because I took off the suitable dress Mamma Vi had directed me to wear, and donned some very unsuitable finery?" "Yes," he replied, "that was an unhappy time for both the rebellious little girl and her father." "Yes, papa; oh, I'm afraid I gave you many a heartache in those days. I remember I wanted very much to dress in white for the clambake, some weeks after that, but you wouldn't allow it. I was a very foolish little girl, and now I am very glad I had a wise, kind father to keep me in order." "You were not rebellious about that second disappointment," he said with a smile, "and in the years that have passed since then you have learned to be very submissive to your father's wishes and directions." "Yes, sir, because I have found out from experience that he is far wiser than I, and always seeks my best interests." "That is certainly what he wishes to do, daughter; for the welfare of all his dear children lies very near his heart." "Yes, papa; you love us all, I know," little Elsie said with a bright, glad look up into his face. "Of course papa does," said Neddie; "if he didn't he wouldn't give us money to spend, and ever so many other nice things; or take us to the city for such a good time as we have had to-day." "Yes, our dear papa is very good to us all," said Grace. "We have had a delightful drive, a fine time in the city, and now here we are at our own lovely home again," she added as the carriage turned in at the great gates. "It is nearing tea time, daughters, and you had better go at once to your rooms and make yourselves neat for the evening," the captain said as he helped Lucilla and Grace to alight. "Yes, sir," they answered and hastened up the broad stairway, following Violet and the two little ones. "Dere's a gemman in de parlour a-waitin' for to see you, cap'in," said a servant, coming leisurely in from the back veranda. "Ah! has he been here long?" "'Bout ten minutes, I reckon, sah." The captain hastened into the parlour and found Chester Dinsmore there. Cordial greetings were exchanged, and Chester received a warm invitation to stay to tea, which, however, he declined, saying that he had a little professional work on hand which must be done that evening if he was to take to-morrow for a holiday. "I came over, captain," he added, "to thank you for allowing me the privilege of taking your daughter, Miss Lucilla, to the picnic to-morrow, and to ask if--if you would not be so very kind as to remove your prohibition of--of love-making on my part, and----" "No, Chester," the captain said in kindly but grave accents, as the young man halted in his speech, "you surely forget that my objection was on account of my daughter's youth, and that she is only a few months older now than she was then. I do not want her to begin to think of lovers for several years yet, and am objecting to your suit for that reason only. I show no greater favour in this matter to anyone else. And you may feel that I am showing confidence in you in permitting her to go to to-morrow's picnic in your care." "Yes, sir; thank you, sir. I shall not abuse your confidence, and, though I find it hard not to be permitted to speak and use my best efforts to win the prize I so covet, it is some consolation that you treat other suitors in the same way." "Perhaps, too, that my daughter is equally indifferent to them all," the captain remarked with a smile. "And by the way, my young friend, don't you suppose it may be a trifle hard for Lucilla's father to resign the first place in her heart to someone else?" "It is according to nature, sir," Chester said, returning the smile. "You served Cousin Elsie so when you stole Cousin Violet's heart; and Cousin Elsie's husband had taken her from her father. It has been the way almost ever since the world began; so I suppose it is all right." "Yes; but a father has a right to say it shall not begin too soon with his own daughter. Wedlock brings cares and responsibilities that should not be allowed to fall too soon upon young shoulders, and it is my desire and purpose to keep my dear young daughters free from them until they reach years of maturity." "Putting it so, captain, it does seem that you are acting kindly by them, though I must insist that it is hard on the lovers," Chester returned between a smile and a sigh. "But I think you may trust your daughter with me to-morrow without much fear that I will abuse your confidence. And I am not at all sure that I could gain anything by speaking. We are good friends,--she and I,--but I doubt if she cares a cent for me any other way." "As to that," the captain said in kindly tone and with his pleasant smile, "I still have the happiness of believing that, as yet, her father holds the first place in her heart. I cannot hope that it will be so always--perhaps I ought not to wish it; but I do rejoice in the firm conviction that such is the fact at present." "No one can blame you for that, sir," Chester said, rising to take leave, "but, ungenerous as it sounds, I cannot help hoping that, one of these days, I may be able to shift your position to the second place, taking the first myself. It sounds dreadful selfish, but fathers have to give way to lovers and husbands if the human race is to continue. I hope to be here in the morning, captain, a little after nine o'clock, with a carriage, to take Miss Lu to the wharf where the boat will be lying. I promise to take the best of care of her, to do and say nothing of which her father would disapprove, and to bring her home safely, Providence permitting, before dark." "I have no doubt you will, Chester, and I trust her--one of my choice treasures--to you with confidence in your purpose to be the faithful guardian of her safety, and perfectly trustworthy as regards the matter of which we have been speaking," were the captain's parting words to his young visitor as he saw him out to the veranda. "Thank you, sir; I hope to prove faithful to the trust. Good-evening," Chester returned, then sped away down the drive. He thought it best, as did the captain also, that Lucilla should be left in ignorance of his call. She came downstairs when the tea bell summoned the family to partake of their evening meal, and at its conclusion all gathered upon the front veranda, as was their custom. They had not been there very long when the Fairview carriage was seen to turn in at the great gates and come swiftly up the drive. As it drew up before the entrance they perceived with pleasure that it contained Mr. and Mrs. Leland and Evelyn, Grandma Elsie, and Rosie. A warm welcome was given them, all were comfortably seated--the young girls in a group together a little to one side of the older people--and soon an animated chat was being carried on by each party. "Well, Lu," the captain presently overheard Rosie saying, "I suppose you are invited to to-morrow's picnic; I heard you were to be--you and Gracie both. Are you going?" "I believe I am," replied Lucilla. "I have had an invitation, and papa has given me permission to accept it; but he thinks Gracie is not strong enough to go on such an excursion without him along to take care of her." "Yes, I suppose that is so," said Rosie. "I am sorry, for I am going and I should like to have Gracie's company. Rather than do without it I would even take Brother Levis' too," she added with a laugh and in a little louder tone, turning a playful look upon him as she spoke. His quick ear had caught the words. "Can that be so, Sister Rosie," he said with assumed gravity. "Well, unfortunately, I cannot go, as I have had no invitation. Also as I have already declined the invitation for Grace, she cannot go. But I trust she is not greatly afflicted by this state of affairs." "No, indeed, papa," responded Grace with a contented little laugh. "It is very far from being a trial to have to stay in this sweet home with you and mamma, Elsie and Ned." "I hardly supposed you would have time and inclination to go, Rosie," said Lucilla. "Oh, yes, indeed!" laughed Rosie. "I think it advisable to seize all the pleasures of single blessedness while I can." "But married folks can go to picnics." "Yes, so they can--to some of them; but this is only for the unmarried, who have gotten it up." "Did you have a hand in that?" asked Lucilla. "No; it was the work of our young gentlemen friends--my brothers, cousins, and some others." "Of course you have not yet heard from your friends, the Crolys?" Lulu said inquiringly. "No; there has not been time; unless they had telegraphed; as, perhaps, they may, to Cousin Arthur. Speak of angels! here he comes!" she exclaimed, as, at that moment, a gig turned in at the great gates and came on rapidly toward the house. Dr. Arthur Conly was in it, and, presently, having reached the veranda steps, drew rein, bade good-evening, and announced to his cousins Elsie and Rosie that he had received a telegram from the Crolys thanking him for his invitation and saying that it was accepted and they might be expected in a few days. "Ah! that is good news, if it suits you all at Roselands," said Grandma Elsie. "As I think it does, cousin," returned the doctor. "At all events they all seemed pleased; which I think is particularly kind in Sister Mary and Cal." "Yes," said Rosie, "and I hope and believe the Crolys will prove so agreeable as guests, or boarders, that they will never regret it." "So do I," Arthur said; "also I think that the Crolys will find us all so agreeable that they will never regret it." "Won't you alight and take a seat among us, doctor?" asked the captain hospitably. "Thank you; I should enjoy doing so, but duty calls in another direction, a sick patient needing prompt attention. Good-evening to you all"; and, turning with the last words, he drove away. "So, Rosie, you are likely soon to be able to make the acquaintance of your future mother-in-law," said Violet. "But you don't seem alarmed at the prospect." "No; because I am not. From all Will has told me I think she must be a lovely and lovable woman; as he thinks his future mother-in-law is." "And as all to whom she bears that relation can testify," remarked the captain with an affectionate, appreciative glance at the sweet face of Grandma Elsie. "I, for one," said Mr. Leland heartily; "and I feel entirely sure of Zoe, the only other one to whom she bears that relationship." "You are all very kind, very ready to pass my imperfections by," responded Mrs. Travilla's sweet voice. "And if I am a good mother, I can assure you that it is at least partly as a a consequence of having good sons and daughters." "May you always be able to say that, mother," responded the captain heartily. "It would be a sorry sort of man or woman who could be any other than a good son or daughter to you." "Oh, Lu!" said Evelyn presently, "didn't you tell me you were going into the city to-morrow to do some shopping?" "Yes; but we did it to-day, in order that I might have to-morrow free for the picnic. We all went to the city and had a very pleasant and successful time." "Shopping is apt to be very fatiguing work," said Grandma Elsie. "I see Grace looks weary. Dear child, if you feel like retiring, do not let our presence hinder you for a moment." "Thank you, Grandma Elsie; but I don't like to miss a minute of your call," returned Grace, exerting herself to speak in a lively tone. "I'd like to tell about what we bought," said Ned, "but I suppose I must not." "Better wait till you have the articles here to show, my son," said his father. "Yes; we had to leave them to be marked; but Aunt Rosie will see them some of these days," said the little fellow. "And she is very willing to wait till the right time comes," Rosie said, putting an arm about him and giving him a kiss; for he had gone to her side. "I'm afraid it will be a good while to wait," he returned. "Papa was so kind, he gave us--Elsie and me--each ten dollars to do what we pleased with. Lu and Gracie had a good deal more, 'cause they are older, you know, and----" "There, that will do, Ned," laughed his mother. "It is your bed time. Say good-night to grandma and the rest, and Elsie and you and I will run away for the present." The callers did not stay very long after Violet's return to the veranda, and soon after their departure the captain held his evening service and then advised Lucilla and Grace to retire at once, that the coming day might find them fully rested and refreshed. They obeyed with cheerful alacrity, and arose the next morning feeling none the worse for the exertion of the previous day. Chester came promptly at the appointed hour, found Lucilla ready for the excursion, and they drove away in fine spirits. Chester spared no pains to make himself agreeable to his companion, but was careful not to do or say anything of which her father could disapprove. He brought her home again before dark, slightly fatigued, but gay and lively, with much to tell of the pleasant experiences of the day. "Did Rosie go?" asked Grace. "Yes, and was very merry; indeed, so we all were. We were rowing about and fishing most of the time." "Both at once?" queried her father with an amused look. "No, sir; we kept still enough while trying to catch the fish, and we caught as many as we could eat, then landed, made a fire,--the young men did, I mean,--cooked the fish, made coffee, and we had our dinner. We girls spread a tablecloth on the grass and got out the good things in the baskets. They were in great plenty, quite a variety, and all very good and palatable. I think the air and rowing had given us all fine appetites so that everybody ate heartily and seemed to enjoy it." "And you were not sorry you went?" "No, indeed! I am much obliged to you, father, for letting me go," she added, turning to him with a look of love and gratitude. "You are very welcome, daughter," he said, "and I am glad you enjoyed it. There is an old saying that 'all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,' and I think girl nature does not differ in that respect." "Oh, you dear papa! none of your children are ever allowed to have all work and no play," she exclaimed, giving him a look of ardent affection. "You take a great deal of trouble to give us pleasure; you always have." "Yes, indeed," said Grace; "it seems to be papa's greatest delight to give pleasure to his wife and children. Don't you think so, mamma?" "Indeed I do," returned Violet heartily. "I have never known a more generous or unselfish person than my husband and your father." "And what shall I say?" queried the captain. "That when I am the person under discussion no greater flatterers can be found than my wife and older daughters?" "Oh! we will excuse you from saying anything on the subject, sir," laughed Violet. "Now, what kind of a time did you all have staying at home without me?" asked Lucilla. "I hope you have missed me a little." "Of course we did," replied Grace. "Your father missed both his daughter and his amanuensis," said the captain. "Oh! there were letters to be answered?" she exclaimed. "Please let me do it now, papa?" "No, dear child, I answered them myself; and if I had not I should not let you work to-night, after all the fatigue of the day." "You are so kindly careful of me and all of us, papa," she said with a grateful, loving look into his eyes. "I am somewhat tired, but not too much so to use the typewriter, if you wanted any work done on it. It is such a pleasure to be of even a little service to my dear father." "And such a pleasure to your father to be served by so dear and loving a daughter," he returned; "one so valuable to me that I cannot consent to have her broken down with too much of either work or pleasure. You must go to bed presently and try to take a good night's rest after the exertions of the day." "I am ready to go whenever my father bids me," she said in a cheerful tone; "and I want to begin my night's sleep early enough to be ready for my usual stroll with him about the grounds before breakfast." "Yes; I should be sorry to have to take that without the pleasant company of my early bird of a daughter," he said. "I should miss her sadly." Lucilla's eyes shone. "Thank you, papa! it is very nice in you to say that," she said, "and I dearly love those early walks with you." CHAPTER XI. In less than a week after the Crolys had signified their intention of accepting the invitation to Roselands the news of their safe arrival was communicated to the family at Ion, and as soon as the doctor thought Mrs. Croly sufficiently rested to see visitors, Grandma Elsie and Rosie called upon them there. They were mutually pleased--Mrs. Croly delighted with the prospect of having so charming a daughter as Rosie. And now preparations for the wedding went on rapidly, the bride-elect, and those who were to be her attendants, being particularly interested in regard to their attire for the great occasion, and keeping the dressmakers very busy in fashioning their finery. Then, as the time drew near, relatives and friends from a distance began to arrive. To the great joy of Mrs. Calhoun Conly her parents were among the first, and their and her near relatives from Indiana and Louisiana soon followed; their coming giving great pleasure to both her aunt Annis and herself, as well as to the Ion family. Mrs. Betty Norris and her brother Dr. Robert Johnson, their half brother Dr. Dick Percival, and his sister Mrs. Molly Embury of Magnolia Hall, with her husband, were among the later arrivals, and about the same time came Captain Donald Keith, having succeeded in obtaining a furlough for several weeks. He, Dr. Percival, and several others of the family relatives were at first domiciled at Woodburn, where they were made very welcome and most hospitably entertained. Donald's was the first arrival, though only a day or so in advance of the others. He and Captain Raymond met with all the old cordiality, evidently glad to renew the comradeship of earlier days, while Violet's greeting was warm and cousinly, and that of the young girls such as they might be reasonably expected to bestow upon a valued friend and relative of the family. Donald, hardly realising how many months and years had rolled by since his last sight of them, was surprised at their growth in height and beauty, and did not wonder at their father's evident pride and delight in claiming them as his own. But for the few days between his coming among them and the wedding there was little opportunity for becoming intimately acquainted, so greatly interested and occupied with the preparations for it were they, and, indeed, all the family connection. He furtively watched them, however, while Captain Raymond, calling to mind a talk he had had with Donald at West Point, some years before, in regard to his eldest daughter, did the same by him whenever the two were together in his presence. He noted with pleasure that Lucilla evidently cared for Captain Keith only as a relative and friend of the family, never thinking of him as a lover or admirer of herself, or likely to become one. "She is still satisfied with her father's affection," was his pleasing thought. "She evidently cares little or nothing for other men, and I may hope to keep her altogether my own for years to come; though there are some half dozen or more young fellows who, as I plainly perceive, are looking upon her with longing eyes." That fact was evident to Violet, also, and she jestingly referred to it at one time when, for a few moments, they were alone together. "My dear," she said, "be watchful if you would not be robbed of Lu, perhaps of Gracie, also; for the dear girls are entirely too charming for you to hope to escape an effort from somebody to take them from you." "I agree with you in that idea, but am not alarmed," he said with a look of quiet confidence, "believing that my daughters still love their father better than any other man, and are satisfied that he seeks their best good in refusing to consider them as yet old enough to leave his care and protection for that of anyone else." "I am sure you are right," returned Violet, "and very glad I am to think I shall not lose their sweet companionship for years, if ever. I feel, though, that it would be very selfish in me to want them to miss entirely the great happiness I have found in wedded life," she added with a look of ardent affection into his eyes. "But I fear there are not many husbands equal to mine." "I hope there are," he said with a smile that was very loving and tender, "and I am sure it could not fail to be the case if there were many wives as worthy of love and entire devotion as is mine." "Thank you," she said with a pleased smile. "I cannot tell you how often I rejoice in the thought of my husband's blindness to my many faults." "If there is any such blindness, my dear, I am quite sure it is mutual," he returned with a look of amusement, adding, "and we will try to keep it up; won't we?" "Yes, indeed," was her laughing rejoinder, "and I hope Rosie and her Will may be led to follow our good example in that respect." "As I do," he rejoined; "and, knowing them both as I do know them, I think there is every prospect of it." This talk was upon a side veranda where they sat watching their two little ones at play together in the grounds. "Papa!" cried Ned at this moment, running toward them, "didn't you hear the telephone bell? I thought I did." "No, my son," returned the captain; "and if it is ringing, one of your sisters will answer it, no doubt. They are both upstairs." "It did ring, papa, and I answered it," said Lucilla, stepping from the open doorway and coming swiftly toward him. "Rosie was calling to me that there is to be a rehearsal of to-morrow's wedding ceremony, this evening, and asking if we can come over and take our parts. May we? Will you take us?" "I say yes to both queries," was the pleasant-toned reply. "I will order out the carriage and we will all drive over directly after tea. I have been told that our gentlemen guests are all to spend the evening there or at Beechwood or Roselands." "Oh, I like that!" exclaimed Lucilla. "And now, our wedding dresses being entirely finished, Grace and I are going to try them on. Will our father, Mamma Vi, Elsie, and Ned come up presently and see what they think of our appearance in them?" "Of course we will," answered Violet. "I can speak for myself and the children, and have not a doubt of Captain Raymond's desire to see how well the dainty gowns become his young-lady daughters." "He hardly considers them young ladies yet, Mamma Vi," laughed Lulu. "And I am sure I don't want him to, for I dearly love to have him call me his own little girl," she concluded, with a look of ardent filial love and respect into her father's eyes. "I hope he will let me always be that to him." "Always, while you wish it, daughter mine," he responded in low, tender tones, affectionately pressing the hand she had laid in his. "Now go, array yourself in your finery, and we will follow in a few moments," he added in a little louder key, and she hastened to obey. "Oh, mamma!" cried Elsie, who had drawn near enough to overhear nearly all that had been said, "mayn't I try my wedding dress on, too? You know it is almost finished--all but sewing on a few buttons, Alma said a while ago." "I have no objection," said Violet, rising. "Come, and I will help you put it on." "Your wedding dress, Elsie? you are not old enough to get married," laughed Ned. "Is she, papa?" "No, indeed! very far from it," the captain said. "Even her older sisters are much too young for that; but they seem to so have named their new gowns because of having had them made expressly to be worn at the wedding." "Yes, sir; I suppose that is what they mean. Aunt Rosie's will be the only real wedding dress, and I heard mamma say it was very handsome indeed. And I like my new suit you bought me to wear to the wedding; and your new one, too." "I am glad you are satisfied," his father said. "The dress of the ladies will be noticed much more than yours or mine, but it is only right that men and boys should take pains to be neatly and suitably attired. Now I think we may follow your mother and sisters and see what they have to show us." The dresses were pronounced by all beautiful, perfect in regard to fit, trimming, and suitability to the occasion on which they were to be worn; very becoming, also, the captain remarked in an aside to his wife; a remark to which she gave a hearty and unqualified assent. "We'll wear these dresses to Ion to-night, won't we, mamma?" asked Elsie. "Oh, no, child!" replied Violet; "the rehearsal will be gone through with in ordinary attire, and these grand dresses kept perfectly fresh for the wedding. Come, now, we must make haste with the change, for the tea bell will ring presently. It is well you took a good nap this afternoon, for I fear you are likely to be kept up late." "Probably a little later than usual," said their father, "though, as to-morrow is to be so exciting a day, I intend to bring you all home in pretty good season; that you may be able to take such a night's rest as will give you the needed strength to go through the trying ordeal." "There, papa," laughed Grace, "you talk as if we were all going to be married." "Dear me, but I am glad we are not!" exclaimed Lucilla, "and that I am not the one that is." "Quite a lucid remark, my child," laughed her father. "But now I will leave you to make the necessary changes in your dress that you may be ready for a drive on leaving the tea table." They hastened to obey, helping each other and laughing and chatting merrily as they worked. They were ready when the summons to the tea table came, and, directly after leaving it, all entered the family carriage and drove to Ion, greatly enjoying the balmy air, the easy motion over the smooth roads, and all the sweet sights and sounds of lovely summer time in the country. They never wearied of those familiar things, daily blessings though they were. The sun was near its setting when they reached Ion, where they found a gathering of friends and relatives unusual in its size, though not nearly so large as it would be on the coming day, when the great event was to take place. Walter was one of the first to greet them, having reached home that morning and been ever since much excited over the situation of affairs--the prospect of losing Rosie, his youngest and only single sister out of the home nest, as a permanent resident there. "Glad to see you, Vi!" he exclaimed, seizing his sister, Mrs. Raymond, in a warm embrace. "Glad to see you all--Brother Levis, Lu, Gracie, and you little folks. Of course you haven't forgotten Uncle Walter in the long months since we parted in Paradise Valley?" "No, indeed!" answered several voices. "And we are all very glad to see you at home among us again--I must not say little brother, according to former custom, I suppose?" added Violet in merry accents; "for you have grown into a fine young gentleman." "Thank you," he returned with a slightly embarrassed laugh. "Well, I mean to try to be, as well as to seem." But others were crowding about, and in the exchange of greetings, questions, and answers, there were time and opportunity for no more. There was a pleasant bustle, a good deal of mirth and laughter, the young folks going about from room to room to examine the tasteful arrangements for the grand affair of the morrow--then, the last one of those selected to take part in the ceremony having arrived, they went through their rehearsal; so that even the little flower girls might be perfect in their parts, knowing just how and when to enter the room, where to stand and what to do. They were greatly interested and very anxious to do all in the best possible manner, that no one might be mortified by their failure and led to regret that they had been chosen to perform that particular part. They succeeded admirably, and were delighted with the praise freely bestowed upon them by one and another of the onlookers, including the guests and the members of the different families present. When all seemed perfect in their parts, which no one found very difficult, some simple refreshments were served, and presently after Captain Raymond and his family departed for Woodburn, Captain Donald Keith and Dr. Dick Percival accompanying them. It was something of a disappointment to both these gentlemen that, very shortly after arriving there, Captain Raymond advised his daughters to retire, in order that they might feel entirely rested and refreshed before entering upon the exciting pleasures and fatigues of the coming day. "I know it is the best plan for me, papa," returned Grace in cheerful tones, and began her good-nights at once. "For me too, since I want all the beauty sleep I can get in preparation for to-morrow," laughed Lucilla, "though of course it is by no means so necessary for the bride's attendants as for herself." "Ah! is that because they are so much handsomer to begin with?" "Oh, papa! please refrain from asking such hard questions!" was the response in tones of mock entreaty; "hard because they seem to imply a good deal of vanity in me. I was only meaning that, of course, the bride's appearance will attract the most attention." "Ah! was that it? Well, my child, say good-night and go; get to bed quickly, put aside thoughts of to-morrow's gaieties, and indulge in sleep so sound and refreshing that you will be ready to give your father his usual companionship in his early stroll about the grounds." "I'll do my best to follow all those directions, sir," she said with a bright, pleased look. "Good-night, gentlemen," turning toward the guests. "I hope you will both sleep well and find to-morrow's festivities very enjoyable." And with that she hastened away, leaving the three gentlemen alone upon the veranda, for Violet was seeing her little ones to bed. "What a rich man you are, Raymond!" remarked Keith, half unconsciously sighing slightly as he spoke. "You are right," returned the captain cheerily, "my wife and children being by far the most valuable of my possessions. I only wish that you and your friend here," glancing at Dr. Percival as he spoke, "were equally wealthy. But you are younger men, and may hope to become as rich as I am by the time you are my age." "Hardly; so far as I am concerned, at least," returned Keith drily; "seeing I am already some ten or a dozen years older than you were at the time of your first marriage, Raymond." "Yet by no means too old to hope yet to become in the near future a happy husband and father. I am at a loss to understand why you have not found a mate before this." "Ah, none so blind as those that won't see!" returned Keith with a slight laugh; then changed the subject of conversation by asking a question in regard to the plans of the young couple expecting to be united on the morrow. Captain Raymond answered the query. A moment's silence followed; then Keith, turning to Dick, said: "I presume you and I are of about the same age, doctor?" "Quite likely; and confirmed bachelors, both of us, it would seem," was the nonchalant rejoinder. "I am some years older than Cousin Vi." "Not too old for reformation, however," remarked Captain Raymond pleasantly. "And let me assure you that a wife--such as mine, for instance--is a very great blessing; doubling the happiness of life." "I don't doubt it, sir," said Dick; "but such an one is not to be picked up every day." "No, certainly not. I have always felt myself strangely fortunate in securing so great a treasure." "As you well may," remarked Keith pleasantly; "yet your good fortune has been largely owing to your undoubted worthiness of it, Raymond." "In which opinion I agree with you heartily, Cousin Donald," responded Violet's sweet voice close at hand, taking them by surprise, for, in the earnestness of their talk they had not perceived the sound of her light approaching footsteps. "I think there is nothing good which is beyond my husband's deserts," she added as all three rose hastily to hand her to a seat, Donald saying: "So you overheard me, Coz! Well, please remember that it was I who brought you two together. An act which seems to have born abundance of good fruit in the happiness of all concerned." "I think it has," she said, her husband adding, "And for which I, at least, owe you a deep debt of gratitude." "And not you alone, my dear," said Violet; "and in return I can wish him nothing better than wedded happiness equal to our own." "A wish in which I heartily unite with you," said Captain Raymond. CHAPTER XII. Captain Raymond and his eldest daughter were out in the Woodburn grounds the next morning at their usual early hour, wandering here and there along the shaded paths and among the shrubs and flowers, noting their growth in size and beauty, gathering blossoms, and chatting together in their usual familiar and affectionate manner; Lucilla expressing her thoughts and feelings as freely and openly as though her companion had been one of her own age and sex. "I am glad for Rosie," she said when the talk turned upon the subject of what was expected to be the great event of the day, "she seems so happy; though how she can be in the prospect of leaving the dear home of her childhood and the mother who loves her so fondly, I cannot understand. Oh, father! I do think I can never, never bear to go away from you! It seems impossible that anyone else can ever be half so dear to me, and I am so glad that you want to keep me your own little girl for years longer." "For all our life on earth, daughter, if you are satisfied to have it so," he returned, bestowing upon her a look and smile of tenderest fatherly affection. "You are still one of my chief treasures, which I should be very loath to bestow upon anyone else; dearer to me--as all my children are--than tongue can tell." "Yes, papa," she said, looking up into his eyes with a joyous smile, "so you have told me many, many times; but I love to hear it just as if you had never said it before." "As I do your expressions of ardent love for me, daughter," he returned. "Very glad I am that I am not the one who must to-day resign to another the ownership of a daughter." "I am sorry for Grandma Elsie," said Lucilla; "but then I suppose she must feel rather used to it--having given away two daughters before." "And having none left to be a care and trouble, eh?" laughed her father. "No, sir; having both near enough to be seen and enjoyed every day if she chooses. Don't you hope that will be the way with you if you have to give any of yours up to somebody else?" "I certainly do," he said. "I should be very loath to consent to having any one of them carried off to a distance. But let us not trouble ourselves with anxious thought of what may lie in the future. Remember the dear Master's word, 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'" "Yes, papa; and I remember your teaching me that his 'Take no thought,' means no anxiety, and that it tends greatly to one's happiness to live one day at a time, just leaving all the future in his hands." "Yes, daughter; just as a little child leaves its future and the supply of its daily wants in the care of its parents." "Such kind teaching, and easy to understand when one has such a father as mine," she said, with a look of grateful love. "I am thankful, indeed, daughter, if anything in my treatment and teaching helps you to a clearer understanding of how the Master would have you to act and feel," he said in tones that spoke full appreciation of her filial affection. "Ah! there is our mail," he added, as a servant was seen carrying it toward the house; "so we will go in now and see if it contains anything important for you or me." "And if there is anything you want answered on the typewriter you will let me do it at once, won't you, papa?" she asked, as they quickened their footsteps, taking the direction toward the house. "If you have time, and wish to do so, daughter." "Yes, sir; I have hardly anything to do till it is time for the drive to Ion." "Unless you should find a letter, or more than one, of your own, calling for a reply," he returned, smiling down into her bright, animated face. "That is not very likely, considering how few correspondents I have," she laughed. They reached the veranda from one direction as the servant entered it from another, and the captain, taking the mail bag from him, walked on into the library, Lucilla following. He emptied the contents of the bag upon the table, and going rapidly over them, said: "Several letters for our guests" (laying them aside as he spoke), "one for your mamma; none for any of my children, and only two business letters for me. Well, daughter," glancing at the clock on the mantel, "you may sit down to your typewriter and answer these at my dictation; as I see there will be time to do so before the ringing of the breakfast bell. Ah, good-morning, Keith!" as at that moment that gentleman entered the room. "Here are letters which I was just about to send up to you." "Thank you," said Keith, taking them from his host's outstretched hand. "I am glad to have saved you the trouble. I hope you and Miss Lucilla are both quite well?" giving her a bow and smile as he spoke. "Entirely, thank you, and have just come in from our usual early stroll together about the grounds. I hope you rested well. Take that easy-chair and don't let our presence interfere with your enjoyment of your letters." Keith declined that invitation, saying he felt a strong inclination for a breath of the sweet morning air before the summons to the breakfast table should come; so would read his letters upon the veranda, and, with them in his hand, passed out of the room. "I strongly suspect that was from a polite disinclination to hinder us in our work, papa," remarked Lucilla in a sprightly tone, as her father uncovered the machine and made all things ready for her work. "Quite likely," he responded, "for I never met anyone more truly polite and thoughtful for others. He is a Christian man and acts from Christian principles in all that he does." "As his friend, my father, does," she said with a look of filial reverence up into his face as he stood by her side. "And as I trust my daughter does and will ever do," he returned with grave earnestness, then began his dictation. They made rapid work and had finished and joined Keith upon the veranda before the ringing of the breakfast bell summoned all to their morning meal. "Rosie has an ideal wedding day, I think," remarked Violet as she poured the coffee; "that shower in the night having laid the dust in the roads and made the air deliciously cool." "Also refreshed vegetation," added her husband, "so that trees and shrubs and flowers are as fresh and fragrant as possible." "The sun shines brightly, too," added Grace, "reminding one of the old saying I have so often heard quoted: 'Happy is the bride on whom the sun shines.'" "It is pleasant to see it shining, yet I do not believe Rosie would hesitate a moment, or feel the least anxiety about its effect upon her future happiness, if the rain were pouring down," said Lucilla; "because she has great confidence in her bridegroom that is to be, and not a particle of superstition in her nature." "That is giving her high praise," said Keith, "for there are few who are entirely free from it, though very many are hardly aware of its hold upon them." "You are quite correct, I think, sir," remarked Dr. Percival; "we are all apt to be blind to our own feelings, and hardly conscious that our prejudices and superstitions are such, blind to our weakness--even more to the mental than to the physical." "Then how well it is that there is no occasion for their exercise, or for battling with them to-day," observed Violet in a sprightly tone; "and though, of course, mamma and all of us must, when Rosie is gone, miss our constant sweet companionship with her, we ought not to mourn, but rather rejoice that she is going into a Christian family and gaining a devoted Christian for a life companion." "Yes; that is indeed a cause for joy and gratitude," said Keith. "Father, will Mr. Croly be any relation to us after he gets married to Aunt Rosie?" queried Ned. "Yes, my son; brother to your mamma and me, and uncle to the rest of you." "Meaning Neddie himself and Elsie, papa?" Grace said half interrogatively and with an amused little laugh. "Ah, yes! he is certainly too young to be, or wish to be, that to my older daughters," returned her father with a look of amusement. "No danger that he will want to claim that relationship, Gracie," laughed Lucilla. "Even Walter does not, though I know you are a particular favourite with him; but he, to be sure, is still younger than Mr. Croly by some years." "It is at two o'clock Aunt Rosie is to be married, then there will be the wedding feast, and after that the bride and groom will go on a journey," said Neddie, as if bestowing a piece of valuable information upon his hearers. "Yes," said Elsie, "but, as everybody knows it, what's the use of telling it?" "I thought perhaps Cousin Donald and Cousin Dick didn't know it--at least, not all of it," said Ned. Then his father told him he had talked quite enough, and must be quiet during the rest of the meal. "We who are to be the bride's attendants should go over early, I think," remarked Lucilla. "At least we, the older ones," she added with a smiling glance at Elsie; "the little flower girls will not be needed until somewhat later." "You may set your own time," her father said. "I will send you and Grace over in the family carriage, and it can return in full season for the use of anyone else who desires it. We have a variety of horses and conveyances, gentlemen, any or all of them at your service at whatever hour you may appoint," he added, turning to his guests. "There will be abundance of time for a ride or drive for mere exercise or enjoyment, before donning your attire for the grand occasion, if you wish to take it." Both gentlemen accepted the offer with thanks, and they proceeded to lay their plans for a gallop together over some of the roads with which Dick had been familiar in his childhood, but which would be new to Captain Keith. They set out within an hour after leaving the breakfast table, and not very long afterward the young girls were on their way to Ion. They found the house beautifully decorated with flowers from garden and conservatories, especially the room in which the ceremony was to take place. Everybody seemed in a state of subdued excitement, Rosie half gay, half sad, her eyes filling whenever she turned them upon her mother--the dear mother who had so loved and cherished her all the days of her life with such unselfish devotion as no other earthly creature could know; how could she endure the thought of the impending separation? She could not; she could only strive to forget it, and keep her mind filled with the important step now just about to be taken, for she had already gone too far to retreat even were she sure that she wished to do so. The mother was scarcely less affected, but with her greater experience of life was better able to control and conceal her feelings. And so were the others who, though pleased with the match, still felt that this was the breaking up of some very tender ties; they would not allow their thoughts to dwell upon that, but would occupy them with the mirth and gaiety of the present. But to Mrs. Croly, who had so far recovered under Dr. Conly's skilful treatment that she was able to be present, it was all joy: she had always wanted a daughter, and now was gaining one after her own heart; for Rosie seemed to her all that was good, beautiful, and in every way attractive. And then, in respect to family, fortune, everything that could be thought of, she was all that could be desired. The elder Mr. Croly, too, was entirely satisfied with the match, and already felt a paternal interest in the young girl just entering his family. In fact upon both sides there was perfect satisfaction with the match. Everything went well; there was no bustle or confusion; minister and guests were all there in due season; bride, groom, and attendants, including the little flower girls, performed their parts without mistake or discomposure. Kisses, congratulations, and good wishes followed; then the wedding feast was partaken of leisurely and with mirth and jollity, the bridal dress was exchanged for a beautiful travelling suit, the farewells were spoken, with cheery reminders that the separation was to be but temporary, the bride expecting soon to rejoin the dear home circle. That thought was a very comforting one to her, and, though tears had fallen at the parting from her loved ones,--especially her mother,--they soon ceased their flow under the tenderly affectionate caresses and endearments of him who was henceforward to be to her the nearest and dearest of all earthly loved ones, and her face grew radiant with happiness as he had hoped to see it on their bridal day. CHAPTER XIII. Nearly all the guests--relatives and dear friends--remained for some hours after the departure of the bride and groom, some conversing together upon the veranda, some wandering in couples or little companies about the grounds or sitting in the shade of the beautiful trees on the lawn. Most of the young people, especially those of them who had been attendants of the bride and groom, gathered about Grandma Elsie--for they all loved her, and everyone felt that she had particular need of some pleasant distraction of thought just at that time, to prevent her from dwelling upon the partial loss of her youngest daughter. Walter was, of course, one of the group, and he presently plunged into lively accounts of his college-boy experiences, very interesting and amusing to him and presumably so to others, as, in fact, they were to most if not all of his auditors, his older brothers among the rest; for it seemed to carry them back, in at least a measure, to their own Freshman days, with all their trials and triumphs, their pleasures and annoyances. "Did anybody do anything very bad to you, Walter?" asked Grace. "No; not very," he replied; "hazing has been almost abolished, and what is still done is by no means unendurable. "Oh! I must tell you of a bit of fun we had only the other day. On the porch of one of our boarding houses a countryman had set down a basket of eggs--about twenty dozen I was told--that he had brought in for customers; and there they stood, looking as tempting as possible, especially to wild young college boys, some of whom, coming there when recitations were over and the dinner hour approaching, saw them and were immediately smitten with a desire to handle, if not to taste them. One fellow snatched up an egg and threw it at another; it struck him, broke, and bespattered his clothes. He, naturally, retaliated in kind, and other fellows followed their example, the fun growing fast and furious, till every egg the basket had contained was gone, and porch, students, and their clothing were a sight to behold." "And what did the farmer say when he came back for his basket and found it empty?" asked Lucilla. "He was very angry, but those who had broken the eggs paid him his full price, and he went off tolerably well satisfied, though he growled that he was compelled to disappoint his customers. "The boarding house keeper was angry, too, but stopped scolding when told that the mischief should be repaired at the expense of those who had caused it." "The clothes of those engaged in the row must have been in a pretty bad condition," remarked Harold. "Yes, of course; and they had some fine tailors' bills to pay before they were again presentable." "A shameful waste of good food provided by our Heavenly Father, that someone's hunger might be satisfied," remarked Grandma Elsie gravely. "Surely the young men engaged in it must have forgotten the teaching of our Saviour when he said, 'Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.'" "Mamma! I had forgotten that," exclaimed Walter, blushing vividly. "A poor excuse, my son," she replied. "'Remember all the commandments of the Lord, and do them.' Those are his own words given to Moses to speak unto the Children of Israel. Jesus was and is God; therefore what he commanded is the command of God. And since he had just proved his ability to create abundance of food, his command to avoid waste must have been given for the benefit of his hearers; and can you think he would have approved of the waste of good, nourishing food of which you have just been telling?" "No, mother; I am convinced that it was not right; that it was, in fact, wicked waste. I must own that I had a share in it; but I promise you I will never be guilty of the like again. It does seem very wrong when one thinks of the multitudes of people in different parts of the world who are actually starving." "Yes, I hope you will be more thoughtful in future--will use your influence against such objectionable sport; surely bright young men and boys should be capable of finding or making better or less blameworthy fun. You may feel assured, however, that your mother is interested in all that interests you. So if you have anything more to tell of your college experiences we will be glad to hear it." "You found the Sophs rather domineering, didn't you?" asked Herbert. "About as much so as they dared to be, I should say," laughed Walter. "For instance, they won't let the Freshes wear white duck trousers till some time in May. Nor will they allow them to wear the colours gold and black till just at the close of their Freshman year." "Well, that is tyranny!" exclaimed Lucilla, "and if I were a Freshman I wouldn't stand it." "Ah! but if you didn't you might have something worse to stand," laughed Walter. Then he went on, "I must tell you about the cane spree. They have it at the time of the first full moon. The players are three men from each class--one light-weight, one middle, and one heavy-weight. The students of all classes gather in a circle around them to watch the sport. First the light-weights try a tussle for the cane; then the middles, and lastly the heavys. It is not so much strength as skill that wins, and the victors keep their canes as trophies, and are proud to show them for the rest of their lives." "Well, really," laughed Maud Dinsmore, "it does not strike me as anything worth taking particular pride in." "Mayhap that is because you are only a girl, Maud," remarked Chester teasingly. "Yes," she returned sportively, "if I were only a boy I might be as silly as the others." "Does it strike you as very silly, Gracie?" asked Walter. "Well, no; not for boys," she returned doubtfully, "but rather so for a man. There are so many other things in which--at least it seems to me--it would be better worth while to excel." "Yes; so there are," he agreed with a thoughtful look. "And yet an occasional bit of sport is a good thing even for a man." "That is very true," said Harold; "and certainly as true for brain-workers as for any who toil with their hands." "Doesn't it seem pleasant to be at home again, Walter?" asked Grace. "Yes, indeed!" he exclaimed. "There is no place like home--especially home with mother in it." "Or with father in it," added Grace as, at that moment, Captain Raymond joined the circle. "Such a father as ours," said Lucilla, looking up at him with a smile of proud, fond affection. He returned it, accepted an offered seat, and asked Walter if he had been entertaining the company with tales of college doings and experiences. "Yes, sir," returned the lad. "I suppose it is the usual thing for a Freshman to do on coming home at the end of his year." "Quite; his head being pretty full of them," was the playful rejoinder. "Well, little--no, young brother--I hope the old tutor has not been entirely forgotten, in admiration and affection for the new?" "No, sir; no, indeed! and never will be," returned Walter, speaking with an energy and earnestness that brought a smile to the captain's lips and eyes. "I shall show myself strangely ungrateful if I ever forgot the patience and kindness with which my oldest brother instructed me; and all for no reward at all." "Ah! there you are mistaken," said Captain Raymond pleasantly. "It was reward enough to know that I was helping to fit you for future usefulness. I hope, my boy, you will live to be an honour to your mother and a blessing to the world." "I hope so, sir; it is my ardent wish," Walter said low and earnestly, giving his mother a most loving look as he spoke. "And if you trust not in your own strength, but look constantly to God for help, you will succeed, my son," she responded in low, moved tones. Just at that moment there were several additions to their group, among them Captain Keith and Dr. Percival, and the talk turned upon plans for the next few days, and after that for the summer. Most of the relatives from a distance would linger in that neighbourhood for a week or more, and entertainments of one kind and another would be given by those residents there. The Oaks, The Laurels, Fairview, Woodburn, Roselands, and Beechwood would have their turns. After that must come the inevitable breaking up and scattering of guests to their own homes or some summer resort, while most of the dwellers in that region would go northward in search of a cooler climate in which to pass the heated term. But it was not deemed necessary to settle it all now; only to arrange on which day each estate would be the scene of entertainment. It took a good deal of consultation, mingled with merry jests and happy laughter, to settle all that. Then there was a general leave taking and scattering to their homes--temporary or settled. CHAPTER XIV. The wedding had been on Wednesday. On Thursday all gathered, by invitation, at the Oaks, where Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore gave them a royal entertainment. On Friday the same thing was repeated at The Laurels, on Saturday at Fairview, and on the following Monday all were to assemble at Woodburn. Being a Christian, Sabbath keeping connection, no one thought for a moment of profaning the Lord's day by frivolity and merry making. Those who were able attended church in the morning; in the afternoon the Ion and Woodburn people taught their Sunday-school classes as usual, and afterward held a Bible class among themselves at Woodburn, that being the point nearest to the schoolhouse on the Woodburn place, at which they had just concluded the exercises for the day. Dr. and Mrs. Landreth and her brother, the Rev. Cyril Keith were, just at that time, among the guests of Captain and Mrs. Raymond, and, by the request of the little company, the minister led the exercises. Turning over the leaves of his Bible, "The thought strikes me," he said, "that perhaps godliness would be as good a subject for to-day's consideration as we could find. 'Godliness with contentment is great gain,' the apostle tells us. It is a duty and the part of wisdom to be contented with what God our heavenly Father has seen fit to give us of the good things of this life; for there is no happiness to be found in discontent, murmuring, and repining; envying those who seem to us to have a larger share than ours of the riches and pleasures of earth. 'We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. And, having food and raiment, let us be therewith content.' Happiness does not depend upon the amount of our earthly possessions. 'Trust in the Lord and do good, so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed.' That promise alone should be enough to make one contented and happy, even though possessed of but very little of this world's goods. Indeed, why should we care to have much of that which may at any moment fall from our grasp? Let us rather seek the true riches which endure unto eternal life. Let us follow after righteousness, godliness, faith, love, patience, meekness. May ours be 'the path of the just which is as the shining light that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.' "But I consented, not to the preaching of a sermon, but only to the leading of the exercises in which all are privileged and desired to take a part. Let us have the reading or quoting of texts bearing upon the subject of godliness." Then, from their open Bibles they read in turn, the older people selecting for themselves, the younger searching out references given them by their leader. "Papa," asked Neddie, when there was a pause in the reading, "what is godliness? Does it mean the same as being a Christian?" "Yes, my son." "And to be a Christian is to love Jesus and try to be like him and serve him everywhere and all the time?" "Yes; a real, true Christian is one who follows Christ, striving to be like him in every way and to keep all his commands." "I think I do want to, papa. Please tell me more about it." "We must study the Bible to learn all about Christ Jesus--how he lived in this world, what he did, and what he did not do, what sort of spirit he showed--and strive to have the same spirit ourselves; for the Bible tells us 'If any man have not the spirit of Christ he is none of his.' Jesus said, 'I must be about my Father's business,' and if God is our Father we too will be about his business." "But how, papa? I don't understand it." "Jesus came to save souls; and we must try to save them by leading them to him; first by serving him ourselves, then by persuading others to do the same--telling them of all his great goodness and mercy, his loving kindness, and how he suffered and bled and died that sinners might be saved--even those who hated and persecuted him. How strange it is that we do not love him more and serve him better!" "And how enduring is that love--the love of Christ," added Grandma Elsie. "His own word is, 'Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love: therefore with loving kindness have I drawn thee.'" "And he laid down his life for us," said Mrs. Landreth. "And he himself said, 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. Ye are my friends if ye do whatsoever I command you.'" "Yes, that is the test," said Mr. Dinsmore; "we have no right to consider ourselves his disciples unless we are striving earnestly to keep all his commandments. He himself said, 'Either make the tree good and his fruit good; or else make the tree corrupt, and his fruit corrupt: for a tree is known by his fruit.'" "Yes; if we love our Father we will strive earnestly to keep his commandments and not feel them to be grievous. A loving child is an obedient one," said Mr. Keith. "'For this is the love of God, that we keep his commandments: and his commandments are not grievous.'" "'God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us,'" quoted his son Donald. "In his love and in his pity he redeemed us." Then there was a moment's pause, presently broken by Mr. Dinsmore starting the hymn "Love divine, all love excelling," in which the other voices promptly joined. That closed the exercises for that time, and those who had come merely to take part in them bade good-bye for that day with the expectation of returning on the following one. And those who remained behind scattered to their rooms until the summons of the tea bell brought them together again about the table, to partake of their evening meal; after which they repaired to the veranda and spent in conversation and music, suited to its sacredness, the closing hours of that Lord's day. Captain Raymond and his wife lingered for a little upon the veranda after their guests had gone to their rooms. They sat side by side--he with his arm about her waist, her hand fast clasped in his, while her head rested upon his shoulder and her eyes looked up lovingly into his face. "My dear," she said softly and with a beautiful smile, "I am so happy. I love you so, so devotedly, and am so sure that your love for me is equally strong." "I think it is, my darling--light of my eyes and core of my heart," he responded low and feelingly. "You are to me the dearest, sweetest, loveliest of earthly creatures. I can never cease wondering at my great good fortune in securing such a treasure for my own. I am rich, rich in love. My children are all very near and dear to me, and I know and feel that I am to them, but you--ah, I think you are dearer than all five of them put together!" "Ah," she said with a joyous smile, "those are sweet, sweet words to me! And yet they make me feel almost as if I had robbed them--your children. They all love you so dearly, as you have said, and set so high a value upon your love to them." "And it is very great: none the less because my love for you is still greater. You, my dear wife, are my second self--'bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh.' It is right that our mutual love should exceed all other earthly loves." "Yes; and yet I fear it would make Lu--perhaps Gracie also--unhappy to know that you have greater love for anyone else than for them." "I think they do know it, and also that it is right that it should be so. And I presume they will both some day love someone else better than their father. I cannot blame them if they do." "Perhaps the love differs more in kind than degree," Violet said presently. "Yes; there is something in that," he returned; "yet it is not altogether that which satisfies me. We are all bidden to love one another. 'Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the Church, and gave himself for it.... So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself.... Let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself.'" He paused and Violet finished the quotation. "'And the wife see that she reverence her husband.' Ah, it is easy for me to do that with such a husband as mine," she added. "Also, I remember that in Paul's epistle to Titus there is a passage, where the aged women are bidden to teach the younger ones to be sober, to love their husbands, to love their children. And in the next verse to be obedient to their husbands. I think I have kept that command as far as I could without getting any orders from mine," she concluded, smiling up into his eyes. "Yes, indeed, dearest," he said, returning the smile and drawing her closer to his side with a fond gesture, "where one's slightest wish is promptly and eagerly complied with a command would be altogether superfluous. And though I consider it wise and right--yes, an unquestionable duty to exact prompt, cheerful obedience from my children, I do not think I should ask it of my wife. The women of the apostle's day were not the educated, self-reliant ones of the present time; therefore our wives are hardly to be expected to conform themselves strictly to the rules he lays down for them. But if husband and wife love each other as they ought,--as you and I do, for instance,--any friction between them will be a thing of rare occurrence." "And when, if ever, there is any," said Violet, "I think the wife should be the one to give way--unless she feels that to yield to the wishes of her husband would be a breach of the moral law; but in that case she must remember the answer of Peter to the high priest, 'We ought to obey God rather than men.'" "Yes," he said; "and when a parent commands something which is plainly contrary to God's command,--lying or stealing for instance,--it is the child's duty to refuse to obey. There are parents, alas! who do train their children to vice and crime, and when that is the case they, the children, must remember and act upon the teaching of the apostle, 'We ought to obey God rather than men.'" "How I pity children who are placed in such circumstances," sighed Violet. "Oh, I often think what a cause for gratitude I have in the fact that my parents were earnest Christians, and brought me and all their children up in the fear of God; also that my children have an earnest, devoted Christian for their father." "And for their mother, my sweet wife," he added with emotion. Neither spoke again for some moments. It was Violet who broke the silence. "My dear," she said, "I wonder if you have noticed, as I have, that my cousin Donald greatly admires our Lu." "Ah! has he told you so, my love?" queried the captain, a touch of regret and anxiety in his tone. "Oh, no!" laughed Violet; "but he looks at her with evidently admiring eyes, listens eagerly to anything and everything she says, and especially to her playing and singing; which are certainly worth hearing. He greatly admires her drawings and paintings, too, some of which I was showing him the other day; also her evident devotion to her father, and readiness to assist and make herself useful to him in every possible way." "Yes," sighed the captain, "her father would hardly know what to do without her. Yet, of course, I should be far from willing to stand in the way of my child's happiness. However, I hope and believe that her father is still nearer and dearer to her than any other human creature. She has often assured me that such was the fact; not waiting to be questioned, but telling the story of her love as something in which we could both rejoice, and which she was sure was reciprocal. As it certainly is. I love her very dearly; though not more than I do each of the others. Indeed, it gives me a heartache to think I shall ever be called to part with any one of them." "Not very soon, I hope," said Violet. "You have frequently told me you did not intend to let either of your daughters marry for years to come." "No, I do not; and as I dread the pain, for both them and myself, which would be caused by the necessity for refusing to let them follow their inclinations in such a matter, I sincerely hope no one will succeed in winning their affections for years to come." "Then if I am right about Donald and he asks your permission to make an offer to Lu, you will forbid him to do so?" At first the captain's only reply was an amused sort of smile. Then he said: "I must tell you of a talk Donald and I had, some years ago, at West Point. You perhaps remember that I took Max and Lulu there, and found Donald already at the hotel, and we spent a few days together, the children with us nearly all the time. One night I sent them early to bed, and, afterward, spent an hour or more talking with my friend alone on the piazza. In that talk he expressed a great admiration for my little girl, and--half in jest, half in earnest--asked leave to try to win her when she should reach a proper age. I told him certainly not for at least six years. It is five now." "Then he ought to wait at least another year," remarked Violet, who had listened with keen interest to her husband's little story. "Yes; and I hope he will feel that obligation and refrain, for the present at least, from courting her. And, though I should be sorry for my friend's disappointment, I cannot help hoping that he has not won, and will not win, my daughter's heart. I want to become neither his father, nor my daughter's cousin," he added with a slight laugh. "Why, yes, to be sure! I had not thought about those relationships," exclaimed Violet, joining in his mirth. "But," she added, "Donald is so distant a relative of mine that, if that were the only objection, it need not, I think, stand in the way." "No, perhaps not. A greater objection to me, so far as I am concerned, would be the fact that, if married to an army officer, my daughter would be kept at a distance from me nearly all the time." "And to me, as well as to you, that would be an almost insurmountable objection; for Lu and I are now the closest and dearest of friends--bosom companions. I should hardly know what to do without her--the dear, sweet girl!" "Ah! it makes me very happy to hear and know that," he said with a glad smile, adding, "it is hardly news; for I have seen for a good while that you were very fond of each other." "Yes; we are like sisters. I should miss Lu almost more than I shall Rosie, as we are together so much more constantly. Oh, I don't like to think of it! and I sincerely hope it may be years before she learns to love any other man well enough to be willing to leave her sweet home under her father's roof." "A hope in which I join with all my heart," said her husband; "and one that I trust Donald is not going to ask me to resign." "If he does, just remind him of the exact terms of the answer you gave him at West Point," returned Violet in playful tones. "But now I think it is time for us to retire; do not you?" releasing herself from his embrace and rising to her feet as she spoke. "Yes," he said, "I would not have my wife miss her beauty sleep." CHAPTER XV. Lucilla was in bed but not asleep. She had retired to her room when the guests went to theirs, and without a formal good-night to her father, trusting to his coming to her there for a few moment's chat, as he almost always did. But he had not come, and she felt sorely disappointed. It was a beautiful, luxuriously furnished room, this bed chamber of hers--the view from its windows, a lovely one of carefully kept grounds, cultivated fields, woods, and streams; all looking their loveliest just now as seen by the silver light of the moon, which shone in upon her through rich lace curtains, gently wafted to and fro by the summer breeze as it came in laden with the sweet scent of flowers from the garden below. "What a sweet, lovely home I have! Oh, how much to be thankful for! good health, kind friends, and such a dear father!" she said half aloud; "but I want a good-night kiss and a word or two of fatherly affection, and it does seem as if I can't go to sleep without it. Oh, dear! can it be that he is displeased with me about anything? I am not conscious of having done anything he would disapprove." "Nor have you, so far as I know, daughter mine," said a pleasant voice close at her side, while a hand was laid tenderly on her head. "Oh, papa!" she cried joyously, starting up to a sitting posture as she spoke. "I did not know you were there--did not hear you come in; but I am so glad you have come!" "Are you?" he asked, seating himself on the side of the bed and drawing her into his arms. "Well, daughter, it is only for a moment, to bid you good-night, as usual, and see that you are in need of nothing. Tell me, are all your wants supplied?" "Yes, sir; now that I have my father here to give me his good-night kiss and blessing. Ah! papa dear, I do not know how I could ever live away from you again. I am so glad you no longer have to go sailing away over the ocean, leaving your children behind." "I am glad of it, too," he returned, "but I sometimes fear that the day may come when my dear eldest daughter will want to leave me for a home with someone else." "Indeed, father dear, you need not have the slightest fear of that," she said, laying her head against his breast with a low, happy laugh. "I am sure there isn't in the wide world any other man whom I could love half so well as I do you. I am just as glad to belong to you now as ever I was." "And don't want me to give you away?" "No, no, indeed!" she cried with energy. "Oh, papa! you surely are not thinking of such a thing? You have said, over and over again, that you would not,--at least not for years yet,--even if I wanted you to." "And I say the same now; so don't be wanting me to," he returned in jesting tone, and laying her down upon her pillow as he spoke. "Now go to sleep at once, that you may be ready to rise at your usual early hour and join your father in the morning stroll about the grounds. 'The Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace,'" he added in tender, solemn tones, his hand resting upon her head as he spoke. Then, with a good-night kiss upon her lips, he left her, and contented and happy she speedily passed into the land of dreams. The captain, passing through Grace's room to his own, paused for a moment at her bedside, bent over her, and kissed the sweet lips; but she slept on, unconscious of the caress. He found Violet still awake, repeated to her his little talk with Lucilla, and added, with evident satisfaction, "I feel convinced that, as yet, no one has made any impression upon her heart, that I, her father, still hold the fort there." "Yes; I have hardly a doubt of it," returned Violet; "and it may be many a long day before she is deluded into thinking there is any other man who begins to compare to him; something that I have known for years was not the case," she concluded with a happy laugh. The sun was hardly above the horizon when Lucilla awoke; but she sprang up hastily, with the thought that her father would soon be out in the grounds, and she wanted to be with him. There would be a great deal to attend to in preparation for their expected guests, and perhaps she could be of some assistance; at all events she would like to see all that was going on, and give her opinion on any doubtful subject. So she lost no time about attending to the duties of the hour and place, spending a little time upon her knees, asking for the watchful care of her Heavenly Father through all the day, that she might be kept from folly and sin, and have strength and wisdom to do every duty and meet every trial, and beseeching his blessing upon all her dear ones, not forgetting the dear brother so far away from home and kindred. Then she made a rapid but careful toilet, and hastened, with light, swift footsteps, down the broad stairway and out upon the veranda, where she found her father in consultation with Christine, the housekeeper. Blithe good-mornings were exchanged, Christine went back into the house, and father and daughter walked out together into the grounds. Preparations were going on for the entertainment of the expected guests, old and young, and Lucilla was not only permitted, but invited to give her opinion in regard to them all, and any suggestions that might occur to her; which she did frankly and fully, and with the result that more than one of them was adopted; for her father wished to please her and had great confidence in her opinion of such matters. There were croquet and tennis grounds, swings in the shade of the trees in the grove; inviting-looking seats there, and in other suitable places; there were shaded walks and winding paths through the woods; indeed, every sort of arrangement for recreation and pleasure that could be thought of and prepared for in the allotted space. Captain Raymond and his daughter walked about inspecting everything, until they had gone over the whole place, giving all needed directions to the workmen who were busied here and there with some alterations the captain had decided upon the previous day, then returned to the house, for it was nearing breakfast time. They found Violet, Grace, and the two younger children on the veranda. Morning greetings were exchanged, then Lucilla hurried to her rooms to make some changes in her dress and was coming down again when the breakfast bell rang. It was a cheerful, even merry, party that gathered about the table to partake of the meal, an excellent one; for the captain and Violet were most hospitable entertainers. The talk ran principally upon the sports that would enliven and entertain the company during the day; suggestions from any and every one being in order; and, by the time the meal was concluded, all felt that they had every prospect of a most enjoyable holiday. "The weather could not be more propitious than it is," remarked Captain Keith. "You began your enjoyment of it early, Miss Lu," turning to Lucilla. "I happened to be at my window and saw you and your father out in the grounds." "Yes," she said, "papa and I usually do take a stroll about them before breakfast. He is always an early riser. I inherit the taste for it from him and, being in excellent health, can indulge it without injury." "Which is something to be thankful for," he said with a smile. "Yes, indeed!" she returned heartily. "Health and strength are the greatest of earthly blessings. I would not part with them for any amount of money." "No; money cannot buy health and strength, though they may give one the ability to earn money. You, however, have a father able and willing to furnish all you may need of it." "Yes," said the captain in his pleasant way, "but that daughter of mine likes to make herself useful to me, and does so to such an extent that I really think she earns all she gets." "Oh, no, papa, not half!" exclaimed Lucilla, blushing with pleasure nevertheless. "And that reminds me that I have not asked about your mail this morning. Are there some letters to be answered on the typewriter?" "I have been as forgetful as yourself, daughter," her father answered with a slight laugh. "Scip" (to a servant in waiting), "is the mail bag on the library table?" "I think so, sah. Shall I fotch it hyar?" "Yes; bring it here to me." It was brought, opened, and found to contain letters for family and guests, besides newspapers and magazines. They were speedily distributed to the owners, read,--some of them aloud,--and their contents talked over. Then all adjourned to the library for the morning service of prayer, praise, and reading of the Scriptures, after which they scattered about the house and grounds. Captain Raymond's share of the mail had included some business letters, and he called upon Lucilla to use her typewriter in preparing his replies, which she did promptly and cheerfully. "Thank you, daughter," he said when they had finished, "you and your typewriter make my correspondence far less burdensome than it would be otherwise." "I am so glad, papa! so glad that I can be of at least a little help to you," she said joyously. "It is such a privilege, and such a pleasure!" "Dear child!" he said in response. Then, as the sound of wheels on the drive without came to their ears, "Ah! our guests are beginning to arrive, and we must go out and bid them welcome." Several carriage loads were already there, and others quickly followed till, in a very short time, all the expected relatives were present. Then mirth and jollity ruled the hour, all--old and young--seeming in gayest spirits and ready to join in any amusement that might be proposed. Mr. and Mrs. Croly were among the guests. She had gained so materially in health and strength that she was able--resting in an easy-chair upon the veranda--to watch the sports of the younger and healthier ones with interest and enjoyment; and to converse with one and another as they came in turn to chat with her for a time. At length, finding herself alone with Grandma Elsie for a while, she turned to her, saying in a sprightly way: "I am getting so much better under the skilful treatment of Dr. Conly that I ventured on quite a drive this morning, and we went to look at a little place, some ten or more acres in extent, about which your son Doctor Harold was telling us yesterday. It is on the river bank, the lawn sloping down to the water, and it is hardly farther from Ion than this place. It is for sale. The house is small, but pretty, and could easily be added to, and so made as large as one might wish." "Riverside is the name of the estate?" Mrs. Travilla said inquiringly. "Yes; a pretty one we both--Mr. Croly and I--think, and we have about decided to buy it and enlarge and beautify the dwelling for our children,--our son and your daughter,--if you think that would please dear Rosie." "I think it could not fail to do so," Mrs. Travilla replied, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "It will be a great pleasure to me to have our children so near, and I was thinking of making the purchase for them myself. It was only this morning I learned that the place was for sale." "Ah!" laughed Mrs. Croly, "don't try to get ahead of us. We want the place ourselves, and it won't hurt the young folks to wait for it till we are gone; especially as we intend it to be as much a home for them immediately as if they were sole proprietors." "And they will enjoy it all the more for having their kind parents with them," was Mrs. Travilla's pleased response. Then they fell to talking of alterations and additions to the dwelling, and plans for furnishing and decorating it and the grounds. "I am very glad indeed that you and your husband have decided to settle in this neighbourhood," said Mrs. Travilla; "glad that we are to have the pleasure of your society, and that Rosie's married home will not be at a distance from that of her childhood. I have been very fortunate in being able thus far to keep all my children near me." "Yes, I think so; and I do not wonder that they and you wish to keep together. I feel just so in regard to my one. Ah! who are those two ladies approaching on the driveway?" "One I call mamma," Mrs. Travilla said with a smile; "she is my father's second wife, and has been my dear mother since I was a little girl of ten. The other is Aunt Adelaide, a half sister of my father, who married a brother of Mamma Rose--Mr. Edward Allison of Philadelphia." "Ah, yes! I recognize Mrs. Dinsmore, now that they have drawn nearer, and Mrs. Allison as someone to whom I have been introduced; but I have met so many strangers in the last few days that I suppose I may be excused for not remembering her name and connection with you and our Rosie," she concluded with a smile, adding, "You will excuse me, I know, for claiming Rosie as mine as well as yours, because it is so sweet to me to have a daughter at long last." "I am very glad you feel it so," Mrs. Travilla returned with a sweet, sympathising look and smile, "and I hope my Rosie will prove to you the sweet and lovable daughter that she has always been to me." Just at that moment the other ladies joined them, and the four entered into a lively conversation, talking of Riverside and the improvements needed there, what a lovely home it would make for the Crolys, how pleasant it would be to have them so near, and how delightful for Rosie that thus she would escape the dreaded separation from her mother. "Yes," said Mrs. Croly, "I cannot tell you how glad I was to learn of this beautiful place, so near to Ion, for sale; for I felt badly over the thought that we were robbing Mrs. Travilla of the companionship of so sweet a daughter. Besides I am anxious to remain in this neighbourhood, that I may continue under the care of Dr. Conly; for he has helped me more than any other physician I ever tried." That remark seemed gratifying to all three of her listeners, and Mrs. Dinsmore said: "We are glad to hear it; for Dr. Conly is dear to us all, as relative, friend, and physician." "He has a lovely young wife," was Mrs. Croly's next remark; "and a darling baby boy of whom they are both very proud and fond." "Yes," said Mrs. Travilla, "it does one good to see how happy they are in the possession of it and of each other. Arthur remained single for years; I think to provide, or assist in providing, for his mother, sisters, and younger brothers, but he seems to be reaping his reward now in having a wife who is a great comfort and blessing to him." "She is that, indeed!" said Mrs. Allison emphatically. "Ah! speak of angels--here they come!" as Dr. Conly and his young wife were seen approaching, followed by a nurse carrying the infant. In another minute they had joined the group on the veranda, where the doctor speedily ensconced his wife in an easy-chair, placed himself in another by her side, and taking the baby from the nurse, held it up with a look of fatherly pride, asking the older ladies, "Isn't this a pretty fine specimen of babyhood, considering that he is my son?" "Yes, indeed!" laughed Mrs. Allison, "it is singular that so poor a specimen of manhood as my nephew, Arthur Conly, should have so fine a son. But he may have got his good looks from his mother; though I do not perceive that she has lost any." "Now, Aunt Adelaide, after that you will do well to take care not to fall ill and get into the doctor's hands," laughed Marian. "My dear," said the doctor, "can you suppose I object to having my wife praised? or my son, even at his father's expense?" "No, I know you do not," she returned. "I verily believe you would sacrifice everything for him except his mother." "Did he let you take part in any of the games?" asked Adelaide. "Oh, I didn't ask to!" said Marian. "I have grown so lazy that I thought it more fun to watch the others." "Captain Raymond and Violet seem to be enjoying tennis as much as any of the rest," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore, who was watching the game with keen interest. "Yes," said Dr. Conly, "all--old and young--seem very happy and interested in their various sports; and I think are gaining health and strength from the vigorous exercise in this pure air." Most of the company were engaged in games of one kind or another, but some few were wandering about in the alleys of the garden or wood, or sitting on the grass or some rustic bench, chatting sociably, as cousins and connections might be expected to do. Dr. Dick Percival and Maud Dinsmore were among the latter. They had had a game of tennis and were now refreshing themselves with a saunter through the wood. "I admire this place--Woodburn," said Maud. "Captain Raymond has, I think, made a sort of earthly paradise of it; though for that matter one might say pretty much the same of The Oaks, Ion, and several of the other family estates." "Yes; including those down in Louisiana," returned Dick--"Viamede, Magnolia Hall, and a few others. By the way, you have never been down there, have you?" "No, never; but I am hoping that Cousin Elsie will invite me one of these days." "Suppose you don't wait for that, but accept an invitation from me," suggested Dick, giving her a very lover-like look and smile. "From you?" she exclaimed, her tone expressing surprise and a little bewilderment, "are you staying there?" "At Viamede? No, not now. I have bought a plantation not very far from there, and am trying to make it equal in beauty to Viamede. It will, of course, take some time to accomplish that; but, to me, Torriswood seems even now a very winsome place. And if I had my cousin Maud installed there, as mistress, I should be one of the happiest of men." "Oh! you want me to become your housekeeper?" "Yes; housekeeper, homekeeper, heartkeeper--everything! Oh, Maud darling! can't you understand that I love you and want you for my wife, my best, nearest, and dearest friend, my heart's idol? I love you in a way that I never loved anyone else. Can't you love me in the same way--as something nearer and dearer than a mere cousin?" Maud was blushing, trembling--wholly taken by surprise and hardly knowing whether to be glad or sorry. "Oh, Dick! how can you?" she stammered. "We are cousins, you know, and--and cousins ought not to--to marry. I have often heard Cousin Arthur say so." "Not first cousins, nor second, but we are neither; we are far enough removed to be entirely safe so far as that is concerned. So dearest, you need not hesitate on that account, if you feel that you can love me well enough to be happy as my wife. Can you? If you cannot now, I may be able to teach you to by clever courting. But I need a wife--I do indeed; and I don't know how to wait. Don't make me wait. Can't you give me your love--at least a little of it?" "Oh, Dick! do you really care so much for me and my love--really love me in that way?" she asked low and tremulously, her eyes full of happy tears. "I never thought of such a thing before; but--but I do believe I can--I do love you better than any other of my cousins; better than--than anybody else in the world." "Ah! dearest, you have made me very, very happy," he said joyously; "happier than I ever was in my life before, and I shall go home far richer than I came." As he spoke he drew her to a rustic seat in a nook so concealed by the trees and shrubbery and the winding of the path that they were entirely hidden from view, and, putting an arm about her he held her close with silent caresses that seemed very sweet to her; for she had been an orphan for years, and often hungry for love greater than that of brother or sister. "Maud, dear," he said presently, "we have given ourselves to each other, and why should we delay the final step? I do not want to go back to my home alone; will you not go with me? It would make me the happiest of men." "But--but you are going very soon, I understood--in a few days." "Yes; it would hardly do for me to wait longer than that; but what is the use of waiting? We know each other now as thoroughly as we ever can till we live together as man and wife." "But I should have no time to prepare my wardrobe----" "It is good enough, and can be easily added to when you are Mrs. Percival," he said with a low, gleeful laugh. "I am ready to take you, my darling, if you were without a single change of raiment. I do not think you know it, dearest, but I am no longer the poor relation I used to be. I have had a large practise, worked hard, and made some very fortunate investments, so that I can truly say that I am a fairly wealthy man. Ah, do give yourself into my keeping at once. I am heartily tired of my lonely bachelor life, and it will be great joy to me if I can go back, not to it, but to that of a happy married man. How a dear little wife--such as my cousin Maud would make--would brighten and make cheery that lonely home. Can you find it in your heart to refuse me the favour I ask, sweet one?" "I do not like to refuse you anything, dear Dick," she returned; "but it is all so sudden and unexpected; do let me have a little time to think it over and--and consult my friends and yours." "Ah, well! I will try to wait patiently," he sighed; "wait, hoping you will grant my request." "Oh, Dick, dear Dick! I really do feel like doing anything in the world that I can to make you happy. I will do whatever you wish, no matter what other people may say. Only," she added, as if with sudden recollection, "I suppose we must ask Uncle Dinsmore's consent." "Yes; but I have no fear that it will be withheld. He and I are no strangers to each other; he is my uncle, too, you know, and was my guardian while I was young enough to need one. I think he will be pleased that we are going into partnership,--you and I,--and will agree with me that the sooner we begin the better." "Provided that allows me time to get properly ready," she supplemented with an arch look and smile. "What preparation do you need?" he asked. "I am more than willing to take you just as you are. You look perfectly charming in that dress, and, for a wedding dress, the one you wore as bridesmaid to Cousin Rosie seems to me entirely suitable. Indeed, my darling, you look bewitchingly pretty in any and every thing you put on." "Oh, you flatterer!" she laughed. "I can't expect other people to see with your eyes; but, after all, the principal thing is to please you. That will be my business for the rest of my life, I suppose," she added, giving him a look of ardent affection. "And mine to please you, dearest. Shall we not follow Rosie's good example in making no secret of our engagement; at least so far as our own people here assembled are concerned? Will you let me take you back to the house now and introduce you there as my promised wife?" "Do just as you please about it, Cousin Dick," she said. "You are older and wiser than I." "I certainly am older," he said laughingly as they rose, and he gave her his arm; "but if I am wiser in some respects, you doubtless are in some others. Perhaps we will find out all about that when we get to housekeeping together." Mr. Dinsmore had joined the group on the veranda. Mr. Lilburn and Annis, Captain Raymond and Violet were there, too, and some others of the married people, among them Mr. Horace Dinsmore, Jr., of The Oaks, and his wife, as Dick and Maud came up the steps together. He led her directly to his uncle. "We have come for your blessing, sir, Cousin Maud and I," he said in clear, distinct tones. "Will you give her to me? She is willing that you should, and I promise to do all in my power to provide for her and make her happy." "Why, children, this is a surprise--but a pleasant one," exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, I give you my blessing and wish you many happy years together." Then the others crowded about with exclamations of surprise and pleasure, congratulations, good wishes, and questions. "How long had they been lovers?" "Did they expect to marry very soon?" "Yes, almost immediately," Dick answered to that last. "What was there to wait for? They were old enough to know their own minds, he was well able to support a wife, and had a home ready for her. It needed some improvements to be sure, but they could be made all the better with Maud there to give her opinion and advice." "But she must have time to prepare her trousseau," said young Mrs. Dinsmore. "I have just been coaxing her out of that notion," laughed Dick, regarding his promised wife with admiring eyes. "I want her, and the wedding finery can be attended to somewhat later. I don't think anything could be prettier or more becoming than the dress she wore at Cousin Rosie's wedding, and why can't she be married in that?" "Why, it would do, I suppose!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinsmore. "It is very pretty and becoming, and, with a bridal veil added, would make a suitable and handsome wedding dress." "A wedding dress? Who is going to be married now?" cried a girlish voice, and Sydney and Walter were seen coming up the steps. All turned at the sound of her voice, and Dick answered: "Your sister and I, Cousin Syd. Are you willing to take me for a brother?" "You!" she exclaimed, "you, Cousin Dick? Why, I never dreamed of such a thing! But I have no objection; no, not the least in the world--except that you'll be taking my sister away from me; I don't like that at all." "No, Coz, that is altogether a mistake," Dick hastened to say. "I don't want to separate you and Maud, and you have only to come along with us to escape that. You will find plenty of room and a warm welcome at Torriswood." "Thank you," she said; "but it's so sudden I can't realise it at all yet. When did you make up your minds to get married?" "Half an hour ago, perhaps; I forgot to look at my watch to take exact note of the time." "Oh! is that the way you do when you are taking note of a patient's pulse, or the time for administering a dose of medicine?" But Dick was saved the trouble of replying, as relatives, older and younger, came crowding up to learn what was going on. Chester and Frank were as much surprised as Sydney had been, but by no means displeased. They liked Dick as a cousin and had no objection to accepting him as a brother-in-law. The newly affianced had no frowns or objections to meet; everybody seemed pleased and interested, and the only queries were as to when and where the marriage should take place. "It should be at The Oaks, of course," said young Mr. Dinsmore. "That is her home, and has been for years." "And it was there mamma was married," said Violet, "and Maud might stand in the very same place." "Yes, I should be glad to have her do so," said Mrs. Travilla; "and she and Dick need ask nothing more than that their marriage may prove as happy a one as mine." "Yes, Cousin Elsie, I agree with you in that," said Maud. "I will be married at The Oaks, if Dick is satisfied to have it so." "Entirely," he said; "and now it remains only to fix upon the day and hour." That question seemed more difficult to settle than the other; but Dick finally had his way, and the morning of the day on which he was to start for the far South was fixed upon as the time for the ceremony. The other relatives from a distance would delay their departure long enough to be present, the older Mr. Cyril Keith was chosen as the officiating minister, and everyone seemed satisfied with all the arrangements. CHAPTER XVI. It had been a very enjoyable, but an exciting day; the little ones were weary with their sports, and all the guests, except those who were making Woodburn their temporary home, departed shortly after an early tea, and directly after the evening service of prayer and praise the ladies of the family retired to their rooms. At length Captains Raymond and Keith found themselves alone together upon the veranda. "Raymond," said the younger man, breaking a pause in their talk, "I have a great favour to ask of you." "Ah! what is it, Keith? Surely you do not need to be told that it would give me pleasure to do you any favour in my power." "Ah, I fear you hardly realise how much you are promising. Do you remember the talk we had some years ago at West Point?" "Yes; but do you remember that the subject was not to be referred to--at least the question you asked not to be repeated--for six years, and that it is now only five?" "Yes; but one year cannot make much difference, and it is highly probable that I may not be able to get here next year. Am I asking too much in begging you to let me speak now--before I go? Understand I am not asking leave to take her--your beautiful, charming daughter--away from you now, but only to tell the story of my love; for it has come to that, that I am deeply in love with her; only to tell the story and try to win a return of my affection and a promise that, at some future day, I may claim her for my own." "I would rather not, Keith; she is only a child," Captain Raymond replied in moved tones. "But since you are so urgent, and are so old and valued a friend, I don't like to refuse you. You may speak to her; but with the clear understanding, remember, that I will on no account allow her to marry for some time to come; I do not want to allow it before she is twenty-four or five." "Thank you," said Keith heartily; "that will be a long time to wait, but she is well worth waiting for. But do you think I have any reason to hope to win her--that she likes me in the very least?" "I am certain she has no dislike to you; that she feels kindly toward you as a relative and friend of the family; but I tell you candidly that I am well-nigh convinced that she has never thought of looking upon you as a lover; and it is a great happiness to me to be able to believe that she still loves her father better than any other man living." "Still it is possible you may be mistaken," Keith rejoined after a moment's discouraged silence, "and since I have your permission, I shall try what clever courting will do for me." A momentary silence followed, broken by Captain Raymond. "I fear I am a foolish, fond father, Keith. I have a very strong friendship for you, and there is no man to whom I would sooner trust my daughter's happiness, but yet I cannot wish you success in winning her; because, being in the army, you would necessarily take her to a distance from her home and me. But, as I have said, you may try, though with the full understanding that not for some years to come will I resign my custody of her. She is my own dear child, and, in my esteem, still much too young to leave my fostering care and assume the duties and responsibilities of wifehood and motherhood." "I don't blame you, Raymond, and shall not try to persuade her to go against her father's wishes in regard to the time of assuming the cares and duties you speak of," said Keith, heaving an involuntary sigh at thought of the years of bachelorhood still evidently in store for him. "I only wish I were sure of her even after serving seven years, as Jacob did for Rachel." "Well, I shall not cheat you as Laban did poor Jacob," returned Captain Raymond pleasantly. "By the way, Cousins Dick and Maud made quick work of their courting, and the marriage is to follow very speedily. In most cases such speedy work would be risky enough, but they know all about each other--at least so far as a couple may before the knot is tied which makes them one flesh. I think very highly of both, and hope it is going to be a most happy marriage." "I hope it may, indeed," said Keith. "Maud will be hurried with her preparations; more so than most ladies would like, I presume." "Yes; but really it will be just as well, I think, under all the circumstances. To-morrow we are all to spend one half the day at Roselands, the other at Pine Grove; the next day we go to Beechwood; then Thursday we are to have the wedding at The Oaks, and that night, or the next morning, most of the friends from a distance contemplate starting for their homes." "Yes, I among the rest," said Keith. "I need hardly say, for surely you cannot doubt it, that I should be glad to have you remain longer with us if Uncle Sam would permit it," said Captain Raymond with cordial hospitality. "Thank you," returned Keith, "but that is more than I could expect even were there time to ask it, which there is not." Then, rising, "It strikes me that it is high time to be making ready for bed. Good-night, Raymond, my good friend; sweet sleep and pleasant dreams to you," and, with the last word, he held out his hand. Captain Raymond grasped it heartily, saying, "Good-night, Keith; I wish you the same. May He who never slumbers nor sleeps have us all in his kind care and keeping." In the principal event of the past day--the engagement of Dick Percival and Maud Dinsmore--and the talk of other days and events which ensued, Mrs. Elsie Travilla's thoughts had been carried back to the happy time of her own betrothal and marriage to the one whom she had so loved as friend, lover, and husband. She seemed to see him again as he was then, to hear his low breathed words of tenderest affection, and her tears fell fast at the thought that never again in this life should their sweet music fall upon her ear. But well she knew that the separation was only temporary; that they should meet again in the better land, where sickness, sorrow, and death can never enter, meet never more to part. She was alone in her boudoir, and, wiping away her tears, she knelt down in prayer, asking for strength to bear patiently and submissively the loss that was at times so grievous, and craving God's blessing upon the young relatives so soon to take upon them the marriage vows. Nor did she forget her own daughter so recently united to the man of her choice, or any other of her dear ones. Her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she thought of them all, healthy, happy, and in comfortable circumstances; her dear old father and his lovely wife still spared to her, and the dear grandchildren who seemed to renew to her the youthful days of her own children, the fathers and mothers of these. Her thoughts were still full of motherly and grandmotherly cares and joys as she laid her head upon her pillow and passed into the land of dreams. When she awoke again it was to find the sun shining and the air full of the breath of flowers and the morning songs of the little birds in the tree tops just beyond her windows. She rose and knelt beside her bed, while her heart sent up its song of gratitude and praise, its petitions for grace and strength according to her day, asking the same for her dear ones also, and that she and they might be kept from accident, folly, and sin. As she made her toilet her thoughts again referred to Maud and her present needs, which could not well be supplied for lack of time. "Can I not help the dear girl in some way?" she asked herself. Then a sudden thought came to her and she hastened to a large closet, unlocked a trunk standing there, and took from it a package carefully wrapped in a large towel. Carrying it to a sofa in her boudoir she unpinned it and brought to light a dress of richest white satin, having an overskirt of point lace, and, beside it, a veil of the same costly material. "As beautiful as ever," she sighed softly to herself. "And the dress would, I think, fit Maud, with little or no alteration. It would be something of a trial to part with them permanently, but surely I can spare them to Maud for a few hours. It would give her pleasure, for she would look lovely in them, and every woman wants to look her very best at her bridal." But the breakfast bell was ringing, and, putting them carefully back in the trunk and relocking it, she hastened down to the dining room. There were a number of guests in the house, among them the Emburys of Magnolia Hall, and, naturally, the talk at the table ran principally upon the approaching marriage of Molly's brother, Dr. Percival. "I am much pleased," she said; "Maud will make a dear little sister for me, and I hope will find me a good and kind one to her. And if Sydney goes along she will be about as good as another. Perhaps Bob and she will get up another match, and then she will be my sister. I wish Bob could have come along with the rest of us." "Yes, I wish he could," said Mrs. Travilla. "He must take his turn at another time, leaving Dick to look after the patients." "I think Maud feels a trifle disappointed that she has no time to get up a grand wedding dress," Molly ran on, "but the one she wore as Rosie's bridesmaid is very pretty and becoming. Still it is not white; and I heard her say that she had always been determined to be married in white, if she married at all." "Oh, well," said Mr. Embury, "the getting married is the chief thing, and, after it is all over, it won't matter much whether it was done in white or some other colour. I presume most folks would think it better to be married even in black than not at all." "I think that depends very much upon what sort of husband one gets," laughed Zoe. "I got married without any bridal finery; but it was a very fortunate thing for me after all," giving her husband a proudly affectionate glance. "Yes," he said with a smile, "and I wouldn't exchange the wife I got in that way for the most exquisitely attired bride in Christendom." Mrs. Travilla kept her own counsel in regard to her plans for Maud's relief, until breakfast and family worship were over; but then invited Molly to her boudoir, brought out the dress and veil she had been looking at, and disclosed her plan for Maud. Molly was delighted. "Oh, cousin, how good in you!" she cried. "I think Maud will be wild with joy to be so nicely brought out of her difficulty. For the dress is splendid, and, as you say, hardly out of the present fashion in its make-up. And the veil is just too lovely for anything! Fully as handsome as Rosie's was, and I thought it the very handsomest I had ever seen." "Then I shall telephone at once to The Oaks," Mrs. Travilla said, and, passing out and down to the hall below, she did so. Calling for Maud, she asked her to come over to Ion at once as she wished to consult her on an important matter requiring prompt decision; but she would not detain her long. Much wondering, Maud replied that she would be there in a few minutes; the carriage being at the door, and Mr. Dinsmore offering to drive her over immediately. Mrs. Travilla gave orders to a servant that on Miss Dinsmore's arrival she should be brought directly to her boudoir; Mr. Dinsmore might come also, if he wished; and presently both appeared. They were warmly greeted by Mrs. Travilla and Mrs. Embury, who was still with her. "I have something to show you, Maud, and an offer to make," Elsie said with a smile, leading the young girl forward and pointing to the dress and veil disposed about an easy-chair in a way to exhibit them in all their beauty. "Oh!" cried Maud, "how lovely! how lovely! I never saw them before. Whose were they? Where did they come from, Cousin Elsie?" "I wore them when--when I was married," Elsie answered in low, sad tones; "they have not been used since, but I will lend them to you, dear Maud, if you would like to use them for your bridal." "Oh, Cousin Elsie! wouldn't I? How good, how good in you! I am too hurried to buy anything, and that lace is far beyond my purse if I had any amount of time." "Then I am glad I thought of offering you the use of these. But now I think it would be well for you to try on the dress and see what--if any--alteration it needs. We will go into my dressing room, and I will be your tire-woman," she added, gathering up the dress as she spoke, while Mrs. Embury took the veil. The three passed into the dressing room, leaving Mr. Dinsmore sole occupant of the boudoir, he taking up a book to amuse himself with while they were gone. Only a few minutes had passed when they returned, Maud looking very bridelike in the dainty satin and the veil. "Bravo, cousin! You look every inch a bride, and a lovely one at that!" he exclaimed. "I advise you by all means to accept my sister's offer. You could not do better." "I could hardly want to do better," said Maud. "Yes, Cousin Elsie, I accept it with a world of thanks. Oh, I never dreamed of having anything so lovely to wear for my bridal dress! And I need not care that the finery does not really belong to me, for you know the old saying: "'Something borrowed, Something blue, Something old and Something new.' I'll borrow these, put a bow of blue ribbon on my under waist, and--ah! the dress and this lovely lace, veil and all, will be enough of something old!" she concluded with a light, gleeful laugh. "Dear child, don't be superstitious!" Mrs. Travilla said with a rather sad sort of smile, putting an arm round her and giving her a tender kiss. "I hope and trust you will be very happy with dear Dick, for he is a noble fellow; but it will depend more upon yourself--upon your being a true, good, and loving wife--than on what you wear when you give yourself to him, or at any other time." "Yes, I know, dear cousin," said Maud, returning the caress; "that was only my jest. I wouldn't be afraid to marry Dick in any kind of dress, or willing to marry anybody else in any kind of one. I didn't know that I was in love with him till he proposed, but now I feel that it would be impossible to love anybody else; almost impossible to live without him and his love." "I am glad, very glad to hear it," Elsie said, "and I hope and expect that you will make a very happy couple--sharing each other's cares, toils, and troubles, as well as the joys and blessings of life." "Yes, cousin dear; if we don't it shall not be my fault," Maud returned with emotion. "I do really want to be everything to Dick and make his life as bright and as happy as I can; and I know that is just how he feels toward me, dear fellow!" "That's right, Maud," said Mr. Dinsmore heartily, "and I think you and Dick have every prospect of making a happy couple. Well," rising as he spoke, "I am going down to have a little chat with father and mother, then must hasten home to attend to some matters about work to be done on the plantation. I suppose you and your package will be ready to be taken along, Maud?" "Yes; if Cousin Elsie is willing to trust the handsome thing in my care now," Maud replied, looking inquiringly at Mrs. Travilla. "Quite willing; for I know you will be careful of them," Mrs. Travilla replied with her own sweet smile. "I will fold them up and get the package ready while you resume the dress in which you came," she added as her brother left the room. "Maud," said Mrs. Embury, "if I were you I should keep this thing a secret from everybody but your sister and Cousin Sue, until your appearance in all the glory of this satin and lace at the time of the marriage ceremony. Think of the surprise and pleasure your unexpected grandeur in it will cause." "But what if the stunning surprise should have a bad effect upon somebody," laughed Maud. "I think I'll risk it, however. Oh, Cousin Elsie! I do not know how to thank you for this great kindness!" she added with tears of joy and gratitude in her eyes. "Then don't try, Maud, dear," Mrs. Travilla returned with a bright, sweet look into the young girl's face. "The happiness I can see that it gives you is even a greater reward than the trifling kindness deserves. And how fortunate it is that the dress fits so perfectly--as if it had just been made for you." A few moments later Maud and Mr. Dinsmore were on their way back to The Oaks. They found Mrs. Sue Dinsmore and Sydney on the veranda, waiting in eager curiosity to learn on what business Maud had been wanted at Ion. "To receive and bring home this package," returned Maud gaily to their excited questioning. "Come with me up to my room, and I will display to you its contents. You come, too, Cousin Horace, that you may witness their surprise and dismay. There, don't say you haven't time, for it needn't take you five minutes." "Well, perhaps I can spare that many," he returned laughingly, following the three as they tripped up the stairway. Maud made quick work of opening the package and displaying its contents to their view. "Oh, oh, how beautiful! how lovely! perfectly exquisite!" were the excited exclamations of Mrs. Dinsmore and Sydney. "Whose are they? where did they come from?" "They are Cousin Elsie's wedding dress and veil," replied Maud. "And she lends them to me to be married in. But it is to be a secret. Nobody is to know anything about it till I appear with them on--when I am to add the name of Percival to those I already bear," she concluded in a tone that seemed to indicate that she was jesting to hide an inclination to indulge in tears. "I highly approve," said Mrs. Dinsmore. "The things--dress and veil--are beautiful, and will make our bride look bewitchingly lovely; I strongly approve, too, of the plan of keeping the matter a close secret until the bride enters the room on the bridegroom's arm. But does the dress fit you, Maud?" "Perfectly; as if it had just been made for me!" exclaimed Maud in tones of delight. "Oh, I do feel so glad, and so thankful to dear Cousin Elsie! I fear it must be somewhat trying to her feelings to see me wear it; but she is not one to hesitate for that when she has an opportunity to do a kindness. She is a good Christian if ever there was one." "Indeed she is!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinsmore and Sydney in a breath. Mr. Dinsmore had already left the room. "But now, girls, we must bestir ourselves and make ready for the day," added Mrs. Dinsmore. "You know the morning is to be spent by the whole connection at Pinegrove, and the afternoon at Roselands. It won't take you long to get ready, will it?" "No, only a few minutes," both answered, and she hurried away to complete her own preparations. "Oh, Maud, dear!" said Sydney, taking up the bridal veil and gazing admiringly upon it, "I am so glad Cousin Elsie has lent you this bit of loveliness, and that beautiful dress to be married in. You will look just bewitching; and how proud Dick will be of his bride. I wish he was here now to see these charming things. Do you mean to tell him about them and show them to him beforehand?" "I don't know; I really haven't thought about it yet," Maud answered. "But we must make haste, now, and not keep Cousin Horace and Sue waiting." CHAPTER XVII. At Woodburn Captain Raymond and his eldest daughter had had their usual early ramble together about the grounds; then, coming in, had found a large mail, containing a number of business letters for him, awaiting them. "I hope they are such as I can answer for you on the typewriter, papa," Lucilla said cheerfully. "Yes," he replied; "if you have time and inclination to do so." "Always time to work for my father," she said, giving him a bright, sweet smile, as she seated herself before the machine. "Then we will do it at once," he said, returning the smile as he uncovered the machine and put the paper in place for her. "'Business before pleasure' is a good rule, and my dear, helpful daughter makes it an easier one for me to follow than it would be without her assistance." "I am so glad it does, papa; so glad I am of some use to you," she returned, blushing with pleasure as she spoke. "I know you are, daughter dear, else I should not call upon you for these services," he said heartily; then, glancing over a letter he had just opened, he began dictating. He had not said anything to her about the talk he and Donald Keith had had the night before, nor did he intend to. So sure of the result was he that it did not seem at all necessary, and he thought the knowledge of what was before her would only cause her embarrassment and discomfort. He did not know what opportunity Keith might seize, and it seemed better to leave her in ignorance of his intentions. "Is that all, father?" she asked presently, when several letters had been written. "Yes, daughter," he replied; "and now we can feel free for the day. I hope it will be a pleasant one to you." "I expect it to be, papa," she returned; "Pinegrove is a beautiful place, and the Howards are delightful people. No relation to me, but tolerably near cousins to Mamma Vi, you know." "Yes; Mrs. Howard being half sister to her grandfather," he said with an amused look. "They can hardly be called near relatives, but are very estimable people, and I think the half day may be passed very pleasantly with them and the visiting relatives." "I like Flora Howard. Papa, don't you think she might make a nice wife for Captain Keith, if only they should take a fancy to each other?" "I hadn't thought of it. She is rather young--not much older than my daughter Lulu, I judge; so had better not be thinking of marriage for years to come." "Yes, sir; but a good many girls do, you know; girls that haven't such a dear, good father as mine to make them feel that they never want to leave him for anybody else." "You are sure you don't want to leave yours?" he asked with a searching, though smiling look into her face. "Oh, papa, you can't doubt it, I am sure!" she exclaimed, giving him a look of ardent affection. "No, I do not," he returned; "I am very sure--since you have told me so at least a dozen times--that my dear eldest daughter loves me better than she does any other man living, and wants me to keep her all my own for years to come." "Yes, indeed, papa," she said with a happy laugh, "that is just what I want you to do." "Then we entirely agree. There is the breakfast bell, and I hope my daughter feels ready to obey its summons." "Yes, sir; it is a welcome sound." It was a bright and cheerful party that presently gathered about the table, and a lively conversation was carried on while they partook of the tempting viands. The new home about to be prepared for Rosie, its present condition, the beauty of the situation, the grounds, the building, and the improvements to be made by alterations and additions, were themes dilated upon for a time; then the approaching marriage of Dick and Maud came under discussion, and the questions were broached whether she would wear the dress she had worn as Rosie's bridesmaid, and whether she would have the same attendants. "I hope she will," little Elsie said. "I'd like to be flower girl again, and my dress is all ready, so that it wouldn't make any trouble or expense." "That is very thoughtful in you, little sister," laughed Lucilla. "I am really sorry there is no time or opportunity to buy presents for Maud," remarked Violet in a regretful tone. "Yes, it seems a pity," said Captain Raymond; "but perhaps they can be sent on to her later. If people will marry in haste they will have to take the consequences. I hope that in this case one of them will not be repenting at leisure." "I don't believe it will," said Violet. "They are of the same kith and kin, and know pretty much all about each other." "Keith," said Captain Raymond, "send your plate up again; I see it is almost empty." "Thank you, no; I want to save some appetite for the later breakfast that I am told I must share with the rest of you at Pinegrove. Our good friends there might feel hurt should I do it scant justice." "How soon do we go, papa?" asked Grace. "As soon after prayers as the ladies are dressed and ready." "The little girls and boys too, papa?" asked Ned somewhat anxiously. "Elsie and I are to go, aren't we?" "Oh, yes, my son, and I hope will have a very pleasant time. I am glad I can trust you to be good, well-behaved children." Donald Keith was on the watch for an opportunity to tell to Lucilla the story of his love, but none offered. They drove to Pinegrove, and afterward to Roselands, in the same carriage, but it had a number of other occupants, and the conversation was general. But, fortunately for Lucilla, she had no suspicion of his designs upon her, so was entirely at her ease with him. The Pinegrove party was a success, everybody enjoying it fully; the very young in playing games, the older ones strolling about the grounds, chatting, laughing, singing. The breakfast, quite a grand affair, was served about noon, and some two hours after it was over they all left the grove for Roselands. Little had been said at Pinegrove about the approaching marriage, but it came under discussion at Roselands, and to the extreme satisfaction of the two little Elsies it was decided that they should act as flower girls, as they had at Rosie's wedding. The same bridesmaids and maid of honour were chosen also; with the understanding that they should all wear the same dresses worn as Rosie's attendants. "And, of course, you will wear yours, Maud," said Laura Howard. "It is lovely and very becoming, and the shade so delicate that I should think it would do almost, if not quite, as well as if it were white." "It is very pretty, and as becoming as any I own," Maud said with a slight smile. "I haven't time to buy another, and, if one's bridegroom is all right, it doesn't really matter whether the wedding dress is perfectly white or not." "Certainly not," laughed Dick. "I should rather by far marry the right woman in a black calico than the wrong one in the handsomest of white satins; even with Brussels or point lace on it in abundance." "Well, then, I may feel entirely easy," Maud said, echoing his laugh, "for I shall certainly be better and more appropriately attired than in a black dress, or calico of any colour." "Of course you will," said Grace, "I think that dress of yours is lovely and extremely becoming. No one need be ashamed of such a wedding dress as that." "And I am determined that she shall have a lovely wedding," said Mrs. Sue Dinsmore; "as much like what I have been told Sister Elsie's was as possible. The house shall be trimmed with abundance of flowers, and the bride and groom shall stand in the very same spot that their predecessors did; and I dare say the refreshments will be pretty nearly a reproduction of what were served that evening; as nearly as I can manage it, at all events." "It really won't matter if there are some added luxuries, my dear," her husband remarked in a jesting tone, and with a twinkle of fun in his eye. "No, I presume not; it will be better to err on that side than on the other," she returned demurely. "I mean, however, to make up to poor Maud for the lack of a new wedding dress; at least so far as I can." "As I do," said Mrs. Travilla, smiling kindly upon the expectant bride. "And it is only the pressure of Dick's haste--the lack of time for it--that keeps her brothers from providing her with as handsome a wedding outfit as could be desired," remarked Chester, looking slightly annoyed and hurt. "Yes, Chester, we all know that," a chorus of voices exclaimed, his Uncle Dinsmore adding: "And as we are all relatives or connections, it really matters very little. Dick may be thankful--and I don't in the least doubt that he is--to get Maud, without considering how she is attired, or of what her wardrobe consists." "I say amen to that, uncle," smiled Dick, "and shall only enjoy speedily supplying anything lacking in her wardrobe. I'll be glad, indeed, to have the right." "Very good in you, Dick; but it isn't the bridegroom's place to supply the trousseau," said Chester, only half mollified. "And there is no occasion, seeing her brothers are able to do it, and willing, to say nothing of her own means." "Oh, Ches, don't be vexed," said Maud. "It will all be right; I have a very good wardrobe, and don't mean to let Dick buy anything for me this long while." At which Dick laughed meaningly, as much as to say: "In regard to that I shall do as I please or think best." Chester was somewhat out of sorts; he did not like to have his sister hurried into marriage without a trousseau, and he had noticed something that displeased him still more in Captain Keith's manner toward Lucilla Raymond. It was hard, very hard, he thought, that her father would not allow him to tell her the story of his love. He would have been still more indignant had he known that Keith was allowed that privilege. As for Keith, he was looking out for an opportunity to avail himself of the father's permission; not very hopefully, but still not in entire despair; thinking that clever courting might perhaps win her in the end. And he felt that she was worth much effort and long waiting for. The afternoon passed quickly and the party broke up early, partly because of the necessary preparations for to-morrow's wedding. The Oaks family, having the most of that to attend to, were the first to leave, and the others soon followed. CHAPTER XVIII. Ever since gaining her father's permission to tell Lucilla the story of his love, Captain Keith had been watching for a favourable opportunity to do so, but thus far without avail. "Now," he thought, as they drove on the homeward way from Roselands to Woodburn, "I must try to get a few moments alone with her this evening." He did not succeed, however; there were still several guests besides himself, and Lucilla seemed to be always in request for conversation, or taking part in some game. And directly after the evening service she slipped away to her own apartments and was seen no more that night. In the morning it was equally impossible to catch her alone for even a moment, so busy and excited were all with regard to what was to be the great event of the day. The ladies began their toilets soon after breakfast and were not seen again until about to enter the carriages which were to carry them to The Oaks; this time Keith had not even the pleasure of being in the same vehicle with Lucilla. Then, arrived at their destination, the young girls vanished from his sight, going into the dressing room appointed for their use in robing themselves for the ceremony. Lucilla and Grace were to be bridesmaids,--Laura Howard, also,--and Sydney maid of honour. Only a few minutes before their arrival Dick had been admitted to the room where his bride sat arrayed in her wedding attire--the beautiful dress and veil provided by the kindness of her Cousin Elsie. "Oh, my darling!" he exclaimed in astonishment, "how lovely you are and how beautifully dressed. This is not the dress you spoke of wearing,--this rich white satin,--and the veil. Why, Rosie's own were not handsomer!" "No, I think not," said Maud, smiling at his pleasure. "They are dear Cousin Elsie's own wedding garments, kindly lent to me because I had no time to procure such for myself; and I was willing--yes, very glad to borrow them, because they are so lovely and becoming, and because, you know, it is said to be good luck to have something old to wear, as well as something new. I hope my bridegroom approves?" "He could not do anything else, seeing how lovely his bride looks in them," Dick replied, putting an arm about her and holding her close with more than one tender caress. Then, holding her off a little for another and closer inspection, "Oh, Maud, darling, how lovely you are!" he exclaimed. "I feel a rich and happy man to think you are all my own, my very own. Dearest, it shall not be my fault if you do not find yourself a happy woman in the sweet, new home to which I am about to take you." "Dick, dear Dick, I do not doubt that I shall be happy," she said softly, lifting to his eyes that were full of happy tears; "if I am not, I am sure it will be no fault of yours." But footsteps were heard approaching and he took his arm from her waist and stood beside her with her hand in his. The door opened and the bridesmaids and groomsmen filed in. Then there were exclamations of surprise and delight. "Oh, Maud, how lovely! how lovely! When and where did you get that beautiful dress and veil? We all thought you were to be married in your bridesmaid dress that you wore at Rosie's wedding." "And you like this one better? and the veil that goes with it?" Maud returned with a joyous blush and smile. "Oh, yes, yes, certainly; it is far handsomer, and so becoming! But how did you get it up so quickly?" "I didn't. It was dear Cousin Elsie's wedding dress, and she has lent it to me to be married in. It was just like her--always so kind and thoughtful of others." "That is true, indeed!" said Lucilla; "I do think that in all this world there is not a kinder person than dear Grandma Elsie." Just then the little flower girls appeared in the doorway and uttered their exclamations of surprise and delight at the beauty of the bride's attire. Their mothers were just behind them, and Violet seemed as much surprised and pleased as the children. She recognized the dress and veil--which she had seen a number of times in the course of her life, and was well content that her mother had seen fit to lend them to Maud for this important time when she could not provide such luxuries for herself. "The dress fits you wonderfully well, Maud; and both it and the veil are very becoming," Violet said. "I am glad mamma had them, and thought of producing them for this occasion." "Yes, it was very, very kind in Cousin Elsie," returned the bride, blushing with pleasure. "And you are all ready to go down now, are you not?" asked Mrs. Dinsmore. "Everybody is here and waiting for the ceremony to begin. The appointed hour has come, too, and here is the minister," as the Rev. Mr. Keith appeared in the doorway. At that the little procession formed at once and passed down the broad stairway, through the flower-bedecked hall, and into the large parlour where the guests were gathered. All went well; the ceremony was short but impressive, the congratulations were warm and sincere, and the wedding breakfast that followed a grand affair. Soon after it was over the bride changed her wedding dress for a neat and pretty travelling one. Then she and her new-made husband bade good-bye, entered a carriage, and started for a train that was to carry them on their homeward way. Most of the other relatives from a distance left for their homes during the afternoon or evening. Captain Keith had announced his intention to leave that night by a later train. He was to start from Woodburn, so he bade adieu to all the friends but that family, then went home with his friend, Captain Raymond. After a late dinner there, he found and seized the opportunity he had so long been waiting for. Lucilla was sitting alone upon the veranda, with a book in her hand, but not reading, for her eyes were not on it. She seemed to be thinking intently of something else. But when Captain Keith took a seat by her side she welcomed him with a pleasant smile. "So you leave us to-night," she said. "I hope you have enjoyed your visit well enough to feel a trifle sorry to go." "I have enjoyed my visit greatly," he said in reply, "and I should like to prolong it; but it will not do to play all the time. It seems lonely, too, to have to go away taking no one with me. To go as Cousin Dick did this afternoon, with a dear young wife, would not be a hardship; but to go alone is rather dismal. Don't you think it must be?" "Yes; I have never tried it, but I should think it was. When mamma died and papa had to go away on his ship--oh, you don't know how hard it was to part with him--I still had my brother Max and dear Gracie. I had them both until a good while after papa came home to stay; so I have never been all alone." "And I sincerely hope you never may be," he said. "But do you never feel as if you would like to have a life companion, such as Maud was given to-day?" "A husband, do you mean? No, indeed! for then I should be obliged to leave my dear father--the best man in the world, the dearest, kindest, most loving father to me." "He is all that, I am sure," said Keith; "but, perhaps, some day you may find that you can love another even better than you love him." She shook her head dissentingly. "I can hardly believe it possible. It seems to me that it would just break my heart to have to leave my father or to be separated from him in any way." Keith sighed drearily. "Miss Raymond," he said, "I love you, I love you devotedly, and if--if you have not given your affection to another, perhaps in time you may find it possible to return my love. Will you not let me hope for that?" "Oh, don't!" she said, half rising to leave him, her face scarlet with blushes. "I don't know anything about love,--that kind of love,--and my father has forbidden me to listen to such things and----" "But he would let you this time, for he gave me permission to speak to you and--and tell you of my love." "That is very strange; I don't understand it," she said, sinking back into her chair with a look of perplexity and distress on her face. "Ah," brightening a little, "I think papa knew there was no danger that I would be willing to leave him for anybody else." "Yes; I suppose that was it," sighed Keith, and, at that moment, there came an interruption, very welcome to Lucilla, in the form of little Ned looking for papa. And the next moment papa himself, to find Captain Keith and hand him a letter; a servant having just brought the afternoon mail. Then Lucilla slipped away to her own room, where she stayed until summoned to the dining room by the tea bell. CHAPTER XIX. It was a pleasant surprise to Lucilla to find Grandma Elsie and Walter there, and to learn that they had come to stay several days. So it was easy to avoid being left alone with Captain Keith, and there was no more private talk between them. When the carriage drove up to take him to his train she was on the veranda with the others, and he shook hands with her in her turn, saying, "Good-bye, Miss Lu. I shall hope to hear from your father that you are well and happy." "Thank you; good-bye, and I wish you a safe journey," she said in reply, but without lifting her eyes to his face. Just as she was ready for bed her father came to her room to bid her good-night as he so often did. Taking her in his arms and looking searchingly into her eyes, "Is there anything wrong with you--anything troubling you, daughter?" he asked tenderly. "Yes, papa," she said, colouring and dropping her eyes. "Oh, why did you let Captain Keith talk to me of--of love, when you have so often told me I was much too young to even think of such things?" "Well, dear child," he said, "I knew it would be risking little or nothing, as I was certain I had too large a place in your heart to leave any room for him, but it seemed the only way to thoroughly convince him of that was to let him try to push himself in there. And he did try?" "Yes, papa; and when I told him you had forbidden me to listen to such things, he said you had given him leave to speak about it to me; and that surprised me more than his speaking. You didn't want me to say yes, father?" "No, daughter; no, indeed! I should not have let him speak if I had not been very sure that my dear child loved me too well to leave me for him or anybody else." "Oh, I am so glad!" she exclaimed with a sigh of relief and laying her head down on his breast, "though I couldn't believe that my dear father wanted to be rid of me, or felt willing that I should love anybody else better than I love him." "No, dear daughter, you need never be afraid of that. But, now, good-night. Go at once to your bed, for you are looking very weary." She obeyed, slept sweetly and peacefully till her usual hour for rising, and, as was her usual custom, joined her father in a stroll about the grounds before the breakfast hour. "How would you and Grace like to have your friends Eva and Sydney here for a few days, daughter?" he asked as they paced along side by side. "Oh, I think it would be very pleasant, papa!" she answered in a joyous tone. "I know Gracie would like it, and I think Sydney would, too. Eva always does. I believe she loves you almost as well as if you were her father as well as ours." "Ah! that is pleasant news for me," he said with a smile. "I am fond of her, too, though, of course, not with just the fondness I feel for my own children." "Oh, I am glad you don't! I shouldn't want you to love her as well as you do me. Will you invite the girls, papa?" "Yes; we will call to them through the telephone after breakfast." They did so, there was a joyful acceptance from each, and before the dinner hour they had both arrived. Sydney had not gone with Maud and Dick. It had been decided before the wedding that it would be better for her to remain in a more northern region till fall, then go South to make her home with her sister. "I was glad of your invitation, captain," she said when he helped her out of the carriage, "for I was finding it dreadfully lonesome without my sister." "Ah! so I suspected, as did my wife, and we thought it might relieve your loneliness a little to spend a few days here with us." "Yes; it was so kind," she responded, "so very kind! And you are here, too, Cousin Elsie, and Walter! Oh, I am sure we are going to have a fine time." "Yes, indeed, I always do have the best of times here," said Evelyn; "especially when Grandma Elsie and Walter add their attractions to those of the Woodburn folks." "We will all try to make it as delightful as we can," said Grace. "Papa has kindly excused Lu and me from lessons while you stay; so we can busy ourselves with fancy work or anything we like, when we are not driving or walking; and we have some new books and periodicals that one can read aloud while the rest are doing fancy work or whatever they please. We can play games, too, so I think we will not lack for amusement." "No, we never do, here," said Eva. And they did not; time passed swiftly and pleasantly in the round of occupations and amusements suggested by Grace. Friday and Saturday soon slipped by, and Sunday came, bringing its sacred duties and pleasures--religious services at home, at church, then the Sunday schools, and after that the home Bible class, which all found so pleasant. They gathered upon the veranda, each with a Bible in hand; for even little Ned could now read fluently, and generally find the references for himself. "Will you not lead us to-day, mother?" asked the captain when all were seated. "No," she said with her pleasant smile, "I very much prefer to have that burden borne by my son-in-law, Captain Raymond." "And you wish him to select the subject?" "Yes; he cannot fail to fix upon a good and interesting one." "And how is it with you, my love?" he asked, turning to Violet. "Suppose we take thanksgiving as our subject," she said; "we all have so much, so very much, to be thankful for." "Indeed we have!" he returned emphatically, "and I think no better subject could be found. Neddie, my boy, can you tell papa something you have to be thankful for?" "Oh, yes, papa! eyes to see with, ears to hear with, hands and feet, and that I can use them all; for I saw a boy the other day that can't walk at all, though he has feet, but must lie on a bed or sit in a chair all the time; while I can walk, and run, and jump whenever I want to." "Yes, those are all great blessings," his father said. "And now, Elsie, can you think of some others?" "Oh, so many, papa! more than I can count," the little girl answered earnestly. "A dear, kind father and mother, and grandma among them; and, oh, so many dear relations besides; 'specially my sisters and brothers. And I am so glad I was born in this Christian land and taught about God and the dear Saviour; and have a Bible to read, and know that I may pray to God, and that he will hear me and help me to be good--to love and serve him. But, oh! I can't name all my blessings, papa, they are so very, very many." "That is very true, daughter," he replied; "and we can all say the same; our blessings are more than we can count. But the best of all is the gift of God's dear son. 'God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' 'Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gift.' 'I will sing unto the Lord as long as I live; I will sing praise to my God while I have being.' So says the Psalmist, and surely we can all echo his words from our very hearts. Mother, you seem to have selected a passage. Will you please read it?" "Yes," she said; "here in Corinthians where the apostle is speaking of the sting of death and the victory over the grave, he cries exultingly, 'But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.' Then he goes on, 'Therefore my beloved brethren be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.'" "Yes; and let us all heed that exhortation," said the captain. "Evelyn, you seem to have a text ready. Will you please read it?" "These words of Jesus," she said, "'I will not leave you comfortless; I will come to you,' are they not words to be thankful for?" "They are, indeed!" he said. "What can be more comforting than the presence of the Master? His presence and his love. 'He that hath my commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me: and he that loveth me shall be loved of my Father, and I will love him, and will manifest myself to him.' Ah! what is there more worthy to be thankful for than the love of Christ! But when should we give thanks, Walter?" "Always, sir. Here in Ephesians I read, 'Giving thanks always for all things unto God the Father, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.' Again in first Thessalonians, 'We give thanks to God always for you all, making mention of you in our prayers.'" Then Sydney, Lucilla, and Grace read in turn: "'Unto thee, O God, do we give thanks, unto thee do we give thanks; for that thy name is near thy wondrous works declare.'" "'And let the peace of God rule in your hearts, to which also ye are called in one body; and be ye thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom; teaching and admonishing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with grace in your hearts to the Lord. And whatsoever ye do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father by him.'" "'Continue in prayer and watch in the same with thanksgiving.'" They read, in turn, again and again, finding the Bible full of exhortations to thanksgiving, then joined in singing hymns of praise--not with their voices only, but with joy, and thankfulness in their hearts because of the good gifts of God, both temporal and spiritual, to them all. So closed the Sabbath day, and after it followed a night of sweet sleep and peaceful rest. At the breakfast table the next morning Walter asked: "Where are we going to spend our summer? Isn't it time to be thinking about it?" The question seemed to be addressed to no one in particular. There was a moment's silence; then the captain said: "Suppose you give us your ideas and wishes on that subject, Walter." "Well, I haven't much choice, sir; there are so many places that are about equally agreeable to me. Anywhere with mother and the rest of you." "Then what place would you prefer, mother?" asked the captain. "It is a question I have hardly considered yet," she replied. "Perhaps it might be well to hold a family council on the subject." "May I offer a suggestion?" asked Evelyn modestly, blushing as she spoke. "Certainly, my dear," said Mrs. Travilla. "We will be glad to hear it," said the captain. "Then it is that all who think they would find it agreeable will spend at least a week or two with me in my cottage on the Hudson. It was rented for a time, but is vacant now, and I want very much to be in it for a while, yet certainly not alone." "It is most kind in you to invite us, Evelyn, dear," said Mrs. Travilla, "but our party would much more than fill it." "Unless we should go in relays," laughed Violet; "perhaps it might be managed in that way, if Eva is very desirous to have us there." "And perhaps there are hotels in the vicinity where most of us could be accommodated," said the captain. "We are much obliged for your invitation, Eva, and will consider the question and talk it over with the others who may choose to be of our party." "Oh, I think it would be fun to go there!" exclaimed Sydney. "If I can have my way, I'll pay you a little visit there, and pass the rest of the time at the seashore." "That is what I should like to do," said Lucilla. "And I also," added Grace; "if papa and mamma approve, and would be with us in both places." "Of course I meant that," Lucilla hastened to say; "we would not half enjoy ourselves without them; and the children," she added, glancing at Elsie and Ned. "It seems to me we're getting pretty big to be called that," said Ned a little scornfully. "I'll be a man one of these days." "Not quite that yet, little brother," laughed Lucilla. The talk in regard to the summer's excursion was renewed after family worship, as they all sat together upon the veranda. Various places were talked of, various plans discussed, but nothing could be fully decided upon without consultation with the other near relatives who might decide to be of the party. "Hello! here comes Doctor Herbert," exclaimed Walter, as a doctor's gig turned in at the great gates and came driving rapidly up to the house. "What is it, Doc?" springing up and hastening down the steps as the gig halted before them. "A letter for mother," answered Herbert, handing it to Walter as he spoke. "Good-morning, mother, and all of you. You are looking well and have no need of a doctor, I suppose?" "Yes, we want a call from that one," said Violet. "Come in, won't you, if it is for only five minutes?" "Well, yes; since you are so urgent and I know of no urgent call for my services elsewhere," answered Herbert, suiting the action to the word. "Good-morning, my son," was his mother's smiling salutation, as he bent down to give her an affectionate caress. "I suppose you want to hear what Rosie has to say. I will just glance over her letter, then read aloud whatever I think she would deem suitable for you all to hear." It was a pleasant, cheerful letter; all seemed to be going right with the young couple, they very happy in each other. They were at Niagara Falls, expecting soon to leave there for some place on the Hudson, and afterward to visit the seashore; but their plans were not yet definitely arranged; nor would they be until Will's parents and Rosie's home friends, intending to go North for the summer, were heard from in regard to their plans and purposes. "Well," said Herbert, when the reading of the letter was concluded, "I think we will have to hold a family council, taking in the Crolys, and decide those momentous questions. Right quickly, too, for the weather is growing very warm, and if you all stay here our firm may have too much to do." "I think you are right, doctor," said the captain, "and lest you and Harold and Arthur should be overworked, I intend to see that that council is held promptly." "Well, captain, suppose we appoint this evening as the time, and Roselands as the place, as the Crolys are there, and not so able as the rest of us to go about from place to place." "That seems a very good plan," said his mother, "but I think it will not be necessary for us all to attend. I prefer to leave the decision with the gentlemen of our party. Can you go, Herbert?" "To the family council, mother? Oh, yes!" "That is well," she said with a smile, "but I meant can you go North with us?" "For a part of the time, I think; we three doctors can doubtless take turns in having a vacation." "You ought to, I think," said Violet. "Doctors certainly need rest as much, or more, than most other people." "Yes, they do, indeed!" said the captain; "they are, as a rule, very much overworked, I think." "Some of them hardly so much as they might like to be," laughed Herbert. "You will be coming home soon, mother?" turning to her. "Yes; probably to-morrow," she answered. He chatted a little longer, then drove away. The young people presently went off into the grounds, leaving Grandma Elsie, Violet, and the captain still sitting in the veranda, they busied with their fancy work, he looking over the morning paper. "If you find anything very interesting, my dear, mamma and I will be glad to hear it," said Violet. "Yes," he said, "and here is something interesting, though far from being pleasant news. Davis, one of the burglars whom Lucilla caught, has escaped from prison; gone no one knows where, and may be even now lurking in this neighbourhood. I must watch over my daughter or he may attempt to do her some harm. At the time of the trial he seemed to feel very revengeful toward her." "Oh, that is dreadful!" cried Violet. "Indeed we must be watchful over poor dear Lu. You will not tell her, Levis?" "I think I shall," he said reflectively; "she will need to be careful about venturing to a distance from the house, even within the grounds, without a protector; therefore I must warn her and forbid her to run any unnecessary risk. I hope it may not be long before the fellow will be caught and returned to his prison." "And I think it might be well for us to hasten our departure for the North for her safety," said Violet. "She would be safer there, would she not?" "Probably," he replied, "and we will make haste to be off on that account." "Yes; I think you should, by all means," said her mother. "Anything that I can do to assist your preparations, Vi, will be gladly done." "I will set to work at once," exclaimed Violet. "And I shall call my daughters in at once and set them about their preparations," said the captain, throwing aside his paper and starting even as he spoke. The young people were much surprised by his summons and directions to his daughters, but he did not go into a lengthened explanation; merely said that he had decided to start northward in a day or two, and necessary preparations must be made as promptly as possible. His daughters were accustomed to rendering prompt and unquestioning obedience to their father's commands, and did so now, though much wondering at this sudden move. Some hours later he called Lucilla aside and told her the whole story. She turned pale for a moment, then, lifting fearless eyes to his, "Father," she said, "don't be uneasy about me. I will trust in the Lord and not be afraid; I will trust in his care and yours, and I shall be safe. I am thinking of those sweet verses in the thirty-seventh Psalm, 'But the salvation of the righteous is of the Lord: he is their strength in the time of trouble. And the Lord shall help them and deliver them: he shall deliver them from the wicked, and save them, because they trust in him.'" "Yes, dear child, trust in him and you will be safe," returned the captain with emotion. "I shall not go over to Roselands this evening, as I had intended, but will talk through the telephone to the friends gathered there to discuss the questions when we shall start for the North and in what spots locate ourselves for the summer." He did so, and before they were through with their conference it was decided that he, with his family, Evelyn, Sydney, Grandma Elsie, Walter, and all the Lelands should at once pack up, and in two days start for Eva's cottage on the Hudson. Little preparation was needed but the packing of trunks; all were ready at the set time, started away in good health and spirits, and, travelling by rail, soon reached their destination; where we will leave them for the present. THE END. * * * * * CAMPFIRE GIRLS SERIES An attractive and popular edition of books for Girls. Printed from large, clear type on a superior quality of paper. Hard bound and stamped on back and front with attractive designs. CAMPFIRE GIRLS IN THE ALLEGHANY MOUNTAINS; or, a Christmas Success Against Odds CAMPFIRE GIRLS IN THE COUNTRY; or, The Secret Aunt Hannah Forgot CAMPFIRE GIRLS' TRIP UP THE RIVER; or, Ethel Hollister's First Lesson CAMPFIRE GIRLS' OUTING; or, Ethel Hollister's Second Summer in Camp CAMPFIRE GIRLS ON A HIKE; or, Lost in the Great North Woods CAMPFIRE GIRLS AT TWIN LAKES; or, the Quest for a Summer Vacation * * * * * FAIRY LIBRARY SERIES An attractive assortment of popular titles for both boys and girls. Printed from large clear type and printed on a superior quality of book paper. Hard bound and stamped on back and front. MOTHER GOOSE ROBINSON CRUSOE BLACK BEAUTY ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND STORIES FROM THE BIBLE WOOD'S NATURAL HISTORY ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES ARABIAN NIGHTS ALICE THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS * * * * * _Price 25c Each, postpaid_ * * * * * M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 701-733 South Dearborn Street :: CHICAGO FAMOUS BOOKS IN REBOUND EDITIONS HEIDI By _Johanna Spyri_. Three hundred and ninety-five pages, illustrated. Printed from new plates, handsomely bound in cloth. LITTLE LAME PRINCE By _Miss Mulock_. A popular edition of this well known story. Printed from large, clear type and attractively bound in cloth. ELSIE DINSMORE By _Martha Finley_. A beautiful edition of this popular novel. Printed on a superior quality of book paper and bound in cloth. HELEN'S BABIES By _John Habberton_. An amusing and entertaining book for everyone. Printed from new plates and attractively bound in cloth. A DOG OF FLANDERS By _Ouida_. An illustrated edition of this popular and interesting story. Printed from new plates and bound in cloth. BLACK BEAUTY By _Anna Sewall_. Beautiful edition of this popular story. An attractive book, printed from large clear type, bound in cloth. HANS BRINKER By _Mary Mapes Dodge_. This is a well-known story of life in Holland. Printed on a superior quality of paper; cloth bound. PINOCCHIO By _C. Collodi_. A beautiful illustrated edition of this popular story. Attractively printed from new plates and bound in cloth. LITTLE WOMEN By _Louisa May Alcott_. Beautiful edition of this famous story in one volume. Attractively printed and bound in cloth. ALICE IN WONDERLAND By _Lewis Carroll_. An attractive edition of this well-known story. Printed from new plates and attractively bound in cloth. _Price each 75c, postpaid_ M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 701-733 South Dearborn Street :: CHICAGO * * * * * Transcriber's notes: Punctuation normalized. Page 65: the word "the" inserted: "with the results." Page 155: "thing" changed to "think": "Don't you think so". Page 197: "lead" changed to "led": "the minister led the exercises". Page 264: "On" changed to "No": "No one need be". 
14875	----	Proofreading Team. ELSIE'S CHILDREN A SEQUEL TO "ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD" By MARTHA FINLEY Complete Authorized Edition Published by arrangement with Dodd, Mead and Company A.L. BURT COMPANY PUBLISHERS New York Chicago DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. 1877 1905, BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. Preface. With this volume, bringing the Story of Elsie and her Children down to the present time, the series closes. It was not by request of the author's _personal_ friends, that either this or any one of the previous volumes was written, but in acquiescence with the demands of the Public--the friends and admirers of Elsie herself; and we know that as child, as young girl, as wife and mother, she has had many friends who have been loath to part with her. May they find neither her nor her children less lovable in this, than in the earlier volumes, and may their society prove sweet, comforting and helpful to many readers and friends both old and new. M.F. Elsie's Children. CHAPTER FIRST. "Of all the joys that brighten suffering earth, What joy is welcom'd like a new-born child." --MRS. NORTON. A merry scene in the nursery at Viamede, where the little Travillas are waiting for their morning half hour with "dear mamma." Mammy coming in smiling and mysterious, her white apron thrown over something held carefully in her arms, bids the children guess what it is. "A new dolly for me?" says Vi; "I'm going to have a birthday to-morrow." "A kite," ventured Harold. "No, a balloon." "A tite! a tite!" cried little Herbert, clapping his hands. "Pshaw! it's nothing but a bundle of clothes mammy's been doing up for one of you girls," said Eddie. "I see a bit of lace or work, or something, hanging down below her apron." "Is it a new dress for Vi, mammy?" asked Elsie, putting her arm about her sister and giving her a loving kiss. "Yah, yah; you ain't no whar nigh it yet, chillens," laughed mammy, dropping into a chair, and warding off an attempt on the part of little Herbert to seize her prize and examine it for himself. "Oh, it's alive," cried Harold, half breathlessly, "I saw it move!" Then as a slight sound followed the movement, "A baby! a baby!" they all exclaim, "O, mammy, whose is it? where did you get it? oh, sit down and show it to us!" "Why, chillen, I reckon it 'longs to us," returned mammy, complying with the request, while they gathered closely about her with eager and delighted faces. "Ours, mammy? Then I'm glad it isn't black or yellow like the babies down at the quarter," said Harold, eying it with curiosity and interest. "So am I too," remarked Violet, "but it's got such a red face and hardly any hair on the top of its head." "Well, don't you remember that's the way Herbie looked when he first came?" said Eddie. "And he grew very white in a few weeks," remarked Elsie. "But is it mamma's baby, mammy?" "Yes, honey, dat it am; sho's yer born, 'nother pet for ole mammy,--de bressed little darlin'," she answered, pressing the little creature to her breast. The information was received with a chorus of exclamations of delight and admiration. "Tate a bite of cacker, boy," said Herbert, offering a cracker which he was eating with evident enjoyment. Mammy explained, amid the good-natured laughter of the older children, that the newcomer had no teeth and couldn't eat anything but milk. "Oh, poor 'ittle fing!" he said, softly touching its velvet cheek. "Won't 'oo tum and pay wis Herbie?" "No, it can't play," said Violet, "it can't walk and it can't talk." "Where's mamma, mammy?" asked Eddie, glancing at the clock; "it's past her time; I wonder too she didn't come to show us the new baby herself." "She's sick, chile," returned mammy, a grave and anxious look coming into her old eyes. "Mamma sick?" exclaimed little Elsie, "oh, may I go to her?" Mammy shook her head. "Not jes now, honey darlin', byme by, when she's bettah." "Mamma sick?" echoed Violet. "Oh, I'm so, so sorry!" "Don't fret, chillen, de good Lord make her well again soon," said mammy, with cheerful hopefulness, for she could not bear to see how sad each little face had grown, how the young lips quivered, and the bright eyes filled with tears; for dearly, dearly, they all loved their sweet, gentle mother. "Herbie wants mamma," sobbed the baby boy, clinging to his eldest sister. "Don't cry, pet," Elsie said chokingly, hugging him close and kissing away his tears. "We'll all ask God to make her well, and I'm sure he will." "Why! why! what's the matter here?" cried a cheery voice, as the door opened and Mr. Travilla stepped into their midst. "What's the matter with papa's darlings?" he repeated, gathering them all into his arms, and caressing each in turn. "Is mamma, dear mamma, very sick?" they asked, Vi immediately adding in joyous tones, "No, no, she isn't, or papa wouldn't look so happy." "I am very happy," he said with emotion, glancing toward the bundle in mammy's lap, "we are both very happy over the new treasure God has given us; and I trust she will soon be well." "Can we go and speak to her?" they asked. "After a while," he said, "she is trying to sleep now. What do you all think of the little sister?" "Sister," cried Elsie. "Oh, that is nice, nice! I thought it was a boy. What's its name, papa?" "It has none yet." "I sorry for it," remarked Herbert, gazing with curious interest at the tiny creature, "I sorry for it; cause can't walk, can't talk, can't eat good fings; dot no teef to eat wis. Do, boy, try to eat cacker, cacker dood, Herbie likes," and breaking off a fragment he would have forced it into the wee mouth, if papa and mammy had not interfered for its protection. "No, no, my son, you would choke it," said Mr. Travilla, gently drawing him away. "It isn't a boy; it's a girl, Herbie," corrected Harold. "Oh!" cried Vi, who was gently feeling the top of the tiny head, and she looked aghast at her father, "O, papa, its head's rotten!" "No, daughter, don't be alarmed," he said smiling slightly, "there's nothing wrong there; all young babies' heads are soft like that on the top." "Oh, are they?" she said with a sigh of relief, "I was afraid it would spoil soon and we couldn't keep her." "No, she seems to be all right," he said with a grave and tender smile. "God has been very good to us." "Yes, papa. Oh such a pretty darling as it is!" said Elsie. "Yes, indeed," chimed in the others; Vi adding, "and I'm so glad she's a girl: 'cause now we have two sisters, Elsie, just the same as the boys." "Oh, but we have three now!" said Eddie, laughing good naturedly at Vi's crestfallen look. "Oh, yes," she acknowledged, then brightening, "but we have three brothers, and you only two; so it's even all around after all, isn't it, papa?" The children were full of delight over their treasure, and eager to show it to grandpa, grandma, Aunt Rosie, Aunt Wealthy and Aunt May; regretting much that the rest of their friends had left Viamede before the advent of the little stranger. She proved a frail, gentle little creature, with violet eyes and pale golden hair, so fair and delicate that Lily was the name that most readily suggested itself and the one finally settled upon as really hers. Lily became a great pet with them all, but Violet claimed a special property in her because as she would say, "The darling came to us almost on my birthday and she's just the sweetest, prettiest birthday present mamma ever gave me." The weather was growing very warm at Viamede and Aunt Wealthy and the little Duncans found the heat oppressive; so when Lily was three weeks old and the dear mamma able to be up again, looking bright and well, that party bade good-bye and set out on their return to Lansdale. The Dinsmores and Travillas lingered until the middle of May, when they too set their faces northward, not parting company till very near to Ion and the Oaks. CHAPTER SECOND. "Envy is but the smoke of low estate, Ascending still against the fortunate." --BROOKE. It was dark and raining a little when the carriage turned into the avenue at Ion; but the whole front of the house was ablaze with lights, the hall door stood wide open, and a double line of servants in holiday attire, each sooty face dressed in smiles, stood waiting to welcome the weary travelers home. There were many hearty shakings and kissings of hands; many fervent ejaculations: "God bless you, Massa and Missus!" "Tank de Lord you's got home again, honey. We's been pinin' for you darlin's and for de sight of de new baby," and with the last words the voices were lowered at a sign from Aunt Chloe, in whose arms the little Lily lay sleeping sweetly. There was some fretting among the weary little ones, but mamma and nurses were kind and gentle, and a good supper and bed soon cured all their troubles for that night. Little Elsie was roused from her slumbers by a gentle shake, and starting up in bed, found the sun shining and Vi standing by her side with eager, excited face. "Come, come to the window!" she cried. "It does seem as if I must be dreaming; it wasn't there before, I'm sure." "What?" asked Elsie, springing out upon the floor and hurrying after Vi to the window from which she had witnessed the burning of the schoolhouse. "There!" said Violet, pointing with her finger, "there! can you see it too?" "Oh!" exclaimed Elsie, clasping her hands in a sort of ecstasy of delight, "oh, aren't papa and mamma good? How did they ever come to think of it! and how could they get it done while they were away?" "Grandpa, Uncle Horace and Cal," suggested Vi. "Oh, aren't you glad? Aren't you glad, Elsie?" "I should think so! and the boat is ever so pretty. Let's hurry and get dressed and go down and see it closer." Rowing and sailing upon the bayou and lakelet had been the children's greatest pleasure at Viamede, their greatest regret in leaving it. Knowing this, their ever indulgent parents had prepared a pleasant surprise for them, causing a small tract of barren land on the Ion estate to be turned into an artificial lake. It was this, shining in the golden beams of the morning sun, and a beautiful boat moored to the hither shore, that had called forth from the lips of the little girls those exclamations of almost incredulous wonder and delight. "Yes; I'll ring for Dinah," cried Vi, skipping across the room and putting out her hand to lay hold of the bell pull. "Wait, Vi, our prayers first, you know," said Elsie. "Oh, yes! I do want to thank God for being so good to us; the pretty lake and boat and all." "Dear kind parents, safe journey home, too, and oh more things than we can count," added Elsie, as they knelt down side by side. This duty performed with no irreverent haste, the maid was summoned and a careful toilet made in season to afford them time for a walk before mamma would be ready to see them. They found their father in the lower veranda talking with the overseer, while Solon stood waiting with Beppo's bridle in his hand, the horse pawing the ground with impatience. Eddie was there, too, caressing Bruno who seemed as glad to be at home again as any of the rest. Uttering a joyous bark he left his young master and bounded to meet the little girls. Mr. Travilla turned at the sound and with a kind fatherly smile, held out his hands. "O papa," they cried running to him, "how good of you to have it made for us!" "Good-morning, my darlings," he said, giving and receiving caresses, "but what are you talking about?" "Why the lake, papa; the lake and the boat." "Lake?" exclaimed Eddie, "why where?" "Oh, you couldn't see it from your windows," said Elsie. "Papa, papa, may we go now and look at it?" "Yes," he said, taking a hand of each. "Larkin, I'll see you again after breakfast. Come, Eddie, my son, you too, and Bruno." A brisk five minutes' walk brought them to the shore of the lake, a tiny one, scarce a quarter of a mile in circumference, not very deep and the water so clear that the pebbly bottom could be distinctly seen; gold and silver fish, too, gliding hither and thither; while a pretty, gayly painted row-boat lying at the water's edge, rocked gently in the morning breeze. Eddie hailed the scene with a shout of delight; the little girls danced about gleefully, Vi clapping her hands and asking eagerly if they might get into the boat. Papa looked at his watch, "Yes, there will be time for a row; one trip around the lake. Step in, all of you, and I will take the oars." Vi was quite ready and Eddie gallantly handed her in, then turned and offered his hand to Elsie. She demurred. "But mamma! shouldn't we have mamma with us the first time?" and she looked up inquiringly into her father's face. "Yes, yes, of course!" cried the others making haste to step ashore again, "we want dear mamma with us the very first time." Papa smiled approval. "Then we will go back," he said, "and after breakfast, if mamma is willing, we will all come and take a row together; the boat is large enough to carry us all at once." Mamma's consent was readily obtained, for to please her children was her great delight. So shortly after breakfast they all repaired to the lake and rowed round and across it several times, a merry, happy party. At Roselands the family were gathered about the breakfast table and the principal topic of conversation was the return of the party from Viamede. Calhoun had been to the Oaks the previous evening and learned of their safe arrival. "We must all go this morning and call upon them," said Mr. Dinsmore. "We'll divide our forces," said Cal, laughing. "Suppose grandpa, mother and Aunt Enna, go first to the Oaks; and we younger ones to Ion?" "Very well," replied the old gentleman, "I shall spend an hour with my son, then ride over to see Elsie and her little flock. How many of you young folks want to go to Ion in the first division?" "I!" "And I!" "And I!" cried one and another. "But you can't go all at once," returned their grandfather, looking around upon them with an amused smile; "the carriage is roomy, but really you are too many for it. Besides wouldn't there be some danger of overwhelming your cousins?" "Well, I'm going, let who will stay at home," observed Molly Percival with cool decision. "The boys can ride, I mean Cal, and Art, and Dick and Wal; they all have ponies and the two carriages will hold the rest of us if we crowd a little." "I'm not going to be bothered with Bob or Betty," said her mother; "they may go with you, or wait till another time." "Then they'll wait," remarked Isadore Conly, "for I shall wear my best silk suit, and I have no notion of having it tumbled." "Last year's suit is quite good enough for the occasion," said her mother, "they're only cousins." "But rich ones, that can afford to dress, and I'll not go a step if I have to look shabby." "Nor I," chimed in her sister. "So mamma you may as well resign yourself to the situation. It's no good finding fault or objecting," she added with a laugh. "Take your own way, then," returned her mother indifferently, "but remember there'll be no more new dresses this season." "Dear me, why aren't we as rich as the Travillas?" pouted Isadore. "I do think things are very unequally divided in this world." "Never mind; the wheel of fortune often takes a turn," said her mother. "You may have money left you some day (some of your father's relations are still rich), and you may make a grand match." "How long will it take you girls to don your finery?" ask Cal, pulling out his watch. "We'd better start as soon as we can: the sun will be getting hot." "I'm done," said Molly, jumping up, "and I'll be ready by the time the carriage can be brought to the door. Come Isa and Virgy, you've eaten enough. Cousin Elsie will be sure to treat us to something good." And she ran gayly from the room. Molly, just turned thirteen, and already as tall as her mother, was a bright, lively girl, full of fun and frolic. She was not a beauty, but had a clear complexion and fine dark eyes, and good humor and intelligence lent a charm to her face that made it more than ordinarily attractive. Dick had always been fond of her, and was beginning to take a brotherly pride in her good looks and intellectual gifts. Enna's feelings toward her were divided between motherly pride and affection on the one hand, and on the other the dread of being made to appear old by the side of so tall a daughter; a dread that made her jealous of Dick also. The Conly girls, too, were growing fast, giving promise of fair, graceful womanhood, Isadore particularly of great beauty; which her mother fondly hoped would be the means of securing her a wealthy husband; for Mrs. Conly's affections were wholly set upon the things of this life; by her and her sister Enna, wealth and beauty were esteemed the highest good, and their children were trained in accordance with that view; the moral atmosphere of the house being very different from that of Ion, where the lives and conversation of the parents were such as to leave no doubt in the minds of their children, that to them the things of time and sense were as nothing in comparison with those of eternity. Enna followed her daughter into the dressing-room they used in common. "Wear the very best you have, Molly," she said, "I don't want you to be looked down upon as a poor relation, or to have it said that the Conlys dress better than my children." "I'm sure they don't," said Molly, ringing for the maid, "though they'd like to if they could, and are always jealous when grandpa makes me a present." "Of course they are, and they manage to get more than their fair share, too," acquiesced the mother in a tone of irritation; "but do you see to it that they don't get ahead of you at Ion; remember Elsie is as rich as a Jew, and likes the credit of being generous, so keep on the right side of her, if you want handsome presents." "I'm sure she is generous and doesn't give only for the credit of it," said Molly. "Don't give me any impudence," returned her mother sharply. "Rachel," to the maid who just then came in in answer to the bell, "dress Miss Molly first, and be quick about it." Enna superintended the business in person, and in a way that sorely tried the temper and nerves of both Molly and the maid; the child's sash must be tied and retied, her hat bent this way and that, her collar and brooch changed again and again, till she was ready to cry with impatience; and when at last she started for the door, she was called back, and Rachel ordered to change her slippers for gaiter boots. "I don't want to wear them!" cried Molly, fairly stamping with impatience. "The heels are so high and narrow, I can't bear them." "They're just the style and make your foot look beautiful," said her mother, "sit down and let Rachel put them on you." "Grandpa says they're dangerous, and so does Dr. Barton, too," grumbled Molly. "Put them on her, Rachel," commanded Enna. "Molly, behave yourself, or you'll stay at home." The child submitted rather sullenly, muttering that she would be late. Rachel was fastening the second boot, when Isadore and Virginia were heard running down the stairs, calling out that the carriage was at the door. "There! I knew you'd make me too late!" cried Molly. "Oh, Rachel, do hurry!" "Yes, Miss Molly, best I kin; dar dat's de las' button." Up sprang Molly, and away in hot haste. She gained the landing, caught her heel in the carpet on the first step of the next flight, and a wild shriek rang through the house, accompanied by the sound of a heavy body tumbling and rolling down the stairs. Echoing the scream, Enna rushed out into the upper hall. Calhoun at the foot of the stairs, was picking Molly up. "Is she hurt? Is she killed?" asked the mother, "Molly, Molly, how did you come to be so awkward?" "I wasn't! it was those heels; I knew they'd throw me down some day!" cried the child in tones of mingled anger, fright and pain. "H'm! you're not killed; haven't even had the temper knocked out of you," remarked Enna, going back to her dressing. "Poor child, you must be hurt," said Calhoun, laying her gently on a sofa, "but no bones broken, I hope?" "I--I don't know," sobbed Molly, "it's my back. Oh, dear! oh, dear!" "Oh, Molly, are you much hurt? shall I go for the doctor?" asked Dick, coming to her side pale with fright. "Mac's right here at the door, ready saddled and bridled, and----" "Go for the doctor?" interrupted Molly. "No, indeed! It's very good in you, Dick, but I don't want him; I am going to Ion with the rest of you. I'm ready now." "You don't look much like it; you're as pale as a ghost," he said, Calhoun adding, "You'd better lie still for a while, Molly; Dick or I will take you over this evening, if you find yourself able to go then." "Thank you, but I'm going now," she answered with decision, getting up and taking Dick's arm. He helped her to the carriage, where Isadore, Virginia, and some of the younger ones sat waiting, and placed her in it. She wiped away her tears and tried to smile, while answering the questions and condolences of the others, and the party moved on. By the time Ion was reached, most of them had nearly forgotten Molly's accident, till Elsie remarked that she was looking pale, and asked if she were quite well. That brought out the story of her fall. Elsie heard it with grave concern but asked few questions as Molly seemed annoyed that the subject had been introduced. It was a habit of her mother's to scold her for awkwardness, and the child was sensitive on that point. When the young people had left and the older members of the Roselands family called, Elsie seized a favorable opportunity to speak of Molly's pale looks and urge the importance of calling in a physician that if there were any reason to apprehend serious results from the fall, measures might be promptly taken to avert the danger. "She can't have been seriously hurt," returned Enna coldly, "or she wouldn't have been ready to get into the carriage the next minute and ride over here." "By the way," said her father, "I haven't heard what caused her fall." "She's an awkward child, always tumbling about," returned Enna reddening. "Especially since she wears those fashionable boots with the high narrow heels," he remarked. "Had she them on when she fell?" Enna reluctantly admitted that such was the fact. "I'll send them into town to-day, with orders that full half the heel shall be taken off," he said with angry decision. CHAPTER THIRD. "'Tis a goodly scene-- Yon river, like a silvery snake, lays out His coil i' the sunshine lovingly." --HUNT. The family at Ion presently fell into the old routine of study, work and play, Elsie resuming the duties of governess; but as the heated term drew on, she and the little ones, especially the babe, began to droop. "You must go north for the summer," said Dr. Barton, "start as soon as possible and don't return till October." "Would you recommend the seashore?" asked Mr. Travilla. "H'm! that might answer very well, but mountain air would, I think, be better." "Oh then, mamma!" cried Vi, who was present and had been an eager but hitherto silent listener, "won't you accept Aunt Lucy's invitation?" "Perhaps, daughter," Elsie said smiling indulgently into the bright little face, "but we will take time to consider what will be best." "Where is that?" asked the doctor, "Lucy Ross, I suppose, but I've forgotten where they live." "On the banks of the Hudson a few miles south of Newburgh. The Crags they call their place, and a beautiful one it is. 'Twas only yesterday I received a letter from Lucy, urging us to come and spend the summer with her." "I should say go by all means," said the doctor, taking leave. There were reasons for hesitation on the part of the careful parents of which the physician knew nothing. The young Rosses, all unused to control, were a willful set not likely to exert a beneficial influence over other children; that was the demur. However the final decision was in favor of the visit, and a few days later they set out upon their journey; Mr. Horace Dinsmore taking charge of them, as business made it inconvenient for Mr. Travilla to leave just at that time. From New York they passed up the Hudson in a steamboat; the carriage from the Crags was found in waiting at the landing, and a short drive brought them to the house, which stood high up above the river, in the midst of magnificent mountain scenery. The Ion children, taught from early infancy to notice the beauties of nature, were in ecstasies of delight, exclaiming anew at every turn in the road, calling each other's, mamma's or grandpa's attention to the sparkling river, the changing shadows on the mountainsides, here a beetling crag, there a waterfall or secluded glen. Having rested the previous night, sleeping soundly at a hotel, they were not wearied with travel but seemed fresher now than when they left their home. Lucy and her little flock, gathered on the front porch to receive their guests, gave them a warm welcome. The two ladies had lost none of the affection for each other which had been one of the happinesses of their childhood and early youth, and each loved the children of the other for the mother's sake if not for their own. They numbered the same, but Sophie, Lucy's youngest, was now in her fifth year, and Baby Lily was greeted with many expressions and demonstrations of delight. Lucy excused her husband's absence: he was away on business, she said, but would be at home before night. "Where's Phil?" asked Eddie, turning to Gertrude. "Oh, he's at boarding-school, don't you know?" she answered. "He'll be home in vacation; but that doesn't begin for two weeks yet." Mr. Dinsmore tarried for a few days, then returned to the neighborhood of Philadelphia, where he had left his wife and Rosie, who were visiting their northern relatives. Miss Fisk was still governess at the Crags, and when the children had had a week of play together, it was thought best by the mammas, that two hours of each morning should be devoted to lessons. Knowing Miss Fisk to be not only well educated and refined, but also a conscientious and good woman, Elsie was willing to entrust her children to her care; the more so, because Lily in her feeble state, required much of her own time and attention. In the midst of a beautiful grove of oaks and maples, on the side of a hill, scarce more than a stone's throw from the mansion, and within full view of its windows, stood a small brick building owned by Mr. Ross, and used as a summer schoolroom for the children. It was a cool shady spot, enlivened by the songs of the wild birds who built their nests in the trees, and the musical tinkle of a little waterfall that came tumbling down from the heights above not half-a-dozen yards from the door. Mr. Ross had furnished the room with comfortable and convenient chairs and desks, and Lucy had made it pretty and tasteful with white muslin curtains and neatly papered walls of a soft neutral tint, enlivened by a few gayly colored pictures. Woodwork and floor were stained a rich dark brown, bright soft rugs were scattered here and there; and altogether the place was as inviting as a lady's parlor. The Ion children were well content to spend here two or three hours of that part of the day when the sun was too hot for them to be exposed to his rays with safety and comfort: the others found lessons made much more agreeable by the companionship of their young guests, and Miss Fisk was glad to take them under her charge, because by their intelligence they added greatly to the interest of her work, while their respectful obedient behavior exerted an excellent influence upon her other pupils. Before leaving home, Elsie, after careful and prayerful consideration, thought it best to have a plain talk with her older children about the temptations that were likely to assail them during their visit to the Crags. They had had some past experience of the ways of Lucy's children, and she knew they had not forgotten it; and reminding them of the Bible declaration, that "evil communications corrupt good manners," she bade them, while refraining as far as possible from judging their little friends, at the same time to carefully avoid following their example in anything they knew to be wrong. "Mamma," said Vi, "perhaps sometimes we mightn't know if it was wrong!" "I think you will, daughter, if you take a moment to think; and if you are doubtful, you may be pretty sure it is wrong." "Mamma, we mustn't tell tales to you?" "No, dear; but perhaps you can consult me without that; and do not forget that you can always lift up your heart to God for help to know and do the right." "Yes, mamma," returned the little girl thoughtfully, "and I do believe Elsie will 'most always be there and know what's right." "I'm not sure," said her sister, with a grave shake of the head, "I wish we could always have mamma by to tell us." "But mamma cannot be with you always, darlings," Elsie said, regarding them with yearning tenderness, "and so, as your papa and I have often told you, you must learn to think and decide for yourselves; about some things now, and about others as you grow older and wiser. Some things the Bible tells us plainly, and in regard to those we have nothing to do but obey." CHAPTER FOURTH. "A child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame." --PROVERBS xxix. 15. Lucy, too, had a talk with her children, in which she begged them quite pathetically, not to disgrace her before the expected guests, Mr. Dinsmore especially, who was so very strict in his ideas of how children ought to be brought up, and how they should behave. They promised readily enough to "behave splendidly" and for a few days did so astonishingly well that, as she laughingly said, "she began to grow frightened lest they were becoming too good to live." But she need not have been alarmed; the reaction was not long in coming and was sufficient to relieve all apprehension that they were in immediate danger from an overplus of goodness. It began on the morning after Mr. Dinsmore's departure. Gertrude was late to breakfast, and when reproved by her mother answered in a manner so disrespectful as to quite astonish the young Travillas. They expected to see her banished at once from the table and the room; but her mother only looked grave and said in a tone of displeasure, "Gertrude, I cannot have you speak to me in that way--Don't do it again." "I don't care; you needn't scold so about every little trifle then," muttered the delinquent in an undertone, pulling the dish of meat toward her, helping herself and spilling the gravy on the clean tablecloth. Mrs. Ross did not seem to hear, she was spreading a piece of bread with the sweetest and freshest of butter, for Sophie. "I don't want it, I want waffles!" screamed the child, snatching up the bread the instant it was laid on her plate, and dashing it on to the carpet. "You are not well this morning, dear, and mamma thinks waffles might make her darling worse," said Lucy in a soothing tone. "Come now be a good baby, and eat the bread. Shall mamma spread another piece?" "No, no, naughty mamma! I'll jus' frow it on the floor if you do," cried the child, bursting into angry sobs. "Shall mamma have some toast made for her?" (coaxingly). "No, no! waffles! and butter on waffles, and 'lasses on butter, and sugar on 'lasses!" The mother laughed. It seemed to irritate the child still further; and she screamed louder than ever, slid down from her chair and stamped her foot with rage. Mrs. Ross was deeply mortified at the exhibition. "Pick her up and carry her to the nursery," she said to a servant. Sophie kicked and struggled, but the girl,--a strong and determined one--carried her away by main force. "I'm dreadfully ashamed of her, Elsie," Lucy said, turning to her friend; "but she's a nervous little creature and we must try to excuse her." "A few hearty slaps would reverse the nervous currents and do her an immense amount of good, Mrs. Ross," remarked the governess in her slow, precise way. "Slaps, Miss Fisk," returned Lucy reddening, "_I_ don't approve of corporal punishment, as _I_ have told you more than once. I was never whipped, and I don't intend that any of my children shall be." "Most assuredly not, madam; but I was recommending it not as a punishment for disobedience or ill temper, but simply as a remedial agent. I have never experienced anything of the kind myself, Mrs. Ross, but have heard it remarked that nervousness occasions greater suffering than what is generally understood by the term pain; therefore I suggested it as I should the amputation of a diseased member when necessary in order to preserve life." "Permit me to remark," returned Lucy, "that unmasked advice is seldom acceptable, and now a truce to discussion, if you please. My dear Elsie," turning to Mrs. Travilla, "I beg you to excuse our ill-manners. It strikes me that none of us are behaving quite as we ought this morning. Hal and Archie, what's wrong between you now?" For the two boys, seated side by side, were scowling at each other, and muttering angrily half under their breath. "Why, ma, he went and took the very piece of meat I just said I was going to have," whimpered Archie, digging his fists into his eyes. "Well, I don't care," retorted Harry, "I'd as good a right as you, and I was ready first." "Give him a part of it, can't you?" said his mother. "'Tain't more'n I want myself." "I won't have it after it's been on his plate," exclaimed both together. "Boys, I'm ashamed of you!" said Lucy, "I wish your father were here to keep you straight. You don't dare behave so before him. I'm sure your little friends would never act so. Don't you see how your naughtiness astonishes them? Vi, would you talk to your mamma as my children do to me?" The large blue eyes opened wide upon the questioner in half incredulous, reproachful surprise, then turned upon the beautiful, gentle face of Mrs. Travilla with an expression of ardent affection mingled with admiration and respect. "O Aunt Lucy! could you b'lieve I'd do that to my mamma?" The very thought of so wounding that tender mother heart was evidently so full of pain to the little one, that Elsie could not refrain from responding to the appeal, "Mamma knows you would not, darling." "Oh, no, mamma, 'cause I love you!" cried the child, the young face growing bright with smiles. "Atmospheric influences have often a great deal to do with these things; do you not find it so?" Elsie said, turning to her friend. "Yes, I have noticed that!" Lucy said, catching gladly at the suggestion: "and the air is certainly unusually oppressive this morning. I feel nervous myself. I think we'll have a gust before night." The last words were spoken in an undertone, but the quick ear of Gertrude caught them. "Then I shan't go to school," she announced decidedly. "Nonsense," said her mother, "'twon't be here till afternoon; probably not till night, if at all." "Now, ma, you're just saying that. Aunt Elsie, do you really think it won't come soon?" Glancing through the open window at the mountains and the sky, Elsie answered that she saw no present indications of a storm; there was nothing to betoken it but the heat and closeness of the air. "Are you afraid of thunder, Aunt Elsie?" asked Harry. "Lightning, you silly boy," corrected Gertrude, "nobody's afraid of thunder." "Yes, you are," he retorted. "You just ought to see, Ed, how scared she gets," and Harry laughed scornfully. Gertrude was ready with an indignant retort, but her mother stopped her. "If you are really brave, Gertrude, you can have an excellent opportunity to show it when the storm comes." Then to Harry, "Let your sister alone, or I'll send you from the room." The gust, a very severe one, came in the afternoon. Before it was fairly upon them, Lucy, herself pale with terror, had collected her children in a darkened room and seated them all on a feather-bed, where they remained during the storm, half stifled by the heat, the little ones clinging to their mother, hiding their heads in her lap and crying with fear. Elsie and her children formed a different group; the mother the central figure here also, her darlings gathered closely about her, in her dressing-room--at a safe distance from the open windows--watching with awed delight, the bursting of the storm clouds over the mountain-tops, the play of the lightning, the sweep of the rain down from the heights into the valleys and river below, listening to the crash and roar of the thunder as it reverberated among the hills, one echo taking it up after another, and repeating it to the next, till it sounded like the explosions of many batteries of heavy artillery, now near at hand, now farther and farther away. "Mamma, isn't it grand?" exclaimed Eddie, in one of the brief pauses in the wild uproar of the elements. "Yes," she said, "the thunder of his power who can understand?" "Is it God, mamma? does God make it?" asked little Herbert. "Yes, dear; 'when he uttereth his voice, there is a multitude of waters in the heavens, and he causeth the vapors to ascend from the ends of the earth; he maketh lightnings with rain, and bringeth forth the wind out of his treasuries.'" "We needn't be 'f'aid, mamma?" "No, darling, no; for God is our Father; He loves us and will take care of us." The storm was very violent while it lasted, but soon passed away; the sun shone out, and a beautiful rainbow spanned the eastern sky above the mountain-tops. Elsie's children clapped their hands in ecstasy, and ran to call their little friends to enjoy the sight with them. Mrs. Ross followed, looking so pale and exhausted, that Elsie inquired with concern if she were ill. "Oh, it was the storm!" she said, "wasn't it fearful? I was sure the house would be struck and some of us killed. Weren't you frightened?" "No," Elsie said, with a kindly reassuring smile, "I presume my nerves are stronger than yours, and I am not naturally timid in regard to thunder and lightning. Besides, I know so well that he who guides and controls it is my Father and my Friend. Come, look at his bow of promise." The children were in a group about the window, gazing and admiring. "Let's ask mamma for the story of it," Vi was saying. "The story of it?" repeated Archie Ross. "Yes; don't you know? about Noah and the flood." "I never heard it." "Oh, Archie, it's in the Bible; grandma told it to us once," exclaimed his sister Gertrude. "I didn't hear it, anyhow," persisted the boy, "do, Vi, coax Aunt Elsie to tell it." The petition was readily granted. Mrs. Travilla was an inimitable story-teller, and Lucy, whose knowledge of Scripture history was but superficial, listened to the narrative with almost as much interest and pleasure as did the children. "I would give anything for your talent for story-telling, Elsie," she said at its conclusion. "Oh, another! another! Please tell us another?" cried a chorus of young voices. Mrs. Travilla drew out her watch, and holding it up with a smile, "Not just now, my dears," she said, "see it is almost tea-time, and," she added playfully, "some of us have need to change our dresses and smooth our tangled tresses." "That is true," said Lucy, rising hastily, "and I expect my husband home. I must send the carriage off at once to the depot; for the train is nearly due." Thereupon a cry was raised among the Rosses as they flew after their mother, "I want to go for papa!" "and I!" "It's my turn, I say, and I will go!" "No, you shan't, for it's mine." CHAPTER FIFTH. "She fed me first to God; Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew." --PIERPONT. "Hallo! this looks like welcome; every one of you been crying!" Mr. Ross said, catching up Sophie in his arms, and glancing about upon his group of children, after an affectionate greeting to his wife, and a cordially kind one to their guest. "What's the trouble? so sorry papa was coming home, eh?" "No, no, that wasn't it, papa," they cried, crowding around him, each eager to claim the first caress, "it wasn't that, but we wanted to go for you, and mamma wouldn't let us." "Yes," said Lucy, "they all wanted to go and as that couldn't be, and no one would give up to the others, I kept them all at home." "Quite right," he said, gravely, "I'm afraid you hardly deserve the pretty gifts I have brought." "Oh, yes, yes, papa, we'll be good next time! Indeed we will! Mamma, coax him!" "Yes, do let them have them, Phil," urged his wife, "where would be the use of keeping the things back after spending your money for them?" "To teach them a good lesson. I'm afraid both you and I are foolishly indulgent, Lucy." "Oh, they'll be good next time." "This once then, but only this once, unless they keep their word," he said, producing his gifts--a book or toy for each of his own children, and a package of sweetmeats which he divided among all present. He had brought a new dog home with him, but no one but Eddie had noticed it yet. He was stroking and patting it, saying, "Poor fellow, what kind of a dog are you?" "A French poodle," said Mr. Ross, coming up to them, "A good watch dog, and excellent for scaring up the wild ducks for the sportsmen. Do you and papa keep up the shooting lessons, master Eddie?" "Yes, sir; papa has always said he meant to make me as good a shot as himself, and mamma says it was never his way to give up till a thing's thoroughly done," returned the boy, proudly. "And you don't equal him as a shot yet, eh?" "No, sir! no, indeed! Why, even cousin Cal Conly--a big man--can't shoot as well as papa." "What an ugly dog!" exclaimed the other children, gathering round. "What did you buy it for, papa?" asked Gertrude. "Not for beauty, certainly," laughed Mr. Ross, stroking and patting the shaggy head of the dog, who was covered with curly hair of a dirty white, mottled with dull brown, "but for worth which is far better. Isn't it, Ranger?" A wag of his bushy tail, was Ranger's only reply. "Will he bite?" asked little Herbert, shrinking back as the newcomer turned toward him. "Tramps and burglars; but not good children," replied Mr. Ross. "You needn't be afraid of him, my little man." Through the evening there was a great deal of romping between the children and the new dog, but little Elsie seemed unusually quiet, scarcely stirring from her mother's side. She was suffering with toothache, but kept her trouble to herself; principally, because she had a great dread of the dentist's instruments. But in the night the pain grew so severe that she could not keep from crying and groaning. She did not want to wake any one, so buried her face in the pillow to smother the sound of her sobs; but presently a gentle hand touched her caressingly, and mamma's sweet voice asked, "What ails my little daughter?" "O mamma I did not mean to wake you!" cried the little girl sitting up with her hand pressed to her cheek, "but the pain was so bad I couldn't help making a noise." "My poor dear little girl! did you think your mother would want to sleep when her child was in pain?" Elsie said, clasping her in her arms. "No, indeed! so do not try to bear any pain alone another time." Mamma's loving sympathy was very sweet; the pain was soon relieved, too, by some medicine she put into the tooth, and presently all was forgotten in sound refreshing sleep. Elsie came into her mamma's dressing-room the next morning, along with the others, looking as bright and well as was her wont, yet with the boding fear that something would be said to her about having the troublesome tooth extracted. However to her relief the subject was not broached at all; they had their usual reading and prayer, recitation of texts and talk with mamma about the lessons contained in them, and then the breakfast bell summoned them to their morning meal. The tooth was quiet for a few days, then ached again for several hours harder than ever. "O mamma, mamma, what shall I do?" sobbed the child in the midst of her pain. "Couldn't my little girl pluck up courage enough to have it out?" asked the mother tenderly. "O mamma, don't say I must! please don't; I'm so frightened at the very thought!" "Ah, if I could only bear it for you, my darling! but you know I cannot." "No, dear mamma, and I couldn't be so selfish as to let you, if you could. But must I have it out?" "I have not said so; I should far rather my dear daughter would say must to herself." "Ought I, mamma?" "Ought you not? The tooth has become only a source of pain and trouble to you; if left it will cause the others to decay, and decayed teeth injure the health. Health is one of God's best gifts and it is our duty to use every means in our power to preserve it." "Yes, mamma, but oh, I'm so afraid!" cried the child, trembling and weeping. "My darling, resolve to do your duty with God's help, and he will fulfill his promise to you. 'As thy days so shall thy strength be.'" Little Elsie had long ago given her heart to Jesus; love to him was the ruling motive of her life, and to please and honor him she was ready to do or endure anything. "I will try, mamma," she said, "and you too will ask God to help me?" Mamma gave the promise, sealing it with a very tender kiss. Mr. Ross was going down to New York the next morning, and it was soon arranged that his wife, Mrs. Travilla and little Elsie, should accompany him. Mrs. Ross had some shopping to do, but would first take the two Elsies to her dentist, so that the little girl's trial might be over as soon as possible and she able to enjoy some sight-seeing afterward. Baby Lily was better and could be safely entrusted for the day to Aunt Chloe's faithful care. The plan was concealed from the Ross children because, as their mother said, "it was the only way to have any peace." So they were allowed to sleep until the travelers had taken an early breakfast and gone. The little Travillas, however, were up and saw the departure, bidding a cheerful good-bye to "mamma and sister Elsie," sending wistful, longing looks after the carriage as it rolled away, but making no complaint that they were left behind. "Poor dear Elsie!" Vi said with tears in her eyes, "it's just dreadful that she must have that tooth extricated." "Extracted," corrected Eddie. "Vi, you seem to forget what mamma says:--that you should never use a big word unless you are sure you have it right; or when a little one would do as well." "What little one?" "Pulled." "Couldn't it be pulled and not come out?" "Well then you might say pulled out." "I like the other word best," persisted Vi. "But we needn't be particular about words when Elsie's going to be so dreadfully hurt." Herbert burst out crying at that. "Why Herbie what ails you?" asked Vi, putting her arms round his neck and giving him a kiss. "I don't want the mans to hurt my Elsie," sobbed the little fellow, "maybe dey'll kill her." "Oh, no, they won't! mamma will never let them do that. They'll only take away the naughty tooth that hurts her so." "Come let's go and walk round the garden," said Eddie, taking Herbie's hand, "mamma said we might." The breakfast bell called them in to find the Rosses making a perfect bedlam in their anger and disappointment at being left behind by their parents. Sophie was screaming and stamping with rage, the boys and Kate were whimpering and scolding, and Gertrude walking about with flashing eyes, was saying "I'll never forgive mamma for this, no I never will; for she'd promised to take me along next time she went to the city." Violet, Eddie, and Harold hearing these words, looked at each other in horrified silence. "How could she speak so of her own mother?" Miss Fisk came in, in her quiet, deliberate way and stood looking for a moment from one to another of her pupils in a sort of amazed, reproving silence that presently had the effect of quieting them down a little. Then she spoke. "Young ladies and young gentlemen, I am astonished! especially at your expressions and behavior, Miss Gertrude Ross. How you can permit yourself to indulge in such invectives against parents so extremely indulgent as Mr. and Mrs. Ross, I cannot conceive." Sophie whose screams had sunk to sobs, now permitted the servant to lift her to her high chair, Kate and the boys slunk shamefacedly into their seats at the table, and Gertrude, muttering something about "people not keeping their promises," followed their example. "Come, sit down, my dears," Miss Fisk said, turning to Violet and her brothers; "the tempest seems to have nearly subsided and I hope will not resume its violence." Herbie was clinging to Vi in a frightened way, sobbing "I want mamma!" and Harold's eyes too were full of tears. It took coaxing and soothing to restore their equanimity and then the breakfast proceeded, everybody seeming to grow brighter and more good humored with the satisfying of the appetite for food. Vi was a merry little creature, a veritable bit of sunshine wherever she went, and under the influence of her bright looks and ways, sweet rippling laughter and amusing speeches, the whole party at length grew quite merry: especially after Miss Fisk had announced that there were to be no lessons that day but instead a picnic in the woods. CHAPTER SIXTH. "By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd, The sports of children satisfy the child." --GOLDSMITH. "Good! good!" cried the children. "Oh, delightful! But where are we going?" "To the grove adjacent to the schoolhouse," replied the governess. "We could not find a lovelier spot, and its proximity to the mansion renders it most eligible." "'Proximity, eligible, adjacent;' what do you mean by those words, Miss Fisk?" asked Gertrude, a little contemptuously. "I desire you to consult one of our standard lexicographers. You will then be far more likely to retain the definitions in your memory," returned the governess, ignoring the tone of her pupil. Gertrude shrugged her shoulders, with impatience, muttering audibly, "I wish you'd talk like other people, and not like a dictionary." "You quarrel with my phraseology, because you do not understand it," observed Miss Fisk, nonchalantly, "which is very irrational, since were I never to employ, in conversing with you, words beyond your comprehension, you would lose the advantage of being induced to increase your stock of information by a search for their meaning." "If that's what you do it for, you may as well give it up at once," returned Gertrude, "for I don't care enough about your meaning to take half that trouble." "Miss Gertrude, permit me to remark that you are lacking in respect to your instructress," returned Miss Fisk, reddening. "Do you mean that it is convenient, because of being so near this house, Miss Fisk?" asked Eddie respectfully. "Yes, convenient and safe; on which account both Mrs. Travilla and Mrs. Ross stipulated that our picnic for to-day should be held there." "Well, let's go right away," said Gertrude, jumping up and pushing back her chair. "Immediately, Miss Ross," corrected the governess. "Right away is exceedingly inelegant." "How tiresome!" muttered Gertrude. Then aloud to Violet, as the governess left the room, "I say, Vi, does your mamma reprove you for saying right away?" "I don't remember that I ever said it. Mamma----" "Said it?" interrupted Gertrude, with a twinkle of fun in her eye, "why don't you say 'used the expression'? my dear," mimicking Miss Fisk's tones, "you should never condescend to make use of a sixpenny word, when a fifty cent one would express your sentiments fully as correctly, or perchance even more so." Vi could not help joining in the laugh with which Gertrude concluded, though feeling rather ashamed of herself, as she seemed to see the grave look of disapproval mamma would have given her if present. "Oh, Gertrude," she said, "we oughtn't to----" "Yes, we ought," returned Gertrude, as they ran out of the room together; "mamma always laughs when I take off old finikin Fisk. She wouldn't have me talk like her for the world. Would your mamma wish you to?" "No, but she never says----" "Right away? No, of course not; she says 'immediately' or 'at once' or something that sounds nice. Well, so will I when I'm grown up." Miss Fisk was on the porch taking an observation of the weather, the children crowding about her, and clamoring to be allowed to set out immediately for the grove. The day was fine, and there seemed every indication that it would continue so. "Yes," said the governess, "you may request your maids to see that you are suitably arrayed for the occasion, and as promptly as possible, and we will repair to the appointed place; taking our departure hence in precisely thirty minutes." The children were ready and impatiently waiting, when Miss Fisk came down from her room, "suitably arrayed for the occasion." They set out at once, the whole party in high good humor, the boys carrying their balls, marbles, and fishing rods, the girls their dolls and a set of toy dishes, to play tea-party with. Miss Fisk had a bit of fancy work and a book, and two servants brought up the rear with camp-chairs, an afghan and rugs to make a couch for the little ones when they should grow sleepy. Luncheon was in course of preparation by the cook, and was to be sent by the time the young picnickers were likely to feel an appetite for it. The boys took the lead, bounding on some distance ahead, with Ranger in their midst. They were in no mood just then for sitting still, so depositing their fishing tackle in the schoolhouse, went roving about in search of more active amusement than that of catching trout. "That'll be good fun when we want to sit down and rest," said Eddie. "Oh, I see a bird's nest, and I'm going to have it!" exclaimed Archie, beginning to climb a tree. "Oh don't," cried Harold, "mamma says it's very cruel and wicked to rob the poor little birds." "Pooh! you're a baby!" answered Archie, half breathlessly, pulling himself up higher and yet higher. "There, I'll have it in a minute," reaching out his hand to lay hold of the branch that held the nest. Ranger was barking loudly at the foot of the tree, Harry and Eddie were calling to Archie to "Take care!" and he hardly knew how it was himself, but he missed the branch, lost his hold of the tree, and fell, lighting upon Ranger's back. The boy gave a scream, the dog a yelp, and the rest of the party came running to ask what was the matter. Archie picked himself up, looking quite crestfallen, and the fright of the others was turned to laughter, as they discovered that he had received no damage beyond a slight scratch on his hand and a rent in his jacket. Miss Fisk, making him promise not to repeat the experiment, went back to her seat under the trees and the book she had brought from the house for her own enjoyment. The morning passed without any further incident worth recording, the children amusing themselves with various quiet plays, the girls keeping house, each under her own particular tree, and exchanging visits; the boys catching trout, which they sent to the house to be cooked for dinner. They wanted to make a fire and cook them themselves, but Miss Fisk wisely forbade it. She would have had the meal served in the schoolhouse, but yielded to the clamor for an out-door repast. Several desks were brought out into the shade of the trees, a dainty table-cloth spread over them and the party presently sat down to a delightful collation, to which they brought keen appetites. Ranger had disappeared. They missed him as they were leaving the table. "Where can he have gone?" Harry was saying, when Vi cried out, "Oh yonder he is! and he has a dear little bird in his mouth! Oh you wicked, cruel dog!" And running to him she tried to take it from him. Be dropped it and snapped at her, Eddie jerking her back just in time to save her from his teeth, while Archie, who was very fond of Vi, struck the dog a blow with a stick, crying furiously, "You just do that again, sir, and I'll kill you!" Ranger then flew at him, but the boy avoided the attack by jumping nimbly behind a tree. The other children were screaming with fright, and a catastrophe appeared imminent, but one of the maids came running with some tempting morsels for Ranger which appeased his wrath, and the danger was averted. Ranger's attention being absorbed with the satisfying of his appetite, the children now looked about for the bird. It was not quite dead, but soon breathed its last in Vi's lap with her tears dropping fast upon it. "Oh don't, Vi!" said Archie, "I can't bear to see you feel so sorry. And the bird isn't being hurt now, you know; 'twon't ever be hurt any more; will it, Ed?" "No," said Harry, "we might as well let the dog have it." "No, no!" said Eddie, "it would just encourage him to catch another." "So it would," said Gertrude, "let's make a grand funeral and bury it at the foot of a tree. If we only knew now which one it used to live on." The motion was about to be carried by acclamation, but Vi entered a decided protest. "No, no, I want to keep it." "But you can't, Vi," remonstrated Eddie, "dead things have to be buried, you know." "Not the skin and feathers, Eddie; they do stuff them sometimes and I'll ask mamma to let me have this one done." "Oh what's the use?" expostulated Gertrude; "it's only a common robin." "But I love it; the poor dear little thing! and mamma will let me, I know she will," returned Vi, wiping away her tears as though comforted by the very thought. The other children wandered off to their play leaving her sitting where she was, on a fallen tree, fondling the bird; but Archie soon came back and seated himself by her side. "Such a pity; isn't it?" he said, "I hate that Ranger, don't you, Vi?" "No-o I hope not, Archie," she answered doubtfully: "folks kill birds to eat them and may be 'tain't any worse for dogs," she added, with a fresh burst of tears. "Poor little birdie; and may be there are some young ones in the nest that have no mamma now to feed or care for them." "That old Ranger! and he snapped at you too. Here he comes again. I'll kill him!" cried the boy, with vehemence. "Oh no, I know what I'll do! Here Ranger! here Ranger!" and starting up he rushed away in a direction to take him farther from the schoolhouse and the rest of his party. He had spied in the distance a farmer's boy, a lad of fourteen, with whom he had some slight acquaintance. "Hallo, Jared Bates!" he shouted. "Well, what's wantin'?" and Jared stood still, drawing the lash of his carter's whip slowly between his fingers. "Hurry up now, for I've got to go back to my team. Whose dog's that?" as Ranger came running up and saluted him with a sharp, "Bow, wow, wow!" "Ours," said Archie, "and I'm mad at him 'cause he killed a bird and tried to bite Vi Travilla, when she went to take it from him." "Like enough," returned Jared, grinning. "But what about it?" "I thought may be you'd like to have him." "So I would, what'll you sell him for?" "Ten cents." "I hain't got but two." "Haven't you, Jared? truly, now?" "No, nary red, 'cept them," and diving into his pantaloons' pocket, Jared produced a handful of odds and ends--a broken knife, a plug of tobacco, some rusty nails, a bit of twine, etc.,--from which he picked out two nickels. "There, them's um, and they's all I got in the world," he said gravely, passing them over to Archie. "Well, it's very cheap," observed the latter, pocketing the cash, "but you can have him. Good-bye," and away he ran back to the spot where he had left Vi. "You're a green 'un!" laughed Jared, looking after him; then whistling to the dog to follow, he went on his way. CHAPTER SEVENTH. "But this I say, he which soweth sparingly shall reap also sparingly; and he which soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully." --2 COR. ix. 6. All the children, Gertrude excepted, were gathered on the front porch, Vi with the dead bird in her hands, when the carriage drove up with the returning travelers. There was a glad chorus of welcome, and most of the young faces were bright and happy. Elsie's troop had nothing but smiles, caresses and loving words for her, and tender, anxious inquiries about "Sister Elsie; if the tooth were out?" "if the dentist hurt her much?" "It was hard to bear," she said, "but the doctor was very kind, and tried not to hurt her. And, oh, mamma had made her such a lovely present, for being brave and willing to have her tooth out." And she took a beautiful little gold watch and chain from her bosom, and held them up to their admiring gaze. "Oh, I'm so glad, so glad! Dear mamma, how good of you!" cried Vi, without a touch of envy embracing first her sister, and then her mother. Eddie and the two younger ones seemed equally pleased, and "sister Elsie" allowed each in turn to closely inspect, her treasure. In the meantime, Mr. and Mrs. Ross had been busy bestowing caresses and small gifts upon their children, who received them with noisy glee mingled with some reproaches because they had been left at home. "Come, come, no complaints," said their father; "I think you have fared well;--a holiday, a picnic, and these pretty presents. Where's Gertrude?" "Sure enough, where is she?" asked Lucy, looking round from one to another. "She's mad because you did not take her along," remarked Harry, "she says you didn't keep your promise." "Dear me, I'd forgotten all about it!" exclaimed Mrs. Ross. "I should have taken her though, but there wasn't time to get her up and dressed." "Gertrude! Gertrude!" called Mr. Ross, in tones of authority, "Gertrude, come here and show yourself." At that the child came slowly out from the hall--whence she had been watching the scene through the crack behind the door--looking red and angry. "What's the matter with you?" asked her father, with some displeasure in his tones. "Nothing, I'm not crying." "Nor pouting either, I suppose? What's it all about." "Mamma promised to take me along the next time she went to the city." "Perhaps she will the next time." "But this was the next time, because she promised it when she went before and took Kate." "Well, such promises are always conditional; she took no one this time (but me), and there was a good reason why." Gertrude smiled slightly, then laughed outright, as she glanced up into his face, saying, "I thought it was you, papa, that took mamma." "Oh! now, you begin to look something like the little girl I'm used to hearing called Gertrude Ross; the one I like to buy presents for; the other one that was here just a moment ago, gets nothing bought with my money." "See here," said her mother, and with a cry of delight Gertrude sprang forward and caught from her hand a watch and chain very nearly the counterparts of those little Elsie was displaying to her sister and brothers. "Oh, joy, joy!" she cried, dancing up and down, "thank you, mamma! Thank you, papa! I'd rather have this than a dozen visits to New York. See, Kate, isn't it a beauty?" "Yes," returned her sister sullenly; "but I don't see why you should have a watch and I only this ring; you're hardly more than a year older than I am and not a bit better girl" "Come, come, don't pout, Kitty," said her father, stroking her hair; "your time will come. Harry's and Archie's too, and even little Sophie's," he added, catching the household pet up in his arms, to give her a hug and kiss. It was not until after tea that Mr. Ross missed his dog. "Where's Ranger?" he asked of one of the servants. "Dade, sir, I don't know," she answered. "Sure he went to the picnic wid the rest of the childer, an' it's meself as hasn't seen him since." "Harry," stepping out on the porch where the children, except the very little ones, who had already been sent up to bed, were sitting listlessly about, too weary with the day's sports to care for anymore active amusement, "where's Ranger?" "Ranger?" cried Harry with a start, "why sure enough, I haven't seen him since he came home! and I don't think he came with us either." "No, he didn't," said several young voices. "I wonder where he can be," pursued Harry. "Shall I go and look for him, papa?" Mr. Ross was about to say yes, when his eye fell upon the face of his youngest son who, he noticed, looked very red and somewhat troubled. "What do you know about it, Archie?" he asked; "can you tell us what has become of Ranger?" "He behaved very bad indeed, papa," stammered the boy; "he killed a dear little bird and tried to bite Vi, and me too--and I sold him." The truth was out and Archie heaved a sigh of relief. "Sold him?" repeated his father in a tone of mingled surprise and displeasure. "Yes, sir: to Jared Bates, for two cents. Here they are: I s'pose they belong to you," said the little fellow tugging at his pocket. "For two cents!" exclaimed Mr. Ross laughing in spite of himself. "You'll never grow rich, my boy, making such bargains as that. But see here," he added, growing grave again, "whose dog was it?" "I--I thought it was ours, papa." "Ours? Yours to play with, but only mine to sell or give away. You'll have to go to Jared to-morrow, return his two cents, and tell him the dog is mine, and you sold what did not belong to you." "Oh where's my bird?" cried Violet, reminded of it by this little episode. "I laid it down to look at Elsie's watch, and oh it's gone! Mamma, mamma, I'm so sorry!" "I am too, dear, for your sake," the mother said, putting an arm about her and kissing the wet cheek, for the tears had begun to flow again. "Was it the bird Ranger killed?" "Yes, mamma, I was going to ask you to get it stuffed for me." "Some cat has got it, no doubt," said Mr. Ross. "But don't cry: it couldn't hurt it, you know, after it was dead." "If it only had a heaven to go to," sobbed Vi "Perhaps it has," said the gentleman kindly. "I really don't think," turning to Mrs. Travilla, "that the Bible says anything to the contrary; it seems to me to simply leave the matter in doubt." "I know," she answered thoughtfully, "that it is the generally accepted belief that there is no hereafter for the lower animals; yet it has occurred to me, too, that the Bible does not positively assert it; and some of the poor creatures have such a suffering life in this world that it makes my heart ache to think there is no other for them" "Papa," asked Archie, "don't you think Ranger deserved to be sold for killing that bird and trying to bite Vi?" "That's a question you should have propounded before selling him, that and another; 'May I sell him.'" "I wish you'd let Phelim go and buy him back," remarked the boy, looking very uncomfortable at the thought of having to do the errand himself. "No, sir," returned the father decidedly, "the mischief you have done you must undo yourself. Ah, Harry, go and ask if any letters came to-day." "I asked," said Gertrude. "There was just one; from Phil," and she drew it from her pocket and handed it to her father. "What does he say?" Mrs. Ross inquired when he had glanced over it. "Not much, except that he's to be here to-morrow, and wants the carriage sent to the depot for him," he answered, handing it to her. "Good!" said Gertrude, with much satisfaction. "We always have more fun when Phil's at home." "Except when he picks a quarrel with you or some of us," remarked Harry. "For shame, Hal!" said his mother. "The quarrels, if there are any, are as likely to be begun by you, as any one else." Lucy was proud and fond of her first-born, and always ready to shield him from blame. He was in his mother's eyes as the king, who could do no wrong, but to others a spoiled child, a wilful, headstrong, domineering boy. Yet he was not without his good qualities, brave, frank, affectionate, and generous to a fault, many hearts besides those of his doting parents were drawn to him in sincere affection; Elsie's among the rest; yet she dreaded exposing her little sons to Phil's influence; Edward especially as nearer Phil's age, and because, though much improved by good training, his natural disposition was very similar. But she had not seen Philip for two years, and hoped he might have changed for the better. It seemed so at first. He was a bright, handsome youth, and came home in fine spirits, and with a manner full of affection for parents, brothers and sisters. She did not wonder at Lucy's fond pride in her eldest son. "Phil," said his mother, following him into his room that night, "you have made a good impression, and I'm very anxious you shouldn't spoil it; so do try to keep on your good behavior while the Travillas stay." "I intend to, Mrs. Ross," he returned, with a laugh. Elsie, little Elsie's been my little lady love since the first time my eyes lighted on her, and I know that if I want to secure the prize, I've got to keep on the right side of her father and mother." Lucy laughed. "You are beginning early, Phil," she said. "I advise you not to say a word of your hopes in their hearing, for ten years to come." "Trust me for managing the thing, ma," he returned, nodding his head wisely. "But do you s'pose now, they'd be so outrageously unreasonable as to expect a fellow to be quite perfect?" he queried, striking a match and lighting a cigar. "Phil! Phil! throw that away!" she said, trying to snatch it from him. He sprang nimbly aside, "No, you don't, ma! Why shouldn't I smoke as well as my father? Ministers smoke too, and lots of good people." "But you're too young to begin yet, and I know your Aunt Elsie would be horrified. She'd think you a very fast boy and hurry away with her children, lest they should be contaminated by your bad example." "Well," he answered, puffing away, "I'll not let her or them know I ever indulge. I'll only smoke up here and at night, and the smell will be all off my breath by morning." "I wish you'd give it up entirely. Where did you ever learn it?" "Comes natural; guess I inherited the taste. But nearly all the fellows at school do it--on the sly." "Ah, Phil, I'm afraid you're a sad fellow!" Lucy said, shaking her head reprovingly; but he could see the smile shining in her fond, admiring eyes, and lurking about the corners of her mouth. "Oh, come now, ma, I'm not so bad; not the worst fellow in the world. I wouldn't do a mean thing." "No, of course not," she said, kissing him good-night, and leaving him with a parting, "Don't forget to say your prayers, Phil." Mr. and Mrs. Ross were not Christian parents; careful and solicitous about the temporal welfare of their children, they gave little thought to their spiritual needs. Lucy taught them, in their infancy, to say their prayers before lying down to rest at night, as they grew older sent them to Sunday-school, took them to church on pleasant Sabbath mornings, when it was convenient, and she felt inclined to go herself, and provided each one with a copy of the Bible. This was about the extent of the religious training they received; and it was strongly counteracted by the worldly atmosphere of their home, the worldly example set them by their parents, and the worldly maxims and precepts constantly instilled into their young minds. From these, they learned to look upon the riches, honors and pleasures of earth as the things to be most earnestly coveted, most worthy of untiring efforts to secure. Life at the Crags was a strange puzzle to the Ion children: no blessing asked at the table, no gathering of the family morning or evening for prayer or praise or the reading of God's word. "Mamma, what does it mean?" they asked; "why doesn't Uncle Ross do as papa does?" Elsie scarce knew how to answer them. "Don't let us talk about it, dears," she said: "but whatever others may do, let us serve God ourselves and seek his favor above everything else; for 'in his favor is life' and his loving kindness is better than life." CHAPTER EIGHTH. "To each his sufferings: all are men Condemn'd alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, The unfeeling for his own." --GRAY. The weather was delightful: because of Phil's return the children were excused altogether from lessons and nearly every day was taken up with picnics, riding, driving and boating excursions up and down the river. They were never allowed to go alone on the water or behind any horse but "Old Nan," an old slow moving creature that Phil said "could not be persuaded or forced out of a quiet even trot that was little better than a walk, for five consecutive minutes." The mothers were generally of the party;--Lily continuing so much better that Elsie could leave her, without anxiety, in the faithful care of her old mammy--and always one or two trusty servants were taken along. One day Philip got permission to take old Nan and the phaeton and drive out with the two older girls, Gertrude and Elsie. They were gone several hours and on their return, while still some miles from home were overtaken by a heavy shower, from which they took refuge in a small log-house standing a few yards back from the road. It was a rude structure built in a wild spot among the rocks and trees, and evidently the abode of pinching poverty; but everything was clean and neat, and the occupants, an elderly woman reclining in a high-backed wooden rocking-chair with her feet propped up on a rude bench, and a young girl who sat sewing by a window overlooking the road, wore an air of refinement, and spoke English more correctly and with a purer accent than sometimes is heard in the abodes of wealth and fashion. The door stood wide open and the moment Philip drew rein, the girl at the window called to them to come in out of the wet, and directed the lad to shelter his horse and phaeton underneath a shed at the side of the house. Gertrude ran lightly in with a laugh and jest, Elsie following close at her heels. The girl rose and setting out two unpainted wooden chairs, invited them to be seated, remarking as she resumed her work, that the shower had come up very suddenly, but she hoped they were not wet. "Not enough to hurt us," said Gertrude. "Hardly at all, thank you," I said Elsie. "I hope our mammas will not be alarmed about us, Gerty." "I don't think they need be so long as there's no thunder and lightning," answered Gertrude. "Ah, see how it is pouring over yonder on the mountain, Elsie!" The pale face of the woman in the rocking-chair, evidently an invalid, had grown still paler and her features worked with emotion. "Child! child!" she cried, fixing her wild eyes on Elsie, "who--who are you?" "They're the young ladies from the Crags, mother," said the girl soothingly. "I know that, Sally," she answered peevishly, "but one's a visitor, and the other one called her Elsie, she's just the age and very image of--child, what is your family name?" "Travilla, madam," the little girl replied, with a look of surprise. "Oh, you're her daughter; yes, of course I might have known it. And so she married him, her father's friend and so many years older." The words were spoken as if to herself and she finished with a deep drawn sigh. This woman had loved Travilla--all unsuspected by him, for he was not a conceited man--and there had been a time when she would have almost given her hopes of heaven for a return of her affection. "Is it my mother you mean? did you know her when she was a little girl?" asked Elsie, rising and drawing near the woman's chair. "Yes; if she was Elsie Dinsmore, and lived at Roselands--how many years ago? let me see; it was a good many; long before I was married to John Gibson." "That was mamma's name and that was where she lived; with her grandpa, while her papa was away in Europe so many years," returned the little Elsie; then asked with eager interest, "But how did you happen to know her? did you live near Roselands?" "I lived there; but I was a person of no consequence; only a poor governess," remarked the woman in a bitter tone; an expression of angry discontent settling down upon her features. "Are you Miss Day?" asked Elsie, retreating a step or two with a look as if she had seen a serpent. Her mother had seldom mentioned Miss Day to her, but from her Aunts Adelaide and Lora she had heard of her many acts of cruelty and injustice to the little motherless girl committed to her care. "I was Miss Day; I'm Mrs. Gibson now. I was a little hard on your mother sometimes, as I see you've been told; but I'd a great deal to bear; for they were a proud, haughty family--those Dinsmores. I was not treated as one of themselves, but as a sort of upper servant, though a lady by birth, breeding and education," the woman remarked, her tone growing more and more bitter as she proceeded. "But was it right? was it just and generous to vent your anger upon a poor little innocent girl who had no mother and no father there to defend her?" asked the child, her soft eyes rilling with tears. "Well maybe not; but it's the way people generally do. Your mother was a good little thing, provokingly good sometimes; pretty too, and heiress, they said, to an immense fortune. Is she rich still? or did she lose it all by the war?" "She did not lose it all, I know," said Elsie, "but how rich she is I do not know; mamma and papa seldom talk of any but the true riches." "Just like her, for all the world!" muttered the woman. Then aloud and sneeringly, "Pray what do you mean by the true riches?" "Those which can never be taken from us; treasure laid up in heaven where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt and thieves break not through to steal." The sweet child voice ceased and silence reigned in the room for a moment, while the splashing of the rain upon the roof could be distinctly heard. Mrs. Gibson was the first to speak again. "Well I'd like to have that kind, but I'd like wonderfully well to try the other a while first." Elsie looked at the thin, sallow face with its hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, and wished mamma were there to talk of Jesus to this poor woman, who surely had but little time to prepare for another world. "Is your mother at the Crags?" asked Mrs. Gibson turning to her again. Elsie answered in the affirmative, adding that they had been there for some time and would probably remain a week or two longer. "Do you think she would be willing to come here to see me?" was the next question, almost eagerly put. "Mamma is very kind and I am sure she will come if you wish to see her," answered the child. "Then tell her I do; tell her I, her old governess, am sick and poor and in great trouble." Tears rolled down her cheeks and for a moment her eyes rested upon her daughter's face with an expression of keen anguish. "She's going blind," she whispered in Elsie's ear, drawing the child toward her, and nodding in the direction of Sally, stitching away at the window. "Blind! oh how dreadful!" exclaimed the little girl in low moved tones, the tears springing to her eyes. "I wish she could go to Doctor Thomson." "Doctor Thomson! who is he?" "An oculist: he lives in Philadelphia. A friend of mamma's had something growing over her eyes so that she was nearly blind, and he cut it off and she can see now as well as anybody." "I don't think that is the trouble with Sally's; though of course I can't tell. But she's always had poor sight, and now that she has to support the family with her needle, her eyes are nearly worn out." Sally had been for several minutes making vain attempts to thread a needle. Elsie sprang to her side with a kindly, eager, "Let me do it, won't you?" It was done in a trice and the girl thanked her with lips and eyes. "It often takes me full five or ten minutes," she said, "and sometimes I have to get mother to do it for me." "What a pity! it must be a great hindrance to your work." "Yes, indeed, and my eyes ache so that I can seldom sew or read for more than an hour or two at a time. Ah, I'm afraid I'm going to lose my sight altogether." The tone was inexpressibly mournful, and Elsie's eyes filled again. "Don't fret about it," she said, "I think--I hope you can be cured." The rain had nearly ceased, and Philip, saying the worst was over, and they were in danger of being late at dinner, hurried the girls into the phaeton. "What was that woman whispering to you?" asked Gertrude, as soon as they were fairly off. Elsie looked uncomfortable. "It was something I was to tell mamma," she replied. "But what is it?" "I'm afraid she wanted to keep it a secret from you, Gerty, or she would have spoken out loud." "I think you're very mean and disobliging," retorted Gertrude, beginning to pout. "No, she isn't," said Philip pompously, "she's honorable, and one of the few females who can keep a secret. But I overheard it, Elsie, and feel pretty sure that the reason she whispered it, was to keep the poor girl from hearing. It's very natural she shouldn't want her to know she's afraid her sight's leaving her." "Oh, yes; I suppose that was it!" returned Elsie. "But you were very wise to think of it, Phil." "Don't flatter him," said Gertrude; "he thinks a great deal too much of himself, already." Dinner was just ready when they reached home, and their mammas were on the porch looking for them. "So there you are at last! what detained you so long?" said Mrs. Ross. "Went further than we intended; and then the rain, you know," said Philip. "And, oh, we had an adventure!" cried the girls, and hastened to tell it. Mrs. Travilla had not forgotten her old governess, and though no pleasant recollection of her lingered in her memory, neither was there any dislike or revengeful feeling there. She heard of her sorrows with commiseration and rejoiced in the ability to alleviate them. "That Mrs. Gibson!" exclaimed Lucy, "I've seen her many a time at the door or window, in driving past, and have often thought there was something familiar in her face, but never dreamed who she was. That hateful Miss Day! as I used to call her; Elsie, I wouldn't do a thing for her, if I were you. Why she treated you with absolute cruelty." "She was sometimes unjust and unkind," said Mrs. Travilla, smiling at her friend's vehemence, "but probably my sensitiveness, timidity and stupidity, were often very trying." "No such thing!--if you will excuse me for contradicting you--everybody that knew you then, would testify that you were the sweetest, dearest, most patient, industrious little thing that ever was made." Elsie laughed and shook her head, "Ah, Lucy, you always flattered me; never were jealous even when I was held up to you as a pattern an evidence that yours was a remarkably sweet disposition. Now, tell me, please, if you know anything about these Gibsons?" "Not much; they came to that hut years ago, evidently very poor, and quite as evidently--so report says--having seen better days. The husband and father drank deeply, and the wife earned a scanty support for the family by sewing and knitting; that is about all I know of them, except that several of their children died of scarlet fever within a few days of each other, soon after they came to the neighborhood, and that a year ago last winter, the man, coming home very drunk, fell into a snow-drift, and next day was found frozen to death. I was told at that time they had only two children--a son who was following in his father's footsteps, and this daughter." "Poor woman!" sighed Elsie, "she is sorely tried and afflicted. I must go to her at once." "Do, mamma, and get a doctor for her," said little Elsie; "she looked so sick and miserable." Mrs. Ross offered her carriage, and the shower having cooled the air, Elsie went, shortly after the conclusion of the meal. CHAPTER NINTH. "I'll not chide thee; Let shame come when it will, I do not call it." --SHAKESPEARE. "I never saw such a likeness in my life!" said Mrs. Gibson looking after the phaeton as it drove away; "she's the very image of her mother. I could just have believed it was the very little Elsie Dinsmore I used to teach more than twenty years ago." "She's lovely!" exclaimed Sally with enthusiasm. "Mother, did you see what a pretty watch she had?" "Yes," gloomily; "some folks seem to have nothing but prosperity, and others nothing but poverty and losses and crosses. They're as rich as Croesus and we have hardly enough to keep us from starving." "Better times may come," said Sally, trying to speak hopefully, "Tom may reform and go to work. I do think, mother, if you'd try to----" "Hush! I'm a great deal better to him than he deserves." It was some moments before Sally spoke again, then it was only to ask, "Will you have your dinner now, mother?" "No; there's nothing in the house but bread and potatoes, and I couldn't swallow either. Dear me what a table they used to set at Roselands! enough to tempt the appetite of an epicure." "I must rest my eyes a little. I can't see any longer," said the girl, laying down her work and going to the door. "It's just dreadful," sighed her mother, "but don't get out of heart; these people will help us and it is possible some skilful oculist may understand your case and be able to help you." The girl's eyes were fixed upon the distant mountain-tops where, through a rift in the clouds the sun shone suddenly out for a moment. "'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills whence cometh my help,'" she murmured softly to herself. Then from a full heart went up a strong cry, "O God, my Father, save me, I beseech thee, from this bitter trial that I so dread! Nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt. Oh, help me to be content with whatsoever thou shalt send!" "Sally, you're standing there a long time." It was the mother's querulous voice again. The girl turned toward her, answering in a patient tone. "Yes, mother, it rests my eyes to look at the sky and the mountains or any distant object." "You'd better get yourself something to eat. It must be six or eight hours at least since breakfast." An hour later Sally, again busied with her sewing, by the window, lifted her head at the sound of wheels and exclaimed in a low tone, "There is the same carriage again! It has stopped and a lady is getting out of it." But turning her head she perceived that her mother, who was now lying on the bed, had fallen asleep. Dropping her work, she stepped quickly to the door in time to prevent a rap. She recognized the lady at once from her likeness to her namesake daughter, and holding out her hand with a joyful admiring smile said, "Mrs. Travilla, is it not? Thank you for coming. I am so glad, and mother will be so delighted to see you; but she is sleeping just now." She had spoken softly, and Elsie answered in the same subdued tone, as she took the offered hand, then stepped in and sat down in a chair the girl hastened to set for her, "That is well; we must not wake her." A long talk followed in which Elsie by her ready tact and sweet sympathy, free from the slightest approach to patronage, drew from the girl the story of their sorrows, privations and fears for the future. Her mother had been gradually failing for some time, though she really did not know what was the nature of the disease. For a while they had contrived by their united efforts to make the two ends meet, but now that all depended upon her, with her poor sight, it was no longer possible. "How are your eyes affected?" asked Elsie. "The sight is dim; I can scarcely see to set my stitches: I have great difficulty in threading a needle: I always had. I could never read fine print, never read through a long sentence without shutting my eyes for an instant or looking off the book. It has always been an effort to see, and now I am forced to use my eyes so constantly they grow worse and pain me very much. At times a mist comes over them so that I cannot see at all until I rest them a little. Indeed I often seem to be going blind and I'm afraid I shall," she added, with a tremble in her tones, a tear rolling down her cheek. But she hastily wiped it away. "My poor child, I hope not," Elsie said, laying a hand softly on hers; "there have been wonderful cures of diseased eyes. You must go to an oculist." "The expense would be far beyond our means." "You must let me assume that. No, don't shake your head. I have abundant means. The Lord has given me far more of this world's goods than I ought to use for myself or my family and I know it is because he would have me be his almoner." The girl wept for joy and thankfulness. "Oh, how kind you are!" she cried. "I believe the Lord sent you and that my sight will be spared; for I have prayed so that it might;--that he would send me help somehow. But mother, how can she do without me?" "I will see that she has medical advice, nursing, everything she needs." Sally tried to speak her thanks but tears and sobs came instead. The sound woke Mrs. Gibson. "Elsie Dinsmore!" she cried in feeble but excited tones, with difficulty raising herself to a sitting posture. "I should have known you anywhere." "I cannot say the same; you are much changed," Elsie said, going to the bedside and taking the thin feverish hand in hers. "Yes, I've grown an old woman, while you are fresh and young; and no wonder, for your life has been all prosperity; mine nothing but trouble and trial from beginning to end." "O, mother dear, we have had a great many mercies," said Sally; "and your life is not ended. I hope your good times are yet to come." "Well, maybe so, if Mrs. Travilla can help us to the medical aid we need, and put us in the way of earning a good living afterward." "I shall do my best for you in both respects," Elsie said kindly, accepting a chair Sally set for her near the bed. "I knew you would; you were always generous," remarked her ci-devant governess; "prompt too in bestowing your favors. But it is easy to be generous with a large and well-filled purse." "Very true," Elsie answered with a smile. "And now what can I do for you? Ah I had forgotten. Mrs. Ross, hearing you were ill, and knowing that to the sick something sent by a neighbor was often more relished than home food, however nice, put a basket of dainties into the phaeton." Stepping to the door, she signed to the servant, who immediately brought in a hamper of provisions such as had not been seen under that roof for many months. Mrs. Gibson's eyes glistened at sight of a basket of fine fresh fruit and a bowl of delicious custard. "I will go now and call again to-morrow," Elsie said, as the man carried away the empty hamper. Grasping Sally's hand cordially in parting, she left something in it. "Mother!" cried the girl, breathlessly, holding it up to view, "it's a check for a hundred dollars!" "'Tisn't possible! let me see!" cried Mrs. Gibson laying down the spoon with which she was eating raspberries and custard, and holding out her hand for the check. "Yes, so it is! what a godsend! I didn't think even she was so generous. But dear me, she's rolling in wealth, and it's no more to her, or even as much as ten cents would be to you or me." "Oh, mother!" said Sally, reproachfully, "we have no claim on her; and if she has a good deal of money, she must have hundreds of calls for it." "No claim on her? why people take care of old servants, and a governess ought to be considered of a good deal more account." "Tom mustn't know about this, mother." "No, indeed! the greater part of it would soon go for liquor or at the gambling table, if he did. Here give it to me, and I'll hide it under my pillow." The saucer of berries was scarcely disposed of, before a second visitor arrived. Dr. Morton was considered the most skilful practitioner in the neighborhood. Mrs. Travilla meeting him on the way in returning to the Crags, had begged him to take charge of Mrs. Gibson's case, and also to look at Sally's eyes; engaging to settle his bill herself. On his way home he called at the Crags with his report. The mother, he said, was very much out of health, but not incurable; he had promised to send her some medicine. A month or two at the seashore would do her good; perhaps restore her entirely." "Then she must go," said Elsie, "I will at once see what arrangements can be made. But now, what of the girl, doctor?" "She seems in pretty good health." "But her eyes?" "The nerve is affected; there is no help for her." "Are you quite sure?" "Quite. I have paid a good deal of attention to the eye, and I assure you a case like hers is incurable." "Then you decline to attempt to do anything for her?" "I do, Mrs. Travilla, because there is absolutely nothing to be done." "Poor girl, how sorry I am for her! blindness must be so terrible," Lucy remarked to her friend after the doctor had gone. "Yes," Elsie answered thoughtfully, "but I do not give up hope for her yet." "Dr. Morton is considered very skilful." "Still he may be mistaken, and I shall not rest till I have made every effort to save her sight." Little Elsie and her sister had already become deeply interested in poor Sally, and were laying plans to help her. "What can we do, Elsie?" queried Vi, in an under tone, drawing her sister aside. "She'll want clothes; she had on a very old faded calico dress." "And not a bow or pin; just an old linen collar around her neck," remarked Gertrude, joining them; "and her dress was ever so old-fashioned and patched besides." "Let's put our pocket money together, and buy her a new dress," proposed Vi. "And make it for her," added Elsie; "it hurts her eyes to sew, and you know Dinah could fit it. Mamma had her taught the trade, and says she fits and sews very nicely." "Oh, what's the use of giving our money?" exclaimed Gertrude, impatiently. "We want it ourselves, and your mamma has such loads and loads of money; hasn't she, Eddie?" turning to him, as he stood near. "I don't know," he answered; "she never told us she had; she never talks much about money, except to tell us it all belongs to God, who only lends it to us." "And that we must give it to the poor and needy," said Vi. "Because 'it is more blessed to give than to receive,'" added Elsie. "Well, I know she has," persisted Gertrude, "for my mamma often says so, and I'm sure she knows." "But even if she has, mamma's money is not ours, and it's a duty and a very great pleasure to give of our own." "Every one to their taste, I haven't a bit more money than I want myself," said Gertrude, walking away with her chin in the air. "Gerty," said Elsie, running after her, "don't be vexed; we weren't meaning to ask you for anything; but only talking about our own duty." "Oh, I can take a hint as well as other folks," said Gertrude, tossing her head. "What's it all about?" asked Kate, coming up to them; but they paid no heed to her, and she went to Vi for the desired information. "Why, I'll help, of course I will," she said; "I guess I've got some money, I'll look after tea; there's the bell now." Elsie seized an opportunity to petition her mother for a longer talk than usual in her dressing-room that evening, and the most of it was taken up in the discussion and arranging of plans for helping Mrs. Gibson and her daughter. "What an unconscionable time you've been upstairs, Elsie," Philip remarked in a bantering tone, coming to her side as she and her mother returned to the drawing-room. "I've been dying to speak to you, as the girls say." "All girls don't talk so, Phil." "You don't, I know. Would you like a gallop before breakfast to-morrow morning?" "Yes, indeed!" she answered, her eyes sparkling, "it's what I'm used to at home. Papa rides with us almost every morning." "Will I do for an escort?" "Oh, yes, if mamma consents. Gert will go too, won't she?" "No, she prefers her morning nap." Philip was a manly boy, the neighborhood a safe one, and the pony Elsie would ride, well-broken and not too spirited, so mamma's consent was readily given, with the proviso that they should not go before sunrise, or choose a lonely road. "By the way," she added, "I should like you to do an errand for me at Mrs. Gibson's." As Sally Gibson was sweeping the doorstep early the next morning, a couple of ponies dashed up to the gate, in whose riders she instantly recognized Elsie Travilla and Philip Ross. "Hallo!" shouted the latter, "this young lady has something for you." "Good-morning," Elsie said, reaching out a little gloved hand, as the girl drew near, "mamma bade me bring you this note, and ask how your mother is to-day." "A little better, thank you; it has done her a world of good to--to have her mind so relieved, and the doctor's medicine seems to have helped her too. How very, very kind Mrs. Travilla is," she added, with tears in her eyes, "and Mrs. Ross. Won't you come in?" "Not this morning, thank you," and away they galloped. Sally looking after them with admiring eyes, and a murmured exclamation, "How pretty and sweet she is!" It was not an envious sigh that accompanied the words, but born of mingled emotions,--the half-formed thought, "Shall I ever know such pleasures. Alas, they are not for me!" quickly succeeded by another,--"Ah, that sweet child cannot live to maturity, and be always as happy and free from care, as now." Her mother's shrill voice recalled her to herself, "Why do you stand there? What's that they gave you?" "A note, mother. It's directed to me." "Then make haste and read it." "Shall I not give you your breakfast first?" "No, no! do as I bid you." So the girl read the missive aloud without delay. It was from Mrs. Travilla, and stated that she had already written to engage a room for Mrs. Gibson in a cottage in a quiet little seaside town; a place recommended by Doctor Morton as very suitable; and that she would secure a competent nurse to go with her. "Why can't she send you, too, instead of hiring a stranger to go with me?" here interrupted Mrs. Gibson, angrily. "Wait, mother," said Sally in quivering tones, tears of joy and gratitude filling her eyes. She dashed them away and read on. "I have another plan for you. Doctor Morton told you his opinion,--that your case was hopeless. But do not despair; mistakes are often made even by the most skilful men. A friend of mine, whose trouble was very similar to yours--consulted a number of excellent oculists all of whom told her the nerve of her eye was affected and there was no help for it, she would certainly go blind; then as a last hope she went to Doctor Thomson of Philadelphia, who succeeded in giving her entire relief. If you are willing, I will send you to him. And now the first thing is to provide your mother and yourself each with a suitable outfit. Come up to the Crags as early this morning as you can, and we will make arrangements." CHAPTER TENTH. "When we see the flower seeds wafted, From the nurturing mother tree, Tell we can, wherever planted, What the harvesting will be; Never from the blasting thistle, Was there gathered golden grain, Thus the seal the child receiveth, From its mother will remain." --MRS. HALE. For once Mrs. Gibson had the grace to feel a passing emotion of gratitude to this kind benefactor, and shame that she herself had been so ready with fault-finding instead of thanks. As for Sally, she was completely overcome, and dropping into a chair, hid her face and cried heartily. "Come, don't be a fool," her mother said at last; "there's too much to be done to waste time in crying, and besides you'll hurt your eyes." Sally rose hastily, removed the traces of her tears, and began setting the table for their morning meal. "How soon are you going?" her mother asked at its conclusion. "Just as soon as I can get the things cleared away and the dishes washed; if you think you can spare me." "Of course I can. I feel well enough this morning to help myself to anything I'm likely to want." There was still half an hour to spare before breakfast when, after a round of five or six miles on their ponies, Philip and Elsie reached the Crags. "What shall you do with yours?" asked Philip, remarking upon that fact. "Read," she answered, looking back at him with a smile as she tripped lightly up the stairs. Dinah was in waiting to smooth her hair and help her change the pretty riding hat and habit for a dress better suited to the house; then Elsie, left alone, seated herself by a window with her Bible in her hand. For a moment her eyes rested upon the blue distant mountains, softly outlined against the deeper blue of the sky, watched the cloud shadows floating over the nearer hills and valleys here richly wooded, there covered with fields of waving grain her ear the while drinking in with delight many a sweet rural sound, the songs of birds, the distant lowing of cattle, and bleating of sheep--her heart swelling with ardent love and thankfulness to him who had given her so much to enjoy. Dinah had left the door open, that the fresh air might course freely through the room, and Gertrude coming, some minutes later, in search of her friend, stood watching Elsie for a little unperceived. "Dear me!" she exclaimed at length, "how many times a day do you pore over that book?" Elsie looked up with a smile as sweet as the morning, "I am allowed to read it as often as I please." "Allowed? not compelled? not ordered?" "No, only I must have a text ready for mamma every morning." "Getting one ready for to-morrow?" "No, just reading. I had time for only a verse or two before my ride." "Well, that would be plenty for me. I can read it, too, as often as I like, but a chapter or two on Sunday, generally does me for all the week. There's the bell; come let's go down." Vi met them at the door of the breakfast-room. "Oh, Elsie, did you have a pleasant ride? Is Sally Gibson coming soon?" "I don't know; mamma said I need not wait for an answer." There was time for no more, and Vi must put a restraint upon herself, repressing excitement and curiosity for the present, as mamma expected her children to be very quiet and unobtrusive at table when away from home. Vi was delighted when just as they were leaving the table, a servant announced that a young person who called herself Miss Gibson, was asking for Miss Travilla; for Vi never liked waiting, and was always eager to carry out immediately any plan that had been set on foot. Mrs. Gibson was not troubled with any delicacy of feeling about asking for what she wanted, and had made out a list of things to be provided for herself and Sally, which the girl was ashamed to show; so extravagant seemed its demands. When urged by her benefactress, she mentioned a few of the most necessary articles, modestly adding that the generous gift Mrs. Travilla had already bestowed, ought to be sufficient to supply all else that might be required. Elsie, seating herself at her writing desk and taking out pen, ink and paper, looked smilingly into the eager faces of her two little girls. "What do you think about it, dears?" "Oh, they must have more things; a good many more, and we want to help pay for them with our money." "You see, Miss Sally, they will be sadly disappointed if you refuse to accept their gifts," Elsie said. "Now I'm going to make out a list and you must all help me, lest something should be forgotten. Mrs. Ross has kindly offered us the use of her carriage, and we will drive to the nearest town and see what we can find there, the rest we will order from New York." The list was made out amid much innocent jesting and merry laughter of both mother and children,--Sally a deeply interested and delighted spectator of their pleasing intercourse--the mother so sweet, gentle and affectionate, the children so respectful and loving to her, so kind and considerate to each other. In fact, the girl was so occupied in watching them, that she was not aware till Mrs. Travilla read it over aloud, that this new list was longer and more extravagant than the one she had suppressed. "Oh, it is too much, Mrs. Travilla!" she cried, the tears starting to her eyes. "My dear child," returned Elsie, playfully, "I'm a wilful woman and will have my own way. Come, the carriage is in waiting and we must go." The shopping expedition was quite a frolic for the children, and a great treat to poor, overworked Sally. "She looks so shabby; I'd be ashamed to go with her to the stores or anywhere, or to have her ride in the carriage with me," Gertrude had said to Vi as the little girls were having their hats put on; but Vi answered indignantly, "She's clean and tidy, and she isn't vulgar or rude, and I do believe she's good; and mamma says dress and riches don't make the person." And that seemed to be the feeling of all; Elsie, too, had purposely dressed herself and her children as plainly as possible; so that Sally, though at first painfully conscious of the deficiencies in her attire, soon forgot all about them, and gave herself up to the thorough enjoyment of the pleasures provided for her. She felt that it would be very ungrateful did she not share the hearty rejoicing of the children over "her pretty things" as they eagerly selected and paid for them with their own pocket money, seeming fully to realize the truth of the Master's declaration, "It is more blessed to give than to receive." Vi would have had the making of the new dresses begun at once, wanting Sally to return with them to the Crags, and let Dinah fit her immediately, but was overruled by her mamma. "No, my dear, Sally must go home to her sick mother now, and Dinah shall go to them after dinner." "But mamma, I want to begin my part. You know you said I could hem nicely, and might do some on the ruffles or something." "Yes, daughter, and so you shall, but must rest awhile first." Violet had often to be held back in starting upon some new enterprise, and afterward encouraged or compelled to persevere, while Elsie was more deliberate at first, more steadfast in carrying out what she had once undertaken. Each had what the other lacked, both were very winsome and lovable, and they were extremely fond of one another; scarcely less so of their brothers and the darling baby sister. "When may I begin, mamma?" asked Vi, somewhat impatiently. "After breakfast to-morrow morning you may spend an hour at your needle." "Only an hour, mamma? It would take all summer at that rate." "Ah, what a doleful countenance, daughter mine!" Elsie said laughingly, as she bent down and kissed the rosy cheek. "You must remember that my two little girls are not to carry the heavy end of this, and the sewing will be done in good season without overworking them. I could not permit that; I must see to it that they have plenty of time for rest and for healthful play. I appoint you one hour a day, and shall allow you to spend one more, if you wish, but that must be all." Violet had been trained to cheerful acquiescence in the decisions of her parents, and now put it in practice, yet wished very much that mamma would let her work all day for Sally, till her outfit was ready; she was sure she should not tire of it; but she soon learned anew the lessons she had learned a hundred times before--that mamma knew best. The first day she would have been willing to sew a little longer after the second hour's task was done; the next, two hours were fully sufficient to satisfy her appetite for work: on the third, it was a weariness before the end of the first hour; on the fourth, she would have been glad to beg off entirely, but her mother said firmly, "No, dear; one hour's work is not too much for you, and you know I allowed you to undertake it only on condition that you would persevere to the end." "Yes, mamma, but I am very tired, and I think I'll never undertake anything again," and with a little sigh the child seated herself and began her task. Mamma smiled sympathizingly, softly smoothed the golden curls, and said in her own gentle voice, "Let us not be weary in well-doing'! Do you remember the rest of it?" "Yes, mamma, 'for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.' And you told us to faint was to get tired and stop. But mamma, what shall I reap by keeping on with this?" "A much needed lesson in perseverance, for one thing, I hope my little daughter, and for another the promise given in the forty-first Psalm, 'Blessed is he that considereth the poor; the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble. The Lord will preserve him, and keep him alive; and he shall be blessed upon the earth; and thou wilt not deliver him unto the will of his enemies. The Lord will strengthen him upon the bed of languishing: thou wilt make all his bed in his sickness.' "How would you like to hear a story while you sit here sewing by my side?" "Oh, ever so much, mamma! A story! a story!" And all the little flock clustered about mamma's chair, for they dearly loved her stories. This was an old favorite, but the narrator added some new characters and new scenes, spinning it out, yet keeping up the interest, till it and the hour came to an end very nearly together. Then the children, finding that was to be all for the present, scattered to their play. Mrs. Ross had come in a few minutes before, and signing to her friend to proceed, had joined the group of listeners. "Dear me, Elsie, how can you take so much trouble with your children?" she said. "You seem to be always training and teaching them in the sweetest, gentlest way; and of course they're good and obedient. I'm sure I love mine dearly, but I could never have the patience to do all you do." "My dear friend, how can I do less, when so much of their future welfare, for time and for eternity, depends upon my faithfulness?" "Yes," said Lucy slowly, "but the mystery to me is, how you can keep that in mind all the time, and how you can contrive always to do the right thing?" "I wish I did, but it is not so; I make many mistakes." "I don't see it. You do wonderfully well anyhow, and I want to know how you manage it." "I devote most of my time and thoughts to it; I try to study the character of each child, and above all, I pray a great deal for wisdom and for God's blessing on my efforts; not always on my knees, for it is a blessed truth, that we may lift our hearts to him at any time and in any place. Oh, Lucy," she exclaimed with tearful earnestness, "if I can but train my children for God and heaven, what a happy woman shall I be I the longing desire of my heart for them is that expressed in the stanza of Watts's Cradle Hymn: 'Mayst them live to know and fear him, Trust and love him all thy days, Then go dwell forever near him, See his face and sing his praise!'" CHAPTER ELEVENTH. "Beware the bowl! though rich and bright, Its rubies flash upon the sight, An adder coils its depths beneath, Whose lure is woe, whose sting is death." --STREET. Mrs. Ross had found a nurse for Mrs. Gibson and a seamstress to help with the sewing; a good many of the needed garments were ordered from New York ready made, and in a few days the invalid was comfortably established in the seaside cottage recommended by Dr. Morton. In another week, Sally found herself in possession of a wardrobe that more than satisfied her modest desires. She called at the Crags in her new traveling dress, to say good-bye, looking very neat and lady-like; happy too, in spite of anxiety in regard to her sight. Not used to the world, timid and retiring, she had felt a good deal of nervous apprehension about taking the journey alone; but business called Mr. Ross to Philadelphia, and he offered to take charge of her and see her safe in the quiet boarding-place already secured for her by Mrs. Edward Allison, to whom Elsie had written on her behalf. Adelaide had never felt either love or respect for the ill-tempered governess of her younger brothers and sisters, but readily undertook to do a kindness for her child. "Have you the doctor's address?" Mr. Ross asked, when taking leave of the girl in her new quarters. "Yes, sir; Mrs. Travilla gave it to me on a card, and I have it safe. A letter of introduction too, from Dr. Morton. He says he is not personally acquainted with Dr. Thomson, but knows him well by reputation, and if anybody can help me he can." "That is encouraging, and I hope you will have no difficulty in finding the place. It is in the next street and only a few squares from here." Sally thought she could find it readily; Mrs. Travilla had given her very careful directions about the streets and numbers in Philadelphia; besides, she could inquire if she were at a loss. When Mr. Ross returned home, he brought some one with him at sight of whom the Ion children uttered a joyous cry, and who stepping from the carriage, caught their mother in his arms and held her to his heart, as if he meant never to let her go. "Papa! papa!" cried the children, "we did not know you were coming; mamma did not tell us. Mamma, did you know?" "Yes, mamma had known; they saw it in her smiling eyes; and now they knew why it was that she had watched and listened so eagerly for the coming of the carriage; even more so than Aunt Lucy, who was expecting Uncle Philip, and who was very fond of him too. But then he had left her only the other day, and mamma and papa had been parted for weeks." Mr. Travilla had rented a furnished cottage at Cape May and come to take them all there. The doctors thought that would be best for Lily now. The young folks were greatly pleased, and ready to start at once; they had enjoyed their visit to the Crags, but had missed papa sadly, and now they would have him with them all the time, grandpa and the whole family from the Oaks, too; for they were occupying an adjoining cottage. And the delicious salt sea breeze, oh, how pleasant it would be! Mrs. Ross was sorry to part with her guests, had hoped to keep her friend with her all summer, but a good deal comforted in her disappointment, by the knowledge that her mother, Sophie and her children would soon take their places. As for young Philip he was greatly vexed and chagrined. "It is really too bad!" he said seeking little Elsie out, and taking a seat by her side. She was on the porch at some little distance from the others, and busied in turning over the pages of a new book her papa had brought her. "What is too bad, Phil?" she asked, closing it, and giving her full attention to him. "That you must be hurried away so soon. I've hardly been at home two weeks, and we hadn't seen each other before for two years." "Well a fortnight is a good while. And you will soon have your cousins here--Herbert, Meta----" "Herbert!" he interrupted impatiently, "who cares for him? and Meta, prying, meddling, tell-tale Meta's worse than nobody. But there! don't look so shocked, as if I had said an awfully wicked thing. I really don't hate her at all, though she got me into trouble more than once with grandma and Aunt Sophie that winter we spent at Ashlands. Ah, a bright thought strikes me!" "Indeed! may I have the benefit of it?" asked the little girl, smiling archly. "That you may. It is that you might as well stay on another week, or as long as you will." "Thank you, but you must remember the doctor says we should go at once, on baby's account." "I know that, but I was speaking only of you personally. Baby doesn't need you, and papa could take you to your father and mother after a while." "Let them all go and leave me behind? Oh, Phil, I couldn't think of such a thing!" The Travillas had been occupying their seaside cottage for two weeks, when a letter came from Sally Gibson; the first she had written them, though she had been notified at once of their change of address, told that they would be glad to hear how she was and what Dr. Thomson thought of her case, and a cordial invitation given her to come to them to rest and recruit as soon as she was ready to leave her physician. Elsie's face grew very bright as she read. "What does she say?" asked her husband. "There is first an apology for not answering sooner (her eyes were so full of belladonna that she could not see to put pen to paper, and she had no one to write for her), then a burst of joy and gratitude--to God, to the doctor and to me,--'success beyond anything she had dared to hope,' but she will be with us to-morrow, and tell us all about it." "And she won't be blind, mamma?" queried Violet, joyously. "No, dear; I think that she must mean that her eyes are cured, or her sight made good in some way." "Oh, then, I'll just love that good doctor!" cried the child, clasping her hands in delight. The next day brought Sally, but they scarcely recognized her, she had grown so plump and rosy, and there was so glad a light in the eyes that looked curiously at them through glasses clear as crystal. Mrs. Travilla took her by both hands and kissed her. "Welcome, Sally; I am glad to see you, but should scarcely have known you, had we met in a crowd;--you are looking so well and happy." "And so I am, my dear kind friend," the girl answered with emotion; "and I can see! see to read fine print that is all a blur to me without these glasses; and all the pain is gone, the fear, the distress of body and mind. Oh, the Lord has been good, good to me! and the doctor so kind and interested! I shall be grateful to him and to you as long as I live!" "Oh, did he make you those glasses? what did he do to you?" asked the eager, curious children. "Tell us all about it, please." But mamma said, "No, she is too tired now; she must go to her room and lie down and rest till tea-time." Little Elsie showed her the way, saw that nothing was wanting that could contribute to her comfort, then left her to her repose. It was needed after all the excitement and the hot dusty ride in the cars; but she came down from it quite fresh, and as ready to pour out the whole story of the experiences of the past two weeks as the children could desire. When tea was over, they clustered round her on the cool breezy veranda overlooking the restless murmuring sea, and by her invitation, questioned her to their heart's content. "Is he a nice kind old man, like our doctor at Ion?" began little Harold. "Quite as nice and kind I should think, but not very old." "Did he hurt you very much?" asked Elsie, who had great sympathy for suffering, whether mental or physical. "Oh, no, not at all! He said directly that the eyes were not diseased; the trouble was malformation and could be remedied by suitable glasses; and oh, how glad I was to hear it!" "I thought mamma read from your letter that he put medicine in your eyes." "Yes, belladonna, but that was only to make them sick, so that he could examine them thoroughly, and measure them for the glasses." Turning to Mrs. Travilla, "He is very kind and pleasant to every one; so far as I could see making no difference between rich and poor, but deeply interested in each case in turn; always giving his undivided attention to the one he has in hand at the moment; putting his whole heart and mind into the work." "Which is doubtless one great reason why he is so successful," remarked Mrs. Travilla, adding, "Remember that, my children; half-hearted work accomplishes little for this world or the next." "Weren't you afraid the first time you went?" asked timid little Elsie. "My heart beat pretty fast," said Sally smiling. "I am rather bashful you see, and worse than that, I was afraid the doctor would say like the others, that it was the nerve and I would have to go blind, or that some dreadful operation would be necessary; but after I had seen him and found out how kind and pleasant he was, and that I'd nothing painful or dangerous to go through, and might hope for good sight at last, I didn't mind going at all. "It was a little tedious sitting there in the outer office among strangers with no one to speak to, and nothing to do for hours at a time, but that was nothing compared to what I was to gain by it." Then the children wanted to know what the doctor measured eyes with, and how he did it, and Sally amused them very much by telling how she had to say her letters every day and look at the gaslight and tell what shape it was, etc., etc. "The doctor told me," she said, addressing Mrs. Travilla, "that I would not like the glasses at first, hardly any one does; but I do, though not so well, I dare say, as I shall after a while when I get used to them." Mrs. Gibson's health was improving so that she was in a fair way to recover and as she was well taken care of and did not need her daughter, Sally felt at liberty to stay with these kind friends and enjoy herself. She resolved to put away care and anxiety for the future, and take the full benefit of her present advantages. Yet there was one trouble that would intrude itself and rob her of half her enjoyment. Tom, her only and dearly loved brother, was fast traveling the downward road, seeming wholly given up to the dominion of the love of strong drink and kindred vices. It was long since she had seen or heard from him and she knew not where he was. He had been in the habit of leaving their poor home on the Hudson without deigning to give her or his mother any information as to whither he was bound or when he would return; sometimes coming back in a few hours, and again staying away for days, weeks or months. One day Elsie saw Sally turn suddenly pale while glancing over the morning paper and there was keen distress in the eyes she lifted to hers as the paper fell from her nerveless hand. "Poor child; what is it?" Elsie asked compassionately, going to her and taking the cold hand in hers, "anything that I can relieve or help you to bear?" "Tom!" and Sally burst into almost hysterical weeping. He had been arrested in Philadelphia for drunkenness and disorderly conduct, fined and sent to prison till the amount should be paid. Elsie did her best to comfort the poor sister, who was in an agony of shame and grief. "Oh," she sobbed, "he is such a dear fellow if only he could let drink alone! but it's been his ruin, his ruin! He must feel so disgraced that all his self-respect is gone and he'll never hold up his head again or have the heart to try to do better." "Don't despair, poor child!" said Elsie, "he has not fallen too far for the grace of God to reclaim him; 'Behold the Lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear.'" "And oh, I cry day and night to him for my poor Tom, so weak, so beset with temptations!" exclaimed the girl, "and will he not hear me at last?" "He will if you ask in faith pleading the merits of his Son," returned her friend in moved tones. "He must be saved!" Mr. Travilla said with energy, when Elsie repeated to him this conversation with Sally. "I shall take the next train for Philadelphia and try to find him." Tom was found, his fine paid, his release procured, his rags exchanged for neat gentlemanly attire, hope of better things for this world and the next set before him, and with self-respect and manhood partially restored by all this and the kindly considerate, brotherly manner of his benefactor, he was persuaded to go with the latter to share with Sally for a few weeks, the hospitality of that pleasant seaside home. He seemed scarcely able to lift his eyes from the ground as Mr. Travilla led him into the veranda where the whole family were gathered eagerly awaiting their coming; but in a moment Sally's arms were round his neck, her kisses and tears warm on his cheek, as she sobbed out in excess of joy, "O Tom, dear Tom, I'm so glad to see you!" Then Mrs. Travilla's soft white hand grasped his in cordial greeting, and her low sweet voice bade him welcome; and the children echoed her words, apparently with no other thought of him than that he was Sally's brother and it was perfectly natural he should be there with her. So he was soon at ease among them; but felt very humble, kept close by Sally and used his eyes and ears far more than his tongue. His kind entertainers exerted themselves to keep him out of the way of temptation and help him to conquer the thirst for intoxicating drink, Mrs. Travilla giving Sally carte blanche to go into the kitchen and prepare him a cup of strong coffee whenever she would. "Sally," he said to his sister, one evening when they sat alone together on the veranda, "what a place this is to be in! It's like a little heaven below; there is so much of peace and love; the moral atmosphere is so sweet and pure: I feel as though I had no business here, such a fallen wretch as I am!" he concluded with a groan, hiding his face in his hands. "Don't, Tom, dear Tom!" she whispered, putting her arms about his neck and laying her head on his shoulder. "You've given up that dreadful habit? you're never going back to it?" "I don't want to! God knows I don't!" he cried as in an agony of fear, "but that awful thirst--you don't know what it is! and I--I'm weak as water. Oh if there was none of the accursed thing on the face of the earth, I might hope for salvation! Sally, I'm afraid of myself, of the demon that is in me!" "O, Tom, fly to Jesus!" she said, clinging to him. "He says, 'In me is thine help.' 'Fear not; I will help thee,' and he never yet turned a deaf ear to any poor sinner that cried to him for help. Cast yourself wholly on him and he will give you strength; for 'every one that asketh, receiveth; and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.'" There was a moment of silence, in which Sally's heart was going up in earnest prayer for him; then Mr. Travilla joined them and addressing Tom said, "My wife and I have been talking about your future; indeed Sally's also; for we suppose you would like to keep together." "That we should," they said. "Well, how would you like to emigrate to Kansas and begin life anew; away from all old associates? I need not add that if you decide to go the means shall not be wanting." "Thank you, sir; you have been the best of friends to us both, and to our mother, you and Mrs. Travilla," said Tom, with emotion: "and this is just what Sally and I have been wishing we could do. I understand something of farming and should like to take up a claim out there in some good location where land is given to those who will settle on it. And if you, sir, can conveniently advance the few hundred dollars we shall need to carry us there and give us a fair start, I shall gladly and thankfully accept it as a loan; hoping to be able to return it in a year or two." This was the arrangement made and preparations to carry it out were immediately set on foot. In a few days the brother and sister bade good-bye to their kind entertainers, their mother, now nearly recovered, joined them in Philadelphia, and the three together turned their faces westward. In bidding adieu to Elsie, Sally whispered with tears of joy the good news that Tom was trusting in a strength mightier than his own, and so, as years rolled on, these friends were not surprised to hear of his steadfast adherence to the practice of total abstinence from all intoxicating drinks, and his growing prosperity. CHAPTER TWELFTH. "You may as well Forbid the seas to obey the moon, As, or by oath, remove, or counsel, shake The fabric of her folly." --SHAKESPEARE. Scarcely had the Gibsons departed when their places were more than filled by the unexpected arrival of a large party from Roselands, comprising old Mr. Dinsmore, with his daughter Mrs. Conly and her entire family, with the exception of Calhoun, who would follow shortly. They were welcomed by their relatives with true southern hospitality and assured that the two cottages could readily be made to accommodate them all comfortably. "What news of Molly?" was the first question after the greetings had been exchanged. Mrs. Conly shook her head and sighed, "Hasn't been able to set her foot on the floor for weeks, and I don't believe she ever will. That's Dr. Pancoast's opinion, and he's good authority. 'Twas her condition that brought us North. We've left her and her mother at the Continental in Philadelphia. "There's to be a consultation to-morrow of all the best surgeons in the city. Enna wanted me to stay with her till that was over, but I couldn't think of it with all these children fretting and worrying to get down here out of the heat. So I told her I'd leave Cal to take care of her and Molly. "Dick's with them too. He's old enough to be useful now, and Molly clings to him far more than to her mother." "Isn't it dreadful," said Virginia, "to think that that fall down-stairs has made her a cripple for life? though nobody thought she was much hurt at first." "Poor child! how does she bear it?" asked her uncle. "She doesn't know how to bear it at all," said Mrs. Conly; "she nearly cries her eyes out." "No wonder," remarked the grandfather; "it's a terrible prospect she has before her, to say nothing of the present suffering. And her mother has no patience with her; pities herself instead of the child." "No," said Mrs. Conly, "Enna was never known to have much patience with anybody or anything." "But Dick's good to her," remarked Isadore. "Yes," said Arthur, "it's really beautiful to see his devotion to her and how she clings to him. And it's doing the lad good;--making a man of him." "Surely Enna must feel for her child!" Elsie said, thinking of her own darlings and how her very heart would be torn with anguish at the sight of one of them in so distressing a condition. "Yes, of course, she cried bitterly over her when first the truth dawned upon her that Molly was really so dreadfully injured; but of course that couldn't last and she soon took to bewailing her own hard fate in having such a burden on her hands, a daughter who must always live single and could never be anything but a helpless invalid." Elsie understood how it was; for had she not known Enna from a child? Her heart ached for Molly, and as she told her own little ones of their poor cousin's hopeless, helpless state, she mingled her tears with theirs. "Mamma, won't you 'vite her to come here?" pleaded Harold. "Yes, dear mamma, do," urged the others, "and let us all try to amuse and comfort her." "If I do, my dears, you may be called upon at times to give up your pleasures for her. Do you think you will be willing to do so?" At that the young faces grew very grave, and for a moment no one spoke. Quick, impulsive Violet was the first to answer. "Yes, mamma, I'm willing; I do feel so sorry for her I'd do anything to help her bear her pain." "Mamma," said Elsie, softly, "I'll ask Jesus to help me, and I'm sure he will." "So am I, daughter; and I think Vi means to ask his help too?" "Oh, yes, mamma, I do!" "And I," "and I," "and I," responded the others. So the invitation was sent, for Molly and her mother and brother to come and pay as long a visit as they would. A letter came in a few days, accepting it and giving the sorrowful news that all the surgeons agreed in the opinion that the poor girl's spine had been so injured that she would never again have any use of her lower limbs. It was Mrs Conly who brought the letter to her niece, it having come in one addressed to herself. She expressed strong sympathy for Molly, but was much taken up with the contents of another letter received by the same mail. "I've just had a most generous offer from Mr. Conly's sister, Mrs. Delaford," she said to her niece. "She has no children of her own, is a widow and very wealthy, and she's very fond of my Isadore, who is her godchild and namesake. She offers now to clothe and educate her, with the view of making the child her heir; and also to pay for Virgy's tuition, if I will send them both to the convent where she was herself educated." "Aunt Louise, you will not think of it surely?" cried Elsie, looking much disturbed. "And why not, pray?" asked Mrs. Conly, drawing herself up, and speaking in a tone of mingled hauteur, pique and annoyance. "You would not wish them to become Romanists?" "No, of course not; but that need not follow." "It is very apt to follow." "Nonsense! I should exact a promise that their faith would not be interfered with." "But would that avail, since, 'No faith with heretics,' has been for centuries the motto of the 'infallible, unchangeable,' Church of Rome?" "I think you are inclined to see danger where there is none," returned the aunt. "I would not for the world be as anxious and fussy about my children as you are about yours. Besides, I think it quite right to let their father's relatives do for them when they are both able and willing." "But Aunt Louise----" "There! don't let us talk any more about the matter to-day, if you please," interrupted Mrs. Conly, rising, "I must go now and prepare for my bath. I'll be in again this evening to see Enna and the others. They'll be down by the afternoon train. Good-morning." And she sailed away, leaving Elsie sad and anxious for the future of her young cousins. "What is it, daughter?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, coming in a moment later. "I have seldom seen you look so disturbed." Her face brightened, as was its wont under her father's greeting, but, this time, only momentarily. "I am troubled, papa," she said, making room for him on the sofa by her side. "Here is a note from Enna. The doctors give Molly no hope that she will ever walk again. One cannot help feeling very sad for her, poor child! and besides something Aunt Louise has been telling me, makes me anxious for Isadore and Virginia." He was scarcely less concerned than she, when he heard what that was. "I shall talk to Louise," he said, "it would be the height of folly to expose her girls to such influences. It is true I once had some thoughts of sending you to a convent school, under the false impression that the accomplishments were more thoroughly taught there than in the Protestant seminaries; but with the light I have since gained upon the subject, I know that it would have been a fearful mistake." "Dear papa," she said, putting her hand into his and looking at him with loving eyes, "I am so thankful to you that you did not; so thankful that you taught me yourself. The remembrance of the hours we spent together as teacher and pupil, has always been very sweet to me." "To me also," he answered with a smile. The expected guests arrived at the appointed time, Enna looking worn, faded and fretful, Dick sad and anxious, poor Molly, weary, exhausted, despairing; as if life had lost all brightness to her. Her proud spirit rebelled against her helplessness, against the curious, even the pitying looks it attracted to her from strangers in the streets and public conveyances. The transit from one vehicle to another was made in the strong arms of a stalwart negro whom they had brought with them from Roselands, Dick following closely to guard his sister from accident, and shield her as much as possible from observation, while Enna and Cal brought up the rear. A room on the ground floor had been appropriated to Molly's use, and thither she was carried at once, and gently laid upon a couch. Instantly her cousin Elsie's arms were about her, her head pillowed upon the gentle breast, while tears of loving sympathy fell fast upon her poor pale face, mingled with tender caresses and whispered words of endearment. It did the child good; the tears and sobs that came in response, relieved her aching heart of half its load. But it vexed Enna. "What folly, Elsie!" she said, "don't you see how you're making the child cry? And I've been doing my best to get her to stop it; for of course it does no good, and only injures her eyes." "Forgive me, dear child, if I have hurt you," Elsie said low and tenderly, as she laid Molly's head gently back against the pillows. "You haven't! you've done me good!" cried the girl, flashing an indignant glance at Enna. "Oh, mother, if you treated me so, it wouldn't be half so hard to bear!" "I've learned not to expect anything but ingratitude from my children," said Enna, coldly returning Elsie's kind greeting. But Dick grasped his cousin's hand warmly, giving her a look of grateful affection, and accepted with delight her offered kiss. "Now, I will leave you to rest," she said to Molly, "and when you feel like seeing your cousins, they will be glad to come in and speak to you. They are anxious to do all they can for your entertainment while you are here." "Yes, but I want to see grandpa and Uncle Horace now, please; they just kissed me in the car, and that was all." They came in at once, full of tender sympathy for the crippled, suffering child. "They're so kind," sobbed Molly, as they left the room. "Yes, you can appreciate everybody's kindness but your mother's," remarked Enna in a piqued tone, "and everybody can be sorry for you, but my feelings are lost sight of entirely." "Oh, mother, don't!" sighed Molly. "I'm sure I've enough to bear without your reproaches. I'd appreciate you fast enough, if you were such a mother as Cousin Elsie." "Or as Aunt Louise, why don't you say?" said Mrs. Conly, coming in, going up to the couch, and kissing her. "How d'ye do, Enna?" "Yes, even you are sorrier for me than mother is, I do believe!" returned Molly, bursting into tears; "and if it was Isa or Virgy you'd be ever so good to her, and not scold her as mother does me." "Why, I'm just worn out and worried half to death about that girl," said Enna, in answer to her sister's query. "She'll never walk a step again--all the doctors say that." At these words Molly was almost convulsed with sobs, but Enna went on relentlessly. "And when they asked her how it happened, she up and told them her high-heeled shoes threw her down, and that she didn't want to wear them, but I made her do it." "And so you did, and I only told it because one of the doctors asked if I didn't know they were dangerous; and when I said yes, he wanted to know how I came to be so foolish as to wear them." "And then he lectured me," Enna went on, "as if it was all my fault, when of course it was her own carelessness; for if it wasn't, why haven't some of the rest of us fallen down. Accidents happen when nobody's to blame." "I came near falling the other day, myself," said Mrs. Conly, "and I'll never wear a high, narrow heel again, nor let one of my girls do so. Now I'm going out. You two ought to take a nap; Molly especially, poor child! I'm very sorry for you; but don't cry any more now. It will only hurt your eyes." Mrs. Conly was to stay to tea and spend the evening. Stepping into the parlor she found all the adult members of the family there. "I want to have a talk with you, Louise," her brother said, seating her comfortably on a sofa and drawing up a chair beside her. "And I think I know what about," she returned with heightened color, glancing toward Elsie, "but let me tell you beforehand, Horace, that you may as well spare yourself the trouble. I have already accepted Mrs. Delaford's offer." "Louise! how could you be so hasty in so important a matter?" "Permit me to answer that question with another," she retorted, drawing herself up haughtily, "what right have you to call me to an account for so doing?" "Only the right of an older brother to take a fraternal interest in your welfare and that of his nieces." "What is it, mother?" asked Calhoun. She told him in a few words, and he turned to his uncle with the query why he so seriously objected to her acceptance of what seemed so favorable an offer. "Because I think it would be putting in great jeopardy the welfare of your sisters, temporal and spiritual" "What nonsense, Horace!" exclaimed Mrs. Conly angrily. "Of course I shall expressly stipulate that their faith is not to be interfered with." "And just as much of course the promise will be given and systematically broken without the slightest compunction; because in the creed of Rome the end sanctifies the means and no end is esteemed higher or holier than that of adding members to her communion." "Well," said Louise, "I must say you judge them hardly. I'm sure there are at least some pious ones among them and of course they wouldn't lie." "You forget that the more pious they are, the more obedient they will be to the teachings of their church, and when she tells them it is a pious act to be false to their word or oath, for her advancement, or to burn, kill and destroy, or to break any other commandment of the decalogue, they will obey believing that thus they do God service. "Really the folly and credulity of Protestant parents who commit their children to the care of those who teach and put in practice, too, these two maxims, so utterly destructive of all truth and honesty, all confidence between man and man--'The end sanctifies the means,' and 'No faith with heretics,'--is to me perfectly astounding." "So you consider me a fool," said Mrs. Conly, bridling, "thanks for the compliment." "It is you who make the application, Louise," he answered. "I had no thought of doing so, and still hope you will prove your wisdom by reconsidering and letting Mrs. Delaford know that you revoke your decision." "Indeed I shall not; I consider that I have no right to throw away Isadore's fortune." "Have you then a greater right to imperil her soul's salvation?" he asked with solemn earnestness. "Pshaw! what a serious thing you make of it," she exclaimed, yet with an uneasy and troubled look. "Uncle!" cried Calhoun in surprise, "do you not think there have been and are some real Christians in the Romish Church?" "No doubt of it, Cal; some who, spite of her idolatrous teachings, worship God alone and put their trust solely in the atoning blood and imputed righteousness of Christ. Yet who can fail to see in the picture of Babylon the Great so graphically drawn in Revelation, a faithful portraiture of Rome? And the command is, 'Come out of her, my people, that ye be not partaker of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues.'" Mr. Dinsmore paused, but no one seeming to have anything to say in reply, went on to give his sister a number of instances which had come to his knowledge, of the perversion of Protestant girls while being educated in convents. "Well," she said at last, "I'm not going to draw back now, but I shall be on the watch and if they do begin to tamper with my girls' faith I'll remove them at once. There now I hope you are satisfied!" "Not quite, Louise," he said, "they are accomplished proselyters and may have the foundations completely and irremediably undermined ere you suspect that they have begun." CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. "Affliction is the wholesome soil of virtue; Where patience, honor, sweet humanity, Calm fortitude, take root, and strongly flourish." --MALLET AND THOMSON'S ALFRED. A bath, a nap, and a dainty supper had refreshed Molly somewhat before the children were admitted to her room, but they found her looking pale and thin, and oh, so sorrowful! so different from the bright, merry, happy "Cousin Molly" of six months ago. Their little hearts swelled with sympathetic grief, and tears filled their eyes as one after another they took her hand and kissed her lovingly. "Poor child, I so solly for oo!" said Herbert, and Molly laughed hysterically, then put her hands over her face, and sobbed as though her heart would break. First, it was the oddity of being called "child" by such a mere baby, then the thought that she had become an object of pity to such an one. "Don' ky," he said, pulling away her hand to kiss her cheek. "Herbie didn't mean to make oo ky." "Come, Herbie dear, let us go now; we mustn't tease poor sick cousin," whispered his sister Elsie, drawing him gently away. "No, no! let him stay; let him love me," sobbed Molly. "He is a dear little fellow," she added, returning his caresses, and wiping away her tears. "Herbie will love oo, poor old sing," he said, stroking her face, "and mamma and papa, and all de folks will be ever so dood to oo." Molly's laugh was more natural this time, and under its inspiring influence, the little ones grew quite merry, really amusing her with their prattle, till their mammy came to take them to bed. Elsie was beginning to say good-night too, thinking there was danger of wearying the invalid, but Molly said, "I don't wonder you want to leave me; mother says nobody could like to stay with such a----" she broke off suddenly, again hid her face in her hands and wept bitterly. "Oh, no, no! I was only afraid of tiring you," Elsie said, leaning over her and stroking her hair with soft, gentle touch. "I should like to stay and talk if you wish; to tell you all about our visit to the Crags, and mamma's old governess, and----" "Oh, yes, do; anything to help me to forget, even for a few minutes. Oh, I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead! I can't bear to live and be a cripple!" "Dear Molly, don't cry, don't feel so dreadfully about it!" Elsie said, weeping with her. "Jesus will help you to bear it; he loves you, and is sorrier for you than anybody else is; and he won't let you be sick or in pain in heaven." "No, he doesn't love me! I'm not good enough; and if he did, he wouldn't have let me get such a dreadful fall." Little Elsie was perplexed for the moment, and knew not what to answer. "Couldn't he have kept me from falling?" demanded Molly, almost fiercely. "Yes, he can do everything." "Then I hate him for letting me fall!" Elsie was inexpressibly shocked. "Oh, Molly!" in an awed, frightened tone, was all that she could say. "I'm awfully wicked, I know I am; but I can't help it. Why did he let me fall? I couldn't bear to let a dog be so dreadfully hurt, if I could help it!" "Molly, the Bible says 'God is love.' And in another place, 'God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' 'God commendeth his love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.' He must have loved you, Molly, when he died that dreadful death to save you." "Not me." "Yes, if you will believe. 'Whosoever believeth.'" "It was just for everybody in a lump," said Molly, sighing wearily. "Not for you or me, or anybody in particular; at least not anybody that's living now; because we weren't made then; so how could he?" "But mamma says he knew he was going to make us, just the same as he does now; and that he thought of each one, and loved and died for each one just as much as if there was only one." "Well, it's queer if he loved me so well as that, and yet would let me fall and be so awfully injured. What's this? You didn't have it before you came North," taking hold of the gold chain about Elsie's neck. Out came the little watch and Elsie told about the aching tooth and the trip to New York to have it extracted. "Seems to me," was Molly's comment, "you have all the good things: such a nice mother and everything else. Such a good father too, and mine was killed when I was a little bit of a thing; and mother's so cross. "But Dick's good to me; dear old Dick," she added, looking up at him with glistening eyes as he came in and going up to her couch, asked how she was. "You'd better go to sleep now," he said. "You've been talking quite awhile, haven't you?" At that Elsie slipped quietly away and went in search of her mother. She found her alone on the veranda looking out meditatively upon the restless moonlit waters of the sea. "Mamma," said the child softly, "I should like a stroll on the beach with you. Can we go alone? I want to talk with you about something." "Come then, daughter," and hand in hand they sought the beach, only a few yards distant. It was a clear still night, the moon nearly at the full, and the cool salt breeze from the silver-tipped waves was exceedingly refreshing after the heat of the day; which had been one of the hottest of the season. For a while they paced to and fro in silence; then little Elsie gave her mother the substance of her conversation with Molly in which the latter expressed her disbelief in God's love for her because he had not prevented her fall. "Mamma," she said in conclusion, "how I wished you were there to make her understand." "Poor child!" said the mother, in low, moved tones, "only he who permitted this sore trial can convince her that it was sent in love." "But you will talk to her, mamma?" "Yes, when a suitable opportunity offers; but prayer can do more for her than any words of ours, addressed to her." The presence of Molly and her mother proved a serious drawback to the enjoyment of our party during the remainder of their sojourn at the seashore. The burden fell heaviest upon Elsie and her children, as the principal entertainers, and the mother had often to counsel patience and forbearance, and to remind her darlings of their promise to be ready to do all they could for the comfort and happiness of the sufferer. All made praiseworthy efforts to fulfil their engagement, and Elsie and Vi, particularly the former, as nearest to Molly in age, and therefore most desired by her as a companion, gave up many a pleasure excursion for her sake, staying at home to talk with and amuse her when all the rest were out driving or boating. CHAPTER FOURTEENTH. "Ah! who can say, however fair his view, Through what sad scenes his path may lie?" Mrs. Conly adhered to her resolve in regard to the education of her daughters, and about the middle of September left with them and her younger children for a visit to Mrs. Delaford, at whose house the wardrobes of the two girls were to be made ready for their first school year at the convent chosen by their aunt. Arthur went with them as their escort. A week later the rest of the Roselands party returned home, and early in October the Oaks and Ion rejoiced in the return of their families. Baby Lily had been so benefited by the trip that Elsie felt warranted in resuming her loved employment as acting governess to her older children. They fell into the old round of duties and pleasures, as loving and happy a family as one might wish to see; a striking and most pleasant contrast to the one at Roselands, that of Enna and her offspring--where the mother fretted and scolded, and the children, following her example were continually at war with one another. Only between Dick and Molly there was peace and love. The poor girl led a weary life pinned to her couch or chair, wholly dependent upon others for the means of locomotion and for anything that was not within reach of her hand. She had not yet learned submission under her trial, and her mother was far from being an assistance in bearing it. Molly was greatly depressed in spirits, and her mother's scolding and fretting were often almost beyond endurance. Her younger brother and sister thought it a trouble to wait on her and usually kept out of her way, but Dick, when present, was her faithful slave; always ready to lift and carry her, or to bring her anything she wanted. But much of Dick's time was necessarily occupied with his studies, and in going to and from his school, which was two or three miles distant. He was very thoughtful for her comfort, and it was through his suggestion, that their grandfather directed that one of the pleasantest rooms in the house, overlooking the avenue, so that all the coming and going could be seen from its windows, should be appropriated to Molly's use. There Dick would seat her each morning, before starting for school, in an invalid's easy-chair presented to her by her Cousin Elsie, and there he would be pretty sure to find her on his return, unless, as occasionally happened, their grandfather, Uncle Horace, Mr. Travilla, or some one of the relatives, had taken her out for a drive. One afternoon about the last of November, Molly, weary of sewing and reading, weary inexpressibly weary, of her confinement and enforced quietude, was gazing longingly down the avenue, wishing that some one would come to take her out for an airing, when the door opened and her mother came in dressed for the open air, in hat, cloak and furs. "I want you to button my glove, Molly," she said, holding out her wrist, "Rachel's so busy on my new silk, and you have nothing to do. What a fortunate child you are to be able to take your ease all the time." "My ease!" cried Molly bitterly, "I'd be gladder than words can tell to change places with you for awhile." "Humph! you don't know what you're wishing; the way I have to worry over my sewing for four besides myself, is enough to try the patience of a saint. By the way, it's high time you began to make yourself useful in that line. With practice, you might soon learn to accomplish a great deal, having nothing to do but stick at it from morning to night." Molly was in the act of buttoning the second glove. Tears sprang to her eyes at this evidence of her mother's heartlessness, and one bright drop fell on Enna's wrist. "There you have stained my glove!" she exclaimed angrily. "What a baby you are! will you never have done with this continued crying?" "It seems to be very easy for you to bear my troubles, mother," returned poor Molly, raising her head proudly, and dashing away the tears, "I will try to learn to bear them too, and never again appeal to my mother for sympathy." "You get enough of that from Dick, he cares ten times as much for you as he does for me--his own mother." At that moment Betty came running in. "Mother, the carriage is at the door, and grandpa's ready. Molly, grandpa says he'll take you too, if you want to go." Molly's face brightened, but before she could speak, Enna answered for her. "No, she can't; there isn't time to get her ready." Mrs. Johnson hurried from the room, Betty following close at her heels, and Molly was left alone in her grief and weariness. She watched the carriage as it rolled down the avenue, then turning from the window, indulged in a hearty cry. At length, exhausted by her emotion, she laid her head back and fell asleep in her chair. How long she had slept she did not know; some unusual noise down-stairs woke her, and the next moment Betty rushed in screaming, "Oh, Molly, Molly, mother and grandfather's killed; both of 'em! Oh, dear! oh, dear!" For an instant Molly seemed stunned, she scarcely comprehended Betty's words, then as the child repeated, "They're killed! they're both killed; the horses ran away and threw 'em out," she too uttered a cry of anguish, and grasping the arms of her chair, made desperate efforts to rise; but all in vain, and with a groan she sank back, and covering her face with her hands, shed the bitterest tears her impotence had ever yet cost her. Betty had run away again, and she was all alone. Oh, how hard it was for her to be chained there in such an agony of doubt and distress! She forcibly restrained her groans and sobs, and listened intently. The Conlys, except Cal, were still at the North; the house seemed strangely quiet, only now and then a stealthy step or a murmur of voices and occasionally a half smothered cry from Bob or Betty. A horseman came dashing furiously up the avenue. It was her uncle, Mr. Horace Dinsmore. He threw himself from the saddle and hurried into the house, and the next minute two more followed at the same headlong pace. These were Cal and Dr. Barton, and they also dismounted in hot haste and disappeared from her sight beneath the veranda. Certainly something very dreadful had happened. Oh would nobody come to tell her! The minutes dragged their slow length along seeming like hours. She lay back in her chair in an agony of suspense, the perspiration standing in cold drops on her brow. But the sound of wheels roused her and looking out she saw the Oaks and Ion carriages drive up, young Horace and Rosie alight from the one, Mr. Travilla and Elsie from the other. "Oh!" thought Molly, "Cousin Elsie will be sure to think of me directly and I shall not be left much longer in this horrible suspense." Her confidence was not misplaced. Not many minutes had elapsed when her door was softly opened, a light step crossed the floor and a sweet fair face, full of tender compassion, bent over the grief-stricken girl. Molly tried to speak; her tongue refused its office, but Elsie quickly answered the mute questioning of the wild, frightened, anguished eyes. "There is life," she said, taking the cold hands in hers, "life in both; and 'while there is life there is hope.' Our dear old grandfather has a broken leg and arm and a few slight cuts and bruises, but is restored to consciousness now, and able to speak. Your poor mother has fared still worse, we fear, as the principal injury is to the head, but we will hope for the best in her case also." Molly dropped her head on her cousin's shoulder while a burst of weeping brought partial relief to the overburdened heart. Elsie clasped her arms about her and strove to soothe and comfort her with caresses and endearing words. "If I could only nurse mother now," sobbed the girl, "how glad I'd be to do it. O cousin, it most breaks my heart now to think how I've vexed and worried her since--since this dreadful trouble came to me. I'd give anything never to have said a cross or disrespectful word to her. And now I can do nothing for her! nothing, nothing!" and she wrung her hands in grief and despair. "Yes, dear child; there is one thing you can do," Elsie answered, weeping with her. "What, what is that?" asked Molly, half incredulously, half hopefully, "what can I do chained here?" "Pray for her, Molly, plead for her with him unto whom belong the issues from death; to him who has all power in heaven and in earth and who is able to save to the uttermost." "No, no, even that I can't do," sobbed Molly, "I've never learned to pray, and he isn't my friend as he is yours and your children's!" "Then first of all make him your friend; oh, he is so kind and merciful and loving. He says, 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' 'Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.'" "Oh, if I only knew how!" sighed Molly, "nobody needs such a friend more than I. I'd give all the world to have him for mine." "But you cannot buy his friendship--his salvation; it is 'without money and without price.' What is it to come to him? Just to take him at his word, give yourself to him and believe his promise that he will not cast you out." There was a tap at the door and Rosie came in, put her arms round Molly, kissed her and wept with her. Then young Horace followed and after that his father. Both seemed to feel very much for Molly and to be anxious to do everything in their power to help and comfort her. Mr. Dinsmore was evidently in deep grief and soon withdrew, Elsie going with him. They stood together for a few minute in the hall. "My dear father, how I feel for you!" Elsie said, laying her hand on his arm and looking up at him through gathering tears. "Thank you, my child; your sympathy is always very sweet to me," he said. "And you have mine; for I know this trial touches you also though somewhat less nearly than myself." "Is grandpa suffering much?" she asked. "Very much; and at his age--but I will not anticipate sorrow; we know that the event is in the hands of him who doeth all things well. Ah, if he were only a Christian! And Enna! poor Enna!" Sobs and cries coming from the nursery broke in upon the momentary silence that followed the exclamation. "Poor little Bob and Betty, I must go to them," Elsie said, gliding away in the direction of the sounds, while Mr. Dinsmore returned to the room where his father lay groaning with the pain of his wounds. Mr. Travilla, Calhoun and the doctor were with him, but he was asking for his son. "Horace," he said, "can't you stay with me?" "Yes, father, night and day while you want me." "That's right! It's a good thing to have a good son. Dr. Barton, where are you going?" "To your daughter, sir, Mrs. Johnson." "Enna! is she much hurt?" asked the old man, starting up, but falling back instantly with almost a scream of pain. "You must lie still, sir, indeed you must," said the doctor, coming back to the bed; "your life depends upon your keeping quiet and exciting yourself as little as possible." "Yes, yes; but Enna?" "Has no bones broken." "Thank God for that! then she'll do. Go, doctor, but don't leave the house without seeing me again." They were glad he was so easily satisfied, but knew he would not be if his mind were quite clear. Dick had come home in strong excitement, rumors of the accident having met him on the way. The horses had taken fright at the sudden shriek of a locomotive, and the breaking of a defective bit had deprived the old gentleman of the power to control them. They ran madly down a steep embankment, wrecking the carriage and throwing both passengers out upon a bed of stones. Pale and trembling the lad went straight to his mother's room where he found her lying moaning on the bed, recognizing no one, unconscious of anything that was going on about her. He discovered that he loved her far more than he would have believed; he thought her dying, and his heart smote him, as memory recalled many a passionate, undutiful word he had spoken to her; often, it is true, under great provocation, but oh, what would he not now have given to recall them. He had much ado to control his emotion sufficiently to ask the doctor what he thought of her case. He was somewhat comforted by the reply, "The injury to the head is very serious, yet I by no means despair of her life." "What can I do for her?" was the boy's next question in an imploring tone as though he would esteem it a boon to be permitted to do something for her relief. "Nothing; we have plenty of help here, and you are too inexperienced for a nurse," Dr. Barton said, not unkindly. "But see to your sister Molly," he added. "Poor child! she will feel this sorely." The admonition was quite superfluous; Dick was already hastening to her. Another moment and she was weening out her sorrow and anxiety on his shoulder. "O Dick," she sobbed, "I'm afraid I can never speak to her again, and--and my last words to her, just before she went, were a reproach. I said I'd never ask her for sympathy again; and now I never can. Oh isn't it dreadful, dreadful!" and she wept as if her very heart would break. "Oh, don't, Molly!" he said hoarsely, pressing her closer to him and mingling his tears with hers, "who could blame you, you poor suffering thing! and I'm sure you must have been provoked to it. She hadn't been saying anything kind to you?" Molly shook her head with a fresh burst of grief. "No, oh no! oh, if we'd parted like Cousin Elsie and her children always do!--with kind, loving words and caresses." "But we're not that sort, you know," returned Dick with an awkward attempt at consolation, "and I'm worse than you, a great deal, for I've talked up to mother many a time and didn't have the same excuse." There was sickness at Pinegrove. Mrs. Howard was slowly recovering from an attack of typhoid fever. This was why she had not hastened to Roselands to the assistance of her injured father and sister. And Mrs. Rose Dinsmore was at Ashlands, helping Sophie nurse her children through the scarlet fever. And so, Mrs. Conly being still absent at the North, the burden of these new responsibilities must fall upon Mr. Horace Dinsmore and his children. Mr. Dinsmore undertook the care of his father, Mr. Travilla and young Horace engaging to relieve him now and then, Elsie that of Enna; her children, except the baby, who with mammy must come to Roselands also, could do without her for a time. It would be hard for both her and them, she knew, but the lesson in self-denial for the sake of others, might prove more than a compensation; and Enna must not, in her critical state, be left to the care of servants. Rosie volunteered to see that Molly was not neglected, and to exert herself for the poor girl's entertainment, and Bob and Betty were sent to the Oaks to be looked after by Mrs. Murray and their cousin Horace. It would be no easy or agreeable task for the old lady, but she was sure not to object in view of the fact that quiet was essential to the recovery of the sufferers at Roselands. CHAPTER FIFTEENTH. "Great minds, like heaven, are pleased in doing good, Though the ungrateful subjects of their favors Are barren in return." --ROWE. The short winter day was closing in. At Ion, five eager, expectant little faces were looking out upon the avenue, where slowly and softly, tiny snowflakes were falling, the only moving thing within range of their vision. "Oh, dear, what does keep papa and mamma so long!" cried Vi, impatiently; "it seems most like a year since they started." "Oh, no, Vi, not half a day yet!" "I don't mean it _is_, Eddie, but it does _seem_ like it to me. Elsie, do you think anything's happened?" "One of the horses may have lost a shoe," Elsie said, trying to be very cheerful, and putting her arm round Violet as she spoke. "I remember that happened once a good while ago. But if mamma were here, don't you know what she would say, little sister?" "Yes; 'don't fret; don't meet trouble half way, but trust in God, our Father, who loves us so dearly, that he will never let any real harm come to us.'" "I think our mamma is very wise," remarked Eddie; "so very much wiser than Aunt Lucy, who gets frightened at every little thing." "Oh, Eddie dear, would mamma or papa like that?" said Elsie softly. "Well, it's true," he said reddening. But they've both told us that unkind remarks should not be made even if true: unless it is quite necessary." "Oh, why don't papa and mamma come?" "Oh, I wis dey would! I so tired watchin' for 'em!" burst out Harold and Herbert, nearly ready to cry. "Look! look!" cried the others in chorus, "they are coming, the carriage is just turning in at the gate!" But it was growing so dark now, and the tiny flakes were coming down so thick and fast, that none of them were quite sure the carriage was their own, until it drew up before the door, and two dear familiar forms alighted and came up the veranda steps. They were greeted with as joyous a welcome as if they had been absent for weeks or months, and returned the sweet caresses as lovingly as they were bestowed, smiling tenderly upon each darling of their hearts. But almost instantly little Elsie perceived something unusual in the sweet, fair face she loved so dearly, and was wont to study with such fond, tender scrutiny. "Mamma, dear mamma, what is wrong?" she asked. "A sad accident, daughter," Elsie answered, her voice faltering with emotion, "poor grandpa and Aunt Enna have been badly hurt." "Our dear grandpa, mamma?" they all asked, lips and voices tremulous with grief. "No, darlings, not my own dear father," the mother answered, with a heart full of gratitude that it was not he, "but our poor old grandfather who lives at Roselands." "My dear little wife, you are too much overcome to talk any more just now," Mr. Travilla said, wheeling an easy-chair to the fire, seating her in it, and removing her hat and cloak, with all the tender gallantry of the days when he wooed and won his bride; "let me tell it." He took a seat near her side, lifted "bit Herbie" to his knee, and with the others gathered close about him, briefly told how the accident had happened, and that he and their mother had met a messenger coming to acquaint them with the disaster, and summon them to Roselands; then gave the children some idea of the present situation of their injured relations. When he had finished, and his young hearers had expressed their sorrow and sympathy for the sufferers, a moment of silence ensued, broken by little Elsie. "Mamma, who will take care of them?" "God," said Herbert, "won't he, papa?" "But I mean who will nurse them while they are sick," said Elsie. "My father will take care of grandpa," Mrs. Travilla answered, "Uncle Horace and papa helping when needed." "And Aunt Enna, mamma?" "Well, daughter, who do you think should nurse her? Aunt Louise is away, Aunt Lora sick herself, grandma at Ashlands with Aunt Sophie and her sick children." "Oh, mamma, it won't have to be you, will it?" the child asked almost imploringly. "Oh, mamma, no; how could we do without you?" chimed in the others, Herbert adding tearfully, "Mamma stay wis us; we tan't do wisout you." They left their father to cluster about and cling to her, with caresses and entreaties. "My darlings," she said, returning their endearments, "can you not feel willing to spare your mother for a little while to poor, suffering Aunt Enna?" "Mamma, they have plenty of servants" "Yes, Vi, but she is so very ill that we cannot hope she will get well without more careful, tender nursing than any servant would give her." "Mamma, it will be very hard to do without you." "And very hard for me to stay away from my dear children; but what does the Bible say? Seek your own pleasure and profit, and let others take care of themselves?" "Oh, mamma, no! 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.'" "'Do good to them that hate you,'" quoted Eddie in an undertone. "But we were not speaking of enemies, my son," his mother said in surprise. "I think Aunt Enna is your enemy, mamma; I think she hates you," he said, with flashing eyes, "for I've many a time heard her say very hateful things to you. Mamma, don't look so sorry at me; how can I help being angry at people that say unkind things to you?" "'Forgive, and you shall be forgiven,'" she said gently. "'Do good and lend.' Can't you lend your mother for a few weeks, dears?" "Weeks, mamma! oh, so long!" they cried. "How can we? who will take care of us, and hear our lessons and teach us to be good?" "Dinah will wash and dress you, Elsie help you little ones to learn your lessons, and I think papa," looking at him, "will hear you recite." "Yes," he said, smiling on them, "we will do our best, so that dear mamma may not be anxious and troubled about us in addition to all the care and anxiety for the suffering ones at Roselands." "Yes, papa," they answered, returning his smile half tearfully; then questioned their mother as to when she must go, and whether they should see her at all while Aunt Enna was sick. "I can wait only long enough to take supper with you, and have our talk together afterward," she said, "because I am needed at Roselands. Perhaps papa will bring you there sometimes to see me for a little while if you will be very quiet. And it may be only for a few days that I shall be wanted there; we cannot tell about that yet." She spoke cheerfully, but it cost her an effort because of the grieved, troubled looks on the dear little faces. "But baby, mamma!" cried Vi, "baby can't do without you!" "No, dear, she and mammy will have to go with me." They were not the usual merry party at the tea-table, and a good many tears were shed during the talk with mamma afterward. They all consented to her going, but the parting with her, and the thought of doing without her for "so long" were the greatest trials they had ever known. She saw all the younger ones in bed, kissed each one good-night, and reminding them that their heavenly Father was always with them, and that she would not be too far away to come at once to them if needed, she left them to their sleep. Elsie followed her mother to her dressing-room, watched for every opportunity to assist in her preparations for her absence. They were not many, and with some parting injunctions to this little daughter and the servants, she announced herself ready to go. Elsie clung to her with tears at the last, as they stood together in the lower hall waiting for the others. "Mamma, what shall I do without you? I've never been away from you a whole day in all my life." "No, dearest, but be my brave, helpful little girl. You must try to fill mother's place to the little ones. I shall not be far away, you know, and your dear father will be here nearly all the time. And don't forget, darling, that your best Friend is always with you." "No, mamma," said the child, smiling through her tears; "it is so sweet to know that; and please don't trouble about us at home. I'll do my best for papa and the children." "That is right, daughter, you are a very great comfort to me now and always," the mother said, with a last caress, as her husband joined her and gave her his arm to lead her to the carriage. "Don't come out in the cold, daughter," he said, seeing the child about to follow. Mammy had just come down with the sleeping babe in her arms, warmly wrapped up to shield her from the cold. Elsie sprang to her side, lifted the veil that covered the little face, and softly touched her lips to the delicate cheek. "Good-bye, baby darling. Oh, mammy, we'll miss her sadly and you too." "Don't fret, honey, 'spect we all be comin' back soon," Aunt Chloe whispered, readjusting the veil, and hurrying after her mistress. Elsie flew to the window, and watched the carriage roll away down the avenue, till lost to sight in the darkness, tears trembling in her eyes, but a thrill of joy mingling with her grief: "it was so sweet to be a comfort and help to dear mamma." She set herself to considering how she might be the same to her father and brothers and sister; what she could do now. She remembered that her father was very fond of music and that her mother often played and sang for him in the evenings. He had said he would probably return in an hour, and going to the piano she spent the intervening time in the diligent practice of a new piece of music he had brought her a day or two before. At sound of the carriage wheels she ran to meet him, her face bright with welcoming smiles. "My little sunbeam," he said taking her in his arms; "you have been nothing but a comfort and blessing to your mother and me, since the day you were born." "Dear papa, how kind in you to tell me that!" she said, her cheek flushing and her eyes glistening with pleasure. He kept her with him till after her usual hour for retiring, listening to, and praising her music and talking with her quite as if she were fit to be a companion for him. Both the injured ones were very ill for some weeks, but by means of competent medical advice and careful nursing, their lives were saved; yet neither recovered entirely from the effects of the accident. Mr. Dinsmore was feeble and ailing, and walked with a limp for the rest of his days, and Enna, though her bodily health was quite restored, rose from her bed with an impaired intellect, her memory gone, her reasoning powers scarcely equal to those of an ordinary child of five or six. She did not recognize her children, or indeed any one; she had everything to relearn and went back to childish amusements, dolls, baby-houses and other toys. The sight was inexpressibly painful to Dick and Molly, far worse than following her to her grave. She remained at her father's, a capable and kind woman being provided to take constant charge of her, while Bob and Betty stayed on at the Oaks, their uncle and aunt bringing them up with all the care and kindness bestowed upon their own children; and Dick and Molly made their home at Ion. The latter was removed thither as soon as the danger to her mother's life was past, the change being considered only temporary at the time; though afterward it was decided to make it permanent, in accordance with the kind and generous invitation of Mr. and Mrs. Travilla to her and her brother, and their offer to become responsible for the education and present support of both. Little Elsie, bravely and earnestly striving to fill her mother's place in the household, making herself companionable to her father, helping Eddie, Vi and Harold with their lessons, comforting Herbie when his baby heart ached so sorely with its longing for mamma, and in all his little griefs and troubles, and settling the slight differences that would sometimes arise between the children or the servants, found Molly an additional burden; for she too must be cheered and consoled and was often fretful, unreasonable and exacting. Still the little girl struggled on, now feebly and almost ready to despair, now with renewed hope and courage gathered from an interview with her earthly or her heavenly Father. Mr. Travilla was very proud of the womanly way in which she acquitted herself at this time, her diligence, utter unselfishness, patience, and thoughtfulness for others, and did not withhold the meed of well earned praise; this with his advice and sympathy did much to enable her to persevere to the end. But oh what relief and joy when at last the dear mother was restored to them and the unaccustomed burden lifted from the young shoulders! It would have been impossible to say who rejoiced most heartily in the reunion, father, mother or children. But every heart leaped lightly, every face was bright with smiles. Mrs. Travilla knew she was adding greatly to her cares, and to the annoyances and petty trials of every day life, in taking Dick and especially Molly into her family, but she realized it more and more as the months and years rolled on; both had been so spoiled by Enna's unwise and capricious treatment, that it was a difficult thing to control them; and poor Molly's sad affliction caused her frequent fits of depression which rendered her a burden to herself and to others; also she inherited to some extent, her mother's infirmities of temper, and her envy, jealousy and unreasonableness made her presence in the family a trial to her young cousins. The mother had to teach patience, meekness and forbearance by precept and example, ever holding up as the grand motive, love to Jesus, and a desire to please and honor him. Such constant sowing of the good seed, such patient, careful weeding out of the tares, such watchfulness and prayerfulness as Elsie bestowed upon the children God had given her, could not fail of their reward from him who has said, "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap"; and as the years rolled on she had the unspeakable joy of seeing her darlings one after another gathered into the fold of the Good Shepherd;--consecrating themselves in the dew of their youth to the service of him who had loved them and washed them from their sins in his own blood. She was scarcely less earnest and persistent in her efforts to promote the welfare, temporal and spiritual, of Molly and Dick. She far more than supplied the place of the mother now almost worse than lost to them. They had always liked and respected her; they soon learned to love her dearly and grew happier and more lovable under the refining, elevating influence of her conduct and conversation. She and her husband gave to both the best advantages for education that money could procure, aroused in them the desire, and stimulated them to earnest efforts to become useful members of society. Elsie soon discovered that one grand element of Molly's depression was the thought that she was cut off from all the activities of life and doomed, by her sad affliction, to be a useless burden upon others. "My poor dear child!" she said clasping the weeping girl in her arms, "that would be a sad fate indeed, but it need not be yours; there are many walks of usefulness still open to you; literature, several of the arts and sciences, music, painting, authorship; to say nothing of needle work both plain and fancy. The first thing will be a good education in the ordinary acceptation of the term--and that you can take as easily as one who has use of all her limbs. Books and masters shall be at your command, and when you have decided to what employment you will especially devote yourself, every facility shall be given you for perfecting yourself in it." "O Cousin Elsie," cried the girl, her eyes shining, "do you think I could ever write books, or paint pictures? I mean such as would be really worth the doing; such as would make Dick proud of me and perhaps give me money to help him with; because you know the poor fellow must make his own way in the world." "I scarcely know how to answer that question," Elsie said, smiling at her sudden enthusiasm, "but I do know that patience and perseverance will do wonders, and if you practice them faithfully, it will not surprise me to see you some day turn out a great author or artist. "But don't fret because Dick has not a fortune to begin with. Our very noblest and most successful men have been those who had to win their way by dint of hard and determined struggling with early disadvantages. 'Young trees root the faster for shaking!'" she added with a smile. "Oh then Dick will succeed, I know, dear, noble fellow!" cried Molly flushing with sisterly pride. From that time she took heart and though there were occasional returns of despondency and gloom she strove to banish them and was upon the whole, brave, cheerful and energetic in carrying out the plans her cousin had suggested. CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. "It is as if the night should shade noonday, Or that the sun was here, but forced away; And we were left, under that hemisphere, Where we must feel it dark for half a year." --BEN. JOHNSON. Since the events recorded in our last chapter, six years have rolled their swift, though noiseless round, ere we look in upon our friends again; six years bringing such changes as they must;--growth and development to the very young, a richer maturity, a riper experience to those who had already attained to adult life, and to the aged, increasing infirmities, reminding them that their race is nearly run; it may be so with others; it must be so with them. There have been gains and losses, sickness and other afflictions, but death has not yet entered any of their homes. At Ion, the emerald, velvety lawn, the grand old trees, the sparkling lakelet, the flower gardens and conservatories gay with rich autumn hues, were looking their loveliest, in the light of a fair September morning. The sun was scarcely an hour high, and except in the region of the kitchen and stables quiet reigned within and without the mansion; doors and windows stood wide open, and servants were busied here and there cleaning and setting in order for the day, but without noise or bustle. In the avenue before the front entrance, stood Solon with the pretty grey ponies, Prince and Princess, ready saddled and bridled, while on the veranda sat a tall, dark-eyed, handsome youth, a riding whip in one hand, the other gently stroking and patting the head of Bruno, as it rested on his knee; the dog receiving the caress with demonstrations of delight. A light, springing step passed down the broad stairway, crossed the hall, and a slender fairy-like form appeared in the doorway. It was Violet, now thirteen, and already a woman in height; though the innocent childlike trust in the sweet fair face and azure eyes, told another tale. "Good-morning, Eddie," she said. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting." "Oh, good-morning," he cried, jumping up and turning toward her. "No need for apology, Vi, I've not been here over five minutes." He handed her gallantly to the saddle, then mounted himself. "Try to cheer up, little sister; one should not be sad such a lovely morning as this," he said, as they trotted down the avenue side by side. "Oh, Eddie," she answered, with tears in her voice, "I do try, but I can't yet; it isn't like home without them." "No; no indeed, Vi; how could it be? Mr. and Mrs. Daly are very kind, yet not in the least like our father and mother; but it would be impossible for any one to take their places in our hearts or home." "The only way to feel at all reconciled, is to keep looking forward to the delight of seeing them return with our darling Lily well and strong," Vi said, struggling bravely with her tears; and Eddie answered, "I cannot help hoping that may be, in spite of all the discouraging things the doctors have said." Lily, always frail and delicate, had drooped more and more during the past year, and only yesterday the parents had left with her for the North, intending to try the effect of different watering places, in the faint hope that the child might yet be restored to health, or her life at least be prolonged for a few years. They had taken with them their eldest daughter, and infant son, and several servants. Aunt Chloe and Uncle Joe were not of the party, increasing infirmities compelling them to stay behind. The separation from her idolized mistress, cost the former many tears, but she was much comforted by Elsie's assurance, that to have her at home to watch over the children there, would be a great comfort and relief from anxiety on their account. It had seemed to Mr. and Mrs. Travilla, a very kind Providence that had sent them an excellent tutor and housekeeper, in the persons of Mr. and Mrs. Daly, their former guests at Viamede. Since the winter spent together there, an occasional correspondence had been kept up between the two families, and learning from it, that Mr. Daly was again in need of a change of climate, and that, just as they were casting about for some suitable persons to take charge of their house and children during their contemplated absence from home, Elsie suggested to her husband that the situations should be offered to him and his wife. Mr. Travilla approved, the offer was made at once, and promptly and thankfully accepted. Frank Daly, now a fine lad of eleven, was invited to come with his parents, and to share his father's instructions. They had now been in the house for more than a week, and seemed eminently suited to the duties they had undertaken; yet home was sadly changed to the children, deprived for the first time in their lives of the parents whom they so dearly loved, and who so thoroughly understood and sympathized with them. Eddie was growing very manly, was well advanced in his studies, easy and polished in manner, and Vi and the younger ones looked up to him with pride and respect, as the big brother who knew a great deal, and in papa's absence would be their leader and protector. He, on his part was fond and proud of them all, but more especially of Elsie and Vi, who grew daily in beauty and grace. "You can't think how sorely I have missed Elsie this morning," Vi said, breaking a slight pause in their talk, "and yet I am glad she went too, she will be such a comfort to mamma and Lily; and she promised me to write every day; which of course mamma could not find time to do." "Yes; and her absence will give you an opportunity for practice in that line, and in being motherly to Rosie," Eddie said with a smile. "To Herbie too," she answered; "we are to meet in mamma's dressing-room every morning just as usual, only it will be a strange half hour without mamma; but we will say our texts to each other, talk them over and read together." "Yes, I promised mamma that I would be with you. Which way now?" he asked, as they came to the crossroads. "To the Oaks. I want to see grandpa. A caress, or even a word or smile from him, would do me good this morning." "He may not be up." "But I think he will; you know he likes to keep early hours." Mr. Dinsmore was up and pacing the veranda thoughtfully to and fro, as the young riders came in sight. He welcomed them with a smile, and lifting Vi from her pony, held her close to his heart as something very dear and precious. "My darling," he said, "your face is sad this morning; and no wonder. Yet cheer up, we will hope to see our dear travelers at home again in a few weeks, our poor fading flower restored to bloom and beauty." He made them sit down and regale themselves with some fine fresh oranges, which he summoned a servant to bring; their grandma, aunt and uncle joined them presently and they were urged to stay to breakfast, but declined. "The little ones must not be left alone this first morning without papa and mamma." On their return Rosie, a merry, healthy, romping child of five, with a rich creamy complexion, dark hair and eyes, forming a strong contrast to Vi's blonde beauty, came bounding to meet them. "O, Vi, I've been wanting you! you'll have to be mamma to us now, you know, till our real own mamma comes back. And, Eddie, you'll have to be the papa. Won't he, Vi? Come, let's all go to mamma's dress-room; my verse is ready." "What is your text, Rosie?" Violet asked when they had reached the room, sitting down and drawing the child to her side. "Take me on your lap like mamma does and I'll say it." "Now then," Vi said, complying with the request. "'When my father and my mother forsake me then the Lord will take me up.'" "Who taught you that, pet?" asked Vi, with a slight tremble in her low sweet tones. "Cousin Molly. I was crying for mamma and papa and she called me in there and told me I mustn't cry, 'cause Jesus loves me and will never, never go away from me." "That's like my text," said Herbert. "Mamma gave it to me for to-day. 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.'" "And mine," said Harold, "Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world,'" "'This God is our God forever and ever; he will be our guide even unto death,'" repeated Vi feelingly. "That's a nice one," said Rosie. "Yes," said Eddie, "and this is a nice one for us to remember just now in connection with the dear ones on their journey, and for ourselves when we go away. Yes, now, and at all times. 'Behold I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places whither thou goest, and will bring thee again into this land.'" "Isn't the Bible the sweetest book!" exclaimed Vi, "the Book of books; it has a comforting word for everybody and every time of need." The breakfast bell rang. "Oh, dear!" cried Rosie clinging to Violet, her bosom heaving with sobs, "how can we go to the table and eat without papa and mamma!" "Don't cry, little pet, don't cry; you know they want us to be cheerful and make it pleasant for Mr. and Mrs. Daly," the others said, and with a great effort the child swallowed her sobs; then wiping away her tears, suffered Vi to lead her down to the breakfast room. Mrs. Daly met them there with a smiling face, and kind motherly greeting. Mr. Daly had a pleasant word for each, and talked so entertainingly all through the meal, that they had scarcely time for sad or lonely thoughts. Family worship followed immediately after breakfast, as was the custom of the house. Mr. Daly's prayer was short, comforting them all, and simple enough for even little Rose to understand. There was still time for a walk before school, but first Vi went to Molly to ask how she was, and to carry her a letter from Dick which had come by the morning mail. Dick was in Philadelphia studying medicine. He and Molly corresponded regularly and she knew no greater treat than a letter from him. Vi was glad she could carry it to her this morning, it was so great a pleasure to be the bearer of anything so welcome. There were no pleasanter or better furnished rooms in the house than those appropriated to the use of the poor, dependent crippled cousin. Molly herself tastefully and becomingly dressed, blooming, bright and cheerful, sat in an invalid chair by the open window. She was reading, and so absorbed in her book that she did not hear the light step of her young relative. Vi paused in the doorway a moment, thinking what a pretty picture Molly made--with her intellectual countenance, clear complexion, rosy cheeks, bright eyes and glossy braids--framed in by the vine-wreathed window. Molly looked up, and laying aside her book, "Ah, Vi, this is kind!" she said. "Come in, do; I'm ever so glad to see you." "And what of this?" asked Vi, holding up the letter. "Oh, delightful! dear old fellow, to write so soon. I was not expecting it till to-morrow." "I knew you'd be glad," Vi said, putting it into her hand, "and now I'll just kiss you good-morning and run away, that you may enjoy it fully before lesson time." Rosie's voice was summoning Vi. The children were in the veranda ready for their morning walk, waiting only for "Sister Vi." "Let's go to the Oaks," said Rosie, slipping her hand into Vi's; "it's a nice shady walk, and I like to throw pebbles into the water. But I'll feed the fishes first. See what a bag full of crumbs mammy has given me." Violet was very patient and indulgent toward the little pet sister, yet obliged to cut short her sport with the pebbles and the fishes, because the hour for lessons drew near. CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH. "The lilies faintly to the roses yield, As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie, And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes revealed, Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unseal'd." --HOFFMAN. "Dr. Arthur lef' dis for you, Miss Wi'let," said one of the maids, meeting her young mistress on the veranda and handing her a note. "Cousin Arthur? was he here?" "Yes, miss. He axed for you, but hadn't no time to stop, not even to see po' Miss Molly. 'Spect somebody's mighty sick." Arthur Conly had entered the medical profession, and for the last two years had been practicing in partnership with Dr. Barton. Vi glanced over the note and hastened to Eddie, whom she found in the schoolroom, its only occupant at the moment. "Here's a note from Isa, asking me to bring Rosie and come to Roselands for the rest of the day, after lessons are done. She thinks I must feel lonely. It is very kind, but what shall I do about it? Rosie would enjoy going, but would it be kind to you or the boys, or Molly?" "I might take the boys over to the Oaks, but I don't know--oh, I think Molly would probably prefer solitude, as I happen to know that she has some writing to do. Well, what now?" seeing a hesitating, perplexed look on Vi's face. "I cannot ask permission of papa or mamma." "No, of course not; we must go to Mr. Daly for that now." "I don't like it," she answered coloring; "it does seem as if nobody has the right to control us except our father and mother, and our grandparents." "Only that they have given him the right for the present." Mr. Daly came in at that instant, and Vi, placing the note in his hand, said "Will you please to look at this, sir, and tell me if I may accept the invitation?" "I see no objection," he said, returning it with a kindly smile, "provided your lessons are well recited." Mr. Daly was an excellent teacher, thoroughly prepared for his work by education, native talent for imparting the knowledge he possessed, love for the employment and for the young creatures entrusted to his care. The liking was mutual, and study hours were soon voted only less enjoyable than when mamma was their loved instructress. Molly occupied her place in the schoolroom as regularly as the others. It adjoined her apartments, and her wheeled chair required a very slight exertion of strength on the part of friend or servant to propel it from room to room. Molly had already made herself a very thorough French and German scholar, and was hoping to turn her ability to translate to good account in the way of earning her own support; for there was no pauper instinct in the girl's noble nature, and able and willing as her cousin was to support her, she greatly preferred to earn her own living, though at the cost of much wearisome labor of hand and brain. She was not of those who seem to forget that the command, "Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work," is equally binding with that other, "In it (the seventh day) thou shalt not do any work," This lesson--that industry is commanded, idleness forbidden--was one which Elsie had ever been careful to instil into the minds of her children from their earliest infancy; nor was it enough, she taught them, that they should be doing something, they must be usefully employed, remembering that they were but stewards who must one day give an account to their Lord of all they had done with the talents entrusted to them. "Is Dick well? was it a nice letter?" Violet asked, leaning over her cousin's chair when lessons were done. "Oh very nice! he's well and doing famously, I must answer it this afternoon." "Then you will not care for company?" "Not particularly. Why?" Vi told of her invitation. "Go, by all means," said Molly. "You know Virgy has a friend with her, a Miss Reed. I want you to see her and tell me what she's like." "I fear you'll have to see her yourself to find that out; I'm no portrait painter," Violet said with a smile as she ran lightly away to order the carriage and see to her own toilet and Rosie's. They were simple enough; white dresses with blue sash and ribbons for Vi, ditto of pink for Rosie. Miss Reed, dressed in a stiff silk and loaded with showy jewelry, sat in the drawing-room at Roselands in a bay-window overlooking the avenue. She was gazing eagerly toward its entrance, as though expecting some one. "Yes, I've heard of the Travillas," she said in answer to a remark from Virginia Conly who stood by her side almost as showily attired as herself, "I've been told she was a great heiress." "She was; and he was rich too; though I believe he lost a good deal during the war." "They live splendidly, I suppose?" "They've everything money can buy, but are nearly breaking their hearts just now, over one of their little girls who seems to have some incurable disease." "Is that so? Well, they ought to have some trouble as well as other folks. I'm sorry though; for I'd set my heart on being invited there and seeing how they live." "Oh they're all gone away except Vi and Rosie and the boys. But may be Vi will ask us there to dinner or tea. Ah here they come!" "What splendid match horses! What an elegant carriage!" exclaimed Miss Reed, as a beautiful barouche, drawn by a pair of fine bays, came bowling up the avenue. "Yes, they've come, it's the Ion carriage." "But that's a young lady Pomp's handing out of it!" exclaimed Miss Reed the next moment, "and I thought you said it was only two children you expected." "Yes, Vi's only thirteen," answered Virginia running to the door to meet her. "Vi, my dear, how good in you to come. How sweet you look!" kissing her. "Rosie too," bestowing a caress upon her also, "pink's so becoming to you, little pet, and blue equally so to Vi. This is my friend Miss Reed, Vi, I've been telling her about you." Violet gave her hand, then drew back blushing and slightly disconcerted by the almost rude stare of the black eyes that seemed to be taking an inventory of her personal appearance and attire. "Where is Isa?" she asked. "Here, and very glad to see you, Vi," answered a silvery voice, and a tall, queenly looking girl of twenty, in rustling black silk and with roses in her hair and at her throat, took Violet's hands in hers and kissed her on both cheeks, then letting her go, saluted the little one in like manner. "Why don't you do that to me? guess I like kisses as well as other folks, ha! ha!" cried a shrill voice, and a little withered up, faded woman with a large wax doll in her arms, came skipping into the room. Her hair, plentifully sprinkled with grey, hung loosely about her neck, and she had bedizened herself with ribbons and faded artificial flowers of every hue. "Well, Griselda," she continued, addressing the doll, which she dandled in her arms, regarding it with a look of fond admiration, "we don't care, do we, dear? We love and embrace one another, and that's enough." "Oh, go back to your own room," said Virginia in a tone of annoyance, "we don't want you here." "I'll go when I get ready, and not a minute sooner," was the rejoinder in a pettish tone. "Oh, here's visitors! what a pretty little girl! what's your name, little girl? Won't you come and play with me? I'll lend you Grimalkin, my other wax doll. She's a beauty; almost as pretty as Griselda. Now don't get mad at that, Grissy, dear," kissing the doll again and again. Rose was frightened and clung to her sister, trying to hide behind her. "It's Aunt Enna; she won't hurt you," whispered Vi; "she never hurts any one unless she is teased or worried into a passion." "Won't she make me go with her! oh, don't let her, Vi." "No, dear, you shall stay with me. And here is the nurse come to take her away," Violet answered, as the poor lunatic was led from the room by her attendant. "Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Reed, who had not seen or heard of Enna before, turning to Virginia, "does she belong in the house? aren't you afraid of her?" "Not at all; she is perfectly harmless. She is my mother's sister, and lost her reason some years ago, by an accidental injury to the head." "I wonder you don't send her to an asylum." "Perhaps it might be as well," returned Virginia indifferently, "but it's not my affair." "Grandpa would never hear of such a thing!" said Isadore, indignantly. "Mamma would not either, I am sure," said Violet. "Poor Aunt Enna! should she be sent away from all who love her, just because she is unfortunate?" "Every one to their taste," remarked the visitor, shrugging her shoulders. Vi inquired for her Aunt Louise and the younger members of the family, and was told that they and the grandfather were spending the day at Pinegrove. "I was glad they decided to go to-day," said Isadore, seating Vi and herself comfortably on a sofa, then taking Rose on her lap and caressing her, "because I wanted you here, and to have you to myself. You see these two young ladies," glancing smilingly at her sister and guest, "are so fully taken up with each other, that for the most of the time I am quite _detrop_, and must look for entertainment elsewhere than in their society." "Yes," said Virginia, with more candor than politeness, "Josie and I are all sufficient for each other; are we not, _mon amie_?" "Very true, _machère_, yet I enjoy Isa's company, and am extremely delighted to have made the acquaintance of your charming cousin," remarked Miss Reed, with an insinuating bow directed to Violet. "You do not know me yet," said Vi, modestly. "Though so tall, I am only a little girl and do not know enough to make an interesting companion for a young lady." "Quite a mistake, Vi," said Isadore rising. "But there is the dinner-bell. Come let us try the soothing and exhilarating effect of food and drink upon our flagging spirits. We will not wait for Art; there's no knowing when he can leave his patients; and Cal's away on business." On leaving the table, Isadore carried off her young cousins to her own apartments. Rose was persuaded to lie down and take a nap, while the older girls conversed together in an adjoining room. "Isn't it delightful to be at home again, after all those years in the convent?" queried Vi. "I enjoy home, certainly," replied Isa, "yet I deeply regretted leaving the sisters; for you cannot think how good and kind they were to me. Shall I tell you about it? about my life there?" "Oh, do! I should so like to hear it." Isadore smiled at the eager tone, the bright interested look, and at once began a long and minute description of the events of her school-days at the nunnery, ending with a eulogy upon convent life in general, and the nuns who had been her educators, in particular. "They lived such holy, devoted lives, were so kind, so good, so self-denying." Violet listened attentively, making no remark, but Isadore read disapproval more than once in her speaking countenance. "I wish your mamma would send you and Elsie there to finish," remarked Isa, breaking the pause which followed the conclusion of her narrative. "Should you not like to go?" "No, oh no, no!" "Why not?" "Isa, I could never, _never_ do some of those things you say they require--bow to images or pictures, or kneel before them, or join in prayers or hymns to the Virgin." "I don't know how you could be so wicked as to refuse. She is the queen of Heaven and mother of God." "Isa!" and Violet looked inexpressibly shocked. "You can't deny it. Wasn't Jesus God?" "Yes; he is God. 'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.' 'And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us.'" "Ah! and was not the Virgin Mary his mother?'" Vi looked perplexed for a moment, then brightening, "Ah, I know now,'" she said, "Jesus was God and man both.'" "Well?" "And--mamma told me--Mary was the mother of his human nature only, and it is blasphemous to call her the mother of God; and to do her homage is idolatry." "So I thought before I went to the convent," said Isadore, "but the sisters convinced me of my error. Vi, I should like to show you something. Can you keep a secret?" "I have never had a secret from mamma; I do not wish to have any." "But you can't tell her everything now while she's away, and this concerns no one but myself. I know I can trust to your honor," and taking Vi's hand, she opened a door and drew her into a large closet, lighted by a small circular window quite high up in the wall. The place was fitted up as an oratory, with a picture of the Virgin and child, and a crucifix, standing on a little table with a prayer-book and rosary beside it. Vi had never seen such things, but she had heard of them and knew what they signified. Glancing from the picture to the crucifix, she started back in horror, and without a word hastily retreated to the dressing-room, where she dropped into a chair, pale, trembling and distressed. "Isadore, Isadore!" she cried, clasping her hands, and lifting her troubled eyes to her cousin's face, "have you--have you become a papist?" "I am a member of the one true church," returned her cousin coldly. "How bigoted you are, Violet. I could not have believed it of so sweet and gentle a young thing as you. I trust you will not consider it your duty to betray me to mamma?" "Betray you? can you think I would? So Aunt Louise does not know? Oh, Isa, can you think it right to hide it from her--your own mother?" "Yes; because I was directed to do so by my father confessor, and because my motive is a good one, and 'the end sanctifies the means.'" "Isa, mamma has taught me, and the Bible says it too, that it is never right to do evil that good may come." "Perhaps you and your mamma do not always understand the real meaning of what the Bible says. It must be that many people misunderstand it, else why are there so many denominations of Protestants, teaching opposite doctrines, and all professing to get them from the Bible?" Violet in her extreme youth and want of information and ability to argue, was not prepared with an answer. "Does Virgy know?" she asked. "About my change of views and my oratory? Yes." "And does she----" "Virgy is altogether worldly, and cares nothing for religion of any kind." Vi's face was full of distress; "Isa," she said, "may I ask you a question?" "What is it?" "When you pray, do you kneel before that--that----" "Crucifix? sometimes, at others before the Virgin and child." Vi shuddered. "O Isa, have you forgotten the second commandment? 'Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the waters under the earth; thou shalt not bow down thyself to them nor serve them.'" "I have not forgotten, but am content to do as the church directs," returned Isadore, coldly. "Isa, didn't they promise Aunt Louise that they would not interfere with your religion?" "Yes." "And then broke their promise. How can you think they are good?" "They did it to save my soul. Was not that a good and praiseworthy motive?" "Yes; but if they thought it their duty to try to make you believe as they do, they should not have promised not to do so." "But in that case I should never have been placed in the convent, and they would have had no opportunity to labor for my conversion." Earnestly, constantly had Elsie endeavored to obey the command. "Therefore shall ye lay up these my words in your heart and in your soul, and bind them for a sign upon your hand, that they may be as frontlets between your eyes. And ye shall teach them to your children, speaking of them when thou sittest in thy house, and when thou walkest by the way, when thou liest down, and when thou risest up." Thus Violet's memory was stored with texts, and these words from Isaiah suggested themselves as a fit comment upon Isadore's last remark. "Woe unto them that call evil good and good evil; that put darkness for light and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter." CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH. "But all's not true that supposition saith, Nor have the mightiest arguments most faith." --DRAYTON. "Examples I could cite you more; But be contented with these four; For when one's proofs are aptly chosen, Four are as valid as four dozen." --PRIOR. Isa's perversion, Isa's secret, weighed heavily upon the heart and conscience of poor Violet; the child had never been burdened with a secret before. She thought Aunt Louise ought to know, yet was not at all clear that it was her duty to tell her. She wished it might be discovered in some way without her agency, for "it was a dreadful thing for Isa to be left to go on believing and doing as she did. Oh, if only she could be talked to by some one old enough and wise enough to convince her of her errors!" Isadore with the zeal of a young convert, had set herself the task of bringing Vi over to her new faith. The opportunity afforded by the absence of the vigilant parents was too good to be lost, and should be improved to the utmost. She made daily errands to Ion, some trifling gift to Molly often being the excuse, was sweet and gracious to all, but devoted herself especially to Violet, insisting on sharing her room when she staid over night, coaxing her out for long walks and drives, rowing with her on the lake, learning to handle the oars herself in order that they might go alone. And all the time she was on the watch for every favorable opening to say something to undermine the child's faith, or bias her mind in favor of the tenets of the church of Rome. Violet grew more and more troubled and perplexed and now not on Isa's account alone. She could not give up the faith of her fathers, the faith of the Bible (to that inspired word she clung as to the rock which must save her from being engulfed in the wild waters of doubt and difficulty that were surging around her) but neither could she answer all Isadore's questions and arguments, and there was no one to whom she might turn in her bewilderment, lest she should betray her cousin's secret. She prayed for guidance and help, searching the Scriptures and "comparing spiritual things with spiritual," and thus was kept from the snares laid for her inexperienced feet; she stumbled and walked with uncertain step for a time, but did not fall. Those about her, particularly Eddie and her old mammy, noticed the unwonted care and anxiety in her innocent face, but attributed it wholly to the unfavorable news in regard to Lily's condition, which reached them from time to time. The dear invalid was reported as making little or no progress toward recovery, and the hearts of brothers and sisters were deeply saddened by the tidings. Miss Reed was still at Roselands, and had been brought several times by Virginia for a call at Ion, and at length, Violet having written for and obtained permission of her parents, and consulted Mrs. Daly's convenience in reference to the matter, invited the three girls for a visit of several days, stipulating, however, that it was not to interfere with lessons. To this the girls readily assented; "they would make themselves quite at home, and find their own amusement; it was what they should like above all things." The plan worked well, except that under this constant association with Isadore, Vi grew daily more careworn and depressed. Even Mr. Daly noticed it, and spoke to her of Lily's state as hopefully as truth would permit. "Do not be too much troubled, my dear child," he said, taking her hand in a kind fatherly manner. "She is in the hands of One who loves her even better than her parents, brothers and sisters do, and will let no real evil come nigh her. He may restore her to health, but if not--if he takes her from us, it will be to make her infinitely happier with himself; for we know that she has given her young heart to him." Violet bowed a silent assent, then hurried from the room; her heart too full for speech. She was troubled, sorely troubled for her darling, suffering little sister, and with this added anxiety, her burden was hard indeed to bear. Mr. Daly was reading in the library that afternoon, when Violet came running in as if in haste, a flush of excitement on her fair face. "Ah, excuse me, sir! I fear I have disturbed you," she said, as he looked up from his book; "but oh, I'm glad to find you here! for I think you will help me. I came to look for a Bible and Concordance." "They are both here on this table," he said. "I am glad you are wanting them, for we cannot study them too much. But in what can I help you, Vi? is it some theological discussion between your cousins and yourself?" "Yes, sir; we were talking about a book--a story-book that Miss Reed admires--and I said mamma would not allow us to read it, because it teaches that Jesus Christ was only a good man; and Miss Reed said that was her belief; and yet she professes to believe the Bible, and I wish to show her, that it teaches that he was very God as well as man." "That will not be difficult," he said; "for no words could state it more directly and clearly than these, 'Christ, who is over all, God blessed forever. Amen,'" And opening the Bible at the ninth chapter of Romans, he pointed to the latter clause of the fifth verse. "Oh, let me show her that!" cried Vi. "Suppose you invite them in here," he suggested, and she hastened to do so. Miss Reed read the text as it was pointed out to her, "I don't remember noticing that before," was all she said. Silently Mr. Daly turned over the leaves and pointed out the twentieth verse of the first Epistle of John, where it is said of Jesus Christ, "This is the true God and eternal life;" and then to Isaiah ix. 6. "For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder; and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace," and several other passages equally strong and explicit in their declaration of the divinity of Christ. "Well," said Miss Reed, "if he was God, why didn't he say so?" "He did again and again," was the reply "Here John viii. 58--we read "Jesus said unto them, 'Verily, verily, I say unto you, Before Abraham was, I am.'"" "I don't see it!" she said sneeringly. "You do not? just compare it with this other passage Exodus iii. 14, 15. 'And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM _hath sent me unto you_. And God said moreover unto Moses, Thus shalt thou say unto the, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath sent me unto you; this is children of Israel, The Lord God of your fathers my name forever, and this is my memorial unto all generations.' The Jews who were present understood those words of Jesus as an assertion of his divinity and took up stones to cast at him." Isadore seemed interested in the discussion, but Virginia showed evident impatience. "What's the use of bothering ourselves about it?" she exclaimed at length, "what difference does it make whether we believe in his divinity or deny it?" "A vast deal of difference, my dear young lady," said Mr. Daly. "If Christ be not divine, it is idolatry to worship him. If he is divine, and we fail to acknowledge it and to trust in him for salvation, we must be eternally lost for 'neither is there salvation in any other; for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.' 'But whosoever believeth in him shall receive remission of sins.'" Virginia fidgeted uneasily and Miss Reed inquired with affected politeness, if that were all. "No," he said, "far from it; yet if the Bible be--as I think we all acknowledge--the inspired word of God, one plain declaration of a truth is as authoritative as a dozen." "Suppose I don't believe it is all inspired?" queried Miss Reed. "Still, since Jesus asserts his own divinity, we must either accept him as God, or believe him to have been an impostor and therefore not even a good man. He must be to us everything or nothing; there is no neutral ground; he says, 'He that is not with me is against me.'" "And there is only one true church," remarked Isadore, forgetting herself; "the holy Roman Church, and none without her pale can be saved." Mr. Daly looked at her in astonishment. Violet was at first greatly startled, then inexpressibly relieved; since Isa's secret being one no longer, a heavy weight was removed from her heart and conscience. Virginia was the first to speak. "There!" she said, "you've let it out yourself; I always knew you would sooner or later." "Well," returned Isadore, drawing herself up haughtily, determined to put a brave face upon the matter, now that there was no retreat, "I'm not ashamed of my faith; nor afraid to attempt its defence against any who may see fit to attack it," she added with a defiant look at Mr. Daly. He smiled a little sadly. "I am very sorry for you, Miss Conly," he said, "and do not feel at all belligerent toward you; but let me entreat you to rest your hopes of salvation only upon the atoning blood and imputed righteousness of Jesus Christ." "I must do good works also," she said. "Yes as an evidence, but not as the ground of your faith; we must do good works not that we may be saved, but because we are saved. 'If a man love me, he will keep my words.' Well, my little Vi? what is it?" for she was looking at him with eager, questioning eyes. "O, Mr. Daly, I want you to answer some things Isa has said to me. Isa, I have never mentioned it to any one before. I have kept your secret faithfully, till now that you have told it yourself." "I don't blame you, Vi," she answered coloring. "I presume I shall be blamed for my efforts to bring you over to the true faith, but my conscience acquits me of any bad motive. I wanted to save your soul. Mr. Daly, I do not imagine you can answer all that I have to bring against the claims of Protestantism. Pray where was that church before the Reformation?" There was something annoying to the girl in the smile with which he heard her question. "Wherever the Bible was made the rule of faith and practice," he said, "there was Protestantism though existing under another name. All through the dark ages, when Popery was dominant almost all over the civilized world, the light of a pure gospel--the very same that the Reformation spread abroad over other parts of Europe--burned brightly among the secluded valleys of Piedmont; and twelve hundred years of bloody persecution on the part of apostate Rome could not quench it. "I know that Popery lays great stress on her claims to antiquity, but Paganism is older still, and evangelical religion--which, as I have already said, is Protestantism under another name--is as old as the Christian Era; as the human nature of its founder, the Lord Jesus Christ." "You are making assertions," said Isadore bridling, "but where are your proofs?" "They are not wanting," he said. "Suppose we undertake the study of ecclesiastical history together, and see how Popery was the growth of centuries, as one error after another crept into the Christian church." "I don't believe she was ever the persecutor you would make her out to have been," said Isadore. "Popish historians bear witness to it as well as Protestant," he answered. "Well, it's persecution to bring up those old stories against her now." "Is it? when she will not disavow them, but maintains that she has always done right? and more than that, tells us she will do the same again if ever she has the power." "I'm sure all Romanists are not so cruel as to wish to torture or kill their Protestant neighbors," cried Isadore indignantly. "And I quite agree with you there," he said; "I have not the least doubt that many of them are very kind-hearted; but I was speaking, not of individuals, but of the Romish Church as such. She is essentially a persecuting power." "Well, being the only true church, she has the right to compel conformity to her creed." "Ah, you have already imbibed something of her spirit. But we contend that she is not the true church. 'To the law and to the testimony; if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them.' Brought to the touch-stone of God's revealed word, she is proved to be reprobate silver; her creed spurious Christianity. In second Thessalonians, second chapter, we have a very clear description of her as that 'Wicked whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit of his mouth, and shall destroy with the brightness of his coming.' Also, in the seventeenth of Revelation, where she is spoken of as 'Babylon the great, the mother of harlots and abominations of the earth.'" "How do you know she is meant there?" asked Isadore, growing red and angry. "Because she, and she alone, answers to the description. It is computed that fifty millions of Protestants have been slain in her persecutions; may it not then be truly said of her that she is drunken with the blood of the saints?" "I think what you have been saying shows that the priests are right in teaching that the Bible is a dangerous book in the hands of the ignorant, and should therefore be withheld from the laity," retorted Isadore hotly. "But," returned Mr. Daly, "Jesus said, 'Search the Scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life; and they are they which testify of me.'" CHAPTER NINETEENTH. "Let us go back again mother, Oh, take me home to die." "And so, Isa, my uncle's predictions that your popish teachers would violate their promise not to meddle with your faith, have proved only too true," said Calhoun Conly, stepping forward, as Mr. Daly finished his last quotation from the Scriptures. In the heat of their discussion, neither the minister nor Isadore had noticed his entrance, but he had been standing there, an interested listener, long enough to learn the sad fact of his sister's perversion. "They only did their duty, and I shall not have them blamed for it," she said, haughtily. "They richly deserve blame, and you cannot prevent it from being given them," he answered firmly, and with flashing eyes. "I have come, by my mother's request, to take you and Virginia home, inviting Miss Reed to accompany us." "I am ready," said Isadore, rising, the others doing likewise. "But you will stay to tea?" Violet said. "Cal, you are not in too great haste for that?" "I'm afraid I am, little cousin," he answered with a smile of acknowledgment of her hospitality. "I must meet a gentleman on business, half an hour from now." Vi expressed her regrets, and ran after the girls, who had already left the room to prepare for their drive. They seemed in haste to get away. "We've had enough of Mr. Daly's prosing about religion," said Virginia. "I'm sick of it," chimed in Miss Reed, "what difference does it make what you believe, if you're only sincere and live right?" "'With the heart man believeth unto righteousness,'" said Violet; "and 'the just shall live by faith.'" "You're an apt pupil," sneered Virginia. "It is mamma's doing that my memory is stored with texts," returned the child, reddening. Isadore was silent and gloomy, and took leave of her young cousin so coldly, as to quite sadden her sensitive spirit. Violet had enjoyed being made much of by Isa, who was a beautiful and brilliant young lady, and this sudden change in her manner was far from pleasant. Still the pain it gave her was greatly overbalanced by the relief of having her perplexities removed, her doubts set at rest. Standing on the veranda, she watched the carriage as it rolled away down the avenue, then hailed with delight a horseman who came galloping up, alighted and giving the bridle to Solon, turned to her with open arms, and a smile that proclaimed him the bearer of good tidings, before he uttered a word. "Grandpa," she cried, springing to his embrace, "Oh, is Lily better?" "Yes," he said, caressing her, then turning to greet Rosie and the boys, who had come running at the sound of his voice. "I have had a letter from your mother, in which she says the dear invalid seems decidedly better." "Oh, joy! joy!" cried the children, Rosie hugging and kissing her grandfather, the boys capering about in a transport of gladness. "And will they come home soon, grandpa?" asked Eddie. "Nothing is said about that, I presume they will linger at the North till the weather begins to grow too cool for Lily," Mr. Dinsmore answered, shaking hands with Mr. Daly, who, hearing his voice on the veranda, stepped out to inquire for news of the absent ones. While they talked together, Vi ran away in search of Aunt Chloe. She found her on the back veranda, enjoying a chat with Aunt Dicey and Uncle Joe. "Oh, mammy, good news! good news!" Vi cried, half breathless with haste and happiness; "grandpa had a letter from mamma, and our darling Lily is better, much better." "Bress de Lord!" ejaculated her listeners in chorus. "Bress his holy name, I hope de chile am gwine to discover her health agin," added Uncle Joe. "I'se been a prayin' pow'ful strong for her." "'Spect der is been more'n you at dat business, Uncle Joe;" remarked Aunt Dicey, "'spect I knows one ole niggah dat didn't fail to disremember de little darlin' at de throne ob grace." "De bressed lamb!" murmured Aunt Chloe, dropping a tear on Violet's golden curls as she clasped her to her breast, "she's de Lord's own, and he'll take de bes' care of her; in dis world and in de nex'; be sho' ob dat, honey. Ise mighty glad for her and my dear missus; and for you too Miss Wi'let. You's been frettin' yo' heart out 'bout Miss Lily." "I've been very anxious about her, mammy; and something else has been troubling me too, but it's all right now," Violet answered with a glad look, then releasing herself, ran back to her grandfather. She had seen less than usual of him for several weeks past, and wanted an opportunity to pour out all her heart to him. He had gone up to Molly's sitting-room, and she followed him thither. With Rosie on his knee, Harold and Herbert standing on either side, and Eddie sitting near, he was chatting gayly with his crippled niece, who was as bright and cheery as any of the group, all of whom were full of joy over the glad tidings he had brought. "Grandpa," said Vi, joining them, "it seems a good while since you were here for more than a short call. Won't you stay now for the rest of the day?" "Yes, and I propose that we drive down to the lake, Molly and all, and have a row. I think it would do you all good. The weather is delightful." The motion was carried by acclamation, Molly's maid was summoned, Eddie went down to order the carriage, and the rest scattered to prepare for the expedition. It was a lovely October day, the air balmy, the woods gorgeous in their richly colored autumn robes; gold, scarlet and crimson, russet and green mingled in gay profusion; the slanting beams of the descending sun fell athwart the lakelet, like a broad band of shimmering gold, and here and there lent an added glory to the trees. The boat glided swiftly over the rippling waters, now in sunshine, now in shadow, and the children hushed their merry clatter, silenced by the beauty and stillness of the scene. Tea was waiting when they returned, and on leaving the table the younger ones bade good-night, and went away with Vi to be put to bed. She had a story or some pleasant talk for them every night; doing her best to fill mamma's place. Vi was glad to find her grandpa alone in the library when she came down again. "Come, sit on my knee, as your dear mamma used to do at your age," he said, "and tell me what you have been doing these past weeks while I have seen so little of you." "It is so nice," she said as she took the offered seat, and he passed his arm about her, "so nice to have a grandpa to pet me; especially when I've no father or mother at home to do it." "So we are mutually satisfied," he said. "Now what have you to tell me? any questions to ask? any doubts or perplexities to be cleared away?" "Grandpa, has anybody been telling you anything?" she asked. "No, nothing about you." "Then I'll just tell you all." And she gave him a history of Isadore's efforts to pervert her, and their effect upon her; also of the conversation of that afternoon, in which Mr. Daly had answered the questions of Isadore, that had most perplexed and troubled her. Mr. Dinsmore was grieved and distressed by Isa's defection from the evangelical faith, and indignant at her attempt to lead Vi astray also. "Are you fully satisfied now on all the points?" he asked. "There are one or two things I should like to ask you about, grandpa," she said. "Isa thinks a convent life so beautiful and holy, so shut out from the world, with all its cares and wickedness, she says; so quiet and peaceful, so full of devotion and the self-denial the Lord Jesus taught when he said, 'If any man will come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.' "Do you think leaving one's dear home and father and mother, and brothers and sisters to be shut up for life with strangers, in a convent, was the cross he meant, grandpa?" "No, I am perfectly sure it was not; the Bible teaches us to do our duty in the place where God puts us; it recognizes the family relationships; teaches the reciprocal duties of kinsmen, parents and children, husbands and wives, but has not a word to say to monks or nuns. "It bids us take up the cross God lays upon us, and not one of our own invention; nor did one of the holy men and women it tells of live the life of an anchorite. Nor can peace and freedom from temptation and sin be found in a convent any more than elsewhere; because we carry our evil natures with us wherever we go." "No; peace and happiness are to be found only in being 'followers of God as dear children,' doing our duty in that station in life where he has placed us; our motive love to him; leading us to desire above all things to live to his honor and glory." Violet sat with downcast eyes, her face full of earnest thought. She was silent for a moment after Mr. Dinsmore had ceased speaking, then lifting her head and turning to him with a relieved look, "Thank you, grandpa," she said. "I am fully satisfied on that point. Now, there is just one more. Isa says the divisions among Protestants show that the Bible is not a book for common people to read for themselves. They cannot understand it right; if they did they would all believe alike." Mr. Dinsmore smiled. "Who is to explain it?" he asked. "Oh, Isa says that is for the priests to do; and they and the people must accept the decisions of the church." "Well, my child, it would take too much time to tell you just how impossible it is to find out what are the authoritative decisions of the Romish Church on more than one important point;--how one council would contradict another--one pope affirm what his predecessors had denied, and vice versa; councils contradict popes, and popes councils. "As to the duty of studying the Bible for ourselves--we have the master's own command, 'Search the Scriptures,' which settles the question at once for all his obedient disciples. And no one who sets himself to the work humbly and teachably, looking to the Holy Spirit for enlightenment, will fail to find the path to heaven. 'The way-faring men, though fools shall not err therein.' Jesus said 'The Comforter which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in my name, he shall teach you all things.' "And, my child, none of us is responsible for the interpretation that his neighbor puts upon God's word,--his letter addressed to us all; each of us must give account of himself to God." Violet's doubts and perplexities had vanished like morning mist before the rising sun; her natural gayety of spirits returned, and she became again as was her wont, the sunshine of the house, full of life and hope, with a cheery word and sunny smile for every one, from Mr. Daly down to Rosie, and from Aunt Chloe to the youngest child at the quarter. She had not been so happy since the departure of her parents. Eddie, Molly and the younger ones, reflected in some measure her bright hopefulness, and the renewed ardor with which she pursued her studies, and for some days all went on prosperously at Ion. Then came a change. One evening, Vi, having seen Rosie in bed, and bade Harold and Herbert good-night also, returned to the schoolroom, where Eddie and their cousin were busied with their preparations for the morrow's recitations. She had settled herself before her desk, and was taking out her books, when the sound of horses' hoofs coming swiftly up the avenue, caused her to spring up and run to the window. "It is grandpa," she said. "He seldom comes so late, oh, Eddie!" and she dropped into a chair, her heart beating wildly. "Don't be alarmed," Eddie said, rising and coming toward her, his own voice trembling with apprehension, "it may be good news again." "Oh, do you think so? Can it be?" she asked. "Surely, Vi, uncle would come as fast as possible if he had good news to bring," said Molly. "Perhaps it is that they are coming home; it is getting so late in the fall now, that I'm expecting every day to hear that." "Let's go down to grandpa," said Vi, rising, while a faint color stole into her cheek, which had grown very pale at the thought that the little pet sister might be dead or dying. "No, no," as a step was heard on the stairs, "he is coming to us." The door opened, and Mr. Dinsmore entered. One look into his grief-stricken face, and Violet threw herself into his arms, and wept upon his breast. He soothed her with silent caresses; his heart almost too full for speech; but at length, "It is not the worst," he said in low, moved tones, "she lives, but has had a relapse, and they are bringing her home." "Home to die!" echoed Violet's heart, and she clung about her grandfather's neck, weeping almost convulsively. Tears coursed down Molly's cheeks also, and Eddie, hardly less overcome than his sister, asked tremulously, "How soon may we expect them, grandpa?" "In about two days, I think; and my dear children, we must school ourselves to meet Lily with calmness and composure, lest we injure, by exciting and agitating her. We must be prepared to find her more feeble than when she went away, and much exhausted by the fatigue of the journey." Worse than when she went away! and even then the doctors gave no hope! It was almost as if they already saw her lying lifeless before them. They wept themselves to sleep that night, and in the morning it was as though death had already entered the house; a solemn stillness reigned in all its rooms, and the quiet tread, the sad, subdued tones, the oft falling tear, attested the warmth of affection in which the dear, dying child was held. A parlor car was speeding southward; its occupants, a noble looking man, a lovely matron, a blooming, beautiful girl of seventeen, a rosy babe in his nurse's arms, and a pale, fragile, golden-haired, blue-eyed child of seven, lying now on a couch with her head in her mother's lap, now resting in her father's arms for a little. She seemed the central figure of the group, all eyes turning ever and anon, upon her in tenderest solicitude, every ear attentive to her slightest plaint, every hand ready to minister to her wants. She was very quiet, very patient, answering their anxious, questioning words and looks with many a sweet, affectionate smile or whisper of grateful appreciation of their ministry of love. Sometimes she would beg to be lifted up for a moment that she might see the rising or setting sun, or gaze upon the autumnal glories of the woods, and as they drew near their journey's end she would ask, "Are we almost there, papa? shall I soon see my own sweet home, and dear brothers and sisters?" At last the answer was, "Yes, my darling; in a few moments we shall leave the car for our own easy carriage, and one short stage will take us home to Ion." Mr. Dinsmore, his son, and Arthur Conly met them at the station, and told how longingly their dear ones at home were looking for them. The sun had set, and shadows began to creep over the landscape as the carriage stopped before the door and Lily was lifted out, borne into the house and gently laid upon her own little bed. She was nearly fainting with fatigue and weakness, and dearly as the others were loved, father and mother had no eyes for any but her, no word of greeting, as the one bore her past, the other hastily followed, with the doctor and grandfather, to her room. But Elsie and Vi were quickly locked in each other's arms, mingling their tears together, while Rosie and the boys gathered round, awaiting their turn. "Oh!" sobbed Rosie, "mamma didn't speak to me; she didn't look at me; she doesn't love me any more; nor my papa either." "Yes, they do, little pet," Elsie said, leaving Violet to embrace the little sister; "and sister Elsie loves you dearly, dearly. Harold and Herbert too; as well as our big oldest brother," smiling up at Eddie through her tears, as he stood by her side. He bent down to kiss her sweet lips. "Lily?" he said in a choking voice. With a great effort Elsie controlled her emotion, and answered low and tremulously, "She is almost done with pain. She is very happy--no doubt, no fear, only gladness that soon she will be 'Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe on his gentle breast'" Eddie turned away with a broken sob. Vi uttered a low cry of anguish; and Rosie and the boys broke into a wail of sorrow. Till that moment they had not given up hope that the dear one might even yet be restored. In the sick-room the golden head lay on a snow white pillow, the blue eyes were closed, and the breath came pantingly from the pale, parted lips. "Cousin Arthur" had his finger on the slender wrist, counting its pulsations, while father and grandfather stood looking on in anxious solicitude, and the mother bent over her fading flower, asking in tender whispered accents, "are you in pain, my darling?" "No, mamma, only so tired; so tired!" Only the mother's quick ear, placed close to the pale lips, could catch the low-breathed words. The doctor administered a cordial, then a little nourishment was given, and the child fell asleep. The mother sat watching her, lost to all else in the world. Arthur came to her side with a whispered word about her own need of rest and refreshment after her fatiguing journey. "How long?" she asked in the same low tone, glancing first at the white face on the pillow, then at him. "Some days, I hope; and she is likely now to sleep for hours. Let me take your place." Elsie bent over the child, listening for a moment to her breathing, then accepting his offer, followed her husband and father from the room. Rosie, waiting and watching in the hall without, sprang to her mother's embrace with a low, joyful cry, "Mamma, mamma! oh, you've been gone so long, so long! I thought you'd never come back." "Mamma is very glad to be with you again," Elsie said, holding her close for a moment, then resigning her to her father, she sought the others, all near at hand, and waiting eagerly for a sight of her loved face, a word from her gentle lips. They were all longing for one of the old confidential talks, Violet, perhaps, more than the others; but it could not be now, the mother could scarcely allow herself time for a little rest, ere she must return to her station by the side of the sick bed. But Molly was not forgotten or neglected. Elsie went to her with kind inquiries, loving cheering words and a message from Dick, whom she had seen a few days before. Molly sat thinking it over gratefully, after her cousin had left the room. "How kind and thoughtful for others she is! how sweet and gentle, how patient and resigned. I will try to be more like her. How truly she obeys the command 'Be pitiful, be courteous.' "But why should one so lovely, so devoted a Christian, be visited with so sore a trial? I can see why my trials were sent. I was so proud and worldly; and they were necessary to show me my need of Jesus; but she has loved and leaned upon him since she was a little child." CHAPTER TWENTIETH. "Let them die, Let them die now, thy children! so thy heart Shall wear their beautiful image all undimm'd Within it to the last." --MRS. HEMANS. Lily seemed a little stronger in the morning, and the brothers and sisters were allowed to go in by turns and speak to her. Violet chose to be the last, thinking that would, perhaps, secure a little longer interview. Lily with mamma by her side, lay propped up with pillows--her eyes bright, a lovely color on her almost transparent cheek, her luxurious hair lying about her like heaps of shining gold, her red lips smiling a joyous welcome, as Vi stooped over her. Could it be that she was dying? "Oh, darling, you may get well even yet?" cried Vi, in tones tremulous with joy and hope. Lily smiled, and stroked her sister's face lovingly with her little thin white hand. Violet was startled by its scorching heat. "You are burning up with fever!" she exclaimed, tears gushing from her eyes. "Yes; but I shall soon be well," said the child clasping her sister close; "I'm going home to the happy land to be with Jesus, Vi; oh, don't you wish you were going too? Mamma I'm tired; please tell Vi my text." "'And the inhabitant shall not say, I am sick; the people that dwell therein shall be forgiven their iniquity,'" the mother repeated in a low sweet voice. "For Jesus' sake," softly added the dying one. "He has loved me and washed me from my sins in his own blood." Vi fell on her knees by the bedside, and buried her face in the clothes, vainly trying to stifle her bursting sobs. "Poor Vi," sighed Lily. "Mamma, comfort her." Mamma drew the weeper to her bosom, and spoke tenderly to her of the loving Saviour and the home he has gone to prepare for his people. "Our darling will be so safe and happy there," she said, "and she is glad to go, to rest in his bosom, and wait there for us, as, in his own good time, he shall call one after another to himself. "'Tis there we'll meet, At Jesus' feet, When we meet to part no more.'" Tears were coursing down the mother's cheeks as she spoke, but her manner was calm and quiet. To her, as to her child standing upon the very brink of Jordan, heaven seemed very near, very real, and while mourning that soon that beloved face and form would be seen no more on earth she rejoiced with joy unspeakable, for the blessedness that should be hers forever and forevermore. There were no tears in Lily's eyes, "Mamma, I'm so happy," she said smiling. "Dear Vi, you must be glad for me and not cry so. I have no pain to-day; and I'll never have any more when I get home where the dear Saviour is. Mamma, please read about the beautiful city." Elsie took up the Bible that lay beside the pillow, and opening at the Revelation, read its last two chapters--the twenty-first and twenty-second. Lily lay intently listening, Violet's hand fast clasped in hers. "Darling Vi," she whispered, "you love Jesus, don't you?" Violet nodded assent: she could not speak. "And you're willing to let him have me, aren't you, dear?" "Yes, yes," but the tears fell fast, and "Oh, what shall I do without you?" she cried with a choking sob. "It won't be long," said Lily. "Mamma says it will seem only a very little while when it is past." Her voice sank with the last words, and she closed her eyes with a weary sigh. "Go, dear daughter, go away for the present," the mother said to Violet, who instantly obeyed. Lily lingered for several days, suffering little except from weakness, always patient and cheerful, talking so joyfully of "going home to Jesus," that death seemed robbed of all its gloom; for it was not of the grave they thought in connection with her, but of the glories of the upper sanctuary, the bliss of those who dwell forever with the Lord. Father, brothers and sisters often gathered for a little while about her bed; for she dearly loved them all; but the mother scarcely left her day or night; the mother whose gentle teachings had guided her childish feet into the path that leads to God, whose ministry of love had made the short life bright and happy, spite of weakness and pain. It was in the early morning that the end came. She had been sleeping quietly for some hours, sleeping while darkness passed away till day had fully dawned and the east was flushing with crimson and gold. Her mother sat by the bedside gazing with tender glistening eyes upon the little wan face, thinking how placid was its expression, what an almost unearthly beauty it wore, when suddenly the large azure eyes opened wide, gazing steadily into hers, while the sweetest smile played about the lips. "Mamma, dear mamma, how good you've been to me! Jesus is here, he has come for me. I'm going now. Dear, darling mamma, kiss me good-bye." "My darling! my darling!" Elsie cried, pressing a kiss of passionate love upon the sweet lips. "Dear mamma," they faintly whispered--and were still. Kneeling by the bedside, Elsie gathered the little wasted form in her arms, pillowing the beautiful golden head upon her bosom, while again and again she kissed the pale brow, the cheeks, the lips; then laying it down gently she stood gazing upon it with unutterable love and mingled joy and anguish. "It was well with the child," and no rebellious thought arose in her heart, but ah, what an aching void was there! how empty were her arms, though so many of her darlings were still spared to her. A quiet step drew near, a strong arm was passed about her waist, and a kind hand drew her head to a resting-place on her husband's breast. "Is it so?" he said in moved tones, gazing through a mist of tears upon the quiet face of the young sleeper. "Ah, darling, our precious lamb is safely folded at last. He has gathered her in his arms and is carrying her in his bosom." There was no bitterness in the tears that were shed to the memory of little Lily; her short life had been so full of suffering, her passing away was so joyful that they must rejoice for her even while they wept for their own heavy loss. They laid her body in the family burialground and mamma and the children went very often to scatter flowers upon the graves, reserving the fairest and sweetest for the little mound that looked so fresh and new. "But she is not here," Rosie would say, "she's gone to the dear home above where Jesus is. And she's so happy. She'll never be sick any more because it says, 'Neither shall there be any more pain.'" Lily was never spoken of as lost or as dead; she had only gone before to the happy land whither they all were journeying, and where they should find her again blooming and beautiful; they spoke of her often and with cheerfulness, though tears would sometimes fall at the thought that the separation must be so long. Elsie was much worn out with the long nursing, which she would not resign to other hands, and, as Mr. and Mrs. Daly were well pleased to have it so arranged, they still retained their posts in the household. But the children again enjoyed the pleasant evening talks, and the prized morning half hour with mamma. They might go to her at other times also, and it was not long before Vi found an opportunity to unburden her mind by a full account of all the doubts and perplexities that had so troubled her, and the manner in which they had been removed, to her great comfort and peace. It was in the afternoon of the second day after the funeral, the two older girls being alone with their mother in her boudoir. Elsie was startled at the thought of the peril her child had been in. "I blame myself," she said, "that I have not guarded you more carefully against these fearful errors. We will now take up the subject together, my children and I, and study it thoroughly; and we will invite Isa and Virgy to join with us in our search after truth." "Molly also, mamma, if she is willing," suggested her namesake daughter. "Certainly; but I count her among my children. Ah, I have not seen her for several days! I fear she has been feeling neglected. I will go to her now," she added, rising from the couch on which she had been reclining. "And you may both go with me, if you wish." Isa had been with Molly for the last half hour. "I came on that unpleasant business of making a call of condolence," she announced on her entrance, "but they told me Cousin Elsie was lying down to rest and her girls were with her--Elsie and Vi--so not wishing to disturb them, I'll visit with you first, if you like." "I'm glad to see you," Molly said. "Please be seated." Isadore seemed strangely embarrassed and sat for some moments without speaking. "What is the matter, Isa?" Molly asked at length. "I think it was really unkind in mamma to send me on this errand; it was her place to come, but she said Cousin Elsie was so bound up in that child that she would be overwhelmed with grief, and she (mamma) would not know what to say; she always found it the most awkward thing in the world to try to console people under such afflictions." "It will not be at all necessary," returned Molly dryly. "Cousin Elsie has all the consolation she needs. She came to me for a few moments the very day Lily died, and though I could see plainly that she had been weeping, her face was perfectly calm and peaceful; and she told me that her heart sang for joy when she thought of her darling's blessedness." Isa looked very thoughtful. "I wish I were sure of it," she said half unconsciously; "she was such a dear little thing." "Sure of what?" cried Molly indignantly; "can you doubt for a moment that that child is in heaven?" "If she had only been baptized into the true church. But there, don't look so angry! how can I help wishing it when I know it's the only way to be saved?" "But you don't know it! you can't know it, because it isn't so. O Isadore, how could you turn Papist and then try to turn Violet?" "So you've heard about it? I supposed you had," said Isadore coloring. "I suppose too, that Cousin Elsie is very angry with me, and that was why I thought it so unkind in mamma to send me in her place, making an excuse of a headache; not a bad enough one to prevent her coming, I'm sure." "I don't know how Cousin Elsie feels about it, or even whether she has heard it," said Molly; "though I presume she has, as Vi never conceals anything from her." "Well I've only done my duty and can't feel that I'm deserving of blame," said Isadore. "But such a time as I've had of it since my conversion became known in the family!" "Your perversion, you should say," interrupted Molly. "Was Aunt Louise angry?" "Very; but principally, I could see, because she knew grandpa and Uncle Horace would reproach her for sending me to the convent." "And did they?" "Yes, grandpa was furious, and of course uncle said, 'I told you so.' He has only reasoned with me, though he let me know he was very much displeased about Vi. Cal and Art, too, have undertaken to convince me of my errors, while Virginia sneers and asks why I could not be content to remain a Protestant; and altogether I've had a sweet time of it for the last two weeks." "There's a tap at the door; will you please open it?" said Molly. It was Mrs. Travilla, Elsie and Violet whom Isadore admitted. She recognized them with a deep blush and an embarrassed, deprecating air; for the thought instantly struck her that Vi had probably just been telling her mother what had occurred during her absence. "Ah, Isa, I did not know you were here," her cousin said taking her hand. "I am pleased to see you." The tone was gentle and kind and there was not a trace of displeasure in look or manner. "Thank you, cousin," Isa said, trying to recover her composure. "I came to--mamma has a headache, and sent me----" "Yes; never mind, I know all you would say," Elsie answered, tears trembling in her soft brown eyes, but a look of perfect peace and resignation on her sweet face; "you feel for my sorrow, and I thank you for your sympathy. But Isa, the consolations of God are not small with me, and I know that my little one is safe with him. "Molly, my child, how are you to-day?" "Very well, thank you," Molly answered, clinging to the hand that was offered her, and looking up with dewy eyes into the calm, beautiful face bending over her. "How kind you are to think of me at such a time as this. Ah cousin, it puzzles me to understand why afflictions should be sent to one who already seems almost an angel in goodness." Elsie shook her head. "You cannot see my heart, Molly; and the Master knows just how many strokes of his chisel are needed to fashion the soul in his image; he will not make one too many. Besides should I grudge him one of the many darlings he has given me? or her the bliss he has taken her to? Ah no, no! his will be done with me and mine." She sat down upon a sofa, and making room for Isa, who had been exchanging greetings with her younger cousins, invited her to a seat by her side. "I want to talk with you," she said gently, "Vi has been telling me everything. Ah, do not think I have any reproaches for you, though nothing could have grieved me more than your success in what you attempted." She then went on to give, in her own gentle, kindly way, good and sufficient reasons for her dread and hatred of--not Papists--but Popery, and concluded by inviting Isa to join with them in a thorough investigation of its arrogant claims. Isa consented, won by her cousin's generous forbearance and affectionate interest in her welfare, and arrangements were made to begin the very next day. Molly's writing desk stood open on the table by her side, and Violet's bright eyes catching sight of the address on a letter lying there, "Oh, cousin, have you heard?" she exclaimed, "and is it good news?" "Yes," replied Molly, a flush of pride and pleasure mantling her cheek. "I should have told you at once, if--under ordinary circumstances;--but--" and her eyes filled as she turned them upon Mrs. Travilla. "Dear child, I am interested now and always in all your pains and pleasures," responded the latter, "and shall heartily rejoice in any good that has come to you." Then Molly, blushing and happy, explained that she had been using her spare time for months past, in making a translation of a French story, had offered it for publication, and, after weeks of anxious waiting, had that morning received a letter announcing its acceptance, and enclosing a check for a hundred dollars. "My dear child, I am proud of you--of the energy, patience and perseverance you have shown," her cousin said warmly, and with a look of great gratification. "Success, so gained, must be very sweet, and I offer you my hearty congratulations." The younger cousins added theirs, Elsie and Vi rejoicing as at a great good to themselves, and Isa expressing extreme surprise at the discovery that Molly had attained to so much knowledge, and possessed sufficient talent for such an undertaking. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST. "Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As to be hated needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace." --POPE. The winter and spring passed very quietly at Ion. At Roselands there was more gayety, the girls going out frequently, and receiving a good deal of company at home. Virginia was seldom at Ion, but Isadore spent an hour there almost every day pursuing the investigation proposed by her Cousin Elsie. She was an honest and earnest inquirer after truth, and at length acknowledged herself entirely convinced of the errors into which she had been led, entirely restored to the evangelical faith; and more than that, she became a sincere and devoted Christian; much to the disgust and chagrin of her worldly-minded mother and Aunt Delaford, who would have been far better pleased to see her a mere butterfly of fashion, as were her sister and most of her younger friends. But to her brother Arthur, and at both the Oaks and Ion, the change in Isa was a source of deep joy and thankfulness. Also it was the means of leading Calhoun, who had long been halting between two opinions, to come out decidedly upon the Lord's side. Old Mr. Dinsmore had become quite infirm, and Cal now took entire charge of the plantation. Arthur was busy in his profession, and Walter was at West Point preparing to enter the army. Herbert and Meta Carrington were at the North; the one attending college, the other at boarding-school. Old Mrs. Carrington was still living; making her home at Ashlands; and through her, the Rosses were frequently heard from. They were still enjoying a large measure of worldly prosperity, Mr. Ross being a very successful merchant. He had taken his son Philip into partnership a year ago, and Lucy's letter spoke much of the lad as delighting his father and herself, by his business ability and shrewdness. They had their city residence, as well as their country seat. Gertrude had made her debut into fashionable society in the fall, and spent a very gay winter, and the occasional letters she wrote to the younger Elsie, were filled with descriptions of the balls, parties, operas and theatricals she attended, the splendors of her own attire, and the elegant dresses worn by others. It may be that at another time Elsie, so unaccustomed to worldly pleasures, would have found these subjects interesting from their very novelty; but now while the parting from Lily was so recent, when her happy death had brought the glories of heaven so near, how frivolous they seemed. They had more attraction for excitable, excitement-loving Violet; yet even she, interested for the moment, presently forgot them again, as something reminded her of the dear little sister, who was not lost but gone before to the better land. Vi had a warm, loving heart; no one could be fonder of home, parents, brothers and sisters than she, but as spring drew on, she began to have a restless longing for change of scene and employment. She had been growing fast, and felt weak and languid. Both she and Elsie had attained their full height, Vi being a trifle the taller of the two; they grew daily in beauty and grace, and were not more lovely in person than in character and mind. They were as open as the day with their gentle, tender mother, and their fond, proud father--proud of his lovely wife, and his sons and daughters, whose equals he truly believed were not to be found anywhere throughout the whole length and breadth of the land. So Vi was not slow in telling of her desire for change. It was on a lovely evening in May, when the whole family were gathered in the veranda, serenely happy in each other's society, the babe in his mother's arms, Rosie on her father's knee, the others grouped about them, doing nothing but enjoy the rest and quiet after a busy day with books and work. Molly in her wheeled chair, was there in their midst, feeling herself quite one of them and looking as contented and even blithesome as any of the rest. She was feeling very glad over her success in a second literary venture, thinking of Dick too, and how delightful it would be if she could only talk it all over with him. He had told her in his last letter that she was making him proud of her, and what a thrill of delight the words had given her. "Papa and mamma!" exclaimed Violet, breaking a pause in the conversation, "home is very dear and sweet, and yet--I'm afraid I ought to be ashamed to say it, but I do want to go away somewhere for awhile, to the seashore I think; that is if we can all go and be together." "I see no objection if all would like it," her father said, with an indulgent smile. "What do you say to the plan, little wife?" "I echo my husband's sentiments as a good wife should," she answered with something of the sportiveness of other days. "And we echo yours, mother," said Edward. "Do we not?" appealing to the others. "Oh yes, yes!" they cried, "a summer at the seashore, by all means." "In a cottage home of our own; shall it not be, papa?" added Elsie. "Your mamma decides all such questions," was his smiling rejoinder. "I approve the suggestion. It is far preferable to hotel life," she said. "Molly, my child, you are the only one who has not spoken." Molly's bright face had clouded a little. "I want you all to go and enjoy yourselves," she said, "though I shall miss you sadly." "Miss us! do you then intend to decline going along?" Molly colored and hesitated; "I'm such a troublesome piece of furniture to move," she said half jestingly, bravely trying to cover up the real pain that came with the thought. "That is nothing," said Mr. Travilla, so gently and tenderly that happy, grateful tears sprang to her eyes; "you go, of course, with the rest of us; unless there is some more insuperable objection--such as a disinclination on your part, and even that should, perhaps, be overruled; for the change would do you good." "O Molly you will not think of staying behind?" "We should miss you sadly," said Elsie and Vi. "And if you go you'll see Dick," suggested Eddie. Molly's heart bounded at the thought. "Oh," she said, her eyes sparkling, "how delightful that would be! and since you are all so kind, I'll be glad, very glad to go." "Here comes grandpa's carriage. I'm so glad!" exclaimed Herbert, the first to spy it as it turned in at the avenue gate. "Now I hope they'll say they'll all go too." He had his wish; the carriage contained Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, their son and daughter, and it soon appeared that they had come to propose the very thing Herbert desired, viz., that adjacent cottages at the seashore should be engaged for the two families, and all spend the summer there together. It was finally arranged that the Dinsmores should precede the others by two or three weeks, then Mr. Dinsmore return for his daughter and her family, and Mr. Travilla follow a little later in the season. Also that the second party should make their journey by water; it would be easier for Molly, and newer to all than the land route which they had taken much oftener in going North. "Dear me, how I wish we were rich!" exclaimed Virginia Conly when she heard of it the next morning at breakfast, from Cal, who had spent the evening at Ion. "I'd like nothing better than to go North for the summer; not to a dull, prosy life in a cottage though, but to some of the grand hotels where people dress splendidly and have hops and all sorts of gay times. If I had the means I'd go to the seashore for a few weeks, and then off to Saratoga for the rest of the season, Mamma, couldn't we manage it somehow? You ought to give Isa and me every advantage possible, if you want us to make good matches." "I shouldn't need persuasion to gratify you, if I had the money, Virginia," she answered dryly, and with a significant glance at her father and sons. There was no response from them; for none of them felt able to supply the coveted funds. "I think it very likely Cousin Elsie will invite you to visit them," remarked Arthur at length, breaking the silence which had followed his mother's remark. "I shall certainly accept if she does," said Isa; "for I should dearly like to spend the summer with her there." "Making garments for the poor, reading good books and singing psalms and hymns," remarked Virginia with a contemptuous sniff. "Very good employments, all of them," returned Arthur quietly, "though I feel safe in predicting that a good deal more time will be spent by the Travillas in bathing, riding, driving, boating and fishing. They are no ascetics, but the most cheerful, happy family I have ever come across." "Yes, it's quite astonishing how easily they've taken the death of that child," said Mrs. Conly, ill-naturedly. "Mother, how can you!" exclaimed Arthur, indignant at the insinuation. "O mamma, no one could think for a moment it was from want of affection!" cried Isadore. "I have not said so; but you didn't tell me, I suppose, how Molly assured you her cousin had no need of consolation?" "Yes, mother, but it was that her grief was swallowed up in the realizing sense of the bliss of her dear departed child. Oh they all talk of her to this day with glad tears in their eyes,--sorrowing for themselves but rejoicing for her." Elsie did give a cordial invitation to her aunt and the two girls to spend the summer with her and it was accepted at first, but declined afterward when a letter came from Mrs. Delaford, inviting them to join her in some weeks' sojourn, at her expense, first at Cape May and afterward at Saratoga. It would be the gay life of dressing, dancing and flirting at great hotels, for which Virginia hungered, and was snatched at with great avidity by herself and her mother. Isadore would have preferred to be with the Travillas, but Mrs. Conly would not hear of it. "Aunt Delaford would be mortally offended. And then the idea of throwing away such a chance! Was Isa crazy? It would be well enough to accept Elsie's offer to pay their traveling expenses and provide each with a handsome outfit; but her cottage would be no place to spend the summer in, when they could do so much better; they would meet few gentlemen there; Elsie and Mr. Travilla were so absurdly particular as to whom they admitted to an acquaintance with their daughters; if there was the slightest suspicion against a man's moral character, he might as well wish for the moon as for the entree to their house; or so much as a bowing acquaintance with Elsie or Vi. It was really too absurd." "But, mamma," expostulated Isadore, "surely you would not be willing that we should associate with any one who was not of irreproachable character?" Mrs. Conly colored and looked annoyed. "There is no use in being too particular, Isadore," she said, "one can't expect perfection; young men are very apt to be a little wild, and they often settle down afterward into very good husbands." "Really, I don't think any the worse of a young fellow for sowing a few wild oats," remarked Virginia, with a toss of her head: "they're a great deal more interesting than your _good_ young men." "Such as Cal and Art," suggested Isa, smiling slightly. "Mamma, don't you wish they'd be a little wild?" "Nonsense, Isadore! your brothers are just what I would have them! I don't _prefer_ wild young men, but I hope I have sense enough not to expect everybody's sons to be as good as mine, and charity enough to overlook the imperfections of those who are not." "Well, mamma," said Isadore with great seriousness, "I have talked this matter over with Cousin Elsie, and I think she takes the right view of it; that the rule should be as strict for men as for women; that the sin which makes a woman an outcast from decent society, should receive the same condemnation when committed by a man; that a woman should require as absolute moral purity in the man she marries, as men do in the women they choose for wives; and so long as we are content with anything less, so long as we smile on men whom we know to be immoral, we are in a measure responsible for their vices." "I endorse that sentiment," said Arthur, coming in from an adjoining room; "it would be a great restraint upon men's vicious inclinations, if they knew that indulgence in vice would shut them out of ladies' society." "A truce to the subject. I'm tired of it," said Virginia. "Is it decided, mamma, that we take passage in the steamer with the Travillas?" "Yes; and now let us turn our attention to the much more agreeable topic of dress; there are a good many questions to settle in regard to it;--what we must have, what can be got here, and what after we reach Philadelphia." "And how one dollar can be made to do the work of two," added Virginia; "for there are loads and loads of things I must have in order to make a respectable appearance at the watering-places." "And we have just two weeks in which to make our arrangements," added her mother. CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND. "Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never Remember to have heard." --SHAKESPEARE. Early in the morning of a perfect June day, our numerous party arrived at the wharf where lay the steamer that was to carry them to Philadelphia. The embarkation was made without accident. Molly had had a nervous dread of her share in it, but under her uncle's careful supervision, was conveyed safely on board. The weather was very warm, the sea perfectly calm, but as they steamed out of the harbor a pleasant breeze sprang up, and the voyage began most prosperously. There were a hundred lady passengers, and not more than a dozen gentlemen; but to Virginia's delight, one of these last was a gay dashing young army officer, with whom she had a slight acquaintance. He caught sight of her directly, hastened to greet her, and they were soon promenading the deck together, engaged in an evident flirtation. Mr. Dinsmore, seated at some little distance with his daughter and her children about him, watched his niece's proceedings with a deepening frown. He was not pleased with either her conduct or her companion. At length, rising and approaching his sister, "Do you know that young man, Louise?" he asked. "Not intimately," she returned, bridling. "He is Captain Brice of the army." "Do you know his character?" "I have heard that he belongs to a good family, and I can see that he is a gentleman. I hope you are satisfied." "No, I am not, Louise. He is a wild, reckless fellow, fond of drink, gambles----" "And what of it?" she interrupted. "I don't suppose he's going to teach Virginia to do either." "He is no fit associate for her or for any lady. Will you interpose your authority----" "No, I won't; I'm not going to insult a gentleman, and I'm satisfied that Virginia has sense enough to take care of herself." "Waving the question whether a man of his character is a gentleman, let me remark that it is not necessary to insult him in order to put a stop to this. You can call your daughter to your side, keep her with you, take an early opportunity to inform her of the man's reputation, and bid her discourage his attentions. If you do not interfere," he added in his determined way, "I shall take the matter into my own hands." "Isadore," said Mrs. Conly, "go and tell your sister I wish to speak to her." Virginia was extremely vexed at the summons, but obeyed it promptly. "What can mamma want? I was having such a splendid time," she said pettishly to her sister, when they were out of the captain's hearing. "It is more Uncle Horace than mamma." Virginia reddened. She knew her uncle's opinions, and she was not entirely ignorant of the reputation borne by Captain Brice. She feigned ignorance however, listened with apparent surprise to her uncle's account of him and promised sweetly to treat him with the most distant politeness in future. Mr. Dinsmore saw through her, but what more could he do, except keep a strict watch over both. The captain, forsaken by Virginia, sauntered about the deck and presently approaching an elderly lady who sat somewhat apart from the rest, lifted his cap with a smiling "How do you do, Mrs. Noyes?" and taking an empty chair by her side entered into a desultory conversation. "By the by," he said, "what an attractive family group is that over yonder," with a slight motion of the head in the direction of the Travillas. "The mother is my beau-ideal of a lovely matron, in appearance at least--I have not the happiness of her acquaintance--and the daughters are models of beauty and grace. They are from your neighborhood, I believe?" "Yes; I have a calling acquaintance with Mrs. Travilla. She was a great heiress; has peculiar notions, rather puritanical; but is extremely agreeable for all that." "Could you give me an introduction?" She shook her head. "I must beg you to excuse me." "But why?" "Ah, captain, do you not know that you have the reputation of being a naughty man? not very; but then, as I have told you, the mother is very strict and puritanical in her ideas; the father is the same, and I should only offend them without doing you any good; the girls would not dare, or even so much as wish to look at or speak to you." Growing red and angry, the captain stammered out something about being no worse than ninetenths of the rest of the world. "Very true, no doubt," she said; "and please understand that you are not tabooed by me. I'm not so strict. But perhaps," she added laughing, "it may be because I've no daughters to be endangered by young fellows who are as handsome and fascinating as they are naughty." He bowed his acknowledgments, then, as a noble looking young man was seen to approach the group with the manner of one on a familiar footing inquired, "Who is that fellow that seems so much at home with them?" "His name is Leland; Lester Leland. He's a nephew of the Leland who bought Fairview from the Fosters some years ago. He's an artist and poor--the nephew--he had to work his own way in the world; has to yet for that matter. I should wonder at the notice the Travillas take of him, only that I've heard he's one of the good sort. Then besides you know he may make a great reputation some day." "A pious fortune-hunter, I presume," sneered Brice, rising to give his seat to a lady; then with a bow he turned and walked away. Mr. Dinsmore was taking his grandsons over the vessel, showing them the engine and explaining its complicated machinery. Edward, who had quite a mechanical turn, seemed to understand it nearly as well as his grandfather, and Harold and Herbert, bright, intelligent boys of ten and twelve, looked and examined with much interest, asking sensible questions and listening attentively to the replies. They were active, manly little fellows, not fool-hardy or inclined to mischief; nor was their mother of the over-anxious kind; she could trust them, and when the tour of inspection with their grandpa was finished, they were allowed to roam about by themselves. Captain Brice took advantage of this to make acquaintance with them, and win their hearts by thrilling stories of buffalo hunts and encounters with wolves, grizzly bears and Indians, in which he invariably figured as conquering hero. He thought to make them stepping stones to an acquaintance with their sisters, and congratulated himself on his success when, on being summoned to return to their mother, they asked eagerly if he would not tell them more to-morrow. "Just try me, my fine fellows," he answered, laughing. "Mamma, what do you want with us?" they asked, running up to her. "A gentleman was telling us such nice stories." "I think the call to supper will come very soon," she said, "and I want you to smooth your hair and wash your hands. Dinah will take you to your state-room and see that you have what you need." "I'm afraid we're going to have a gust," remarked Isadore as the lads hurried away to do their mother's bidding; "see how the clouds are gathering yonder in the northwest." "A thunder-storm at sea; how romantic!" said Virginia; "'twill be something to talk about all our lives." "Silly child!" said her mother, "to hear you talk, one would think there was no such thing as danger." "Pshaw, mamma! we're hardly out of sight of land--our own shores," she retorted. "That would but increase our danger if the storm were coming from the opposite direction," said her uncle; "but fortunately, it is from a quarter to drive us out to sea." "Do you think it will be a gust, grandpa?" asked Violet, a little anxiously. "I fear so; the heat has become so oppressive, the breeze has entirely died down, and the clouds look threatening; but, my child, do not fear; our Father, God, rules upon the sea as well as the land; the stormy wind fulfilling his word." The storm came up rapidly, bursting on them in its fury before they had left the tea-table; the lightning's flash and the crash and roll of the thunder followed in quick succession; the stentorian voices of the officers of the vessel, shouting their orders to the crew, the heavy hasty tramp of the men's feet, the whistling of the wind through the rigging, the creaking of the cordage, the booming of the sea, mingling with the terrific thunder claps and the down-pouring of the rain, combined in an uproar fit to cause the stoutest heart to quake. Faces grew pale with fear; the women and children huddled together in frightened groups; the men looked anxiously at each other, and between the thunder peals, spoke in low tones of the danger of being driven out to sea, and asked each other of the captain's skill, on what part of the coast they were, and whether the vessel were strong enough to outride the tempest, should it continue long. "Oh, this is dreadful! I'm afraid we shall all go to the bottom, if it keeps on much longer," Mrs. Conly was saying to her niece, when there came a crash as if the very sky were falling; as if it had come down upon them; a shock that threw some from their seats, while others caught at the furniture to save themselves; the vessel shivered from stem to stern, seemed to stand still for an instant, then rushed on again. "It struck! we're lost!" cried a number of voices, while many women and children screamed, and some fainted. "Courage, my friends!" cried Mr. Dinsmore in loud clear tones, that could be distinctly heard by all, above the storm. "All is not lost that is in danger; and the 'Lord's hand is not shortened that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy that it cannot hear.'" "Yes, it is time to pray," said an excited, answering voice; "the lightning has struck and shivered the mast; and look how it has run along over our heads and down yon mirror; as you may see by the melting of the glass. It has doubtless continued on to the hold, and set fire to the cotton stored there," the speaker--a thin, nervous looking man, who was pushing his way through the throng--added in a whisper close to Mr. Dinsmore's ear. "Be quiet, will you!" said the latter sternly; "these helpless women and children are sufficiently frightened already." "Yes, yes and I don't want to scare 'em unnecessarily; but we'd better be prepared for the worst." Elsie had overheard the whispers and her cheek paled, a look of keen distress coming into her face as she glanced from one to another of her loved ones, dearer far than her own life. But she showed no other sign of agitation; her heart sent up one swift cry to him to whom "all power is given in heaven and in earth," and faith and love triumphed over fear. His love to her was infinite nor was there any limit to his power. She would trust him that all would be well whether in life or death. "'Even the wind and the sea obey him,'" she whispered to Violet, who was asking with pale trembling lips, "Mamma, mamma, what will become of us?" "But mamma they say the vessel is loaded with cotton, and that the lightning has probably set it on fire." "Still, my darling, he is able to take care of us; 'it is nothing with him to help whether with many or with them that have no power;' he is the Lord our God." Her father had come to her side. "Daughter, my dear, dear daughter!" he said with emotion, taking her in his arms as was his wont in her early years. "O grandpa, take care of mamma, whatever becomes of us!" exclaimed Elsie and Vi together. "No, no!" she said, "save my children and never mind me." "Mamma, you must be our first care!" said Eddie hoarsely. "Your sisters, my son, and your brothers. Leave me to the last," she answered firmly. "We will hope to save you all," Mr. Dinsmore said, trying to speak cheerfully; "but, my child, if you perish, I perish with you." "Horace, is it true? is it true that the vessel is on fire?" gasped Mrs. Conly, clutching his arm and staring him in the face with eyes wild with terror. "Try to calm yourself, Louise," he said kindly. "We do not know certainly yet, though there is reason to fear it may be so." "Horrible!" she cried, wringing her hands. "I can't die! I've never made any preparations for death. Oh save me, Horace, if you can! No, no save my girls, my poor dear girls, and never mind me." "Louise, my poor sister," he said, deeply moved, "we will not despair yet of all being saved; but try to prepare for the worst, turn _now_ to him who has said, Look unto me and be ye saved all ye ends of the earth." Virginia had thrown herself upon a sofa, in strong hysterics, and Isadore stood over her with smelling salts and fan. Mrs. Conly hurried back to them with tears rolling down her cheeks. "Oh what is to be done?" she sighed, taking the fan from Isa's hand. "If Cal and Art were but here to look after us! Your uncle has his hands full with his daughter and her children." "Mamma let us ask God for help; he and he only can give it," whispered Isadore. "Yes, yes, ask him! you know how and he will hear you. Virgy, my child, try to calm yourself." Isa knelt by her sister's side; there were many on their knees crying for succor in this hour of terrible danger. The storm was abating, the rain had nearly ceased to fall, and the wind to lash the waves into fury; the flashes of lightning were fewer and fainter and the heavy claps of thunder had given place to distant mutterings; they would not be wrecked by the fury of the tempest, yet alas, there still remained the more fearful danger of devouring fire. It was a night of terror; no one thought of retiring, and few but young children closed an eye. Every preparation was made for taking to the water at a moment's warning; those who had life preservers--and all our party were supplied with them--brought them out and secured them to their persons; boats were made ready to launch, and those who retained sufficient presence of mind and forethought, selected, and kept close at hand, such valuables as it seemed possible they might be able to carry about them. The Travillas kept together, Mr. Dinsmore with them, and young Leland also. He was to them only an ordinary friend, but one of them he would have died to save, and almost he would have done it for the others for her sake. Poor Molly had never felt her helplessness more than now; fastened to her chair as with bands of steel, there was less hope of escape for her than for others. Her thoughts flew to Dick in that first moment of terror, to Dick who loved her better than any other earthly thing. Alas, he was far away; but there was One near, her Elder Brother, who would never leave nor forsake her. With that thought she grew calm and strong to wait and to endure. But her uncle did not forget her; with his own hands he fastened a life preserver about her. "My poor helpless child," he said low and tenderly, "do not fear that you will be forgotten should there be any chance for rescue." "Thank you, dear, kind uncle," she said with tears in her eyes, "but leave me to the last, my life is worth so much less than theirs," glancing toward her cousins; "there would be only Dick to mourn its loss----" "No, no, Molly, we all love you!" he interrupted. She smiled a little sadly, but went on, "and it would be more difficult to save me than two others." "Still, do not despair," he said, "I will not leave you to perish alone; and I have hope that in the good providence of God, we shall all be saved." Gradually the screaming, sobbing, fainting, gave place to a dull despairing waiting, waiting, with a trembling, sickening dread, for the confirmation of their worst fears. Rosie had fallen asleep upon a sofa with her head in her eldest sister's lap, Vi on an ottoman beside them, tightly clasping a hand of each. Elsie had her babe in her arms; he was sleeping sweetly, and laying her head back, she closed her eyes while her thoughts flew to Ion, to the husband and father who would perhaps learn to-morrow of the loss of all his treasures. Her heart bled for him, as she seemed to see him bowed down with heart-breaking sorrow. Then arose the question "what should the end bring to them--herself and her beloved children?" For herself she could say, "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death; I will fear no evil; for thou art with me." Elsie, Vi and Eddie she had good reasons to hope were true Christians; but Harold and Herbert?--A pang shot through her heart. Good, obedient children though they were, she yet knew not that they had ever experienced that new birth without which none can enter heaven. Jesus said, "Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God." "Mamma, what is it?" Eddie asked, seeing her glance anxiously from side to side. "Your brothers! I do not see them. Where are they?" "They went into their state-room a moment since;--right here, you know. Shall I call them?" "Yes, yes; I must speak to them." They came hand in hand, in answer to Eddie's summons. Herbert's eyes were full of tears, not of terror or grief; there seemed a new happy light in each boyish face. "Mamma," whispered Harold, putting his arm round her neck, his lips to her ear, "we went away to be alone, Herbie and I; we knew what made you look so sorry at us;--because you were afraid we didn't love Jesus; but we do, mamma, and we went away to give ourselves to him; and we mean to be his always, whether we live or die." Glad tears rolled down her cheeks as she silently embraced first one, then the other. And so slowly the night wore away, a reign of terror for hours, while every moment they were watching with despairing hearts for the smell of fire or the bursting out of flames from the hold; their fears gave way to a faint hope as time passed on and the catastrophe was still delayed; a hope that grew gradually stronger and brighter, till at last it was lost in glad certainty. The electricity, it appeared, had scattered over the iron of the machinery, instead of running on down into the hold. Some said, "What a lucky escape!" others, "What a kind providence." CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD. "Sacred love is basely bought and sold; Wives are grown traffic, marriage is a trade." --RANDOLPH. They came safely into port. A little crowd of eager, expectant friends stood waiting on the wharf; among them a tall, dark-eyed young man, with a bright, intellectual face, whom Molly, seated on the deck in the midst of the family group, recognized with almost a cry of delight. The instant a plank was thrown out, he sprang on board, and in another moment she was in his arms, sobbing, "Oh, Dick, Dick. I thought I'd never see you again!" "Why?" he said with a joyous laugh, "we've not been so long or so far apart that you need have been in despair of that." Then as he turned to exchange greetings with the others, his ear caught the words, "We had an awful night, expecting every moment to see flames bursting out from the hold." "What, what does it mean?" he asked, grasping his uncle's hand, while his cheek paled, and he glanced hastily from side to side. "We have had a narrow escape," said Mr. Dinsmore. The main facts were soon given, the details as they drove to their hotel, and Dick rejoiced with trembling, as he learned how, almost, he had lost these dear ones. A few days were spent in Philadelphia, then Mr. Dinsmore and the Travillas sought their seaside homes, Dick going with them. Their coming was hailed with joy by Mrs. Dinsmore and her daughter Rose, who had been occupying their cottage for a week or more. The Conlys would linger some time longer in the city, laying in a stock of finery for the summer campaign, then, joined by Mrs. Delaford, they too would seek the seashore. The cottages were quite out of the town, built facing the ocean, and as near it as consistent with safety and comfort. The children hailed the first whiff of the salt sea breeze with eager delight, were down upon the beach within a few minutes of their arrival, and until bedtime left it only long enough to take their tea, finishing their day with a long moonlight drive along the shore. They were given perfect liberty to enjoy themselves to the full; the only restrictions being that they were not to go into danger, or out of sight of the house, or to the water's edge unless accompanied by some older member of the family or a trusty servant. The next morning they were all out again for a ramble before breakfast, and immediately after prayers Vi, Rosie, Harold and Herbert, with a man servant in attendance, returned to the beach. The girls were collecting shells and seaweed, the two boys skipping stones on the water, Ben, the servant, watching the sport with keen interest, and occasionally joining in it. Absorbed in their amusements, none of them noticed the approach of a young man in undress uniform. He followed them for some moments in a careless way, as if he were but casually strolling in the same direction, yet was watching with close attention every movement of Vi's graceful figure. She and Rosie were unconsciously widening the distance between their brothers and themselves, not noticing that the boys had become stationary. Perceiving this, and that they were now out of earshot, the stranger quickened his pace, and coming up behind the lads, hailed them with, "So here you are, my fine fellows! I'm pleased to meet you again!" "Oh," exclaimed Herbert, looking round, "it's the gentleman that tells such nice stories! Good-morning, sir. We're glad to see you, too." "Yes, indeed," assented Harold offering his hand, which the stranger grasped and shook heartily. "We're having a splendid time skipping stones. Did you ever do it?" "Many a time when I was a little chap like you, I used to be a famous hand at it. Let's see if I can equal you now." He was soon apparently as completely engrossed with the sport as any of them, yet through it all was furtively watching Vi and Rosie as they strolled slowly onward, now stooping to pick up a shell or pausing a moment to gaze out over the wide expanse of waters, then sauntering on again in careless, aimless fashion, thoroughly enjoying the entire freedom from ordinary tasks and duties. The boys knew nothing about their new companion except what they had seen of him on board the vessel; their mother had not understood who was their story-telling friend, and in the excitement of the storm and the hasty visit to the city, he had been quite forgotten by all three. Nor were any of the family aware of his vicinity; thus it happened that the lads had not been warned against him. Vi, however, had seen him with Virginia and knew from what passed directly afterward between her grandfather and aunt (though she did not hear the conversation) that the stranger was not one whom Mr. Dinsmore approved. Not many minutes had passed before she looked back, and seeing that she had left her brothers some distance behind, hastily began to retrace her footsteps, Rosie with her. The instant they turned to do so, the captain, addressing Harold, artfully inquired, "Do you know that young lady?" "I should think so! she's my own sister," said the boy proudly. "The little one too." "Pretty girls, both of them. Won't you introduce me?" "Yes, I suppose so," returned the boy a little doubtfully, and taking a more critical survey of his new acquaintance than he had thought necessary before; "you--you're a gentleman and a good man, aren't you?" "Don't I look like it?" laughed the captain. "Would you take me for a rogue?" "I--I don't believe you'd be a burglar or a thief, but----" "Well?" "Please don't think I mean to be rude, sir, but you broke the third commandment a minute ago." "The third? which is that? for I really don't remember." "I thought you'd forgotten it," said Herbert. "It's the one that says, 'Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain,'" answered Harold, in low reverent tones. "I own to being completely puzzled," said the captain. "I certainly haven't been swearing." "No, not exactly; but you said, 'By George,' and 'By Heaven,' and mamma says such words are contrary to the spirit of the command, and that no one who is a thorough gentleman and Christian will ever use them." "That's a very strict rule," he said, lifting his cap and bowing low to Violet, who was now close at hand. She did not seem to notice it, or to see him at all. "Boys," she said with gentle gravity, "let us go home now." "What for, Vi? I'm not tired of the beach yet," objected Herbert. "I have something to tell you; something else to propose. Won't you go with me?" "Yes," and with a hasty "good-bye," to the captain, they joined their sisters, who were already moving slowly toward home. "What have you to tell us, Vi?" asked Harold. "That I know grandpa does not approve of that man, and I am quite sure mamma would not wish you to be with him. The sun is getting hot and there are Dick and Molly on the veranda; let's go and talk with them for a while. It's nearly time now for our drive." "Miss Wi'let," said Ben, coming up behind, "dat fellah's mighty pow'ful mad; swored a big oath dat you's proud as Luficer." "Oh, then we won't have anything more to do with him!" exclaimed the boys, Herbert adding, "but I do wish he was good, for he does tell such famous stories." They kept their word and were so shy of the captain that he soon gave up trying to cultivate their acquaintance, or to make that of their sisters. Mrs. Noyes and he were boarding at the same hotel, and from her he learned that Mrs. Delaford and the Conlys were expected shortly, having engaged rooms on the same floor with herself. The information was agreeable, as, though he did not care particularly for Virginia, flirting with her would, he thought, be rather an enjoyable way of passing the time; all the more so that it would be in opposition to Mr. Dinsmore's wishes; for the captain knew very well why, and at whose suggestion, Virginia had been summoned away from his society on board the vessel, and had no love for the man who so highly disapproved of him. The girl, too, resented her uncle's interference, and on her arrival, with the perversity of human nature, went farther in her encouragement of the young man's attentions than she, perhaps, would otherwise have done. Her mother and aunt looked on with indifference, if not absolute approval. Isadore was the only one who offered a remonstrance, and she was cut short with a polite request to "mind her own business." "I think I am, Virgy," she answered pleasantly, "I'm afraid you're getting yourself into trouble; and surely I ought to try to save you from that." "I won't submit to surveillance," returned her sister. "I wouldn't live in the same house with Uncle Horace for anything. And if mamma and Aunt Delaford don't find fault, you needn't." Isadore, seriously concerned for Virginia's welfare, was questioning in her own mind whether she ought to mention the matter to her uncle, when her mother set that doubt at rest by forbidding her to do so. Isa, who was trying to be a consistent Christian, would neither flirt nor dance, and the foolish, worldly-minded mother was more vexed at her behavior than at Virginia's. Isa slipped away to the cottage homes of the Dinsmores and Travillas whenever she could. She enjoyed the quiet pleasures and the refined and intellectual society of her relatives and the privileged friends, both ladies and gentlemen, whom they gathered about them. Lester Leland, who had taken up his abode temporarily in that vicinity, was a frequent visitor and sometimes brought a brother artist with him. Dick's cronies came too, and old friends of the family from far and near. Elsie sent an early invitation to Lucy Ross to bring her daughters and spend some weeks at the cottage. The reply was a hasty note from Lucy saying that she deeply regretted her inability to accept, but they were extremely busy making preparations to spend the season at Saratoga, had already engaged their rooms and could not draw back; beside that Gertrude and Kate had set their hearts on going. "However," she added, "she would send Phil in her place, he must have a little vacation and insisted he would rather visit their old friends the Travillas, than go anywhere else in the world; he would put up at a hotel (being a young man, he would of course prefer that) but hoped to spend a good deal of time at the cottage." He did so, and attached himself almost exclusively to the younger Elsie, with an air of proprietorship which she did not at all relish. She tried to let him see it without being rude; but the blindness of egotism and vast self-appreciation was upon him and he thought her only charmingly coy; probably with the intent to thus conceal her love and admiration. He was egregiously mistaken. She found him, never the most interesting of companions at times an intolerable bore; and was constantly contrasting his conversation which ran upon trade and money making, stocks, bonds and mortgages, to the exclusion of nearly everything else except fulsome flatteries of herself--with that of Lester Leland, who spoke with enthusiasm of his art; who was a lover of Nature and Nature's God; whose thoughts dwelt among lofty themes, while at the same time he was entirely free from vanity, his manner as simple and unaffected as that of a little child. He was a favorite with all the family; his society enjoyed especially by the ladies. He devoted himself more particularly to sculpture, but also sketched finely from nature, as did both Elsie and Violet; the latter was beginning to show herself a genius in both that and music, Elsie had recently under Leland's instructions, done some very pretty wood carving and modeling in clay, and this similarity of tastes made them very congenial. Philip's stay was happily not lengthened, business calling him back to New York. Letters came now and then from Mrs. Ross, Gertrude or Kate, telling of their gay life at Saratoga. The girls seemed to have no lack of gentlemen admirers; among whom was a Mr. Larrabee from St. Louis, who was particularly attentive to Gertrude. At length it was announced that they were engaged. It was now the last of August. The wedding was to take place about the middle of October, and as the intervening six weeks would barely afford time for the preparation of the trousseau, the ladies hurried home to New York. Then Kate came down to spend a week with the Travillas. She looked fagged and worn, complained of ennui, was already wearied of the life she had been leading, and had lost all taste for simple pleasures. Her faded cheek and languid air, presented a strange contrast to the fresh, bright beauty and animation of Elsie and Violet, a contrast that pained the kind, motherly heart of Mrs. Travilla, who would have been glad to make all the world as happy as she and her children were. Elsie and Vi felt a lively interest in Gertrude's prospects, and had many questions to ask about her betrothed;--"Was he young? was he handsome? was he a good man? But, oh _that_ was of course." "No, not of course at all," Kate answered, almost with impatience. "She supposed he was not a bad man; but he wasn't good in their sense of the word--not in the least religious--and he was neither young nor handsome." A moment of disappointed silence followed this communication, then Elsie said, a little doubtfully, "Well, I suppose Gerty loves him, and is happy in the prospect of becoming his wife?" "Happy?" returned Kate, with a contemptuous sniff. "Well, I suppose she ought to be; she is getting what she wanted--plenty of money and a splendid establishment; but as to loving Mr. Victor Larrabee--I could about as soon love a--snake; and so could she. He always makes me think of one." "Oh, Kate! and will she marry him?" both exclaimed in horror. "She's promised to and doesn't seem inclined to draw back," replied Kate with indifference. Then bursting into a laugh, "Girls," she said, "I've had an offer too, and mamma would have had me accept it, but it didn't suit my ideas. The man himself is well enough, I don't really dislike him; but such a name! Hogg! only think of it! I told mamma that I didn't want to live in a sty, if it was lined with gold." "No, I don't believe I could feel willing to wear that name," said Violet laughing. "But if his name suited, would you marry him without loving him?" "I suppose so; I like riches, and mamma says such wealthy men as Mr. Hogg and Mr. Larrabee are not to be picked up every day." "But, oh, it wouldn't be right, Kate! because you have to promise to love." "Oh, that's a mere form!" returned Kate with a yawn. "Gerty says she's marrying for love--not of the man but his money," and Kate laughed as if it was an excellent joke. The other two looked grave and distressed, their mother had taught them that to give the hand without the heart was folly and sin. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH. "There's many a slip Twixt the cup and the lip." The Travillas were all invited to Gertrude's wedding; but as it was to be a very grand affair, the invitation was declined because of their recent bereavement. Mr. Ross had not seen his intended son-in-law, nor did he know how mercenary were Gertrude's motives. He took it for granted that she would not, of her own free will, consent to marry a man who was not at least agreeable to her, though he certainly thought it odd that she should fancy one over forty years older than herself. He made some inquiries relative to the man's character and circumstances, and learning that he was really very wealthy, and bore a respectable reputation, as the world goes, gave his consent to the match. The preparations went on; dresses and jewels were ordered from Paris, invitations issued to several hundred guests, and the reception rooms of their city residence refurnished for the occasion; money was poured out without stint to provide the wedding feasts and flowers, rich and rare, for the adornment of the house, and the persons of the girls. Gertrude did not seem unhappy, but was in a constant state of excitement, and would not allow herself a moment to think. Ten days before that appointed for the ceremony, the bridegroom arrived in the city, and called upon the family. Mr. Ross did not like his countenance, and wondered more than ever at his daughter's choice. He waited till Mr. Larrabee was gone, then sent for her to come to him in the library. She came, looking surprised and annoyed. "What is it, papa?" she said impatiently. "Please be as brief as you can; because I've a world of things to attend to." "So many that you have not a moment to spare for the father you are going to leave so soon?" he said a little sadly. "Oh, don't remind me of that!" she cried, a sudden change coming over her manner. "I can't bear to think of it!" and creeping up to him, she put her arms around his neck, while a tear trembled in her eye. "Nor I," he said, caressing her; "not even if I knew you were going to be very happy so far away from me; and I fear you are not. Gertrude, do you love that man?" "Why what a question coming from my practical father!" she said, forcing a laugh. "I am choosing for myself, marrying of my own free will; is not that sufficient?" "I tell you candidly, Gertrude," he answered, "I do not like Mr. Larrabee's looks. I cannot think it possible that you can love him, and I beg of you if you do not, to draw back even now at this late hour." "It is too late, papa," she returned, growing cold and hard; "and I do not wish it. Is this all you wanted to say to me?" "Yes," he said, releasing her with a sigh. She glided from the room and he spent the next half hour in pacing slowly back and forth with his head bowed upon his breast. The door bell rang and the servant came in with a card. Mr. Ross glanced at it, read the name with a look of pleased surprise, and said, "Show the gentleman in here." The next moment the two were shaking hands and greeting each other as old and valued friends. "I'm very glad to see you, Gordon!" exclaimed Mr. Ross; "but what happy chance brought you here? Are you not residing somewhere in the West?" "Yes; in St. Louis; and it is not a happy chance, but a painful duty that has brought me to you to-night." He spoke hurriedly, as if to be done with an unpleasant task, and Mr. Ross's pulses throbbed at the sudden recollection that Larrabee also was a resident of St. Louis. He turned a quick, inquiring look upon his friend. "Out with it, man! I'm in no mood to wait, whether it be good news or ill." Gordon glanced toward the door. Mr. Ross stepped to it and turned the key; then coming back, seated himself close to his friend with the air of one who is ready for anything. "Phil, my old chum," said Gordon, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder, "I heard the other day in St. Louis, that Larrabee was about to marry a daughter of yours, and I took the first eastern bound train and traveled night and day to get here in time to put a stop to the thing. I hope I'm not too late." "What do you know of the man?" asked Mr. Ross steadily and looking Gordon full in the eye, but with a paling cheek. "Know of him? that he made all his money by gambling; that he is a murderer." The last word was spoken low and close to the listener's ear. Mr. Ross started back--horrified--deadly pale. "Gordon! do you know whereof you affirm?" he asked low and huskily. "I do; I had the account from one who was an eye-witness of the affair. He is dead now, and I do not suppose it would be possible to prove the thing in a court of justice; but nevertheless I assure you it is true. "It was thirty years ago, on a Mississippi steamer, running between St. Louis and New Orleans, that the deed was done. "Larrabee, then a professional black-leg, was aboard, plying his trade. My informant, a man whose veracity I could not doubt, was one of a group of bystanders, who saw him (Larrabee) fleece a young man out of several thousand dollars--all he had in the world--then, enraged by some taunting words from his victim, pull out a pistol and shoot him through the heart, just as they sat there on opposite sides of the gaming table; then with his revolver still in his hand, threatening with terrible oaths and curses, to shoot down any man who should attempt to stop him, he rushed on deck, jumped into the river, swam ashore and disappeared in the woods." "Horrible, horrible!" groaned Mr. Ross, hiding his face in his hands. "And this murderer, this fiend in human form, would have married my daughter!" he cried, starting up in strong excitement. "Why was he suffered to escape? Where is he now?" "The whole thing passed so quickly, my informant said, that every one seemed stunned, paralyzed with horror and fright till the scoundrel had made good his escape; beside there were several others of the same stamp on board--desperate fellows, probably belonging to the same gang--who were evidently ready to make common cause with the ruffian. "That part of our country was, you know, in those days, infested with desperadoes and outlaws." "Yes, yes; but what is to be done now? I shall of course send a note to Larrabee, at his hotel, telling him that all is at an end between him and Gertrude, forbidding him the house, and intimating that the sooner he leaves the vicinity the better. But--Gordon, I can never thank you sufficiently for this kindness; will you add to it by keeping the thing to yourself for the present? I wouldn't for the world have the story get into the papers." "Certainly, Ross!" returned his friend, grasping his hand in adieu. "I understand how you feel. There is but one person beside ourselves, who knows my errand here, and I can answer for his silence." "Who is it?" "Mr. Hogg, a friend of your wife and daughters." The news brought by Mr. Gordon sent both Gertrude and her mother into violent hysterics, and Mr. Ross and an old nurse who had been in the family for years, had their hands full for the rest of the night. It was a sore wound to the pride of both mother and daughter. "The scoundrel! the wretch! the villain!" cried Gertrude. "I can never hold up my head again; everybody will be talking about me, and those envious Miss Petitts and their mother will say, 'It's just good enough for her; serves her right for being so proud of the grand match she was going to make.' Oh dear, oh dear! why couldn't that Gordon have staid away and held his tongue!" "Gertrude!" exclaimed her father, in anger and astonishment, "is this your gratitude to him for saving you from being the wife of a gambler and murderer? You might well be thankful to him and to a Higher Power, for your happy escape." "Yes, of course," said Lucy. "But what are we to do? the invitations are all out. Oh dear, dear, was there ever such a wretched piece of business! Phil, it's real good in you not to reproach me." "'Twould be useless now," he sighed, "and I think the reproaches of your own conscience must be sufficient. Not that I would put all the blame on you, though. A full share of it belongs to me." By morning both ladies had recovered some degree of calmness, but Gertrude obstinately refused to leave her room, or to see any one who might call, even her most intimate friend. "Tell them I'm sick," she said, "it'll be true enough, for I have an awful headache." It was to her mother who had been urging her to come down to breakfast, that she was speaking. "Well, I shall send up a cup of tea," said Mrs. Ross. "But, what is this?" as the maid entered with a note. "It's directed to you, Gertrude." "From him, I presume," Gertrude said, as the girl went out and closed the door. "Throw it into the fire, mother, or no; I'll send it back unopened." "It is not his hand," said Mrs. Ross, closely scrutinizing the address. "Then give it to me, please;" and almost snatching it from her mother's hand, Gertrude tore it open, and glanced hastily over its contents. "Yes, I'll see him! he'll be here directly; and I must look my best!" she exclaimed, jumping up and beginning to take down her crimps. "See him? Gertrude, are you mad? Your father will never allow it." "Mr. Hogg, mother." "Oh!" They exchanged glances and smiles. Mrs. Ross hurried down to breakfast, not to keep her husband waiting, and Gertrude presently followed in handsome morning toilet, and in apparently quite gay spirits; a trifle pale, but only enough so to make her interesting, her mother said. Mr. Ross and Philip, Jr., had already gone away to their place of business, Sophie and the younger boys to school, and only Mrs. Ross and Kate were left, the latter of whom had little to say, but regarded her sister with a sort of contemptuous pity. Gertrude had scarcely finished her meal, when the door-bell rang, and she was summoned to the drawing-room to receive her visitor. The wedding came off at the appointed time. There was a change of bridegrooms, that was all; and few could decide whether the invitations had been a ruse, so far as he was concerned--or if that were not so, how the change had been brought about. In a long letter to Violet Travilla, Kate Ross gave the details of the whole affair. A strange, sad story it seemed to Vi and her sister. They could not in the least understand how Gertrude could feel or act as she had done, and feared she would find, as Kate expressed it, "even a gold lined sty, but a hard bed to lie in, with no love to soften it." "Still," they said to each other, "it was better, a thousand times better, than marrying that dreadful Mr. Larrabee." For Kate had assured them Mr. Hogg was "an honest, honorable man, and not ill-tempered; only an intolerable bore--so stupid and uninteresting." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH. "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." --GAL. vi. 7. Elsie and her children returned home healthful and happy, with scarce any but pleasing recollections of the months that had just passed. Not so with Mrs. Conly and Virginia. They seemed soured and disappointed; nothing had gone right with them; their finery was all spoiled, and they were worn out--with the journey they said, but in reality far more by late hours and dissipation of one sort and another. The flirtation with Captain Brice had not ended in anything serious--except the establishing of a character for coquetry for Virginia--nor had several others which followed in quick succession. The girl had much ado to conceal her chagrin; she had started out with bright hopes of securing a brilliant match, and now, though not yet twenty, began to be haunted with the terrible, boding fear of old maidenhood. She confided her trouble to Isadore one day, when a fit of extreme depression had made her unusually communicative. Isa could scarce forbear smiling, but checked the inclination. "It is much too soon to despair, Virgy," she said; "but indeed, I do not think the prospect of living single need make one wretched." "Perhaps not you, who are an heiress; but it's another thing for poor, penniless me." Isadore acknowledged that that probably did make a difference. "But," she added, "I hope neither of us will ever be so silly as to marry for money. I think it must be dreadful to live in such close connection with a man you do not love, even if he is rolling in wealth; but suppose he loses his money directly? There you are, tied to him for life without even riches to compensate you for your loss of liberty." "Dear me, Isa, how tiresome! Where's the use of supposing he's going to lose his money?" "Because it's something not at all unlikely to happen; riches do take wings and fly away. I do not feel certain that Aunt Delaford's money will ever come to me, or that, if it does, I may not lose it. So I intend to prepare to support myself if it should ever become necessary." "How?" "I intend to take up the English branches again, also the higher mathematics, and make myself thorough in them (which I am far from being now; they do not teach them thoroughly at the convent), so that I may be able to command a good position as a teacher. "And let me advise you to do the same." "Indeed, I've no fancy for such hard work," sneered Virginia. "I'd rather trust to luck. I'll be pretty sure to be taken care of somehow." "I should think if any one might feel justified in doing that it would be Cousin Elsie," said Isadore; "but Uncle Horace educated her in a way to make her quite capable of earning her own living, and she is doing the same by every one of her children." "Such nonsense!" muttered Virginia. "Such prudence and forethought, I should say," laughed her sister. A few days after this Isadore was calling at Ion and in the course of conversation Mrs. Travilla remarked, with concern, "Virginia looks really unhappy of late. Is her trouble anything it would be in my power to relieve?" "No; unless she would listen to good counsel from you. It is really nothing serious; and yet I suppose it seems so to her. I'm almost ashamed to tell you, cousin, but as far as I can learn it is nothing in the world but the fear of old-maidenhood," Isa answered, half laughing. Elsie smiled. "Tell her from me that there is plenty of time yet. She is two or three years younger than I was when I married, and," she added with a bright, happy look, "I have never thought I lost anything by waiting." "I'm sure you didn't, mamma," said Violet, who was present. "But how very odd of Virgy to trouble about that! I'm glad people don't have to marry, because I shall never, never be willing to leave my dear home, and my father and mother. Especially not to live with some stranger." "I hope it may be some years before you change your mind in regard to that," her mother responded with a loving look. Elsie was not bringing up her daughters to consider marriage the chief end of woman; she had, indeed, said scarcely anything on the subject till her eldest was of an age to begin to mix a little in general society; then she talked quietly and seriously to them of the duties and responsibilities of the married state and the vast importance of making a wise choice in selecting a partner for life. In their childhood she had never allowed them to be teased about beaux. She could not prevent their hearing, occasionally, something of the kind, but she did her best to counteract the evil influence, and had succeeded so well in that, and in making home a delight, that her children one and all, shunned the thought of leaving it, and her girls were as easy and free from self-consciousness in the society of gentlemen as in that of ladies; never bold or forward; there was nothing in their manner that could give the slightest encouragement to undue familiarity. And then both she and their father had so entwined themselves about the hearts of their offspring, that all shared the feeling expressed by Violet, and truly believed that nothing less than death could ever separate them from these beloved parents. There was a good deal to bring the subject of marriage prominently before their minds just at present, for the event of the winter was the bringing home of a wife by their Uncle Horace, and "Aunt Rosie" was to be married in the ensuing spring. The approaching Centennial was another topic of absorbing interest. That they might reap the full benefit of the great Exhibition, they went North earlier than usual, the middle of May finding them in quiet occupancy of a large, handsome, elegantly furnished mansion in the vicinity of the Park. Here they kept open house, entertaining a large circle of relatives and friends drawn thither, by a desire to see this great world's fair. The Dalys were with them, husband and wife each in the same capacity as at Ion, which left Mr. and Mrs. Travilla free to come and go as they wished, either with or without their children. They kept their own carriages and horses and when at home drove almost daily to the Exhibition. Going there with parents and tutor, and being able to devote so much time to it, the young people gathered a great store of general information. Poor Molly's inability to walk, shut her out from several of the buildings, but she gave the more time and careful study to those whose contents were brought within her reach by the rolling chairs. Her cousins gave her glowing descriptions of the treasures of the Art building, Horticultural Hall, Women's Department, etc., and sincerely sympathized with her in her deprivation of the pleasure of examining them for herself. But Molly was learning submission and contentment with her lot, and would smilingly reply that she considered herself highly favored in being able to see so much, since there were millions of people even in our own land, who could not visit the Exhibition at all. One morning, early in the season, when as yet the crowd was not very great, the whole family had gone in a body to Machinery Hall to see the Corliss engine. They were standing near it, silently gazing, when a voice was heard in the rear. "Ah, ha! ah, ha! um h'm; ah, ha! what think ye o' that now, my lads? is it worth looking at?" "That it is, sir!" responded a younger voice in manly tones, full of admiration, while at the same instant, Elsie turned quickly round with the exclamation, "Cousin Ronald!" "Cousin Elsie," he responded, as hand grasped hand in cordial greeting. "I'm so glad to see you!" she said. "But why did you not let us know you were coming? Did you not receive my invitation?" "No, I did not, cousin, and thought to give you a surprise. Ah, Travilla, the sight of your pleasant face does one good like a medicine. "And these bonny lads and lasses; can they be the little bairns of eight years ago? How they have grown and increased in number too?" he said, glancing around the little circle. He shook hands with each, then introduced his sons, two tall, well built, comely young men, aged respectively twenty and twenty-two, whom he had brought with him over the sea. Malcom was the name of the eldest, the other he called Hugh. They had arrived in Philadelphia only the day before, and were putting up at the Continental. "That will not do at all, Cousin Ronald," Elsie said when told this. "You must all come immediately to us, and make our house your home as long as you stay." Mr. Travilla seconded her invitation, and after some urging, it was accepted. It proved an agreeable arrangement for all concerned. "Cousin Ronald" was the same genial companion that he had been eight years before, and the two lads were worthy of their sire, intelligent and well-informed, frank, simple hearted and true. The young people made acquaintance very rapidly. The Exposition was a theme of great and common interest, discussed at every meal, and on the days when they stayed at home to rest; for all found it necessary to do so occasionally, while some of the ladies and little ones could scarcely endure the fatigue of attending two days in succession. Then through the months of July and August, they made excursions to various points of interest, spending usually several days at each; sometimes a week or two. In this way they visited Niagara Falls, Lakes Ontario, George and Champlain, the White Mountains, and different seaside resorts. At one of these last, they met Lester Leland again. The Travillas had not seen him for nearly a year, but had heard of his welfare through the Lelands of Fairview. All seemed pleased to renew the old familiar intercourse; an easy matter, as they were staying at the same hotel. Lester was introduced to the Scotch cousins, as an old friend of the family. Mr. Lilburn and he exchanged a hearty greeting and chatted together very amicably, but Malcom and Hugh were only distantly polite to the newcomer and eyed him askance, jealous of the favor shown him by their young lady cousins, whose sweet society they would have been glad to monopolize. But this they soon found was impossible even could they have banished Leland; for Herbert Carrington, Philip Ross, Dick Percival and his friends, and several others soon appeared upon the scene. Elsie was now an acknowledged young lady; Violet in her own estimation and that of her parents', still a mere child; but her height, her graceful carriage and unaffected ease of manner--which last was the combined result of native refinement and constant association with the highly polished and educated, united to childlike simplicity of character and utter absence of self-consciousness--often led strangers into the mistake of supposing her several years older than she really was. Her beauty, too, and her genius for music and painting added to her attractiveness, so that altogether, the gentlemen were quite as ready to pay court to her as to her sister, and had she been disposed to receive their attentions, or to push herself forward in the least, her parents would have found it difficult to prevent her entering society earlier than was for her good. But like her mother before her, Vi was in no haste to assume the duties and responsibilities of womanhood. Only fifteen she was "Standing with reluctant feet Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet." Hugh Lilburn and Herbert Carrington both regarded her with covetous eyes, and both asked permission of her father to pay their addresses, but received the same answer;--that she was too young yet to be approached on that subject. "Well, Mr. Travilla, if you say that to every one, as no doubt you do, I'm willing to wait," said Herbert going off tolerably contented. But Hugh, reddening with the sudden recollection that Violet was an heiress, and his portion a very moderate one, stammered out something about hoping he was not mistaken for a fortune hunter, and that he would make no effort to win her until he was in circumstances to do so with propriety. "My dear fellow," said Mr. Travilla, "do not for a moment imagine that has anything to do with my refusal. I do not care to find rich husbands for my daughters, and were Violet of proper age, should have but one objection to you as a suitor; that you would be likely to carry her far away from us." "No, no, sir, I wouldn't!" exclaimed the lad warmly. "I like America, and think I shall settle here. And sir, I thank you most heartily for your kind words. But, as I've said, I won't ask again till I can do so with propriety." Leland, too, admired Violet extremely, and loved her with brotherly affection; but it was Elsie who had won his heart. But he had never whispered a word of this to her, or to any human creature, for he was both poor and proud, and had firmly resolved not to seek her hand until his art should bring him fame and fortune to lay at her feet. Similar considerations alone held Malcom Lilburn back, and each was tortured with the fear that the other would prove a successful rival. Philip Ross, too, was waiting to grow rich, but feared no rival in the meantime; so satisfied was he that no one could be so attractive to Elsie as himself. "She's waiting for me," he said to his mother, "and she will wait. She's just friendly and kind to those other fellows, but it's plain she doesn't care a pin for any of them." "I'm not so sure of that, Phil," returned Mrs. Ross; "some one may cut you out. Have you spoken to her yet? Is there a regular engagement between you?" "Oh, no! but we understand each other; always have since we were mere babies." Mrs. Ross and her daughters had accompanied Philip to the shore, and it pleased Lucy greatly that they had been able to obtain rooms in the same house with their old friends, the Travillas. Mr. Hogg was of the party also, and Elsie and Violet had now an opportunity to judge of the happiness of Gertrude's married life. They were not greatly impressed with it; husband and wife seemed to have few interests in common, and to be rather bored with each other's society. Mr. Hogg had a fine equipage, and drove out a great deal, sometimes with his wife, sometimes without; both dressed handsomely and spent money lavishly; but he did not look happy, and Gertrude, when off her guard, wore a discontented, care-worn expression. Mrs. Ross was full of cares and anxieties, and one day she unburdened her heart to her childhood's friend. They were sitting alone together on the veranda upon which Mrs. Travilla's room opened, waiting for the summons to the tea-table. "I have no peace of my life, Elsie," Lucy said fretfully; "one can't help sympathizing with one's children, and my girls don't seem happy like yours. "Kate's lively and pleasant enough in company, but at home she's dull and spiritless; and though Gertrude has made what is considered an excellent match, she doesn't seem to enjoy life; she's easily fretted, and wants change and excitement all the time." "Perhaps matters may improve with her," Elsie said, longing to comfort Lucy. "Some couples have to learn to accommodate themselves to each other." "Well, I hope it may be so," Lucy responded, sighing as though the hope were faint indeed. "And Kate may grow happier, too; dear Lucy, if you could only lead her to Christ, I am sure she would," Elsie went on low and tenderly. Mrs. Ross shook her head, tears trembling in her eyes. "How can I? I have not found him myself yet. Ah, Elsie, I wish I'd begun as you did. You have some comfort in your children; I've none in mine. "That is," she added, hastily correcting herself, "not as much as I ought to have, except in Phil; he's doing well; yet even he's not half so thoughtful and affectionate toward his father and mother as your boys are. But then of course he's of a different disposition." "Your younger boys seem fine lads," Elsie said; "and Sophie has a winning way." Lucy looked pleased, then sighed, "They _are_ nice children, but so wilful; and the boys so venturesome. I've no peace when they are out of my sight, lest they should be in some danger." CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH. "Oh, Lord! methought what pain it was to drown!" --SHAKESPEARE. Cousin Ronald was a great favorite with his young relatives. Harold and Herbert had long since voted him quite equal, if not superior to Captain Brice as a story-teller; his narratives were fully as interesting, and beside always contained a moral or some useful information. There were tales of the sea, wild tales of the Highlands and of the Scottish Border; stories of William Wallace, of the Bruce and the Black Douglass, in all of which the children greatly delighted. Mr. Lilburn's ventriloquial powers were used for their amusement also, and altogether they found him a very entertaining companion. Rosie holding a shell to her ear one day, was sent into ecstasies of delight, by hearing low, sweet strains of music, apparently coming from the inside of it. At another time, as she stooped to pick up a dead crab while wandering along the beach, she started back in dismay at hearing it scream out in a shrill, tiny voice, "Don't touch me! I'll pinch you, if you do." The merry laugh of the boys told her that it was "only Cousin Ronald," but she let the crab alone, keeping at a respectful distance from its claws. This was on the evening spoken of in our last chapter, and while her mamma and Aunt Lucy were chatting together in the veranda, waiting for the call to tea. It sounded presently, and Cousin Ronald and the children started on a run for the house, trying who could get there first. Harold showed himself the fleetest of foot, Herbert and Frank Daly were close at his heels, while Mr. Lilburn, with Rosie in one hand and little Walter in the other, came puffing and blowing not far behind. "Won't you take us another walk, cousin?" asked Rosie when they came out again after the meal. "Yes," he said, "this is a very pleasant time to be down on the beach. Come lads," to Harold and Herbert, "will you go along?" They were only too glad to accept the invitation, and the four sauntered leisurely down to the water's edge, where they strolled along watching the incoming tide. "I love the sea," said Rosie. "I wish we could take it home with us." "We have a lake and must be content with that," said Herbert, picking up a stone and sending it far out, to fall with a splash in among the restless waves; "we can't have everything in one place." "Did you ever see a mermaid, Rosie?" asked Mr. Lilburn. "No, sir; what is it?" "They're said to live in the sea, and to be half fish and half woman." "Ugh! that's dreadful! I wouldn't like to be half of a fish. But I wish I could see one. Are there any in our sea here, Cousin Ronald?" "They're said to have very long hair," he went on, not noticing her query, "and to come out of the water and sit on the rocks, sometimes, while they comb it out with their fingers and sing." "Sing! Oh, I'd like to hear 'em! I wish one would come and sit on that big rock 'way out there." "Look sharp now and see if there is one there. Hark! don't you hear her sing?" Rosie and the boys stood still, listening intently, and in another moment strains of music seemed to come to them from over the water, from the direction of the rock. "Oh, I do! I do!" screamed Rosie, in delight. "O, boys can you hear her, too? can you see her?" "I hear singing," said Harold, smiling, "but I think the rock is bare." "I hear the music too," remarked Herbert, "but I suppose Cousin Ronald makes it. A mermaid's only a fabled creature." "Fabled? what's that?" "Only pretend." "Ah now, what a pity!" At that instant a piercing scream seemed to come from the sea out beyond the surf, some yards higher up the coast. "Help! help! I'll drown, I'll drown!" Instantly Harold was off like a shot, in the direction of the sound, tearing off his coat as he went, while Herbert screaming "somebody's drowning! The life boat! the life boat!" rushed away toward the hotel. "Lads! lads!" cried Mr. Lilburn, putting himself to his utmost speed to overtake Harold in time to prevent him from plunging into the sea, "are ye mad? are ye daft? There's nobody there, lads; 'twas only Cousin Ronald at his old tricks again." As he caught up to Harold, the boy's coat and vest lay on the ground, and he was down beside them, tugging at his boots and shouting "Hold on! I'm coming," while a great wave came rolling in and dashed over him, wetting him from head to foot. "No, ye're not!" cried Mr. Lilburn, laying a tight grasp upon his arm; "there's nobody there; and if there was, what could a bit, frail laddie like you do to rescue him? You'd only be dragged under yourself." "Nobody there? oh, I'm so glad!" cried Harold with a hearty laugh, as he jumped up, snatched his clothes from the ground and sprang hastily back just in time to escape the next wave. "But you gave us a real scare this time, Cousin Ronald." "You gave me one," said Mr. Lilburn, joining in the laugh. "I thought you'd be in the sea and may be out of reach of help before I could catch up to you. You took no time to deliberate." "Deliberate when somebody was drowning? There wouldn't have been a second to lose." "You'd just have thrown your own life away, lad, if there had been anybody there. Don't you know it's an extremely hazardous thing for a man to attempt to rescue a drowning person? They're so apt to catch, and grip you in a way to deprive you of the power to help yourself and to drag you under with them. "I honor you for your courage, but I wish, my boy, you'd promise me never to do the like again; at least not till you're grown up and have some strength." "And leave a fellow-creature to perish!" cried the boy almost indignantly. "O cousin, could you ask me to be so selfish?" "Not selfish, lad; only prudent. If you want to rescue a drowning man, throw him a rope, or reach him the end of a pole, or do anything else you can without putting yourself within reach of his hands." Rosie, left behind by all her companions, looked this way and that in fright and perplexity, then ran after Herbert; as that was the direction to take her to her father and mother. Mr. Travilla and Eddie had started toward the beach to join the others and were the first to hear Herbert's cry. "Oh, it was Cousin Ronald," said the latter; "nobody goes in bathing at this hour." "Probably," said his father, "yet--ah, there's the life boat out now and moving toward the spot." With that they all ran in the same direction and came up to Mr. Lilburn and Harold just as the boy had resumed his coat and the gentleman concluded his exhortation. They all saw at once that Eddie had been correct in his conjecture. "Hallo! where's your drowning man?" he called. "Or, was it a woman?" "Ask Cousin Ronald," said Harold laughing, "he's best acquainted with the person." "A hoax was it?" asked Mr. Travilla. "Well, I'm glad things are no worse. Run home my son, and change your clothes; you're quite wet." "I fear I owe you an apology, sir," said Mr. Lilburn; "but the fact is I'd a great desire to try the mettle of the lads, and I believe they're brave fellows, both, and not lacking in that very useful and commendable quality called presence of mind." "Thank you, sir," Mr. Travilla said, turning upon his boys a glance of fatherly pride that sent a thrill of joy to their young hearts. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH. "Nursed by the virtues she hath been From childhood's hour." --HALLECK. "Count all th' advantage prosperous vice attains, 'Tis but what virtue flies from and disdains; And grant the bad what happiness they would, One they must want--which is to pass for good." --POPE. Mrs. Travilla was sitting on the veranda of the hotel, reading a letter her husband had handed her at the tea-table, when Violet came rushing toward her in wild affright. "Mamma, mamma, something's wrong! something's happened! Herbie just came running up from the beach, calling for the life boat, and papa and Eddie have gone back with him running as fast as they can. Oh, I'm afraid Harold or Rosie has fallen into the water!" she added bursting into hysterical weeping. Her mother rose hastily, thrusting the letter into her pocket, pale but calm. "Daughter dear, we will not meet trouble half way. I do not think it could be they; for they are not disobedient or venturesome. But come." And together they hurried toward the beach. In a moment they perceived that their fears were groundless, for they could see their dear ones coming to meet them. Violet's tears were changed to laughter as Harold gave a humorous account of "Cousin Ronald's sell," as he called it, and the latter's praise of the boy's bravery and readiness to respond to the cry for help, brought proud, happy smiles to the lips and eyes of both mother and sisters. Elsie had joined them; Mrs. Ross, too, and a handsome, richly dressed, middle-aged lady, whom she introduced as her friend, Mrs. Faude, from Kentucky. They, as Lucy afterward told Elsie, had made acquaintance the year before at Saratoga, and were glad to meet again. Mrs. Faude was much taken with Elsie and her daughters, pleased, indeed, with the whole family, and from that time forward sought their society very frequently. Elsie found her an entertaining companion, polished in manners, refined, intelligent, highly educated and witty; but a mere worldling, caring for the pleasures and rewards of this life only. She was a wealthy widow with but one child, a grown up son, of whom she talked a great deal. "Clarence Augustus" was evidently, in his mother's eyes, the perfection of manly beauty and grace, a great genius, and indeed everything that could be desired. "He is still single," she one day said significantly to the younger Elsie, "though I know plenty of lovely girls, desirable matches in every way, who would have been delighted with the offer of his hand. Yes, my dear, I am quite sure of it," she added, seeing a slight smile of incredulity on the young girl's face; "only wait till you have seen him. He will be here to-morrow." Elsie was quite willing to wait, and no dreams of Mrs. Faude's idol disturbed either her sleeping or waking hours. Clarence Augustus made his appearance duly the next day at the dinner table; a really handsome man, if regular features and fine coloring be all that is necessary to constitute good looks; but his face wore an expression of self-satisfaction and contempt for others, which was not attractive to our Ion friends. But it soon became evident to them, that to most of the other ladies in the house, he was an object of admiration. His mother seized an early opportunity to introduce him to the Misses Travilla, coming upon them as they stood talking together upon the veranda. But they merely bowed and withdrew, having, fortunately, an engagement to drive, at that hour, with their parents and cousins, along the beach. "What do you think of him?" asked Violet, when they had reached their room. "He has good features, and a polished address." "Yes; but do you like his looks?" "No; I do not desire his acquaintance." "Nor I; he's not the sort that papa and grandpa would wish us to know." "No; so let us keep out of his way." "But without seeming to do so?" "Oh, yes; as far as we can. We don't wish to hurt his feelings or his mother's." They carried out their plan of avoidance, and so skilfully that neither mother nor son was quite sure it was intended. In fact, it was difficult for them to believe that any girl could wish to shun the attentions of a young man so attractive in every way as was Clarence Augustus Faude. "I should like you to marry one of those girls," the mother said to her son, chatting alone with him in her own room; "you could not do better, for they are beautiful, highly educated and accomplished, and will have large fortunes." "Which?" he added sententiously, and with a smile that seemed to say, he was conscious that he had only to take his choice. "I don't care; there's hardly a pin to choose between them." "Just my opinion. Well, I think I shall go for the brown eyes; as you tell me the other is not yet out, and I hear the father refuses, on that plea, to allow any one to pay his addresses--though, between you and me, Mrs. F., I fancy he might make an exception in my favor." "It would not surprise me, Clarence Augustus," she responded, regarding him with a proud, fond smile, "I fancy he must be aware that there's no better match in the Union. But you have no time to lose, they may leave here any day." "True, but what's to hinder us from following? However, I will take your advice, and lose no time. Let me borrow your writing desk for a moment. I'll ask her to drive with me this morning, and while we're out secure her company for the boating party that's to come off to-morrow." A few moments later the younger Elsie came into her mother's room with a note written in a manly hand, on delicately perfumed and tinted French paper. "What shall I do about it, mamma?" she asked. "Will you answer it for me. Of course you know I do not wish to accept." "I will, daughter," Mrs. Travilla said, "though if he were such a man as I could receive into my family on friendly terms, I should prefer to have you answer it yourself." Mr. Faude's very handsome carriage and horses were at the door, a liveried servant holding the reins, while the gentleman himself waited in the parlor for the coming of the young lady, who, he doubted not, would be well pleased to accept his invitation. He was not kept waiting long; had, indeed, scarcely seated himself and taken up the morning paper, when Mr. Travilla's Ben appeared with a note, presented it in grave silence, and with a respectful bow, withdrew. "Hold on! It may require an answer," Mr. Faude called after him. "No, sah; Mrs. Travilla say dere's no answer," returned Ben, looking back for an instant from the doorway, then vanishing through it. "All right!" muttered Clarence Augustus, opening the missive and glancing over the contents; an angry flush suffusing his face, as he read. "What is it? She hasn't declined, surely?" Mrs. Faude asked in an undertone, close at his side. "Just that; it's from the mother; thanks me for the invitation, but respectfully declines; not even vouchsafing a shadow of an excuse. What can it mean?" "I don't know, I'm sure. But if they knew you had serious intentions--it might make a difference." "Possibly. I'll soon bring it to the proof." He rose and went out in search of Mr. Travilla, found him alone, and at once asked his permission to pay his addresses to Elsie. The request was courteously, but decidedly and firmly refused. "May I ask why?" queried the young man in anger and astonishment. "Because, sir, it would not be agreeable to either my daughter herself, to her mother or to me." "Then I must say, sir, that you are all three hard to please. But pray, sir, what is the objection?" "Do you insist upon knowing?" "I do, sir." "Then let me answer your query with another. Would you pay your addresses to a young woman--however wealthy, beautiful or high-born--whose moral character was not better, whose life had been no purer than your own?" "Of course not!" exclaimed Faude, coloring violently, "but who expects----" "I do, sir; I expect the husbands of my daughters to be as pure and stainless as my sons' wives." "I'm as good as the rest, sir. You'll not find one young fellow in five hundred who has sowed fewer wild oats than I." "I fear that may be true enough, but it does not alter my decision," returned Mr. Travilla, intimating by a bow and a slight wave of the hand, that he considered the interview at an end. Faude withdrew in anger, but with an intensified desire to secure the coveted prize; the more difficult of acquisition, the more desirable it seemed. He persuaded his mother to become his advocate with Mrs. Travilla. She at first flatly refused, but at length yielded to his entreaties, and undertook the difficult, and to her haughty spirit, humiliating mission. Requesting a private interview with Elsie, she told her of the wishes of Clarence Augustus, and plead his cause with all the eloquence of which she was mistress. "My boy would make your daughter a good husband," she said, "and indeed, I think any woman might feel highly honored by the offer of his hand. I do not understand how it is, Mrs. Travilla, that a lady of your sense fails to see that." "I appreciate your feelings, my dear Mrs. Faude," said Elsie gently. "I am a mother too, you know, and have sons of my own." "Yes, and what possible objection can you have to mine? Excuse my saying it, but the one your husband advanced, seems to me simply absurd." "Nevertheless it is the only one; except that our child's heart is not enlisted; but either alone would be insuperable." "She hardly knows him yet, and could not fail to learn to love him if she did. Be persuaded my dear Mrs. Travilla, to give him a chance to try. It is never well to be hasty, especially in declining a good offer, and this, let me tell you, is such an one as you will not meet with every day, lovely and attractive in every way, as your daughters are. "Ours is an old, aristocratic family; none better to be found in our state, or in the Union; we have wealth too, and I flatter myself that Clarence Augustus is as handsome a man as you would find anywhere; amiable in disposition also, and would, as I said before, make an excellent husband. Will you not undertake his cause?" "Believe me, it is painful to me to refuse, but I could not, in conscience." "But why not?" "Simply for the reason my husband gave. We both consider moral purity more essential than anything else in those we admit to even friendly intercourse with our children; especially our daughters." "My son is not a bad man, Mrs. Travilla, very far from it!" Mrs. Faude exclaimed, in the tone of one who considers herself grossly insulted. "Not, I am sure, as the world looks upon these things," said Elsie, "but the Bible is our standard; and guided by its teachings we desire above all things else, purity of heart and life in those who seek the friendship of our children; and very especially in those who are to become their partners for life, and the future fathers or mothers of their offspring, should it please God to give them any." "That is certainly looking far ahead," returned Mrs. Faude, with a polite sneer. "Not farther than is our duty, since after marriage it is too late to consider, to any profit, what kind of parent our already irrevocably chosen partner for life will probably make." "Well, well, every one to her taste!" said Mrs. Faude, rising to go, "but had I a daughter, I should infinitely prefer for her husband, such a young man as my Clarence Augustus to such as that poor artist who is so attentive to Miss Travilla. "Good-morning. I am sure I may trust you not to blazon this matter abroad?" "You certainly may, Mrs. Faude," Elsie returned with sweet and gentle courtesy, "and believe me, it has been very painful to me to speak words that have given pain to you." "What is it, little wife?" Mr. Travilla asked, coming in a moment after Mrs. Faude's departure and finding Elsie alone and seemingly sunk in a painful reverie. She repeated what had just passed, adding, "I am very glad now that we decided to return to Philadelphia to-morrow. I could see that Mrs. Faude was deeply offended, and it would be unpleasant to both of us to remain longer in the same house; but as she and her son go with the boating party to-day, and we leave early in the morning, we are not likely to encounter each other again." "Yes, it is all for the best," he said. "But I wish I could have shielded you from this trial." CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH. "The brave man is not he who feels no fear, For that were stupid and irrational; But he whose soul its fear subdues, And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from." --BAILLIE. The Travillas returned home to Ion in November and took up with new zest the old and loved routine of study, work and play. Elsie was no longer a schoolgirl, but still devoted some hours of each day to the cultivation of her mind and the keeping up of her accomplishments; also pursued her art studies with renewed ardor under the tuition of Lester Leland, who, his health requiring during the winter, a warmer climate than that of his northern home, had come at the urgent request of his relatives, to spend the season at Fairview. Elsie had a number of gentlemen friends, some of whom she highly esteemed, but Lester's society was preferred to that of any other. Malcom Lilburn had grown very jealous of Lester, and found it difficult indeed to refrain from telling his love, but had gone away without breathing a word of it to any one. Not to Scotland, however; he and his father were traveling through the West, visiting the principal points of interest, and had partly promised to take Ion in their way as they returned; which would probably not be before spring. Mr. and Mrs. Travilla were not exempt from the cares and trials incident to our fallen state, but no happier parents could be found; they were already reaping as they had sowed; indeed it seemed to them that they had been reaping all the way along, so sweet was the return of affection from the little clinging, helpless ones, the care of whom had been no less a pleasure than a sacred, God-given duty; but with each passing year the harvest grew richer and more abundant; the eldest three had become very companionable and the intercourse between the two Elsies was more like that of sisters, than of mother and daughter; the young girl loved her mother's society above that of any other of her sex, and "mamma" was still, as she had ever been, her most intimate friend and confidante. And was it not wise? who so tender, faithful and prudent a guide and counsellor as the mother to whom she was dearer than life. It was the same with the others also--both sons and daughters; and they were scarcely less open with their wisely indulgent father. Life was not at all sunshine; the children had their faults which would occasionally show themselves; but the parents, conscious of their own imperfections, were patient and forbearing. They were sometimes tried with sickness too, but it was borne with cheerful resignation; and no one could say what the future held in store for any of them; but God reigned, the God whom they had chosen as their portion, and their inheritance forever, and they left all with him, striving to obey the command to be without carefulness. The winter passed quietly, almost without incident save one. Eddie had been spending the afternoon with his cousins at Pinegrove (some of them were lads near his own age, and fine, intelligent, good boys), had stayed to tea and was riding home alone, except that he had an attendant in the person of a young negro boy, who rode some yards in his rear. It was already dark when they started, but the stars shone down from a clear sky, although a keen, cold wind blew from the north. Part of the way lay through a wood, in the midst of which stood a hut occupied by a family by the name of Smith, belonging to the class known as "poor whites"; shiftless, lazy, and consequently very poor indeed, they were. Many efforts had been put forth in their behalf, by the families of the Oaks and Ion, and by others also, but thus far with small results, for it is no easy matter to effectually help those who will not try to help themselves. As Eddie entered the wood, he thought he smelt smoke, and presently a sudden turn in the road brought into view the dwelling of the Smiths all wrapped in flames. Putting spurs to his horse, at the sight, Eddie flew along the road shouting at the top of his lungs, "Fire! fire! fire!" Jim, his attendant, following his example. But there was no one within hearing, save the Smiths themselves. The head of the family, half stupefied with rum, stood leaning against the fence, his hands in the pockets of his ragged coat, a pipe in his mouth, gazing in a dazed sort of way upon the work of destruction; while the wife and children ran hither and thither, screaming and wringing their hands with never a thought of an attempt to extinguish the flames or save any of their few poor possessions. "Sam Smith," shouted Eddie, reining in his horse close to the individual addressed, "why don't you drop that old pipe, take your hands out of your pockets, and go to work to put out the fire!" "Eh!" cried Sam, turning slowly round so as to face his interlocutor, "why--I--I--I couldn't do nothin'; it's bound to go--that house is; don't you see how the wind's a blowin'? Well, 'tain't much 'count nohow, and I wouldn't care, on'y she says she's left the baby in there; so she does." "The baby?" and almost before the words had left his lips, Eddie had cleared the rough rail fence at a bound, and was rushing toward the burning house. How the flames crackled and roared, seeming like demons greedily devouring all that came in their way. "That horse blanket, Jim! bring it here quick, quick!" he shouted back to his servant. Then to the half-crazed woman, "Where is your baby? where did you leave it?" "In there, in there on the bed, oh, oh, it's burnin' all up! I forgot it, an' I couldn't get back." Eddie made one step backward, and ran his eye rapidly over the burning pile, calmly taking in the situation, considering whether the chances of success were sufficient to warrant the awful risk. It was the work of an instant to do that, snatch the blanket from Jim, wrap it around his person, and plunge in among the flames, smoke, and falling firebrands, regardless of the boy's frightened protest, "Oh, Mr. Eddie don't; you'll be killed! you'll burn all up!" He had looked into the cabin but a day or two before, and remembered in which corner stood the rude bed of the family, their only one. He groped his way to it, half suffocated by the heat and smoke, and in momentary dread of the falling in of the roof, reached it at last, and feeling about among the scanty coverings, laid hold of the child, which was either insensible or sound asleep. Taking it in his young, strong arms, holding it underneath the blanket, which he drew closer about his person, he rushed back again, stepping from the door just as the roof fell in with a crash. The woman snatched her babe, and its gallant rescuer fell fainting to the ground. A falling beam had grazed his head and struck him a heavy blow upon the shoulder. With a cry Jim sprang forward, dragged his young master out of reach of the flying sparks, the overpowering heat, and suffocating smoke, and dropping, blubbering, down by his side, tried to loosen his cravat. "Fetch some wattah!" he called, "quick dar, you ongrateful white trash! you gwine let young Marse Eddie die, when he done gone saved yo' baby from burnin' up?" "Take the gourd and run to the spring Celestia Ann; quick, quick as you kin go," said the mother hugging up her rescued child, and wiping a tear from her eye with the corner of a very dirty apron. "There ain't none," answered the child, "we uns ain't got nothin' left; it's all burnt up." But a keen, fresh air was already reviving our hero. "Take me home, Jim," he said faintly. "Stop that wagon," as one was heard rumbling down the road, still at some distance. "Hollo dar! jes stop an' take a passenger aboard!" shouted Jim, springing to his feet and rushing into the road, waving his cap above his head. "Hollo!" shouted back the other, "dat you Jim Yates? Burnin' down Smith's house. Dat's a plenepotentiary crime, dat is, sah!" "Oh go 'long, you fool, Pete White!" retorted Jim, as the other drew rein close at his side, "you bet you don't catch dis niggah a burnin' no houses. Spect ole Smith set de fire goin' hisself wid dat ole pipe o' his'n!" "An' it's clar burnt down to de ground," observed Pete, gazing with eager interest at the smouldering ruins. "What you s'pose dey's gwine to do for sheltah for dem po' chillen?" "Dat ain't no concern ob mine," returned Jim indifferently. "Ise consarned 'bout getting young Marse Ed'ard safe home, an' don't care nuffin' for all de white trash in de country. Jes hitch yo' hoss an' help me lift him into de wagon." "What's de mattah?" queried Pete, leisurely dismounting and slowly hitching his horse to a tree. "Oh you hurry up, you ole darky!" returned Jim impatiently. "Mr. Ed'ard's lyin' dar in de cold; 'catch his diff if you's gwine to be all night 'bout gittin' to him." "Ise got de rheumatiz, chile; ole folks can't turn roun' like young uns," returned Pete quickening his movements somewhat as he clambered over the fence and followed Jim to the spot where Eddie lay. "Hurt, sah?" he asked. "A little; I fear I can hardly sit my horse--for this faintness," Eddie answered, low and feebly. "Can you put me into your wagon and drive me to Ion?" "Yes, sah; wid de greatest pleasah in life, sah. Mr. Travilla and de Ion ladies ben berry kind to me an' my ole woman and de chillen." Mrs. Smith and her dirty ragged little troop had gathered round, still crying over their fright and their losses, curious too about the young gentleman who had saved the baby and was lying there on the ground so helpless. "Are ye much hurt, Mr. Edward?" asked the woman. "Oh yer mother'll never forgive me fur lettin' ye risk yer life that away!" "I don't think the injury is serious, Mrs. Smith, at least I hope not; and you were not to blame," he answered, "so make yourself easy. Now, Pete and Jim, give me an arm, each of you." They helped him into the wagon and laid him down, putting the scorched horse blanket under his head for a pillow. "Now drive a little carefully, Pete," he said, suppressing a groan, "and look out for the ruts, I'd rather not be jolted. "And you, Sim, ride on ahead and lead Prince. I want you to get in before us, ask for my father and tell him I've had an accident; am not seriously hurt, but want my mother prepared. She must not be alarmed by seeing me brought in unexpectedly, in this state." His orders were obeyed, Jim reached Ion some ten minutes ahead of the wagon and gave due warning of its approach. He met his master in the avenue and told his story in a tolerably straightforward manner. "Where is Mr. Edward now?" asked Mr. Travilla. "De wagon's jes down de road dar a piece, sah; be here in 'bout five minutes, sah." "Then off for the doctor, Jim, as fast as you can go. Here, give me Prince's bridle. Now don't let the grass grow under your horse's feet. Either Dr. Barton, or Dr. Arthur; it doesn't matter which; only get him here speedily." And vaulting into the saddle Mr. Travilla rode back to the house, dismounted, throwing the bridle to Solon, and went in. Opening the door of the drawing-room where the family were gathered: "Wife," he said cheerfully, "will you please step here a moment?" She came at once and followed him down the hall, asking, "What is it, Edward?" for her heart misgave her that something was wrong. "Not much, I hope, dearest," he said, turning and taking her in his arms. "Our boy, Eddie, has done a brave deed and suffered some injury by it, but nothing serious, I trust. He will be here in a moment." He felt her cling to him with a convulsive grasp, he heard her quick coming breath, the whispered words, "Oh, my son! Dear Lord, help!" then, as the rumble of the wagon wheels was heard nearing the door, she put her hand in his, calm and quiet, and went forth with him to meet their wounded child. His father helped him to alight, and supported him up the veranda steps. "Don't be alarmed, mother, I'm not badly hurt," he said, but staggered as he spoke, and would have fallen but for his father's sustaining arm, and by the light from the open door, she saw his eyes close and a deadly pallor overspread his face. "He's fainting!" she exclaimed, springing to his other side. "Oh, my boy, this is no trifle!" Servants were already crowding about them, and Eddie was quickly borne to his room, laid upon the bed, and restoratives administered. "Fire!" his mother said with a start and shudder, pointing to his singed locks, "oh, where has the child been?" Her husband told her in a few words. "And he has saved a life!" she cried with tears of mingled joy and grief, proud of her brave son, though her tender mother heart ached for his suffering. "Thank God for that, if--if he has not sacrificed his own." The door opened and Arthur Conly came in. Consciousness was returning to the lad, and looking up at his cousin as he bent over him, "Tell mother," he murmured, "that I'm not much hurt." "I have to find that out, first," said Arthur. "Do you feel any burns, bruises? whereabouts are you injured, do you think?" "Something--a falling beam, I suppose, grazed my head and struck me on the shoulder; I think, too, that my hands and face are scorched." "Yes, your face is; and your hands--scorched? why they are badly burned! And your collar bone's broken. That's all, I believe; enough to satisfy you, I hope?" "Quite," Eddie returned with a faint smile. "Don't cry, mother dear, you see it's nothing but what can be made right in a few days or weeks." "Yes," she said, kissing him and smiling through her tears; "and oh, let us thank God that it is no worse!" Eddie's adventure created quite a stir in the family and among outside relatives and friends, he was dubbed the hero of the hour, and attentions were lavished upon him without stint. He bore his honors meekly. "Mother," he said privately to her, "I don't deserve all these encomiums and they make me ashamed; for I am not really brave. In fact I'm afraid I'm an arrant coward; for do you know I was afraid to rush in among those flames; but I could not bear the thought of leaving that poor baby to burn up, and you had taught me that it was right and noble to risk my own life to save another's." "That was not cowardice, my dear boy," she said, her eyes shining, "but the truest courage. I think you deserve far more credit for bravery, than you would if you had rushed in impulsively without a thought of the real danger you were encountering." "Praise is very sweet from the lips of those I love; especially my mother's," he responded, with a glad smile. "And what a nurse you are, mother mine! it pays to be ill when one can be so tended." "That is when one is not very seriously ill, I suppose?" she said playfully, stroking his hair. "By the way, it will take longer to restore these damaged locks, than to repair any of the other injuries caused by your escapade." "Never mind," he said, "they'll grow again in time. What has become of the Smiths?" "Your father has found temporary shelter for them at the quarter, and is rebuilding their hut." "I knew he would; it is just like him--always so kind, so generous." CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH. "Oh, gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. Or if thou think'st I'm too quickly won, I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo; but else not for the world." --SHAKESPEARE. One lovely morning in the ensuing spring, the younger Elsie wandered out alone into the grounds, and sauntering aimlessly along with a book in her hand, at length found herself standing on the shore of the lakelet. It was a lovely spot, for the limpid waters reflected grassy banks sprinkled here and there with the wild violet, and shaded by beautiful trees. A gentle breeze just ruffled the glassy surface of the pond, and rustic seats invited to rest. It seemed just the place and time for a reverie, and Elsie, with scarce a glance about her, sat down to that enjoyment. It was only of late that she had formed the habit, but it was growing upon her. She sat for some time buried in thought, her cheek upon her hand, her eyes upon the ground, and smiles and blushes chasing each other over the fair sweet face. The dip of an oar, followed instantly by a discordant laugh and a shrill voice asking, "What are you sittin' there for so still and quiet? Wouldn't you like to get in here with me!" caused her to start and spring to her feet with a cry of dismay. About an hour before a little, oddly dressed woman, with grey hair hanging over her shoulders, a large doll in one arm and a sun umbrella in the other hand, might have been seen stealing along the road that led from Roselands to Ion, keeping close to the hedge that separated it from the fields, and now and then glancing over her shoulder as if fearing or expecting pursuit. She kept up a constant gabble, now talking to herself, now to the doll, hugging and kissing it with a great show of affection. "Got away safe this time, didn't we, Grizzy? And we're not going back in a hurry, are we, dear? We've had enough of being penned up in that old house this ever so long; and now we'll have a day in the woods, a picnic all to ourselves. Hark! what was that? did I hear wheels?" pausing a moment to listen. "No, they haven't found us out yet, Grizzy, so we'll walk on." Reaching the gate leading into the avenue at Ion, she stood a moment peering in between the bars. "Seems to me I've been here before; must have been a good while ago. Guess I won't go up to the house; they might catch me and send me back. But let us go in, Griselda, and look about. Yonder's a garden full of flowers. We'll pick what we want and nobody'll know it." Putting down her umbrella and pushing the gate open just far enough to enable her to slip through, she stole cautiously in, crossed the avenue and the lawn, and entered the garden unobserved. She wandered here and there about it, plucking remorselessly whatever seized her fancy, till she had an immense bouquet of the choicest blossoms. At length leaving the garden she made a circuit through the shrubbery, and finally came out upon the shore of the little lake. "Oh, this is nice!" she said. "Did I ever see this before? It's cool and shady here; we'll sit down and rest ourselves under one of these trees, Grizzy." Then catching sight of a pretty row-boat, moored to the shore, "No, we'll jump into this boat and take a ride!" and springing nimbly in, she laid the doll down on one of the seats, the bouquet beside it, saying, "I'm tired carrying you, Griselda, so you just lie there and rest," then quickly loosing the little craft from its moorings, and taking up the oars, pushed off into the deep water. She laid down the oars presently, and amused herself with the flowers, picking them to pieces and scattering the petals in the water, leaning over the side of the boat, talking to the fishes, and bidding them eat what she gave them, "for it was good, much better and daintier than bread crumbs." The breeze came from the direction to take her farther from the shore, and soon wafted her out to the middle of the lake, but she went on with her new diversion, taking no note of her whereabouts. It was just about this time that Elsie reached the spot and sat down to her day dreams. Enna, for she it was who occupied the boat, did not see her niece at first, but after a little, growing weary of her sport with the flowers, she threw them from her, took up an oar again, and glancing toward the land, as she dipped it in the water, her eye fell upon the graceful white-robed figure seated there underneath the trees, and she instantly called out to her as we have related. Elsie was much alarmed; concerned for the safety of the poor lunatic. There was no knowing what mad freak might seize her at any moment; no one was within call, and that being the only boat there, there was no way of reaching her until she should return to the shore of her own accord; if indeed, she was capable of managing the boat so as to reach the land if she desired to do so. Elsie did not lose her presence of mind, and she thought very rapidly. The breeze was wafting the boat farther from her, but nearer to the opposite shore; if let alone it would arrive there in the course of time, and Enna she perceived did not know how to propel it with the oars. "Will you come?" she was asking again, "will you take a ride in this pretty boat with me?" "I'll run round to the other side," Elsie called in reply. "I wouldn't bother with those great heavy oars, if I were you; just let them lie in the bottom of the boat, while you sit still and rest, and the wind will carry it to the land." "All right!" Enna answered, laying them down. "Now you hurry up." "I will," Elsie said, starting upon a run for the spot where she thought that the boat would be most likely to reach the shore. She reached it first, and the boat being still several yards away floating upon very deep water, she watched it a moment anxiously. Enna was sitting still in the bottom, hugging the doll to her bosom and singing a lullaby to it; but suddenly as Elsie stood waiting and watching in trembling suspense, she sprang up, tossed the doll from her, leaped over the side of the boat, and disappeared beneath the water. Elsie tore off her sash, tied a pebble to one end, and as Enna rose to the surface, spluttering and struggling, threw it to her crying, "Catch hold and I will try to pull you out." "Oh, don't! you will but sacrifice your own life!" cried a manly voice, in tones of almost agonized entreaty, and Lester Leland came dashing down the bank. It was too late; Enna seized the ribbon with a jerk that threw Elsie also into the water, and they were struggling there together, both in imminent danger of drowning. It was but an instant before Lester was there also; death with Elsie would be far preferable to life without her, and he would save or perish with her. It was near being the last; would have been had not Bruno come to his aid, but with the good help of the faithful dog, he at length succeeded in rescuing both ladies, dragging them up the bank and laying them on the grass, both in a state of insensibility. "Go to the house, Bruno, go and bring help," he said pantingly, for he was well-nigh overcome by his exertions, and the dog bounded away in the direction of the house. "Lord, grant it may come speedily," ejaculated the young man, kneeling beside the apparently lifeless form of her he loved so well. "Oh, my darling, have those sweet eyes closed forever?" he cried in anguish, wiping the water from her face, and chafing her cold hands in his. "Elsie my love, my life, my all! oh! I would have died to save you!" Enna had been missed almost immediately, and Calhoun, Arthur and several servants at once set out in different directions in search of her. Arthur and Pomp got upon the right scent, followed her to Ion, and joined by Mr. Travilla, soon traced her through the garden and shrubbery down to the lake, coming upon the scene of the catastrophe, or rather of the rescue, but a moment after Bruno left. "Why, what is this?" exclaimed Mr. Travilla in alarm, "is it Elsie? can she have been in the water? Oh, my child, my darling!" Instantly he was down upon the grass by her side, assisting Lester's efforts to restore her to consciousness. For a moment she engrossed the attention of all, to the utter exclusion from their thoughts of poor Enna, for whom none of them entertained any great amount of affection. "She lives! her heart beats! she will soon recover!" Arthur said presently, "see, a faint color is coming into her cheek. Run, Pomp, bring blankets and more help; they must be carried at once to the house." He turned to his aunt, leaving Mr. Travilla and Lester to attend to Elsie. Enna seemed gone; he could not be sure that life was not extinct. Perhaps it were better so, but he would not give up till every possible effort had been made to restore her. Both ladies were speedily conveyed to the house, Elsie, already conscious, committed to the care of her mother and Aunt Chloe, while Arthur, Dr. Barton and others, used every exertion for Enna's resuscitation. They were at length successful in fanning to a flame the feeble spark of life that yet remained, but fever supervened, and for weeks afterward she was very ill. Elsie kept her bed for a day, then took her place in the family again, looking quite herself except a slight paleness. No; a close observer might have detected another change; a sweet glad light in the beautiful brown eyes that was not there before; full of peaceful content and quiet happiness as her young life had been. Lester's words of passionate love had reached the ear that seemed closed to all earthly sounds; they were heard as in a dream, but afterward recalled with a full apprehension of their reality and of all they meant to her and to him. Months ago she had read the same sweet story in his eyes, but how sweeter far it was to have heard it from his lips. She had sometimes wondered that he held his peace so long, and again had doubted the language of his looks, but now those doubts were set at rest, and their next interview was anticipated with a strange flutter of the heart, a longing for, yet half shrinking from the words he might have to speak. But the day passed and he did not come; another and another, and no word from him. How strange! he was still her preceptor in her art studies; did he not know that she was well enough to resume them? If not, was it not his place to inquire? Perhaps he was ill. Oh, had he risked his health, perhaps his life in saving hers? She did not ask; her lips refused to speak his name, and would nobody tell her? At last she overheard her father saying to Eddie, "What has become of Lester Leland? It strikes me as a little ungallant that he has not been in to inquire after the health of your aunt and sister." "He has gone away," Eddie answered, "he left the morning after the accident." "Gone away," echoed Elsie's sinking heart. "Gone away, and so suddenly! what could it mean?" She stole away to her own room to indulge, for a brief space, in the luxury of tears, then, with a woman's instinctive pride, carefully removed their traces, and rejoined the family with a face all wreathed in smiles. CHAPTER THIRTIETH. "Love is not to be reasoned down or lost, In high ambition, or a thirst for greatness; 'Tis second life, it grows into the soul, Warms ev'ry vein, and beats in ev'ry pulse; I feel it here; my resolution melts." --ADDISON. Enna lay at the point of death for weeks. Mrs. Travilla was her devoted nurse, scarcely leaving her day or night, and only snatching a few hours of rest occasionally, on a couch in an adjoining room whence she could be summoned at a moment's notice. Mr. Travilla at length remonstrated, "My darling, this is too much, you are risking your own life and health, which are far more valuable than hers." "O Edward," she answered, the tears shining in her eyes, "I must save her if I can. I am praying, praying that reason may come back and her life be spared till she has learned to know him, whom to know aright is life eternal." "My precious, unselfish little wife!" he said, embracing her with emotion, "I believe your petition will be granted; that the Master will give you this soul for your hire, saying to you as to one of old, 'According to your faith be it unto you.' "But, dearest," he added, "you must allow others to share your labor, others upon whom she certainly has a nearer claim. Where is Mrs. Conly?" "Aunt Louise says she has no talent for nursing," Elsie answered with a half smile, "and that Prilla, mammy and Dinah are quite capable and I am very foolish to take the work off their hands." "And I am partly of her opinion," he responded playfully; then more seriously, "will you not, for my sake and for your children's, spare yourself a little." "And for your father's," added Mr. Dinsmore, whose quiet step as he entered the room, they had not heard. Elsie turned to him with both hands extended, a smile on her lips, a tear in her eye, "My dear father, how are you?" "Quite well, daughter," he said, taking the hands and kissing the rich red lips, as beautiful and as sweet now, as in her childhood or youth, "but troubled and anxious about you. Are you determined to be quite obstinate in this thing?" "No," she said, "I hope not; but what is it that you and my husband would have me do?" "Take your regular rest at night," answered the one, the other adding, "And go out for a little air and exercise every day." Arthur, coming in at that moment, from his morning visit to his patient, who lay in the next room, joined his entreaties to theirs, and upon his assurance that Enna was improving, Elsie consented to do as they desired. Still the greater part of her time was spent at Enna's bedside, and her family saw but little of her. This was a trial to them all; but especially to the eldest, who was longing for "mamma's" dear society; she fully appreciated Molly's and Eddie's companionship, dearly loved that of her father, and esteemed Vi's as very sweet, but no one could fill her mother's place. Probably not even to her would she have unburdened her heart, she could scarce bear to look into it herself, but the dear mother's very presence, though she might only sit in silence by her side, would be as balm to her troubled spirit. She forced herself to be cheerful when with the others, and to take an interest in what interested them, but when left alone would drop her book or work and fall into a reverie, or wander out into the grounds, choosing the most quiet and secluded parts; often the shady banks of the lakelet, where she and Lester had passed many an hour together in days gone by. She had gone there one morning, leaving the others at home busied with their lessons. Seated on a rustic bench, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on the ground and a book lying unheeded in the grass at her feet, she was startled by a sound as of some heavy body falling from a height and crashing through the branches of a thick clump of trees on the other side of the lake. She sprang up and stood looking and listening with a palpitating heart. She could see that a large branch had broken from a tall tree, and lay upon the ground and--yes, something else lay beside or on it, half concealed from her view by the green leaves and twigs; and--did she hear a groan? Perhaps it was only fancy, but it might be that some one was lying there in pain and needing assistance. Instantly she flew toward the spot, her heart beating wildly; she drew near, started back and caught at a young sapling for support; yes, there lay a motionless form among the fallen branches, that of a man, a gentleman, as she discerned by what she could see of his clothing; her heart told her the rest. Another moment and she was kneeling at his side, gazing with unutterable anguish into the still white face. "He is dead, the fall has killed him." She had no hope of anything else at the moment; there seemed no possibility of life in that rigid form and death-like face; and she made no effort to give assistance or to call for it. She was like one turned to stone by the sudden crushing blow. She loved and she had lost--that was all she knew. But at length this stony grief gave place to a sharper anguish, a low cry burst from her lips, and hot scalding tears fell upon his face. They brought him back to consciousness, and he heard her bitter sighs and moans; he knew she thought him dead and mourned as for one who was very dear. He was in terrible pain, for he had fallen with his leg bent under him and it was badly broken; but a thrill of joy shot through his whole frame. For a moment more he was able to control himself and remain perfectly still, then his eyelids quivered, and a groan burst from him. At the sound Elsie started to her feet, then bending over him, "You're hurt, Lester," she said, unconsciously addressing him for the first time by his Christian name; "what can I do for you?" "Have me carried to Fairview," he said faintly; "my leg is broken and I cannot rise or help myself." "Oh, what can I do," she cried, "how can I leave you alone in such pain? Ah!" as steps were heard approaching, "here is grandpa coming up in search of me." She ran to meet him and told him what had happened. He seemed much concerned. "Solon is here with the carriage," he said. "I was going to ask your company for a drive, but we will have him take Leland to Fairview first. Strange what could have taken him into that tree!" That broken limb kept Lester Leland on his back for six long weeks. His aunt nursed him with the utmost kindness, but could not refrain from teasing him about his accident, asking what took him into the tree, and how he came to fall, till at last, in sheer desperation, he told her the whole story of his love, his hopelessness on account of his poverty, his determination not to go back to Ion to be thanked by Elsie and her parents for saving her life, his inability to go or stay far away from her; and finally owned that he had climbed the tree simply that he might be able to watch her, himself unseen. "Well, I must say you are a sensible young man!" laughed Mrs. Leland; "but it was very unromantic to be so heavy as to break the limb and fall." "True enough!" he said, half-laughing, half-sighing, while a deep flush suffused his face. "Well, what are you going to do next?" "Go off to--Italy, I suppose." "What for?" "To try to make fame and money to lay at her feet." "That is all very well, but I think----" "Well?" "It just struck me that I was about to give unasked advice, which is seldom relished by the recipient." "Please go on. I should like to have it whether I make use of it or not." "Well, I think the honest, straightforward, and therefore best course, would be to seek an interview with the parents of the young lady, tell them frankly your feelings toward her, your hopes and purposes, and leave it with them to say whether you shall go without speaking to her." "They will take me for a fortune-hunter, I fear," he said, the color mounting to his very hair. "I think not; but at all events, I should risk it. I do not pretend to know Elsie's feelings, but if she cares for you at all, it would be treating her very badly indeed, to go away without letting her know yours; unless her parents forbid it. "There, I've said my say, and will not mention the subject again till you do, but leave you to consider my advice at your leisure." Lester did so during the next week, which was the last of the six of enforced quietude, and the more he pondered it, the more convinced was he of the soundness of his aunt's advice, and at length he fully resolved to follow it. Mr. Travilla had called frequently at Fairview, since his accident, always inquiring for him, sometimes coming up to his room, at others merely leaving kind messages from himself, wife and family, or some dainty to tempt the appetite of the invalid. Eddie had been there, too, on similar errands; but there was never a word from her whose lovely image was ever present to his imagination. * * * * * Enna was recovering; was now able to sit up and to walk about the room. There was partial restoration of reason also. Elsie's prayer had been granted, and though still feeble in intellect, Enna had sense enough to comprehend the plan of salvation, and seemed to have entered into the kingdom as a little child. She was gentle, patient and submissive; very different, indeed, from the Enna of old. Elsie rejoiced over her with joy akin to that of the angels "over one sinner that repenteth." * * * * * Elsie's children were full of content and happiness in having mamma again at leisure to bestow upon them her wonted care and attention; her husband also, in that he was no longer deprived of the large share of her sweet society, which for weeks past had been bestowed upon Enna. "Let us have a quiet walk together, little wife," he said to her one lovely summer evening, as she joined him in the veranda on coming down from seeing her little ones safe in their nest; "suppose we call on the Lelands. Lester, I hear, is talking of going North soon, and I believe contemplates a trip to Europe." "And I have never seen him yet to thank him for saving our darling's life; and Enna's too. Yes; let us go." Lester and his aunt were alone in the drawing-room at Fairview, when their visitors were announced. There seemed a slight air of embarrassment about the young man at the moment of their entrance; but it was quickly dispelled by the kindly warmth of their greeting. The four chatted together for some time on indifferent topics; then Mrs. Lester found some excuse for leaving the room, and Mrs. Travilla seized the opportunity to pour out her thanks to Elsie's rescuer from a watery grave. This made a favorable opening for Lester, and modestly disclaiming any right to credit for what he had done, he frankly told the parents all that was in his heart toward their daughter, why he had refrained from speaking before, and his purpose not to seek to win her until he could bring fame and fortune to lay at her feet. He began in almost painful confusion, but something in the faces of his listeners reassured him; for they expressed neither surprise nor displeasure, though tears were trembling in the soft brown eyes of the mother. Lester had concluded, and for a moment there was silence, then Mr. Travilla said--a slight huskiness in his voice, "Young man, I like your straightforward dealing; but do you know the worth of the prize you covet?" "I know, sir, that her price is above rubies, and that I am not worthy of her." "Well, Mr. Leland, we will let her be the judge of that," the father answered. "Shall we not, little wife?" turning to Elsie with a look that had in it all the admiring homage of the lover, as well as the tender devotion of the husband. "Yes," she sighed, seeming already to feel the pang of parting with her child. "Do you mean that I may speak now?" Lester asked, half-incredulous of his happiness. "Yes," Mr. Travilla said; "though not willing to spare our child yet, we would not have you part in doubt of each other's feelings. And," he added with a kindly smile, "if you have won her heart, the want of wealth is not much against you. 'Worth makes the man.'" They walked home together--Elsie and her husband--sauntering along arm in arm, by the silvery moonlight, like a pair of lovers. There was something very lover-like in the gaze he bent upon the sweet, fair face at his side, almost sad in its quietness. "What is it, little wife?" he asked. "Ah, Edward, how can we spare her--our darling, our first-born?" "Perhaps we shall not be called upon to do so; he may not have won her heart." She shook her head with a faint smile. "She has tried to hide it--dear innocent child! but I know the symptoms; I have not forgotten." And she looked up into his face, blushing and happy as in the days when he had wooed and won his bride. "Yes, dearest; what a little while ago it seems! Ah, those were gladsome days to us; were they not?" "Gladsome? Ah, yes! their memory is sweet to this hour. Yet I do not sigh for their return; I would not bring them back; a deeper, calmer blessedness is mine. My dear husband, "'I bless thee for the noble heart, The tender and the true, Where mine hath found the happiest rest That e'er fond woman's knew; I bless thee, faithful friend and guide, For my own, my treasur'd share, In the mournful secrets of thy soul, In thy sorrow and thy care.'" "Thank you, my darling," he said, lifting her hand to his lips, his eyes shining. "Yes; "We have lived and loved together, Through many changing years, We have shared each other's sorrows, And we've wept each other's tears. "Let us hope the future As the past has been, may be, I'll share with thee thy sorrows, And thou my joys with me." THE END THE MERRY LYNN SERIES By HARRIET PYNE GROVE Cloth Bound. Jackets in Colors. * * * * * The charm of school and camp life, out-door sports and European travel is found in these winning tales of Merilyn and her friends at boarding school and college. These realistic stories of the everyday life, the fun, frolic and special adventures of the Beechwood girls will be enjoyed by all girls of high school age. * * * * * MERILYN ENTERS BEECHWOLD MERILYN AT CAMP MEENAHGA MERILYN TESTS LOYALTY MERILYN'S NEW ADVENTURE MERILYN FORRESTER, CO-ED. THE "MERRY LYNN" MINE * * * * * A.L. BURT COMPANY, _Publishers_ 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK [Illustration] =The Ann Sterling Series= By HARRIET PYNE GROVE Stories of Ranch Life and Adventure. For Girls 12 to 16 Years. Handsome Cloth Binding with Attractive Jackets in Color ANN STERLING THE COURAGE OF ANN ANN AND THE JOLLY SIX ANN CROSSES A SECRET TRAIL ANN'S SEARCH REWARDED ANN'S AMBITIONS For sale by all booksellers, or sent on receipt of price by the Publishers =A.L. BURT COMPANY, 114-120 E. 23d St., NEW YORK= [Illustration] =MARJORIE DEAN POST-GRADUATE SERIES= By PAULINE LESTER Author of the Famous Marjorie Dean High School and College Series. All Cloth Bound. Copyright Titles. _With Individual Jackets in Colors_. MARJORIE DEAN, POST GRADUATE MARJORIE DEAN, MARVELOUS MANAGER MARJORIE DEAN AT HAMILTON ARMS MARJORIE DEAN'S ROMANCE MARJORIE DEAN MACY For sale by all booksellers, or sent on receipt of price by the Publishers =A.L. BURT COMPANY, 114-120 E. 23d St., NEW YORK= 
14874	----	Proofreading Team. ELSIE'S WOMANHOOD A sequel to "ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD" By MARTHA FINLEY Complete Authorized Edition Published by arrangement with Dodd, Mead and Company _A Burt Book_ BLUE RIBBON BOOKS, Inc. _New York_ Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by DODD & MEAD In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 1903, BY MARTHA FINLEY 1917, BY CHARLES B. FINLEY Preface. The call for a sequel to "Elsie's Girlhood" having become too loud and importunate to be resisted, the pleasant task of writing it was undertaken. Dates compelled the bringing in of the late war: and it has been the earnest desire and effort of the author to so treat the subject as to wound the feelings of none; to be as impartial as if writing history; and, by drawing a true, though alas, but faint picture, of the great losses and sufferings on both sides, to make the very thought of a renewal of the awful strife _utterly abhorrent_ to every lover of humanity, and especially of this, our own dear native land. Are we not one people: speaking the same language; worshipping the one true and living God; having a common history, a common ancestry; and united by the tenderest ties of blood? And is not this great grand, glorious old Union--known and respected all over the world--our common country, our joy and pride? O! let us forget all bitterness, and live henceforth in love, harmony, and mutual helpfulness. For all I know of the Teche country I am indebted to Mr. Edward King's "Old and New Louisiana"; for facts and dates in regard to the war, and in large measure for Mr. Dinsmore's views as to its causes, etc., principally to Headley's "History of the Great Rebellion." The description of Andersonville, and the life led by the prisoners there, was supplied by one who shared it for six months. An effort was made to obtain a sketch of a Northern prison also, but without success. Yet what need to balance accounts in respect to these matters? The unnatural strife is over, and we are again one united people. M.F. CHAPTER FIRST. "Oh! there is one affection which no stain Of earth can ever darken;--when two find, The softer and the manlier, that a chain Of kindred taste has fastened mind to mind." --PERCIVAL'S POEMS. In one of the cool green alleys at the Oaks, Rose and Adelaide Dinsmore were pacing slowly to and fro, each with an arm about the other's waist, in girlish fashion, while they conversed together in low, confidential tones. At a little distance to one side, the young son and heir had thrown himself prone upon the grass in the shade of a magnificent oak, story-book in hand. Much interested he seemed in his book, yet occasionally his eye would wander from its fascinating pages to watch, with pride and delight, the tiny Rosebud steady herself against a tree, then run with eager, tottering steps and a crow of delight into her nurse's outstretched arms, to be hugged, kissed, praised, and coaxed to try it over again. As Rose and Adelaide turned at one end of the alley, Mr. Horace Dinsmore entered it at the other. Hurriedly approaching the little toddler, he stooped and held out his hands, saying, in tender, half-tremulous tones, "Come, darling, come to papa." She ran into his arms, crying, "Papa," in her sweet baby voice, and catching her up, he covered her face with kisses; then, holding her clasped fondly to his breast, walked on towards his wife and sister. "What is it, Horace?" asked Rose anxiously, as they neared each other; for she saw that his face was pale and troubled. "I bring you strange tidings, my Rose," he answered low and sadly, as she laid her hand upon his arm with an affectionate look up into his face. Hers grew pale. "Bad news from home?" she almost gasped. "No, no; I've had no word from our absent relatives or friends, and I'm not sure I ought to call it bad news either; though I cannot yet think of it with equanimity, it has come upon me so suddenly." "What?" asked both ladies in a breath; "don't keep us in suspense." "It has been going on for years--on his part--I can see it now--but, blind fool that I was, I never suspected it till to-day, when it came upon me like a thunderbolt." "What? who?" "Travilla; after years of patient waiting he has won her at last--our darling--and--and I've given her to him." Both ladies stood dumb with astonishment, while young Horace, who had come running up in time to catch the last words, cried out with vehemence, "Papa! what! give our Elsie away? how could you? how can we ever do without her? But she shan't go, for she belongs to me too, and I'll _never_ give consent!" Mr. Dinsmore and the ladies smiled faintly. "They seemed to think mine quite sufficient, Horace," replied his father, "and I'm afraid will hardly consider it necessary to ask yours." "But, papa, we can't spare her--you know we can't--and why should you go and give her away to Mr. Travilla or anybody?" "My son, had I refused, it would have caused her great unhappiness." "Then she ought to be ashamed to go and love Mr. Travilla better than you and all of us." "I was never more astonished in my life!" cried Adelaide. "Nor I," said Rose. "And he's a great deal too old for her." "That is an objection," replied her husband, "but if not insuperable to her, need not be to us." "Think of your intimate friend addressing you as father!" laughed Adelaide; "it's really too ridiculous." "That need not be--is not an inevitable consequence of the match," smiled Mr. Dinsmore, softly caressing the little one clinging about his neck. Still conversing on the same subject, the minds of all being full of it to the exclusion of every other, they moved on as if by common consent towards the house. "Do you think it can be possible that she is really and truly in love with him?" queried Rose; "a man so much older than herself, and so intimate in the family since her early childhood." "Judge for yourself, my dear," said Mr. Dinsmore, as a turn in the path brought them within a few yards of the lovers, who were moving slowly in their direction so that the two parties must meet in another moment. One glance at the beaming faces, the rich color coming and going in Elsie's cheek, the soft, glad light in her sweet brown eyes, was a sufficient reply to Rose's question. She looked at her husband with a satisfied smile, which he returned. But little Horace, leaving his father's side, rushed up to Elsie, and catching her hand in his, cried, "I'll never give my consent! and you belong to me. Mr. Travilla, you can't have her." To the child's surprise Elsie only blushed and smiled, while Mr. Travilla, without the slightest appearance of alarm or vexation, said, "Ah, my dear boy, you may just as well; for she is willing to be mine and your papa has given her to me." But the others had come up, and inquiring looks, smiles and kindly greetings were exchanged. "Mr. Travilla," said Rose, half playfully but with a tear trembling in her eye, "you have stolen a march upon us, and I can hardly forgive you just yet." "I regret that exceedingly, my dear madam," he answered, with a smile that belied his words. "But Miss Adelaide, you will still stand my friend?" "I don't know," she answered demurely; "there's only one serious objection in my mind (if Elsie is satisfied); that I don't quite fancy having a nephew some years older than myself." "Ah! well, I shall be quite willing to be considered a brother-in-law." "Company to dinner!" shouted Horace. "I see a carriage; don't you, papa?" "It is your Uncle Edward's," said Mr. Travilla. "Yes," said Adelaide, "Lora and her tribe are in it, no doubt; and probably Mrs. Bowles too (Carrie Howard you know, Elsie). They have been late in calling." "Some good reason for it, and they are none the less welcome," remarked Rose, quickening her pace. The one party reached the house just as the other two had fairly alighted, and a scene of joyous greeting ensued. "You dear child! how good of you to come back to us again, and single too," exclaimed Mrs. Bowles, clasping Elsie in a warm embrace; "I'd almost given it up, and expected by every mail to hear you had become Lady or Countess this, or Duchess that." Elsie smiled and blushed, and meeting the eye of her betrothed fixed for an instant upon her with an expression of unutterable content, thankfulness, love and pride, smiled and blushed again. Carrie caught the look and its effect upon her friend, and almost breathless with astonishment, took the first opportunity, after all were seated in the drawing-room, to prefer a whispered request to be taken to Elsie's own private apartment for a moment, to see that her hair and dress were in proper order. They had come to spend the day, and bonnets and shawls had already been carried away by the servants in attendance. "Now girls, don't run off for an interminable chat by yourselves," said Mrs. Howard, as the two rose and crossed the room together. "No, Aunt Lora, we'll not stay long," said Elsie; "for I want to improve every moment of your visit, in renewing my acquaintance with you and my young cousins." "Your family has grown, Lora," remarked her brother. "Yes, rather faster than yours," she said, looking round with pride upon her little group of four boys, and a girl yet in her nurse's arms. "Go and speak to your uncle, Ned, Walter, Horace, and Arthur. You see I have given you a namesake; and this little pet we call Rose Louise, for her two aunties. Yours is Rose, too! and what a darling! and how little Horace has grown!" "Elsie, it can't be possible!" cried Carrie, the instant they found themselves alone. "What can't?" and Elsie's blush and smile were charming. "That you and Mr. Travilla are lovers! I saw it in your faces; but, 'tis too absurd! Why, he's your father's friend, and nearly as old." "All the wiser and better for that, Carrie, dear. But he is young in heart, and far from looking old, I think. I have grown so sick of your silly, brainless fops, who expect women neither to talk sense nor understand it." "Ah, I dare say! and Mr. Travilla is the most sensible and polished of men--always excepting my own spouse, of course. And you won't be taken away from us; so I give my consent." Elsie's only answer was a mirthful, amused look. "Oh, but I am glad to see you back!" Carrie ran on. "It seems an age since you went away." "Thank you. And your husband? what is he like?" "I was never good at description, but he is a fine specimen of a Kentucky planter, and very fond of his wife. By the way, you must blame me that Edward and Lora were so late in welcoming you home. I arrived only yesterday morning, quite fatigued with my journey, and begged them to wait till to-day, and bring me with them." "That was right. We have not seen Enna yet, or Arthur. Grandpa and Mrs. Dinsmore and Walter called yesterday. But there is the dinner-bell. Let me conduct you to the dining-room." They were just in time to sit down with the others. Elsie quickly perceived by her Aunt Lora's look and manner, that she, too, had heard the news, but no remark was make on the subject till the ladies had retired to the drawing-room, leaving the gentlemen to the enjoyment of their after-dinner cigars. Then Mrs. Howard, facing round upon her niece as they entered the room, exclaimed, "Elsie, you naughty child! are you not ashamed of yourself?" "On account of what, auntie?" "Such unconscious innocence!" cried Lora, throwing up the white and jeweled hands she had rested lightly for an instant upon the young girl's shoulder, while gazing steadily into the smiling, blushing, sparkling face. "You haven't been planning and promising to give Adelaide and me a nephew older than ourselves? I tell you, miss, I refuse my consent. Why, it's absurd! the very idea! I used to think him almost an elderly gentleman when you were a chit of eight or nine." "I remember having had some such idea myself; but he must have been growing young since then," returned Elsie, demurely. "He seems to have been standing still (waiting for you, I suppose); but I never was more astonished in my life!" said Lora, dropping into a chair. "It has been a genuine surprise to us all," remarked Rose. "To me as much as anyone, mamma," said Elsie. "I--had thought he was engaged to you, Aunt Adie." "To _me_, child!" "Why, my dear, I surely told you about her engagement to my brother Edward?" exclaimed Adelaide and Rose simultaneously. "You tried, mamma, and it was all my own fault that I did not hear the whole truth. And, Aunt Adie, I cannot understand how he could ever fancy me, while he might have hoped there was a possibility of winning you." "'Twould have been a much more suitable match," said Lora. "Though I'd have preferred the one in contemplation, except that in the other case, she would not be carried quite away from us. But suppose we proceed to business. We should have a double wedding, I think." "Oh, don't talk of it yet," said Rose, with a slight tremble in her voice, and looking at Elsie's flushed, conscious face with eyes full of unshed tears. "Adelaide's is to be within the next two months, and--we cannot give up Elsie so suddenly." "Of course not," said Adelaide; "and I should have serious objections to being used as a foil to Elsie's youth and beauty." The Howards and Mr. Travilla stayed to tea, and shortly before that meal the party was increased by the arrival of Walter Dinsmore and Mrs. Dick Percival. Enna had lost flesh and color; and long indulgence of a fretful, peevish temper had drawn down the corners of her mouth, lined her forehead, and left its ugly pencilings here and there over the once pretty face, so that it already began to look old and care-worn. She was very gayly dressed, in the height of the fashion, and rather overloaded with jewelry; but powder and rouge could not altogether conceal the ravages of discontent and passion. She was conscious of the fact, and inwardly dwelt with mortification and chagrin upon the contrast presented by her own faded face to that of Elsie, so fair and blooming, so almost childish in its sweet purity and innocence of expression. "So you are single yet," Enna said, with a covert sneer; "and not likely to marry either, so far as I've been able to learn. They'll soon begin to call you an old maid." "Will they?" said Mr. Dinsmore, with a laugh in which all present joined, Enna herself excepted; "well, if she is a fair specimen of that much-abused class, they are far more attractive than is generally supposed." "You needn't laugh," said Enna; "I was four years younger than she is now, when I married. I wasn't going to wait till they began to call me an old maid." "To bear that reproach is not the worst calamity that can befall a woman," replied Mr. Dinsmore gravely; then changed the subject by a kind inquiry in regard to Arthur. "Slowly and steadily improving," answered Walter. "The doctors are now satisfied that he is not permanently crippled, though he still uses a crutch." CHAPTER SECOND. "Mutual love, the crown of all our bliss." --MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. After a half hour of waiting for her son's return, Mrs. Travilla sat down to her lonely cup of tea. There was no lack of delicacies on the table, and in all Edward's taste had been consulted. To make him comfortable and happy was, next to serving her God, the great aim and object of his mother's life; and, in a less degree, of that of every servant in the house. They had all been born and brought up at Ion, and had all these years known him as the kindest, most reasonable and considerate of masters. "Wish Massa Edard come. Dese waffles jes' prime to-night, an' he so fond ob dem," remarked a pretty mulatto girl, handing a plate of them to her mistress. "Yes, Prilla, he expected to be at home, but is probably taking tea at the Oaks or Roselands." And the old lady supped her tea and ate her waffles with a serene, happy face, now and then lighted up by a pleased smile which her attendant handmaiden was at a loss to interpret. Having finished her meal, Mrs. Travilla threw a shawl about her shoulders and stepped out upon the veranda; then, tempted by the beauty of the night, walked down the avenue to meet her son or see if there were any signs of his approach. She had not gone half the distance ere the sound of horses' hoofs reached her ear--distant at first but coming rapidly nearer, till a lady and gentleman drew rein at the gate, while the servant who had been riding in the rear dismounted and threw it open. They came dashing up, but paused and drew rein again at sight of the old lady standing there under the trees. "Mother," cried her son, springing from the saddle, "you were not alarmed? anxious? surely." "No, no, Edward, but glad to see you and Elsie! my dear child, this is very kind." "Not at all, dear Mrs. Travilla; it is so lovely an evening for a ride; or walk either," she added, giving her hand to her escort and springing lightly to the ground. Mr. Travilla put the hand into that of his mother. "Take her to your heart, mother; she is mine--ours!" he said, in low tones tremulous with joy. The old lady folded the slight girlish form to her breast for a moment, with a silence more eloquent than words. "Thank God! thank God!" she murmured at length. "He has given me my heart's desire;" and mingled caresses and tears fell upon Elsie's face. "For many years I have loved you as my own child, and now I am to have you. How bright our home will be, Edward. But we are darkening another. Her father; can he--has he----" "He has given her to me," answered the son quickly, "and she has--we have given ourselves to each other. Let me give an arm to each of you and we will go into the house." * * * * * The veranda at the Oaks was deserted, and the house very quiet, though lights still shone here and there, as Mr. Travilla and Elsie rode up and dismounted on their return from Ion. A servant rose from the grass, where he had been lying at his ease; came forward and led away his young mistress's pony, while the lover bade her a tender good-night, sprang into the saddle again, and presently disappeared, lost to view amid the trees and the windings of the road, though the sound of horse's hoofs still came faintly to Elsie's ear as she stood intently listening, a sweet smile irradiating every feature. Absorbed in her own thoughts, and in the effort to catch those fast-retreating sounds, she did not hear a step approaching from behind; but an arm encircled her waist, and a low-breathed "My darling" woke her from her reverie. She looked up, her eyes beaming with affection; "Papa; I am rather late, am I not?" "Not very. Hark! the clock is but just striking ten. Come, let us sit down here for a little. We have hardly had a chat together to-day." He sighed slightly as he drew her closer to him. "No, papa dear, there has been so much company," she answered, laying her head on his shoulder. "And----" "And what?" as she paused. "Your father used to know all that concerned you one way or the other. Is he to be shut out from your confidence now? Ah, I think he must have been for some time past." "I could not tell you _that_, papa," she murmured, blushing visibly in the moonlight. "Indeed, I hardly knew it myself till----" "Till when?" "The night of Sophie's wedding." "Ah!" he said, musingly; "but I cannot get over my surprise; he is your senior by so many years, and you have known him from childhood and looked upon him as a sort of uncle. I wonder at your choice." "But you don't object, papa?" "No, if I must give you away--and I've always known that would come some time--I would rather it should be to him than any one else, for I can never doubt that he will be tender and true to my precious one, when she leaves her father's home for his." "Papa, papa, don't speak of it," she cried, winding her arms about his neck, "I can't bear to think of it; that our home will no longer be the same, that I can't come to you every night and be folded to your heart as I have been ever since I was a little girl." "Well, dearest," he said, after a moment, in which he held her very close and caressed her with exceeding tenderness, "we shall not be far apart or miss passing some time together many days of the year. And you are not in haste to leave me?" "Oh, no, no! why should I be? Please keep me a little while yet." "I intend to: it will take at least a year to get used to the thought of doing without you, and so long Travilla must be content to wait. Nor can we give you up wholly even then; your suite of rooms shall still be yours, and you must come now and then and occupy them for days or weeks at a time. "Now, daughter, good-night. Come to me to-morrow morning in my study, soon after breakfast, I have something more of importance to say to you." "I shall obey, and without fear," she answered gayly, "though I remember once being quite frightened at a similar order; but that was when I was a silly little girl and didn't know how dearly my own papa loved me." "And when he was strangely stern to his own little child," he answered, with another tender caress. CHAPTER THIRD. "So fair that had you beauty's picture took, It must like her, or not like beauty look." --ALLEYN'S HENRY VII. Elsie paused at the half-open door of her father's private room. Mr. Dinsmore, like most men, was fond of light and air; through the wide open windows the morning breeze stole softly in, laden with sweets from garden and lawn, and the rich carpet of oak and green was flecked with gold where the sunbeams came shimmering down between the fluttering leaves of a beautiful vine that had festooned itself about the one looking to the east. Mr. Dinsmore was seated at his desk with a pile of papers before him--legal documents in appearance; he would open one, glance over its contents, lay it aside, and take up another only to treat it in like manner. Elsie stood but a moment watching him with loving, admiring eyes, then gliding noiselessly across the floor, dropped gracefully at his feet and laying her folded hands upon his knee looked up into his face with an arch, sweet smile. "Mon père, I have come for my lecture, or whatever you have laid up in store for me," she announced with mock gravity and a slight tremble of pretended fear in her voice. Dropping the paper he held, and passing one hand caressingly over her shining hair, "My darling, how very, very lovely you are!" he said, the words bursting spontaneously from his lips; "there is no flaw in your beauty, and your face beams with happiness." "Papa turned flatterer!" she cried, springing up and allowing him to draw her to his knee. "I'm waiting for the lecture," she said presently, "you know I always like to have disagreeable things over as soon as possible." "Who told you there was to be a lecture?" "Nobody, sir." "What have you been doing that you feel entitles you to one?" "I don't remember." "Nor I either. So let us to business. Here, take this chair beside me. Do you know how much you are worth?" "Not precisely, sir," she answered demurely, taking the chair and folding her hands pensively in her lap; "but very little, I presume, since you have given me away for nothing." "By no means," he said, with a slight smile of amusement at her unwonted mood. "It was for your own happiness, which is no trifle in my esteem. But you belong to me still." She looked at him with glistening eyes. "Thank you, dearest papa; yes, I do belong to you and always shall. Please excuse my wilful misunderstanding of your query. I do not know how much money and other property I own, but have an idea it is a million more or less." "My dear child!--it is fully three times that." "Papa! is it indeed?" "Yes, it was about a million at the time of your Grandfather Grayson's death, and has increased very much during your mamma's minority and yours; which you know has been a very long one. You own several stores and a dwelling house in New Orleans, a fine plantation with between two and three hundred negroes, and I have invested largely for you in stocks of various kinds both in your own country and in England. I wish you to examine all the papers, certificates of stock, bonds, deeds, mortgages, and so forth." "Oh, papa!" she cried, lifting her hands in dismay, "what a task. Please excuse me. You know all about it, and is not that sufficient?" "No, the property is yours; I have been only your steward, and must now render up an account to you for the way in which I have handled your property." "You render an account to _me_, my own dear father," she said low and tremulously, while her face flushed crimson; "I cannot bear to hear you speak so. I am fully satisfied, and very, _very_ thankful for all your kind care of it and of me." He regarded her with a smile of mingled tenderness and amusement, while softly patting and stroking the small white hand laid lovingly upon his. "Could I--could any father--do less for his own beloved child?" he asked. "Not you, I know, papa. But may I ask you a question?" "As many as you like." "How much are you worth? Ah! you needn't look so quizzical. I mean how much do you own in money, land, etc.?" "Something less than a million; I cannot tell you the exact number of dollars and cents." "Hardly a third as much as I! It doesn't seem right. Papa, take half of mine." "That wouldn't balance the scales either," he said laughingly; "and besides, Mr. Travilla has now some right to be consulted." "Papa, I could never love him again, if he should object to my giving you all but a few hundred thousands." "He would not. He says he will never touch a cent of your property; it must be settled entirely upon yourself, and subject to your control. And that is quite right; for he, too, is wealthy." "Papa, I don't think I deserve so much; I don't want the care of so much. I do wish you would be so good as to take half for your own, and continue to manage the other half for me as you think best." "What you deserve is not the question just now. This is one of the talents which God has given you, and I think you ought, at least for the present, to keep the principal and decide for yourself what shall be done with the interest. You are old enough now to do so, and I hope do not wish to shirk the responsibility, since God, in His good providence, has laid it upon you." He spoke very gravely and Elsie's face reflected the expression of his. "No, I do not wish it now, papa," she said, in a low, sweet voice. "I will undertake it, asking Him for wisdom and grace to do it aright." They were busy for the next hour or two over the papers. "There!" cried Elsie, at length, "we have examined the last one, and I think I understand it all pretty thoroughly." "I think you do. And now another thing; ought you not to go and see for yourself your property in Louisiana?" Elsie assented, on condition that he would take her. "Certainly, my dear child, can you suppose I would ever think of permitting you to go alone?" "Thank you, papa. And if poor mammy objects this time, she may take her choice of going or staying; but go I must, and see how my poor people are faring at Viamede. I have dim, dreamy recollections of it as a kind of earthly paradise. Papa, do you know why mammy has always been so distressed whenever I talked of going there?" "Painful associations, no doubt. Poor creature! it was there her husband--an unruly negro belonging to a neighboring planter--was sold away from her, and there she lost her children, one by accidental drowning, the others by some epidemic disease. Your own mother, too, died there, and Chloe I think never loved one of her own children better." "No, I'm sure not. But she never told me of her husband and children, and I thought she had never had any. And now, papa, that we are done with business for the present, I have a request to make." "Well, daughter, what is it?" "That you will permit me to renew my old intimacy with Lucy Carrington; or at least to call on her. You remember she was not well enough to be at the wedding; she is here at Ashlands with her baby. Mr. and Mrs. Carrington called here yesterday while you were out, and both urged me not to be ceremonious with Lucy, as she is hardly well enough to make calls and is longing to see me." "And what answer did you give them?" he asked with some curiosity. "That I should do so if possible; that meant if I could obtain your permission, papa." "You have it. Lucy is in some sort taken into the family now, and you are safely engaged; to say nothing of your mature years," he added laughingly, as she seated herself on his knee again and thanked him with a hug and kiss. "You dear good papa!" "Some girls of your age, heiresses in their own right, would merely have said, 'I'm going,' never asking permission." "Ah, but I like to be ruled by you. So please don't give it up. Now about Enna?" "If I had any authority in the matter, I should say, you shall not give her a cent. She doesn't deserve it from you or any one." "Then I shall wait till you change your mind." Mr. Dinsmore shook his head. "Ah! my little girl, you don't realize how much some one else's opinions will soon weigh with you," he answered, putting an arm about her and looking with fatherly delight into the sweet face. "Ah, papa!" she cried, laying her cheek to his, "please don't talk so; it hurts me." "Then, dearest, I shall not say it again, though indeed I was not reproaching you; it is right, very right, that husband and wife should be more than all the world beside to each other." Elsie's cheek crimsoned. "It has not come to that yet, father dear," she murmured, half averting her blushing face; "and--I don't know which of you I love best--or how I could ever do without either: the love differs in kind rather than in degree." He drew her closer. "Thank you, my darling; what more could I ask or desire?" A slight tap on the door and Mrs. Dinsmore looked in. "Any admittance?" she asked playfully. "Always to my wife," answered her husband, releasing Elsie and rising to hand Rose a chair. "Thanks, my dear, but I haven't time to sit down," she said. "Here is a note of invitation for us all to spend the day at Roselands. Shall we go?" "Certainly, if it suits you, Rose," replied Mr. Dinsmore; "and Elsie;" he added, "will you go, daughter?" "If you wish it, papa," she answered cheerfully; yet there was a slight reluctance in her tone. He gave her a kind, fond look. "You are your own mistress, and can accept or decline as your judgment and wishes dictate." "But you would rather have me go, papa?" "I would, because it would seem more kind and courteous. But what is the objection in your mind? Perhaps it could be removed." "I wanted so much to see Lucy this morning," Elsie answered with a blush; "but to-morrow will do." "But both might be accomplished if mamma and Adelaide like to have Cæsar drive them and the little ones over to Roselands. Then you and I will mount our horses and away to Ashlands for a call, leaving there in good time to join the dinner party at Roselands. How will that do?" "Oh, bravely, you dear darling papa! always contriving for my enjoyment." Mr. Dinsmore followed his wife from the room. "'Twill be an early return of Carrington's call," he said, "but I have a little business with him." "Yes, I'm very glad: it is a good plan; but don't hurry Elsie away. She and Lucy will want a long talk." "I promise to be careful to obey orders," he answered, sportively. "Is that all?" "Yes; only see that you don't stay too long, and keep the dinner waiting at Roselands." "Mamma," asked Elsie, bringing up the rear as they entered the sitting-room, "can't you go, too--you and Aunt Adelaide? Four make as nice a party as two, and the babies can be driven over quite safely, with their mammies, to take care of them." "No," said Rose, "I never accept such late invitations; I shall----" "My dear," said her husband, "we would be very glad." "No, no; the first arrangement is decidedly the best;" putting on an air of pretended pique. "Babies! do you call me a baby?" cried young Horace, who had sprung to his feet with a flash of indignation in his great black eyes, "I'm nine years old, Elsie. Rosie there's the only baby belonging to this house. Do you think papa would let a baby have a pony like Gip? and a pistol of his own, too?" Elsie put her arms round his neck, and gave him a kiss, "I beg ten thousand pardons." "Elsie, my daughter, don't allow yourself to speak so extravagantly," interrupted her father. "I will try not, papa," she answered. "I beg your pardon, Horace dear, and assure you I think you are quite a manly young man. Now I must prepare for my ride, papa. I shall be ready by the time the horses can be brought to the door." "Papa," said Horace, as the door closed upon his sister, "may I ride Gip to-day?" "If you promise me to keep close beside the carriage." "Oh, papa, can't I ride on ahead a little, now and then, or fall a few paces behind if I wish?" "No; you may do just what I have given permission for, and nothing else." CHAPTER FOURTH. "Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, In ev'ry gesture, dignity and love." --MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. "But, Elsie, what of Mr. Travilla?" asked her father, as he handed her into the saddle. "He will not be here till evening, sir," she answered, the rose on her cheek deepening slightly. "Then I can have undisturbed possession for to-day at least," replied Mr. Dinsmore, mounting. "We couldn't have a lovelier day for a ride." "Nor better company," added Elsie, archly, keeping her horse's head on a line with that of her father's larger Steed, as they followed the winding carriage road at a brisk canter. "Why, you conceited little puss?" returned Mr. Dinsmore laughing. Elsie blushed more deeply this time. "Why, papa, you are the company to-day, are you not? I wished to go, and you kindly arranged to accompany me." "Ah! and that is how you look at it? Well, I recall my rebuke, and thank you for your--what shall I say--pretty compliment, or appreciation of my society?" "Both, if you like. Oh, how nice it is to be at home again in our own dear native land." "And what do you call your own dear native land?" "What a strange question, papa! The great, grand old Union to be sure--North and South, East and West--is it not all mine? Have you not taught me so yourself?" "Yes," he said musingly. They rode on in silence for some minutes, and when he spoke again, it was upon a subject entirely foreign to the last. "The place looks natural," he remarked, as they turned into the avenue leading to the fine old dwelling of the Carringtons. "How kind, how very kind, to come so soon!" was Mrs. Carrington's cordial, joyful salutation. "Mr. Dinsmore, I owe you a thousand thanks for not only permitting your daughter to come, but bringing her yourself." "You are very welcome, my dear madam," he answered courteously; "and, indeed, I should like to see Mrs. Rose myself, when she is well enough and feels that it will be agreeable to her." A few moments' chat in the drawing-room, and Mr. Dinsmore drew out his watch. "How long a talk do you want with your friend to-day, Elsie?" he asked. "Oh, just as long as I can be allowed, papa!" she cried, with much of the old childish eagerness. "Then the sooner you begin, the better, I think, for we ought to be on our way to Roselands in an hour, or an hour and a quarter at the farthest." Upon that the gentlemen retired to the library to talk over business matters, and Mrs. Carrington led the way for Elsie to Lucy's room. But pausing in the upper hall, she took the young girl in her arms, folding her in a close, loving embrace, and heaping upon her tearful, tender, silent caresses. "My poor boy! my poor dear Herbert," she murmured at length, as she released her hold. "Darling, I can never forget that you might have been my daughter. But there--I will leave you. Lucy occupies her old rooms, and yonder is her door; you know the way." "But come in with me, dear Mrs. Carrington," urged Elsie, the tears shining in her eyes. "No, dear, not just yet. Lucy would prefer to see you quite alone at first, I know." And she glided away in the opposite direction. A soft, cooing sound came to Elsie's ear, mingled with fondling words, in a negro voice, as she stood an instant waiting admittance. Lucy, a good deal paler and thinner than the Lucy of old, lay back in an easy chair, languidly turning the leaves of a new magazine. "Open the door, mammy," she said, "I thought I heard a rap." Then at sight of Elsie, the magazine was hastily tossed aside, and with a cry of joy, "Oh, you darling! I thought I'd never see you again," she sprang forward, caught her friend in a close embrace, and wept upon her neck. Elsie soothed her with caresses and words of endearment, and presently she calmed down, made her friend take a seat, and sinking back into her own, wiped away the tears still welling up in her eyes, and with a little hysterical laugh said, "Please don't look so concerned, or think I'm unhappy with my dear old Phil, or going to die, or any such nonsense: it's just my nerves; hateful, torturing things! I wish I'd never found out I had any." "You poor dear, I'm so sorry for your lost health," said Elsie, exchanging her chair for a low ottoman at Lucy's feet, and taking the small thin hands in hers, stroking and patting them caressingly; "I know nerves won't be reasoned with, and that tears are often a great relief." "And I've everything to make me happy," sobbed Lucy--"the best husband in the world, and the darlingest of babies, to say nothing of mamma and papa, and the rest, and really almost everything one could desire." "Oh, the baby, yes!" cried Elsie, turning towards it with eager interest; "the sweet, pretty darling. May I take him a moment, Lucy?" "Certainly, if he's not too heavy--bring him here, mammy. I remember your father would not allow you to lift or carry little Horace." "Ah, but that was years ago! Ah, how lovely he is!" as the babe accepted her mute invitation to come to her. "You are rich indeed, with this treasure added to all your others. And you and your Phil don't quarrel yet?" "No indeed! not the first cross word yet. Mamma calls us her turtle-doves: says we're always billing and cooing. Ah, Elsie, how beautiful you are! I've always thought you just as lovely as possible, yet there's an added something--I can't divine what--that increases even your peerless attractions." "O Lucy, Lucy, still a flatterer!" laughed her friend. "Yet you've come back to us single," Lucy went on, ignoring the interruption, "though we all know you had ever so many good offers. Pray, do you intend to remain single all your days?" At that, Elsie's face dimpled all over with blushes and smiles. Lucy signed to the nurse to take the babe, and as the woman walked away with it in her arms, turned eagerly to her friend. "Now do tell me; for I'm sure you are not going to live single. Shall we have the pleasure of hailing you as duchess yet?" "No, Lucy; I intend to marry; am actually engaged, but not to a foreigner." "Dear me! I don't believe I could have resisted the title. That is," she added, hastily, "if I'd been heart-whole like you: but after seeing my Phil, of course I wouldn't give him up for all the nobles in Europe, Asia, and Africa. But do tell me who is the fortunate man?" "Suppose you try your skill at guessing." "Perfectly useless, never had any. It must be somebody I don't know." "My good little woman, you know him well." "Either of Harry's brothers-in-law? Richard? Harold?" "No, no, no; you are wide of the mark! Could you suppose papa would ever consent to such a mixture of relationships? Why, it would make papa my brother and mamma's brother her son-in-law." "So it would. Well, I give it up and beg of you to put a speedy end to my suspense." Lucy bent her head to listen, and Elsie murmured the name low and softly, the rose deepening on her cheek as she spoke. For a moment Lucy seemed struck dumb with astonishment. Then, "Elsie!" she exclaimed, "I can't believe it; you are only jesting." Elsie shook her head with a low, musical, happy laugh. "He's splendid, I don't deny that; but then--only think--your father's most intimate friend from boyhood up; and almost as old." "Some people seem like wine--to improve with age. But Mr. Travilla is not old to me now. He has been standing still, I believe, while I have grown up to him." "And you really are in love with him?" "He has all my heart, all the love I could give to any one, and I respect, honor, and trust him as I do no one else but my father." "And that reminds me; I was so afraid your father would not let you come to see me. But--you are your own mistress now, of course." "Papa tells me so sometimes," laughed Elsie, "and yet I know he would be greatly surprised should I take the liberty of doing anything he would not approve. I asked his permission to come, and he not only gave consent but brought me himself." "That was good in him; but I hope he won't hurry you away. I want to hear about your European conquests, and have ever so much to say besides." "No, he has kindly promised me time for a long talk. Besides, I can ride over any day and supplement it with another." Mr. Dinsmore was as good as his word; their chat had lasted more than an hour when his summons came, yet Lucy declared it had not been half long enough, and would not be satisfied to let Elsie go without a promise to come again very soon. * * * * * "Roselands, too, looks very natural, and very homelike," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, as they rode up its avenue. "Yes, papa; and yet, do you know, it seems to me it has grown smaller and less grand since I lived here as a child." "Ah! did you think it very grand then, daughter?" he asked, turning to her with a smile. "I believe so, papa; but it is beautiful yet, even after all the fine places we have seen in our own country and Europe." Adelaide met them at the door. "Just in time," she said, "for there is the dressing-bell. Your own old room, Elsie dear: you know the way and will find Aunt Chloe in waiting. Horace, you will make yourself at home of course." It was strictly a family party, sociable and informal. Elsie had not met Arthur since their return, and at the first moment scarcely recognized him in the moustached and bewhiskered young man who rose and came forward, with a slight limp, to meet her as she entered the drawing-room. "How do you do?" he said, holding out his right hand, while steadying himself with a cane held in the left. "I hope you're glad to get back to America?" "Arthur, is it? Yes; thank you: and I'm very glad your injuries have proved less serious than was at first feared," she said, kindly meeting his advances half-way. "Oh yes," he replied, with attempted nonchalance, "I shall be all right by and by." Then retreating to the seat from which he had just risen, the corner of a sofa by the side of his sister Adelaide, his eye following Elsie as she crossed the room to pay her respects to her grandfather and others. "What on earth you call that girl little for, I can't imagine," he remarked in an undertone; "why she's quite above the average height; graceful as a young fawn, too; splendid figure, and actually the most beautiful face I ever saw. I don't wonder she turned the heads of lords and dukes on the other side of the water. But what _do_ you call her little for?" "I hardly know, Art; with me it's a term of endearment more than anything else, I believe," replied his sister; "but there is something in the expression of her face--something that has always been there, a sweet simplicity and innocence--that moves one to a sort of protecting love as to a little one who has not yet attained sufficient worldly wisdom to take care of herself." Old Mr. Dinsmore greeted his lovely granddaughter almost affectionately, holding her hand in his for a moment, and looking from her to her father. "Really, she's a girl to be proud of, Horace," he said with a paternal smile. "But I've no need to tell you that." "No, she is not bad looking," observed his wife with a slight sneer; "few girls would be in such elegant attire; but it surprises me to see that, with all her advantages and opportunities for improvement, she has not yet lost that baby expression she always had. She'll never be half the woman Enna is." The days were past in which the lady mother had gloried in the fact that anywhere Enna would have been taken for the elder of the two; and now the contrast between her faded, fretful face and Elsie's fresh bloom was a sore trial to madam's love, and pride in her household pet. But no one deemed it necessary to reply to the unpleasant remark. Elsie only smiled up into her father's face as he came forward and stood at her side, and meeting his look of loving content and pride in her, just as she was, and calling to mind how fully satisfied with her was another, whose loving approbation was no less precious, turned away with a half-breathed sigh of heartfelt happiness, finished her greetings, and, the dinner-bell ringing at that moment, accepted Walter's offered arm to the dining-room. Arthur was more and more charmed with his niece as he noted the modest ease and grace of her manners, both at the table, and afterwards in the drawing-room; listened to her music--greatly improved under the instructions of some of the first masters of Europe--and her conversation with his father and others, in which she almost unconsciously revealed rich stores of varied information gathered from books, the discourse of the wise and learned met in her travels, and her own keen yet kindly observations of men and things. These, with the elegance of her diction, and the ready play of wit and fancy, made her a fascinating talker. Contrary to Elsie's expectations, it was decided by the elders of the party that all should remain to tea. As the others returned to the drawing-room on leaving the table, she stole out upon the moonlighted veranda. Gazing wistfully down the avenue, was she thinking of one probably even then on his way to the Oaks--thinking of him and his disappointment at not finding her here? "It's a nice night, this," remarked Arthur's voice at her side, "I say, Elsie, suppose we bury the hatchet, you and I." "I never had any enmity towards you, Arthur," she answered, still gazing straight before her. "Well, it's odd if you hadn't; I gave you cause enough, as you did me by your niggardly refusal to lend me a small sum, on occasions when I was hard up. But I'm willing to let by-gones be by-gones, if you are." "Certainly; I should be glad to forget all that has been unpleasant in the past." "You have improved wonderfully since I saw you last: you were a pretty girl then, but now you are without exception the most superbly beautiful, graceful, accomplished, and intelligent woman I ever saw." "I do not like flattery, Arthur," she answered, turning coldly away. "Pooh! the truth's never flattery; I declare if we were not so nearly related, I'd marry you myself." "You forget," she said, half scornfully, "that it takes two to make a bargain; three in this case; and two of us would never consent." "Nonsense! I'd soon manage it by clever courting. A man can always get the woman he wants if he's only sufficiently determined." "In that you are mistaken. But why broach so disagreeable a subject, since we are so nearly related that the very thought seems almost a sin and a crime?" "And so you're going to throw yourself away on old Travilla?" Elsie faced him with flashing eyes. "No; it will be no throwing away of myself, nor will I allow him to be spoken of in such disrespectful terms, in my presence." "Humph!" laughed Arthur. "Well, I've found out how to make you angry, at all events. And I'm free to confess I don't like Travilla, or forgive him all old scores." Elsie scarcely seemed to hear. A horse was coming at a quiet canter up the avenue. Both the steed and his rider wore a familiar aspect, and the young girl's heart gave a joyous bound as the latter dismounted, throwing the reins to a servant, and came up the steps into the veranda. She glided towards him; there was an earnest, tender clasping of hands, a word or two of cordial greeting, and they passed into the house and entered the drawing room. "Humph! not much sentiment there; act towards each other pretty much as they always have," said Arthur to himself, taking a cigar from his pocket and lighting it with a match. "I wonder now what's the attraction to her for an old codger like that," he added watching the smoke as it curled lazily up from the end of his Havana. There was indeed nothing sentimental in the conduct of Mr. Travilla or Elsie: deep, true, heartfelt happiness there was on both sides, but calm and quiet, indulging in little demonstration, except when they were quite alone with each other. There was no secret made of the engagement, and it was soon known to all their friends and acquaintance. Mr. Travilla had always been in the habit of visiting the Oaks daily, and finding himself very much at home there; and he continued to come and go as formerly, all welcoming him with great cordiality, making him, if possible, more one of themselves than ever, while there was little change in Elsie's manner, except that all her late reserve had fled, and given place to the old ease and freedom, the sweet, affectionate confidences of earlier days. Mr. Dinsmore's determination to delay the marriage for a year was decidedly a keen disappointment to the middle-aged lover, who had already endured so long and patient a waiting for his prize; yet so thankful and joyous was he that he had at last won her for his own, that, finding remonstrance and entreaties alike unavailing, he presently accepted the conditions with a very good grace, comforting himself with the certainty of the permanence of her love. Elsie had no coquettish arts, was simple-hearted, straightforward, and true, as in her childhood, and their confidence in each other was unbounded. CHAPTER FIFTH. "Joy never feasts so high As when the first course is of misery." --SUCKLING. Adelaide's marriage was fixed for Christmas eve, and Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie decided to take their trip to Louisiana at once, that they might be able to return in season for the wedding, at which Elsie was to be first bridesmaid. It was Elsie herself who broke the news of her intended journey to her faithful old nurse, explaining why she felt it her duty to go, and kindly leaving to Chloe's own decision whether she would accompany her or not. The dusky face grew very sad for a moment, tears springing to the dark eyes; but the voice was almost cheerful as she answered, "Yes, you's right, honey darlin' you's all right to go and see 'bout dem poor souls and let 'em see dere beau'ful young missus; and your ole mammy 'll go 'long too, for she neber could stay and let her chile run all dem risks on de boats an' cars an' she no dar to take care ob her." "That's right, my own dear old mammy. I shall be glad to have you along, and hope you will find it pleasanter than you expect; but we must trust the Lord to take care of us all; for He only can prevent the accidents you fear." "Yes, yes, honey, dat's de truff; an' we'll trust Him an' not be 'fraid, 'cause don't He say, 'Not a hair ob your head shall perish.'" "'What time I am afraid I will trust in Thee,'" murmured Elsie, softly. "Ah, the joy, the peace, of knowing that His presence and His love will ever go with us everywhere; and that He has all power in heaven and in earth." A week later, Mr. Dinsmore was showing his daughter the beauties of New Orleans, where they had arrived without accident or loss. They remained in the city long enough to attend thoroughly to the business which had called them there, and to see everything worth looking at. Elsie's plantation was in the Teche country, the very loveliest part of grand old Louisiana. In order that suitable preparations might be made for their reception, word had been sent that they might be expected on a certain day. "We have allowed more time than necessary for this place," said Mr. Dinsmore to his daughter one evening on returning to their hotel, after seeing the last of the lions of the Crescent City; "we have two days to spare; what shall be done in them?" "Let us go on to Viamede at once then, papa," replied Elsie, promptly. "I have been regretting that we sent notice of our coming. I doubt if it would not have been wiser to take them by surprise." "There would not be the same preparations for your comfort," replied her father, taking a seat by her on the sofa, for they were in their own private parlor; "you may find unaired bed-linen and an empty larder, which, beside inconveniencing yourself, would sorely mortify and trouble Aunt Phillis and her right-hand woman, Sarah, the cook." "I should be sorry you should have an inhospitable reception, papa, but fires are soon kindled and linen aired, and is not the pantry kept supplied with canned and preserved fruits? and are there not fresh fruits, vegetables, chickens, and eggs at hand for immediate use?" "Yes, certainly; and we are not likely to suffer. We Will, then, leave here to-morrow, if you wish, taking the steamer for Berwick Bay. But why prefer to come upon them unexpectedly?" Elsie smiled, and blushed slightly. "You know I never have any concealments from you, papa, and I will be frank about this," she said. "I don't think I apt to be suspicious, and yet the thought has come to me several times within the last few days, that the overseer has had every opportunity to abuse my poor people if he happens to be of a cruel disposition. And if he is ill-treating them I should like to catch him at it," she added, her eyes kindling, and the color deepening on her cheek. "And what would you do in that case?" her lather asked, with a slight smile, drawing her close to him and touching his lips to the blooming cheek. "Dismiss him, I suppose, papa; I don't know what else I could do to punish him or prevent further cruelties. I should not like to shoot him down," she added, laughingly; "and I doubt if I should have strength to flog him." "Doubt?" laughed her father, "certainly you could not, single-handed; unless his politeness should lead him to refrain from any effort to defend himself; and I, it would seem, am not expected to have anything to do with the matter." A deeper blush than before now suffused Elsie's fair cheek. "Forgive me, dear papa," she said, laying her head on his shoulder, and fondly stroking his face with her pretty white hand. "Please consider yourself master there as truly as at the Oaks, and as you have been for years; and understand that your daughter means to take no important step without your entire approval." "No, I do not go there as master, but as your guest," he answered, half playfully, half tenderly. "My guest? That seems pleasant indeed, papa; and yet I want you to be master too. But you will at least advise me?" "To the best of my ability, my little girl." "Thank you, my dear kind father. I have another reason for wishing to start to-morrow. I'm growing anxious and impatient to see my birthplace again: and," she added low and tenderly, "mamma's grave." "Yes, we will visit it together for the first time; though I have stood there alone again and again, and her baby daughter used to be taken there frequently to scatter flowers over it and play beside it. Do you remember that?" "Yes, sir, as an almost forgotten dream, as I do the house and grounds and some of the old servants who petted and humored me." While father and daughter conversed thus together in the parlor, a dusky figure sat at a window in the adjoining bedroom, gazing out upon the moonlighted streets and watching the passers-by. But her thoughts, too, were straying to Viamede; fast-coming memories of earlier days, some all bright and joyous, others filled with the gloom and thick darkness of a terrible anguish, made her by turns long for and dread the arrival at her journey's end. A light touch on her shoulder, and she turned to find her young mistress at her side. "My poor old mammy, I bring you news you will be sorry to hear," said Elsie, seating herself upon the ample lap, and laying her arm across the broad shoulders. "What dat, honey?" "We start to-morrow for Viamede; papa has sent John to engage our passage on the steamer." "Dat all, darlin'?" queried Chloe, with a sigh of relief, "if we's got to go, might's well go quick an' hab it ober." "Well, I'm glad you take so sensible a view of it," remarked Elsie, relieved in her turn; "and I hope you will find much less pain and more pleasure than you expect in going back to the old home." The next morning, as Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter sat upon the deck of the steamer, enjoying the sunlight, the breeze, and the dancing of the water, having cleared their port and gotten fairly out into the gulf, a startling incident occurred. Chloe stood at a respectful distance, leaning over the side of the vessel, watching the play of the wheel and the rainbow in the spray that fell in showers at its every revolution. An old negro busied about the deck; drew near and addressed her: "Well, auntie, you watchin' dat ole wheel dar? Fust time you trable on dis boat, eh?" Chloe started at the sound of the voice, turned suddenly round and faced the speaker, her features working with emotion: one moment of earnest scrutiny on the part of both, and with a wild cry, "Aunt Chloe! my ole woman," "Uncle Joe! it can't be you," they rushed into each other's arms, and hung about each other's neck, weeping and sobbing like two children. "Papa! what is it?" exclaimed Elsie, greatly surprised at the little scene. "Her husband, no doubt: he's too old to be a son." "Oh, how glad, how glad I am!" and Elsie started to her feet, her eyes full of tears, and her sweet face sparkling all over with sympathetic joy. "Papa, I shall buy him! they must never be parted again till death comes between." A little crowd had already gathered about the excited couple, every one on deck hurrying to the spot, eager to learn the cause of the tumult of joy and grief into which the two seemed to have been so suddenly thrown. Mr. Dinsmore rose, and giving his arm to Elsie, led her towards the throng, saying in answer to her last remark, "Better act through me, then, daughter, or you will probably be asked two or three prices." "O papa, yes; please attend to it for me--only--only I must have him, for dear old mammy's sake, at whatever cost." The crowd opened to the lady and gentleman as they drew near. "My poor old mammy, what is it? whom have you found?" asked Elsie. But Chloe was speechless with a joy so deep that it wore the aspect of an almost heart-breaking sorrow. She could only cling with choking sobs to her husband's arm. "What's all this fuss, Uncle Joe?" queried the captain. "Let go the old darkie; what's she to you?" "My wife, sah, dat I ain't seed for twenty years, sah," replied the old man, trying to steady his trembling tones, obeying the order, but making no effort to shake off Chloe's clinging hold. "Leave him for a little now, mammy dear; you shall never be parted again," whispered Elsie in her nurse's ear. "Come with me, and let papa talk to the captain." Chloe obeyed, silently following her young mistress to the other side of the deck, but ever and anon turning her head to look back with wet eyes at the old wrinkled black face and white beard that to her were so dear, so charming. His eyes were following her with a look of longing, yearning affection, and involuntarily he stretched out his arms towards her. "Off to your work, sir," ordered the captain, "and let's have no more of this nonsense." Old Joe moved away with a patient sigh. "The woman is your property, I presume, sir?" the captain remarked in a respectful tone, addressing Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, my daughter's, which amounts to the same thing," that gentleman replied in a tone of indifference; then changing the subject, made some inquiries about the speed and safety of the boat, the length of her trips, etc. The captain answered pleasantly, showing pride in his vessel. Then they spoke of other things: the country, the crops, the weather. "Sit down, mammy," said Elsie pityingly, as they reached the settee where she and her father had been sitting; "you are trembling so you can scarcely stand." "O darlin', dat's true 'nuff, I'se mos' ready to drop," she said tremulously, coming down heavily upon a trunk that stood close at hand. "Oh, de good Lord hab bring me face to face wid my ole Uncle Joe; oh, I neber 'spected to see him no more in dis wicked world. But dey'll take 'im off again an' dis ole heart'll break," she added, with a bursting sob. "No, no, mammy, you shall have him, if money can accomplish it." "You buy 'im, darlin'? Oh, your ole mammy can neber t'ank you 'nuff!" and a low, happy laugh mingled with the choking sobs. "But dey'll ask heaps ob money." "You shall have him, let the price be what it will," was Elsie's assurance. "See papa is bargaining with the captain now, for they look at Uncle Joe as they talk." Chloe regarded them with eager interest; yes, they were looking at Uncle Joe, and evidently speaking of him. "By the way," Mr. Dinsmore remarked carelessly, "does Uncle Joe belong to you? or is he merely a hired hand?" "He's my property, sir." "Would you like to sell?" "I am not anxious; he's a good hand, faithful and honest: quite a religious character in fact," he concluded with a sneer; "overshoots the mark in prayin and psalm-singing. But do you want to buy?" "Well yes; my daughter is fond of her old mammy, and for her sake would be willing to give a reasonable sum. What do you ask?" "Make me an offer." "Five hundred dollars." "Five hundred? ridiculous! he's worth twice that." "I think not, he is old--not far from seventy and will soon be past work and only a burden and expense. My offer is a good one." "Make it seven hundred and I'll take it." Mr. Dinsmore considered a moment. "That is too high," he said at length, "but for the sake of making two poor creatures happy, I will give it." "Cash down?" "Yes, a check on a New Orleans bank." "Please walk down into the cabin then, sir, and we'll conclude the business at once." In a few moments Mr. Dinsmore returned to his daughter's side, and placing the receipted bill of sale in her hands, asked, "Have I given too much?" "Oh, no, papa, no indeed! I should have given a thousand without a moment's hesitation, if asked it--five, ten thousand, if need be, rather than have them parted again," she exclaimed, the bright tears shining in her eyes. "Mammy, my poor old mammy, Uncle Joe belongs to me now, and you can have him always with you as long as the Lord spares your lives." "Now bress de Lord!" cried the old woman devoutly, raising her streaming eyes and clasped hands to heaven; "de good Lord dat hears de prayers ob His chilen's cryin' to Him when dere hearts is oberwhelmed!" "Go break the news to Uncle Joe, mammy," said Elsie; "see, yonder he stands looking so eager and wistful." Chloe hurried to his side, spoke a few rapid words; there was another long, clinging, tearful embrace, and they hastened to their master and mistress to pour out their thanks and blessings upon them, mingled with praises and fervent thanksgivings to the Giver of all good. The joy and gratitude of the poor old couple were very sweet, very delightful to Elsie, and scarcely less so to her father. "Mammy dear, I never saw you wear so happy a face," Elsie said, as Chloe returned to her after an hour or two spent in close conversation with her newly recovered spouse. "Ah, honey, your ole mammy tinks she neber so glad in all her life!" cried the poor old creature, clasping her hands together in an ecstasy of joy and gratitude while the big tears shone in her eyes. "I'se got ole Uncle Joe back agin, an' he not de same, he bettah man, Christian man. He say, 'Aunt Chloe we uns trabble de same road now, honey: young Joe proud, angry, swearing drinkin' boy, your Ole Joe he lub de Lord an' try to sarve Him wid all he might. And de Lord good Massa. De debbil berry bad one.'" "Dear mammy, I am very glad for you; I think nothing else could have made you so happy." Chloe, weeping again for joy, went on to tell her young mistress that Uncle Joe had discovered a grandchild in New Orleans, Dinah by name, waiting-maid in a wealthy family. "But how is that, mammy? Papa and I thought all your children died young." "No, darlin', when Massa Grayson buy me in New Orleans, an' de odder gentleman buy Uncle Joe, we hab little girl four years ole, an' de ole missus keep her," sobbed Chloe, living over again the agony of the parting, "an' Dinah her chile." "Mammy, if money will buy her, you shall have her, too," said Elsie earnestly. The remainder of the short voyage was a happy time to the whole of our little party, Chloe, with her restored husband by her side, now looking forward to the visit to Viamede with almost unmingled pleasure. As they passed up the bay, entered Teche Bayou and pressed on, threading their way through lake and lakelet, past plain and forest, plantation and swamp, Elsie exclaimed again and again at the beauty of the scenery. Cool shady dells carpeted with the rich growth of flowers, miles upon miles of lawns as smoothly shaven, as velvety green and as nobly shaded by magnificent oaks and magnolias, as any king's demesne; lordly villas peering through groves of orange trees, tall white, sugar-houses and the long rows of cabins of the laborers; united to form a panorama of surpassing loveliness. "Is Viamede as lovely as that, papa?" Elsie would ask, as they steamed past one fine residence after another. "Quite," he would reply with a smile, at length adding, "There is not a more beautiful or valuable estate in the country; as you may judge for yourself, for this is it." "This, papa? Oh it is lovely, lovely! and everything in such perfect order," she cried delightedly as they swept on past a large sugar-house and an immense orange orchard, whose golden fruit and glossy leaves shone brightly in the slanting rays of the nearly setting sun, to a lawn as large, as thickly carpeted with smoothly shaven grass and many-hued flowers, and as finely shaded with giant oaks, graceful magnolias, and groves of orange trees, as any they had passed. The house--a grand old mansion with spacious rooms, wide cool halls and corridors--was now in full view, now half concealed by the trees and shrubbery. The boat rounded to at a little pier opposite the dwelling, and in another moment our friends had landed, and leaving the servants to attend to the baggage were walking on towards the house. CHAPTER SIXTH. "Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? Draw near them then in being merciful, Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge." --SHAKESPEARE. "Papa, it seems an earthly paradise," said Elsie, "and like a dream that I have seen all before." "A dream that was a reality. And it is all your own, my darling," he answered with a proud, fond look into the bright animated face, keenly enjoying her pleasure. "But what, what is going on there?" she asked, gazing intently in the direction of the negro quarter, where a large crowd of them, probably all belonging to the plantation, were assembled. At that instant something rose in the air and descended again, and a wild shriek, a woman's wail of agony, rent the air. Elsie flew over the ground as though she had been a winged creature, her father having to exert himself to keep pace with her. But the whip had descended again and again, another and another of those wild shrieks testifying to the sharpness of its sting, ere they were near enough to interfere. So taken up with the excitement of the revolting scene were all present, that the landing and the approach of our friends had not been observed until Elsie, nearing the edge of the crowd, called out in a voice of authority, and indignation, "Stop! not another blow!" The crowd parted, showing a middle-aged negress stripped to the waist and tied to a whipping post, writhing and sobbing with pain and terror, while a white man stood over her with a horse-whip in his uplifted hand, stayed in mid-air by the sudden appearance of those in authority over him. "How dare you! how _dare_ you!" cried Elsie, stamping her foot, and drawing a long, sobbing breath. "Take her down this instant." "Mr. Spriggs, what is the meaning of this?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, in tones of calm displeasure; "did I not forbid all cruel punishment on this estate?" "I've got to make 'em work; I'm bound they shall, and nothing but the whip'll do it with this lazy wretch," muttered Spriggs, dropping his whip and stepping back a little, while two stalwart fellows obeyed Elsie's order to take the woman down, a murmur at the same time running from lip to lip, "It's Marse Dinsmore, and our young missus." Elsie shuddered and wept at sight of the bleeding back and shoulders. "Cover her up quickly, and take her away where she can lie down and rest," she said to the women who were crowding round to greet and welcome herself. "I will speak to you all afterwards, I'm glad to be here among you." Then leaning over the sufferer for an instant, with fast-dropping tears, "Be comforted," she said, in tones of gentle compassion, "you shall never have this to endure again." "Come, daughter, speak to these eager people, and let us go into the house," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, papa, in one moment." Drawing herself up to her full height, and flashing one look of scorn and indignation out of her dark eyes upon the crest-fallen Spriggs, she addressed him with the air of a queen. "You, sir, will meet me in the library at eight o'clock this evening." Turning to the men, "Dig up that post, and split it into kindling-wood for the kitchen fire." Her father, while shaking hands with the blacks, speaking a kindly word to each, regarded her with mingled curiosity and admiration; thoroughly acquainted with his child as he had believed himself to be, he now saw her in a new character. She took his arm, and he felt that she was trembling very much. He supported her tenderly, while the women flocked about them, eagerly welcoming her to Viamede; kissing her hand, and declaring with tears in their eyes, that it was just their "dear dead young missus come back to them, like a beautiful white angel." The first who claimed her attention, introduced herself as "Aunt Phillis de housekeepah. An' I'se got eberyting ready for you, honey; de beds is aired, de fires laid in de drawin'-room, an' library, an' sleepin' rooms, an' de pantry full ob the nicest tings dis chile an' ole Aunt Sally know how to cook; an' I sent Jack right to de house to start de fires de fust minute dese ole eyes catch sight ob massa an' young missus, an' knows dey heyah." "My dear child, all this is quite too much for you," said Mr. Dinsmore, attempting to draw his daughter away. "Just a moment, papa, please," she answered in a slightly unsteady voice; "let me speak to them all." He yielded, but cut short the garrulity of some who would have liked to mingle reminiscences of her baby-hood with their rejoicing over her return, telling them they must reserve such communication for a more suitable time, as their young mistress was faint and weary, and must have rest. The appearance of Chloe and her recovered husband upon the scene, now created a diversion in their favor, and he presently succeeded in leading Elsie to the house. A young mulatto girl followed them into the drawing-room, where a bright wood-fire was blazing on the hearth, asking if she should take Miss Elsie's things. "Yes," Mr. Dinsmore said, removing his daughter's hat and shawl, and handing them to her. She left the room; and taking Elsie in his arms, and gently laying her head upon his breast, "Let the tears have their way, darling," he said, "it will do you good." For several minutes the tears came in floods. "Oh, papa," she sobbed, "to think that my people, my poor people, should be so served. It must never, never be again!" "No," he said, "we will find means to prevent it. There, you feel better now, do you not?" "Yes, sir. Papa dear, welcome, welcome to my house; the dearest guest that could come to it." And wiping away her tears, she lifted her loving eyes to his, a tender smile playing about the sweet lips. "Save one," he answered half-playfully, passing his hand caressingly over her hair, and bending down to press his lips on brow, and cheeks, and mouth. "Is not that so?" "No, my own dear father, save none," with a charming blush, but eyes looking steadily into his; "when he comes, it shall be as master, not guest. But now tell me, please, what can I do with this Spriggs? I should like to pay him a month's wages in advance, and start him off early to-morrow morning." Mr. Dinsmore shook his head gravely. "It would not do, my child. The sugar-making season will shortly begin; he understands the business thoroughly; we could not supply his place at a moment's notice, or probably in a number of months, and the whole crop would be lost. We must not be hasty or rash, but remember the Bible command, 'Let your moderation be known unto all men.' Nor should we allow ourselves to judge the man too hardly." "Too hardly, papa! too hardly, when he has shown himself so cruel! But I beg pardon for interrupting you." "Yes, too hardly, daughter. He is a New Englander, used to see every one about him working with steady, persevering industry, and the indolent, dawdling ways of the blacks, which we take as a matter of course, are exceedingly trying to him. I think he has been very faithful to your interests, and that probably his desire and determination to see them advanced to the utmost, led, more than anything else, to the act which seems to us so cruel." "And could he suppose that I would have blood wrung from my poor people that a few more dollars might find their way into my purse?" she cried in indignant sorrow and anger. "Oh, papa, I am not so cruel, you know I am not." "Yes, my darling, I know you have a very tender, loving heart." "But what shall I do with Spriggs?" "For to-night, express your sentiments and feelings on the subject as calmly and moderately as you can, and enjoin it upon him to act in accordance with them. Then we may consider at our leisure what further measures can be taken." "Papa, you are so much wiser and better than I," she said, with loving admiration, "I'm afraid if you had not been here to advise me, I should have sent him away at once, with never a thought of crops or anything except securing my people from his cruelties." "You should never allow yourself to act from mere impulse, except it be unquestionably a right one, and the case admitting of no time for deliberation. As to my superior wisdom," he added with a smile, "I have lived some years longer than you, and had more experience in the management of business matters." "I am very sorry, my darling, that the pleasure of your return to the home of your infancy should be so marred. But you have scarcely taken a look yet at even this room. What do you think of it?" She glanced about her with freshly aroused curiosity and interest. "Papa, it is just to my taste!" The firelight gleamed upon rare old cabinets, gems of art in painting and statuary, and rich, massive, well-preserved, though old-fashioned sofas, chairs, tables, etc. But it was already growing dark, deep shadows were gathering in the more distant parts of the spacious apartment, and only near the fire could objects be distinctly seen. Elsie was about to ring for lights, when Sarah, the mulatto girl, appeared, bringing them, Chloe following close in the rear. "Have you fires and lights in the library, the dining-room, and your master's rooms and mine?" inquired Elsie. "De fires is lit, Miss Elsie." "Then add the lights at once, and put them in all the principal rooms of the house. We will have an illumination in honor of our arrival, papa," she said, in a sprightly tone, turning to him with one of her sweetest smiles, "and besides, I want to see the whole house now." "Are you not too much fatigued, daughter? and would it not be better to defer it till to-morrow?" "I don't think I'm too tired, papa; but if you forbid me----" "No, I don't forbid or even advise, if you are sure you feel equal to the exertion." "Thank you, sir, I think I'll be better able to sleep if I've seen at least the most of it; old memories are troubling me, and I want to see how far they are correct You will go with me?" "Certainly," he said, giving her his arm. "But while the servants are obeying your order in regard to the lights, let us examine these paintings more attentively. They will repay close scrutiny, for some of them are by the first masters. Your Grandfather Grayson seems to have been a man of cultivated taste, as well as great business talent." "Yes, papa. What is it, mammy?" "Does you want me, darlin'?" "No, not now. Go and enjoy yourself with your husband and old friends." Chloe expressed her grateful thanks, and withdrew. Elsie found the paintings and statuary a study, and had scarcely finished her survey of the drawing-room and its treasures of art, when Aunt Phillis came to ask if they would have tea served up immediately. Elsie looked at her father. "Yes," he said; "you will feel stronger after eating, and it is about our usual time." "Then let us have it, Aunt Phillis. How is that poor creature now?" asked her young mistress. "Suse, honey? oh, she'll do well 'nuff; don't do her no harm to take some ob de lazy blood out. Massa Spriggs not so terrible cross, Miss Elsie; but he bound de work git done, an' Suse she mighty powerful lazy, jes' set in de sun an' do nuffin' from mornin' to night, ef nobody roun' to make her work." "Ah, that is very bad; we must try to reform her in some way. But perhaps she's not well." "Dunno, missus; she's always 'plaining ob de misery in her back, an' misery in her head; but don't ebery one hab a misery, some kind, most days? an' go on workin' all de same. No, missus, Suse she powerful lazy ole nigga." With that Phillis retired, and shortly after, tea was announced as ready. Elsie played the part of hostess to perfection, presiding over the tea-urn with ease and grace, and pressing upon her father the numerous dainties with which the table was loaded. She seemed to have recovered her spirits, and as she sat there gayly chatting--of the room, which pleased her as entirely as the other, and of her plans for usefulness and pleasure during her stay, he thought he had never seen her look happier or more beautiful. "What rooms have you prepared for your mistress, Aunt Phillis?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, as they rose from the table. "De same whar she was born, massa, an' whar her dear bressed ma stay when she livin' heyah." A slight shadow stole over Elsie's bright face. "That was right," she said, low and softly. "I should prefer them to any others. But where are papa's rooms?" "Jes' across de hall, Miss Elsie." "That is a good arrangement," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Now, daughter, I think we should repair to the library. It is near the hour you appointed for Mr. Spriggs." "Just as handsome, as tastefully, appropriately, and luxuriously furnished as the others," was Elsie's comment on the library. "I seem to see the same hand everywhere." "Yes, and it is the same all over the house," replied her father. "The books here will delight you; for a private library it is a very fine one, containing many hundred volumes, as you may see at a glance; standard works on history, and the arts and sciences, biographies, travels, works of reference, the works of the best poets, novelists, etc." "Ah, how we will enjoy them while here! But it seems a sad pity they should have lain on those shelves unused for so many years." "Not entirely, my child; I have enjoyed them in my brief visits to the plantation, and have always allowed the overseer free access to them, on the single condition that they should be handled with care, and each returned promptly to its proper place when done with. But come, take this easy chair by this table; here are some fine engravings I want you to look at." Elsie obeyed, but had scarcely seated herself when the door was thrown open and a servant's voice announced, "Massa Spriggs, Massa Dinsmore and Miss Elsie." Spriggs, a tall, broad-shouldered, powerfully-built man, with dark hair and beard and a small, keen black eye, came forward with a bold free air and a "Good-even', miss, good-even', sir;" adding, as he helped himself to a seat without waiting for an invitation, "Well, here I am, and I s'pose you've somethin' to say or you wouldn't have appointed the meetin'." "Yes, Mr. Spriggs," said Elsie, folding her pretty hands in her lap and looking steadily and coldly into his brazen face, "I have this to say; that I entirely disapprove of flogging, and will have none of it on the estate. I hope you understand me." "That's plain English and easy understood, Miss Dinsmore, and Dinsmore, and of course you have a right to dictate in the matter; but I tell you what, these darkies o' yours are a dreadful lazy set, specially that Suse; and it's mighty hard for folks that's been used to seein' things done up spick and span and smart to put up with it." "But some amount of patience with the natural slowness of the negro is a necessary trait in the character of an overseer who wishes to remain in my employ." "Well, miss, I always calculate to do the very best I can by my employers, and when you come to look round the estate, I guess you'll find things in prime order; but I couldn't ha' done it without lettin' the darkies know they'd got to toe the mark right straight." "They must attend to the work, of course, and if they won't do so willingly, must under compulsion; but there are milder measures than this brutal flogging." "What do you prescribe, Miss Dinsmore?" "Deprive them of some privilege, or lock them up on bread and water for a few days," Elsie answered; then turned an appealing look upon her father, who had as yet played the part of a mere listener. "I have never allowed any flogging on my estate," he observed, addressing Spriggs, "and I cannot think it at all necessary." There was a moment of silence, Spriggs sitting looking into the fire, a half-smile playing about his lips; then turning to Elsie, "I thought, miss, you'd a mind this evening to dismiss me on the spot," he remarked inquiringly. She flushed slightly, but replied with dignity, "If you will comply with my directions, sir, pledging yourself never again to be so cruel, I have no desire to dismiss you from my service." "All right then, miss. I promise, and shall still do the best I can for your interests; but if they suffer because I'm forbidden to use the lash, please remember it's not my fault." "I am willing to take the risk," she answered, intimating with a motion of her hand that she considered the interview at an end; whereupon he rose and bowed himself out. "Now, papa, for our tour of inspection," she cried gayly, rising as she spoke, and ringing for a servant to carry the light. "But first please tell me if I was sufficiently moderate." "You did very well," he answered, smiling. "You take to the role of mistress much more naturally than I expected." "Yet it does seem very odd to me to be giving orders while you sit by a mere looker-on. But, dear papa, please remember I am still your own child, and ready to submit to your authority, whenever you see fit to exert it." "I know it, my darling," he said, passing an arm about her waist, as they stood together in front of the fire, and gazing fondly down into the sweet fair face. Aunt Chloe answered the bell, bringing a lamp in her hand. "That is right, mammy," Elsie said. "Now lead the way over the house." As they passed from room to room, and from one spacious hall or corridor to another, Elsie expressed her entire satisfaction with them and their appointments, and accorded to Aunt Phillis the meed of praise due her careful housekeeping. "And here, my darling," Mr. Dinsmore said at length, leading the way through a beautiful boudoir and dressing-room into an equally elegant and attractive bedroom beyond, "they tell me you were born, and your beloved mother passed from earth to heaven." "An' eberyting in de room stands jees' as dey did den, honey," said Aunt Chloe. And approaching the bed, her eyes swimming in tears, and laying her hand upon the pillow, "jes' here my precious young missus lie, wid cheeks 'mos' as white as de linen, an' eyes so big an' bright, an' de lubly curls streamin' all roun', an' she say, weak an' low, 'Mammy, bring me my baby.' Den I put you in her arms, darlin', an' she kiss you all ober your tiny face, an' de tears an' sobs come fast while she say, 'Poor little baby; no fader no mudder to lub her! nobody but you, mammy; take her an' bring her up to lub de dear Lord Jesus.'" Silent tears rolled down Elsie's cheeks as she looked and listened; but her father drew her to his breast and kissed them away, his own eyes brimming, his heart too full for speech. Presently he led her back to the boudoir, and showed her the portraits of her maternal grandparents, and one of her mother, taken at ten or twelve years of age. "What a lovely little girl she was," murmured Elsie, gazing lovingly upon it. "Very much like what her daughter was at the same age," he answered. "But come, this, too, will interest you." And lifting the lid of a dainty work-basket, he pointed to a bit of embroidery, in which the needle was still sticking, as though it had been laid down by the deft fingers but a few moments ago. Elsie caught it up and kissed it, thinking of the touch of those dear dead fingers, that seemed to linger over it yet. CHAPTER SEVENTH. "She was the pride Of her familiar sphere, the daily joy Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze, And in the light and music of her way Have a companion's portrait," --WILLIS' POEMS. Elsie had fallen asleep thinking of the dear mother whose wealth she inherited, and whose place she was now filling; thinking of her as supremely blest, in that glorious, happy land, where sin and sorrow are unknown. Thinking, too, of Him, through whose shed blood she had found admittance there. The same sweet thoughts were still in the loving daughter's mind, as she woke to find the morning sun shining brightly, a fire blazing cheerily on the hearth, and Aunt Chloe coming in with a silver waiter filled with oranges prepared for eating in the manner usual in the tropics. She had gathered them the night before, taken off the peel, leaving the thick white skin underneath except on the top of each, where she cut it away from a spot about the size of a silver quarter of a dollar. She then placed them on a waiter, with the cut part uppermost, and set them where the dew would fall on them all night. Morning found them with the skin hard and leathery, but filled with delicious juice, which could be readily withdrawn from it. At that sight, a sudden memory seemed to flash upon Elsie, and starting up in the bed, "Mammy!" she cried, "didn't you do that very thing when I was a child?" "What, honey? bring de oranges in de mornin'?" "Yes, I seem to remember your coming in at that door, with just such a waiterful." "Yes, darlin', de folks allus eats dem 'foah breakfast. Deys jes' lubly, Miss Elsie; massa say so, lubly and delicious." And she brought the waiter to her bedside, holding it out for her young mistress to help herself. "Yes, mammy dear, they look very tempting, but I won't eat with unwashed hands and face," said Elsie gayly. "And so papa has stolen a march upon me and risen first?" "Yes, darlin', massa out on the veranda, but he say 'Let your missus sleep long as she will.'" "My always kind and indulgent father! Mammy, I'll take a bath; and then while you arrange my hair, I'll try the oranges. Go now and ask papa when he will have his breakfast, and tell Aunt Phillis to see that it is ready at the hour he names." Chloe obeyed, and an hour later Elsie met her father in the breakfast-room so glad, so gay, so bright, that his heart swelled with joy and pleasure in his child, and all fears that she had overfatigued herself vanished from his mind. She was full of plans for the comfort and profit of her people, but all to be subject to his approval "Papa dear," she said as soon as their morning greetings had been exchanged, "I think of sending for a physician to examine Suse and tell us whether there is reason for her complaints. She must not be forced to work if she is really ill." "I think it would be well," he replied. "There is an excellent physician living about three miles from here." Elsie was prompt in action by both nature and training, and instantly summoning a servant, despatched him at once on the proposed errand. "And now what next?" smilingly inquired her father. "Well, papa, after breakfast and prayers--how some of the old servants seemed to enjoy them last night--I think of going down to the quarter to see what may be needed there. Unless you have some other plan for me," she added quickly. "Suppose we first mount our horses and ride over the estate, to learn for ourselves whether Mr. Spriggs has been as faithful as he would have us believe." "Ah yes, papa; yours is always the better plan." Their ride in the clear, sweet morning air was most delightful, and both felt gratified with the fine appearance of the crops and the discovery that Spriggs' boast was no idle one; everything being in the nicest order. They took the quarter on the way to the house, and dismounting, entered one neatly whitewashed cabin after another, kindly inquiring into the condition and wants of the inmates, Elsie making notes on her tablets that nothing might be forgotten. Everywhere the visit was received with joy and gratitude, and an almost worshipful homage paid to the sweet young mistress whom they seemed to regard as akin to the angels: probably in a great measure because of her extraordinary likeness to her mother, of whom, for so many years they had been accustomed to think and speak as one of the heavenly host. Spriggs' victim of the previous day was in bed, complaining much of a misery in back and head and limbs. "De doctah hab been heyah," she said, "an' leff me dese powdahs to take," drawing a tiny package from under her pillow. Elsie spoke soothingly to her; said she should have some broth from the house, and should be excused from work till the doctor pronounced her quite fit for it again; and left her apparently quite happy. It was the intention of our friends to spend some weeks at Viamede. "I want you to have every possible enjoyment while here, my darling," Mr. Dinsmore said, as they sat together resting after their ride, in the wide veranda at the front of the house, looking out over the beautiful lawn, the bayou, and the lovely scenery beyond. "There are pleasant neighbors who will doubtless call when they hear of our arrival." "I almost wish they may not hear of it then," Elsie said half laughing; "I just want to be left free from the claims of society for this short time, that I may fully enjoy being alone with my father and attending to the comfort of my people. But excuse me, dear papa, I fear I interrupted you." "I excuse you on condition that you are not again guilty of such a breach of good manners. I was going on to say there are delightful drives and walks in the vicinity, of which I hope we will be able to make good use; also, we will have a row now and then on the bayou, and many an hour of quiet enjoyment of the contents of the library." "Yes, papa, I hope so; I do so enjoy a nice book, especially when read with you. But I think that, for the present at least, I must spend a part of each day in attending to the preparation of winter clothing for house-servants and field hands." "I won't have you doing the actual work, the cutting out and sewing, I mean," he answered decidedly; "the head work, calculating how much material is needed, what it will cost, etc., may be yours; but you have servants enough to do all the rest." "But, papa, consider; over three hundred to clothe, and I want it all done while I am here to oversee." "Have not some of the house-servants been trained as seamstresses?" "Yes, sir, two of them, mammy tells me." "Very well; she knows how to run a sewing-machine. Send for one when you order your material; both can be had in the nearest town. Aunt Chloe can soon teach the girls how to manage it; Uncle Joe, too; he has had no regular work assigned him yet, and the four can certainly do all without anything more than a little oversight from you; yes, without even that." "What a capital planner you are, papa," she said brightly; "I never thought of getting a machine or setting Uncle Joe to running it; but I am sure it's just the thing to do. Mammy can cut and the girls baste, and among them the machine can easily be kept going from morning to night. I'll make out my orders and send for the things at once." "That is right, daughter; it pleases me well to note how you put in practice the lesson of promptness I have always tried to teach you. I will help you in making your estimate of quantities needed, prices to be paid, etc., and I think we can accomplish the whole before dinner. Come to the library and let us to work." "You dear, kind father, always trying to help me and smooth the least roughness out of my path, and make life as enjoyable to me as possible," she said, laying her hand on his arm and looking up into his face with eyes beaming with filial love, as they rose and stood together for a moment. "A good daughter deserves a good father," he answered, smoothing with soft caressing motion the shining hair. "But have you the necessary data for our estimates?" "The number to be clothed, papa? I know how many house-servants, how many babies and older children at the quarter, but not the number of field hands." "That will be easily ascertained. I will send a note to Spriggs, who can tell us all about it." Mr. Dinsmore's plans were carried out to the letter, and with entire success. This was Saturday; the orders were sent that afternoon, and on Monday morning the work began. Aunt Chloe proved fully equal to the cutting of the garments, and Uncle Joe an apt scholar under her patient, loving teaching, and a willing worker at his new employment. There was scarcely need of even oversight on the part of the young mistress. She would drop in occasionally, commend their industry, and inquire if anything were wanting; then felt free for books, rides or walks, music or conversation with her father. But she was often down at the quarter visiting the sick, the aged and infirm, seeing that their wants were supplied, reading the Bible to them, praying with them, telling of the better land where no trouble or sorrow can come, and trying to make the way to it, through the shed blood of Christ, very plain and clear. Then she would gather the children about her and tell them of the blessed Jesus and His love for little ones. "Does He lub niggahs, missus?" queried one grinning little wooly head. "Yes, if they love Him: and they won't be negroes in heaven." "White folks, missus? Oh, dat nice! Guess I go dar; ef dey let me in." But we are anticipating somewhat, though Elsie found time for a short visit to the sick and aged on the afternoon of even that first day at Viamede. The next was the Sabbath, and as lovely a day as could be desired. The horses were ordered for an early hour, and father and daughter rode some miles together to morning service, then home again. As the shadows began to lengthen in the afternoon, Elsie was sitting alone on the veranda, her father having left her side but a moment before, when an old negro, familiarly known as Uncle Ben, came round the corner of the house, and slowly approached her. Very sweet and fair, very beautiful she looked to his admiring eyes. She held a Bible in her hand, and was so intent upon its perusal that she was not aware of his coming until he had drawn quite near. Ascending the steps, and standing at a respectful distance, hat in hand, he waited till she should notice and address him. Glancing up from her book, "Ah, Uncle Ben, good evening," she said. "What can I do for you?" "Missus," he answered, making a low salam, "all de darkies is gadered togedder under a tree 'round de house yondah, and dey 'pint me committee to come an' ax de young missus would she be so kind for to come an' read the Bible to dem, an' talk, an' pray, an' sing like she do for de sick ones down to de quarter? Dey be berry glad, missus, an' more dan obliged." "Indeed I will, uncle," Elsie said, rising at once and going with him, Bible in hand; "I had been thinking of doing this very thing." She found a rustic seat placed for her under a giant oak, and garlanded with fragrant flowers. Aunt Phillis, Aunt Chloe, Uncle Joe, and the rest of the house-servants, gathered in a semicircle around it, while beyond, the men, women, and children from the quarter sat or lay upon the grass, enjoying the rest from the toils of the week, the quiet, the balmy air laden with the fragrance of the magnolia and orange, and all the sweet sights and sounds of rural life in that favored region. Every one rose at the appearance of their young mistress, and there were murmurs of delight and gratitude coming from all sides. "Now bress de Lord, she read the good book for us." "She good an' lubly as de angels." "Missus berry kind, de darkies neber forget." Elsie acknowledged it all with a smile and a few kindly words, then commanding silence by a slight motion of the hand, addressed them in a clear, melodious voice, which, though not loud, could be distinctly heard by every one of the now almost breathless listeners. "I shall read to you of Jesus and some of His own words," she said, "but first we will ask Him to help us to understand, to love, and to obey His teachings." Then folding her hands and lifting her eyes to the clear blue sky above, she led them in a prayer so simple and childlike, so filial and loving in spirit and expression, that the dullest understood it, and felt that she spoke to One who was very near and dear to her. After that she read with the same distinct utterance the third chapter of John's Gospel, and commented briefly upon it. "You all want to go to heaven?" she said, closing the book. "Yes, Miss Elsie." "Yes missus, we all does." "But to be able to go there you must know the way, and now I want to make sure you do know it. Can you tell me what you must do to be saved?" There were various answers. "Be good," "Mine de rules an' do 'bout right." "Pray to de Lord," etc., etc. Elsie shook her head gravely. "All that you must do, and more besides. What does Jesus say? 'God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' We must believe _in_ Jesus--believe all that the Bible tells us about Him, that He was very God and very man, that He came down from heaven, was born a little babe and laid in a manger, that He grew up to be a man, went about doing good, and at last suffered and died the cruel death of the cross; and all to save poor lost sinners. "But even that is not enough: the devils believe so much; they know it is all true. But beside this, we must believe _on_ Christ Jesus. He offers to be our Saviour. 'Come unto Me ... and I will give you rest.' 'Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out,' And you must come, you must take the eternal life He offers you; you must rest on Him and Him only. "Suppose you were out on the bayou yonder, and the boat should upset and float beyond your reach, or be swept away from you by the wind and waves, and you couldn't swim; but just as you are sinking, you find a plank floating near; you catch hold of it, you find it strong and large enough to bear your weight, and you throw yourself upon it and cling to it for life. Just so you must cast yourself on Jesus, and cling to Him with all your strength: and He will save you; for He is able and willing 'to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by Him.' "He will wash away your sins in His own precious blood, and dress you in the beautiful robe of His perfect righteousness; that is, set His goodness to your account, so that you will be saved just as if you had been as good and holy as He was. Then you will love Him and try to do right to please Him; not to buy heaven; you cannot do that, for 'all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags,' and we cannot be saved unless we trust only in Jesus and His righteousness." Something in the faces before her caused Elsie to turn her head. Her father stood with grave, quiet air, but a few feet from her. "Papa," she said, in an undertone, and blushing slightly, "I did not know you were here. Will you not speak to them? you can do it so much better than I." She sat down, and stepping to her side he made a brief and simply worded address on the necessity of repentance and faith in Jesus, "the only Saviour of sinners," His willingness to save _all_ who come to Him, and the great danger of delay in coming. Then with a short prayer and the singing of a hymn, they were dismissed. With murmured thanks and many a backward look of admiring love at their already almost idolized young mistress, and her father, who had won their thorough respect and affection years ago, they scattered to their homes. "You must have a shawl and hat, for the air begins to grow cool," said Mr. Dinsmore to his daughter. "Yes, massa, I'se brought dem," said Chloe, hurrying up almost out of breath, with the required articles in her hand. "Thank you, mammy, you are always careful of your nursling;" Elsie said, smilingly, as the shawl was wrapped carefully about her shoulders and the hat placed upon her head. Her father drew her hand within his arm and led her across the lawn. "There is one spot, very dear to us both, which we have not yet visited," he said, low and feelingly, "and I have rather wondered at your delay in asking me to take you there." She understood him. "Yes, sir," she said, "I should have done so last evening, but that you looked weary. It has hardly been out of my mind since we came, and I have only waited for a suitable time." "None could be better than the present," he answered. On a gently sloping hillside, and beneath the shade of a beautiful magnolia, they found what they sought: a grave, with a headstone on which was carved the inscription: "Fell asleep in Jesus, March 15, 18--, ELSIE, WIFE OF HORACE DINSMORE, and only remaining child of WILLIAM AND ELSPETH GRAYSON, Aged 16 years, and 2 weeks. 'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.'" They read it standing side by side. "How young," murmured the daughter, tears filling her eyes, "how young to be a wife, a mother, and to die and leave husband and child! Oh, papa, how I used to long for her, and dream of her--my own precious mamma!" "When, my darling?" he asked in moved tones, drawing her tenderly to him and passing an arm about her waist. "Before I knew you, papa, and before you began to love me so dearly and be father and mother both, to me, as you have been for so many years," The low, sweet voice was tremulous with emotion, and the soft eyes lifted to his were brimming over with tears of mingled grief and joy, gratitude and love. "I have tried to be," he said; "but no one could supply her place. What a loving, tender mother she would have been! But let us forget our loss in the bliss of knowing that it is so well with her." It was a family burying-ground; there were other graves; those of our Elsie's grandparents, and several of their sons and daughters who had died in infancy or early youth; and in the midst uprose a costly monument, placed there by Mr. Grayson after the death of his wife. The spot showed the same care as the rest of the estate, and was lovely with roses and other sweet flowers and shrubs. "My mother's grave!" said Elsie, bending over it again. "Papa, let us kneel down beside it and pray that we may meet her in heaven." He at once complied with the request, giving thanks for the quiet rest of her who slept in Jesus, and asking that, when each of them had done and suffered all God's holy will here on earth, they might be reunited to her above, and join in her glad song of praise to redeeming love. Elsie joined fervently in the "Amen," and rising, they lingered a moment longer, then wended their way in sweet and solemn silence to the house. They sat together in the library after tea, each occupied with a book. But Elsie seemed little interested in hers, looking off the page now and then, as if in deep and troubled thought. At length closing it, she stole round to the side of her father's easy chair, and taking possession of a footstool, laid her head on his knee. "I have my little girl again to-night," he said, passing his hand caressingly over her hair and cheek. "I almost wish it was, papa." "Why? is anything troubling you, dearest?" And he pushed his book aside, ready to give his whole attention to her. "I am anxious about my poor people, papa; they are so ignorant of the truths necessary to salvation; and what can I teach them in three or four weeks? I have almost decided that I ought--that I must stay as many months." "And that without even consulting your father? much less considering his permission necessary to your action?" Though the words seemed to convey reproach, if not reproof, his tone was gentle and tender. "No, no, papa! I must cease to think it my duty if you forbid it." "As I do most positively, _I_ cannot stay, and I should never think for a moment of leaving you here!" "But, papa, how then am I to do my duty by these poor ignorant creatures? how can I let them perish for lack of knowledge whom Christ has put into my care?" "Procure a chaplain, who shall hold regular services for them every Sabbath, and do pastoral work among them through the week. You will not grudge him his salary." "Papa, what an excellent idea! Grudge him his salary? No, indeed; if I can get the right man to fill the place, he shall have a liberal one. And then he will be a check upon Mr. Spriggs, and inform me if the people are abused. But how shall I find him?" "What do you do when in want of something you do not know exactly how to procure?" "Pray for direction and help," she answered, low and reverently. "We will both do that, asking that the right man may be sent us; and I will write to-morrow to some of the presidents of the theological seminaries, asking them to recommend some one suited for the place." "Papa," she cried, lifting a very bright face to his, "what a load you have taken from my mind." CHAPTER EIGHTH. "A mighty pain to love it is And 'tis a pain that pain to miss; But of all pains, the greatest pain It is to love, but love in vain." --COWLEY. One lovely afternoon in the second week of their stay at Viamede, Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter were seated in the shade of the trees on the lawn, she busied with some fancy-work while her father read aloud to her. As he paused to turn a leaf, "Papa," she said, glancing off down the bayou, "there is a steamer coming, the same that brought us, I think; and see, it is rounding to at our landing. Can it be bringing us a guest?" "Yes, a gentleman is stepping ashore. Why, daughter, it is Harold Allison." "Harold! oh, how delightful!" And rising they hastened to meet and welcome him with truly Southern warmth of hospitality. "Harold! how good of you!" cried Elsie. "Mamma wrote us that you were somewhere in this region, and if I'd had your address, I should have sent you an invitation to come and stay as long as possible." "And you have done well and kindly by us to come without waiting for that," Mr. Dinsmore said, shaking the hand of his young brother-in-law with a warmth of cordiality that said more than his words. "Many thanks to you both," he answered gayly. "I was conceited enough to feel sure of a welcome, and did not wait, as a more modest fellow might, to be invited. But what a lovely place! a paradise upon earth! And, Elsie, you, in those dainty white robes, look the fit presiding genius." Elsie laughed and shook her head. "Don't turn flatterer, Harold; though I do not object to praise of Viamede." "I have not heard from Rose in a long time," he said, addressing Mr. Dinsmore. "She and the little folks are well, I hope?" "I had a letter this morning, and they were all in good health when it was written." The servants had come trooping down from the house, and seizing Harold's baggage had it all ready in the guest-chamber to which Aunt Phillis ordered it. Aunt Chloe now drew near to pay her respects to "Massa Harold," and tell him that his room was ready. "Will you go to it at once? or sit down here and have a little chat with papa and me first?" asked Elsie. "Thank you; I think I shall defer the pleasure of the chat till I have first made myself presentable for the evening." "Then let me conduct you to your room," said Mr. Dinsmore, leading the way to the house. Elsie had come in the course of years to look upon the older brothers of her stepmother as in some sort her uncles, but for Harold, who was so much nearer her own age, she entertained a sincere sisterly regard. And he was worthy of it and of the warm place his many noble qualities had won for him in Mr. Dinsmore's heart. They did all they could to make his visit to Viamede a pleasant one; there were daily rides and walks, moonlight and early morning excursions on the bayou, rowing parties; oftenest of the three alone, but sometimes in company with gallant chivalrous men and refined, cultivated women and charming young girls from the neighboring plantations. One of these last, a beautiful brunette, Elsie had selected in her own mind for Harold, and she contrived to throw them together frequently. "Don't you admire Miss Durand?" she asked, after they had met several times. "I think she is lovely; as good, too, as she is beautiful; and would make you a charming wife." He flushed hotly. "She is very handsome, very fascinating and talented," he said; "but would never suit me. Nor do I suppose I could win her if I wished." "Indeed! if you are so hard to please, I fear there will be nothing for you but old bachelorhood," laughed Elsie. "I have picked her out for you, and I believe you could win her if you tried, Harold; but I shall not try to become a match-maker." "No, I must select for myself; I couldn't let even you choose for me." "Choose what?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, stepping out upon the veranda, where Harold stood leaning against a vine-wreathed pillar, his blue eyes fixed with a sort of wistful, longing look upon Elsie's graceful figure and fair face, as she sat in a half-reclining posture on a low couch but a few feet from him. "A wife," he answered, compelling himself to speak lightly. "Don't let her do it," said Mr. Dinsmore, taking a seat by his daughter's side; "I've warned her more than once not to meddle with match-making." And he shook his head at her with mock gravity. "I won't any more, papa; I'll leave him to his own devices, since he shows himself so ungrateful for my interest in his welfare," Elsie said, looking first at her father and then at Harold with a merry twinkle in her eye. "I don't think I've asked how you like your new home and prospects, Harold," said Mr. Dinsmore, changing the subject. "Very much, thank you; except that they take me so far from the rest of the family." A few months before this Harold had met with a piece of rare good fortune, looked at from a worldly point of view, in being adopted as his sole heir by a rich and childless Louisiana planter, a distant relative of Mrs. Allison. "Ah, that is an objection," returned Mr. Dinsmore; "but you will be forming new and closer ties, that will doubtless go far to compensate for the partial loss of the old. I hope you are enjoying yourself here?" "I am indeed, thank you." This answer was true, yet Harold felt himself flush as he spoke, for there was one serious drawback upon his felicity; he could seldom get a word alone with Elsie; she and her father were so inseparable that he scarcely saw the one without the other. And Harold strongly coveted an occasional monopoly of the sweet girl's society. He had come to Viamede with a purpose entirely unsuspected by her or her apparently vigilant guardian. He should perhaps, have confided his secret to Mr. Dinsmore first, but his heart failed him; and "what would be the use?" he asked himself, "if Elsie is not willing? Ah, if I could but be alone with her for an hour!" The coveted opportunity offered itself at last, quite unexpectedly. Coming out upon the veranda one afternoon, he saw Elsie sitting alone under a tree far down on the lawn. He hastened towards her. "I am glad to see you," she said, looking up with a smile and making room for him on the seat by her side. "You see I am 'lone and lorn,' Mr. Durand having carried off papa to look at some new improvement in his sugar-house machinery." "Ah! and when will your father return?" "In about an hour, I presume. Shall you attend Aunt Adie's wedding?" she asked. "Yes, I think so. Don't you sometimes feel as if you'd like to stay here altogether?" "Yes, and no; it's very lovely, and the more charming I believe, because it is my own; but--there is so much more to bind me to the Oaks, and I could never live far away from papa." "Couldn't you? I hoped---- Oh, Elsie, couldn't you possibly love some one else better even than you love him? You're more to me than father, mother, and all the world beside. I have wanted to tell you so for years, but while I was comparatively poor your fortune sealed my lips. Now I am rich, and I lay all I have at your feet; myself included; and----" "Oh, Harold, hush!" she cried in trembling tones, flushing and paling by turns, and putting up her hand as if to stop the torrent of words he was pouring forth so unexpectedly that astonishment had struck her dumb for an instant; "oh! don't say any more, I--I thought you surely knew that--that I am already engaged." "No. To whom?" he asked hoarsely, his face pale as death, and lips quivering so that he could scarcely speak. "To Mr. Travilla. It has been only for a few weeks, though we have loved each other for years. Oh, Harold, Harold, do not look so wretched! you break my heart, for I love you as a very dear brother." He turned away with a groan, and without another word hastened back to the house, while Elsie, covering her face with her hands, shed some very bitter tears. Heart-broken, stunned, feeling as if every good thing in life had suddenly slipped from his grasp, Harold sought his room, mechanically gathered up his few effects, packed them into his valise, then sat down by the open window and leant his head upon his hand. He couldn't think, he could only feel that all was lost, and that he must go away at once, if he would not have everybody know it, and make the idol of his heart miserable with the sight of his wretchedness. Why had he not known of her engagement? Why had no one told him? Why had he been such a fool as to suppose he could win so great a prize? He was not worthy of her. How plainly he saw it now, how sorely repented of the conceit that had led him on to the avowal of his passion. He had a vague recollection that a boat was to pass that afternoon. He would take passage in that, and he hoped Mr. Dinsmore's return might be delayed till he was gone. He would away without another word to Elsie; she should not be disturbed by any further unmanly manifestation of his bitter grief and despair. The hour of the passing of the boat drew near, and valise in hand, he left his room and passed down the stairs. But Elsie was coming in from the lawn, and they met in the lower hall. "Harold," she cried, "you are not going? You must not leave us so suddenly." "I must," he said in icy tones, the stony eyes gazing into vacancy; "all places are alike to me now, and I cannot stay here to trouble you and Horace with the sight of a wretchedness I cannot hide." Trembling so that she could scarcely stand, Elsie leaned against the wall for support, the hot tears coursing down her cheeks. "Oh, Harold!" she sobbed, "what an unhappy creature I am to have been the cause of such sorrow to you! Oh why should you ever have thought of me so?" Dropping his valise, his whole manner changing, he turned to her with passionate vehemence. "Because I couldn't help it! Even as a boy I gave up my whole heart to you, and I cannot call it back. Oh, Elsie, why did I ever see you?" and he seized both her hands in a grasp that almost forced a cry of pain from her white, quivering lips. "Life is worthless without you. I'd rather die knowing that you loved me than live to see you in the possession of another." "Harold, Harold, a sister's love I can, I do give you; and can you not be content with that?" "A sister's love!" he repeated scornfully. "Offer a cup with a drop of water in it, to a man perishing, dying with thirst. Yes, I'm going away, I care not whither; all places are alike to him who has lost all interest in life." He threw her hands from him almost with violence, half turned away, then suddenly catching her in his arms, held her close to his heart, kissing passionately, forehead, cheek, and lips. "Oh, Elsie, Elsie, light of my eyes, core of my heart, why did we ever meet to part like this? I don't blame you. I have been a fool. Good-bye, darling." And releasing her, he was gone ere she could recover breath to speak. It had all been so sudden she had had no power, perhaps no will, to resist, so sore was the tender, loving heart for him. He was barely in time to hail the boat as it passed, and at the instant he was about to step aboard, Mr. Dinsmore rode up, and springing from the saddle, throwing the reins to his servant, cried out in astonishment, "Harold! you are not leaving us? Come, come, what has happened to hurry you away? Must you go?" "Yes, I must," he answered with half-averted face. "Don't call me a scoundrel for making such a return for your hospitality. I couldn't help it. Good-bye. Try to forget that I've been here at all; for Rose's sake, you know." He sprang into the boat; it pushed off, and was presently lost to sight among the trees shading the bayou on either hand. Mr. Dinsmore stood for a moment as if spellbound; then turned and walked thoughtfully towards the house. "What did it all mean?" he asked himself; "of what unkind return of his or Elsie's hospitality could the lad have been guilty? Elsie! ha! can it be possible?" and quickened his pace, glancing from side to side in search of her as he hurried on. Entering the hall, the sound of a half-smothered sob guided him to a little parlor or reception-room seldom used. Softly he opened the door. She was there half-reclining upon a sofa, her face buried in the cushions. In a moment he had her in his arms, the weary, aching head on his breast, while he tenderly wiped away the fast-falling tears. "My poor darling, my poor little pet, don't take it so to heart. It is nothing; he will probably get over it before he is a month older." "Papa, is it my fault? did I give him undue encouragement? am I a coquette?" she sobbed. "Far from it! did he dare to call you that?" "No, no, oh, no; he said he did not blame me; it was all his own folly." "Ah! I think the better of him for that; though 'twas no more than just." "I thought he knew of my engagement." "So did I. And the absurdity of the thing! Such a mixture of relationships as it would have been! I should never have entertained the thought for a moment. And he ought to have spoken to me first, and spared you all this. No, you needn't fret; he deserves all he suffers, for what he has inflicted upon you, my precious one." "I hardly think that, papa; he was very generous to take all the blame to himself; but oh, you have eased my heart of half its load. What should I ever do without you, my own dear, dear father!" The pleasure of our friends, during the rest of their stay at Viamede, was somewhat dampened by this unfortunate episode, though Elsie, for her father's sake, did her best to rally from its effect on her spirits, and to be cheerful and gay as before. Long, bright, loving letters from home, and Ion coming the next day, were a great help. Then the next day brought a chaplain, who seemed in all respects so well suited to his place as to entirely relieve her mind in regard to the future welfare of her people. He entered into all her plans for them, and promised to carry them out to the best of his ability. So it was with a light heart, though not without some lingering regrets for the sad ones and the loveliness left behind, that she and her father set out on their homeward way. Mr. Dinsmore's man John, Aunt Chloe, and Uncle Joe, went with them; and it was a continual feast for master and mistress to see the happiness of the poor old couple, especially when their grandchild Dinah, their only living descendant so far as they could learn, was added to the party; Elsie purchasing her, according to promise, as they passed through New Orleans on their return trip. Dinah was very grateful to find herself installed as assistant to her grandmother, who, Elsie said, must begin to take life more easily now in her old age. Yet that Aunt Chloe found it hard to do, for she was very jealous of having any hands but her own busied about the person of her idolized young mistress. A glad welcome awaited them at home, where they arrived in due season for Adelaide's wedding. Sophie and Harry Carrington had returned from their wedding trip, and were making their home with his parents, at Ashlands; Richard, Fred, and May Allison, came with their brother Edward; but Harold, who was to meet them at Roselands, was not there. He had engaged to act as second groomsman, Richard being first, and there was much wondering over his absence; many regrets were expressed, and some anxiety was felt. But Elsie and her father kept their own counsel, and breathed no word of the episode at Viamede, which would have explained all. Harold's coming was still hoped for by the others until the last moment, when Fred took his place, and the ceremony passed off as satisfactorily as if there had been no failure on the part of any expected, to participate in it. It took place in the drawing-room at Roselands, in presence of a crowd of aristocratic guests, and was considered a very grand affair. A round of parties followed for the next two weeks, and then the happy pair set sail for Europe. CHAPTER NINTH. "My plots fall short, like darts which rash hands throw With an ill aim, and have too far to go." --SIR ROBERT HOWARD. "I'm so glad it's all over at last!" "What, my little friend?" and Mr. Travilla looked fondly into the sweet face so bright and happy, where the beauties of rare intellect and moral worth were as conspicuous as the lesser ones of exquisite contour and coloring. "The wedding and all the accompanying round of dissipation. Now I hope we can settle down to quiet home pleasures for the rest of the winter." "So do I, and that I shall see twice as much of you as I have of late. You can have no idea how I missed you while you were absent. And I am more than half envious of our bride and groom. Shall our trip be to Europe, Elsie?" "Are we to take a trip?" she asked with an arch smile. "That will be as you wish, dearest, of course." "I don't wish it now, nor do you, I know; but we shall have time enough to settle all such questions." "Plenty; I only wish we had not so much. Yet I don't mean to grumble; the months will soon slip away and bring the time when I may claim my prize." They were riding towards the Oaks; the sun had just set, and the moon was still below the horizon. Elsie suddenly reined in her horse, Mr. Travilla instantly doing likewise, and turned a pale, agitated face upon him. "Did you hear that?" she asked low and tremulously. "What, dear child? I heard nothing but the sound of our horses' hoofs, the sighing of the wind in the tree-tops, and our own voices." "I heard another; a muttered oath and the words, 'You shall never win her. I'll see to that.' The tones were not loud but deep, and the wind seemed to carry the sounds directly to my ear," she whispered, laying a trembling little hand on his arm, and glancing nervously from side to side. "A trick of the imagination, I think, dearest; but from whence did the sounds seem to come?" "From yonder thicket of evergreens and--I knew the voice for that of your deadly foe, the man from whom you and papa rescued me in Landsdale." "My child, he is expiating his crime in a Pennsylvania penitentiary." "But may he not have escaped, or have been pardoned out? Don't, oh don't, I entreat you!" she cried, as he turned his horse's head in the direction of the thicket. "You will be killed." "I am armed, and a dead shot," he answered, taking a revolver from his breast pocket. "But he is in ambush, and can shoot you down before you can see to aim at him." "You are right, if there is really an enemy concealed there," he answered, returning the revolver to its former resting-place; "but I feel confident that it was either a trick of the imagination with you, or that some one is playing a practical joke upon us. So set your tears at rest, dear child, and let us hasten on our way." Elsie yielded to his better judgment, trying to believe it nothing worse than a practical joke; but had much ado to quiet her agitated nerves and recover her composure before a brisk canter brought them to the Oaks, and she must meet her father's keen eye. They found Arthur in the drawing-room, chatting with Rose. He rose with a bland, "Good-evening," and gallantly handed Elsie to a seat. Arthur was a good deal changed since his recall from college; and in nothing more than in his manner to Elsie; he was now always polite; often cordial even when alone with her. He was not thoroughly reformed, but had ceased to gamble and seldom drank to intoxication. "Thank you; but indeed I must go at once and dress for tea," Elsie said, consulting her watch. "You are not going yet?" "No, he will stay to tea," said Rose. "But must go soon after, as I have an engagement," added Arthur. Elsie met her father in the hall. "Ah, you are at home again," he remarked with a pleased look; "that is well; I was beginning to think you were making it very late." "But you are not uneasy when I am in such good hands, papa?" "No, not exactly; but like better to take care of you myself." The clock was just striking eight as Arthur mounted and rode away from his brother's door. It was not a dark night, or yet very light; for though the moon had risen, dark clouds were scudding across the sky, allowing but an occasional glimpse of her face, and casting deep shadows over the landscape. In the partial obscurity of one of these, and only a few rods ahead of him, when about half-way between the Oaks and Roselands, Arthur thought he discovered the figure of a man standing by the roadside, apparently waiting to halt him as he passed. "Ha! you'll not take me by surprise, my fine fellow, whoever you may be," muttered Arthur between his set teeth, drawing out a revolver and cocking it, "Halloo there! Who are you; and what d'ye want?" he called, as his horse brought him nearly opposite the suspicious looking object. "Your money or your life, Dinsmore," returned the other with a coarse laugh. "Don't pretend not to know me, old chap." "You!" exclaimed Arthur, with an oath, but half under his breath. "I thought you were safe in----" "State prison, eh? Well, so I was, but they've pardoned me out. I was a reformed character, you see; and then my vote was wanted at the last election, ha! ha! And so I've come down to see how my old friends are getting along." "Friends! don't count me among them!" returned Arthur, hastily; "jail-birds are no mates for me." "No, I understand that, the disgrace is in being caught. But you'd as well keep a civil tongue in your head; for if you're covering me with a revolver, I'm doing the same by you." "I'm not afraid of you, Tom," answered Arthur, with a scornful laugh, "but I'm in a hurry; so be good enough to move out of the way and let me pass." For the other had now planted himself in the middle of the road, and laid a heavy hand upon the horse's bridle-rein. "When I've said my say; no sooner. So that pretty niece of yours, my former fiancée, is engaged to Travilla? the man whom, of all others, I hate with a hatred bitterer than death. I would set my heel upon his head and grind it into the earth as I would the head of a venomous reptile." "Who told you?" "I overheard some o' their sweet talk as they rode by here not two hours ago. He robbed me of her that he might snatch the prize himself; I saw his game at the time. But he shall never get her," he concluded, grinding his teeth with rage. "Pray, how do you propose to prevent it?" "I'll call him out." Arthur's laugh rang out mockingly upon the still night air. "Southern gentlemen accept a challenge only from gentlemen; and as for Travilla, besides being a dead shot, he's too pious to fight a duel, even with his own class." "He'll meet me in fair fight, or I'll shoot him down, like a dog, in his tracks." The words, spoken in low tone, of concentrated fury, were accompanied with a volley of horrible oaths. "You'd better not try it!" said Arthur; "you'd be lynched and hung on the nearest tree within an hour." "They'd have to catch me first." "And they would, they'd set their bloodhounds on your track, and there'd be no escape. As to the lady having been your fiancée--she never was; she would not engage herself without my brother's consent, which you were not able to obtain. And now you'd better take yourself off out of this neighborhood, after such threats as you've made!" "That means you intend to turn informer, eh?" "It means nothing of the kind, unless I'm called up as a witness in court; but you can't prowl about here long without being seen and arrested as a suspicious character, an abolitionist, or some other sort of scoundrel--which last you know you are," Arthur could not help adding in a parenthesis. "So take my advice, and retreat while you can. Now out o' the way, if you please, and let me pass." Jackson sullenly stood aside, letting go the rein, and Arthur galloped off. In the meantime, the older members of the family at the Oaks were quietly enjoying themselves in the library, where bright lights, and a cheerful wood-fire snapping and crackling on the hearth, added to the sense of comfort imparted by handsome furniture, books, painting, statuary, rich carpet, soft couches, and easy chairs. The children had been sent to bed. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore sat by the centre table, the one busy with the evening paper, the other sewing, but now and then casting a furtive glance at a distant sofa, where Mr. Travilla and Elsie were seated side by side, conversing in an undertone. "This is comfort, having you to myself again," he was saying, as he watched admiringly the delicate fingers busied with a crochet needle, forming bright meshes of scarlet zephyr. "How I missed you when you were gone! and yet, do you know, I cannot altogether regret the short separation, since otherwise I should have missed my precious budget of letters." "Ah," she said, lifting her merry brown eyes to his face for an instant, then dropping them again, with a charming smile and blush, "do you think that an original idea, or rather that it is original only with yourself?" "And you are glad to have mine? though not nearly so sweet and fresh as yours." How glad he looked as he spoke. "Ah!" she answered archly, "I'll not tell you what I have done with them, lest you grow conceited. But I have a confession to make," and she laughed lightly. "Will you absolve me beforehand?" "Yes, if you are penitent, and promise to offend no more. What is it?" "I see I have aroused your curiosity, I shall not keep you in suspense. I am corresponding with a young gentleman. Here is a letter from him, received to-day;" drawing it from her pocket as she spoke, she put it into his hand. "I have no wish to examine it," he said gravely, laying it on her lap. "I can trust you fully, Elsie." "But I should like you to read it; 'tis from Mr. Mason, my chaplain at Viamede, and gives a lengthy, and very interesting account of the Christmas doings there." "Which I should much prefer to hear from your lips, my little friend." "Ah, read it, please; read it aloud to me; I shall then enjoy it as much as I did the first time; and you will learn how truly good and pious Mr. Mason is, far better than from my telling. Not that he talks of himself, but you perceive it from what he says of others." He complied with her request, reading in the undertone in which they had been talking. "A very well written and interesting letter," he remarked, as he refolded and returned it. "Yes, I should judge from it that he is the right man in the right place. I presume the selection of gifts so satisfactory to all parties must have been yours?" "Yes, sir; being with them, I was able to ascertain their wants and wishes, by questioning one in regard to another. Then I made out the list, and left Mr. Mason to do the purchasing for me. I think I can trust him again, and it is a great relief to my mind to have some one there to attend to the welfare of their souls and bodies." "Have you gotten over your fright of this evening?" he inquired tenderly, bending towards her, and speaking lower than before. "Almost if--if you have not to return to Ion to-night. Must you, really?" "Yes; mother would be alarmed by my absence; and she seldom retires till I am there to bid her good-night." "Then promise me to avoid that thicket," she pleaded anxiously. "I cannot think there is any real danger," he said, with a reassuring smile, "but I shall take the other road; 'tis but a mile further round, and it would pay me to travel fifty to spare you a moment's anxiety, dearest." She looked her thanks. He left at ten, his usual hour, bidding her have no fear for him, since no real evil can befall those who put their trust in Him whose watchful, protecting care is ever about His chosen ones. "Yes," she whispered, as for a moment his arm encircled her waist, "'What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.' It is comparatively easy to trust for myself, and God will help me to do it for you also." She stood at the window watching his departure, her heart going up in silent prayer for his safety. Then, saying to herself, "Papa must not be disturbed with my idle fancies," she turned to receive his good-night with a face so serene and unclouded, a manner so calm and peaceful, that he had no suspicion of anything amiss. Nor was it an assumed peace and calmness; for she had not now to learn to cast her care on the Lord, whom she had loved and served from her very infancy; and her head had not rested many moments upon her pillow ere she fell into a deep, sweet sleep, that lasted until morning. While Elsie slept, and Mr. Travilla galloped homeward by the longer route, the moon, peering through the cloud curtains, looked down upon a dark figure, standing behind a tree not many yards distant from the thicket Elsie had besought her friend to shun. The man held a revolver in his hand, ready cocked for instant use. His attitude was that of one listening intently for some expected sound. He had stood thus for hours, and was growing very weary. "Curse the wretch!" he muttered, "does he court all night? How many hours have I been here waiting for my chance for a shot at him? It's getting to be no joke, hungry, cold, tired enough to lie down here on the ground. But I'll stick it out, and shoot him down like a dog. He thinks to enjoy the prize he snatched from me, but he'll find himself mistaken, or my name's n----" The sentence ended with a fierce grinding of the teeth. Hark! was that the distant tread of a horse? He bent his ear to the earth, and almost held his breath to listen. Yes, faint but unmistakable; the sounds filled him with a fiendish joy. For years he had nursed his hatred of Travilla, whom he blamed almost exclusively for his failure to get possession of Elsie's fortune. He sprang up and again placed himself in position to fire. But what had become of the welcome sounds? Alas for his hoped-for revenge; they had died away entirely. The horse and his rider must have taken some other road. More low-breathed, bitter curses: yet perchance it was not the man for whose life he thirsted. He would wait and hope on. But the night waned: one after another the moon and stars set and day began to break in the east; the birds waking in their nests overhead grew clamorous with joy, yet their notes seemed to contain a warning tone for him, bidding him begone ere the coming of the light hated by those whose deeds are evil. Chilled by the frosty air, and stiff and sore from long standing in a constrained position, he limped away, and disappeared in the deeper shadows of the woods. Arthur's words of warning had taken their desired effect; and cowardly, as base, wicked, and cruel, the man made haste to flee from the scene of his intended crime, imagining at times that he even heard the bloodhounds already on his track. CHAPTER TENTH. "At last I know thee--and my soul, From all thy arts set free, Abjures the cold consummate art Shrin'd as a soul in thee." --SARA J. CLARK. The rest of the winter passed quietly and happily with our friends at Ion and the Oaks, Mr. Travilla spending nearly half his time at the latter place, and in rides and walks with Elsie, whom he now and then coaxed to Ion for a call upon his mother. Their courtship was serene and peaceful: disturbed by no feverish heat of passion, no doubts and fears, no lovers' quarrels, but full of a deep, intense happiness, the fruit of their long and intimate friendship, their full acquaintance with, and perfect confidence in each other, and their strong love. Enna sneeringly observed that "they were more like some staid old married couple than a pair of lovers." Arthur made no confidant in regard to his late interview with Jackson; nothing more was heard or seen of the scoundrel, and gradually Elsie came to the conclusion that Mr. Travilla, who occasionally rallied her good-naturedly on the subject of her fright, had been correct in his judgment that it was either the work of imagination or of some practical joker. Arthur, on his part, thought that fear of the terrors he had held up before him would cause Jackson--whom he knew to be an arrant coward--to refrain from adventuring himself again in the neighborhood. But he miscalculated the depth of the man's animosity towards Mr. Travilla, which so exceeded his cowardice as at length to induce him to return and make another effort to destroy either the life of that gentleman or his hopes of happiness; perhaps both. Elsie was very fond of the society of her dear ones, yet occasionally found much enjoyment in being alone, for a short season, with Nature or a book. A very happy little woman, as she had every reason to be, and full of gratitude and love to the Giver of all good for His unnumbered blessings, she loved now and then to have a quiet hour in which to count them over, as a miser does his gold, to return her heartfelt thanks, tell her best, her dearest Friend of all, how happy she was, and seek help from Him to make a right use of each talent committed to her care. Seated in her favorite arbor one lovely spring day, with thoughts thus employed, and eyes gazing dreamily upon the beautiful landscape spread out at her feet, she was startled from her reverie by some one suddenly stepping in and boldly taking a seat by her side. She turned her head. Could it be possible? Yes, it was indeed Tom Jackson, handsomely dressed and looking, to a casual observer, the gentleman she had once believed him to be. She recognized him instantly. A burning blush suffused her face, dyeing even the fair neck and arms. She spoke not a word, but rose up hastily with the intent to fly from his hateful presence. "Now don't, my darling, don't run away from me," he said, intercepting her. "I'm sure you couldn't have the heart, if you knew how I have lived for years upon the hope of such a meeting: for my love for you, dearest Elsie, has never lessened, the ardor of my passion has never cooled----" "Enough, sir," she said, drawing herself up, her eyes kindling and flashing as he had never thought they could; "how dare you insult me by such words, and by your presence here? Let me pass." "Insult you, Miss Dinsmore?" he cried, in affected surprise. "You were not wont, in past days, to consider my presence an insult, and I could never have believed fickleness a part of your nature. You are now of age, and have a right to listen to my defense, and my suit for your heart and hand." "Are you mad? Can you still suppose me ignorant of your true character and your history for years past? Know then that I am fully acquainted with them; that I know you to be a lover of vice and the society of the vicious--a drunkard, profane, a gambler, and one who has stained his hands with the blood of a fellow-creature," she added with a shudder. "I pray God you may repent and be forgiven; but you are not and can never be anything to me." "So with all your piety you forsake your friends when they get into trouble," he remarked with a bitter sneer. "Friend of mine you never were," she answered quietly; "I know it was my fortune and not myself you really wanted. But though it were true that you loved me as madly and disinterestedly as you professed, had I known your character, never, _never_ should I have held speech with you, much less admitted you to terms of familiarity--a fact which I look back upon with the deepest mortification. Let me pass, sir, and never venture to approach me again." "No you don't, my haughty miss! I'm not done with you yet," he exclaimed between his clenched teeth, and seizing her rudely by the arm as she tried to step past him. "So you're engaged to that fatherly friend of yours, that pious sneak, that deadly foe to me?" "Unhand me, sir!" "Not yet," he answered, tightening his grasp, and at the same time taking a pistol from his pocket. "I swear you shall never marry that man: promise me on your oath that you'll not, or--I'll shoot you through the heart; the heart that's turned false to me. D'ye hear," and he held the muzzle of his piece within a foot of her breast. Every trace of color fled from her face, but she stood like a marble statue, without speech or motion of a muscle, her eyes looking straight into his with firm defiance. "Do you hear?" he repeated, in a tone of exasperation, "speak! promise that you'll never marry Travilla, or I'll shoot you in three minutes--shoot you down dead on the spot, if I swing for it before night." "That will be as God pleases," she answered low and reverently; "you can have no power at all against me except it be given you from above." "I can't, hey? looks like it; I've only to touch the trigger here, and your soul's out o' your body. Better promise than die." Still she stood looking him unflinchingly in the eye; not a muscle moving, no sign of fear except that deadly pallor. "Well," lowering his piece, "you're a brave girl, and I haven't the heart to do it," he exclaimed in admiration. "I'll give up that promise; on condition that you make another--that you'll keep all this a secret for twenty-four hours, so I can make my escape from the neighborhood before they get after me with their bloodhounds." "That I promise, if you will be gone at once." "You'll not say a word to any one of having seen me, or suspecting I'm about here?" "Not a word until the twenty-four hours are over." "Then good-bye. Your pluck has saved your life; but remember, I've not said I won't shoot him or your father, if chance throws them in my way," he added, looking back over his shoulder with a malicious leer, as he left the arbor, then disappearing from sight among the trees and shrubbery beyond. Elsie's knees shook and trembled under her; she sank back into her seat, covering her face and bowing her head upon her lap, while she sent up silent, almost agonizing petitions for the safety of those two so inexpressibly dear to her. Some moments passed thus, then she rose and hastened, with a quick nervous step, to the house. She entered her boudoir, and lay down upon a couch trembling in every fibre, every nerve quivering with excitement. The shock had been terrible. "What de matter wid my chile? what ails you, honey?" asked Aunt Chloe, coming to her side full of concern. "I think one of my bad headaches is coming on, mammy. But oh, tell me, is Mr. Travilla here?--and papa! where is he?" "Here daughter," his voice answered, close at hand, "and with a note for you from Mr. Travilla, who has not shown himself to-day." She took it eagerly, but with a hand that trembled as if with sudden palsy, while the eyes, usually so keen-sighted, saw only a blurred and confused jumble of letters in place of the clear, legible characters really there. "I cannot see," she said, in a half-frightened tone, and pressing the other hand to her brow. "And you are trembling like an aspen leaf," he said, bending over her in serious alarm. "My child, when did this come on? and what has caused it?" "Papa, I cannot tell you now, or till to-morrow, at this hour; I will then. But oh, papa dear, dear papa!" she cried, putting her arm about his neck and bursting into hysterical weeping, "promise me, if you love me promise me, that you will not leave the house till I have told you. I am sick, I am suffering; you will stay by me? you will not leave me?" "My darling, I will do anything I can to relieve you, mentally or physically," he answered in tones of tenderest love and concern. "I shall not stir from the house, while to do so would increase your suffering. I perceive there has been some villainy practised upon you, and a promise extorted, which I shall not ask you to break; but rest assured, I shall keep guard over my precious one." "And Mr. Travilla!" she gasped. "Oh, papa, if I only knew he was safe!" "Perhaps the note may set your mind at rest on that point. Shall I read it for you?" "Yes, sir," she said, putting it into his hand with a slight blush, "he never writes what I should be ashamed or afraid to have my father see." It was but short, written merely to explain his absence, and dated from a neighboring plantation, where he had gone to assist in nursing a sick friend whom he should not be able to leave for some days. There were words of deep, strong affection, but as she had foreseen, nothing that she need care to have her father know or see. "Does not this news allay your fears for him?" Mr. Dinsmore asked tenderly. "Yes, papa," she answered, the tears streaming from her eyes. "Oh, how good God is to me! I will trust Him, trust Him for you both, as well as myself." She covered her face with her hands while shudder after shudder shook her whole frame. Mr. Dinsmore was much perplexed, and deeply concerned. "Shall I send for Dr. Barton?" he asked. "No, no, papa! I am not ill; only my nerves have had a great, a terrible shock; they seem all unstrung, and my temples are throbbing with pain." "My poor, poor darling! strange that with all my care and watchfulness you should have been subjected to such a trial. Some ruffian has been trying to extort money from you, I presume, by threatened violence to yourself, Travilla, and me. Where were you?" "In my arbor, sir." "And alone?" "Yes, papa; I thought myself safe there." "I forbid you to go there or to any distance from the house, alone, again. You must always have some one within call, if not close at your side." "And my father knows I will obey him," she said, tremulously lifting his hand to her lips. He administered an anodyne to relieve the tortured nerves, then sitting down beside her, passed his hand soothingly over hair and cheek, while with the other he held one of hers in loving, tender clasp. Neither spoke, and at length she fell asleep; yet not a sound, refreshing slumber, but disturbed by starts and moans, and frequent wakings to see and feel that he was still there. "Papa, don't go away; don't leave me!" was her constant cry. "My darling, my precious one, I will not," was his repeated assurance; "I will stay with you while this trouble lasts." And all that day and night he never left her side, while Rose came and went, full of anxiety and doing everything that could be done for the sufferer's relief. It was a night of unrest to them all; but morning found her free from pain, though weak and languid, and still filled with distress if her father was absent for more than a few moments from her side. She inquired of him at what hour she had come in the day before: then watched the time and, as soon as released from her promise, told them all. Great was his indignation; and, determined that, if possible, the villain should be apprehended and brought to justice, he sent word at once to the magistrates: a warrant was issued, and several parties were presently out in different directions in hot pursuit. But with the twenty-four hours' start Jackson had made good his escape, and the only advantage gained was the relief of knowing that he no longer infested the neighborhood. "But when may he not return?" Elsie said with a shudder. "Papa, I tremble for you, and for--Mr. Travilla." "I am far more concerned for you," he answered, gazing upon her pale face with pitying, fatherly tenderness. "But let us cast this care, with all others, upon our God. 'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee; because he trusteth in Thee.'" CHAPTER ELEVENTH. "Of truth, he truly will all styles deserve Of wise, good, just; a man both soul and nerve." --SHIRLEY. The story reached Mr. Travilla's ears that evening, and finding he could be spared from the sick-room, he hastened to the Oaks. His emotions were too big for utterance as he took his "little friend" in his arms and clasped her to his beating heart. "God be thanked that you are safe!" he said at last. "Oh, my darling, my darling, what peril you have been in and how bravely you met it! You are the heroine of the hour," he added with a faint laugh, "all, old and young, male and female, black and white, are loud in praise of your wonderful firmness and courage. And, my darling, I fully agree with them, and exult in the thought that this brave lady is mine own." He drew her closer as he spoke, and just touched his lips to the shining hair and the pure white forehead resting on his breast. "Ah!" she murmured low and softly, a dewy light shining in her eyes, "why should they think it anything wonderful or strange that I felt little dread or fear at the prospect of a sudden transit from earth to heaven--a quick summons home to my Father's house on high, to be at once freed from sin and forever with the Lord? I have a great deal to live for, life looks very bright and sweet to me; yet but for you and papa, I think it would have mattered little to me had he carried out his threat." "My little friend, it would have broken my heart: to lose you were worse than a thousand deaths." They were alone in Elsie's boudoir, but when an hour had slipped rapidly away there came a message from Mr. Dinsmore to the effect that their company would be very acceptable in the library. They repaired thither at once, and found him and Rose laying out plans for a summer trip. The matter was under discussion all the rest of the evening and for some days after, resulting finally in the getting up a large party of tourists, consisting of the entire families of the Oaks and Ion, with the addition of Harry and Sophie Carrington, and Lora with her husband and children; servants of course included. They kept together for some time, visiting different points of interest in Virginia, Pennsylvania, and New York; spending several weeks at Cape May; where they were joined by the Allisons of Philadelphia; Mr. Edward and Adelaide among the rest, they having returned from Europe shortly before. At length they separated, some going in one direction, some in another. Lora went to Louise, Rose to her father's, Mrs. and Mr. Travilla to friends in Cincinnati and its suburbs, and Elsie to pay a long-promised visit to Lucy in her married home, a beautiful country-seat on the banks of the Hudson. Her father saw her safely there, then left her for a fortnight; their fears in regard to Jackson having been allayed by the news that he had been again arrested for burglary, and Lucy and her husband promising to guard their precious charge with jealous care. At the end of the fortnight Mr. Dinsmore returned for his daughter, and they went on together to Lansdale to visit Miss Stanhope. Elsie had set her heart on having her dear old aunt spend the fall and winter with them in the "sunny South," and especially on her being present at the wedding; and Miss Stanhope, after much urging and many protestations that she was too old for such a journey, had at last yielded, and given her promise, on condition that her nephew and niece should come for her, and first spend a week or two in Lansdale. She entreated that Mr. Travilla and his mother might be of the party. "He was a great favorite of hers, and she was sure his mother must be a woman in a thousand." They accepted the kindness as cordially as it was proffered; met the others at the nearest point of connection, and all arrived together. It was not Lottie King who met them at the depot this time, but a fine-looking young man with black moustache and roguish dark eye, who introduced himself as Harry Duncan, Miss Stanhope's nephew. "Almost a cousin! Shall we consider you quite one?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, warmly shaking the hand held out to him in cordial greeting. "Thank you, I shall feel highly honored," the young man answered in a gratified tone, and with a glance of undisguised admiration and a respectful bow directed towards Elsie. Then turning with an almost reverential air and deeper bow to Mrs. Travilla, "And, madam, may I have the privilege of placing you alongside of my dear old aunt, and addressing you by the same title?" "You may, indeed," was the smiling rejoinder. "And my son here, I suppose, will take his place with the others as cousin. No doubt we are all related, if we could only go back far enough in tracing out our genealogies." "To Father Adam, for instance," remarked Mr. Travilla, laughingly. "Or good old Noah, or even his son Japheth," rejoined Harry, leading the way to a family carriage sufficiently roomy to hold them all comfortably. "Your checks, if you please, aunt and cousins; and Simon here will attend to your luggage. Servants' also." Elsie turned her head to see a young colored man, bowing, scraping, and grinning from ear to ear, in whom she perceived a faint resemblance to the lad Simon of four years ago. "You hain't forgot me, miss?" he said. "I'm still at de ole place wid Miss Wealthy." She gave him a smile and a nod, dropping a gold dollar into his hand along with her checks; the gentlemen said, "How d'ye do," and were equally generous, and he went off chuckling. As they drew near their destination, a quaint little figure could be seen standing at the gate in the shade of a maple tree, whose leaves of mingled green and scarlet, just touched by the September frosts, made a brilliant contrast to the sober hue of her dress. "There she is! our dear old auntie!" cried Elsie with eager delight, that brought a flush of pleasure to Harry's face. Miss Stanhope's greetings were characteristic. "Elsie! my darling! I have you again after all these years! Mrs. Vanilla too! how kind! but you tell me your face is always that. Horace, nephew, this _is_ good of you! And Mr. Torville, I'm as glad as the rest to see you. Come in, come in, all of you, and make yourselves at home." "Does Mrs. Schilling still live opposite to you, Aunt Wealthy?" asked Elsie as they sat about the tea-table an hour later. "Yes, dearie; though she's lost all commercial value," laughed the old lady; "she's taken a second wife at last; not Mr. Was though, but a newcomer, Mr. Smearer." "Dauber, auntie," corrected Harry, gravely. "Well, well, child, the meaning's about the same," returned Miss Stanhope, laughing afresh at her own mistake, "and I'd as soon be the other as one." "Mrs. Dauber wouldn't though," said Harry. "I noticed her face grow as red as a beet the other day when you called her Mrs. Smearer." "She didn't mind being Mrs. Sixpence, I think," said Elsie. "Oh yes, she did; it nettled her a good deal at first, but she finally got used to it; after finding out how innocent auntie was, and how apt to miscall other names." "But I thought she would never be content with anybody but Mr. Wert." "Well, she lost all hope there, and dropped him at once as soon as Dauber made his appearance." Mr. Dinsmore inquired about the Kings. Elsie had done so in a private chat with her aunt, held in her room directly after their arrival. "The doctor's as busy as ever, killing people all round the country; he's very successful at it," replied Miss Stanhope; "I've the utmost confidence in his skill." "You are a warm friend of his, I know, aunt," said Mr. Dinsmore, smiling, "but I would advise you not to try to assist his reputation among strangers." "Why not, nephew?" "Lest they should take your words literally, auntie." "Ah, yes, I must be careful how I use my stumbling tongue," she answered with a good-humored smile. "I ought to have always by, somebody to correct my blunders. I've asked Harry to do me that kindness, and he often does." "It is quite unnecessary with us; for we all know what you intend to say," remarked Mrs. Travilla, courteously. "Thank you, dear madam," said Miss Stanhope; "I am not at all sensitive about it, fortunately, as my nephew knows, and my blunders afford as much amusement to any one else as to me; when I'm made aware of them." "Nettie King is married, papa," said Elsie. "Ah! Lottie also?" "No, she's at home and will be in, with her father and mother, this evening," said Aunt Wealthy. "I've been matching to make a hope between her and Harry, but find it's quite useless." "No, we're the best of friends, but don't care to be anything more," remarked the young gentleman, coloring and laughing. "No," said Mr. Travilla, "it is said by some one that two people with hair and eyes of the same color should beware of choosing each other as partners for life." "And I believe it," returned Harry. "Lottie and I are too much alike in disposition. I must look for a blue-eyed, fair-haired maiden, whose mental and moral characteristics will supply the deficiencies in mine." "Gray eyes and brown; that will do very well, won't it?" said the old lady absently, glancing from Elsie to Mr. Travilla and back again. Both smiled, and Elsie cast down her eyes with a lovely blush, while Mr. Travilla answered cheerily, "We think so, Miss Stanhope." "Call me Aunt Wealthy; almost everybody does, and you might as well begin now as any time." "Thank you, I shall avail myself of the privilege in future." The weather was warm for the time of year, and on leaving the table the whole party repaired to the front porch, where Harry quickly provided every one with a seat. "That is a beautiful maple yonder," remarked Mr. Travilla. "Yes, sir," returned Harry; "we have a row of them all along the front of the lot; and as Mrs. Dauber says, they are 'perfectly gordeous' in the fall." "The maple is my favorite among the shade leaves," remarked Miss Stanhope, joining in the talk, "from the time it trees out in the spring till the bare become branches in the fall. Through this month and next they're a perpetual feast to the eye." "Aunt, how did you decide in regard to that investment you wrote to consult me about?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, turning to her. "Oh, I concluded to put in a few hundreds, as you thought it safe, on the principle of not having all my baskets in one egg." "Small baskets they would have to be, auntie," Harry remarked quietly. "Yes, my eggs are not so many, but quite enough for an old lady like me." As the evening shadows crept over the landscape the air began to be chilly, and our friends adjourned to the parlor. Here all was just as when Elsie last saw it; neat as wax, everything in place, and each feather-stuffed cushion beaten up and carefully smoothed to the state of perfect roundness in which Miss Stanhope's soul delighted. Mrs. Travilla, who had heard descriptions of the room and its appointments from both her son and Elsie, looked about her with interest: upon the old portraits, the cabinet of curiosities, and the wonderful sampler worked by Miss Wealthy's grandmother. She examined with curiosity the rich embroidery of the chair cushions, but preferred a seat upon the sofa. "Dr. and Mrs. King and Miss Lottie!" announced Simon's voice from the doorway, and the three entered. Lively, cordial greetings followed, especially on the part of the two young girls. Mrs. Travilla was introduced, and all settled themselves for a chat; Lottie and Elsie, of course, managing to find seats side by side. "You dearest girl, you have only changed by growing more beautiful than ever," cried Lottie, squeezing Elsie's hand which she still held, and gazing admiringly into her face. Elsie laughed low and musically. "Precisely what I was thinking of you, Lottie. It must be your own fault that you are still single. But we won't waste time in flattering each other, when we have so much to say that is better worth while." "No, surely; Aunt Wealthy has told me of your engagement." "That was right; it is no secret, and should not be from you if it were from others. Lottie, I want you to be one of my bridesmaids. We're going to carry Aunt Wealthy off to spend the winter with us, and I shall not be content unless I can do the same by you.' "A winter in the 'sunny South!' and with you; how delightful! you dear, kind creature, to think of it, and to ask me. Ah, if I only could!" "I think you can; though of course I know your father and mother must be consulted; and if you come, you will grant my request?" "Yes, yes indeed! gladly." Aunt Chloe, always making herself useful wherever she went, was passing around the room with a pile of plates, Phillis following with cakes and confections, while Simon brought in a waiter with saucers and spoons, and two large moulds of ice cream. "Will you help the cream, Harry?" said Miss Stanhope. "There are two kinds, you see, travilla and melon. Ask Mrs. Vanilla which she'll have; or if she'll take both." "Mrs. Travilla, may I have the pleasure of helping you to ice cream?" he asked. "There are two kinds, vanilla and lemon. Let me give you both." "If you please," she answered, with a slightly amused look; for though Aunt Wealthy had spoken in an undertone, the words had reached her ear. "Which will you have, dearies?" said the old lady, drawing near the young girls' corner, "travilla cream or melon?" "Lemon for me, if you please, Aunt Wealthy," replied Lottie. "And I will take Travilla," Elsie said, low and mischievously, and with a merry twinkle in her eye. "But you have no cake! your plate is quite empty and useless," exclaimed the aunt. "Horace," turning towards her nephew, who was chatting with the doctor at the other side of the room, "some of this cake is very plain; you don't object to Elsie eating a little of it?" "She is quite grown up now, aunt, and can judge for herself in such matters," he answered smiling, then turned to finish what he had been saying to the doctor. "You will have some then, dear, won't you?" Miss Stanhope inquired in her most coaxing tone. "A very small slice of this sponge cake, if you please, auntie." "How young Mr. Travilla looks," remarked Lottie, "younger I think, than he did four years ago. Happiness, I presume; it's said to have that effect. I believe I was vexed when I first heard you were engaged to him, because I thought he was too old; but really he doesn't look so; a man should be considerably older than his wife, that she may find it easier to look up to him; and he know the better how to take care of her." "I would not have him a day younger, except that he would like to be nearer my age, or different in any way from what he is," Elsie said, her eyes involuntarily turning in Mr. Travilla's direction. They met the ardent gaze of his. Both smiled, and rising he crossed the room and joined them. They had a half hour of lively chat together, then Mrs. King rose to take leave. Mr. Travilla moved away to speak to the doctor, and Lottie seized the opportunity to whisper to her friend, "He's just splendid, Elsie! I don't wonder you look so happy, or that he secured your hand and heart after they had been refused to dukes and lords. You see Aunt Wealthy has been telling me all about your conquests in Europe," she added, in answer to Elsie's look of surprise. "I am, indeed, very happy, Lottie," Elsie replied in the same low tone; "I know Mr. Travilla so thoroughly, and have not more perfect confidence in papa's goodness and love to me, than in his. It is a very restful thing to have such a friend." Dr. King's circumstances had greatly improved in the last four years, so that he was quite able to give Lottie the pleasure of accepting Elsie's invitation, and at once gave his cordial consent. Mrs. King at first objected that the two weeks of our friends' intended stay in Lansdale would not give sufficient time for the necessary additions to Lottie's wardrobe; but this difficulty was overcome by a suggestion from Elsie. She would spend two or three weeks in Philadelphia, attending to the purchasing and making up of her trousseau, she said, and Lottie's dresses could be bought and made at the same time and place. The two weeks allotted to Lansdale of course passed very rapidly; especially to Harry, to whom the society of these new-found relatives was a great pleasure, and who on their departure would be left behind, with only Phillis for his housekeeper. The latter received so many charges from Aunt Wealthy in regard to careful attention to "Mr. Harry's" health and comfort, that at length she grew indignant, and protested that she loved "Mr. Harry as if he was her own child--didn't she nuss him when he was a little feller? and there was no 'casion for missus to worry an' fret as if she was leavin' him to a stranger." It was not for want of a cordial invitation to both the Oaks and Ion that Harry was left behind; but business required his presence at home, and he could only promise himself a week's holiday at the time of the wedding. CHAPTER TWELFTH "Bring flowers, fresh flowers for the bride to wear; They were born to blush in her shining hair; She's leaving the home of her childhood's mirth; She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth; Her place is now by another's side; Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride." --MRS. HEMANS. A fair October day is waning, and as the shadows deepen and the stars shine out here and there in the darkening sky, the grounds at the Oaks glitter with colored lamps, swinging from the branches of the trees that shade the long green alleys, and dependent from arches wreathed with flowers. In doors and out everything wears a festive look; almost the whole house is thrown open to the guests who will presently come thronging to it from nearly every plantation for miles around. The grand wedding has been talked of, prepared for, and looked forward to for months past, and few, if any, favored with an invitation, will willingly stay away. The spacious entrance hall is brilliantly lighted, and on either hand wide-open doors give admission to long suites of richly, tastefully furnished rooms, beautiful with rare statuary, paintings, articles of vertu, and flowers scattered everywhere, in bouquets, wreaths, festoons, filling the air with their delicious fragrance. These apartments, waiting for the guests, are almost entirely deserted; but in Elsie's dressing-room a bevy of gay young girls, in white tarletan and with flowers in their elaborately dressed hair, are laughing and chatting merrily, and now and then offering a suggestion to Aunt Chloe and Dinah, whose busy hands are arranging their young mistress for her bridal. "Lovely!" "Charming!" "Perfect!" the girls exclaim in delighted, admiring chorus, as the tirewomen having completed their labors, Elsie stands before them in a dress of the richest white satin, with an overskirt of point lace, a veil of the same, enveloping her slender figure like an airy cloud, or morning mist, reaching from the freshly gathered orange blossoms wreathed in the shining hair to the tiny white satin slipper just peeping from beneath the rich folds of the dress. Flowers are her only ornament to-night, and truly she needs no other. "Perfect! nothing superfluous, nothing wanting," says Lottie King. Rose, looking almost like a young girl herself, so sweet and fair in her beautiful evening dress, came in at that instant to see if all was right in the bride's attire. Her eyes grew misty while she gazed, her heart swelling with a strange mixture of emotions: love, joy, pride, and a touch of sadness at the thought of the partial loss that night was to bring to her beloved husband and herself. "Am I all right, mamma?" asked Elsie. "I can see nothing amiss," Rose answered, with a slight tremble in her voice. "My darling, I never saw you so wondrously sweet and fair," she whispered, adjusting a fold of the drapery. "You are very happy?" "Very, mamma dear; yet a trifle sad too. But that is a secret between you and me. How beautiful you are to-night." "Ah, dear child, quite ready, and the loveliest bride that ever I saw, from the sole of your head to the crown of your foot," said a silvery voice, as a quaint little figure came softly in and stood at Mrs. Dinsmore's side--"no, I mean from the crown of your foot to the sole of your head. Ah, funerals are almost as sad as weddings. I don't know how people can ever feel like dancing at them." "Well, auntie dear, there'll be no dancing at mine," said Elsie, smiling slightly. "I must go and be ready to receive our guests," said Rose, hearing the rumble of carriage wheels. "Elsie, dear child," she whispered, "keep calm. You can have no doubts or fears in putting your future in----" "No, no, mamma, not the slightest," and the fair face grew radiant. As Rose passed out at one door, Miss Stanhope following, with a parting injunction to the bride not to grow frightened or nervous, Mr. Dinsmore entered by another. He stood a moment silently gazing upon his lovely daughter; then a slight motion of his hand sent all others from the room, the bridesmaids passing into the boudoir, where the groom and his attendants were already assembled, the tirewomen vanishing by a door on the opposite side. "My darling!" murmured the father, in low, half tremulous accents, putting his arm about the slender waist, "my beautiful darling! how can I give you to another?" and again and again his lips were pressed to hers in long, passionate kisses. "Papa, please don't make me cry," she pleaded, the soft eyes lifted to his, filled almost to overflowing. "No, no, I must not," he said, hastily taking out his handkerchief and wiping away the tears before they fell. "It is shamefully selfish in me to come and disturb your mind thus just now." "No, papa, no, no; I will not have you say that. Thank you for coming. It would have hurt me had you stayed away. But you would not have things different now if you could? have no desire to." "No, daughter, no; yet, unreasonable as it is, the thought will come, bringing sadness with it, that to-night you resign my name, and my house ceases to be your only home." "Papa, I shall never resign the name dear to me because inherited from you: I shall only add to it; your house shall always be one of my dear homes, and I shall be your own, own daughter, your own child, as truly as I ever have been. Is it not so?" "Yes, yes, my precious little comforter." "And you are not going to give me away--ah, papa, I could never bear that any more than you; you are taking a partner in the concern," she added with playful tenderness, smiling archly through gathering tears. Again he wiped them hastily away. "Did ever father have such a dear daughter?" he said, gazing fondly down into the sweet face. "I ought to be the happiest of men. I believe I am----" "Except one," exclaimed a joyous voice, at sound of which Elsie's eyes brightened and the color deepened on her cheek. "May I come in?" "Yes, Travilla," said Mr. Dinsmore; "you have now an equal right with me." Travilla thought his was superior, or would be after the ceremony, but generously refrained from saying so. And had Mr. Dinsmore been questioned on the subject, he could not have asserted that it had ever occurred to him that Mr. Allison had an equal right with himself in Rose. But few people are entirely consistent. Mr. Travilla drew near the two, still standing together, and regarded his bride with a countenance beaming with love and delight. The sweet eyes sought his questioningly, and meeting his ardent gaze the beautiful face sparkled all over with smiles and blushes. "Does my toilet please you, my friend?" she asked. "And you, papa?" "The general effect is charming," said Mr. Travilla; "but," he added, in low, tender tones saying far more than the words, "I've been able to see nothing else for the dear face that is always that to me." "I can see no flaw in face or attire," Mr. Dinsmore said, taking a more critical survey; "you are altogether pleasing in your doting father's eyes, my darling. But you must not stand any longer. You will need all your strength for your journey." And he would have led her to a sofa. But she gently declined. "Ah, I am much too fine to sit down just now, my dear, kind father, I should crush my lace badly. So please let me stand. I am not conscious of weariness." He yielded, saying with a smile, "That would be a pity; for it is very beautiful. And surely you ought to be allowed your own way to-night if ever." "To-night and ever after," whispered the happy groom in the ear of his bride. A loving, trustful look was her only answer. A continued rolling of wheels without, and buzz of voices coming from veranda, hall, and reception rooms, could now be heard. "The house must be filling fast," said Mr. Dinsmore, "and as host I should be present to receive and welcome my guests, Travilla," and his voice trembled slightly, as he took Elsie's right hand and held it for a moment closely clasped in his; "I do not fear to trust you with what to me is a greater treasure than all the gold of California. Cherish my darling as the apple of your eye; I know you will." He bent down for another silent caress, laid the hand in that of his friend, and left the room. "And you do not fear to trust me, my little friend?" Travilla's tones, too, were tremulous with deep feeling. "I have not the shadow of a fear," she answered, her eyes meeting his with an earnest, childlike confidence. "Bless you for those words, dearest," he said; "God helping me you never shall have cause to regret them." A door opened, and a handsome, dark eyed boy, a miniature likeness of his father, came hurrying in. "Elsie! Papa said I might come and see how beautiful you are!" he cried, as if resolutely mastering some strong emotion, "but I'm not to say anything to make you cry. I'm not to hug you hard and spoil your dress. Oh, but you do look like an angel, only without the wings. Mr. Travilla, you'll be good, _good_ to her, won't you?" and the voice almost broke down. "I will, indeed, Horace; you may be sure of that. And you needn't feel as if you are losing her, she'll be back again in a few weeks, please God." "But not to live at home any more!" he cried impetuously. "No, no, I wasn't to say that, I----" "Come here and kiss me, my dear little brother," Elsie said tenderly; "and you shall hug me, too, as hard as you like, before I go." He was not slow to accept the invitation, and evidently had a hard struggle with himself, to refrain from giving the forbidden hug. "You may hug me instead, Horace, if you like," said Mr. Travilla; "you know we're very fond of each other, and are going to be brothers now." "Yes, that I will, for I do like you ever so much," cried the boy, springing into the arms held out to him, and receiving and returning a warm embrace, while the sister looked on with eyes glistening with pleasure. "Now, in a few minutes I'll become your brother Edward; and that's what I want you to call me in future. Will you do it?" "Yes, sir; if papa doesn't forbid me." A light tap at the door leading into the boudoir, and Walter put in his head. "The company, the clergy-man, and the hour have come. Are the bride and groom ready?" "Yes." Releasing the child, Mr. Travilla drew Elsie's hand within his arm. For an instant he bent his eyes with earnest, questioning gaze upon her face. It wore an expression that touched him to the heart, so perfectly trustful, so calmly, peacefully happy, yet with a deep tender solemnity mingling with and subduing her joy. The soft eyes were misty with unshed tears as she lifted them to his. "It is for life," she whispered; "and I am but young and foolish; shall you never regret?" "Never, _never_; unless you grow weary of your choice." The answering smile was very sweet and confiding. "I have not chosen lightly, and do not fear because it is for life," was its unspoken language. And truly it was no hasty, ill-considered step she was taking, but one that had been calmly, thoughtfully pondered in many an hour of solitude and communion with that unseen Friend whom from earliest youth she had acknowledged in all her ways, and who had, according to His promise, directed her paths. There was no excitement, no nervous tremor, about her then or during the short ceremony that made them no more twain but one flesh. So absorbed was she in the importance and solemnity of the act she was performing, that little room was left for thought of anything else--her personal appearance, or the hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed upon her; even her father's presence, and the emotions swelling in his breast were for the time forgotten. Many marked the rapt expression of her face, and the clear and distinct though low tones of the sweet voice as she pledged herself to "love, honor, and obey." Mr. Travilla's promise "to love, honor, and cherish to life's end," was given no less earnestly and emphatically. The deed was done; and relatives and friends gathered about them with kindly salutations and good wishes. Mr. Dinsmore was the first to salute the bride. "God bless and keep you, my daughter," were his tenderly whispered words. "Dear, dear papa," was all she said in response, but her eyes spoke volumes. "I am yours still, your very own, and glad it is so," they said. Then came Rose with her tender, silent caress, half-sorrowful, half-joyful, and Mrs. Travilla with her altogether joyous salutation, "My dear daughter, may your cup of happiness be ever filled to overflowing;" while Mr. Dinsmore to hide his emotion turned jocosely to Travilla with a hearty shake of the hand, and "I wish you joy, my son." "Thank you, father," returned the groom gravely, but with a twinkle of merriment in his eye. Aunt Wealthy, standing close by awaiting her turn to greet the bride, shook her head at her nephew. "Ah, you are quite too old for that, Horace. Mr. Vanilla, I wish you joy; but what am I to call you now?" "Edward, if you please, Aunt Wealthy." "Ah, yes, that will do nicely; it's a good name--so easily forgotten. Elsie, dearie, you went through it brave as a lion. May you never wish you'd lived your lane like your auld auntie." "As if single blessedness could ever be real blessedness!" sneered Enna, coming up just in time to catch the last words. "Our feelings change as we grow older," returned Miss Stanhope, in her gentle, refined tones, "and we come to look upon quiet and freedom from care as very desirable things." "And I venture to say that old age is not likely to find Mrs. Percival so happy and contented as is my dear old maiden aunt," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "Yet we will hope it may, papa," said Elsie, receiving Enna's salutation with kindly warmth. But the list of relatives, near connections, and intimate friends, is too long for particular mention of each. All the Dinsmores were there, both married and single; also most of the Allisons. Harold had not come with the others, nor had he either accepted or rejected the invitation. On first raising her eyes upon the conclusion of the ceremony, had Elsie really seen, far back in the shadow of the doorway, a face white, rigid, hopeless with misery as his when last they met and parted? She could not tell; for if really there, it vanished instantly. "Did Harold come?" she asked of Richard when he came to salute the bride and groom. "I think not; I haven't seen him, I can't think what's come over the lad to be so neglectful of his privileges." Harry Duncan was there, too, hanging upon the smiles of merry, saucy, blue-eyed May Allison; while her brother Richard seemed equally enamored with the brunette beauty and sprightliness of Lottie King. Stiffness and constraint found no place among the guests, after the event of the evening was over. In the great dining-room a sumptuous banquet was laid; and thither, after a time, guests and entertainers repaired. The table sparkled with cut-glass, rare and costly china, and solid silver and gold plate. Every delicacy from far and near was to be found upon it; nothing wanting that the most fastidious could desire, or the most lavish expenditure furnish. Lovely, fragrant flowers were there also in the utmost profusion, decorating the board, festooning the windows and doorways, in bouquets upon the mantels and antique stands, scattered here and there through the apartment, filling the air with their perfume; while a distant and unseen band discoursed sweetest music in soft, delicious strains. The weather was warmer far than at that season in our northern clime, the outside air balmy and delightful, and through the wide-open doors and windows glimpses might be caught of the beautiful grounds, lighted here and there by a star-like lamp shining out among the foliage. Silent and deserted they had been all the earlier part of the evening, but now group after group, as they left the bountiful board, wandered into their green alleys and gay parterres; low, musical tones, light laughter, and merry jests floating out upon the quiet night air and waking the echoes of the hills. But the bride retired to her own apartments, where white satin, veil, and orange blossoms, were quickly exchanged for an elegant traveling dress, scarcely less becoming to her rare beauty. She reappeared in the library, which had not been thrown open to the guests, but where the relations and bridesmaids were gathered for the final good-bye. Mr. Dinsmore's family carriage, roomy, easy-rolling, and softly cushioned, stood at the door upon the drive, its spirited gray horses pawing the ground with impatience to be gone. It would carry the bride and groom--and a less pretentious vehicle their servants--in two hours to the seaport where they were to take the steamer for New Orleans; for their honeymoon was to be spent at Viamede, Elsie still adhering to the plan of a year ago. Her adieus were gayly given to one and another, beginning with those least dear; very very affectionately to Mrs. Travilla, Aunt Wealthy, Rose, and the little Horace (the sleeping Rosebud had already been softly kissed in her crib). Her idolized father only remained; and now all her gayety forsook her, all her calmness gave way, and clinging about his neck, "Papa, papa, oh papa!" she cried, with a burst of tears and sobs. "Holy and pure are the drops that fall, When the young bride goes from her father's hall; She goes unto love yet untried and new-- She parts from love which hath still been true." It was his turn now to comfort her. "Darling daughter," he said, caressing her with exceeding tenderness, "we do not part for long. Should it please God to spare our lives, I shall have my precious one in my arms in a few short weeks. Meantime we can have a little talk on paper every day. Shall we not?" "Yes, yes, dear, dear, precious father." Mr. Travilla stood by with a face full of compassionate tenderness. Putting one hand into her father's, Elsie turned, gave him the other, and together they led her to the carriage and placed her in it. There was a hearty, lingering hand-shaking between the two gentlemen. Mr. Travilla took his seat by Elsie's side, and amid a chorus of good-byes they were whirled rapidly away. "Cheer up, my dear," said Rose, leaning affectionately on her husband's arm; "it is altogether addition and not subtraction; you have not lost a daughter but gained a son." "These rooms tell a different tale," he answered with a sigh. "How desolate they seem. But this is no time for the indulgence of sadness. We must return to our guests, and see that all goes merry as a marriage bell with them till the last has taken his departure." CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. "My bride, My wife, my life. O we will walk this world Yok'd in all exercise of noble aim And so through those dark gates across the wild That no man knows." --TENNYSON'S PRINCESS. Elsie's tears were falling fast, but an arm as strong and kind as her father's stole quietly about her, a hand as gentle and tender as a woman's drew the weary head to a resting-place on her husband's shoulder, smoothed back the hair from the heated brow, and wiped away the falling drops. "My wife! my own precious little wife!" How the word, the tone, thrilled her! her very heart leaped for joy through all the pain of parting from one scarcely less dear. "My husband," she murmured, low and shyly--it seemed so strange to call him that, so almost bold and forward--"my dear, kind friend, to be neither hurt nor angry at my foolish weeping." "Not foolish, dear one, but perfectly natural and right. I understand it; I who know so well what your father has been to you these many years." "Father and mother both." "Yes; tutor, friend, companion, confidant, everything. I know, dear little wife, that you are sacrificing much for me, even though the separation will be but partial. And how I love you for it, and for all you are to me, God only knows." The tears had ceased to flow; love, joy, and thankfulness were regaining their ascendancy in the heart of the youthful bride; she became again calmly, serenely happy. The journey was accomplished without accident. They were favored with warm, bright days, clear, starlit nights; and on as lovely an afternoon as was ever known in that delicious clime, reached Viamede. Great preparations had been made for their reception; banners were streaming, and flags flying from balconies and tree-tops. Mr. Mason met them at the pier with a face beaming with delight; Spriggs with a stiff bow. A gun was fired and a drum began to beat as they stepped ashore; two pretty mulatto girls scattered flowers in their path, and passing under a grand triumphal arch they presently found themselves between two long rows of smiling, bowing negroes, whose fervent ejaculations: "God bless our dear young missus an' her husband!" "God bless you, massa an' missus!" "Welcome home!" "Welcome to Viamede!" "We've not forgot you, Miss Elsie; you's as welcome as de daylight!" affected our tender-hearted heroine almost to tears. She had a kind word for each, remembering all their names, and inquiring after their "miseries"; every one was permitted to take her small white hand, many of them kissing it with fervent affection. They were introduced to their "new master," too (that was what she called him), and shaken hands with by him in a cordial interested way that won their hearts at once. Aunt Phillis was in her glory, serving up a feast the preparation of which had exhausted the united skill of both Aunt Sally and herself. Their efforts were duly appreciated and praised, the viands evidently greatly enjoyed, all to their intense delight. Mr. Mason was invited to partake with the bride and groom, and assigned the seat of honor at Mr. Travilla's right hand. Elsie presided over the tea-urn with the same gentle dignity and grace as when her father occupied the chair at the opposite end of the table, now filled by her husband. Her traveling dress had been exchanged for one of simple white, and there were white flowers in her hair and at her throat. Very sweet and charming she looked, not only in the eyes of her husband, who seemed to find her fair face a perpetual feast, but in those of all others who saw her. On leaving the table they repaired to the library, where Mr. Mason gave a report of the condition of the people and his work among them, also assuring Mrs. Travilla that Spriggs had carefully carried out her wishes, that the prospect for the crops was fine, and everything on the estate in excellent order. She expressed her gratification, appealing to Mr. Travilla for his approval, which was cordially given; said she had brought a little gift for each of the people, and desired they should be sent up to the house about sunset the next evening to receive it. The chaplain promised that her order should be attended to, then retired, leaving husband and wife alone together. "All very satisfactory, my little friend, was it not?" said Mr. Travilla. "Yes, sir, very. I'm so glad to have secured such a man as Mr. Mason to look after the welfare of these poor helpless creatures. And you like the house, Mr. Travilla, do you not?" "Very much, so far as I have seen it. This is a beautiful room, and the dining-room pleased me equally well." "Ah, I am eager to show you all!" she cried, rising quickly and laying her hand on the bell-rope. "Stay, little wife, not to-night," he said, "you are too much fatigued." She glided to the back of the easy chair in which he sat, and leaning over him, said laughingly, "I'm not conscious of being fatigued, but I have promised to obey and----" "Hush, hush!" he said flushing, "I meant to have that left out; and did I not tell you you were to have your own way that night and ever after? You've already done enough of obeying to last you a lifetime. But please come round where I can see you better." Then, as she stepped to his side, he threw an arm about her and drew her to his knee. "But it wasn't left out," she said, shyly returning his fond caress; "I promised and must keep my word." "Ah, but if you can't, you can't; how will you obey when you get no orders?" "So you don't mean to give me any?" "No, indeed; I'm your husband, your friend, your protector, your lover, but not your master." "Now, Mr. Travilla----" "I asked you to call me Edward." "But it seems so disrespectful." "More so than to remind me of the disparity of our years? or than to disregard my earnest wish? Then I think I'll have to require the keeping of the promise in this one thing. Say Edward, little wife, and never again call me Mr. Travilla when we are alone." "Well, Edward, I will try to obey; and if I use the wrong word through forgetfulness you must please excuse it. But ah, I remember papa would say that was no excuse." "But I shall not be so strict--unless you forget too often. I have sometimes thought my friend too hard with his tender-hearted, sensitive little daughter." "Don't blame him--my dear, dear father!" she said, low and tremulously, her face growing grave and almost sad for the moment. "He was very strict, it is true, but none too strict in the matter of requiring prompt and implicit obedience, and oh, so kind, so loving, so tender, so sympathizing. I could, and did go to him with every little childish joy and sorrow, every trouble, vexation, and perplexity; always sure of sympathy, and help, too, if needed. Never once did he repulse me, or show himself an uninterested listener. "He would take me on his knee, hear all I had to say, clasp me close to his heart, caress me, call me pet names, joy, sorrow with, or counsel me as the case required, and bid me always come freely to him so, assuring me that nothing which concerned me, one way or another, was too trivial to interest him, and he would be glad to know I had not a thought or feeling concealed from him. I doubt if even you, my friend, have ever known all that papa has been and is to me: father, mother, everything--but husband," she added with a blush and smile, as her eyes met the kindly, tender look in his. "Ah, that is my blessed privilege," he whispered, drawing her closer to him. "My wife, my own precious little wife! God keep me from ever being less tender, loving, sympathizing to you than your father has been." "I do not fear it, my husband. Oh, was ever woman so blessed with love as I! Daughter, and wife! they are the sweetest of all names when addressed to me by papa's lips and yours." "I ought not to find fault with his training, seeing what credit you do it. However, you seemed to me as near perfection as possible before he began. Ah, my little friend, for how many years I loved you with scarcely a hope it would ever be returned in the way I wished. Indeed I can hardly yet believe fully in my own happiness," he concluded with a joyous laugh. The next day Elsie had the pleasure of showing her husband over the house first, and then the estate. Their life at Viamede, for the few weeks of their stay, seemed much like a repetition of her visit there the year before with her father. They took the same rides, walks and drives; glided over the clear waters of the bayou in the same boat; sought out each spot of beauty or interest he had shown her; were, if possible, even more constantly together, reading, writing, or engaged with music in library or drawing-room, seated side by side on veranda or lawn enjoying conversation, book or periodical; or, it might be, silently musing, hand in hand, by the soft moonlight that lent such a witchery to the lovely landscape. A pleasanter honeymoon could hardly have been devised. In one thing, however, they were disappointed: they had hoped to be left entirely to each other; but it was impossible to conceal their presence at Viamede from the hospitable neighbors, and calls and invitations had to be received and returned. But, both being eminently fitted to shine in society, and each proud to display the other, this state of things did not, after all, so greatly interfere with their enjoyment. In fact, so delightful did they find their life in that lovely country that they lingered week after week till nearly six had slipped away, and letters from home began to be urgent for their return. Mr. Dinsmore was wearying for his daughter, Mrs. Travilla for her son, and scarcely less for the daughter so long vainly hoped for. Every day a servant was despatched to the nearest post-office with their mail, generally returning as full handed as he went. Mr. Dinsmore's letters were, as he had promised, daily, and never left unanswered. The old love was not, could not be forgotten in the new. Elsie was no less a daughter because she had become a wife; but Edward was always a sharer in her enjoyment, and she in his. They were sitting on the veranda one morning when Uncle Ben rode up and handed the mail-box to his master. Mr. Travilla hastened to open it, gave Elsie her letters and began the perusal of his own. A softly breathed sigh called his attention to her. "What is it, little wife?" he asked; "your face is grave almost to sadness." "I was thinking," she answered, with her eye still upon her father's letter open in her hand. "Papa says," and she read aloud from the sheet, "How long you are lingering in Viamede. When will you return? Tell Travilla I am longing for a sight of the dear face his eyes are feasting upon, and he must remember his promise not to part us. "I am writing in your boudoir. I have been thinking of the time (it seems but yesterday) when I had you here a little girl, sitting on my knee reciting your lessons or listening with almost rapt attention to my remarks and explanations. Never before had tutor so dear, sweet, and interesting a scholar!" "A fond father's partiality," she remarked, looking up with a smile and blush. "But never, I am sure, was such another tutor; his lucid explanations, intense interest in the subject and his pupil, apt illustrations, and fund of information constantly opened up to me, made my lessons a delight." "He has made you wonderfully well informed and thorough," said her husband. She colored with pleasure. "Such words are very sweet, coming from your lips. You appreciate papa." "Yes, indeed, and his daughter too, I hope," he answered, smiling fondly upon her. "Yes, your father and I have been like brothers since we were little fellows. It seems absurd to think of him in any other relation." "But what about going home? isn't it time, as papa thinks?" "That you shall decide, _ma chere_; our life here has been very delightful to me, and to you also, I hope." "Very, if we had your mother and papa and mamma and the children here, I should like to stay all winter. But as it is I think we ought to return soon." He assented, and after a little more consultation they decided to go soon--not later than the middle of the next week, but the day was not set. CHAPTER FOURTEENTH. "The low reeds bent by the streamlet's side, And hills to the thunder peal replied; The lightning burst on its fearful way While the heavens were lit in its red array." --WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK. "Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge Accurs'd, and in a cursed hour he hies." --MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. They were alone that evening, and retired earlier than usual. They had been quietly sleeping for some time when Elsie was wakened by a sudden gust of wind that swept round the house, rattling doors and windows; then followed the roll and crash of thunder, peal on peal, accompanied with vivid flashes of lightning. Elsie was not timid in regard to thunder and lightning; she knew so well that they were entirely under the control of her Father, without whom not a hair of her head could perish; she lay listening to the war of the elements, thinking of the words of the Psalmist, "The clouds poured out water: the skies sent out a sound; Thine arrows also went abroad. The voice of Thy thunder was in the heaven; the lightnings lightened the world, the earth trembled and shook." But another sound startled her. Surely she heard some stealthy step on the veranda upon which the windows of the room opened (long windows reaching from the floor almost to the ceiling), and then a hand at work with the fastenings of the shutters of the one farthest from the bed. Her husband lay sleeping by her side. She half raised herself in the bed, put her lips to his ear, and shaking him slightly, whispered, "Edward, some one is trying to get in at the window!" He was wide-awake in an instant, raised himself and while listening intently took a loaded revolver from under his pillow and cocked it ready for use. "Lie down, darling," he whispered; "it will be safer, and should the villain get in, this will soon settle him, I think." "Don't kill him, if you can save yourself without," she answered, in the same low tone and with a shudder. "No; if I could see, I should aim for his right arm." A moment of silent waiting, the slight sound of the burglar's tool faintly heard amid the noise of the storm, then the shutter flew open, a man stepped in; at that instant a vivid flash of lightning showed the three to each other, and the men fired simultaneously. A heavy, rolling crash of thunder followed close upon the sharp crack of the revolvers; the robber's pistol fell with a loud thump upon the floor and he turned and fled along the veranda, this time moving with more haste than caution. They distinctly heard the flying footsteps. "I must have hit him," said Mr. Travilla, "Dearest, you are not hurt?" "No, no; but you?" "Have escaped also, thank God," he added, with earnest solemnity. Elsie, springing to the bell-rope, sent peal after peal resounding through the house. "He must be pursued, if possible!" she cried; "for oh, Edward, your life is in danger as long as he is at large. You recognized him?" "Yes, Tom Jackson; I thought him safe in prison at the North; but probably he has been bailed out; perhaps by one of his own gang; for so are the ends of justice often defeated." He was hurrying on his clothes as he spoke. Elsie had hastily donned dressing-gown and slippers, and now struck a light. Steps and voices were heard in the hall without, while Aunt Chloe coming in from the other side, asked in tones tremulous with affright, "What's de matter? what's de matter, darlin'? is you hurted?" "No, mammy; but there was a burglar here a moment since," said Elsie. "He and Mr. Travilla fired at each other, and he must be pursued instantly. Send Uncle Joe to rouse Mr. Spriggs and the boys, and go after him with all speed." Meantime Mr. Mason was knocking at the door opening into the hall, asking what was wrong and offering his services; a number of negro men's voices adding, "Massa and missus, we's all heyah and ready to fight for ye." Mr. Travilla opened the door, briefly explained what had happened, and repeated Elsie's order for an immediate and hot pursuit. "I myself will head it," he was adding, when she interposed. "No, no, no, my husband, surely you will not think of it; he may kill you yet. Or he might return from another direction, and what could I do with only the women to help me? Oh, Edward, don't go! don't leave me!" And she clung to him trembling and with tears in the soft, entreating eyes. "No, dearest, you are right. I will stay here to protect you, and Spriggs may lead the boys," he answered, throwing an arm about her. "I think I wounded the fellow," he added to Mr. Mason. "Here, Aunt Chloe, bring the light nearer." Yes, there lay a heavy revolver, and beside it a pool of blood on the carpet where the villain had stood; and there was a bloody trail all along the veranda where he had run, and on the railing and pillar by which he had swung himself to the ground; indeed, they could track him by it for some distance over the lawn, where the trees kept the ground partially dry; but beyond that the rain coming down in sheets, had helped the fugitive by washing away the telltale stains. Elsie shuddering and turning pale and faint at the horrible sight, ordered an immediate and thorough cleansing of both carpet and veranda. "Dere's hot water in de kitchen," said Aunt Phillis. "You, Sal an' Bet, hurry up yah wid a big basin full, an' soap an' sand an' house-cloths. Glad 'nuff dat massa shot dat ole debbil, but Miss Elsie's house not to be defiled wid his dirty blood." "Cold watah fust, Aunt Phillis," interposed Chloe, "cold watah fust to take out blood-stain, den de hot after dat." "Mammy knows; do as she directs," said Elsie, hastily retreating into her dressing-room. "My darling, this has been too much for you," her husband said tenderly, helping her to lie down on a sofa. Chloe came hurrying in with a tumbler of cold water in one hand, a bottle of smelling salts in the other, her dusky face full of concern. Mr. Travilla took the articles from her. "That is right, but I will attend to your mistress," he said in a kindly tone; "and do you go and prepare a bed for her in one of the rooms on the other side of the hall." "It is hardly worth while, dear," said Elsie; "I don't think I can sleep again to-night." "Yet perhaps you may; it is only two o'clock," he said, as the timepiece on the mantle struck the hour, "and at least you may rest a little better than you could here." "And perhaps you may sleep. Yes, mammy, get the bed ready as soon as you can." "My darling, how pale you are!" Mr. Travilla said with concern, as he knelt by her side, applying the restoratives. "Do not be alarmed; I am quite sure the man's right arm is disabled, and therefore the danger is past, for the present at least." She put her arm about his neck and relieved her full heart with a burst of tears. "Pray, praise," she whispered; "oh, thank the Lord for your narrow escape; the ball must have passed very near your head; I heard it whiz over mine and strike the opposite wall." "Yes, it just grazed my hair and carried away a lock, I think. Yes, let us thank the Lord." And he poured out a short but fervent thanksgiving, to every word of which her heart said "Amen!" "Yes, there is a lock gone, sure enough," she said, stroking his hair caressingly as he bent over her. "Ah, if we had not lingered so long here, this would not have happened." "Not here, but elsewhere perhaps." "That is true, and no doubt all has been ordered for the best." Aunt Chloe presently returned, with the announcement that the bed was ready; and they retired for the second time, leaving the house in the care of Uncle Joe and the women servants. It was some time before Elsie could compose herself to sleep, but near daybreak she fell into a deep slumber that lasted until long past the usual breakfast hour. Mr. Travilla slept late also, while the vigilant Aunts Chloe and Phillis and Uncle Joe took care that no noise should be made, no intruder allowed access to their vicinity to disturb them. The first news that greeted them on leaving their room, was of the failure of the pursuit after the burglar. He had managed to elude the search, and to their chagrin Spriggs and his party had been obliged to return empty-handed. The servants were the first to tell the tale, then Spriggs came in with a fuller report. "The scoundrel!" he growled; "how he contrived to do it I can't tell. If we'd had hounds, he couldn't. We've none on the place, but if you say so, I'll borrow----" "No, no! Mr. Travilla, you will not allow it" cried Elsie, turning an entreating look upon him. "No, Spriggs, the man must be greatly weakened by the loss of blood, and, unable to defend himself, might be torn to pieces by them before you could prevent it." "Small loss to the rest of the world if he was," grumbled the overseer. "Yes, but I wouldn't have him die such a death as that; or hurried into eternity without a moment for repentance." "But might it not be well to have another search?" suggested Elsie. "He had better be given up to justice, even for his own good, than die in the woods of weakness and starvation." "Hands are all so busy with the sugar-cane just now, ma'am, that I don't see how they could be spared," answered Spriggs. "And tell you what, ma'am"--as if struck with a sudden thought--"the rascal must have a confederate that's helped him off." "Most likely," said Mr. Travilla. "Indeed, I think it must be so. And you need give yourself no further anxiety about him, my dear." CHAPTER FIFTEENTH. "Revenge at first though sweet, Bitter erelong, back on itself recoils." --MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. At the instant of discharging his revolver, Jackson felt a sharp stinging pain in his right arm, and it dropped useless at his side. He hoped he had killed both Mr. Travilla and Elsie; but, an arrant coward and thus disabled, did not dare to remain a moment to learn with certainty the effect of his shot, but rushing along the veranda, threw himself over the railing, and sliding down a pillar, by the aid of the one hand, and with no little pain and difficulty, made off with all speed across the lawn. But he was bleeding at so fearful a rate that he found himself compelled to pause long enough to improvise a tourniquet by knotting his handkerchief above the wound, tying it as tightly as he could with the left hand aided by his teeth. He stooped and felt on the ground in the darkness and rain, for a stick, by means of which to tighten it still more; for the bleeding, though considerably checked, was by no means stanched. But sticks, stones, and every kind of litter, had long been banished thence; his fingers came in contact with nothing but the smooth, velvety turf, and with a muttered curse, he rose and fled again; for the flashing of lights, the loud ringing of a bell, peal after peal, and sounds of running feet and many voices in high excited tones, told him there was danger of a quick and hot pursuit. Clearing the lawn, he presently struck into a bridle-path that led to the woods. Here he again paused to search for the much-needed stick, found one suited to his purpose, and by its aid succeeded in decreasing still more the drain upon his life current; yet could not stop the flow entirely. But sounds of pursuit began to be heard in the distance, and he hastened on again, panting with weakness, pain and affright. Leaving the path, he plunged deeper into the woods, ran for some distance along the edge of a swamp, and leaping in up to his knees in mud and water, doubled on his track, then turned again, and penetrating farther and farther into the depths of the morass, finally climbed a tree, groaning with the pain the effort cost him, and concealed himself among the branches. His pursuers came up to the spot where he had made his plunge into the water; here they paused, evidently at fault. He could hear the sound of their footsteps and voices, and judge of their movements by the gleam of the torches many of them carried. Some now took one direction, some another, and he perceived with joy that his stratagem had been at least partially successful. One party, however, soon followed him into the swamp. He could hear Spriggs urging them on and anathematizing him as "a scoundrel, robber, burglar, murderer, who ought to be swung up to the nearest tree." Every thicket was undergoing a thorough search, heads were thrown back and torches held high that eager blacks eyes might scan the tree-tops, and Jackson began to grow sick with the almost certainty of being taken, as several stout negroes drew nearer and nearer his chosen hiding-place. He uttered a low, breathed imprecation upon his useless right arm, and the man whose sure aim had made it so. "But for you," he muttered, grinding his teeth, "I'd sell my life dear." But the rain, which had slackened for a time, again poured down in torrents, the torches sputtered and went out, and the pursuers turned back in haste to gain the firmer soil, where less danger was to be apprehended from alligators, panthers, and poisonous reptiles. The search was kept up for some time longer, with no light but an occasional flash from the skies; but finally abandoned, as we have seen. Jackson passed several hours most uncomfortably and painfully on his elevated perch, quaking with fear of both man and reptile, not daring to come down or to sleep in his precarious position, or able to do so for the pain of his wound, and growing hour by hour weaker from the bleeding which it was impossible to check entirely. Then his mind was in a state of great disturbance, His wound must be dressed, and that speedily; yet how could it be accomplished without imperiling life and liberty? Perhaps he had now two new murders on his hands; he did not know, but he had at least attempted to take life, and the story would fly on the wings of the wind; such stories always did. He had been lurking about the neighborhood for days, and had learned that Dr. Balis, an excellent physician and surgeon, lived on a plantation, some two or three miles eastward from Viamede. He must contrive a plausible story, and go to him; at break of day, before the news of the attack on Viamede would be likely to reach him. It would be a risk, but what better could be done? He might succeed in quieting the doctor's suspicions, and yet make good his escape from the vicinity. The storm had spent itself before the break of day, and descending from his perch with the first faint rays of light that penetrated the gloomy recesses of the swamp, he made his way out of it, slowly and toilsomely, with weary, aching limbs, suffering intensely from the gnawings of hunger and thirst, the pain of his injury, and the fear of being overtaken by the avengers of his innocent victims. Truly, as the Bible tells us, "the way of transgressors is hard." The sun was more than an hour high when Dr. Balis, ready to start upon his morning round, and pacing thoughtfully to and fro upon the veranda of his dwelling while waiting for his horse, saw a miserable looking object coming up the avenue: a man almost covered from head to foot with blood and mud; a white handkerchief, also both bloody and muddy, knotted around the right arm, which hung apparently useless at his side. The man reeled as he walked, either from intoxication or weakness and fatigue. The doctor judged the latter, and called to a servant, "Nap, go and help that man into the office." Then hurrying thither himself, got out lint, bandages, instruments, whatever might be needed for the dressing of a wound. With the assistance of Nap's strong arm, the man tottered in, then sank, half fainting, into a chair. "A glass of wine, Nap, quick!" cried the doctor, sprinkling some water in his patient's face, and applying ammonia to his nostrils. He revived sufficiently to swallow with eager avidity the wine Nap held to his lips. "Food, for the love of God," he gasped. "I'm starving!" "Bread, meat, coffee, anything that is on the table, Nap," said his master; "and don't let the grass grow under your feet." Then to the stranger, and taking gentle hold of the wounded limb: "But you need this flow of blood stanched more than anything else. You came to me for surgical aid, of course. Pistol-shot wound, eh? and a bad one at that." "Yes, I----" "Never mind; I'll hear your story after your arm's dressed and you've had your breakfast. You haven't strength for talk just now." Dr. Balis had his own suspicions as he ripped up the coat sleeve, bared the swollen limb, and carefully dressed the wound; but kept them to himself. The stranger's clothes, though much soiled and torn in several places by contact with thorns and briers, were of good material, fashionable cut, and not old or worn; his manners were gentlemanly, and his speech was that of an educated man. But all this was no proof that he was not a villain. "Is that mortification?" asked the sufferer, looking ruefully at the black, swollen hand and fore-arm, and wincing under the doctor's touch as he took up the artery and tied it. "No, no; only the stagnation of the blood." "Will the limb ever be good for anything again?" "Oh yes; neither the bone nor nerve has suffered injury; the ball has glanced from the bone, passed under the nerve, and cut the humeral artery. Your tourniquet has saved you from bleeding to death. 'Tis well you knew enough to apply it. The flesh is much torn where the ball passed out; but that will heal in time." The doctor's task was done. Nap had set a plate of food within reach of the stranger's left hand, and he was devouring it like a hungry wolf. "Now, sir," said the good doctor, when the meal was finished, "I should like to hear how you came by that ugly wound. I can't deny that things look suspicious. I know everybody, high and low, rich and poor, for miles in every direction, and so need no proof that you do not belong to the neighborhood." "No; a party of us, from New Orleans last, came out to visit this beautiful region. We were roaming through a forest yesterday, looking for game, when I somehow got separated from the rest, lost my way, darkness came on, and wondering hither and thither in the vain effort to find my comrades, tumbling over logs and fallen trees, scratched and torn by brambles, almost eaten up by mosquitos, I thought I was having a dreadful time of it. But worse was to come; for I presently found myself in a swamp up to my knees in mud and water, and in the pitchy darkness tumbling over another fallen tree, struck my revolver, which I had foolishly been carrying in my coat pocket: it went off and shot me in the arm, as you see. That must have been early in the night; and what with loss of blood, pain, fatigue, and long fasting, I had but little strength when daylight came and I could see to get out of swamp and woods, and come on here." The doctor listened in silence, his face telling nothing of his thoughts. "A bad business," he said, rising and beginning to draw on his gloves. "You are not fit to travel, but are welcome to stay here for the present; had better lie down on the sofa there and take a nap while I am away visiting my patients. Nap, clean the mud and blood from the gentleman's clothes; take his boots out and clean them too; and see that he doesn't want for attention while I am gone. Good-morning, sir; make yourself at home." And the doctor walked out, giving Nap a slight sign to follow him. "Nap," he said, when they were out of ear-shot of the stranger, "watch that man and keep him here if possible, till I come back." "Yes, sah." Nap went back into the office while the doctor mounted and rode away. "Humph," he said, half aloud, as he cantered briskly along, "took me for a fool, did he? thought I couldn't tell where the shot went in and where it came out, or where it would go in or out if caused in that way. No, sir, you never gave yourself that wound; but the question is who did? and what for? have you been house-breaking or some other mischief?" Dr. Balis was traveling in the direction of Viamede, intending to call there too, but having several patients to visit on the way, did not arrive until the late breakfast of its master and mistress was over. They were seated together on the veranda, her hand in his, the other arm thrown lightly about her waist, talking earnestly, and so engrossed with each other and the subject of their conversation, that they did not at first observe the doctor's approach. Uncle Joe was at work on the lawn, clearing away the leaves and twigs blown down by the storm. "Mornin', Massa Doctah; did you heyah de news, sah?" he said, pulling off his hat and making a profound obeisance, as he stepped forward to take the visitor's horse. "No, uncle, what is it?" "Burglah, sir, burglah broke in de house las' night, an' fire he revolvah at massa an' Miss Elsie. Miss dem, dough, an' got shot hisself." "Possible!" cried the doctor in great excitement, springing from the saddle and hurrying up the steps of the veranda. "Ah, doctor, good-morning. Glad to see you, sir," said Mr. Travilla, rising to give the physician a hearty shake of the hand. "Thank you, sir. How are you after your fright? Mrs. Travilla, you are looking a little pale; and no wonder. Uncle Joe tells me you had a visit from a burglar last night?" "A murderer, sir; one whose object was to take my husband's life," Elsie answered with a shudder, and in low, tremulous tones, leaning on Edward's arm and gazing into his face with eyes swimming with tears of love and gratitude. "My wife's also, I fear," Mr. Travilla said with emotion, fondly stroking her sunny hair. "Indeed! why this is worse and worse! But he did not succeed in wounding either of you?" "No; his ball passed over our heads, grazing mine so closely as to cut off a lock of my hair. But I wounded him, must have cut an artery, I think, from the bloody trail he left behind him." "An artery?" cried the doctor, growing more and more excited; "where? do you know where your ball struck?" "A flash of lightning showed us to each other and we fired simultaneously, I aiming for his right arm. I do not often miss my aim: we heard his revolver fall to the floor and he fled instantly, leaving it and a trail of blood before him." "You had him pursued promptly, of course?" "Yes; but they did not find him. I expected to see them return with his corpse, thinking he must bleed to death in a very short time. But I presume he had an accomplice who was able to stanch the flow of blood and carry him away." "No, I don't think he had; and if I'm not greatly mistaken I dressed his wound in my office this morning, and left him there in charge of my boy Nap, bidding him keep the fellow there, if possible, till I came back. I'd better return at once, lest he should make his escape. Do you know the man? and can you describe him?" "I do; I can," replied Mr. Travilla. "But, my little wife, how you are trembling! Sit down here, dearest, and lean on me," leading her to a sofa. "And doctor, take that chair. "The man's name is Tom Jackson; he is a noted gambler and forger, has been convicted of manslaughter and other crimes, sent to the penitentiary and pardoned out. He hates me because I have exposed his evil deeds, and prevented the carrying out of some of his wicked designs. He has before this threatened both our lives. He is about your height and build, doctor; can assume the manners and speech of a gentleman; has dark hair, eyes, and whiskers, regular features, and but for a sinister look would be very handsome." "It's he and no mistake!" cried Dr. Balis, rising in haste. "I must hurry home and prevent his escape. Why, it's really dangerous to have him at large. If he wasn't so disabled I'd tremble for the lives of my wife and children. "He trumped up a story to tell me--had his revolver in his coat pocket, set it off in tumbling over a log in the dark, and so shot himself. Of course I knew 'twas a lie, because in that case the ball would have entered from below, at the back of the arm, and come out above, while the reverse was the case." "But how could you tell where it entered or where it passed out, doctor?" inquired Elsie. "How, Mrs. Travilla? Why, where it goes in it makes merely a small hole; you see nothing but a blue mark; but a much larger opening in passing out, often tearing the flesh a good deal; as in this case. "Ah, either he was a fool or thought I was. But good-bye. I shall gallop home as fast as possible and send back word whether I find him there or not." "Don't take the trouble, doctor," said Mr. Travilla; "we will mount and follow you at once, to identify him if he is to be found. Shall we not, wife?" "If you say so, Edward, and are quite sure he cannot harm you now?" "No danger, Mrs. Travilla," cried the doctor, looking back as he rode off. CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. "Oft those whose cruelty makes many mourn Do by the fires which they first kindle burn." --EARL OF STIRLING. "As crimes do grow, justice should rouse itself." --JOHNSON'S CATILINE. Jackson thought he read suspicion in the doctor's eye as the latter left the office; also he felt sure the physician would not ride far before hearing of the attack on Viamede, and would speedily come at the truth by putting that and that together; perhaps return with a party of avengers, and hang him to a tree in the adjacent forest. "I must get out o' this before I'm an hour older," said the scoundrel to himself. "Oh, for the strength I had yesterday!" "Why don't you lie down, sah, as Massa Doctah tole ye?" asked Nap, returning. "Massa always 'spects folks to do prezactly as he tells dem." "Why, Sambo, I'm too dirty to lie on that nice sofa," replied Jackson, glancing down at his soiled garments. "Sambo's not my name, sah," said the negro, drawing himself up with dignity; "I'se Napoleon Boningparty George Washington Marquis de Lafayette, an' dey calls me Nap for short. If ye'll take off dat coat, sah, an' dem boots, I'll take 'em out to de kitchen yard an' clean 'em." "Thank you; if you will I'll give you a dollar. And if you'll brush the mud from my pants first, I'll try the sofa; for I'm nearly dead for sleep and rest." "All right, sah," and Nap went to a closet, brought out a whisk, and using it vigorously upon the pantaloons, soon brushed away the mud, which the sun had made very dry. A few blood stains were left, but there was no help for that at present. The coat was taken off with some difficulty on account of the wounded arm, then the boots, and Jackson laid himself down on the sofa and closed his eyes. Nap threw the coat over his arm, and taking the boots in the other hand went softly out, closing the door behind him. "Safe 'nuff now, I reckon," he chuckled to himself; "guess he not trabble far widout dese." He was hardly gone, however, when Jackson roused himself and forced his weary eyes to unclose. "As dangerous as to go to sleep when freezing," he muttered. He rose, stepped to the closet door, and opened it. A pair of boots stood on the floor, a coat hung on a peg. He helped himself to both, sat down and drew on the boots, which were a little too large but went on all the more readily for that. Now for the coat. It was not new, but by no means shabby. He took out his knife, hastily ripped up the right sleeve and put it on. It fitted even better than the boots. Nap had brought a bottle of wine and left it on the office table, forgetting to carry it back to the dining-room. Jackson took it up, and placing it to his mouth drained the last drop. Then putting on his hat, he stole softly from the house and down the avenue. To his great joy a boat was just passing in the direction to take him farther from Viamede. He signaled it, and was taken aboard. "Been getting Dr. Balis to patch up a wound, eh, stranger?" said the skipper, glancing at the disabled arm. "Yes;" and Jackson repeated the story already told to the surgeon. The skipper sympathized and advised a rest in the cabin. "Thank you," said Jackson; "but I'm only going a few miles, when I'll reach a point where, by taking to the woods again, I'll be likely to find my friends; who are doubtless anxious to know what has become of me." "Very well, sir, when we come to the right place, just let us know and we'll put you off." Evidently the skipper had heard nothing to arouse his suspicions. Jackson was landed at the spot he pointed out--a lonely one on the edge of a forest, without question or demur, and the boat went on its way. He watched it till it disappeared from view, then plunging into the woods, presently found a narrow foot-path, pursuing which for an hour or so he came out into a small clearing. At the farther side, built just on the edge of the forest, was a rude log cabin. A slatternly woman stood in the open doorway. "So ye did get back at last?" she remarked, as he drew near. "I'd most give ye up. What ails your arm now?" He briefly repeated his story to the doctor and skipper; then asked hurriedly, "Is my horse all right?" The woman nodded. "I've tuck good care on her. Now where's the gold ye promised me?" "Here," he said, taking out, and holding up before her delighted eyes, several shining half-eagles; "have my horse saddled and bridled and brought round to the door here as quickly as possible, and these are yours." "I'll do it. Bill," to a half-grown youth who sat on a rude bench within lazily smoking a pipe--"run and fetch the gentleman's hoss. But what's yer hurry, mister?" "This," he answered, pointing to the disabled limb; "it's growing worse, and I'm in haste to get home, where I can be nursed by mother and sisters, before I quite give out." "She's a awful sperited cratur, and you'll have a hard job o' it to manage her, with one hand." "I must try it, nevertheless; I believe I can do it too; for she knows her master." "She'll go like lightnin'," said the boy, as he brought the animal to the door; "she's been so long in the stable, she's as wild and scary as a bird." Jackson threw the gold into the woman's lap, turned about and taking the bridle from the boy, stroked, patted, and talked soothingly to the excited steed, who was snorting and pawing the ground in a way that boded danger to any one attempting to mount. His caresses and kindly tones seemed, however, to have a calming effect; she grew comparatively quiet, he sprang into the saddle and was off like an arrow from the bow. It was about that time the doctor returned to his office to find it deserted. Nap was summoned. "What's become of the man I left here in your charge, sirrah?" asked the doctor sternly. "Dunno, sah, Massa Doctah," answered Nap, glancing in astonishment from side to side. "To't he heyah, sah; 'deed I did. Took he coat an' boots to clean 'em; to't he safe till I fotch 'em back; wouldn't go off without dem." The doctor stepped to the closet. "Yes, my coat and boots gone, bottle of wine emptied, no fee for professional aid--a fine day's work for me." "Massa Doctah! you don't say de rascal done stole yer coat an' boots? Oh, ef I cotch him, I----" and Napoleon Bonaparte George Washington Marquis de Lafayette looked unutterable things. "Better take care I don't get hold of you!" cried the irate master. "Go and tell Cato to saddle and bridle Selim and bring him to the door as quickly as possible; and do you find out if anybody saw which way the rascal went. He must be caught, for he's a burglar and murderer!" Nap lifted his hands and opened mouth and eyes wide in surprise and horror. "Begone!" cried the doctor, stamping his foot, "and don't stand gaping there while the scoundrel escapes." Nap shuffled out, leaving his master pacing the office to and fro with angry, impatient strides. "What is it, my dear? what has gone wrong?" asked his wife, looking in upon him. "Come, sit down on the sofa here and I'll tell you," he said, his excited manner quieting somewhat at sight of her pleasant face. She accepted the invitation, and seating himself beside her he briefly related all that he knew of Jackson and his attack on Mr. Travilla. He had hardly finished when Nap returned with the news that several of the negro children had seen a man go down the avenue and get aboard a passing boat. "Ah ha!" cried the doctor, jumping up; "and which way was the boat going?" "Dat way, sah," replied Nap, indicating the direction by a flourish of his right hand. At that moment Mr. and Mrs. Travilla rode up, and Dr. and Mrs. Balis hastened out to greet them. "He's gone; took the morning boat," cried the doctor. "Good!" said Mr. Travilla, "we have only to head him with a telegram, and he'll be arrested on stepping ashore; or on board the boat." "Unless he should land in the next town, Madison, which the boat, having a good hour's start of us, would reach before the swiftest messenger we could send; probably has already reached." "Then the best plan will be for me to ride on to Madison, give notice to the authorities, have it ascertained whether our man has landed there, and if not telegraph to the next town and have them ready to board the boat, with a warrant for his arrest, as soon as it arrives." "Yes; and I'll mount Selim and go with you," answered the doctor. "I probably know the road better than you do. And our wives may keep each other company till we return." "What do you say, Elsie?" asked Mr. Travilla. "That I will go or stay as you think best." "We must ride very fast; I think it would fatigue you too much; so advise you to stay with Mrs. Balis, and I will call for you on my return." "Do, Mrs. Travilla! I should be delighted to have you," urged Mrs. Balis; "and you can tell me all about last night. What a trial to your nerves! I don't wonder you are looking a little pale this morning." "Thank you, I will stay," said Elsie; and instantly her husband, giving his horse into Nap's charge for a moment, sprang to the ground and lifted her from the saddle. "Don't be anxious, little wife," he whispered, as the soft eyes met his with a fond wistful look, "I am not likely to be in danger, and you know the sweet words, 'Not a hair of your head shall fall to the ground without your Father.'" "Yes, yes, I know, and will trust you in His hands, my dear husband," was the low-breathed response. Another moment and the two gentlemen were galloping rapidly down the avenue side by side. The ladies stood on the veranda, watching till they were out of sight, then went into the house. "Now, my dear Mrs. Travilla, shall I just treat you as one of ourselves, and take you into my own breezy room?" asked Mrs. Balis, regarding Elsie with an affectionate, admiring look. "It is just what I should like, Mrs. Balis," Elsie answered, with a smile so sweet that her hostess put her arm about her and kissed her. "I can't help it," she said; "you take my heart by storm with your beauty, grace, and sweetness." "Thank you, and you need not apologize," Elsie said, returning the embrace; "love is too precious a gift to be rejected." "I think Mr. Travilla a very fortunate man, and so does my husband." "And am not I a fortunate woman, too?" "Ah, yes, Mr. Travilla is most agreeable and entertaining, handsome too; and indeed I should think everything one could wish in a husband; as mine is," she added laughingly. "I presume neither of us would consent to an exchange of partners. Are you fond of children, Mrs. Travilla?" "Very." "Shall I show you mine?" "I should like to see them, if you please." Mrs. Balis at once led the way to the nursery, where she exhibited, with much motherly pride and delight, her three darlings, the eldest five, the second three years of age, the third a babe in the arms. They were bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked children, full of life and health, but to Elsie's taste not half so sweet and pretty as Rosebud. Mrs. Balis next conducted her guest to her boudoir; a servant brought in refreshments, consisting of a variety of fruits, cakes, and confections, with wine sangaree and lemonade. After partaking of these, the ladies had a long talk while awaiting the return of their husbands. The gentlemen were gone much longer than had been anticipated, and I am not sure the wives did not grow a little uneasy. At all events they left the boudoir for the front veranda, which gave them a view of the avenue and some hundred yards of the road beyond in the direction from which the travelers must come. And when at length the two were descried approaching, in a more leisurely manner than they went, there was a simultaneous and relieved exclamation, "Oh, there they are at last." The ladies stood up and waved their handkerchiefs. There was no response; the gentlemen's faces were towards each other and they seemed to be engaged in earnest converse. "Unsuccessful," said Mrs. Balis. "How do you know?" asked Elsie. "There's an air of dejection about them." "I don't see it," returned Elsie, smiling. "They seem to me only too busy talking to notice our little attention." But Mrs. Balis was correct in her conjecture. The boat had passed Madison some time before the gentlemen arrived there, had paused but a few minutes and landed no such passenger. Learning this they then telegraphed the authorities of the next town; waited some hours, and received a return telegram to the effect that the boat had been boarded, no person answering the description found; but the captain gave the information that such a man had been taken on board at Dr. Balis' plantation, and set ashore at the edge of a forest half-way between that place and Madison. On receiving this intelligence Mr. Travilla and the doctor started for home, bringing with them a posse of mounted men headed by some of the police of Madison. Dr. Balis had taken with him to Madison the blood-stained coat of Jackson. From this the hounds took the scent, and on arriving at the wood mentioned by the skipper, soon found the trail and set off in hot pursuit, the horsemen following close at their heels. Our gentlemen did not join in the chase, but having seen it well begun, continued on their homeward way. "And you did consent to the use of hounds?" Elsie said inquiringly, and with a slightly reproachful look at her husband. "My dear," he answered gently, "having been put into the hands of the police it has now become a commonwealth case, and I have no authority to dictate their mode of procedure." "Forgive me, dearest, if I seemed to reproach you," she whispered, the sweet eyes seeking his with a loving, repentant look, as for a moment they were left alone together. He drew her to him with a fond caress. "My darling, I have nothing to forgive." In the cabin at whose door Jackson had made his call and remounted his steed, a woman--the same with whom his business had been transacted--was stooping over an open fire, frying fat pork and baking hoe-cake. Bill sat on his bench smoking as before, while several tow-headed children romped and quarreled, chasing each other round and round the room with shouts of "You quit that ere!" "Mammy, I say, make her stop." "Hush!" cried the woman, suddenly straightening herself, and standing in a listening attitude, as a deep sound came to the ear, borne on the evening breeze. "Hounds! bloodhounds!" cried Bill, springing to his feet with unwonted energy. "And they're a-comin' this way; makin' straight for the house," he added, glancing from the door, then shutting it with a bang. "They're after that man; you may depend. He's a 'balitionist, or a horse thief, or somethin'." The children crouched, silent, pale, and terror-stricken, in a corner, while outside, the deep baying of the hounds drew nearer and nearer, and mingling with it came other sounds of horses' hoofs and the gruff voices of men. Then a loud "Halloo the house!" "What's wanted?" asked Bill, opening the one window and putting out his head. "The burglar you're hiding from justice and the hounds have tracked to your door. A fellow with his right arm disabled by a pistol-shot." "He isn't here, didn't step inside at all; don't ye see the hounds are turning away from the door? But you kin come in an' look for yourself." One of the men dismounted and went in. "Look round sharp now," said the woman. "I only wish he was here fur ye to ketch um: if I'd know'd he was a burglar, he would never hev got off so easy. He jest come for his beast that he left with us four days ago, and mounted there at the door and was off like a shot." "Which way?" asked the man. She pointed in a southerly direction. "It's the way to Texas, ain't it? an' he's got four or five hours the start o' ye, an' on a swift horse; he'll be over the border line afore ye kin ketch up to him." "I'm afraid so, indeed; but justice can follow him even there," replied the officer, hastening out, already satisfied that the one bare room did not contain his quarry. He sprang into the saddle, and the whole party galloped away in the wake of the dogs, who had found the trail again and started off in full cry. The party had a hard ride of some hours, the hounds never faltering or losing the scent; but at length they were at fault. They had reached a brook and here the trail was lost; it was sought for on both sides of the stream for a considerable distance both up and down, then abandoned in despair. The wily burglar had made his steed travel the bed of the stream, which was nowhere very deep, for several miles; then taking to the open country again and traveling under cover of the darkness of a cloudy night, at length, in a condition of utter exhaustion, reached a place of safety among some of his confederates; for he had joined himself to a gang of villains who infested that part of the country. But "Though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not be unpunished." Few if any of them would escape a violent and terrible death at the last; and--"after that the judgment"; from which none may be excused. CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH. "His house she enters, there to be a light Shining within, when all without is night; A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasure, and his cares dividing." --ROGERS' HUMAN LIFE. At the set time our friends turned their faces homeward, leaving their loving dependents of Viamede all drowned in tears. In the six weeks of their stay, "Massa" an' "Missus" had become very dear to those warm, childlike hearts. Elsie could not refrain from letting fall some bright sympathetic drops, though the next moment her heart bounded with joy at the thought of home and father. The yearning to hear again the tones of his loved voice, to feel the clasp of his arm and the touch of his lip upon brow and cheek and lip, increased with every hour of the rapid journey. Its last stage was taken in the Ion family carriage, which was found waiting for them at the depot. Elsie was hiding in her own breast a longing desire to go first to the Oaks, chiding herself for the wish, since her husband was doubtless fully as anxious to see his mother, and wondering why she had not thought of asking for a gathering of both families at the one place or the other. They had left the noisy city far behind, and were bowling smoothly along a very pleasant part of the road, bordered with greensward and shaded on either side by noble forest trees; she with her mind filled with these musings, sitting silent and pensive, gazing dreamily from the window. Suddenly her eyes encountered a well-known noble form, seated on a beautiful spirited horse, which he was holding in with a strong and resolute hand. "Papa!" she exclaimed, with a joyous, ringing cry; and instantly he had dismounted, his servant taking Selim's bridle-reins, the carriage had stopped, and springing out she was in his arms. "My dear father, I was so hungry to see you," she said, almost crying for joy. "How good of you to come to meet us, and so much nicer here than in the crowded depot." "Good of me," he answered, with a happy laugh. "Of course, as I was in no haste to have my darling in my arms. Ah, Travilla, my old friend, I am very glad to see your pleasant face again." And he shook hands warmly. "Many thanks to you (and to a higher power)," he added reverently, "for bringing her safely back to me. She seems to have been well taken care of; plump and bright and rosy." "I have been, papa; even you could not be more tender and careful of me than--my husband is." Her father smiled at the shy, half-hesitating way in which the last word slipped from the rich red lips, and the tender, loving light in the soft eyes as they met the fond, admiring gaze of Travilla's. "No repentance on either side yet, I see," he said laughingly. "Travilla, your mother is in excellent health and spirits; but impatient to embrace both son and daughter, she bade me say. We all take tea by invitation at Ion to-day; that is, we of the Oaks, including Aunt Wealthy and Miss King." "Oh, how nice! how kind!" cried Elsie. "And to-morrow you are all to be at the Oaks!" added her father. "Now shall I ride beside your carriage? or take a seat in it with you?" "The latter, by all means," answered Travilla, Elsie's sparkling eyes saying the same, even more emphatically. "Take Selim home, and see that both he and the family carriage are at Ion by nine this evening," was Mr. Dinsmore's order to his servant. "Ah, papa! so early!" Elsie interposed, in a tone that was half reproach, half entreaty. "We must not keep you up late after your journey, my child," he answered, following her into the carriage, Mr. Travilla stepping in after. "The seats are meant for three; let me sit between you, please," requested Elsie. "But are you not afraid of crushing your dress?" asked her father jocosely, making room for her by his side. "Not I," she answered gayly, slipping into her chosen place with a light, joyous laugh, and giving a hand to each. "Now I'm the happiest woman in the world." "As you deserve to be," whispered her husband, clasping tight the hand he held. "Oh, you flatterer!" she returned. "Papa, did you miss me?" "Every day, every hour. Did I not tell you so in my letters? And you? did you think often of me?" "Oftener than I can tell." "I have been wondering," he said, looking gravely into her eyes, "why you both so carefully avoided the slightest allusion to that most exciting episode of your stay at Viamede." Elsie blushed. "We did not wish to make you uneasy, papa." "Of course, you must have seen a newspaper account?" observed Mr. Travilla. "Yes; and now suppose you let me hear your report. Did the villain's shot graze Elsie's forehead and carry a tress of her beautiful hair?" "No, no, it was only a lock of her unworthy husband's hair--a much slighter loss," Travilla said, laughing. "But perhaps the reporter would justify his misrepresentation on the plea that man and wife are one." "Possibly. And did your shot shatter the bone in the rascal's arm?" "No; Dr. Balis told me the ball glanced from the bone, passed under the nerve and severed the humeral artery." "It's a wonder he didn't bleed to death." "Yes; but it seems he had sufficient knowledge and presence of mind to improvise a tourniquet with his handkerchief and a stick." "What rooms were you occupying?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "Come, just tell me the whole story as if I had heard nothing of it before." Travilla complied, occasionally appealing to Elsie to assist his memory; and they had hardly done with the subject when the carriage turned into the avenue at Ion. "My darling, welcome to your home," said Travilla low and tenderly, lifting the little gloved hand to his lips. An involuntary sigh escaped from Mr. Dinsmore's breast. "Thank you, my friend," Elsie replied to her husband, the tone and the look saying far more than the words. Then turning to her father, "And to-morrow, papa, you will welcome me to the other of my two dear homes." "I hope so, daughter; sunlight is not more welcome than you will always be." What joyous greetings now awaited our travelers. Elsie had hardly stepped from the carriage ere she found herself in Mrs. Travilla's arms, the old lady rejoicing over her as the most precious treasure Providence could have sent her. Then came Rose, with her tender, motherly embrace, and joyous "Elsie, dearest, how glad I am to have you with us again." "Oh, but you've missed us sadly!" said Aunt Wealthy, taking her turn; "the house seemed half gone at the Oaks. Didn't it, Horace?" "Yes; the absence of our eldest daughter made a very wide gap in the family circle," answered Mr. Dinsmore. And "Yes, indeed!" cried Horace junior, thinking himself addressed. "I don't believe I could have done without her at all if she hadn't written me those nice little letters." "Don't you thank me for bringing her back then, my little brother?" asked Mr. Travilla, holding out his hand to the child. "Yes, indeed, Brother Edward. Papa says I may call you that, as you asked me to; and I'll give you another hug as I did that night, if you'll let me." "That I will, my boy!" And opening wide his arms he took the lad into a warm embrace, which was returned as heartily as given. "Now, Elsie, it's my turn to have a hug and kiss from you," Horace said, as Mr. Travilla released him; "everybody's had a turn but me. Miss King and Rosebud and all." Elsie had the little one in her arms, caressing it fondly. "Yes, my dear little brother," she said, giving Rosebud to her mammy, "you shall have as hard a hug as I can give, and as many kisses as you want. I love you dearly, dearly, and am as glad to see you as you could wish me to be." "Are you much fatigued, Elsie dear?" asked Rose, when the greetings were over, even to the kindly shake of the hand and pleasant word to each of the assembled servants. "Oh, no, mamma, we have traveled but little at night, and last night I had nine hours of sound, refreshing sleep." "That was right," her father said, with an approving glance at Travilla. Mrs. Travilla led the way to a suite of beautiful apartments prepared for the bride. Elsie's taste had been consulted in all the refitting and refurnishing, and the whole effect was charming. This was, however, her first sight of the rooms since the changes had been begun. The communicating doors were thrown wide, giving a view of the whole suite at once, from the spot where Elsie stood between Mr. Travilla and his mother. She gazed for a moment, then turned to her husband a face sparkling with delight. "Does it satisfy you, my little wife?" he asked, in tones that spoke intense enjoyment of her pleasure. "Fully, in every way; but especially as an evidence of my husband's love," she answered, suffering him to throw an arm about her and fold her to his heart. There had been words of welcome and a recognition of the younger lady as now mistress of the mansion, trembling on the mother's tongue, but she now stole quietly away and left them to each other. In half an hour the two rejoined their guests, "somewhat improved in appearance," as Mr. Travilla laughingly said he hoped they would be found. "You are indeed," said Aunt Wealthy, "a lily or a rose couldn't look lovelier than Elsie does in that pure white, and with the beautiful flowers in her hair. I like her habit of wearing natural flowers in her hair." "And I," said her husband, "they seem to me to have been made for her adornment." "And your money-hoon's over, Elsie; how odd it seems to think you've been so long married. And did you get through the money-hoon without a quarrel? But of course you did." Elsie, who had for a moment looked slightly puzzled by the new word, now answered with a smile of comprehension, "Oh, yes, auntie; surely we should be a sad couple if even the honeymoon were disturbed by a disagreement. But Edward and I never mean to quarrel." Mr. Dinsmore turned in his chair, and gave his daughter a glance of mingled surprise and disapprobation. "There, papa, I knew you would think me disrespectful," she exclaimed with a deep blush; "but he insisted, indeed ordered me, and you know I have promised to obey." "It is quite true," assented Mr. Travilla, coloring in his turn; "but I told her it was the only order I ever meant to give her." "Better not make rash promises," said Mr. Dinsmore, laughing; "these wives are sometimes inclined to take advantage of them." "Treason! treason!" cried Rose, lifting her hands; "to think you'd say that before me! "'Husband, husband, cease your strife No longer idly rove, sir; Tho' I am your wedded wife, Yet I am not your slave, sir.'" There was a general laugh, in the midst of which the tea-bell rang. "Come," said the elder Mrs. Travilla good-humoredly, "don't be setting a bad example to my children, Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, but let us all adjourn amicably to the tea-room, and try the beneficial effect of meat and drink upon our tempers." "That's a very severe reproof, coming from so mild a person as yourself, Mrs. Travilla," said Rose. "My dear, give your arm to Aunt Wealthy, or our hostess. The ladies being so largely in the majority, the younger ones should be left to take care of themselves; of course excepting our bride. Miss King, will you take my arm?" "Sit here, my daughter," said Mrs. Travilla, indicating the seat before the tea-urn. "Mother, I did not come here to turn you out of your rightful place," objected Elsie, blushing painfully. "My dear child, it is your own place; as the wife of the master of the house, you are its mistress. And if you knew how I long to see you actually filling that position; how glad I am to resign the reigns to such hands as yours, you need not hesitate or hold back." "Yes; take it, wife," said Mr. Travilla, in tender, reassuring tones, as he led her to the seat of honor; "I know my mother is sincere (she is never anything else), and she told me long ago, even before she knew who was to be her daughter, how glad she would be to resign the cares of mistress of the household." Elsie yielded, making no further objection, and presided with the same modest ease, dignity, and grace with which she had filled the like position at Viamede. The experience there had accustomed her to the duties of the place, and after the first moment she felt quite at home in it. Mr. Dinsmore's carriage was announced at the early hour he had named. The conversation in the drawing-room had been general for a time, but now the company had divided themselves into groups; the two older married ladies and Aunt Wealthy forming one, Mr. Travilla and Miss King another, while Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter had sought out the privacy of a sofa, at a distance from the others, and were in the midst of one of the long, confidential chats they always enjoyed so much. "Ah, papa, don't go yet," Elsie pleaded, "we're not half done our talk, and it's early." "But the little folks should have been in their nests long before this," he said, taking out his watch. "Then send them and their mammies home, and let the carriage return for you and the ladies; unless they wish to go now." He looked at her smilingly. "You are not feeling the need of rest and sleep?" "Not at all, papa; only the need of a longer chat with you." "Then, since you had so good a rest last night, it shall be as you wish." "Are you ready, my dear?" asked Rose, from the other side of the room. "Not yet, wife; I shall stay half an hour longer, and if you ladies like to do the same we will send the carriage home with the children and their mammies, and let it return for you." "What do you say, Aunt Wealthy and Miss Lottie?" inquired Mrs. Dinsmore. "I prefer to stay and talk out my finish with Mrs. Travilla," said Miss Stanhope. "I cast my vote on the same side," said Miss King. "But, my dear Mrs. Dinsmore, don't let us keep you." "Thanks, no; but I, too, prefer another half hour in this pleasant company." The half hour flew away on swift wings, to Elsie especially. "But why leave us at all to-night, auntie and Lottie?" she asked, as the ladies began their preparations for departure. "You are to be my guests for the rest of the winter, are you not?" Then turning, with a quick vivid blush, to Mrs. Travilla, "Mother, am I transcending my rights?" "My dearest daughter, no; did I not say you were henceforth mistress of this house?" "Yes, from its master down to the very horses in the stable and dogs in the kennel," laughed Mr. Travilla, coming softly up and stealing an arm about his wife's waist. Everybody laughed. "No, sir; I don't like to contradict you," retorted Elsie, coloring but looking lovingly into the eyes bent so fondly upon her, "but I am--nothing to you but your little wife;" and her voice sank almost to a whisper with the last word. "Ah? Well, dear child, that's enough for me," he said, in the same low tone. "But, Lottie," she remarked aloud, "you are tying on your hat. Won't you stay?" "Not to-night, thank you, Mrs. Travilla," answered the gay girl in her merry, lively tones. "You are to be at the Oaks to-morrow, and perhaps I--well, we can settle the time there." "And you, auntie?" "Why, dearie, I think you'd better get your housekeeping a little used to your ways first. And it's better for starting out that young folks should be alone." Mr. Dinsmore had stepped into the hall for his hat, and while the other ladies were making their adieus to her new mother, Elsie stole softly after him. "My good-night kiss, papa," she whispered, putting her arms about his neck. "My dear darling! my precious, precious child! how glad I am to be able to give it to you once more, and to take my own from your own sweet lips," he said, clasping her closer. "God bless you and keep you, and ever cause His face to shine upon you." CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH. "O what passions then What melting sentiments of kindly care, On the new parents seize." --THOMPSON'S AGAMEMNON. "There is none In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother's heart!" --MRS. HEMANS. Finding it so evidently the wish of both her husband and his mother, Elsie quietly and at once assumed the reins of government. But with that mother to go to for advice in every doubt and perplexity, and with a dozen or more of well-trained servants at her command, her post, though no sinecure, did not burden her with its duties; she still could find time for the cultivation of mind and heart, for daily walks and rides, and the enjoyment of society both at home and abroad. Shortly after the return of the newly married pair, there was a grand party given in their honor at Roselands; another at Ashlands, one at Pinegrove, at the Oaks, and several other places; then a return was made by a brilliant affair of the kind at Ion. But when at last this rather wearying round was over, they settled down to the quiet home life much more congenial to both; always ready to entertain with unbounded hospitality, and ignoring none of the legitimate claims of the outside world, they were yet far more interested in the affairs of their own little one, made up of those nearest and dearest. They were an eminently Christian household, carefully instructing their dependents in the things pertaining to godliness, urging them to faith in Jesus evidenced by good works; trying to make the way of salvation very clear to their often dull apprehension, and to recommend it by their own pure, consistent lives. Night and morning all were called together--family and house servants--and Mr. Travilla read aloud a portion of Scripture, and led them in prayer and praise. Nor was a meal ever eaten without God's blessing having first been asked upon it. There was but one drawback to Elsie's felicity--that she no longer dwelt under the same roof with her father; yet that was not so great, as a day seldom passed in which they did not meet once or oftener. It must be very urgent business, or a severe storm, that kept him from riding or driving over to Ion, unless his darling first appeared at the Oaks. Aunt Wealthy and Lottie came to Ion within a fortnight after the return from Viamede; and while the former divided the rest of her stay at the South between Ion and the Oaks, Lottie spent nearly the whole of hers with Elsie. In May, Harry Duncan came for his aunt, and Miss King returned with them to her paternal home. Our friends at Ion and the Oaks decided to spend their summer at home this year. "We have traveled so much of late years," said Rose, "that I am really tired of it." "And home is so dear and sweet," added Elsie. "I mean both Ion and the Oaks, Edward and papa; for somehow they seem to me to be both included in that one dear word." "That is right," responded her father. "Yes; we seem to be all one family," said Mr. Travilla, contentedly, fondling Rosebud, whom he had coaxed to a seat upon his knee; "and like a good spouse, I vote on the same side with my wife." "I too," said his mother, looking affectionately upon them both. "I have no inclination to travel, and shall be much happier for having you all about me." The summer glided rapidly by, and vanished, leaving at Ion a priceless treasure. It was a soft, hazy, delicious September morning; Elsie sat in her pretty boudoir, half-reclining in the depths of a large velvet-cushioned easy chair. Her husband had left her a minute before, and she was--no, not quite alone, for her eyes were turning with a sweet, new light in them, upon a beautiful rosewood crib where, underneath the silken covers and resting on pillows of eider-down, lay a tiny form, only a glimpse of the pink face and one wee doubled-up fist to be caught through the lace curtains so carefully drawn about the little sleeper. A familiar step was heard in the outer room. The door opened quietly, and Elsie looking up cried, "Papa," in a delighted yet subdued tone. "My darling," he said, coming to her and taking her in his arms. "How nice to see you up again; but you must be careful, very, very careful, not to overexert yourself." "I am, my dear father, for Edward insists on it, and watches over me, and baby too, as if really afraid we might somehow slip away from him." "He is quite right. There, you must not stand, recline in your chair again, while I help myself to a seat by your side. How are you to-day?" "I think I never felt better in my life, papa; so strong and well that it seems absurd to be taking such care of myself." "Not at all; you must do it. You seem to be alone with your babe. I hope you never lift her?" "No, sir, not yet. That I shall not has been my husband's second order. Mammy is within easy call, just in the next room, and will come the instant she is wanted." "Let me look at her; unless you think it will disturb her rest." "Oh, no, sir." And the young mother gently drew aside the curtain of the crib. The two bent over the sleeping babe, listening to its gentle breathing. "Ah, papa, I feel so rich! you don't know how I love her!" whispered Elsie. "Don't I, my daughter? don't I know how I love you?" And his eyes turned with yearning affection upon her face, then back to that of the little one. "Six weeks old to-day, and a very cherub for beauty. Aunt Chloe tells me she is precisely my daughter over again, and I feel as if I had now an opportunity to recover what I lost in not having my first-born with me from her birth. Little Elsie, grandpa feels that you are his; his precious treasure." The young mother's eyes grew misty with a strange mixture of emotion, in which love and joy were the deepest and strongest. Her arm stole round her father's neck. "Dear papa, how nice of you to love her so; my precious darling. She is yours, too, almost as much as Edward's and mine. And I am sure if we should be taken away and you and she be left, you would be the the same good father to her you have been to me." "Much better, I hope. My dear daughter, I was far too hard with you at times. But I know you have forgiven it all long ago." "Papa, dear papa, please don't ever again talk of--of forgiveness from me; I was your own, and I believe you always did what you thought was for my good; and oh, what you have been, and are to me, no tongue can tell." "Or you to me, my own beloved child," he answered with emotion. The babe stirred, and opened its eyes with a little, "Coo, coo." "Let me take her," said Mr. Dinsmore, turning back the cover and gently lifting her from her cozy nest. Elsie lay back among her cushions again, watching with delighted eyes as her father held and handled the wee body as deftly as the most competent child's nurse. It was a very beautiful babe; the complexion soft, smooth, and very fair, with a faint pink tinge; the little, finely formed head covered with rings of golden hair that would some day change to the darker shade of her mother's, whose regular features and large, soft brown eyes she inherited also. "Sweet little flower blossomed into this world of sin and sorrow! Elsie, dearest, remember that she is not absolutely yours, her father's, or mine; but only lent you a little while to be trained up for the Lord." "Yes, papa, I know," she answered with emotion, "and I gave her to Him even before her birth." "I hope she will prove as like you in temper and disposition as she bids fair to be in looks." "Papa, I should like her to be much better than I was." He shook his head with a half-incredulous smile. "That could hardly be, if she has any human nature at all." "Ah, papa, you forget how often I used to be naughty and disobedient; how often you had to punish me; particularly in that first year after you returned from Europe." A look of pain crossed his features. "Daughter, dear, I am full of remorse when I think of that time. I fully deserved the epithet Travilla once bestowed upon me in his righteous indignation at my cruelty to my gentle, sensitive little girl." "What was that, papa?" she asked, with a look of wonder and surprise. "Dinsmore, you're a brute!" "Papa, how could he say that!" and the fair face flushed with momentary excitement and anger towards the father of her child, whom she so thoroughly respected ind so dearly loved. "Ah, don't be angry with him," said Mr. Dinsmore; "I was the culprit. You cannot have forgotten your fall from the piano-stool which came so near making me childless? It was he who ran in first, lifted you, and laid you on the sofa with the blood streaming from the wounded temple over your curls and your white dress. Ah, I can never forget the sad sight, or the pang that shot through my heart with the thought that you were dead. It was as he laid you down that Travilla turned to me with those indignant words, and I felt that I fully deserved them. And yet I was even more cruel afterwards, when next you refused to obey when I bade you offend against your conscience." "Don't let us think or talk of it any more, dear father; I love far better to dwell upon the long years that followed, full of the tenderest care and kindness. You certainly can find nothing to blame yourself with in them." "Yes; I governed you too much. It would probably have ruined a less amiable temper, a less loving heart, than yours. It is well for parents to be sometimes a little blind to trivial faults. And I was so strict, so stern, so arbitrary, so severe. My dear, be more lenient to your child. But of course she will never find sternness in either you or her father." "I think not, papa; unless she proves very head-strong; but you surely cannot mean to advise us not to require the prompt, cheerful, implicit obedience you have always exacted from all your children?" "No, daughter; though you might sometimes excuse or pardon a little forgetfulness when the order has not been of vital importance," he answered, with a smile. There was a moment's silence: then looking affectionately into her father's face, Elsie said, "I am so glad, papa, that we have had this talk. Edward and I have had several on the same subject (for we are very, very anxious to train our little one aright); and I find that we all agree. But you must be tired acting the part of nurse. Please lay her in my arms." "I am not tired, but I see you want her," he answered with a smile, doing as she requested. "Ah, you precious wee pet! you lovely, lovely little darling!" the young mother said, clasping her child to her bosom, and softly kissing the velvet cheek. "Papa, is she really beautiful? or is it only the mother love that makes her so in my eyes?" "No; she is really a remarkably beautiful babe. Strangers pronounce her so as well as ourselves. Do you feel quite strong enough to hold her?" "Oh, yes, sir; yes, indeed! The doctor says he thinks there would now be no danger in my lifting her, but----" laughingly, and with a fond look up into her husband's eyes, as at that moment he entered the room, "that old tyrant is so fearful of an injury to this piece of his personal property, that he won't let me." "That old tyrant, eh?" he repeated, stooping to take a kiss from the sweet lips, and to bestow one on the wee face resting on her bosom. "Yes, you know you are," she answered, her eyes contradicting her words; "the idea of you forbidding me to lift my own baby!" "My baby, my little friend," he said gayly. Elsie laughed a low, silvery, happy laugh, musical as a chime of bells. "Our baby," she corrected. "But you have not spoken to papa." "Ah, we said good-morning out in the avenue. Dinsmore, since we are all three here together now, suppose we get Elsie's decision in regard to that matter we were consulting about." "Very well." "What matter?" she asked, looking a little curious. "A business affair," replied her husband, taking a seat by her side. "I have a very good offer for your New Orleans property, daughter," said Mr. Dinsmore; "shall I accept it?" "Do you think it advisable, papa? and you, Edward? I have great confidence in your judgments." "We do; we think the money could be better and more safely invested in foreign stock; but it is for you to decide, as the property is yours." "More safely invested? I thought I had heard you both say real estate was the safest of all investments." "Usually," replied her father, "but we fear property there is likely to depreciate in value." "Well, papa, please do just as you and my husband think best. You both know far more about these things than I do, and so I should rather trust your judgment than my own." "Then I shall make the sale; and I think the time will come when you will be very glad that I did." Mr. Dinsmore presently said good-bye and went away, leaving them alone. "Are not your arms tired, little wife?" asked Mr. Travilla. "No, dear; ah, it is so sweet to have her little head lying here; to feel her little form, and know that she is my own, own precious treasure." He rose, gently lifted her in his arms, put himself in the easy chair and placed her on his knee. "Now I have you both. Darling, do you know that I love you better to-day than I ever did before?" "Ah, but you have said that many times," she answered, with an arch, yet tender smile. "And it is always true. Each day I think my love as great as it can be, but the next I find it still greater." "And I have felt angry with you to-day, for the first time since you told me of your love." Her tone was remorseful and pleading, as though she would crave forgiveness. "Angry with me, my dearest? In what can I have offended?" he asked in sorrowful surprise. "Papa was saying that he had sometimes been too hard with me, and had fully deserved the epithet you once bestowed upon him in your righteous indignation. It was when I fell from the piano-stool; do you remember?" "Ah, yes, I can never forget it. And I called him a brute. But you will forgive what occurred so long ago? and in a moment of anger aroused by my great love for you?" "Forgive you, my husband? ah, it is I who should crave forgiveness, and I do, though it was a momentary feeling; and now I love you all the better for the great loving heart that prompted the exclamation." "We will exchange forgiveness," he whispered, folding her closer to his heart. CHAPTER NINETEENTH. "Sweet is the image of the brooding dove! Holy as heaven a mother's tender love! The love of many prayers, and many tears Which changes not with dim, declining years-- The only love which, on this teeming earth, Asks no return for passion's wayward birth." --MRS. NORTON'S DREAM. "Death is another life." --BAILEY. No mortal tongue or pen can describe the new, deep fountain of love the birth of her child had opened in our Elsie's heart. Already a devoted wife and daughter, she was the tenderest, most careful, most judicious of mothers; watching vigilantly over the welfare, physical, moral, and spiritual, of her precious charge. Often she took it with her to her closet, or kneeling beside its cradle, sent up fervent petitions to Him who, while on earth, said, "Suffer the little children, and forbid them not, to come unto Me," that He would receive her little one, and early make her a lamb of His fold. And even before the child could comprehend, she began to tell it of that dear Saviour and His wondrous love; then, as soon as it could speak, she taught it to lisp a simple prayer to Him. Little Elsie was almost the idol of her father and grandparents, who all looked upon her as a sort of second edition of her mother; more and more so as she grew in size, in beauty, and intelligence. Our Elsie seemed to find no cloud in her sky during that first year of her motherhood. "I thought I was as perfectly happy as possible in this world, before our darling came," she said to her husband one day, "but I am far happier now; for oh! such a well-spring of joy as she is!" "I am sure I can echo and reecho your words," he answered, folding the child to his heart. "How rich I have grown in the last two years! My two Elsies, more precious than the wealth of the world! Sometime I'm half afraid I love you both with an idolatrous affection, and that God will take you from me." His voice trembled with the last words. "I have had that fear also," she said, coming to his side and laying her hand on his arm; "but, Edward, if we put God first, we cannot love each other, nor this wee precious pet, too dearly." "No, you are right, little wife. But we must not expect to continue always, or very long, so free from trial; for 'we must through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of God.' And 'many are the afflictions of the righteous.'" "But the Lord delivereth him out of them all," she responded, finishing the quotation. "Yes, dearest, I know that trials and troubles will come, but not of themselves, and what our Father sends, He will give us strength to bear. 'The Lord God is a sun and shield, the Lord will give grace and glory.'" This conversation was held when the little girl was about a year old. Early in the following winter Elsie said to the dear old Mrs. Travilla, "Mother, I'm afraid you are not well. You are losing flesh and color, and do not seem so strong as usual. Mamma remarked it to me to-day, and asked what ailed you." "I am doing very well, dear," the old lady answered with a placid smile, and in her own gentle, quiet tones. "Mother, dear mother, something is wrong; you don't deny that you are ill!" and Elsie's tone was full of alarm and distress, as she hastily seated herself upon an ottoman beside Mrs. Travilla's easy chair, and earnestly scanned the aged face she loved so well. "We must have Dr. Barton here to see you. May I not send at once?" "No, dearest, I have already consulted him, and he is doing all he can for my relief." "But cannot cure you?" The answer came after a moment's pause. "No, dear; but I had hoped it would be much longer ere my cross cast its shadow over either your or Edward's path." Elsie could not speak; she only took the pale hands in hers, and pressed them again and again to her quivering lips, while her eyes filled to overflowing. "Dear daughter," said the calm, sweet voice, "do not grieve that I have got my summons home; for dearly, dearly as I love you all, I am often longing to see the face of my Beloved; of Him who hath redeemed me and washed me from my sins in His own precious blood." Mr. Travilla from the next room had heard it all. Hurrying in, he knelt by her side and folded his arms about her. "Mother," he said, hoarsely, "oh, is it, can it be so? Are we to lose you?" "No, my son; blessed be God, I shall not be lost, but only gone before; so don't be troubled and sorrowful when you see me suffer; remember that He loves me far better than you can, and will never give me one unneeded pang. "Well may I bear joyfully all He sends; for your light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; and He has said, 'When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee: and through the floods, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire thou shalt not be burned, neither shall the flames kindle upon thee.'" "And He is faithful to His promises. But we will not let you die yet, my mother, if anything in the wide world can save you. There are more skilful physicians than Dr. Barton; we will consult them----" "My son, the disease is one the whole profession agree in pronouncing incurable, and to travel would be torture. No, be content to let me die at home, with you and this beloved daughter to smooth my dying pillow, our wee precious pet to wile away the pain with her pretty baby ways, and my own pastor to comfort me with God's truth and sweet thoughts of heaven." Elsie looked the question her trembling lips refused to utter. "I shall not probably leave you soon," said the old lady. "It is a slow thing, the doctor tells me, it will take some time to run its course." Elsie could scarce endure the anguish in her husband's face. Silently she placed herself by his side, her arm about his neck, and laid her cheek to his. He drew her yet closer, the other arm still embracing his mother. "Are you suffering much, dearest mother?" "Not more than He giveth me strength to bear; and His consolations are not small. "My dear children, I have tried to hide this from you lest it should mar your happiness. Do not let it do so; it is no cause of regret to me. I have lived my three-score years and ten, and if by reason of strength they should be four-score, yet would their strength be labor and sorrow. I am deeply thankful that our Father has decreed to spare me the infirmities of extreme old age, by calling me home to that New Jerusalem where sin and sorrow, pain and feebleness, are unknown." "But to see you suffer, mother!" groaned her son. "Think on the dear Hand that sends the pain--so infinitely less than what He bore for me; that it is but for a moment; and of the weight of glory it is to work for me. Try, my dear children, to be entirely submissive to His will." "We will, mother," they answered; "and to be cheerful for your sake." A shadow had fallen upon the brightness of the hitherto happy home--a shadow of a great, coming sorrow--and the present grief of knowing that the dear mother, though ever patient, cheerful, resigned, was enduring almost constant and often very severe pain. They watched over her with tenderest love and care, doing everything in their power to relieve, strengthen, comfort her; never giving way in her presence to the grief that often wrung their hearts. Dearly as Mr. Travilla and Elsie had loved each other before, this community of sorrow drew them still closer together; as did their love for, and joy and pride in, their beautiful child. The consolations of God were not small with any of our friends at Ion and the Oaks; yet was it a winter of trial to all. For some weeks after the above conversation, Mr. Dinsmore and Rose called every day, and showed themselves sincere sympathizers; but young Horace and little Rosebud were taken with scarlet fever in its worst form, and the parents being much with them, did not venture to Ion for fear of carrying the infection to wee Elsie. By God's blessing upon skilful medical advice and attention, and the best of nursing, the children were brought safely through the trying ordeal, the disease leaving no evil effects, as it so often does. But scarcely had they convalesced when Mr. Dinsmore fell ill of typhoid fever, though of a rather mild type. Then as he began to go about again, Rose took to her bed with what proved to be a far more severe and lasting attack of the same disease; for weeks her life was in great jeopardy, and even after the danger was past, the improvement was so very slow that her husband was filled with anxiety for her. Meanwhile the beloved invalid at Ion was slowly sinking to the grave. Nay, rather, as she would have it, journeying rapidly towards her heavenly home, "the land of the leal," the city which hath foundations, whose builder and Maker is God. She suffered, but with a patience that never failed, a cheerfulness and joyful looking to the end, that made her sick-room a sort of little heaven below. Her children were with her almost constantly through the day; but Mr. Travilla, watchful as ever over his idolized young wife, would not allow her to lose a night's rest, insisting on her retiring at the usual hour. Nor would he allow her ever to assist in lifting his mother, or any of the heavy nursing; she might smooth her pillows, give her medicines, order dainties prepared to tempt the failing appetite, and oversee the negro women, who were capable nurses, and one of whom was always at hand night and day, ready to do whatever was required. Elsie dearly loved her mother-in-law, and felt it both a duty and delight to do all in her power for her comfort and consolation; but when she heard that her own beloved father was ill, she could not stay away from him, but made a daily visit to the Oaks and to his bedside. She was uniformly cheerful in his presence, but wept in secret because she was denied the privilege of nursing him in his illness. Then her sorrow and anxiety for Rose were great, and all the more because, Mrs. Travilla being then at the worst, she could very seldom leave her for even the shortest call at the Oaks. In the afternoon of a sweet bright Sabbath in March, a little group gathered in Mrs. Travilla's room. Her pastor was there: a man of large heart full of tender sympathy for the sick, the suffering, the bereaved, the poor, the distressed in mind, body, or estate; a man mighty in the Scriptures; with its warnings, its counsels, its assurances, its sweet and precious promises ever ready on his tongue; one who by much study of the Bible, accompanied by fervent prayer for the wisdom promised to him that asks it, had learned to wield wisely and with success "the sword of the Spirit which is the word of God." Like Noah he was a preacher of righteousness, and like Paul could say, "I ceased not to warn every one night and day with tears." He had brought with him one of his elders, a man of like spirit, gentle, kind, tender, ever ready to obey the command to "weep with those that weep and rejoice with those that do rejoice," a man silver-haired and growing feeble with age, yet so meek and lowly in heart, so earnest and childlike in his approaches to our Father, that he seemed on the very verge of heaven. "Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God." Often had these two been in that sick-room, comforting the aged saint as she neared "the valley of the shadow of death." To-day they had come again on the same Christlike errand, and for the last time; for all could see that she stood on Jordan's very brink, its cold waters already creeping up about her feet. Mr. Dinsmore, Mr. Travilla, and Elsie were present; also, a little withdrawn from the others, Aunt Chloe, Uncle Joe, and a few of the old house servants who were Christians. "The rich and the poor meet together; the Lord is the Maker of them all." It was a sweetly solemn service, refreshing to the soul of each one there; most of all, perhaps, to that of her who would so soon be casting her crown at the Master's feet. "I am almost home," she said with brightening countenance, her low, sweet voice breaking the solemn stillness of the room; "I am entering the valley, but without fear, for Jesus is with me. I hear Him saying to me, 'Fear not; I have redeemed thee; thou art mine.'" "He is all your hope and trust, dear friend, is He not?" asked her pastor. "All, all; His blood and righteousness are all my hope. All my righteousnesses are as filthy rags; all my best services have need to be forgiven. I am vile; but His blood cleanseth from all sin; and He has washed me in it and made me mete for the inheritance of the saints in light." "Dear sister," said the old elder, taking her hand in a last farewell, "good-bye for a short season; 'twill not be long till we meet before the throne. Do not fear to cross the river, for He will be with you, and will not let you sink." "No; the everlasting arms are underneath and around me, and He will never leave nor forsake." "'Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints,'" said the pastor, taking the feeble hand in his turn. "Fear not; you shall be more than conqueror through Him that loved us." "Yes, the battle is fought, the victory is won; and I hear Him saying to me, 'Come up hither.' Oh! I shall be there very soon--a sinner saved by grace." The pastor and elder withdrew, Mr. Travilla going with them to the door. Elsie brought a cordial and held it to her mother's lips, Mr. Dinsmore gently raising her head. "Thank you both," she said, with the courtesy for which she had ever been distinguished. Then, as Mr. Dinsmore settled her more comfortably on her pillows, and Elsie set aside the empty cup, "Horace, my friend, farewell till we meet in a better land. Elsie, darling," laying her pale thin hand on the bowed head, "you have been a dear, dear daughter to me, such a comfort, such a blessing! May the Lord reward you." Elsie had much ado to control her feelings. Her father passed his arm about her waist and made her rest her head upon his shoulder. "Mother, how are you now?" asked Mr. Travilla, coming in and taking his place on his wife's other side, close by the bed of the dying one. "All is peace, peace, the sweetest peace, I have nothing to do but to die, I am in the river, but the Lord upholdeth me with His hand, and I have almost reached the farther shore." She then asked for the babe, kissed and blessed it, and bade her son good-bye. "Sing to me, children, the twenty-third psalm." Controlling their emotion by a strong effort, that they might minister to her comfort, they sang; the three voices blending in sweet harmony. "Thank you," she said again, as the last strain died away. "Hark! I hear sweeter, richer melody, the angels have come for me, Jesus is here. Lord Jesus receive my spirit." There was an enraptured upward glance, an ecstatic smile, then the eyes closed and all was still; without a struggle or a groan the spirit had dropped its tenement of clay and sped away on its upward flight. It was like a translation; a deep hush filled the room, while for a moment they seemed almost to see the "glory that dwelleth in Immanuel's land." They scarcely wept, their joy for her, the ransomed of the Lord, almost swallowing up their grief for themselves. But soon Elsie began to tremble violently, shudder after shudder shaking her whole frame, and in sudden alarm her husband and father led her from the room. "Oh. Elsie, my darling, my precious wife!" cried Travilla, in a tone of agony, as they laid her upon a sofa in her boudoir, "are you ill? are you in pain?" "Give way, daughter, and let the tears come," said Mr. Dinsmore, tenderly bending over her and gently smoothing her hair; "it will do you good, bring relief to the overstrained nerves and full heart." Even as he spoke the barriers which for so many hours had been steadily, firmly resisting the grief and anguish swelling in her breast, suddenly gave way, and tears poured out like a flood. Her husband knelt by her side and drew her head to a resting-place on his breast, while her father, with one of her hands in his, softly repeated text after text speaking of the bliss of the blessed dead. She grew calmer. "Don't be alarmed about me, dear Edward, dear papa," she said in her low sweet tones. "I don't think I am ill; and heavy as our loss is, dearest husband, how we must rejoice for her. Let me go and perform the last office of love for her--our precious mother; I am better; I am able." "No, no, you are not; you must not," both answered in a breath. "Aunt Dinah and Aunt Chloe will do it all tenderly and lovingly as if she had been of their own flesh and blood," added Mr. Travilla, in trembling tones. CHAPTER TWENTIETH. "There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes For her new-born babe beside her lies; Oh, heaven of bliss! when the heart o'erflows With the rapture a _mother_ only knows!" --HENRY WARE, JR. Mrs. Travilla was laid to rest in their own family burial-ground, her dust sleeping beside that of her husband, and children who had died in infancy; and daily her surviving son carried his little daughter thither to scatter flowers upon "dear grandma's grave." It was not easy to learn to live without the dear mother; they missed her constantly. Yet was their sorrow nearly swallowed up in joy for her--the blessed dead who had departed to be with Christ in glory and to go no more out forever from that blissful presence. Their house was not made dark and gloomy, the sunlight and sweet spring air entered freely as of yore. Nor did they suffer gloom to gather in their hearts or cloud their faces. Each was filled with thankfulness for the spared life of the other, and of their darling little daughter. And scarce a week had passed away since heaven's portals opened wide to the ransomed soul, when a new voice--that of a son and heir--was heard in the old home, and many hearts rejoiced in the birth of the beautiful boy. "God has sent him to comfort you in your sorrow, dearest," Elsie whispered, as her husband brought the babe--fresh from its first robing by Aunt Chloe's careful hands--and with a very proud and happy face laid it in her arms. "Yes," he said, in moved tones. "Oh, that men would praise the Lord for His goodness, and for His wonderful works to the children of men!" "If mother could only have seen him!" And tears gathered in the soft, sweet eyes of the young mother gazing so tenderly upon the tiny face on her arm. "She will, one day, I trust; I have been asking for this new darling that he may be an heir of glory: that he may early be gathered into the fold of the good Shepherd." "And I, too," she said, "have besought my precious Saviour to be the God of my children also from their birth." "What do you intend to call your son?" "What do you?" she asked, smiling up at him. "Horace, for your father, if you like." "And I had thought of Edward, for his father and yours. Horace Edward. Will that do?" "I am satisfied, if you are. But Edward would do for the next." "But he may never come to claim it," she said, laughing. "Is papa in the house?" "Yes, and delighted to learn that he has a grandson." "Oh, bring him here and let me see the first meeting between them." "Can you bear the excitement?" "I promise not to be excited; and it _always_ does me good to see my dear father." Mr. Dinsmore came softly in, kissed very tenderly the pale face on the pillow, then took a long look at the tiny pink one nestling to her side. "Ah, isn't he a beauty? I have made you two grand-fathers now, you dear papa!" she said, indulging in a little jest to keep down the emotions tugging at her heart-strings. "Do you begin to feel old and decrepit, _mon père_?" "Not very," he said smiling, and softly smoothing her hair; "not more so to-day than I did yesterday. But now I must leave you to rest and sleep. Try, my darling, for all our sakes, to be very prudent, very calm and quiet." "I will, papa; and don't trouble about me. You know I am in good hands. Ah, stay a moment! here is Edward bringing wee bit Elsie to take her first peep at her little brother." "Mamma," cried the child; stretching out her little arms towards the bed, "mamma, take Elsie." "Mamma can't, darling; poor mamma is so sick," said Mr. Travilla; "stay with papa." "But she shall kiss her mamma, dear, precious little pet," Elsie said. "Please hold her close for a minute, papa, and let her kiss her mother." He complied under protest, in which Mr. Dinsmore joined, that he feared it would be too much for her; and the soft baby hands patted the wan cheeks, the tiny rosebud mouth was pressed again and again to the pale lips with rapturous cooings, "Mamma, mamma!" "There, pet, that will do," said her father. "Now, see what mamma has for you." "Look, mother's darling," Elsie said with a glad smile, exposing to view the tiny face by her side. "Baby!" cried the little girl, with a joyous shout, clapping her chubby hands, "pretty baby Elsie take"; and the small arms were held out entreatingly. "No, Elsie is too little to hold it," said her papa; "but she may kiss it very softly." The child availed herself of the permission, then gently patting the newcomer, repeated her glad cry, "Baby, pretty baby." "Elsie's little brother," said her mamma, tenderly. "Now, dearest, let mammy take her away," she added, sinking back on her pillows with a weary sigh. He complied, then bent over her with a look of concern. "I should not have brought her in," he said anxiously; "it has been too much for you." "But I wanted so to see her delight. One more kiss, papa, before you go, and then I'll try to sleep." Elsie did not recover so speedily and entirely as before, after the birth of her first babe; and those to whom she was so dear grew anxious and troubled about her. "You want change, daughter," Mr. Dinsmore said, coming in one morning and finding her lying pale and languid on a sofa; "and we are all longing to have you at home. Do you feel equal to a drive over to the Oaks?" "I think I do, papa," she answered, brightening. "Edward took me for a short drive yesterday, and I felt better for it." "Then, dearest, come home to your father's house and stay there as long as you can; bring babies and nurses and come. Your own suite of rooms is quite ready for you," he said, caressing her tenderly. "Ah, papa, how nice to go back and feel at home in my own father's house again," she said, softly stroking his head with her thin white hand as he bent over her, the sweet soft eyes, gazing full into his, brimming over with love and joy. "I shall go, if Edward doesn't object. I'd like to start this minute. But you haven't told me how poor mamma is to-day?" "Not well, not very much stronger than you are, I fear," he answered, with a slight sigh. "But your coming will do her a world of good. Where is Travilla?" "Here, and quite at your service," replied Mr. Travilla's cheery voice, as he came in from the garden with his little daughter in his arms. He set her down, and while he exchanged greetings with Mr. Dinsmore, she ran to her mother with a bouquet of lovely sweet-scented spring blossoms they had been gathering "for mamma." "Thank you, mother's darling," Elsie said, accepting the gift and tenderly caressing the giver; "you and papa, too. But see who is here?" The child turned to look, and with a joyous cry "G'anpa!" ran into his outstretched arms. "Grandpa's own wee pet," he said, hugging the little form close and covering the baby face with kisses. "Will you come and live with grandpa in his home for awhile?" "Mamma? papa too?" she asked, turning a wistful look on them. "Oh, yes; yes indeed, mamma and papa too." "Baby?" "Yes, baby and mammies and all. Will you come?" "May Elsie, mamma?" "Yes, pet; we will all go, if your papa is willing." And her soft eyes sought her husband's face with a look of love and confidence that said she well knew he would never deny her any good in his power to bestow. "I have been proposing to my daughter to take possession again, for as long a time as she finds it convenient and agreeable, of her old suite of rooms at the Oaks. I think the change would do her good, and perhaps you and the little ones also," Mr. Dinsmore explained. "Thank you; I think it would. When will you go, little wife?" "Papa proposes taking me at once." "My carriage is at the door, and this is the pleasantest part of the day," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "Ah, yes; then take Elsie with you, and I will follow shortly with children and servants. There is no reason in the world why she should not go, if she wishes, and stay as long as she likes." The change proved beneficial to Elsie; it was so pleasant to find herself again a member of her father's family; and that even without a short separation from her husband and little ones. Here, too, absent from the scenes so closely associated with the memory of her beloved mother-in-law, she dwelt less upon her loss, while at the same time she was entertained and cheered by constant intercourse with father, Rose, and young brother and sister. It was indeed a cheering thing to all parties to be thus brought together for a time as one family in delightful social intercourse. Yet, though the invalids improved in spirits, and to some extent in other respects, they did not regain their usual strength, and the physicians recommending travel, particularly a sea voyage, it was finally decided to again visit Europe for an indefinite period, the length of their stay to depend upon circumstances. It was in June, 1860, they left their homes; and traveling northward, paid a short visit to relatives and friends in Philadelphia; then took the steamer for Europe. A few weeks later found them cozily established in a handsome villa overlooking the beautiful bay of Naples. They formed but one family here as at the Oaks; each couple having their own private suite of apartments, while all other rooms were used in common and their meals taken together; an arrangement preferred by all; Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter especially rejoicing in it, as giving them almost as much of each other's society as before her marriage. In this lovely spot they planned to remain for some months, perchance a year; little dreaming that five years would roll their weary round ere they should see home and dear native land again. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST. "He who loves not his country can love nothing." --BYRON. "There were sad hearts in a darken'd home, When the brave had left their bower; But the strength of prayer and sacrifice Was with them in that hour." --MRS. HEMANS. The sea voyage had done much for the health of both ladies, and the soft Italian air carried on the cure. Mr. Dinsmore, too, had recovered his usual strength, for the first time since his attack of fever. There was no lack of good society at their command; good both socially and intellectually. American, English, Italian, French, etc.; many former friends and acquaintances and others desiring to be introduced by these; but none of our party felt disposed at that time to mix much with the outside world. Elsie's deep mourning was for her sufficient excuse for declining all invitations; while Rose could plead her still precarious state of health. She wore no outward badge of mourning for Mrs. Travilla, but felt deep and sincere grief at her loss; for the two had been intimate and dear friends for many years, the wide disparity in age making their intercourse and affection much like that of mother and daughter. The condition of political affairs in their own country was another thing that caused our friends to feel more exclusive and somewhat reluctant to mingle with those of other nationalities. Every mail brought them letters and papers from both North and South, and from their distant standpoint they watched with deep interest and anxiety the course of events fraught with such momentous consequences to their native land. Neither Mr. Dinsmore nor Mr. Travilla had ever been a politician; but both they and their wives were dear lovers of their country, by which they meant the whole Union. The three who were natives of the South acknowledged that that section was dearer to them than any other, but that the whole was nearer and dearer than any part; while Rose said "she knew no difference; it was all her own beloved native land, to her mind one and indivisible." They led a cheerful, quiet life in their Italian home, devoting themselves to each other and their children; Mr. Dinsmore acting the part of tutor to young Horace, as he had done to Elsie. Her little ones were the pets and playthings of the entire household, while she and their father found the sweetest joy in caring for them and watching over and assisting the development of their natures, mental, moral, and physical. Their children would never be left to the care and training of servants, however faithful and devoted. Nor would those of Mr. Dinsmore and Rose. In the esteem of these wise, Christian parents the God-given charge of their own offspring took undoubted precedence of the claims of society. Thus placidly passed the summer and autumn, the monotony of their secluded life relieved by the enjoyment of literary pursuits, and varied by walks, rides, drives, and an occasional sail, in bright, still weather, over the waters of the lovely bay. Elsie entered the drawing-room one morning, with the little daughter in her arms. The child was beautiful as a cherub, the mother sweet and fair as ever, nor a day older in appearance than while yet a girl in her father's house. She found him sole occupant of the room, pacing to and fro with downcast eyes and troubled countenance. But looking up quickly at the sound of her footsteps he came hastily towards her. "Come to grandpa," he said, holding out his hands to the little one; then as he took her in his arms, "My dear daughter, if I had any authority over you now----" "Papa," she interrupted, blushing deeply, while the quick tears sprang to her eyes, "you hurt me! Please don't speak so. I am as ready now as ever to obey your slightest behest." "Then, my darling, don't carry this child. You are not strong, and I fear will do yourself an injury. She can walk very well now, and if necessary to have her carried, call upon me, her father, or one of the servants; Aunt Chloe, Uncle Joe, Dinah, one or another is almost sure to be at hand." "I will try to follow out your wishes, papa. Edward has said the same thing to me, and no doubt you are right; but it is so sweet to have her in my arms, and so hard to refuse when she asks to be taken up." "You mustn't ask mamma to carry you," Mr. Dinsmore said to the child, caressing her tenderly as he spoke; "poor mamma is not strong, and you will make her sick." They had seated themselves side by side upon a sofa. The little one turned a piteous look upon her mother, and with a quivering lip and fast-filling eyes, said, "Mamma sick? Elsie tiss her, make her well?" "No, my precious pet, mother isn't sick; so don't cry," Elsie answered, receiving the offered kiss, as the babe left her grandfather's knee and crept to her; then the soft little hands patted her on the cheeks and the chubby arms clung about her neck. But catching sight, through the open window, of her father coming up the garden walk, wee Elsie hastily let go her hold, slid to the floor and ran to meet him. Mr. Dinsmore seemed again lost in gloomy thought. "Papa, dear, what is it? What troubles you so?" asked Elsie, moving closer to him, and leaning affectionately on his shoulder, while the soft eyes sought his with a wistful, anxious expression. He put his arm about her, and just touching her cheek with his lips, heaved a deep sigh. "The papers bring us bad news. Lincoln is elected." "Ah well, let us not borrow trouble, papa; perhaps he may prove a pretty good president after all." "Just what I think," remarked Mr. Travilla, who had come in with his little girl in his arms at the moment of Mr. Dinsmore's announcement, and seated himself on his wife's other side; "let us wait and see. All may go right with our country yet." Mr. Dinsmore shook his head sadly. "I wish I could think so, but in the past history of all republics whenever section has arrayed itself against section the result has been either a peaceful separation, or civil war; nor can we hope to be an exception to the rule." "I should mourn over either," said Elsie, "I cannot bear to contemplate the dismemberment of our great, glorious old Union. Foreign nations would never respect either portion as they do the undivided whole." "No; and I can't believe either section can be so mad as to go that length," remarked her husband, fondling his baby daughter as he spoke. "The North, of course, does not desire a separation; but if the South goes, will be pretty sure to let her go peaceably." "I doubt it, Travilla; and even if a peaceable separation should be allowed at first, so many causes of contention would result (such as the control of the navigation of the Mississippi, the refusal of the North to restore runaway negroes, etc., etc.), that it would soon come to blows." "Horace, you frighten me," said Rose, who had come in while they were talking. The color faded from Elsie's cheek, and a shudder ran over her, as she turned eagerly to hear her husband reply. "Why cross the bridge before we come to it, Dinsmore?" he answered cheerily, meeting his wife's anxious look with one so fond and free from care, that her heart grew light; "surely there'll be no fighting where there is no yoke of oppression to cast off. There can be no effect without a cause." "The accursed lust of power on the part of a few selfish, unprincipled men, may invent a cause, and for the carrying out of their own ambitious schemes, they may lead the people to believe and act upon it. No one proposes to interfere with our institution where it already exists--even the Republican party has emphatically denied any such intention--yet the hue and cry has been raised that slavery will be abolished by the incoming administration, arms put into the hands of the blacks, and a servile insurrection will bring untold horrors to the hearths and homes of the South." "Oh, dreadful, dreadful!" cried Rose. "But, my dear, there is really no such danger: the men (unscrupulous politicians) do not believe it themselves; but they want power, and as they could never succeed in getting the masses to rebel to compass their selfish ends, they have invented this falsehood and are deceiving the people with it." "Don't put all the blame on the one side, Dinsmore," said Mr. Travilla. "No; that would be very unfair. The framers of our constitution looked to gradual emancipation to rid us of this blot on our escutcheon, this palpable inconsistency between our conduct and our political creed. "It did so in a number of States, and probably would ere this in all, but for the fierce attacks of a few ultra-abolitionists, who were more zealous to pull the mote out of their brother's eye than the beam out of their own, and so exasperated the Southern people by their wholesale abuse and denunciations, that all thought of emancipation was given up. "It is human nature to cling the tighter to anything another attempts to force from you; even though you may have felt ready enough to give it up of your own free will." "Very true," said Travilla, "and Garrison and his crew would have been at better work repenting of their own sins, than denouncing those of their neighbors." "But, papa, you don't think it can come to war, a civil war, in our dear country? the best land the sun shines on; and where there is none of the oppression that makes a wise man mad!" "I fear it, daughter, I greatly fear it; but we will cast this care, as well as all others, upon Him who 'doeth according to His will, in the army of heaven and among the inhabitants of the earth.'" What a winter of uncertainty and gloom to Americans, both at home and abroad, was that of 1860-'61. Each mail brought to our anxious friends in Naples news calculated to depress them more and more in view of the calamities that seemed to await their loved land. State after State was seceding and seizing upon United States property within its limits--forts, arsenals, navy-yards, custom-houses, mints, ships, armories, and military stores--while the government at Washington remained inactive, doubtless fearing to precipitate the civil strife. Still Mr. Travilla, Rose, and Elsie, like many lovers of the Union, both North and South, clung to the hope that war might yet be averted. At length came the news of the formation of the Confederacy: Davis's election as its president; then of the firing upon the Star of the West, an unarmed vessel bearing troops and supplies to Fort Sumter. "Well, the first gun has been fired," said Mr. Dinsmore, with a sigh, as he laid down the paper from which he had been reading the account. "But perhaps it may be the only one, papa," remarked Elsie hopefully. "I wish it may," replied her father, rising and beginning to pace to and fro, as was his wont when excited or disturbed. The next news from America was looked for with intense anxiety. It was delayed longer than usual; and at length a heavy mail came, consisting of letters and Capers of various dates from the twelfth to the twentieth of April, and bringing news of the most exciting character in the fall of Fort Sumter: the call of the president for seventy-five thousand troops to defend the capital, the seizure of the United States armory at Harper's Ferry by the Confederates; the attack on the Massachusetts troops while passing through Baltimore, and lastly the seizure of Norfolk Navy-yard. Dinner was just over at the villa, the family still chatting over the dessert, children and all in an unusually merry mood, when this mail was brought in by a servant, and handed to Mr. Dinsmore. He promptly distributed it, took up the paper of the earliest date, and glancing over the headings, exclaimed, with a groan, "It has come!" "What?" queried the others, in excited chorus. "War! My country! oh, my country! Fort Sumter has fallen after a terrific bombardment of thirty-six hours." And he proceeded to read aloud the account of the engagement, the others listening in almost breathless silence. "And they have dared to fire upon the flag! the emblem of our nationality, the symbol of Revolutionary glory; to tear it down and trample it in the dust!" cried Mr. Travilla, pushing back his chair in unwonted excitement; "shameful, shameful!" Tears were rolling down Elsie's cheeks, and Rose's eyes were full. "Let us adjourn to the library and learn together all these papers and letters can tell us," said Mr. Dinsmore, rising. "'Twill be better so; we shall need the support of each other's sympathy." He led the way and the rest followed. The papers were examined first, by the gentlemen, now the one and now the other reading an article aloud, the excitement and distress of all increasing with each item of intelligence in regard to public affairs. Rose and Elsie opened their letters, and now and then, in the short pauses of the reading, cast a hasty glance at their contents. Elsie's were from her Aunt Adelaide, Walter, and Enna. Rose's from her mother, Richard, May, and Sophie. The last seemed written in a state of distraction. "Rose, Rose, I think I shall go crazy! my husband and his brothers have enlisted in the Confederate army. They, Harry especially, are furious at the North and full of fight; and I know my brothers at home will enlist on the other side; and what if they should meet and kill each other! Oh, dear! oh, dear! my heart is like to break! "And what is it all about? I can't see that anybody's oppressed; but when I tell Harry so, he just laughs and says, 'No, we're not going to wait till they have time to rivet our chains,' 'But,' I say, 'I've had neither sight nor sound of chains; wait at least till you hear their clank.' Then he laughs again, but says soothingly, 'Never mind, little wife; don't distress yourself; the North won't fight; or if they do try it, will soon give it up,' But I know they won't give up: they wouldn't be Americans if they did. "Arthur and Walter Dinsmore were here yesterday, and Arthur is worse than Harry a great deal; actually told me he wouldn't hesitate to shoot down any or all of my brothers, if he met them in Federal uniform. Walter is almost silent on the subject, and has not yet enlisted. Arthur taunted him with being for the Union, and said if he was quite sure of it he'd shoot him, or help hang him to the nearest tree. "Oh, Rose! pray, pray that this dreadful war may be averted!" Rose felt almost stunned with horror as she read; but her tears fell fast as she hurriedly perused the contents of the other three, learning from them that Richard, Harold, and Fred had already enlisted, and Edward would do the same should the war continue long. "My heart is torn in two!" she cried, looking piteously up in her husband's face, with the tears streaming down her own. "What is it, my darling?" he asked, coming to her and taking her cold hands in his. "Oh my country! my country! My brothers, too--and yours! they are pitted against each other--have enlisted in the opposing armies. Oh, Horace, Horace! what ever shall we do?" "God reigns, dearest; let that comfort you and all of us," he said, in moved tones. "It is dreadful, dreadful! Brothers, friends, neighbors, with hearts full of hatred and ready to imbrue their hands in each other's blood and for what? That a few ambitious, selfish, unscrupulous men may retain and increase their power; for this they are ready to shed the blood of tens of thousands of their own countrymen, and bring utter ruin upon our beautiful, sunny South." "Oh, papa, surely not!" cried Elsie; "these papers say the war cannot last more than three months." "They forget that it will be American against American. If it is over in three years, 'twill be shorter than I expect." Elsie was weeping, scarcely less distressed than Rose. "We will, at least, hope for better things, little wife," her husband said, drawing her to him with caressing motion. "What do your letters say?" "They are full of the war; it is the all-absorbing theme with them, as with us. Aunt Adelaide's is very sad. Her heart clings to the South, as ours do; yet, like us, she has a strong love for the old Union. "And she's very found of her husband, who, she says, is very strong for the Government; and then, besides her distress at the thought that he will enlist, her heart is torn with anguish because her brothers and his are in the opposing armies. "Oh, Edward! isn't it terrible? Civil war in our dear land! So many whom we love on both sides!" There was a moment of sorrowful silence. Then her father asked, "What does Enna say?" "She is very bitter, papa: speaks with great contempt of the North; exults over the fall of Fort Sumter and the seizure of United States property; glories in the war-spirit of Dick and Arthur, and sneers at poor Walter because he is silent and sad, and declines, for the present at least, to take any part in the strife. Grandpa, she says, and his mother, too, are almost ready to turn him out of the house; for they are as hot secessionists as can be found anywhere. "I have a letter from Walter too, papa. He writes in a very melancholy strain; hints mildly at the treatment he receives at home; says he can't bear the idea of fighting against the old flag, and still less the old friends he has at the North, and wishes he was with us or anywhere out of the country, that he might escape being forced to take part in the quarrel." "Poor fellow!" sighed Mr. Dinsmore. "Ah, I have a letter here from my father that I have not yet opened." He took it from the table as he spoke. His face darkened as he read, the frown and stern expression reminding Elsie of some of the scenes in her early days; but he handed the missive to Rose, remarking, in a calm, quiet tone, "My father expects me to be as strong a secessionist as himself." "But you're for the Union, papa, are you not?" asked Horace. "You'd never fire upon the Stars and Stripes--the dear old flag that protects us here?" "No, my son. I love the dear South, which has always been my home, better far than any other of the sections; yet I love the whole better than a part." "So do I!" exclaimed Rose warmly; "and if Pennsylvania, my own native State, should rebel against the general government, I'd say, 'Put her down with a strong hand'; and just so with any State or section, Eastern, Northern, Middle or Western. I've always been taught that my country is the Union; and I think that teaching has been general through the North." "It is what my mother taught me, and what I have taught my children," said Mr. Dinsmore; "not to love the South or my native State less, but the Union more. I was very young when I lost my mother; but that, and some other of her teachings, I have never forgotten." "There is, I believe, a strong love for the old Union throughout the whole South," remarked Mr. Travilla; "there would be no rebellion among the masses there, but for the deceptions practised upon them by their leaders and politicians; and it is they who have been whirling the States out of the Union, scarce allowing the people a voice in the matter." "I don't wonder at the indignation of the North over the insult to the flag," said Elsie; "nor the furor for it that is sweeping over the land." "I'd like to be there to help fling it to the breeze," cried Horace excitedly; "and to see how gay the streets must be with it flying everywhere. Yes, and I'd like to help fight. Papa, am I not old enough? mayn't I go?" "No, foolish boy, you are much too young, not yet fourteen. And suppose you were old enough, would you wish to fight your uncles? kill one of them, perhaps? Uncle Walter, for instance?" "Oh papa, no, no, no! I wouldn't for the world hurt one hair of dear Uncle Wal's head; no, not if he were the hottest kind of secessionist." "Kill Uncle Wal! why Horace, how could you ever think of such a thing?" exclaimed Rosebud. "And mamma and sister Elsie, why are you both crying so?" All the afternoon the elders of the family remained together, talking over the news--they could scarce think or speak of anything else: very grave and sad all of them, the ladies now and then dropping a tear or two while each paper was carefully scanned again and again, lest some item on the all-absorbing subject might have been overlooked, and every letter that had any bearing upon it read and re-read till its contents had been fully digested. May's gave a graphic account of the excitement in Philadelphia; the recruiting and drilling of troops, the making of flags, the constant, universal singing of patriotic songs, etc., then closed with the story of the sorrowful parting with the dear brothers who might never return from the battle-field. It had been a bright, warm day, but at evening the sea breeze came in cool and fresh; thin clouds were scudding across the sky, hiding the stars and giving but a faint and fitful view of the young moon that hung, a bright crescent, amid their murky folds. Mr. Dinsmore was pacing slowly to and fro upon an open colonnade overlooking the bay. He walked with bent head and folded arms, as one in painful thought. A slight girlish figure came gliding towards him from the open doorway. "Papa, dear, dear papa," murmured a voice tremulous with emotion, "you are very sad to-night; would that your daughter could comfort you!" He paused in his walk, took her in his arms and folded her close to his heart. "Thank you, darling. Yes, I am sad, as we all are. Would that I could comfort you, and keep all sorrow from your life. Nay, that is not a right wish, for 'whom the Lord _loveth_ He chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom He receiveth.' 'As many as I love I rebuke and chasten.'" "Yes, papa, those words make me more than willing to bear trials. But oh, how dreadful, how dreadful, to know that our countrymen are already engaged in spilling each other's blood!" "Yes, that is harrowing enough; but that it should be also our near and dear relations! Elsie, I am thinking of my young brothers: they are not Christians; nor is my poor old father. How can they bear the trials just at hand? How unfit they are to meet death, especially in the sudden, awful form in which it is like to meet those who seek the battle-field. Daughter, you must help me pray for them, pleading the promise, 'If two of you shall agree.'" "I will, papa; and oh, I do feel deeply for them. Poor Walter and poor, poor grandpa. I think he loves you best of all his sons, papa; but it would be very terrible to him to have the others killed or maimed." "Yes, it would indeed. Arthur is his mother's idol, and I dare say she now almost regrets that he has now so entirely recovered from his lameness as to be fit for the army." He drew her to a seat. "The babies are in bed, I suppose?" "Yes, papa; I left my darlings sleeping sweetly. I am trying to train them to regular habits and early hours, as you did me." "That is right." "Papa, it is so sweet to be a mother! to have my little Elsie in my lap, as I had but a few moments since, and feel the clasp of her arms about my neck, or the tiny hands patting and stroking my face, the sweet baby lips showering kisses all over it, while she coos and rejoices over me; Mamma! mamma, my mamma! Elsie's dear mamma! Elsie's own sweet pretty mamma.' Ah, though our hearts ache for the dear land of our birth, we still have many many blessings left." "We have indeed." Mr. Travilla, Rose, and Horace now joined them, and the last-named besieged his father with questions about the war and its causes; all of which were patiently answered to the best of Mr. Dinsmore's ability, Mr. Travilla now and then being appealed to for further information, or his opinion, while the ladies listened and occasionally put in a remark or a query. From that day the mails from America were looked for with redoubled anxiety and eagerness: though the war news was always painful, whichever side had gained a victory or suffered defeat. At first, papers and letters had been received from both North and South, giving them the advantage of hearing the report from each side; but soon the blockade shut off nearly all intercourse with the South, a mail from thence reaching them only occasionally, by means of some Confederate or foreign craft eluding the vigilance of the besieging squadron. Early in June there came a letter from Miss Stanhope, addressed to Elsie. Like all received from America now, it dwelt almost exclusively upon matters connected with the fearful struggle just fairly begun between the sections. The old lady's heart seemed full of love for the South, yet she was strongly for the Union, and said she should be so if any other section or State rebelled. Lansdale was full of excitement, flags flying everywhere; they had one streaming across from the top of the house, and another from a tree in the garden. Harry had enlisted in response to the first call of troops, and was now away, fighting in Virginia; while she, praying night and day for his safety, was, with most of the ladies of the town, busy as a bee knitting stockings and making shirts for the men in the field, and preparing lint, bandages, and little dainties for the sick and wounded. CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND. "Calm me, my God, and keep me calm While these hot breezes blow; Be like the night-dew's cooling balm Upon earth's fevered brow." --H. BONAR. "Fear not; I will help thee." --ISAIAH xiii. 13. "Dear old auntie! to think how hard at work for her country she is, while I sit idle here," sighed Elsie, closing the letter after reading it aloud to the assembled family. "Mamma, papa, Edward, is there nothing we can do?" "We can do just what they are doing," replied Rose with energy, "I wonder I had not thought of it before; shirts, stockings, lint, bandages, we can prepare them all; and send with them such fruits and delicacies as will carry from this far-off place. What say you, gentlemen?" "I think you can," was the simultaneous reply; Mr. Travilla adding, "and we can help with the lint, and by running the sewing-machines. I'd be glad to add to the comfort of the poor fellows on both sides." "And money is needed by their aid societies," added Mr. Dinsmore. "And I can send that!" Elsie exclaimed joyously "Yes, we all can," said her father. Several busy weeks followed, and a large box was packed and sent off. "If that arrives safely we will send another," they said; for news had reached them that such supplies were sorely needed. "What! at it again, little wife?" queried Mr. Travilla, entering Elsie's boudoir the next morning, to find her delicate fingers busy with knitting-needles and coarse blue yarn. "Yes, sir," she said, smiling up at him, "it seems a slight relief to my anxiety about my country, to be doing something, if it is only _this_." "Ah! then I'll take lessons, if you, or Aunt Chloe there will teach me," he returned, laughingly drawing up a chair and taking a seat by her side. "Mammy, can you supply another set of needles, and more yarn?" "Yes, massa;" and laying down the stocking she was at work upon, away she went in search of them. "Papa, see! so pitty!" cried a little voice; and "wee Elsie" was at his knee, with a diamond necklace in her hand. "Yes," he said, gently taking it from her, "but rather too valuable a plaything for my little pet. How did she get hold of it, dearest?" he asked, turning to his wife. "Mamma say Elsie may. Please, papa, let Elsie have it," pleaded the little one with quivering lip and fast-filling eyes. "I gave her leave to look over the contents of my jewel box; she is a very careful little body, and mammy and I are both on the watch:" answered mamma. "It is a great treat to her; and she takes up only one article at a time, examines it till satisfied, then lays it back exactly as she found it. So please, papa, may she go on?" "Yes, if mamma gave permission it is all right, darling," he said, caressing the child and returning the necklace. "Tank oo, papa, mamma; Elsie be very tareful mamma's pitty sings," she cried with a gleeful laugh, holding up her rosebud mouth for a kiss, first to one, then the other. "Let papa see where you put it, precious," he said, following her as she tripped across the room and seated herself on a cushion in front of the box. "Dere, papa, dus where Elsie dot it," she said, laying it carefully back in its proper place. "See, so many, many pitty sings in mamma's box." "Yes," he said, passing his eye thoughtfully from one to another of the brilliant collection of rings, brooches, chains, bracelets, and necklaces sparkling with gems--diamonds, rubies, amethysts, pearls, emeralds, and other precious stones. "Little wife, your jewels alone are worth what to very many would be a handsome fortune." "Yes, Edward, and is it not really a pity to have so much locked up in them?" "No, it is a good investment; especially as things are at present." "I could do very well without them; should never have bought them for myself: they are almost all your gifts and papa's, or his purchases." Aunt Chloe had returned with the needles and yarn, and now Elsie began giving the lesson in knitting, both she and her pupil making very merry over it. Rose and Mr. Dinsmore presently joined them, and the latter, not to be outdone by his son-in-law, invited his wife to teach him. Horace was at his lessons, but Rosebud, or Rosie as she had gradually come to be called, soon followed her parents. She was a bright, merry little girl of six, very different from what her sister had been at that age; full of fun and frolicsome as a kitten, very fond of her father, liking to climb upon his knee to be petted and caressed, but clinging still more to her sweet, gentle mamma. Mr. Travilla and she were the best of friends; she was devotedly attached to her sister, and considered it "very nice and funny," that she was aunt to wee Elsie and baby Eddie. "Oh," she cried, the moment she came into the room, "what is wee Elsie doing? Mamma, may I, too?" "May you what?" asked Rose. "Why, what is the child doing? playing with your jewels, Elsie?" asked Mr. Dinsmore in a tone of surprise, noticing for the first time what was the employment of his little granddaughter. "Yes, papa; but she is very careful, and I am watching her." "I should not allow it, if she were my child. No, Rosie, you may not; you are not a careful little girl." Rosie was beginning to pout, but catching the stern look in her father's eye, quickly gave it up, her face clearing as if by magic. "Papa," Elsie asked in a low tone, "do you wish me to take away those costly playthings from my little girl?" "My dear daughter," he said, smiling tenderly upon her, "I have neither the right nor the wish to interfere with you and your children; especially when your husband approves of your management. I only fear you may suffer loss. How easy a valuable ring may slip through the little fingers and roll away into some crevice where it would never be found." "I'm afraid it is rather hazardous," she acknowledged. "Mammy, sit close to Elsie and keep a careful watch, lest she should drop something." "I begin to think there's truth in the old saw, 'It's hard to teach old dogs new tricks,'" remarked Mr. Travilla, with a comically rueful face. "I've a mind to give it up. What do you say, Dinsmore?" "That you wouldn't make a good soldier, if you are so easily conquered, Travilla." "Oh, fighting's another thing, but I'll persevere as long as you do; unless I find I'm wearying my teacher." "Perhaps you would learn faster with a better teacher," said Elsie, "I'm sure the fault is not in the scholar; because I know he's bright and talented." "Ah! then I shall try harder than ever, to save your reputation; but take a recess now, for here comes my boy, reaching out his arms to papa. Bring him here Dinah. Papa's own boy, he looks beautiful and as bright as the day." "Mamma thinks he's a very handsome mixture of papa and grandpa," Elsie said, leaning over to caress the babe, now crowing in his father's arms. "I'm afraid he inherits too much of his grandpa's temper," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, but with a glance of loving pride bestowed upon the beautiful babe. "I, for one, have no objection, provided he learns to control it as well," said Mr. Travilla; "he will make the finer character." Little Elsie had grown weary of her play. "Put box way now, mammy," she said, getting up from her cushion; "wee Elsie don't want any more. Mamma take; Elsie so tired." The baby voice sounded weak and languid, and tottering to her mother's side, she almost fell into her lap. "Oh, my baby! my precious darling, what is it?" cried Elsie, catching her up in her arms. "Papa! Edward! she is dying!" For the face had suddenly lost all its color; the eyes were rolled upward, the tiny fists tightly clenched, and the little limbs had grown stiff and rigid on the mother's lap. Mr. Travilla hastily set down the babe, laid turned to look at his little girl, his face full of alarm and distress. Mr. Dinsmore sprang to his daughter's side, and meeting her look of agony, said soothingly, "No, dearest, it is a spasm, she will soon be over it." "Yes; don't be so terrified, dear child," said Rose, dropping her work and hurrying to Elsie's assistance; "they are not unusual with children; I have seen both May and Daisy have them. Quick, Aunt Chloe! a cloth dipped in spirits of turpentine, to lay over the stomach and bowels, and another to put between her shoulders. It is the best thing we can do till we get a doctor here. But, ah, see! it is already passing away." That was true; the muscles were beginning to relax, and in another moment the eyes resumed their natural appearance, the hands were no longer clenched, and a low plaintive, "Mamma," came from the little lips. "Mamma is here, darling," Elsie said, amid her fast-dropping tears, covering the little wan face with kisses, as she held it to her bosom. "Thank God! she is still ours!" exclaimed the father, almost under his breath; then, a little louder, "Elsie, dear wife, I shall go at once for Dr. Channing, an English physician who has been highly recommended to me." "Do, dear husband, and urge him to come at once," she answered, in a tone full of anxiety. He left the room, returning with the physician within half an hour, to find the little girl asleep on her mother's breast. "Ah, I hope she is not going to be very ill," said the doctor, taking gentle hold of her tiny wrist. "She seems easy now, and her papa tells me the spasm was of very short duration." She woke, apparently free from suffering, allowed her papa to take her, that mamma's weary arms might rest, and in the course of the afternoon even got down from his knee, and played about the room for a little while, but languidly, and was soon quite willing to be nursed again, "papa, grandpa, and Mamma Rose," as she lovingly called her young and fair step-grandmother, taking turns in trying to relieve and amuse her. She was a most affectionate, unselfish little creature, and though longing to lay again her weary little head on mamma's breast, and feel the enfolding of mamma's dear arms, gave up without a murmur, when told that "poor mamma was tired with holding so big a girl for so long," and quietly contented herself with the attention of the others. As the early evening hour which was the children's bed-time drew near, Elsie took her little girl again on her lap. "Mamma, pease talk to Elsie," pleaded the sweet baby voice, while the curly head fell languidly upon her shoulder, and a tiny hand, hot and dry with fever, softly patted her cheek. "What about, darling?" "'Bout Jesus, mamma. Do He love little chillens? do he love wee Elsie?" The gentle voice that answered was full of tears. "Yes, darling, mamma and papa, and dear grandpa too, love you more than tongue can tell, but Jesus loves you better still." "Mamma, may Elsie go dere?" "Where, my precious one?" "To Jesus, mamma; Elsie want to go see Jesus." A sharp pang shot through the young mothers heart, and her arms tightened their clasp about the little form, while the hot tears chased each other adown her cheeks. One fell on the child's face. "What! mamma ky? Mamma don't want Elsie to go see Jesus? Den Elsie will stay wis mamma and papa. Don't ky, Elsie's mamma;" and feebly the little hand tried to wipe away her mother's tears. With a silent prayer for help to control her emotion, Elsie cleared her voice, and began in low, sweet tones the old, old story of Jesus and His love, His birth, His life, His death. "Mamma, Elsie do love Jesus!" were the earnest words that followed the close of the narrative. "Say prayer now, and go bed. Elsie feel sick. Mamma, stay wis Elsie?" "Yes, my precious one, mamma will stay close beside her darling as long as she wants her. You may say your little prayer kneeling in mamma's lap; and then she will sing you to sleep." "Jesus like Elsie do dat way?" "Yes, darling, when she's sick." Mamma's arms encircled and upheld the little form, the chubby hands were meekly folded, and the soft cheek rested against hers, while the few words of prayer faltered on the baby tongue. Then, the posture changed to a more restful one, the sweet voice still full of tears, and often trembling with emotion, sang the little one to sleep. Laying her gently in her crib, Elsie knelt beside it, sending up a petition with strong crying and tears; not that the young life might be spared, unless the will of God were so, but that she might be enabled to say, with all her heart, "Thy will be done." Ere she had finished, her husband knelt beside her asking the same for her and himself. They rose up together, and folded to his heart, she wept out her sorrow upon his breast. "You are very weary, little wife," he said tenderly, passing his hand caressingly over her hair and pressing his lips again and again to the heated brow. "It is rest to lay my head here," she whispered. "But you must not stand;" and sitting down he drew her to the sofa, still keeping his arm about her waist. "Bear up, dear wife," he said, "we will hope our precious darling is not very ill." She told him of the child's words, and the sad foreboding that had entered her own heart. "While there is life there is hope, dearest," he said, with assumed cheerfulness. "Let us not borrow trouble. Does He not say to us, as to the disciples of old, 'It is I, be not afraid'?" "Yes; and she is His; only lent to us for a season; and we dare not rebel should He see fit to recall His own," she answered, amid her tears. "Oh, Edward, I am so glad we indulged her this morning in her wish to play with my jewels!" "Yes; she is the most precious of them all," he said with emotion. Aunt Chloe, drawing near, respectfully suggested that it might be well to separate the children, in case the little girl's illness should prove to be contagious. "That is a wise thought, mammy," said Elsie. "Is it not, Edward?" "Yes, wife; shall we take our little daughter to our own bedroom, and leave Eddie in possession of the nursery?" "Yes, I will never leave her while she is ill." Weeks of anxious solicitude, of tenderest, most careful nursing, followed; for the little one was very ill, and for some time grew worse hour by hour. For days there was little hope that her life would be spared, and a solemn silence reigned through the house; even the romping, fun-loving Horace and Rosie, awe-struck into stillness, and often shedding tears--Horace in private, fearing to be considered unmanly, but Rosie openly and without any desire of concealment--at the thought that the darling of the house was about to pass away from earth. Rose was filled with grief, the father, and grandfather were almost heart-broken. But the mother! That first night she had scarcely closed an eye, but continually her heart was going up in earnest supplications for grace and strength to meet this sore trial with patience, calmness, and submission. And surely the prayer was heard and answered; day and night she was with her suffering little one, watching beside its crib, or holding it in her arms, soothing it with tender words of mother love, or singing, in low sweet tones, of Jesus and the happy land. Plenty of excellent nurses were at hand, more than willing to relieve her of her charge; but she would relinquish it to no one; except when compelled to take a little rest that her strength might not utterly fail her. Even then she refused to leave the room, but lay where the first plaintive cry, "Mamma," would rouse her and bring her instantly to her darling's side. At times the big tears might be seen coursing down her cheek, as she gazed mournfully upon the baby face so changed from what it was; but voice and manner were quiet and composed. Her husband was almost constantly at her side, sharing the care, the grief and anxiety, and the nursing, so far as she would let him. Rose, too, and Mr. Dinsmore, were there every hour of the day, and often in the night, scarcely less anxious and grief-stricken than the parents, and Mr. Dinsmore especially, trembling for the life and health of the mother as well as the child. At length came a day when all knew and felt that wee Elsie was at the very brink of the grave, and the little thread of life might snap asunder at any moment. She lay on her pillow on her mother's lap, the limbs shrunken to half their former size, the face, but lately so beautiful with the bloom of health, grown wan and thin, with parched lips and half-closed, dreamy eyes. Mr. Travilla sat close beside them, with cup and spoon in hand, now and then moistening the dry lips. Chloe, who had stationed herself a little behind her mistress to be within call, was dropping great tears on the soldier's stocking in her hand. Mr. Dinsmore came softly in and stood by the little group, his features working with emotion. "My darling," he murmured, "my precious daughter, may God comfort and sustain you." "He does, papa," she answered in low, calm tones, as she raised her head and lifted her mournful eyes to his face; "His consolations are not small in the trying hour." "You can give her up?" he asked, in a choking voice, looking with anguish upon the wasted features of his almost idolized grandchild. "Yes, papa--if He sees fit to take her; 'twere but selfishness to want to keep her here. So safe, so happy will she be in Jesus' arms." Mr. Travilla's frame shook with emotion, and Mr. Dinsmore was not less agitated; but the mother was still calm and resigned. No sound had come from those little lips for hours; but now there was a faintly murmured "Mamma!" "Yes, darling, mamma is here," Elsie answered, softly pressing a kiss on the white brow; "what shall mamma do for her baby?" "Jesus loves wee Elsie?" and the dreamy eyes unclosed and looked up into the sweet pale face bent so lovingly over her. "Elsie so glad. Mamma sing 'Happy land.'" The young mother's heart was like to burst, but with a silent prayer for strength, she controlled herself and sang low and sweetly, and even as she sang a change came over the child, and it fell into a deep, calm, natural sleep that lasted for hours. All the time on the mother's lap, her eyes scarce moving from the dear little face; her breath almost suspended, lest that life-giving slumber should be broken. In vain husband and father in turn entreated to be allowed to relieve her. "No, oh no!" she whispered. "I cannot have her disturbed; it might cost her life." This was the turning point in the disease, and from that time the little one began to amend. But very weak and frail, she was still in need of weeks of continued tender, careful nursing. "Mamma's lap" was the place preferred above all others; but patient and unselfish, she yielded without a murmur when invited to the arms of papa, grandpa, Rose, or nurse, and told that "dear mamma was tired and needed rest." Elsie was indeed much reduced in health and strength; but love, joy, and thankfulness helped her to recuperate rapidly. CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD. "What fates impose, that men must needs abide. It boots not to resist both wind and tide." --SHAKESPEARE'S HENRY VI. From the time of Mr. Lincoln's election Walter Dinsmore's home had been made very uncomfortable to him; after the fall of Sumter it was well-nigh unendurable. Never were two brothers more entirely unlike than he and Arthur; the latter, selfish, proud, haughty, self-willed, passionate, and reckless of consequences to himself or others; the former sweet-tempered, amiable, and affectionate, but lacking in firmness and self-reliance. Poor fellow! his heart was divided; on the one side were home, parents, friends, and neighbors, native State and section; on the other, pride in the great, powerful Union he had hitherto called his country, love for the old flag as the emblem of its greatness and symbol of Revolutionary glory; and--perhaps more potent than all--the wishes and entreaties of a Northern girl who had won his heart and promised him her hand. One April morning Walter, who had overslept himself, having been up late the night before, was roused from his slumbers by a loud hurrah coming from the veranda below. He recognized his father's voice, Arthur's, and that of one of the latter's particular friends, a hot secessionist residing in the adjacent city. There seemed a great tumult in the house, running to and fro, loud laughter, repeated hurrahs and voices--among which his mother's and Enna's were easily distinguished--talking in high, excited chorus. "So Fort Sumter has fallen, and war is fairly inaugurated," he sighed to himself, as he rose and began to dress. "It can mean nothing else." "Glorious news, Wal!" cried Arthur, catching sight of him as he descended the stairs; "Fort Sumter has fallen and Charleston is jubilant. Here, listen while I read the despatch." Walter heard it in grave silence, and at the close merely inquired how the news had come so early. "Johnson brought it; has gone on now to Ashlands with it; says the city's in a perfect furor of delight But you, it seems, care nothing about it," Arthur concluded with a malignant sneer. "Not a word of rejoicing over this glorious victory"--cried Enna angrily. "Of seven _thousand_ over seventy-five?" "If I were papa, I'd turn you out of the house;" she exclaimed still more hotly. "Walter, I have no patience with you," said his father. "To think that son of mine should turn against his own country!" he added, with a groan. "No, father, I could never do that," Walter answered with emotion. "It looks very much like it--the utter indifference with which you receive this glorious news!" cried Mrs. Dinsmore with flashing eyes. "I'm positively ashamed of you." "No, mother, not with indifference, far from it; for it inaugurates a war that will drench the land with blood." "Nonsense! the North will never fight. A race of shop-keepers fighting for a sentiment, poh! But come to breakfast, there's the bell." "Better," says Solomon, "is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith." The luxurious breakfast at Roselands was partaken of with very little enjoyment that morning; by Walter especially, who had to bear contempt and ridicule; threats also: he was called a Yankee, coward, poltroon, traitor; and threatened with disinheritance and denouncement unless he would declare himself for the Confederacy and enlist in its army. The meal was but half over when he rose with flashing eyes, pale face, and quivering lips. "I am neither a traitor nor a coward," he said between his clenched teeth, "as perhaps time may prove to the sorrow of a father and mother, sister and brother, who can so use one who ill deserves such treatment at their hands." And turning, he stalked proudly from the room. Enna was beginning a sneering remark, but her father stopped her. "Hush! we have been too hard on the lad; he was always slower than Art about making up his mind, and I've no doubt will turn out all right in the end." Soon after breakfast the father and mother had a private talk on the subject, and agreed to try coaxing and entreaties. "Wal always had a warm heart," remarked Mr. Dinsmore finally, "and I dare say can be reached more readily through that." "Yes, he was your favorite always, while you have been very hard upon poor Arthur's youthful follies; but you see now which is the more worthy of the two." Mr. Dinsmore shook his head. "Not yet, wife; 'tisn't always the braggart that turns out bravest in time of trial." "Yes, we shall see," she answered, with a slight toss of her haughty head. "I trust no son of _mine_ will prove himself so cowardly as to run away from his country in her time of need, on whatever pretext." And having winged this shaft, perceiving with pleasure that her husband winced slightly under it, she sailed from the room, ascending the stairway, and presently paused before the door of Walter's dressing-room. It was slightly ajar; and pushing it gently open she entered without knocking. He stood leaning against the mantel, his tall erect figure, the perfection of manly grace, his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the carpet, and his fine, open, expressive countenance full of a noble sadness. There was something of motherly pride in the glance that met his as he looked up at the sound of Mrs. Dinsmore's step. Starting forward, he gallantly handed her to a seat: then stood respectfully waiting for what she had to say. "Walter, my dear boy," she began; "your father and I think we were all a trifle hard on you this morning." He colored slightly but made no remark, and she went on. "Of course we can't believe it possible that a son of ours will ever show himself a coward; but it is very trying to us, very mortifying, to have you holding back in this way till all our neighbors and friends begin to hint that you are disloyal to your native State, and look scornful and contemptuous at the very mention of your name." Walter took a turn or two across the room, and coming back to her side, "Mother," said he, "you know it is my nature to be slow in deciding any matter of importance, and this is the weightiest one that ever I had to consider. Men much older and wiser than I are finding it a knotty question to which their loyalty is due, State or General Government; where allegiance to the one ends, and fealty to the other begins." "There is no question in my mind," she interrupted, angrily. "Of course your allegiance is due to your State; so don't let me hear any more about that. Your father and brother never hesitated for a moment; and it would become you to be more ready to be guided by them." "Mother," he said, with a pained look, "you forget that I am no longer a boy; and you would be the first to despise a man who could not form an opinion of his own. All I ask is time to decide this question and--another." "Pray what may that be? whether you will break with Miss Aller, I presume," she retorted, sneeringly. "No, mother," he answered with dignity; "there is no question in my mind in regard to that. Mary and I are pledged to each other, and nothing but death can part us." "And" (fiercely) "you would marry her, though she is ready to cheer on the men who are coming to invade our homes and involve us in the horrors of a servile insurrection!" "I think it is hardly an hour since I heard you say the North would not fight; and since we have shown our determination in capturing Sumter, the next news would be that we were to be allowed to go in peace. You may be right; I hope you are; but the fellows I know in the North are as full of pluck as ourselves, and I fear there is a long, fierce, bloody struggle before us." He stood before her with folded arms and grave, earnest face, his eyes meeting hers unflinchingly. "And ere I rush into it I want to know that I am ready for death and for judgment." "No need to hesitate on that account," she said, with a contemptuous smile; "you've always been a remarkably upright young man, and I'm sure are safe enough. Besides, I haven't a doubt that those who die in defense of their country go straight to heaven." He shook his head. "I have been studying the Bible a good deal of late, and I know that that would never save my soul." "This is some of Horace's and Elsie's work; I wish they would attend to their own affairs and let you and others alone." And she rose and swept angrily from the room. Walter did not appear at dinner, nor was he seen again for several days; but as such absences were not infrequent--he having undertaken a sort of general oversight of both the Oaks and Ion--this excited no alarm. The first day in fact was spent at Ion; the next he rode over to the Oaks. Mrs. Murray always made him very comfortable, and was delighted to have the opportunity; for the place was lonely for her in the absence of the family. She was on the veranda as he rode up that morning attended by his servant. "Ah, Mr. Walter," she cried, "but I'm glad to see you! You're a sight for sair een, sir. I hope ye've come to stay a bit." He had given the reins to his servant and dismounted. "Yes," he said, shaking hands with her, "for two or three days, Mrs. Murray." "That's gude news, sir. Will ye come in and take a bite or sup o' something?" "Thank you, not now. I'll just sit here for a moment. The air is delightful this morning." "So it is, sir. And do ye bring ony news frae our friends in Naples?" "No; I have heard nothing since I saw you last." "But what's this, Mr. Walter, that I hear the servants saying aboot a fight wi' the United States troops?" "Fort Sumter has fallen, Mrs. Murray. There's an account of the whole affair," he added, taking a newspaper from his pocket and handing it to her. She received it eagerly, and with a hearty thanks. "I am going out into the grounds," he said, and walked away, leaving her to its perusal. He strolled down a green alley, inspected it, the lawns, the avenue, the flower and vegetable gardens, to see that all were in order; held a few minutes' conversation with the head gardener, making some suggestions and bestowing deserved praise of his faithful performance of his duties; then wandering on, at length seated himself in Elsie's bower, and took from his breast-pocket--where he had constantly carried it of late--a small morocco-bound, gilt-edged volume. He sat there a long time, reading and pondering with grave, anxious face, it may be asking for heavenly guidance too, for his eyes were now and then uplifted and his lips moved. The next day and the next he spent at the Oaks, passing most of his time in solitude, either in the least frequented parts of the grounds, or the lonely and deserted rooms of the mansion. Walter had always been a favorite with Mrs. Murray. She had a sort of motherly affection for him, and watching him furtively, felt sure that he had some heavy mental trouble. She waited and watched silently, hoping that he would confide in her and let her sympathize, if she could do nothing more. On the evening of the third day he came in from the grounds with a brightened countenance, his little book in his hand. She was on the veranda looking out for him to ask if he was ready for his tea. He met her with a smile. "Is it gude news, Mr. Walter?" she asked, thinking of the distracted state of the country. "Yes, Mrs. Murray, I think you will call it so. I have been searching here," and he held up the little volume, "for the pearl of great price; and I have found it." "Dear bairn, I thank God for ye!" she exclaimed with emotion. "It's gude news indeed!" "I cannot think how I've been so blind," he went on in earnest tones; "it seems now so simple and easy--just to believe in Jesus Christ, receive His offered pardon, His righteousness put upon me, the cleansing of His blood shed for the remission of sins, and trust my all to Him for time and eternity. Now I am ready to meet death on the battle-field, if so it must be." "But, O Mr. Walter, I hope you'll be spared that, and live to be a good soldier of Christ these many years." They were startled by the furious galloping of a horse coming up the drive; and the next moment Arthur drew rein before the door. "Walter; so you're here, as I thought! I've come for you. Lincoln has called for seventy-five thousand troops to defend the capital; but we all know what that means--an invasion of the South. The North's a unit now, and so is the South. Davis has called for volunteers, and the war-cry is resounding all over the land. We're raising a company: I'm appointed captain, and you lieutenant. Come; if you hesitate now--you'll repent it: father says he'll disown you forever." Arthur's utterance was fierce and rapid, but now he was compelled to pause for a breath, and Walter answered with excitement in his tones also. "Of course if it has come to that, I will not hesitate to defend my native soil, my home, my parents." "All right; come on then; we leave to-night." Walter's horse was ordered at once, and in a few moments the brothers were galloping away side by side. Mrs. Murray looked after them with a sigh. "Ah me! the poor laddies! will they die on the battle field? Ah, wae's me, but war's an awfu' thing!" At Roselands all was bustle and excitement, every one eager, as it seemed, to hasten the departure of the young men. But when everything was ready and the final adieus must be spoken, the mother embraced them with tears and sobs, and even Enna's voice faltered and her eyes grew moist. Mounting, they rode rapidly down the avenue, each followed by his own servant--and out at the great gate. Walter wheeled his horse. "One last look at the old home, Art," he said; "we may never see it again." "Always sentimental, Wal," laughed Arthur, somewhat scornfully; "but have your way." And he, too, wheeled about for a last farewell look. The moon had just risen, and by her silvery light the lordly mansion--with its clustering vines, the gardens, the lawn, the shrubbery, and the grand old trees--was distinctly visible. Never had the place looked more lovely. The evening breeze brought to their nostrils the delicious scent of roses in full bloom, and a nightingale poured forth a song of ravishing sweetness from a thicket hard by. Somehow her song seemed to go to Walter's very heart and a sad foreboding oppressed him as they gazed and listened for several moments, then turned their horses' heads and galloped down the road. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH. "Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? He's dead alone who lacks her light." --CAMPBELL. Wee Elsie was convalescing rapidly, and the hearts so wrung with anguish at sight of her sufferings and the fear of losing her, relieved from that, were again filled with the intense anxiety for their country, which for a short space had been half forgotten in the severity of the trial apparently so close at hand. Mails from America came irregularly; now and then letters and papers from Philadelphia, New York, and other parts of the North; very seldom anything from the South. What was going on in their homes? what were dear relatives and friends doing and enduring? were questions they were often asking of themselves or each other--questions answered by a sigh only, or a shake of the head. The suspense was hard to bear; but who of all Americans, at home or abroad, who loved their native land, were not suffering at this time from anxiety and suspense? "A vessel came in last night, which I hope has a mail for us," remarked Mr. Dinsmore as they sat down to the breakfast table one morning early in November. "I have sent Uncle Joe to find out; and bring it, if there." "Ah, if it should bring the glorious news that this dreadful war is over, and all our dear ones safe!" sighed Rose. "Ah, no hope of that," returned her husband. "I think all are well-nigh convinced now that it will last for years: the enlistments now, you remember, are for three years or the war." Uncle Joe's errand was not done very speedily, and on his return he found the family collected in the drawing-room. "Good luck dis time, massa," he said, addressing Mr. Dinsmore, as he handed him the mail bag, "lots ob papahs an' lettahs." Eagerly the others gathered about the head of the household. Rose and Elsie, pale and trembling with excitement and apprehension, Mr. Travilla, grave and quiet, yet inwardly impatient of a moment's delay. It was just the same with Mr. Dinsmore; in a trice he had unlocked the bag and emptied its contents--magazines, papers, letters--upon a table. Rose's eye fell upon a letter, deeply edged with black, which bore her name and address in May's handwriting. She snatched it up with a sharp cry, and sank, half-fainting, into a chair. Her husband and Elsie were instantly at her side. "Dear wife, my love, my darling! this is terrible; but the Lord will sustain you." "Mamma, dearest mamma; oh that I could comfort you!" Mr. Travilla brought a glass of water. "Thank you; I am better now; I can bear it," she murmured faintly, laying her head on her husband's shoulder. "Open--read--tell me." Elsie, in compliance with the sign from her father, opened the envelope and handed him the letter. Glancing over it, he read in low, moved tones. "Rose, Rose, how shall I tell it? Freddie is dead, and Ritchie sorely wounded--both in that dreadful, dreadful battle of Ball's Bluff; both shot while trying to swim the river. Freddie killed instantly by a bullet in his brain, but Ritchie swam to shore, dragging Fred's body with him; then fainted from fatigue, pain, and loss of blood. "Mamma is heart-broken--indeed we all are--and papa seems to have suddenly grown many years older. Oh, we don't know how to bear it! and yet we are proud of our brave boys. Edward went on at once, when the sad news reached us; brought Ritchie home to be nursed, and--and Freddie's body to be buried. Oh! what a heart-breaking scene it was when they arrived! "Harold, poor Harold, couldn't come home; they wouldn't give him a furlough even for a day. Edward went, the day after the funeral, and enlisted, and Ritchie will go back as soon as his wound heals. He says that while our men stood crowded together on the river-bank, below the bluff, where they could neither fight nor retreat, and the enemy were pouring their shot into them from the heights, Fred came to him, and grasping his hand said, 'Dear Dick, it's not likely either of us will come out of this alive; but if you do and I don't, tell mother and the rest not to grieve; for I know in whom I have believed.' Remember, dear Rose, this sweet message is for you as well as for us. Your loving sister, May Allison." Rose, who had been clinging about her husband's neck and hiding her face on his shoulder, vainly striving to suppress her sobs during the reading, now burst into a fit of hysterical weeping. "Oh Freddie, Freddie, my little brother! my darling brother, how can I bear to think I shall never, never see you again in this world! Oh Horace, he was always so bright and sweet, the very sunshine of the house." "Yes, dearest, but remember his dying message; think of his perfect happiness now. He is free from all sin and sorrow, done with the weary marchings and fightings, the hunger and thirst, cold and heat and fatigue of war; no longer in danger from shot or bursting shell, or of lying wounded and suffering on the battle-field, or languishing in hospital or prison." "Yes," she sighed, "I should rather mourn for poor wounded Ritchie, for Harold and Edward, still exposed to the horrors of war. Oh, when will it end?--this dreadful, dreadful war!" All were weeping; for all had known and loved the bright, frank, noble-hearted, genial young man. But Rose presently became more composed, and Mr. Travilla proceeded with the distribution of the remaining letters. "From Adelaide, doubtless, and I presume containing the same sad news," Mr. Dinsmore said, breaking the seal of another black edged epistle, directed to him. "Yes, and more," he added, with a groan, as he ran his eye down the page. "Dick Percival was killed in a skirmish last May; and Enna is a widow. Poor fellow, I fear he was ill prepared to go." Mr. Travilla had taken up a newspaper. "Here is an account of that Ball's Bluff affair, which seems to have been very badly managed on the part of the Federals. Shall I read it aloud?" "Oh, yes, yes, if you please," sobbed Rose; "let us know all." "Badly managed, indeed," was Mr. Dinsmore's comment at the conclusion, "it looks very like the work of treason." "And my two dear brothers were part of the dreadful sacrifice," moaned Rose. "But oh! how brave, noble, and unselfish they, and many others, showed themselves in that awful hour," said Elsie amid her sobs and tears. "Dear mamma, doesn't that comfort you a little?" "Yes, dear child. Freddie's sweet message still more, Oh, I need not mourn for him!" CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH. "Liberty! Freedom! tyranny is dead! --Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets." --SHAKESPEARE'S JULIUS C�SAR. The winter of 1861-'62 wore wearily away, the Great Republic still convulsed with all the horrors of the civil war; and the opening spring witnessed no abatement of the fearful strife. Daring all these months nothing unusual had occurred in the family of our friends at Naples; but one lovely morning in April a sweet floweret blossomed among them; bringing joy and gladness to all hearts. "Our little violet," Elsie said, smiling up at the happy face of her husband, as he bent over her and the babe. "She has come to us just as her namesakes in America are lifting their pretty heads among the grass." "Thank you, darling," he answered, softly touching his lips to her cheek; "yes, we will give her my mother's name, and may she inherit her lovely disposition also." "I should be so glad, dear mother's was as lovely a character as I ever knew." "Our responsibilities are growing, love: three precious little ones now to train up for usefulness here and glory hereafter." "Yes," she said, with grave yet happy face; "and who is sufficient for these things?" "Our sufficiency is of God!" "And He has promised wisdom to those who ask it. What a comfort. I should like to show this pretty one to Walter. Where is he now, I wonder, poor fellow?" Ah, though she knew it not, he was then lying cold in death upon the bloody field of Shiloh. There had been news now and then from their Northern friends and relatives. Richard Allison had recovered from his wound, and was again in the field. Edward was with the army also; Harold, too, and Philip Ross. Lucy was, like many others who had strong ties in both sections and their armies, well-nigh distracted with grief and fear. From their relatives in the South the last news received had been that of the death of Dick Percival, nor did any further news reach there until the next November. Then they heard that Enna had been married again to another Confederate officer, about a year after her first husband's death; that Walter had fallen at Shiloh, that Arthur was killed in the battle of Luka, and that his mother, hearing of it just as she was convalescing from an attack of fever, had a relapse and died a few days after. Great was the grief of all for Walter; Mr. Dinsmore mourned very much for his father also, left thus almost alone in his declining years. No particulars were given in regard to the deaths of the two young men. "Oh," cried Elsie, as she wept over Walter's loss, "what would I not give to know that he was ready for death! But surely we may rejoice in the hope that he was; since we have offered so much united prayer for him." "Yes," returned her father, "for 'If two of you shall agree on earth, as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven'; and God's promises are all 'yea and amen in Christ Jesus.'" "Papa," said Horace, "how can it be that good Christian men are fighting and killing each other?" "It is a very strange thing, my son; yet undoubtedly true that there are many true Christians on both sides. They do not see alike, and each is defending what he believes a righteous cause." "Listen all," said Mrs. Dinsmore, who was reading a letter from Daisy, her youngest sister. "Richard is ill in the hospital at Washington, and May has gone on to nurse him. Dr. King, of Lansdale, Ohio, is there acting as volunteer surgeon, and has Lottie with him. She will be company for our May. Don't worry about Ritchie; May writes that he is getting better fast." Rose smiled as she read the last sentence. "What is it, mamma?" asked Elsie. "Nothing much; only I was thinking how greatly Ritchie seemed to admire Miss King at the time of the wedding." "Well, if he loses his heart I hope he will get another in exchange." "Why, Sister Elsie, how could Uncle Ritchie lose his heart? did they shoot a hole so it might drop out?" queried Rosebud in wide-eyed wonder. "I hope the doctors will sew up the place quick 'fore it does fall out," she added, with a look of deep concern. "Poor, dear Uncle Wal is killed," she sobbed; "and Uncle Art too, and I don't want all my uncles to die or to be killed." "We will ask God to take care of them, dear daughter," said Rose, caressing the little weeper, "and we know that He is able to do it." * * * * * One day in the following January--1863--the gentlemen went into the city for a few hours, leaving their wives and children at home. They returned with faces full of excitement. "What news?" queried both ladies in a breath. "Lincoln has issued an Emancipation Proclamation freeing all the blacks." There was a momentary pause: then Rose said, "If it puts an end to this dreadful war, I shall not be sorry." "Nor I," said Elsie. "Perhaps you don't reflect that it takes a good deal out of our pockets," remarked her father. "Several hundred thousand from yours." "Yes, papa, I know; but we will not be very poor. I alone have enough left to keep us all comfortably. If I were only sure it would add to the happiness of my poor people, I should rejoice over it. But I am sorely troubled to know what has, or will become of them. It is more than two years now, since we have heard a word from Viamede." "It is very likely we shall find nothing but ruins on all our plantations--Viamede, the Oaks, Ion, and Roselands," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, pacing to and fro with an anxious and disturbed countenance. "Let us hope for the best," Mr. Travilla responded cheerfully; "the land will still be there, perhaps the houses too; the negroes will work for wages, and gradually we may be able to restore our homes to what they were." "And if the war stops now, we shall probably find them still in pretty good condition," said Elsie. "No," her father said, "the war is not at an end, or likely to be for a long time to come; but we will wait in patience and hope, daughter, and not grieve over losses that perhaps may bring great happiness to others." "Are we poor now, papa?" asked Horace anxiously. "No, son; your sister is still very wealthy, and we all have comfortable incomes." "It did me good to see Uncle Joe's delight over the news," Mr. Travilla smilingly remarked to his wife. "Ah, you told him then?" she returned, with a keen interest and pleasure. "Yes, and it threw him into a transport of joy. 'Ki! massa,' he said, 'neber tink to heyah sich news as dat! neber spects dis chile lib to bee freedom come;' then sobering down, 'but, massa, we's been a prayin' for it; we's been crying to the good Lord like the chillen ob Israel when dey's in de house ob bondage; tousands an' tousands ob us cry day an' night, an' de Lord heyah, an' now de answer hab come. Bress de Lord! Bress His holy name foreber an' eber.' "'And what will you do with your liberty, Uncle Joe?' I asked; then he looked half frightened. 'Massa, you ain't gwine to send us off? we lub you an' Miss Elsie an' de chillen, an' we's gettin' mos' too ole to start out new for ourselves.'" "Well, dear, I hope you assured him that he had nothing to fear on that score." "Certainly; I told him they were free to go or stay as they liked, and as long as they were with, or near us, we would see that they were made comfortable. Then he repeated, with great earnestness, that he loved us all, and could never forget what you had done in restoring him to his wife, and making them both so comfortable and happy." "Yes, I think they have been happy with us; and probably it was the bitter remembrance of the sufferings of his earlier life that made freedom seem so precious a boon to him." Going into the nursery half an hour later, Elsie was grieved and surprised to find Chloe sitting by the crib of the sleeping babe, crying and sobbing as if her very heart would break, her head bowed upon her knees, and the sobs half-smothered, lest they should disturb the child. "Why, mammy dear, what is the matter?" she asked, going to her and laying a hand tenderly on her shoulder. Chloe slid to her knees, and taking the soft white hand in both of hers, covered it with kisses and tears, while her whole frame shook with her bitter weeping. "Mammy, dear mammy, what is it?" Elsie asked in real alarm, quite forgetting for the moment the news of the morning, which indeed she could never have expected to cause such distress. "Dis chile don't want no freedom," sobbed the poor old creature at length, "she lubs to b'long to her darlin' young missis: Uncle Joe he sing an' jump an' praise de Lord, 'cause freedom come, but your ole mammy don't want no freedom; she can't go for to leave you, Miss Elsie, her bressed darlin' chile dat she been done take care ob ever since she born." "Mammy dear, you shall never leave me except of your own free will," Elsie answered, in tender soothing tones. "Come, get up, and don't cry any more. Why, it would come as near breaking my heart as yours, if we had to part. What could I or my babies ever do without our old mammy to look after our comfort!" "Bress your heart, honey, you'se allus good an' kind to your ole mammy," Chloe said, checking her sobs and wiping away her tears, as she slowly rose to her feet; "de Lord bress you an' keep you. Now let your mammy gib you one good hug, like when you little chile." "And many times since," said Elsie, smiling sweetly into the tear-swollen eyes of her faithful old nurse, and not only submitting to, but returning the embrace. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH. "And faint not, heart of man! though years wane slow! There have been those that from the deepest caves, And cells of night and fastnesses below The stormy dashing of the ocean waves, Down, farther down than gold lies hid, have nurs'd A quenchless hope, and watch'd their time and burst On the bright day like wakeners from the grave." --MRS. HEMANS Noon of a sultry July day, 1864; the scorching sun looks down upon a pine forest; in its midst a cleared space some thirty acres in extent, surrounded by a log stockade ten feet high, the timbers set three feet deep into the ground; a star fort, with one gun at each corner of the square enclosure; on top of the stockade sentinel boxes placed twenty feet apart, reached by steps from the outside; in each of these a vigilant guard with loaded musket, constantly on the watch for the slightest pretext for shooting down some one or more of the prisoners, of whom there are from twenty-five thousand to thirty thousand. All along the inner side of the wall, six feet from it, stretches a dead line; and any poor fellow thoughtlessly or accidentally laying a hand upon it, or allowing any part of his body to reach under or over it, will be instantly shot. A green, slimy, sluggish stream, bringing with it all the filth of the sewers of Andersonville, a village three miles distant, flows directly across the enclosure from east to west. Formerly, the only water fit to drink came from a spring beyond the eastern wall, which flowing under it, into the enclosure, emptied itself into the other stream, a few feet within the dead line. It did not suffice to satisfy the thirst of the thousands who must drink or die, and the little corner where its waters could be reached was always crowded, men pressing upon each other till often one or another would be pushed against the dead line, shot by the guard, and the body left lying till the next morning; even if it had fallen into the water beyond the line, polluting the scant supply left for the living. But the cry of these perishing ones had gone up into the ears of the merciful Father of us all, and of late a spring of clear water bubbles up in their midst. But powder and shot, famine, exposure (for the prisoners have no shelter, except as they burrow in the earth), and malaria from that sluggish, filthy stream, and the marshy ground on either side of it, are doing a fearful work: every morning a wagon drawn by four mules is driven in, and the corpses--scattered here and there to the number of from eighty-five to a hundred--gathered up, tossed into it like sticks of wood, taken away and thrown promiscuously into a hole dug for the purpose, and earth shoveled over them. There are corpses lying about now; there are men, slowly breathing out their last of life, with no dying bed, no pillow save the hard ground, no mother, wife, sister, daughter near, to weep over, or to comfort them as they enter the dark valley. Others there are, wasted and worn till scarce more than living skeletons, creeping about on hands and feet, lying or sitting in every attitude of despair and suffering; a dull, hopeless misery in their sunken eyes, a pathetic patience fit to touch a heart of stone; while others still have grown frantic with that terrible pain, the hunger gnawing at their very vitals, and go staggering about, wildly raving in their helpless agony. And on them all the scorching sun beats pitilessly down. Hard, cruel fate! scorched with heat, with the cool shelter of the pine forests on every side; perishing with hunger in a land of plenty. In one corner, but a yard or so within the dead line, a group of officers in the Federal uniform--evidently men of culture and refinement, spite of their hatless and shoeless condition, ragged, soiled raiment, unkempt hair, and unshaven faces--sit on the ground, like their comrades in misfortune, sweltering in the sun. "When will this end?" sighs one. "I'd sooner die a hundred deaths on the battle-field." "Ah, who wouldn't?" exclaims another; "to starve, roast, and freeze by turns for one's country, requires more patriotism by far than to march up to the cannon's mouth, or charge up hill under a galling fire of musketry." "True indeed, Jones," returns a fair-haired, blue-eyed young man, with face so gaunt and haggard with famine that his own mother would scarcely have recognized him, and distinguished from the rest by a ball and chain attached to wrist and ankle; "and yet we bear it for her sake and for Freedom's. Who of us regrets that we did not stay at home in inglorious ease, and leave our grand old ship of state to founder and go to pieces amid the rocks of secession?" "None of us, Allison! No, no! the Union forever!" returned several voices in chorus. "Hark!"--as the sharp crack of a rifle was heard, and a prisoner who, half crazed with suffering, had, in staggering about, approached too near the fatal line and laid a hand upon it, fell dead--"another patriot soul has gone to its account, and another rebel earned a thirty days' furlough." The dark eyes of the speaker flashed with indignation. "Poor fellows, they don't know that it is to preserve _their_ liberties we fight, starve, and die; to save them from the despotism their ambitious and unscrupulous leaders desire to establish over them," remarked Harold Allison; "how grossly the masses of the Southern people have been deceived by a few hot-headed politicians, bent upon obtaining power for themselves at whatever cost." "True," returned the other, drily; "but it's just a little difficult to keep these things in mind under present circumstances. By the way, Allison, have you a sister who married a Mr. Horace Dinsmore?" "Yes, do you know Rose?" asked Harold, in some surprise. "I was once a guest at the Oaks for a fortnight or so, at the time of the marriage of Miss Elsie, Mr. Dinsmore's daughter, to a Mr. Travilla." Harold's face grew a shade paler, but his tones were calm and quiet. "Indeed! and may I ask your name?" "Harry Duncan, at your service," returned the other, with a bow and smile. "I met your three brothers there, also your sisters, Mrs. Carrington and Miss May Allison." The color deepened slightly on Harry's cheek as he pronounced the last name. The pretty face, graceful form, charming manners, and sprightly conversation of the young lady were still fresh in his memory. Having enjoyed the hospitalities of Andersonville for but a few days, he was in better condition, as to health and clothing, than the rest of the group, who had been there for months. "Harry Duncan!" exclaimed Harold, offering his hand, which the other took in a cordial grasp and shook heartily, "yes, I know; I have heard of you and your aunt, Miss Stanhope. I feel as if I'd found a brother." "Thank you; suppose we consider ourselves such; a brother is what I've been hankering after ever since I can remember." "Agreed," said Harold. "Perhaps," he added, with a melancholy smile, "we may find the fiction turned to fact some day, if you and one of my single sisters should happen to take a fancy to each other; that is, if we live to get out of this and to see home again." His tone at the last was very desponding. "Cheer up," said Duncan, in a low, sympathizing tone, "I think we can find a way to escape; men have done so even from the Bastile--a far more difficult task, I should say." "What's your idea?" "To dig our way out, working at night, and covering up the traces of our work by day." "Yes, it's the only way possible, so far as I can see," said Harold. "I have already escaped twice in that way, but only to be retaken, and this is what I gained," shaking his chain, and pointing to the heavy ball attached. "Yet, if I were rid of this, and possessed of a little more strength, I'd make a third attempt." "I think I could rid you of that little attachment," returned Duncan; "and the tunnel once ready, help you in the race for liberty." The others of the group were exchanging significant nods and glances. "I think we may let Duncan into our secret," said Jones. "We're digging a well; have gone down six feet; three feet below the surface is soapstone, so soft we can cut it with our jack-knives. We mean to work our way out to-night. Will you join us?" "With all my heart." "Suppose we are caught in the attempt," said one. "We can't be in much worse condition than now," observed another; "starving in this pestiferous atmosphere filled with the malaria from that swamp, and the effluvia from half-decayed corpses; men dying every day, almost every hour, from famine, disease, or violence." "No," said Harry, "we may bring upon ourselves what Allison is enduring, or instant death; but I for one would prefer the latter to the slow torture of starvation." "If we are ready," said Harold, in low, solemn tones. "It is appointed to men once to die, and after that the judgment." "And what should you say was the needful preparation?" queried another, half-mockingly. "'Repent ye and believe the gospel.' 'Let the wicked forsake his way and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.' 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.'" Silence fell on the little group. Duncan's eyes wandered over the field, over the thousands of brave men herded together there like cattle, with none of the comforts, few of the necessaries of life--over the living, the dying, the dead; taking in the whole aggregate of suffering with one sweeping glance. His eyes filled; his whole soul was moved with compassion, while he half forgot that he himself was one of them. How much were the consolations of God needed here! how few, comparatively, possessed them. But some there were who did, and were trying to impart them to others. Should he stay and share in this good work? Perhaps he ought; he almost thought so for a moment; but he remembered his country's need; he had enlisted for the war; he must return to active service, if he could. Then his eye fell upon Harold. Here was a noble life to be saved; a life that would inevitably be lost to friends, relatives, country, by but a few weeks' longer sojourn in this horrible place. Duncan's determination was taken: with the help of God the morning light should find them both free and far on their way towards the Union lines. "We'll try it, comrades, to-night," he said aloud. "So we will," they answered with determination. A man came staggering towards them, gesticulating wildly and swearing horrible oaths. "He is crazed with hunger, poor fellow," remarked Harold. Duncan was gazing steadily at the man who had now sunk panting upon the ground, exhausted by his own violence. Evidently he had once possessed more than an ordinary share of physical beauty, but vice and evil passions had set their stamp upon his features, and famine had done its ghastly work; he was but a wreck of his former self. "Where have I seen that face?" murmured Harry, unconsciously thinking aloud. "In the rogues' gallery, perhaps. Tom Jackson is his name, or one of his names; for he has several aliases, I'm told," remarked some one standing near. "Yes, he's the very man!" exclaimed Harry. "I have studied his photograph and recognize him fully, in spite of famine's ravages. The wretch! he deserves all he suffers: and yet I pity him." "What! the would-be assassin of Viamede?" and Harold started to his feet, the hot blood dyeing his thin cheeks. "The same. You feel like lynching him on the spot; and no wonder. But refrain; _they_ would bid you, and he is already suffering a worse fate than any you could mete out to him." "God forgive me!" groaned Harold, dropping down again and hiding his face in his hands, "I believe there was murder in my heart." "The story? what was it?" asked Jones. "Tell it, Duncan; anything to help us to a moment's forgetfulness." The others joined in the request, and Duncan gave the full particulars of the several attempts Jackson had made upon the lives of Mr. Travilla and Elsie. Allison never once lifted his face during the recital, but the rest listened with keen interest. "The fellow richly deserves lynching," was the unanimous verdict, "but, as you say, is already suffering a far worse fate." "And yet no worse than that of thousands of innocent men," remarked Jones bitterly. "Where's the justice of it?" "Do you expect even-handed justice here?" inquired another. "Perhaps he may be no worse in the sight of God, than some of the rest of us," said Harold, in low, grave tones; "we do not know what evil influences may have surrounded him from his very birth, or whether, exposed to the same, we would have turned out any better." "I'm perishing with thirst," said Jones, "and must try pushing through that crowd about the spring." He wandered off and the group scattered, leaving Harold and Duncan alone together. The two had a long talk: of home, common friends and acquaintance; of the war, what this or that Federal force was probably now attempting; what future movements were likely to be made, and how the contest would end; neither doubting the final triumph of the government. "And that triumph can't be very far off either," concluded Harry. "I think the struggle will be over before this time next year, and I hope you and I may have a hand in the winding up." "Perhaps you may," Allison rejoined a little sadly; "but I, I fear, have struck my last blow for my native land." "You are not strong now, but good nursing may do wonders for you," answered Harry cheerily. "Once within the Union lines, and you will feel like another man." "Ah, but how to get me there? that's the tug of war," said Harold, but with a smile and in tones more hopeful than his words. "Duncan, you are a Christian?" "Yes, Allison; Jesus Christ is the Captain of my salvation; in whom I trust, and in whose service I desire to live and die." "Then are we brothers indeed!" and with the words their right hands joined in a more cordial grasp than before. The sun was nearing the western horizon when at length Harold was left alone. He bowed his head upon his knees in thought and prayer, remaining thus for many minutes, striving for a spirit of forgiveness and compassion towards the coward wretch who would have slain one dearer to him than life. At last, as the shadows of evening were gathering over the place, he lifted a pale, patient face; and rising, made his way slowly and with difficulty towards the spot where Jackson lay prostrate on the ground, groaning and crying like a child. Sitting down beside the miserable creature, he spoke to him in gentle, soothing tones. "You have been here a long time?" "The longest year that ever I lived! but it won't last much longer," and he uttered a fearful oath. "Are you expecting to be exchanged?" "Exchanged! no. What do those fellows at Washington care about our lives? They'll delay and delay till we're all starved to death, like hundreds and thousands, before us;" and again he concluded with a volley of oaths and curses, bestowed indiscriminately upon the President and Congress, Jeff Davis, Wirtz, and the guard. Harold was shocked at his profanity. "Man," said he solemnly, "do you know that you are on the brink of the grave? and must soon appear at the bar of Him whose holy name you are taking in vain?" "Curse you!" he cried, lifting his head for a moment, then dropping it again on the ground; "take your cant to some other market, I don't believe in a God, or heaven or hell: and the sooner I die the better; for I'll be out of my misery." "No; that is a fatal delusion, and unless you turn and repent, and believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, death can only plunge you into deeper misery. You have only a little while! Oh, I beseech you, don't cast away your last chance to secure pardon, peace and eternal life!" "You're 'casting your pearls before swine,'" returned the man, sneeringly. "Not to say that I'm a hog exactly, but I've not a bit more of a soul than if I was. Your name's Allison, isn't it?" "It is." "D'ye know anybody named Dinsmore? or Travilla?" "Yes; and I know who you are, Jackson, and of your crimes against them. In the sight of God you are a murderer." "You tell me to repent. I've repented many a time that I didn't take better aim and blow his brains out; yes, and hers too. I hoped I had, till I saw the account in the papers." Harold's teeth and hands were tightly clenched, in an almost superhuman effort to keep himself quiet; and the man went on without interruption. "He'd nearly made a finish of me, but I was smart enough to escape them, bloodhounds and all. I got over the border into Texas; had a pretty good time there for awhile--after I recovered from that awful blood-letting; but when secession began, I slipped off and came North. You think I'm all bad; but I had a kind of love for the old flag, and went right into the army. Besides, I thought it might give me a chance to put a bullet through some o' those that had thwarted my plans, and would have had me lynched, if they could." Harold rose and went away, thinking that verily he had been casting his pearls before swine. Jackson had, indeed, thrown away his last chance; rejected the last offer of salvation; for, ere morning, life had fled. Starved to death and gone into eternity without God and without hope! his bitterest foe could not have desired for him a more terrible fate. There was no moon that night, and the evening was cloudy, making a favorable condition of affairs for the prisoners contemplating an escape. As soon as the darkness was dense enough to conceal their movements from the guard, the work of tunneling began. It was a tedious business, as they had none of the proper tools, and only one or two could work at a time at the digging and cutting away of the stone; but they relieved each other frequently at that, while those on the outside carried away in their coats or whatever came to hand, the earth and fragments of stone dislodged, and spread them over the marshy ground near the creek. Duncan, returning from one of these trips, spoke in an undertone to Harold Allison, who with a rude file made of a broken knife-blade, was patiently endeavoring to free himself from his shackles. "Jackson is dead. I half stumbled over a corpse in the dark, when a man close by (the same one that told us this afternoon who the fellow was--I recognized the voice) said, 'He's just breathed his last, poor wretch! died with a curse on his lips.' 'Who is he?' I asked; and he answered, 'Tom Jackson was one of his names.'" "Gone!" said Harold, "and with all his sins upon his head." "Yes; it's awful! Here, let me work that for awhile. You're very tired." The proffered assistance was thankfully accepted, and another half-hour of vigorous effort set Harold's limbs free. He stretched them out, with a low exclamation of gratitude and relief. At the same instant a whisper came to their ears. "The work's done at last. Jones is out. Parsons close at his heels. Cox behind him. Will you go next?" "Thanks, no; I will be the last," said Duncan; "and take charge of Allison here, who is too weak to travel far alone." "Then I'm off," returned the voice. "Don't lose a minute in following me." "Now, Allison," whispered Harry, "summon all your strength and courage, old fellow." "Duncan, you are a true and noble friend! God reward you. Let me be last." "No, in with you, man! not an instant to spare;" and with kindly force he half lifted his friend into the well, and guided him to the mouth of the tunnel. Allison crept through it as fast as his feeble strength would permit, Duncan close behind him. They emerged in safety, as the others had done before them; at once scattering in different directions. These two moved on together, for several minutes, plunging deeper and deeper into the woods, but presently paused to take breath and consider their bearings. "Oh, the air of liberty is sweet!" exclaimed Duncan, in low, exultant tones; "but we mustn't delay here." "No; we are far from safe yet," panted Allison, "but--'prayer and provender hinder no man's journey'; Duncan, let us spend one moment in silent prayer for success in reaching the Union lines." They did so, kneeling on the ground; then rose and pressed forward with confidence. God, whose servants they were and whose help they had asked, would guide them in the right direction. "What a providence!" exclaimed Duncan, grasping Harold's arm, as they came out upon an opening in the wood. "See!" and he pointed upward, "the clouds have broken away a little, and there shines the North Star: we can steer by that." "Thank God! and, so far, we have been traveling in the right direction." "Amen! and we must press on with all speed; for daylight will soon be upon us, and with it, in all probability, our escape will be discovered and pursuit begun." No more breath could be spared for talk, and they pushed on in silence, now scrambling through a thicket of underbrush, tearing their clothes and not seldom lacerating their flesh also; now leaping over a fallen tree, anon climbing a hill, and again fording or swimming a stream. At length Harold, sinking down upon a log, said, "I am utterly exhausted! Can go no farther. Go on, and leave me to follow as I can after a little rest." "Not a step without you, Allison," returned Duncan, determinedly. "Rest a bit, and then try it again with the help of my arm. Courage, old fellow, we must have put at least six or eight miles between us and our late quarters. Ah, ha! yonder are some blackberry bushes, well laden with ripe fruit. Sit or lie still while I gather our breakfast." Hastily snatching a handful of oak leaves, and forming a rude basket by pinning them together with thorns, he quickly made his way to the bushes, a few yards distant, while Harold stretched himself upon the log and closed his weary eyes. He thought he had hardly done so when Duncan touched his arm. "Sorry to wake you, Allison, but time is precious; and, like the beggars, we must eat and run." The basket was heaped high with large, delicious berries, which greatly refreshed our travelers. "Now, then, are you equal to another effort?" asked Duncan, as the last one disappeared, and he thrust the leaves into his pocket, adding, "We mustn't leave these to tell tales to our pursuers." "Yes, I dare not linger here," returned Allison, rising but totteringly. Duncan threw an arm about him, and again they pressed forward, toiling on for another half-hour; when Allison again gave out, and sinking upon the ground, begged his friend to leave him and secure his own safety. "Never!" cried Duncan, "never! There would be more, many more, to mourn your loss than mine. Who would shed a tear for me but Aunt Wealthy? Dear old soul, it would be hard for her, I know; but she'd soon follow me." "Yes, you are her all; but there's a large family of us, and I could easily be spared." Duncan shook his head. "Was your brother who fell at Ball's Bluff easily spared? But hark! what was that?" He bent his ear to the ground. "The distant bay of hounds! We must push on!" he cried, starting up in haste. "Bloodhounds on our track? Horrible!" exclaimed Harold, also starting to his feet, weakness and fatigue forgotten for the moment, in the terror inspired by that thought. Duncan again gave him the support of his arm, and for the next half-hour they pressed on quite rapidly; yet their pursuers were gaining on them, for the bay of the hounds, though still distant, could now be distinctly heard, and Allison's strength again gave away. "I--can--go no farther, Duncan," he said, pantingly; "let me climb up yon tall oak and conceal myself among the branches, while you hurry on." "No, no, they would discover you directly, and it would be surrender or die. Ah, see! there's a little log cabin behind those bushes, and who knows but we may find help there. Courage, and hope, my boy;" and almost carrying Harold, Duncan hurried to the door of the hut. Pushing it open, and seeing an old negro inside, "Cato, Cæsar----" "Uncle Scip, sah," grinned the negro. "Well, no matter for the name; will you help us? We're Federal soldiers just escaped from Andersonville, and they're after us with bloodhounds. Can you tell us of anything that will put the savage brutes off the scent?" "Sah?" "Something that will stop the hounds from following us--quick, quick! if you know anything." The negro sprang up, reached a bottle from a shelf, and handing it to Harry, said, "Turpentine, sah; rub um on your feet, gen'lemen, an' de hounds won't follah you no moah. But please, sahs, go little ways off into the woods fo' you use um, so de rebs not tink dis chile gib um to ye." Harry clutched the bottle, throwing down a ten-dollar bill (all the money he had about him) at Uncle Scip's feet, and dragging Harold some hundred yards farther into the depths of the wood, seated him on a log, applied the turpentine plentifully to his feet, and then to his own. All this time the baying of the hounds came nearer and nearer, till it seemed that the next moment would bring them into sight. "Up!" cried Harry, flinging away the empty bottle, "one more tug for life and liberty, or we are lost!" Harold did not speak, but hope and fear once more inspiring him with temporary strength, he rose and hurried on by the side of his friend. Coming presently to a cleared space, they almost flew across it, and gained the shelter of the woods beyond. The cry of the hounds was no longer heard. "They've lost the scent, sure enough," said Duncan, exultingly; "a little farther and I think we may venture to rest awhile, concealing ourselves in some thicket. Indeed 'twill now be safer to hide by day, and continue our journey by night." They did so, spending that and the next day in hiding, living upon roots and berries, and the next two nights in traveling in the supposed direction of the nearest Union camp, coming upon the pickets about sunrise of the third day. They were of Captain Duncan's own regiment, and he was immediately recognized with a delighted, "Hurrah!" "Hurrah for the Union and the old flag!" returned Harry, waving a green branch above his head, in lieu of the military cap he had been robbed of by his captors. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH. "In peace, love tunes the shepherd's reed; In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; In halls, in gay attire is seen; In hamlets, dances on the green; Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below and saints above; For love is heaven, and heaven is love." --SCOTT. "Escaped prisoners from Andersonville, eh?" queried the guard gathering about them. "Yes; and more than half-starved; especially my friend here, Captain Allison of the----" But the sentence was left unfinished; for at that instant Harold reeled, and would have fallen but for the strong arm of another officer quickly outstretched to save him. They made a litter and carried him into camp, where restoratives were immediately applied. He soon recovered from his faintness, but was found to be totally unfit for duty, and sent to the hospital at Washington, where he was placed in a bed adjoining that of his brother Richard, and allowed to share with him in the attentions of Dr. King, Miss Lottie, and his own sister May. How they all wept over him--reduced almost to a skeleton, so wan, so weak, so aged, in those few short months. He recognized his brother and sister with a faint smile, a murmured word or two, then sank into a state of semi-stupor, from which he roused only when spoken to, relapsing into it again immediately. Slowly, very slowly, medical skill and tender, careful nursing told upon his exhausted frame till at length he seemed to awake to new life, began to notice what was going on about him, was able to take part in a cheerful chat now and then, and became eager for news from home and of the progress of the war. Months had passed away. In the meantime Richard had returned to camp, and Harry Duncan, wounded in a late battle, now occupied his deserted bed in the hospital. Harry was suffering, but in excellent spirits. "Cheer up, Allison," he said; "you and I will never go back to Andersonville; the war can't last much longer, and we may consider the Union saved. Ah! this is a vast improvement upon Andersonville fare," he added gayly, as Lottie and May appeared before them, each bearing a tray with a delicious little lunch upon it. "Miss Lottie, I'm almost tempted to say it pays to be ill or wounded, that one may be tended by fair ladies' hands." "Ah, that speech should have come from Mr. Allison, for May is fair and her hands are white, while mine are brown," she answered demurely, as she set her tray within his reach, May doing the same for Harold. "None the less beautiful, Miss King," returned Duncan gallantly. "Many a whiter hand is not half so shapely or so useful. Now reward me for that pretty compliment by coaxing your father to get me well as fast as possible, that I may have a share in the taking of Richmond." "That would be a waste of breath, as he's doing all he can already; but I'll do my part with coddling, write all your letters for you--business, friendship, love--and do anything else desired; if in my power." "You're very good," he said, with a furtive glance at May, who seemed to see or hear nothing but her brother, who was asking about the last news from home; "very good indeed, Miss King; especially as regards the love-letters. I presume it would not be necessary for me even to be at the trouble of dictating them?" "Oh, no, certainly not!" "Joking aside, I shall be greatly obliged if you will write to Aunt Wealthy to-day for me." "With pleasure; especially as I can tell her your wound is not a dangerous one, and you will not lose a limb. But do tell me. What did you poor fellows get to eat at Andersonville?" "Well, one week's daily ration consisted of one pint of corn-meal ground up cob and all together, four ounces of mule meat, generally spoiled and emitting anything but an appetizing odor; but then we were not troubled with want of--the best of sauce for our meals." "Hunger?" "Yes; we'd plenty of that always. In addition to the corn-meal and meat, we had a half pint of peas full of bugs." "Oh! you poor creatures! I hope it was a little better the alternate week." "Just the same, except, in lieu of the corn-meal, we had three square inches of corn bread." "Is it jest; or earnest?" asked Lottie, appealing to Harold. "Dead earnest, Miss King; and for medicine we had sumac and white-oak bark." "No matter what ailed you?" "Oh, yes; that made no difference." To Harry's impatience the winter wore slowly away while he was confined within the hospital walls; yet the daily, almost hourly sight of May Allison's sweet face, and the sound of her musical voice, went far to reconcile him to this life of inactivity and "inglorious ease," as he termed it in his moments of restless longing to be again in the field. By the last of March this ardent desire was granted, and he hurried away in fine spirits, leaving May pale and tearful, but with a ring on her finger that had not been there before. "Ah," said Lottie, pointing to it with a merry twinkle in her eye, and passing her arm about May's waist as she spoke, "I shall be very generous, and not tease as you did when somebody else treated me exactly so." "It is good of you," whispered May, laying her wet cheek on her friend's shoulder; "and I'm ever so glad you're to be my sister." "And won't Aunt Wealthy rejoice over you as over a mine of gold!" Poor Harold, sitting pale and weak upon the side of his cot, longing to be with his friend, sharing his labors and perils, yet feeling that the springs of life were broken within him, was lifting up a silent prayer for strength to endure to the end. A familiar step drew near, and Dr. King laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Cheer up, my dear boy," he said, "we are trying to get you leave to go home for thirty days, and the war will be over before the time expires; so that you will not have to come back." "Home!" and Harold's eye brightened for a moment; "yes, I should like to die at home, with mother and father, brothers and sisters about me." "But you are not going to die just yet," returned the doctor, with assumed gayety; "and home and mother will do wonders for you." "Dr. King," and the blue eyes looked up calmly and steadily into the physician's face, "please tell me exactly what you think of my case. Is there any hope of recovery?" "You may improve very much: I think you will when you get home; and, though there is little hope of the entire recovery of your former health and strength, you may live for years." "But it is likely I shall not live another year? do not be afraid to say so: I should rather welcome the news. Am I not right?" "Yes; I--I think you are nearing home, my dear boy; the land where 'the inhabitant shall not say, I am sick.'" There was genuine feeling in the doctor's tone. A moment's silence, and Harold said, "Thank you. It is what I have suspected for some time; and it causes me no regret, save for the sake of those who love me and will grieve over my early death." "But don't forget that there is still a possibility of recuperation; while there's life there's hope." "True! and I will let them hope on as long as they can." The doctor passed on to another patient, and Harold was again left to the companionship of his own thoughts. But not for long; they were presently broken in upon by the appearance of May with a very bright face. "See!" she cried joyously, holding up a package; "letters from home, and Naples too. Rose writes to mamma, and she has enclosed the letter for our benefit." "Then let us enjoy it together. Sit here and read it to me; will you? My eyes are rather weak, you know, and I see the ink is pale." "But mamma's note to you?" "Can wait its turn. I always like to keep the best till the last." Harold hardly acknowledged to himself that he was very eager to hear news from Elsie; even more than to read the loving words from his mother's pen. "Very well, then; there seems to be no secret," said May, glancing over the contents; and seating herself by his side she began. After speaking of some other matters, Rose went on: "But I have kept my greatest piece till now. Our family is growing; we have another grandson who arrived about two weeks ago; Harold Allison Travilla by name. "Elsie is doing finely; the sleepy little newcomer is greatly admired and loved by old and young; we make as great a to-do over him as though he were the first instead of the fourth grandchild. My husband and I are growing quite patriarchal. "Elsie is the loveliest and the best of mothers, perfectly devoted to her children; so patient and so tender, so loving and gentle, and yet so firm. Mr. Travilla and she are of one mind in regard to their training, requiring as prompt and cheerful obedience as Horace always has; yet exceedingly indulgent wherever indulgence can do no harm. One does not often see so well-trained and yet so merry and happy a family of little folks. "Tell our Harold--my poor dear brother--that we hope his name-child will be an honor to him." "Are you not pleased?" asked May, pausing to look up at him. "Yes," he answered, with a quiet, rather melancholy smile; "they are very kind to remember me so. I hope they will soon bring the little fellow to see me. Ah, I knew Elsie would make just such a lovely mother." "Nothing about the time of their return," observed May, as she finished reading; "but they will hardly linger long after the close of the war." May had left the room, and Harold lay languid and weak upon his cot. A Confederate officer, occupying the next, addressed him, rousing him out of the reverie into which he had fallen. "Excuse me, sir, but I could not help hearing some parts of the letter read aloud by the lady--your sister, I believe----" "Yes. Of course you could not help hearing, and there is no harm done," Harold answered with a friendly tone and smile. "So no need for apologies." "But there is something else. Did you know anything of a Lieutenant Walter Dinsmore, belonging to our side, who fell in the battle of Shiloh?" "Yes; knew and loved him!" exclaimed Harold, raising himself on his elbow, and turning a keenly interested, questioning gaze upon the stranger. "Then it is, it must be the same family," said the latter, half to himself, half to Harold. "Same as what, sir?" "That letter I could not help hearing was dated Naples, signed Rose Dinsmore, and talked of Elsie, Mr. Travilla, and their children. Now Lieutenant Dinsmore told me he had a brother residing temporarily in Naples, and also a niece, a Mrs. Elsie Travilla; and before going into the fight he intrusted to me a small package directed to her, with the request that, if he fell, I would have it forwarded to her when an opportunity offered. Will you, sir, take charge of it, and see that it reaches the lady's hands?" "With pleasure. How glad she will be to get it, for she loved Walter dearly." "They were near of an age?" "Yes; the uncle a trifle younger than the niece." "Dinsmore and I were together almost constantly during the last six months of his life, and became very intimate. My haversack, Smith, if you please," addressing a nurse. It was brought, opened, and a small package taken from it and given to Harold. He gazed upon it with sad thoughtfulness for a moment; then, bestowing it safely in his breast-pocket, "Thank you very much," he said, "I will deliver it with my own hand, if she returns from Europe as soon as we expect." CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH. "She led me first to God; Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew." --JOHN PIERPONT. Elmgrove, the country-seat of the elder Mr. Allison, had never looked lovelier than on a beautiful June morning in the year 1865. The place had been greatly improved since Elsie's first sight of it, while it was still Rose's girlhood's home where Mr. Dinsmore and his little daughter were so hospitably entertained for many weeks. There was now a second dwelling-house on the estate, but a few hundred yards distant from the first, owned by Edward Allison, and occupied by himself, wife, and children, of whom there were several. Our friends from Naples had arrived the night before. The Dinsmores were domiciled at the paternal mansion, the Travillas with Edward and Adelaide. The sun was not yet an hour high as Elsie stood at the open window of her dressing-room, looking out over the beautiful grounds to the brook beyond, on whose grassy banks, years ago, she and Harold and Sophie had spent so many happy hours. How vividly those scenes of her childhood rose up before her! "Dear Harold!" she murmured, with a slight sigh, "how kind he always was to me." She could not think of him without pain, remembering their last interview and his present suffering. She had not seen him yet, but had learned from others that those months at Andersonville had injured his health so seriously that it was not likely ever to be restored. "What happy children we were in those days," her thoughts ran on; "and I am even happier now, my treasures have so increased with the rolling years; but they! what bitter trials they are enduring; though not less deserving of prosperity than I, who am but a miserable sinner. But it is whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth." At that moment the sound of little hurrying feet, entering the room, and glad young voices crying, "Good-morning, dear mamma!" broke in upon the current of her thoughts. "Good-morning, my darlings," she said, turning from the window to embrace them. "All well and bright! Ah, how good our heavenly Father is to us!" "Yes, mamma, it is like my text," said wee Elsie, "We have each a short one this morning. Mine is, 'God is love.'" Mamma had sat down and taken Violet on her lap, while Elsie and Eddie stood one on each side. Three lovelier children fond mother never looked upon. Elsie, now seven years old, was her mother's miniature. Eddie, a bright manly boy of five, had Mr. Dinsmore's dark eyes and hair, firm mouth and chin; but the rest of his features, and the expression of countenance, were those of his own father. Violet resembled both her mother and the grandmother whose name she bore; she was a blonde, with exquisitely fair complexion, large deep blue eyes, heavily fringed with curling lashes several shades darker than the ringlets of pale gold that adorned the pretty head. "True, beautiful words," the mother said, in reply to her little daughter; "'God is love!' Never forget it, my darlings; never forget to thank Him for His love and goodness to you; never fear to trust His love and care. Can you tell me, dear, of some of His good gifts to you?" "Our dear, kind mamma and papa," answered Eddie quickly, leaning affectionately against her, his dark eyes lifted to her face, full of almost passionate affection. "Mammy too," added Violet. "And dear, dear grandpa and grandma; and oh, so many more," said Elsie. Rose was called grandma now, by her own request. "Yes, dear grandpa and grandma, and so many more," echoed the other two. "But Jesus the best gift of all, mamma," continued little Elsie. "Yes, my precious ones," returned the mother, in moved tones, "Jesus the best of all; for He loves you better than even papa and mamma do, and though they should be far away, He is ever near, ready and able to help you. Now, Eddie, what is your verse?" "A little prayer, mamma, 'Lord help me.'" "A prayer that I hope will always be in my children's hearts when trouble comes, or they are tempted to any sin. The dear Saviour loves to have you cry to Him for help, and He will give it." "Now Vi's tex', mamma," lisped the little one on her knee. "'Jesus wept.'" "Why did Jesus weep, little daughter?" "'Cause He so tired? so sick? naughty mans so cross to Him?" "No, dear; it was not for any sorrow or trouble of His own that Jesus shed those tears. Can you tell us why it was, Elsie?" "Yes, mamma; He was so sorry for poor Martha and Mary, 'cause their brother Lazarus was dead." "Yes, and for all the dreadful sufferings and sorrows that sin has brought into the world. We are not told that Jesus wept for His own trials and pains; but He wept for others. We must try to be like Him; to bear our own troubles patiently, and to feel for the grief and pain of other people. "We must try to keep these thoughts in our hearts all the day long: that God is love; that Jesus is our help in every trouble and temptation, that He feels for us, and we must feel for others, and do what we can to make them happy. Now we will kneel down and ask the dear Saviour to help us to do this." The prayer was very short and simple; so that even Baby Vi could understand every word. There was a moment's quiet after they had risen from their knees; then the children went to the window to look out upon the grounds, which they had hardly seen last night. "Mamma!" said Elsie. "I see a brook away over yonder; and there are big trees there, and nice green grass. Mamma, is that where you and Aunt Sophie and Uncle Harold used to play when you were a little girl?" "Yes, daughter." "Oh, mamma, please tell us again about the time when you waded in the brook, and thought you'd lost your rings; and dear grandpa was so kind and didn't scold or punish you at all." "Yes, mamma, do tell it." "Please mamma, do," joined in the other little voices; and mamma kindly complied. That story finished, it was, "Now, mamma, please tell another; please tell about the time when you wanted to go with the school children to pick strawberries, and grandpa said 'No.'" "Ah, I was rather a naughty little girl that time, and cried because I couldn't have my own way," answered the mother musingly, with a dreamy look in her eyes and a tender smile playing about her lips as she almost seemed to hear again the loved tones of her father's voice, and to feel the clasp of his arm as he drew her to his knee and laid her head against his breast, asking, "Which was my little daughter doubting, this afternoon--papa's wisdom, or his love?" But her own little Elsie's arm had stolen about her neck, the cherry lips were pressed again and again to her cheek, and the sweet child voice repelled the charge with indignation. "Mamma, you couldn't help the tears coming when you were so disappointed; and that was all. You didn't say one naughty word. And grandpa says you were the best little girl he ever saw." "And papa says just the same," added a pleasant, manly voice from the door, as Mr. Travilla came in, closing it after him. Then the three young voices joined in a glad chorus, "Papa! papa! good-morning, dear papa." "Good-morning, papa's dear pets," he said, putting his arms round all three at once, as they clustered about him, and returning with interest their affectionate caresses. "And so you have already been teasing poor mamma for stories?" "Did we tease and trouble you, mamma?" asked Elsie, a little remorsefully, going back to her mother's side. "No, darling; it always gives me pleasure to gratify my dear children. And, papa, they have been very good." "I am glad to hear it." "Mamma and papa, may we go down and play by that brook after breakfast?" asked Elsie. "And wade in the water like mamma did when she was a little girl?" added Eddie. "Yes, with Uncle Joe and Aunt Chloe to take care of you; if mamma is willing," answered their father. Mamma said yes, too, and made the little hearts quite happy. They returned to the window, and presently sent up a joyous shout. "Grandpa, our dear grandpa, is coming!" "Shall I go down and bring him up here, mamma?" asked Elsie. "No, dear, we will go down to grandpa, and not trouble him to come up. Besides, Aunt Adelaide wants to see him as well as we." "Yes, mamma's plan is the best," said Mr. Travilla, giving Elsie one hand and Eddie the other, while his wife led the way with little Violet. They found Mr. Dinsmore in the lower hall, with Adelaide weeping almost hysterically in his arms. "You are the only brother I have left," she sobbed. "Poor, poor dear Walter and Arthur! Oh, that dreadful, dreadful war!" He caressed and soothed her with tender words. "Dear sister, I will do all I can to make up their loss to you. And our father is left us; your husband spared, too. And let us not forget that almighty Friend, that Elder Brother on the throne, who will never leave or forsake the feeblest one who trusts in Him." "Oh, yes, I know, I know! He has been very good to me; but I must weep for the dear ones gone----" "And He will not chide you--He who wept with Martha and Mary over their dead brother." The children were awed into silence and stillness by the scene; but as Adelaide withdrew herself from her brother's arms, while he and her husband grasped each other by the hand in a cordial greeting, little Elsie drew near her, and taking gently hold of her hand, dropped upon it a kiss and a sympathizing tear. "Darling!" said Adelaide, stooping to fold the child in her arms; then looking up at her niece, "What a wonderful likeness, Elsie! I can hardly believe it is not yourself, restored to us as you were at her age." The morning greetings were soon exchanged, and Adelaide led the way to her pleasant sitting-room. "What is the latest news from home, Adelaide?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, with evident anxiety. "I have not heard a word for months past." "I had a long letter from Lora yesterday;" she answered; "the first since the close of the war. Her eldest son, Ned, and Enna's second husband, were killed in the battle of Bentonville, last March. Lora's husband has lost an arm, one of his brothers a leg; the others are all killed, and the family utterly ruined. "The Carringtons--father and sons--have all fallen, Sophie is here, with her orphan children; her mother-in-law, with her own daughter, Lucy Ross. Philip has escaped unhurt. They will all be here next week to attend May's wedding. "Papa, Louise--you know that she too has lost her husband--and Enna are all at the Oaks; for Roselands is a ruin, Ion not very much better, Lora says." "And the Oaks has escaped?" "Yes, almost entirely; not being visible from the road. Papa sends a message to you. He is too heart-broken to write. He knows he is welcome in your house; he is longing to see you, now his only son----" Adelaide's voice faltered, and it was a moment ere she could go on--"but he would have you stay away till September, not risking a return during the hottest season; and, if you wish, he will attend to the plantation, hiring blacks to work it." "My poor, poor old father!" Mr. Dinsmore exclaimed, with emotion. "Welcome in my house? If I had but a dollar, I would share it with him." "He shall never want a home, while any of us live!" sprang simultaneously from the lips of Mr. Allison and Mr. Travilla. Adelaide and Elsie were too much moved to speak, but each gave her husband a look of grateful affection. "Thank you both," Mr. Dinsmore said. "Adelaide, I shall write my father to-day. Does Lora say that he is well?" Mrs. Allison could hardly speak for tears, as she answered, "He is not ill, but sadly aged by grief and care. But you shall read the letter for yourself. Stay to breakfast with us (there's the bell), and I'll give it to you afterwards." "Thanks; but I fear they may wait breakfast for me at the other house." "No; I will send them word at once that we have kept you." There was an effort after cheerfulness as they gathered about the plentiful board; but too many sad thoughts and memories had been called up in the hearts of the elders of the party: and only the children were really gay. Edward Allison was pale and thin, his health having suffered from the hardships incident to his army life. Elsie remarked it, in a tone of grief and concern; but he answered with a smile, "I have escaped so much better than many others, that I have more reason for thankfulness than complaint. I am hearty and robust compared to poor Harold." A look of deep sadness stole over his face as he thus named his younger brother. Elsie understood it when, an hour later, the elder Mr. Allison entered the parlor, where she and Adelaide were chatting together, with Harold leaning on his arm. They both shook hands with her, the old gentleman saying, "My dear, I am rejoiced to have you among us again;" Harold silently, but with a sad, wistful, yearning look out of his large bright eyes, that filled hers with tears. His father and Adelaide helped him to an easy chair, and as he sank back pantingly upon its cushions, Elsie--completely overcome at sight of the feeble, wasted frame, and wan, sunken features--stole quickly from the room. Adelaide followed, to find her in the sitting-room on the opposite side of the hall, weeping bitterly. "Oh, Aunt Adie," she sobbed; "he's dying!" "Yes," Adelaide answered, with the tears coursing down her own cheeks, "we all know it now; all but father and mother, who will not give up hope. Poor May! hers will be but a sad wedding. She would have put it off, but he begged her not, saying he wanted to be present and to greet Duncan as his brother--Duncan, to whom he owed so much. But for him, you know, Harold would have perished at Andersonville; where, indeed, he got his death." "No, I have heard very little about it." "Then Harold will tell you the story of their escape. Oh! Rose dear," turning quickly, as Mrs. Dinsmore and Mrs. Carrington entered, "how kind! I was coming to see you directly, but it was so good of you not to wait." Elsie was saying, "Good-morning, mamma," when her eye fell upon the other figures. Could it be Sophie with that thin, pale face and large, sad eyes? Sophie arrayed in widow's weeds. All the pretty golden curls hidden beneath the widow's cap? It was indeed, and the next instant the two were weeping in each other's arms. "You poor, poor dear girl! God comfort you!" Elsie whispered. "He does, He has helped me to live for my children, my poor fatherless little ones," Sophie said, amid her choking sobs. "We must go back to father and Harold," Adelaide said presently. "They are in the parlor, where we left them very unceremoniously." "And Harold, I know, is longing for a chat with Elsie," Sophie said. They found the gentlemen patiently awaiting their return. Elsie seated herself near Harold, who, somewhat recovered from his fatigue, was now able to take part in the conversation. "You were shocked by my changed appearance?" he said, in an undertone, as their eyes met and hers filled again. "Don't mind it, I was never before so happy as now; my peace is like a river--calm, deep, and ever increasing as it nears the ocean of eternity. I'm going home!" And his smile was both bright and sweet. "Oh, would you not live--for your mother's sake? and to work for your Master?" "Gladly, if it were His will; but I hear Him saying to me, 'Come up hither'; and it is a joyful summons." "Harold, when----" her voice faltered, but with an effort she completed her sentence--"when did this begin?" "At Andersonville; I was in perfect health when I entered the army," he answered quickly, divining the fear that prompted the question; "but bad air, foul water, wretched and insufficient food, rapidly and completely undermined my constitution. Yet it is sweet to die for one's country! I do not grudge the price I pay to secure her liberties." Elsie's eyes sparkled through her tears. "True patriotism still lives!" she said. "Harold, I am proud of you and your brothers. Of dear Walter, too; for his heart was right, however mistaken his head may have been." "Walter? oh, yes, and I----" But the sentence was interrupted by the entrance of his mother and sisters, May and Daisy, Mr. Dinsmore, and his son and daughter. Fresh greetings, of course, had to be exchanged all round, and were scarcely finished when Mr. Travilla came in with his three children. Elsie called them to her, and presented them to Harold with all a mother's fond pride in her darlings. "I have taught them to call you Uncle Harold. Do you object?" "Object? far from it; I am proud to claim them as my nephew and nieces." He gazed with tender admiration upon each dear little face; then, drawing the eldest to him and putting an arm about her, said, "She is just what you must have been at her age, Elsie; a little younger than when you first came to Elmgrove. And she bears your name?" "Yes; her papa and mine would hear of no other for her." "I like to have mamma's name," said the child, in a pretty, modest way, looking up into his face. "Grandpa and papa call mamma Elsie, and me wee Elsie and little Elsie, and sometimes daughter. Grandpa calls mamma daughter too, but papa calls her wife. Mamma, has Uncle Harold seen baby?" "My namesake! ah, I should like to see him." "There is mammy on the porch now, with him in her arms," cried the child. "Go, and tell her to bring him here, daughter," Elsie said; and the little girl hastened to obey. It was a very fine babe, and Harold looked at it with interest. "I am proud of my name-child," he said, turning to the mother with a gratified smile. "You and Mr. Travilla were very kind to remember me." The latter, who had been engaged in the exchange of salutations with the others, hearing his name, now came up and took the hand of the invalid in his. He was much moved by the sad alteration in the young man, who, when last seen by him, was in high health and spirits--the full flush of early manhood's prime. Taking a seat by his side, he inquired with kindly interest how he was, who was his physician, and if there had been any improvement in the case of late. "Thank you, no; rather the reverse," Harold said, in answer to the last inquiry. "I am weaker than when I left the hospital." "Ah, that is discouraging; still, we will hope the disease may yet take a favorable turn." "That is what my parents say," he answered, with a grave, sweet smile; "and though I have little hope, I know that nothing is too hard for the Lord, and am more than willing to leave it in His hands." "Uncle Harold," said Elsie, coming to the side of his chair and looking up into his face with eyes full of tender sympathy, "I'm so, so sorry for you. I'll ask Jesus to please make you well, or else take you soon to the happy land where you'll never have any more pain." "Thank you, darling," he said, bending down to kiss the sweet lips. "I know the dear Saviour will listen to your prayer." "You used to play with my mamma when you were a little boy like me; didn't you, uncle Harold?" queried Eddie, coming up close on the other side. "Not quite so small, my man," Harold answered, laying his hand gently on the child's head. "Your mamma was about the size of your Aunt Rosie, yonder, and I some three or four years older." "We've been down to the brook where you played together--you and mamma and Aunt Sophie," said Elsie. "Papa took us, and I think it's a lovely place to play." "Sophie and I have talked over those dear old times more than once, of late," Harold remarked, turning to Mrs. Travilla. "It does not seem so very long ago, and yet--how many changes! how we are changed! Well, Rosie, what is it?" for she was standing by his chair, waiting with eager face till he should be ready to attend to her. "Uncle Harold, do you feel able to tell us the story about your being a prisoner, and how you got free, and back to the Union army?" she asked, with persuasive look and tone. "Papa and mamma, and all of us that haven't heard it, would like so much to hear it, if it won't tire you to talk so long." "It is not a long story; and as my lungs are sound, I do not think it will fatigue me, if you will all come near enough to hear me in my ordinary tone of voice." They drew around him, protesting against his making the effort, unless fully equal to it; as another time would do quite as well. "Thank you all," he said; "but I feel able for the task, and shall enjoy gratifying my nieces and nephews, as well as the older people." He then proceeded with his narrative; all listening with deep interest. Among other incidents connected with his prison life, he told of his interview with Jackson, and the poor wretch's death that same night. Elsie shuddered and turned pale, yet breathed a sigh of relief as she laid her hand in that of her husband, and turned a loving, grateful look upon her father, to meet his eyes fixed upon her with an expression of deep thankfulness, mingled with the sadness and awe inspired by the news of the miscreant's terrible end. Harold spent the day at his brother's, and availed himself of an opportunity, which offered that afternoon, to have a little private talk with Elsie, in which he delivered Walter's packet, telling her how it came into his hands. "Dear, dear Walter," she said, weeping, "I have so wanted to know the particulars of his death, and am so thankful to hear that he was a Christian." "His friend told me he was instantly killed, so was spared much suffering." "I am thankful for that. I will open this now; you will like to see the contents." They were a letter from Walter to her, and two photographs--both excellent and striking likenesses; one of her in her bridal robes, the other of himself in his military dress. The first Elsie threw carelessly aside, as of little worth; the other she held long in her hands; gazing intently upon it, again and again wiping away the fast-falling tears. "It is his own noble, handsome face," she murmured. "Oh, to think I shall not see it again in this world! How good of him to hive it taken for me!" and again she gazed and wept. Turning to her companion she was startled by the expression of mingled love and anguish in his eyes, which were intently fixed upon the other photograph; he having taken it up as she threw it aside. "Oh Harold!" she moaned, in low, agitated tones. He sighed deeply, but his brow cleared, and a look of peace and resignation stole over his face as he turned his eyes on her. "I think there is no sin in the love I bear you now, Elsie," he said; "I rejoice in your happiness and am willing to see you in the possession of another; more than willing, since I must so soon pass away. But it was not always so; my love and grief were hard to conquer, and this--bringing you before me just as you were that night that gave you to another and made my love a sin--brought back for a moment the anguish that wrung my heart at the sight." "You _were_ there, then?" "Yes; just for a few moments. I found I must look upon the scene, though it broke my heart. I arrived at the last minute, stood in the shadow of the doorway during the ceremony, saw you look up towards me at its conclusion, then turned and fled from the house; fearful of being recognized and forced to betray my secret which I felt I could not hide. "But don't weep for me, dear friend, my sorrow and disappointment proved blessings in disguise, for through them I was brought to a saving knowledge of Him "'whom my soul desires above All earthly joy or earthly love.'" "And oh, Harold, how infinitely more is His love worth than mine!" But her eye fell upon Walter's letter lying forgotten in her lap. She took it up, glanced over it, then read it more carefully, pausing often to wipe away the blinding tears. As she finished, Mr. Travilla came in. "Here is a letter from Walter, Edward," she said, in tremulous tones, as she handed it to him. "Then the report of his death was untrue?" he exclaimed inquiringly, a glad look coming into his face. "Only too true," she answered, with a fresh burst of tears; and Harold briefly explained. "Shall I read it aloud, wife?" Mr. Travilla asked. "If Harold cares to hear. There is no secret." "I should like it greatly," Harold said; and Mr. Travilla read it to him, while Elsie moved away to the farther side of the room, her heart filled with a strange mixture of emotions, in which grief was uppermost. The letter was filled chiefly with an account of the writer's religious experience. Since his last visit to the Oaks he had been constantly rejoicing in the love of Christ, and now, expecting, as he did, to fall in the coming battle, death had no terrors for him. And he owed this, he said, in great measure to the influence of his brother Horace and Elsie, especially to the beautiful consistency of her Christian life through all the years he had known her. Through all her grief and sadness, what joy and thankfulness stirred in her breast at that thought. Very humble and unworthy she felt; but oh, what gladness to learn that her Master had thus honored her as an instrument in His hands. The door opened softly, and her three little ones came quietly in and gathered about her. They had been taught thoughtfulness for others: Uncle Harold was ill, and they would not disturb him. Leaning confidingly on her lap, lifting loving, trustful eyes to her face, "Mamma," they said, low and softly, "we have had our supper; will you come with us now?" "Yes, dear, presently." "Mamma," whispered little Elsie, with a wistful, tender gaze into the soft sweet eyes still swimming in tears, "dear mamma, something has made you sorry. What can I do to comfort you?" "Love me, darling, and be good; you are mamma's precious little comforter. See dears," and she held the photograph so that all could have a view, "it is dear Uncle Walter in his soldier dress." A big tear rolled down her cheek. "Mamma," Elsie said quickly, "how good he looks! and he is so happy where Jesus is." "Yes, daughter, we need shed no tears for him." "Dear Uncle Walter," "Poor Uncle Walter!" the other two were saying. "There, papa has finished reading; go now and bid good-night to him and Uncle Harold," their mother said; and they hastened to obey. They climbed their father's knees and hung about his neck with the most confiding affection, while he caressed them over and over again, Harold looking on with glistening eyes. "Now some dood fun, papa: toss Vi up in oo arms," said the little one, expecting the usual game of romps. "Not to-night, pet; some other time. Another sweet kiss for papa, and now one for Uncle Harold." "After four years of camp, prison, and hospital life, it is a very pleasant change to be among the children," Harold said, as the door closed upon Elsie and her little flock. "I feared their noise and perpetual motion might disturb you," Mr. Travilla answered. "Not at all; yours are not boisterous, and their pretty ways are very winning." Aunt Chloe and Dinah were in waiting, and soon had the three small figures robed each in its white night-dress. Then mamma--seated upon a sofa with little Violet on her lap, the other two, one on each side--was quite at their disposal for the next half hour or so; ready to listen or to talk; her sweet sympathy and tender love encouraging them to open all their young hearts to her, telling her of any little joy or sorrow, trouble, vexation, or perplexity. "Well, darlings, have you remembered your verses and our little talk about them this morning?" the mother asked. "Elsie may speak first, because she is the eldest." "Mamma, I have thought of them many times," answered the sweet child voice; "we had a nice, nice walk with papa this morning, and the little birds, the brook, and the trees, and the pretty flowers and the beautiful blue sky all seemed to say to me, 'God is love.' Then mamma, once I was tempted to be naughty, and I said in my heart, 'Lord, help me,' and Jesus heard me." "What was it, dear?" "We had a little tea party, mamma, with our cousins, out under the trees, and there was pie and very rich cake----" "And 'serves," put in Eddie. "Yes, mamma, and preserves too, and they looked so good, and I wanted some, but I remembered that you and papa don't let us eat those things because they would make us sick. So I said, 'Lord, help me'; and then I felt so glad and happy, thinking how Jesus loves me." "My darling! He does, indeed," the mother said, with a gentle kiss. "And Eddie was good, and said, 'No, thank you; mamma and papa don't let us eat 'serves and pie.'" "Mamma's dear boy," and her hand passed softly over the curly head resting on her shoulder. "Mamma, I love you; I love you _so much_," he said, hugging her tight; "and dear papa, too; and Jesus. Mamma, I wanted to be naughty once to-day when one o' zese cousins took away my own new whip that papa buyed for me; but I remembered I mustn't be selfish and cross, and I said my little prayers jus' in my heart, mamma--and Jesus did help me to be good." "Yes, my dear son, and He will always help you when you ask Him. And now, what has Vi to tell mamma?" "Vi naughty girl one time, mamma: ky 'cause she didn't want mammy wash face and brush curls. Vi solly now;" and the golden head dropped upon mamma's breast. "Mamma's dear baby must try and be patient; mamma is sure she will, and Jesus will help her if she asks Him, and forgive her, if she is sorry for being naughty," the mother said, with a tender caress. "Now let us sing, 'Jesus loves me.'" The child voices blended very sweetly with the mother's as they sang in concert; then she told them a Bible story, heard each little prayer, saw them laid in their beds, gave each a tender good-night kiss, and left them to their rest. Passing into her dressing-room, she found her husband there, pacing thoughtfully to and fro. At sight of her a smile irradiated his whole countenance, while his arms opened wide to receive her. "My dear, dear husband!" she said, laying her head on his shoulder, while he folded her to his heart, "how bravely you bear trials; how patient and cheerful you always are under all circumstances." "Not more so than my little wife; we have heard much saddening news to-day, love; but most of it such as to make us weep for our friends and neighbors rather than for ourselves." "That is true; our losses are slight, very slight, compared with those of multitudes of others; and yet it must sadden your heart to know that your dear old home is in ruins." "Yes, wife, it does; but I were an ungrateful wretch to murmur and repine, had I lost everything but you and our four treasures in yonder room: but you are all spared to me, and I am by no means penniless yet." "Very far from it, my own noble husband," she answered, with a look of proud, loving admiration; "for all I have is yours as much as mine." "Thanks, dearest; I am not too proud to accept your assistance, and we will build up the old home and make it lovelier than ever, for ourselves and for our children; what a pleasant work it will be to make it as nearly as possible an earthly paradise for them." "Yes," she said, smiling brightly; "the cloud has a silver lining." "As all our clouds have, dearest." "Yes; for 'we know that all things work together for good to them that love God!' But oh, Edward, what an awful end was Jackson's. I shudder to think of it? and yet--oh, I fear it is not right--but I cannot help feeling it a relief to know that he is dead. Even in Europe, I could not divest myself of the fear that he might turn up unexpectedly, and attempt the lives of my dear ones." "It is a relief to me also, and not wrong, I think, to feel it so; for we do not rejoice in his destruction, but would have saved him, if we could. Has not the news of Walter comforted you in some measure?" "Yes, oh yes; the dear, dear fellow! You have not seen this," she added, taking the photograph from her pocket. "No; it is a striking likeness, and you will value it highly." "Indeed I shall. Ah, how strange it will be to go home and not find him there." CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH. "O war!--what, what art thou? At once the proof and scourge of man's fallen state." --HANNAH MORE. Richard Allison had gone to Lansdale for his bride a fortnight ago; they were now taking their bridal trip and expected to reach Elmgrove a day or two before the wedding of May and Harry Duncan. The latter would bring Aunt Wealthy with him, and leave her for a short visit among her friends. Sophie's mother and sister-in-law, Mrs. Carrington, and Lucy Ross, came earlier, arriving only two days after our party from Europe. There was great pleasure, yet mingled with profound sadness, in the meeting of these old and dear friends. Lucy and her mother were in deep mourning, and in Mrs. Carrington's countenance Christian resignation blended with heart-breaking sorrow; grief and anxiety had done the work of a score of years, silvering her hair and ploughing deep furrows in the face that five years ago was still fresh and fair. Mr. Travilla had taken wife and children for a morning drive, and on their return, Adelaide, meeting them at the door, said to her niece, "They have come, they are in Mrs. Carrington's dressing-room; and she begs that you will go and meet her there. She has always loved you so dearly, and I know is longing for your sympathy." Elsie, waiting only to lay aside hat and gloves, hastened to grant the request of the gentle lady for whom she cherished almost a daughter's affection. She found her alone. They met silently, clasping each other in a long, tearful embrace, Mrs. Carrington's sobs for many minutes the only sound that broke the stillness of the room. "I have lost all," she said at length, as they released each other and sat down side by side upon a sofa; "all: husband, sons, home----" Sobs choked her utterance, and Lucy coming hastily in at the open door of the adjoining room, dropped on her knees by her mother's side, and taking one thin, pale hand in hers, said tearfully, "Not all, dear mamma; you have me, and Phil, and the children." "Me too, mother dear, and your Harry's children," added Sophie, who had followed her sister, and now knelt with her. "Yes, yes, dear daughters, I was wrong: I have lost much, but have many blessings still left, your love not the least; and my grandchildren are scarcely less dear than my own. Lucy, dear, here is Elsie." "Yes, our own dear, darling Elsie, scarcely changed at all!" Lucy cried, springing up to greet her friend with a warm embrace. A long talk followed, Mrs. Carrington and Sophie giving their experiences of the war and its results, to which the others listened with deep interest. "Thank God it is over at last!" concluded the elder lady; "and oh, may He, in His great goodness and mercy, spare us a repetition of it. Oh, the untold horrors of civil war--strife among brethren who should know nothing but love for each other--none can imagine but those who have passed through them! There was fault on both sides, as there always is when people quarrel. And what has been gained? Immense loss of property, and of far more precious lives, an exchange of ease and luxury for a hard struggle with poverty." "But it is over, dear mother, and the North will help the South to recuperate," said Lucy. "Phil says so, and I've heard it from others too; just as soon as the struggle ended, people were saying, 'Now they have given up, the Union is safe, and we're sorry for them and will do all we can to help them; for they are our own people.'" "Yes, I have been most agreeably surprised at the kind feeling here," her mother answered; "nobody has had a hard word to say of us, so far as I have been able to learn; and I have seen nothing like exultation over a fallen foe; but on the contrary there seems a desire to lend us a helping hand and set us on our feet again." "Indeed, mother, I assure you that is so," said Sophie. "And all through the war," added Lucy, "there was but little hard feeling towards the people of the South; 'deceived and betrayed by their leaders, they are more to be pitied than blamed,' was the opinion commonly expressed by those who stood by the government." "And papa says there will be no confiscation of property," Sophie said, "unless it may be merely that of the leaders; and that he will help us to restore Ashlands to what it was: so you will have your own home again, mother." "How generous! I can never repay the obligation," Mrs. Carrington said, in a choking voice. "But you need not feel overburdened by it, dear mother. It is for Herbert, you know, his own grand son." "And mine! Ah, this news fills me with joy and gratitude." "Yes, I feel papa's kindness very much," Sophie said, "and hope my son will never give him cause to regret it." Elsie rose. "I hear my baby crying, and know that he wants his mother. Dear Mrs. Carrington, you are looking very weary; and it is more than an hour yet to dinner-time; will you not lie down and rest?" "Yes, and afterwards you must show me your children. I want to see them." "Thank you; I shall do so with much pleasure," the young mother answered smilingly, as she hastened from the room; for Baby Harold's cries were growing importunate. This was the regular hour for Eddie and Vi to take a nap, and Elsie found them lying quietly in their little bed, while the screaming babe stoutly resisted the united efforts of his elder sister and Aunt Chloe to pacify and amuse him. "Give him to me, mammy," she said, seating herself by the open window; "it is his mother he wants." Little Elsie, ever concerned for her mother's happiness, studied the dear face intently for a moment, and seeing the traces of tears, drew near and, putting an arm about her neck, "Mamma," she said tenderly, "dear mamma, what troubles you? May I know about it?" Mrs. Travilla explained briefly, telling of Mrs. Carrington's trials, and of those of other old friends and neighbors in the South. "Mamma," said the child, with eyes filled to overflowing, "I am very sorry for them all, and for you. Mamma, it is like Jesus to shed tears for other people's troubles: but, mamma, I think it is too much; there are so many, it makes you sorry all the time, and I can't bear it." The mother's only answer was a silent caress, and the child went on: "I hope nobody else will come with such sad stories to make you cry. Is there anybody else to do it, mamma?" "I think not, dear; there are only Aunt Wealthy, who has not lost any near friend lately, and--Why there she is now! the dear old soul!" she broke off joyously, for at that instant a carriage, which she had been watching coming up the drive, drew up before the door, and a young gentleman and a little old lady alighted. Aunt Chloe took the babe, and Elsie hastened down to meet her aunt, her little daughter following. To the child's great relief it was an altogether joyous greeting this time; both Miss Stanhope, and her escort, Harry Duncan, were looking very happy, which caused her to regard them with much satisfaction, and the kisses asked of her were given very readily. "Were you expecting us to-day, Mrs. Allison?" Harry asked, turning to Adelaide. "Yes; I received your telegram." "Business hurried us off two days sooner than we expected," said Miss Stanhope. "I would have written, but was so very busy with papers and painterers doing the house all up new; and putting down new curtains, and tacking up new carpets, till, Elsie, the old place would hardly know you." The old lady's heart was evidently full to overflowing, with happiness at the prospect of seeing May installed as future mistress in the pretty cottage at Lansdale. Yet there was no lack of sympathy in the sorrows or joys of others; she wept with them all over their losses past and prospective; for she, too, saw that Harold must soon pass away from earth, and while rejoicing with him, when she learned how gladly he would obey the summons, her heart yet bled for those to whom he was so dear. Richard and his bride arrived in due season. The latter had lost no near relative by the war, and--to wee Elsie's delight--the meeting between "Aunt Lottie and mamma," seemed one of unalloyed pleasure. Unlike those of her older sisters, May's was a private wedding--none but the family and a few near relatives and connections being present. Though deeply attached to Harry, and trusting him fully, much of sadness was unavoidably mingled with her happiness as she prepared for her bridal. It could not be otherwise, as she thought of Fred in his soldier grave, Harold soon to follow, and Sophie--whose had been the last wedding in the paternal home, and so gay and joyous a one--now in her widow's weeds and well-nigh broken-hearted. "Mine will not be a gay bridal," May had said, in arranging her plans; "and I will just wear my traveling suit." But Harold objected. "No, no, May; I want to see you dressed as Rose and Sophie were--in white, with veil and orange blossoms. Why shouldn't your beauty be set off to the best advantage as well as theirs, even though only the eyes of those who love you will look upon it?" And so it was; for Harold's wishes were sacred now. They were married in the morning; and after a sumptuous breakfast the bridal attire was exchanged for the traveling suit, and the new-made husband and wife set out upon their wedding trip. It was very sad for poor May to leave, not only childhood's home, parents, and brothers and sisters whose lease of life seemed as likely to be long as her own, but to part from the dying one to whom she was most tenderly attached. But Harry promised to bring her back; and she was to be immediately summoned, in case of any marked unfavorable change in the invalid. Then, too, Harold was so serenely happy in the prospect before him, and talked so constantly of it as only going home a little while before the rest, and of how at length all would be reunited in that better land, to spend together an eternity of bliss, that it had robbed death of half its gloom and terror. It was Harold's earnest desire that all his dear ones should be as gay and happy as though he were in health; he would not willingly cast a shadow over the pathway of any of them, for a day; especially the newly married, whose honeymoon, he said, ought to be a very bright spot for them to look back upon in all after years. So Lottie felt it right to let her heart swell with gladness in the new love that crowned her life; and the time passed cheerfully and pleasantly to the guests at Elmgrove. Mrs. Ross and her mother, and Miss Stanhope, remained for a fortnight after the wedding. All were made to feel themselves quite at home in both houses; the two families were much like one, and usually spent their evenings together, in delightful social intercourse; Harold in their midst on his couch, or reclining in an easy chair, an interested listener to the talk and occasionally joining in it. One evening when they were thus gathered about him, Mrs. Carrington, looking compassionately upon the pale, patient face, remarked, "You suffer a great deal, Captain Allison?" "Yes, a good deal," he answered cheerfully, "but not more than I can easily endure, remembering that it is 'whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth.'" "You take a very Christian view of it; but do your sufferings arouse no bitterness of feeling towards the South?" "Oh, no!" he answered, earnestly, "why should they? The people of the South were not responsible for what was done at Andersonville; perhaps the Confederate government was so only in a measure; and Wirtz was a foreigner. Besides, there was a great deal endured by rebel prisoners in some of our Northern prisons. Father," turning to the elder Mr. Allison, "please tell Mrs. Carrington about your visit to Elmira." The others had been chatting among themselves, but all paused to listen as Mr. Allison began his narrative. "We learned that a young relative of my wife was confined there, and ill. I went at once to see what could be done for him, and finding the prison in charge of a gentleman who was under much obligation to me, gained admittance without much difficulty. It was a wretched place, and the prisoners were but poorly fed; which was far more inexcusable here than at the South, where food was scarce in their own army and among the people." "I know that to have been the case," said Mrs. Carrington. "The farmers were not allowed to make use of their grain for their own families, till a certain proportion had been taken for the army; and there were families among us who did not taste meat for a year." "Yes; the war has been hard for us, but far harder upon them. I found our young friend in a very weak state. I succeeded in getting permission to remove him to more comfortable quarters, and did so; but he lived scarcely two days after." "How very sad," remarked Elsie, with emotion. "Oh, what a terrible thing is war!" "Especially civil war," said the elder Mrs. Allison; "strife among brethren; its fruits are bitter, heart-rending." "And being all one people there was equal bravery, talent, and determination on both sides; which made the struggle a very desperate one," said Harold. "And the military tic-tacs were the same," added Aunt Wealthy; "and then speaking the same language, and looking so much alike, foes were sometimes mistaken for friends, and versa-vice." "A brother-in-law of Louise's was confined in Fort Delaware for some months," said Adelaide, addressing her brother, "and wrote to me for some articles of clothing he needed badly, adding, 'If you could send me something to eat, it would be most thankfully received.' I sent twice, but neither package ever reached him." "Too bad! too bad!" said Mr. Dinsmore; "yet very likely it was through no fault of the government." "No; I am satisfied that individuals--selfish, unscrupulous men of whom there were far too many on both sides, were the real culprits, and that the government intended every prisoner should be made as comfortable as circumstances would permit," said Mr. Allison. "But there are men who made large fortunes by swindling the government and robbing our brave soldiers; men unworthy of the name! who would sell their own souls for gold!" "You are right, sir!" said Mr. Travilla; "one who could take advantage of the necessities of his own country, to enrich himself by robbing her, is not worthy to be called a man." "And I esteem an officer who could rob the soldiers very little better," said Daisy. "Again and again canned fruits and other niceties, sent by ladies for the comfort of the sick and wounded men, were appropriated by officers who did not need them, and knew they were not given to them." "And the conclusion of the whole matter," said Harold, with his placid, patient smile, "is that there were on both sides men who, loving and seeking their own interest above country, personal honor, or anything else, would bring disgrace upon any cause. No, Mrs. Carrington, I have no bitter feeling towards the South. My heart aches for her people in their bereavements, their losses, and all the difficulties of reconstruction and adapting themselves to the new order of things which is the result of the war." Elsie had several times expressed to her husband and father a deep anxiety to hear from Viamede, and had written to both Mr. Mason and Spriggs, inquiring about the people and the condition of the estate, yet with but slight hope of reply, as all communication with the place had been cut off for years, and it was more than likely that one or both had been driven, or drifted away from his post during the progress of the war. She was therefore greatly pleased when, on entering the parlor one morning on her return from a drive, she found Mr. Mason there waiting for an interview. "You are not direct from Viamede!" she asked, when they had exchanged a cordial greeting. "No, Mrs. Travilla," he answered; "I stayed as long as I could, but not being willing to go into the army, was finally compelled to leave. That was more than two years ago. But I received a letter from Spriggs only yesterday, written from the estate. He was in the Confederate service; and when the struggle was over, went back to Viamede. "He says it was not visited by either army, and has suffered only from neglect. The old house-servants are still there--Aunt Phillis, Aunt Sally, and the rest; many of the field hands, too, occupying their old quarters, but looking ragged and forlorn enough. "They are willing to work for wages, and Spriggs begs of me to find out where you are, and tell you that, if you wish it and will furnish the means, he will hire them, and do the best he can to restore the place and make it profitable to you. "I saw your name in the list of arrivals by a late steamer, and with some little painstaking, at length learned where you were." "I am very glad you have come, Mr. Mason; and I am inclined to think well of Mr. Spriggs' proposition," Elsie answered; "but I must consult my--Ah, here they are!" as the husband and father entered the room together. The matter was under discussion for the next half-hour, when it was decided to accept Mr. Spriggs' proposal, for the present at least. Elsie then said to Mr. Mason that she hoped he was not engaged, as she would be glad to have him return to Viamede and resume his former duties there. He colored and laughed, as he answered, "I am engaged, Mrs. Travilla, though not in the sense you mean, and shall be glad to comply with your wish, if you do not object to my taking a wife with me." "Not at all," she answered, smiling; "the Bible says, 'it is not good for man to be alone,' and I hope you will be all the happier and more useful in the Master's service for having a better-half with you. A suite of rooms shall be placed at your service and your wants attended to as formerly." Mr. Mason returned warm thanks for her kindness, and took his departure, evidently well-pleased with the result of his call. CHAPTER THIRTIETH. "War, war, war! Misery, murder, and crime; Crime, murder, and woe." The Travillas accompanied Miss Stanhope on her return to Lansdale, and were there to assist at the reception of Harry and his bride. After that, a few weeks were spent by them with Mr. and Mrs. Ross. They then returned to Elmgrove, where, detained, partly by business matters, partly by Harold's condition and his earnest wish to have them all near him to the last, they lingered until September. Harold "went home," early in that month, dying as calmly and quietly as "fades a summer cloud away," or "sinks the gale when storms are o'er." He was buried with military honors, and the friends returned to the house, sorely to miss, indeed, the wasted form, and wan, yet patient, cheerful face, and the loved voice, ever ready with words of consolation and hope; but while weeping over their own present bereavement, rejoicing in his joy and the assurance of a blessed reunion in a better land, when they, too, should be able to say, "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course: I have kept the faith." It was a melancholy satisfaction to Rose that she had been with him almost constantly during the last three months of his life; her husband had not hurried her; but now both they, and Mr. Travilla and Elsie, felt that the time had come when they should hasten their return to their own homes. They set out the next week; not a gay party, but filled with a subdued, quiet cheerfulness. Some of their dear ones, but lately journeying with them towards the Celestial City, had reached the gates and entered in; but they were following after, and would overtake them at length; and, though the way might be at times rough and stony to their weary feet, the path compassed by foes both wily and strong, yet there was with them One mightier than all the hosts of hell, and who had promised never to leave nor forsake. "In all these things they should be more than conquerors, through Him that loved them." After entering Virginia, they saw all along the route the sad ravages of the war, and their hearts sent up earnest petitions that those waste places might speedily be restored, and their dear native land never again be visited with that fearful scourge. The scenes grew more saddening as they neared their journey's end, and could recognize, in the ruined houses and plantations, the wrecks of the former happy homes of friends and neighbors. They all went directly to the Oaks, where the Travillas were to find a home until Ion could be made again comfortably habitable. It was late in the afternoon of a cloudy, showery day that they found themselves actually rolling quietly along the broad winding drive that led through the grounds to the noble mansion they had left more than five years before. Even here there were sad signs of neglect: the grounds had forgotten their former neat and trim appearance, and the house needed paint and some slight repairs. But this was all; and they felt it a cause for thankfulness that things were no worse. A group of relatives and retainers were gathered in the veranda to greet them; an aged, white-haired man the central figure, around him three ladies in deep mourning, a one-armed gentleman, and a crowd of children of both sexes and all ages, from the babe in arms to the youth of sixteen; while in the rear could be seen Mrs. Murray's portly figure, and strong, sensible Scotch face, beaming with pleasure, relieved by a background of dusky faces, lighted up with joy and expectation. Mr. Dinsmore alighted first, gave his hand to his wife, and leaving young Horace to attend to Rosebud, hastened to meet his father. The old man tottered forward and fell upon his neck, weeping bitterly. "My son, my boa, my only one now; I have lost all--everything--wife, sons, home; all swept away, nothing left to my old age but you." "Yes, that's it always," sneered a sharp voice near at hand; "daughters count for nothing; grandchildren are equally valuable. Sons, houses, and lands are the only possessions worth having." "Enna, how can you!" exclaimed Mrs. Howard. But neither father nor brother seemed to hear, or heed the unkind, unfilial remark. The old man was sobbing on his son's shoulder; he soothing him as tenderly as ever he had soothed wife or daughter. "My home is yours as long as you choose to make it so, my dear father; and Roselands shall be restored, and your old age crowned with the love and reverence of children and children's children." Hastily recovering himself, the old gentleman released his son, gave an affectionate greeting to Rose, and catching sight of young Horace, now a handsome youth of nineteen, embraced him, exclaiming, "Ah, yes, here is another son for me! one of whom I may well be proud. Rosie, too, grown to a great girl! Glad to see you, dear." But the first carriage had moved on; the second had come up and discharged its living freight, and Mr. Travilla, with Vi in his arms, Elsie leading her eldest daughter and son, had stepped upon the veranda, followed by Dinah with the babe. "Dear grandpa," Mrs. Travilla said, in tender, tremulous tones, dropping her children's hands to put her arms about his neck, as he turned from Rosebud to her, "my poor, dear grandpa, we will all try to comfort you, and make your old age bright and happy. See, here are your great-grandchildren ready to rise up and call you blessed." "God bless you, child!" he said, in quivering tones, embracing her with more affection than ever before. "And this," laying his hand on wee Elsie's head, "is yourself as you were at the same age." "I'm very sorry for you, dear old grandpa; mamma has told me all about it," the little girl softly whispered, putting her small arms about his neck as he stooped to give her a kiss. "Me too," Eddie put in, offering his hand and lips. "That's right; good boy; good children. How are you, Travilla? You've come back to find ruin and desolation where you left beauty and prosperity;" and the aged voice shook with emotion. Mr. Travilla had a kindly, hearty hand-shake, and gentle sympathizing words for him, then presented Vi and Baby Harold. Meanwhile the greetings were being exchanged by the others. Lora met her brother, and both Rose and Elsie, with the warm affection of earlier days, mingled with grief for the losses and sorrows that had befallen since they parted. Mr. Howard, too, was cordial in his greeting, but Louise and Enna met them with coldness and disdain, albeit they were mere pensioners upon Horace's bounty, self-invited guests in his house. Louise gave the tips of her fingers to each, in sullen silence, while Enna drew back from the offered hands, muttering, "A set of Yankees come to spy out the nakedness of the land; don't give a hand to them, children." "As you like," Mr. Dinsmore answered indifferently, stepping past her to speak to Mrs. Murray and the servants; "you know I will do a brother's part by my widowed sisters all the same." "For shame, Enna!" said Lora; "you are here in Horace's house, and neither he nor the others ever took part against us." "I don't care, it was nearly as bad to stay away and give no help," muttered the offender, giving Elsie a look of scorn and aversion. "Be quiet, will you, Madam Johnson," said her old father; "it would be no more than right if Horace should turn you out of the house. Elsie," seeing tears coursing the cheeks of the latter, "don't distress yourself, child; she's not worth minding." "That is quite true, little wife," said Mr. Travilla; "and though you have felt for her sorrows, do not let her unkindness wound you." Elsie wiped away her tears, but only waiting to speak to Mrs. Murray and the servants, retired immediately to the privacy of her own apartments, Mr. Travilla accompanying her with their children and attendants. Wearied with her journey, and already saddened by the desolations of the country over which they had passed, this cold, and even insulting reception from the aunts--over whose bereavements she had wept in tender sympathy--cut her to the quick. "Oh, Edward, how can they behave so to papa and mamma in their own house!" she said, sitting down upon a sofa in her boudoir and laying aside her hat, while her eyes again overflowed; "dear papa and mamma, who are always so kind!" "And you, too, dearest," he said, placing himself by her side and putting an arm about her. "It is shameful conduct, but do not allow it to trouble you." "I will try not to mind it, but let me cry; I shall get over it the sooner. I never thought to feel so uncomfortable in my father's house. Ah, if Ion were only ready for us!" she sighed. "I am glad that your home must be with me for the present, daughter, if you can only enjoy it," said her father, who, still ever watchful over her happiness, had followed to soothe and comfort her. "It grieves me that your feelings should have been so wounded," he added, seating himself on the other side, and taking her hand in his. "Thank you, dear papa; it is for you and mamma, even more than myself, that I feel hurt." "Then never mind it, dearest. Enna has already coolly told me that she and Louise have settled themselves in the west wing, with their children and servants; where they purpose to maintain a separate establishment, having no desire to associate with any of us; though I, of course, am to supply their table at my own expense, as well as whatever else is needed," he added, with a slight laugh of mingled amusement and vexation. "Considering it a great privilege to be permitted to do so, I presume," Mr. Travilla remarked, a little sarcastically. "Of course; for cool impudence Enna certainly exceeds every other person of my acquaintance." "You must let us share the privilege." "Thanks; but we will talk of that at another time. I know you and Elsie have dreaded the bad influence of Enna's spoiled children upon yours; and I, too, have feared it for them, and for Rosebud; but there is to be no communication between theirs and ours; Louise's one set, and Enna's two, keeping to their own side of the building and grounds, and ours not intruding upon them. Enna had it all arranged, and simply made the announcement to me, probably with little idea of the relief she was affording." "It is a great relief," said Elsie. "Aunt Lora's are better trained, and will not----" "They do not remain with us; Pinegrove is still habitable, and they are here only for to-day to welcome us home." Elsie's face lighted up with pleasure. "And we shall have our own dear home to ourselves, after all! Ah, how foolish I have been to so borrow trouble." "I have shared the folly," her father said, smiling; "but let us be wiser for the future. They have already retired to their own quarters, and you will see no more of them for the present. My father remains with us." Mrs. Howard was deeply mortified by the conduct of her sisters, but tried to excuse them to those whom they were treating with such rudeness and ingratitude. "Louise and Enna are very bitter," she said, talking with Rose and Elsie in the drawing-room after tea; "but they have suffered much in the loss of their husbands and our brothers; to say nothing of property. Sherman's soldiers were very lawless--some of them, I mean; and they were not all Americans--and inflicted much injury. Enna was very rude and exasperating to the party who visited Roselands, and was roughly handled in consequence; robbed of her watch and all her jewelry and money. "They treated our poor old father with great indignity also; dragged him down the steps of the veranda, took his watch, rifled his pockets, plundered the house, then set it on fire and burned it to the ground." Her listeners wept as she went on to describe more minutely the scenes of violence at Roselands, Ashlands, Pinegrove, and other plantations and towns in the vicinity; among them the residences of the pastor and his venerable elder, whose visits were so comforting to Mrs. Travilla in her last sickness. "They were Union men," Lora said, in conclusion, "spending their time and strength in self-denying efforts for the spiritual good of both whites and blacks, and had suffered much at the hands of the Confederates; yet were stripped of everything by Sherman's troops, threatened with instant death, and finally left to starve, actually being without food for several days." "Dreadful!" exclaimed Rose. "I could not have believed any of our officers would allow such things. But war is very cruel, and gives opportunity to wicked, cruel men, on both sides to indulge their evil propensities and passions. Thank God, it is over at last; and oh, may He, in His great goodness and mercy, spare us a renewal, of it." "I say amen to that!" responded Mrs. Howard earnestly. "My poor Ned! my brothers! my crippled husband! Oh, I sometimes think my heart will break!" It was some minutes ere she could speak again, for weeping, and the others wept with her. But resuming. "We were visited by both armies," she said, "and one did about as much mischief as the other; and between them there is but little left: they did not burn us out at Pinegrove, but stripped us very bare." "Aunt Lora, dear Aunt Lora!" Elsie sobbed, embracing her with much tenderness; "we cannot restore the loved ones, but your damages shall be repaired." "Ah, it will take a lifetime; we have no means left." "You shall borrow of me without interest. With the exception of the failure of income from Viamede, I have lost nothing by the war but the negroes. My husband's losses are somewhat heavier. But our united income is still very large; so that I believe I can help you all, and I shall delight to do it, even should it involve the sale of most of my jewels." "Dear child, you are very very kind," Lora said, deeply moved; "and it may be that Edward, proud as he is, will accept some assistance from you." The next morning Mr. Dinsmore and Rose, Mr. Travilla and Elsie, mounted their horses directly after breakfast, and set out to view for themselves the desolations of Roselands and Ion, preparatory to considering what could be done to restore them to their former beauty. Roselands lying nearest, received their attention first, but so greatly were the well-remembered landmarks changed, that on arriving, they could scarce believe themselves there. Not one of the noble old trees, that had bordered the avenue and shaded the lawn, was left standing; many lay prostrate upon the ground, while others had been used for fuel. Of the house naught remained but a few feet of stone wall, some charred, blackened beams, and a heap of ashes. The gardens were a desert, the lawn was changed to a muddy field by the tramping of many feet, and furrowed with deep ruts where the artillery had passed and repassed; fences, hedge-rows, shrubbery--all had disappeared; and the fields, once cultivated with great care, were overgrown with weeds and nettles. "We have lost our way! this cannot be the place!" cried Rose, as they reined in their horses on the precise spot where Arthur and Walter had taken their farewell look at home. "Alas, alas, it is no other!" Mr. Travilla replied, in moved tones. The hearts of Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie were too full for speech, and hot tears were coursing down the cheeks of the latter. Mr. Dinsmore pressed forward, and the others followed, slowly picking their way through the ruins, grief swelling in their hearts at every step. Determined to know the worst, they made the circuit of the house and of the whole estate. "Can it ever be restored?" Elsie asked at length, amid her tears. "The house may be rebuilt in a few months, and fields and gardens cleared of weeds, and made to resume something of the old look," Mr. Dinsmore answered; "but the trees were the growth of years, and this generation will not see their places filled with their like." They pursued their way to Ion in almost unbroken silence. Here the fields presented the same appearance of neglect; lawn and gardens were a wild, but scarcely a tree had fallen, and though the house had been pillaged, furniture destroyed, windows broken, and floors torn up, a few rooms were still habitable; and here they found several of the house-servants, who hailed their coming with demonstrations of delight. They had lived on the products of the orchard and grapery, and by cultivating a small patch of ground and keeping a few fowls. Elsie assumed an air of cheerfulness, for her husband's sake; rejoiced that the trees had been spared, that the family burial-place had escaped desecration, and talked gayly of the pleasure of repairing damages, and making improvements till Ion should not have a rival for beauty the country round. Her efforts were appreciated, and met fully half-way, by her loving spouse. The four, taking possession of the rustic seat on the top of a little knoll, where the huge branches of a giant oak protected them from the sun, took a lengthened survey of the house and grounds, and held a consultation in regard to ways and means. Returning to the Oaks, the gentlemen went to the library, where old Mr. Dinsmore was sitting alone, and reported to him the result of the morning conference. Roselands was to be rebuilt as fast as men and materials could be procured, Elsie furnishing the means--a very large sum of money, of which he was to have the use, free of interest, for a long term of years, or during his natural life. Mr. Horace Dinsmore knew his father would never take it as a gift, and indeed, it cost him a hard struggle to bring his pride down to the acceptance of it as offered. But he consented at last, and as the other two retired, begged that Elsie would come to him for a moment. She came in so quietly that he was not aware of her presence. He sat in the corner of a sofa, his white head bowed upon his knees, and his aged frame shaking with sobs. Kneeling at his side, she put her arms about him, whispering, "Grandpa, my poor, dear grandpa, be comforted; for we all love and honor you." "Child! child! I have not deserved this at your hands," he sobbed. "I turned from you when you came to my house, a little, desolate motherless one, claiming my affection." "But that was many years ago, dear grandpa, and we will 'let the dead past bury its dead,' You will not deny me the great pleasure of helping to repair the desolations of war in the dear home of my childhood? You will take it as help sent by Him whose steward I am?" He clasped her close, and his kisses and tears were warm upon her cheek, as he murmured, in low, broken tones, "God bless you, child! I can refuse you nothing. You shall do as you will." At last, Elsie had won her way to her stern grandfather's heart; and henceforth she was dear to him as ever one of his children had been. * * * * * It is a sweet October morning in the year 1867. Ion, restored to more than its pristine loveliness, lies basking in the beams of the newly risen sun; a tender mist, gray in the distance, rose-colored and golden where the rays of light strike it more directly, enveloping the landscape; the trees decked in holiday attire--green, russet, orange, and scarlet. The children are romping with each other and their nurses, in the avenue; with the exception of wee Elsie, now a fair, gentle girl of nine, who occupies a rustic seat a little apart from the rest. She has a Bible in her hand, and the sweet young face is bent earnestly, lovingly, over the holy book. On the veranda stands the mother, watching her darlings with eyes that grow misty with glad tears, while her heart sends up its joyous thanksgiving to Him who had been the Guide of her youth and the stay and staff of maturer years. A step approaches, and her husband's arm encircles her waist, while, as she turns her head, his kindly gray eyes gaze into the depths of her soft hazel ones, with a love stronger than life--or than death. "Do you know, little wife, what day this is?" She answered with a bright, glad smile; then her head dropped upon his shoulder. "Yes, my husband; ten years ago to-day I committed my happiness to your keeping, and never for one moment have I regretted the step." "Bless you, darling, for the word! How great are the mercies of God to me! Yonder is our first-born. I see you as you were when first I met and coveted you; and here you stand by my side, the true wife who has been for ten years the joy and light of my heart and home. Wife, I love you better to-day than ever before, and if it be the will of God, may we yet have five times ten years to live together in love and harmony." "We shall!" she answered earnestly; "eternity is ours, and death itself can part us but for a little while." THE END. 
14909	----	ELSIE'S NEW RELATIONS What They Did and How They Fared at Ion A Sequel to _Grandmother Elsie_ by MARTHA FINLEY A. L. Burt Company Publishers New York Chicago 1911 CHAPTER I. "For wild, or calm, or far or near, I love thee still, thou glorious sea." --Mrs. Hemans. "I bless thee for kind looks and words Shower'd on my path like dew, For all the love in those deep eyes, A gladness ever new." --Mrs. Hemans. It is late in the afternoon of a delicious October day; the woods back of the two cottages where the Dinsmores, Travillas and Raymonds have spent the last three or four months are gorgeous with scarlet, crimson and gold; the air from the sea is more delightful than ever, but the summer visitors to the neighboring cottages and hotels have fled, and the beach is almost deserted, as Edward and his child-wife wander slowly along it, hand in hand, their attention divided between the splendors of a magnificent sunset and the changing beauty of the sea; yonder away in the distance it is pale gray; near at hand delicate green slowly changing to pink, each wave crested with snowy foam, and anon they all turn to burnished gold. "Oh, how very beautiful!" cries Zoe, in an ecstasy of delight. "Edward, did you ever see anything finer?" "Never! Let us go down this flight of steps and seat ourselves on the next to the lowest. We will then be quite near the waves and yet out of danger of being wet by them." He led her down as he spoke, seated her comfortably and himself by her side with his arm around her. "I've grown very fond of the sea," she remarked. "I shall be sorry to leave it. Will not you?" "Yes and no," he answered, doubtfully. "I, too, am fond of old ocean, but eager to get to Ion and begin life in earnest. Isn't it time, seeing I have been a married man for nearly five months? But why that sigh, love?" "O Edward, are you not sorry you are married? Are you not sometimes very much ashamed of me?" she asked, her cheek burning hotly and the downcast eyes filling with tears. "Ashamed of you, Zoe? Why, darling, you are my heart's best treasure," he said, drawing her closer to his side, and touching his lips to her forehead. "What has put so absurd an idea into your head?" "I know so little, so very little compared with your mother and sisters," she sighed. "I'm finding it out more and more every day, as I hear them talk among themselves and to other people." "But you are younger than any of them, a very great deal younger than mamma, and will have time to catch up to them." "But I'm a married woman and so can't go to school any more. Ah," with another and very heavy sigh, "I wish papa hadn't been quite so indulgent, or that I'd had sense enough not to take advantage of it to the neglect of my studies!" "No, I suppose it would hardly do to send you to school, even if I could spare you--which I can't," he returned laughingly, "but there is a possibility of studying at home, under a governess or tutor. What do you say to offering yourself as a pupil to grandpa?" "Oh, no, no! I'm sure he can be very stern upon occasion. I've seen it in his eyes when I've made a foolish remark that he didn't approve, and I should be too frightened to learn if he were my teacher." "Then some one else must be thought of," Edward said, with a look of amusement. "How would I answer?" "You? Oh, splendidly!" "You are not afraid of me?" "No, indeed!" she cried, with a merry laugh and a saucy look up into his face. "And yet I'm the only person who has authority over you." "Authority, indeed!" with a little contemptuous sniff. "You promised to obey, you know." "Did I? Well, maybe so, but that's just a form that doesn't really mean anything. Most any married woman will tell you that." "Do you consider the whole of your marriage vow an unmeaning form, Zoe?" he asked, with sudden gravity and a look of doubt and pain in his eyes that she could not bear to see. "No, no! I was only in jest," she said, dropping her eyes and blushing deeply. "But really, Edward, you don't think, do you, that wives are to obey like children?" "No, love, I don't; and I think in a true marriage the two are so entirely one--so unselfishly desirous each to please the other--that there is little or no clashing of wills. Thus far ours has seemed such to me. How is it, do you think, little wife?" "I hope so, Edward," she said, laying her head on his shoulder, "I know one thing--that there is nothing in this world I care so much for as to please you and be all and everything to you." "And I can echo your words from my very heart, dearest," he said, caressing her. "I hope you are at home and happy among your new relatives." "Yes, indeed, Edward, especially with mamma. She is the dearest, kindest mother in the world; to me as much as to her own children, and oh, so wise and good!" "You are not sorry now that you and I are not to live alone?" he queried, with a pleased smile. "No, oh, no! I'm ever so glad that she is to keep house at Ion and all of us to live together as one family." "Except Lester and Elsie," he corrected; "they will be with us for a short time, then go to Fairview for the winter. And it will probably become their home after that, as mamma will buy it, if Mr. Leland--Lester's uncle, who owns the place--carries out his intention of removing to California. His children have settled there, and, of course, the father and mother want to be with them." The sun had set, and all the bright hues had faded from the sea, leaving it a dull gray. "What a deserted spot this seems!" remarked Zoe, "and only the other day it was gay with crowds of people. Nobody to be seen now but ourselves," glancing up and down the coast as she spoke. "Ah, yes! yonder is someone sitting on that piece of wreck." "It is Lulu Raymond," Edward said, following the direction of her glance. "It is late for the child to be out so far from home; a full mile I should say. I'll go and invite her to walk back with us." "No, you needn't," said Zoe, "for see, there is her father going to her. But let us go home, for I must change my dress before tea." "And we want time to walk leisurely along," returned Edward, rising and giving her his hand to help her up the steps. Lulu was reading, so absorbed in the story that she did not perceive her father's approach, and as he accosted her with, "It is late for you to be here alone, my child, you should have come in an hour ago," she gave a great start, and involuntarily tried to hide her book. "What have you there? Evidently something you do not wish your father to see," he said, bending down and taking it from her unwilling hand. "Ah, I don't wonder!" as he hurriedly turned over a few pages. "A dime novel! Where did you get this, Lulu?" "It's Max's, papa, he lent it to me. O papa, what made you do that?" as with an energetic fling the captain suddenly sent it far out into the sea. "Max made me promise to take care of it and give it back to him, and besides I wanted to finish the story." "Neither you nor Max shall ever read such poisonous stuff as that with my knowledge and consent," replied the captain in stern accents. "Papa, I didn't think you'd be so unkind," grumbled Lulu, her face expressing extreme vexation and disappointment, "or that you would throw away other people's things." "Unkind, my child?" he said, sitting down beside her and taking her hand in his. "Suppose you had gathered a quantity of beautiful, sweet-tasted berries that I knew to be poisonous, and were about to eat them; would it be unkind in me to snatch them out of your hand and throw them into the sea?" "No, sir; because it would kill me to eat them, but that book couldn't kill me, or even make me sick." "No, not your body, but it would injure your soul, which is worth far more. I'm afraid I have been too negligent in regard to the mental food of my children," he went on after a slight pause, rather as if thinking aloud than talking to Lulu, "and unfortunately I cannot take the oversight of it constantly in the future. But remember, Lulu," he added firmly, "I wholly forbid dime novels, and you are not to read anything without first obtaining the approval of your father or one of those under whose authority he has placed you." Lulu's face was full of sullen discontent and anger. "Papa," she said, "I don't like to obey those people." "If you are wise, you will try to like what has to be," he said. "It wouldn't have to be if you would only say I needn't, papa." "I shall not say that, Lucilla," he answered with grave displeasure. "You need guidance and control even more than most children of your age, and I should not be doing my duty if I left you without them." "I don't like to obey people that are no relation to me!" she cried, viciously kicking away a little heap of sand. "No, you don't even like to obey your father," he said with a sigh. "Max and Gracie together do not give me half the anxiety that you do by your wilful temper." "Why, can't I do as I please as well as grown people?" she asked in a more subdued tone. "Even grown people have to obey," said her father. "I am now expecting orders from the government, and must obey them when they come. I must obey my superior officers, and the officers and men under me must obey me. So must my children. God gave you to me and requires me to train you up in His fear and service to the best of my ability. I should not be doing that if I allowed you to read such hurtful trash as that I just took from you." "It was Max's, papa, and I promised to give it back. What shall I say when he asks me for it?" "Tell him to come to me about it." "Papa----" "Well, what is it?" he asked, as she paused and hesitated. "Please, papa, don't punish him. You never told him not to buy or read such things, did you?" "No; and I think he would not have done so in defiance of a prohibition from me. So I shall not punish him. But I am pleased that you should plead for him. I am very glad that my children all love one another." "Yes, indeed we do, papa!" she said, "And we all love you, and you love Max and Gracie very much, and----" "And Lulu also," he said, putting his arm about her and drawing her closer to his side, as she paused with quivering lip and downcast eyes. "As much as you do Max and Gracie?" she asked brokenly, hiding her face on his shoulder. "You said just now I was naughtier than both of them put together." "Yet you are my own dear child, and it is precisely because I love you so dearly that I am so distressed over your quick temper and wilfulness. I fear that if not conquered they will cause great unhappiness to yourself as well as to your friends. I want you to promise me, daughter, that you will try to conquer them, asking God to help you." "I will, papa," she said, with unwonted humility; "but, oh, I wish you were going to stay with us! It's easier to be good with you than with anybody else." "I am sorry, indeed, that I cannot," he said, rising and taking her hand. "Come, we must go back to the house now." They moved along in silence for a little, then Lulu said, with an affectionate look up into her father's face, "Papa, I do so like to walk this way!" "How do you mean?" he asked, smiling kindly upon her. "With my hand in yours, papa. You know I haven't often had the chance." "No, my poor child," he sighed, "that is one of the deprivations to which a seaman and his family have to submit." "Well," said the little girl, lifting his hand to her lips, "I'd rather have you for my father than anybody else, for all that." At that he bent down and kissed her with a smile full of pleasure and fatherly affection. CHAPTER II. "By thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned."--_Matt._ 12:37. As they drew near the house Max came to meet them. "I've been to the post-office since the mail came in, papa," he said, "and there is no government letter for you yet. I'm so glad! I hope they're going to let us keep you a good deal longer." "I'm not sorry to prolong my stay with wife and children," the captain responded, "but cannot hope to be permitted to do so very much longer." "Grandpa Dinsmore has come back from taking Harold and Herbert to college," pursued Max, "and we're all to take tea in there, Mamma Vi says; because grandpa wants us all about him this first evening." "That is kind," said the captain, opening the gate and looking smilingly at Violet, who, with little Grace, was waiting for him on the veranda. He stopped there to speak with them, while Lulu hurried on into the house and up to her own room, Max following. "Where's my book, Lu?" he asked. "O Max, I couldn't help it--but papa caught me reading it and took it away from me. And he told me when you asked me for it I should send you to him." Max's face expressed both vexation and alarm. "I sha'n't do that," he said, "if I never get it. But was he very angry, Lu?" "No; and you needn't be afraid to go to him, for he won't punish you; I asked him not to, and he said he wouldn't. But he threw the book into the sea, and said neither you nor I should ever read such poisonous stuff with his knowledge or consent." "Then, where would be the use of my going to him for it? I'll not say a word about it." He went out, closed the door and stood irresolutely in the hall, debating with himself whether to go up-stairs or down. Up-stairs in his room was another dime novel which he had been reading that afternoon; he had not quite finished it, and was eager to do so; he wanted very much to know how the story ended, and had meant to read the few remaining pages now before the call to tea. But his father's words, reported to him by Lulu, made it disobedience. "It's a very little sin," whispered the tempter; "as having read so much, you might as well read the rest." "But it will be disobeying wilfully the kind father who forgave a heedless act of disobedience not very long ago," said conscience; "the dear father who must soon leave you to be gone no one knows how long, perhaps never to come back." Just then the captain came quickly up the stairs. "Ah, Max, are you there?" he said, in a cheery tone, then laying his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder. "Come in here with me, my son, I want to have a little talk with you while I make my toilet." "Yes, sir," said Max, following him into the dressing-room. "What have you been reading to-day?" asked the captain, throwing off his coat, pouring water into the basin from the pitcher, and beginning his ablutions. Max hung his head in silence till the question was repeated, then stammered out the title of the book, the perusal of which he was so desirous to finish. "Where did you get it?" asked his father. "I bought it at a news-stand, papa." "You must not buy anything more of that kind, Max; you must not read any such trash." "I will not again, papa; I should not this time if you had ever forbidden me before." "No, I don't believe you would be guilty of wilful disobedience to any positive command of your father," the captain said in a grave but kindly tone; "and yet I think you suspected I would not approve, else why were you so unwilling to tell me what you had been reading?" He was standing before the bureau now, hairbrush in hand, and as he spoke he paused in his work, and gazed searchingly at his son. Max's face flushed hotly, and his eyes drooped for a moment, then looking up into his father's face he said frankly, "Yes, papa, I believe I was afraid you would take the book from me if you saw it. I deserve that you should be angry with me for that and for lending one to Lu." "I am displeased with you on both accounts," the captain replied, "but I shall overlook it this time, my son, hoping there will be no repetition of either offence. Now go to your room, gather up all the doubtful reading matter you have, and bring it here to me. I shall not go with you, but trust to your honor to keep nothing back." "Oh, thank you, papa, for trusting me!" cried Max, his countenance brightening wonderfully, and he hastened away to do his father's bidding. "Just the dearest, kindest father that ever was!" he said to himself, as he bounded up the stairs. "I'll never do anything again to vex him, if I can help it." He was down again in a moment with two dime novels and a story-paper of the same stamp. The captain had finished his toilet. Seating himself he took what Max had brought, and glancing hastily over it, "How much of this trash have you read, Max?" he asked. "The paper and most of one book, papa. I'll not read any more such, since you've forbidden me; but they're very interesting, papa." "I dare say, to a boy of your age. But you don't think I would want to deprive you of any innocent pleasure, Max?" "No, sir; oh, no! But may I know why you won't let me read such stories?" "Yes; it is because they give false views of life, and thus lead to wrong and foolish actions. Why, Max, some boys have been made burglars and highwaymen by such stories. I want you to be a reader, but of good and wholesome literature; books that will give you useful information and good moral teachings; above all things, my son, I would have you a student of the Bible, 'the holy Scriptures, which are able to make you wise unto salvation through faith which is in Jesus Christ.' Do you read it often, Max?" "Not very, papa. But you know I hear you read it every morning and evening." "Yes; but I have sometimes been grieved to see that you paid very little attention." Max colored at that. "Papa, I will try to do better," he said. "I hope you will," said his father. "You will enjoy the same religious advantages at Ion, and, my boy, try to profit by them, remembering that we shall have to render an account at last of the use or abuse of all our privileges. I want you to promise me that you will read a few verses of the Bible every day, and commit at least one to memory." "I will, papa. And what else shall I read? You will let me have some story-books, won't you?" Max said, entreatingly. "Yes," said his father, "I have no objection to stories of the right sort. There are some very beautiful stories in the Bible; there are entertaining stories in history; and there are fictitious stories that will do you good and not harm. I shall take care in future that you have plenty of wholesome mental food, so that you will have no excuse for craving such stuff as this," he added, with a glance of disgust at what he held in his hand. "It may go into the kitchen fire." "Mrs. Scrimp never burns the least little bit of paper, papa," said Max. "Indeed! Why not?" asked his father, with an amused smile. "She says it is wicked waste, because it is better than rags for the paper-makers." "Ah! well, then, we will tear these into bits and let them go to the paper-makers." Max was standing by his father's side. "Papa," he said, with a roguish look into his father's face, "don't you think you would enjoy reading them first?" The captain laughed. "No, my son," he said; "I have not the slightest inclination to read them. Bring me that waste basket and you may help me tear them up." They began the work of destruction, Max taking the paper, the captain the book his son had been reading. Presently something in it attracted his attention; he paused and glanced over several pages one after the other, till Max began to think he had become interested in the story. But no; at that instant he turned from it to him, and Max was half frightened at the sternness of his look. "My son," he said, "I am astonished and deeply grieved that you could read and enjoy anything like this, for it is full of profanity; and reading or hearing such expressions is very likely to lead to the use of them. Max, do you ever say such words?" Max trembled and grew red and pale by turns, but did not speak. "Answer me," was his father's stern command. "Not often, papa." The captain barely caught the low breathed words. "Not often? sometimes, then?" he groaned, covering his face with his hand. "O papa, don't be so grieved! I'll never do it again," Max said in a broken voice. The captain sighed deeply. "Max," he said, "dearly as I love my only son, I would sooner lay him under the sod, knowing that his soul was in heaven, than have him live to be a profane swearer. Bring me that Bible from the table yonder." The boy obeyed. "Now turn to the twenty-fourth chapter of Leviticus, and read the sixteenth verse." Max read in a trembling voice, "'And he that blasphemeth the name of the Lord, he shall surely be put to death, and all the congregation shall certainly stone him; as well the stranger, as he that is born in the land, when he blasphemeth the name of the Lord, shall be put to death.'" "Now the twenty-third," said his father. "'And Moses spake to the children of Israel, that they should bring forth him that had cursed out of the camp, and stone him with stones; and the children of Israel did as the Lord commanded Moses.'" Max had some difficulty in finishing the verse, and at the end quite broke down. "Papa," he sobbed, "I didn't know that was in the Bible. I never thought about its being so dreadfully wicked to say bad words." "What do you now think a boy deserves who has done it again and again? say as often as Max Raymond has?" asked his father. "I suppose to be stoned to death like that man. But nobody is ever put to death for swearing nowadays?" the boy said, half inquiringly, not daring to look at his father as he spoke. "No, Max, fortunately for you and many others. But suppose you were my father and I a boy of your age, and that I had been swearing, what would you think you ought to do about it?" "Give you a sound flogging," he answered, in a low, reluctant tone. "Well, Max, that is just what I shall have to do, if I ever know you to use a profane word again," said his father, in a grave, sad tone. "I should do it now, but for the hope that you are sorry enough for the past to carefully avoid that sin in the future." "Indeed I will, papa," he said, very humbly. "And, Max," resumed his father, "you are never to make a companion of, or go at all with anybody who uses such language, and never to read a book or story that has in it anything of that kind. And you are not to say by George or by anything. Our Saviour says, 'Let your communication be Yea, yea, Nay, nay, for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.' My son, have you asked God to forgive you for taking His holy name in vain?" "No, sir." "Then go at once to your room and do it." "I did, papa," Max said, when he came down again to find his father waiting for him. "I trust the petition came from your heart, my son," was the grave but kind rejoinder. "I must have a little more talk with you on this subject, but not now, for it is time we followed the others into the next house, if we would not keep Grandma Rose's tea waiting." CHAPTER III. "A kingdom is a nest of families, and a family is a small kingdom."--Tupper. It was a bright and cheerful scene that greeted the eyes of Captain Raymond and his son as they entered the parlor of the adjacent cottage. It was strictly a family gathering, yet the room was quite full. Mr. Dinsmore was there with his wife, his daughter Elsie and her children, Edward and Zoe, Elsie Leland with her husband and babe, Violet Raymond with her husband's two little girls, Lulu and Grace, and lastly Rosie and Walter. Everybody had a kindly greeting for the captain, and Violet's bright face grew still brighter as she made room for him on the sofa by her side. "We were beginning to wonder what was keeping you," she said. "Yes, I'm afraid I am rather behind time," he returned. "I hope you have not delayed your tea for me, Mrs. Dinsmore." "No; it is but just ready," she said. "Ah, there's the bell. Please, all of you walk out." When the meal was over all returned to the parlor, where they spent the next hour in desultory chat. Gracie claimed a seat on her father's knee. Lulu took possession of an ottoman and pushed it up as close to his side as she could; then seating herself on it leaned up against him. He smiled and stroked her hair, then glanced about the room in search of Max. The boy was sitting silently in a corner, but reading an invitation in his father's eyes, he rose and came to his other side. The ladies were talking of the purchases they wished to make in Boston, New York or Philadelphia, on their homeward route. "I must get winter hats for Lulu and Gracie," said Violet. "I want a bird on mine, Mamma Vi," said Lulu; "a pretty one with gay feathers." "Do you know, Lulu, that they skin the poor little birds alive in order to preserve the brilliancy of their plumage?" Violet said with a troubled look. "I will not wear them on that account, and as you are a kind-hearted little girl, I think you will not wish to do so either." "But I do," persisted Lulu. "Of course I wouldn't have a bird killed on purpose, but after they are killed I might just as well have one." "But do you not see," said Grandma Elsie, "that if every one would refuse to buy them, the cruel business of killing them would soon cease? and that it will go on as long as people continue to buy and wear them?" "I don't care, I want one," pouted Lulu. "Papa, can't I have it?" "No, you cannot," he said with grave displeasure. "I am sorry to see that you can be so heartless. You can have just whatever Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi think best for you, and with that you must be content." Lulu was silenced, but for the rest of the evening her face wore an ugly scowl. "My little girl is growing sleepy," the captain said presently to Gracie. "Papa will carry you over home and put you to bed. Lulu, you may come too." "I don't want to, papa, I----" she began; but he silenced her with a look. "Bid good-night to our friends and come," he said. "You also, Max." Max, though surprised at the order, obeyed with cheerful alacrity in strong contrast to Lulu's sullen and reluctant compliance, which said as plainly as words that she would rebel if she dared. "I don't see why papa makes us come away so soon," she grumbled to her brother in an undertone, as they passed from one cottage to the other, their father a little in advance. "He must have some good reason," said Max, "and I for one am willing enough to obey him, seeing it's such a little while I'll have the chance." They had now reached the veranda of their own cottage. "Come in quickly out of this cold wind, children," their father said; then as he closed the outer door after them, "Run into the parlor and get thoroughly warm before going up to your rooms." He sat down by the stove with Grace on his knee, and bade the other two draw up close to it and him, one on each side. And when they had done so, "My three dear children," he said in tender tones, glancing from one to another, "no words can tell how much I love you. Will you all think very often of papa and follow him with your prayers when he is far away on the sea?" "Oh, yes, yes, papa!" they all said with tears in their eyes, while Gracie put her small arms round his neck. Lulu rested her head on his shoulder, and Max took a hand and pressed it in both of his. "Papa, you will think of us, too?" he said inquiringly. "Yes, indeed, my darlings; you will never be long out of my mind, and nothing will make me happier than to hear that you are well and doing your duty faithfully." "I shall try very hard, papa," Max said, with affectionate look and tone, "if it is only to please you and make your heart glad." "Thank you, my son," his father replied, "but I hope a still stronger motive will be that you may please God and honor Him. Never forget, my children, that though your earthly father may be far away and know nothing of your conduct, God's all-seeing eye is ever upon you." A half hour had passed very quickly and delightfully to the children, when at length, seeing Gracie's eyelids begin to droop, their father said it was time for him to carry her up to bed. "Shall we stay here till you come down again, papa?" asked Max. "No; you and Lulu may go to bed now." "Then good-night, papa." "No, you need not bid me good-night yet," the captain said. "I shall see you both in your rooms before you are asleep." "Well, Lu, are you sorry now that papa made you come home so soon?" asked Max, as they went up-stairs together. "No, indeed! Haven't we had a nice time, Max? Oh, if only we could keep papa all the time!" "I wish we could," said Max. "But we won't have so hard a time as we've had for the last two years whenever he was away." They had reached the door of Lulu's room. "Max," she said, turning to him as with a sudden thought, "what do you suppose papa is coming to our rooms for?" "What do _you_ suppose? have you done anything you ought to be punished for?" asked Max, a little mischievously. "I thought you looked very cross and rebellious about the hat and about having to come home so soon. I'm very sure, from what I've heard of Grandpa Dinsmore's strictness, that if you were his child you'd get a whipping for it." Lulu looked frightened. "But, Max, you don't think papa means to punish me for that, do you? He has been so kind and pleasant since," she said, with a slight tremble in her voice. "You'll find out when he comes," laughed Max. "Good-night," and he hastened away to his own room. A guilty conscience made Lulu very uneasy as she hurried through her preparations for bed, and as she heard her father's step approach the door she grew quite frightened. He came in and closed it after him. Lulu was standing in her night-dress, just ready for bed. He caught up a heavy shawl, wrapped it about her, and seating himself lifted her to his knee. "Why, how you are trembling!" he exclaimed. "What is the matter?" "O papa! are you--are you going to punish me for being so naughty this evening?" she asked, hanging her head while her cheeks grew red. "That was not my intention in coming in here," he said. "But, Lulu, your wilfulness is a cause of great anxiety to me. I hardly know what to do with you. I am very loath to burden our kind friends--Grandpa Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie--with so rebellious and unmanageable a child, for it will be painful to them to be severe with you, and yet I see that you will compel them to it." "I won't be punished by anybody but you! Nobody else has a right!" burst out Lulu. "Yes, my child, I have given them the right, and the only way for you to escape punishment is not to deserve it. And if you prove too troublesome for them, you are to be sent to a boarding-school, and that, you will understand, involves separation from Max and Gracie, and life among total strangers." "Papa, you wouldn't, you couldn't be so cruel!" she said, bursting into tears and hiding her face on his breast. "I hope you will not be so cruel to yourself as to make it necessary," he said. "I have fondly hoped you were improving, but your conduct to-night shows me that you are still a self-willed, rebellious child." "Well, papa, I've wanted a bird on my hat for ever so long, and I believe you would have let me have it, too, if Mamma Vi and Grandma Elsie hadn't said that." "I shouldn't let you have it, if they were both in favor of it," he said severely. "Why, papa?" "Because of the cruelty it would encourage. And now, Lucilla, I want you to reflect how very kind it is in Grandpa Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie to be willing to take my children in and share with them their own delightful home. You have not the slightest claim upon their kindness, and very few people in their case would have made such an offer. I really feel almost ashamed to accept so much without being able to make some return, even if I knew my children would all behave as dutifully and gratefully as possible. And knowing how likely your conduct is to be the exact reverse of that, I can hardly reconcile it to my conscience to let you go with them to Ion. I am afraid I ought to place you in a boarding-school at once, before I am ordered away." "O papa, don't!" she begged. "I'll try to behave better." "You must promise more than that," he said; "promise me that you will yield to the authority of your mamma and her mother and grandfather as if it were mine; obeying their orders and submitting to any punishment they may see fit to inflict, just as if it were my act." "Papa, have you said they might punish me?" she asked, with a look of wounded pride. "Yes; I have full confidence in their wisdom and kindness. I know they will not abuse the authority I give them, and I have told them they may use any measures with my children that they would with their own in the same circumstances. Are you ready to give the promise I require?" "Papa, it is too hard!" "The choice is between that and being sent to boarding-school." "Oh, it's so hard!" she sobbed. "Not hard at all if you choose to be good," her father said. "In that case you will have a delightful life at Ion. Do you make the promise?" "Yes, sir," she said, as if the words were wrung from her, then hid her face on his breast again and cried bitterly. "My little daughter, these are tears of pride and stubbornness," sighed her father, passing his hand caressingly over her hair, "and you will never be happy until those evil passions are cast out of your heart. They are foes which you must fight and conquer by the help of Him who is mighty to save, or they will cost you the loss of your soul. Any sin unrepented of and unforsaken will drag you down to eternal death; for the Bible says, 'Without holiness no man shall see the Lord.'" "Papa," she said, "you are the only person God commands me to obey, and I'm willing to do that." "No, it seems not, when my command is that you obey some one else. My little girl, you need something that I cannot give you; and that is a change of heart. Go to Jesus for it, daughter; ask Him to wash away all your sins in His precious blood and to create in you a clean heart and renew a right spirit within you. He is able and willing to do it, for He says, 'Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.' We will kneel down and ask Him now." "Papa, I do love you so, I love you dearly, and I _will_ try to be a better girl," Lulu said, clasping her arms tightly about his neck, as, having laid her in her bed, he bent down to kiss her good-night. "I hope so, my darling," he said; "nothing could make me happier than to know you to be a truly good child, trying to live right that you may please the dear Saviour who died that you might live." Max, lying in his bed, was just saying to himself, "I wonder what keeps papa so long," when he heard his step on the stairs. "Are you awake, Max?" the captain asked, as he opened the door and came in. "Yes, sir," was the cheerful response; "it's early, you know, papa, and I'm not at all sleepy." "That is well, for I want a little talk with you," said his father, sitting down on the side of the bed and taking Max's hand in his. The talk was on the sin of profanity. Max was told to repeat the third commandment, then his father called his attention to the words, "The Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain." "It is a dreadful and dangerous sin, my son," he said; "a most foolish sin, too, for there is absolutely nothing to be gained by it; and the meanest of sins, for what can be meaner than to abuse Him to whom we owe our being and every blessing we enjoy?" "Yes, papa, and I--I've done it a good many times. Do you think God will ever forgive me?" Max asked in trembling tones. "'He that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy.' 'I, even I, am He that blotteth out thy transgressions, for mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins,'" quoted the captain. "Yes, my son, if you are truly sorry for your sins because committed against God, and confess them with the determination to forsake them, asking forgiveness and help to overcome the evil of your nature, for Jesus' sake, it will be granted you. 'The blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, cleanseth us from all sin.'" CHAPTER IV. "No day discolored with domestic strife, No jealousy, but mutual truth believ'd, Secure repose and kindness undeceiv'd." --Dryden. They were a bright and cheery company in the other house. They had divided into groups. Mrs. Elsie Travilla sat in a low rocking-chair, between her father and his wife, with her little grandson on her lap. She doated on the babe, and was often to be seen with it in her arms. She was now calling her father's attention to its beauty, and talking of the time when its mother was an infant, her own precious darling. On a sofa on the farther side of the room the two sisters, Elsie and Violet, sat side by side, cosily chatting of things past and present, while a little removed from them Lester, Edward and Zoe formed another group. The two gentlemen were in animated conversation, to which Zoe was a silent and absorbed listener, especially when her husband spoke; eagerly drinking in every word that fell from his lips; her face glowing, her eyes sparkling with proud delight. "Look at Zoe; Ned certainly has one devoted admirer," remarked Elsie, regarding her young sister-in-law with a pleased yet half-amused smile. "Yes," said Violet, "he is a perfect oracle in her esteem; and I believe everything she does is right in his eyes; indeed, their mutual devotion is a pretty thing to see. They are scarcely ever apart." "Don't you think your husband an oracle?" asked Elsie, with a quizzical look. "So you have found that out already, have you?" laughed Violet. "Yes, I do, but then he is wiser than our Ned, you know. Tell me now, don't you admire him? don't you think him worthy of all honor?" "I do, indeed, and am proud to have him for a brother-in-law," Elsie said with earnest sincerity; "but," she added with a smile, "I prefer Lester for a husband." "Yes, of course, but Levis is the best of husbands--of fathers, too." "Rather more strict and stern than ours was, is he not?" "Yes, but not more so than necessary with a child of Lulu's peculiar disposition." "Ah, Vi, I pity you for being a stepmother," Elsie said, with a compassionate look at her sister. "You needn't," returned Violet quickly. "Lulu is the only one of the three that gives me any anxiety or trouble, and to be Captain Raymond's wife more than compensates for that." "I suppose so. And Gracie is a dear little thing." "Yes, she's a darling. And Max is a noble fellow. I hope he will make just such a man as his father. Don't you think he resembles the captain in looks?" "Yes, and I notice he is very chivalrous in his manner toward his young stepmother." "Yes," Violet said, with a happy smile, "and more or less to all ladies; but especially those of this family. He is like his father in that. Zoe is, I think, a particular favorite with him." Evidently Zoe had overheard the remark, for she turned in their direction with a bright look and smile; then springing up came quickly toward them, and taking possession of a low chair near at hand, "Was it Max you were talking of, Violet?" she said. "Yes, indeed, I am fond of him. I think he's a splendid boy. But what was wrong with him to-night?" "Nothing, so far as I know," said Violet "Why do you think there was?" "Because he was so unusually quiet; and then his father took him away so early. Ah, here comes the captain now," as the door opened and Captain Raymond entered; "so I'll go away and let you have him to yourself." "You needn't," said Violet, but Zoe was already by Edward's side again. Elsie, too, rose and went to her mother to ask if she were not weary of holding the babe. Violet looked up a little anxiously into her husband's face as she made room for him on the sofa by her side. "Is anything wrong with the children, Levis?" she asked in an undertone. "No, love," he said; "I took them away early that I might have a little serious talk with the older two. You know I shall not long be afforded the opportunity." "But you look troubled," she said, in tenderly sympathizing accents. "May I not share your care or sorrow, whatever it is?" "I would rather share only joys and blessings with you, dearest, and keep the cares and burdens to myself," he answered, smiling lovingly upon her, and pressing with affectionate warmth the little hand she had placed in his. "No, I can't consent to that," she said. "I consider it one of my precious privileges to be allowed to share your burdens and anxieties. Won't you tell me what troubles you?" "It is nothing new, little wife," he answered cheerfully; "but I am doubting whether I do right to give your mother and grandfather so troublesome a charge as Lulu. She is almost certain to be wilful and rebellious occasionally, if not oftener." Mrs. Travilla had resigned the babe to its mother, and was now standing near the sofa where the captain and Violet sat. "Mamma," said the latter, turning to her, "my husband is making himself miserable with the fear that Lulu will prove too troublesome to you and grandpa." "Please do not, captain," Elsie said brightly, accepting the easy-chair he hastened to bring forward for her. "Why should I not have a little trouble as well as other people? Lulu is an attractive child to me, very bright and original, a little headstrong, perhaps, but I shall lay siege to her heart and try to rule her through her affections." "I think that will be the better plan," he said, the look of care lifting from his brow; "she is a warm-hearted child, and more easily led than driven. But she is sometimes very impertinent, and I would by no means have her indulged in that. I wish you would promise me never to let it pass without punishment. She must be taught respect for authority and for her superiors." Elsie's face had grown very grave while he was speaking. "What punishment do you prescribe?" she asked. "The child is yours." "That should depend upon the heinousness of the offence," he replied. "I can only say, please treat her exactly as if she were your own." Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore now joined them, and the question what studies the children should pursue during the coming winter was discussed and settled. Then the captain spoke of reading matter, asked advice in regard to suitable books and periodicals, and begged his friends to have a careful oversight of all the mental food of his children. "You could not intrust that matter to a more wise and capable person than papa," Elsie said, with an affectionate, smiling look at her father. "I well remember how strict he was with me in my childhood; novels were coveted but forbidden sweets." "You must have been glad when you were old enough to read them, mamma," remarked Zoe, joining the circle. "You read far too many, my little woman," said Mr. Dinsmore, pinching her rosy cheek. "If I were Edward, I should curtail the supply, and try to cultivate a taste for something better." "But I'm a married woman and sha'n't submit to being treated like a child, grandpa," she said, with a little pout and a toss of her pretty head. "Not even by me?" asked Edward, leaning down over her as he stood behind her chair. "No, not even by you," she returned saucily, looking up into his face with laughing eyes. "I'm your wife, sir, not your child." "Both, I should say," laughed Edward. "I remember that I was considered a mere child at your age. And whatever you are you belong to me, don't you?" "Yes; and you to me just as much," she retorted, and at that there was a general laugh. The captain had said nothing of the objectionable reading matter found in his children's hands that day, but when alone with Violet in their own room, he told her all about it, blaming himself severely for not having been so watchful over them as he ought, and expressing his distress over the discovery that Max had sometimes been guilty of profanity. "I do not know whether it has become a habit with him," he said, "but, my dear, I beg of you to watch him closely when I am away, and if he is ever known to offend in that way, see that he is properly punished." "But how, Levis?" she asked, with a troubled look. "I don't know what I can do but talk seriously to him about the wickedness of it." "I hope you will do that, my dear. I have no doubt it would have an excellent effect, for he loves and admires you greatly. But let him be punished by being separated, for at least a week, from the rest of the family, as unworthy to associate with them." "Oh, that would be very hard, very humiliating for a proud, sensitive, affectionate boy like Max!" she exclaimed. "May we not be a little more lenient toward him?" and she looked up pleadingly into her husband's face. "No," he said with decision; "but I strongly hope there will be no occasion for such punishment, as he seems sincerely penitent and quite determined not to offend in that way again. I really think my boy wants to do right, but he is a heedless, thoughtless fellow, often going wrong from mere carelessness and forgetfulness. But he must be taught to think and to remember." "I wish he could have his father's constant care and control," sighed Violet. "I wish he could indeed!" responded the captain; "but principally because I fear he will prove a care and trouble to your grandfather and mother, who, I am inclined to think, are more capable than I of giving him proper training. I shall go away feeling easier in regard to my children's welfare than I ever have before since they lost their mother." "I am very glad of that, Levis," Violet said, her eyes shining with pleasure, "and I do believe they will have a happy life at Ion." "It will certainly be their own fault if they do not," he replied. * * * * * Rose Travilla was somewhat less amiable in disposition than her mother and older sisters, and had been much disgusted with Lulu's exhibition of temper that evening. Talking with her mother afterward in her dressing-room, "Mamma," she said, "I wish you hadn't offered to let Lulu Raymond live with us at Ion. I don't at all like the way she behaves, and I wish you and grandpa would tell her father to send her off to boarding-school." "That is an unkind wish, Rose," said her mother. "Perhaps if you had had the same treatment Lulu has been subjected to since her mother's death, you might have shown as bad a temper as hers. Haven't you some pity for the little girl, when you reflect that she is motherless?" "I don't think she could have a sweeter mother than our Vi," was the unexpected rejoinder. "But she doesn't appreciate her in the least," Rose went on, "but seems always on the watch against any effort on Vi's part to control her." "She seems to be naturally impatient of control by whomsoever exerted," Mrs. Travilla said, "but we will hope to see her improve in that respect, and you must set her a good example, Rose. "And I want you to think how sad it would be for her to be parted from the brother and sister she loves so dearly and sent away alone to boarding-school. I shall never forget how alarmed and distressed I was when your grandpa threatened me with one." "Did he, mamma?" asked Rosie, opening her eyes very wide with surprise. "Yes, he was very much displeased with me at the time," her mother said with a sigh. "But we will not talk about it; the recollection is very painful to me." "No, mamma; but I cannot get over my astonishment, for I thought you were never naughty, even when you were a little child." "Quite a mistake, Rosie; I had my naughty times as well as other children," Mrs. Travilla said, smiling at Rosie's bewildered look. "But now I want you to promise me, my child, that you will be kind and forbearing toward poor little motherless Lulu." "Well, mamma, to please you I will; but I hope she won't try me too much by impertinence to you or Violet. I don't think I can stand it if she does. "Try to win her love, Rosie, and then you may be able to influence her strongly for good." "I don't know how to begin, mamma." "Force your thoughts to dwell on the good points in her character, and think compassionately of the respects in which she is less fortunate than yourself, and you will soon find a feeling of love toward her springing up in your heart; and love begets love. Do her some kindness, daughter, and that will help you to love her and to gain her love." "Well, mamma, I shall try if only to please you. But do tell me, did grandpa punish you very severely when you were naughty?" "His punishment was seldom anything more severe than the gentle rebuke, 'I am not pleased with you,' but I think I felt it more than many a child would a whipping; I did so dearly love my father that his displeasure was terrible to me." "Yes, I know you and he love each other dearly yet, and he often says you were a very good, conscientious little girl." "But to return to Lulu," said Mrs. Travilla, "I had thought she would be a nice companion for you, and until this evening I have not seen her show any naughty temper since the first week she was here." "No, mamma, she has been quite well-behaved, I believe, and perhaps she will prove a pleasant companion. I am sorry for her, too, because she hasn't a dear, wise, kind mother like mine," Rosie added, putting her arms about her mother's neck, "and because the father, I am sure she loves very much, must soon go away and leave her." CHAPTER V. "Farewell, God knows when we shall meet again." --Shakespeare. The next morning the captain and Max were out together on the beach before Violet and the little girls had left their rooms. The lad liked to be alone with his father sometimes. He had always been proud and fond of him, and the past few months of constant intercourse had greatly strengthened the bonds of affection between them. The boy's heart was sore at thought of the parting that must soon come, the captain's hardly less so. He talked very kindly with his son, urging him to make the best use of his time, talents and opportunities, and grow up to be a good, honorable and useful man. "I want to be just such a man as you are, papa," Max said, with an admiring, affectionate look up into his father's face, and slipping his hand into his as he spoke. The captain clasped the hand lovingly in his, and held it fast. "I hope you will be a better and more talented man, my boy," he said, "but always remember my most ardent wish is to see you a truly good man, a Christian, serving God with all your powers." At this moment a voice behind them said, "Good-mornin', cap'n. I'se got a lettah hyah for you, sah." "Ah, good-morning, Ben, and thank you for bringing it," said the captain, turning round to receive it. "You's bery welcom, sah," responded Ben, touching his hat respectfully, then walking away toward Mr. Dinsmore's cottage. "From Washington," the captain remarked, more to himself than to Max, as he broke the seal. Max watched him while he read, then asked, a little tremulously, "Must you go very soon, papa?" "Within three days, my boy. But we won't say anything about it until after prayers, but let Mamma Vi and your sisters enjoy their breakfast in peace." "Yes, sir. Papa, I wish I was going with you!" "But think how your sisters would miss you, Max." "Yes, sir, I suppose they would. I hadn't thought of that." "Besides, I want you to take my place to Mamma Vi as nearly as you can," added his father, looking smilingly at him. "O papa, thank you!" cried the boy, his face growing bright with pleased surprise. "I will try my very best and do all for her that I can." "I don't doubt it, my son. And now let us go in, for it must be breakfast-time, I think." Lulu and Grace ran out to the veranda to meet them with a glad, "Good-morning, papa," and holding up their faces for a kiss. It was bestowed heartily, as he stooped and gathered them in his arms, saying in tender tones, "Good-morning, my dear little daughters." The breakfast bell was ringing, and they hastened to obey its summons. They found Violet already in the dining-room, and looking sweet and fresh as a rose, in a pretty, becoming morning dress. The captain chatted cheerfully with her and the children while he ate, seeming to enjoy his beefsteak, muffins and coffee; but Max scarcely spoke, and occasionally had some difficulty in swallowing his food because of the lump that would rise in his throat at the thought of the parting now drawing so near. Directly after breakfast came family worship. Then as Violet and her husband stood together before the window looking out upon the sea, he gave her his Washington letter to read. She glanced over it, while he put his arm about her waist. "O Levis, so soon!" she said tremulously, looking up at him with eyes full of tears, then her head dropped upon his shoulder, and the tears began to fall. He soothed her with caresses and low-breathed words of endearment; of hope, too, that the separation might not be a long one. "What is it, Max?" whispered Lulu, "has papa got his orders?" "Yes; and has to be off in less than three days," replied Max, in husky tones, and hastily brushing away a tear. Lulu's eyes filled, but by a great effort she kept the tears from falling. The captain turned toward them. "We are going into the other house, children," he said. "You can come with us if you wish." "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," they said, and Grace ran to her father and put her hand in his. They found the Dinsmore and Travilla family all assembled in the parlor, discussing plans for the day, all of which were upset by the captain's news. His ship lay in Boston harbor, and it was promptly decided that they would all leave to-day for that city, only a few hours' distant. As the cottages had been rented furnished, and all had for days past held themselves in readiness for sudden departure, this would afford ample time for the necessary packing and other arrangements. All was presently bustle and activity in both houses. Zoe and Edward, with no painful parting in prospect, made themselves very merry over their packing. They were much like two children, and except when overcome by the recollection of her recent bereavement, Zoe was as playful and frolicsome as a kitten. "Can I help, Mamma Vi?" asked Lulu, following Violet into her dressing-room. Vi considered a moment. "You are a dear child to want to help," she said, smiling kindly upon the little girl. "I don't think you can pack your trunk, but you can be of use here by handing me things out of the bureau drawers and wardrobe. There are so many trunks to pack that I cannot think of leaving Agnes to do it all." "My dear," said the captain, coming in at that moment, "you are not to do anything but sit in that easy-chair and give directions. I flatter myself that I am quite an expert in this line." "Can you fold ladies' dresses so that they will carry without rumpling?" asked Violet, looking up at him with a saucy smile. "Perhaps not. I can't say I ever tried that. Agnes may do that part of the work, and I will attend to the rest." "And may I hand you the things, papa?" asked Lulu. "Yes, daughter," he said, "I like to see you trying to be useful." They set to work, Violet looking on with interest. "Why, you are an excellent packer, Levis," she remarked presently, "far better than I or Agnes either." "Thank you," he said, "I am very glad to be able to save you the exertion." "And you do it so rapidly," she said. "It would have taken me twice as long." "That is partly because I am much stronger, and partly the result of a good deal of practice. And Lulu is quite a help," he added, with an affectionate look at her. She flushed with pleasure. "Are you going to pack the other trunks, papa? Max's and Grade's and mine? And may I help you with them?" she asked. "Yes, is my answer to both questions," he returned. "Where are Max and Gracie?" asked Violet. "I told Max to take his little sister to the beach, and take care of and amuse her," the captain said in answer to the question. "Don't you want to be out at play, too, Lulu?" asked Violet. "I can help your papa." "No, ma'am, thank you," the child answered in a quick, emphatic way. "I'd a great deal rather be with papa to-day than playing." He gave her a pleased look and smile, and Violet said, "That is nice, Lulu; I am very glad his children love him so." "Indeed we do, Mamma Vi! every one of us!" exclaimed Lulu. "Papa knows we do. Don't you, papa?" "Yes, I am quite sure of it," he said. "And that my wife is fond of me also," with a smiling glance at her, "and altogether it makes me a very happy man." "As you deserve to be," said Violet, gayly. "Please, sir, will you allow me to fold my dresses?" "No, for here comes Agnes," as the maid entered the room, "who, I dare say, can do it better. Come, Lulu, we will go now to your room." Violet stayed where she was to direct and assist Agnes, and Lulu was glad, because she wanted to be alone with her father for a while. When her trunk was packed he turned to leave the room, but she detained him. "Papa," she said, clinging to his hand, "I--I want to speak to you." He sat down and drew her to his side, putting an arm about her waist. "Well, daughter, what is it?" he asked kindly, stroking the hair back from her forehead with the other hand. "Papa, I--I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for----" she stammered, her eyes drooping, her cheeks growing crimson. "Sorry for your former naughtiness and rebellion?" he asked gently, as she paused, leaving her sentence unfinished. "Yes, papa, I couldn't bear to let you go away without telling you so again." "Well, daughter, it was all forgiven long ago, and you have been a pretty good girl most of the time since that first sad week." "Papa, I do want to be good," she said earnestly, "but somehow the badness will get the better of me." "Yes; each one of us has an evil nature to fight against," he said, "and it will get the better of us unless we are very determined and battle with it, not in our own strength only, but crying mightily for assistance to Him who has said, 'In me is thine help.' "We must watch and pray, my child. The Bible bids us keep our hearts with all diligence, and set a watch at the door of our lips that we sin not with our tongues. Also to pray without ceasing. We need to cry often to God for help to overcome the evil that is in our own hearts, and the snares of the world and the devil, 'who goeth about as a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour.'" "Papa," she said, looking up into his face, "do you find it hard to be good sometimes?" "Yes, my child; I have the same battle to fight that you have, and I am the more sorry for you because I know by experience how difficult it sometimes is to do right." "And you have to help me by punishing me when I'm naughty, and making me do as I ought?" "Yes, and my battle is sometimes for patience with a naughty, disobedient child." "I think you were very patient with me that time you kept me shut up so long in this room," she said. "If I'd been in your place I'd have got a good switch and whipped my little girl till I made her obey me at once." "Do you think that would have been the better plan?" "No, sir. I think you'd have had to 'most kill me before I'd have given up, but if I'd been in your place I couldn't have had patience to wait." "You need to cultivate the grace of patience, then," he said gravely. "Now come with me to Max's room, and let us see if we can pack up his goods and chattels." "Papa, I almost think I could pack it myself after watching you pack all these others." "Possibly; but I shall do it more quickly, with you to help in getting all the things together." Every one was ready in due season for departure, and that night the two cottages that for months past had been so full of light and life, were dark, silent and deserted. Arriving in Boston, the whole party took rooms at one of the principal hotels. There they spent the night, but the greater part of the next day was passed on board the captain's vessel. The day after the parting came; a very hard one for him, his young wife and children. Little feeble Gracie cried herself sick, and Violet found it necessary to put aside the indulgence of her own grief in order to comfort the nearly heart-broken child, who clung to her as she might have done to her own mother. Max and Lulu made no loud lament, but their quiet, subdued manner and sad countenances told of deep and sincere sorrow, and, in truth, they often felt ready to join in Gracie's oft-repeated cry, "Oh, how can I do without my dear, dear papa?" But they were with kind friends. Every one in the party showed them sympathy, pretty presents were made them, and they were taken to see all the sights of the city likely to interest them. Grandma Elsie particularly endeared herself to them at this time by her motherly tenderness and care, treating them as if they were her own children. Their father had given each two parting gifts, a handsome pocket Bible, with the injunction to commit at least one verse to memory every day, and a pretty purse with some spending money in it; for he knew they would enjoy making purchases for themselves when visiting the city stores with the older people. So they did; and Lulu, who was generous to a fault, had soon spent her all in gifts for others; a lovely new doll for Gracie, some books for Max, a bottle of perfumery for "Mamma Vi," and a toy for Walter. Violet was much pleased with the present to herself as an evidence of growing affection. She received it with warm thanks and a loving embrace. "My dear child, it was very kind in you to think of me!" she said. "It makes me hope you have really given me a little place in your heart, dear." "Oh, yes, Mamma Vi, indeed I have!" cried the little girl, returning the embrace. "Surely we ought all to love you when you love our dear father so much, and he loves you, too." "Certainly," said Max, who was standing by; "we couldn't help loving so sweet and pretty a lady if she was nothing at all to us and we lived in the same house with her, and how can we think she's any less nice and sweet just because she's married to our father?" "And how can I help loving you because you are the children of my dear husband?" responded Violet, taking the boy's hand and pressing it warmly in hers. Some hours later Violet accidentally overheard part of a conversation between her little sister Rose and Lulu. "Yes," Rosie was saying, "mamma gives me fifty cents a week for spending money." "Ah, how nice!" exclaimed Lulu. "Papa often gives us some money, but not regularly, and Max and I have often talked together about how much we would like to have a regular allowance. I'd be delighted, even if it wasn't more than ten cents." Violet had been wishing to give the children something, and trying to find out what would be most acceptable, so was greatly pleased with the hint given her by this little speech of Lulu's. The child came presently to her side to bid her good-night. Violet put an arm around her, and kissing her affectionately, said, "Lulu, I have been thinking you might like to have an allowance of pocket money, as Rosie has. Would you?" "O Mamma Vi! I'd like it better than anything else I can think of!" cried the little girl, her face sparkling with delight. "Then you shall have it and begin now," Violet said, taking out her purse and putting two bright silver quarters into Lulu's hand. "Oh, thank you, mamma, how good and kind in you!" cried the child. "Max shall have the same," said Violet, "and Gracie half as much for the present. When she is a little older it shall be doubled. Don't you want the pleasure of telling Max, and taking this to him?" she asked, putting another half dollar into Lulu's hand. "Oh yes, ma'am! Thank you very much!" Max was on the farther side of the room--a good-sized parlor of the hotel where they were staying--very much absorbed in a story-book; Lulu approached him softly, a gleeful smile on her lips and in her eyes, and laid his half dollar on the open page. "What's that for?" he asked, looking round at her. "For you; and you're to have as much every week, Mamma Vi says." "O Lu! am I, really?" "Yes; I too; and Gracie's to have a quarter." "Oh, isn't it splendid!" he cried, and hurried to Violet to pour out his thanks. Grandma Elsie, seated on the sofa by Violet's side, shared with her the pleasure of witnessing the children's delight. Our friends had now spent several days in Boston, and the next morning they left for Philadelphia, where they paid a short visit to relatives. This was their last halt on the journey home to Ion. CHAPTER VI. "--to the guiltless heart, where'er we roam, No scenes delight us like our much-loved home." --Robert Hillhouse. Elsie and her children had greatly enjoyed their summer at the North, but now were filled with content and happiness at the thought of soon seeing again their loved home at Ion, while Max and Lulu looked forward with pleasing anticipations and eager curiosity to their first sight of it, having heard various glowing descriptions of it from "Mamma Vi" and Rosie. Their father, too, had spoken of it as a home so delightful that they ought to feel the liveliest gratitude for having been invited to share its blessings. It was looking very beautiful, very inviting, on the arrival of our travellers late in the afternoon of a warm, bright October day. The woods and the trees that bordered the avenue were in the height of their autumn glory, the gardens gay with many flowers of the most varied and brilliant hues, and the lengthening shadows slept on a still green and velvety lawn. As their carriage turned into the avenue, Elsie bent an affectionate, smiling look upon Max and Lulu, and taking a hand of each, said in sweetest tones, "Welcome to your new home, my dears, and may it prove to you a very, very happy one." "Thank you, ma'am," they both responded, Max adding, "I am very glad, Grandma Elsie, that I am to live with you and Mamma Vi." "I, too," said Lulu; "and in such a pretty place. Oh, how lovely everything does look!" The air was delightful, and doors and windows stood wide open. On the veranda a welcoming group was gathered. Elsie's brother and sister--Horace Dinsmore, Jr., of the Oaks, and Mrs. Rose Lacey from the Laurels--and her cousins Calhoun and Arthur Conly; while a little in the rear of them were the servants, all--from old Uncle Joe, now in his ninety-fifth year, down to Betty, his ten-year-old great-granddaughter--showing faces full of eager delight. They stood back respectfully till greetings had been exchanged between relatives and friends, then pressed forward with their words of welcome, sure of a shake of the hand and kind word from each member of the family. Mr. Dinsmore held little Gracie in his arms. She was much fatigued and exhausted by the long journey. "Here is a patient for you, Arthur," he said, "and I am very glad you are here to attend to her." "Yes," said Violet, "her father charged me to put her in your care." "Then let her be put immediately to bed," said Arthur, after a moment's scrutiny of the child. "Give her to me, uncle, and I will carry her up-stairs." "To my room," added Violet. But the child shrunk from the stranger, and clung to Mr. Dinsmore. "No, thank you, I will take her up myself," he said. "I am fully equal to it," and he moved on through the hall and up the broad stairway, Violet and the doctor following. The others presently scattered to their rooms to rid themselves of the dust of travel and dress for the evening. "Well, little wife, is it nice to be at home again?" Edward asked, with a smiling look at Zoe, as they entered their apartments. "Yes, indeed!" she cried, sending a swift glance around the neat and tastefully furnished room, "especially such a home, and to be shared with such nice people; one in particular who shall be nameless," she added, with an arch look and smile. "One who hopes you will never tire of his company, as he never expects to of yours," returned Edward, catching her in his arms and snatching a kiss from her full red lips. "Now don't," she said, pushing him away, "just wait till I've washed the dust from my face. Here come our trunks," as two of the men servants brought them in, "and you must tell me what dress to put on." "You look so lovely in any and every one of the dozen or more that I have small choice in the matter," laughed the young husband. "What gross flattery!" she exclaimed. "Well, then, I suppose I'll have to choose for myself. But you mustn't complain if I do that some time when you don't want me to." The two Elsies had lingered a little behind the others--the old servants had so many words of welcome to say to them--the younger one in especial, because she had been so far and so long away. And the babe must be handed about from one to another, kissed and blessed and remarked upon as to his real or fancied resemblance to this or that older member of the family. "It do 'pear pow'ful strange, Miss Elsie, dat you went away young lady and come back wid husband and baby," remarked Aunt Dicey. "And it don't seem but yistiday dat you was a little bit ob a gal." "Yes, I have come back a great deal richer than I went," Elsie returned, with a glance of mingled love and joy, first at her husband, then at her infant son. "I have great reason to be thankful." At that moment Mrs. Travilla became aware that Max and Lulu were lingering near, as if not knowing exactly what to do with themselves. "Ah, my dears," she said, turning to them with a kind and pleasant look, "has no one attended to you? Come with me, and I will show you your rooms." They followed her up the stairs, and each was shown into a very pleasant room furnished tastefully and with every comfort and convenience. Lulu's had two doors, one opening into the hall, the other into her mamma's bedroom. Elsie explained this, adding, "So, if you are in want of anything or should feel frightened or lonely in the night, you can run right in to the room where you will find your mamma and Gracie." "Yes, ma'am, that is very nice; and oh, what a pretty room! How kind and good you are to me! and to my brother and sister, too!" cried Lulu, her eyes shining with gratitude and pleasure. "I am very glad to be able to do it," Elsie said, taking the little girl's hand in one of hers and smoothing her hair caressingly with the other--for Lulu had taken off her hat. "I want to be a mother to you, dear child, and to your brother and sister, since my dear daughter is too young for so great care and responsibility. I love you all, and I want you to come freely to me with all your troubles and perplexities, your joys and sorrows, just as my own children have always done. I want you to feel that you have a right to do so, because I have invited you." She bent down and kissed Lulu's lips, and the little girl threw her arms about her neck with impulsive warmth, saying, "Dear Grandma Elsie, I love you and thank you ever so much! And I mean to try ever so hard to be good," she added, with a blush and hanging her head shamefacedly. "I know I'm often very naughty; papa said I gave him more anxiety than Max and Gracie both put together; and I'm afraid I can't be good all the time, but I do mean to try hard." "Well, dear, if you try with all your might, asking help from on high, you will succeed at last," Elsie said. "And now I will leave you to wash and dress. I see your trunk has been brought up and opened, so that you will have no difficulty." With that she passed on into Violet's rooms to see how Gracie was. She found her sleeping sweetly in Violet's bed, the latter bending over her with a very tender, motherly look on her fair young face. "Is she not a darling, mamma?" she whispered, turning her head at the sound of her mother's light footstep. "She is a very engaging child," replied Elsie. "I think we are all fond of her, but you especially." "Yes, mamma, I love her for herself--her gentle, affectionate disposition--but still more because she is my husband's child, his dear baby girl, as he so often called her." "Ah, I can understand that," Elsie said, with a loving though rather sad look and smile into Violet's azure eyes, "for I have often felt just so in regard to my own children. What does Arthur say about her?" "That she is more in need of rest and sleep than anything else at present. He will see her again to-morrow, and will probably be able then to give me full directions in regard to her diet and so forth." "You will come down to supper? you will not think it necessary to stay with her yourself?" Elsie said inquiringly. "Oh, no, mamma! I shall dress at once. I should not like to miss being with you all," Violet answered, moving away from the bedside. "Ah!" with sudden recollection, "I have been quite forgetting Max and Lulu." "I have seen them to their rooms," her mother said, "and now I must go and attend to Rosie and Walter, and to my own toilet." "Dear mamma, thank you!" Violet said heartily. "My dear, I consider them quite as much my children, and therefore my especial charge, as yours, perhaps a trifle more," Elsie returned with sprightly look and tone as she left the room. Agnes was in attendance on her young mistress, and was presently sent to ask if Lulu was in need of help, and to say that her mamma would like to see her before she went down-stairs. "I don't need anything till I'm ready to have my sash tied," answered Lulu, "and then I'll come in to Mamma Vi and you to have it done. She was very good to send you, Agnes, and you to come." "La! chile, it's jus' my business to mind Miss Wilet," returned Agnes. "An' she's good to eberybody, ob cose--always was." "What did you want to see me for, Mamma Vi?" asked Lulu, as she presently entered her young stepmother's dressing-room. "Just to make sure that your hair and dress are all right, dear. You know we have company to-night, and I am particularly anxious that my little Lulu shall look her very best." The child's face flushed with pleasure. She liked to be well and becomingly dressed, and it was gratifying to have Mamma Vi care that she should be. Mrs. Scrimp was so different; she had never cared whether Lulu's attire was tasteful and becoming or quite the reverse, but always roused the child's indignation by telling her it was all sufficient if she were only neat and clean. "Am I all right?" she asked. "Pretty nearly; we will have you quite so in a minute," Violet answered. "Tie her sash Agnes, and smooth down the folds of her dress." "Mamma Vi, is that strange lady any relation to you?" asked Lulu. "Yes, she is my aunt, mamma's sister." "She is pretty, but not nearly so pretty as Grandma Elsie." "No; I have always thought no one else could be half so beautiful as mamma." "Why, Mamma Vi, you are yourself!" exclaimed Lulu in a tone of honest sincerity that made Violet laugh. "That is just your notion, little girl," she said, giving the child a kiss. "Oh, I have eyes and can see! besides, papa thinks so, too, and Max and Gracie." "Yes, my dear husband! he loves me, and love is very blind," murmured Vi, half to herself, with a sigh and a far-off look in the lovely azure eyes. Her thoughts were following him over the deep, wide, treacherous sea. She stole on tiptoe into the next room for another peep at his sleeping baby girl, Lulu going with her; then hearing the tea-bell, they went down to the dining-room together. They gathered about the table, a large cheerful party, the travellers full of satisfaction in being at home again, the others so glad to have them there once more. Zoe was very merry and Rosie in almost wild spirits, but Max and Lulu, to whom all was new and strange, were quite quiet and subdued, scarcely speaking except when spoken to, "Mamma," Rosie said, when they had adjourned to the parlor, "it's lovely out of doors, bright moonlight and not a bit cold; mayn't I take Max and Lulu down to the lakelet?" "Do you think the evening air would be injurious to them, Arthur?" Mrs. Travilla asked, turning to her cousin. "I think there is malaria in it, and would advise them to stay within doors until after breakfast to-morrow morning," he answered, drawing Rose to a seat upon his knee. "Then you'd better let us go," she said archly, "so you can have some more patients. Don't you like to have plenty of patients?" "That's a leading question, little coz," he said laughingly, toying with her curls. "When people are sick I like to have an opportunity to exercise my skill in trying to relieve and cure them, but I hope I don't want them made sick in order to furnish me with employment." "I want to show Lulu and Max the beauties of Ion, and don't know how to wait till to-morrow," she said. "Then take them about from one room to another, and let them look out through the windows upon its moonlit lawn, alleys, gardens and lakelet." "Oh, yes, yes! that will do!" she cried, leaving his knee in haste to carry out his suggestion. Max and Lulu, nothing loath, accepted her invitation, and they ran in and out, up stairs and down, the young strangers delighted with the views thus obtained of their new home and its surroundings. Rosie said she hoped they would not be required to begin lessons immediately, but would be allowed a few days in which to enjoy walks, rides, drives, and boating. "I'll ask grandpa and mamma if we may," she added, as they re-entered the parlor. She hastened to present her petition, and it was granted; the children were told they should have a week in which to enjoy themselves and recover from the fatigue of their journey, and would be expected to show their appreciation of the indulgence by great industry afterward. Lulu was standing a little apart from the rest, gazing out of the window upon the moonlit lawn, when a step drew near; then some one took her by the arm, and in a twinkling she found herself seated upon a gentleman's knee. Looking up into his face, she saw that it was Mr. Horace Dinsmore who had thus taken possession of her. "Well, my little dark-eyed lassie," he said, "no one has thought it worth while to introduce us, but we won't let that hinder our making acquaintance. Do you know who I am?" "I heard Rosie call you Uncle Horace." "Then suppose you follow Rosie's example. If you are as good as you are bonny, I shall be proud to claim you as my niece." "But I'm not," she said frankly. Then hastily correcting herself, "I don't mean to say I'm bonny, but I'm not good. Aunt Beulah used to say I was the worst child she ever saw." "Indeed! you are honest, at all events," he said, with a look of amusement. "And who is Aunt Beulah?" "The person Gracie and I lived with before papa got married to Mamma Vi." "Ah! well I shall not regard her opinion, but wait and form one for myself, and I shall certainly be much surprised if you don't turn out a pattern good girl, now that you are to live with my sweet sister Elsie. In the mean while, will it please you to call me Uncle Horace?" "Yes, sir, since you ask me to," Lulu replied, looking much gratified. At this moment the door opened, and Mr. Lacey walked in. He had come for his wife, and when he and the others had exchanged greetings, she rose to make ready for departure. Calhoun Conly rose also, saying to his brother, "Well, Art, perhaps it would be as well for us to go, too; our friends must be tired after their long journey, and will want to get to bed early." "Suppose you all delay a little and unite with us in evening family worship," said Mr. Dinsmore. "It is a good while since I have had all three of my children present with me at such a service." All complied with his request, and immediately afterward took leave. Then with an exchange of affectionate good-nights the family separated and scattered to their rooms. Lulu was not quite ready for bed when Violet came in, and putting her arm around her, asked, with a gentle kiss, "Do you feel strange and lonely in this new place, little girl?" "Oh, no, Mamma Vi! it seems such a nice home that I am very glad to be in it." "That is right," Violet said, repeating her caress. "I hope you will sleep well and wake refreshed. I shall leave the door open between your room and mine, so that you need not feel timid, and can run right in to me whenever you wish. Good-night, dear." "Good-night, Mamma Vi. Thank you for being so good to me, and to Gracie and Max," Lulu said, clinging to her in an affectionate way. "My child," returned Violet, "how could I be anything else to the children of my dear husband? Ah, I must go! Mamma calls me," she added, hurrying away as a soft, sweet voice was heard coming from the adjoining room. Lulu finished undressing, said her prayers, and had just laid her head on her pillow, when some one glided noiselessly to the bedside and a soft hand passed caressingly over her hair. The child opened her eyes, which had already closed in sleep, and saw by the moonlight a sweet and beautiful face bending lovingly over her. "Grandma Elsie," she murmured sleepily. "Yes, dear. Rosie and Walter never like to go to sleep without a good-night kiss from mamma, and you must have the same now, as you are to be one of my dear children." Lulu, now wide awake, started up to put both arms round the neck of her visitor. "Oh, I do love you!" she said, "and I'll try hard to be a good child to you." "I believe it, dear," Elsie said, pressing the child to her heart. "Will you join my children in their half-hour with mamma in her dressing-room before breakfast? I shall be glad to have you, but you must do just as you please about it." "Thank you, ma'am; I'll come," said Lulu. "That is right. Now lie down and go to sleep. You need a long night's rest." CHAPTER VII. "Her fancy followed him through foaming wares To distant shores." --Cowper. Violet in her night-dress and with her beautiful hair unbound and hanging about her like a golden cloud, stood before her dressing-table, gazing through a mist of unshed tears upon a miniature which she held in her hand. "Ah, where are you now, love?" she sighed half aloud. Her mother's voice answered close at her side, in gentle, tender accents, "In God's keeping, my darling. He is the God of the sea as well as of the land." "Yes, mamma, and his God as well as mine," Violet responded, looking up and smiling through her tears. "Ah, what comfort in both assurances, and in the precious promise, 'Behold, I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places whither thou goest.' It is his and it is mine." "Yes, dearest. I feel for you in your loneliness," her mother said, putting her arms around her. "Elsie is very happy in her husband and baby, Edward in his wife; they need me but little, comparatively, but you and I must draw close together and be a comfort and support to each other; shall we not, my love?" "Yes, indeed, dearest mamma. Oh, what a comfort and blessing you are to me, and always have been! And I am happier and less lonely for having my husband's children with me, especially my darling little Gracie. I feel that in caring for her and nursing her back to health I shall be adding to his happiness." "As no doubt you will," her mother said. "It will be a pleasure to me to help you care for her, and the others also. Now, good-night, daughter; we both ought to be in bed." Violet presently stretched herself beside the sleeping Gracie with a murmured word of endearment drew the child closer to her, and in another moment was sharing her slumbers. When she awoke the sun was shining, and the first object her eyes rested upon was the little face by her side. The pallor and look of exhaustion it had worn the night before were quite gone, a faint tinge of pink had even stolen into the cheeks. Violet noted the change with a feeling of relief and thankfulness, and raising herself upon her elbow, touched her lips lightly to the white forehead. The child's eyes flew open and with a sweet engaging smile, she asked, "Have you been lying beside me all night, mamma?" "Yes, Gracie. You have had a long sleep, dear; do you feel quite rested?" "Yes, mamma, I feel very well. This is such a nice soft bed, and I like to sleep with you. May I always?" "For all winter, I think, dear. I like to have your papa's baby girl by my side." "I'm very much obliged to him for finding me such a sweet, pretty new mamma. I told him so one day," remarked the child innocently, putting an arm about Vi's neck. "Did you?" Violet asked with an amused smile; "and what did he say?" "Nothing; he just smiled and hugged me tight and kissed me ever so many times. Do you know what made him do that, mamma?" "Because he likes to have us love one another. And so we will, won't we, dear?" "Yes, indeed! Mamma, I feel a little hungry." "I'm glad to hear it, for here comes Agnes with a glass of nice rich milk for you. And when you have drunk it she will wash and dress you. We will all have to hurry a little to be ready in good time for breakfast," she added, springing from the bed and beginning her toilet. "Grandpa Dinsmore never likes to have us late." "Miss Rosie and Miss Lulu's up and dressed and gone into Miss Elsie's room, Miss Wilet," remarked Agnes, holding the tumbler she had brought to Gracie's lips. "Ah, that is well," said Violet, with a pleased look. "Lulu has stolen a march on us, Gracie." The week that followed their arrival at Ion was a delightful one to all, especially the children, who had scarce anything to do but enjoy themselves. The weather was all that could be desired, and they walked, rode, drove, boated, fished, and went nutting. Mr. Dinsmore and Edward were every day more or less busied with the affairs of the plantation, but some one of the older people could always find time to be with the children, while Zoe never failed to make one of the party, and seemed almost as much a child as any of the younger ones. Every nook on the plantation and in its neighborhood was explored, and visits were paid to Fairview, the Laurels, the Pines, the Oaks, Roselands and Ashlands; the dwellers at each place having first called upon the family at Ion. Both Max and Lulu had long desired to learn to ride on horseback, and great was their delight on learning that now this wish could be gratified. A pony was always at the service of each, and lessons in the art of sitting and managing it were given them, now by Mr. Dinsmore and now by Edward, who was a great admirer of his brother-in-law, Captain Raymond, had become much attached to him, and took a very kindly interest in his children. Gracie was given a share in all the pleasures for which she was considered strong enough, and when not able to go with the others on their expeditions, was well entertained at home with toys and books filled with pictures and stories suited to her age. Both Elsie and Violet watched over the little girl with true motherly love and care; she warmly returning the affection of both, but clinging especially to Violet, her "pretty new mamma." Gracie was a docile little creature, and seemed very happy in her new life. She was deeply interested in the riding lessons of her brother and sister, and when, near the end of the week, Dr. Arthur, to whom she was becoming much attached, set her on the back of a Shetland pony and led it about the grounds for a few minutes, promising her longer rides as her strength increased, she was almost speechless with happiness. With the second week lessons began for the children. Each task had its appointed hour, and they were required to be as systematic, punctual and well prepared for recitations as pupils in an ordinary school, but at the same time great care was taken that neither mind nor body should be overtaxed, and they enjoyed many liberties and indulgences which could not have been granted elsewhere than at home. The mornings were spent by Rosie and Lulu in the school-room in study and recitation, under the supervision of either "Grandma Elsie" or "Mamma Vi." Grace and Walter would be there also at the start, but their short and easy tasks having been attended to, they might stay and amuse themselves quietly, or if inclined for noisy sport, go to the nursery or play-room to enjoy it there. Max conned his lessons alone in his own room, joining the others only when the hour arrived for reciting to Mr. Dinsmore, who took sole charge of his education, and of the two little girls, so far as concerned Latin and arithmetic. Rosie and Max were together in both these studies, but Lulu--because of being younger and not so far advanced--was alone in both, much to her dissatisfaction, for she was by no means desirous to have Mr. Dinsmore's attention concentrated upon herself for even a short space of time. His keen dark eyes seemed to look her through and through, and though he had never shown her any sternness, she was quite sure he could and would if she gave him any occasion. But for that there was no necessity, his requirements being always reasonable and only such as she was fully capable of meeting. She had a good mind, quick discernment and retentive memory, and she was quite resolved to be industrious and to keep her promise to her father to be a good girl in every way. Also her ambition was aroused to attempt to overtake her brother and Rosie. She was moderately fond of study, but had a decided repugnance to plain sewing, therefore looked ill-pleased enough upon discovering that it was to be numbered among her daily tasks. "I hate sewing!" she said with a scowl, "and when I'm old enough to do as I please, I'll never touch a needle and thread." It was afternoon of their first school day, and the little girls had just repaired to the school-room in obedience to directions given them on their dismissal for the morning. All the ladies of the family were there, gathered cosily about the fire and the table at which Grandma Elsie was busily cutting out garments that seemed to be intended for a child, yet were of coarser, heavier material than any of the family were accustomed to wearing. "Perhaps you may change your mind by that time," she answered Lulu, with pleasant tone and smile; "and I hope you will find it more agreeable now than you expect. You are a kind-hearted little girl, I know, and when I tell you these clothes are for a little Indian girl who needs them sadly, I am quite sure you will be glad to help in making them." Lulu's brow cleared. "Yes, ma'am," she said with a little hesitation, "if I could sew nicely, but I can't." "The more need to learn then, dear. Mamma Vi is basting a seam for you, and will show you how to sew it." "And when we all get started there'll be some nice story read aloud, won't there, mamma?" asked Rosie. "Yes; your sister Elsie will be the reader to-day, and the book Scott's 'Lady of the Lake.'" "Oh, how nice!" cried Rosie in delight; "it's such a lovely book, and sister Elsie's such a beautiful reader." "In my little sister's opinion," laughed Mrs. Leland. "And that of all present, I presume," said "Grandma Rose." "I am fortunate in having so appreciative an audience," returned Elsie gayly. Lulu had accepted a mute invitation to take a seat by Violet's side. "Mamma Vi," she whispered with heightened color, "I can't sew as well as Gracie, and I'm ashamed to have anybody see my poor work." "Never mind, dear, we won't show your first attempts, and you will find this coarse, soft muslin easy to learn on," Violet answered in the same low tone. "See, this is the way," taking a few stitches. "Your father told me he wanted his dear little girls to learn every womanly accomplishment, and I feel sure you will do your best to please him. Take pains, and you may be able to send him some specimen of your work as a Christmas gift. Would you not enjoy that?" "Yes, ma'am, yes indeed!" returned the little girl, setting resolutely to work. "Mamma," said Gracie, coming to Violet's other side, "mayn't I have some work, too? I like sewing better than Lulu does. Aunt Beulah taught me to overseam and to hem." "Then you may help us, little girlie," Violet said, kissing the little fair cheek, "but must stop the minute you begin to feel fatigued; for I must not let papa's baby girl wear out her small strength." Presently, all having been supplied with work, the reading began. Every one seemed able to listen with enjoyment except Lulu, who bent over her task with frowning face, making her needle go in and out with impatient pushes and jerks. Violet watched the performance furtively for a few minutes, then gently taking the work from her, said in a pleasant undertone, "You are getting your stitches too long and too far apart, dear. We will take them out, and you shall try again." "I can't do it right! I'll never succeed, if I try ever so hard!" muttered Lulu, impatiently. "Oh, yes, you will," returned Violet with an encouraging smile. "Keep trying, and you will be surprised to find how easy it will grow." The second attempt was quite an improvement upon the first, and under Violet's pleased look and warm praise Lulu's ruffled temper smoothed down, and the ugly frown left her face. In the mean while Gracie was handling her needle with the quiet ease of one accustomed to its use, making tiny even stitches that quite surprised her new mamma. With all her faults Lulu was incapable of envy or jealousy, especially toward her dearly loved brother and sister, and when at the close of the sewing hour Gracie's work was handed about from one to another, receiving hearty commendation, no one was better pleased than Lulu. "Isn't it nice, Grandma Elsie?" she said, glancing at her little sister with a flush of pride in her skill, "a great deal better than I can do, though she's two years younger." "It's only because I couldn't run about and play like Lulu, and so I just sat beside Aunt Beulah and learned to hem and back-stitch and run and overseam," said Gracie. "But Lulu can do everything else better than I can." "And she will soon equal you in that, I trust," said Violet, with an affectionate glance from one to the other; "I am quite sure she will if she continues to try as she has done to-day. And it makes my heart rejoice to see how you love one another, dear children." "I think everybody loves Gracie, because she's hardly ever naughty," said Lulu; "I wish I'd been made so." CHAPTER VIII. "Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee." --Goldsmith. "How very pretty, Zoe!" said Violet, examining her young sister-in-law's work, a piece of black satin upon which she was embroidering leaves and flowers in bright-colored silks. "Oh, isn't it!" cried Lulu, in delighted admiration. "Mamma Vi, I'd like to learn that kind of sewing." "So you shall, dear, some day; but mamma's theory is that plain sewing should be thoroughly mastered first. That has been her plan with all her children, and Rosie has done scarcely any fancy work yet." "But mamma has promised to let me learn all I can about it this winter," remarked Rosie, with much satisfaction. "Mamma," Zoe said, with a blush, "I'm afraid I ought to join your plain-sewing class. I should be really ashamed to exhibit any of my work in that line." "Well, dear child, I shall be glad to receive you as a pupil if you desire it," Elsie returned, giving her a motherly glance and smile. "Hark!" exclaimed Zoe, hastily gathering up her work, her cheeks rosy and eyes sparkling with pleasure. "I hear Edward's step and voice," and she tripped out of the room. "How fond she is of him!" Violet remarked, looking after her with a pleased smile. "Yes," said her mother, "it does my heart good to see how they love each other. And I think we are all growing fond of Zoe." "Yes, indeed, mamma!" came in chorus from her three daughters. "I'm sure we are; my husband and I as well as the rest," added Mrs. Dinsmore. "And, Vi," said Elsie Leland laughingly, "I really think mamma's new sons are as highly appreciated in the family as her new daughter, and that all three doat upon their new mother. Mamma, Lester says you are a pattern mother-in-law, and I answer, 'Of course; mamma is a pattern in every relation in life.'" "My child, don't allow yourself to become a flatterer," returned her mother gravely. "Zoe, Zoe, where are you?" Edward was calling from below. "Here," she answered, running down to meet him. "I've been in the school-room with mamma and the others," she added, as she gained his side, and looking up brightly into his face as she spoke. "Ah," he said, bending down to kiss the ruby lips. "I thought you were to be my pupil." "Oh, so I am! except in purely feminine accomplishments. See!" holding up her work. "I've been busy with this. It was the sewing hour, and sister Elsie read aloud to us while we worked." "Ah, yes! I have been reader many a time while mamma and sisters plied the needle." "How nice! you are such a beautiful reader! But she is almost as good." "Not only almost, but altogether," he returned gayly as he held open the door of her boudoir for her to enter, then followed her in. "I've come now to hear your recitations. I suppose you are quite prepared," he added, drawing up a chair for her, and glancing at a pile of books lying on the table. "No," she said, coloring and dropping her eyes with a slightly mortified air. "I meant to be, but so many things happened to interfere. I had a letter to write, then some ladies called, and then----" "Well?" he said interrogatively, as she paused, coloring still more deeply. "I wanted to finish the book I was reading last night. I really couldn't fix my thoughts on stupid lessons until I knew what became of the heroine." Edward, standing by her side and looking down at her, shook his head gravely. "Duties should be attended to first, Zoe, pleasures indulged in afterward." "You are talking to me as if I were nothing but a child!" she cried indignantly, her cheeks growing hot. "The dearest, most lovable child in the world," he said, bending down to stroke her hair and look into her face with laughing eyes. "No, sir, I'm your wife. What did you marry me for if you considered me such a child?" she cried with a half pout on her lip, but love-light in the eyes lifted to his. "Because I loved you and wanted the right to take care of you, my bonny belle," he said, repeating his caress. "And you do, the best care in the world, you dear boy!" she exclaimed impulsively, throwing her arms about his neck. "And if it will please you, I'll set to work at the lessons now." "Then do, love; I have letters to write, and we will sit here and work side by side." Both worked diligently for an hour or more; they had a merry time over the recitations, then drove together to the nearest village to post Edward's letters and get the afternoon mail for Ion. Violet was made happy by a long letter from her husband. She had barely time to glance over it, learning when and where it was written, and that he was well at the time of writing, when the tea-bell rang. She slipped the precious missive into her pocket with a little sigh of satisfaction, and joined the others at the table with a very bright and happy face. She had not been the only fortunate one; her mother had cheering news from Herbert and Harold, Mrs. Dinsmore some sprightly, gossipy letters from her sisters Adelaide and May, whose contents furnished topics of lively discourse, in which Violet took part. She had not mentioned her own letter, but at length Edward, noting the brightness of her countenance, asked, "Good news from the captain, Vi?" "Yes, thank you," she said; "he was well and seemingly in excellent spirits at the time of writing, though he says he misses wife and children sorely." All three of his children turned toward her with eager, questioning looks, Max and Lulu asking, "Didn't papa write to us, too?" "He sends you a message, dears," Violet said. "I have not really read the letter yet, but shall do so after supper, and you shall all surely have your share of it." On leaving the table they followed her to the door of her boudoir. "May we come in, Mamma Vi?" Max asked, with a wistful look. "Certainly," she answered in a pleasant tone, though longing to be quite alone while giving her precious letter its first perusal; "I would have you feel as free to come into my apartments as I always have felt to go into mamma's. Sit down and make yourselves comfortable, dears, and you shall hear presently what your papa says. "The letter was written on shipboard, brought into New York by another vessel and there mailed to me." Max politely drew up a chair near the light for Violet, another for Lulu, placed Gracie's own little rocker close to her mamma's side, then stood behind it prepared to give close attention to the reading of his father's letter. Violet omitted a little here and there--expressions of tender affection for herself, or something else evidently intended for her eye alone. The captain wrote delightful letters; at least they were such in the esteem of his wife and children. This one provoked to both laughter and tears, he had so amusing a way of relating trivial incidents, and some passages were so tenderly affectionate. But something near the close brought an anxious, troubled look to Max's face, a frown to Lulu's brow. It was this: "Tell Max and Lulu I wish each of them to keep a diary for my inspection, writing down every evening what have been the doings and happenings of the day as regards themselves--their studies, their pleasures, their conduct also. Max telling of himself, Lulu of herself, just as they would if sitting on my knee and answering the questions, 'What have you been busy about to-day? Have you been attentive to your studies, respectful and obedient to those in charge of you? Have you tried to do your duty toward God and man?' "They need not show any one at Ion what they write. I shall trust to their truthfulness and honesty not to represent themselves as better than they are, not to hide their faults from the father who cares to know of them, only that he may help his dear children to live right and be happy. Ah, if they but knew how I love them! and how it grieves and troubles me when they go astray!" Max's face brightened at those closing sentences, Lulu's softened for a moment, but then, as Violet folded the letter, "I don't want to!" she burst out. "Why does papa say we must do such things?" "He tells you, dear; did you not notice?" said Violet. "He says he wishes to know your faults in order to help you to correct them. And don't you think it will help you to avoid wrongdoing? to resist temptation? the remembrance that it must be confessed to your dear father and will grieve him very much? Is it not kind in him to be willing to bear that pain for the sake of doing you good?" Lulu did not answer, but Max said, "Yes, indeed, Mamma Vi! and oh, I hope I'll never have to make his heart ache over my wrongdoings! But I don't know how to keep a diary." "Nor I either," added Lulu. "But you can learn, dears," Violet said. "I will help you at the start. You can each give a very good report of to-day's conduct, I am sure. "The keeping of a diary will be very improving to you in a literary way, teaching you to express your thoughts readily in writing, and that, I presume, is one thing your father has in view." "But it will be just like writing compositions; and that I always did _hate_!" cried Lulu vehemently. "No, not exactly," said Max; "because you don't have to make up anything, only to tell real happenings and doings that you haven't had time to forget." "And I think you will soon find it making the writing of compositions easier," remarked Violet, with an encouraging smile. "It'll be just the same as having to write a composition every day," grumbled Lulu. "I wish papa wouldn't be so hard on us. I have to study lessons a whole hour every evening, and then it'll take ever so long to write that, and I shall not have a bit of time to play." "I wish I could write," little Gracie said, with a half sigh. "If I could, I'd like to talk that way to papa." "You shall learn, darling," Violet said, caressing her with gentle fondness. "Would you like to begin now?" "Oh, yes, mamma!" cried the child eagerly. "Then bring me your slate, and I will set you a copy. Max and Lulu, would you like to bring your writing-desks in here, and let me give you any help you may need?" Both assented to the proposal with thanks, and were presently seated near her, each with open desk, a fresh sheet of paper spread out upon it, and pen in hand. "I think that until you are a little used to the business, it would be well to compose first with a pencil, then copy in ink," remarked Violet. "And here," taking it from a drawer in her writing-desk, as she spoke, "is some printing paper which takes pencil mark much better than the more highly glazed paper which we use ordinarily in writing letters." She gave each of them a pile of neatly cut sheets and a nicely sharpened pencil. They thanked her, and Max set to work at once. Lulu sat playing with her pencil, her eyes on the carpet. "I don't know how to begin!" she exclaimed presently in an impatient tone. "What shall I say first, Mamma Vi?" "Write down the date and then--Suppose you dictate to me, if that will be any easier." "Thank you, ma'am, I think it would till I get into the way of it," Lulu said, handing over her paper and pencil with a sigh of relief. "Now," said Violet, encouragingly, "just imagine that you are sitting on your papa's knee and answering the question, 'What have you been doing all day?'" "As soon as I was dressed and ready for breakfast, I went to Grandma Elsie's dressing-room, along with Rosie and the others, to say Bible verses, and hear Grandma Elsie talk about them and pray. Will that do, Mamma Vi?" "Very nicely, dear; it is just what your papa wants, I think." Lulu's brow cleared, and she went on stating briefly the doings of the now closing day in the due order of their succession, Violet's pen nearly keeping pace with her tongue. "And here we are--Max and Gracie and I--sitting with Mamma Vi in her boudoir, and she is writing for me the words I tell her, and I'm to copy them off to-morrow," was the concluding sentence of this first entry in the little girl's diary. "Will you hear mine, Mamma Vi, and tell me if it will do?" asked Max; and receiving permission read it aloud. "It is very good indeed, Max," Violet said; "a good and true report, and well expressed. Now, if you and Lulu choose you may bring your books here and study your lessons for to-morrow, and if you need help from me I shall give it with pleasure." "But, Mamma Vi, it will be very dull for you to stay up here with us while the rest of the grown-up people are having a nice time together in the parlor," said Max. "You are very kindly thoughtful, Max," returned Violet, with a pleased look, "but I don't care to go down-stairs for some time yet; Gracie begins to look weary, so I shall help her to bed and then answer your father's letter. Can't you imagine that I may prefer to talk to Mm for a little rather than to any one else, even if only with pen, ink and paper?" she added, with a charming blush and smile. "Oh, yes, indeed! for I know you're very fond of him. And I don't wonder, for I think he's the very best and handsomest man in the world," cried Max enthusiastically, and both Lulu and Gracie said, "So do I." "Then we are all agreed so far," laughed Vi. "Come, Gracie, darling, I will be your maid to-night." "No, no! not my maid, but my dear, sweet, pretty mamma!" returned the little one, throwing her arms around Violet's neck and kissing her with ardent affection. Lulu had risen to go for her books, but paused to say with a slight effort and heightened color, "Yes, Mamma Vi, you are sweet and pretty, and very, very kind to us." The child was by no means devoid of gratitude, though her pride and prejudice were hard to conquer. Expressions of gratitude and affection toward their young stepmother were far less frequent from her than from her brother and sister, but were perhaps all the more valued because of their rarity. "Thank you, dear," returned Violet, happy tears glistening in her eyes; "if I am, it is because I love you for both your own and your father's sake." She knew his heart always rejoiced in every demonstration of affection from his children toward her, and in the letter she presently began writing she recounted all that had been shown her that evening, and also others carefully treasured up in her memory for that purpose. CHAPTER IX. "The sober comfort, all the peace which springs From the large aggregate of little things, On these small cares of--daughter--wife--or friend, The almost sacred joys of home depend." --Hannah More. Mrs. Elsie Travilla and her family were greatly beloved in their own neighborhood, and as there had been no opportunity hitherto for showing attention to the three young married ladies, or any one of them, there was quite an influx of callers for a week or two after the return to Ion, and these calls were presently succeeded by a round of dinner and evening parties given in their honor. The death of Mr. Love having occurred within the year, Zoe, of course, declined all such invitations; and it was only occasionally that Edward could be persuaded to go without her. Violet accepted when it would have been deemed impolite or unkind to decline, but scarcely yet more than a bride, she felt a trifle forlorn going into society without her husband, and much preferred the quiet and seclusion of home. This was to the advantage of the children, Max and Lulu thereby gaining much assistance with their evening studies, Gracie a great deal of motherly care and petting. So the duty of representing the family at these social gatherings devolved largely upon Lester and Elsie Leland, who laughingly declared themselves martyrs to the social reputation of the family. "A very nice way to be martyred, I think," said Rosie. "I only wish they'd have the politeness to include me in their invitations." "It would do you little good," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, "since you would not be allowed to accept." "Are you quite sure, grandpa, that mamma wouldn't allow it?" she asked, with an arch look up into his face. "Quite; since she never allows anything which I do not approve." "Well," Rosie said, seating herself upon his knee and putting an arm around his neck, "I believe it isn't worth while to fret about it, since, as I'm not invited, I couldn't go any how." "A sensible conclusion," he returned laughingly. "Fretting is an unprofitable business at any time." "Ordinarily I should be very much of Rosie's opinion," Zoe said aside to her husband, "for I was always fond of parties; but of course, just now I couldn't take the least pleasure in them," and she hastily brushed away a tear. "No, love, I'm sure you could not," he said, tenderly clasping the little hand she had laid in his. "But the truest, purest happiness is found at home. And," he added with a smile, "it is quite to the advantage of your plans for study that society can claim so little of your time and strength at present. You are doing so nicely that I am very proud of my pupil." She flushed with pleasure, but with a roguish smile, and shaking her finger warningly at him, "Take care," she said, "don't let the husband be lost in the tutor, or I shall----" "What? go over to grandpa?" "Oh, no, no!" she cried, snatching her hand from his grasp, and lifting both in mimic horror. "What are you two chatting so cosily about in that far-off corner?" asked Mrs. Leland's cheery voice from the midst of the larger group at the farther side of the room. "It's merely a little private confab between man and wife, in which the public can have no interest," returned Edward. "Quite a mistake, so far as this part of the public is concerned," said his mother, her soft brown eyes gazing lovingly upon them, "but we won't pry into your secrets, only invite you to join our circle when you have finished your private chat." For some weeks all went well with our friends at Ion; the family machinery worked smoothly, with no jarring or jostling; everybody in good humor and behaving kindly toward everybody else. Max and Lulu made good progress in their studies, and were able to give a good report of each day in their diaries, which, of their own accord, they brought each evening to Violet for her inspection. She reminded them that they were not required to do so; but they answered that they preferred it; they wanted to know if she thought they were representing themselves as better than they really were. She was glad to be able to answer with truth that she did not think so, and that she could report them to their father as worthy of all praise in regard to both conduct and diligence in study. "You have both been so pleasant tempered," she remarked in conclusion, "Lulu neither grumbling nor so much as looking sour over her tasks, or even the sewing lessons, which I know are particularly distasteful to her. Dear child, you have been very good, and I know it will rejoice your father's heart to hear it," she added, kissing the little girl's cheek. Lulu's face flushed and her eyes shone, Mrs. Scrimp had been always ready to blame, never to praise, but with Mamma Vi it was just the other way. She was almost blind to faults, but particularly keen-sighted where virtues were concerned. Violet turned toward Max to find him regarding her with wistful, longing looks. "Well, what is it, Max, my dear boy?" she asked, half laughingly. "Don't be partial, Mamma Vi," he answered. "I do believe a boy likes a kiss from a sweet, pretty lady that he has a right to care for, quite as well as a girl does." "Then come and get it," she said, offering her lips. "Max, you may feel as free always to ask for it as if I were your own mother or sister." Edward had, perhaps, the most trying pupil of all; she had done well at first, but as the novelty of the undertaking wore off, lost her interest, and now found so many excuses for not being prepared at the proper time for recitation; and if he so much as looked grave over the failure, was so hurt, and felt herself so ill-used, that an extra amount of coaxing and petting became necessary to restore her to cheerfulness and good humor. He was growing very weary of it all, and at times felt tempted to cease trying to improve the mind of his little wife; but no, he could not do that if he would have her a fit companion for him intellectually as well as in other respects, for though she had naturally a fine mind, its cultivation had been sadly neglected. He opened his heart to his mother on the subject, entreating her advice and assistance, but without finding fault with Zoe (Elsie would hardly have listened for a moment to that), and she comforted him with words of encouragement to persevere in his own efforts, and promises to aid him in every way in her power. In pursuance of that object she put in Zoe's way, and recommended to her notice, books that would be likely to interest and at the same time instruct her. Also considered her needs, as well as those of her own pupils, in making her selections for the afternoon readings in the school-room. There was much gained by the child wife in these ways, and also from the conversation of the highly educated and intelligent older members of the family, of which she had now become a part. She was very desirous to become their equal in these respects, especially for Edward's sake, but she was so much used to self-indulgence, so unaccustomed to self-control, that her good resolutions were made only to be broken till she herself was nearly ready to give up in despair. Elsie was alone in her own apartments one afternoon, an hour or more after dismissing her pupils to their play, when Zoe came to her with flushed cheeks, quivering lips, and eyes full of tears. "What is wrong with you, my dear little daughter?" Elsie asked in tender, motherly tones, as she looked up into the troubled face. "O mamma, I don't know what to do! I wish you could help me!" cried Zoe, dropping upon her knees at Elsie's feet, and hiding her face on her lap, the tears falling fast now, mingled with sobs. "Only tell me what is wrong, dear, and you shall have all the help I can give," Elsie said, smoothing the weeper's fair hair with soft, caressing hand. "Edward is vexed with me," sobbed Zoe. "I know he is, though he didn't say a word; but he looked so grave, and walked away without speaking." "Perhaps he was not vexed with you, dear; it may have been merely that he was deep in thought about something that had no connection with the little wife, whom, as I very well know, he loves very dearly." "No, mamma, it wasn't that; he had come in to hear me recite, and I was so interested in my fancy work that I'd forgotten to watch the time and hadn't looked at the lessons. So I told him, and said I was sorry I wasn't ready for him, and he didn't answer a word, but just looked at me as grave as a judge, and turned round and walked out of the room." "Surely, my dear Zoe, Edward does not insist upon his little wife learning lessons whether she is willing or not?" Elsie said inquiringly, and with a gentle caress. "Oh, no, no, mamma! it has been my own choice, and I've no wish to give it up; but somehow there is always something interfering with my studying. Somebody calls, or I'm inclined for a ride, a drive or a walk, or I get engaged in sewing or fancy work, or my music, or a story-book that's too interesting to lay down till I reach the end. Mamma, I often wonder how it is that you find time for all these things and many others beside." "Shall I tell you the secret of managing it, dear?" Elsie asked, with an affectionate look and smile into the tear-stained face now uplifted to hers. Zoe gave an eager assent, and Elsie went on: "It lies in doing things systematically, always putting duties first, giving to each its set time, and letting the pleasures come in afterward. If I were you, my dear, I should have a regular study hour, putting it early in the day, before callers begin to come, and I should not allow it to be lightly interfered with; no stitch should be taken in fancy work, no novel opened, no story paper glanced at, until each lesson for the day was fully prepared." Zoe's face had brightened very much as she listened. "O mamma, I see that that is just the way to do it!" she cried, clapping her hands with glee, "and I'll begin at once. I'll think over all the daily duties and make out a regular programme, and----" "Strive earnestly to carry it out, you would say, yet not in your own strength alone," Elsie added, as Zoe paused, leaving her sentence unfinished. "Yes, mamma," she responded in a more serious tone. "And now, I'll run back to my room and try to be ready for Edward when he comes in again." She set herself to her tasks with unwonted determination to give her whole mind to them. Edward came in at length, and was greeted with a bright look and the announcement in a tone of great satisfaction, "I'm quite ready for you now." "I've been thinking we might perhaps as well give it up, Zoe," he answered gravely, "at least for the present, until you are done working upon those very fascinating Christmas things." "Oh no, don't!" she said, flushing and looking ready to cry, "try me a little longer, Ned; I've been talking with mamma, and I'm really going to turn over a new leaf and do just as she advises." "Ah, if you have taken mamma into your counsels there is some hope," he said in a tone of hearty approval. "But we will have to put off the recitations until after tea. I must drive over to the Oaks to see Uncle Horace about a business matter, and I just came up to ask you to go along." "Oh, I'll be happy to!" she cried joyously, pushing the books aside and starting to her feet, "and it won't take me a minute to don hat and cloak." He caught her in his arms as she was rushing past him, and kissing her on cheek and lips, asked in tender tones, "Have I made you unhappy this afternoon, my love, my darling?" "Yes, for a little while; but I deserved it, Ned, and I don't mind it now if--if only you love your foolish, careless little wife as well as ever in spite of all her faults." "I love you dearly, dearly, my one own peculiar treasure," he responded, with another caress of ardent affection, as he let her go. She was gay and happy as a bird during their drive, and full of enthusiasm in regard to her new plan, explaining it to Edward, and asking his advice about the best division of her time, how much should be allotted to this duty and how much to that. "I mean to rise earlier," she said, "and if I can't get time in that way for all I want to do, I'll shorten my rides and walks." "No," he said, "I'm not going to have your health sacrificed even to mental improvement; and certainly not to fancy work; I shall insist on plenty of rest and sleep and abundance of exercise in the open air for the dear little woman I have taken charge of." "Then, sir, you're not to be cross if the studies are not attended to." "They will be if put before novels, fancy work, and other equally unnecessary employments." "Well, I've said they shall be in future. O Ned," and she nestled closer to his side, looking up lovingly into his face, "it's ever so nice to have somebody to take care of me and love me as you do! How could I ever do without papa, who always petted me so, if I hadn't you?" "I hope you may never find out. I hope I may be spared to take care of you, as long as you need me, little wife," he said, pressing her closer to his side. Rosie met them in the hall on their return to Ion. "It's most tea time, Zoe," she said; "I think you'll not have any too much time for changing your dress." "Then I must needs make haste," returned Zoe, tripping up the stairs. Edward, who was taking off his overcoat, turned a rather surprised, inquiring glance upon his little sister. "Oh, yes," she said laughingly, "I had a reason for hurrying her away, because I want to tell you something. Cousin Ronald Lilburn is coming. Maybe he will be here by to-morrow. Mamma heard he wasn't well, and she wrote and invited him to come and spend the winter with us, and she's just had a letter saying he will come. Aren't you glad, Ned?" "I'm very well pleased, Rosie, but why shouldn't Zoe have heard your announcement?" "Because I wanted to warn you first not to tell her or the Raymonds something (you know what) that must be kept secret at first, if we want to have some fun." "Oh, yes!" he said, with a good-humored laugh. "Well, I think you may trust me not to tell. But how about all the others? Walter, especially?" "Oh, he doesn't remember anything about it; and grandpa and mamma and all the rest have promised not to tell." "And you are quite sure Rosie may be trusted not to let the secret slip out unintentionally?" he asked, pinching her round rosy cheek. "I hope so," she said, laughing and running away. Opening the library door and seeing Lulu there curled up in the corner of a sofa with a book, she stepped in, shutting the door behind her. Lulu looked up. "Shall I disturb you if I talk?" asked Rose. "I'm ready to listen," answered Lulu, half closing her book. "What have you to say?" "Oh, that Cousin Ronald Lilburn is coming, and I'm ever so glad, as you would be, too, if you knew him." "I never heard of him," said Lulu. "Is he a boy? is he older than Max?" "I should think so!" cried Rosie, with a merry laugh. "He has grown-up sons, and he looks a good deal older than grandpa." "Pooh! then why should I care about his coming!" exclaimed Lulu, in a tone of mingled impatience and contempt. "Why, because he's very nice and kind to us children, and tells us the loveliest stories about the brownies in Scotland and about Bruce and Wallace and the black Douglass and Robin Hood and his merry men, and--oh, I can't tell you what all!" "Oh, that must be ever so nice!" cried Lulu, now as much pleased and interested in the news of the expected arrival as Rosie could desire. CHAPTER X. IN WHICH THE CHILDREN HAVE SOME FUN. In the uppermost story of the house at Ion was a large play-room furnished with a great variety of toys and games--indeed almost everything that could be thought of for the amusement of the young folks, from Walter up to Max. But the greatest delight of the last named was in the deft handling of the tools in an adjoining apartment, called the boys' work-room. There he found abundance of material to work upon, holly scroll and fret saws, and a well-stocked tool chest. Edward had given him a few lessons at the start, and now he had become so expert as to be turning out some really beautiful pieces of carving, which he intended to give to his friends at Christmas. Lulu, too, was learning scroll-sawing, and thought it far preferable to any sort of needle-work; sometimes more enjoyable than playing with her dolls. They were there together one afternoon, both very busy and chatting and laughing as they worked. "Max," said Lulu, "I'm determined to learn to do scroll-sawing and carving just as well as ever I can, and make lovely things! Maybe I can contrive new patterns or designs, or whatever they call 'em, and after a while make ever so much money, enough to pay for my clothes and everything, so that papa won't have to spend any of his money on me." "Why, Lu!" exclaimed her brother, "do you think papa grudges the money he spends on you, or any of us?" "No, I know he doesn't," she returned vehemently, "but can't you understand that I'd like him to have more to spend on himself?" "Oh," said Max. "Well, that's right, I'm sure, and very thoughtful for a little girl like you. I do think you're splendid in some ways, Lu." "And whether you make money by it or not, it will be a good thing to learn to do this work well. Papa says, 'knowledge is power,' and the more things we know how to do, the more independent and useful we will be." Just then the door opened, and Zoe, in riding hat and habit, put in her head. "Max, I'm going to ride into the village," she said, "and Edward can't go with me, as he intended. Will you?" "Yes, Aunt Zoe, of course, if you want me," answered the boy promptly, stopping his saw and springing to his feet, for he was much gratified by the invitation. "I'll get ready as fast as I can; 'twon't take over five minutes." "Thank you. I'll wait for you in the parlor," said Zoe, "Lulu, would you like to go, too?" "No, thank you, I had a ride this morning, and now I want to finish this." Max had left the room, and Zoe, drawing nearer to Lulu, exclaimed at the beauty of her work. "Why, I never should have dreamed you could do it so well!" she said. "I don't believe I could." Lulu's face flushed with pleasure, but she said modestly, "Perhaps you'd find, if you should try, that you could do it better; you do everything else better than I do." "Quite a mistake," returned Zoe, "though I ought to, as I'm so much older. But there, I dare say Max is ready and waiting for me, so good-by." They met in the lower hall. "All ready, Max?" she asked. "Yes--no; I must ask leave," and he ran into the parlor where the ladies of the family were sitting. It was of Grandma Elsie he asked permission, and it was given at once. "Thank you, ma'am," he said. "Can I do anything for you in the town, ladies?" "Yes," said Violet, "I have just broken a crochet needle. You may get me one to replace it." She went on to give him directions about the size and where he would be likely to find it; then taking some money from her purse, "This is sure to be more than enough," she said, "but you may keep the change." "Mamma Vi, I don't want pay for doing an errand for you," returned the boy coloring; "it is a great pleasure, it would be even if papa had not told me to wait on you and do all I could to fill his place." "I don't mean it as pay, my dear boy," Violet answered, with a pleased look, "but haven't I a right to make a little present now and then to the children who call me mamma?" Max's face brightened. "Yes, ma'am, I suppose so," he said. "Thank you; I'll take it willingly enough if it isn't pay, and I'm very proud to be trusted to buy something for you." Edward was helping Zoe into the saddle as Max came hurrying out. "Take good care of her, Max," he said, "I'm trusting you and Tom there with my chiefest treasure." "I'll do my best," Max said, mounting his pony, which Tom the colored boy was holding. "Me, too, Marse Ed'ard, dere shan't nuffin hurt Miss Zoe," added the latter, giving Max the bridle, then mounting a third horse and falling behind the others as they cantered down the avenue. A little beyond the gate the family carriage passed them, Mr. Dinsmore and a strange gentleman inside. "Company," remarked Zoe. "I wonder who he is, and if he's come to stay any time? I think grandpa drove into the city in season to meet the afternoon train." "Yes, I know he did," said Max. Max had now learned to ride quite well, and felt himself very nearly a man as he escorted Zoe to the village, and, arrived there, went with her from store to store, executed Violet's commission, then having assisted Zoe into the saddle remounted, and returned with her to Ion. It was very near the tea hour when they reached home. Zoe went directly to her own apartments to change her dress, but Max, without even waiting to take off his overcoat, hastened into the parlor to hand the crochet needle to Violet. The ladies were all there, Rosie, too, and Mr. Dinsmore, and an elderly gentleman, whom Max at once recognized as the one he had seen in the carriage that afternoon. He shook hands very kindly with the boy as Mr. Dinsmore introduced them, "Cousin Ronald this is Max Raymond--Mr. Lilburn, Max." "Ah ha, ah ha! um, h'm! ah ha! A fine-looking lad," Mr. Lilburn said, still holding the boy's hand in a kindly grasp, and gazing with evident interest into the bright young face. "I trust you and I are going to be good friends, Max. I'm no so young myself as I once was, but I like the company of the blithe young lads and lasses." "Thank you, sir," said Max, coloring with pleasure. "Rosie says you tell splendid stories about Wallace and the Bruce and Robin Hood and his merry men; and I know I shall enjoy them ever so much." As he finished his sentence Max colored more deeply than before, at the same time hastily thrusting his right hand deep into the pocket on that side of his overcoat, for a peculiar sound like the cry of a young puppy seemed to come from it at that instant, much to the boy's discomfiture and astonishment. "What is that? What have you got there, Max?" asked little Walter, pricking up his ears, while Violet asked with an amused look, "Have you been making an investment in livestock, Max?" A query that seemed all the more natural and appropriate as the cluck of a hen came from the pocket on the other side of the overcoat. Down went the left hand into that. "No, Mamma Vi, they're not in my pockets," returned the boy, with a look of great bewilderment. "No, to be sure not," said Mr. Lilburn, and the hen clucked behind Violet's chair and the pup's cry was heard coming from underneath a heap of crocheting in Mrs. Dinsmore's lap, fairly startling her into uttering a little cry of surprise and dismay and springing to her feet. Then everybody laughed, Rosie clapping her hands with delight, and Max glanced from one to another more mystified than ever. "Never mind, Max," said Violet, "it's plain you are not the culprit who brought such unwelcome intruders here. Run up to your room now and make yourself ready for tea." Max obeyed, but looking back from the doorway, asked, "Shall I send one of the servants to turn out the hen and carry away the pup?" "Never mind, we'll attend to it," said Mr. Dinsmore. "I'll find 'em. I can carry that pup out," said Walter, getting down from his grandpa's knee and beginning a vigorous search for it, the older people watching him with much amusement. At length, having satisfied himself that neither it nor the hen was in the room, he concluded that they must be in Max's overcoat pockets, and told him so the moment he returned. "No, they are not, unless some one has put them there since I went up-stairs," said Max. "But I don't believe in them, Walter. I think they were only make believe." "How make believe?" asked the little fellow in perplexity. "Ask Mr. Lilburn." "Come, explain yourself, young man," said that gentleman laughingly. "I've heard of ventriloquists, sir," said Max. "I don't know if you are one, but as pup and hen could only be heard and not seen, I think it must have been a ventriloquist's work." "But you don't know for certain," said Rosie, coming to his side, "and please don't say anything to Zoe, or Lulu, or Gracie about it." "I won't," he said, as the door opened and the three entered, Zoe having overtaken the two little girls on their way down-stairs after being dressed for the evening by the careful and expert Agnes. "Mamma, do I look nice enough for your little girl?" asked Gracie, going to Violet's side. "Very nice and sweet, my darling," was the whispered reply, accompanied by a tender caress. Walter, hardly waiting until the necessary introductions were over, burst out eagerly, "Zoe, do you know where that pup is?" "What pup?" she asked. "I don't know his name." "Well, what about him?" "I thought he was in Max's pocket, but he wasn't, and neither was the hen." The tea-bell rang at that instant, and Rosie, putting her lips to Walter's ear, whispered, "Do keep quiet about it, and we'll have some fun." "Will we?" he asked with a look of mingled wonder and pleasure; "then I'll keep quiet." All through the meal Walter was on the _qui vive_ for the fun, but there was none beyond a few jests and pleasantries which were by no means unusual in their cheerful family circle. "There wasn't a bit of fun, Rosie," he complained to her after all had returned to the parlor. "Wait a little," she answered, "perhaps it will come yet." "Before I have to go to bed?" "I hope so. Suppose you go and tell Cousin Ronald you want some fun. He knows how to make it. But be sure to whisper it in his ear." Walter did as directed. "Wait a wee, bairnie, and see what will happen," Cousin Ronald answered in an undertone, and with a low pleasant laugh as he lifted the little fellow to his knee. Mr. Dinsmore sat near at hand, the ladies had gathered about the centre-table with their work, while Lester Leland and Edward Travilla hovered near their wives, the one with a newspaper, the other merely watching the busy fingers of the fair workers and making jesting comments upon what they were doing. But presently there was a sudden commotion in their midst, one after another springing from her chair with a little startled cry and trying to dodge what, from the sound, seemed to be an enormous bumble bee circling round and round their heads and in and out among them. "Buzz! buzz! buzz!" surely never bumble bee buzzed so loud before. "Oh, catch it! kill it, Edward!" cried Zoe, with a half frantic rush to the farther side of the room. "Oh, here it comes after me! It's settling on my hair! Oh!" "No, dear, it isn't, there is really nothing there," Edward said soothingly, yet with a laugh, for a second thought had told him the real cause of the disturbance. "I believe it's gone," she said, drawing a long breath of relief, as she turned her head this way and that, "but where did it go to? and how strange for one to be flying about this time of year!" The other ladies exchanging amused glances and smiles, were drawing round the table again when a loud "cluck, cluck" came from beneath it. "Oh, there she is! there's the old hen Max brought!" cried Walter, springing from Mr. Lilburn's knee to run to the table. Stooping down he peeped under it. "Why, no, she's not there!" he said in wonder and disappointment. "Ah, yonder she is! behind that window curtain," as "cluck, cluck cluck," came from a distant corner. "Max, Max, catch her quick, 'fore she gets away!" Max ran and hastily drew aside the curtain. There was nothing there, as Walter, Lulu and Gracie, who had all rushed to the spot, perceived with amazement. "Hark!" said Mr. Dinsmore, and as a death-like silence fell upon the room the "cluck, cluck, cluck" was distinctly heard from the hall. Out rushed the children and searched its whole length, but without finding the intruder. Back they came to report their failure. Then dogs, big and little, barked and growled, now here, now there, little pigs squealed, cats meowed, and mice squealed from the corners, under sofas and chairs, in the ladies' laps, in the gentlemen's pockets, yet not one could be seen. For a while it made a great deal of sport, but at length little feeble Gracie grew frightened and nervous, and running to "Mamma Vi" hid her head in her lap with a burst of tears and sobs. That put an end to the fun and frolic, everybody sobered down instantly and kept very quiet, while Grandpa Dinsmore carefully explained to the little weeper that Cousin Ronald had made all the sounds which had so excited and alarmed her, and that there was really nothing in the room that could hurt or annoy her. She lifted her head at last, wiped away her tears, and with a laugh that was half a sob, said, "I'll stop crying, then; but I'm afraid everybody thinks I'm a great baby." "Oh no, dear!" said Grandma Elsie, "we all know that if our little girlie is easily troubled, it is because she is not well and strong like the rest of us." "And I must beg your pardon for frightening you so, my wee bit bonny lassie," said Mr. Lilburn, stroking her hair. "I'll try to atone for it, one o' these days, by telling you and the other bairns the finest stories I know." The promise called forth from the young folks a chorus of thanks and exclamations of delight, Walter adding, "Won't you please tell one now, Cousin Ronald, to comfort Gracie?" "A very disinterested request, no doubt, my little son," Elsie said laughingly, as she rose and took his hand to lead him from the room; "but it is high time both you and Gracie were in your nests. So bid good-night, and we will go." CHAPTER XI. "At Christmas play, and make good cheer, For Christmas comes but once a year." --Tusser. It was the day before Christmas. "When do our holidays begin, mamma?" asked Rosie, as she put her books neatly away in her desk after the last morning recitation. "Now, my child; we will have no tasks this afternoon. Instead, I give my five little folks an invitation to drive into the city with me. How many will accept?" "I, thank you, ma'am," "and I," "and I," came in joyous tones from one and another, for all were in the room, and not one indifferent to the delight of a visit to the city, especially just at this time when the stores were so full of pretty things. Besides, who could fail to enjoy a drive with the kind, sweet lady some of them called mamma, others Grandma Elsie? "Then you may all be ready to start immediately after dinner," she said, glancing around upon them with a benign smile. It was a still, bright day, mild for the season, no snow on the ground to make a sleigh-ride possible, but the roads were good, they had fine horses, plenty of wraps, and the ride in the softly-cushioned, easy-rolling carriage, whose large plate-glass windows gave them a good view of the country first, then of the streets and shop windows of the city, was found very enjoyable. They were not afraid to jest, laugh, and be as merry as health, freedom from care, youthful spirits, and pleasing anticipations for the morrow inclined them to be. Most of the Christmas shopping had been done days before, but some orders were left with grocers and confectioners, and Grandma Elsie treated generously to bonbons. She allowed her children much greater latitude in such matters than her father had permitted her in her early years. The Ion carriage had scarcely turned out of the avenue, on its way to the city, when one of the parlors became the scene of great activity and mirth. A large Christmas tree was brought in and set up by the men servants; then Lester and his Elsie, Violet, Edward and Zoe proceeded to trim it. That done they gave their attention to the adorning with evergreens the walls of that and several other rooms, completing their labors and closing the doors upon the tree some time before the return of the children. "We shall have scarcely more than time to dress for tea," Grandma Elsie said, as the carriage drew up at the door; "so go directly to your rooms, my dears. Are you very tired, little Gracie?" "No, ma'am, just a wee bit," said the child. "I'm getting so much stronger, and we've had such a nice time, Grandma Elsie." "I'll carry you up-stairs, little missy," said Tom, the servant man, who opened the door for them, picking her up as he spoke. "Bring her in here, Tom," Violet said, speaking from the door of her dressing-room. "And will you come in too, Lulu dear?" Violet was very careful never to give Lulu an order; her wishes when addressing her were always expressed in the form of a request. Lulu complied at once, Tom stepping back for her to enter first. She was in high good-humor, having enjoyed her drive extremely. "Mamma Vi," she exclaimed, "we've had a splendid time! It's just delightful to be taken out by Grandma Elsie." "Yes; I have always found it so," said Violet. "And how has your papa's baby girl enjoyed herself?" drawing Gracie toward her, as Tom set her down, and taking off her hat. "Oh, ever so much! Mamma how beautiful you look! I wish papa was here to see you." "That's just what I was thinking," said Lulu. "You _are_ beautiful, Mamma Vi, and then you always wear such very pretty and becoming things." "I am glad you approve my taste in dress," Violet said, laughing. "And what do you think of those?" with a slight motion of her hand in the direction of the bed. Both little girls turned to look, then with a little cry of surprise and delight hastened to give a closer inspection to what they saw there--two pretty dresses of soft, fine white cashmere, evidently intended for them, each with sash and ribbons lying on it, Lulu's of rose pink, Gracie's a delicate shade of blue. "O Mamma Vi! are they for us?" exclaimed Lulu. "They were bought and made expressly for my two dear little girls; for them to wear to-night," said Violet. "Do they suit your taste, dears?" "They are just beautiful, my dear, sweet, pretty mamma," cried Gracie, running to her and half smothering her with hugs and kisses. "There, pet, that will do," said Violet, laughing, as she returned a hearty kiss, then gently disengaged the child's arms from her neck; "we must make haste to array you in them before the tea-bell rings," and taking Gracie's hand, she led her toward the bed. Lulu was standing there smoothing down the folds of her new dress, and noting, with a thrill of pleasure, how prettily the rich sash and ribbons contrasted with its creamy whiteness. "Mamma Vi," she said, looking up into her young stepmother's face, her expression a mixture of penitence and gratitude, "how good you and Grandma Elsie are to me! Indeed, everybody here is good to me; though I--I'm so bad-tempered." "You have been very good of late, dear," Violet said, bending down to kiss her forehead, "and it is a dear delight to me to do all I can to make my husband's children happy." Agnes now came to Violet's assistance, and when the tea-bell rang, a few minutes later, the two little girls were quite ready to descend with their mamma to the supper-room. Grandma Elsie looked in on her way down, and Violet said, sportively, "See, mamma, I have my dolls dressed." "Yes," Elsie returned, with a smile, "you were always fond of dressing dolls," and, passing a hand over Gracie's curls and touching Lulu's cheek caressingly with the other, "these are better worth it than any you have had heretofore." "Grandma Elsie," said Lulu in her fearless, straightforward way, and gazing with earnest, affectionate scrutiny into the fair face, "you don't look as if you could be mother to Mamma Vi and Aunt Elsie and Uncle Edward." "Why, my child?" laughed the lady addressed; "can't you see a resemblance?" "Oh, yes, ma'am! but you look so young, not so very much older than they do." They were now passing through the upper hall. Walter had hold of his mother's hand, and Rosie had just joined them. "That is true," she remarked, and I am so glad of it! I couldn't bear to have my dear, beautiful mamma grow old, and wrinkled, and gray." "Yet it will have to be some day, Rosie, unless she is laid away out of sight before the time comes for those changes," the mother answered with gentle gravity. There were various exclamations of surprise and pleasure from the children as they entered the supper-room. Its walls were beautifully trimmed with evergreens, and bouquets of hot-house flowers adorned the table, filling the air with delicious fragrance. When the meal was over, all adjourned to the parlor usually occupied by them when not entertaining company. This, too, they found trimmed with evergreens, and while the children were looking about and commenting upon the taste displayed in their arrangement, the folding doors communicating with another parlor were suddenly thrown open, disclosing the grand achievement of the afternoon--the beautiful Christmas tree--tall, wide-spreading, glittering with lights and tinsel ornaments, gorgeous with gay colors, and every branch loaded down with gifts. It was greeted with a burst of admiration and applause. "What a beauty!" cried Rosie and Lulu, clapping their hands. "And how large!" exclaimed Max, "three times as big as any I ever saw before." Walter and Gracie were no less enthusiastic in their admiration. "May we go close up, mamma?" asked the latter. "Yes, 'course we may," said Walter, seizing her hand, "we'll walk round it and look hard at the things, but not touch 'em." Older people followed the lead of the little ones, and the tree was thoroughly examined by many pairs of eyes, gazed at from every point of view, and highly extolled, before the work of despoiling it was begun. The gifts were far too many to mention in detail. The older people seemed much pleased with some easels, brackets, and picture-frames carved for them by Max and Lulu, and with specimens of Zoe's and Rosie's handiwork in another line; also with some little gems of art from the pencils or brushes of Lester, Elsie, and Violet, while the children were made happy with presents suited to the years and taste of each. Lulu was almost wild with delight over a set of pink coral, as nearly like that she had lost by her misconduct some months before, as Grandma Elsie had been able to find. Then there was a beautiful, thoroughly furnished work-box from Mamma Vi, with "actually a gold thimble in it," to encourage her in learning to sew. One for Gracie also exactly like it, except that Lulu's was lined with red satin and Gracie's with blue. Each had beside a new doll with a neat little trunk packed full of clothes made to fit it, and a box filled with pretty things to make up into doll clothes. Max was greatly surprised and delighted by finding himself the possessor of a watch, doubly valuable to him as his father's gift. The gold thimbles of the little girls were also from papa. They had a number of other presents, but these were what they valued most highly. It took quite a good while to distribute the gifts and for each to examine and admire all his own and those of his neighbors; then Gracie, tired with excitement and the long drive of the afternoon, was ready to go to bed. Mamma Vi went with her, as was her custom, and Max and Lulu followed. They had grown quite fond of Violet's half-sisterly, half-motherly talks with them at the close of the day, and to her it was a source of deep joy and thankfulness that she could perceive that she was influencing them--her dear husband's tenderly loved offspring--for good. She warmly sympathized in their pleasure to-night, chatted with them about what they had given and received, praising highly the picture-frame and easel they had presented her--and in regard to the entries to be made in each of their diaries. She left them in her boudoir busy with these when she returned to the parlor. "O Max," said Lulu, "how different Mamma Vi is from Aunt Beulah." "Humph, I should think so," said Max, "must have been made of a different kind o' dust. We weren't so well off and happy last Christmas eve, Lu." "No, indeed! Gracie and I wanted a Christmas tree ever so much, and begged and coaxed for one, even if it was but a wee bit of a thing; but she wouldn't let us have it, said it was just nonsense and a wicked waste." "Just like her," remarked Max, in a tone of mingled aversion and contempt; "but don't let's talk about her. I'd rather think of pleasanter subjects. Wasn't it splendid in papa to give me this watch?" pulling it out and gazing on it with pride and delight. "Isn't it a beauty?" "Yes; and I'm as glad as I can be that you have it, Max," Lulu responded affectionately. "And wasn't it good in him to give gold thimbles to Gracie and me? I shall try very hard to learn to sew nicely, to show him I'm grateful for it and all he does for me." "That's right, Lu; let's both do our best to improve all our opportunities, so that we will make his heart glad. And we can do that in another way, too." "How?" "By loving Mamma Vi, and being as good to her as ever we know how." "I do mean to, for she is good and kind to us," said Lulu, in a frankly cordial tone. "You were vexed at papa at first for marrying her," remarked Max, with a roguish look; "but just suppose he'd taken Mrs. Scrimp instead." "O Max!" cried Lulu, her eyes flashing, "how can you talk so? You know papa would never have thought of such a thing." "I don't believe he would, but Ann told me once she knew Mrs. Scrimp would be glad enough to take him if he'd give her the chance. What would you have done if he had?" "I don't know, and it isn't worth while to consider," replied Lulu, with a grown-up air she occasionally assumed, much to Max's amusement. "But my writing's done, and I'm going to bed, for I'm tired and sleepy. So good-night." "Good-night," returned Max. "I sha'n't be in a hurry to get to bed, for it won't be worth while to get up early to catch other folks, as all the things have been given to-night. I almost wish they had let us wait till to-morrow morning." Perhaps the remark was intended to throw Lulu off her guard; at all events he was at her door with a "Merry Christmas," before any one else was stirring but the servants. Lulu was awake, too, sitting up in bed and trying, in the dim light of the early dawn, to undo a small paper parcel she had found on her pillow. Max had opened the door and given his greeting in a subdued tone that there might be no danger of disturbing any sleeper in the vicinity. "Oh!" cried Lulu, in a voice of suppressed eagerness, "the same to you! Come in and see what Santa Claus has brought me." Max stepped in, closed the door, and tiptoeing to a window, raised the blind and drew back the curtain. "O Max, Max; just see!" cried Lulu, as he turned toward her again. She had succeeded in her efforts, and was now holding up her hand in a way to display to advantage a very pretty gold ring. "Yes; oh, I'm glad, Lu! And there's something else, isn't there?" "Money! a good deal, isn't it, Max?" she asked, holding out a crisp new bank-note. "Five dollars," he answered, taking it to the light. "And I have just the same; found it on my pillow, from papa; and s'pose yours is, too. A gold pencil from Mamma Vi was there also." "Yes; from papa," she said, examining the writing on the back of the envelope from which she had taken the note, "and the ring's from Mamma Vi. She always finds out just what I want. I'd rather have had a ring than almost anything else." "There, we have waked her and Gracie, I'm afraid," said Max, in a tone of self-reproach, as the voices of the two were heard coming from the next room. "Merry Christmas, Max and Lulu," both called out in cheery tones, and the greeting was returned with added thanks to Violet for her gifts. "I have some, too," Gracie said; "a lovely picture-book and two kinds of money. I think I'm the richest." She had received a one-dollar bill, crisp and new like the others, and a quarter eagle in gold, and could not be convinced that the two did not amount to more than Max's or Lulu's five-dollar note. The other members of the family had fared quite as well. The children had a very merry day; the older people were quietly happy. There were fresh flowers on the graves in the family burial-ground, even the dead had not been forgotten. Elsie Travilla had been early bending over the lowly mound that covered all that was mortal of her heart's best earthly treasure, and though the sweet face was calm and serene as was its wont, bearing no traces of tears, the cheery words and bright smile came readily in sympathy with the mirth of the younger ones; her father and older children, noting the occasional far-off look in the soft brown eyes, knew that her thoughts were ever and anon with the husband of her youth. CHAPTER XII. "Oh! only those Whose souls have felt this one idolatry, Can tell how precious is the slightest thing Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks That made each leaf a treasure." --Miss Landon. The whole family connection living in the neighborhood had dined at Ion that Christmas day, and several had stayed to tea. But all had now gone, the good-nights had been said among the members of the home circle, and Elsie Travilla was alone in her own apartments. A little weary with the cares and excitement of the day, she was half reclining on a sofa, in dressing-gown and slippers, her beautiful hair unbound and rippling over her shoulders, beside her a jewel-box of ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It stood open, and the lamplight falling upon its contents was flashed back from many a costly gem set in rings, brooches, lockets and chains of gold. She took them up, one by one, gazing upon each for a minute or more with a smile, a sigh, or a falling tear, ere she laid it almost tenderly back in its place. So absorbed was she in the contemplation of these mementoes of the past and the memories called up by them, that she did not hear an approaching footstep, and deemed herself quite alone, till a hand was laid gently on her head, and a voice said tenderly, "My darling!" "Dear papa!" she responded, glancing up into his face with tear-dimmed eyes, as he stood at the back of her sofa, bending over her. "Let me give you a chair," and she would have risen to do so, but he forced her gently back. "No; lie still. I will help myself." And coming round in front of her, he seated himself close at her side. "Why look at these, if it makes you sad, my child?" he asked, noticing her occupation. "There is sometimes a sweetness in the tears called forth by pleasant memories of loved ones gone before, papa," she said. "These anniversaries will recall the dear husband who always remembered his little wife so kindly upon each, and there is a melancholy pleasure in looking over his Christmas gifts, I have them all here, beginning with this--the very first. Do you remember it, papa? And this Christmas day when he gave it to me? the first Christmas that you were with me." She was holding up a tiny gold thimble. "Yes, I think I do," he said. "I certainly remember the day, the first Christmas after my return from Europe, the first on which I heard myself addressed as papa--the sweetest of child voices calling me that, and wishing me a merry Christmas, as the dearest, loveliest of little girls ran into my arms. Dear daughter, what a priceless treasure you have been to me ever since!" he added, bending over her and softly smoothing her hair. "It has always been a joy to call you mine." She caught his hand in hers and pressed it to her lips. "Yes, dear, dear father! and to me to be so called. We loved one another very dearly then, each was all the other had, and I think our mutual love has never been less because of the other many tender ties God has given us since." "I am sure you are right, daughter, but at that time," he added with a smile, "you were not willing to share your father's love with another; at least with one other whom you suspected of trying to win it. Do you remember how you slipped away to your bed without bidding your papa good-night, and cried yourself to sleep?" "Yes, foolish child that I was!" she said, with a low musical laugh; "and how you surprised me the next morning by your knowledge of my fears, and then set them all at rest, like the dear, kind father that you were and always have been." "No, not always," he sighed. "Yes, papa, always," she said with playful tenderness. "I will insist upon that; because even when most severe with me, you did what at the time you deemed your duty, and believed to be for my good." "Yes, that is true, my dear, forgiving child! and yet I can never think of the suffering you endured during the summer that succeeded the Christmas we have been talking of, without keen remorse." "Yet, long before the next Christmas came I was happier than ever," she said, looking up into his face with a smile full of filial love. "It was the first in our own dear home at the Oaks, you remember, papa. You gave me a lovely set of pearls--necklace and bracelets--and this," taking up a pearl ring, "was Edward's gift. Mr. Travilla he was to me then, and no thought of one day becoming his wife even so much as entered my head. But years afterward he told me he had it in his mind even then; had already resolved to wait till I grew up and win me for his wife if he could." "Yes, he told me after you were grown and he had offered himself, that it had been love at first sight with him, little child that you were when he first made your acquaintance. That surprised me, though less than the discovery that you fancied one so many years your senior." "But so good, so noble, so lovable!" she said. "Surely, it was not half so strange, papa, as that he should fancy a foolish young thing such as I was then; not meaning that I am yet very greatly improved," she added, with a half tearful smile. "I am fully satisfied with you just as you are," he said, bending down over her and touching his lips two or three times to her forehead, "My darling, my first-born and best-beloved child! no words can express the love and tenderness I feel for you, or my pity for the grief which is beyond my power to relieve." "Dear papa, your sympathy is very sweet," she said in tremulous tones, "very, very sweet in itself, and it helps me to a fuller realization of the depth of meaning in those sweet words, 'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him.'" "You cannot be wholly miserable while that precious love and pity are yours, my dear child, even if all earthly loves should be taken from you, which may God forbid should ever happen." "No, papa; dearly as I loved my husband, I am happy in that divine love still mine, though parted from him; and dearly as I love you and my children, I know that were you all taken from me, I could still rejoice in the love of Him who died for me, and who has said, 'I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.' 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' 'I have loved thee with an everlasting love.'" Silence fell between them for some moments, both seemingly wrapped in thought; then Mr. Dinsmore said inquiringly, "You will go to Roselands to-morrow?" "Yes, papa, if you go, as I heard you say you intended, and nothing happens to prevent. Rosie was particularly delighted with Cal's invitation," she added, smiling up at him, "because I had been telling the story of those Christmas holidays that we have been discussing, to her and the other children, and naturally she wants to look upon the scene of all those important events." "It will not be by any means her first visit to Roselands," he remarked in a tone of surprise. "Oh, no, sir! only the first after hearing of those interesting episodes in her mother's life." "But the house is not the same." "No, sir; yet the hall and parlors, your rooms and mine are about where and what they were in the old house." "Ah! well I hope Rosie will enjoy it. And that you may do so, I shall leave you now, begging you to go at once to bed. Good-night, daughter." "Good-night, my dearest, best of fathers," she responded, putting her arms round his neck as he stooped to give her a parting caress. Calhoun and Arthur Conly were now joint proprietors at Roselands. "Aunt Maria," an old negress born and bred on the estate, was their housekeeper, and managed so well that they found themselves as comfortable as in the days of their mother's administration. They, with one younger sister and brother, were all of the once large family now left to occupy the old home, and these younger two were there now only for the Christmas holidays, and at their close would return to distant boarding-schools. Ella, the sister, was eighteen; Ralph two years younger. The house whence the mother and grandfather had been carried out to their last long home but a few months before, could not be made the scene of mirth and jollity, but to a day of quiet social intercourse with near and dear relatives and friends none could object; so the family at Ion had been invited to dine there the next day, and had accepted the invitation. Lulu had been greatly interested in Grandma Elsie's party of children as it told of had been invited to Ion for these holidays; but she did not covet such a father as Mr. Dinsmore; he was much too strict and severe, she thought, with all his petting and caressing, and she would far rather have her own papa. Still Grandma Elsie's lot, when a little girl, seemed to her an enviable one, so beautiful and so rich, and with a nice old mammy always ready to wait on and do everything for her; and she (Lulu) was sure she wouldn't have minded much when such a father as Mr. Dinsmore was vexed with her; he wouldn't have found it so easy to manage her; no indeed! She almost thought she should enjoy trying her strength in a tilt with him even now. Lulu was a rebel by nature, and ever found it difficult to combat the inclination to defy authority and assert her entire independence of control. But fortunately this inclination was in great measure counterbalanced by the warmth of her affections. She was ready to love all who treated her with justice and kindness, and her love for her father was intense. To please him she would do or endure almost anything; that more than any other influence had kept her on her good behavior all these weeks. She had sometimes rebelled inwardly, but there had been no greater outward show of it than a frown or a pout, which soon vanished under the kind and gentle treatment she received at the hands of Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi. Captain Raymond would have been much gratified could he have seen how, not only she, but all his children, were improving morally, mentally and physically in the wholesome atmosphere of their new home. Gracie had gained largely in strength and vivacity, her cheeks were rounder and rosier than when she came to Ion, her eyes brighter; and though not yet equal to violent exercise, she could enjoy quiet plays, and would often laugh right merrily. She had grown very fond of Dr. Conly, or Cousin Arthur as he told her to call him, and he of his little patient. She was frequently hovering about him during Christmas day; and received a special invitation to Roselands. "You and your mamma are to be my particular guests," he said, "and if you fail to enjoy yourselves it shall be from no fault of mine." "We shall not fail," Violet said with confidence. "How could we with Cal and yourself for our hosts?" The day proved propitious, all went and all enjoyed their visit, though to the older ones there was at first a feeling of subdued sadness in thinking of the old grandfather, whose chair was now vacant, and who had been wont to greet their coming with words of cordial welcome. It was after dinner that Rose claimed her mother's promise. "Well," said Elsie, glancing dreamily about, "this parlor where we are all sitting occupies the same part of the house, and is almost exactly like the one where the scenes I told you of took place." "What scenes?" asked Dr. Conly, drawing near, with a look of interest. Mr. Dinsmore, too, turned to listen. "I have been telling the children about the Christmas holidays at Roselands the first winter after my father's return from Europe," she answered. "It was before you were born, Cousin Arthur, while your mother was still a very young girl." "Mamma," asked Rosie, "where was grandpa sitting when you went to him and confessed that you had let Carry Howard cut off one of your curls?" "Near yonder window. Do you remember it, papa?" she asked, looking smilingly at him. "Yes, I think I have forgotten very little that ever passed between us. You were a remarkably honest, conscientious child--would come and confess wrong-doing that I should never have known or suspected, even when you thought it likely I should punish you severely for it." "Now, mamma," said Rosie, "won't you go into the hall with us and show us just where papa caught you, and kissed you, and gave you the gold thimble? And then your room and grandpa's?" "Arthur, have we your permission to roam over the house?" Elsie asked, turning to him. "Yes; provided you will let me go along, for I am as much interested as the children." "Come, then," she said, rising and taking Walter's hand, Rosie, Lulu, and Gracie keeping close to her, and Mr. Dinsmore and Arthur following. Pausing in the hall, she pointed out the precise spot where the little scene had been enacted between herself and him who was afterward her husband, telling the story between a smile and a tear, then moved on up the stairs with her little procession. Opening a door, "This was my room," she said, "or rather my room was here before the old house was burned down. It looks just the same, except that the furniture is different." Then passing on to another, "This was papa's dressing-room. I have passed many happy hours here, sitting by his side or on his knee. It was here I opened the trunk full of finery and toys that he brought me a few days before that Christmas. "Papa," turning smilingly to him, and pointing to a closed door on the farther side of the room, "do you remember my imprisonment in that closet?" "Yes," he answered, with a remorseful look, "but don't speak of it. How very ready I was to punish you for the most trifling fault." "Indeed, papa," she answered earnestly, "it was no such trifle, for I had disobeyed a plain order not to ask a second time for permission to do what you had once forbidden." "True; but I now see that a child so sensitive, conscientious and affectionate as you were, would have been sufficiently punished by a mild rebuke." "A year or two later you discovered and acted upon that," she said, with an affectionate look up into his face. "But at this time you were a very young father; and when I remember how you took me on your knee, by the fire there, and warmed my hands and feet, petting and fondling me, and what a nice evening I had with you afterward, I could almost wish to go through it all again." "Hark! what was that?" exclaimed Rosie. Every one paused to listen. There was a sound of sobbing as of a child in sore distress, and it seemed to come from the closet. "There's somebody shut up there now," Walter said in a loud, excited whisper. "Grandpa, can't she be let out?" Arthur strode hastily across the room and threw the closet door wide open. There was no one there. They glanced at each other in surprise and perplexity. "Ah, ha, ah, ha! um, h'm! ah, ah! the lassie's no there, eh?" said a voice behind them, and turning quickly at the sound, whom should they see but Mr. Lilburn standing in the open doorway leading to the hall. "But we know all about her now, sir," said Arthur with a laugh, in which he was joined by every one present. CHAPTER XIII. "Evil communications corrupt good manners." --1 _Cor._ 15:33. The one drawback upon Max's perfect enjoyment of his new home was the lack of a companion of his own age and sex; the only boys in the family connection, or among the near neighbors, were nearly grown to manhood or very little fellows. Therefore, when Ralph Conly came home for the Christmas holidays, and though four years older than himself, at once admitted him to a footing of intimacy, Max was both pleased and flattered. Ralph's manner, to be sure, was more condescending than was altogether agreeable, but that seemed not inexcusable, considering his superiority in years and knowledge of the world. At Ion, Max played the part of host, taking Ralph up to his own bedroom to show him his books and other treasures, to the boys' work-room, out to the stables to see the horses, and about the grounds. To-day, at Roselands, it was Ralph's turn to entertain. He soon drew Max away from the company in the parlors, showed him the horses and dogs, then invited him to take a walk. It was near dinner time when they returned. After dinner he took him to his room, and producing a pack of cards, invited him to play. "Cards!" exclaimed Max. "I don't know anything about playing with them, and don't want to." "Why not? are you too pious?" Ralph asked with a sneer, tumbling them out in a heap upon the table. "I've always been taught that men gamble with cards, and that gambling is very wicked and disgraceful, quite as bad as getting drunk." "Pooh! you're a muff!" "I'd rather be a muff than a gambler, any day," returned Max with spirit. "Pshaw! 'tisn't gambling, unless you play for money, and I haven't asked you to do that, and don't propose to. Come now, take a hand," urged Ralph persuasively. "There isn't a bit more harm in it than in a game of ball." "But I don't know how," objected Max. "I'll teach you," said Ralph. "You'll soon learn and will find it good sport." At length Max yielded, though not without some qualms of conscience which he tried to quiet by saying to himself, "Papa never said I shouldn't play in this way; only that gambling was very wicked, and I must never go where it was done." "Have a cigar?" said Ralph, producing two, handing one to Max, and proceeding to light the other. "You smoke, of course; every gentleman does." Max never had, and did not care to, but was so foolish as to be ashamed to refuse after that last remark of Ralph's; beside having seen his father smoke a cigar occasionally, he thought there could be no harm in it. "Thank you, I don't care if I do," he said, and was soon puffing away as if quite accustomed to it. But it was not many minutes before he began to feel sick and faint, then to find himself trembling and growing giddy. He tried to conceal his sensations, and fought against them as long as possible. But at length, finding he could endure it no longer, he threw the stump of the cigar into the fire, and rising, said, "I--I feel sick. I must get out into the air." He took a step forward, staggered, and would have fallen, if Ralph had not jumped up and caught him. "Here, I'll help you to the bed and open the window," he said. "Never smoked before? Well, don't be discouraged; I was deathly sick first time myself." "I'm half blind and awfully sick," groaned Max, as he stretched himself on the bed. "Does it last long? can a fellow get over it without taking any medicine?" "Oh, yes; you'll be all right after a little." But Max was not all right when a servant came to the door to say that he was wanted down-stairs, as the party from Ion were about to return home. "Think you can get down with the help of my arm?" asked Ralph. "Don't b'lieve he kin, Marse Ralph," remarked the servant, gazing earnestly at Max. "What's de mattah wid de young gentleman? He's white as de wall, and his eyes looks like glass." "Hush, Sam! you'll frighten him," whispered Ralph. "Run down and ask my brother Arthur to come up. Don't let anybody else hear you." Max had tried to rise, but only to fall back again sicker than ever. "Oh, but I'm sick, and how my heart beats!" he said. "I can't possibly sit up, much less walk down-stairs. What will Mamma Vi and the rest say? I'm afraid Grandpa Dinsmore will be very angry with me." "He hasn't any right to be," said Ralph; "'tisn't wicked to smoke. But I'll tell Art not to let him know what made you sick." Just then the doctor came in. Sam had met him in the hall. "What's the matter?" he asked; "sick, Max? Ah, you've been smoking?" sniffing the air of the room and glancing at the boy's pallid face. "Tell him it isn't dangerous. Art," laughed Ralph, "for I do believe he's dreadfully scared." "No, I'm not!" protested Max indignantly, "but I'm sick, and giddy, and half blind. I never smoked before, and didn't know it would sicken me so." "How many cigars have you smoked?" asked Arthur, taking hold of his wrist. "Only half a one," said Ralph; "he threw the rest of it in the fire." "The best place for it," said Arthur. "Don't be alarmed, my boy, the sickness and all the other bad effects will pass off after a while; all the sooner if you are breathing pure air. Ralph, open the door into the hall and the one opposite. Then ring for Sam to kindle a fire in that room." As he spoke he took Max in his arms, and, Ralph preceding them to open the doors, carried him into an unoccupied bedroom, laid him on a couch, and covered him up carefully to guard against his taking cold. "No need to ring for Sam; fire's laid all ready to kindle," remarked Ralph, glancing at the open grate. He struck a match, and in another minute the flames were leaping up right merrily. Meantime a report that Max was sick had reached the parlor, and Mr. Dinsmore, his daughter, and granddaughter came up to express their sympathy and see for themselves how serious the illness was. Their faces were full of anxiety and concern till they learned the cause of the sickness, when they evidently felt much relieved. "Dear boy, I'm sorry you are suffering," Violet said, leaning over him, "but I hope you will never try it again." "Papa smokes," he said, "so I thought it was all right for me." "No," said Mr. Dinsmore; "a grown person may sometimes do safely what is dangerous for a younger one. You have my sympathy this time, Max, but if ever you make yourself sick in the same way again, I don't think I shall pity you at all. He will hardly be able to go home to-day, Arthur?" "No, sir; leave him here in my care. To-morrow he will probably be quite recovered, and I will drive him over in my gig." "Would you like me to stay with you, Max?" Violet asked, laying her cool hand on his forehead. "Or me?" asked her mother. "No, thank you, Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi," he said. "You are both very kind, but Walter and Gracie wouldn't know what to do without you; and I shall do very well." "Yes," said Ralph, "I'll help Art take care of him. I ought to, as I gave him the cigar that sickened him so." Mr. Dinsmore and the ladies then bade good-by and went down-stairs, the doctor accompanying them, leaving the two boys alone together. "Do you begin to get over it, old fellow?" asked Ralph. "No; I'm wretchedly sick," said Max. "I think I've had enough tobacco to last me all my days." "O pshaw! it won't be half so bad next time, and pretty soon won't sicken you at all." "But what should I gain to pay me for all the suffering?" "Well, it seems sort o' babyish not to smoke." "Does it? I've never seen Grandpa Dinsmore smoke, and I don't believe he ever does, nor Uncle Edward, nor Uncle Horace either." "No, they don't, and Art doesn't, but they're all sort o' pious old fogies," Ralph said, with a coarse laugh. "I wouldn't talk so about my own relations, if I were you," returned Max, in a tone of disgust. "Of course I shouldn't let anybody else say a word against them," said Ralph. Arthur's entrance put an end to the conversation. He inquired of Max if the sickness were abating; then sitting down beside him, "Boys," he said, "I want to talk to you a little about this silly business of smoking and chewing." "I've never chewed," said Max. "I'm glad to hear it, and I hope you never will, or smoke again either. How would you like, Max, to have a cancer on your lip?" "Cancer, sir? I wouldn't choose to have one for anything in the world." "Then don't smoke, especially a short pipe, for it often causes cancer of the lip. I cut one out of a man's lip the other day; and not long ago saw a man die from one after months of agonizing pain. Tobacco contains a great deal of virulent poison, and though some persons use it for many years without much apparent injury, it costs many others loss of health and even of life. It weakens the nerves and the action of the heart, and is a fruitful source of dyspepsia." "Pooh! I don't believe it will ever hurt me," said Ralph. "I think it will," said Arthur; "you have not yet attained your growth, and therefore are the more certain to be injured by its use. "Max, my boy, I admire your father greatly, particularly his magnificent physique." Max flushed with pleasure. "Do you not wish to be like him in that? as tall and finely developed?" "Yes, sir; yes, indeed! I want to be like papa in everything!" "Then eschew tobacco, for it will stunt your growth!" "But papa smokes," repeated Max. "Now, but probably he did not until grown," said Arthur. "And very likely he sometimes wishes he had never contracted the habit. Now I must leave you for a time, as I have some other patients to visit." "I told you he was an old fogy," said Ralph, as the door closed on his brother, adding with an oath, "I believe he wouldn't allow a fellow a bit of pleasure if he could help it." Max started, and looked at Ralph with troubled eyes. "I didn't think you would swear," he said. "If you do, I--I can't be intimate with you, because my father won't allow it." "I don't often," said Ralph, looking ashamed, "I won't again in your company." CHAPTER XIV. "Be sure your sin will find you out." --_Num._ 32:33. Gracie and Walter were in the play-room. They had been building block-houses for an hour or more, when Gracie, saying, "I'm tired, Walter, I'm going in yonder to see the things Max and Lulu are making," rose and sauntered into the work-room. She watched the busy carvers for some minutes, then went down to Violet's apartments in search of her. She found no one there but Agnes busied in putting away some clean clothes, fresh from the iron. "Where's mamma?" asked the little girl. "In de drawin'-room, Miss Gracie. Comp'ny dar." "Oh, dear!" sighed Gracie, "I just wanted her to talk to me." "'Spect you hab to wait till de comp'ny am gone," returned Agnes, picking up her empty clothes-basket and leaving the room. Gracie wandered disconsolately about the rooms, wishing that the callers would go and mamma come up. Presently she paused before the bureau in Violet's dressing-room, and began fingering the pretty things on it. She was not usually a meddlesome child, but just now was tempted to mischief from the lack of something else to interest and employ her. She handled the articles carefully, however, and did them no damage till she came to a beautiful cut-glass bottle filled with a costly perfume of which she was extravagantly fond. Violet had frequently given her a few drops on her handkerchief without being asked, and never refused a request for it. Gracie, seized with a desire for it, took a clean handkerchief from a drawer and helped herself, saying half aloud, by way of quieting her conscience, "Mamma would give it to me if she was here, she always does, and I'll be careful not to break the bottle." She was pouring from it as she spoke. Just at that instant she heard a step in the hall without, and a sound as if a hand was laid on the door-knob. It so startled her that the bottle slipped from her fingers, and striking the bureau as it fell, lay in fragments at her feet; its contents were spilled upon the carpet, and the air of the room was redolent of the delicious perfume. Gracie, naturally a timid child, shrinking from everything like reproof or punishment, stood aghast at the mischief she had wrought. "What will mamma say?" was her first thought. "Oh, I'm afraid she will be so vexed with me that she'll never love me any more!" And the tears came thick and fast, for mamma's love was very sweet to the little feeble child, who had been so long without a mother's care and tenderness. Then arose the wish to hide her fault. Oh, if she could only replace the bottle! but that was quite impossible. Perhaps, though, there might be a way found to conceal the fact that she was the author of the mishap; she did not want to have any one else blamed for her fault, but she would like not to be suspected of it herself. A bright thought struck her. She had seen the cat jump on that bureau a few days before and walk back and forth over it. If she (pussy) had been left in the room alone there that afternoon she might have done the same thing again, and knocked the bottle off upon the floor. It would be no great harm, the little girl reasoned, trying to stifle the warnings and reproaches of conscience, if she should let pussy take the blame. Mamma was kind, and wouldn't have pussy beaten, and pussy's feelings wouldn't be hurt, either, by the suspicion. She hurried out in search of the cat, found her in the hall, pounced on her, carried her into the dressing-room, and left her there with all the doors shut, so that she could not escape, till some one going in would find the bottle broken, and think the cat had done it. This accomplished, Gracie went back to the play-room and tried to forget her wrong-doing in the interesting employment of dressing her dolls. Lulu presently left her carving and joined her. Max had gone for a ride. While chasing the cat Gracie had not perceived a little woolly head thrust out of a door at the farther end of the hall, its keen black eyes closely watching her movements. "He, he, he!" giggled the owner of the head, as Gracie secured pussy and hurried into the dressing-room with her, "wondah what she done dat fer!" "What you talkin' 'bout, you sassy niggah?" asked Agnes, coming up behind her on her way to Mrs. Raymond's apartments with another basket of clean clothes, just as Gracie reappeared and hurried up the stairs to the story above." "Why, Miss Gracie done come pounce on ole Tab while she paradin' down de hall, and ketch her up an' tote her off into Miss Wilet's dressin'-room, an's lef her dar wid de do' shut on her. What for you s'pose she done do dat?" "Oh, go 'long! I don' b'lieve Miss Gracie didn't do no sich ting!" returned Agnes. "She did den, I seed her," asserted the little maid positively. "Mebbe she heerd de mices runnin' 'round an want ole Tab for to ketch 'em." "You go 'long and 'tend to yo' wuk. Bet, you lazy niggah," responded Agnes, pushing past her. "Miss Wilet an Miss Gracie dey'll min' dere own consarns widout none o' yo' help." The child made no reply, but stole on tiptoe after Agnes. Violet was coming up the front stairway, and reached the door of her dressing-room, just in advance of the girl. Opening it she exclaimed at the powerful perfume which greeted her nostrils, then catching sight of the bottle lying in fragments on the floor. "Who can have done this?" she asked in a tone of surprise not wholly free from displeasure. "De cat, mos' likely, Miss Wilet," said Agnes, setting down her basket and glancing at puss who was stretched comfortably on the rug before the fire. "I s'pect she's been running ober de bureau, like I see her do, mor'n once 'fo' dis." "She looks very quiet now," remarked Violet, "and if she did the mischief it was certainly not intentional. But don't leave her shut up here again, Agnes." "She didn't do it, Agnes didn't," volunteered Betty, who had stolen in after them; "it was Miss Gracie, Miss Wilet, I seed her ketch ole Tab out in de hall dere, and put her in hyar, an' shut de do onto her, an' go off up-stairs." A suspicion of the truth flashed into Violet's mind; but she put it resolutely from her; she would not believe Gracie capable of slyness and deceit. But she wanted the little girl, and sent Betty up with a message to that effect, bidding her make haste, and as soon as she had attended to that errand, brush up the broken glass and put it in the fire. Betty ran nimbly up to the play-room, and putting her head in at the door, said with a grin, "Miss Gracie, yo' ma wants you down in de dressin'-room." "What for?" asked Gracie, with a frightened look. "Dunno, s'pect you fin' out when you gits dar." "Betty, you're a saucy thing," said Lulu. "S'pect mebbe I is, Miss Lu," returned the little maid with a broader grin than before, apparently considering the remark quite complimentary, while she held the door open for Gracie to pass out. "Miss Gracie," she asked, as she followed Grace down the stairs, "what fo' you shut ole Tab up in de dressin'-room? She's done gone an' broke Miss Wilet's bottle what hab de stuff dat smell so nice, an' cose Miss Wilet she don' like dat ar." "What makes you say I put her in there, Betty?" said Gracie. "Kase I seed you, he, he, he!" "Did you?" asked Gracie, looking still more alarmed than at the summons to the dressing-room. "Don't tell mamma, Betty. I'll give you a penny and help you make a frock for your doll if you won't." Betty's only answer was a broad grin and a chuckle as she sprang past Gracie and opened the door for her. Violet, seated on the farther side of the room, looked up with her usual sweet smile. "See, Gracie dear, I am making a lace collar for you, and I want to try it on to see if it fits." "Now, Betty, get a dust-pan and brush and sweep up that glass. Don't leave the least bit of it on the carpet, lest some one should tramp on it and cut her foot." "Some one has broken that cut-glass perfume bottle you have always admired so much, Gracie. Aren't you sorry?" "Yes, I am, mamma. I never touch your things when you're not here." The words were out almost before Grace knew she meant to speak them, and she was terribly frightened and ashamed. She had never thought she would be guilty of telling a lie. She hung her head, her cheeks aflame. Violet noted the child's confusion with a sorely troubled heart. "No, dear," she said very gently, "I did not suspect you, but if ever you should meet with an accident, or yield to temptation to do some mischief, I hope you will come and tell me about it at once. You need not fear that I will be severe with you, for I love you very dearly, little Gracie." "Perhaps it was the cat knocked it off the bureau, mamma," said the child, speaking low and hesitatingly. "I've seen her jump up there several times." "Yes; so have I, and she must not be left alone in here any more." Betty had finished her work and was sent away. Agnes, too, had left the room, so that Violet and Gracie were quite alone. "Come, dear, I am quite ready to try this on." Violet said, holding up the collar. "There, it fits very nicely," as she put it on the child and gently smoothed it down over her shoulders. "But what is the matter, my darling?" for tears were trembling on the long silken lashes that swept Gracie's flushed cheeks. At the question they began to fall in streams, while the little bosom heaved with sobs. She pulled out a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her eyes, and a strong whiff of perfume greeted Violet's nostrils, telling a tale that sent a pang to her heart. Gracie was instantly conscious of it, as she, too, smelled the tell-tale perfume, and stole a glance at her young stepmother's face. "O mamma!" she sobbed, covering her face with her hands, "I did pour a little on my handkerchief 'cause I knew you always let me have it, but I didn't mean to break the bottle; it just slipped out o' my hands and fell and broke." Violet clasped her in her arms and wept bitterly over her. "Mamma, don't cry," sobbed the child, "I'll save up all my money till I can buy you another bottle, just like that." "O Gracie, Gracie, it is not that!" Violet said, when emotion would let her speak. "I valued the bottle as the gift of my dear dead father, but I would rather have lost it a hundred times over than have my darling tell a lie. It is so wicked, so wicked! God hates lying. He says, 'All liars shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone.' 'He that speaketh lies shall not escape.' He says that Satan is the father of lies, and that those who are guilty of lying are the children of that wicked one. "Have you forgotten how God punished Gehazi for lying by making him a leper, and struck Ananias and Sapphira dead for the same sin? O my darling, my darling, it breaks my heart to think you have both acted and spoken a falsehood!" she cried, clasping the child still closer to her bosom and weeping over her afresh. Gracie, too, cried bitterly. "Mamma, mamma," she said, "will God never forgive me? will He send me to that dreadful place?" "He will forgive you if you are truly sorry for your sin because it is dishonoring and displeasing to Him, and if you ask Him to pardon you for Jesus' sake; and He will take away the evil nature that leads you to commit sin, giving you a new and good heart, and take you to heaven when you die. "But no one can go to heaven who is not first made holy. The Bible bids us follow 'holiness without which no man shall see the Lord.' And Jesus is a Saviour from sin. 'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His people from their sins.' Shall we kneel down now and ask Him to save you from yours?" "Yes, mamma," sobbed the child. Violet's prayer was short and to the point. Then she held Gracie for some time in her arms, while they mingled their tears together. At length, "Gracie dear," she said, "I believe God has heard our prayer and forgiven you. I am sure He has if you are truly sorry in your heart and asked with it, and not only with your lips, for forgiveness; but I want you to stay here alone for an hour and think it all over quietly, I mean about your wrongdoing and God's willingness to forgive for Jesus' sake, and that we could not have been forgiven and saved from sin and hell if the dear Saviour had not died for us the cruel death of the cross. "Oh, think what a dreadful thing sin must be that it could not be blotted out except by Jesus suffering and dying in our stead! And think how great was His love for us, when He was willing to lay down His own life that we might live!" Then with a kiss of tender motherly love, she went out and left the child alone. Gracie was sincerely penitent. She had always been taught that lying was a dreadful sin, and had never before told a direct falsehood; but while in her former home, Mrs. Scrimp's faulty management, joined to her own natural timidity, had tempted her to occasional slyness and deceit, and from these the descent to positive untruth was easy. Violet's faithful dealing, and even more her evident deep distress because of the sin against God of which her darling had been guilty, had so convinced the child of the heinousness of her conduct that she was sorely distressed because of it, and on being left alone, knelt down again and pleaded for pardon with many bitter tears and sobs. She had risen from her knees and was lying on a couch, still weeping, when Lulu came into the room. "Why, Gracie, what is the matter?" she asked, running to the couch and bending over her little sister in tender concern. "Don't ask me, Lulu, I don't want to tell you," sobbed Gracie, turning away her blushing, tear-stained face. "Mamma Vi has been scolding or punishing you for some little naughtiness, I suppose," said Lulu, frowning. "No, she hasn't!" cried Gracie indignantly; then hastily correcting herself, "except that she said she wanted me to stay here alone for a while. So you must go and leave me." "I won't till you tell me what it was all about. What did you do? or was it something you didn't do?" "I don't want to tell you, 'cause you wouldn't ever do such a wicked thing, and you--you'd despise me if you knew I'd done it," sobbed Gracie. "No, I wouldn't. You are better than I am. Papa said I was worse than you and Max both put together. So you needn't mind my knowing." "I meddled and broke mamma's pretty bottle that her dead father gave her; but she didn't scold me for that; not a bit; but--but 'cause I tried to put the blame on puss, and--and said I--I never touched her things when she wasn't here." "O Gracie, that _was_ wicked! to say what wasn't true! I think papa would have whipped you, for I've heard him say if there was anything he would punish severely in one of his children, it was falsehood. But don't cry so. I'm sure you're sorry and won't ever do it again." "No, no! never, never! Mamma hugged me up in her arms and cried hard 'cause I'd been so wicked. And she asked Jesus to forgive me and make me good, so I shouldn't have to go to that dreadful place. Now go away, Lu, 'cause she said I must stay alone." "Yes, I will; but stop crying or you'll be sick," Lulu said, kissing Gracie, then left the room and went to her own to make herself neat before going down to join the family at tea. Her thoughts were busy with Gracie and her trouble while she brushed her hair, washed her hands, and changed her dress. "Poor, little weak thing, she was frightened into it, of course, for it's the very first time she ever told an untruth. I suppose Mamma Vi must have looked very cross about the broken bottle; and she needn't, I'm sure, for she has plenty of money to buy more. Such a shame! but I just knew she wouldn't always be kind to us." Thus Lulu worked herself up into a passion, quite forgetting, in her unreasonable anger, how very mild was the punishment Violet had decreed to Gracie (if indeed it was meant as such at all); so much less severe than the one she herself had said their father would have been likely to administer. Max was riding without companion or attendant. He had taken the direction of the village, but not with any thought of going there until, as he reached its outskirts, it occurred to him that he was nearly out of wood for carving, and that this would be a good opportunity for laying in a supply. The only difficulty was that he had not asked leave before starting, and it was well understood that he was not at liberty to go anywhere--visiting or shopping--without permission. "How provoking!" he exclaimed half aloud. "I haven't time to go back and ask leave, and a long storm may set in before to-morrow, and so my work be stopped for two or three days. I'll just go on, for what's the difference, anyhow? I'm almost there, and I know I'd have got leave if I'd only thought of asking." So on he went, made his purchase, and set off home with it. He was rather late: a storm seemed brewing, and as he rode up the avenue Violet was at the window looking out a little anxiously for him. Mr. Dinsmore, hearing her relieved exclamation, "Ah, there he is!" came to her side as Max was in the act of dismounting. "The boy has evidently been into the town making a purchase," he said. "Had he permission from you or any one, Violet?" "Not from me, grandpa," she answered with reluctance. "Did you give him leave, Elsie?" he asked, turning to his daughter. "Or you, wife?" Both answered in the negative, and with a very stern countenance Mr. Dinsmore went out to the hall to meet the delinquent. "Where have you been, Max?" he asked, in no honeyed accents. "For a ride, sir," returned the lad respectfully. "Not merely for a ride," Mr. Dinsmore said, pointing to the package in the boy's hand; "you did not pick that up by the roadside. Where have you been?" "I stopped at Turner's just long enough to buy this wood that I shall need for carving to-morrow. I should have asked leave, but forgot to do so." "Then you should have come home and left the errand for another day. You were well aware that in going without permission you were breaking rules. You will go immediately to your room and stay there until this time to-morrow." "I think you're very hard on a fellow," muttered Max, flushing with mortification and anger as he turned to obey. Lulu, coming down the stairs, had heard and seen it all. She stood still for a moment at the foot of the stairway, giving Mr. Dinsmore a look that, had it been a dagger, would have stabbed him to the heart, but which he did not see; then, just as the tea-bell rang, turned and began the ascent again. "Why are you going back, Lulu? did you not hear the supper bell?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, sir," she answered, facing him again with flashing eyes, "but if my brother is not to go to the table neither will I." "Oh, very well," he said; "you certainly do not deserve a seat there after such a speech as that. Go to your own room and stay there until you find yourself in a more amiable and respectful mood." It was exactly what she had intended to do, but because he ordered it, it instantly became the thing she did not want to do. However, she went into her room, and closing the door after her, not too gently, said aloud with a stamp of her foot, "Hateful old tyrant!" then walked on into Violet's dressing-room, where her sister still was. Gracie had lain down upon a sofa and wept herself to sleep, but the supper bell had waked her, and she was crying again. Catching sight of Lulu's flushed, angry face, she asked what was the matter. "I wish we could go away from these people and never, never come back again!" cried Lulu in her vehement way. "I don't," said Gracie. "I love mamma and Grandma Elsie, and Grandma Rose, and Grandpa Dinsmore, too, and----" "I hate him! I'd like to beat him! the old tyrant!" interrupted Lulu, in a burst of passion. "O Lu! I'm sure he's been kind to us; they're all kind to us when we're good," expostulated Grace. "But what has happened to make you so angry, and why aren't you eating your supper with the rest?" "Do you think I'd go and sit at the table with them when they won't have you and Max there, too?" "What about Max? did he do something wrong, too?" "No; it wasn't anything wicked; he just bought some wood for his carving with some of his own money." "But maybe he went without leave?" Gracie said, half inquiringly. "Yes, that was it; he forgot to ask. A very little thing to punish him for, I'm sure; but Mr. Dinsmore (I sha'n't call him grandpa) says he must stay in his own room till this time to-morrow." "Why," said Gracie, "that's worse than mamma's punishment to me for--for doing such a wicked, wicked thing!" "Yes, she's not such a cruel tyrant. He'd have beaten you black and blue. I hope she won't tell him about it." A terrified look came into Gracie's eyes, and she burst out crying again. "O Gracie, don't!" Lulu entreated, kneeling down beside the sofa and clasping her arms about her. "I didn't mean to frighten you so. Of course, Mamma Vi won't; if she meant to she'd have done it before now, and you'd have heard from him, too." A step came along the hall, the door opened, and Agnes appeared bearing a large silver waiter. "Ise brung yo' suppah, chillens," she said, setting it down on a table. Then lifting a stand and placing it near Gracie's couch, she presently had it covered with a snowy cloth and a dainty little meal arranged upon it: broiled chicken, stewed oysters, delicate rolls, hot buttered muffins and waffles, canned peaches with sugar and rich cream, sponge cake, nice and fresh, and abundance of rich sweet milk. The little girls viewed these dainties with great satisfaction, and suddenly discovered that they were very hungry. Agnes set up a chair for each, saw them begin their meal, then left the room, saying she would be back again directly with more hot cakes. "There, Gracie, you needn't be the least bit afraid you're to be punished any more," remarked Lulu. "They'd never have sent us such a supper as this if they wanted to punish us." "Do you want to run away from them now?" asked Gracie. "Do you think Grandpa Dinsmore is so very, very cross to us?" "He's too hard on Max," returned Lulu, "though not so hard as he used to be on Grandma Elsie when she was his own little girl; and perhaps papa would be just as hard as he is with Max." "But 'tisn't 'cause they like to make us sorry, except for being naughty, so that we'll grow up good, you know," said Grace. "I'm sure our dear papa loves us, every one, and wouldn't ever make us sorry except just to make us good. And you know we can't be happy here, or go to heaven when we die, if we're not good." "Yes, I know," said Lulu; "I'm not a bit happy when I'm angry and stubborn, but for all that I can't help it." CHAPTER XV. "Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn." --Shakespeare. Violet, meeting her grandfather on the way to the supper-room, gave him an anxious, troubled inquiring look, which he answered by a brief statement, given in an undertone, of what had just passed between himself and Max and Lulu. "All of them!" sighed the young stepmother to herself, "all three of them at once! Ah me!" Though Mr. Dinsmore had spoken low, both his daughter and Zoe had heard nearly all he said, and as they sat down to the table the one looked grieved and distressed, the other angry. During the meal Zoe never once addressed Mr. Dinsmore, and when he spoke to her she answered as briefly as possible, and not in a very pleasant or respectful tone. Edward noticed it, and looked at her in displeased surprise; then, becoming aware of the absence of the Raymonds, asked, "Where are Max, Lulu, and Gracie?" He had not heard the story of their disgrace, having come to the supper-room a little later than the others, and directly from his own. For a moment the question, addressed to no one in particular, remained unanswered; then Mr. Dinsmore said, "Max and Lulu are in disgrace. I know nothing about Gracie, but presume she is not feeling well enough to come down." Zoe darted an angry glance at him. Violet looked slightly relieved. She had not spoken at all of Gracie's wrongdoing, and did not want any one to know of it. "I may send the children their supper, grandpa?" she said inquiringly, with a pleading look. "Do just as you please about it," he answered. "Of course I would not have growing children go fasting for any length of time; certainly not all night, for that would be to the injury of their health; and I leave it to you to decide how luxurious their meal shall be." "Thank you, grandpa," she said, and at once gave the requisite order. Meanwhile Max had obeyed the order to go to his room in almost as angry and rebellious a mood as Lulu's own. He shut the door, threw down his package, tore off his overcoat and stamped about the floor for a minute or two, fuming and raging. "I say it's just shameful! abominable treatment! I'm tired being treated like a baby, and I won't stand it! The idea of being shut up here for twenty-four hours for such a trifle! Oh, dear!" he added, dropping into a chair, "I'm as hungry as a bear. I wonder if he doesn't mean to let me have any supper? I don't believe Mamma Vi would approve of his starving me altogether; no, nor Grandma Elsie, either; I hope they'll manage to give me something to eat before bedtime. If they don't, I believe I'll try to bribe Tom when he comes to see to the fire." It was not long before he heard Tom's step on the stairs, then his knock on the door. "Come in," he answered, in cheerful tones; then, as he caught sight of a waiter full of good things, such as his sisters were supping upon, "Hurrah! Tom, you're a brick! But who sent it?" "Miss Wilet; and she says if dars not nuff ob it to satisfy yo' appetite, you's to ring for mo'." "All right; tell Mamma Vi I'm much obliged," said Max. "Very good prison fare," he added to himself, as he fell to work, Tom having withdrawn, "I've good reason to be fond of Mamma Vi, and as she's fond of her grandfather, I s'pose I'll have to forgive him for her sake," he concluded, quite restored to good humor, and laughing gleefully at his own jest. "O Lulu," exclaimed Gracie, struck with a sudden recollection, and laying down the spoon with which she was eating her oysters, "you know I was to stay alone. You oughtn't to have come in here." "Pooh! your time was up a good while ago," returned Lulu, "and Mamma Vi must have expected me to come in here to eat supper along with you. I hope she has sent as good a one to poor Maxie." Violet went directly from the supper-room to her own apartments, where she found the two little girls quietly talking together, while Agnes gathered up the remainder of their repast and carried it and the dishes away. "I hope you enjoyed your supper, dears," she said. They both said they had, and thanked her for it. "And I didn't deserve it, mamma," added Gracie, her tears beginning to fall again; "but oh, I'm sorry, very sorry! Please, mamma, forgive me." "I have entirely forgiven the sin against me, darling," whispered Violet, folding her close to her heart, "and I trust God has forgiven your far greater sin against Him. Now do not cry any more, or you will make yourself sick, and that would make me very sad." Lulu was sitting near fighting a battle with pride and passion, in which ere-long she came off conqueror. "Mamma Vi," she said with determination, "I didn't deserve it either, and I'm sorry, too, for being angry at your grandfather and saucy to him." "Dear child," said Violet, drawing her to her side and kissing her with affectionate warmth, "how glad I am to hear you say that. May I repeat your words to grandpa as a message from you?" Again Lulu had a struggle with herself, and perhaps it was only the thought that this was the easiest way to make an apology, which would probably be required of her sooner or later, that helped her to conquer. Her entry in her diary in regard to the occurrence was, "I was a little saucy to Grandpa Dinsmore because he was hard on Max for just a little bit of a trifle, but I've said I'm sorry, and it's all right now." * * * * * Edward and his grandfather having a business matter to talk over together, repaired to the library on leaving the table, and Zoe, instead of going, as usual, to the parlor with the others, went to her own rooms. She had seen Violet, who was a little in advance of her, going into hers, and only waiting to take a little package from a closet, she ran lightly up to Max's door, tapped gently on it, then in her eagerness, opened it slightly, with a whispered, "It's only I, Max. May I come in?" "Yes, indeed," he answered, springing forward to admit her and hand her a chair. "How good in you to come, Aunt Zoe!" "No, I did it to please myself. You know you've always been a favorite with me, Max, and I want to know what this is all about." Max told her. "It's a perfect shame!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I can't see the least bit of harm in your going to the store and buying what you did. You weren't even wasting the pocket money that you had a right to spend as you pleased. Grandpa Dinsmore is a--a--rather tyrannical, I think." "It does seem hard to have so little liberty," Max said, discontentedly, "but I don't know that he's any more strict, after all, than papa." "Well, I must run away now," said Zoe, jumping up. "Here's something to sweeten your imprisonment," putting a box of confectionery into his hand. "Good-by," and she tripped away. She met her husband in the hall upon which their rooms opened. "Where have you been?" he asked coldly, and with a suspicious look. "That's my affair," she returned, flushing, and with a saucy little toss of her pretty head. He gave her a glance of mingled surprise and displeasure. "What has come over you, Zoe?" he asked. "Can't you give a civil answer to a simple question?" "Of course I can, Mr. Travilla, but I think it's a pretty story if I'm to be called to account as to where I go even about the house." "Nothing but a guilty conscience could have made you look at my question in that light," he said, leaning against the mantel and looking down severely at her as she stood before him, for they were now in her boudoir. "I presume you have been in Max's room, condoling with and encouraging him in his defiance of grandpa's authority; and let me tell you, I won't allow it." "It makes no difference whether you allow it or not," she said, turning away with a contemptuous sniff. "I'm my own mistress." "Do you mean to defy my authority, Zoe?" he asked, with suppressed anger. "Yes, I do. I'll do anything in the world for love and coaxing, but I won't be driven. I'm your wife, sir, not your slave." "I have no desire to enslave you, Zoe," he said, his tone softening, "but you are so young, so very young for a married woman, that you surely ought to be willing to submit to a little loving guidance and control." "I didn't perceive much love in the attempt you made just now," she said, seating herself and opening a book. He watched her for a moment. She seemed absorbed in reading, and he could not see that the downcast eyes were too full of tears to distinguish one letter from another. He left the room without another word, and hardly had the door closed on him when she flung the book from her, ran into the dressing-room, and throwing herself on a couch, cried as if her heart would break. "He's all I have, all I have!" she moaned, "and he's beginning to be cruel to me! Oh, what shall I do! what shall I do! Papa, papa, why did you die and leave your darling all alone in this cold world?" She hoped Edward would come back presently, say he was sorry for his brutal behavior, and try to make his peace with her by coaxing and petting; but he did not, and after a while she gave up expecting him, undressed, went to bed and cried herself to sleep, feeling that she was a sadly ill-used wife. Meanwhile Edward had returned to the library for a time, then gone into the family parlor, hoping and half expecting to find Zoe there with the rest; but the first glance showed him that she was not in the room. He made no remark about it, but sitting down beside his mother, tried to interest himself in the evening paper handed him by his grandfather. "What have you done with your wife, young man?" asked his sister Elsie sportively. "We have seen nothing of her since supper." "I left her in her room," he answered in a tone in which there seemed a shade of annoyance. "Have you locked her up there for bad behavior?" asked Rosie, laughing. "Why, what do you mean, Rosie?" he returned, giving the child a half-angry glance, and coloring deeply. "Oh, I was only funning, of course, Ned. So you needn't look so vexed about it; that's the very way to excite suspicion that you have done something to her," and Rosie laughed gleefully. But to the surprise of mother and sisters, Edward's brow darkened, and he made no reply. "Rosie," said Violet, lightly, "you are an incorrigible tease. Let the poor boy alone, can't you?" "Thank you, Mrs. Raymond," he said, with a forced laugh, "but I wouldn't have Rosie deprived of her sport." "I hope," remarked Mrs. Travilla, with a kindly though grave look at her youngest daughter, "that my Rosie does not find it sport to inflict annoyance upon others." "No, mamma, not by any means, but how could I suppose my wise oldest brother would care for such a trifle?" returned the little girl in a sprightly tone. "My dear," said her mother, "it is the little things--little pleasures, little vexations--that far more than the great make up the sum total of our happiness or misery in this life." Edward was very silent during the rest of the evening, and his mother, watching him furtively and putting that and that together, felt sure that something had gone wrong between him and his young wife. When the good-nights had been said and the family had scattered to their rooms, he lingered behind, and his mother, who had left the room, perceiving it, returned to find him standing on the hearth, gazing moodily into the fire. She went to him, and laying her hand gently on his shoulder. "My dear boy," she said, in her sweet low tones, "I cannot help seeing that something has gone wrong with you; I don't ask what it is, but you have your mother's sympathy in every trouble." "It is unfortunately something you would not want me to repeat even to you, my best and dearest of mothers, but your assurance of sympathy is sweet and comforting, nevertheless," he said, taking her in his arms with a look and manner so like his father's, that tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. "Ah," he said presently, with a sigh that betrayed more than he was aware of, "my father was a happy man in having such a woman for his wife!" "A good husband makes a good wife, my boy," she returned, gazing searchingly yet tenderly into his eyes; "and I think no woman with any heart at all could have failed to be such to him." "I am not worthy to be his son," he murmured, the hot blood mounting to his very hair. There was a moment or more of silence, then she said, softly caressing his hair and cheek as she spoke, "Edward, my son, be very patient, very gentle, forbearing and loving toward the orphan child, the care of whom you assumed of your own free will, the little wife you have promised to love and cherish to life's end." "Yes, mother, I have tried very earnestly to be all that to her--but she is such a child that she needs guidance and control, and I cannot let her show disrespect to you or my grandfather." "She has always been both dutiful and affectionate to me, Ned, and I have never known her to say a disrespectful word to or about your grandfather." "Did you not notice the looks she gave him at the table, to-night? the tone in which she replied when he spoke to her?" "I tried not to do so," she said with a smile. "I learned when my first children were young that it was the part of wisdom to be sometimes blind to venial faults. Not," she added more gravely, "that I would ever put disrespect to my father in that category, but we must not make too much of a little girlish petulance, especially when excited by a generous sympathy with the troubles of another." The cloud lifted from his brow. "How kind in you to say it, mother dear! kind to her and to me. Yes, she is very fond of Max, quite as if he were a younger brother, and it is very natural that she should sympathize with him when in disgrace." "And having been so petted and indulged by her father, allowed to have her own way in almost everything, and seldom, if ever, called to account for her doings, comings and goings, she can hardly fail to think my father's rule strict and severe." "True," Edward responded with a sigh, "and grandpa is a strict disciplinarian, yet so kind and affectionate with it all that one cannot help loving him." "So I think. And now, good-night, my dear son. I must go; and perhaps your little wife is looking and longing for your coming. She is very fond and proud of her young husband," and with a motherly kiss and smile she left him. Edward paced the floor for several minutes with thoughtful air, then went up-stairs to Zoe's boudoir. She was not there or in the dressing-room. He took up a lamp and went on into the adjoining bedroom. Shading the light with his hand, he drew near the bed with noiseless step. She lay there sleeping, tears on her eyelashes and her pillow wet with them. His heart smote him at the sight. She looked such a mere child and so sweet and innocent that he could hardly refrain from imprinting a kiss upon the round rosy cheek and the full red lips. And he longed for a reconciliation, but it seemed cruel to wake her, so it should be the first thing in the morning, he said to himself. He set the lamp down in a distant part of the room, and prepared for rest. * * * * * Max had spent the evening over his books and diary. His entry in that was a brief statement of his delinquency, its punishment, and his resolve to be more obedient in future. He had just wiped his pen and put it away, when Grandma Elsie came for a little motherly talk with him, as she often did at bedtime. He received her with a mortified, embarrassed air, but her kind, gentle manner quickly restored his self-possession. "I was sorry, indeed," she said, "to hear that our boy Max had become a breaker of rules, and so caused us the loss of his society at the table and in the parlor." "I thought the loss was all on my side. Grandma Elsie," he returned with a bright, pleased look. "I didn't suppose anybody would miss me unpleasantly." "Ah, you were quite mistaken in that; we are all fond of you, Max." "Not Grandpa Dinsmore, I'm sure," he said, dropping his eyes and frowning. "Why, Max, what else could induce him to give you a home here and be at the trouble of teaching you every day?" "I thought it was you who gave me a home, Grandma Elsie," Max said in a softened tone, and with an affectionate look at her. "This is my house," she said, "but my father is the head of the family, and without his approval I should never have asked you and your sisters here, much as I desire your happiness, and fond of you as I certainly am." "You are very, very good to us!" he exclaimed with warmth; "you do so much for us! I wish I could do something for you!" "Do you, my dear boy?" she said, smiling and softly patting his hand, which she had taken in hers; "then be respectful and obedient to my father. And to your mamma--my dear daughter. Nothing else could give me so much pleasure." "I love Mamma Vi!" exclaimed Max. 'I'm sure there couldn't be a sweeter lady. And I like Grandpa Dinsmore, too, but--don't you think now he's very strict and ready to punish a fellow for a mere trifle, Grandma Elsie?" "I dare say it seems but a trifle to you for a boy of your age to go into town and do an errand for himself without asking leave," she replied, "but that might lead to much worse things; the boy might take to loitering about the town and fall into bad company and so be led into I know not what wickedness. For that reason parents and guardians should know all about a boy's comings and goings." "That's so, Grandma Elsie," Max said reflectively. "I don't mean to get into bad company ever, but papa says I'm a heedless fellow, so perhaps I might do it before I thought. I'll try to keep to rules after this." "I hope so, for both your own sake and ours," she said; then with a motherly kiss bade him good-night. CHAPTER XVI. "O jealousy! thou merciless destroyer, More cruel than the grave! what ravages Does thy wild war make in the noblest bosoms!" --Mullet. Edward stretched himself beside Zoe, but not to sleep for hours, for ever and anon she drew a sobbing breath that went to his very heart. "Poor little thing!" he sighed, "I must have acted like a brute to grieve her so deeply, I should not have undertaken the care of a child who I knew had been spoiled by unlimited petting and indulgence, if I could not be more forbearing and tender with her. If, instead of a show of authority, I had tried reasoning and coaxing, doubtless the result would have been very different, and she would have been saved all this. I am ashamed of myself! Grandpa might possibly have acted so toward a wife, but my father never, I am sure." He was really very fond of his little wife, loving her with a protecting love as something peculiarly his own, to be guided and moulded to suit his ideas and wishes, so that she might eventually become the perfectly congenial companion, capable of understanding and sympathizing in all his views and feelings, which he desired, but found that she was not yet. He began to fear she might never attain to that; that perhaps his sudden marriage was a mistake that would ruin the happiness of both for life. Tormented thus, he turned restlessly on his pillow with many a groan and sigh, nor closed an eye in sleep till long past midnight. He was sleeping very soundly when, about sunrise, Zoe opened her eyes. She lay still for a moment listening to his breathing, while memory recalled what had passed between them previous to her retiring. "And there he lies and sleeps just as soundly as if he hadn't been playing the tyrant to the woman he promised to love and cherish to life's end," she said to herself, with a flash of anger and scorn in her eyes. "Well, I don't mean to be here when he wakes; I'll keep out of his way till he's had his breakfast; for they say men are always savage on an empty stomach." She slipped cautiously out of the bed, stole quietly into the next room, made her toilet, arraying herself in riding habit and hat, went down-stairs, ordered her pony saddled and brought to the door, and was presently galloping away down the avenue. Edward had requested her never to go alone, always to take a servant as an attendant, even if she had one of the children with her, and especially if she had not; but she disregarded his wishes in this instance, partly from a spirit of defiance, partly because she much preferred a solitary ride, and could not see that there was any danger in it. It was a bright spring morning, the air just cold enough to be delightfully bracing; men were at work in the fields, orchards were full of bloom and fragrance, forest trees leafing out, and springing grass and flowers making the roadsides lovely. Zoe's spirits rose with every mile she travelled, the perfume of flowers, the songs of birds, and all the sweet sights and sounds of nature that greeted eye, and ear, and every sense, filled her with joy. How could she, so young and full of life and health, be unhappy in so beautiful a world? So keen was her enjoyment that she rode farther than she had intended. Time passed so quickly that, on looking at her watch, she was surprised to find that she would hardly be able, even at a gallop, to reach Ion by the breakfast hour. She was a little disturbed at that, for everybody was expected to be punctual at meals. Grandpa Dinsmore was particular about it, and she did not wish to give Edward fresh cause for displeasure. As she galloped swiftly up the avenue, she was surprised to see him pacing the veranda to and fro, watch in hand, while his horse stood near ready saddled and bridled. As she drew rein close by the veranda steps, Edward hastily returned his watch to its fob, sprang forward, and lifted her from the saddle. "Good-morning, little wife," he said with an affectionate kiss as he set her down, yet still keeping his arm about her. "I was not so kind as I might, or should have been last night, but you will not lay it up against your husband, love?" "No, of course not, Ned," she returned, looking up into his face flushed and happy, that so loving an apology had been given her in place of the reproof she expected; "and you won't hate me because I was cross when you were?" "Hate you, love! No, never! I shall love you as long as we both live. But I must say good-by. I am summoned away on important business, and shall have hardly time to catch the next train." "You might have told me last night," she pouted, as with another kiss he took his arm from her waist and turned to leave her. "I did not receive the summons till half an hour ago," he answered, hastily mounting his steed. "When will you come back?" she asked. "I hope to be with you by tea-time, this evening. Au revoir, darling." He threw her a kiss and was gone, galloping so rapidly away that in a minute or two he was out of sight; all the more speedily to her because her eyes were blinded with tears as she stood motionless, gazing after him. It was their first parting, and there came over her a feeling that, should he never come back, the world would be a desert, nothing left worth living for. "Never mind, dear child, it is for only a few hours, if all goes well," said a kind sweet voice at her side. "Yes, mamma, but--oh, I wish he never had to go away without me! And why couldn't I have gone with him this time?" she sobbed, beginning to feel herself quite aggrieved, though the idea of going with Edward had but just occurred to her. "Well, dear, there really was not time to arrange that," Elsie said, embracing her with motherly affection. "But come now and get some breakfast. You must be hungry after your ride." "Is Grandpa vexed because I was not here in season?" Zoe asked, following her mother-in-law on her way to the breakfast-room. "He has not shown any vexation," Elsie answered lightly; "and you are not much behind time; they are all still at the table. Edward took his breakfast early in order to catch his train." Zoe's apprehensions were relieved immediately on entering the breakfast-room, as Mr. Dinsmore and all the others greeted her with the usual pleasant "Good-morning." Reconciled to her husband and smiled upon by all the rest of the family, she grew quite happy. In saying she was not to be driven, but would do anything for love and coaxing, she had spoken truly; and now her great desire was to do something to please Edward. She had been rather remiss in her studies of late, and though he had administered no reproof, she knew that he felt discouraged over it. She determined to surprise him on his return with carefully prepared lessons. After giving due attention to them, she spent hours at the piano learning a song he admired and had lately bought for her, saying he thought it suited to her voice, and wanted to hear her play and sing it. "What a dear, industrious little woman," Elsie said, meeting her in the hall as she left the music-room, and bestowing upon her a motherly smile and caress. "I know whom you are trying so hard to please, and if he does not show appreciation of your efforts, I shall think him unworthy of so good a little wife." Zoe colored with pleasure. "O mamma," she said, "though I have been cross and wilful sometimes, I would do anything in the world to please my husband when he is loving and kind to me. But do you know, I can't bear to be driven. I won't; if anybody tries it with me, it just rouses all that is evil in me." "Well, dear, I don't think any one in this house wants to drive you," Elsie said, repeating her caress, "not even your husband; though he is, perhaps, a trifle masterful by nature. You and he will need to take the two bears into your counsels," she added sportively. "Two bears, mamma?" and Zoe looked up in surprise and perplexity. "Yes, dear; bear and forbear, as the poet sings-- "'The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear, And something every day they live To pity and perhaps forgive.'" Zoe went slowly up to her own rooms and sat down to meditate upon her mother-in-law's words. "'Bear and forbear.' Well, when Edward reproves me as if he were my father instead of my husband, and talks about what he will and won't allow, I must bear with him, I suppose; and when I want to answer back that I'm my own mistress and not under his control, I must forbear and deny myself the pleasure. Hard for me to do, but then it isn't to be all on one side; and if he will only forbear lecturing me in the beginning, all will go right. "I mean to tell him so. If he wants me to be very good, he should set me the example. Good! when he scolds me again, I'll just remind him that example is better than precept. "No, I won't either; I'll forbear. Ned is good to me, and I don't want to provoke him. I mean to be a good little wife to him, and I know he wants to be the best of husbands to me. "Oh, how kind and good he was to me when papa died, and I hadn't another friend in the world! how he took me to his heart and comforted and loved me! I must never make him wish he hadn't. I'll do everything I can to prove that I'm not ungrateful for all his love and kindness." Tears sprang to her eyes, and she was seized with a longing desire for his presence, for an opportunity to pour out her love and gratitude, and have him clasp her to his heart with tenderest caresses, as was his wont. She glanced at the clock. Oh joy! he might, he probably would, return in an hour or perhaps a trifle sooner. She sprang up and began her toilet for the evening, paying close attention to his taste in the arrangement of her hair and the selection of her dress and ornaments. "I want to look just as beautiful in his sight as I possibly can, that he may be pleased with me and love me better than ever," was the thought in her heart. "I am his own wife, and who has a better right to his love than I? Dear Ned! I hope we'll never quarrel, but always keep the two bears with us in our home." Her labors completed, she turned herself about before the pier-glass, mentally pronounced her attire faultless from the knot of ribbon in her hair to the dainty boots on the shapely little feet, and her cheek flushed with pleasure as the mirror told her that face and form were even prettier than the dress and ornaments that formed a fit setting to their charms. The hour was almost up. She glanced from the window to see if he were yet in sight. He was not, but she wanted a walk, so would go to meet him; he would dismount at sight of her, and they would walk home together. Tying on a garden hat and throwing a light shawl about her shoulders, she hastened down-stairs and out into the grounds. She had walked more than half the length of the avenue, when she saw the family carriage turning in at the gates, Edward riding beside it. The flutter of a veil from its window caused her to change her plans. He was not returning alone, but bringing lady visitors; therefore, she would not go to meet him. And no one had told her visitors were expected. She felt aggrieved, and somehow, unreasonable as she knew it to be, she was angry at Edward's look of interest and pleasure as he leaned from the saddle in a listening attitude, as if hearkening to the talk of some one within the carriage. Zoe had stepped behind a clump of bushes, whose leafy screen hid her from the view of the approaching party, while through its interstices she could see them very plainly. As they drew nearer, she saw that the carriage contained two young, pretty, ladylike girls, one of whom was talking to Edward with much animation and earnestness, he listening with evident interest and amusement. When the carriage had passed her, Zoe glided away through the shrubbery, gained the house by a circuitous route and a side entrance, and her own rooms by a back stairway. She fully expected to find Edward there, but he was not. "Where can he be?" she asked herself half aloud, then sat down and waited for him--not very patiently. After some little time, which, to Zoe's impatience, seemed very long, she heard the opening and shutting of a door, then the voices of Mr. Dinsmore, his daughter, and Edward in conversation, as they came down the hall together. "He has been to see his mother first," she pouted. "I think a man ought always to put his wife first." And turning her back to the door, she took up a book and made a pretence of being deeply interested in its perusal. Edward's step, however, passed on into the dressing-room, and as she heard him moving about there, she grew more and more vexed. It seemed that he was in no great haste to greet her after this their first day's separation; he could put it off, not only for a visit to his mother in her private apartments, but also until he had gone through the somewhat lengthened duties of the toilet. Well, she would show him that she, too, could wait--could be as cool and indifferent as himself. She assumed a graceful attitude in an easy-chair, her pretty little feet upon a velvet-cushioned stool, and with her book lying in her lap listened intently to every sound coming from the adjoining room. At last she heard his step approach the door, then his hand upon the knob, when she instantly took up her book and fixed her eyes upon its open page, as though unconscious of everything but what was printed there, yet really not taking in the meaning of a single word. Edward came in, came close to her side. Still she neither moved nor lifted her eyes. But she could not control her color, and he saw through her pretences. He knelt down beside her chair, bent his head and looked up into her face with laughing eyes. "What can it be that so interests my little wife that she does not even know that her husband has come home, after this their first day of separation? Have you no kiss of welcome for him, little woman?" The book was thrust hastily aside, and in an instant her arms were about his neck, her lips pressed again and again to his. "O Ned, I do love you!" she said softly, "but I began to think you didn't care for me--going to see mamma first, and then waiting to dress." "Mamma and grandpa were concerned in the business that took me away to-day, and I owed them a prompt report upon it; yet I looked in here first for my wife, but couldn't find her; then I asked for her, and was told that she had been seen going out for a walk. So I thought I would dress and be ready for her when she came in." "Was that it?" she asked, looking a little ashamed. "But," regarding him with critical eyes, "you'd better always let me help with your dressing; your cravat isn't tied nicely, and your hair doesn't look half so well as when I brush it for you." "Can't you set matters straight, then?" he asked, releasing her from the close embrace in which he had held her for the last few minutes. "Yes; just keep still as you are, and I'll re-tie the cravat." He held still, enjoying, as he always did, having her deft fingers at work about him, and gazing the while into the pretty face, with eyes full of loving admiration. "There!" she said at length, leaning back a little to take in the full effect, "I don't believe that can be improved upon." "Much obliged," he said, getting up from his knees. "Now, what next?" "Your hair, of course," she answered, jumping up and leading the way into the dressing-room. "Sit down," arming herself with comb and brush, "you know I'm not tall enough to reach your head while you're standing up." He obeyed, asking, "What have you been doing to-day?" "What a question!" she returned, laughing; "of course, I'd take my pleasure when my lord and master was away." "Don't call me that, dear," he said in a tone of gentle, half remorseful expostulation. "Why not? doesn't the Bible say Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord?" "But it doesn't say master, and besides, these are very different times." "We seem to have changed sides on that subject," she said, with a merry little laugh, as she laid the brush away, and standing behind his chair, put her arms around his neck and laid her cheek to his. He drew her round to a seat upon his knee. "Darling, I don't mean to play the tyrant, and am quite ashamed of some things I said last night." "Then you won't say them any more, will you? I was really afraid you were turning into a horrid tyrant. Oh, you haven't told me who the visitors are who came in the carriage with you!" "The daughter and niece of an old friend of my father's, Miss Fanny Deane and Miss Susie Fleming." "How long are they likely to stay?" "I don't know; probably two or three weeks." "You asked what I'd been doing. Studying hard part of the time, that I might please this old tutor of mine," giving him another tug. "Will you be pleased to hear me recite now?" "There would not be time before tea, dear," he said, consulting his watch; "so we will put it off till later in the evening. Come down to the drawing-room with me and let me introduce you to the ladies." "Very well; but first tell me if my toilet satisfies you." He gave her a scrutinizing glance. "Entirely; you are as lovely as a fairy," he said, with a proud, fond smile. "Oh, you flatterer!" she returned with a pleased laugh, and slipping her hand into his. "Your wife!" exclaimed both ladies when the introduction was over. "She looks so young!" "So _very_ young that I should have taken her for a school-girl," added Miss Deane, with a condescending smile that enraged Zoe. "And I take you for an old maid of twenty-five," was her mental retort. "I dare say you'd be glad enough to be as young as I am, and to have such a handsome husband." But she merely made a demure little courtesy and withdrew to a seat beside her mother-in-law on the farther side of the room, her heightened color and flashing eyes alone telling how indignant she felt. "Never mind, dear, you are growing older every day," Elsie said in a soothing undertone, "and are just the right age for Edward. We all think that, and I that you are a dear little daughter for me." "Thank you, dear mamma," whispered Zoe. "I think it was very rude and unkind to liken me to a school-girl. I believe it was just because she envies me my youth and my husband." "Perhaps so," Elsie said, with difficulty restraining a smile, "but we will try to be charitable and think the remark was not unkindly meant." Edward took Miss Deane in to supper, which was presently announced. Zoe did not like that, as Elsie perceived with some concern. The young lady had very fine conversational powers and was very fond of displaying them; she soon obtained and held the attention of all the older people at the table, and Zoe felt herself more and more aggrieved. Edward was positively careless of her wants, leaving her to be waited upon by the servants. When they returned to the drawing-room he seated himself beside Miss Deane again, and the flow of talk recommenced, he continuing a delighted listener. Zoe feigned not to notice or care, but it was a very transparent pretence. Edward had devoted himself so almost exclusively to her ever since their marriage, that she could scarce endure to have it otherwise. She could not refrain from watching him furtively and trying to catch his every look, word and tone. After a little she stole quietly from the room and went up to her own. "He will miss me presently," she thought, "remember about the lessons, and come up to hear them, and I'll have him all to myself for at least a little while." He did not come, but at length Rosie looked in to say, "Won't you come down to the music-room, Zoe? Miss Fleming is going to play for us, and she is said to be quite a wonderful performer." Zoe accepted the invitation; she was fond of music, and it wasn't Miss Fleming who had robbed her of Edward. Yet, when she saw him standing beside her, a rapt and delighted listener, and assiduously turning her music, she began to almost hate her, too. The advent of these two strangers seemed to have rendered ineffectual all the efforts she had put forth that day to gratify her husband; of what use was it that she had so carefully prepared the lessons he would not trouble himself to hear? or that she had spent hours of patient practice at the piano in learning the song she was given no opportunity to play and sing? But womanly pride was awaking within her, and she made a tolerably successful effort to control and hide her feelings. When at length she found herself alone with Edward in their own apartments, she moved silently about making her preparations for retiring, seeming to have nothing to say. He burst into enthusiastic praises of the talents of their guests--the conversational gift of the one, the musical genius of the other. Zoe, standing before the mirror, brushing out her soft shining tresses, made no response. "Why are you so silent, little woman?" Edward asked presently. "Because I have nothing to say that you would want to hear." "Nothing that I would want to hear? why, I am fond of the very sound of your voice. But what's the matter?" for he had come to her side, and perceived with surprise and concern that her eyes were full of tears. "Oh, nothing! except that I'd looked forward to a delightful evening with my husband, after being parted from him all day, and didn't get it." "My dear Zoe," he said, "I owe you an apology! I actually forgot all about those lessons." "And me, too," she said bitterly. "My musical and conversational gifts sink into utter insignificance beside those of these newcomers." "Jealousy is a very mean and wicked passion, Zoe; I don't like to see you indulging it," he said, turning away from her. "I am, of course, expected to pay some attention to my mother's guests, and you will have to put up with it." "You are always right and I am always wrong," she said, half choking with indignation; "but if you are always to do as _you_ please, I shall do as _I_ please." "In regard to what?" he asked coldly. "Everything!" she answered in a defiant tone. Edward strode angrily into the next room; but five minutes sufficed to subdue his passion, and in tender tones he called softly to his wife, "Zoe, love, will you please come here for a moment?" She started with surprise at the kindness of his tones, her heart leaped for joy, and she ran to him, smiling through her tears. He had seated himself in a large easy-chair. "Come, darling," he said, drawing her to a seat upon his knee. Then with his arm about her waist, "Zoe, love, we are husband and wife, whom nothing but death can ever separate. Let us be kind to one another, kind and forbearing, so that when one is taken the other will have no cause for self-reproach." "O Ned, don't talk of that," she sobbed with her arms about his neck, her cheek laid to his. "I'm sure it would kill me to lose you. You are all I have in the wide world." "So I am, you poor little dear," he said, softly smoothing her hair, "and I ought to be always kind to you. But, indeed, Zoe, you have no need to be jealous of any other woman. I may like to talk with them and listen to their music, but when I want some one to love and pet, my heart turns to my own little wife." "It was very foolish!" she said, penitently, "but I did so want you to myself to-night, and I'd worked so busily all day learning the lessons and that song you brought me, thinking to please you." "Did you, dear? well, it was too bad in me to neglect you so, and even to forget to give you this, which I bought expressly for my dear little wife, while in the city to-day." He took her hand as he spoke, and slipped a ring upon her finger. "O Ned, thank you!" she exclaimed, lifting to his a face full of delight. "It's very pretty, and so good in you to remember to bring me something." "Then shall we kiss and be friends, and try not to quarrel any more?" "Yes; oh yes!" she said, offering her lips. "I must have that song to-morrow," he said, caressing her again and again. "No, no! I can't think of singing before such a performer as Miss Fleming." "But you are an early bird, and she and Miss Deane will probably be late. Can't you sing and play for me before they are down in the morning?" "Well, perhaps," she answered coquettishly. "And the lessons? will you hear them, too, before breakfast?" "If you wish it, dear." CHAPTER XVII. "The beginning of strife is as when one letteth out water: therefore leave off contention, before it be meddled with." --_Proverbs_ 17:14. Zoe went to bed that night and rose again the next morning a happy little woman. The song was sung, the performance eliciting warm praise from the solitary listener. Then they had a delightful ride together, all before breakfast, and she brought to the table such dancing eyes and rosy cheeks that Mr. Lilburn could not refrain from complimenting her upon them, while the rest of the older people smiled in approval. "She looks younger than ever," remarked Miss Deane, sweetly. "It is quite impossible to realize that she is married." "It is altogether possible for me to realize that she is my own dear little wife," said Edward, regarding Zoe with loving, admiring eyes. "A piece of personal property I would not part with for untold gold," he added with a happy laugh. "And we all think our Zoe is quite old for so young a husband," said Elsie, bestowing upon the two a glance of smiling, motherly affection. It was a busy season with Edward, and he was compelled to leave the entertainment of the guests through the day to his mother and other members of the family. Zoe excused herself from any share in that work on the plea that she was too young to be companionable to the ladies, spent some hours in diligent study, then walked out with the children. "I have two sets of lessons ready for you," was her greeting to Edward, when he came in late in the afternoon. "Have you, dear?" he returned, taking the easy-chair she drew forward for him. "Then let me hear them. You must have been an industrious little woman to-day." "Tolerably; but you know one set was ready for you yesterday." "Ah, yes; you were industrious then, also. And I dare say it is rather stupid work studying alone." "Not when one has such a nice teacher," she answered sportively. "Praise from your lips is sweeter than it ever was from any other but papa's," she added, tears trembling in her eyes. He was glad to be able, on the conclusion of the recitation, to give it without stint. She flushed with pleasure, and helping herself to a seat upon his knee, thanked him with a hug and kiss. "Easter holidays begin next week," he remarked, putting an arm about her and returning her caress; "do you wish to give up your studies during that time?" "No," she said; "I've wasted too much time during the past few weeks, and I'd rather take my holidays in the very warm weather." "That is what mamma's and grandpa's pupils are to do," he said. "They are invited to both the Oaks and the Laurels in May and June, to spend some weeks at each place. And you are included in both invitations." "I shall not go unless you do," she said with decision. "Parted from my husband for weeks? No, indeed! I can hardly stand it for a single day," she added, laying her cheek to his. "Nor I, little wife," he said, passing his hand softly over her hair. "Do you feel equal to a ride this afternoon?" "Why, yes; of course! shall I get ready at once?" "Yes, do, dearie. There is to be a party of us--grandpa, mamma, and Miss Fleming, Miss Deane, you and I." Zoe's brow clouded. "Riding three abreast, I suppose. But why did you ask Miss Deane? She'll spoil all my enjoyment." "Don't let her; I must show some attention to her as a guest in the house, and really felt obliged to invite her. We are to call at Fairview, and see how Lester and Elsie get on with their housekeeping. Now, do promise me that you will be a good, sensible little woman, and not indulge in jealousy." "To please you I'll do the very best I can. I told you I would do anything for love and coaxing," she answered in a sprightly tone, with her arm still about his neck, her eyes gazing fondly into his. He drew her closer. "I'll try always to remember and practice upon that," he said, "Now, darling, don that very becoming hat and habit you wore this morning." Miss Deane was an accomplished coquette, whose greatest delight was to prove her power over every man who came in her way, whether married or single, and perceiving Zoe's dislike to her, and jealousy of any attention paid her by Edward, she took a malicious pleasure in drawing him to her side whenever opportunity offered, and keeping him there as long as possible. Edward, with a heart entirely true to his young wife, endeavored to resist the fascinations of the siren and avoid her when politeness would permit; and Zoe struggled against her inclination to jealousy, yet Miss Deane succeeded in the course of a few days in bringing about a slight coldness between them. They did not actually quarrel, but there was a cessation of loving looks and endearing words and names. It was simply Zoe and Edward now instead of dearest and love and darling, while they rather avoided than sought each other's society. Edward was too busy to walk or ride with his wife, and Max and Ralph Conly, at home now for the Easter holidays and self-invited to Ion, became the almost constant sharers of her outdoor exercise. Edward saw it with displeasure, for Ralph was no favorite with him. When things had gone on in that way for several days, he ventured upon a mild remonstrance, telling Zoe he would rather she would not make a familiar associate of Ralph. "If I am debarred from my husband's society, I'm not to be blamed for taking what I can get," she answered coldly. "I don't blame you for what is past, Zoe," he said, "but request that in future you will not have more to do with Ralph than is quite necessary." Zoe was in a defiant mood. She walked away without making any reply, and an hour later Edward met her riding out with Ralph by her side. Max was not with them, as it was during his study hours, and they had not even an attendant. They had been laughing and chatting gayly, but at sight of Edward a sudden silence fell on them. Zoe's head drooped and her cheeks flushed hotly as she perceived the dark frown on her husband's brow. She expected some cutting word of rebuke, but he simply wheeled his horse about, placing himself on her other side, so that she was between him and Ralph, and rode on with them. Not a word was spoken until they drew rein at their own door, when Edward, dismounting, lifted his wife from her pony, and as he set her down, said, "I will be obliged to you, Zoe, if you will now prepare your lessons for to-day." Zoe had already begun to repent of her open disregard of his wishes, for during the silent ride memory had been busy with the many expressions of love and tenderness he had lavished upon her in their short married life, and if there had been the least bit of either in his tones now, she would have whispered in his ear that she was sorry and would not so offend again; but the cold, stern accents made the request sound like a command, and roused again the spirit of opposition that had almost died out. She shook off his detaining hand, and walked away in silence, with head erect and cheeks burning with indignation. Ralph had not heard Edward's low-spoken words, but looking after Zoe, as she disappeared within the doorway, "Seems to me you're a bit of a tyrant, Ned," he remarked with a coarse, disagreeable laugh. "I am not aware of having shown any evidence of being such," Edward returned rather haughtily, as he remounted. Then, turning his horse's head, he rode rapidly away. Zoe went to her boudoir, gave vent to her anger in a hearty fit of crying, then set to work at the lessons with a sincere desire to please the husband she really loved with all her heart. "I've been forgetting the two bears," she said to herself, "but I'll try again, and when that hateful Miss Deane goes away, everything will be right again. I know Ned has to be polite to her; and it's very silly in me to get vexed when he talks to her; but I can't help it, because he's my all." She finished her tasks, dressed herself for dinner with care and taste, and when she heard his step on the stairs ran to the door to meet him. Her face was bright and eager, but changed at sight of his cold, forbidding looks. "I am ready for you," she said timidly, shrinking away from him. "Very well, bring your books," he said with, she thought, the air of a schoolmaster toward a pupil in disgrace, and seating himself as he spoke. She brought them, keeping her eyes cast down to hide the tell-tale tears. She controlled her emotion in another moment, and went through the recitations very creditably to herself. He made no comment upon that, though usually he would have bestowed warm praise, but simply appointed the tasks for the next day, rose and left the room. Zoe looked after him with a swelling heart, wiped away a tear or two, and assuming an air of indifference, went down to the parlor to join the rest of the family. "Where's Ned?" asked Rosie. "You two used never to be seen apart; but of late----" The sentence was suddenly broken off because of a warning look from her mamma. "Don't you know, little girl," said Miss Deane in a soft, purring tone, "that nobody expects married people to remain lovers always?" "It is what they should do," Elsie said with gentle decision. "It was so with my husband and myself, and I trust will be with all my children." "Allow me to advise you to deliver Ned a lecture on the subject, cousin," laughed Ralph. "He doesn't need it," Zoe exclaimed with spirit, turning on Ralph with flashing eyes. "Oh," he said, with a loud guffaw, "I should have remembered that any one taking the part of an abused wife is sure to have her wrath turned upon himself." "What do you mean by that, sir? I am _not_ an abused wife," said Zoe, tears springing to her eyes; "there never was a kinder, tenderer husband than mine, and I know he loves me dearly." "He does, indeed, dear; we none of us doubt that in the least; and so you can well afford to let Ralph enjoy his forlorn joke," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore, with an indignant, reproving look at the latter, who colored under it, and relapsed into silence. The weather was delightful, and the children having been given a half holiday, spent the afternoon in the grounds. Zoe forsook the company of the older people for theirs, and joined in their sports, for she was still child-like in her tastes. She was as active as a boy, and before her marriage had taken keen delight in climbing rocks and trees. The apple-trees in the orchard were in full bloom, and taking a fancy to adorn herself with their blossoms, she climbed up among the branches of one of the tallest, in order, as she said, to "take her pick and choice," Rosie, Lulu, Gracie and Walter standing near and watching her with eager interest. "Oh, Zoe, take care!" Rosie called to her, "that branch doesn't look strong, and you might fall and hurt yourself badly." "Don't you be afraid. I can take care of myself," she returned with a light laugh. But another voice spoke close at hand, fairly startling her, it was so unexpected. "Zoe, what mad prank is this? Let me help you down at once." "There's no need for you to trouble yourself, I am quite able to get down without assistance, when I'm ready," she replied, putting a strong emphasis upon the last words. "No; it is too dangerous," and he held up his arms with an imperative, "Come!" "How you do order me about," she muttered, half under her breath, and more than half inclined to rebel. But no; the children were looking and listening, and must not be allowed to suspect any unpleasantness between herself and her husband. She dropped into his arms, he set her upon her feet, drew her hand within his arm, and walked away with her. "I do not approve of tree-climbing for a married woman, Zoe," he said, when they were out of ear-shot of the children; "at least, not for my wife; and I must request you not to try it again." "It's a pity I didn't know how much my liberty would be curtailed by getting married," she returned bitterly. "And I am exceedingly sorry it is out of my power to restore your liberty to you, since it seems that would add to your happiness." At that she hastily withdrew her hand from his arm and walked quickly away from him, taking the direction of the house. Leaning against a tree, his arms folded, his face pale and stern, he looked after her with a heart full of keenest anguish. She had never been dearer to him than at this moment, but alas, she seemed to have lost her love for him, and what a life of miserable dissension they were likely to lead, repenting at leisure their foolishly hasty marriage! And she was half frantic with pain and passion. He was tired of her already--before they had been married a year--he did not love her any longer and would be glad to be rid of her. Oh, what should she do! would that she could fly to the ends of the earth that he might be relieved of her hated presence. And yet--oh, how could she ever endure constant absence from him? She loved him so dearly, so dearly! She hurried on past the house, down the whole length of the avenue and back again, the hot tears all the time streaming over her cheeks. Then she hastily wiped them away, went to her rooms, bathed her eyes, and dressed carefully for tea. Womanly pride had come to her aid; she must hide her wounds from all, especially from Edward himself and "that detestable Miss Deane." She would pretend to be happy, very happy, and no one should guess how terribly her heart was aching. CHAPTER XVIII. "Where lives the man that has not tried How mirth can into folly glide, And folly into sin!" --Scott. Ralph Conly was not a favorite with any of his Ion relatives, because they knew his principles were not altogether such as they could approve, nor indeed his practice either; yet they had no idea how bad a youth he was, else intimacy between him and Max would have been forbidden. All unsuspected by the older people, he was exerting a very demoralizing influence over the younger boy. Every afternoon they sought out some private spot and had a game of cards, and little by little Ralph had introduced gambling into the game, till now the stakes were high in proportion to the means of the players. On this particular afternoon they had taken possession of a summer-house in a retired part of the grounds, and were deep in play. Ralph at first let Max win, the stakes being small; then raising them higher, he won again and again, till he had stripped Max of all his pocket money and his watch. Max felt himself ruined, and broke out in passionate exclamations of grief and despair, coupled with accusations of cheating, which were, indeed, well founded. Ralph grew furious and swore horrible oaths, and Max answered with a repetition of his accusation, concluding with an oath, the first he had uttered since his father's serious talk with him on the exceeding sinfulness and black ingratitude of profanity. All that had passed then, the passages of Scripture telling of the punishment of the swearer under the Levitical law, flashed back upon him as the words left his lips, and covering his face with his hands he groaned in anguish of spirit at thought of his fearful sin. Then Mr. Dinsmore's voice, speaking in sternest accents, startled them both. "Ralph, is this the kind of boy you are? a gambler and profane swearer? And you, too, Max? Do you mean to break your poor father's heart and some day bring down his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave? Go at once to your room, sir. And you, Ralph, return immediately to Roselands. I cannot expose my grandchildren to the corrupting influence of such a character as yours." The mandate was obeyed promptly and in silence by both, Ralph not daring to gather up his plunder, or even his cards from the table where they lay. Mr. Dinsmore took possession of both, and followed Max to the house. In the heat of their altercation the lads had raised their voices to a high pitch, and he, happening to be at no great distance, and hastening to the spot to learn the cause of the disturbance, had come upon them in time to hear the last sentence uttered by each, and had taken in the whole situation at a glance. He went directly to his daughter's dressing-room, and sent for Violet to join them there. Both ladies were greatly distressed by the tale he had to tell. "Oh," sobbed Violet, "it will break my husband's heart to learn that his only son has taken to such evil courses! And to think that it was a relative of our own who led him into it!" "Yes," sighed Mr. Dinsmore, "I blame myself for not being more watchful; though I had no idea that Ralph had acquired such vices." "I cannot have you blame yourself, papa," Elsie said, with tender look and tone, "I am sure it was no fault of yours. And I cannot believe the dear boy has become a confirmed swearer or gambler in so short a time. He is a warm-hearted fellow, and has a tender conscience. We will hope by divine aid to reclaim him speedily." "Dear mamma, thank you!" exclaimed Violet, smiling through her tears. "What you say of Max is quite true, and I have no doubt that he is at this very moment greatly distressed because of his sin." "I trust it may be so," said Mr. Dinsmore. "But now the question is, what is to be done with him? I wish his father were here to prescribe the course to be taken." "Oh, he has already done so!" cried Violet, bursting into tears again. "He said if Max should ever be guilty of profanity he was to be confined to his own room for a week, and forbidden all intercourse with the rest of the family as unworthy to associate with them. I begged him not to compel us to be so severe, but he was inexorable." "Then we have no discretionary power, no choice but to carry out his directions," Mr. Dinsmore said, feeling rather relieved that the decision was not left with him. "I shall go now and tell Max what his sentence is, and from whom it comes. "And, unfortunately, it will be necessary, in order to carry it out, to inform the other members of the family, who might otherwise hold communication with him. "That task I leave to you, Elsie and Violet." He left the room, and Violet, after a little sorrowful converse with her mother, went to her own, and with many tears told Lulu and Gracie what had occurred, and what was, by their father's direction, to be Max's punishment. Both little sisters were shocked and grieved, very sorry for Max, for it seemed to them quite terrible to be shut up in one room for a whole week, while to be out of doors was so delightful; but even Lulu had nothing to say against their father's decree, especially after Violet had explained that he had made it in his great love for Max, wanting to cure him of vices that would make him wretched in this life and the next. Rosie was still more shocked and scarcely less sorry than Lulu and Gracie, for she had been taught to look upon swearing and gambling as very great sins, and yet she liked Max very much indeed, and pitied him for the disgrace and punishment he had brought upon himself. It was she who told Zoe, seeking her in her dressing-room, where she was making her toilet for the evening. "Oh, Rosie, how dreadful!" exclaimed Zoe. "I never could have believed it of Max! but it is all because of the bad influence of that wicked Ralph. I see now why Edward disapproves of him so thoroughly that he didn't like me to ride with him. But I do think Captain Raymond is a very severe father. A whole week in the house this lovely weather! How can the poor boy ever stand it! "And nobody to speak a kind word to him, either. I don't think they ought to be so hard on him, for I dare say he is grieving himself sick over it now, for he isn't a bad boy." "No," said Rosie, "I don't think he is; I like Max very much, but of course his father's orders have to be carried out, and for that reason we are all forbidden to go near him, and we have no choice but to obey." "Forbidden, indeed!" thought Zoe to herself. "I for one shall do as I please about it." "Zoe, how pretty you are! that dress is very becoming!" exclaimed Rosie, suddenly changing the subject. "Am I? But I can't compare with Miss Deane in either beauty or conversational powers," returned Zoe, the concluding words spoken with some bitterness. "Can't you? just ask Ned about it," laughed Rosie. "I verily believe he thinks you the sweetest thing he ever set eyes on. There, I hear him coming, and must run away, for I know he always wants you all to himself here; and besides, I have to dress." She ran gayly away, passing her brother on the threshold. Zoe was busying herself at a bureau drawer, apparently searching for something, and did not look toward him or speak. In another moment she had found what she wanted, closed the drawer, and passed into her boudoir. Edward had been standing silently watching her, love and anger struggling for the mastery in his breast. If she had only turned to him with a word, or even a look of regret for the past, and desire for reconciliation, he would have taken her to his heart again as fully and tenderly as ever. He was longing to do so, but too proud to make the first advances when he felt himself the aggrieved one. "All would be right between them but for Zoe's silly jealousy and pride. Why could she not trust him and submit willingly to his guidance and control while she was still so young and inexperienced--such a mere child as to be quite incapable of judging for herself in any matter of importance? In fact, he felt it his duty to guide and control her till she should grow older and wiser." Such were his thoughts as he went through the duties of the toilet, while Zoe sat at the window of her boudoir gazing out over the smoothly shaven lawn with its stately trees, lovely in their fresh spring attire, to the green fields and woods beyond, yet scarcely taking in the beauty of the landscape, so full of tears were her eyes, so full her heart of anger, grief, and pain. She had not looked at her husband as he stood silently near her a moment ago, but felt that he was gazing with anger and sternness upon her. "If he had only said one kind word to me," she whispered to herself, "I would have told him I was sorry for my silly speech this afternoon, and oh, so happy to be his own little wife, if--if only he hasn't quit loving me." She hastily wiped her eyes and endeavored to assume an air of cheerfulness and indifference, as she heard his step approaching. "Are you ready to go down now, Zoe?" he asked in a freezing tone. "Yes," she answered, turning to follow him as he led the way to the door. There seemed to be a tacit understanding between them that their disagreements and coldness toward each other were to be concealed from all the rest of the world; in the old happy days they had always gone down together to the drawing-room or the tea-table, therefore would do so still. Also, they studiously guarded their words and looks in the presence of any third person. Yet Elsie, the tender mother, with eyes sharpened by affection, had already perceived that all was not right. She had noted Zoe's disturbed look when Edward seemed specially interested in Miss Deane's talk or Miss Fleming's music, and had silently determined not to ask them to prolong their stay at Ion. The supper-bell rang as Edward and Zoe descended the stairs together, and they obeyed its summons without going into the drawing-room. Violet's place at the table was vacant as well as that of Max, and Lulu and Gracie bore the traces of tears about their eyes. These things reminded Zoe of Max's trouble, forgotten for a time in her own, and she thought pityingly of him in his imprisonment, wondered if he would be put upon prison fare, and determined to find out, and if he were, to try to procure him something better. She made an errand to her own rooms soon after leaving the table, went to his door and knocked softly. "Who's there?" he asked in a voice half choked with sobs. "It is I, Maxie," she said in an undertone at the keyhole, "Zoe, you know. I want to say I'm ever so sorry for you, and always ready to do anything I can to help you." "Thank you," he said, "but I mustn't see anybody, so can't open the door; and, indeed," with a heavy sob, "I'm not fit company for you or any of the rest." "Yes, you are, you're as good as I am. But why can't you open the door? are you locked in?" "No; but--papa said I--I must stay by myself for a week if--if I did what I have done to-day. So please don't stay any longer, though it was ever so good in you to come." "Good-by, then," and she moved away. CHAPTER XIX. "High minds of native pride and force Most deeply feel thy pangs, remorse! Fear of their scourge mean villains have; Thou art the torture of the brave." --Scott. Max sat before his writing-table, his folded arms upon it, and his face hidden upon them. He was in sore distress of mind. How he had fallen before temptation! into what depths of disgrace and sin! sin that in olden times would have been punished with death, even as the horrible crime of murder, and that must still be as hateful as ever in the sight of an unchangeable God. And not only that sin, of which he had thought he had so truly and deeply repented, but another which he had always been taught was a very low and degrading vice. Oh, could there be forgiveness for him? And how would his dear honored father feel when the sad story should reach his ears? would it indeed break his heart as Grandpa Dinsmore had said? The boy's own heart was overwhelmed with grief, dismay, and remorse as he asked himself these torturing questions. The door opened, but so softly that the sound was lost in his bitter sobbing, then a hand rested lightly, tenderly upon his bowed head, and a gentle, pitying voice said, "My poor, dear boy, my heart bleeds for you." "O Grandma Elsie!" he burst out, "can you say that to such a wicked fellow as I am?" "Did not Jesus weep with compassion over the sinners of Jerusalem, many of whom were even then plotting His death? And, Maxie, He pities you in your fallen estate, and is ready to forgive you the moment you turn to Him with grief and hatred of your sin and an earnest desire to forsake it, and to give yourself to His service." "Oh, I do, I do hate it!" he cried out with vehemence. "I didn't mean ever to swear any more, and I feel as if I'd rather cut off my right hand than to do it again! But oh, how can I ask Him to forgive me, when He did once, and I've gone and done the same wicked thing again, just as if I hadn't been really sorry at all, though I was sure I was! Grandma Elsie, what shall I do?" "'Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him, and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.' "'He is the Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long-suffering and abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin.' "'His name is Jesus, for He shall save His people from their sins.' He says, 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.' 'O Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself; but in me is thine help.' "'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.' "'I, even I, am He that blotteth out thy transgressions for my own sake, and will not remember thy sins.'" "Oh, He is very good to say that!" sobbed the penitent boy. "But won't you ask Him to forgive me, Grandma Elsie?" "Yes, Max, but you must pray, too, for yourself; confess your sins to Him, and ask Him to blot them out and remember them no more against you, because Jesus has suffered their penalty in your stead. Shall we kneel down now and ask Him?" She stayed with him some time longer, talking in tender, motherly fashion; not extenuating his guilt, but speaking of the blood that cleanseth from all sin, the love and tender compassion of Jesus, His willingness and ability to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by Him. Warning him, too, of the danger from evil associates and from indulgence in the vice of gambling. Then she told him he was not too young to begin to lead a Christian life, and urged him to do so without a moment's delay. "I think I do want to be a Christian, Grandma Elsie," he said, "if I only knew just how." "It is to leave the service of Satan for that of the Lord Jesus Christ," she said. "It is to give yourself body and soul, at once and forever, to Jesus, trusting in Him alone for salvation from sin and eternal death. "'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved,' 'Look unto me and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth.' "Just take the first step, and He will help you on all the way, one step at a time, till you reach the gates of the celestial city. 'This God is our God forever and ever, He will be our guide even unto death.' "Just speak to the Lord Jesus, dear Max, as if you could see Him standing before you while you knelt at His feet; say to Him as the leper did, 'Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean.' Tell Him how full you are of the dreadful leprosy of sin, how unable to heal yourself, and beseech Him to do the work for you, to wash you and make you clean and cover you with the robe of His righteousness; give yourself to Him, asking Him to accept the worthless gift and make you entirely and forever His own." She rose to leave him. "Oh, do stay a little longer!" he pleaded, clinging to her hand. "Tell me, do you think Mamma Vi will ever love me any more? that she will ever kiss me again?" he sobbed. "I am sure she will, Max," Elsie answered in moved tones; "she has not ceased to love you, and I think will come and speak a word to you now, if you wish it." "Oh, so much! only--only I'm dreadfully ashamed to look her in the face. And--O Grandma Elsie, do you think it will break my father's heart when he hears it all?" "It will make him very sad indeed, I have no doubt, Max," she answered, gently, "but if he hears, too, that you have truly repented and given your heart to God, he cannot fail to be greatly comforted. Tell him the whole truth, my dear boy, don't try to conceal anything from him." "It's what I mean to do, Grandma Elsie," he said with a heavy sigh, "though I'd rather take the worst kind of a flogging. And that's what I'd get if he was here, for he told me so." "I am very glad you love your father so well, Max, and that your sorrow is more for grieving him, and especially for having dishonored and displeased God, than for the unpleasant consequences to yourself; it gives me great hope that you will never be guilty of such conduct again. "Now, I shall go and send your mamma to you; she is in her own rooms, for she has been too much distressed over her dear boy's sad fall to join the others at the table or in the drawing-room. She loves you very dearly, Max." "It's very good of her," he said in trembling tones, "and oh, I'm ever so sorry to have grieved her so!" Violet was greatly comforted by her mother's report of her interview with Max, because both saw in his conduct and words the evidence of sincere repentance toward God, giving them strong hope of his future avoidance of the sins of profanity and gambling. She went to him presently, put her arms about him, kissed him, wept with him, and like her mother pointed him to the Saviour, telling of His willingness to forgive every truly penitent soul. "O Mamma Vi," he sobbed, "I thought I was that before, when papa showed me what an awful sin swearing was, and I didn't think I could ever do it again; but I got dreadfully angry with Ralph because he cheated me out of everything--all my money and my watch that I've always thought so much of, you know--and the wicked words slipped out before I knew it; they just seemed to speak themselves." "Ah, dear Max, that is one of the dreadful consequences of allowing ourselves to fall into such wicked ways; it is the power of habit which grows upon us till we are bound by it as with an iron chain. "The Bible says, 'His own iniquities shall take the wicked himself, and he shall be holden with the cords of his sins.' So the longer any one lives in sin, the harder it is for him to break away from it--to repent and be converted and saved. Therefore, I beseech you to come to Jesus now; God's time is always now." "Mamma Vi, I think I have," he said low and humbly; "I tried to do it with my heart, when Grandma Elsie was praying for me." "O Max, dear Max, I am very glad!" she returned with tears of joy in her eyes. "And your father will rejoice almost as the angels do in heaven when a sinner repents and is saved." "It's a dreadful task to have to write down all about this afternoon for him to read," sighed the boy. "But you will do it, Max? will you tell him the whole truth like a brave boy?" queried Violet anxiously. "Yes, ma'am, I will. Oh, I wish he were here! so I could just tell him, and have it all over in a few minutes. But now it will be so long that I'll have to wait to hear what he has to say about it." Violet expressed her sympathy, joining very heartily in his wish for his father's presence, then left him to his task. "Seems to me it's a little like marching up to the cannon's mouth," Max said to himself, as he took out his writing materials and dipped his pen in the ink, "but it's got to be done, and I'll have it over." He cogitated a moment, then began. "Dear papa, I've been doing very wrong for 'most a week--letting a fellow teach me to play cards and gamble; we didn't play for money or anything but fun at first, but afterward we did; and I lost all the money I had, and, worse still, the nice watch you sent me. "But the very worst is to come. You would never believe I could be so terribly wicked after all you said to me, and I wouldn't have believed it myself, and oh, I don't like to tell you, for I'm afraid it will almost break your heart, papa, to know you have such a wicked boy for your only son! "But I have to tell you, because you know you said I must tell you everything bad I did. "Well, I was sure the fellow had cheated, and I got very mad, and called him a cheat and a thief. Then he got mad and swore horrible oaths at me, and called me a liar, and that made me madder than ever, and--O papa, how can I write it for you to see? I swore at him." The boy's tears were dropping upon the paper. He dashed them hastily away, and went on writing. "I am dreadfully, dreadfully sorry, papa! I think I was never so sorry for anything in all my life, because--because it was so wicked and ungrateful to God. I've asked Him to forgive me for Jesus' sake, and Grandma Elsie has asked Him for me, too, and Mamma Vi told me she had been praying for me. And I've tried to give myself to the dear Saviour, and I hope I'll be His servant all the rest of my life. "I think He has forgiven me, and will you forgive me, too, papa? I'm to stay alone here in my room for a week. Mamma Vi says you said that was the way I should be punished, if I ever did that wicked thing again, and it isn't a bit worse than I deserve." CHAPTER XX. "There are that raise up strife and contention." --_Hab._ 1:3. "Only by pride cometh contention." --_Prov._ 13:10. While Zoe was at Max's door, something took Edward to their rooms. He was there but a moment--just long enough to pick up the article he wanted--and hurrying down the hall again, caught the sound of her voice as he reached the head of the stairway. For an instant he stood still, debating with himself whether to interfere or not; then deciding in the negative, passed on down the stairs more angry with her than ever. She was defying riot only his authority, but also that of his grandfather and mother, and interfering with their management of the children committed to their care by their own father. Truly, he feared he had made a sad mistake in putting such a child into a woman's position, where she felt herself entitled to rights, for whose proper exercise she had not yet sufficient judgment or self-control. As he entered the drawing-room, Miss Deane, who was seated at a table looking over a portfolio of drawings and engravings, called him to her side. "You have visited these places, Mr. Travilla," she said, "and I want the benefit of your explanations, and your opinion whether the pictures are true to nature. They are European views, I see." Of course he could not, without great rudeness, refuse to take a seat by her side and give her the information she requested. So it happened that when Zoe came in presently after, her anger was intensely aroused by seeing her husband and Miss Deane seated at a distant table, apart from the rest of the occupants of the room, laughing and talking with their heads very close together over an engraving. Edward lifted his just in time to catch her look of mingled amazement, scorn, and indignation. He flushed hotly, and remembering what he had just overheard up-stairs, and what had passed between them in the apple-orchard, gave her an angry glance in return. She drew her slight, girlish figure up to its full height, and turning away, crossed the room toward a sofa where Mrs. Dinsmore and a bachelor gentleman of the neighborhood sat conversing together. A sudden impulse seized her as Mr. Larned rose and took her hand in greeting, Mrs. Dinsmore being called from the room at the same moment by a servant, who said that some one was waiting in the hall to speak to her. "I'll pay Edward back in his own coin," Zoe said to herself, and Mr. Larned was surprised at the great cordiality and winning sweetness of her manner as she took the vacated seat by his side, then at the spirit and vivacity with which she rattled away to him, now on this theme, now on that. Excitement lent an unwonted glow to her cheek and brilliancy and sparkle to her always beautiful eyes. Edward, watching her furtively, with darkening brow, thought he had never seen her so pretty and fascinating, and never had her low soft laugh, as now and again it reached his ear, sounded so silvery sweet and musical, yet it jarred on his nerves, and he would fain have stopped it. He hoped momentarily that Mr. Larned would go, but he sat on and on the whole evening, Zoe entertaining him all the while. Other members of the family came in, but though he rose to greet them, he immediately resumed his seat, and she kept hers, even in spite of the frowning looks her husband gave her from time to time, but which she feigned not to see. At length, his mother perceiving with pain what was going on, managed to release him from Miss Deane, and he at once took a seat on his wife's other side, and joined in the talk. Zoe had but little to say after that, and Mr. Larned presently took his departure. That was a signal for the good-nights, and all scattered to their rooms. Zoe's heart quaked as the door of her boudoir closed upon her, shutting her in alone with her irate husband. She knew that he was angry, more angry with her than he had ever been before, and though in her thoughts she tried to put all the blame on him, conscience told her that she was by no means blameless. He locked the door, then turned toward her. She glanced up at him half defiantly, half timidly. His look was very stern and cold. She turned away with a pout and a slight shrug of her pretty shoulders. "It seems your smiles are for Miss Deane, while your black looks are reserved for your wife," she said. "I have no interest in Miss Deane," he replied; "it is nothing to me how she behaves, but my wife's conduct is a matter of vital importance; and let me tell you, Zoe, I will have no more such exhibitions as you made of yourself to-night with either Mr. Larned or any other man. I won't allow it. There are some things a man won't put up with. You must and shall show some respect to my wishes in regard to this." "Orders, you'd better say," she muttered. "Well, then, orders, if you prefer it." She was very angry, and withal a good deal frightened. "Exhibitions indeed!" she cried, sinking into a chair, for she was trembling from head to foot. "What did I do? Why had you any more right to laugh and talk with another woman than I with another man?" "Laughing and talking may be well enough; but it was more than that; you were actually flirting." "You call it that just because you are jealous. And if I was, it was your fault--setting me the example by flirting with Miss Deane." "I did nothing of the kind," he returned haughtily. "I sat beside her against my will, simply because she requested me to go over those sketches and engravings with her. I couldn't in common politeness refuse." "Well, I didn't know that; and you needn't scold me for following your example." "I tell you I did not set you the example; and I advise you to beware how you behave so again. Also how you interfere in the discipline grandpa and mamma see proper to use toward Max and his sisters, as you did to-night." "So you have been acting the spy upon your wife!" she interrupted in scornful indignation. "No; I overheard you quite accidentally. It is the second time you have done that thing, and I warn you to let it be the last." "Indeed! Why don't you say at once that you'll beat me if I don't obey all your tyrannical orders?" "Because it wouldn't be true; should I ever so far forget myself as to lift my hand against my wife, I could never again lay claim to the name of gentleman." "Perhaps, then, you will lock me up?" she sneered. "Possibly I may, if you make it necessary," he said coldly. "Lock me up, indeed! I'd like to see you try it!" she cried, starting up with flashing eyes, and stamping her foot in a sort of fury of indignation. Then rushing into the adjoining room, she tore off her ornaments and dress, pulled down her hair, her cheeks burning, her eyes hot and dry. But by the time she had assumed her night-dress the first fury of passion had spent itself, and scalding tears were raining down her cheeks. She threw herself on the bed, sobbing convulsively. "Oh, I never, never thought he would treat me so! and he wouldn't dare if papa was alive; but he knows I've nobody to defend me--nobody in the wide world, and he can abuse me as much as he pleases. But I think it's very mean for a big strong man to be cruel to a little weak woman." Then as her anger cooled still more, "But I have done and said provoking things to-day as well as he," she acknowledged to herself. "I suppose if I'd been in his place I'd have got mad, too, and scolded and threatened my wife. Well, if he'd only come and kiss me and coax me a little, I'd say I was sorry and didn't intend to vex him, so any more." She hushed her sobs and listened. She could hear him moving about in the dressing-room. "Edward!" she called in soft, tremulous tones. No answer. She waited a moment, then called a little louder, "Ned!" There was no reply, and she turned over on her pillow, and cried herself to sleep. When she woke all was darkness and silence. She felt half frightened. "Edward," she said softly, and put out her hand to feel for him. He was not there. She sprang from the bed and groped her way into the dressing-room. There the moon shone in, and by its light she perceived the form of her husband stretched upon a couch, while the sound of his breathing told her that he slept. She crept back to her bed, and lay down upon it with such a sense of utter loneliness as she had never known before. "Oh," she moaned to herself, "he hates me, he hates me! he wouldn't even lie down beside me! he will never love me any more." She wept a long while, but at last fell into a profound sleep. When she next awoke day had dawned, but it was earlier than their usual hour for rising. The first object that met her gaze was Edward's untouched pillow, and the sight instantly brought back the events of the previous day and night. Her first emotion was resentment toward her husband, but better thoughts succeeded. She loved him dearly, and for the sake of peace she would humble herself a little. She would go and wake him with a kiss, and say she was sorry to have vexed him, and if he'd only be kind and not order her, she wouldn't do so any more. She slipped out of bed, stole noiselessly to the door of the dressing-room, and looked in. He was not there, and the room was in great disorder, closet and wardrobe doors and bureau drawers open and things scattered here and there, as if he had made a hasty selection of garments, tossing aside such as he did not want. As Zoe gazed about in wonder and surprise, the sound of wheels caught her ear. She ran to a window overlooking a side entrance, and dropped on her knees before it to look and listen without danger of being seen. There stood the family carriage. Edward was in the act of handing Miss Fleming into it; Miss Deane followed, and he stepped in after her, only pausing a moment with his foot upon the step to turn and answer a question from his mother. "How long do you expect to be gone, Edward?" Elsie asked. "Probably a week or ten days, mother," he replied. "Good-by," and in another instant the carriage rolled away. Zoe felt stunned, bewildered, as she knelt there leaning her head against the window frame and watched it till it was out of sight. "Gone!" she said aloud; "gone without one word of good-by to me, without telling me he was going, without saying he was sorry for his cruel words last night, and with Miss Deane. Oh, I know now that he hates me and will never, never love me again!" Bitter, scalding tears streamed from her eyes. She rose presently and began mechanically picking up and putting away his clothes, then made her usual neat toilet, stopping every now and then to wipe away her tears, for she was crying all the time. The breakfast bell rang at the accustomed hour, but she could not bear the thought of going down and showing her tear-swollen eyes at the table. Besides, she did not feel hungry; she thought she would never want to eat again. After a little, opening the door in answer to a rap, she found Agnes standing there with a delightful breakfast on a silver waiter--hot coffee, delicate rolls and muffins, tender beefsteak, and omelet. "Good-mornin', Miss Zoe," said the girl, walking in and setting her burden down on a stand. "Miss Elsie she tole me for to fotch up dis yere. She tink, Miss Elsie do, dat p'raps you'd rather eat yo' breakfus up yere dis mornin'." "Yes, so I would, Agnes, though I'm not very hungry. Tell mamma she's very kind, and I'm much obliged." "Ya'as, Miss Zoe," and Agnes courtesied and withdrew. Zoe took a sip of the coffee, tasted the omelet, found a coming appetite, and went on to make a tolerably hearty meal, growing more cheerful and hopeful as she ate. But grief overcame her again as she went about the solitary rooms; it seemed as if her husband's presence lingered everywhere, and yet as if he were dead and buried, and she never to see him more. Not quite a year had elapsed since her father's death, and the scenes of that day and night and many succeeding ones came vividly before her; the utter forlornness of her condition, alone in a strange land with a dying parent, with no earthly comforter at hand, no friend or helper in all the wide world, and how Edward then flew to her assistance, how kindly he ministered to her dying father, how tenderly he took her in his arms, whispering words of love and sympathy, and asking her to become his wife and give him the right to protect and care for her. And how he had lavished favors and endearments upon her all these months; how patiently he had borne with petulance and frequent disregard of his known wishes, nor ever once reminded her that she owed her home and every earthly blessing to him. How he had sympathized with her in her bursts of grief for her father, soothing her with tenderest caresses and assurances of the bliss of the departed, and reminding her of the blessed hope of reunion in the better land. After all this, she surely might have borne a little from him--a trifling neglect or reproof, a slight exertion of authority, especially as she could not deny that she was very young and foolish to be left to her own guidance. And perhaps he had a right to claim her obedience, for she knew that she had promised to give it. She found she loved him with a depth and passion she had not been aware of. But he had gone away without a good-by to her, in anger, and with Miss Deane. He would never have done that if there had been a spark of love left in his heart. Where and how was he going to spend that week or ten days? At the house of Miss Deane's parents, sitting beside her, hearing her talk and enjoying it, though he knew his little wife at home must be breaking her heart because of his absence? Was he doing this instead of carrying out his half threat of locking her up? Did he know that this was a punishment ten times worse? But if he wasn't going to love her any more, if he was tired of her and wanted to be rid of her, how could she ever bear to stay and be a burden and constant annoyance to him? Elsie, coming up a little later, found her in her boudoir crying very bitterly. "Dear child, my dear little daughter," she said, taking her in her kind arms, "don't grieve so; a week or even ten days will soon roll round, and Edward will be with you again." "O mamma, it is a long, long while!" she sobbed. "You know we've never been parted for a whole day since we were married, and he's all I have." "Yes, dear, I know; and I felt sure you were crying up here and didn't want to show your tell-tale face at the table, so I sent your breakfast up. I hope you paid it proper attention--did not treat it with neglect?" she added sportively. "It tasted very good, mamma, and you were very kind," Zoe said. She longed to ask where and on what errand Edward had gone, but did not want to expose her ignorance of his plans. "I did not know the ladies were going to-day," she remarked. "It was very sudden," was the reply; "a telegram received this morning summoned them home because of the alarming illness of Miss Deane's father, and as Edward had business to attend to that would make it necessary for him to take a train leaving only an hour later than theirs, he thought it best to see them on their way as far as our city. He could not do more, as their destination and his lie in exactly opposite directions." Though Edward had kept his own counsel, the kind mother had her suspicions, and was anxious to relieve Zoe's mind as far as lay in her power. Zoe's brightening countenance and sigh of relief showed her that her efforts were not altogether in vain. "I think Edward was sorry to leave his little wife for so long," she went on. "He committed her to my care. What will you do with yourself this morning, dear, while I am busy with the children in the school-room?" "I don't know, mamma; perhaps learn some lessons. Edward would wish me to attend to my studies while he is away, and I want to please him." "I haven't a doubt of that, dear. I know there is very strong love between you, and the knowledge makes me very happy." "Mamma," said Zoe, "may I ask you a question?" "Certainly, dear, as many as you please." "Did you obey your husband?" Elsie looked surprise, almost startled; the query seemed to throw new light on the state of affairs between Edward and his young wife; but she answered promptly in her own sweet, gentle tones. "My dear, I often wished he would only give me the opportunity; it would have been so great a pleasure to give up my wishes for one I loved so dearly." "Then he never ordered you?" "Yes, once--very soon after our marriage--he laid his commands upon me to cease calling him Mr. Travilla and say Edward," Elsie said, with a dreamy smile and a far-away look in her soft brown eyes. "He was very much older than I, and knowing him from very early childhood, as a grown-up gentleman and my father's friend, I had been used to calling him Mr. Travilla, and could hardly feel it respectful to drop the title. "The only other order he ever gave me was not to exert myself to lift my little Elsie before I had recovered my strength after her birth. He was very tenderly careful of his little wife, as he delighted to call her." "I wish I had known him," said Zoe. "Is my husband much like him?" "More in looks than disposition. I sometimes think he resembles my father more than his own in the latter regard. "Yes," thought Zoe, "that's where he gets his disposition to domineer over me and order me about. I always knew Grandpa Dinsmore was of that sort." Aloud she said, with a watery smile, "And my Edward has been very tenderly careful of me." "And always will be, I trust," said his mother, smiling more cheerily. "If he does not prove so, he is less like my father than I think. Mamma will tell you, I am sure, that she has been the happiest of wives." "I suppose it depends a good deal upon the two dispositions how a couple get on together," remarked Zoe, sagely. "But, mamma, do you think the man should always rule and have his way in everything?" "I think a wife's best plan, if she desires to have her own way, is always to be or to seem ready to give up to her husband. Don't deny or oppose their claim to authority, and they are not likely to care to exert it." "If I were only as wise and good as you, mamma!" murmured Zoe with a sigh. "Ah, dear, I am not at all good; and as to the wisdom, I trust it will come to you with years; there is an old saying that we cannot expect to find gray heads on green shoulders." CHAPTER XXI. "And if division come, it soon is past, Too sharp, too strange an agony to last. And like some river's bright, abundant tide, Which art or accident had forc'd aside, The well-springs of affection gushing o'er, Back to their natural channels flow once more." --Mrs. Norton. Left alone, Zoe sat meditating on her mother-in-law's advice. "Oh," she said to herself, "if I could only know that my husband's love isn't gone forever, I could take comfort in planning to carry it out; but oh, if he hadn't quite left off caring for me, how could he threaten me so, and then go away without making up, without saying good-by, even if he didn't kiss me? I couldn't have gone away from him so for one day, and he expects to be away for ten. Ten days! such a long, long while!" and her tears fell like rain. She wiped them away, after a little, opened her books and tried to study, but she could not fix her mind upon the subject; her thoughts would wander from it to Edward travelling farther and farther from her, and the tears kept dropping on the page. She gave it up and tried to sew, but could mot see to take her stitches or thread her needle for the blinding tears. She put on her hat and a veil to hide her tear-stained face and swollen eyes, stole quietly down-stairs and out into the grounds, where she wandered about solitary and sad. Everywhere she missed Edward; she could think of nothing but him and his displeasure, and her heart was filled with sad forebodings for the future. Would he ever, ever love and be kind to her again? After a while she crept back to her apartments, taking care to avoid meeting any one. But Elsie was there looking for her. The children's lesson hours were over, they were going for a drive, and hoped Zoe would go along. "Thank you, mamma, but I do not care to go to-day," Zoe answered in a choking voice, and turned away to hide her tears. "My dear child, my dear, foolish little girl!" Elsie said, putting her arms around her, "why should you grieve so? Ned will soon be at home again, if all goes well. He is not very far away, and if you should be taken ill, or need him very much for any reason, a telegram would bring him to you in a few hours." "But he went away without kissing me good-by; he didn't kiss me last night or this morning." The words were on the tip of Zoe's tongue, but she held them back, and answered only with fresh tears and sobs. "I'm afraid you are not well, dear," Elsie said. "What can I do for you?" "Nothing, thank you, mamma. I didn't sleep quite so well as usual last night, and my head aches. I'll lie down and try to get a nap." "Do, dear, and I hope it will relieve the poor head. As you are a healthy little body, I presume the pain has been brought on merely by loss of sleep and crying. I think Edward must not leave you for so long a time again. Would you like mamma to stay with you, darling?" she asked, with a motherly caress. Zoe declined the offer; she would be more likely to sleep if quite alone; and Elsie withdrew after seeing her comfortably established upon the bed. "Strange," she said to herself as she passed on through the upper hall and down the broad staircase into the lower one, "it can hardly be that Edward's absence alone can distress her so greatly. I fear there is some misunderstanding between them. I think I must telegraph for Edward if she continues so inconsolable. His wife's health and happiness are of far more consequence than any business matter. But I shall consult papa first, of course." She went into the library, found him sitting there, and laid the case before him. He shared her fear that all was not right between the young couple, and remarked that, unfortunately, Edward had too much of his grandfather's sternness and disposition to domineer. "I don't like to hear you depreciate yourself, papa," Elsie said. "Edward may have that disposition without having got it from you. And I am sure mamma would indignantly repel the insinuation that you were ever a domineering husband." "Perhaps so; my daughter was the safety-valve in my case. Well, daughter, my advice is, wait till to-morrow at all events. I must say she doesn't seem to me one of the kind to submit tamely to oppression. I did not like her behavior last evening, and it may be that she needs the lesson her husband seems to be giving her. He certainly has been affectionate enough in the past to make it reasonable to suppose he is not abusing her now." "Oh, I could never think he would do that!" exclaimed his mother, "and I believe in my heart he would hurry home at once if he knew how she is fretting over his absence." It was near the dinner hour when Elsie returned from her drive, and stealing on tiptoe into Zoe's bedroom she found her fast asleep. Her eyelashes were still wet, and she looked flushed and feverish. Elsie gazed at her in tender pity and some little anxiety; the face was so young and child-like, and even in sleep wore a grieved expression that touched the kind mother heart. "Poor little orphan!" she sighed to herself, "she must feel very lonely and forlorn in her husband's absence, especially if things have gone wrong between them. How could I ever have borne a word or look of displeasure from my husband! I hope she is not going to be ill." "Is Zoe not coming down?" Mr. Dinsmore asked as the family gathered about the dinner-table. "I found her sleeping, papa, and thought it best not to wake her;" Elsie answered. "I think she does not look quite well, and that sleep will do her more good than anything else." Zoe slept most of the afternoon, woke apparently more cheerful, and ate with seeming enjoyment the delicate lunch presently brought her by Elsie's orders; but she steadily declined to join the family at tea or in the parlor. She would much rather stay where she was for the rest of the day, she said, as she felt dull and her head still ached a little. Every one felt concerned about, and disposed to be as kind to her as possible. Mrs. Dinsmore, Elsie, Violet, and Rosie all came in in the course of the afternoon and evening to ask how she did, and express the hope that she would soon be quite well again, and to try to cheer her up. They offered her companionship through the night; any one of them would willingly sleep with her; but she said she was not timid and would prefer to remain alone. "Well, dear, I should feel a trifle easier not to have you alone," Elsie said, as she bade her good-night, "but we will not force our company upon you. None of us lock our doors at night, and my rooms are not far away; don't hesitate to wake me, if you feel uneasy or want anything in the night." "Thank you, dear mamma," returned Zoe, putting her arms about her mother's neck; "you are so good and kind! such a dear mother to me! I will do as you say; if I feel at all timid in the night I shall run to your rooms and creep into bed with you." So they all left her, and the house grew silent and still. It was the first night since her marriage that her husband had not been with her, and she missed him more than ever. Besides, through the day she had been buoyed up in a measure by the hope that he would send her a note, a telegram, or some sort of message. He had not done so, and the conviction that she had quite alienated him from her grew stronger and stronger. Again she indulged in bitter weeping, wetting her pillow with her tears as she vainly courted sleep. "He hates me now, I know he does, and will never love me again," she repeated to herself. "I wish I didn't love him so. Ho said he was sorry he couldn't give me my liberty, but I don't want it; but he wants to be rid of me, or he would never have said that; and how unhappy he must be, and will be all his life, tied to a wife he hates. "I won't stay here to be a burden and torment to him!" she cried, starting up with sudden determination and energy. "I love him so dearly that I'll deliver him from that, even though it will break my heart; for oh, how _can_ I live without him!" She considered a moment, and (foolish child) thought it would be an act of noble self-sacrifice, and also very romantic, to run away and die of a broken heart, in order to relieve her husband of the burden and torment she chose to imagine that he considered her. A folly that was partly the effect of too much reading of sensational novels, partly of physical ailment, for she was really feverish and ill. She did not pause to decide where she would go, or to reflect how she could support herself. Were not all places alike away from the one she so dearly loved? and as to support she had a little money, and would not be likely to live long enough to need more. Perhaps Edward would search for her from a sense of duty--she knew he was very conscientious--but she would manage so that he would never be able to find her; she would go under an assumed name; she would call herself Miss, and no one would suspect her of being a married woman running away from her husband. Ah, it was not altogether a disadvantage to be and look so young! And when she should find herself dying, or so near it that there would not be time to send for Edward, she would tell some one who she really was, and ask that a letter should be written to him telling of her death, so that he would know he wus free to marry again. Marry again! The thought of that shook her resolution for a moment. It was torture to imagine the love and caresses that had been hers lavished upon another woman. But, perhaps, after his unhappy experience of married life, he would choose to live single the rest of his days. He had his mother and sisters to love, and could be happy without a wife. Besides, she had read somewhere that though love was everything to a woman, men were different and could do quite well without it. She went into the dressing-room, turned up the night lamp, and looked at her watch. It was one o'clock. At two a stage passed northward along a road on the farther side of Fairview. She could easily make her few preparations in half an hour, walk to the nearest point on the route of the stage in time to stop it and get in, then while journeying on, decide what her next step should be. She packed a hand-bag with such things as she deemed most essential, arrayed herself in a plain, dark woollen dress, with hat, veil, and gloves to match, threw a shawl over her arm, and was just turning to go, when a thought struck her. "I ought to leave a note, of course; they always do." Sitting down at her writing-desk, she directed an envelope to her husband, then wrote on a card: "I am going away never to come back. Don't look for me, for it will be quite useless, as I shall manage so that you can never trace me. It breaks my heart to leave you, my dear dear husband, for I love you better than life, but I know I have lost your love, and I want to rid you of the burden and annoyance of a hated wife. So, farewell forever in this world, and nay you be very happy all your days. "ZOE." Her tears fell fast as she wrote; she had to wipe them away again and again, and the card was so blotted and blistered by them that some of the words were scarcely legible, but there was not time to write another; so she put it in the envelope and laid it on the toilet table, where it would be sure to catch his eye. Then taking up her shawl and satchel, she sent one tearful farewell glance around the room, and stole noiselessly down-stairs and out of the house by a side door. It caught her dress in closing, but she was unaware of that for a moment, as she stood still on the step, remembering with a sudden pang, that was more than half regret, that the deed was done beyond recall, for the dead-latch was down, and she had no key with which to effect an entrance; she must go on now, whether she would or not. She took a step forward, and found she was last; she could neither go on nor retreat. Oh, dreadful to be caught there and her scheme at the same time baffled and revealed! All at once she saw it in a new light. "Oh, how angry, how very angry Edward would be! What would he do and say to her? Certainly, she had given him sufficient reason to deem it necessary to lock her up; for what right had she to go away to stay without his knowledge and consent? she who had taken a solemn vow--in the presence of her dying father, too--to love, honor and obey him as long as they both should live. Oh, it would be too disgraceful to be caught so!" She exerted all her strength in the effort to wrench herself free, even at the cost of tearing the dress and being obliged to travel with it unrepaired; but in vain; the material was too strong to give way, and she sank down on the step in a state of pitiable fright and despair. She heard the clock in the hall strike two. Even the servants would not be stirring before five; so she had at least three hours to sit there alone and exposed to danger from tramps, thieves, and burglars, if any should happen to come about. And oh, the miserable prospect before her when this trying vigil should be over. How grieved mamma would be! dear mamma, whom she loved with true daughterly affection; how stern and angry Grandpa Dinsmore, how astonished and displeased all the others; how wicked and supremely silly they would think her. Perhaps she could bribe the servants to keep her secret (her dress, her travelling bag and the early hour would reveal something of its nature), and gain her rooms again without being seen by any of the family; but then her life would be one of constant terror of discovery. Should she try that course, or the more straightforward one of not attempting any concealment? She was still debating this question in her mind, when her heart almost flew into her mouth at the sound of a man's step approaching on the gravel walk. It drew nearer, nearer, came close to her side, and with a cry of terror she fell in a little heap on the doorstep in a dead faint. He uttered a low exclamation of astonishment, stooped over her, and pushing aside her veil so that the moonlight shone full upon her face, "Zoe!" he said, "is it possible! What can have brought you here at this hour of the night?" He paused for an answer, but none came; then bending lower and perceiving that she was quite unconscious, also fast, he took a key from his pocket and opened the door. He bent over her again, taking note of her dress and the travelling bag by her side. "Running away, evidently! could any one have conceived the possibility of her doing so crazy a thing!" he muttered, as he took her in his arms. Then a dark thought crossed his mind, but he put it determinately from him. "No; I will not, cannot think it! She is pure, guileless, and innocent as an infant." He stooped again, picked up the bag, closed the door softly, and carried her up-stairs--treading with caution lest a stumble or the sound of his footsteps should arouse some one and lead to the discovery of what was going on; yet with as great celerity as consistent with that caution, fearing consciousness might return too soon for the preservation of the secrecy he desired. But it did not; she was still insensible when he laid her down on a couch in her boudoir. He took off her hat and veil, threw them aside, loosened her dress, opened a window to give her air, then went into the dressing-room for the night lamp usually kept burning there. As he turned it up, his eye fell upon Zoe's note. He knew her handwriting instantly. "Here is the explanation," was the thought that flashed into his mind, and snatching it up, he tore open the envelope, held the card near the light and read what her fingers had traced scarcely an hour ago. His eyes filled as he read, and two great drops fell as he laid it down. He picked up the lamp and hastened back to her. As he drew near she opened her eyes, sent one frightened glance round the room and up into his pale, troubled face, then covering hers with her hands, burst into hysterical weeping. He set down the lamp, knelt by her sofa and gathered her in his arms, resting her head against his breast. "Zoe, my little Zoe, my own dear wife!" he said in faltering accents, "have I really been so cruel that you despair of my love? Why, my darling, no greater calamity than your loss could possibly befall me. I love you dearly, dearly! better far than I did when I asked you to be mine--when we gave ourselves to each other." "Oh, is it true? do you really love me yet in spite of all my jealousy and wilfulness, and--and--oh, I have been very bad and ungrateful and troublesome!" she sobbed, clinging about his neck. "And I have been too dictatorial and stern," he said, kissing her again and again. "I have not had the patience I ought to have had with my little girl-wife, have not been so forbearing and kind as I meant to be." "Indeed, you have been very patient and forbearing," she returned, "and would never have been cross to me if I hadn't provoked you beyond endurance. I have been very bad to you, dear Ned, but if you'll keep me and love me I'll try to behave better." "I'll do both," he said, holding her closer and repeating his caresses. "Oh, I'm so glad, so glad!" she cried, with the tears running over her cheeks, "so glad I have to weep for joy. And I've been breaking my heart since you went away and left me in anger and without one word of good-by." "My poor darling, it was too cruel," he sighed; "but I found I could not stand it any more than you, so had to come back to make it up with you. And I frightened you terribly down there at the door, did I not?" "O Ned," she murmured, hiding her blushing face on his breast, "how very good you are to be so loving and kind when you have a right to be angry and stern with me. You haven't even asked me what I was doing down there in the night." "Your note explained that," he said in moved tones, thinking how great must have been the distress that led to such an act, "and I fear I am as deserving of reproof as yourself." "Then you will forgive me?" she asked humbly. "I thought I had a right to go away, thinking it would make you happier, but now I know I hadn't, because I had promised myself to you for all my life." "No; neither of us has a right to forsake the other (we 'are no more twain but one flesh. What, therefore, God hath joined together, let no man put asunder'); we are husband and wife for as long as we both shall live, and must dwell together in mutual love and forbearance. We will exchange forgiveness, dearest, for we have both been to blame, and I forgive your attempt of to-night on condition that you promise me never, never to do such a thing again." "I promise," she said, "and," imploringly, "O Ned, won't you keep my secret? I couldn't bear to have it known even in the family." "No more could I, love," he answered; "and oh, but I am thankful that you were caught by the door and so prevented from carrying out your purpose!" "So am I, and that it was my own dear husband, and not a burglar, as I feared, who found me there." "Ah, was that the cause of your fright?" he asked, with a look of relief and pleasure. "I thought it was your terror of your husband's wrath that caused your faint. But, darling, you are looking weary and actually ill. You must go to bed at once." "I'll obey you, this time and always," she answered, looking up fondly into his face. "I am convinced now that I am only a foolish child in need of guidance and control, and who should provide them but you? I could hardly stand it from anybody else--unless mamma--but I'm sure that in future it will be a pleasure to take it from my own dear husband if--if only----" she paused, blushing and hiding her face on his breast. "If what, love?" "If only instead of 'You must and shall,' you will say kindly, 'I want you to do it to please me, Zoe.'" "Sweet one," he answered, holding her to his heart, "I do fully intend that it shall be always love and coaxing after this." CHAPTER XXII. "Our love, it ne'er was reckoned, Yet good it is and true; It's half the world to me, dear, It's all the world to you." --Hood. Edward was a trifle late in obeying the call to breakfast. He found the rest of the family already seated at the table, and great was the surprise created by his entrance. "Why, how's this? hae we all been sleepin' a week or ten days?" exclaimed Mr. Lilburn. "The lad was to hae been absent that length o' time, and I thought it was but yesterday he went; yet here he is!" "This is an unexpected pleasure, my dear boy," was his mother's greeting. The others said "Good-morning," and all smilingly awaited an explanation. "Good-morning to you all," returned Edward, taking his seat. "Of course I have not had time to attend to the business matter that took me away; but the fact is, I found I could not do without my wife, so came back after her." "Where is she now?" asked his mother. "I left her still in bed and asleep. I came home by the stage, found her awake--indeed, I think she said she had not slept at all--and kept her awake for some time talking----" "So much to say after so lengthened a separation?" laughingly interrupted his grandfather. "Yes, sir, a good deal," Edward answered, coloring slightly. "So she has to make it up now, and I would not wake her." "Quite right," said his mother. "Her breakfast shall be sent up whenever she is ready for it." "I'm very glad you've come, Ned," remarked Rosie, "for Zoe nearly cried her eyes out yesterday, grieving after you. 'Twouldn't be I that would fret so after any man living--unless it might be grandpa," with a coquettish, laughing look at him. "Thank you, my dear," he said. "Ah, lassie, that's a' because your time hasna come yet," remarked Mr. Lilburn. "When it does, you'll be as lovelorn and foolish as the rest." "Granting that it is foolish for a woman to love her husband," put in Mrs. Dinsmore, sportively. "A heresy never to be countenanced here," said her spouse; "the husbands and wives of this family expect to give and receive no small amount of that commodity. Do you set off again this morning, Ned?" "No, sir; not before to-morrow; not then unless Zoe is ready to go with me." "Quite right, my boy, your wife's health and happiness are, as your mother remarked to me yesterday, of more consequence than any mere business matter." On leaving the table Edward followed his mother out to the veranda. "Can I have a word in private with you, mamma?" he asked, and she thought his look was troubled. "Certainly," she said. "I hope nothing is wrong with our little Zoe?" "It is of her--and myself I want to speak. I feel impelled to make a confession to you, mother dear, that I would not willingly to any one else. Perhaps you have suspected," he added, coloring with mortification, "that all was not right between us when I left yesterday. She would not have fretted so over my mere absence of a few days, but I had scolded and threatened her the night before, and went away without any reconciliation or even a good-by. In fact, she was asleep when I left the rooms, and knew nothing of my going." "O Edward!" exclaimed his listener in a low, pained tone. "I am bitterly ashamed of my conduct, mother," he said with emotion, "but we have made it up and are both very happy again in each other's love. She was very humble over her part of the quarrel, poor little thing! and we mean to live in peace and love the rest of our lives, God helping us," he added reverently. "I trust so, my dear boy," Elsie said, "for whether you live in peace or contention, will make all the difference of happiness or misery in your lives. It would have quite broken my heart had your father ever scolded or threatened me." "But you, mamma, were a woman when you married, old enough and wise enough to guide and control yourself." "I was older than Zoe is, it is true; but do not be dictatorial, Edward; if you must rule, do it by love and persuasion; you will find it the easiest and happiest way for you both." "Yes, mother, I am convinced of it; but unfortunately for my poor little wife, I have not my father's gentleness and easy temper. Will you come up with me now and take a look at her? I fear she is not quite well--her cheeks are so flushed and her hands so hot. I shall never forgive myself if I have made her ill." "I sincerely hope you are not to be visited with so severe a punishment as that," his mother said. "But come, let us go to her at once." They found her still sleeping, but not profoundly; her face was unnaturally flushed, and wore a troubled expression, while her breathing seemed labored. As they stood anxiously regarding her, she woke with a sharp cry of distress and anguish, then catching sight of her husband bending over her, her face grew radiant, and throwing her arms about his neck, "O Ned, dear Ned!" she cried, "are you here? and do you love me yet?" "Dearly, dearly, my darling," he said, holding her close. "What has troubled you?" "Oh, such a dreadful dream! I thought I was all alone in a desert and couldn't find you anywhere." "But 'drames always go by conthraries, my dear,'" he quoted sportively. Then more seriously, "Are you quite well, love?" he asked. "A little dull and a trifle headachy," she answered, smiling up at him, "but I think a cup of coffee and a drive with my husband in the sweet morning air will cure me." "You shall have both with the least possible delay." "What time is it? Have you been to breakfast?" "It's about nine, and I have taken breakfast. I think you must have some before exerting yourself to dress." "Just as you say; it's nice to have you tell me what to do," she said, nestling closer in his arms. "I can't think why I should ever have disliked it." "I presume it was all the fault of my tone and manner, sometimes of my words, too," he said, passing his hand caressingly over her hair and cheek. "I'm afraid I've been decidedly bearish on several occasions; but I trust I shall have the grace to treat my wife with politeness and consideration after this." Elsie, who had left the room on Zoe's awaking, now came in and bidding her an affectionate good-morning, said she had ordered her breakfast to be brought up at once, adding, "I hope you will do it justice, my dear." "I'll see that she does, mamma," Edward answered for her, in sportive tone; "she has made such fair promises of submission, obedience, and all that, that she'll hardly dare refuse to do anything I bid her." "I haven't been very good about it lately, mamma," Zoe said, looking half tearfully, half smilingly from one to the other, "but Ned's forgiven me, and now I feel as you say you did--that it's a real pleasure to give up my wishes to one I love so very dearly, and who is, I know, very much wiser than I." "That is right, dear," Elsie said tenderly, "and I trust he will show himself worthy of all your love and confidence." The two now comported themselves like a pair of lovers, as indeed they had done through all their brief married life, except the last few days. Edward exerted himself for the entertainment of his little wife during their drive, and was very tender and careful of her. On their return, he bade her lie down on the sofa in her boudoir and rest, averring that she looked languid and unlike herself. "To please you," she said, obeying the mandate with a smiling glance up into his face. "That's a good child!" he responded, sitting down beside her and smoothing her hair with fond, caressing hand. "Now, what shall I do to please you?" "Stay here, close beside me, and hold my hand, and talk to me." "Very well," he answered, closing his fingers over the hand she put into his, then lifting it to his lips. "How your face has changed, love, since that frightened look you gave me when I came in with the lamp last night." "How frightened and ashamed I was, Ned!" she exclaimed, tears springing to her eyes; "I felt that you had a right to beat me if you wanted to, and I shouldn't have said a word if you'd done it." "But you couldn't have feared that?" he said, with a pained look, and coloring deeply. "No, oh, _no, indeed_! I know you would _never_ do that, but I dreaded what you might say, and did not at all expect you would be so kind and forgiving and loving to me. "But how was I brought up here? I knew nothing from the instant you were at my side on the door-step till I saw you coming in with the lamp." "In your husband's arms." "What a heavy load for you to carry!" she said, looking at him with concern. "No, not at all; I did it with perfect ease, except for the darkness and the fear that you might recover consciousness on the way and scream out with affright before you discovered who your captor was." "My husband, my dear, kind husband!" she murmured, softly stroking his face as he bent over her to press a kiss upon her forehead. "My darling little wife," he returned. Then after a moment's silent exchange of caresses, "Would you mind telling me where you were going and what you intended to do?" he asked with a half smile. "I have no right to refuse, if you require a full confession," she said, half playfully, half tearfully, and blushing deeply. "I don't require it, but should like to have it, nevertheless; for I confess my curiosity is piqued," he said with an amused, yet tender look and tone. "There isn't really very much to tell," she sighed, "only that because I was dreadfully unhappy and had worked myself up to believing that I was a hated wife, a burden and annoyance to my husband, I thought it would be an act of noble self-sacrifice to run away, and--O Ned, please don't laugh at me!" "I am not laughing, love," he said in soothing, half-tremulous tones, taking her in his arms and holding her close, as he had done the night before. "How could I laugh at you for being willing to sacrifice everything for me? But that's not all?" "Not quite. It came to me like a flash about the stage passing so near at two o'clock in the morning, and that I could get away then without being seen, and after I was in it make up my mind where I would get out." "And how did you expect to support yourself?" "There was some money in my purse--you never let it get empty, Ned--and--I thought I wouldn't need any very long." "Wouldn't? why not?" "Oh, I was sure, _sure_ I couldn't live long without you," she cried, hugging him close and ending with a burst of tears and sobs. "You dear, dear little thing!" he said with emotion, and tightening his clasp of her slight form; "after I had been so cruel to you, too!" "No, you weren't, except in going away without making up and saying good-by." "It's very generous in you to say it, darling. But how large was this sum of money that you expected to last as long as you needed any?" "I don't know. I didn't stop to count it. You can do that, if you want to. I suppose the purse is in my satchel." He brought the satchel--still unpacked--took out the purse and examined its contents. "Barely ten dollars," he said. "It would have lasted but a few days, and, my darling, what would have become of you then?" He bent over her in grave tenderness. "I don't know, Ned," she replied; "I suppose I'd have had to look for employment." "To think of you, my little, delicate, petted darling, looking for employment by which to earn your daily bread!" he exclaimed with emotion. "It is plain you know nothing of the hardships and difficulties you would have had to encounter. I shudder to think of it all. But I should never have let it come to that." "Would you have looked for me, Ned?" "I should have begun the search the instant I heard of your flight, nor ever have known a moment's rest till I found you!" he exclaimed with energy. "But as I came in the stage you purposed to take, I should have met and brought you back, if that fortunate mishap had not taken place." Then she told him of her thoughts, feelings, and painful anticipations while held fast in the relentless grasp of the door, finishing with, "Oh, I never could have dreamed that it would all end so well, so happily for me!" "And yet, dear one, I do not think you at all realize how painful--not to say dreadful--would have been the consequences to you, to me, and, indeed, to all the family, if you had succeeded in carrying out what I must call your crazy scheme." She looked up at him in alarmed inquiry, and he went on, "'Madame Rumor, with her thousand tongues,' would have had many a tale to tell of the cruel abuse to which you had been subjected by your husband and his family--so cruel that you were compelled to run away in the night, taking advantage of the temporary absence of your tyrannical husband; while----" "O Ned, dear Ned, I never thought of that!" she exclaimed, interrupting him with a burst of tears and sobs. "I wouldn't for the world have wrought harm to you or any of them." "No, love, I know you wouldn't. I believe your motives were altogether kind and self-sacrificing," he said soothingly; "and you yourself would have been the greatest sufferer; the world judges hardly--how hardly my little girl-wife has no idea; wicked people would have found wicked motives to which to impute your act and caused a stain upon your fair fame that might never have been removed. "But there, there, love, do not cry any more over it; happily, the whole thing is a secret between us two, and we may now dismiss the disagreeable subject forever. "But shall we not promise each other that we will never part in anger, even when the separation may not be for an hour? or ever lie down to sleep at night unreconciled, if there has been the slightest misunderstanding or coldness between us?" "Oh, yes, yes, I promise!" she cried eagerly; "but, oh, dear Ned, I hope we will never, never have any more coldness or quarrelling between us, never say a cross word to each other." "And I join you, dearest, in both wish and promise." "I am growing very babyish," she said presently with a wistful look up into his face; "I can hardly bear to think of being parted from you for a day; and I suppose you'll have to be going off again to attend to that business affair?" "Yes, as soon as I see that my wife is quite well enough to undertake the journey; for I'm not going again without her." "Oh, will you take me with you, Ned?" she cried joyfully. "How very good in you." "Good to myself, little woman," he said, smiling down at her; "it will turn a tiresome business trip into a pleasure excursion. I have always found my enjoyment doubled by the companionship of my better half." "I call that rank heresy," she said laughing, "_you're_ the better half as well as the bigger. I wish I were worthy of such a good husband," she added earnestly and with a look of loving admiration. "I'm very proud of you, my dear--so good and wise and handsome as you are!" "Oh, hush, hush! such fulsome flattery," he returned, coloring and laughing. "Let me see; this is Friday, so near the end of the week that I do not care to leave home till next week. We will say Tuesday morning next, if that will suit you, love?" "Nicely," she answered. "Oh, I'm so glad you have promised to take me with you!" CHAPTER XXIII. LULU. Before two days had passed Zoe was quite herself again, and as full of delight at the prospect of going away for a little trip as any child could have been. She wore so bright a face, was so merry and frolicsome, that it was a pleasure to watch her, especially when with her husband, and not aware that any other eye was upon her. His face, too, beamed with happiness. Elsie's eyes resting upon them would sometimes fill with tears--half of joy in their felicity, half of sorrowful yet tender reminiscence. In his present mood Edward was very like his father in looks, in speech, in manner. Tuesday morning came, bringing with it delightful weather; Edward had decided to take a later train than when starting before, because he would not have Zoe roused too soon from sleep. They took breakfast with the family at the usual hour, an open barouche waiting for them at the door; then with a gay good-by to all set out upon their journey, driving to the nearest station, and there taking the cars. "I wish I was going, too!" sighed Lulu, as she and Rosie stood looking after the barouche. "Mamma would have let us drive over to the station with them," said Rose; "Edward asked if we might, but Ben had some errands to do in town, and couldn't bring us back in time for lessons." "Lessons! I'm sick and tired of them!" grumbled Lulu. "Other children had holidays last week, but we had to go right on studying." "But we are to take ours in a week or two, visiting at the Oaks and the Laurels, perhaps two weeks at each place, and I'm sure that will be nicer than to have had Easter holidays at home." "There, it's out of sight," said Lulu. "I'd like to be Aunt Zoe, just starting off on a journey. Let's take a run down the avenue, Rosie." "I would, but I must look over my Latin lesson, or I may not be ready for grandpa." With the last words she turned and went into the house. Lulu knew that she was not ready for Mr. Dinsmore either, but she was in no mood for study, and the grounds looked so inviting that she yielded to the temptation to take a ramble instead. Max, from his window, saw her wandering about among the shrubs and flowers and longed to join her. He was bearing his punishment in a very good spirit, making no complaint, spending his time in study, reading, writing and carving. Mr. Dinsmore came to him to hear his recitations, and was always able to commend them as excellent. He treated the boy in a kind, fatherly manner, talking to him of his sin and the way to obtain forgiveness and deliverance from it, very much as Elsie and Violet had. Yet he did not harp continually upon that, but dwelt often upon other themes, trying so to treat the lad that his self-respect might be restored. Max appreciated the kindness shown him, and was strengthened in his good resolutions. He was privately very much troubled about his losses, particularly that of the watch, supposing it to be in Ralph's possession, for Mr. Dinsmore had said nothing to him on the subject. Being very fond of his sisters, Max felt the separation from them no small part of his punishment; he followed Lulu's movements this morning with wistful eyes. She looked up, and seeing his rather pale, sad face at the window, drew nearer and called softly to him, "Max, how are you? I'm so sorry for you." He only shook his head and turned away. Then Mr. Dinsmore's voice spoke sternly from a lower window, "Lulu, you are disobeying orders. Go into the house and to the school-room immediately. You ought to have been there fully a quarter of an hour ago." Lulu was a little frightened, and obeyed at once. "You are late, Lulu. You must try to be more punctual in future," Elsie said in a tone of mild rebuke, as the little girl sat down at her desk. "I don't care if I am," she muttered, insolently. Rose darted at her a look of angry astonishment, Gracie looked shocked, and little Walter said, "It's very, _very_ naughty to speak so to my mamma." But Elsie did not seem to have heard; her face still wore its usual sweet, placid expression. Lulu thought she had not heard, but found out her mistake when she went forward to recite. She was told in a gentle, quiet tone, "You are not my pupil, to-day, Lulu," and returned to her seat overwhelmed with embarrassment and anger. No further notice was taken of her by any one excerpt Gracie, who now and then stole a troubled, half-pitying look at her, until Mr Dinsmore came to hear the Latin lessons. Lulu had sat idly at her desk nursing her anger and discontent, her eyes on the book open before her, but her thoughts elsewhere, so was not prepared for him. She was frightened, but tried to hide it, made an attempt to answer the first question put to her, but broke down in confusion. He asked another; she was unable to answer it; and with a frown he said, "I perceive that you know nothing about your lesson to-day. Why have you not learned it?" "Because I didn't want to," muttered the delinquent. Rosie opened her eyes wide in astonishment. She would never have dared to answer her grandfather in that manner. "Take your book and learn it now," he said in his sternest tone. Lulu did not venture to disobey, for she was really very much afraid of Mr. Dinsmore. He heard Rosie's lesson, assigned her task for the next day, and both left the room. The others had gone about the time Mr. Dinsmore came in, so Lulu was left alone. She thought it best to give her mind to the lesson, and in half an hour felt that she was fully prepared with it. But Mr. Dinsmore did not come back, and she dared not leave the room, though very impatient to do so. The dinner bell rang, and still he had not come. Lulu was hungry and began to fear that she was to be made to fast; but at length a servant brought her a good, substantial, though plain dinner, set it before her, and silently withdrew. "It's not half as good as they've got," Lulu remarked half aloud to herself, discontentedly eying her fare, "but it's better than nothing." With that philosophical reflection she fell to work, and speedily emptied the dishes. Mr. Dinsmore came to her shortly after, heard the lesson, gave her a little serious talk and dismissed her. Feeling that she owed an apology to Grandma Elsie, but still too stubborn and proud to make it, Lulu was ashamed to join the others, so went off alone into the grounds. She was not Grandma Elsie's pupil, she understood, until the morning's impertinence had been atoned for. It was against rules to go beyond the boundary of the grounds without permission; yet after wandering through them for a while, she did so, and entering a shady, pleasant road, walked on without any settled purpose, till she reached a neighboring plantation where lived some little girls with whom she had a slight acquaintance. They were playing croquet on the lawn, and espying Lulu at the gate, invited her to come in and join them. She did so, became much interested in the sport, and forgot to go home until the lengthening shadows warned her that it must be very near the tea hour at Ion. She then bade a hasty good-by and retraced her steps with great expedition and in no tranquil state of mind. In truth, she was a good deal alarmed as she thought of the possible consequences to herself of her bold disregard of rules. She arrived at Ion heated and out of breach, and, as a glance at the hall clock told her, fully fifteen minutes late. Hair and dress were in some disorder, but not thinking of that, in her haste and perturbation, she went directly to the supper-room, where the family were in the midst of their meal. They all seemed busily engaged with it or in conversation, and she hoped to slip unobserved into her seat. But to her consternation she perceived, as she drew near, that neither plate nor chair seemed to have been set for her; every place was occupied. At the same instant Mr. Dinsmore, turning a stern look upon her, remarked, "We have no place here for the rebellious and insubordinate, therefore I have ordered your plate removed; and while you continue to belong to that class, you will take your meals in your own room." He dismissed her with a wave of the hand as he spoke, and, filled with anger and chagrin, she turned and flew from the room, never stopping till she had gained her own and slammed the door behind her. "Before Mr. Lilburn and everybody!" she exclaimed aloud, stamping her foot in impotent rage. Then catching sight of her figure in the glass, she stood still and gazed, her cheeks reddening more and more with mortification. Hair and dress were tumbled, the latter slightly soiled with the dust of the road, as were her boots also, and the frill about her neck was crushed and partly tucked in. She set to work with energy to make herself neat, and had scarcely completed the task when her supper was brought in. It consisted of abundance of rich sweet milk, fruit, and the nicest of bread and butter. She ate heartily; then as Agnes carried away the tray, seated herself by the window with her elbows on the sill, her chin in her hands, and half involuntarily took a mental review of the day. The retrospect was not agreeable. "And I'll have to tell papa all about it in my diary," she groaned to herself. "No, I sha'n't; what's the use? it'll just make him feel badly. But he said I must, and he trusted me, he _trusted_ me to tell the truth and the whole truth, and I can't deceive him; I can't hide anything after that." With a heavy sigh she took her writing-desk, set it on the sill to catch the fading light, and wrote: "It has been a bad day with me. I didn't look over my lessons before school, as I ought to have done, but went out in the grounds instead. While I was there, I broke a rule. Grandpa Dinsmore reproved me and called me in. I went up to the school-room. Grandma Elsie said I was late and must be more punctual, and I gave her a saucy answer. She wouldn't hear my lessons, and I was cross and wouldn't study, and wasn't ready for Grandpa Dinsmore, and was saucy to him. So I had to stay up there in the school-room and learn my lesson over and eat my dinner there by myself. "After that, when he let me out, I took a long walk and played croquet with some other girls--all without leave. "They were eating supper when I got back, and I went in without making myself neat, and my plate and chair had been taken away, and I was sent up here to take my supper and stay till I'm ready to behave better." She read over what she had written. "Oh, what a bad report! How sad it will make papa feel when he reads it!" she thought, tears springing to her eyes. She pushed the desk aside and leaned on the sill again, her face hidden in her hands. Her father's words about the kindness and generosity of Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter in offering to share their home with his children, came to her recollection, and all the favors received at the hands of these kindest of friends passed in review before her. Could her own mother have been kinder than Grandma Elsie? and she had repaid her this day with ingratitude, disobedience and impertinence. How despicably mean! Tears of shame and penitence began to fall from her eyes, and soon she was sobbing aloud. Violet heard her from the next room, and came to her side. "What is it, Lulu, dear? are you sorry for your misconduct?" she asked in gentle, affectionate tones, smoothing the child's hair with her soft white hand as she spoke. "Yes, Mamma Vi," sobbed the little girl. "Won't you please tell Grandma Elsie I'm sorry I was saucy and disobedient to her this morning?" "Yes, dear, I will. And--have you not a message for grandpa also?" "Yes; I'm sorry I was naughty and impertinent to him, and for breaking his rules, too. Do you think they'll forgive me, Mamma Vi, and try me again?" "I am sure they will," Violet said. "And will you not ask God's forgiveness, also, dear child?" "I do mean to," Lulu said. "And I've told papa all about it. I wish he didn't have to know, because it will make him very sorry." "Yes," sighed Violet, "it grieves him very much when his dear children do wrong. I hope, dear Lulu, that thought will help you to be good in future. Still more, that you will learn to hate and forsake sin because it is dishonoring and displeasing to God, because it grieves the dear Saviour who loves you and died to redeem you." Forgiveness was readily accorded by both Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter, and Lulu went to bed comparatively happy after a short visit and kind motherly talk from Grandma Elsie. Two days later Max was released from his imprisonment. He more than half dreaded to make his appearance below stairs, thinking every one would view him askance, but was agreeably surprised by being greeted on every hand with the utmost kindness and cordiality. On the following Monday he and the other children were sent to the Oaks to make the promised visit. Gracie alone needed some persuasion to induce her to go of her own free will, and that only because mamma was not going. Gracie was not at all sure that she could live two whole weeks without her dear mamma. Just before they started, Mr. Dinsmore made Max very happy by the restoration of his money and watch. He added an admonition against gambling, and Max replied with an earnest promise never to touch a card again. CHAPTER XXIV. A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES. Edward and Zoe decided upon a little pleasure trip in addition to the business one, and, in consequence, were absent from home for over a fortnight. On their return, Elsie met them on the threshold with the warmest and most loving of welcomes. "How well and happy you both look, my dear children!" she said, glancing from one to the other, her face full of proud, fond, motherly affection. "As we are, mother dear," Edward responded. "Glad to see you so, also. How is Vi?" "Doing nicely." "Vi! Is she sick?" asked Zoe, her tone expressing both surprise and concern. "Yes," Elsie said, leading the way down the hall and up the stairs. Then as they reached the upper hall, "Come this way, my dears, I have something to show you." She led them to the nursery; to the side of a dainty crib; and pushing aside its curtains of lace, brought to view a little downy head and pink face nestling cosily upon the soft pillow within. Zoe uttered an exclamation of astonishment and delight. "Why, mamma, where did you get it? Oh, the little lovely darling!" and down she went on her knees by the side of the crib, to make a closer inspection. "O Ned, just look! did you ever see anything half so dear and sweet?" "Yes," he said, with a meaning, laughing look into her sparkling face. "I see something at this moment that to my eyes is dearer and sweeter still. What does Vi think of it, mamma?" turning to his mother. "She is very proud and happy," Elsie answered with a smile. "I believe Zoe has expressed her views exactly." "It's Vi's, is it?" said Zoe. "Come, Ned, do look at it. You ought to care a little about your----" She broke off with an inquiring glance up into her mother's face. "Niece," supplied Elsie, "my first granddaughter." "Another Elsie, I suppose," Edward remarked, bending down to examine the little creature with an air of increasing interest. "Her father must be heard from before the name can be decided upon," his mother answered. "Vi wishes it named for me, but I should prefer to have another Violet." "I incline to think Captain Raymond will agree with her," said Edward. "I never saw so young a baby," remarked Zoe. "How old is she, mamma?" "A week to-day." "I'm tempted to break the tenth commandment," said Zoe, leaning over the babe and touching her lips to its velvet cheek. "I used to be very fond of dolls, and a live one would be so nice. I almost wish it was mine." "Don't forget that you would be only half owner if it was," said Edward laughing. "But come now, my dear, it is time we were attending to the duties of the toilet. The tea-bell will ring directly." "Well, I'll always want to share everything I have with you," she said. "Mamma," rising and putting her hand into her husband's, "we've had _such_ a nice time! Ned has been _so_ good and kind to me!" "And she has been the best and dearest of little wives," he said, returning the look of fond affection she had bent upon him, "so we could not fail to enjoy ourselves hugely." "I am rejoiced to hear it," Elsie said, looking after them with glad tears in her eyes as they left the room together. * * * * * The children were enjoying themselves greatly at the Oaks. Horace Dinsmore, Jr., and his young wife made a very pleasant host and hostess. Horace's reminiscences of his own childhood and his sister Elsie's girlhood in this, her old home, were very interesting, not to Rosie and Walter only, but to the others. They were shown her suite of rooms, the exact spot in the drawing-room where she stood during the ceremony that united her to Mr. Travilla, and the arbor--still called Elsie's arbor--where he offered himself and was accepted. They had an equally pleasant visit at the Laurels, whither they went directly from the Oaks, Gracie wondering why she was not permitted to go to see mamma first for a while, and grieving over it for a time. They were not told what had taken place in their absence, until the day of their return to Ion. Mrs. Dinsmore had driven over for them, and after an hour's chat with her daughter, Mrs. Lacey, sent for the children, who were amusing themselves in the grounds. "O grandma, good-morning! Did you come to take us home?" cried Rosie, as she came running in, put her arms about Mrs. Dinsmore's neck, and held up her face for a kiss. "Yes, dear child, and to bring you some news. Good-morning, Max, Lulu, Gracie, Walter--all of you--there's a little stranger at Ion." "A little stranger!" was the simultaneous exclamation from all five, Max adding, "What sort?" and Rosie, "Where from?" "A very sweet, pretty little creature, I think; a little girl from 'No Man's Land,'" was the smiling reply. "A new little sister for you, Max, Lulu, and Gracie, a niece for Rosie and Walter." Max looked pleased, though slightly puzzled, too; Gracie's eyes shone, and the pink flush deepened on her cheeks, as she asked delightedly, "Is it a baby? Mamma's baby?" but Lulu frowned and was silent. "Yes, it is your mamma's baby," replied Grandma Rose. "Would you like to go home and see it?" All answered in the affirmative, except Lulu, who said nothing, and then hurried from the room to make ready. "O Lu, aren't you glad?" exclaimed Gracie, as they put on their hats. "No!" snapped Lulu, "what is there to be glad about? It'll steal all papa's love away from us; Mamma Vi's, too, of course, if she ever had any." Gracie was shocked, "Lulu!" she said, just ready to cry, "how can you say such things? I just know nothing will ever make papa quit loving us. Can't he love us and the new baby too? and can't mamma?" "Well, you'll see!" returned Lulu wisely. There was no time for anything more; the good-bys were said, they were helped into the Ion carriage, waiting at the door, and driven rapidly homeward. During the drive Grandma Rose noticed that while the other children were merry and talkative, Lulu was silent and sullen, and Gracie apparently just ready to burst into tears. She more than half suspected what the trouble was, but thought best to seem not to see that anything was amiss. Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter were on the veranda waiting to welcome the little party on their arrival, and Rosie and Walter were well content to stay with their mother for a little, while the others passed on up to Violet's rooms. They found her in her boudoir, seated in an easy-chair, beside a window overlooking the avenue, and with her baby on her lap. She was looking very young, very sweet and beautiful, happy, too, though a shade of anxiety crossed her features as the children came in. "How are you, dears? I am very glad to see you again," she said, smiling sweetly and holding out her pretty white hand. Gracie sprang forward with a little joyful cry. "O mamma, my dear, sweet, pretty mamma! I am so glad to get back to you!" and threw her arms about Violet's neck. Violet's arm was instantly around the child's waist; she kissed her tenderly two or three times, then said, looking down at the sleeping babe, "This is your little sister, Gracie." "Oh, the darling, wee, pretty pet!" exclaimed Gracie, bending over it. "Mamma, I'm so glad, if--if----" She stopped in confusion, while Lulu, standing back a little, threw an angry glance at her. "If what, dear?" asked Violet. "If you and papa will love me and all of us just as well," stammered the little girl, growing very red, and her eyes filling with tears. "Dear child," Violet said, drawing her to her side with another tender caress, "you need not doubt it for a moment." "Why, Gracie, what could have put such a notion into your head?'" said Max. "Mamma Vi, may I kiss you and it, too?" with an affectionate glance at her, then a gaze of smiling curiosity at the babe. "Indeed, you may, Max," Violet answered, offering her lips. "I'm glad she's come, and I expect to love her dearly," he remarked, when he had touched his lips softly to the babe's cheek, "though I'd rather she'd been a boy, as I have two sisters already and no brother at all." "Haven't you a kiss for me, Lulu, dear?" Violet asked half entreatingly, "and a welcome for your little sister?" Lulu silently and half reluctantly kissed both, then turned and walked out of the room. Violet looked after her with a slight sigh, but at that moment her own little brother and sister created a diversion by running in with a glad greeting for her and the new baby. Their delight was rather noisily expressed, and no one of the little group either heard or saw a carriage drive up the avenue to the main entrance. But Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie were on the watch for it (they had been exchanging meaning, happy glances all the morning), and ready with the warmest of greetings for the tall, handsome, noble looking man who hastily alighted from it and ran up the veranda steps. "Dear mother!" he said, grasping Mrs. Travilla's hand, then giving her a filial kiss. "We are very glad to see you, captain," she said. "Your telegram this morning was a delightful surprise." "Yes, it was, indeed, to all of us who knew of its coming," said Mr. Dinsmore, shaking hands in his turn. "My wife! how is she? and the children? are they all well?" asked the gentleman half breathlessly. "All well," was the answer. "We told Violet you had reported yourself in Washington, and she will not be overcome at sight of you. You will find her in her own rooms." He hurried thither, met Gracie at the head of the stairs, and caught her in his arms with an exclamation of astonishment and delight. "Can this be my baby girl? this plump, rosy little darling?" "Papa!" she cried, throwing her arms about his neck and hugging him tightly, while he kissed her again and again with ardent affection, "oh, have you come? No, I'm your own little Gracie, but not the baby girl now, for there's a little one on mamma's lap. Come, and I'll show you." "Ah!" he exclaimed, letting her lead him on. "I had not heard, have not had a letter for three or four weeks." They were at the door. Gracie threw it open. Rose was holding the babe. Violet looked up, started to her feet with a cry of joy, and in an instant was in her husband's arms, weeping for very gladness. For several moments they were conscious of nothing but the joy of the reunion; then with a sudden recollection she withdrew herself from his arms, took her babe, and laid it in them. "Another darling," he said gazing tenderly upon it, "another dear little daughter! My love, how rich we are!" He kissed it, gave it to the waiting nurse, and turned to his wife again. "Let me help you to the sofa, love," he said. "Lie down for a little. I fear this excitement will exhaust and injure you." She let him have his way. He sat down by her side, held her hand, and bent over her in loving anxiety. "Are you quite well?" he asked. "Very well indeed," she said, looking up fondly into his face, "and, oh, _so_ happy now that you are here, my dear, dear husband!" Gracie crept to his side and leaned lovingly against him. "My little darling," he said, putting his arm round her and turning to give her a kiss. "But where are Max and Lulu?" "Up in the boys' work-room, papa," she answered. "They don't know you've come." "Then I must enlighten their ignorance," he said gayly. "Excuse me a moment, my love. Take care of mamma for me while I'm gone, Gracie," and rising hastily he left the room. Max and Lulu were busily engaged looking over designs and materials for their work, and discussing their comparative merits. So deeply interested were they that they took no note of approaching footsteps till they halted in the doorway, then turning their heads they saw their father standing there, regarding them with a proud, fond fatherly smile. "Papa! O papa!" they both cried out joyfully, and ran into his outstretched arms. "My dear, dear children!" he said, holding them close, and caressing first one, then the other. He sat down with one on each knee, an arm around each, and for some minutes there was a delightful interchange of demonstrations of affection. "Now you see, Lu, that papa does love us as well as ever," Max said, in a tone of mingled triumph and satisfaction. "Did she doubt it?" asked the captain in surprise, and gazing searchingly into her face. She blushed and hung her head. "She thought the new baby would steal all your love," said Max. "Silly child!" said her father, drawing her closer and giving her another kiss. "Do you think my heart is so small that it can hold love enough for but a limited number? Did I love Max less when you came? or you less when our Heavenly Father gave Gracie to us? No, daughter; I can love the newcomer without any abatement of my affection for you." "Papa, I'm sorry I said it. I won't talk so any more; and I mean to love the baby very much," she murmured with her arm about his neck, her cheek laid to his. "I hope so," he said; "it would give me a very sad heart to know that you did not love your little sister. "Well, Max, my son, what is it?" The boy was hanging his head and his face had suddenly grown scarlet, "Papa, I--I--Did you get my letter and diary I sent you last month?" "Yes; and Lulu's also," the captain said, with a sigh and a glance from one to the other, his face growing very grave. "I think my children would often be deterred from wrongdoing by the thought of the pain it will cause their father, if they could at all realize how sore it is. It almost broke my heart, Max, to learn that you had again been guilty of the dreadful sin of profanity, and had learned to gamble also; yet I was greatly comforted by the assurance that you were truly penitent, and hoped you had given your heart to God. "My boy, and my little girl, there is nothing else I so earnestly desire for you as that you may be His true and faithful servants all your days, His in time and eternity." A solemn silence fell on the little group, and for several minutes no one spoke. Lulu was crying softly, and there were tears in Max's eyes, while the father held both in a close embrace. At length Lulu murmured, "I am sorry for all my naughtiness, papa, and do mean to try very hard to be good." "I, too," said Max, struggling with his emotion, "and if you think I deserve (oh, I know I do), and, papa, if you think you ought to----" "You have had your punishment, my son," the captain said in a moved tone. "I consider it all sufficient. And now we will go down to Mamma Vi and Gracie. I want you all together, that I may enjoy you all at once and as much as possible for the short time that I can be with you. "But before we go, I have a word more to say: there is one thing about you both that greatly comforts and encourages me, my darlings; that is your truthfulness, your perfect openness with me and willingness to acknowledge your faults." Those concluding words brought a flush of joy and love to each young face as they were lifted to his. He gave a hearty kiss to Lulu, then to Max, and led them from the room, a very happy pair. CHAPTER XXV. "One sacred oath has tied Our loves; one destiny our life shall guide, Nor wild, nor deep, our common way divide." --Prior. Edward sat at the open window of his wife's boudoir enjoying the beauties of the landscape--the verdant lawn and shrubberies, the smiling fields and wooded hills beyond--the sweet morning breeze and the matin songs of the birds, while Zoe in the adjoining room put the finishing touches to her toilet. She came to him presently, very simply dressed in white, looking sweet and fresh as a rose just washed with dew, and seated herself upon his knee. "Darling!" he said, low and tenderly, putting his arm about her slender waist and imprinting a kiss upon the rosy cheek. "My dear, dear husband! what could I ever do without you; how desolate I should be this day, if I hadn't you to love and care for me!" she said with a sob, stealing an arm around his neck and laying her cheek to his. "You know--you cannot have forgotten--that it is just one year to-day since dear papa died." "Think what a blessed year it has been to him, love; think what a happy meeting with him in that blessed land you may look forward to. There, death-divided friends will meet never to part again, free from sin and sorrow, pain and care, and to be 'forever with the Lord.' "No; I have not forgotten what this day one year ago took from you, or what it gave to me--my heart's best treasure." He drew her closer, and again touched his lips to her cheek. Smiling through her tears, she offered her lips. "Oh, I'm very, very happy!" she said. "It has been a happy year in spite of my grief for my dear, dear father, except when--O Ned, we won't ever be cross to one another again, will we?" "I trust not, my darling," he said. "It is too sharp a pain to be at variance with one's other half," he added, with playful tenderness. "Is it not, love!" "Indeed, indeed it is!" she cried. "See! this is to prove to you that I have not forgotten what a treasure I secured a year ago," he said, reaching for an open jewel case that stood on a table near at hand, and laying it in her lap. "Pearls! Oh, how lovely! the most magnificent set I ever saw. Many, many thanks, dear Ned!" she exclaimed in delight. "I shall wear them this evening in honor of the day. "But what shall I give you? I'm afraid I have nothing but--what I gave you a year ago--myself." "The most priceless treasure earth can afford!" he responded, clasping her close to his heart. "And your love," she said softly, her arm stealing round his neck again, her shining eyes gazing fondly into his, "is more to me than all its gold and jewels." * * * * * [Transcriber's notes: Page 14 text reads: ". . . tempter; (smudge) having . . ."; the word "as" was inserted in place of the smudge. Page 70 missing word "bit" inserted to read ". . . not a bit cold . . .:] 
32163	----	ELSIE ON THE HUDSON _AND ELSEWHERE_ BY MARTHA FINLEY AUTHOR OF THE ELSIE BOOKS, THE MILDRED BOOKS, "WANTED, A PEDIGREE," ETC. NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1898, DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. _All rights reserved._ THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, RAHWAY, N. J. NOTE. For information in regard to the events of our two wars with England, the author is largely indebted to Lossing's historical works--The Field Books of the Revolution and of the War of 1812. M. F. ELSIE ON THE HUDSON CHAPTER I. Crag Cottage was almost overflowingly full the first night after the arrival of its young mistress and her friends, but with a little contrivance all were comfortably accommodated. Most of them, weary with their journey, slept rather late in the morning, but Captain Raymond and his eldest daughter were as usual out of doors--out in the grounds--early enough to enjoy the beautiful sight of the rising of the sun over the eastern mountains. They met upon the front porch just in time to walk down together to Evelyn's favorite summer house on the edge of the cliff, before the king of day showed his bright face peeping above those eastern heights. "Oh, what a lovely sight!" exclaimed Lucilla. "I am so glad, papa, that we are out in time to see it." "Yes," he said, "it is worth the giving up of an extra hour of sleep. Especially as we can take that during the day if we feel the need of it. I would never have you do without needed sleep, daughter. There is nothing gained by it in the end." "No, papa, but I think I do not need so much as do some others,--Gracie, for instance,--and I do so enjoy these early walks and talks with you--the dearest father that ever any girl had, I am sure," she added, giving him a look of ardent affection. "Ah, but you must remember there are some fathers you haven't tried," he returned with a slight laugh of amusement, but accompanied by a fond pressure of the pretty white hand she had slipped into his. "Yet I am just as sure as if I had tried them all, father," she laughed. "There may perhaps be some few nearly as good, but I know they can't be any better. Oh, see! yonder is a yacht coming up the river. I wish it was ours." "Possibly it may be. Look again," her father said. "Oh, is it, papa?" she asked eagerly. "Did you order it brought here?" "I did; and thought it might arrive some time to-day." "And it is--it is the _Dolphin_! I'm so glad! How nice in you, papa, to have it come to us so soon; for now we can supplement Eva's sleeping accommodations and take delightful little trips up and down the river." "Yes; that was my idea in having the vessel brought here. There are a number of historical scenes along the Hudson's banks which I have no doubt you and the others would like to visit." "Oh, yes, indeed, papa! and the very pleasantest way to do it will be in our own yacht--with Captain Raymond to take charge of us and it," she added with a bright smile up into his face. "Oh, the yacht seems to be heading for the little landing down at the foot of the hill! Can't we run down and get aboard of her just to take a peep, here and there, and see that all is right for us to move into the staterooms whenever we will?" "Yes, come along, daughter. I think we can go and come back again before the summons to breakfast," he replied, leading the way as he spoke. They reached the landing just as the _Dolphin_ had anchored and thrown out a plank to the shore. "Oh, how bright and fresh she looks!" exclaimed Lulu. "Yes--outside," laughed her father. "We will go aboard and see whether the same can be said of the inside," he added, leading her carefully onward till they reached the deck. "Lovely!" she exclaimed as they stepped upon it; "everything is as spick-and-span as possible." "I am glad indeed that it pleases you, Miss Raymond," said the man in charge, coming hastily forward to greet and welcome them. "I hope you too are satisfied, sir?" "Perfectly, so far as I have yet examined," returned Captain Raymond in a cheery tone. "You had good weather for your trip up the coast. Mr. Bailey?" "Yes, sir, yes; indeed, couldn't have asked finer. Hope you all arrived safely and well?" "Yes, thank you, and I expect to make pretty constant and good use of the yacht. There could hardly be a better place for it than this river." "No, sir; I think not." With Lucilla by his side, the captain went here and there, satisfying himself that everything was in perfect order, exchanging kindly greetings with the sailors, and bestowing words of praise upon their care of the vessel. "She seems in excellent condition," he said, "and I perceive no dirt or disorder. I should not blush to show her to the highest dignitary in the land." "I hope not, sir," returned Mr. Bailey with a gratified smile; "and I think if anything were wrong no eyes would detect it sooner than those of her owner." "Now let us go below, papa," said Lucilla. "I quite want to take a peep into my own cosey stateroom." "Yes, so you shall," he returned, leading the way. "Oh!" cried Lulu as they stepped into the saloon; "I see you have been making some changes here, father; and they are all improvements. What lovely carpets and curtains!" "I am glad you like them," he said with a smile, as she turned toward him with a look of surprise and delight. "The old ones were looking considerably the worse for the wear, and the good parts I knew would be acceptable and useful in another place." "Oh, yes, I am sure of that," she said in reply, as she hastened to the door of her own little bedroom and threw it open. "Oh, this looks as neat, sweet, and pretty as possible!" she exclaimed joyously. "Can't Gracie and I occupy it to-night, papa? Won't you let us?" "Probably; if matters are so arranged that your mamma and I, with the younger ones, can be here also. Now," consulting his watch, "we will take a hasty look at the other staterooms and then hurry back to the cottage on the crag; lest we keep Evelyn's breakfast waiting." "I am so glad the yacht is here, papa," Lucilla said as they walked up the winding path that led to Crag Cottage. "I felt last night as if it were an imposition for so many of us to crowd into Evelyn's small house--even though we were there by her own invitation; and yet I was afraid she might feel hurt if we should go off very speedily to some house of entertainment." "Yes," returned her father; "but it will be all right now, I think. If I had known you were so troubled about the matter, I should have told you I was expecting the _Dolphin_." "But you didn't because you wanted to give me and all the rest a pleasant surprise?" she said questioningly, and with a loving look up into his eyes. "Yes, that was it. You are as good at guessing as a Yankee." "But I am a Yankee, am I not?" she laughed. "Yes; you certainly belong to the universal Yankee nation; as did your ancestors for several generations. Both mine and your mother's were here long before the Revolution." "A fact which I think is something to rejoice over," she said in joyous tones. "Therefore something to be thankful for," he said in a tone between assertion and inquiry. "Oh, yes, sir; yes, indeed! I am very glad and thankful that you are my father and I am your child." "And I that you are my own dearly loved daughter," he said in response. "Ah," as a turn in the walk brought the house into full view, "I see we are no longer the only ones up and about"--for nearly all the guests were now gathered upon the porch or wandering to and fro under the trees or among the flower beds near at hand. "Oh, yonder come papa and Lu!" shouted Ned at the same moment, starting on a run toward them, quickly followed by his cousins, the Leland boys. "Good-morning, papa and Lu," "Good-morning, uncle and Lu," cried the three as they drew near. Eric adding: "Have you been down by the river? and is there a walk along down by the waters edge?" "In some places," his uncle answered, "but you can go down and see for yourselves after breakfast." "Oh, yes; I presume we can get permission; especially if papa or you will go with us, Uncle Levis." "It would be still pleasanter to go up and down the river in a boat though," remarked Ned, taking possession of his father's hand as they all moved on toward the house. "Papa, can't you have our yacht brought here for us to go in?" "I suppose that might be possible," was the smiling rejoinder. "Oh, that would be splendid, uncle," exclaimed the two Leland boys in a breath. "Yes," said Ned; "for then we could go every day, and all day, if we wanted to. I mean, if papa and the rest of the grown folks thought best." But now they had reached the house, and morning greetings were the order of the moment. Everyone was well, in good spirits, and ready to answer with alacrity the summons of the breakfast bell which presently sounded out. Naturally, their talk turned principally upon the plans for the best manner of spending the next few weeks, in order to gain all possible pleasure and information from their brief sojourn in that part of the country. "Papa," said Grace, "I should like to see every place along this river that can boast of any Revolutionary incident occurring there. I wish we had our yacht here to travel up and down in. Won't you please send for it?" "No, daughter," he said gravely; "I have a particular reason for not doing so; though I should like to gratify you." "Yes, I know you would, father, and so I am quite satisfied with your decision," she returned pleasantly, though with a little sigh of regret. Violet gave her husband a look of surprise, but made no remark, and the talk went on. "I think we would all enjoy visiting any and every place occupied by, or visited by, our Washington," remarked Mrs. Leland. "Yes," said her husband; "Newburgh, for one, and it is not so very far away." "No," said the captain, "that is quite true." "And there are boats passing up and down every day, I suppose?" remarked Sydney Dinsmore inquiringly. "Oh, yes, indeed," said Evelyn; "so we won't have any difficulty in getting there; though we can't have the _Dolphin_ to go in." "Papa, why can't we have our yacht come here so that we can go up and down in it?" asked Neddie. "Have I said we couldn't?" was his father's smiling rejoinder. "No, sir; at least, I didn't hear you say it--but she isn't here." "It is really quite wonderful how much some little boys know," laughed Lucilla. "However, I don't believe it would require a great deal of coaxing to induce papa to send for her." "But he just refused," said Grace. "You could telegraph, couldn't you, papa?" asked Lucilla. "But perhaps the repairs you said she needed are not finished yet?" "I think they must be," returned the captain pleasantly. "Perhaps we may get some news in regard to her to-day." "And if the repairs are finished, will you send for her?" asked Violet. "In case they are, I see no reason why we should not have the use of her," was the rather non-committal reply. CHAPTER II. A half-hour later nearly the whole company returned to the front porch as the most attractive spot, since from it was a very fine view of the broad river and its opposite shore. "Oh," shouted several young voices, "there's our flag! There's Old Glory!" "And it must be on a boat down close to the landing," added Edward Leland. "May I run down and see, papa?" "I think you could see quite as well from the summer-house out yonder on the edge of the cliff," replied Mr. Leland, starting for that place himself, followed by most of the others. "Why it's the _Dolphin_, the _Dolphin_!" exclaimed several voices simultaneously, as they reached the arbor and caught sight of the pretty craft in the river below. The young people were at once seized with an eager desire to get aboard of her, and, as the captain seemed entirely willing, the parents did not withhold their consent. "Ah, papa," laughed Grace Raymond, "I understand now why you refused my request to send for our yacht; she was already here, and you wanted to give me a pleasant surprise." "Yes, daughter, that was just it," he returned; "for I know you like pleasant surprises. And I hope to give you and the rest of our party some pleasant trips up and down the river in her." "Which I am sure we shall all find extremely enjoyable, captain," remarked Grandma Elsie. The whole company were wending their way down to the river and the yacht as they talked, and presently they were all on board, viewing and commenting admiringly upon the refurnishing and other improvements. "Are you all too tired of travel to enjoy a sail--perhaps only a short one--up or down the river?" asked the captain. "Oh, no--not we, indeed!" was the simultaneous exclamation of many voices, older and younger; and not one was raised against it. "I see you are all willing," said Captain Raymond, glancing about from one to another of the bright, eager faces. "Suppose I take you to Newburgh, which is not very far away, and let you see the Hasbrouck House, Washington's old headquarters? How many would like that?" "Oh, all of us! all of us!" cried several voices with enthusiasm. "Then we will get up steam and go at once," he said. "Will that suit you, my dear?" turning to Violet. "Perfectly--if we may have a few minutes to go up to the house and make some slight preparation. You see, I have come down without hat or bonnet," she added with merry look and tone. "Oh, yes, anyone who wishes may do that," he replied pleasantly. "And I must give orders to my cook." "Oh, no, captain," exclaimed Evelyn, overhearing him; "I have arranged for dinner at the house, and----" "Then, my dear girl, hurry up and rescind your orders; for we will not be back in season to take that meal here; and the _Dolphin_ is well supplied with provisions," was his smiling rejoinder. And with a hasty "Oh, thank you, sir! You are very, very kind and thoughtful," accompanied by a pleased and grateful look, she hurried away after the others, who were already making rapid progress toward Crag Cottage. It did not take long to gather up the few articles wanted and return to the yacht, which immediately started for Newburgh. The weather was all that could be desired--a gentle breeze blowing from the north, and light, fleecy white clouds tempering the heat of the sun. "How far from New York is Newburgh, papa?" asked Grace. "Sixty miles," he replied. "It is on the western bank of the river and in the midst of some of the finest scenery in the world, Lossing says, and I entirely agree with him. Are you not of the same opinion, mother?" turning to Grandma Elsie. "Yes," she said heartily; "and we will have a fine view of it from the piazza of the Hasbrouck House." "Is that where we are going?" asked Little Elsie. "Yes; that is the house where Washington had his headquarters at the close of the Revolution." "Oh, I'm glad!" exclaimed the little girl. "I'd like to see every place where Washington used to be." "Yes," said her mother; "I think we all would. But, now, let us not miss the beautiful scenery we are passing through on our way to Newburgh." "Oh, yes, mamma, it is lovely! and I am proud of it as being part of my country--my own dear native land." "As we all are," said Grace. "I think my native land the best and loveliest the sun shines upon." Her father, standing near, smiled his approval of the sentiment, and Grandma Elsie remarked pleasantly: "That is a good frame of mind to be in when visiting Revolutionary scenes." "This will not be your first visit to Newburgh and the Hasbrouck House, mother?" said the captain in a tone of inquiry. "No," she answered, "I was there some years ago, but am well pleased to repeat my visit." "When was it that Washington was there?" asked Elsie. "I know that some of the time he was in Massachusetts and at other times in New Jersey and Pennsylvania." "Yes," said her father, "but he was here on the Hudson, holding his headquarters at Newburgh, at the close of the Revolution. It was in April, 1782, he took possession of his quarters there, and there he continued most of the time until November, 1783, when the Continental Army was disbanded." "Because the war was over?" asked Eric Leland. "Yes; and the brave men who had done and suffered so much together had to bid each other farewell, separate, and go to their homes. Of course they were very glad and thankful that liberty was gained and the dreadful struggle over, yet it was sad to part; especially from their beloved chief." "Wasn't it there, father, that some of them had proposed to make him king?" asked Grace. "Yes; but he received the proposal with abhorrence. Washington had fought to win freedom for his country, not to win power and glory for himself. He had no hunger for them, but a great love of liberty for his country and himself." "Do you think he was as great a man as Napoleon, captain?" asked Sydney. "Greater, much greater! Napoleon undoubtedly had genius, but he was utterly selfish, utterly unscrupulous in the means he took to gain power and satisfy his own ambition--even sacrificing the wife he probably really loved (after his own selfish fashion) in order to get an heir to the throne he had usurped." "And his fortunes began to wane from the time that he divorced poor Josephine," remarked Mr. Leland. "Yes; and the son and heir to gain which he had done such wickedness never succeeded to the crown or throne," remarked Grandma Elsie. "'The triumphing of the wicked is short.'" "I never thought of it before," remarked Sydney; "but isn't it odd that each of those great men married a widow with children, and had none of his own by her?" "And of our Washington it has been said, 'Providence left him childless that his country might call him father,'" said Mrs. Leland. "I have always thought that a very pretty idea." "A true one too, I do believe," said Evelyn; "he was so true a patriot--so wise, so unselfish, so true and good." "A countryman to be very, very proud of, and very thankful to God for giving us," said Grandma Elsie; "especially at that time, when he was so much needed." "Are there not a good many places in this neighborhood where something happened during the Revolution, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes, a good many. Orange County was one of the first settled portions of this State, named in honor of William, Prince of Orange, afterward King of England. The first settlers in what is now the town of Newburgh were Germans. They remained for only a time, however. They grew dissatisfied, sold out, and left; some going to Pennsylvania. Their places were filled by English, Irish, New Englanders, and a few Huguenots; and a number of settlements were soon planted along the river and in the rich bottom lands bordering the smaller streams. Many stirring tales could be told of their privations, alarms, and sufferings from the attacks of the Indians, both before and during the Revolution." "Papa," said Little Elsie earnestly, "don't you think we ought to thank our Heavenly Father very often that we didn't live then and here instead of now and where we do?" "Yes, indeed, daughter," he replied; "we have great reason to thank God for the liberty and security that are ours, and I think we should ever remember with love and gratitude the brave men who fought and bled to secure these liberties for us." "Indeed we should!" said Mrs. Travilla earnestly. "How it would have cheered and helped them in their toils and privations and struggles if they could have foreseen the great results visible in these days!" It was not yet noon when they reached Newburgh, pausing in the southern suburbs, where, on a hill overlooking the river, stood a gray old building which the captain pointed out as the Hasbrouck House. They had soon climbed the hill and were standing on the porch, thinking with a thrill of feeling, as they glanced about them and down at the river, that here Washington had stood in days long gone by and gazed upon the same scenes, probably but little changed since then. Grandma Elsie, the captain, and Mr. Leland had all been there before, and presently pointed out to the others various historic places--Pollopel's Island, Fishkill, New Windsor, Plumb Point, and the Beacon Hills; also, through the gateway in the Highlands formed by Breakneck and Butter hills, glimpse of distant West Point and the mountains that surround it. Then they went inside the dwelling, passing first into a large square room which they were told was used by Washington as a dining hall and for his public audiences. "Notice the doors and windows, children," said the captain. "Windows, papa! why, there is only one!" exclaimed Elsie. "Ah! and how many doors?" he asked. "Why, seven!" cried Neddie; "I've counted them." "Yes, you are right," said his father. "That"--pointing to one on the left--"opens into what was Washington's sitting room; the other, on the same side, into his bedroom." "There is no plaster on this ceiling," remarked Edward Leland, looking up. "But those great, heavy beams make it look very strong as well as old-fashioned." "Yes," said Captain Raymond; "they are nine inches wide and fourteen deep. This part of the house is nearly one hundred and fifty years old." "How much of it, papa?" asked Lucilla. "This large room and the two bedrooms there on the north side. That part was built in 1750, was it not?" he asked, turning to the woman who had admitted them. "Yes, sir," she replied. "Some time after the kitchen; that is on the south side. In 1770 they added to the west side. The dates are cut in the stone of the walls." "What a very big fireplace that is!" remarked Little Elsie--"the largest I ever saw." "Almost big enough to roast an ox in, I should say," said Edward Leland. "A small bullock probably," said his father. "Who owns this house now?" asked the boy, turning to the woman. "The State of New York," she answered. "It used to belong to the Hasbrouck family, but the State bought it to keep as a relic of the Revolution." "I am glad they did," said Lucilla. "I think everything that Washington ever used should be kept in memory of him." "Yes, indeed," assented the woman. Then, leading the way, "And we have a cabinet here of relics of the Revolution which I am sure will interest you." All were much interested in what she showed them, especially in some muskets, of which she said, "They are some of those bought in France by Lafayette, with his own money, and presented to his own favorite corps of light infantry." "Oh, that makes them very interesting!" exclaimed Lucilla, her cheeks flushing and her eyes sparkling. Sydney said inquiringly, "Lady Washington was here with her husband, was she not?" "Oh, yes," was the reply; "in the summer of 1783; and as she was fond of gardening she had some flower beds out in the grounds." "That was about at the end of the war," said Sydney. "Yes," said the captain, "and it was in this old house that Washington wrote his address to the officers of whom we were speaking a while ago, and a circular letter addressed to the Governors of all the States on disbanding the army. They were admirable documents. "A good many of the troops went home on furlough, and then Washington, having leisure for it, went up the Hudson with Governor Clinton to visit the principal battlefields of the North--Stillwater, Ticonderoga, and Crown Point; also to Fort Schuyler, on the Mohawk. "He returned here, after an absence of nineteen days, to find a letter from the President of Congress asking him to attend upon that body, then in session at Princeton, N. J. He did so, after waiting a little for the recovery of his wife, who was not well. And while waiting he had, out yonder upon the lawn, an affecting final parting with many of his subalterns and soldiers. That took place upon the day he left to answer the call of Congress." "Did he return here, captain?" asked Evelyn. "No; he made his headquarters at West Point for a few days in November, and from there went down to New York City and took possession of it on its evacuation by the British." Our party passed out upon the porch again, feasted their eyes upon the beauties of the landscape for a few moments; then, having generously remunerated the woman for her services, returned to the yacht. Again seated upon the deck, they chatted among themselves, their talk running for the most part upon the scenes through which they were passing and the Revolutionary events connected with them. The captain pointed out New Windsor, as they passed it, with the remark that it was where Washington established his headquarters on the 23d of June, 1779, and again near the close of 1780, remaining till the summer of 1781. "Oh, can you paint out the house, father?" exclaimed Lucilla. "No," he replied; "it was a plain Dutch building, long since decayed and demolished." "Did not Washington go from New Windsor to Peekskill?" asked Grandma Elsie. "Yes," said the captain. "Oh, yonder is Plum Point also, and of that I have a little story to tell. There, at the foot of that steep bank, there was, in the times we have been talking of, a redoubt with a battery of fourteen guns designed to cover strong _chevaux-de-frise_ and other obstructions placed in the river. A little above that battery, and long before it was made, a loghouse used to stand. It belonged to a Scotchman named M'Evers. When thinking of emigrating to America, he asked his servant Mike if he would go with him. Mike, being much attached to him, replied, 'Indeed, gude mon, I'll follow ye to the gates o' hell if ye gang there yersel.' So they came over. The ocean could not be crossed so rapidly in those days as in ours, and their voyage was long and tempestuous. Then the vessel, instead of entering New York Harbor by the Narrows, sailed through Long Island Sound and the East River. At the whirlpool called Hellgate the ship struck upon the Hog's Back with a terrible crash. The frightened passengers--none of them more frightened than Mike--rushed upon the deck. 'What place is it?' he asked. 'Hellgate,' answered a sailor. 'God ha' mercy on me!' groaned Mike; 'I promised my master I'd follow him to the gates o' hell, but I didna say I'd gang through with him.' However, the vessel floated off with the tide, carried its passengers safely into the city, and Mike lived to be a gardener on Plum Point." "Is that a real, true story, papa?" asked Elsie. "I think so," he said. "I suppose," said Grandma Elsie, "some--perhaps all--of you have heard an anecdote in connection with that dining room of the Hasbrouck House--published in the New York _Mirror_ for 1834?" Several voices answered in the negative and urged her to go on and tell it, which she did. "During the Revolution," she said, "a Frenchman named Marbois was secretary of that legation here. Shortly before Lafayette's death he, with the American minister and several of his countrymen, was invited to dine at the house of Marbois. At the supper hour the guests were shown into a room which presented a strange contrast to the elegance of the apartments in which they had spent the evening. There were numerous small doors; one uncurtained small window; a low boarded, painted ceiling with large beams; all together giving it very much the appearance of the kitchen of a Dutch or Belgian farmhouse; and on the table was a repast quite in keeping with the appearance of the room. There was a large dish of meat, uncouth-looking pastry, and wine in bottles and decanters, accompanied by glasses and silver mugs such as seemed but ill-suited to the habits and tastes of modern Paris. 'Do you know where we now are?' the host asked, addressing Lafayette and the other guests. They were too much surprised to answer for a moment. They knew they had somewhere seen something like it before--but where? 'Ah! the seven doors and one window!' Lafayette exclaimed presently; 'and the silver camp-goblets, such as the marshals of France used in my youth. We are at Washington's headquarters on the Hudson, fifty years ago.'" "A great deal must have happened in this region during the Revolution," remarked Mrs. Leland. "Haven't you another little story for us, mother?" "Yes; I was just thinking that the taking of a spy occurred not far from here. At the time that Washington's headquarters were at Newburgh, Generals Greene and Knox had theirs in a house on the New Windsor Road about three miles west from Plum Point; and about a mile farther west was the house of Mrs. Falls. There Governor Clinton had his headquarters. He and his brother were in command of Forts Clinton and Montgomery, among the Hudson Highlands, when the British succeeded in taking them in spite of the desperate defence of the American patriots. It was then General Clinton established his headquarters at the house of Mrs. Falls and collected his dispersed troops preparatory to marching to the defence of Kingston. About noon on the 10th of October a horseman came riding up into the camp in great haste. The sentinel challenged him. "He replied, 'I am a friend and wish to see General Clinton.' "The man was a Tory, bearing a message from Sir Henry Clinton to Burgoyne, who was at that time hedged up in Saratoga. This messenger supposed the American forces on the Hudson to be utterly broken and destroyed; and, as the British never gave our officers their titles in speaking of or to them, he thought General Clinton must belong to the British Army, so believed himself among his friends. "He was taken to Clinton's quarters, and when he was ushered into that officer's presence he perceived his mistake. 'I am lost!' he exclaimed to himself in a low but audible tone, and hastily taking something from his pocket, swallowed it, evidently with some difficulty. This aroused the suspicions of those about him; a physician was summoned, and gave the prisoner a powerful dose of tartar emetic." "Why, grandma, what a foolish fellow he was to take it!" exclaimed Eric Leland. "I think it was administered surreptitiously," she replied, "in a glass of wine or beer probably, without letting him know their suspicions or intentions. I have been giving you Lossing's version of the affair, but years ago I read another, going rather more into detail. It said the patriots did not let the Tory know their suspicions of him, but, acting as if they thought him all right, invited him to eat with them, and secretly put the tartar emetic in the drink furnished him at the meal; that he grew very sick after drinking it, left the table, and went out of doors. They watched him secretly and saw that after getting rid of what he had eaten he covered it with some chips. When he had gone back to his companions at the table some of them went out, scraped away the chips, and found the silver bullet. Lossing says he (the Tory) succeeded in swallowing it a second time and refused to take another emetic until Governor Clinton threatened to hang him upon a tree and have his stomach searched with a surgeon's knife. At that he yielded, and the bullet presently again appeared. "It was a curiously wrought, hollow sphere, with a compound screw in the centre; inside of it was a note from Sir Henry Clinton to General Burgoyne, written from Fort Montgomery, telling of their success, and expressing the hope that it might facilitate his (Burgoyne's) operations. "This made the guilt of the prisoner very clear. He was not allowed to escape, and when, soon afterward, Governor Clinton marched with his troops to the help of the people of Esopus, or Kingston, he took the spy with him; and at Hurley, a few miles from Kingston, they tried, condemned the spy, and hung him on an apple tree near the old church. The British had reached Kingston first, and it was then in flames." "Oh, what a dreadful thing war is!" sighed Grace. "So many people are killed, and so many others robbed of everything but life." "It is, indeed, an awful thing," assented Grandma Elsie. "May we of this land never again know anything of its horrors by experience." CHAPTER III. The next day was Sunday. There were several churches within easy walking distance, and Evelyn and her guests all attended the morning services. Toward evening they held a little Bible service of their own on the porch, overlooking the beautiful river. Captain Raymond was, as usual, the leader, being the oldest gentleman and the unanimous choice of those who were to take part. He selected the third chapter of Proverbs, and had them read it verse about; then made a few remarks. "'In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.' That is a precious promise," he said; "one to plead and to rest joyfully upon in time of doubt and perplexity such as come to all of us. Thus leaning upon God and his promises, we may be free from care and anxiety; content with our lot in life, because he appoints it. 'Godliness with contentment is great gain.' Lucilla, can you tell us of a Bible saint who had learned this lesson?" "Yes, sir," she replied, turning over the leaves of her Bible as she spoke. "Here in Phillipians, fourth chapter and eleventh verse, Paul says, 'I have learned in whatsoever state I am therewith to be content.'" "Yes; and he teaches the same to those he addresses in his other epistles. I see you have a passage ready, mother. Will you please read it to us?" "Yes," Grandma Elsie said in reply; "here in Hebrews thirteenth chapter and fifth verse, he says, 'Let your conversation be without covetousness; and be content with such things as ye have: for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.'" Then Violet read, "'But godliness with contentment is great gain; for we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. And having food and raiment, let us be therewith content.'" "A Christian may well be content and joyful, even though he have but the bare necessaries of life," remarked Grandma Elsie, "for he may boldly say, 'The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do unto me.'" "No," said Mr. Leland, "those who belong to Jesus need fear nothing; for he will never forsake his own, and he has all power in heaven and in earth." "How can we know if we belong to him, papa?" asked Eric. "If we give ourselves to him--truly, honestly, and with purpose of heart to serve him while we have any being--he will accept us for his own; for he says, 'Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.'" "'Then will we be Christians and follow Christ--so living, acting, speaking that those who know us will take knowledge of us that we have been with Jesus and learned of him,'" the captain said. "But one who does not walk in the footsteps of Christ--striving to follow his example and do his will--to be like him in temper and spirit, is none of his. But if we have of his spirit, then we become with him sons of God. He is our Brother and God the Father, both his Father and ours. He tells us that he came to save souls. 'For the son of man is come not to destroy men's lives, but to save them.' We must make it our chief business to do his will and win souls for him. That is the commission he gives to each one who professes to love him. He bids them, 'Let your light shine,' 'Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature.' 'He that winneth souls is wise,' is another Bible text. Each one of us must feel that this is his or her own work. We are none of us to live for self, but to glorify God and save the souls of our fellow creatures--by bringing them to Christ." "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, "and we are guilty if we neglect to obey our Father's commands. If we truly love him we will be very earnest and persevering in our efforts to obey. The prophet Daniel tells us, 'They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars for ever and ever.'" "Grandma," said little Ned Raymond, coming to her side, later in the evening, and looking up at the star-spangled sky, "I'd like to shine like those beautiful stars for ever and ever. I wish I knew how to turn many to righteousness. What's the way to do it?" "To tell them the sweet story of Jesus and his love," she answered in low, moved tones. "Tell them how he suffered and died that we might live. But first you must give your own self to him." "I think I have, grandma," he said in low, earnest tones. "I've tried to do it, asking him to take me for his very own, and I think he has; because, you know, he says, 'Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.'" "Yes, dear child, that is his own word and you need have no fear that he will not keep it." "But when and where and how should I tell about Jesus to others?" "Ask him to show you when and where--to teach you what to say and do, and help you never to be ashamed to own yourself one of his disciples." "Like my father," he said. "I am sure he is never ashamed or afraid to let anybody know that he loves and serves God. I don't often hear him tell them, but he acts it out always and everywhere." "Yes, I think he does," said Grandma Elsie, "and it is what we all should do. Remember Jesus' words, 'Whosoever, therefore, shall be ashamed of me and of my words, in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him also shall the Son of Man be ashamed, when he cometh in the glory of the Father with the holy angels.'" There was a moment of silence; then Neddie asked: "Grandma, do you think it was right for our soldiers in the Revolution to hang that man for just having that silver bullet in his pocket?" "Yes; because success in carrying such messages from one British officer to another would probably have cost the lives of very many of our people, and helped the British to take away our liberties." "Oh, yes! So he was as bad as a murderer; wasn't he?" "Very much like one, I think. War is a dreadful, dreadful thing! I hope we may never have another." "It's always wicked on one side, but sometimes right on the other; isn't it, grandma?" "Yes; when life and liberty are in peril it is right to fight for their preservation. Especially when it is not for ourselves only, but for our children and future generations. If our fathers had weakly given up to the tyranny of the British Government, we would not be the free people we are to-day." "And it was a dreadfully hard fight for them; wasn't it, grandma?" remarked little Elsie, who had drawn near enough to hear the latter part of the conversation. "It was, indeed; and our poor soldiers went through terrible sufferings, from lack of prompt pay and proper food and clothing, as well as from wounds and exposure to the inclement weather." "Yes, grandma, I remember it was terribly cold when they crossed the Delaware River and fought the battles of Trenton and Princeton; and, oh, so hot when the Battle of Monmouth was fought!" "I'm glad our papa and Brother Max didn't have to help fight those battles," said Ned; "and I hope we'll never have any more wars. Don't you, grandma?" "I do, indeed, Neddie," grandma answered; "and I hope it may not be long till we come to the time the Bible speaks of where it says, 'And many nations shall come, and say, Come and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, and to the house of the God of Jacob; and he will teach us of his ways, and we will walk in his paths: for the law shall go forth of Zion, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. And he shall judge among many people, and rebuke strong nations afar off; and they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up a sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; and none shall make them afraid for the mouth of the Lord of hosts hath spoken it.'" "What a good time that will be," said the little girl thoughtfully. "I wish it might come soon. Don't you, grandma?" "Yes, dear; I do, indeed!" was the sweet-toned reply. CHAPTER IV. It was Monday morning, the sun not an hour high, when Captain Raymond, sitting on the _Dolphin's_ deck, reading, heard a light footstep approaching, then a sweet-toned voice saying, "Good-morning, my dear father," and, looking up, found Lucilla standing at his knee, her bright eyes gazing lovingly down into his. "Good-morning, daughter," he returned, taking her hand and drawing her down to a seat by his side, then passing an arm about her waist and giving her the accustomed morning caress. "Did you sleep well?" "Yes, indeed, papa; from the minute I laid my head upon the pillow till I woke to find it broad daylight." "I am glad to hear it. It is something that both you and I should be very thankful for." "And you, papa? did you sleep well?" "Very; as I hope and believe all on board did. I suppose you left Grace still asleep?" "Yes, sir; sleeping so sweetly that I took particular pains to move quietly and not wake her." "That was right," he said. "I want her--my feeble little girl--to take all the sleep she can." "So do I, father; and I think she has gained a good deal in health and strength since she has had you at home almost all the time to take care of her." "That's what fathers are for--to take care of the children," he returned with a smile. "Well, daughter, what would you like to do to-day?" "Whatever my father bids me," she said with a happy laugh. "Ah! isn't that a rash choice?" he asked, passing his hand caressingly over her hair and smiling down at her as he spoke. "No, sir; I think not--considering how wise, kind, and loving my father is." "What would you think of a trip up to Kingston--to view it as one of the scenes of Revolutionary occurrences?" "Oh, I should like it very much!" she exclaimed with eager delight. "Do you think of going there to-day, papa?" "I have been thinking it would answer very well as a sequel to our Saturday's visit to Washington's old quarters at Newburgh. We will make the suggestion at the breakfast table, and see what the rest of our company think of it." "Oh, I don't believe anyone will think of objecting. I shall be astonished if they do." "But there are other places some may prefer visiting first, and it will be only polite and kind to let each one express his or her preference." "And the majority decide, I suppose?" "That is my idea," he said pleasantly. "Your ideas are always kind ones, father dear," she responded with a loving look up into his eyes. "Though occasionally not altogether agreeable to my eldest daughter, eh?" he returned with a smile, and playfully patting the hand which he held. "Ah, papa, I do not often object by word or look to your decisions nowadays, do I?" she said half-imploringly. "No, it has been a very rare thing for a very long while now," he said with a tenderly affectionate look--"so rare that I really believe my dear eldest daughter has come to have full faith in her father's wisdom and love for her." "Indeed, papa, I don't doubt either in the very least," she exclaimed with an energy that brought an amused smile to her father's lips and eyes. "Good-morning, papa!" cried a sweet child voice at that moment; "here we come, and mamma will follow in a very few minutes." And with that Elsie and Ned came bounding across the deck to their father's side. He welcomed both with kind greetings and fatherly caresses. "Is your sister Grace up yet?" he asked, and Elsie answered: "Yes, sir; and almost dressed. She opened her door as I was going by, and gave me a kiss, and told me to tell papa she would be ready to go up to breakfast in a very few minutes!" "Ah," he said; "I fear she may hurry too much for her feeble strength. Neddie, boy, go down to the cabin, knock at your sister's door, and tell her papa says it is so early yet that she need not hurry with her dressing. We will wait till she and mamma are quite ready to go up to the house." "I will, papa," was the ready and cheerful response, as the little fellow turned to obey, but then he paused with the exclamation, "Oh, here they come--both of them!" The captain rose to exchange morning greetings with his wife and daughter, then all set out for the cottage on the hill. They found the other guests gathered on the front porch, and when morning salutations had been exchanged they fell into conversation, breakfast being not quite ready. The question was at once proposed how and where they should spend the day, and when the captain told of his plan in regard to that, it was hailed with delight. No one could think of anything better, and it was decided that they would start very shortly after finishing their morning meal. "Will it be a long voyage, captain?" asked Sydney in a jesting tone. "Something less than crossing the Atlantic," he returned with becoming gravity. "It certainly is, captain," Evelyn said with a smile. Then turning to Sydney, "Kingston is ninety-three miles north of New York." "Oh, well then, one will not need to burden one's self with much luggage," laughed Sydney. "So there will be no time consumed in packing trunks," remarked Lucilla. "I never have any trouble about that. Papa always does it for me," said Grace, giving him a loving look and smile. "Will we go on shore at Kingston, papa?" asked Elsie. "Probably," he replied. "And see the tree the silver bullet man was hung on?" asked Neddie. "I do not know whether it is still standing or not, my son," replied his father; "and, if so, it probably looks much like other apple trees. It was not at Kingston he was hanged, however, but at Hurley--a few miles from there." "Kingston is a very old place, is it not?" asked Violet. "Yes," said her mother; "it was settled by the Dutch as early as 1663, Lossing tells us, and at first called Wiltwyck--which means wild witch or Indian Witch--on account of the troubles between the settlers and the Indians. A redoubt was built by the Dutch on the bank of the creek near the old landing place, and they called the creek Redoubt Kill, or Creek. Now it is called Rondout--a corruption of Redoubt. Years later, near the close of the century, the population of the town was increased by a valuable addition from Europe--a colony of French Huguenots, who fled from that dreadful persecution begun in 1685 by Louis XIV.'s revocation of the Edict of Nantes." "What does that mean, grandma?" asked Neddie. "I will tell you sometime; perhaps while we are going up the river to-day," she answered in kindly tones. "I cannot do it now, for there is the breakfast bell." They were all seated upon the _Dolphin's_ deck very shortly after leaving the table, and in a few moments the yacht was steaming rapidly up the river. Then Neddie, going to his grandmother's side, claimed her promise to explain to him what was meant by an edict--particularly the one of which she had spoken. "An edict," she said, "is a public decree that things shall be so and so. The Edict of Nantes said that the persecution of the Protestants must stop and they be allowed to worship God as they deemed right; the revocation of that edict gave permission to the Romanists to begin persecution again. Therefore, to save their lives, the Protestants had to flee to other lands." "Where did they go, grandma?" asked Eric, who was listening with as keen an interest as Neddie himself. "A great many to England and Germany and some to this country. It was really a great loss to France, for they were industrious and skilful artisans--manufacturers of silk, jewelry, and glass." "I'm glad some of them did come here," said Eric. "The massacre of St. Bartholomew was before that, wasn't it, grandma?" "Yes; on the 26th of August, 1572; in that seventy thousand Protestants were butchered by the Papists in France, by the authority of the Pope and the king. From that time on, until 1598, there were terrible persecutions, stopped in that year by Henry IV.'s issue of the Edict of Nantes, allowing, as I have told you, Protestants to worship God according to the dictates of their consciences. That edict remained in force for nearly a century, but was revoked in 1685 by Louis XIV." "Then the Protestants moved away to escape being killed?" asked Eric. "Yes," replied Grandma Elsie, "and some of them came up this river and settled on its shores. They found it less hazardous to dwell beside the savage Indians than among the persecuting Papists." "So they came across the ocean and up this river and settled near Kingston, did they, grandma?" queried Eric. "They settled in the valley of Ulster and Orange counties," she answered. "And then they had good times, I hope," said Neddie. "Not for some time," she answered, "because the Indians were fierce and jealous of the palefaces, as they called the whites. It was not until after the Revolution that they ceased to give trouble to the white settlers, both Huguenots and others. But it was borne with patience and perseverance; and many of their descendants helped in the hard struggle for our independence." "Fighting the British in the Revolutionary War, do you mean, grandma?" asked Neddie. "Yes; fighting for freedom. That was the war that made us the great and growing nation that we are to-day. It was a fearful struggle, but God helped us, and we should never forget to give him thanks for our liberties." "I hope we won't," said Eric. "Papa says we have more to be thankful for than any other people; and I think so myself." "As I do," said his grandma; "and my little grandsons are much better off than very many other children, even in this good land." "Yes, grandma, I know that; papa and mamma often remind me of it; and I do feel thankful for my many blessings; for none of them more than for my dear, sweet grandma," he added with a loving look into her eyes. "As I do for my dear grandchildren," she returned, giving him a loving smile and softly patting the hand he had laid on her knee. "Indeed, we all love you dearly, grandma," exclaimed Ned. "But, now, please won't you go on and tell us some more? Tell about the Indians, and what they and the white folks did to each other." "I could not tell all that was done, nor would it be a pleasant story if I could," replied Grandma Elsie. "The Esopus Indians lived on the flats extending northward from the creek for some distance. They did not fancy their white neighbors, and determined to kill them. They fell upon the settlement one day while the able-bodied men were in the field and slew sixty-five persons. The others fled to the redoubt, and the Indians began to build a stockade near it. But a call for help was sent to New York, and the Governor sent troops, who drove the Indians back to the mountains. Not long afterward the Dutch followed the Indians into their fastnesses, destroyed their forts and villages, laid waste their fields, burned their stores of maize, killed many of their warriors, captured eleven of them, and released twenty-two of the Dutch whom they were holding captives. All that led to a truce the next December and a treaty of peace the following May." "Were the Huguenots there when all that happened, grandma?" asked Eric. "No; as I have told you, it was the revocation of the Edict of Nantes which drove them from their native land to this foreign shore, and that did not take place until 1685--more than twenty years later." "Were the Indians all gone from about Kingston by that time, grandma?" asked Eric. "Oh, no!" she said. "They as well as the Tories gave a great deal of trouble to the Patriots during the Revolutionary War--that hard struggle for freedom. At the time of the Revolution the New York Legislature, then called 'Convention of the Representatives of the State of New York,' migrated from place to place, being compelled to do so by the movements of the enemy, and finally, in February, 1777, took up their quarters in Kingston until May of that year. They were making a Constitution for the State. It proved a very excellent one, and was adopted. And the first session of the legislature of the State was appointed to meet at Kingston in July. So Kingston was the capital of the State when Sir Henry Clinton took the forts in the Hudson Highlands; and because it was the capital he marked it out for special vengeance. "The British fleet, under Sir James Wallace, came up the river with 3600 men under the command of General Vaughan. The order given them was to scatter desolation in their track; and they obeyed--destroying all vessels on the river and firing from the ships upon the houses of known Patriots. Also small parties landed and desolated whole neighborhoods with fire and sword. They landed near Kingston on the 13th of October in two divisions, each taking a different road to the town, and burning and destroying as they went. They joined upon a gentle eminence and marched into the town,--then but a small village,--began setting the houses on fire, and soon had almost every one laid in ashes." "Was Kingston only a very little place then, grandma?" asked Eric. "A town of only three or four thousand inhabitants," she replied. "Some of the people--warned of the approach of the British--had succeeded in hiding their most valuable effects, but others lost all they had. A large quantity of provisions and stores was destroyed. After doing all that mischief, the British--fearing the American people would gather together and come upon and punish them for all this wanton cruelty--hastily retreated." "Did it do them any good to burn down the town, grandma?" asked Eric hotly. "No; there was nothing gained by it." "And as they burned the town, there are no Revolutionary houses to be seen there now, I suppose?" "A few houses escaped the fire," she said. "One is the 'Constitution House'--called so because it was there the Convention met which framed the Constitution for the government of the State. I think we will visit it to-day. Perhaps, too, the old graveyard where many of the Huguenots lie buried. Will we not, captain?" addressing him as he drew near their little group, as if interested to learn what was the topic of her discourse. "We will visit any spot that you wish us to, mother," he answered in his pleasant tones. "Were you giving the boys a history of Kingston?" "A slight sketch," she said; "and they want to see the Constitution House; perhaps the old graveyard too." "Ah! I think we will visit both; certainly, if all our party wish it." At that, several of the others gathered about them, asking of what places they were speaking; and, on being told, they one and all expressed themselves as desirous to see everything connected with the history of the town to which they were going. So that was what they did on their arrival at Kingston. They remained there for some hours; then returned to their yacht, and greatly enjoyed the trip back to Evelyn's pretty cottage, which they reached in time for tea. CHAPTER V. "How many would like to take another trip up or down the river to-morrow?" asked Captain Raymond, as they sat together on the front porch after leaving the tea table. "Every one of us, I presume, captain," said Grandma Elsie, with a smiling glance from one to another of the eager, interested faces about them. "Oh, yes; yes, indeed, we would!" exclaimed several voices, Mrs. Leland adding, "We could hardly contrive a more delightful way of spending the time; there are a number of historic spots which would be interesting ones to visit." "Tarrytown and the other places connected with Arnold's treachery," suggested Violet. "Fishkill, too, is a historically interesting place," said her mother. "West Point also," remarked Lucilla. "Papa took Max and me there once, but I should not at all object to going again." "I think we can visit all the places mentioned within the next few days," said her father; "and we need not decide until to-morrow morning which we will take first." "In the meantime we may talk the matter over, I suppose, and see what the majority is in favor of?" remarked Lucilla inquiringly. "I think that would be a good plan," said her father. "Let everyone feel at perfect liberty to give his or her opinion." "I think we could hardly find a more interesting locality to visit than Fishkill," said Grandma Elsie. "Though perhaps a longer sail may be thought desirable." "We could supplement it with as long a one as we might find agreeable, by passing on either up or down the river, upon returning from the shore to the yacht," said the captain. "Why, yes, so we could," said Violet; "and I think it would be very enjoyable." "Papa, what is there to see at Fishkill? and what happened there in the Revolution?" asked Elsie Raymond. "Quite a good deal," replied the captain. "Fishkill village lies five miles eastward from the landing of that name, on a plain near the foot of the mountains. Those high mountains sheltered it from invasion in the time of the Revolution, and it was chosen as a place of safe deposit for military stores. Also for the confinement of Tory prisoners and others captured by strategy or in skirmishes upon the neutral ground in West Chester. For a while too a portion of the Continental Army was encamped there; also the State Legislature met there at one time." "Was the camp in the town, papa?" asked Grace. "No; the barracks were about half a mile south of the village. The officers had their quarters at the house of a Mr. Wharton, and the barracks extended along the road from there to the foot of the mountains." "Is not that vicinity the scene of many of the incidents given in Cooper's 'Spy'?" asked Mr. Leland. "Yes," replied the captain. "Enoch Crosby was a spy who did good service to his country in that capacity, and is supposed to have been the original of Cooper's spy--Harvey Birch. In the Wharton House, Crosby at one time went through a mock trial by the Committee of Safety, and was then confined in irons in the old Dutch church in the village. It was in the autumn of 1776 he began his career as spy in the service of his country by learning the plans and purposes of the Tories and revealing them to his Whig friends. In that neighborhood, at that time, secret foes were more to be feared than open enemies, but for a long time Crosby mingled with the Tories, learning their plans and purposes, without being suspected by them; they thought him as much an enemy to his and their country as they were themselves. Lossing tells us that while on one of his excursions he asked lodging for the night of a woman who proved to be a Tory; and that from her he learned that a company of Tories was being formed in the neighborhood with the intention of marching to New York and joining the British Army. He seemed delighted with the idea and most anxious to join the company. He gained the confidence of its captain and learned all his plans. It seems that after their talk they retired to bed; but Crosby did not immediately fall asleep. When all had grown quiet, so that there was reason to suppose everyone else was asleep, he rose and stealthily left the house, hastened to White Plains, where lived the Committee of Safety, and told them what he had just learned of the plans of the Tories. He also suggested that they should hold a meeting the following evening and send a band of Whigs to arrest the Tories and himself as though believing him to be one of them. That plan was carried out; they were all made prisoners, taken to Fishkill, and confined in the old stone church. I believe that church is one of the relics of the Revolution which yet remain. "When the arrested men were taken there the Committee of Safety was already at the Wharton House prepared to try them. They held an examination of the prisoners after which they--Crosby among the rest--were sent back to their prison. Seemingly by accident, he was left alone with the Committee for a few minutes and the plan was concerted by which he might escape. "At the northwest corner of the church was a window hidden by a willow. He reached the ground through that, got rid of his loose manacles, sprang out of his concealment, and rushed away past the sentinels with the speed of a deer. The sentinels fired a few shots after him, but missed him in the gloom; and he escaped unhurt to a swamp." "Oh, that was good!" cried Eric. "Did he have any more such escapes, uncle?" "Yes; twice after that he was made a prisoner with Tories, but managed to escape each time. At one time Colonel Van Cortlandt was stationed with a detachment of troops on the east side of the Hudson, to watch what was going on upon the Neutral Ground. One day Crosby was with a part of that detachment near Teller's Point and the mouth of the Croton River, when they saw a British sloop of war come sailing up the stream. It cast anchor in the channel opposite. Crosby and six others then went to the Point, where all but one concealed themselves in the bushes, while the other, dressed in infantry uniform, paraded the beach. Of course the officers on the sloop soon saw and determined to capture him. They promptly sent a boat with eleven men to take him. But as the British landed the American ran. They pursued, not thinking of any danger. Then Crosby and his companions began making a noise in the bushes that made it seem as though they were half a regiment; then they rushed out and called on the enemy to surrender--which they did without firing a shot. The next day the stone church at Fishkill held them as prisoners." "I suppose Crosby was a born American, uncle?" Eric said inquiringly. "Yes; born in Massachusetts early in January, 1750." "That would make him twenty-five a few months before the war began. But he did not live in Massachusetts?" "No; his parents moved to New York while he was still an infant. When he grew up he learned the trade of a shoemaker; but when the war broke out he gave up his trade and shouldered a musket. He was living at Danbury then, and was one of the hundred men who in 1775 marched to Lake Champlain and fought battles in that quarter until Quebec was stormed. It was after his return from that expedition that he engaged in the secret service." "Being a spy?" queried Neddie. "Yes; but at length finding that his many escapes after being taken prisoner by the Whigs had excited the suspicions of the Tories, he gave up that work and joined a detachment of the Continental Army then stationed in the Highlands." "I hope he didn't get killed, papa?" said Little Elsie. "No; he lived through the war, and for many years afterward. In 1827 he was in New York City as witness at a trial in court, and an old gentleman who knew him introduced him to the audience as the original of Harvey Birch--Cooper's spy. That story had been turned into a play, and was then being performed at one of the theatres. Notice was given that Crosby had accepted an invitation to attend the play, and the house was crowded with an audience who warmly greeted the old soldier." "I'm glad they did," said Elsie. "It must have been pleasant for him, and I'm sure he deserved it; for he had helped a great deal to get us all free. Papa, haven't we just the very best country in all the world?" "So I think," her father answered with a smile; adding, "and that being the case we ought to be the best people in all the world. Don't you think so, daughter?" "Yes, indeed, papa; and I mean to try." "Why not go to Fishkill to-morrow?" asked Sydney. "All in favor of so doing may say aye," said the captain, glancing around upon the small crowd of hearers, big and little. "Aye!" exclaimed every voice, and that was followed by a ripple of laughter. As that died down, "We seem to be of one mind," remarked the captain pleasantly. "Well, the yacht will be ready to start immediately after breakfast, if the weather is pleasant. We would hardly wish to go in a storm." "Oh, no!" exclaimed several voices; "especially as we have plenty of time to wait for a pleasant day." "Yes," the captain said; "but there is every indication that we will not have to do so--that to-morrow will prove as fine a day as we could wish; and I suggest that our young people--and all older ones who desire plenty of sleep--should retire pretty soon; for we will need to rise early if we want abundance of time for our expedition. The trip on the river will be short, but we will probably want to spend at least half the day on shore." Everyone followed the captain's good advice; they were all up early next morning and ready to start on their proposed trip in good season. The weather proved pleasant, no accident befell any of them, and all enjoyed very thoroughly their visit to Fishkill and its vicinity. They visited the Verplanck House--interesting as having been the headquarters of Baron Steuben when the American Army was encamped near Newburgh, and also as the place where the celebrated Society of the Cincinnati was organized in 1783. "Won't you please tell us something about Baron Steuben, papa?" asked Elsie Raymond as they were returning from their visit to the Verplanck House. "Yes," replied the captain. "He was a German soldier, born in Magdeburg, Prussia. His full name was Frederick William Augustus Henry Ferdinand von Steuben. His father was a captain in the army, and he became a soldier when a mere lad. He saw and took part in a great deal of fighting, and in 1762 was made aide to Frederick the Great. He took part in the siege of Schweidnitz, and that closed his military career in his own land. He retired from the army, and was living most comfortably on a salary, while we were struggling for our freedom. In December, 1777, he went to Paris, on his way to visit some English noblemen who were friends of his. In Paris he met the French minister of war, who seems to have been a good friend to America, for, knowing that the great weakness of our army lay in the fact that the men lacked discipline and knew little or nothing of military tactics, he tried to persuade Steuben to come to this country and teach them. "But very naturally the baron was not willing to sacrifice his income and his honors in order to help a cause that seemed so desperate. Yet at length he yielded to Germain's solicitation and promises, and decided to come to the help of the struggling Colonies. He came over on a French gunboat; having a long stormy passage of fifty-five days, the vessel taking fire three times--a very hazardous thing, as there were 1700 pounds of powder on board. Also there was an attempt to mutiny. However, he finally arrived safely at Portsmouth, N. H. He had a warm welcome there, the whole population going out to receive him." "And did he go right into our army, papa?" asked Elsie. "He wrote at once to Congress offering his services to the Colonies, saying he had come to this country because he would serve a nation engaged in the noble work of defending its rights and liberties, adding that although he had given up an honorable title and lucrative rank, he asked neither riches nor honors. He called upon Congress, and told them he would enter the army as a volunteer; if his services were not satisfactory, or if the Colonies failed to establish their independence, he was to receive nothing; but if they were successful, and he remained in the army, he expected to be refunded the income he had given up, and remunerated for his services." "That was a good offer," remarked Eric. "I suppose they accepted it?" "They did," replied his uncle; "and Steuben went to Valley Forge, where Washington and his army were encamped at that time. When he saw our half-starved, poorly clad soldiers come creeping out of their huts he was astounded, and said 'No European army could be kept together a week in such a state.' But he began his work at once. He did a great work; probably we could never have won our independence without the help he gave us in training our soldiers for the hard struggle necessary to win it. The fine effect of that discipline was seen in the Battle of Monmouth, when Baron Steuben rallied the retreating and disordered troops of Charles Lee like veterans." "Did he stay in this country till the war was over, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes; and as long as he lived. He made New York City his home for several years. I am ashamed to say that Congress refused to fulfil its contract with him to pay him for his services, but he was given grants of land in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Virginia. The first he declined to take when he learned that it was the estate of an old Tory who would be left destitute, and in the kindness of his heart he interceded for him. Steuben was very kind-hearted and generous. Lossing gives us some anecdotes illustrative of that. He says that in Newburgh, at the time of the disbanding of the army, Colonel Cochran was standing in the street penniless, when Steuben tried to comfort him by saying that better times would come. "'For myself,' replied the brave officer, 'I can stand it; but my wife and daughters are in the garret of that wretched tavern; and I have nowhere to carry them, nor even money to remove them.' As Lossing says, 'The baron's generous heart was touched, and, though poor himself, he hastened to the family of Cochran, poured the whole contents of his purse upon the table, and left as suddenly as he had entered.' "As he was walking toward the wharf a wounded negro soldier came up to him bitterly lamenting that he had no means with which to get to New York. The baron borrowed a dollar, handed it to the negro, hailed a sloop, and put him on board. 'God Almighty bless you, baron!' said the negro as Steuben walked away. Many such stories could be told of the kind-hearted baron." "What a shame that Congress did not keep the promise it made him when he first came over here!" exclaimed Lucilla. "Yes; it was a great shame," acknowledged her father; "however, after seven years of delay they allowed him a pension of $2400. Then he retired to his land; he had a whole township near Utica, N. Y. He cleared sixty acres of that, built a loghouse upon it, and made his home there for the rest of his life; though he went to New York every winter. On the 22d of November, 1795, he was making preparation for that yearly visit, when he was stricken with paralysis. Three days afterward he died. In accordance with directions which he had given, he was buried near his house, with his military cloak around him and the star of honor that he always wore on his breast." "Ah, the dear, good man! I hope he is reaping a great reward in the other world," said Sydney. "A wish which I think we can all echo from our hearts," responded Grandma Elsie. CHAPTER VI. "We have had a nice day--a very nice one, I think," remarked Elsie Raymond, as they sat on the deck of the _Dolphin_ pursuing their homeward way. "Where are you going to take us to-morrow, papa?" "That is a question for the majority of the older people to decide," replied the captain, softly stroking her curls--for she was seated upon his knee--and smiling down affectionately into her eyes. "That means grandma and mamma, and uncle and aunt, I suppose," said the little girl, looking round inquiringly upon them. "Please, dear, good folks, won't you all say what you want?" "I think we would all be satisfied to go to any one of the many interesting spots on the banks of this beautiful river," replied Grandma Elsie. "As I do," said Mrs. Leland, "but, since a choice has to be made, I propose that--if no one prefers any other place--we go to West Point to-morrow." That motion was put to vote, and the decision given in its favor was unanimous. "Thinking of going there reminds me of Arnold and his treachery," remarked Lucilla. "Can't we go and see the Robinson House, on the other side of the river, papa?" "I don't know that visitors are admitted to the mansion now, but we can drive past and view the outside and the grounds," replied the captain. "The house is now called Beverly, the dock from which Arnold made his escape Beverly Dock." "He got into a boat, papa?" asked Neddie. "Yes; into his barge, which conveyed him to the British ship _Vulture_." "Oh, can't you tell us the whole story of it now, papa, and let us go to the place to-morrow?" "That might be possible," returned the captain, "if no one objects to hearing a rehearsal of the old story." No one had any objection, and the captain proceeded with the narrative. "Arnold was a brave, daring, and successful soldier in the Revolutionary War; one who did and suffered a great deal to win his country's freedom, and perhaps if he had been treated with perfect justice he might never have turned traitor. He was badly treated by Congress and by Gates. After that he got into serious trouble through his own reckless extravagance. He was deeply in debt and ready to do almost anything for money. He had married into a Tory family, too, and perhaps they had an influence in lessening his love for the cause of freedom and making him willing to betray his country for the money he coveted--for filthy lucre. He learned that Sir Henry Clinton so coveted West Point that almost any sum of money and any honors would be given the man who should enable the British to get possession of that post. He pondered the matter, and resolved to do the dastardly deed if possible. He had been declining active service on the plea that his wounds rendered him unfit for riding on horseback. But now his wounds healed rapidly, his patriotism was freshly aroused, and he was eager to again serve his bleeding country. "It was in that way he talked to his friends in Congress,--General Schuyler and others,--men who, he knew, had influence with Washington. He also prevailed upon Robert R. Livingston--a member of Congress--to write to Washington and suggest the giving of the command of West Point to Arnold. "Then, under the pretence of having private business in Connecticut, he went there, passing through the camp and paying his respects to Washington on the way. But he said nothing about his wish to be appointed to the command at West Point until he again called on his return; then he suggested to Washington that on rejoining the army he would like that post, as suited to his feelings and the state of his health. "Washington was surprised, but his suspicions were not aroused. So Arnold got command of that post with all its dependencies; that is, including everything from Peekskill to Kings Ferry. His instructions were dated at Peekskill on the 3d of August, 1780. He went at once to the Highlands and established his quarters at Colonel Robinson's house. "At this time Arnold had been in correspondence with Sir Henry Clinton for eighteen months. Both wrote over fictitious names, and Clinton did not know who his correspondent was; at least, for a great part of the time he was ignorant of his name and character, the letters passing through the hands of Major André. During the previous winter Arnold had had some connection with a British spy--Lieutenant Hele--in Philadelphia, where he had been sent with a pretended flag of truce in a vessel afterward wrecked in the Delaware, when he--Hele--was made prisoner by Congress." "I think there was something known of Arnold's plot in England at that time; was there not, captain?" asked Mr. Leland. "Yes," replied Captain Raymond; "and great hopes were built upon it long before it was to take place. Some of the officers who returned to England in 1780 were often heard to declare that it was all over with the rebels; that they were about to receive an irreparable blow the news of which would soon arrive. But they had no more to say on the subject after the account was received of the plot and the discovery of the traitor. To resume: Arnold wrote his letters in a disguised hand and ambiguous style, affixing to them the feigned signature of 'Gustavus.' André signed his 'John Anderson.'" "He wasn't so bad a man as Arnold, was he, uncle?" asked Eric. "I think not, by any means," replied Captain Raymond. "He was a fine young man who enjoyed the unbounded confidence of Sir Henry Clinton. He had been an aide-de-camp of the commander-in-chief, and was now adjutant-general of the British Army. "Before Arnold's trial by a court-martial Clinton had come to the belief that he was his correspondent. That trial made him seem of less value; but when he got command of West Point his traitorous advances to his country's foes assumed increased importance. So their plans were made. Clinton was to send a strong force up the Hudson at the moment when the combined American and French forces should make an expected movement against New York. That last was one of Washington's plans which Arnold had revealed to the British general. It was thought that West Point would be the repository of the ammunition and other stores of the allied armies. It was reported that the French were to land on Long Island, and from there march against New York, while Washington would approach it from the north with the main army of the Americans; and the plan of the enemy was to send up the river at that precise time a flotilla bearing a strong land force. When they reached West Point, Arnold was to surrender to them under pretence of a weak garrison. "With the view of carrying out that plan, the British troops were so posted that they could be put in motion on very short notice, while vessels, properly manned, were kept in readiness on the Hudson. "But now Clinton felt it necessary to make certain of the identity of his correspondent; so he proposed a personal conference, and Arnold insisted that Major André should be the one sent. Clinton had already fixed upon André as the most suitable person to whom to intrust that important mission, and so sent him. I do not know that André went unwillingly, but he did not seek the service, though once engaged in it he did his best. "The love of money seems to have been Arnold's greatest temptation to the treachery of which he was guilty. His first plan was to have the interview with André at his own quarters in the Highlands, André to be represented as a person entirely devoted to the American cause and possessing ample means for gaining intelligence from the enemy. As secret agents were frequently employed to procure intelligence, this was safe ground to go upon. He sent a letter to André telling him of this arrangement, and assuring him that if he could make his way safely to the American outpost above White Plains, he would find no difficulty after that. "On the east side of the Hudson at that time was a detachment of cavalry under the command of Colonel Sheldon, who had his headquarters, with a part of his detachment, at Salem. Arnold gave him notice that he was expecting a person from New York whom he was to meet at his quarters for the purpose of making important arrangements for obtaining early intelligence from the enemy. Also he asked Sheldon to send him word to the Robinson House when this stranger arrived. "But the arrangement was distasteful to André, who had no disposition to act as a spy. He therefore wrote a letter to Colonel Sheldon, knowing that it would be put into Arnold's hands. He proposed a meeting with Arnold at Dobbs Ferry, upon the Neutral Ground, on the next Monday, the 11th instant. "That letter puzzled Colonel Sheldon, because he had never before heard the name of John Anderson, or anything from Arnold about expecting an escort. But he supposed it was from the person expected by the general, therefore enclosed it to him, writing at the same time that he himself was not well enough to go to Dobbs Ferry, and hoped that he would meet Anderson there himself. It was somewhat difficult for Arnold to explain matters to Sheldon so that his suspicions should not be excited, but he seems to have been skilful in deception, and managed to do so. He left his quarters on the 10th, went down the river in his barge to King's Ferry, and passed the night at the house of Joshua Hett Smith, near Haverstraw." "That Smith was a traitor too, was he not, captain?" asked Evelyn. "Probably; though there is a difference of opinion on that point; he acted a part in the work of treason, but was perhaps only Arnold's dupe. Early the next morning Arnold proceeded toward Dobbs Ferry, where André and Colonel Robinson were waiting to meet him, but as he drew near he was fired upon and closely pursued by the British gunboats. That, of course, made it necessary to defer the conference. "Having gone down the river openly, Arnold thought it necessary to make some explanation to Washington, so wrote him a letter in which he mentioned several important matters connected with his command at West Point and incidentally referred to having come down the river to establish signals as near the enemy's lines as possible, that he might receive prompt notice of any fleet or troops coming up the Hudson. "This letter was dated at Dobbs Ferry, September 11th, and that night he returned to his quarters at the Robinson House. He desired to have his interview with André as speedily as possible, because he knew that Washington was going to Hartford to hold a conference with the newly arrived French officers, and that the best time to carry out his plans for betraying his country would be in the absence of the commander-in-chief. And as Washington would cross the Hudson at King's Ferry, it was very necessary that until his departure no movement should be made that might excite his suspicion. "Two days after Arnold had returned to his quarters he wrote again to André telling him that a person would meet him on the west side of Dobbs Ferry on Wednesday, the 20th inst., and conduct him to a place of safety where the writer would meet him. 'It will be necessary,' he added, 'for you to be in disguise. I cannot be more explicit at present. Meet me if possible. You may rest assured that if there is no danger in passing your lines, you will be perfectly safe where I propose a meeting.' "Arnold also wrote to Major Tallmadge, at North Castle, instructing him that if a person named John Anderson should arrive at his station, to send him on without delay to headquarters under the escort of two dragoons. "The house in which Arnold was living at that time had been the property of Colonel Robinson, but was confiscated because he had become a Tory. The two had been corresponding for some time under the pretence that Robinson was trying to recover the property through Arnold. Sir Henry Clinton had sent Robinson up the river on board the _Vulture_ with orders to proceed as high as Teller's Point. It is probable that Robinson knew all about Arnold's treasonable plans and purposes. He now wrote a letter to General Putnam asking for an interview with him on the subject of his property, and, pretending that he did not know where Putnam was, he enclosed his letter to him in one addressed to Arnold, requesting him to hand the enclosed to Putnam, or, if that officer had gone away, to return it by the bearer, adding 'In case General Putnam should be absent, I am persuaded, from the humane and generous character you bear, that you will grant me the favor asked.' "The _Vulture_ was then lying six miles below Verplanck's Point, and the letters were sent to the Point under a flag of truce. Arnold went down to that point some hours before Washington was to arrive there on his way to Hartford, and received and read Colonel Robinson's letter. Arnold took Washington and his suite across the river in his barge and accompanied them to Peekskill. He laid Robinson's letter before Washington and asked his advice. Washington replied that the civil authority alone could act in the matter, and he did not approve of a personal interview with Robinson. Arnold's frankness in all this effectually prevented any suspicion of his integrity as commandant of West Point. "After receiving Washington's opinion in regard to the matter Arnold dared not meet Robinson; but he wrote to him, and in that letter told him that on the night of the 20th he should send a person on board of the _Vulture_ who would be furnished with a boat and a flag of truce, and in the postscript he added, 'I expect General Washington to lodge here on Sunday next, and I will lay before him any matter you may wish to communicate.' It was an ingenious and safe way of informing the enemy just when the commander-in-chief would return from Hartford." "That looked as though he wanted to put Washington in peril," said Lucilla. "I think it did," said her father. "That letter was sent to Sir Henry Clinton, and the next morning André went to Dobbs Ferry. Clinton had given him positive instructions not to change his dress, not to go into the American lines, not to receive papers, or in any other way act the character of a spy. "It was expected that Arnold would visit the _Vulture_ and there hold his interview with André. But Arnold had arranged a plan which would be safer for himself, though a greater risk for André. "About two miles below Stony Point lived a man named Joshua Hett Smith, who had been employed by General Robert Howe, when in command of West Point, to procure intelligence from New York. Which--as Howe was a loyal American officer--would seem to be good reason for supposing that Smith was esteemed a patriotic citizen. Lossing tells us that Smith occupied a respectable station in society, and could command more valuable aid in the business in question than any other person. Arnold went to him and told him he wanted his services in bringing within the American lines a person of consequence with valuable intelligence from New York. It would seem that Arnold had resolved not to adventure himself on the British ship, but to have André take the risk of coming on shore that they might hold their contemplated interview. Arnold seems to have expected it to prove a protracted interview, and arranged with Smith to have it take place partly in his house. Therefore Smith took his family to Fishkill to visit friends, and on his return trip stopped at the Robinson house and with Arnold arranged the plan for getting André on shore for the desired interview. "Arnold gave Smith the usual pass for a flag of truce, and an order on Major Kierse at Stony Point to furnish him with a boat whenever he should want one, and he directed Smith to go to the _Vulture_ the next night and bring ashore the person who was expected to be there. "Smith did not succeed in getting such assistance as he needed in boatmen, so failed to visit the _Vulture_ at the appointed time. He sent a messenger to Arnold with a letter telling of his failure. The messenger rode all night and reached the Robinson House at dawn. "Having received the message, Arnold went down the river to Verplanck's Point and from there to Smith's. "At the Point, Colonel Livingston handed him a letter just received from Captain Sutherland of the _Vulture_. It was a complaint that some one of the Americans had violated the rules of war--showing a flag of truce on Teller's Point, and when in response a boat with another flag was sent off, as soon as it neared the shore it was fired upon by some armed men who were concealed in the bushes. "The letter was signed by Sutherland, but was in the handwriting of André. Arnold at once understood that the sight of that handwriting was meant to inform him that André was on board of the vessel, and, perceiving that, he set to work making arrangements to bring him ashore. He ordered a skiff to be sent to a certain place in Haverstraw Creek, then went to Smith's house. They soon had everything ready except the boatmen to row the skiff. Samuel and Joseph Colquhon were asked to serve, but refused until Arnold threatened them with punishment, when they yielded. "It was near midnight when at last they pushed off from the shore, and so still that not a leaf stirred in the forests, and there was not a ripple on the water. When they neared the ship they were hailed by the sentinel on its deck. Smith gave some explanation of their errand, and after some rough words was allowed to go on board. He found Captain Sutherland and Beverly Robinson in the cabin. He had a missive for the latter from Arnold, but though addressed to Robinson its contents were evidently meant for André--inviting him to come ashore and assuring him of safety in so doing. Robinson understood it and, I presume, explained it to André. Two passes signed by Arnold, which Smith brought, made still plainer Arnold's wish that André should come ashore. André yielded and went with Smith, who landed him at the foot of a great hill called Long Clove Mountain, about two miles below Haverstraw, on the western side of the river. "This was the place Arnold had set for the meeting with André, and he was there hidden in the bushes. Smith took André to him, then left them alone together, and for the first time they heard each the other's voice. They were plotting the utter ruin of this land, and the darkness and gloom of the place seemed to suit the nature of the wicked work. They had not finished their conference when Smith returned to give warning that dawn approached and it would be dangerous for them to linger longer. Smith's house was four miles away. Arnold proposed that they should go there to finish their talk, offering André a horse which he called his servant's, though it is altogether probable it had been brought there for this purpose. André reluctantly complied with the request. He did not know that he was within the American lines until he heard the voice of a sentinel near the village of Haverstraw. His uniform was concealed by a long blue surtout, but he knew that he was in real danger because he was within the enemy's lines without a flag or pass. At dawn they reached Smith's house, and at the same moment heard the sound of a cannonade on the river. It was in the direction of the _Vulture_." "Fired by the Americans, papa, or by the British?" asked Elsie. "The Americans," replied her father. "It was an attack upon the British ship _Vulture_. Colonel Livingston had heard that she lay so near the shore as to be within cannon shot and had conceived the idea of destroying her, and during the night had sent a party with cannon from Verplanck's Point; and at dawn, from Teller's Point, they opened fire upon the _Vulture_; so severe a one that the vessel's crew raised her anchor and moved down the river. "Colonel Livingston had asked Arnold for two pieces of heavy cannon for the purpose of destroying the _Vulture_, but on some slight pretence Arnold refused, and Livingston's detachment could bring only one four-pounder to bear upon her. "Colonel Lamb of West Point furnished the ammunition--but grudgingly, saying that firing at a ship with a four-pounder was, in his opinion, a waste of powder. As Lossing remarks, he little thought what an important bearing that cannonade was to have upon the destinies of America. It drove the _Vulture_ from her moorings, and was one of the causes of the fatal detention of André at Smith's house. The _Vulture_ was so seriously damaged that had she not got off with the flood tide she would have had to surrender to the Americans. André was anxious and troubled at sight of her retreat, but when the firing ceased his spirits revived. He and Arnold went on arranging their plot, and settled upon the day when it should be consummated. "André was to go back to New York; the British vessels, carrying troops, were to be ready to come up the river at a moment's notice, and Arnold was to weaken the post at West Point by sending out detachments among the mountain gorges under the pretence of meeting the enemy, as they advanced, at a distance from the works; and that the river might be left free for the passage of the British vessels a link from the great chain at Constitution Island was to be removed. So the enemy could take possession with very little resistance. "Also Arnold supplied André with papers explaining the military condition of West Point and its dependencies, asking him to place them between his stockings and his feet, and in case of accident to destroy them. He also gave him a pass; then bade him adieu and went up the river in his barge; probably feeling greatly satisfied with the thought that he had at last fully succeeded in carrying out his wicked scheme to betray his country. "André remained where he was until evening, then asked Smith to take him back to the _Vulture_. Smith refused, saying he was not well--had the ague. Probably, though, it had been caused by the firing upon the _Vulture_, as he was willing to go with André if he would take the land route. "To that André finally consented, as he had no other means of reaching the vessel. Arnold had persuaded him that in case of taking a land route he would better exchange his military coat for a citizen's dress, and that he did. Both that and the receiving of papers were contrary to the orders of Sir Henry Clinton; but André felt obliged to be governed by the unforeseen circumstances in which he was now placed. He and Smith started on the short journey together, Smith promising to conduct him as far as the lower outposts of the American line. "A little before sunset, on the evening of September 22d, they crossed King's Ferry, accompanied by a negro servant, and at dusk passed through the works at Verplanck's Point and turned toward White Plains. They had gone as far as Crompond, a little village about eight miles from Verplanck's Point, when they were hailed by a sentinel who belonged to a party under Captain Boyd. That officer asked the travellers many searching questions, and would not be satisfied that all was right until they showed him Arnold's pass. He had a light brought and examined the pass, and, seeing that it was genuine, he gave them permission to go on, after he had apologized for his doubts of them and given them a friendly warning of danger from the Cowboys in the neighborhood. He advised them on that account to travel no farther till morning; but Smith said their business was urgent and they must make haste to reach White Plains. "At that the captain went on to speak very strongly of the dangers of the way, till he so aroused the fears of Smith that he was disposed to tarry where they were for the rest of the night. André was not so inclined, and it was some time before Smith could induce him to stay and take lodging in a near-by cottage. "They occupied the same bed, and Smith afterward told that it was a weary and restless night for André. They left their bed at dawn and again started upon their journey. As they neared Pine's Bridge, Smith assured André that they were beyond patrolling parties, and André at once shook off his depression and talked gaily, discoursing upon arts, literature, poetry, and the common topics of the day. Near Pine's Bridge they separated; Smith went to Fishkill, stopping at the Robinson House on his way to tell Arnold the particulars of his little journey with André and where he had left him. "Smith and others had advised André not to take the Tarrytown road because of the many Cowboys in that neighborhood, but André, considering them his friends, disregarded the advice, and, in consequence, met his sad fate." "It was a pity for him, but a good thing for our country," remarked Lucilla. "Yes," her father said. "On that very morning a little band of seven volunteers went out near Tarrytown to prevent cattle from being driven to New York, and to arrest any suspicious characters who might be travelling that way. A man named John Yerks proposed the expedition the day before, and enlisted several others to take part in the enterprise. They reached Tarrytown early on the day André did. Four of them agreed to watch the road from a hill above, while Paulding, Van Wart, and David Williams were to conceal themselves in the bushes beside the stream and near the post road. "Eleven days after that, at the trial of Smith, Paulding and Williams told the story of their capture of André. Paulding testified that he, Isaac Van Wart, and David Williams were lying by the side of the road about half a mile above Tarrytown and fifteen miles above Kingsbridge, between nine and ten o'clock on Saturday morning, the 23d of September. That they had lain there about an hour and a half, as nearly as he could recollect, and had seen several persons with whom they were acquainted and whom they let pass. Presently one of the young men with him said, 'There comes a gentlemanlike-looking man who appears to be well dressed and has boots on. You'd better step out and stop him, if you don't know him.' "Paulding went on to say that on that he got up, presented his firelock at the breast of the traveler, told him to stand, and then asked him which way he was going. 'Gentlemen,' said André, 'I hope you belong to our party.' Paulding asked him what party. He answered, 'The lower party.' Paulding said he did; then André said, 'I am a British officer, out in the country on particular business, and I hope you will not detain me a minute.' Then, to show that he was a British officer, he drew out his watch. Upon that Paulding told him to dismount. 'I must do anything to get along,' he said, and made a kind of laugh of it, and pulled out General Arnold's pass, which was to John Anderson, to pass all guards to White Plains and below. Upon that he dismounted, and said, 'Gentlemen, you had best let me go, or you will bring yourselves into trouble, for your stopping me will detain the general's business'; and he said he was going to Dobbs Ferry to meet a person there and get intelligence for General Arnold. "'Upon that,' continued Paulding, 'I told him I hoped he would not be offended; that we did not mean to take anything from him; and I told him there were many bad people on the road, and I did not know but perhaps he might be one,' Paulding also said that he asked the person his name, and was told that it was John Anderson. He added that if Anderson had not already told that he was a British officer, he would have let him go on seeing Arnold's pass. He also said that he understood the pulling out of the watch to mean to show that he was a British officer; not that he was offering it to his captors. "Williams too gave his testimony in regard to the occurrences. 'We took him into the bushes,' he said, 'and ordered him to pull off his clothes, which he did; but on searching him narrowly we could not find any sort of writing. We told him to pull off his boots, which he seemed to be indifferent about; but we got one boot off and searched in it, but could find nothing. But we found that there were some papers in the bottom of his stocking next to his foot; on which we made him pull his stocking off, and found three papers wrapped up. Mr. Paulding looked at the contents, and said that he was a spy. We then made him pull off his other boot, and there we found three more papers at the bottom of his foot, within his stocking. Upon this we made him dress himself, and I asked him what he would give us to let him go. He said he would give us any sum of money. I asked him whether he would give us his horse, saddle, bridle, watch, and one hundred guineas. He said Yes, and told us he would direct them to any place, even if it was that very spot, so that we could get them. I asked him whether he would not give us more. He said he would give us any quantity of dry goods, or any sum of money, and bring it to any place that we might pitch upon, so that we might get it. Mr. Paulding answered, "No; if you would give us ten thousand guineas, you should not stir one step." I then asked the person who had called himself John Anderson if he would not get away if it lay in his power. He answered, "Yes, I would." I told him I did not intend he should. While taking him along we asked him a few questions, and we stopped under a shade. He begged us not to ask him questions, and said that when he came to any commander he would reveal all. "'He was dressed in a blue overcoat,' Williams went on to say, 'and a tight bodycoat that was a kind of claret color, though a rather deeper red than claret. The buttonholes were laced with gold tinsel, and the buttons drawn over with the same kind of lace. He had on a round hat, and nankeen waistcoat and breeches, with a flannel waistcoat and drawers, boots and thread stockings.' "North Castle was the nearest military post, and there they took André and delivered both the man and the papers they had found upon him to Lieutenant Colonel Jameson, the officer in command. "It seems hard to understand how Jameson could be so foolish as to decide as he did, to send the prisoner immediately to Arnold. He knew that some of the papers were in Arnold's undisguised handwriting, and it seems unaccountable that the circumstances under which they had come into his hands should not have opened his eyes to the treachery of that officer. He wrote a letter to Arnold saying that he sent a certain Mr. Anderson forward under the charge of Lieutenant Allen and a guard, Anderson having been taken while on his way to New York; adding, 'He had a passport signed in your name, and a parcel of papers taken from under his stockings which I think of a very dangerous tendency.' He went on to describe the papers and to say that he had sent them to Washington. "Major Tallmadge, who was next in command to Jameson, was that day on duty farther down the river. When he returned in the evening and heard of the circumstances, he was filled with astonishment at Jameson's folly, and boldly expressed his doubts of Arnold's fidelity. He offered to take upon himself the entire responsibility of acting on the belief of his guilt, if Jameson would consent. But Jameson refused to allow anything that would seem to imply distrust of Arnold. "Then Tallmadge earnestly begged of him to have the prisoner brought back. Jameson gave an unwilling consent to that, but insisted on forwarding his letter and informing the general why the prisoner was not sent on. That was the letter Arnold received in time to enable him to make his escape to the _Vulture_. "Jameson at once sent an express after Lieutenant Allen, who had André in charge, directing him to take his prisoner back to headquarters at North Castle. "When Major Tallmadge saw André, and noticed his manner and gait as he paced the room, he felt convinced that he was a military man and more than ever certain that Arnold was indeed a traitor. He talked the matter over with Jameson and partly convinced him. The result was the removal of André to Colonel Sheldon's quarters at North Salem, as a more secure place. "There André wrote a letter to Washington, giving his name and rank and a brief account of the occurrences which had brought him into his present situation. This he handed to Major Tallmadge, who learned with astonishment that his prisoner was the adjutant-general of the British Army. "The letter was sealed and sent to General Washington, and the prisoner seemed to feel relieved. In obedience to an order from Washington, André was taken to West Point and kept there until the morning of the 28th, when he was conducted to Stony Point and from there, under a strong escort, to Tappan. Major Tallmadge commanded the escort and rode by André's side all the way. He and André were about the same age and held the same rank in their respective armies. They talked on the way as familiarly as possible. André told Tallmadge that he was to have taken part in the attack on West Point if Arnold's plans had succeeded; that he had asked no reward but the military glory to be won by such service to his king, though he had been promised the rank and pay of a brigadier-general if he had succeeded. He inquired earnestly of Tallmadge what would probably be the result of his capture. In reply Tallmadge reminded him of the fate of the unfortunate Captain Hale. "'But you surely do not consider his case and mine alike?' said André. "'Yes, precisely similar, and similar will be your fate,' replied Tallmadge. "The prospect of that--the being branded as a spy--greatly distressed poor André; he seemed to feel it the very worst part of his sad fate." "To be called a spy, papa?" asked Ned. "Yes; it is an odious name, and in his case would not have the excuse that it was work undertaken for the salvation of his country, as it was in that of Nathan Hale." "Nathan Hale? Who was he, papa? and what did he do?" "I must go on with this story now, and you shall learn that of Captain Hale at another time," replied his father. "Washington now made arrangements for the security of West Point, then went to the army at Tappan. There he called together a board of general officers and directed them to inquire into the case of André and report to him, stating in what light they thought the prisoner should be regarded and what his punishment should be. That court was convened at Tappan on the 29th of September, and Major André arraigned before it. He made a plain statement of the facts, acknowledged and confirmed the account he had given in his letter to Washington, confessed that he came ashore in the night and without a flag, and answered the question whether he had anything further to say in regard to the charges against him by the remark, 'I leave them to operate with the board, persuaded that you will do me justice.' "He was sent back to prison while the board deliberated long and carefully over the question of his guilt. Their final verdict was that 'Major André, adjutant-general of the British Army, ought to be considered as a spy from the enemy, and that agreeably to the law and usage of nations, it is their opinion that he ought to suffer death.' "The next day Washington's approval of the decision was given, accompanied by the order that the execution should take place on the following day at five o'clock P. M." "What a pity!" exclaimed Grace. "I think I have read that our officers felt sorry for him and would have been glad to spare his life. Was it not so, papa?" "Yes," the captain said. "There was a general desire on the part of the Americans to save his life, and I think no one desired it more earnestly than Washington, if it could have been done in a manner consistent with his public duty. The only way to accomplish that was by exchanging him for Arnold, and holding the latter responsible for the acts of his victim. A formal proposition of the kind would not answer,--Washington could not make, nor Clinton accept it,--but a plan to attempt such an arrangement was decided upon. A trusty officer of the New Jersey line, Captain Aaron Ogden, was given a packet of papers by Washington containing an official account of André's trial, the decision of the board of inquiry, and André's letter to his general. Ogden was told to choose his escort of men known for their fidelity, then go to Lafayette for further instructions. "Lafayette was in command of the light infantry and stationed nearest to the British. He instructed Ogden to travel so slowly that he would not reach Paulus Hotel till near night, and he would be invited to stay there till morning. He was then to get into talk with the commandant of the post about this affair of André, and suggest that it would be well to exchange him for Arnold if it could be done. "It all occurred just as planned: the commandant received Ogden courteously, sent the package across the river, invited him to stay all night, and in the course of conversation André's case was introduced. "'Is there no way to spare his life?' asked the commandant. "'If Sir Henry Clinton would give up Arnold, André might be saved,' replied Ogden. 'I have no assurance to that effect from General Washington, but I have reason to know that such an arrangement might be effected.' "'On hearing that the commandant left the company immediately, crossed the river, and had an interview with Sir Henry Clinton. It availed nothing, however. Sir Henry at once refused compliance; honor, he said, would not allow the surrender of Arnold--a man who had deserted from the Americans and openly espoused the cause of the king. "When Ogden mustered his men at dawn the next morning a sergeant was missing. He had deserted to the enemy during the night. There was no time to search for him, and they returned to Tappan without him." "Did he go over to the British, papa? Oh, what a naughty man!" cried Ned. "That was what his fellow-soldiers thought," returned the captain with a smile. "But he was really obeying Washington, who wanted him to obtain in that way some very important information. A paper had been intercepted in which was the name of General St. Clair, mentioned in such a way as to excite suspicion that he was connected with Arnold's treason. The sergeant, who was an intelligent man, soon discovered that there was no ground for such suspicion, and that the paper which had excited it was designed by the enemy to fall into Washington's hands and excite jealousy and ill-feeling among the American officers. The papers were traced to a British emissary named Brown. "Sir Henry Clinton was much distressed on reading Washington's despatch and the letter of André. He summoned a council of officers and it was at once resolved to send a deputation of three persons to the nearest American outpost to open communication with Washington, present proofs of André's innocence, and try to procure his release. General Robertson, Andrew Elliott, and William Smith were the men chosen as the committee, and Beverly Robinson went with them as a witness in the case. Toward noon, on the last of October, they arrived at Dobbs Ferry, in the _Greyhound_ schooner, with a flag of truce. "General Greene had been appointed by Washington to act in his behalf, and was already at the ferry when the _Greyhound_ came to anchor. General Robertson opened the conference with great courtesy of manner and flattering words, and was going on to discuss the subject of conference, when General Greene politely interrupted him by saying, 'Let us understand our position. I meet you only as a private gentleman, not as an officer, for the case of an acknowledged spy admits of no discussion.' "With that understanding the conference was carried on, the British saying what they could in André's favor, but bringing forward nothing that affected the justice of his sentence. Then a letter from Arnold to Washington was produced. It was impudent, malignant, and hypocritical; menaced Washington with dreadful retaliation if André should be executed, prophesying that it would cause torrents of blood to flow, and the guilt of that would be upon Washington. Such a letter could not reasonably be expected to produce any good effect. "The conference ended at sunset. Robertson expressed his confidence that Greene would be candid in reporting to Washington the substance of what had passed between them, adding that he should remain on board the _Greyhound_ all night, and that he hoped that in the morning he might take Major André back with him, or at least hear that his life was safe. "Robertson was overwhelmed with astonishment and grief when early the next morning he received a note from Greene stating that Washington's opinion and decision were unchanged, and the prisoner would be executed that day. "Sir Henry Clinton wrote to Washington, offering some important prisoners in exchange; but it was too late. "André showed no fear of death, but was very solicitous to be shot rather than hanged. He pleaded for that with touching but manly earnestness, importuning Washington in a letter written the day before his death. It was, however, contrary to the customs of war, and Washington, kind-hearted as he was, could not grant his request. "Major André was executed at Tappan on the 2d of October, 1780, at twelve o'clock. A large detachment of troops was paraded; there was an immense concourse of people present; excepting Washington and his staff, almost all the field officers were there on horseback. There was a strong feeling of pity for the young man, and the whole scene was very affecting. I suppose the general feeling was that he was suffering the punishment that ought, if possible, to have been meted out to Arnold--the traitor." "I think history says that André went through it all very bravely; does it not, captain?" asked Sydney. "Yes; there was a smile on his countenance as he walked from the stone-house where he had been confined, to the place of execution, and he bowed politely to several officers whom he knew, they returning it respectfully. He had hoped to be shot rather than hanged, and when he suddenly came in view of the gallows he started backward and made a pause. An officer by his side asked, 'Why this emotion, sir?' André instantly recovered his composure, and answered, 'I am reconciled to my death, but I detest the mode,' Tears came into the eyes of many of the spectators as they saw him take off his hat and stock, and bandage his own eyes. He slipped the noose over his head, and adjusted it to his neck with perfect firmness. He was then told that he had an opportunity to speak if he wished to do so. At that he raised the handkerchief from his eyes, and said, 'I pray you to bear me witness that I meet my fate like a brave man.' He had said of the manner of his death, 'It will be but a momentary pang,' and so it proved, as, on the removal of the wagon on which he stood, he expired almost instantly. The body was placed in an ordinary coffin, and buried at the foot of the gallows. And the spot was consecrated by the tears of thousands." "But it doesn't lie there now?" Sydney said half in assertion, half inquiringly. "No; in 1831 it was taken up, carried to England, and buried near his monument in Westminster Abbey. But here we are at our temporary home again, and further talk on these interesting historical themes must be deferred until our usual gathering together on the porch for an evening chat," said the captain as the boat rounded to at the wharf below Evelyn's cottage. CHAPTER VII. The trip on the _Dolphin_ had been restful rather than fatiguing, and all were ready when tea was over for further chat upon the interesting historical themes which had engaged their attention through the day. "Congress rewarded the men who took André prisoner, did it not, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes; each of them was given a medal and a pension of two hundred dollars a year. Washington wrote of them to Congress in terms of high praise, proposing that they should receive a handsome gratuity for having saved the country from one of the severest strokes that could have been meditated against it. Lossing tells the whole story in his 'Field-Book of the Revolution,' and gives a picture of the medal." "Oh, that was good!" exclaimed Little Elsie, adding, "Now, papa, I hope you are going to tell us the rest about the traitor Arnold." "If all wish to hear it," replied her father; and receiving the assurance that such was the case, he proceeded with the story. "When Arnold left André at Smith's house he went up the river in his barge and directly to the Robinson House; on arriving there spent a little time with his wife and child, then had a talk with his two aides, Majors Varick and Franks, telling them he was expecting important information from New York through a distinguished channel which he had just opened. This was on the 22d; the day fixed upon for the ascent of the river by the British ships was the 24th, and West Point was to be surrendered to them on their arrival there." "And they listened to it all and never suspected him?" exclaimed Sydney. "Yes," said the captain; "he told it all as calmly as if there were no guilt on his soul, and so he appeared on the very day that his treason was to be consummated. "Washington returned from Hartford two days sooner than Arnold had expected. He passed the night at Fishkill, and he and his suite were in the saddle before dawn, as he was anxious to reach Arnold's quarters before breakfast time, and they had eighteen miles to ride. Men were sent ahead with the baggage and a notice of Washington's intention of breakfasting there; but when the general and his party came opposite West Point, he turned his horse down a lane toward the river. "Lafayette said, 'General, you are going in a wrong direction; you know Mrs. Arnold is waiting breakfast for us; and that road will take us out of the way.' "Washington answered good-naturedly: 'Ah, I know you young men are all in love with Mrs. Arnold, and wish to get where she is as soon as possible. You may go and take your breakfast with her, and tell her not to wait for me; for I must ride down and examine the redoubts on this side of the river, and will be there in a short time.' "But the officers did not leave him, except two aides-de-camp who rode on ahead to explain the cause of the delay. Breakfast was waiting when they arrived, and they all sat down to their meal. "Arnold seemed moody. Washington had come back too soon to suit his plans, and the British had not come up the river at the appointed time. He did not understand it, for he had not yet heard that André was a prisoner. But before the meal was over Lieutenant Allen came with a letter for him. Arnold broke the seal hastily, for he recognized Colonel Jameson's handwriting in the address. Doubtless Arnold expected it would inform him that the enemy was moving up the river; but instead it told that Major André of the British Army was a prisoner in his custody. It must have been like a thunderbolt to Arnold, but his self-control was such that he showed but slight disturbance; he told the aides-de-camp that he found he must go immediately to West Point, and asked them to say to General Washington, when he came, that he had been unexpectedly called over the river and would soon return. "He ordered a horse to be made ready, then left the table and went upstairs to his wife. He told her that he must flee for his life, and might never see her again. She fainted, but not venturing to call for assistance, or to delay his flight, he gave a farewell kiss to their sleeping baby, ran from the room, mounted a horse belonging to one of Washington's aides, and hastened toward the river--not by the winding road that led to the Beverly Dock, but along a by-way that led down a steep hill which is yet called Arnold's Path. He got into his barge, and told the six oarsmen to push out into the middle of the stream and pull for Teller's Point, promising them two gallons of rum if they would row rapidly. He told them he was going on board the _Vulture_ with a flag of truce, and was obliged to make all possible haste, as he wanted to return in time to meet General Washington at his quarters. "When they passed Verplanck's Point he showed a white handkerchief, which served as a flag of truce to both Captain Livingston at the Point and Captain Sutherland of the _Vulture_--lying in sight a few miles below. No one followed or tried to intercept them, and they reached the _Vulture_ without difficulty. Arnold introduced himself to the captain, then told his oarsmen that they were prisoners. They answered indignantly that they had come aboard under a flag of truce and had a right to be allowed to go back free. Arnold coolly told them they must remain on board. Captain Sutherland did not interfere; but, despising Arnold's meanness, he gave the coxswain a parole to go on shore and get such things as he wanted, and when they arrived at New York Sir Henry Clinton set them all at liberty." "Arnold was one mean wretch! I am sorry to have to own him as an American!" exclaimed Lucilla. "Didn't the British despise him, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes, many of them did--regarding him with scorn as a reptile unworthy of that esteem which a high-souled traitor, a traitor because of great personal wrong, might claim. "You remember Arnold had said when he left the breakfast table at the Robinson House that he was going to West Point. Shortly after his departure Washington came in. On being told that Arnold had gone across the river to West Point, he took a hasty breakfast, then said he would go over again and meet Arnold there. Hamilton did not go with the others, and it was arranged that the general and his suite should return and all take dinner there. "As they were crossing the river Washington remarked that they would be greeted with a salute, as General Arnold was at the Point; but to their surprise all was silent when they drew near the landing. Colonel Lamb, the commanding officer, came strolling down a winding path, and was quite confused when he saw the barge touch the shore. He apologized to Washington for his seeming neglect of courtesy, saying that he was entirely ignorant of his intended visit. 'Sir, is not General Arnold here?' asked Washington in surprise. "'No, sir,' replied Colonel Lamb, 'he has not been here these two days, nor have I heard from him within that time.' "That aroused Washington's suspicions, but he went around examining the works at West Point, and about noon returned to the Beverly Dock, from which he had departed. "As he was going up from the river to the house, Hamilton was seen coming toward the party with a hurried step and an anxious, troubled countenance. He said something to Washington in a low tone; they went into the house together, and Hamilton laid before the chief several papers which furnished conclusive evidence of Arnold's guilt. They were the documents which Arnold had put in André's hands. With them was a letter from Colonel Jameson and one from André himself. "Jameson, thinking Washington was still in Hartford, had sent a messenger there with these papers. While on the way the messenger heard of the return of Washington, and, hurrying back, took the nearest route to West Point through Lower Salem, where André was in custody. So he became the bearer of André's letter to Washington. He reached the Robinson House four hours after Arnold had left it, and placed the papers in Hamilton's hands. "Washington called in Knox and Lafayette to give their counsel. He was calm, but full of grief. 'Whom can we trust now?' he said. As soon as the papers had been examined, Washington despatched Hamilton on horseback to Verplanck's Point, that an effort might be made there to stop the traitor. "But it was too late; Arnold had got nearly six hours the start of him. When Hamilton reached the Point a flag of truce was approaching from the _Vulture_ to that post. The bearer brought a letter from Arnold to Washington. Hamilton forwarded it at once to the commander-in-chief, then wrote to Greene, who was at Tappan, advising him to take measures to prevent any attempt the British might make to carry out the traitor's plans. "But the plot had failed; and when Sir Henry Clinton heard of it the next morning, on the arrival of the _Vulture_ at New York, knowing that the Americans must now be wide awake to their danger, he gave up all thought of carrying out his scheme for getting possession of West Point." The captain paused in his narrative, and Eric asked, "What did Arnold write to Washington about, uncle?" "To ask protection for his wife and child, and to say that love for his country had actuated him in this thing." "Humph! a queer kind of love I should say," sneered the boy. "Yes; a love that led him to do all in his power for the utter destruction of her liberties." "And was Washington good to his wife and child?" "Yes, very kind and sympathizing; and she was soon able to rejoin her husband--going down the river to New York with her babe. "Washington promptly sent orders to General Greene to march with his portion of the army toward King's Ferry. Greene did not get the order before midnight, but by dawn his whole division was on the march. Washington sent a letter to Colonel Jameson also, telling him to send André to Robinson's house under a strong guard. That order also was received at midnight; André was aroused; and, though the night was very dark and rain falling fast, a guard under Major Tallmadge set off with the prisoner. They rode the rest of the night, and reached their destination at dawn of the 26th. On the evening of that day André was taken over to West Point, and on the morning of the 28th to Tappan. But we have already finished his story." "I wish our folks could have got Arnold and punished him!" exclaimed Eric. "Didn't they even try at all, uncle?" "Yes, and came very near succeeding," said the captain. "You will find an interesting story about it in Lossing's 'Field Book of the Revolution.'" "Oh, please tell it to us now!" cried several young voices; and the captain kindly complied. "There was a very strong feeling of sympathy for André, both in the army and among the people outside of it," he said, "and, along with that, anger and disgust toward Arnold--the arch-traitor--and a strong desire to punish him as his wickedness deserved. There were various plans made to capture him--some of them secret, some open. It was while the army was still at Tappan that the one I just spoke of was undertaken. There were only three persons--Washington, Major Henry Lee, and Sergeant Champe--who knew of it. "The idea was Washington's. He had learned that Arnold's quarters in New York were next door to those of Sir Henry Clinton, and that the traitor seemed to feel so safe that he was not very cautious and watchful. Major Henry Lee was the commandant of a brave legion of cavalry, a man in whose prudence, patriotism, and judgment Washington knew he could confide; for he had already intrusted to him the delicate service of ascertaining the truth of flying rumors that other officers of high rank were likely to follow Arnold's wicked example. "'I have sent for you, Major Lee,' Washington said to him, 'in the expectation that you have in your corps individuals capable and willing to undertake an indispensable, delicate, and hazardous project. Whoever comes forward on this occasion will lay me under great obligations personally, and in behalf of the United States I will reward him amply. No time is to be lost; he must proceed, if possible, to-night.' "He then went on to explain what he wanted, and Lee promptly replied that he had no doubt his legion contained many men daring enough to undertake any enterprise, however perilous; but for the service required there was needed a combination of talent rarely found in the same individual. He then suggested a plan which was highly approved by Washington. He said that Champe, the sergeant-major of his cavalry, was one very well qualified for the service, but he feared that his sense of personal honor would not allow him to take the first step in the perilous expedition,--desertion,--for he was anxiously awaiting a vacancy in the corps to receive a promised commission. "John Champe was a Virginian, a native of Loudon County; he was twenty-three or twenty-four years of age; he had enlisted in 1776; he was a grave, thoughtful man and as unlikely as anyone to consent to do anything ignominious. Lee sent for him at once, told him what Washington wanted, and used all the eloquence of which he was master to persuade him to undertake the perilous work. Champe listened with the closest attention and evident excitement, and, when Lee had concluded, said that he was charmed with the plan and the proposed results; then went on to say that he was ready to attempt anything for his country's good, no matter how dangerous, that did not involve his honor; but the idea of desertion to the enemy and hypocritically espousing the king's cause was an obstacle in his way too grave to be disregarded; so he must ask to be excused. "Lee earnestly replied to these arguments; told him that desertion at the request of his beloved commander, and for such reasons, carried with it no dishonor; it was a laudable purpose; success would bring him personal honor, and the stain upon his character would last only till prudence would allow the publication of the facts. "A great deal of persuasion was necessary, but at last Lee succeeded; Champe consented to undertake the perilous task, and they at once set about the necessary preparations. "Washington had his instructions already drawn up. They were read to Champe, he taking note of them in such a way that no one else could understand their true meaning. He was to deliver letters to two persons in New York, unknown to each other, but who had both been long in Washington's confidence. He was to procure such aid in bringing Arnold away as he deemed best, but was strictly enjoined to forbear killing the traitor under any circumstances. "All these matters having been settled, they next considered the difficulties that lay in Champe's way between the camp and the enemy's outposts at Paulus Hook. There were many pickets and patrols in the way, and often parties of American irregulars in search of booty or adventure. Major Lee could not offer Champe any aid against these dangers lest he should be charged with favoring his desertion; so the sergeant was left to manage his flight as well as he could without help, Lee only doing what he could to delay pursuit as long as possible after it should become known that the sergeant-major had deserted. "It was eleven o'clock at night when Champe took his orderly book, his cloak, and valise, and, with three guineas in his pocket,--given him by Lee,--mounted his horse secretly and started on his perilous expedition. Lee went at once to his bed, but not to sleep. He was doubtless much too anxious and excited for that. Within an hour the officer of the day, Captain Carnes, came hurrying in to tell him that one of the patrols had fallen in with a dragoon, who, on being challenged, put spurs to his horse and escaped. "Lee was slow in replying; pretended to be very weary and drowsy--only half awake. In this way he detained the captain for some little time before he seemed fairly to understand what was wanted. Then he ridiculed the idea that one of his dragoons had deserted; for such a thing had occurred only once during the whole war. "But the captain would not be convinced by any such arguments, and by Lee's reluctant orders immediately mustered a squadron of horse, satisfied himself and Lee that one had deserted, and that it was no less a personage than Champe, the sergeant-major, who had decamped with his arms, baggage, and orderly book. "Captain Carnes ordered an immediate pursuit. Lee delayed the preparations as much as possible, and, when all was ready, ordered a change in the command, giving it to Lieutenant Middleton, a young man of so tender a disposition that he would no doubt treat Champe leniently should he catch him. "Champe, however, was not caught. These delays had given him an hour's start of his pursuers. It was a bright starry night and past twelve o'clock when Middleton and his men mounted their horses and spurred after him. "Lossing tells us that the horses of Lee's regiment were all shod by a farrier attached to the corps, and every shoe, alike in form, had a private mark put upon it; so the footprints of Champe's horse were easily recognized; for a fall of rain at sunset had effaced other tracks, and often before it was light enough to see them readily, a trooper would dismount and examine them. Ascending a hill near the village of Bergen, they saw from its summit their deserting sergeant not more than half a mile away. Champe saw them at the same moment, and both he and they spurred on as rapidly as possible. They were all well acquainted with the roads in that part of the country. There was a short cut through the woods to the bridge below Bergen. Middleton divided his party, sending a detachment by the short road to secure the bridge, while he and the others pursued Champe to Bergen. As Paulus Hook could not be reached without crossing the bridge, he now felt sure of capturing the deserter. "The two divisions met at the bridge and were much astonished to find that nothing was to be seen of Champe. He knew of the short cut, thought his pursuers would take it, and therefore decided to give up the plan of joining the British at the Hook and take refuge on board of one of two of the king's galleys that were lying in the bay about a mile from Bergen. "Middleton hurried from the bridge to Bergen, and asked if a dragoon had been seen there that morning. He was told that there had been one there, but nobody could say which way he went from the bridge. They could no longer see the print of his horse's shoes, and for a moment were at a standstill. But presently a trail was discovered leading to Bergen; they hurried on, and in a few moments caught sight of Champe near the water's edge, making signals to the British galley. He had his valise containing his clothes and his orderly book lashed to his back. When Middleton was within a few hundred yards of him he leaped from his horse, threw away the scabbard of his sword, and, with the naked blade in his hand, sped across the marsh, plunged into the deep waters of the bay, and called to the galley for help. In response to that a boat with strong oarsmen was quickly sent to his help, and directly he was in the galley with all the evidences of his desertion. "Before night he was safely quartered in New York, having arrived there with a letter from the captain of the galley to Sir Henry Clinton in which the scene of his escape from the American troopers was described. "Middleton's men picked up Champe's cloak and the scabbard of his sword, then caught his horse and returned with it to Tappan. As Lee caught sight of the articles he took them to be evidence that Champe had been killed, and was grieved at the thought; but his grief was turned into great joy when he learned from Middleton that the sergeant had escaped safely on board one of the enemy's galleys. "Four days later a letter in a disguised hand, and without signature, came to Lee. It told of the occurrences of Champe's escape, and Lee knew it was from him. "The British were much pleased with the desertion of Champe, as they knew that Lee's legion was considered very faithful and that therefore this desertion was an evidence of increasing defection among the American troops. Champe did what he could to increase the idea by adroit answers to questions asked of him, giving the impression that he had a strong desire to serve the king. Clinton gave him a couple of guineas, and advised him to call upon Arnold, who was engaged in raising an American legion to be composed of loyalists and deserters. Arnold received him politely, gave him quarters among his recruiting sergeants, and invited him to join his legion. Champe begged to be excused from that, saying that if caught by the rebels he would surely be hanged; but added that if he changed his mind he would surely join his legion. "Champe soon found means to deliver the letters Washington had entrusted to him, made arrangements with one of the correspondents to aid him in his designs upon Arnold; then communicated with Major Lee, telling him that he had made inquiries in regard to those who were suspected of beginning to favor the enemy, and learned that there was no foundation for the report. Soon he enlisted in the traitor's legion that he might have free intercourse with him and learn his night habits and pursuits. He soon discovered that it was Arnold's custom to return to his quarters about midnight and then to visit a garden at the back of his house which extended down to the edge of the river. Adjoining the garden was a dark alley leading to the street. All this seemed favorable to Champe's design. He arranged with two accomplices a plan which seemed feasible: a boat was to be in readiness on the river; they were to seize and gag Arnold, carry him through the alley, and from there through the most unfrequented streets to the river; and should anyone attempt to interfere with them on the way they were to represent him as a drunken soldier whom they were taking to the guardhouse. When once they had reached the boat there would be no further difficulty. "Champe was to remove some of the palings in the garden fence and replace them so slightly that they could be easily, quietly, and quickly taken out when desired. When all was arranged he wrote to Lee and appointed the third subsequent night for the delivery of the traitor on the Jersey shore. "No doubt Lee was well pleased, and on that evening he and a small party left the camp with three accoutred horses--one for Arnold, one for Champe, and one for the man who was assisting him--and concealed themselves at a place agreed upon in the woods at Hoboken. There they remained hour after hour until dawn, but no Champe and no prisoner appeared. They were much disappointed, but a few days later Lee received a letter from Champe telling how their plan had failed, and assuring him that nothing could be done in the matter at present. "He said that on the very day when his plan was to have been carried out Arnold changed his quarters in order to superintend the embarkation of troops for an expedition southward to be commanded by himself. In this expedition the legion in which Champe had enlisted in order to carry out his plans was to take part, and the poor fellow was in a sad dilemma. Instead of crossing the Hudson that night with the traitor as his prisoner, he had been obliged to go on board a transport with that traitor as his commander; and that to fight against, instead of for, his country." "Oh, papa, did he go and fight against his country?" asked Elsie, drawing a long breath of surprise and sympathy. "He had to allow himself to be carried to Virginia along with the troops of the enemy, and, I suppose, to go into battle with them," replied the captain; "but I dare say he was careful not to shoot any of the Americans. He watched his opportunity to desert, and after a time succeeded in so doing. He went up into the mountains of North Carolina, and when Lee and his legion were pursuing Lord Rawdon, he joined them. His old comrades were greatly astonished to see him--a deserter, as they supposed--and that Major Lee gave him a most cordial reception. But the truth was soon told, and then his old corps showed the greatest love and admiration for him. They were very proud of him, but he was discharged from service because it was very certain that the British, if they could get hold of him, would hang him." "Is he alive now, papa?" asked Ned. "Oh, no, my son; he died in 1798--a hundred years ago. At that time we were threatened with a war with France, and Washington, appointed to the chief command of our armies, sent to Colonel Lee to inquire for Champe, intending to make him a captain of infantry. But it was too late; the brave and gallant soldier had gone to another world." "Dear man! I hope he went to heaven!" exclaimed Little Elsie in quivering tones. "I hope so," responded her father. There was a moment of silence, presently broken by Ned. "Papa, you know you promised to tell about Nathan Hale; please won't you do it now?" "I will," replied the captain. "He was a fine, brave, good young man; described as very handsome--six feet tall, perfectly proportioned, light-blue eyes beaming with intelligence, roseate complexion, and soft light-brown hair. He was overflowing with good humor, and always ready to help anyone in distress. He received a good education, his father wishing him to enter the ministry; but he was teaching school in New London when the news of the Battle of Lexington came. A town meeting was at once held, and Hale was one of the speakers. He urged prompt action, saying, 'Let us march immediately, and never lay down our arms until we have obtained our independence.' "He took part in the siege of Boston, and was made a captain in January, 1776. He went to New York and did good service there. Early in the fall, in response to a call from General Washington, he volunteered to enter the British lines and procure intelligence. Disguised as a schoolmaster and loyalist, he visited all of the British camps on Long Island and in New York, openly making observations, drawings, and memoranda of fortifications. When he had about finished his work, he was seized by the British and taken before Sir William Howe. On the evidence of papers found in his shoes, he was condemned as a spy, and Sir William ordered him to be hanged. He asked for a Bible, but it was refused him, nor would they let him see a minister. He had written letters to his sisters and to his betrothed, but his cruel captors destroyed them before his eyes. That last was done by William Cunningham--one of the most notoriously cruel Tories of the war. He afterward gave as his reason for that act of cruelty that he meant the rebels should never know they had a man who could die with such firmness. "As Hale mounted the scaffold he said,'You are shedding the blood of the innocent; if I had a thousand lives I would lay them down in the defence of my injured, bleeding country'; and his last words were, 'I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.' "A country that may well remember him with love and pride," said Grandma Elsie. "Oh, what wicked, wicked things they do in war times!" sighed Little Elsie. "Yes," said her grandma; "war is itself a wicked thing: wholesale murder--sometimes on both sides, always on one." "When the folks on one side are fighting for freedom, that's right, isn't it?" asked Eric. "Yes; everyone not a criminal has a right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." "Is it right to hang a man just for being a spy?" asked Ned. "Not always, I'm sure," exclaimed Eric. "It wasn't right to hang Nathan Hale, I'm sure, for he was a good man, and only doing what he could to save his country." "Very true," said his father; "and he is now one whose memory is cherished and honored, while that of Cunningham--his cruel executioner--is abhorred." "I'd rather be entirely forgotten than remembered as a cruel, wicked wretch!" exclaimed Eric. "Yes; as any right-minded person would," said his father. CHAPTER VIII. Shortly after breakfast the next morning the whole party were on the yacht, and it was speeding down the river. West Point was their first halting-place. Some hours were spent there; they were just in time for the battery drill; after that they climbed to the top of Mount Independence, enjoyed the view, and visited the ruins of "Old Fort Put"; came down, and then went back to their yacht, promising themselves another and longer visit to West Point some days later. The captain pointed out the sites of forts Montgomery and Clinton as they passed, and told of their building by the Americans during the War of the Revolution and their destruction by the British in 1777. "As Lossing tells us," said Captain Raymond, "'They fell beneath one heavy blow suddenly and artfully dealt by a British force from New York, and the smitten garrison were scattered like frightened sheep upon the mountains.'" "Oh, papa, surely they didn't surrender without fighting at all?" exclaimed Lulu. "No indeed, daughter; they fought long and desperately. General James Clinton and his brother George were their commanders. As I have told you before, I think, General Clinton established his headquarters at a place called Washington Square, about four miles west of the village of New Windsor, and there collected his dispersed troops preparatory to marching to the relief of Kingston, then threatened by the enemy." "But they didn't get there in time to save it from being burned by the British," said Edward Leland. "What dreadful times those were!" "Yes," said Grandma Elsie; "we may be very thankful that we live in these better days. And in the best and freest country in the world; which it wouldn't have been, if God had not been for us in those days of trial." It was a pleasant morning, and all sat under an awning on the deck, preferring it as the breeziest spot and affording the best view of the beautiful country on either side with its many historical associations. Captain Raymond drew attention to Verplanck's and Stony points as they passed them. "Yonder is Verplanck's Point," he said; "and there, overlooking the river, stood, in Revolutionary times, Fort Fayette; and yonder, on the other side, is Stony Point, where was another small fort. They were captured by Sir Henry Clinton on the 1st of June, 1779. The garrison of Stony Point consisted of only forty men, and that at Verplanck's of seventy, commanded by Captain Armstrong. The British flotilla was commanded by Admiral Collier. The troops landed in two divisions on the morning of May 31--the one, under Vaughan, on the east side eight miles below Verplanck's; the other, under Clinton, on the west side a little above Haverstraw. There was no fight at Stony Point, as the garrison retired to the Highlands, knowing that the forces of the enemy were too overwhelming to be successfully resisted. The British took possession; dragged up cannon and mortars during the night; pointed them and the guns found in the fortress toward Fort Fayette, and in the morning began a heavy cannonade upon it. At the same time the fort was attacked in the rear by Vaughan and his troops, and the little garrison surrendered themselves prisoners of war. "The loss of these forts was a grief to Washington, and he determined to make an effort to recover them, for their loss endangered West Point. He soon ordered an attack upon them by the Americans under the command of Generals Wayne and Howe. Wayne had his quarters at Sandy Beach, fourteen miles from Stony Point, and on the morning of July 15 all the Massachusetts light infantry was marched to that place. It was an exceedingly sultry day, and the march--begun at noon, taking them through narrow defiles, over rough crags, and across deep morasses--must have been hard indeed; they moved in single file and at eight in the evening rendezvoused a mile and a half below Stony Point. They rested there while Wayne and several other officers reconnoitred the enemy's works. Then they formed into column, and moved silently forward under the guidance of a negro slave belonging to a Captain Lamb living in the neighborhood." "New York was a slave State at that time?" exclaimed Sydney inquiringly. "Yes," replied Captain Raymond; "England had forced slavery upon her Colonies here, and it was not yet abolished. Captain Lamb was a warm Whig, and Pompey seems to have been one also. Soon after the British took possession of the fort, he ventured to carry strawberries there for sale; the men of the garrison were glad to get them, and Pompey became quite a favorite with the officers, who had no suspicion that he was regularly reporting everything to his master. "At length Pompey told them that his master would not allow him to come with his fruit in the daytime, because it was now hoeing-corn season. The officers, unwilling to lose their supply of luxuries, then gave him their countersign regularly so that he could pass the sentries in the evening. He had it on the night of the attack, and gave it to the Americans, who used it as their watchword when they scaled the ramparts. It was 'The fort's our own.'" "And they could say it with truth," laughed Lucilla; "for the fort was really theirs--stolen from them by the British." "The fortress seemed almost impregnable," resumed her father; "built upon a huge rocky bluff, an island at high water, and always inaccessible dryshod,--except across a narrow causeway in the rear,--it was strongly defended by outworks and a double row of abatis. There was a deep and dangerous morass on one side, and on the other three were the waters of the Hudson." "And was the rock too high and steep to climb, papa?" asked Ned. "Yes, indeed! But our men were brave and persevering fellows; Wayne, their leader, believed in the old saying 'Where there's a will there's a way.' He practiced upon that, and in consequence was very successful. He was so rapid and earnest in what he did that people took to calling him 'Mad Anthony Wayne.' "Now, he resolved to storm this fort at all hazards, as Lossing says, and only waited for the ebbing of the tide and the deep first slumber of the garrison. "At half-past eleven o'clock that night the Americans began a silent march toward the fort. Two strong men disguised as farmers, and the negro Pompey, went first. There was no barking of dogs to arouse the garrison, for they had all been killed--all in that neighborhood--the day before. Pompey gave the countersign to the first sentinel on the high ground west of the morass, then the two disguised men suddenly seized and gagged him. The same thing was done with the sentinel at the causeway. Then, as soon as the tide ebbed sufficiently, the greater part of Wayne's little army crossed the morass at the foot of the western declivity of the promontory, no one among the enemy observing them. Three hundred men under General Muhlenburg remained as a reserve in the rear. The troops were divided into two columns--all with unloaded muskets and fixed bayonets. At a little past midnight the advance parties moved silently to the charge, one on the northern and the other on the southern part of the height. The two main divisions followed them, one led by Wayne himself. The Americans were not discovered by the British until they were within pistol shot of the pickets on the heights, when a skirmish took place between the advance guards and the sentinels. "The Americans used only their bayonets, as they had been ordered, but the pickets fired several shots; and those sounds of strife waked the garrison, and the silence of the night was broken by the loud cry 'To arms! to arms!' the roll of the drum, the rattle of musketry from the ramparts and the abatis, and the roar of the cannon, charged with deadly grapeshot, from the embrasures. It was a terrible storm, but our brave fellows forced their way through it--through every obstacle--until the vans of all the columns met in the centre of the works, where they arrived at the same time. Each of our men had a white paper in his hat which, as it could be seen in the dim light, enabled him to distinguish friend from foe." "I think Wayne was wounded in the fight, wasn't he?" asked Mr. Leland. "Yes," replied the captain; "at the inner abatis he was struck on the head by a musket ball, the blow causing him to fall to his knees. His aides, Fishbow and Archer, raised him to his feet and carried him gallantly through the works. He believed himself mortally wounded, and exclaimed as he arose, 'March on, carry me into the fort, for I will die at the head of my column!' But, fortunately, he was not so badly wounded as he supposed, and was able to join in the loud huzzas which arose when the two victorious columns met within the fort. "The garrison surrendered as prisoners of war, and I am glad and proud to say were treated with clemency by the victors. Not a life was taken after the flag was struck and quarter asked for." "Was anybody killed before that, papa?" asked Little Elsie in anxious tones. "Yes, daughter," he replied; "15 Americans lost their lives and 83 were wounded; 63 of the British were killed and their commander and 543 officers and men taken prisoners. Down in the river below were some British vessels. They slipped their cables and moved down to a place of security. "So prompt was Wayne that he did not wait for daylight to send in his report to Washington. 'Dear General: The fort and garrison with Colonel Johnson are ours. Our officers and men behaved like men who are determined to be free,' was what he wrote." "Oh, I like that! It reminds me of Perry's despatch to Harrison after his victory on Lake Erie," exclaimed Lucilla. "Did our people get back the other fort, uncle?" asked Eric. "No; the guns of the Stony Point fort were turned upon it at dawn the next morning and a desultory firing kept up during the day, but delays and misunderstandings prevented an intended attack from being made in time to dislodge the garrison; Sir Henry Clinton getting news of their danger in time to send them help. "Washington saw that we could not retain Stony Point, because he could not spare enough troops to hold it; so he ordered the stores and ordnance to be removed, the fortress to be evacuated, and the works destroyed; all of which was accordingly done on the night of the 18th." "And did the British find out what was going on and attack our fellows?" asked Eric. "Yes; the heavy ordnance was placed upon a galley to be conveyed to West Point; but as soon as it moved a cannonade began from Verplanck's and the British shipping near by. A heavy shot from the _Vulture_ struck the galley below water mark, and she went down near Caldwell's Landing. The British again took possession of Stony Point, but little of value was left them there except the eligible site for a fortification." "Wayne was very much praised for the taking of Stony Point, wasn't he, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes; the storming and capture of Stony Point was esteemed one of the most brilliant exploits of the war,--an exhibition of skill and indomitable courage,--and General Wayne, the leader of the enterprise, was everywhere greeted with rapturous applause. Congress gave him a vote of thanks. It also resolved that a gold medal, emblematic of that action, be struck and presented to General Wayne. Also, rewards were given to the other officers and to the men." "Papa, wasn't the home of Captain Molly somewhere in this neighborhood?" asked Grace. "Yes; Lossing tells us that she lived, at the close of the war, between Fort Montgomery and Buttermilk Falls, and was generally dressed in a woman's petticoats with an artilleryman's coat over them--perhaps an old one of her husband's, for he was a cannonier. They were both in Fort Clinton when it was taken by the British. When the Americans retreated and the British scaled the ramparts, her husband dropped his match and fled. Molly picked it up, touched off the piece, then scampered after him and the others. As you probably remember, she was again with her husband in the Battle of Monmouth, and when he was shot down took his place at the cannon and worked it through the rest of the engagement. For that act of bravery Washington rewarded her with a sergeant's commission." "I think she deserved it," said Grace. "I admire her bravery, but I don't know what would tempt me to go into a battle." "I should be sorry indeed to have you go into one," returned her father, regarding her with a fond smile. The yacht was now moving rapidly down the river, all on board greatly enjoying the beautiful scenery. They landed at Tarrytown and visited the historical spots in its vicinity, among them the scene of André's capture and the monument to his captors. "Why did they name this place Tarrytown, uncle?" asked Eric. "Probably from the fact that a great deal of wheat was raised in the vicinity. 'Tarwe Town'--meaning wheat town--was what the early Dutch settlers called it. "Those living here in Revolutionary days saw stormy scenes. There were lawless hands of marauders called Cowboys and Skinners infesting the Neutral Ground, which extended for thirty miles along the river and was plundered by both bands of outlaws without much, if any, regard to their victims' loyalty or disloyalty to the country." "Those were bad times to live in," remarked Little Elsie. "I'd a great deal rather live in these; though I should like to have seen Washington and Wayne and Lafayette and--oh, all the rest of the good, brave men who did so much to save our country!" "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, "but though we cannot see them here, we may hope to meet at least some of them in another and a better world." CHAPTER IX. A pleasant surprise awaited our party on their return to Crag Cottage that evening, the bride and groom--Rosie and her husband--having arrived during their absence. Everybody was glad to see them; and, with the accommodations of the yacht to supplement those of the house, there was room and to spare. Finding such to be the case, and that it was very pleasant to be together, all remained Evelyn's guests for another week, in which a great deal of time was passed upon the river taking repeated views of beautiful historic scenes. But at length they separated for a time--some remaining where they were; some going to the seashore; while Grandma Elsie and the Raymonds, leaving the yacht at New York City, crossed the mountains into Pennsylvania, visited some historical scenes in that State, then traveled on through Ohio from south to north, spent a few weeks among the islands of Lake Erie; then, the yacht having come to them again by the northern route, returned home in it by way of the Welland Canal, the St. Lawrence River, and the Atlantic Ocean. On their route through Pennsylvania they spent a few days at Pocono, visiting the points of interest about there. Wilkesbarre was their next stopping place, for they all wanted to see the beautiful Valley of Wyoming. "Is Wyoming an English name?" asked Elsie Raymond, as they drove through the valley. "No," said her father; "it comes from the language of the Delawares, and means 'large plains.' It is probable that the Delawares were the first tribe which lived there." "And is Wilkesbarre an Indian name too?" she asked. "No; it is a compound of the names of two Englishmen who were good friends to America in the times of the Revolution--John Wilkes and Colonel Barre. "The first European to visit the valley was Count Zinzendorf," continued the captain. "He was of an ancient Austrian family. He was a Christian man and very earnest in trying to do good. He travelled through Germany, Denmark, and England, and in 1741 came to America and preached at Bethlehem and Germantown. He was very desirous to do the poor Indians good, so travelled about among them, though he had no companions except an interpreter. In one of these excursions he crossed the Pocono, and came into this Valley of Wyoming. At this time he had with him a missionary named Mack and his wife. They pitched their tent upon the western bank of the Susquehanna, at the foot of a high hill and near a place in the river known as Toby's Eddy. "Not very far away was a Shawnee village. The Indians held a council there to hear what these missionaries had to say, but could not believe that they had come all the way across the Atlantic just to teach religious truth to them. The conclusion they came to was that these strangers had come to spy out their country and rob them of their lands. Thinking thus, they made up their minds to murder the count. But they feared the English, therefore instructed those appointed to do the deed to be very secret about it. "On a cool September night two stout Indians went stealthily from the town to the missionary's temporary dwelling--a tent with a blanket hung across the doorway. They drew the blanket stealthily aside and peeped in. They made no noise, and he was not aware of their presence, as he reclined on a bundle of weeds engaged in writing or in devout meditation. "As Lossing says: 'The benignity of his countenance filled them with awe, but an incident (strikingly providential), more than his appearance, changed the current of their feelings. The tent cloth was suspended from the branches of a huge sycamore in such a manner that the hollow trunk of the tree was within its folds. At its foot the count had built a fire, the warmth of which had aroused a rattlesnake in its den; and at the moment when the savages looked into the tent the venomous reptile was gliding harmlessly across the legs of their intended victim, who did not see either the serpent or the lurking murderers. At that sight they at once entirely changed their opinion of him and regarded him as under the special protection of the Great Spirit.' They were filled with profound reverence for him, and went back to their tribe with such an account of his holiness that their enmity was changed to veneration." "And I think history says a successful mission was established there," remarked Grandma Elsie, as the captain paused, as if at the end of his story. "Yes," he replied, "and it was continued until a war between the Shawnees and the Delawares destroyed the peace of the valley." "What was that war about, papa?" asked Ned. "Like many others it was about a very foolish thing," replied the captain. "The Shawnees were a not very powerful tribe, and lived by permission of the Delawares on the western bank of the Susquehanna. One day the warriors of both tribes were hunting upon the mountains when a party of women and children of the Shawnees crossed to the Delaware side to gather fruit, and were joined by some of the Delaware squaws and children. After a while two of the children--a Shawnee and a Delaware--got into a quarrel over a grasshopper. Then the mothers took part,--the Shawnees on one side, the Delawares on the other,--and the Delawares, who were the more numerous, drove the Shawnees home, killing several on the way. When the Shawnee hunters came home, saw their dead women, and heard the sad story, they were very angry, crossed the river, and attacked the Delawares. A bloody battle followed; the Shawnees were beaten, and retreated to the banks of the Ohio, where lived a larger portion of their tribe." "There are not many more historic scenes in this State that we will care to visit at this time, are there, papa?" asked Grace. "I think not," he said; "we are going west, and most of them are already east of us." "But, father," said Lucilla, "we have hardly touched upon the history of Wyoming." "True," he returned; "but it is so very sad that I fear its recital would rather detract from the enjoyment of this lovely scenery. However, I will give you a brief account of what took place here during the Revolutionary War. "Early in the summer of 1778 the movements of Brant and his warriors, the Johnsons and Butlers and their Tory legions, upon the upper waters of the Susquehanna, and the actions of the Tories in the Wyoming Valley, greatly alarmed the people. Nearly all their able-bodied men were away in the Continental Army; none was left to defend the valley but old men, boys, and women. Afraid of the savages, they were building six forts, going through all the labor required in that work without payment except the hope of self-defence. "Such was their condition when in June, 1778, an expedition of Tories and Indians was ready to come down upon them. All this was told to Congress. Wyoming men in the army besought protection for their wives and little ones, and General Schuyler wrote a touching letter in their behalf. But all Congress did was to pass resolutions to let the people take measures for self-defence by raising troops among themselves, and finding their own arms, accoutrements, and blankets. "The people--poor creatures!--did their best; but, attacked by overwhelming numbers of the most savage foes, they went through terrible scenes and sufferings. I will not dwell further upon the horrors of that dreadful time. The Tories and Indians acted like fiends. Lossing, speaking of what occurred after the fight and surrender, says: 'The terms of capitulation were respected by the invaders, particularly the Indians, for a few hours only. Before night they spread through the valley, plundering and burning.'" "Did the women and children run away, papa?" asked Ned. "Yes; they fled to the mountains, and many of them perished in the Pocono Mountain swamp, known as the Shades of Death, and along the wilderness paths by the way of the Wind Gap and Water Gap. They were flying to the settlements on the Lehigh and Delaware. They were not travelling like ourselves--in an easy carriage, with abundance of food and clothing; and many died from hunger and exhaustion." "Some of their clothes had been taken by the Indians," remarked Violet. "I remember reading that many squaws had on from four to six dresses of silk or chintz, one over the other; and some four or five bonnets, one over another." "Papa, are we going to visit any more places in this State where they had fights?" asked Ned. "Where there were battles fought, son? No, I think not at this time. We will probably go on into Ohio now without any more delays." "There were some fights there--weren't there, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes; between the whites and the Indians, and between the Americans and the British and Indians, in the war of 1812-14." "Yes, children," said Lucilla; "don't you remember papa's telling us about some of the fights near Lake Erie, and Perry's victory on the lake?" "Oh, yes!" exclaimed both the little ones; "and his letter to General Harrison--'We have met the enemy and they are ours.' And you'll tell us about the land fights, won't you, papa?" "Yes," he said; "one of these days; probably while we are in Ohio." "Are we going right on now to the islands in Lake Erie, papa?" asked Grace. "Unless some one or more of us should desire to stop by the way," returned the captain pleasantly. "Perhaps it would be more restful to pass a night at Pittsburg or Cincinnati," suggested Grandma Elsie; and that was what was decided upon, after a little discussion of the question. They rested in Cleveland for another night; then, on a bright morning, passed over to the islands in a steamer. A pleasant surprise awaited them on landing; their cousin Ronald Lilburn was there with his wife Annis and her grandnephew, Percy Landreth. The last-named was one whom Captain Raymond would have preferred not to have in the company,--but merely on Lucilla's account,--and he greeted him with cordial kindness. "We have given you a surprise, haven't we?" asked Mrs. Lilburn of her cousin Elsie. "Yes; a most pleasant one," replied Mrs. Travilla. "I can truly say I think your presence here will double our enjoyment. How long since you arrived?" "Only about twenty-four hours. We came straight from home, where we left all your dear ones well." "Ah, that is good news! It is a new thing for me to be so far away from my dear father; and he is growing old; so I have been feeling a little anxious about him." "He evidently misses you, but is glad that you are enjoying yourself," said Annis. "Yes! so unselfish as he is--my dear father! Ah, how lovely it is here!" glancing about as she spoke. "No doubt we can pass some days or weeks here very delightfully." "I am quite sure of it, mother," said the captain, who had overheard the remark, made as they all were on their way from the landing to the hotel. "We will have the yacht here in a day or two, I think; and it will afford us some pleasant trips here and there on the lake." "And carry us to some historical scenes, won't it, papa?" asked Grace in a tone of satisfaction. "Yes," he replied; "and we will live on it, unless the majority of our company should prefer the hotel." "No danger of that, I think," said Grandma Elsie; "we all feel so much at home and find ourselves so comfortable on the yacht." "I don't wonder that you prefer it," said Annis; "but I was hoping you would all be at the hotel with us." "Are you not willing to be on the _Dolphin_ with us?" asked the captain, giving her a cordial look and smile. "Indeed, sir, I should like nothing better--except for the fear of crowding you." "I think that is beyond your ability," laughed the captain. "Even joined by all three of you, we should have more room than we have had in some of our trips which we found very enjoyable." "Then we accept your kind invitation with the greatest pleasure," said Mr. Lilburn; and there the conversation ended, as they were already at the entrance to the hotel. They spent a pleasant day in and about there, but early in the evening the _Dolphin_ made her appearance, and they all went aboard of her--a blithe and happy company. The morning found them all in good health and good spirits, and as they sat about the breakfast table the captain asked: "Where shall we go to-day? I think it would be well to take the little trips we contemplate while the weather is so favorable. Then when a storm comes we can shut ourselves in and enjoy books, work, and each other's company." "I think that is a good suggestion, captain," said Grandma Elsie. "Suppose you take us to-day to Fremont, to view the ground where Fort Stephenson stood." Everyone present seemed pleased with the proposition, and it was decided to make the little excursion that morning. They could go nearly all the way in their yacht, by lake and river, and shortly after breakfast found themselves in motion--the _Dolphin_ having lain quietly at anchor during the night. "I, for one, should like to refresh my memory in regard to Fort Stephenson: when it was built, by whom attacked, and how defended," remarked Annis, as they sat together on the deck while sailing toward Sandusky Bay. "Captain Raymond, you are usually the story teller, I believe." "Ah, Cousin Annis, that is a fine character you give me," he returned with a smile. "But perhaps I deserve it. Do all the company feel the same desire that Mrs. Lilburn has just expressed?" "I do," said Grandma Elsie; "and from the expression of the faces of the others present I am quite sure that they do also." "Yes, indeed, papa; I am sure we do!" cried Lucilla and Grace in a breath, Percy Landreth, Elsie, and Ned joining eagerly in the request; and the captain at once began. "Fort Stephenson was built in 1812; the garrison consisted of 160 men under the command of Major George Croghan, then but twenty-one years of age. It was on the 31st of July, 1813, that it was invested by a large force of British and Indians under the command of Proctor. The fort was not a strong one; its chief defences were three block houses, circumvallating pickets from fourteen to sixteen feet high, and a ditch about eight feet wide and as many feet deep; they had one iron six-pounder cannon. Of course, swords and rifles were not lacking, and the men were Kentucky sharpshooters. "General Harrison heard that the British were moving against Fort Stephenson. He had visited the fort, and felt convinced that it could not be held against an attack with heavy artillery, so had said to Major Croghan: 'Should the British approach you in force with cannon, and you can discover them in time to effect a retreat, you will do so immediately, destroying all the public stores. You must be aware that to attempt a retreat in the face of an Indian force would be vain. Against such an enemy your garrison would be safe, however great the number.' "On learning of the intended descent of the British upon Fort Stephenson, Harrison held a consultation with his officers--McArthur, Holmes, Graham, Paul, Hukill, Wood, and Ball. They were unanimously of the opinion that Fort Stephenson could not be successfully defended against an enemy approaching in such force, and that Major Croghan ought immediately to comply with his general's standing order to evacuate." "Moving order, I should think, father," laughed Lucilla. "Yes," returned the captain with a smile; "but knowing Croghan's innate bravery, Harrison feared he would not move promptly, so sent him another order to abandon the fort. It was carried by a white man named Connor and two Indians. They started at midnight and lost their way in the dark. So they did not reach the fort until the next day about eleven o'clock, and by that time the woods were swarming with Indians. "Major Croghan called his officers together and consulted them in regard to a retreat. A majority were of his opinion--that such a step would be disastrous, now that the Indians swarmed in the woods, and that the post might be maintained. "Croghan immediately sent a reply to Harrison's order, saying it had come too late to be carried into execution, that they had determined to maintain the place--that they could and would do so. It was a disobedience of orders, but not so intended. The gallant young major thought that the previous order, which spoke of the danger of a retreat in the face of an Indian force, justified him in remaining, as that force was already there when this second order reached him. "But the general considered it disobedience, which could not be permitted. He at once sent Colonel Wells to Fort Stephenson to supersede Croghan, and ordered Croghan to headquarters at Seneca Town. Colonel Wells was escorted by Colonel Ball with his corps of dragoons. On the way they were attacked by about twenty Indians, and quite a severe skirmish ensued. Seventeen of the Indians were killed." "Papa, did Major Croghan go to the general? and was he very cross to him?" asked Ned. "He went promptly, made a full and satisfactory explanation to General Harrison, and was directed to go back to his command the next morning; which he did, feeling more than ever determined to maintain his post in spite of British and Indians. General Harrison kept scouts out in all directions to watch the movements of the enemy. On the evening of Saturday, the 31st of July, one of those parties, lingering on the shore of Sandusky Bay, about twenty miles from Fort Stephenson, saw that Proctor was approaching by water. They made haste to return to headquarters with their information, stopping on the way at Fort Stephenson and making it known there. "Croghan was watchful, wide awake to the dangers that surrounded them. A good many Indians had been seen upon the high ground on the eastern side of the Sandusky River, but had scampered away on being fired at from the six-pounder in the fort. "At four o'clock in the afternoon the British gunboats, bringing Proctor and his men, were seen at a turn in the river more than a mile distant. They were greeted by shots from the six-pounder, but they came on; and at a cove somewhat nearer the fort, opposite a small island in the stream, they landed with a five-and-a-half-inch howitzer. "At the same time the Indians showed themselves in the woods on all sides. In this attacking force there were four hundred British and several hundred Indians. And Tecumseh was stationed upon the roads leading from Fort Meigs and Seneca Town with almost two thousand more. These were intended to intercept any re-enforcements that might be coming to Croghan's assistance. Having thus, as he thought, cut off Croghan's retreat, Proctor sent Colonel Elliott and Captain Chambers to demand the instant surrender of the fort. With them was Captain Dixon of the Royal Engineers, who was in command of the Indians. "They came with a flag of truce, and Croghan sent out Second-Lieutenant Shipp, as his representative, to meet the flag. "The usual salutations were exchanged, then Colonel Elliott said, 'I am instructed to demand the instant surrender of the fort, to spare the effusion of blood, which we cannot do should we be under the necessity of reducing it by our powerful force of regulars, Indians, and artillery.' "'My commandant and the garrison,' replied Shipp, 'are determined to defend the post to the last extremity, and bury themselves in its ruins rather than surrender it to any force whatever.' "'Look at our immense body of Indians,' interposed Dixon. 'They cannot be restrained from massacring the whole garrison, in the event of our undoubted success.' "'Our success is certain,' eagerly added Chambers. "'It is a great pity,' said Dixon, in a beseeching tone, 'that so fine a young man as you and as your commander is represented to be, should fall into the hands of the savages. Sir, for God's sake surrender, and prevent the dreadful massacre that will be caused by your resistance!' "'When the fort shall be taken there will be none to massacre,' Shipp coolly replied, for it was not long since, at Fort Meigs, he had had dealings with the same foe. 'It will not be given up while a man shall be able to resist.' "He was just turning to go back to the fort, when an Indian sprang from a bushy ravine near at hand and tried to snatch his sword from him. The indignant Shipp was about to despatch the Indian, when Dixon interfered. Then Croghan, who was standing on the ramparts watching the conference, called out, 'Shipp, come in, and we'll blow them all to ----!' At that, Shipp hurried into the fort, the flag was returned, and the British immediately opened fire from their gunboat and the five-and-a-half-inch howitzer which they had landed, beginning the attack before proper arrangements could be made. "It seems the Indians had had an alarm and let the British know of it. A Mr. Aaron North, knowing nothing of the proximity of British or Indians, was riding through the wood, drawing near the fort on the other side of the Sandusky, when he discovered a large body of Indians scattered along the river bank and half concealed by the bushes. He wheeled his horse and fled in the direction of Seneca. The startled Indians fired several shots after him, but without hitting him. The Indians doubtless told the British of all this, and Proctor thought the horseman a messenger to Harrison to inform him of the attack upon Fort Stephenson, and that the result would probably be that re-enforcements would be sent to Croghan, would beat back Tecumseh, and fall upon him at Sandusky. "All night long the five six-pounders which had been landed from the British gunboats, and the howitzer, played upon the stockade without doing any serious damage. Occasionally the besieged answered with their one cannon, which they moved from one blockhouse to another, to give the impression that the garrison had several heavy guns. But their supply of ammunition was small, and Croghan was too wise to waste it. He determined not to use any more in firing at random in the dark; so ordered Captain Hunter, his second in command, to place it in the blockhouse at the middle of the north side of the fort, so as to rake the ditch in the direction of the northwest angle--the point where the enemy would be most likely to make the assault, because it was the weakest part. "That was done before daylight, and the gun, loaded with a half-charge of powder and a double charge of slugs and grapeshot, was completely masked. "During the night the British had dragged three of their six-pounders to a place in the woods where the ground was higher than the fort and about 250 yards from it. Early in the morning they began a brisk fire upon the blockade from those and the howitzer." "Oh, papa, how dreadful!" exclaimed Elsie. "Did all of our men get shot?" "No; the cannonade produced very little effect, and Proctor grew very impatient. The long hot day was nearly done, and the Indians were becoming restless. At four o'clock in the afternoon he ordered all his guns to fire upon that weak northwest angle. "Then Croghan and his men set to work to strengthen it as much as possible. They piled bags of sand and sacks of flour against the pickets there, which materially broke the force of the cannonade. At five o'clock a dark thunder cloud was seen in the west and the thunder seemed like the echo of the enemy's cannon. Then the British came on in two close columns, led by Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel Short and Lieutenant Gordon. At the same time a party of grenadiers, about 200 strong, under Lieutenant-Colonel Warburton, took a wide circuit through the woods to make a feigned attack upon the southern front of the fort, where Captain Hunter and his party were stationed. "There was in the fort at the time a man named Brown, a private of the Petersburgh volunteers, with a half-dozen of his corps and Pittsburgh Blues. To them was entrusted the management of the six-pounder in the fort, for Brown was skilled in gunnery. "The British artillery played incessantly upon the northwestern angle of the fort, causing a dense smoke, and under cover of that a storming party under Lieutenant-Colonel Short advanced to within fifteen or twenty paces of the outworks before they were discovered by the garrison. But they were Kentucky sharpshooters, and every man of them was at his post. Instantly they poured upon the assailants a shower of rifle balls sent with such deadly aim that the British were thrown into confusion. But they quickly rallied. The axemen pushed bravely forward over the glacis, and leaped into the ditch to assail the pickets. Short was at their head, and when a sufficient number were in the ditch behind him, he shouted, 'Cut away the pickets, my brave boys, and show the d----d Yankees no quarter!' "Now the time had come for the six-pounder to make itself heard. The masked port flew open instantly, and the gun spoke with terrible effect. Slug and grapeshot streamed along that ditch overflowing with human life, and spread awful havoc there. Few of those British soldiers escaped. The second column of the storming party made a similar attempt, but was met by another discharge from the six-pounder and another destructive volley of rifle-balls." "Was anybody killed, papa?" asked Ned. "Yes, a good many were," replied his father. "Colonel Short, Lieutenant Gordon, Laussaussie of the Indian Department, and 25 privates were left dead in the ditch, and 26 of the wounded were made prisoners. Three other officers were slightly wounded, but escaped. The rest of the attacking party retreated in haste and disorder. "It was not until after that disaster that Warburton and his grenadiers reached the south front of the fort. When they did, Hunter's corps assailed them with a destructive volley, and they fled for shelter to the adjacent woods. It is said that Lieutenant-Colonel Short, when he fell, twisted a white handkerchief on the end of his sword, asking the mercy he had exhorted his men not to show to the Americans." "Oh, I hope they did show it to him, papa," said Elsie. "I think they would have done so had opportunity offered," said the captain; "but he was found dead in the ditch." "And were any of our people killed?" she asked. "One man was killed and 7 were slightly wounded; while, according to the most careful estimates, the loss of the British in killed and wounded was 120. They behaved most gallantly, getting no assistance from the cowardly Indians, who kept themselves out of harm's way in a ravine near by. "The assault had lasted only about half an hour. Lossing tells us, 'The dark storm cloud in the west passed northward, the setting sun beamed out with peculiar splendor, a gentle freeze from the southwest bore the smoke of battle far away over the forest toward Lake Erie, and in the lovely twilight of that memorable Sabbath evening the brave young Croghan addressed his gallant little band with eloquent words of praise and grateful thanksgiving. As the night and the silence deepened, and the groans of the wounded in the ditch fell upon their ears, his generous heart beat with sympathy. Buckets filled with water were let down by ropes from the outside of the pickets; and as the gates of the fort could not be opened with safety during the night, he made a communication with the ditch by means of a trench, through which the wounded were borne into the fort and their necessities supplied.'" "Oh, how good and kind he was!" exclaimed Grace. "I am proud of him as one of my countrymen. Is he still living, papa?" "No, daughter; he died in New Orleans on January 8, 1849." "The anniversary of the great victory there in the War of 1812! Was he not rewarded for his gallant defence of Fort Stephenson?" "Yes; he was brevetted lieutenant-colonel for his gallantry, and some twenty years later Congress voted him a gold medal in acknowledgment of it. In 1846 he joined Taylor's army in Mexico and served with credit at the Battle of Monterey." "You have given us an interesting tale, captain," remarked Cousin Ronald as the story seemed to have come to an end--"one that was really new to me; for I have read but little about that war--which I hope we can always refer to as the last between the mother country and this, my adopted one--the native land of my bonny young wife," he added with a loving and admiring look at Annis. "Ah, my dear, how true it is that love is blind," said Annis softly, giving him a look of fond appreciation. "Ha, ha! A pair of old lovers!" laughed a voice that seemed to come from somewhere in the rear of the little party. "Yes, that's what we are," said Annis with mirthful look and tone. "And who are you that dares to say such saucy things to our company?" asked Ned, looking sharply round toward the spot from which the voice had seemed to come. "Somebody that has a tongue of his own and a right to use it," returned the voice, but the speaker was still invisible. "Well, whoever you are you've no business here on my father's yacht without an invitation," cried Ned, hurrying toward the spot from which the strange voice seemed to come. "You silly, impudent youngster! I'm not here without an invitation," said the voice, seeming to come from a greater distance than before. "Not?" exclaimed Ned; "then who invited you?" "The captain and owner of the vessel." Ned turned to his father. "Did you invite him, papa, and who is he?" Then, perceiving a look of amusement on every face, "Oh, I know! Why didn't I think before? It's just Cousin Ronald playing he's somebody else." "Yes, laddie, and he's rather an auld mon to be playing at anything," returned the old gentleman pleasantly. "Dinna ye think so?" "No, sir; and it's good of you to make a little fun for us youngsters." "As well as for us older folks," added his mother in a sprightly tone. "I thought it was a fellow who had no business here," said Ned, "but you are as welcome as anything, Cousin Ronald." "Aye, laddie, I dinna doubt it or I wadna be here," laughed the old gentleman; "but I know there are no more hospitable folk to be found anywhere then these American cousins o' mine." "I should think not, sir," said Neddie with a smiling glance from one parent to the other; "and I believe there's nobody they like better to entertain than you." "Is Fort Stephenson still standing, papa?" asked Grace. "No," was the reply, "but we can see the site, which is in the bosom of the village of Fremont, and covers about two-thirds of a square. We will no doubt find someone who can and will point it out to us and show us the ravine where the Indians fled after the first discharge of the rifle-balls by the garrison; and the iron six-pounder cannon that did such great execution in defence of the fort; also the landing place of the British. By the way, the garrison named that cannon the 'Good Bess.'" "Oh, I hope we will see it," said Ned. "I'd like to." They reached their destination in time to see the cannon and all the interesting places and things made memorable by their connection with the struggle at Fort Stephenson, then returned to the yacht, sailed out into the bay again, and anchored for the night. CHAPTER X. The next morning Lucilla woke early--as was usual with her--and presently joined her father upon the deck. He greeted her, as was his custom, with a smile and a tender caress, asking if she were quite well and had passed a comfortable night. "Yes, papa," she said; "I slept as soundly as possible, and feel perfectly well this morning; as I hope you do." "I do, for I also enjoyed a good night's rest and sleep." The yacht was moving, and Lucilla remarked it with some surprise. "I thought we were lying at anchor," she said. "So we were through the night," replied her father, "but now we are travelling toward Fort Meigs--or perhaps I should rather say its ruins." "Oh, that will be an interesting spot to visit!" exclaimed Lucilla. "Just where is it, papa?" "On the Maumee River, opposite Maumee City, situated at the head of river navigation, eight miles from Toledo." "Wasn't it somewhere in that region that Wayne fought one or more of his battles with the Indians?" "Yes; he took possession of and fortified the place where St. Clair was defeated, and called it Fort Recovery. That was in 1794. On the 30th of June he was attacked by about a thousand Indians with some British soldiers and Canadian volunteers, who assailed the garrison several times. Fifty-seven Americans were killed, wounded, and missing; also 221 horses. The Indians said they lost more than in their battle with St. Clair. "A few weeks later Wayne was joined by Major-General Scott with 1600 mounted volunteers from Kentucky, and two days later he moved forward with his whole force toward the Maumee. Remembering the sad fate of St. Clair and his men, Wayne moved very cautiously; so slowly and stealthily that the Indians called him the 'Black Snake.' He had faithful, competent scouts and guides, and he moved by unfrequented ways, with perplexing feints. Twenty-five miles beyond Fort Recovery he built Fort Adams. Again he moved forward for four days, then encamped on a beautiful plain at the confluence of the Maumee and Auglaize rivers, on the site of the present town of Defiance; I presume from the fort Wayne built there, and which he called Fort Defiance. He found there a deserted Indian town with at least a thousand acres of corn growing around it. Wayne was now in full possession of power to subjugate and destroy the Indians, but, unwilling to shed blood unnecessarily, he sent them a message with kind words. 'Be no longer deceived or led astray by false promises and language of bad white men at the foot of the rapids; they have neither the power nor the inclination to protect you.' "He offered them peace and tranquillity, and invited them to send deputies to meet him in council without delay. "But they rejected his overtures, and said in reply, 'Stay where you are for ten days, and we will treat with you; but if you advance we will give you battle.' "Wayne was, however, too wise and wary to be deceived by them. He saw that nothing but a severe blow would break the spirit of the tribes and end the war, and, as Lossing says, he resolved to inflict it mercilessly. "On the 15th of August his legion moved forward, and on the 18th took post at the head of the rapids, near the present town of Waterville, where they established a magazine of supplies and baggage, protected by military works, and named it Fort Deposit. There, on the 19th, Wayne called a council of war and adopted a plan of march and battle proposed by Lieutenant Harrison." "Afterward general, papa?" "Yes, nineteen years later he had become general-in-chief, and performed gallant exploits in this same valley of the Maumee. "The next morning after that council, at eight o'clock, Wayne advanced according to that plan. They had gone forward about five miles when the advance corps, under Major Price, was terribly smitten by heavy volleys from the concealed foe and compelled to fall back. The enemy was full 2000 strong--composed of Indians and Canadian volunteers, and they were arranged in three lines within supporting distance of each other. "Wayne's legion was immediately formed in two lines, principally in a dense wood on the borders of a wet prairie, where a large number of trees had been prostrated by a tornado, which made the movements of cavalry very difficult, besides affording a fine covert for the enemy. But Wayne's troops fell upon them with fearful energy, soon making them flee, like a herd of frightened deer, toward Fort Miami." "The fort the British had built upon our ground without so much as saying by your leave?" "The very same. They reached it by a hasty flight of two miles through the thick woods, leaving forty of their number dead on the way, by the side of each of whom lay a musket and bayonet from British armories. "Three days and three nights Wayne and his army remained below the rapids, making such desolation as seemed necessary for the subjugation of the hostile Indians and the treacherous Britains and Canadians; all that in defiance of the threats of the commandant of Fort Miami, though his guns were within view of the American tents. He--Colonel McKee--was the chief instigator of the war with the Indians, with whom he was carrying on a most lucrative trade, and he had there extensive storehouses and dwellings. These our troops set fire to and destroyed, as they did all the products of the fields and gardens." "That seems a pity, papa, but I suppose it was necessary." "Yes; as no doubt those British men well knew. Wayne's men sometimes were within pistol-shot of Fort Miami, but its guns kept silence. The commander did a good deal of scolding and threatening; Wayne coolly defied him and retorted with vigor. But neither went any farther. "Wayne and his troops remained there until the middle of September, when they went to the head of the Maumee; and at the bend of the river, just below the confluence of the St. Mary's and St. Joseph's, which form it, they built a strong fortification and called it Fort Wayne. By the latter part of October it was finished and garrisoned with infantry and artillery, under Colonel Hamtramck. "The rest of the troops then left, some for Fort Washington, to be discharged from the service, and others for Fort Greenville, where Wayne made his headquarters for the winter. There the various tribes with whom he had been at war came to him--by deputations--and agreed upon preliminary terms of peace. They remembered that he had assured them that the British had neither the power nor the inclination to help them--and how that assurance had been verified by the silence of the guns of Fort Miami. "They promised to meet him in council early the next summer, and did so. Early in June chiefs and sachems began to reach Fort Greenville, and on the 16th of that month a grand council was opened there. Almost 1100 Indians were present, and the council continued until the 10th of August. On the 3d of that month a satisfactory treaty was signed by all parties. And by a special treaty between the United States and Great Britain the western military posts were soon evacuated by the British, and for fifteen years the most remote frontier settlements were safe from any annoyance by the Indians." "And that encouraged emigration to the Northwestern Territory, did it not, papa?" asked Lucilla. "Yes," he said, "and in consequence the country grew rapidly in population of a hardy kind." "Until the War of 1812." "Yes; and it was in that war that Harrison did so much to distinguish himself as a patriot and a brave and skilful officer." "And it was then he built the Fort Meigs you are taking us to, papa?" "Yes; at the Maumee Rapids in February, 1813. It was named for Return Jonathan Meigs, who was then Governor of Ohio." "Return Jonathan! what an odd name!" "Yes, and there is an odd story connected with it. Years before the Revolution a bright-eyed coquette was courted by Jonathan Meigs. On one occasion he pressed his suit with great earnestness and asked for a positive answer. She would not give it, but feigned coolness, and he--growing discouraged--resolved to be trifled with no longer, so bade her farewell forever. He took his departure, but had not gone far down the lane when she ran after him and at the gate called out, 'Return Jonathan; return Jonathan!' "He did go back to her; they afterward married, and were very happy together; and when the first son was born they named him Return Jonathan. "He was born in 1740; was the heroic Colonel Meigs who did such valiant service in the Revolutionary War, and was one of the early settlers of Ohio, going there in 1788. His son Return Jonathan was elected Governor of Ohio in 1810 and held that office until 1814. "Harrison arrived at Fort Meigs on the 12th of April, 1813, and was glad to find there 200 Pennsylvanians, patriotic men, who, though anxious to go home to put in their spring seeds, assured him that they would never leave him until he thought their services could be spared without danger to the cause. He discharged them on the arrival of three Kentucky companies. "While on his way Harrison had been told of frequent appearances of Indian scouts in the neighborhood of the rapids, and of little skirmishes with what he supposed to be the advance of a more powerful foe. That alarmed him, and he despatched a messenger to Governor Shelby of Kentucky asking him to send to the Maumee the whole of the 3000 men who had been drafted in that State. He brought with him about 300 men in all, but was agreeably surprised to find, on his arrival, that there were no signs of the enemy being near in great force. "But that enemy was at that very time preparing to strike a destructive blow at Fort Meigs. Tecumseh was even then at Fort Malden with almost 1500 Indians. Proctor had fired his zeal and that of his brother, who was called the Prophet, by promises of future success in their schemes for confederating the tribes, and boasting of his ample power to place Fort Meigs with its garrison and immense stores in the hands of his Indian allies. "Proctor was delighted with this response of the savages to his call, and had fine visions of the victory he was going to gain, and the glory and promotion it would bring him. He was more boastful than ever, and treated the Americans at Detroit in a supercilious manner. He ordered the Canadians to assemble at Sandwich on the 7th of April and told them the campaign would be short, decisive, successful, and profitable." "How did he know!" exclaimed Lucilla scornfully. "He did not," said her father; "events shortly following showed it to have been but idle boasting. That boast was made on the 7th of April. On the 23d his army and his savage allies embarked on a brig and several smaller vessels, accompanied by two gunboats and some artillery. On the 26th they were at the mouth of the Maumee, about twelve miles below Fort Meigs, and two days later they landed on the left bank of the river near old Fort Miami, and established their main camp there. "Captain Hamilton of the Ohio troops was reconnoitring down the river with a small force on the 28th, when he discovered the enemy there in force. They were first seen by Peter Navarre, one of Harrison's most trusty scouts. Hamilton sent him in haste to Fort Meigs with the news, and Harrison at once despatched him with three letters--one for Governor Meigs at Urbana, one for Upper Sandusky, and one for Lower Sandusky. Fort Meigs was quite strong--had intrenchments, pickets, several blockhouses, and a good supply of field-pieces; but from the account he had had of the character and strength of the enemy, Harrison considered it in imminent peril. He knew that General Clay was on his march with his Kentuckians, and immediately after despatching Navarre with his letters, he sent Captain William Oliver, the commissary of the fort, and a brave, judicious, and intelligent officer, with a verbal message to Clay urging him to press forward by forced marches. "Oliver found General Clay at Defiance with 1200 Kentuckians. At St. Mary's blockhouse Clay divided his brigade. He descended the St. Mary himself with Colonel Boswell's corps, while Dudley went down the Auglaize. "The two divisions were to meet at Defiance. But before Dudley had reached that point he heard of Harrison's perilous position at Fort Meigs. A council of officers was called, and it was resolved to send Harrison word that succor was at hand. It was a very dangerous errand and required someone who was well acquainted with the country. Leslie Combs, a brave, patriotic young man, whom Clay had commissioned captain of a company of riflemen as spies or scouts, volunteered to go. "'When we reach Fort Defiance,' he said, 'if you will furnish me a good canoe, I will carry your despatches to General Harrison, and return with his orders. I shall only require four or five volunteers from my own company.' His offer was joyfully accepted by Dudley. The next morning, May 1, they reached Defiance, and as soon as a canoe could be procured, Combs and his companions--Paxton, Johnson, and two brothers named Walker--started on their perilous errand. They had with them also a Shawnee warrior named Black Fish. He took the helm, the other four the oars, while Combs was at the bow in charge of the rifles and ammunition. "As they pushed off from Fort Defiance there were cheers and sad adieus, for few thought they would ever see them again. It was a dangerous voyage; rain was falling fast and the night was intensely dark. Combs was determined to reach Fort Meigs before daylight the next morning. They passed the rapids in safety, but not till quite late in the morning, and then heard heavy cannonading in the direction of the fort. That told them that the siege had begun, which made an attempt to reach the fort far more perilous than it would otherwise have been. "Combs had now a hard choice to make. It would be prudent to go back, but would not seem courageous, while to stay where they were till the next night, or to go on at once, seemed equally hazardous. But he was very brave and soon came to a decision. 'We must go on, boys,' he said; 'and if you expect the honor of taking coffee with General Harrison this morning, you must work hard for it.' "He knew the weakness of the garrison and feared it could not hold out long. Therefore great was his joy when, on sweeping round Turkey Point, at the last bend in the river, he saw the Stripes and Stars waving over the beleaguered camp. His little company evinced their delight by a suppressed shout. That was a sad mistake, for, suddenly, a solitary Indian appeared in the edge of the woods, and in another moment a large body of them could be seen in the gray shadows of the forest, running eagerly to a point below to cut off Combs and his party from the fort. "He attempted to dart by them, when a volley of bullets wounded Paxton and Johnson--the latter mortally. The fire was returned with effect, then the Shawnee turned the prow to the opposite shore, and the voyagers left the canoe and fled toward Defiance. They tried to take Johnson and Paxton with them, but found it impossible, so were compelled to leave them to become captives. "At the end of two days and two nights Combs and Black Fish reached Defiance, where they found Clay and his troops just arrived. The Walkers were there also, having fled more swiftly than Combs and the Indian had been able to because of their efforts to aid the flight of the two wounded men. They had suffered terribly in their flight, and for a time Combs was unable to take command of his company, but he went down the river with the re-enforcements and took an active part in the fight at Fort Meigs. "But, ah, here come others of our party, and I must leave the rest of my story to be told later in the day," added the captain, turning to greet Violet and his younger children, who at that moment appeared upon the deck. CHAPTER XI. Shortly after breakfast, when the whole of their little company had gathered beneath the awning upon the deck, the captain resumed his story, as all had expressed a desire to hear it. "On the morning of the 30th of April, 1813," he said, "the British had completed two batteries nearly opposite Fort Meigs and mounted their ordnance. On one there were two twenty-four pounders, on the other three howitzers. Well-directed round-shot from the fort had struck some of their men while at work, but neither that nor the drenching rain stopped them. "Harrison had been busy too. He addressed his soldiers eloquently in a general order. "'Can the citizens of a free country, who have taken arms to defend its rights,' he said, 'think of submitting to an army composed of mercenary soldiers, reluctant Canadians goaded to the field by the bayonet, and of wretched, naked savages? Can the breast of an American soldier, when he casts his eye to the opposite shore, the scene of his country's triumphs over the same foe, be influenced by any other feeling than the hope of glory? Is not this army composed of the same materials as that which fought and conquered under the immortal Wayne? Yes, fellow soldiers, your general sees your countenances beam with the same fire that he witnessed on that glorious occasion; and although it would be the height of presumption to compare himself with that hero, he boasts of being that hero's pupil. To your posts then, fellow citizens, and remember that the eyes of your country are upon you.' "That general order was given on the morning that the British made their appearance, and when he saw that they were erecting batteries on the opposite shore that would command his works, he directed his men to make a traverse, or wall of earth, on the highest ground through the middle of his camp. It had a base of twenty feet, was three hundred yards long and twelve feet high. While they were at the work it was concealed by the tents, which when it was finished were suddenly removed to its rear. "Then the British engineer perceived, to his great mortification, that his labor had been almost in vain. Instead of an exposed camp from which Proctor had boasted that he would soon smoke out the Yankees,--meaning quickly destroy it with shot and shell,--he saw only an immense shield of earth which hid the Americans and thoroughly sheltered them. "Proctor then changed his plans somewhat and sent a considerable force of white men under Captain Muir, and Indians under Tecumseh, to the eastern side of the river, under cover of the gunboats, to attack the fort in the rear. "The British batteries were silent through the night, but a gunboat, towed up the river near the fort under cover of darkness, fired thirty shots. The only effect, however, was an increase of the vigilance of the Americans. The next morning, though it was raining heavily, the British opened a severe cannonade and bombardment upon Fort Meigs, which they continued with slight intermissions for about five days; but without doing much injury to the fort or garrison. "Occasionally our men returned the fire by eighteen-pounders. But their supply of shot for these and the twelve-pounders was very small, and as they did not know how long the siege might last, it was thought best to use them very sparingly. "The British seemed to have powder, balls, and shells in great abundance, and they poured a perfect storm of missiles--not less than five hundred--upon the fort the first day and until eleven o'clock at night." "And was nobody hurt, papa?" asked Elsie. "One or two of the garrison were killed," replied her father, "and Major Stoddard of the First Regiment, a soldier of the Revolution, was so badly wounded by a shell that he died ten days later of lockjaw. "The British were building a third battery on the other side of the river; they finished it that night, and all the next day kept up a brisk cannonade. "Within the next twenty-four hours a fourth battery was opened. The British had been making mounds in the thickets near the angles of the fort, and that night a detachment of artillerists and engineers crossed the river and mounted guns and mortars upon them. One was a mortar battery, the other a three-gun gun battery. The Americans had expected something of the kind, and had raised traverses in time to foil their enemy; and when toward noon of the 3d the three cannon and the howitzers suddenly began firing upon the rear angles of the fort, they did scarcely any damage. "A few shots by our men from their eighteen-pounders soon silenced the gun battery, and the British hastily moved the cannon and placed them near the ravine. During the 3d they hurled shot and shell steadily upon the fort, but with so little effect that the besiegers grew discouraged, and on the 4th the fire was not nearly so constant. "Then Proctor sent Major Chambers with a demand for the surrender of the fort, and Harrison promptly responded, 'Tell General Proctor that if he shall take the fort it will be under circumstances that will do him more honor than a thousand surrenders.' "The cannonade from the fort was feeble because of the scarcity of ammunition, but the guns were admirably managed, and did good execution at every discharge. Captain Wood wrote, 'With plenty of it we should have blown John Bull from the Miami.' "The Americans showed their ability to keep their foe at bay by frequently mounting the ramparts, swinging their hats, and shouting defiance at their besiegers. They were well supplied with food and water and could afford to spend time and weary their assailants by merely defensive warfare. "Still Harrison was anxious, thinking how strong were the foe, and how Hull and Winchester had failed and suffered; he was looking hourly and anxiously up the Maumee for the hoped for re-enforcements. Since Navarre and Oliver went out he had heard nothing from those whom he had expected to come to his aid. But near midnight on the 4th, Captain Oliver, Major Trimble, and 15 men who had come down the river in a boat, made their way into the fort, bringing the glad tidings that General Clay and 1100 Kentuckians would probably reach the post before morning, being but eighteen miles distant. "The cannonading at Fort Meigs was distinctly heard at Fort Winchester, where Oliver had found Clay on the 3d, and Clay was hastening as fast as possible to Harrison's aid, moving down the river in eighteen flat scows, with sides furnished with shields against the bullets of the Indians who might be infesting the shores of the river. "The head of the rapids was eighteen miles from Fort Meigs; it was late in the evening when the flotilla arrived there; the moon had gone down, and the sky was overcast with clouds, making a night so intensely dark that the pilot refused to go on before daylight. Trimble and the 15 others then immediately offered their services to go with Oliver to cheer Harrison and his men with the news that re-enforcements were almost at hand. "It was joyful news to them. Harrison at once despatched Captain Hamilton and a subaltern in a canoe with an order to Clay bidding him detach about 800 men from his brigade and land them at a point about a mile or a mile and a half above Fort Meigs. The detachment was then to be conducted to the British batteries on the left bank of the river. These batteries were to be taken, the cannon spiked, and carriages cut down. The troops must then return to the boats and cross over to the fort. "The rest of his men were to land on the fort side of the river, opposite the first landing, and fight their way into the fort through the Indians. Harrison knew that the British force at the batteries was not large, the main body being still near the old Fort Miami, and that the bulk of the Indians with Tecumseh were on the eastern side of the river. His object was to strike effective blows on both sides of the stream at the same time. "While these orders of his were being carried out, he intended to make a sally from the fort, destroy the batteries in the rear, and disperse or capture the whole British force on that side of the river. "Clay came down the river early the next morning, and about five miles above the fort Hamilton met him with Harrison's order. Clay then directed Dudley to take the twelve front boats and carry out Harrison's commands in regard to the British batteries, while he should hasten forward and perform the part assigned to him. "Colonel Dudley landed his detachment in fine order, and they gained the plain on which Maumee City now stands, unseen by the enemy, formed for marching in three parallel columns, one led by Dudley, one by Major Shelby, the other by Acting-Major Morrison. Captain Combs with 30 riflemen, including 7 friendly Indians, flanked in front fully a hundred yards distant. Thus they moved through the woods a mile and a half toward the British batteries, which were still firing upon Fort Meigs. "There was a prospect of capturing the whole force, but Dudley had unfortunately failed to inform his men of his exact plans, and that was a fatal mistake. Shelby's column, according to his orders, moved on to a point between the British batteries and their camp below, when the right column, led by Dudley in person, raised the horrid Indian yell, rushed forward, charged with vehemence upon the enemy, captured the heavy guns, and spiked eleven of them without losing a man. "At the same time the riflemen had been attacked by the Indians, and, not having been told that they were to fall back upon the main body, thought it their duty to fight. That was a fatal mistake, as the main object of the expedition was already fully accomplished, although the batteries were not destroyed. The British flag was pulled down, and as it reached the earth loud huzzahs went up from Fort Meigs. Harrison, who was watching from his chief battery, with intense interest, now signaled Dudley to fall back to the boats and cross the river according to his former orders. "Probably Dudley did not see it, but he did see the Indians in ambush attacking Combs and his riflemen, and with a quick and generous impulse ordered them to be re-enforced. In response to that a great part of the right and centre columns rushed into the woods in considerable disorder, their colonel with them. It did not matter much at first, for, though they were undisciplined and disorderly, they soon put the Indians to flight, thus relieving Combs and his men; but, forgetting prudence, they pursued the flying savages almost to the British camp. "When they started on that pursuit Shelby's men still had possession of the batteries, but the British artillerists, largely re-enforced, soon returned and recaptured them, taking some of the Kentuckians prisoners and driving the others toward their boats. The Indians, too, were re-enforced, came back, and fiercely attacked Dudley and his men, who were in such utter confusion that it was impossible to command them. Shelby had rallied those that were left of his column and marched them to Dudley's aid; but they only participated in the confusion and flight. That became a precipitate and disorderly rout, and the greater part of Dudley's command were killed or captured. Dudley himself was overtaken, tomahawked, and scalped. Of the 800 who followed him from the boats, only 170 escaped to Fort Meigs. Captain Combs and his spies were among those who were taken and marched to Fort Miami as prisoners of war." "Oh, how dreadful it all was!" sighed Grace. "I hope the other two parties had better success." "Yes," her father said; "while what I have just been telling you was taking place on the left bank of the river, General Clay had tried to land the six remaining boats under his command nearly opposite the spot where Dudley had debarked with his; but the current, swollen by the heavy rains, was very swift, and drove five of them ashore. The sixth, in which were General Clay and Captain Peter Dudley, with fifty men, separated from the rest, kept the stream, and finally landed on the eastern bank of the river opposite to Hollister's Island. There they were fired upon by round-shot from the batteries opposite and by a crowd of Indians on the left flank of the fort. "Clay and his party returned the attack of the Indians with spirit, and reached the fort without the loss of a man. "Colonel Boswell's command landed near Turkey Point. The same Indians who fired upon Clay and his men now attacked these. Boswell and his men marched boldly over the low plain, fought the savages on the slopes and brow of the high plateau most gallantly, and reached the fort without much loss. He was greeted with shouts of applause and thanks, and met by a sallying party coming out to join him in a prompt attack upon that portion of the enemy whom he had just been fighting. There was only a moment's delay. Then they went out, fell upon the savages furiously, drove them half a mile into the woods at the point of the bayonet, and utterly routed them. So zealous were the victors that they would in all probability have made the same mistake that poor Dudley did, had not Harrison, watching them through a spyglass, on one of his batteries, and seeing a body of British and Indians gliding swiftly along the borders of the wood, sent an aide to recall them. He--the aide--was a gallant young fellow, and though he had a horse shot under him, he succeeded in communicating the general's orders in time to enable the detachment to return without much loss. "Now General Harrison ordered a sortie from the fort against the enemy's works on the right, near the deep ravine. Three hundred and fifty men were engaged in that, and behaved with the greatest bravery. Lossing says, 'They charged with the fiercest impetuosity upon the motley foe, 850 strong, drove them from their batteries at the point of the bayonet, spiked their guns, and scattered them in confusion in the woods beyond the ravine toward the site of the present village of Perrysburg.' It was a desperate fight, and Miller lost several of his brave men. At one time Sebree's company were surrounded by four times their number of Indians, and their destruction seemed inevitable. But Gwynne of the Nineteenth, seeing their peril, rushed to their rescue with a part of Elliot's company, and they were saved. The victors returned to the fort, having accomplished their object, and bringing with them 43 prisoners. They were followed by the enemy, who had rallied in considerable force. After that day's fighting, the siege of Fort Meigs was virtually abandoned by Proctor. He was much disheartened, and his Indian allies deserted him; the Canadian militia did likewise." "Was Tecumseh one of the deserters, papa?" asked Lucilla. "No; but probably it was only his commission and pay as a brigadier in the British Army that kept him from being one. He had hated General Harrison intensely since the battle of Tippecanoe, in 1811, and was to have had him at this time as his peculiar trophy. He had been promised that, and the territory of Michigan had been promised his brother, the Prophet, as a reward for his services in the capture of Fort Meigs. "Beside all these discouraging things, news came to Proctor that Fort George, on the Niagara frontier, was in the hands of the Americans and that the little army of Fort Meigs was soon to be re-enforced from Ohio. He saw nothing before him but the capture or dispersion of his troops should he remain, therefore he resolved to flee. But, to conceal that intention, and in order that he might move off with safety, he again sent a demand for the surrender of the fort. "Harrison regarded it as an intended insult, and requested that it should not be repeated. Proctor attempted to take away with him his unharmed cannon, but a few shots from Fort Meigs caused him to desist and go without them. One of his gunboats, in return, fired, killing several of our men. Among them was Lieutenant Robert Walker, of the Pittsburgh Blues, who was buried within the fort, and his grave may still be seen there, marked by a plain, rough stone with a simple inscription--'Lieutenant Walker, May 9, 1813.' "Papa, did the British carry off those of our men they had taken prisoners?" asked Elsie. "Yes; and allowed the savages to rob, ill-treat, and butcher them in the most horrible manner. At Fort Miami they shot, tomahawked and scalped more than 20, besides having murdered and plundered many on the way. "It was Tecumseh who at last stopped the fiendish work, though not till after more than 40 had fallen. And this horrible work was done in the presence of General Proctor, Colonel Elliot, and other officers, as well as the British guard. They made them run the gauntlet for a distance of forty or fifty feet, killing or maiming them as they went, with pistols, war-clubs, scalping knives, and tomahawks. In that way nearly, if not quite, as many were slaughtered as were killed in battle. When those who still remained alive had got within the fort, the savages raised the war-whoop, and began reloading their guns with the evident intention of resuming their horrid onslaught on the defenceless prisoners, when Tecumseh, being told of what was going on, hurried to the fort as fast as his horse could carry him. 'Where is General Proctor?' he demanded; then seeing him near, he asked why he had not put a stop to the massacre. 'Your Indians cannot be commanded,' replied Proctor, trembling with fear at the rage he saw in the chief's countenance. 'Begone!' retorted Tecumseh in disdain. 'You are not fit to command; go and put on petticoats.'" "Was Proctor pleased with that answer, papa?" asked Ned, with a look of amusement. "I think not greatly," replied the captain. "Tecumseh was much disappointed over their failure to take Fort Meigs, and urged Proctor to try again. Proctor did not feel willing, but at length, near the end of June, he consented, and they began making arrangements to do so. "About that time a Frenchman who had been taken prisoner with Dudley's men escaped from the British, fled to Fort Meigs, and told Clay of the threatened danger. Clay at once sent word to Harrison, who was at Franklinton, and to Governor Meigs, at Chillicothe. "Harrison believed it was the weaker posts of Lower Sandusky, Erie, or Cleveland, rather than Fort Meigs, they intended to attack. He ordered troops under Colonel Anderson, then at Upper Sandusky, to go at once to Lower Sandusky; also Major Croghan, with a part of the Seventeenth, and Colonel Ball with his squadron of cavalry. He had just held an important council with the Shawnee, Wyandot, Delaware, and Seneca Indians at his headquarters at Franklinton. Circumstances had made him doubt their fidelity, and he required them to take a determined stand for or against the Americans; to remove their families into the interior, or the warriors must go with him in the ensuing campaign and fight for the United States. "Their spokesman assured the general of their unflinching friendship, and that the warriors were anxious to take part in the campaign. Then Harrison told them he would let them know what he wanted of them. 'But,' he said, 'you must conform to our mode of warfare. You are not to kill defenceless prisoners, old men, women, or children. By your good conduct I shall be able to tell whether the British can restrain their Indians when they wish to do so.' "Then he told them of Proctor's promise to deliver him into the hands of Tecumseh, and added jestingly, 'Now if I can succeed in taking Proctor, you shall have him for your prisoner, provided you will treat him as a squaw, and only put petticoats upon him, for he must be a coward who would kill a defenceless prisoner.' "Harrison followed Colonel Anderson and his regiment, and, learning from scouts that numerous Indians were seen on the lower Maumee, he selected 300 men to make a forced march to Fort Meigs. He arrived there himself on the 28th, and sent Colonel Johnson to make a reconnoisance toward the Raisin to procure intelligence. Johnson went, and brought back word that there was no immediate danger of the enemy coming against Fort Meigs in force. Satisfied of that, Harrison left Fort Meigs to attend to duty at other points. "That was on the 1st of July. Late in that month the British had fully 2500 Indians collected on the banks of the Detroit. These, with the motley force he had already there, made an army of fully 5000 men. Early in July bands of Indians had begun to appear in the vicinity of Fort Meigs, seizing every opportunity for killing and plundering. Tecumseh had become very restless and impatient; wanting to go on the warpath,--especially when he saw so many of his countrymen ready for it,--and he demanded that another attempt should be made to capture Fort Meigs. He made a plan for the attack, and proposed it to Proctor. "It was that the Indians should be landed several miles below the fort, march through the woods to the road leading from the Maumee to Lower Sandusky, in the rear of Fort Meigs, and there engage in a sham fight. That, he thought, would give the troops in the fort the idea that re-enforcements were coming to them and had been attacked. Then the garrison would sally forth to aid their friends, and would at once be attacked in their turn by Indians lying in ambush, while the other Indians would rush into the fort and take possession before the gates could be closed. "Proctor consented, thinking it a good plan. On the 20th of July he and Tecumseh appeared with their 5000 men at the mouth of the Maumee. General Clay sent a messenger to Harrison with that news. Harrison was doubtful whether it was Fort Meigs or Fort Stephenson they meant to attack, so removed his quarters to Seneca Town, from which he could co-operate with either. There he commenced fortifying his camp, and was soon joined by 450 United States troops and several officers, while another detachment was approaching with 500 regulars from Fort Massac on the Ohio River. "On the afternoon of the 25th of July Tecumseh and Proctor tried their plan. The British concealed themselves in the ravine just below Fort Meigs; the Indians took their station on the Sandusky road; and at sunset they began their sham fight. It was so spirited, and accompanied by such terrific yells, that the garrison thought their commander-in-chief must be coming with re-enforcements and that he was attacked by the Indians; and they were very anxious to go out to his aid. "But Clay was too wise to be taken in. A messenger who had just returned from a second errand to Harrison had had hairbreadth escapes from the Indians swarming in the woods; therefore, though Clay could not account for the firing, he felt certain that no Americans were taking part in the fight. Officers of high rank demanded permission to lead their men to the aid of their friends, and the troops seemed almost ready to mutiny because they were not permitted to go. But Clay remained firm; and well it was for them that he did. "A few cannon shot were hurled from the fort in the direction of the supposed fight, and a heavy shower of rain came up. That put an end to the fighting, and all was as quiet as usual about Fort Meigs that night. "Tecumseh's stratagem had failed, and as he and Proctor were ignorant of the strength of the garrison, they thought it best not to try an assault. They lingered in the neighborhood for some thirty hours, then withdrew to the old encampment near Fort Miami; and soon afterward the British embarked with their stores, and sailed for Sandusky Bay with the intention of attacking Fort Stephenson. "The Indians were to assist in the attack, and a large number marched across the country for that purpose. "Clay quickly despatched a messenger to Harrison with all this information. But I have already told you of the attack upon Fort Stephenson, and of its brave defence. "Yes, papa; and it was very interesting," said Elsie. "Have we far to go now to get to Fort Meigs? and is it just as it was when Harrison and his men were there?" "We may hope to get there soon," replied the captain; "as it is only eight miles above Toledo, and we are nearing that place now. But we shall find only ruins." "Oh, papa, what a pity!" exclaimed Ned. "Not a very great pity, I think," said his father. "It is not needed now, and I hope will not be ever again." "I hope that famous elm tree is there yet," remarked Grandma Elsie. "I do not know," replied the captain. "But probably it is." "Oh, what about it, papa?" asked Elsie; and her father answered, "At the beginning of the siege all the water the garrison needed had to be taken from the river. The elm tree was on the opposite side of the river, and the Indians used to climb up and hide themselves in its thick foliage and from there fire across at the water carriers. In that way they killed several of our men. Then the Kentucky riflemen fired at them; and it is said that not less than 6 of them were struck and fell to the ground out of that tree." "Why didn't our men dig a well?" asked Ned. "It seems they did afterward, for the place is spoken of as having had a well at the time of the political campaign of 1840, when Harrison was elected President of the United States." They were now entering the Maumee Bay, and the talk ceased, as all wished to gaze about upon the new scenes as they passed through the bay and up the river. They visited the ruins of Fort Meigs, then took carriages and drove three miles up to Presqu' Isle Hill, alighted there, and wandered over the battlefield of the Fallen Timber. By tea-time they were again on board the _Dolphin_, which lay at anchor through the night in Maumee Bay. It was a delightful evening, clear and slightly cool on the water, the stars shining, and a gentle breeze stirring; and they sat upon the deck for an hour or more. "Where are we going to-morrow, papa?" asked Grace in a pause in the conversation, which had been running upon the scenes and adventures of the day. "To Erie, to view it as the scene of some of Commodore Perry's doings--if that plan suits the wishes of those present," returned her father. "What do you say, mother?" "That I highly approve," answered Mrs. Travilla's sweet voice. "As no doubt we all do," added Mrs. Lilburn. "Yes," said her husband--"even to the one who may be suspected of belonging to the British side. But what doings there have you to tell of, captain?" "It was there that Perry's fleet was made ready for the celebrated Battle of Lake Erie," said Captain Raymond--"Perry's victory was won September 10, 1813." "Just a few weeks after the fight at Fort Stephenson," remarked Lucilla. "Yes," said her father; "and at that time the fleet was nearly ready. What we now speak of as Erie was then called Presqu' Isle. The harbor is a large bay, one of the finest on the lake. A low, sandy peninsula juts out some five miles into the lake. It has sometimes been an island, when storms have cleft its neck; and it was a barren sand bank, though now it has a growth of timber upon it. In Perry's time the harbor was a difficult one to enter, by reason of having a tortuous channel, shallow and obstructed by sand bars and shoals." "Was Erie a city at the time Perry's fleet was built there, papa?" asked Grace. "No; only an insignificant village, hardly twenty years old; and there were many miles of wilderness, or very thinly populated country, between it and the larger settlements. All the supplies for our men, except the timber for the vessels, had to be brought from a distance, with great labor." "Captain, was it not at Erie that General Wayne died?" asked Grandma Elsie. "Yes," he said. "In 1794 General Wayne established a small garrison there and caused a blockhouse to be built at the lake shore of Garrison Hill. He returned there after his victory over the Indians in the Maumee Valley, and occupied a loghouse near the blockhouse, where he died of gout. At his own request he was buried at the foot of the flag-staff." "Is his grave there now, papa?" asked Elsie. "No," replied the captain; "his remains were removed to Pennsylvania in 1809. The first building there was a French fort, supposed to have been erected in 1749. I think some of its remains--ramparts and ditches--are still to be seen upon a point overlooking the entrance to the harbor. When Canada became an English possession the fort was allowed to go to decay." "Why, papa?" asked Ned. "Because it was no longer needed, my son. The blockhouse built by General Wayne fell into decay and was replaced by a new one in the winter of 1813-14, and a second one was built on the point of the peninsula of Presqu' Isle. The old one was burned by some mischievous person in 1853." "Well, my dear, I highly approve of your expressed intention to take us to Erie to-morrow," said Violet in a lively tone, as the captain seemed to have come to the end of his account. "I am sure that I for one shall be greatly interested in everything there connected with the past history of our country." All present seemed to be of the same opinion, and before separating for the night every arrangement was made for an early start next morning. The yacht was again in motion at an early hour--even before any of her passengers were out of their beds. The sun had not yet appeared above the horizon when the captain was joined upon the deck by Percy Landreth. "Ah, good-morning, Percy," he said in his usual pleasant tones. "Showing yourself so early a bird makes me fear you have not found your berth as comfortable a couch as could be desired." "But it is surely none too early for a perfectly healthy fellow to be out, and I was anxious to see the sun rise. I never have seen it come up out of the water." "Then I advise you to gaze steadily eastward, and you will see it apparently do that in five minutes or less." Captain Raymond had a strong suspicion that the beautiful sight they presently witnessed was not all the young man had joined him for at that early hour, so he was not surprised when the next moment Percy, turning a rather flushed, embarrassed face toward him, said entreatingly, "Captain, I am sure you are a very kind-hearted man; will you not remove your prohibition of two years ago, and let me tell Miss Lu how I admire and love her?" "Better not, my young friend," returned the captain pleasantly. "Believe me, you would gain nothing by it, even were her father willing to let her listen to such protestations and engage herself while she is still so young." "Then she is still free?" Percy asked, his countenance brightening somewhat. "Yes--heart and hand; and I hope will remain so for some years to come." "That is some consolation, captain; and it is a great pleasure to be with her, even in the presence of others, and though prohibited to say a word in my own behalf." "Try to have patience, my young friend," returned the captain, still speaking in a kindly tone; "you are young yet, and though you cannot believe it possible now, the time may come when you will see some other maiden who will be even more attractive to you than my little girl is now." "I do not know how to believe it, sir," sighed Percy; but at that moment the approach of a light footstep put a sudden end to their talk. "Good-morning, father, and Percy too! Why, you are out unusually early, are you not?" Lucilla exclaimed, holding out a hand to him. "Is it haste to catch the first glimpse of Erie--not lake but city--that has brought you on deck so soon?" "Not only that, Miss Lu; it is a delightful time for being on deck--the sunrise was very beautiful," he said, taking the pretty hand for an instant, and giving it a friendly squeeze; "but you are a trifle too late for that." "Yes," she said; "but I have seen it a number of times, and may hope to see it many times more on the waters of lakes or oceans." "I hope you may," he returned pleasantly. "I wish with all my heart that every sort of enjoyment may be yours--now and always." "Very kind of you," she said with a smile; "but I doubt if it would be best for me to be always free from every sort of trial and trouble. Papa," turning to him, "shall we have our usual stroll back and forth upon the deck--Percy joining us, if he wishes?" "Yes," her father answered, drawing her hand within his arm; and the three paced back and forth, chatting pleasantly on the ordinary topics of the day till joined by the other members of their party and summoned to the breakfast table. There was no disappointment in the visit to Erie; it proved quite as interesting as any one of the party had anticipated; the return voyage was delightful. They anchored for the night in the near vicinity of the island where they had landed on first coming to the neighborhood, and whence they received their daily mail. CHAPTER XII. "I wonder if Walter won't be joining us soon?" Lucilla remarked to her father as they walked the deck together the next morning. "Probably. I should not be surprised to see him at any time," the captain said in reply. "I have sent in for the early mail, and--why here comes the boat now; and see who are in it!" "Walter and Evelyn! Oh, how glad I am! I don't know how often I have wished she was with us." "I knew you did, and that you like pleasant surprises, so decided to let this be one." The boat was already alongside of the yacht, and the next moment its passengers were on deck, the two girls hugging and kissing each other and laughing with delight. "Now, isn't it my turn, Eva?" queried the captain as they released each other. "Surely I may claim the privilege, since a year or two ago you and I agreed to be brother and sister to each other." "Yes, sir," laughed Evelyn, making no effort to escape the offered caress. "And, Lu, as I'm your father's brother I suppose you and I may exchange the same sort of greeting," laughed Walter, giving it as he spoke. "Well, you have helped yourself; but I do not see any exchange about it," laughed Lucilla; "but, considering your youth, I excuse you for this once." "As I do also," said the captain. "It isn't every young man I should allow to kiss my daughter; but youth and relationship may claim privileges. Lu, show Eva to her stateroom and see that she has whatever she wants. Walter, the one you occupied last is vacant, and you are welcome to take possession of it again." "Thank you; I shall be glad to do so," returned Walter, following the girls down the companion-way. "Quite a mail, I think, this morning, sir," remarked a sailor, handing the captain the mail bag. Captain Raymond looked over the contents, and found, besides his own, one or more letters for each of his passengers. It was nearing the breakfast hour, and he distributed the letters after all had taken their places at the table. They were a bright and cheerful party, everyone rejoicing in the arrival of Eva and Walter, the latter of whom had been spending some weeks among the Adirondacks with college-mates, then had joined Evelyn shortly before the last of the family left Crag Cottage, and undertaken to see her safely to the _Dolphin_ on Lake Erie. "As I expected, I am summoned home," said Percy Landreth, looking up from a letter he was reading; "and I am bidden to bring you all with me, if I can by any means persuade you to take the trip. I wish you would all accept the invitation. I can assure you that everything possible will be done to prove that we esteem you the most welcome and honored of guests. Cousin Elsie, surely you and Aunt Annis will not think of refusing to spend with us at least a small portion of the time you have allotted for your summer vacation?" "Certainly I must go with you," said Annis; "those relations are too near and dear to be neglected. My husband will go with me, I know; and you too, Cousin Elsie, will you not?" "I feel strongly inclined to do so," returned Mrs. Travilla, "and to take the children and grandchildren with me. What do you say to it, captain?" "It seems to me, mother, that for all of us to go would make a rather large party for our friends to entertain, hospitable as I know them to be," he replied. "Also, there are reasons why I think it would be well for me to remain here on the yacht, keeping Eva, Lu, and Grace for my companions. I flatter myself that I shall be able to give them a pleasant time during the week or two that the rest of you may be absent." "And you will let me help you in that, sir?" Walter said inquiringly. "No; my idea was to commit your mother and my wife and children to your care--yours and Cousin Ronald's. He must not have too much of that put upon him." "Seeing he has grown too auld to be trusted wi' wark in that line, eh, captain?" remarked Mr. Lilburn in a tone of inquiry. "Old enough to reasonably expect to be allowed to take his ease, and let women and children be cared for by younger men," returned the captain pleasantly. "Such as I, for instance," laughed Walter. "Mother, dear, I hope you feel willing to trust me; and that Vi does also." "My dear boy, I am entirely willing to trust you to do anything in your power for me and any of our dear ones," Grandma Elsie answered with a loving look and smile into her son's eyes. "And on the journey to Pleasant Plains I shall certainly do my best for you all, Cousin Elsie," said Percy. "But, captain, surely the yacht could do without her owner and his oversight for a fortnight or so. And we can find room for you all; there are several families of us, you must remember, and each of our homes has at least one guest room." "And you are all very hospitable, I know," returned the captain pleasantly. "Perhaps at some other time I may put that to the proof, but there are reasons why it does not seem quite advisable to do so now." The tone of the last words was so decided that Percy did not think it advisable to urge the matter any further, and in a few minutes it was settled that the captain's plan in regard to who should compose the party to go to Pleasant Plains, and who the one to remain on the yacht, should be carried out. Evidently the young girls were well satisfied with the decision. They had had enough travel by rail for the present, and life on the _Dolphin_ would be decidedly restful and enjoyable, for they were delightful companions, the captain was the best and kindest of protectors and providers, and there was abundance of interesting reading matter at hand in the shape of books and periodicals. Percy was much disappointed, but did his best to conceal it, which was the easier because the others were much taken up with the necessarily hasty preparations for the little trip. "I don't want to go without my papa," Ned said stoutly at first. "But papa thinks he can't go, and it is for only a little while, you know," reasoned his mother. "We expect to come back to papa and sisters in a few days." "But, mamma, why don't you and I stay with him? It's nice here on our yacht and going about to new places 'most every day." "So it is, son, but it will be pleasant to see those relatives who have invited us to their homes, and to refuse to accept their invitation would not seem kind." "But papa does refuse." "Yes; he must have some good reason which he has not told us." "Papa is going to take care of the yacht, and of Eva and our sisters," said Elsie, joining in the talk. They were in their stateroom, Violet putting together such articles of clothing as she thought best to take with them on their little trip. "But who'll take care of us?" demanded Ned. "Uncle Walter, Cousin Ronald, and Cousin Percy. I'd rather have papa than all of them put together, but our Heavenly Father will take care of us, and that is better still." "Yes, daughter; He will take the best of care of all who put their trust in him; and without his help no earthly creature can keep you from harm," said their father's voice close at hand; and, looking round, they saw him standing in the doorway. "Yes, papa; and I'm so glad to know it," responded Elsie. "But I do wish you were going along with us to visit those cousins." "As I do, my dear," said Violet. "Thank you. I should like it myself, but for certain reasons it seems advisable and best for me to stay behind. Vi, my dear, let me do that packing for you." The train they had decided to take left early in the afternoon, and they were busy with their preparations until almost the last moment; then they bade the young girls a hasty good-by and left them on the deck, where the captain presently rejoined them, after seeing the departing ones safely on the train and watching it for a moment as it sped rapidly on its way. "And they are off, are they, father? Well, I hope they will all enjoy themselves greatly, but I am glad we are left here with you," Lucilla said as he rejoined their little group. "Yes, I saw them off. I hope their visit will prove very enjoyable to them all, and that our stay here will be equally enjoyable to us." "That is what we are all anticipating, captain," said Evelyn. "I don't know where in the world I should rather pass the next few weeks than on the _Dolphin_ with you and these dear girls for company." "That is pleasant news for us," he returned in kindly tones. "And now what can I do for your entertainment? I am ready to consider suggestions from each of you." "Don't you think we should take Eva to visit the different islands in this group, papa?" queried Grace. "Certainly; if she would like to go." "Very much indeed," said Eva; "I know I shall enjoy going any- and every-where that you may be pleased to take me, or just staying on the yacht lying in one place, if that suits the rest of you." "We will try that occasionally by way of variety," the captain said with a smile. "Shall we not do that for the rest of this day,--as it is now almost dinner time,--then start off for some other point shortly after breakfast to-morrow morning?" "Oh, yes, sir!" they all exclaimed; Grace adding, "And, papa, won't you take us to Gibraltar? It is so picturesque that I think it is worth visiting several times." "Yes, and so are some of the other islands. We will visit any or all of them as many times as you wish." "Well," said Lucilla, "with taking those little trips now and then, and having books, work,--needlework I mean,--games, and music, I think it will be strange should we find time hang heavy on our hands." "Yes, indeed," said Evelyn with a sigh of contentment; "I am not in the least afraid of any such calamity." They talked on, planning various little excursions to one and another of the islands and different points of interest upon the mainland, till summoned to their meal. "It seems a trifle lonely," Grace remarked as they took their seats about the table. "Yes," said her father, "but considering how much our absentees are probably enjoying themselves, we won't mind that for a few days." "Indeed," said Lucilla, "though I shall be glad to see them come back, I think it is really quite delightful to have papa all to ourselves for a few days." "And for papa to have these young girls all to himself, eh?" laughed the captain. "Well, I won't deny it; and I fully expect the girls to make their companionship quite delightful to me." "I think we will all do our best in that line," said Evelyn. "It would be strange indeed if we didn't, when you are so very good and kind to us." "No better, I think, than almost any other gentleman would be in my place," he returned pleasantly. "Now let me help you to some of this fowl. I hope to see you all do full justice to what is set before you." "If we don't, it will not be the fault of the fare, I am sure," said Evelyn. "Judging by the meals I have taken on board of this vessel, she must have both a good caterer and an excellent cook." "We have both," said Lucilla emphatically. "Yes," said Grace. "I wish we could share this dinner with our dear folks who left us a while ago; though perhaps they are getting just as good a meal at Pleasant Plains." "Yes," said her father, "if all has gone well with them and their train, they are there by this time; and, from what I have heard of the housekeeping of the relatives there, I presume they have been, or will be, set down to as good a meal as this." "Oh, yes, of course," said Grace; "and that was a very foolish wish of mine. Papa, how shall we spend this evening?" "I leave that to the decision of my daughters and their guest," he replied. "I shall be happy to do my best to entertain you in any way that may suit your inclinations." "What may be yours, Eva? Please tell us," said Lucilla. "I hardly know what to choose," said Evelyn. "Several delightful ways of passing the time have been already spoken of, and I should enjoy any one of them. I hope you will give us some of your music; and if the captain feels inclined to spin us one of his sailor yarns, that would be enjoyable; and I presume a promenade on the deck would be good exercise, helping us to sleep well afterward." "A very good programme," remarked the captain as she concluded. "I think we will carry it out." They did so, and, when about to separate for the night, agreed it had been a success, the time having passed very pleasantly. The next morning found them all in good health and spirits, and the day was spent in little excursions among the islands. The evening brought a mail in which was a letter from Violet to her husband, telling of the safe arrival of her mother, herself, and the other members of their party at their destination, the warm welcome they had received, and the prospect that the few days of their proposed sojourn among the relatives of Pleasant Plains would be passed most agreeably. "There is only one drawback to my enjoyment," she added; "I cannot feel quite content without my husband; and I miss the dear girls too. So I am glad this visit is to be but a short one." The captain read the greater part of the letter aloud to Eva and his daughters. "I too am glad their visit is to be short," remarked Grace as he finished, "for I don't like to be without them, though we are having a very delightful time here with our dear, kind father to take care of us and find so many pleasant amusements for us." "Ah!" he said with a smile. "Where would you like to go to-morrow?" They discussed the question for a while, and at length decided to visit some of the islands that had been neglected thus far. Then they went on to plan an outing for each weekday of the time they expected the rest of their party to be absent. These they carried out successfully; and each day's mail brought them a graphic report from Violet's pen of the doings among their friends and relatives in Pleasant Plains. Several family parties were gotten up for their entertainment, and at one of them Cousin Ronald, at Walter's urgent request, exercised his skill in ventriloquism, to the great surprise and delight of the younger folk. They were quite a large company, assembled in the parlors of Dr. Landreth's house, just after leaving the tea-table. Presently a buzzing bee seemed to be flying about among them, now circling around the head of one person and now flying above that of another. They involuntarily tried to dodge it, and sent searching glances here and there in the vain effort to see just what and where it was. It could not be seen. Presently it was no longer heard, and someone said, "We are rid of it, I think; it seems to have gone out of the window." But the words were scarcely spoken when there was a scream from the porch, "Oh, I'm stung! and the bee's on me yet! Somebody come and take it off!" At that the doctor, Walter, and Percy rushed out in response to the entreaty. But the bee's victim seemed to have vanished with wonderful celerity. The porch was entirely deserted. "Gone! gone already! who can she have been?" exclaimed Percy, glancing about in great surprise. "I cannot imagine," said the doctor; then catching sight of Walter's face, which told of suppressed mirthfulness, a sudden recollection came to him; and he added, "Ah, I think I understand it," turned, and went back into the parlor. "Who was it?" asked several voices. "Nobody, apparently," answered the doctor with a smile; and Percy added, "She had strangely disappeared." "Well," said a rough voice, seemingly coming from the hall, "if I was a doctor, and a poor woman got badly stung right here in my own house, d'ye think I wouldn't do something fur her?" "Bring her in here, and I will do what I can for her," replied the doctor. "Hello here, Bet!" called the voice; "I say, go right along in thar and see what he'll do fur ye." "What'll he do? p'raps hurt me worse than the bee has?" snarled a sharp, disagreeable voice. "I guess I won't resk it." "All right then, Bet, let's go," said the other voice; "'taint our way to stay long where we git nothin' but stings." A sound as of shuffling footsteps followed, then all was still. Some of the children and young people ran to the door and windows, hoping to catch sight of the strange couple, but were surprised that they could see nothing of them. But the bee seemed to have come in again and to be buzzing all about the room--now up near the ceiling, now down about the ears of one and another of the company. There were dodgings and curious glances here and there, exclamations of surprise that the creature was not to be seen as well as heard, till their attention was taken from it by the furious barking of a dog, seemingly on the porch, and mingled with it screams of pain and terror in a childish voice; cries of "Oh, take him off! he's biting me! Oh, oh, he'll kill me! Oh, come quick, somebody, before he kills me!" Several of the gentlemen present sprang up and rushed out to the rescue, but found all quiet on the porch and neither child nor dog in sight. For a moment they looked at each other in surprise and perplexity, then a sudden recollection of Cousin Ronald's powers came to one and another, a little amused laugh was exchanged, and they returned to the parlor, looking very grave and as much mystified as even the youngest present. "Why, who was it? and where did she go to?" asked one of the little girls. "She was not to be found; nor was the dog," replied Percy. "They seem to have got away very quickly." "Well, I wish I knew who she was, and whether the dog is after her yet," said Don, his younger brother. "I think I'll go out to the street and see if they are anywhere in sight." "'Tisn't worth while, little chap; you'll not find 'em," said a voice from the hall which sounded very much like the one that had spoken first. "Is it your doing? did you bring that dog here?" asked the lad, jumping up and going toward the door. "Yes," said the voice; "but you needn't worry; she wasn't hurt, though she did do sich tall screamin'. That was jist fer fun and to scare you folks." "Who are you, anyhow?" asked Don; "and why don't you show yourself? You neither act nor talk like a gentleman." "Don't I?" asked the voice, ending with a coarse laugh. "I wouldn't go out there if I were you, little boy; that fellow might do you some harm," said a pleasant voice that seemed to come from a far corner of the room. Don turned to see who was the speaker, but there was no stranger to be seen, and the voice had certainly not been a familiar one. "Why," exclaimed the little fellow, "who said that? What's the matter here to-night, that we hear so many folks that we can't see?" As he spoke, a low whine, that sounded as if made by a young puppy, seemed to come from his pocket. With a startled jump and exclamation, "Oh, how did it get in there?" he clapped his hand upon his pocket. "Why--why, it isn't there! Where is it?" he cried, turning round and round, looking down at his feet, then farther away under chairs and tables. "I can't find it," he said presently, looking much bewildered. "Grandpa, I never saw such things happen in your house before--no, nor anywhere else. What's the matter with me? am I going blind?" "No, my boy," said the doctor, "we all seem to be as blind as yourself--hearing people talk but not able to see them." "None so blind as those that won't see," remarked the voice that had spoken last, but this time coming apparently from the doorway. "Here I am, and you are welcome to look at me as closely as you please." A sudden fierce bark from their very midst seemed to answer her. It was so sudden and sharp that everyone started, and some of the children screamed. "Nero, be quiet, sir, and walk right out here," said the voice from the hall, and it was answered by a low growl; then all was silent. "Why, where did he go? and why couldn't we see him?" asked one of the little ones. "Perhaps we might if we knew where to look and what to look for," said Violet with a smiling glance at Cousin Ronald. "But where's that little pup that was in my pocket?" cried Don, as if with sudden recollection, and glancing about the floor. "I can't see how in the world he got there, nor how he got out again." Just as he finished his sentence the puppy's whine was heard, seeming to come from behind the large armchair in which Cousin Ronald was seated. "There he is now!" cried Don. "I wish he'd come out of that corner and let us all see him." "Perhaps he will if you invite him," said the old gentleman, rising and pushing his chair a little to one side. Don made haste to look behind it. "Why, there's nothing there!" he cried. "What does go with the little scamp?" "Perhaps he's afraid of you, Don, so gets out of sight as fast as possible," said Percy. "Then why did he get in my pocket?" asked Don; then added quickly, "But maybe he wasn't there, for I couldn't find him, though I clapped my hand on it the instant I heard his whine." Just then the whine, followed by a little bark, seemed to come from the farther side of the room, and the children hurried over there to make a vain search for the strangely invisible puppy. "Where did it go to?" they asked. "How could it get away so fast? and without anybody seeing it?" "Well, it isn't here, that's certain," said one. "Let's look in the hall." They rushed out there, then out to the porch, looking searchingly about everywhere, but finding nothing. "Oh, it must have got away into the grounds," cried one. "Let's look there," and they ran down the path to the gate, off across and around the grounds--some in one direction, some in another. But it took only a few minutes to satisfy them that no little dog was there; and they trooped back to the house to report their inability to find it. They were all talking at once, discussing their failure in eager, excited tones, when again that strange, gruff voice was heard in the hall. "Say, youngsters, what have you done with my little dog? He's of fine stock, and if you don't hand him over right away--why, I'll know the reason why, and it won't be good fur ye, I can tell ye." "We didn't take him," answered Don; "we've never seen him at all--no, not one of us; and if we had, we wouldn't have done him a bit of harm." Just as Don pronounced the last word, a shrill little bark sounded out from behind Cousin Ronald's chair. "Why, there he is now!" exclaimed Don, hurrying to the spot. "Why, no, he isn't! How does he get away so fast?" "He seems to be an invisible dog, Don," said his brother Percy; "and, if I were you, I wouldn't let him trouble me any more." "No; but I've set out to find him, and I don't mean to give it up," replied the little fellow. "That's right, Don," laughed his father. "I'm pleased to see that you are not easily discouraged." "But he might as well be, for there's no dog thar," said the voice from the hall. "He's a plucky little feller, but he'll not find that thar dog if he looks all night." "I guess I'll find you then," said Don, running to the door and looking searchingly about the hall. "Well, it's the queerest thing!" he exclaimed. "There's nobody here--nobody at all!" "Is the boy blind, that he goes right past a body and never sees him?" asked the voice; and Don turned quickly to see the speaker, who seemed close behind him. But no one was there, and Don looked really frightened. Cousin Ronald noticed it, and said in kindly tones, "Don't be scared, sonny, it was I who spoke; and I wouldn't harm you for all I am worth." "You, sir?" said Don, looking utterly astonished. "How could it be you? for the fellow was over here, and you are over there." "No; I only made it sound so," Mr. Lilburn said with an amused laugh; "and I must confess that I have been doing all this screaming, scolding, and barking just to make a bit of fun for you all." At that the children crowded around the old gentleman, eagerly asking how he did it and what else he could do. "I can hardly tell you how," he said, "but perhaps I can show some other specimens of my work." He was silent for a moment, seemingly thinking. Then a loud, rough voice said: "Hello there, youngsters, what are you bothering with that stupid old fellow for? Why don't you leave him and go off to your sports? It would be a great deal more fun." The children turned toward the place from which the voice seemed to come, but saw no one. They were surprised at first, laughed, asking, "Was that you, Uncle Ronald?" "Nobody else," he said with a smile. "Oh, hark! there's music!" cried one of the little girls; and all listened in silence. "It is a bagpipe, playing a Scotch air," said Percy, who was standing near their little group. "What queer music!" said one of the little girls when it had ceased; "but I like it. Please, Uncle Ronald, make some more." Several tunes followed, and then the children were told they had monopolized their Uncle Ronald long enough and must leave him to the older people for a while. "But you'll do some more for us some other time, won't you, Uncle Ronald?" asked one of the little girls as they reluctantly withdrew from his immediate neighborhood. "Yes, little dear, I will," he answered kindly. And he did entertain them in the same way a number of times during his short stay in their town. CHAPTER XIII. "Well, papa, where shall we go, or what shall we do, to-day?" asked Grace one bright September morning as they sat about the breakfast table on board the _Dolphin_. "Let me hear the wishes of all three of you in regard to that matter," he said in his accustomed pleasant tones. "Evelyn, what have you to say? Have you any plans you would like carried out?" "No, sir, thank you," she replied. "I shall be perfectly contented to stay on the _Dolphin_ or go anywhere you and the girls wish." "I think we have seen all the points of interest about here," he said. "However, if you would like to pay a second visit to any one of them you have only to say so." Just as the captain spoke a sailor came in with the mail-bag. "Ah," said Grace, "I hope there is a letter from Mamma Vi saving that she and the rest will be here to-day or to-morrow." "Yes, so do I," said Lucilla. "We have had a lovely time while they have been away, but I shall be delighted to have them back again." "Yes," said her father, "here is a letter from her to me." Then opening and glancing over it: "They are coming back to-day, and may be expected by the train that gets into Cleveland near tea-time. I must go for them; and you, Lucilla--you and Grace--may see that everything about the cabin and staterooms is in good order for their comfort and enjoyment." "Yes, papa, we will," they answered promptly, Lucilla adding with a merry look, "We will do the work ourselves if that is your wish." "Oh, no," he said; "I only meant that you should oversee it, and make sure that nothing is left undone which would add to their comfort." "I wish we had some flowers to ornament the rooms with," said Grace. "You shall have," replied her father. "I have sent for some by the man who has gone to the city to do the marketing." "Oh, that's good!" exclaimed Lucilla. "Papa, I believe one may always trust you to think of everything." "I am not so sure of that," he said with a smile. "But it is very well for my daughters to think so." "I do, papa," said Grace. "Lu can't have any more confidence in you than I have." "Nor than I," said Evelyn. "And I am very proud of the privilege accorded me some time ago of considering you my brother, captain." "Ah? I think I am the one to feel honored by the relationship," he returned laughingly. "We will start for home pretty soon, father, won't we?" asked Grace. "I presume so; we will consult the others on that subject when they come. Are you growing homesick?" "Almost," she answered, but in a cheery tone. "I have enjoyed our outings on the Hudson and here ever so much, but ours is such a sweet home that I begin to long to see it again." "Well, dear child, I hope to be able to gratify that wish before long," he replied in kindly, affectionate tones. "I am very glad you love your home." "It is certainly worthy of her love," said Evelyn. "I don't know a more delightful place; yet it would not be half so charming without the dear people who live in it." "It certainly would not be to me without the wife and children who share it with me," said the captain. They had not left the table long when flowers were brought aboard in variety and abundance, and they had a very enjoyable time arranging them in vases, and placing those where they could be seen to the best advantage. "There," said Lucilla when their labors were completed; "they will do very well while the _Dolphin_ stands still, but if she takes to rolling, as I have known her to do at times in the past, we'll have to empty the water out of the vases or it will empty itself where it is not wanted at all." "Yes," said her father, "but I think you may confidently expect her to remain stationary at least until to-morrow morning. No one is likely to care to start on the homeward journey before that time." "I wish they were here now," said Grace; "but we have hours to wait before we can hope to see them." "Have patience, daughter," her father said in cheerful tones. "The time will soon pass; and, to make it go faster, shall we not row over to one of the islands and have a stroll on the beach?" The girls all seemed pleased with that proposal; the captain gave the order to have the boat made ready, and in a few moments they were on their way. It was just the kind of a day to make such a little excursion very enjoyable, and in a couple of hours they returned, feeling in fine health and spirits and ready for either work or play. Captain Raymond saw them safely on board, presently followed them himself, and read aloud an entertaining book while they busied themselves with bits of needlework. Soon dinner was announced; quite a while was spent at the table, and shortly after they left it, the boat was again in requisition to take the captain to the city and bring him and the returned travellers back to the yacht. The time of his absence seemed rather long to the waiting girls; but when at last the boat came into sight, and they perceived that it held all the expected ones, they were overjoyed, and when the deck was reached the embraces exchanged were warm and loving. "This seems very like a home-coming," said Violet. "We have had a delightful time with our Pleasant Plains cousins, yet are glad to be again on our own floating home." "Yes," said her mother; "especially as we hope it will soon carry us to our still dearer ones in the Sunny South." "I am ready to start for them to-morrow, mother, if you wish it," the captain said in his pleasant way. "I presume you have all seen enough, for the present at least, of this part of our country." He looked inquiringly at Annis as he spoke. "I am ready to go or stay, as the others wish," she said. "It is now late in September, and the excessive summer heat will surely be over by the time we reach our journey's end. What are your opinions and feelings on the subject, my dear?" turning to her husband. "I care but little one way or the other, so that I have my wife with me, and she is satisfied," returned Mr. Lilburn gallantly. "And that, I presume, is about the way with these younger folk," remarked the captain, glancing around in a kindly way upon them. "Yes, captain," said Evelyn; "we are all ready, I am sure, to go or stay, as seems best to you." "One can always find enjoyment wherever you are, father," said Lucilla. "Yes, indeed," said Grace. "But now, good folks, please all come down to the saloon and see our preparations for your arrival." She led the way, the others following, and on reaching the saloon and seeing its wealth of adornment, they gave such meed of praise as greatly gratified the young decorators. "Ah, it is nearly tea-time," said Grandma Elsie at length, consulting her watch; "and I at least need to make some preparation in the way of ridding myself of the dust of travel by rail," and with that all the returned travellers retired to their staterooms for the few minutes that remained ere the summons to the tea table. On leaving the table, all repaired to the deck, where they spent the evening in pleasant chat, finding much to tell each other of the doings and happenings of the days of their separation. They closed their day as usual, with a service of prayer and praise and the reading of the Scriptures, then all except the captain retired to their staterooms. But it was not long before Lucilla, as usual, stole back to the deck for a good-night bit of chat with her father. She found him walking the deck and gazing earnestly at the sky. "Is there a storm coming, father?" she asked. "I think there is," he answered, "and probably a heavy one. I think it should make a change in our plans, for it may last several days. In that case we will be safer over there in Put-in Bay, lying at anchor, than we would be out in the lake." "Then you will go over there, won't you, father?" she asked. "I think I shall," he said. "It really matters but little whether we get home as speedily as the voyage can be made, or not until a week or two later." "I am glad of that," she returned; "and as we have an abundance of books and games,--plenty of everything to make the time pass quickly and pleasantly,--I think we need not mind the detention." "I agree with you in that," he said, "and I am very glad that our dear absentees got here safely before the coming of the storm." "Then you don't apprehend any danger?" she said inquiringly. "No; not if we are at anchor in the bay yonder. Well, you came to say good-night to your father in the usual way, I suppose?" "Yes, sir; but mayn't I stay with you for a little while? I am not at all sleepy, and should enjoy pacing back and forth here with you a few times." "Very well, daughter," he returned, taking her hand and drawing it within his arm. They walked to and fro for a time in silence. It was broken at length by Lucilla. "To-morrow is Friday, but you don't think it would be unlucky to start on a journey for that reason, father?" "No, child; it is the coming storm, and not the day of the week, that seemed portentous to me. I have sailed more than once on Friday, and had quite as prosperous a voyage as when I had started on any other day of the week." "It seems to me absurd and superstitious," she said, "and I know Grandma Elsie considers it so. Papa, isn't that cloud spreading and growing darker?" "Yes; and I think I must give orders at once to get up steam, lift the anchor, and move out into the bay. Say good-night, now, and go to your berth." Violet, arrayed in a pretty dressing gown, stepped out of her stateroom door into the saloon as Lucilla entered it. "Are we about starting, Lu?" she asked. "I thought I heard your father giving an order as if preparations for that were going on." Lucilla replied with an account of what she had seen and heard while on deck. "But don't be alarmed, Mamma Vi," she concluded; "father thinks there will be no danger to us lying at anchor in Put-in Bay, and I think we will be able to pass the time right pleasantly." "So do I," said Violet; "but it will be sad if he has to expose himself to the storm. However, I suppose that will hardly be necessary if we are lying at anchor. Yes, I think we are a large enough and congenial enough company to be able to pass a few days very pleasantly together, even though deprived of all communication with the outside world." "So we won't fret, but be glad and thankful that we can get into a harbor before the storm is upon us, and that we have so competent a captain to attend to all that is needed for our safety and comfort," returned Lucilla. "But I must say good-night now, for papa's order to me was to go to my berth." The _Dolphin_ was soon in motion, and within an hour lying safely at anchor in Put-in Bay. When her passengers awoke in the morning, quite a severe storm was raging, and they were well pleased that it had not caught them upon the open lake; and though Grandma Elsie had grown anxious to get home for her father's sake, she did not fret or worry over a providential hindrance, but was bright and cheerful, and ever ready to take her part in entertaining the little company. For three days the ladies and children scarcely ventured upon deck; but, with books and work and games, time passed swiftly, never hanging heavy on their hands. Mr. Lilburn, too, caused some amusement by the exercise of his ventriloquial powers. It was the second day of the storm, early in the afternoon, and all were gathered in the saloon, the ladies busy with their needlework, the gentlemen reading, Elsie and Ned playing a quiet game. Walter had a daily paper in his hand, but presently threw it down and sat with his elbow on the table, his head on his hand, apparently in deep thought. He sighed wearily, and then words seemed to come from his lips. "Dear me, but I am tired of this dull place!--nothing to see, nothing to hear, but the raging of the storm!" "Why, Walter!" exclaimed his mother, looking at him in astonishment; but even as she spoke she saw that he was as much astonished as herself. "I didn't make that remark, mother," he laughed. "I am thankful to be here, and enjoying myself right well. Ah, Cousin Ronald, I think you know who made that ill-sounding speech." "Ah," said the old gentleman with a sad shake of the head, "there seems to be never a rude or disagreeable speech that is not laid to my account." Then a voice seemed to come from a distant corner: "Can't you let that poor old man alone? It was I that said the words you accuse him of uttering." "Ah," said Walter; "then show yourself, and let us see what you are like." "I am not hiding, and don't object to being looked at, though I am not half so well worth looking at as some of the other people in this room." "Well, that acknowledgment shows that you are not vain and conceited," said Walter. "Who would dare call me that?" asked the voice in angry, indignant tones. The words were quickly followed by a sharp bark, and then the angry spitting of a cat, both seeming to come from under the table. Little Elsie, who was sitting close beside it, sprang up with a startled cry of "Oh, whose dog and cat are they?" "Cousin Ronald's," laughed Ned, peeping under the table and seeing nothing there. At that instant a bee seemed to fly close to the little boy's ear, then circle round his head, and he involuntarily dodged and put up his hand to drive it away. Then he laughed, saying in mirthful tones, "Oh, that was just Cousin Ronald, I know!" The older people were looking on and laughing, but Lucilla started and sprang to her feet with an exclamation of affright as the loud, fierce bark of a seemingly ferocious big dog sounded close to her ear. Everybody laughed, she among the rest, but she said pleadingly: "Oh, don't do that again, Cousin Ronald! I didn't know I had any nerves, but I believe I have." "Well, daughter, don't encourage them," her father said in kind and tender tones, taking her hand in his as he spoke, for she was close at his side, as she was pretty sure to be whenever she could manage it. "I am truly sorry if I hurt those nerves, Lu," said the old gentleman kindly. "I meant but to afford amusement, and shall be more careful in the future." "Do some more, Cousin Ronald; oh, please do some more, without scaring Lu or anybody," pleaded Ned. "Ned, Ned, it's time to go to bed," said a voice seeming to come from the door of the stateroom where the little boy usually passed the night. "No, sir, you're mistaken," he answered; "it won't be that for two or three hours yet." "Captain," called a voice that seemed to come from overhead, "please come up here, sir, and see if all is going well with the vessel." Captain Raymond looked up. "I think I can trust matters to you for the present, my men," he said. "We are in a safe harbor and have little or nothing to fear." "Papa, did somebody call you?" asked Ned. "I rather think Cousin Ronald did," answered the captain; "but I don't intend to go to the deck to find him, or answer his call to it, while he sits here." "No; what business has he to treat you so?" said a voice that sounded like a woman's. "He ought to be glad to see you sit down and take a rest occasionally." "So he is," said Cousin Ronald, speaking in his natural tone and manner. "He is always glad to have such busy folks take a bit o' rest." "But please don't you take a rest yet, Cousin Ronald; we want you to make some more fun for us first--if you're not too tired," said Ned, in coaxing tones. "I am more than willing, laddie," returned the old gentleman pleasantly, "for fun is oft-times beneficial, particularly to little chaps such as you." "I am bigger than I used to be," said Ned, "but I like fun quite as well as I ever did." "Very strange," said Lucilla, "very strange that a grave old man such as you should care for fun." "Yes, but my sister Lu likes it, and she's older--a great deal older than I am," returned the little fellow, looking up into her face with eyes that sparkled with fun. At that she laughed and gave him a kiss. "Yes, I am a great deal older than you, and so you ought to treat me with great respect," she said. "Ought I, papa?" he asked, turning to their father. "It would be quite well to do so, if you want the reputation of being a little gentleman," replied the captain, regarding his little son with a smile of amusement. But at that instant there came a sound as of a shrill whistle overhead, followed by a shout in stentorian tones: "Hello! look out there! Ship ahoy! Do you mean to run into us? If we get foul of each other somebody may be sent to Davy Jones' locker." Everybody started, and the captain rose to his feet, a look of anxiety coming over his face. But Cousin Ronald gave him a roguish look. "I wouldn't mind it, captain," he said. "It's only a false alarm. I doubt if there is any vessel near us." The captain reseated himself, while Grace exclaimed with a sigh of relief, "Oh, I am so glad it was but a false alarm! A collision would be so dreadful, either to us or to the people on the other vessel, and maybe to both." "Oh, it was just you, was it, Cousin Ronald?" laughed Ned. "Please do some more." At that instant there was a loud squeak, as of a mouse that seemed to be on his own shoulder, and he started to his feet with a loud scream: "Oh, take it off, papa! Quick, quick!" Everybody laughed; and Lucilla said teasingly, "I'm afraid you are not fit to be a soldier yet, Neddie boy." "Maybe I will be by the time I'm tall enough," he returned rather shamefacedly. "Yes, son, I believe you will," said his father. "I don't expect a son of mine to grow up to be a coward." "I might have known it was Cousin Ronald, and not a real mouse, on my shoulder," remarked the little fellow with a mortified air; "but I didn't think just the first minute." "Cousin Ronald on your shoulder?" laughed Lucilla. "I don't think he could stand there; and his weight would be quite crushing to you." "Of course it would. He couldn't stand there at all," laughed Ned. "No," said Mr. Lilburn, "it would be much more sensible for me to take you on my shoulder." "Papa takes me on his sometimes," said Ned, "but not so often now as he used to when I was a little boy." "Ha, ha, ha! what are you now, sonny?" asked a voice that seemed to come from a distance. Ned colored up. "I'm a good deal bigger now than I was once," he said. "And hoping to grow a good deal bigger yet," added his father, smiling down into the little flushed, excited face. "Yes, papa, I hope to be as big as brother Max, or you, some of these days," returned the child. "Don't be in a hurry about growing up," said the voice that had spoken a moment before. "Grown folk have troubles and trials the little ones know nothing about." "But the grown-ups may hope to do more in the world than the little ones," said Walter. "Is that why you are growing up, Uncle Walter?" asked Ned. "That's why I am glad to grow up," replied Walter. "Like papa?" "Yes; and like grandpa and other good men." "Well, I want to be a man just like my own dear papa," said the little fellow, looking with loving admiration up into his father's face. "That's right, bit laddie, follow closely in his footsteps," said the voice, that seemed to come from that distant corner. But now came the call to the supper table, and so ended the sport for that day. CHAPTER XIV. It was still raining heavily when the Sabbath morning dawned upon Lake Erie and Put-in Bay. But the faces that gathered about the breakfast table of the _Dolphin_ were bright and cheery. Everybody was well and in good spirits. "This is a long storm, but I think will be over by to-morrow," remarked the captain as he filled the plates. "The time has not seemed long to me," said Annis, "for even though deprived of the pleasure of being on deck we have been by no means a dull party." "No, not by any means, and Mr. Lilburn has made a great deal of fun for us," said Evelyn. "And feels well repaid by the evident enjoyment of the little company," he said, glancing around upon them with a pleasant smile. "But of course that kind of sport won't do for to-day," said Walter; "and I presume it is too stormy for anybody to go ashore to attend church." With the concluding words he turned toward the captain inquiringly. "Quite so," was the reply. "We will have to content ourselves with such a service as can be conducted on board." "Which will probably be quite as good and acceptable as many a one conducted on land," said Mr. Lilburn. "I have greatly enjoyed the few I have been privileged to attend on this vessel in the past." "And I," said Grandma Elsie; "we are as near the Master here as anywhere else; and when we cannot reach a church, we can rejoice in that thought--in the remembrance that he is just as near us here as anywhere else." "We will have a sermon, prayers, and hymns this morning, and a Bible class this afternoon, won't we, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes," he said; "but our guests must feel entirely free to attend our services or not as they feel inclined." "This one will feel inclined to attend," said Walter. "This one also," added Evelyn; "she will esteem it a privilege to be allowed to do so." "As I do," said Lucilla. "Father always makes a Bible lesson, and any kind of religious services, interesting and profitable." "I always enjoy them," said Violet, "and I know Grace and the little folks do. Is not that so, Elsie and Ned?" Both gave a prompt assent, and Grace said: "There is no kind of service I like better. So I do not feel tempted to fret over the stormy weather." "Ah," said the captain with a smile, "I am well content with the views and feelings expressed by my prospective audience. We will hold our services in the saloon, beginning at eleven o'clock." Accordingly, all--including the crew--gathered there at the appointed hour, listened attentively to the reading of an excellent sermon, and united in prayer and praise. In the afternoon they gathered there again, each with a Bible in hand, and spent an hour in the study of the Scriptures. As in the morning service, the captain was their leader. "Let us take the sea for our subject," he said, "and learn some of the things the Bible says of it. Cousin Ronald, what can you tell us or read us on the subject?" "There is a great deal to be said," replied the old gentleman. "It is spoken of in the very first chapter of the Bible--'the gathering together of the waters called the seas.' In the twentieth chapter of Exodus we are told, 'In six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea and all that in them is'; and in the fifth verse of Psalm ninety-five, 'The sea is his, and he made it.' The Hebrews called all large collections of waters seas. The Mediterranean was the Great Sea of the Hebrews. "In the Temple was a great basin which Solomon had made for the convenience of the priests; they drew water out of it for washing their hands or feet, or anything they might wish to cleanse. "The Orientals sometimes gave the name of sea to great rivers overflowing their banks--such as the Nile, the Tigris, and the Euphrates, because by their size, and the extent of their overflowing, they seemed like small seas or great lakes. The sea is also taken for a multitude or deluge of enemies. Jeremiah tells us the sea is come up upon Babylon. But I am taking more than my turn. Let us hear from someone else." "From you, Cousin Annis," the captain said, looking at her. "No, I have not studied the subject sufficiently," she said, "but doubtless Cousin Elsie has." "Let me read a verse in the last chapter of Micah," responded Grandma Elsie, and went on to do so: "'He will turn again, he will have compassion upon us; he will subdue our iniquities; and thou wilt cast all their sins into the depths of the sea.' "What a gracious and precious assurance it is!" she said. "What is cast into the sea is generally supposed to be lost beyond recovery--we do not expect ever to see it again; so to be told that our sins are cast there imports that they are to be seen and heard of no more." "Because Jesus died for us and washed them all away in his precious blood?" asked Little Elsie softly. "Yes, dear, that is just what it means," replied her grandmother. Evelyn's turn had come, and she read: "'And before the throne there was a sea of glass like unto crystal.' Cruden says," she continued, "that it probably signified the blood of Christ, whereby our persons and services are made acceptable to God; and that it was called a sea in allusion to the molten sea of the Temple. Also that it is represented as a sea of glass like unto crystal, to denote the spotless innocence of our Lord Jesus Christ, in his sufferings; that his was not the blood of a malefactor, but of an innocent person." "One suffering not for his own sins, but for the sins of others," sighed Grandma Elsie. "What wondrous love and condescension; and, oh, what devoted, loving, faithful servants to him should we ever be!" "We should, indeed," said the captain, then motioned to Lucilla that it was her turn. "'He shall have dominion also from sea to sea, and from the river unto the ends of the earth,'" she read. Then turning over the leaves, "That was in the Psalms," she said; "and here in Zachariah the prophecy is repeated in almost the same words, 'And his dominion shall be from sea even to sea, and from the river to the ends of the earth.' The dominion of Christ, is it not, father?" "Certainly; it can be no other," he said. "Now, Grace, it is your turn." "Mine is in the New Testament," she said--"the eighth chapter of Matthew, beginning with the twenty-third verse. 'And when he was entered into a ship, his disciples followed him. And behold there arose a great tempest in the sea, insomuch that the ship was covered with the waves: but he was asleep. And his disciples came to him and awoke him, saying, Lord save us: we perish. And he saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then he arose and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm. But the men marvelled, saying, What manner of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him.'" "It is such a pretty story," said Little Elsie. "How kind Jesus was never to get angry, though they waked him out of his sleep when he must have been so very, very tired. He might have scolded them, and asked didn't they know they couldn't drown while he was with them in the ship." "Yes," her father said; "and let us learn of him to be patient, unselfish, and forgiving." It was Walter's turn, and he read: "'And when even was come, the ship was in the midst of the sea, and he alone on the land. And he saw them toiling in rowing; for the wind was contrary unto them; and about the fourth watch of the night he cometh unto them, walking upon the sea, and would have passed by them. But when they saw him walking upon the sea, they supposed it had been a spirit, and cried out; for they all saw him and were troubled. And immediately he talked with them, and saith unto them, Be of good cheer: it is I; be not afraid.'" "This is mine," said Elsie. "'And he went forth again by the seaside: and all the multitudes resorted unto him, and he taught them.'" It was Ned's turn, and he read: "And he began again to teach by the seaside: and there was gathered unto him a great multitude, so that he entered into a ship, and sat in the sea; and the whole multitude was by the sea on the land.'" "I think this was a very nice lesson," Elsie said as they closed their books. "I shall think of it often while we are on the sea. This--Lake Erie--is as much of a sea as the Lake of Tiberias or Sea of Galilee, isn't it, papa?" "I think so," he said; "and in a few days we are likely to be on a real sea--the great Atlantic Ocean." "And God can take care of us there just as well as anywhere else, can't he, papa?" asked Ned in a tone that was half inquiry, half assertion. "Certainly, my son, he is the creator of all things, the ruler of all the universe, and 'none can stay his hand or say unto him, What doest thou?'" "Papa," said Ned, "mightn't I ask him to stop this storm, so we could go right on home?" "You can ask him, son, to do it if he sees best, but you must be willing that he should not do what you wish if he does not see best. God knows what is best for us, and we do not, but often desire what would be very bad for us." "Well, papa, I'll try to ask that way," said the little boy. "But I'm very tired of these dark, rainy days, and of staying still in one place where we don't see anything, and I hope our Heavenly Father will let us start away to-morrow." "Neddie, dear," said his grandmother, "don't forget what a blessing it has been that we had this safe harbor close at hand when the storm was coming, so that we could run right into it. If we had been away out upon the lake our vessel might have been wrecked." "Yes, grandma, I am glad and thankful for that," he said; "I'm afraid I was grumbling just now, but I don't intend to do so any more." "I'll be glad when good weather comes again," remarked Elsie, "but I have really enjoyed myself right well these days that we have had to spend in the cabin; Cousin Ronald has made a great deal of fun for us." "Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Ned earnestly, and laughing as he spoke; "it was lots of fun to hear people talking and animals barking and squealing when they weren't really here at all. Now, what are you all laughing at?" he asked in conclusion. "At your animals," said Lucilla. "I understood that all the barking and squealing you talk about was the doing of a very nice old gentleman." "Yes," said Ned a trifle shamefacedly; "but please don't be hurt or affronted, Cousin Ronald; I didn't know how to say it any better." "No, sonny, and you meant it all right," the old gentleman answered pleasantly. "I am very glad to be able to furnish amusement for so good and lovable a bit of a kinsman as yourself." "Thank you, sir. I like that word--kinsman," said the little boy, regarding Mr. Lilburn with sparkling eyes. "It means a relation, doesn't it?" "Yes, just that, laddie. Your grandmother and mother are of my kin, and that makes you so too. I hope you are not ill-pleased to own so auld a cousin?" "No, indeed, sir," said Neddie earnestly; "and I'll try to behave so well that you won't ever feel ashamed to own me for your kin." "It will be a great surprise to me if ever I do feel my relationship to you and yours a disgrace, laddie," the old gentleman said with a smile. Then, turning to Violet, "Could not you give us a bit o' sacred music, cousin?" he asked. "It strikes me 'twould be a fitting winding-up of our services." "So I think," said the captain; and Violet at once took her place at the instrument. "Mamma," said Grace, "let us have 'Master, the Tempest is Raging.' We can all sing it, and it is so sweet." "Yes," said Violet. The others gathered around her, and together they sang: "'Master, the tempest is raging! The billows are tossing high! The sky is o'ershadowed with blackness! No shelter or help is nigh! Carest thou not that we perish? How canst thou lie asleep, When each moment so madly is threatening A grave in the angry deep? _Chorus:_ "'The winds and the waves shall obey thy will, Peace, be still! Whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea. Or demons, or man, or whatever it be, No waters can swallow the ship where lies The Master of ocean, and earth, and skies; They all so sweetly obey thy will, Peace, be still! Peace, be still! They all so sweetly obey thy will, Peace, peace, be still! "'Master, with anguish of spirit I bow in my grief to-day; The depths of my sad heart are troubled; Oh, waken and save, I pray! Torrents of sin and of anguish Sweep o'er my sinking soul; And I perish! I perish, dear Master, Oh, hasten and take control! _Chorus:_ "'The winds and the waves shall obey thy will, etc. "'Master, the terror is over, The elements sweetly rest; Earth's sun in the calm lake is mirrored, And heaven's within my breast; Linger, O blessed Redeemer! Leave me alone no more; And with joy I shall make the blest harbor, And rest on the blissful shore. _Chorus:_ "'The winds and the waves shall obey thy will,'" etc. CHAPTER XV. The _Dolphin's_ passengers retired early to their staterooms on that stormy Sunday night; that is, all of them except the captain and Lucilia. He was on the deck, and she sat in the saloon, reading and waiting for a little chat with her father before seeking her berth for the night. Presently she heard his approaching footsteps, and, closing her book, looked up at him with a glad smile. "Ah, daughter, so you are here waiting for me as usual," he said in his kind, fatherly tones; and, taking a large easy-chair close at hand, he drew her to a seat upon his knee. "You haven't sat here for quite a while," he said, passing his arm about her and pressing his lips to her cheek. "No, sir; and I am very glad to be allowed to do it again, big and old as I am," she returned, with a smile that was full of love and pleasure. "Oh, I am so glad--so glad every day that God gave me to you instead of to somebody else. I thank him for it very often." "As I do," he said; "for I consider my dear eldest daughter one of God's good gifts to me." "Whenever I hear you say that, father, I feel ashamed of all my faults and follies and want--oh, so much--to grow wiser and better." "I too need to grow better and wiser," he said; "and we must both ask daily and hourly to be washed from our sins in the precious blood of Christ--that fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness. "'There is a fountain filled with blood, Drawn from Immanuel's veins; And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains.'" "Papa, I love that hymn, and am thankful to Cowper for writing it," she said. "And so am I," he returned. "Oh, what gratitude we owe for the opening of that fountain! for the love of Christ that led him to die that painful and shameful death of the cross--that we might live. 'The love of Christ which passeth knowledge.'" They were silent for a little; then he said, "It is growing late, daughter; it is quite time time that this one of my birdlings was in her nest. Give me my good-night kiss and go." "Can I go to you on the deck in the morning, papa?" she asked as she prepared to obey. "That depends upon the weather," he answered. "If it is neither raining nor blowing hard, you may; otherwise, you may not." "Yes, sir; I'll be careful to obey," she said: with a loving smile up into his face. All seemed quiet within and without when she awoke in the morning, and dressing speedily she stole out through the cabin, and up the stairway, till she could look out upon the deck. Her father was there, caught sight of her at once, and drew quickly near. "Good-morning, daughter," he said; "you may come out here, for it is not raining just now, and the wind has fallen." "Is the storm over, father, do you think?" she asked, hastening to his side. "The worst of it certainly is, and I think it will probably clear before night." "So that we can start on our homeward journey?" "Yes," he answered; "but it will not be well to leave this safe harbor until we are quite certain of at least tolerably good weather." "No, none of us would want to run any risk of shipwreck," she said; "and there isn't really anything to hurry us greatly about getting back to our homes." "Nothing except the desire to see them and our dear ones there," he said; "and to delay that will be wiser than running any risk to bring it about sooner." As he spoke he drew her hand within his arm, and they paced the deck to and fro for some time; then it began to rain again, and he bade her go below. "Still raining, I believe," remarked Mr. Lilburn as they sat at the breakfast table. "Yes," replied the captain; "but I think it will probably clear by noon." "And then we will start on our return journey, I suppose?" said Walter. "Yes," said the captain, "that seems best, and I believe is according to the desire of all my passengers. It is your wish, mother, is it not?" turning to Grandma Elsie. "I should like to get home soon now," she replied; "but shall not fret if we are still providentially detained." The rain had ceased by the time they left the table, so that they were able to go on deck, take some exercise, and get a view of their surroundings. By noon the indications were such that the captain considered it entirely safe to continue their journey. So steam was gotten up, and they were presently out of the harbor and making their way across the lake in the direction of the Welland Canal. Before sunset all the clouds had cleared away; the evening was beautiful, and so were the days that followed while they passed down the St. Lawrence River and out through the Gulf, then along the Atlantic coast, stopping only once, to let Walter leave them for Princeton. It was quite a long voyage, and a very pleasant one; but everyone was glad when at length they reached the harbor of the city near their homes. They were expected, and found friends and carriages awaiting their coming. Mr. Hugh Lilburn had come for his father and Annis, Edward Travilla for his mother and Evelyn, and the Woodburn carriage was there to take the captain and his family to their home. "It is delightful to have you at home again, mother," Edward said as they drove off; "we have all been looking forward to your coming--from grandpa down to the babies that can hardly lisp your name." "It is most pleasant to be so loved," she said with a joyful smile, "especially by those who are so dear as my father, children, and grandchildren are to me. Are all well at Fairview?" "Yes, and looking forward, not to your return only, but to Evelyn's also. Lester was very busy, so asked me to bring her home to them; which I was very ready to do." "And for which I feel very much obliged," said Evelyn. "I shall be very glad to get home, though I have had a delightful time while away." They soon reached Fairview, and her welcome there was all she could desire. Grandma Elsie was warmly welcomed too, but did not alight. She felt in much too great haste to see her father and the others at Ion. On her arrival she found her daughter Rosie there also, and her presence added to the joy of the occasion. Dinner was ready to be served, and Harold and Herbert had just come in from their professional rounds, so that the family reunion was almost complete. They missed Walter, but were glad to think of him as well, happy, and busied with his studies; and Elsie and Violet, though not just there, were near enough to be seen and conversed with almost any day. So it was altogether a cheerful and happy reunion, as was that of the family at Fairview. Woodburn held no welcoming relatives for the Raymonds, but theirs was a glad home-coming, nevertheless. The grounds were in beautiful order, as was the dwelling under Christine's skilful management; and the dinner that awaited the returned travellers was abundant in quantity and variety, and the cooking such as might have found favor with an epicure. "I think we are most fortunate people," said Violet as they sat at the table. "I know it isn't every family that can come home after weeks of absence to find everything in beautiful order and the table furnished with luxuries as is this one." "Very true, my dear," said the captain; "we certainly have a great deal to be thankful for." "Yes, papa, it is very pleasant to be at home again," said Elsie; "and when dinner is over mayn't we go all around and look at every one of the rooms, upstairs and down?" "If you want to make the circuit of the house, I have no objection," he said. "Yes, I do, papa," she answered. "I feel very much as if the rooms are old friends that I'm quite fond of." "The schoolroom as well as the rest?" he asked with a look of amusement. "Yes, indeed, papa, for you make lessons so pleasant that I'd be very, very sorry to be shut out of that room. Wouldn't you, Neddie?" "Course I would," exclaimed Ned. "I love to be with papa, and I like the nice lessons. Papa often tells us a great deal that is very interesting." "I am glad you think so," said his father. "We will visit the schoolroom, as well as the others, after we have finished our dinners." "Will we have school to-morrow, papa?" asked Elsie. "No; you may have the rest of the week for play, and we will begin lessons on Monday if nothing happens to prevent." "We will take up our studies again, papa, just as the little ones do, will we not?" asked Lucilla. "Meaning Grace and yourself, I suppose?" he said inquiringly, and with a look of amusement. "Yes, sir; except Evelyn, we are your only other pupils just now." "You can both begin when the younger ones do, if you like," he replied; and Grace said, "You may be quite sure we will like to do so, papa." "Papa, when will Brother Max come home?" asked Ned. "I think we may expect him about the last of next January," was the reply. "And how soon does January come, papa?" "This is October: November comes next, then December, and next after that is January." "Oh, such a long while!" sighed Ned. "I want to see Max so badly that I don't know how to wait." "Pretty much the way papa feels about it," returned his father. "And as we all do," said Violet. "I wish the dear fellow had chosen work that could be done at home." "But somebody must go into the navy, my dear," said his father. "A good navy is very necessary for the safety of the country." "That is true," she returned; "and I know of no more honorable employment." "And employment of some kind we all should have. I know of nothing more ignoble than a life of idleness. It is sure to tempt to something worse. 'Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.'" "Yes," said Violet, "and the Bible bids us to be 'diligent in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord.'" "And in the fourth commandment we are bidden, 'Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work.' It makes no exception; recognizes no privileged class who may take their ease in idleness." "Yet there are times when one is really weary, that rest is right, are there not?" said Violet. "I remember that at one time Jesus said to his disciples, 'Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest a while.'" "Yes; there are times when rest is very necessary, and by taking it one is enabled to do more in the end." "And we have just had a nice long rest," said Grace; "so ought to be able to go to work earnestly and make good progress in our studies." "So I think," said Lucilla; then added laughingly, "and I'm glad father doesn't turn me out of the schoolroom because I've grown so big and old." "You are still small enough, and young enough, to demean yourself as one under authority," remarked the captain in pleasant tones; "otherwise you would not be admitted to the schoolroom among my younger pupils." Just then a rather discordant voice was heard calling, "Lu, Lu, what you 'bout? Polly wants a cracker." "You shall have one presently, Polly," Lucilia answered. "Oh, let's all go up there and see her," said Ned as they rose and left the table. "Yes, we may as well begin there to make our circuit of the house," said his father; and they all hastened up the stairway to the apartments of Lucilla and Grace. "I think Polly is glad to see us," said Elsie, as they stood for a moment watching her while she ate. "A good deal more pleased to see and taste the cracker," said her father. "I doubt if parrots ever have much affection to bestow on anyone." "Well, Polly," said Lulu, "nobody cares particularly for your affection; but in spite of your coldness and indifference, you shall have plenty to eat." "Your rooms are in good order, daughters," said the captain, glancing about them. "I think Christine is an excellent housekeeper." "So do I, father," said Lucilla. "We have only to unpack our trunks and put their contents in their proper places, and all will be as neat and orderly as before we left home." "Yes, but we are going to visit the other parts of the house first," said Grace; "or we'll have to do it alone, which wouldn't be half so much fun as going along with papa and the rest." They finished their inspection quickly, then set to work at their unpacking and arranging, laughing and chatting merrily as they worked. Violet, in her rooms, with Elsie and Ned to help or hinder, was busied in much the same manner. The captain was in the library examining letters and periodicals which had accumulated during his absence, when he was interrupted by the announcement that Mr. Dinsmore had called to see him. "Mr. Dinsmore?" he said inquiringly. "Yes, sah; Mr. Chester. Here am his kyard." "Ah, yes; just show him in here." The two greeted each other cordially, and Chester was invited to take a seat, which he did. "I am making you an early call, captain," he said. "I knew you were expected to-day, and heard, perhaps an hour ago, that you had actually arrived. I have, as you requested, kept a lookout for that escaped convict who threatened your daughter at the time of his trial. He has not yet been caught, but as I cannot learn that he has been seen anywhere in this neighborhood, I hope he has given up the idea of wreaking vengeance upon her." "I hope so, indeed," returned her father; "but I shall be very careful never to let her go from home unattended." "I am glad to hear you say that, sir," said Chester; "and I shall be very happy if I may sometimes be permitted to act as her escort. You may not always find it entirely convenient to undertake the duty yourself." "Thank you for your offer; I may sometimes be glad to avail myself of it," was the reply. They chatted a while longer, then Chester rose as if to take his leave. "Don't go yet," said the captain. "My wife and daughters will join us presently, and feel glad to see you. Stay and take tea with us, and give us all the news about the family at The Oaks." "Thank you," returned Chester, sitting down again. "We are all quite well, Syd busy with her preparations for going South to join Maud and Dick." "Ah! she leaves soon?" "I think before very long; but the exact time is not set yet." "You will feel lonely--robbed of both your sisters." "Yes, sir," Chester returned with a slight smile. "I should greatly prize a sweet young wife, who would much more than fill their places." "Ah, yes; but this is one of the cases where it is best to make haste slowly, my young friend," the captain returned in a pleasant tone. "I am feeling a little uneasy lest Percy Landreth or someone else may have got ahead of me," Chester said inquiringly, and with an anxious look. "No; her father wouldn't allow any such attempt, and it is quite sure that his daughter is still heart-whole. And as I have told you before, if either suit is to prosper, I should rather it should be yours--as in that case she would not be taken far away from me." "That is some consolation, and she is well worth waiting for," said Chester in a tone of resignation. "So her father thinks," said the captain. Just then there was a sound of wheels on the drive. "The Roselands carriage," said Chester, glancing from the window; and both he and the captain rose and hurried out. They found the whole Roselands family there--Calhoun and his wife and children; Dr. Arthur, his Marian, and their little Ronald. Violet and her children, with Lucilla and Grace, had hastened down to receive them, and warm greetings were exchanged all around. Chester took particular pains to get possession of a seat near Lucilla, and had many questions to ask in regard to the manner in which she had spent the long weeks of her absence from home--for long, he averred, they had seemed to him. "Well now, they didn't to me," laughed Lucilla; "on the contrary, I thought them very short; time fairly flew." "And was so filled with interesting occurrences that you hardly thought of your absent friends?" "Oh, yes; I did think of them, occasionally even of you, Chester," she said in sportive tone. "Really, I do wish you could have seen and enjoyed all that we did. Were you moping at home all the time?" "Not all the time; much of it found me very busy; and for a fortnight I was away on a boating excursion with some friends." "I am glad of that, for I am sure you needed some rest. Sometimes I think you are too hard a worker. Don't forget the old saying that 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.'" But there the talk was interrupted by another arrival--the carriage from The Oaks, bringing all that family, including Chester's sister Sydney. They were on their way to Ion to welcome Grandma Elsie home, so made but a short call. The Roselands people were urged to stay to tea, but declined, and presently took their leave. But they had scarcely gone, when Violet's brothers Harold and Herbert came, and they stayed to tea. They were bright and genial as usual; Chester, too, was gay and lively; and so altogether they constituted a blithe and merry party. The evening brought the families from Ashlands, Pinegrove, and The Laurels, and the next day those from Fairview, Beechwood, and Riverside. Rosie expressed herself as charmed with her new home, and insisted upon having them all there to tea with her mother and old Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore. The other relatives she had already entertained, she said; and she was planning to have all at once at no very distant day. "Surely we can wait for that, Rosie," said the captain, "and content ourselves with a call upon you and a sight of your pretty home, leaving the greater visit to the time you speak of." "No, Brother Levis, I won't be satisfied with that," she said. "I want you all to take tea with us to-morrow evening." "Are you not willing that we should, father?" asked Lucilla. "Yes, if you wish to do so," he replied; and as all expressed themselves desirous to accept the invitation, they did so; and they were so well and hospitably entertained that everyone was delighted. They returned home rather early in the evening, on account of the little ones. Violet took them upstairs at once, and Grace went to her room, so that Lucilla and her father were left alone together, as so often happened early in the evening. She followed him into the library, asking, "Haven't you some letters to be answered, father? and shall I not write them for you on the typewriter?" "I fear you are too tired, daughter, and had better be getting ready for bed," he answered, giving her a searching but affectionate look. "Oh, no, sir," she said; "I am neither tired nor sleepy; and if I can be of any use to my dear, kind father, nothing would please me better." He smiled at that, lifted the cover from the machine, and they worked busily together for the next half-hour or more. When they had finished, "Thank you, daughter," he said; "you are such a help and comfort to me that I hardly know what I should ever do without you." "Oh, you are so kind to say that, you dear father," she returned, her eyes shining with joy and filial love. "I often say to myself, 'How could I ever live without my dear father?' and then I ask God to let you live as long as I do. And I hope he will." "He will do what is best for us, daughter," returned the captain in moved tones; "and if we must part in this world, we may hope to meet in that better land where death and partings are unknown." "Yes, papa, the thought of that must be the greatest comfort when death robs us of our dear ones." He took her hand, led her to a sofa, and, seating her by his side, put his arm about her, drawing her close to him. "I have something to say to you, daughter," he said in low, tender tones. She gave him a rather startled, inquiring look, asking, "About what, papa?" "You remember the bit of news--in regard to the escape of a convict--which hastened our departure for the North some months ago?" "Yes, sir; and has he not been caught and returned to his prison?" "No; and I have reason to think he is somewhere in this neighborhood, probably bent on evil deeds, perhaps among them some harm to my daughter, whose testimony helped to send him to prison for the burglary committed here. I tell you this, my child, as a warning to you to be very careful how you expose yourself to possible danger from him." "Yes, papa, I will; but you know I never go outside the grounds without a protector, because you long ago forbade my doing so." "Yes; but now you must not go everywhere even inside of them; avoid the wood, and keep near the house unless I am with you." "Yes, sir; I will obey. But, father, he may come into the house in the night. You know he did before." "Yes, I remember; and I have arranged to have watchmen--armed men--patrolling the grounds near at hand; so that if he makes such an attempt it will be at the risk of his life. It is wise and right for us to take all possible precautions, then trust calmly and securely in the protecting care of our Heavenly Father. Try to do so, dear child, and do not lie awake in fear and trembling." "I will not, if I can help it, father," she said. "I will remember the sweet words of the Psalmist, 'The salvation of the righteous is of the Lord; he is their strength in the time of trouble. And the Lord shall help them and deliver them: he shall deliver them from the wicked, and save them, because they trust in him.'" "Yes," he said, "trust in the Lord and he will deliver you. 'According to your faith be it unto you.' Have confidence in your earthly father too. We will have the doors open between our rooms, and if anything alarms you in the night run right to your father for protection and help." "I will, dear papa," she said; "and, oh, with a kind, all-wise and all-mighty Heavenly Father, and so dear and wise an earthly one, I can lie down in peace and sleep as sweetly as ever I did." "I hope so, dear child. And I think I hardly need caution you to keep all this from our timid, nervous Grace; and the younger ones also." "They shall not learn it from me, papa," she said; "I will do what I can to keep them all in ignorance of the danger that seems to threaten." She kept her word, and a week slipped by without any further evidence of the near vicinity of the convict. CHAPTER XVI. Lucilla and Grace rode out every day on their ponies, always accompanied by their father, sometimes by Violet also, though the latter generally preferred a drive in the carriage, taking her children with her. And Lucilla, being stronger than Grace, would, if she had occasion, go a second time when it suited her father to go with her. Chester Dinsmore came often to the house, and sometimes joined them in their rides; for he was keeping a vigilant watch for traces of the escaped convict who was known to cherish so great an enmity to Lucilla. Chester made no lover-like advances to the girl he so coveted, because so far he had been unable to win her father's consent, but he was glad to seize every opportunity to be with her and do his best to make himself necessary to her happiness. So far she seemed to look upon him as a pleasant friend, but nothing more; yet he was not altogether discouraged. He thought her worth long and patiently waiting for and much effort to win. One afternoon of a beautiful October day the captain remarked that he had an errand to the town, and asked who would like to go with him. "I should like it," said Violet, "but cannot very well, as I am to have a dress fitted." "And you, Grace, had so long a ride this morning that you are too tired for another, I presume?" her father said inquiringly. "Yes, papa," she said; "though I love to ride with you for my escort, I believe I am too tired for anything but a rest and nap this afternoon." "So, father, I'm afraid you can not secure any better company than mine," remarked Lucilla with an amused little laugh. "So it seems," he said. "Well, since I can do no better, I will accept yours if it be offered me." "It is, then, sir; and I promise to be ready at any hour you appoint." "We will start early, shortly after leaving the table, that we may get home before dark," he said, with a look and smile that seemed to say her company would be very acceptable. The roads were good, the horses fresh and lively; and they had a delightful ride going to Union, and also returning--until near home. Chester had joined them, and the captain, seeing something in a field belonging to his estate that he wanted to examine, told the others to ride on and he would follow very shortly. They did as he requested, but had not gone more than a hundred yards when a man suddenly rose from behind a bush, pistol in hand, and fired, taking aim at Lucilla. But Chester had seized her bridle at the instant of the rising of the figure, and backed both her horse and his just in time to escape the shot which whizzed past them over the horses' heads. Chester instantly snatched a pistol from his pocket, took aim at the miscreant, and fired at the same instant that the scoundrel sent a second shot in their direction. Then the wounded murderer dropped and lay still as death, while Chester dismounted, reeled, and fell by the roadside--dead, as Lucilla thought in wild distress. She dismounted and went to him. "Oh, Chester, Chester, where are you hurt?" she cried in sore distress. He seemed to be unconscious, and she did not know whether he was dead or alive. But the next moment her father was beside her with two or three of the men employed on the estate. "Oh, papa, he has died for me!" she cried, hot tears streaming down her face. "No, he is not dead, daughter," her father said in tender tones. "But we will never forget the service he has done us this day." "No, sah, Mars Chess's alive, sho 'nuff," said one of the men; "an' we'll git Doctah Arthur or Doctah Harold or Herbert here, and dey'll cure him up, sho's a gun." "Yes; go after one of them as fast as you can. Catch Mr. Chester's horse and ride him; then take him to The Oaks and leave him there. Mr. Chester must be carried carefully into Woodburn and nursed there--as long as he needs it. Well, is that fellow living or dead?" he asked of one of the men who had climbed the fence and was stooping over the prostrate form of the convict. "Dead, cap'ain; dead as anything. He won' do no mo' mischief in dis worl'." "Poor wretch!" sighed the captain. Then he gave directions to the men to go to the house and bring from there a cot-bed on which they could carry the wounded man without increasing his suffering by unnecessary jolts and jars. All this time Lucilla was standing by her father's side, trembling and weeping. "Oh, papa, I'm afraid he has given his life for mine," she sobbed. "I hope not, dear child," he said; "he is living, and I hope his wound will not prove mortal. In saving my daughter's life he has done me a service that I can never repay, and I hope it is not to cost him his own life." At that moment Chester's eyes opened, and Lucilla never forgot the look of joy and love that he gave her. "Thank God, you are alive and unhurt," he said, in a low tone and gasping for breath. "But, oh, Chester, you are so terribly injured," she sobbed. "I am afraid you are suffering very much." "Don't weep. I can bear it," he said. "My dear fellow, don't try to talk any more now," said the captain. "I have sent for one or more of our doctors, and here come my men with a cot-bed to carry you to Woodburn, where you must stay until you are entirely well." "You are most kind, captain," murmured the half-fainting young man, "but----" "No, no; don't try to talk. I can never repay you for saving my child," the captain said with emotion. Chester's only reply was a look at Lucilla that seemed to say that nothing could be too costly if done for her. "And, oh, what a debt of gratitude I owe you!" she exclaimed. "I can never repay it." "Dearest, I would give my life for yours at any time," he responded. The words and the look that accompanied them were a revelation to Lucilla. The look of a moment before had surprised her, and raised a question in her mind as to just what she was to him; but there was no mistaking this. He loved her; loved her well enough to die in her stead. But the men were at hand with the cot, and under the captain's direction the wounded man was lifted carefully and tenderly, laid upon it, and carried to the house, the captain on his horse, and Lucilla on her pony, following closely. In the meantime Violet and Christine had made ready a bed in the room occupied by Captain Raymond at the time of his injury from being thrown by Thunderer, and there they laid Chester, just as Drs. Arthur Conly and Harold Travilla arrived, having come with all possible haste at the summons sent by the captain. Violet, Lucilla, and Grace, seated on the veranda, anxiously awaited the doctors' verdict. It was Harold who brought it at length. "The wound is a serious one," he said in reply to their looks of earnest inquiry; "but we have succeeded in removing the ball, and do not by any means despair of his life." "Oh, I hope he will recover," sobbed Lucilla; "for if he does not, I shall always feel that he has given his life for mine." "But it was through no fault of yours, Lu; you were not in the least to blame," said Harold soothingly. "And you can pray for his recovery; we all will. But don't worry and fret; for that will only make you unhappy and perhaps ill, and do him no good." "That is good advice, Harold," said her father, who had joined them just in time to hear it; "worrying about what may happen only unfits us for present duty, and makes us less able to meet the trouble when it comes." "That scoundrel is dead?" Harold said half inquiringly. "Yes; Chester's shot, fired simultaneously with his, was fatal. He dropped, and, I think, died almost instantly. Poor wretch! the world is well rid of him; but what has become of his soul?" "Oh, I don't believe Chester meant to kill him outright!" exclaimed Lucilla; "I believe he was only thinking of saving my life." "And to kill the wretch who was trying to kill you seemed to be the only way of doing that," said Harold. "But I must go," he added, rising. "We think we must have a professional nurse for Chester. I happen to know of one who has just finished an engagement, and I am going for her at once, if you do not object to having her in the house, Vi--you or the captain." Both promptly replied that they would be glad to have her there, and Harold at once set out upon his errand. For some days Chester lay half unconscious, and apparently hovering upon the brink of the grave, while those who loved him watched and waited in intense anxiety. Then a change came, and the doctors said he would recover. Lucilla heard it with a burst of weeping that seemed more like the expression of despair and sorrow than the relief and joy that really filled her heart. It was her father who told her the glad news, and they were alone together in the library. He drew her into his arms and held her close. "It is altogether glad news, dear child," he said; "Chester is a Christian and a young man of talent who will lead a useful life, I think, and it would have been a bitter sorrow to have had him fall a victim to that worthless, cowardly convict." "And in my defence," she sobbed. "Oh, papa, it makes my heart ache to think how he has suffered because of risking his life in the effort to save mine." "Yes; I am very grateful to him--so grateful that I feel I can refuse him nothing that he may ask of me--even though it should be the the hand of my dear eldest daughter." She gave him a look of surprise, while her cheek grew hot with blushes. "You know that he wants it--that he loves you. He made it very plain as we stood by him in the road soon after he fell." "Yes, sir; and I have thought of it very often since. It surprised me very much, for I had never thought of him as a lover." "And how is it now?" asked her father, as she paused; "do you care for him at all? can you give him any return of affection?" "Papa," she said, hiding her blushing face on his shoulder, and speaking in so low a tone that he scarcely caught the words, "I seem to have learned to love him since knowing of his love to me and that he had almost, if not quite, thrown away his own life to save mine. But you are not willing that he should tell his love?--not willing to give me to him, however much he may desire it?" "I am too grateful to him to refuse him anything he may ask for--even to the daughter who is so dear to me that I can scarcely bear the thought of resigning her to another." "Oh, father, how could I ever endure to be parted from you!" she cried, clinging more closely to him. "Dear child," he said, holding her close; "we will make it a condition that you shall not be taken away to any distance. And, in any event, you are still too young to leave your father; you must remain single and live with me for at least a year or two longer." "Oh, I am glad to hear you say that!" she said. "Papa, has Chester said anything to you?" she asked. "Yes; he has several times begged permission to tell you of his love and try to win yours. I have hitherto refused because of your youth, but shall now let him have his way." * * * * * "You are improving fast, and I hope will soon be able to be up and about again," the captain said to Chester, a few days later. "Yes," said the young man, "I begin to feel as if I had taken a new lease of life and--ah, captain, if I could at last find such favor in your eyes that you would consent to----" His sentence was left unfinished. "To letting you tell your tale of love?" Captain Raymond asked with a smile. "Just that, sir. I cannot help fearing it may prove useless, but--anything is better than suspense; which I feel that I have hardly strength to endure any longer." "Nor can I any longer ask that of you, since you have freely risked your life for hers," returned the captain with emotion. "Your nurse being out just now, this is a good opportunity, and I will bring my daughter to you and let you have it out," he concluded in a jesting tone, and left the room as he spoke. Lucilla happened to be near at hand, and almost immediately her father had brought her to Chester's bedside. She knew nothing of the talk that had been going on, yet, remembering her conversation with her father a few days before, came to the bedside blushing and slightly embarrassed. "I am very glad you are better, Chester," she said, laying her hand in his as he held it out to her. "What a hard, hard time you have had, and all because you risked your life to save mine." "I'm not sorry I did, and would do it again without a moment's hesitation," he said. "Oh, Lu, if I could but tell you how dear you are to me! Can you not give me a little love in return?" "Oh, Chester, how could I help it, when you have almost died for me?" she asked, bursting into tears. "Don't be distressed over that, dear one," he returned, pressing the hand he still held in his, then lifting it to his lips. "Will you be mine?" he asked imploringly. "If papa consents, and you will never take me far away from him." "He has consented, and I will never take you anywhere that you do not want to go. We will live here among our own dear ones as long as the Lord spares us to each other." As he finished he drew her down to him, and their lips met. "We belong to each other now," he said, "and I hope both of us will always rejoice that it is so." "I hope you will, my dear children," said the captain. "And now, Chester, get well as fast as you can. I cannot give Lucilla up entirely to you for a year or more yet, but you can visit her here every day if you like." So the young couple were engaged, and very happy in each other, Chester making rapid improvement in health from the hour when he was assured of the prosperity of his suit. The betrothal was soon made known to all the connection, and seemed to give satisfaction to everyone. Sydney had gone South before Chester's encounter with the escaped convict, and she and Maud wrote their congratulations. Frank was pleased, and came oftener than before to Woodburn. Lucilla's bosom friend, Evelyn, approved of the match, and hoped Lu would be a happy wife, but thought she herself would prefer to live single. Grace was half-pleased, half-sorry because she did not seem quite so necessary to her sister's happiness as before. Captain Raymond did not at all enjoy the thought of even a partial giving up of his daughter to the care of another, but tried to forget that the time was coming when it must be done. That Max was expected home in a few weeks made that difficult task somewhat easier. All were looking joyfully forward to that happy event. THE END. A LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS AND OTHER POPULAR BOOKS BY MARTHA FINLEY _ELSIE DINSMORE._ _ELSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS._ _ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD._ _ELSIE'S WOMANHOOD._ _ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD._ _ELSIE'S CHILDREN._ _ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD._ _GRANDMOTHER ELSIE._ _ELSIE'S NEW RELATIONS._ _ELSIE AT NANTUCKET._ _THE TWO ELSIES._ _ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN._ _ELSIE'S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN._ _CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE._ _ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS._ _ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS._ _ELSIE'S VACATION._ _ELSIE AT VIAMEDE._ _ELSIE AT ION._ _ELSIE AT THE WORLD'S FAIR._ _ELSIE'S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS._ _ELSIE AT HOME._ _ELSIE ON THE HUDSON._ _ELSIE IN THE SOUTH._ _ELSIE'S YOUNG FOLKS._ _MILDRED KEITH._ _MILDRED AT ROSELANDS._ _MILDRED'S MARRIED LIFE._ _MILDRED AND ELSIE._ _MILDRED AT HOME._ _MILDRED'S BOYS AND GIRLS._ _MILDRED'S NEW DAUGHTER._ _CASELLA._ _SIGNING THE CONTRACT AND WHAT IT COST._ _THE TRAGEDY OF WILD RIVER VALLEY._ _OUR FRED._ _AN OLD-FASHIONED BOY._ _WANTED, A PEDIGREE._ _THE THORN IN THE NEST._ 
32103	----	ELSIE IN THE SOUTH BY MARTHA FINLEY AUTHOR OF THE ELSIE BOOKS, THE MILDRED BOOKS, "WANTED, A PEDIGREE," ETC. NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. _All rights reserved._ THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, RAHWAY, N. J. ELSIE IN THE SOUTH CHAPTER I. "What a storm! there will be no going out to-day even for the early stroll about the grounds with papa," sighed Lucilla Raymond one December morning, as she lay for a moment listening to the dash of rain and sleet against her bedroom windows. "Ah, well! I must not fret, knowing who appoints the changes of the seasons, and that all He does is for the best," her thoughts ran on. "Besides, what pleasures we can all have within doors in this sweetest of homes and with the dearest and kindest of fathers!" With that she left her bed and began the duties of the toilet, first softly closing the communicating door between her own and her sister's sleeping apartments lest she should disturb Grace's slumbers, then turning on the electric light in both bedroom and bathroom, for, though after six, it was still dark. The clock on the mantel struck seven before she was quite through with these early morning duties, but the storm had in no wise abated in violence, and as she heard it she felt sure that outdoor exercise was entirely out of the question. "And I'll not see Chester to-day," she sighed half-aloud. "It was evident when he was here last night that he had taken a cold, and I hope he won't think of venturing out in such weather as this." Just then the door into Grace's room opened and her sweet voice said, "Good-morning, Lu. As usual, you are up and dressed before your lazy younger sister has begun the duties of the toilet." "Take care what you say, young woman," laughed Lucilla, facing round upon her. "I am not going to have my delicate younger sister slandered in that fashion. She is much too feeble to leave her bed at the early hour which suits her older and stronger sister." "Very kind in you to see it in that light," laughed Grace. "But I must make haste now with my dressing. Papa may be coming in directly, for it is certainly much too stormy for him and you to take your usual stroll in the grounds." "It certainly is," assented Lu. "Just listen to the hail and rain dashing against the windows. And there comes papa now," she added, as a tap was heard at their sitting-room door. She ran to open it and receive the fatherly caress that always accompanied his morning greeting to each one of his children. "Grace is not up yet?" he said inquiringly, as he took possession of an easy-chair. "Yes, papa, but not dressed yet; so that I shall have you to myself for a while," returned Lu in a cheery tone and seating herself on an ottoman at his knee. "A great privilege that," he said with a smile, passing a hand caressingly over her hair as he spoke. "It is storming hard, so that you and I must do without our usual early exercise about the grounds." "Yes, sir; and I am sorry to miss it, though a chat with my father here and now is not so bad an exchange." "I think we usually have that along with the walk," he said, smiling down into the eyes that were gazing so lovingly up into his. "Yes, sir, so we do; and you always manage to make the shut-in days very enjoyable." "It is what I wish to do. Lessons can go on as usual with you and Grace as well as with the younger ones, and after that we can have reading, music, and quiet games." "And Grace and I have some pretty fancy work to do for Christmas time." "Ah, yes! and I presume you will both be glad to have a little--or a good deal--of extra money with which to purchase gifts or materials for making them." "If you feel quite able to spare it, father," she returned with a pleased smile; "but not if it will make you feel in the least cramped for what you want to spend yourself." "I can easily spare you each a hundred dollars," he said in a cheery tone. "Will that be enough, do you think?" "Oh, I shall feel rich!" she exclaimed. "How very good, kind, and liberal you are to us and all your children, papa." "And fortunate in being able to be liberal to my dear ones. There is no greater pleasure than that of gratifying them in all right and reasonable desires. I think that as soon as the weather is suitable for a visit to the city we will take a trip there for a day's shopping. Have you and Grace decided upon any particular articles that you would like to give?" "We have been doing some bits of fancy work, father, and making up some warm clothing for the old folks and children among our poor neighbors--both white and colored; also a few things for our house servants. And to let you into a secret," she added with a smile and a blush, "I am embroidering some handkerchiefs for Chester." "Ah, that is right!" he said. "Chester will value a bit of your handiwork more than anything else that you could bestow upon him." "Except perhaps the hand itself," she returned with a low, gleeful laugh. "But that he knows he cannot have for some time," her father said, taking in his the one resting on the arm of his chair. "This belongs to me at present and it is my fixed purpose to hold it in possession for at least some months to come." "Yes, sir; I know that and highly approve of your intention. Please never give up your claim to your eldest daughter so long as we both live." "No, daughter, nothing is further from my thoughts," he said with a smile that was full of affection. "What do you want from Santa Claus, papa?" she asked. "Really, I have not considered that question," he laughed; "but anything my daughters choose to give me will be highly appreciated." "It is pleasant to know that, father dear; and now please tell me what you think would be advisable to get for Mamma Vi, Elsie, and Ned." That question was under discussion for some time, and the conclusion was arrived at that it could not be decided until their visit to the city stores to see what might be offered there. Then Grace joined them, exchanged greetings and caresses with her father, and as the call to breakfast came at that moment, the three went down together, meeting Violet and the younger children on the way. They were a cheerful party, all at the table seeming to enjoy their meal and chatting pleasantly as they ate. Much of their talk was of the approaching Christmas and what gifts would be appropriate for different ones and likely to prove acceptable. "Can't we send presents to brother Max, papa?" asked Ned. "Hardly, I think," was the reply, "but we can give him some when he comes home next month." "And he'll miss all the good times the rest of us have. It's just too bad!" replied Ned. "We will try to have some more good times when he is with us," said the captain cheerily. "Oh, so we can!" was Neddie's glad response. The captain and the young people spent the morning in the schoolroom as usual. In the afternoon Dr. Conly called. "I came in principally on your account, Lu," he said, when greetings had been exchanged. "Chester has taken a rather severe cold so that I, as his physician, have ordered him to keep within doors for the present; which he deeply regrets because it cuts him off from his daily visits here." "Oh, is he very ill?" she asked, vainly trying to make her tones quite calm and indifferent. "Oh, no! only in danger of becoming so unless he takes good care of himself." "And you will see to it that he does so, Cousin Arthur?" Violet said in a sprightly, half-inquiring tone. "Yes; so far as I can," returned the doctor, with a slight smile. "My patients, unfortunately, are not always careful to obey orders." "When they don't the doctor cannot be justly blamed for any failure to recover," remarked the captain. "But I trust Chester will show himself docile and obedient." "Which I dare say he will if Lu sides strongly with the doctor," Grace remarked, giving Lucilla an arch look and smile. "My influence, if I have any, shall all be on that side," was Lucilla's quiet rejoinder. "He and I might have a bit of chat over the telephone, if he is able to go to it." "Able enough for that," said the doctor, "but too hoarse, I think, to make himself intelligible. However, you can talk to him, bidding him to be careful, and for your sake to follow the doctor's directions." "Of course I shall do that," she returned laughingly, "and surely he will not venture to disregard my orders." "Not while he is a lover and liable to be sent adrift by his lady-love," said Violet, in sportive tone. Just then the telephone bell rang and the captain and Lulu hastened to it. It proved to be Mrs. Dinsmore of the Oaks, who called to them with a message from Chester to his affianced--a kindly greeting, a hope that she and all the family were well, and an expression of keen regret that he was, and probably would be for some days, unable to pay his accustomed visit to Woodburn. "There, daughter, take your place and reply as you deem fit," said Captain Raymond, stepping aside from the instrument. Lucilla at once availed herself of the permission. "Aunt Sue," she called, "please tell Chester we are all very sorry for his illness, but hope he may soon be well. We think he will if he is careful to follow the doctor's directions. And when this storm is over probably some of us will call at the Oaks to inquire concerning his welfare." A moment's silence; then came the reply. "Chester says, thank you; he will be glad to see any or all of the Woodburn people; but you must not venture out till the storm is over." "We won't," returned Lucilla. "Good-by." And she and her father returned to the parlor where they had left the others, with their report of the interview. Two stormy days followed; then came one that was bright and clear and they gladly availed themselves of the opportunity to go to the city, do their Christmas shopping, and call at the Oaks on their return. They reached home tired, but in excellent spirits, having been very successful in making their purchases, and found Chester recovering from his cold. From that day until Christmas time the ladies and little girls of the connection were very busy in preparing gifts for their dear ones; Grandma Elsie as well as the rest. She did not come so often to Woodburn as was her custom, and the visits she did make were short and hurried. Chester was a more frequent caller after partially recovering from his cold, but even while he was there Lucilla worked busily with her needle, though never upon the gift intended for him. She now wore and highly prized a beautiful diamond ring which he had given her in token of their betrothal, though she had told him at the time of its bestowal that she feared it had cost more than he could well afford. At which he laughed, telling her that nothing could be too good or expensive for one so lovely and charming as herself. "In your partial eyes," she returned with a smile. "Ah, it is very true that love is blind. Oh, Chester! I often wonder what you ever found to fancy in me!" In reply to that he went over quite a list of the attractive qualities he had discovered in her. "Ah," she laughed, "you are not blind to my perhaps imaginary good qualities, but see them through multiplying glasses; which is certainly very kind in you. But, oh, dear! I'm afraid you'll find out your mistake one of these days!" "Don't be disturbed. I'll risk it," he laughed. Then added more seriously, "Oh, Lu, darling, I think I'm a wonderfully fortunate fellow in regard to the matter of my suit for your heart and hand." "I wish you may never see cause to change your mind, you dear boy!" she said, glad tears springing to her eyes, "but ah, me! I fear you will when you know me better." "Ah," he said teasingly, "considering our long and rather intimate acquaintance, I think you are not giving me credit for any great amount of discernment." "Well," she laughed, "as regards my faults and failings probably the less you have of that the better for me." They were alone in the library and the house was very quiet, most of the family having already retired to their sleeping rooms. Presently Captain Raymond came in, saying with his pleasant smile, "I should be sorry to seem inhospitable, Chester, but it is growing late and I am loath to have my daughter lose her beauty sleep. Don't for a moment think I want to hurry you away from Woodburn, though; the room you occupied during your illness is at your service and you are a most welcome guest." "Many thanks, captain; but I think I should go back to the Oaks at once lest someone should be waiting up for me. I should have brought my night key, but neglected to do so," Chester replied, and in a few minutes took leave. The captain secured the door after him, then turned to Lucilla, saying: "Now, daughter, you may bid me good-night, then make prompt preparations for bed." "Oh, papa, let me stay five minutes with you," she entreated. "See, I have something to show you," holding out her hand in a way to display Chester's gift to advantage. Her father took the hand in his. "Ah, an engagement ring!" he said with a smile; "and a very handsome one it is. Well, dear child, I hope it may always have most pleasant associations to you." "I should enjoy it more if I were quite sure Chester could well afford it," she said with a half sigh. "Don't let that trouble you," said her father. "Chester is doing very well, and probably your father will be able to give some assistance to you and him at the beginning of your career as a married couple. Should Providence spare me my present income, my dear eldest daughter shall not be a portionless bride." "Papa, you are very, very good to me!" she exclaimed with emotion, "the very dearest and best of fathers! I can hardly bear to think of living away from you, even though it may not be miles distant." "Dear child," he said, drawing her into his arms, "I do not intend it shall be even one mile. My plan is to build a house for you and Chester right here on the estate, over yonder in the grove. Some day in the near future we three will go together and select the exact spot." "Oh, papa, what a delightful idea!" she exclaimed, looking up into his face with eyes dancing with pleasure; "for I may hope to see almost as much of you as I do now, living in the same house." "Yes, daughter mine; that is why I want to have your home so near. Now bid me good-night and get to bed with all speed," he concluded with a tender caress. CHAPTER II. "They are going to have a Christmas tree at Ion, one at Fairview, one at Roselands, and I suppose one at the Oaks," remarked Ned Raymond one morning at the breakfast table. "But I guess folks think Elsie and I have grown too old for such things," he added in a tone of melancholy resignation and with a slight sigh. "A very sensible conclusion, my son," said the captain cheerfully, with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. "But now that you have grown so manly you can enjoy more than ever giving to others. The presents you have bought for your little cousins can be sent to be put on their trees, those for the poor to the schoolhouses; and if you choose you can be there to see the pleasure with which they are received. Remember what the Bible says: 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.'" "Oh, yes, so it is!" cried the little fellow, his face brightening very much. "I do like to give presents and see how pleased folks look that get them." "And as papa is so liberal to all of us in the matter of pocket money, we can every one of us have that pleasure," said Grace. "Yes; and I know we're going to," laughed Ned. "We didn't go so many times to the city and stay so long there for nothing. And I don't believe grandma and papa and mamma did either." "No," said his mother; "and I don't believe anybody--children, friend, relative, servant, or poor neighbor--will find himself neglected. And I am inclined to think the gifts will be enjoyed even if we have no tree." "Oh, yes, mamma! and I'm glad to be the big fellow that I am, even if it does make me have to give up some of the fun I had when I was small," Ned remarked with an air of satisfaction. "And to-night will be Christmas Eve, won't it, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes, daughter; and some of us will be going this afternoon to trim the tree in the schoolhouse. Do you, Elsie and Ned, want to be of the party?" "Oh, yes, sir! yes, indeed!" was the joyous answering exclamation of both. Then Elsie asked: "Are you going too, mamma? Sisters Lu and Gracie too?" glancing inquiringly at them. All three replied that they would like to go, but had some work to finish at home. A part of that work was the trimming of the tree, which was brought in and set up after the departure of the captain, Elsie, and Ned for the schoolhouse. Violet's brothers, Harold and Herbert, came in and gave their assistance as they had done some years before when Max, Lucilla, and Grace had been the helpers of their father at the schoolhouse. The young girls had enjoyed that, but this was even better, as those for whom its fruits were intended were nearer and dearer. They had a merry, happy time embellishing the tree with many ornaments, and hanging here and there mysterious packages, each carefully wrapped and labelled with the name of its intended recipient. "There!" said Violet at length, stepping back a little and taking a satisfied survey, "I think we have finished." "Not quite," said Harold. "But you and the girls may please retire while Herbert and I attend to some small commissions of our good brother--the captain." "Ah! I was not aware that he had given you any," laughed Violet. "But come, girls, we will slip away and leave them to their own devices." "I am entirely willing to do so," returned Lucilla gayly, following in her wake as she left the room. "I, too," said Grace, hastening after them, "for one never loses by falling in with papa's plans." "What is it, Harold?" asked Herbert. "The captain has not let me into his secret." "Only that his gifts to them--his wife and daughters--are in this closet and to be taken out now and added to the fruits of this wondrous tree," replied Harold, taking a key from his pocket and unlocking a closet door. "Ah! something sizable, I should say," laughed Herbert, as four large pasteboard boxes came into view. "Yes; what do you suppose they contain?" returned his brother, as they drew them out. "Ah, this top one--somewhat smaller than the others--bears little Elsie's name, I see, and the other three must be for Vi, Lu, and Grace. Probably they are new cloaks or some sort of wraps." "Altogether likely," assented Herbert. "Well, when they are opened in the course of the evening, we shall see how good a guess we have made. And here," taking a little package from his pocket, "is something Chester committed to my care as his Christmas gift to his betrothed." "Ah! do you know what it is?" "Not I," laughed Herbert, "but though a great deal smaller than her father's present, it may be worth more as regards moneyed value." "Yes; and possibly more as regards the giver; though Lu is evidently exceedingly fond of her father." "Yes, indeed! as all his children are and have abundant reason to be." Herbert hung the small package on a high branch, then said: "These large boxes we will pile at the foot of the tree; Vi's at the bottom, Elsie's at the top, the other two in between." "A very good arrangement," assented Herbert, assisting him. "There, we have quite finished and I feel pretty well satisfied with the result of our labors," said Harold, stepping a little away from the tree and scanning it critically from top to bottom. "Yes," assented Herbert, "it is about as attractive a Christmas tree as I ever saw. It is nearing tea time now and the captain and the children will doubtless soon return. I think I shall accept his and Vi's invitation to stay to that meal; as you will, will you not?" "Yes; if no call comes for my services elsewhere." And with that they went out, Harold locking the door and putting the key into his pocket. They found the ladies in one of the parlors and chatted there with them until the Woodburn carriage was seen coming up the drive. It drew up before the door and presently Elsie and Ned came bounding in, merry and full of talk about all they had done and seen at the schoolhouse. "We had just got all the things on the tree when the folks began to come," Elsie said: "and oh, Mamma, it was nice to see how glad they were to get their presents! I heard one little girl say to another, 'this is the purtiest bag, with the purtiest candy and the biggest orange ever I seed.' And the one she was talking to said, 'Yes, and so's mine. And aint these just the goodest cakes!' After that they each--each of the girls in the school I mean--had two pair of warm stockings and a woollen dress given them, and they went wild with delight." "Yes; and the boys were just as pleased with their coats and shoes," said Ned. "And the old folks too with what they got, I guess. I heard some of them thank papa and say he was a very good, kind gentleman." "As we all think," said Violet, with a pleased smile. "But come upstairs with me now; for it is almost tea time and you need to be made neat for your appearance at the table." They were a merry party at the tea table and enjoyed their fare, but did not linger long over it. On leaving the table, Violet led the way to the room where she, her brothers, and Lucilla and Grace had been so busy; Harold produced the key and threw the door open, giving all a view of the Christmas tree with its tempting fruits and glittering ornaments. Ned, giving a shout of delight, rushed in to take a nearer view, Elsie following close in his wake, the older ones not far behind her. Christine, having another key to the door, had been there before them and lighted up the room and the tree so that it could be seen to the very best advantage. "Oh, what a pile of big, big boxes!" exclaimed Elsie. "And there's my name on the top one! Oh, papa, may I open it?" His only reply was a smile as he threw off the lid and lifted out a very handsome baby astrakhan fur coat. "Oh! oh!" she cried, "is it for me, papa?" "If it fits you," he replied. "Let me help you to try it on." He suited the action to the word, while Harold lifted the box and pointing to the next one, said, "This seems to be yours, Gracie. Shall I lift the lid for you?" "Oh, yes, if you please," she cried. "Oh! oh! one for me too! Oh, how lovely!" as another baby astrakhan fur coat came to light. He put it about her shoulders while Harold lifted away that box and, pointing to the address on the next, asked Lucilla if he should open that for her. "Yes, indeed! if you please," she answered, her eyes shining with pleasure. He did so at once, bringing to light a very handsome sealskin coat. "Oh, how lovely! how lovely!" she exclaimed, examining it critically. "Papa, thank you ever so much!" "You are heartily welcome, daughters, both of you," he said; for Grace too was pouring out her thanks, her lovely blue eyes sparkling with delight. And now Violet's box yielded up its treasure--a mate to Lu's--and she joined the young girls in their thanks to the giver and expressions of appreciation of the gift. "Here, Lu, I see this bears your name," said Harold, taking a small package from the tree and handing it to her. She took it, opened it, and held up to view a beautiful gold chain and locket. As she opened the latter, "From Chester," she said with a blush and a smile, "and oh, what a good likeness!" "His own?" asked Violet. "Ah, yes! and a most excellent one," she added, as Lucilla held it out for her inspection. All, as they crowded around to look, expressed the same opinion. "Oh, here's another big bundle!" exclaimed Ned; "and with your name, mamma, on it! And it's from grandma. See!" pointing to the label. "Let me open it for you, my dear," said the captain, and doing so brought to light a tablecloth and dozen napkins of finest damask, with Violet's initials beautifully embroidered in the corner of each. "Oh, they are lovely!" she said with a look of delight, "and worth twice as much for having such specimens of mamma's work upon them. I know of nothing she could have given me which I would have prized more highly." There was still more--a great deal more fruit upon that wonderful tree; various games, books, and toys for the children of the family and the servants; suitable gifts for the parents of the latter, useful and handsome articles for Christine and Alma, and small remembrances for different members of the family from relatives and friends. Chester joined them before the distribution was quite over and was highly pleased with his share, especially the handkerchiefs embroidered by the deft fingers of his betrothed. The captain too seemed greatly pleased with his as well as with various other gifts from his wife, children, and friends. The distribution over, Violet's brothers hastened to Ion to go through a similar scene there. And much the same thing was in progress at the home of each of the other families of the connection. Grandma Elsie's gift to each daughter, including Zoe, was similar to that given to Violet, tablecloth and napkins of the finest damask, embroidered by her own hands with the initials of the recipient--a most acceptable present to each. Ned had received a number of very gratifying presents and considered himself as having fared well; but Christmas morning brought him a glad surprise. When breakfast and family worship were over his father called him to the outer door and pointing to a handsome pony grazing near at hand, said in his pleasant tones, "There is a Christmas gift from Captain Raymond to his youngest son. What do you think of it, my boy?" "Oh, papa," cried the little fellow, clapping his hands joyously, "thank you, thank you! It's just the very best present you could have thought of for me! He's a little beauty and I'll be just as good to him as I know how to be." "I hope so indeed," said his father; "and if you wish you may ride him over to Ion this morning." "Oh, yes, papa! but mayn't I ride him about here a while just now, so as to be sure I'll know how to manage him on the road?" "Why, yes; I think that's a good idea; but first put on your overcoat and cap. The air is too cool for a ride without them." "Oh, mamma and sisters!" cried Ned, turning about to find them standing near as most interested spectators, "haven't I got just the finest of all the Christmas gifts from papa?" "The very best for you, I think, sonny boy," returned his mother, giving him a hug and a kiss. "And we are all very glad for you," said Grace. "I as well as the rest, dear Ned," added Elsie, her eyes shining with pleasure. "And we expect you to prove yourself a brave and gallant horseman, very kind and affectionate to your small steed," added Lucilla, looking with loving appreciation into the glad young face. "Yes, indeed, I do mean to be ever so good to him," rejoined the little lad, rushing to the hat-stand and, with his mother's help, hastily assuming his overcoat and cap. "I'm all ready, papa," he shouted the next moment, racing out to the veranda where the captain was giving directions to a servant. "Yes, my son, and so shall I be when I have slipped on my coat and cap," returned his father, taking them, with a smile of approval, from Lucilla, who had just brought them. The next half hour passed very delightfully to little Ned, learning under his father's instruction to manage skilfully his small steed. Having had some lessons before in the riding and management of a pony, he succeeded so well that, to his extreme satisfaction, he was allowed to ride it to Ion and exhibit it there, where its beauty and his horsemanship were commented upon and admired to his heart's content. The entire connection was invited to take Christmas dinner at Ion, and when they gathered about the table not one was missing. Everybody seemed in excellent spirits and all were well excepting Chester, who had a troublesome cough. "I don't quite like that cough, Chester," said Dr. Conly at length, "and if you ask me for a prescription it will be a trip to Florida." "Thank you, Cousin Art," returned Chester with a smile. "That would be a most agreeable medicine if I could spare the time and take with me the present company, or even a part of it." "Meaning Lu, I presume, Ches," laughed Zoe. "Among the rest; she is one of the present company," he returned pleasantly. "What do you say, captain, to taking your family down there for a few weeks?" asked Dr. Conly, adding, "I don't think it would be a bad thing for Grace." "I should have no objection if any of my family need it, or if they all wish to go," said the captain, looking at his wife and older daughters as he spoke. "A visit to Florida would be something new and very pleasant, I think," said Violet. "As I do, papa," said Grace. "Thank you for recommending it for me, Cousin Arthur," she added, giving him a pleased smile. "Being very healthy I do not believe I need it, but I should greatly enjoy going with those who do," said Lucilla, adding in an aside to Chester, who sat next her, "I do hope you can go and get rid of that trying cough." "Perhaps after a while; not just yet," was his low-toned reply. "I hardly know what I should like better." "Well, don't let business hinder; your life and health are of far more importance than that, or anything else." His only answer to that was a smile which spoke appreciation of her solicitude for him. No more was said on the subject just then, but it was talked over later in the evening and quite a number of those present seemed taken with a desire to spend a part of the winter in Florida. Chester admitted that by the last of January he could probably go without sacrificing the interests of his clients, and the captain remarked that by that time Max would be at home and could go with them. Grandma Elsie, her father and his wife, also Cousin Ronald and his Annis, pledged themselves to be of the party, and so many of the younger people hoped they might be able to join that it bade fair to be a large one. "Are we going in our yacht, papa?" asked Ned Raymond. "Some of us, perhaps, but it is unfortunately not large enough to hold us all comfortably," was the amused reply. "Not by any means," said Dr. Conly, "but the journey can be taken more quickly by rail, and probably more safely at this time of the year." Their plans were not matured before separating for the night, but it seemed altogether probable that quite a large company from that connection would visit Florida before the winter was over; and at the Woodburn breakfast the next morning the captain, in reply to some questions in regard to the history of that State, suggested that they, the family, should take up that study as a preparation for their expected visit there. "I will procure the needed books," he said, "and distribute them among you older ones to be read at convenient times during the day and reported upon when we are all together in the evenings." "An excellent idea, my dear," said Violet. "I think we will all enjoy it, for I know that Florida's history is an interesting one." "Were you ever there, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes; and I found it a lovely place to visit at the right time of the year." "That means the winter time, I suppose?" "Yes; we should find it unpleasantly warm in the summer." "How soon are we going, papa?" asked Ned. "Probably about the 1st of February." "To stay long?" "That will depend largely upon how we enjoy ourselves." "The study of the history of Florida will be very interesting, I am sure, father," said Lucilla; "but we will hardly find time for it until next week." "No," he replied, "I suppose not until after New Year's--as we are to go through quite a round of family reunions. But in the meantime I will, as I said, procure the needed books." "And shall we learn lessons in them in school time, papa?" asked Ned. "No, son; when we are alone together in the evenings--or have with us only those who care to have a share in learning all they can about Florida. Our readers may then take turns in telling the interesting facts they have learned from the books. Do you all like the plan?" All thought they should like it; so it was decided to carry it out. That week except Sunday was filled with a round of most enjoyable family festivities, now at the home of one part of the connection, now at another, and wound up with a New Year's dinner at Woodburn. There was a good deal of talk among them about Florida and the pleasure probably to be found in visiting it that winter, to say nothing of the benefit to the health of several of their company--Chester especially, as he still had a troublesome cough. "You should go by all means, Chester," said Dr. Conly, "and the sooner the better." "I think I can arrange to go by the 1st of February," replied Chester, "and shall be glad to do so if I can secure the good company of the rest of you, or even some of you." "Of one in particular, I presume," laughed his brother. "Will you take us in the yacht, my dear?" asked Violet, addressing her husband. "If the weather proves suitable we can go in that way--as many as the _Dolphin_ can accommodate comfortably. Though probably some of the company would prefer travelling by rail, as the speedier and, at this season, the safer mode," replied Captain Raymond. "If we take the yacht you, mamma, will go with us in it, of course," observed Violet. "Grandpa and Grandma, too." "Thank you, daughter, the yacht always seems very pleasant and homelike to me, and I have great confidence in my honored son-in-law as her commander," returned Mrs. Travilla, with a smiling look at the captain. He bowed his acknowledgments, saying, "Thank you, mother, I fully appreciate the kindness of that remark." Then turning to his wife's grandfather, "And you, sir, and your good wife, I hope may feel willing to be of our company should we decide to take the yacht?" "Thank you, captain; I think it probable we will," Mr. Dinsmore said in reply. "I wish my three brothers may be able to accompany us also," said Violet. Neither one of them felt certain of his ability to do so, but all thought it would be a pleasure indeed to visit Florida in such company. No one seemed ready yet for definite arrangements, but as the trip was not to be taken for a month prompt decision was not esteemed necessary, and shortly after tea most of them bade good-night and left for their homes. Chester was one of the last to go, but it was not yet very late when Lucilla and Grace sought their own little sitting-room and lingered there for a bit of chat together. Their father had said they need not hasten with their preparations for bed, as he was coming in presently for a few moments. They had hardly finished their talk when he came in. "Well, daughters," he said, taking a seat between them on the sofa and putting an arm about the waist of each, "I hope you have enjoyed this first day of a new year?" "Yes, indeed, papa," both replied. "And we hope you have also," added Grace. "I have," he said. "I think we may well be called a happy and favored family. But I wonder," he added with a smiling glance from one to the other, "if my older daughters have not been a trifle disappointed that their father has made them no New Year's gift of any account." "Why, papa!" they both exclaimed, "you gave us such elegant and costly Christmas gifts and each several valuable books to-day. We should be very ungrateful if we did not think that quite enough." "I am well satisfied that you should think it enough," he returned laughingly, "but I do not. Here is something more." As he spoke he took from his pocket two sealed envelopes and put one into the hand of each. They took them with a pleased, "Oh, thank you, papa!" and hastened to open them and examine the contents. "What is it, papa?" asked Grace with a slightly puzzled look at a folded paper found in hers. "A certificate of stock which will increase your allowance of pocket money to about ten dollars a week." "Oh, how nice! how kind and generous you are, papa!" she exclaimed, putting an arm about his neck and showering kisses on his lips and cheek. "And mine is just the same, is it not, papa?" asked Lucilla, taking her turn in bestowing upon him the same sort of thanks. "But oh, I am afraid you are giving us more than you can well spare!" "No, daughter dear," he said, "you need trouble yourselves with no fears on that score. Our kind heavenly Father has so prospered me that I can well afford it; and I have confidence in my dear girls that they will not waste it, but will use it wisely and well." "I hope so, papa," said Grace. "You have taught us that our money is a talent for which we will have to give an account." "Yes, daughter, I hope you will always keep that in mind, and be neither selfish nor wasteful in the use you put it to." "I do not mean to be either, papa," she returned; "and I may always consult you about it, may I not?" "Whenever it pleases you to do so I shall be happy to listen and advise you to the best of my ability," he answered with an affectionate look and smile. CHAPTER III. A few days later a package of books was received at Woodburn which, upon being opened, proved to be histories of Florida ordered by the captain from the neighboring city. They were hailed with delight by Violet and the older girls, who were cordially invited to help themselves, study up the subject in private, and report progress in the evenings. Each one of them selected a book, as did the captain also. "Aren't Elsie and I to help read them, papa?" asked Ned, in a slightly disappointed tone. "You may both do so if you choose," their father replied, "but I hardly think the books will prove juvenile enough to interest you as much as it will to hear from us older ones some account of their contents." "Oh, yes, papa! and your way is always best," exclaimed Elsie, her eyes beaming with pleasure. "Neddie," turning to her brother, "you know we always like listening to stories somebody tells us; even better than reading them for ourselves." "Yes, indeed!" he cried, "I like it a great deal better. I guess papa's way is best after all." Just then Chester came in and, when the usual greetings had been exchanged, glancing at the books, he exclaimed, "Ah, so they have come--your ordered works on Florida, captain?" "Yes; will you help yourself to one or more and join us in the gathering up of information in regard to the history, climate, productions, et cetera, of that part of our country?" "Thank you, captain, I will be very glad to do so," was the prompt and pleased reply. "Glad to join in your studies now and your visits to the localities afterward." "That last, I am thinking, will be the pleasantest part," said Grace; "but all the more enjoyable for doing this part well first." "Father," said Lucilla, "as you have visited Florida and know a great deal about its history, can't you begin our work of preparation for the trip by telling us something of the facts as we sit together in the library just after tea to-night?" "I can if it is desired by all of you," was the pleasant-toned reply. "Before Neddie and I have to go to bed, papa, please," exclaimed little Elsie coaxingly. "Yes, daughter, you and Neddie shall be of the audience," replied her father, patting affectionately the little hand she had laid upon his knee. "My lecture will not be a very lengthy one, and if not quite over by your usual bedtime, you and Ned, if not too sleepy to be interested listeners, may stay up until its conclusion." "Oh, thank you, sir!" exclaimed the little girl joyfully. "Thank you, papa," said her brother. "I'll not grow sleepy while you are telling the story, unless you make it very dull and stupid." "Why, son, have I ever done that?" asked his father, looking much amused, and Elsie exclaimed, "Why, Ned! papa's stories are always ever so nice and interesting." "Most always," returned the little fellow, hanging his head and blushing with mortification; "but I have got sleepy sometimes because I couldn't help it." "For which papa doesn't blame his little boy in the least," said the captain soothingly, drawing the little fellow to him and stroking his hair with caressing hand. At that moment wheels were heard on the drive and Grace, glancing from the window, exclaimed joyfully, "Oh, here comes the Ion carriage with Grandma Elsie and Evelyn in it. Now, papa, you will have quite an audience." "If they happen to want the same thing that the rest of you do," returned her father, as he left the room to welcome the visitors and help them to alight. They had come only for a call, but it was not very difficult to persuade them to stay and spend the night, sending back word to their homes by the coachman. In prospect of their intended visit to Florida they were as greatly interested as the others in learning all they could of its history and what would be the best points to visit in search of pleasure and profit. On leaving the tea table all gathered in the library, the ladies with their fancy needlework, Chester seated near his betrothed, the captain in an easy-chair with the little ones close beside him--one at each knee and both looking eagerly expectant; for they knew their father to be a good story-teller and thought the subject in hand one sure to prove very interesting. After a moment's silence in which the captain seemed to be absorbed in quiet thought, he began: "In the year 1512--that is nearly four hundred years ago--a Spaniard named Juan Ponce De Leon, who had amassed a fortune by subjugating the natives of the island of Puerto Rico, but had grown old and wanted to be young again, having heard of an Indian tradition that there was a land to the north where was a fountain, bathing in which, and drinking of the water freely, would restore youth and make one live forever--set sail in search of it. On the 21st day of April he landed upon the eastern shore of Florida, near the mouth of the St. Johns River. "The day was what the Romanists called Paschal Sunday, or the Sunday of the Feast of Flowers, and the land was very beautiful--with magnificent trees of various kinds, stalwart live-oaks, tall palm trees, the mournful cypress, and the brilliant dogwood. Waving moss drooped from the hanging boughs of the forest trees; golden fruit and lovely blossoms adorned those of the orange trees; while singing birds filled the air of the woods with music, and white-winged waterfowls skimmed quietly on the surface of the water. The ground was carpeted with green grass and beautiful flowers of various hues; also in the forest was an abundance of wild game, deer, turkeys, and so forth. "De Leon thought he had found the paradise of which he was in search. He went up the river, but by mistake took a chain of lakes, supposing them to be a part of the main river, and finally reached a great sulphur and mineral spring which is now called by his name. He did not stay long, but soon sailed southward to the end of the peninsula, then back to Puerto Rico. Nine years afterward he tried to plant a colony in Florida, but the Indians resisted and mortally wounded him. He retreated to Cuba and soon afterward died there." The captain paused in his narrative and Elsie asked, "Then did the Spaniards let the Indians have their own country in peace, papa?" "No," replied her father. "Cortez had meanwhile conquered Mexico, finding quantities of gold there, of which he basely robbed its people. He landed there in 1519 and captured the City of Mexico in 1521. "In the meantime Narvaez had tried to get possession of Florida, and its supposed treasures. He had asked and obtained of the king of Spain authority to conquer and govern it, with the title of Adelantado, his dominion to extend from Cape Florida to the River of Palms. "On the 14th of April he landed near Tampa Bay with four hundred armed men and eighty horses. "He and his men were entirely unsuccessful: they found no gold, the Indians were hostile, provisions scarce; and finally they built boats in which to escape from Florida. The boats were of a very rude sort and the men knew nothing about managing them. So, though they set sail, it was to make a most unsuccessful voyage. They nearly perished with cold and hunger and many were drowned in the sea. The boat that carried Narvaez was driven out to sea and nothing more was ever heard of him. Not more than four of his followers escaped." The captain paused for a moment, then turning to his wife, said pleasantly, "Well, my dear, suppose you take your turn now as narrator and give us a brief sketch of the doings of Fernando de Soto, the Spaniard who next undertook to conquer Florida." "Yes," said Violet, "I have been reading his story to-day with great interest, and though I cannot hope to nearly equal my husband as narrator, I shall just do the best I can. "History tells us that Cabeca de Vaca--one of the four survivors of the ill-fated expedition of Narvaez--went back to Spain and for purposes of his own spread abroad the story that Florida was the richest country yet discovered. That raised a great furor for going there. De Soto began preparations for an expedition and nobles and gentlemen contended for the privilege of joining it. "It was on the 18th of May, 1539, that De Soto left Cuba with one thousand men-at-arms and three hundred and fifty horses. He landed at Tampa Bay--on the west coast--on Whitsunday, 25th of May. His force was larger and of more respectable quality than any that had preceded it. And he was not so bad and cruel a man as his predecessor--Narvaez." "Did Narvaez do very bad things to the poor Indians, mamma?" asked Elsie. "Yes, indeed!" replied her mother; "in his treatment of them he showed himself a most cruel, heartless wretch. Wilmer, in his 'Ferdinand De Soto,' tells of a chief whom he calls Cacique Ucita, who, after forming a treaty of peace and amity with Pamphilo de Narvaez, had been most outrageously abused by him--his aged mother torn to pieces by dogs, in his absence from home, and when he returned and showed his grief and anger, himself seized and his nose cut off." "Oh, mamma, how very, very cruel!" cried Elsie. "Had Ucita's mother done anything to Narvaez to make him treat her so?" "Nothing except that she complained to her son of a Spaniard who had treated a young Indian girl very badly indeed. "Narvaez had shown himself an atrociously cruel man. So that it was no wonder the poor Indians hated him. How could anything else be expected of poor Ucita when he learned of the dreadful, undeserved death his poor mother had died, than that he would be, as he was, frantic with grief and anger, and make, as he did, threats of terrible vengeance against the Spaniards? But instead of acknowledging his cruelty and trying to make some amends, as I have said, Narvaez ordered him to be seized, scourged, and sadly mutilated. "Then, as soon as Ucita's subjects heard of all this, they hastened from every part of his dominions to avenge him upon the Spaniards. Perceiving their danger the Spaniards then fled with all expedition, and so barely escaped the vengeance they so richly deserved. "But to go back to my story of De Soto--he had landed a few miles from an Indian town which stood on the site of the present town of Tampa. He had with him two Indians whom he had been training for guides and interpreters; but to his great disappointment they escaped. "The Spaniards had captured some Indian women, and from them De Soto learned that a neighboring chief had in his keeping a captured Spaniard, one of the men of Narvaez. "After Narvaez landed he had sent back to Cuba one of his smaller vessels--on board of which was this Juan Ortiz--to carry the news of his safe arrival to his wife. She at once sent additional supplies by the same vessel and it reached the bay the day after Narvaez and his men had fled, as I have already told you, from the vengeance of the outraged Ucita and his indignant subjects. "Ortiz and those with him, seeing a letter fixed in a cleft of a stick on shore, asked some Indians whom they saw to bring it to them. They refused and made signs for the Spaniards to come for it. Juan Ortiz, then a boy of eighteen, with some comrades, took a boat and went on shore, when they were at once seized by the Indians, one of them, who resisted, instantly killed, and the rest taken to the cruelly wronged and enraged chief Ucita, who had made a vow to punish with death any Spaniard who should fall into his hands. "Ortiz' mind, as they hurried him onward, was filled with the most horrible forebodings. When they reached the village the chief was waiting in the public square to receive them. One of the Spaniards was at once seized, stripped of his clothes and bade to run for his life. "The square was enclosed by palisades and the only gateway was guarded by well-armed Indians. As soon as the naked Spaniard began to run one of the Indians shot an arrow, the barbed edge of which sank deeply into his shoulder. Another and another arrow followed, the man in a frenzy of pain hurrying round and round in a desperate effort to find some opening by which he might escape; the Indians looking on with evident delight. "This scene lasted for more than an hour, and when the wretched victim fell to the ground there were no less than thirty arrows fixed in his flesh, and the whole surface of his body was covered with blood. "The Indians let him lie there in a dying condition and chose another victim to go through the same tortures; then another and another till all were slain except Ortiz. By that time the Indians seemed to be tired of the cruel sport and he saw them consulting together, the chief apparently giving the others some directions. "It seems that from some real or fancied resemblance Ucita saw in the lad to the cruel wretch, Pamphilo de Narvaez, he supposed him to be a relative; and therefore intended him to suffer some even more agonizing death than than just meted out to his fellows. For that purpose some of them now busied themselves in making a wooden frame. They laid parallel to each other two stout pieces of wood--six or seven feet long and three feet apart, then laid a number of others across them so as to form a sort of grate or hurdle to which they then bound Ortiz with leathern thongs. They then placed it on four stakes driven into the ground, and kindled a fire underneath, using for it such things as would burn slowly, scarcely making a blaze! "Oh, mamma! were they going to burn him to death?" exclaimed Elsie, aghast with horror. "Yes," replied her mother; "and he was soon suffering terribly. But one of the Indian women who was present felt sorry for him and hastened away to the house of Ucita and told his daughter Ulelah what was going on. She was a girl of eighteen and not so hard as the men. She was sorry for the poor young man and made haste to run to the scene of his sufferings, where he was shrieking with pain and begging for mercy. "Hearing those sounds before she reached the spot she ran faster and got there panting for breath. At once she threw herself at her father's feet and begged him to stop the execution for a few minutes. He did so, ordering some of his men to lift the frame to which Ortiz was fastened, and lay it on the ground. Ulelah then begged her father to remember that Ortiz had never offended him, and that it would be more humane--more to his honor--to keep him as a prisoner, than to put him to death without any reason or justification. "The chief sternly replied that he had sentenced the Spaniard to death and no consideration should prevent him from executing him. Then Ulelah begged him to put it off for a day that was annually celebrated as a religious festival, at which time he might be offered as a sacrifice to their gods. "To that at length Ucita consented. Ortiz was unbound and the princess placed him under the care of the best physician of their tribe. "As soon as Ortiz began to recover every care was taken that he should not escape. He was made to busy himself in the most laborious and slavish occupations. Sometimes he was compelled to run incessantly, from the rising of the sun to its setting, in the public square where his comrades had been put to death, Indians armed with bows and arrows standing ready to shoot him if he should halt for a moment. That over, he would lie exhausted, and almost insensible, on the hard earthen floor of a hut, the best lodging the chief would allow him. "At such times Ulelah and her maids would come to him with food, restoratives, medicines, and words of consolation and encouragement, all of which helped him to live and endure. "When Ortiz had been there about nine months the Princess Ulelah came to him one evening and told him that their religious festival would be celebrated on the first day of the new moon. Ortiz had heard that the chief intended to sacrifice him on that occasion and of course he was sorely distressed at the dreadful prospect before him, and as the time drew near he tried to prepare his mind for his doom, for he could see no way of escape. Ulelah told him she had done all she could to induce her father to spare his life, but could gain nothing more than a promise to delay the execution of the sentence for a year--on one condition, that he should keep guard over the cemetery of the tribe, where, according to the custom of their people, the bodies of the dead were exposed above ground until the flesh wasted away, leaving only the naked skeletons. "The cemetery was about three miles from the village, in an open space of ground surrounded by forests. The bodies lay on biers on stages raised several feet above the ground, and it was necessary to keep a watch over them every night to protect them from the wild beasts of prey in the surrounding woods. Generally those who were compelled to keep this watch were criminals under sentence of death, who were permitted to live, if they could, so long as they performed that duty faithfully. But they ran great risks from the wild beasts of prey in the surrounding forests and from effluvia arising from the decaying bodies. "It seemed a terrible alternative, but Ortiz took it rather than suffer immediate death. Ulelah wept over him, and her sympathy abated something of the horror of his hard fate and helped him to meet it manfully. "Next day he was taken to the place by the chief's officers, who gave him a bow and arrows and other weapons, told him to be vigilant, and warned him against any attempt to escape. "His little hut of reeds was in the midst of the cemetery. The stench was horrible and for several hours overpowered him with sickness and stupor such as he had never known before. But from that he partially recovered before night, and toward morning the howling of wolves helped to arouse him; yet presently he nearly lost consciousness again. "In the early part of the night he had contrived to scare away the wolves by waring a lighted torch which was kept ready for the purpose. But at length he became conscious that some living thing was near him, as he could hear the sound of breathing; then by the light of his torch he saw a large animal dragging away the body of a child. "Before he could arouse himself sufficiently to attack the animal it had reached the woods and was out of sight. He was very ill, but roused all his energies, fitted an arrow to his bow and staggered toward that part of the forest where the beast had disappeared. As he reached the edge of the wood he heard a sound like the gnawing of a bone. He could not see the creature that made it, but sent an arrow in the direction of the sound, and at the same moment he fell to the ground in a faint; for the exertion had entirely exhausted his small portion of strength. "There he lay till daybreak, then recovering consciousness, he by great and determined effort managed to crawl back to his hut. "Sometime later came the officers whose duty it was to make a daily examination. They at once missed the child's body and were about to dash out the brains of Ortiz, but he made haste to tell of his night adventure; they went to the part of the forest which he pointed out as the spot where he had fired at the wild animal; found the body of the child, and lying near it, that of a large dead animal of the tiger kind. The arrow of Ortiz had struck it between the shoulders, penetrated to the heart, and doubtless killed it instantly. "The Indians greatly admired the skill Ortiz had shown by that shot, and as they recovered the body of the child they held him blameless. "Gradually he grew accustomed to that tainted air and strong enough to drive away the wolves, killing several of them. The Indian officers brought him provisions, and so he lived for about two weeks. Then one night he was alarmed by the sound of footsteps which seemed those of human beings. He thought some new trouble was coming upon him, but as they drew near he saw by the light of his torch that they were three women--the Princess Ulelah and two female attendants. He recognized the princess by her graceful form and the richness of her dress. She told him the priests of her tribe would not consent to any change of his sentence or delay in carrying it out. That Ucita had promised them he should be sacrificed at the approaching festival, and they were determined not to allow their deity to be defrauded of his victim. She said she had exposed herself to great risk by coming to warn him of his danger, for if the priests should learn that she had helped him to escape they would take her life--not even her father's authority could save her from them,--and to save his life she advised him to fly at once. "He thought all this proved that she loved him, and told her he loved her; that in his own country he belonged to an ancient and honorable family and was heir to a large estate. He begged her to go with him and become his wife. "When he had finished speaking she was silent for a few moments; then answered in a tone that seemed to show some displeasure. 'I regret,' she said, 'that any part of my conduct should have led you into so great an error. In all my efforts to serve you I have had no motives but those of humanity; and I would have done no less for any other human being in the same circumstances. To fully convince you of your mistake I will tell you that I am betrothed to a neighboring cacique, to whose protection I am about to recommend you. Before daybreak I will send a faithful guide to conduct you to the village. Lose no time on the way, and when you are presented to Mocoso, give him this girdle as a token that you come from me. He will then consider himself bound to defend you from all danger, at the hazard of his own life.' "Ulelah and her maidens then left him and before morning came the promised guide, who conducted Ortiz through the trackless forest in a northerly direction, urging him to walk very fast, as he would certainly be pursued as soon as his absence was discovered. "In telling his story afterward Ortiz said they travelled about eight leagues and reached Mocoso's village, at whose entrance the guide, fearing to be recognized by some one of Mocoso's subjects, left him to enter it alone. "Some Indians were fishing in a stream near by. They saw Ortiz come out of the woods, and frightened by his outlandish appearance, snatched up their arms with the intention of attacking him. But when he showed the girdle which Ulelah had given him they understood that he was the bearer of a message to their chief, and one of them came forward to give the usual welcome, and then led him to the village, where his Spanish dress, which he still wore, attracted much attention, and he was ushered into the presence of Mocoso. He found that chief a youthful Indian of noble bearing, tall and graceful in person, and possessed of a handsome and intelligent face. Ortiz presented the girdle. Mocoso examined it attentively, and greatly to the surprise of Ortiz seemed to gain from it as much information as if its ornamental work had been in written words. "Presently raising his eyes from the girdle Mocoso said, 'Christian, I am requested to protect you and it shall be done. You are safe in my village; but do not venture beyond it, or you may have the misfortune to be recaptured by your enemies.' "From that time Mocoso treated Ortiz with the affection of a brother." "Oh, how nice!" exclaimed little Elsie. "But when Ucita heard that Ortiz was gone, what did he do about it?" "When he heard where he was he sent ambassadors to demand that he be given up. Mocoso refused. That caused a misunderstanding between the two chiefs and delayed the marriage of Ulelah and Mocoso for several years. At the end of three years the priests interposed and the wedding was allowed to take place, but the two chiefs did not become reconciled and held no communication with each other. "For twelve years Ortiz was kept in safety by Mocoso, then De Soto and his men came and Ortiz, hearing of their arrival, wanted to join them and set out to do so in company with some of his Indian friends. "At the same time a Spaniard named Porcalla had started out to hunt some Indians for slaves. On his way he saw Ortiz with his party of ten or twelve Indians, and with uplifted weapons he and his men spurred their horses toward them. All but one fled, but he drew near and, speaking in Spanish, said, 'Cavaliers, do not kill me. I am one of your own countrymen; and I beg you not to molest these Indians who are with me; for I am indebted to them for the preservation of my life.' "He then made signs for his Indian friends to come back, which some few did, and he and they were taken on horseback behind some of the cavaliers, and so conveyed to De Soto's camp where Ortiz told his story; the same that I have been telling you. "'As soon as Mocoso heard of your arrival,' he went on, 'he asked me to come to you with the offer of his friendship, and I was on my way to your camp with several of his officers when I met your cavaliers.' "While listening to this story De Soto's sympathies had been much excited for Ortiz. He at once presented him with a fine horse, a suit of handsome clothes, and all the arms and equipments of a captain of cavalry. "Then he sent two Indians to Mocoso with a message, accepting his offers of friendship and inviting him to visit the camp; which he shortly afterward did, bringing with him some of his principal warriors. His appearance and manners were such as at once to prepossess the Spaniards in his favor. De Soto received him with cordiality and thanked him for his kindness to the Spaniard who had sought his protection. "Mocoso's reply was one that could not fail to be pleasing to the Spaniards. It was that he had done nothing deserving of thanks; that Ortiz had come to him well recommended and his honor was pledged for his safety. 'His own valor and other good qualities,' he added, 'entitled him to all the respect which I and my people could show him. My acquaintance with him disposes me to be friendly to all his countrymen.' "The historian goes on to tell us that when Mocoso's mother heard where he had gone she was terrified at the thought of what injury might be done to him--no doubt remembering the sad misfortune of Ucita and his mother, so cruelly dealt with by the treacherous Spaniards. In the greatest distress she hurried to the camp of De Soto and implored him to set her son at liberty and not treat him as Ucita had been treated by Pamphilo. 'If he has offended you,' she said, 'consider that he is but young and look upon his fault as one of the common indiscretions of youth. Let him go back to his people and I will remain here and undergo whatever sufferings you may choose to inflict.'" "What a good kind mother!" exclaimed Elsie Raymond. "I hope they didn't hurt her or her son either." "No," said her mother; "De Soto tried to convince her that he considered himself under obligations to Mocoso, and that he had only intended to treat him in a most friendly manner. But all he could say did not remove the anxiety of the poor frightened woman, for she had come to believe the whole Spanish nation treacherous and cruel. Mocoso himself at last persuaded her that he was entirely free to go or stay as he pleased. Still she could not altogether banish her fears, and before leaving she took Juan Ortiz aside and entreated him to watch over the safety of his friend, and especially to take heed that the other Spaniards did not poison him." "Did Mocoso stay long? and did they harm him, mamma?" asked Elsie. "He stayed eight days in the Spanish camp," replied Violet; "being inspired with perfect confidence in the Christians." "Christians, mamma? What Christians?" asked Ned. "That was what the Spaniards called themselves," she answered; "but it was a sad misnomer; for theirs was anything else than the spirit of Christ." CHAPTER IV. The next evening the same company, with some additions, gathered in the library at Woodburn, all full of interest in the history of Florida and anxious to learn what they could of its climate, productions, and anything that might be known of the tribes of Indians inhabiting it before the invasion of the Spaniards. At the earnest request of the others Grandma Elsie was the first narrator of the evening. "I have been reading Wilmer's 'Travels and Adventures of De Soto,'" she said. "He tells much that is interesting in regard to the Indians inhabiting Florida when the Spaniards invaded it. One tribe was the Natchez, and he says that they and other tribes also had made some progress in civilization; but the effect of that invasion was a relapse into barbarism from which they have never recovered. At the time of De Soto's coming they had none of the nomadic habits for which the North American Indians have since been remarkable. They then lived in permanent habitations and cultivated the land, deriving their subsistence chiefly from it, though practising hunting and fishing, partly for subsistence and partly for sport. They were not entirely ignorant of arts and manufactures and some which they practised were extremely ingenious. They had domestic utensils and household furniture which were both artistic and elegant. Their dresses, especially those of the females, were very tasteful and ornate. Some specimens of their earthenware are still preserved and are highly creditable to their skill in that branch of industry. Among their household goods they had boxes made of split cane and other material, ingeniously wrought and ornamented; also mats for their floors. Their wearing apparel was composed partly of skins handsomely dressed and colored, and partly of a sort of woven cloth made of the fibrous bark of the mulberry tree and a certain species of wild hemp. Their finest fabrics, used by the wives and daughters of the caciques, were obtained from the bark of the young mulberry shoots beaten into small fibres, then bleached and twisted or spun into threads of a convenient size for weaving, which was done in a very simple manner by driving small stakes into the ground, stretching a warp across from one to another, then inserting the weft by using the fingers instead of a shuttle. By this tedious process they made very beautiful shawls and mantillas, with figured borders of most exquisite patterns." "They must have been very industrious, I think," said Elsie. "Yes," assented her grandmother. "The weavers I presume were women; but the men also seem to have been industrious, for they manufactured articles of gold, silver, and copper. None of iron, however. Some of their axes, hatchets, and weapons of war were made of copper, and they, like the Peruvians, possessed the art of imparting a temper to that metal which made it nearly equal to iron for the manufacture of edge tools. The Peruvians, it is said, used an alloy of copper and tin for such purposes; and that might perhaps be harder than brass, which is composed chiefly of copper and zinc." "Had they good houses to live in, grandma?" asked Ned. "Yes," she replied; "even those of the common people were much better than the log huts of our Western settlers, or the turf-built shanties of the Irish peasantry. Some were thirty feet square and contained several rooms each, and some had cellars in which the people stored their grain. The houses of the caciques were built on mounds or terraces, and sometimes had porticos, and the walls of some were hung with prepared buckskin which resembled tapestry, while others had carpets of the same material. Some of their temples had sculptured ornaments. A Portuguese gentleman tells of one on the roof or cupola of a temple which was a carved bird with gilded eyes. "The religion of the Natchez resembled that of the Peruvians; they worshipped the sun as the source of light and heat, or a symbol of the divine goodness and wisdom. They believed in the immortality of the human soul and in future rewards and punishments; in the existence of a supreme and omnipotent Deity called the Great Spirit and also in an evil spirit of inferior power, who was supposed to govern the seasons and control the elements. They seem not to have been image-worshippers until the Spaniards made them such. Their government was despotic, but not tyrannical. They were ruled by their chiefs, whose authority was patriarchal, who were like popes or bishops, rather than princes, but who never abused their power." Grandma Elsie paused as if she had finished her narration and Ned exclaimed, "Oh, that isn't all, grandma, is it?" "All of my part of the account, for the present at least," she said with her sweet smile. Then turning to Lucilla: "You will tell us the story of the Princess Xualla, will you not?" "You could surely do it much better than I, Grandma Elsie," was the modest rejoinder; "but if you wish it I will do my best." "We do," replied several voices, and Lucilla, encouraged by a look and smile from her father which seemed to speak confidence in her ability, at once began. "It seems that De Soto, not finding there the gold for which he had come, and encouraged by the Indians, who wanted to be rid of him, to think that it might be discovered in regions still remote, started again upon his quest, taking a northerly or northwesterly direction. "As they journeyed on they came to a part of Florida governed by a female cacique--a beautiful young girl called the Princess Xualla. Her country was a fine open one, well cultivated. They reached the neighborhood of her capital--a town on the farther side of a river--about an hour before nightfall. Here they encamped and were about to seize some Indians to get from them information of the country and people. But some others on the farther side of the stream hastened over in a canoe to ask what was wanted. "De Soto had had a chair of state placed on the margin of the stream and placed himself in it. The Indians saluted him and asked whether he was for peace or for war. He replied that he wished to be at peace and hoped they would supply him with provisions for his army. "They answered that they wished to be at peace, but the season had been one of scarcity and they had barely enough food for themselves. Their land, they said, was governed by a maiden lady and they would report to her of the arrival of the strangers and what they demanded. "They then returned to their canoe and paddled back to the town to carry the news to the princess and chieftains. The Spaniards, watching the canoe, saw those in it received by a crowd of their countrymen at the landing place, and that their news seemed to cause some commotion. But soon several canoes left the wharf and came toward the Spaniards. The first was fitted up with a tasteful canopy and various decorations. It was filled with women all gayly dressed, among them the princess, the splendor of whose appearance almost dazzled the eyes of the beholders. There were five or six other canoes, which held her principal officers and attendants. "When the boats reached the shore the Indians disembarked and placed a seat for their lady opposite to De Soto's chair of state. She saluted the strangers with grace and dignity, then, taking her seat, waited in silence as if expecting her visitors to begin the conference. "For several minutes De Soto gazed upon her with feelings of admiration and reverence. He had seldom seen a more beautiful female, or one in whom the conscious pride of elevated rank was so nicely balanced with womanly reserve and youthful modesty. She seemed about nineteen years of age, had perfectly regular features and an intellectual countenance, a beautiful form, and she was richly dressed. Her robe and mantilla were of the finest woven cloth of native manufacture and as white and delicate of texture as the finest linen of Europe. Her garments were bordered with a rich brocade composed of feathers and beads of various colors interwoven with the material of the cloth. She wore also a profusion of pearls and some glittering ornaments which the Spaniards supposed to be of gold. Her name was Xualla and she ruled over several provinces. "Juan Ortiz, being acquainted with several Indian dialects, acted as interpreter and told of the needs of the Spaniards. Xualla was sorry the harvest had been so poor that she had little ability to relieve their wants. She invited them to fix their quarters in her principal village while it was convenient for them to stay in the neighborhood. Then she took from her neck a necklace of pearls of great value and requested Juan Ortiz to present it to the governor, as it would not be modest for her to give it herself. "De Soto arose, took it respectfully, and presented a ruby ring in return, taking it from his own finger. That seems to have been considered a ratification of peace between them. The Spanish troops were taken over the river and quartered in the public square in the centre of the town and the princess sent them a supply of good provisions, and poultry and other delicacies for De Soto's table. "Xualla's mother was living in retirement about twelve leagues from her daughter's capital. Xualla invited her to come and see these strange people--the Spaniards--but she declined and reproved her daughter for entertaining travellers of whom she knew nothing. And events soon showed that she was right; for the Spaniards, acting with their usual perfidy, made Xualla a prisoner, robbed the people, the temples and burial places, and tried to get possession of her mother. Xualla was urged and probably finally compelled by threats to direct them to the mother's abode. "A young Indian warrior, evidently occupying some prominent position under her government, was given directions which were not heard or understood by the Spaniards. He made a sign of obedience, then turned to the Spaniards and gave them to understand that he was ready to be their conductor. One of them, named Juan Anasco, had been selected to go in search of the widow, and now thirty Spaniards, under his command, started on that errand. "As they proceeded on their way the young chief seemed to grow more melancholy. After travelling about five miles they stopped for a rest, and while the soldiers were taking some refreshments the guide sat in pensive silence by the side of the road, refusing to partake of the repast. He laid aside his mantle, or cloak, which was made of the finest of sable furs, took off his quiver, and began to draw out the arrows one by one. "The curiosity of the Spaniards was excited; they drew near and admired the arrows, which were made of reeds, feathered with the dark plumage of the crow or raven, and variously pointed, some with bones properly shaped, others with barbs of very hard wood, while the last one in the quiver was armed with a piece of flint cut in a triangular form and exceedingly sharp. This he held in his hand while the Spaniards were examining the others, and suddenly he plunged the barb of flint into his throat and fell dead. "The other Indians stood aghast and began to fill the air with their lamentations. From them I presume it was that the Spaniards then learned that the young chief was affianced to the princess and was very much beloved and respected by the whole nation. He had committed suicide to escape betraying the mother of his betrothed into the hands of the Spaniards. In obedience to the order of the princess he had undertaken to guide those cruel enemies to the widow's hiding place, but he well knew that she was forced to give the order and that the carrying out of it would be the cause of increased trouble to her and her parent, and he had told one of the Indians who were of the party that it would be better for him to die than to be the means of increasing the afflictions of those whom he so dearly loved. "The grief and despair of Xualla, when she heard of the death of her betrothed, were so great that even the Spaniards were moved to pity. For several days she shut herself up in her own dwelling and was not seen by either the Spaniards or her own people. "In the meantime the Spaniards were robbing the tombs and temples of the country, finding great spoil there. "About a week after the death of the young chief, De Soto told Xualla she must send another guide with a party of Spaniards to her mother's habitation. She promptly and decidedly refused to do so, saying she had been justly punished once for consenting to place her poor mother in his power, and no fears for herself would ever make her do so again. She said he had made her as miserable as she could be, and now she set him at defiance. She wished she had listened to the advice of her wise counsellors and driven him away from her shores when he first came with his false and deceitful promises of peace and friendship; for she would have saved herself from that sorrow and remorse which now made her life insupportable. 'Why do you still remain in my country?' she asked. 'Are there no other lands to be robbed, no other people to be made miserable? Here there is nothing for you to do; you have taken all we had, and you can add nothing to our wretchedness. Go, coward as you are! Cease to make war on helpless women; and if you must be a villain, let your conduct prove that you are a man!'" "I think she was very brave to talk to him in that way," said Elsie. "Did he kill her for it?" "No," replied Lucilla, "he was polite and courteous as usual, but told her that the King of Spain was the true sovereign and lawful proprietor of the country over which she claimed to be princess, and that, in all those matters which had offended her, the Spanish army had acted under the authority of that great monarch, to whom she herself was bound to render obedience. "Next he told her she must accompany the Spaniards on their march as far as the border of her dominions and that she would be expected to control her subjects and to make them entirely submissive to the Spaniards. He promised that she should be treated with the respect and delicacy due to her rank and sex. "But the one who tells the story says she did not receive such usage as she deserved. It was on the 3d day of May, 1540, that the Spaniards left Cofachiqui, compelling the princess to accompany them and requiring her to call upon her subjects to carry burdens for them from one stopping place to another. They passed through a delightful valley called Xualla, which had many groves, plantations, and pasture grounds. On the seventh day they came to a province called Chulaque, supposed to have been inhabited by a tribe of Cherokees. But before the Spaniards had reached this point Xualla had contrived to escape, assisted by two of her female slaves who were in attendance upon her." "Oh, I hope they didn't catch her again--the Spaniards, I mean," exclaimed Ned. "No," replied Lucilla; "De Soto would not allow her to be pursued." "Did he and his men stay there in that beautiful valley, Lu?" asked Elsie. "No; as he could not find the gold he so coveted in Florida, he travelled on in a westerly direction till he reached the Mississippi; a hard journey through a wilderness of forests and marshes. He could nowhere find the gold he so coveted, became discouraged and worn out, was stricken with malignant fever, and died on the banks of the Mississippi in June, 1542." "A victim to the love of gold, like so many of his countrymen," sighed Grandma Elsie. "The Bible tells us 'the love of money is the root of all evil,' and history repeats the lesson. The love of money led to Pizarro's wicked attack upon the Peruvians, and the conquest of that country was a source of trouble and calamity to all, or nearly all who were concerned in it. As soon as De Soto left, after the capture of Cuzco, the victors began to quarrel with each other for the spoils. Almagro provoked a war with Pizarro, was taken prisoner and strangled. Gonzalo Pizarro was beheaded by his own countrymen. Another of the brothers, Hernando, returned to Spain, where he was thrown into prison and kept there for many years. Francisco Pizarro himself fell a victim to the resentment of Almagro's soldiers. He was assaulted in his own palace, where he had just finished his dinner when the avengers entered. All his servants and guests except his half-brother, Martinez de Alcantara, instantly fled and abandoned him to his fate. It was midday when the assassins entered the palace with drawn weapons and loudly proclaiming their intention to kill the tyrant. There were upward of a thousand persons in the plaza, but no one opposed them; they merely looked coldly on, saying to each other, 'These men are going to kill the governor.'" "He deserved it for killing Almagro, didn't he, grandma?" asked Ned. "He certainly did," replied Grandma Elsie. "But they should, if possible, have given him a trial; everyone has a right to that. It is right that murderers should be put to death, lawfully--for the Bible says, 'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.' History tells us it is probable that not more than twenty Spaniards in getting the mastery of the great empire of Peru--one of the largest upon earth--became rich, and in the end they made nothing; all that they gained was ruin--individual and national. Few, if any of them, carried back to their own land any evidences of their success. They dissipated their ill-gotten riches in riotous living, or lost them by unfortunate speculations. "I must tell you of the fate of another of Pizarro's band--the priest Vincent, or Valverde. He counselled, or consented to, many of the most enormous crimes committed by that monster of cruelty and avarice Pizarro, who, after some years of their association in crime, made him Bishop of Cuzco. In November, 1541, he (Vincent) went with a considerable number of Spaniards, who had served under Pizarro, to the island of Puna, where they were all massacred by the Indians. On that very island, about nine years before, Pizarro had butchered the people, Vincent conniving at the crime. The historian says 'the murderers slandered the Archangel Michael, by pretending that he assisted them in their bloody performance; but no angel interposed when Vincent and his fellow assassins were about to be put to death by the infidels.'" CHAPTER V. The next day, by Grandma Elsie's invitation, the students of the history of Florida gathered at Ion, and Chester took his turn in relating some of the facts he had come upon in his reading. "De Soto," he said, "died in June, 1542. Nearly twenty years later--in February, 1562--two good vessels under command of Captain Jean Ribaut, a French naval officer of experience and repute, were sent out by Admiral Coligny, the chief of the Protestants in France, to establish colonies in unexplored countries where the Protestants would be at liberty to follow the dictates of their consciences without fear of persecution. "The admiral obtained a patent from Charles IX., armed those two ships, put in them five hundred and fifty veteran soldiers and sailors, besides many young noblemen who embarked as volunteers, and appointed Ribaut as commander. "They made a prosperous voyage, going directly to the coast of Florida, avoiding the routes in which they were likely to meet Spanish vessels, as the success of their expedition depended upon secrecy. "On the 30th of April they sighted a cape which Ribaut named François. It is now one of the headlands of Matanzas inlet. The next day he discovered the mouth of a river which he named May, because they entered it on the 1st day of that month, but which is now called the St. Johns. Here they landed and erected a monument of stone with the arms of France engraved upon it. It is said to have been placed upon a little sand hillock in the river. They re-embarked and sailed northward, landing occasionally and finding themselves well received by the many Indians, to whom they made little presents such as looking-glasses and bracelets. They continued to sail northward till they entered the harbor of Port Royal, where they anchored. There they built a small fort upon a little island and called it Fort Charles, in honor of the King of France. "Ribaut then selected twenty-five men to remain in the fort, and one of his trusted lieutenants, Charles d'Albert, to command them; gave them a supply of ammunition and provisions and left with a parting salute of artillery, replied to from the fort. With that the vessels sailed away for France, from which they had been absent about four months. "For some time the colony prospered, and made various excursions among the Indians, who received and treated them well. But finally this effort to found a colony proved a failure. "In 1564 René de Laudonnière was charged with the direction of a new one--this also sent out by Coligny. Three vessels were given him, and Charles IX. made him a present of fifty thousand crowns. He took with him skilful workmen and several young gentlemen who asked permission to go at their own expense. He landed in Florida on the 22d of June, sailed up the River St. Johns, and began the building of a fort which he named Caroline in honor of the king. "The Indians proved friendly. But soon the young gentlemen who had volunteered to come with him complained of being forced to labor like common workmen, and fearing that they would excite a mutiny, he sent the most turbulent of them back to France on one of his vessels. "But the trouble increased among the remaining colonists and he sent out part of them under the orders of his lieutenant, to explore the country. A few days later some sailors fled, taking with them the two boats used in procuring provisions; and others, who had left France only with the hope of making their fortunes, seized one of his ships and went cruising in the Gulf of Mexico. Also the deserters had had a bad influence upon the Indians, who now refused to supply the colonists with provisions, and they were soon threatened with famine. I cannot see why they should have been, with abundance of fish in river and sea, and wild game and fruits in the woods," remarked Chester, then went on with his story. "The historians tell us that they lived for some time on acorns and roots, and when at the last extremity were saved by the arrival of Captain John Hawkins, August 3, 1565. He showed them great kindness, furnishing them with provisions and selling to Laudonnière one of his ships in which they might return to France. "In telling the story of his visit to Florida Hawkins mentions the abundance of tobacco, sorrel, maize, and grapes, and ascribes the failure of the French colony 'to their lack of thrift, as in such a climate and soil, with marvellous store of deer and divers other beasts, all men may live.' "Laudonnière was waiting for a favorable wind to set sail, when Jean Ribaut arrived with seven vessels carrying supplies and provisions, some emigrants of both sexes, and four hundred soldiers. He told Laudonnière his loyalty was suspected by the French court, and that he had been deprived of the governorship of Florida. That news only made Laudonnière the more eager to go back to France that he might justify himself. "After landing his troops Ribaut went to explore the country, leaving some of his men to guard the ships. Ribaut's arrival was on the 29th of August. On the 4th of September the French in his vessels sighted a large fleet approaching and asked their object. 'I am Pedro Menendez de Aviles, who has come to hang and behead all Protestants in these regions,' was the haughty reply of the fleet's commander. 'If I find any Catholic he shall be well treated, but every heretic shall die.' "The French fleet, surprised and not strong enough to cope with the Spaniards, cut their cables and left, and Menendez entered an inlet which he called St. Augustin, and there began to intrench himself. "Ribaut called together all his forces and resolved to attack the Spaniards, contrary to the advice of Laudonnière and all his officers. On the 10th of September he embarked for that purpose, but was scarcely at sea when a hurricane dispersed his fleet. Then the Spaniards attacked Fort Caroline. "Laudonnière was still in the fort, but was sick and had only about a hundred men, scarcely twenty of them capable of bearing arms. The Spaniards took the fort, massacred all the sick, the women and children, and hanged the soldiers who fell into their hands. "After doing all he could to defend the fort Laudonnière cut his way through the enemy and plunged into the woods, where he found some of his soldiers who had escaped. He said what he could for their encouragement and during the night led them to the seashore, where they found a son of Ribaut with three vessels. On one of these--a small brig--Laudonnière, Jacques Ribaut, and a few others escaped from the Spaniards and carried the news of the disaster to France. "Laudonnière's purpose had been to rejoin and help Jean Ribaut, but his vessel being driven out to sea, he was unable to carry out that intention. "Three days after the fort was taken Ribaut's ships were wrecked near Cape Canaveral, and he at once marched in three divisions toward Fort Caroline. When the first division came near the site of the fort they were attacked by the Spaniards, surrendered to Menendez, and were all put to death. A few days later Ribaut arrived with his party, and as Menendez pledged his word that they should be spared, they surrendered and were all murdered, Menendez killing Ribaut with his own hand. Their bodies were hung on the surrounding trees with the inscription, 'Executed, not as Frenchmen, but as Lutherans.'" "Lutherans?" echoed Ned inquiringly. "Yes; meaning Protestants," replied Chester. "That was an age of great cruelty. Satan was very busy, and multitudes were called upon to seal their testimony to Christ with their blood. "But to go on with the story. About two years after a gallant Frenchman--Dominic de Gourgues, by name--got up an expedition to avenge the massacre of his countrymen by the Spaniards at Fort Caroline. He came to Florida with three small vessels and a hundred and eighty-four men, secured the help of the natives, attacked the fort--now called by the Spaniards Fort San Mateo--and captured the entire garrison. Many of the captives were killed by the Indians, the rest De Gourgues hanged upon the trees on which Menendez had hanged the Huguenots, putting over the corpses the inscription, 'I do this, not as to Spaniards, nor as to outcasts, but as to traitors, thieves, and murderers.' His work of revenge accomplished, De Gourgues set sail for France." "Oh," sighed little Elsie, "what dreadful things people did do in those days! I'm glad I didn't live then instead of now." "As we all are," responded her mother; "glad for you and for ourselves." "Yes," said Chester; "and I think I have now come to a suitable stopping place. There seems to me little more in Florida's history that we need recount." "No," said Grandma Elsie, "it seems to be nothing but a round of building and destroying, fighting and bloodshed, kept up between the Spaniards and the French; the English also taking part; the Indians too, and in later years negroes also. In 1762 the British captured Havana and in the treaty following the next year Great Britain gave Cuba to Spain in exchange for Florida. "Florida took no part in the Revolutionary War and became a refuge for many loyalists, as it was afterward for fugitive slaves. In 1783 Florida was returned to Spanish rule, Great Britain exchanging it for the Bahamas." "And when did we get it, grandma?" asked Ned. "In 1819, by a treaty between our country and Spain." "Then the fighting stopped, I suppose?" "No; the Seminole wars followed, lasting from 1835 to 1842. Florida was admitted into the Union in 1845, seceded in 1861, bore her part bravely and well through the Civil War, and at its close a State Convention repealed the ordinance of secession." "So since that she has been a part of our Union like the rest of our States; hasn't she, grandma?" asked Ned. "Yes; a part of our own dear country--a large and beautiful State." "And probably it won't be long now till some of us, at least, will see her," observed Grace with satisfaction. "How soon will the _Dolphin_ be ready, papa?" "By the time we are," replied the captain, "which will be as soon as Max can join us." "Dear Max! I long for the time when he will be with us again," said Violet. "I suppose by this time he knows how to manage a vessel almost as well as you do, papa?" observed Ned in an inquiring tone. "I hope so," his father replied with a smile. "So the passengers may all feel very safe, I suppose," said Mrs. Lilburn. "And that being the case you are willing to be one of them, Cousin Annis, are you not?" queried Violet hospitably. "More than willing; glad and grateful to you and the captain for the invitation to be, as my husband is also, I know." "I am neither able nor desirous to deny that, my dear," laughed Cousin Ronald. "Ah, ha; ah, ha; um, hm! It will be my first visit to Florida, and I'm thinking we'll have a grand time of it--looking up the sites and scenes of the old histories we've been reading and chatting over." CHAPTER VI. The yacht was ready in due season, and the weather being favorable Captain Raymond invited as many of the connection as could be comfortably accommodated on board, to go with him to witness the graduation of Max and his classmates. Certainly his own immediate family, Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie would be of that number; Evelyn Leland also and Cousins Ronald and Annis Lilburn. Max's joy in meeting them all--especially his father and the others of his own immediate family--was evidently very great, for it was the first sight he had had of any of them for two years or more. He passed his examination successfully, received his diploma, and was appointed to the engineer corps of the navy. He received many warm congratulations and valuable gifts from friends and relatives; but the pleasure in his father's eyes, accompanied by the warm, affectionate clasp of his hand, and his look of parental pride in his firstborn, was a sweeter reward to the young man than all else put together. "You are satisfied with me, father?" he asked in a low aside. "Entirely so, my dear boy," was the prompt and smiling rejoinder; "you have done well and made me a proud and happy father. And now, if you are quite ready for the homeward-bound trip, we will go aboard the yacht at once." "I am entirely ready, sir," responded Max in joyful tones; "trunk packed and good-byes said." But they were detained for a little, some of Captain Raymond's old friends coming up to congratulate him and his son on the latter's successful entrance into the most desirable corps of the navy. Then, on walking down to the wharf, they found the _Dolphin's_ dory waiting for them and saw that the rest of their party was already on board, on deck and evidently looking with eager interest for their coming. Max remarked it with a smile, adding, "How the girls have grown, father! and how lovely they all are! girls that any fellow might be proud to claim as his sisters--and friend. Evelyn, I suppose, would hardly let me claim her as a sister." "I don't know," laughed his father; "she once very willingly agreed to a proposition from me to adopt her as my daughter." "Yes? I think she might well be glad enough to do that; but to take me for a brother would not perhaps be quite so agreeable." "Well, your Mamma Vi objecting to having so old a daughter, we agreed to consider ourselves brother and sister; so I suppose you can consider her your aunt, if you wish." "There now, father, what a ridiculous idea!" laughed Max. "Not so very," returned his father, "since aunts are sometimes younger than their nephews." But they had reached the yacht and the conversation went no farther. In another moment they were on deck, and the dear relatives and friends there crowding about Max to tell of their joy in having him in their midst again and in knowing that he had so successfully finished his course of tuition and fully entered upon the profession chosen as his life work. Max, blushing with pleasure, returned hearty thanks and expressed his joy in being with them again. "The two years of absence have seemed a long time to be without a sight of your dear faces," he said, "and I feel it a very great pleasure to be with you all again." "And it will be a delight to get home once more, won't it?" asked Grace, hanging lovingly on his arm. "Indeed it will," he responded; "and getting aboard the dear old yacht seems like a long step in that direction; particularly as all the family and so many other of my dear friends are here to welcome me." "Well, we're starting," said Ned. "The sailors have lifted anchor and we begin to move down stream." At that a silence fell upon the company, all gazing out upon the wintry landscape and the vessels lying at anchor in the river as they passed them one after another. But a breeze had sprung up, the air was too cool for comfort, and presently all went below. Then came the call to the table, where they found an abundance of good cheer awaiting them. The meal was enlivened by much cheerful chat, Max doing his full share of it in reply to many questions in regard to his experiences during the two years of his absence; especially of the last few weeks in which he had not been heard from, except in a rather hurried announcement of his arrival at Annapolis. They were all making much of the fine young fellow, but, as his father noticed with pleasure, it did not seem to spoil him. His manner and speech were modest and unassuming, and he listened with quiet respect to the remarks and queries of the older people. The younger ones were quiet listeners to all. At the conclusion of the meal all withdrew to the saloon and the younger ones collected in a group by themselves. Max, seated near to Evelyn Leland, turned to her and in a grave and quiet tone remarked, "It seems a long time since we have had a bit of chat together, Aunt Evelyn." At that her eyes opened wide in astonishment. "Aunt?" she repeated. "Why--why, Max, what do you mean by calling me that?" "I supposed it was the proper title for my father's sister," he returned with a twinkle of fun in his eye. "Oh!" she laughed. "I had nearly forgotten that bargain made with the captain so long ago. And he has told you of it?" "Yes; it was in answer to a remark of mine showing that I should like to include you among my sisters. But can you hold that relationship to my father and to me at the same time?" "That is a question to be carefully considered," she laughed; "and in the meantime suppose you just go back to the old way of calling me simply Evelyn or Eva. And shall I call you Max, as of old?" "Yes, yes, indeed! it's a bargain! And now, girls," glancing from her to his sisters, "as I haven't heard from home in some weeks, perhaps you may have some news to tell me. Has anything happened? or is anything out of the usual course of events likely to happen?" At that Grace laughed, Lucilla blushed and smiled, and little Ned burst out in eager, joyful tones, "Oh, yes, brother Max! papa is going to take us all to Florida in a day or two, you as well as the rest." "Indeed!" exclaimed Max, "that will be very pleasant, I think." "Yes," continued Neddie, "it's because Cousin Dr. Arthur says Chester must go to get cured of his bad cough that he's had so long; and of course Lu must go if he does--Cousin Chester, I mean--and if Lu goes the rest of us ought to go too. Don't you think so, brother Max?" Max's only reply for the moment was a puzzled look from one to another. "You may as well know it at once, Max," Lucilla said with a smile. "Chester and I are engaged, and naturally he wants us all with him." "Is it possible!" exclaimed Max, giving her a look of surprise and interest. "Why, Lu, I thought father was quite determined to keep his daughters single till they were far beyond your present age." "Yes," she returned with a smile; "but circumstances alter cases. Chester saved my life--at nearly the expense of his own," she added with a tremble in her voice. "So father let him tell me--what he wanted to, and allowed us to become engaged. But that is to be all, for a year or more." "Saved your life, Lu? Tell me all about it, do, for I haven't heard the story." "You remember the anger of the burglar whom you and I testified against some years ago, and his threat to be revenged on me?" "Yes; and that in one of father's letters I was told that he had escaped from prison. And he attacked you?" "Yes; he fired at me from some bushes by the roadside, but missed, Chester, who was with me, backing our horses just in time; then they fired simultaneously at each other and the convict fell dead, and Chester terribly wounded, while I escaped unhurt. But I thought father had written you all about it." "If so that letter must have missed me," said Max. "And Chester hasn't recovered entirely?" "Not quite; his lungs seem weak, but we are hoping that a visit to Florida will perfect his cure." "I hope so indeed! I have always liked Chester and shall welcome him as a brother-in-law, since he has saved my sister's life and won her heart." "And that of her father," added the captain, coming up at that moment and laying a hand on Lucilla's shoulder while he looked down at her with eyes of love and pride. "He has proved himself worthy of the gift of her hand." "I think I must have missed one of your letters, father," said Max; "for surely you did not intend to keep me in ignorance of all this?" "No, my son; I wrote you a full account of all but the engagement, leaving that to be told on your arrival here. One or more of my recent letters must have missed you." "Too bad!" exclaimed Max, "for a letter from my father, or from any one of the home folks, is a great treat when I am far away on shipboard or on some distant shore." "And, oh, Max, but we feel it a great treat when one comes from you," said Grace. "Ah! that's very good of you all," he returned with a pleased smile. "But I think we may look forward to a fine time for the next few weeks or months, as we expect to spend them together." "Yes," said his father, then asked, "Are you well up in the history of Florida, my son?" "Not so well as I should like to be, sir," returned Max. "But perhaps I can refresh my memory, and also learn something new on that subject, while we are on the way there." "Yes; we have a good supply of books in that line, which we will carry along for your benefit--and to perhaps refresh our own memories occasionally. And possibly the girls may like to recount to you some of the tales of early times in that part of our country, which have interested them of late," the captain continued with a smiling glance at Evelyn and his daughters. All three at once and heartily expressed their entire willingness to do so, and Max returned his thanks with the gallant remark that that would be even more delightful than reading the accounts for himself. "Papa, can't we keep right on now to Florida?" asked Ned. "No, my son; there are several reasons why that is not practicable--matters to be attended to at home, luggage to be brought aboard the yacht, and so forth. Besides, your brother no doubt wants a sight of Woodburn before setting out upon a journey that is likely to keep us away from there for some weeks." "Yes, indeed, father, you are right about that," said Max. "I have always esteemed my Woodburn home a lovely and delightful place, and dare say I shall find it even more beautiful now than when I saw it last." "Then we'll expect to hear you say so when you get there," said Lucilla, with a smile of pleasure and assurance. And she was not disappointed; when at length Woodburn was reached Max's admiration and delight were evident and fully equal to her expectations. But of necessity his stay at this time must be brief, scarce allowing opportunity to see all the relatives and connections residing in that neighborhood, if he would not miss having a share in the contemplated trip to Florida. CHAPTER VII. The _Dolphin_ carried to Florida the same party that she had brought from Annapolis, with the addition of Chester Dinsmore and Dr. Harold Travilla; while some others of the connection were intending to travel thither by land. The voyage was but a short one, the weather pleasant--though cool enough to make the cabin a more comfortable place for family gatherings than the deck--the vessel in fine condition, well manned, well officered, and provided with everything necessary for convenience, comfort, and enjoyment. Amusements--such as music, books, and games--were always to be had in abundance aboard the yacht, but on this occasion the collection of information in regard to the history and geography of Florida took precedence of everything else. As soon as the vessel was well under way they gathered about a table in the saloon on which were maps and books bearing upon the subject, and while examining them chatted freely and gayly in regard to which points they should visit, and how long remain in each place. "That last is a question which would better be decided upon the spot," Captain Raymond said when it had been asked once or twice. "There is little or nothing to hurry us, so that we may move forward, or tarry in one place or another, as suits our convenience or inclination." "We will call at Jacksonville, I suppose, father?" Lucilla said inquiringly. "I see it is spoken of as the travel-centre and metropolis of the State." "Yes; and if my passengers desire to go there we will do so." "Can we go all the way in the _Dolphin_, papa?" asked little Elsie. "Yes; I think, however, we will call at Fernandina first, as it is nearer." "It is on an island, is it not?" asked Evelyn. "Yes; Amelia Island, at the mouth of St. Mary's River." "There are a very great many islands on Florida's coast, I think," said Elsie. "I was looking at the map to-day and it seemed to me there were thousands." "So there are," said her father; "islands of various sizes, from a mere dot in some cases to from thirty to fifty miles of length in others." "Then we won't stop at all of them, I suppose," remarked Ned sagely; "only at the big ones, won't we, papa?" "Yes; and not at every one of them either," answered his father, with a look of amusement. "Ten thousand or more stoppages would use up rather too much of our time." "Yes, indeed!" laughed Ned. "Most of them I'd rather just look at as we pass by." "We will want to see St. Augustine and other places mentioned in the history we have been reading," said Grace. "Certainly," replied her father, "we will not neglect them. The mouth of St. John's River is about the first we will come to. Do you remember, Elsie, what they called it, and what they did there?" "Oh, yes, papa," she answered eagerly. "They named the river May, and set up a monument of stone on a little sand bank in the river and engraved the arms of France upon it." "Quite correct, daughter," the captain said in a tone of pleased commendation; "I see you have paid good attention to our reading and talks on the subject, and I hope soon to reward you with a sight of the scenes of the occurrences mentioned; though of course they are greatly changed from what they were nearly four hundred years ago." "Wasn't Jacksonville formerly known by another name, captain?" asked Evelyn. "Yes," he replied, "the Indian name was Waccapilatka--meaning Cowford or Oxford--but in 1816 it became a white man's town and in 1822 its name was changed to Jackson, in honor of General Andrew Jackson. I think we should go up the St. Johns to that city before going farther down the coast." "Yes," said Mrs. Travilla, "and then on up the river and through the lakes to De Leon Springs. We all want to see that place." All in the company seemed to approve of that plan and it was presently decided to carry it out. They did not stop at Fernandina, only gazed upon it in passing, made but a short stay at Jacksonville, then passed on up the river and through the lakes to De Leon Springs. Here they found much to interest them;--the great mineral spring, one hundred feet in diameter and thirty feet deep, its water so clear that the bottom could be distinctly seen and so impregnated with soda and sulphur as to make it most healthful, giving ground for the legend that it is the veritable Fountain of Perpetual Youth sought out by Ponce de Leon. The ruins of an old Spanish mill close at hand interested them also. These consisted of an immense brick smokestack and furnace covered with vines; two large iron wheels, thrown down when the mill was destroyed, in a way to cause one to overlap the other, and now a gum tree grows up through them so that the arms of the wheels are deeply imbedded in its trunk. Our friends found this so charming a spot that they spent some days there. Then returning down the river, to the ocean, they continued their voyage in a southerly direction. Their next pause was at St. Augustine, which they found a most interesting old city--the oldest in the United States--noted for its picturesque beauty, its odd streets ten to twenty feet wide, without sidewalks, its crumbling old city gates, its governor's palace, its coquina-built houses with overhanging balconies, its sea walls and old fort, its Moorish cathedral, and the finest and most striking hotel in the world. But what interested our party more than anything else was the old fort--called San Marco by the Spaniard, but now bearing the American name of Fort Marion. They went together to visit it and were all greatly interested in its ancient and foreign appearance; in the dried-up moat, the drawbridges, the massive arched entrance, dark under-ways and dungeons. "Papa," said Elsie, "it's a dreadful place, and very, very old, isn't it?" "Yes," he answered; "it was probably begun in 1565. About how long ago was that?" "More than three hundred years," she returned after a moment's thought. "Oh, that is a long, long while!" "Yes," he said, "a very long while, and we may be very thankful that our lives were given us in this time rather than in that; for it was a time of ignorance and persecution." "Yes, yes, ignorance and persecution;" the words came in sepulchral tones from the depths of the nearest dungeon, "here have I lain for three hundred years with none to pity or help. Oh, 'tis a weary while! Shall I never, never escape?" "Oh, papa," cried Elsie in tones of affright, and clinging to his hand, "how dreadful! Can't we help him out?" "I don't think there is anyone in there, daughter," the captain said in reassuring tones, her Uncle Harold adding, with a slight laugh, "And if there is he must surely be pretty well used to it by this time." All their little company had been startled at first and felt a thrill of horror at thought of such misery, but now they all laughed and turned to Cousin Ronald, as if saying surely it was his doing. "Yes," he said, "the voice was mine; and thankful we may be that those poor victims of such hellish cruelty have long, long since been released from their pain." "Oh, I am glad to know that," exclaimed Elsie with a sigh of relief; "but please let's go away from here, for I think it's a dreadful place." "Yes," said her father, "we have seen it all now and will try to find something pleasanter to look at." And with that they turned and left the old fort. Captain Raymond and his little company, feeling in no haste to continue their journey, lingered for some time in St. Augustine and its neighborhood. One day they visited an island where some friends were boarding. It was a very pretty place. There were several cottages standing near together amid the orange groves, one of them occupied by the proprietor--a finely educated Austrian physician--and his wife, the others by the boarders. The party from the _Dolphin_ were much interested in the story of these people told them by their friend. "The doctor," he said, "had come over to America before our Civil War, and was on the island when Union troops came into the neighborhood. He was one day walking in the woods when suddenly a party of Union soldiers appeared and, seeing him, took him for a spy, seized him and declared their intention to shoot him. They tied his hands behind his back, led him to what they deemed a suitable spot on the edge of a thick part of the wood, then turned and walked away to station themselves at the proper distance for firing. But the instant their eyes were off him the prisoner started into the wood and was out of sight before they were aware that he was making an attempt to escape. "They pursued, but favored by the thick growth of trees and shrubs, he kept out of sight until he reached a palmetto, which he climbed--having contrived to get his hands free as he ran--and there concealed himself among the leaves. He had hardly ensconced himself there before he could see and hear his foes running past beneath his place of shelter, beating about the bushes and calling to each other to make sure of catching the rascally spy. But he was safely hidden and at length they gave up the search for the time. "But they had encamped in the neighborhood and for several days and nights the Austrian remained in the tree, afraid to descend lest he should be caught and shot. He did not starve, as he could eat of the cabbage which grows at the top of that tree, but he suffered from thirst and lack of sleep, as he could rest but insecurely in the treetop. When two or three days and nights had passed he felt that he could stand it no longer; he must get water and food though at the risk of his life. Waiting only for darkness and a silence that led him to hope his foes were not near at hand, he descended and cautiously made his way through the wood. He presently reached a house occupied by a woman only, told her his story and asked for food and drink. Her heart was touched with pity for his hard case, she supplied his wants and told him she would put food in a certain spot where he could get it the next night. "He thanked her and told her he wanted to get away from that neighborhood, as there was no safety for him there. She said she thought she might be able to secure a skiff in which he could go up or down the coast and so perhaps escape the soldiers. He was, you know, a physician--not a sailor--and knew but little about managing a boat; but anything seemed better than his present situation, so he thanked her and said he would be glad to try it. "Shortly afterward she informed him that the boat was ready. He entered it, took up the oars, and started down the coast. But a storm came on, he was unable to manage his small craft, it was upset by the waves, he was thrown into the water and presently lost consciousness. When he recovered it he was lying in a berth on board a much larger vessel than the canoe, a kindly-looking man leaning over him using restoratives. 'Ah, doctor,' he said with a pleased smile, 'I am glad, very glad to have succeeded in restoring you to consciousness; glad to have been able to rescue you from a watery grave.' "The doctor expressed his thanks, but acknowledged that he did not know this new friend, who seemed to know him; then the other asked if he did not remember having prescribed for a sick man in such a time and at such a place. 'It was I,' he added; 'you then saved my life, and I am most happy to have been enabled to save yours from being lost in the ocean.' "The talk went on; the doctor told of his danger, his escape, and his anxiety to keep out of the way of the soldiers until the war should be over. "The captain told him he was bound for Philadelphia, and that if he chose he could go there and live in safety to the end of the war and longer. So that was what he did; he stayed there till peace came, and in the meantime met and married a countrywoman of his own, a lovely and amiable lady, whom he brought back with him to Florida." "I noticed her as we passed," said Grandma Elsie; "she is a lovely-looking woman. But have they no children?" "None now; they had two--a son and a daughter--who lived to grow up, were children to be proud of, highly educated by their father, and very fond of each other and of their parents. The son used to act as guide to visitors boarding here in the cottages, going with them on fishing expeditions and so forth. On one of those occasions he was caught in a storm and took cold; that led to consumption and he finally died. They buried him under the orange trees. His sister was so overwhelmed with grief that she fretted herself to death, and now lies by his side." "Ah, the poor mother!" sighed Grandma Elsie. "And the father too," added Captain Raymond in a moved tone. CHAPTER VIII. Leaving St. Augustine the _Dolphin_ pursued her way down the Florida coast, pausing here and there for a day or two at the most attractive places, continuing on to the southernmost part of the State, around it, past Cape Sable and out into the Gulf of Mexico. Then, having accepted an invitation from Grandma Elsie to visit Viamede, they sailed on in a westerly direction. They had pleasant weather during their sojourn in and about Florida, but as they entered the Gulf a rain storm came up and continued until they neared the port of New Orleans. That confined the women and children pretty closely to the cabin and active little Ned grew very weary of it. "I wish I could go on deck," he sighed on the afternoon of the second day. "I'm so tired of staying down here where there's nothing to see." As he concluded a voice that sounded like that of a boy about his own age, and seemed to come from the stairway to the deck, said, "I'm sorry for that little chap. Suppose I come down there and try to get up a bit of fun for him." "By all means," replied the captain. "We will be happy to have you do so." Ned straightened himself up and looked eagerly in the direction of the stairway. "Who is it, papa?" he asked. "Why, don't you know me?" asked the voice, this time seeming to come from the door of one of the staterooms. "No, I don't," returned Ned. "I didn't know there was any boy on board, except myself." "Nor did I," said a rough man's voice, "What are you doing here, you young rascal? came aboard to steal, did you?" "Nothing but my passage, sir; and I'm not doing a bit of harm," replied the boyish voice. "Oh, I guess I know who you are," laughed Ned. "At least I'm pretty sure you're either Cousin Ronald or brother Max." At that a loud guffaw right at his ear made the little boy jump with an outcry, "Oh, who was that?" "Why don't you look and see?" laughed Lucilla. "Why, it doesn't seem to have been anybody," returned Ned, looking around this way and that. "But I'm not going to be frightened, for I just know it's one or the other of our ventriloquists. Now, good sirs, please let's have some more of it, for it's real fun." "Not much, I should think, after you are in the secret," said Max. "It's some, though," said Ned, "because it seems so real even when you do know--or guess--who it is that's doing it." "Well, now, I'm glad you are so easily pleased and entertained, little fellow," said the voice from the state-room door. "Perhaps now the captain will let me pay my fare on the yacht by providing fun for his little son. That oldest one doesn't seem to need any; he gets enough talking with the ladies." "Oh, do you, brother Max?" asked Ned, turning to him. "Yes," laughed Max; "it's very good fun." "Hello!" shouted a voice, apparently from the deck, "Mr. Raymond, sir, better come up here and see that we don't run foul of that big steamer--or she of us." The captain started to his feet, but Max laughed, and said in a mirthful tone, "Never mind, father, it's a false alarm, given for Ned's amusement." "Please don't scare anybody else to amuse me, brother Max," said Ned, with the air of one practising great self-denial. "I don't think father was really very badly scared," laughed Lucilla; "and we may feel pretty safe with two good naval officers and a skilful crew to look out for threatening dangers and help us to avoid them." "That's right, miss; no occasion for anxiety or alarm," said the man's rough voice that had spoken before. "Thank you; I don't feel a particle of either," laughed Lucilla. "And I am sure neither you nor any of us should, under the care of two such excellent and skilful seamen," added Violet in a sprightly tone. "That's right and I reckon you may feel pretty safe--all o' you," said the man's voice. "Of course; who's afraid?" cried the boyish voice, close at Ned's side. "Some of those old Spaniards were drowned in this gulf, but that was because they knew nothing about managing a vessel." "Oh, yes!" exclaimed Ned, "but my father does know how, and so does brother Max." "That's a mighty good thing," said the voice, "and we needn't fear shipwreck, but can just devote ourselves to having a good time." "So we can," said Ned. "And we do have good times here in the _Dolphin_. Anybody is pretty sure of good times when papa is at the head of affairs." "Quite a complimentary speech from my little son," laughed the captain. "And where are you going in this _Dolphin_?" asked the voice. "To New Orleans, then to Berwick Bay and on through the lakes and bayous to my grandma's place--Viamede. I've been there before and it's just beautiful." "Then I'd like to go too," said the voice. "Won't you take me along?" "Yes, yes, indeed! whether you are Cousin Ronald or brother Max, I know grandma will make you welcome." At that everybody laughed and his grandma said: "Yes, indeed, they are both heartily welcome." "And whichever you are I'm obliged to you for making this fun for me," continued Ned. "Oh, what was that!" as a loud whistle was heard seemingly close in his rear. He turned hastily about, then laughed as he perceived that there was no one there. "Was it you did that, brother Max?" he asked. "Did it sound like my voice?" asked Max. "As much as like any other. But oh, there's the call to supper and I suppose the fun will have to stop for this time." "Yes, you can have the fun of eating instead," said his father, leading the way to the table. In due time the next day they reached New Orleans, where they paused for a few days of rest and sight-seeing, then returning to their yacht, they passed out into the Gulf, up the bay into Teche Bayou and beyond, through lake and lakelet, past plain and forest, plantation and swamp. The scenery was beautiful; there were miles of smoothly shaven and velvety green lawns, shaded by magnificent oaks and magnolias; there were cool, shady dells carpeted with a rich growth of flowers; lordly villas peering through groves of orange trees, tall white sugar-houses, and long rows of cabins for the laborers. The scenes were not entirely new to anyone on the boat, but were scarcely the less enjoyable for that--so great was their beauty. When they reached their destination and the boat rounded to at the wharf, they perceived a welcoming group awaiting their landing--all the relatives from Magnolia, the Parsonage, and Torriswood. There was a joyful exchange of greetings with them and then with the group of servants standing a little in the rear. In accordance with written directions sent by Grandma Elsie some days in advance of her arrival, a feast had been prepared and the whole connection in that neighborhood invited to partake of it. And not one older or younger had failed to come, for she was too dearly loved for an invitation from her to be neglected unless the hinderance were such as could not be ignored or set aside. Dr. Dick Percival and his Maud were there among the rest; Dick's half brother Dr. Robert Johnson, and Maud's sister Sidney also. They gave a very joyful and affectionate greeting to their brother Chester and to Lucilla Raymond, then attached themselves to her for the short walk from the wharf up to the house. "Oh, Lu," said Maud, "we are so glad that we are to have you for our sister. I don't know any other girl I should be so pleased to have come into the family. And Ches will make a good kind husband, I am sure, for he has always been a dear good brother." "Indeed he has," said Sidney. "And we are hoping that he and Frank will come and settle down here near us." "Oh, no, indeed!" exclaimed Lulu. "I should like to live near you two, but nothing would induce me to make my home so far away from my father. And Chester has promised never to take me away from him." "Oh, I was hoping you would want to come," said Maud. "But Ches is one to keep his word; so that settles it." But they had reached the house and here the talk ended for the time. The new arrivals retired to their rooms for a little attention to the duties of the toilet, then all gathered about the well-spread board and made a hearty meal, enlivened by cheerful chat mingled with many an innocent jest and not a little mirthful laughter. It was still early when the meal was concluded, and the next hour or two were spent in pleasant, familiar intercourse upon the verandas or in the beautiful grounds. Then the guests began to return to their homes, those with young children leaving first. The Torriswood family stayed a little longer, and at their urgent request Chester consented to become their guest for the first few days, if no longer. "There are two good reasons why you should do so," said Dick in a half-jesting tone: "firstly, I having married your sister, by that we are the most nearly related; and secondly, as Bob and I are both physicians, we may be better able to take proper care of you than these good and kind relatives." "Dick, Dick," remonstrated Violet, "how you forget! or is it professional jealousy? Have we not been careful to bring along with us one of the very physicians who have had charge of Chester's case?" "Why, sure enough!" exclaimed Dick. "Harold, old fellow, I beg your pardon! and to make amends, should I get sick I shall certainly have you called in at once." "Which will quite make amends," returned Harold, laughing; "as it will give me a good opportunity to punish your impertinence in ignoring my claims as one of the family physicians." "Ah!" returned Dick, "I perceive that my wiser plan will be to keep well." There was a general laugh, a moment's pause, then Robert, sending a smiling glance in Sidney's direction, said, "Now, dear friends and relatives, Sid and I have a communication to make. We have decided to follow the good example set us by our brother and sister--Maud and Dick--and so we expect in two or three weeks to take each other for better or for worse." The announcement caused a little surprise to most of those present, but everyone seemed pleased; thinking it a suitable match in every way. "I think you have chosen wisely--both of you," said Grandma Elsie, "and I hope there are many years of happiness in store for you; happiness and usefulness. And, Chester," turning to him, "remember that these doors are wide open to you at all times. Come back when you will and stay as long as you will." "Thank you, cousin; you are most kindly hospitable," Chester said with a gratified look and smile. "The two places are so near together that I can readily divide my time between them; which--both being so attractive--is certainly very fortunate for me." "And for all of us," said Violet; "as we shall be able to see more of each other than we could if farther apart." "Yes; I shall hope and expect to see you all coming in every day," added her mother with hospitable cordiality. "Thank you, Cousin Elsie," said Maud, "but, though it is delightful to come here, we must not let it be altogether a one-sided affair. Please remember to return our visits whenever you find it convenient and pleasant to do so." With that they took leave and departed, and a little later those constituting the family for the time bade each other good-night, and most of them retired to their sleeping apartments. Not quite all of them, however. Max, Evelyn, and Lucilla stepped out upon the veranda again, Max remarking, "The grounds are looking bewitchingly beautiful in the moonlight; suppose we take a little stroll down to the bayou." "You two go if you like, but I want to have a word or two with papa," said Lucilla, glancing toward her father, who was standing quietly and alone at some little distance, seemingly absorbed in gazing upon the beauties of the landscape. "Well, we will not be gone long," said Evelyn, as she and Max descended the steps while Lucilla glided softly in her father's direction. He did not seem aware of her approach until she was close at his side, and laying a hand on his arm, said in her low, sweet tones: "I have come for my dear father's good-night caresses, and to hear anything he may have to say to his eldest daughter." "Ah, that is right," he said, turning and putting an arm about her and drawing her into a close embrace. "I hope all goes well with you, dear child. If not, your father is the very one to bring your troubles to." "Thank you, dear papa," she said; "if I had any troubles I should certainly bring them to you; but I have not. Oh, I do think I am the happiest girl in the land! with your dear love and Chester's too. And Max with us again; and all of us well and in this lovely, lovely place!" "Yes, we have a great deal to be thankful for," he returned. "But you will miss Chester, now that he has left here for Torriswood." "Oh, not very much," she said with a happy little laugh; "for he has assured me that he will be here at least a part of every day; the ride or walk from Torriswood being not too long to be taken with pleasure and profit." "And doubtless some of the time you will be there. By the way, you should give Sidney something handsome as a wedding present. You may consider what would be suitable and likely to please, consult with the other ladies, and let your father know what the decision is--that he may get the article, or supply the means." "Thank you ever so much, father dear," she replied in grateful tones, "but you have given me such a generous supply of pocket money that I don't think I shall need to call upon you for help about this. But I shall ask your advice about what the gift shall be and be sure not to buy anything of which you do not approve." "Spoken like my own dear, loving daughter," he said approvingly, and with a slight caress. "By the way, did Robert Johnson's bit of news make my daughter and her lover a trifle jealous that their engagement must be so long a one?" "Not me, papa; I am entirely willing--yes, very glad--to be subject to your orders; very loath to leave the dear home with you and pass from under your care and protection. Oh, I sometimes feel as if I could never do it. But then I say to myself, 'But I shall always be my dear father's child and we need not--we will not love each other the less because another claims a share of my affection.' Is that not so, papa?" "Yes, daughter; and I do not believe anything can ever make either one of us love the other less. But it is growing late and about time for my eldest daughter to be seeking her nest, if she wants to be up with the birds in the morning and ready to share a stroll with her father through these beautiful grounds before breakfast." "Yes, sir; but, if you are willing, I should like to wait for Evelyn. She and Max will be in presently, I think. Papa, I do think they have begun to be lovers, and I am glad; for I should dearly love to have Eva for a sister." "And I should not object to having her for a daughter," returned the captain, with a pleased little laugh. "And you are not mistaken, so far as Max is concerned. He asked me to-day if I were willing that he should try to win the dear girl, and I told him most decidedly so; that I heartily wished him success in his wooing. Though, as in your case, I think marriage would better be deferred for a year or two." "Yes, Max would be quite as much too young for a bridegroom as I for a bride," she said with a slight and amused laugh; "and I don't believe he would disregard his father's advice. All your children love you dearly and have great confidence in your opinion on every subject, father dear." "As I have in their love and willingness to be guided by me," the captain responded in a tone of gratification. "You may wait for Evelyn. I think she and Max will be in presently. Ah, yes; see they are turning this way now." Max had given his arm to Evelyn as they left the house, and crossing the lawn together they strolled slowly along the bank of the bayou. "Oh, such a beautiful night as it is!" exclaimed Evelyn, "and the air is so soft and balmy one can hardly realize that in our more northern homes cold February reigns." "No," said Max, "and I am glad we are escaping the blustering March winds that will soon be visiting that section. Still, for the year round I prefer that climate to this." "Yes; but it is very pleasant to be able to go from one section to another as the seasons change," said Eva. "I think we are very fortunate people in being able to do it." "Yes," returned Max, "but after all one's happiness depends far more upon being in congenial society and with loved ones than upon climate, scenery--or anything else. Eva," and he turned to her as with sudden determination, "I--I think I can never again be happy away from you. I love you and want you for my own. You have said you would like to be my father's daughter, and I can make you that if you will only let me. Say, dearest, oh, say that you will let me--that you will be mine--my own dear little wife." "Max, oh, Max," she answered in low, trembling tones, "I--I am afraid you don't know me quite as I am--that you would be disappointed--would repent of having said what you have." "Never, never! if you will only say yes; if you will only promise to be mine--my own love, my own dear little wife." And putting an arm about her he drew her close, pressing an ardent kiss upon her lips. She did not repulse him, and continuing his endearments and entreaties he at length drew from her an acknowledgment that she returned his love. Then presently they turned their steps toward the mansion, as happy a pair as could be found in the whole length and breadth of the land. Captain Raymond and Lucilla were waiting for them, and Max, leading Evelyn to his father, said in joyous tones, "I have won a new daughter for you, father, and a dear sweet wife for myself. At least she has promised to be both to us one of these days." "Ah, I am well pleased," the captain said, taking Eva's hand in his, and bending down to give her a fatherly caress. "I have always felt that I should like to take her into my family and do a father's part by her." "Oh, captain, you are very, very kind," returned Eva, low and feelingly; "there is nobody in the wide world whose daughter I should prefer to be." "And oh, Eva, I shall be so glad to have you really my sister!" exclaimed Lucilla, giving her friend a warm embrace. "Max, you dear fellow, I'm ever so glad and so much obliged to you." "You needn't to be, sis. Eva is the one deserving of thanks for accepting one so little worthy of her as this sailor brother of yours," returned Max, with a happy laugh. "Yes, we will give her all the credit," said the captain; "and hope that you, my son, will do your best to prove yourself worthy of the prize you have won. And now, my dears, it is high time we were all retiring to rest; in order that we may have strength and spirits for the duties and pleasures of to-morrow." Evelyn and Lucilla were sharing a room communicating directly with the one occupied by Grace and little Elsie, and that opened into the one where the captain and Violet slept. In compliance with the captain's advice the young girls at once retired to their room to seek their couches for the night; but first they indulged in a bit of loving chat. "Oh, Eva," Lucilla exclaimed, holding her friend in a loving embrace, "I am so glad, so very, very glad that we are to be sisters. And Max I am sure will make you a good, kind husband. He has always been the best and dearest of brothers to me--as well as to Grace and the little ones." "Yes, I know it," said Evelyn softly. "I know too that your father has always been the best and kindest of husbands and that Max is very much like him." "And you love Max?" "How could I help it?" asked Evelyn, blushing as she spoke. "I thought it was as a dear brother I cared for him, till--till he asked me to--to be his wife; but then I knew better. Oh, it was so sweet to learn that he loved me so! and I am so happy! I am not the lonely girl I was this morning--fatherless and motherless and without brother or sister. Oh, I have them all now--except the mother," she added with a slight laugh--"for of course your Mamma Vi is much too young to be that to me." "Yes; as she is to be a mother to Max, Gracie, and me. But with such a father as ours one could do pretty well without a mother. Don't you think so?" "Yes; he seems to be father and mother both to those of his children who have lost their mother." "He is indeed. But now I must obey his last order by getting to bed as quickly as I can." "I, too," laughed Evelyn; "it seems really delightful to have a father to obey." She ended with a slight sigh, thinking of the dear father who had been so long in the better land. CHAPTER IX. Lucilla woke at her usual early hour, rose at once, and moving so quietly about as not to disturb Evelyn's slumbers, attended to all the duties of the time, then went softly from the room and down to the front veranda, where she found her father pacing slowly to and fro. "Ah, daughter," he said, holding out his hand with a welcoming smile, "good-morning. I am glad to see you looking bright and well;" and drawing her into his arms he gave her the usual welcoming caress. "As I feel, papa," she returned, "and I hope you too are quite well." "Yes; entirely so. It is a lovely morning and I think we will find a stroll along the bank of the bayou very enjoyable. However, I want you to eat a bit of something first; and here is Aunt Phillis with oranges prepared in the usual way for an early morning lunch," he added as an elderly negress stepped from the doorway bearing a small silver waiter on which was a dish of oranges ready for eating. "Yes, Massa Captain, and I hopes you, sah, and Miss Lu kin eat what's heah; dere's plenty moah for de res' ob de folks when dey gets out o' dere beds." "Yes," said the captain, helping Lucilla and himself, "there is always a great abundance of good cheer where your Miss Elsie is at the head of affairs." "Father," Lucilla said as they set off across the lawn, "I am so pleased that Max and Eva are engaged. I should prefer her for a sister-in-law to anyone else; for I have always loved her dearly since we first met." "Yes; I can say the same; she is a dear girl, and Max could have done nothing to please me better," was the captain's answering remark. "And she loves you, father," returned Lucilla, smiling up into his eyes; "which of course seems very strange to me." "Ah? although I know you to be guilty of the very same thing yourself," he returned with an assured smile and pressing affectionately the hand he held in his. "Ah, but having been born your child, how can I help it?" she asked with a happy little laugh. Then went on, "Father, I've been thinking how it would do for you to make that house you have been talking of building near your own, big enough for two families--Max's and Eva's, Chester's and mine." "Perhaps it might do," he answered pleasantly, "but it is hardly necessary to consider the question yet." "No, sir," she returned. "Oh, I am glad I do not have to leave my sweet home in my father's house for months or maybe years yet. I do so love to be with you that I don't know how I can ever feel willing to leave you; even for Chester, whom I do really love very dearly." "And I shall find it very hard to have you leave me," he said. "But we expect to be near enough to see almost as much of each other as we do now." "Yes, papa, that's the pleasant part of it," she said with a joyous look; then went on, "Chester has been talking to me about plans for the house, but I tell him that, as you said just now, it is hardly time to think about them yet." "There would be no harm in doing so, however," her father said; "no harm in deciding just what you want before work on it is begun. I should like to make it an ideal home for my dear eldest daughter." "Thank you, father dear," she said. "I do think you are just the kindest father ever anyone had." "I have no objection to your thinking so," he returned with a pleased smile; then went on to speak of some plans for the building that had occurred to him. "We will examine the plans," he said, "and try to think in what respect each might be improved. I intend my daughter's home to be as convenient, cosey, and comfortable as possible; and you must not hesitate to suggest any improvement that may occur to you." "Thank you, papa; how good and kind you are to me! Oh, I wish I had been a better daughter to you--never wilful or disobedient." "Dear child, you are a great comfort to me and have been for years past," he said; then went on speaking of the plans that he had been considering. In the meantime they had walked some distance along the bank of the bayou, and glancing at his watch the captain said it was time to return, as it was not far from the breakfast hour, and probably they would find most, if not all of the others ready for and awaiting the summons to the table. Lucilla had scarcely left her sleeping apartment when Eva awoke, and seeing that the sun was shining, arose and made a rapid toilet; careful, though--thinking of Max and his interest in her--that it should be neat and becoming. She descended the stairs just as the captain and Lucilla were approaching the house on their return from their walk; and Max was waiting on the veranda while most of the other guests had gathered in the nearest parlor. Eva stepped out upon the veranda and Max came swiftly to meet her. "My darling!" he said, low and tenderly, putting his arm about her and giving her an ardent kiss, "my own promised one. You are lovelier than ever. A treasure far beyond my deserts. But as you have given your dear self to me you are mine; and let this seal our compact," slipping upon her finger, as he spoke, a ring set with a very large and brilliant diamond. "Oh, how lovely!" she exclaimed, looking at it and then lifting to his face eyes filled with love and joy. "It is very beautiful, dear Max, valuable for that reason, but still more for being the emblem of your dear love--love that makes me the happiest girl in the land." "As yours makes me the happiest man. Ah, Eva dear, I am not worthy of you." "Ah," she laughed, "I shall take your opinion on most subjects, but not on that. Here comes your father and Lu." "Good-morning," they said, coming up the steps, the captain adding in jesting tones, "Ah, Max, my son, you seem to be making an early return to the business begun yesterday." "And something more, captain," Eva said, displaying his gift. "Is it not lovely?" "Oh, beautiful!" exclaimed Lucilla. "As handsome a diamond as ever I saw," remarked the captain, examining it critically; "but none too handsome or expensive for a gift to my new daughter that is to be," he added with a smile, and imprinting a kiss upon the small white hand which wore the ring. "Shall we join the others in the parlor now? and will you let Max tell them of his good fortune? You will neither of you, surely, wish to keep it a secret from friends so near and dear." "I do not," said Max; "but it shall be just as you decide, Eva dear," he added in low and tender tones, drawing her hand within his arm as he spoke. "I think your--our father's opinions are always right, Max," she said with a smile and a blush. "Will you go in first, father? you and Lu--and we will follow," said Max, and the captain at once, taking Lucilla's hand in his, led the way. "Good-morning to you all, friends and relatives," was his cheerful-toned and smiling address as he entered the room, "I hope you are all well and in good spirits." Then, stepping aside, he allowed Max to pass him with the blushing Evelyn on his arm. He led her up to Mrs. Travilla, saying, "Good-morning, Grandma Elsie. I want to introduce to you my future wife. For this dear girl has, to my great joy, promised to become that one of these days." "Ah! is that so, Max? I know of nothing that could please me better," exclaimed that dear lady, rising to her feet and bestowing a warm embrace upon the blushing, happy-faced Evelyn. Violet was beside them in an instant, exclaiming in joyous tones, "Oh, Eva and Max! how glad I am! for I am sure you were made for each other, and will be very happy together." "And are you willing now to let me be the captain's daughter?" asked Eva, with a charming blush, accompanied by a slightly roguish laugh. "Yes; seeing that Max calls me Mamma Vi, and you are really younger than he," was Violet's laughing reply. But Grace, little Elsie, and the others were crowding around with expressions of surprise and pleasure and many congratulations and good wishes. For everybody who knew them loved both Max and Eva. But now came the call to breakfast and they repaired to the dining room and gathered about the table, as cheerful and gay a party as could be found in the whole length and breadth of the land. "You seem likely to have a rapid increase in your family, captain," said Dr. Harold Travilla, with a smiling glance directed toward Lucilla, Max, and Eva, seated near together. "Some time hence," returned the captain pleasantly. "I consider them all young enough to wait a little, and they are dutifully willing to do as I desire." "As they certainly should be, considering what a good and kind father you are, sir, and how young they are." "And how pleasant are the days of courtship," added Mr. Lilburn; "as no doubt they will prove with them." "And how wise as well as kind our father is," said Max, giving the captain an ardently appreciative look and smile; "how patiently and earnestly he has striven to bring his children up for usefulness and happiness in this world and the next." "That is true," said Violet. "I think no one ever had a better father than yours, Max." "And certainly no one had a more appreciative wife or children than I," remarked Captain Raymond, with a smile. "We seem to have formed a mutual admiration society this morning." "Surely the very best kind of society for families to form among themselves," laughed Herbert. "And I like the way our young people are pairing off," remarked Mr. Dinsmore; "the matches arranged for among them seem to be very suitable. By the way, Elsie, we must be planning for some wedding gifts for Bob and Sidney." "Yes, sir," replied Mrs. Travilla, "I have been thinking of that, but have not decided upon any particular article yet. I suppose our better plan will be to buy in New Orleans." "Yes, I think so. And it will be well for us to have a consultation on the subject, in order to avoid giving duplicates." "A very good idea, grandpa," said Violet, "and as there are so many of us--counting the Magnolia and Parsonage people, as well as those of Torriswood--might it not be well to have that consultation soon, to determine what each will give, and then set about securing the articles in good season for the wedding, which will probably take place in about three weeks?" There was a general approval of that idea and it was decided to take prompt measures for carrying it out. The meal concluded, all gathered in the family parlor and held the usual morning service of prayer, praise, and reading of the Scriptures. That over, they gathered upon the front veranda and were again engaged in discussing the subject of wedding gifts, when Dr. Percival drove up with his wife and her brother. They were most cordially greeted and invited to give their views in regard to the subject which was engaging the thoughts of the others at the moment. "I think it would be wise for us all to agree as to what each one shall give, so that there will be no duplicates," said Maud. "Yes," said Violet, "that is the conclusion we have all come to." "Very good," said Maud. "And Sidney wanted me to consult with you older ladies in regard to the material of her wedding dress--whether it should be silk or satin; and about the veil. They are to be married in the morning, out under the orange trees." "Oh, that will be lovely," said Violet. "Yes; I think so; and it will allow plenty of room," continued Maud; "and we need plenty because our two doctors want to invite so many of their patients lest somebody should feel hurt by being left out. Our idea is to have the ceremony about noon and the wedding breakfast on the lawn immediately after it." "I like that," said Violet. "As to the wedding-dress question--suppose we send to New Orleans for samples, let Sidney choose from them and order the quantity she wants?" "That strikes me as a very good idea," said Chester; "and I want it distinctly understood that I pay for this wedding dress. I had no opportunity to do a brother's part by Maud at the time of her marriage, but I insist that I shall be allowed to do so by this only remaining sister." "Yes, Chester, you and I will both insist upon being allowed our rights this time," laughed Dick; "especially as there will be no single sister left to either of us." "And between you, and with the other relatives to help, Sidney will fare well, I hope and believe," remarked Mr. Dinsmore with a smile. "Chester," said Lucilla in a low aside, "I want your help in choosing my gift for your sister. I have the greatest confidence in your judgment and taste." "Thank you, dearest," he returned with a pleased smile. "I shall be very glad to give my opinion for what it is worth." "I presume you have sent or will promptly send word to Frank that his sister is about to marry?" Mr. Dinsmore remarked in a tone between assertion and inquiry. "We have written," replied Dick, "but are not at all certain that the letter will reach him in time, as he may have left Florida before it could be received." "I do not quite despair of getting him here in season," remarked Chester. "I think we will hear of his whereabouts in time to send him a telegram." Just at that moment the Magnolia carriage was seen coming up the driveway with Mr. and Mrs. Embury in it. They had come to consult with the Viamede relatives and friends in regard to preparations for the approaching wedding and suitable and desirable gifts for the bride; for Mrs. Embury, being own sister to Dr. Percival and half-sister to Dr. Robert Johnson, felt particularly interested and desirous to do her full share in helping the young couple with their preparations for making a home for themselves. "Do they intend to go to housekeeping?" she asked of Maud. "It is hardly decided yet," replied Maud. "We are trying to persuade them that it will be best for us all to continue to be one family. I think that will be the way for a time at least; and when we tire of that we can easily occupy the house as two families. It is large enough and so planned that it can readily be used in that way." "A very good thing," remarked Mr. Embury. "I think you will be the more likely to agree if you do not feel that you are shut up to the necessity of remaining one family." "You have hardly sent out your invitations yet?" Molly said half inquiringly. "Only to the more distant relatives," replied Maud. "Of course we cannot expect that they will all come, but we did not want to neglect any of them." "We must arrange to accommodate them if they should come," said Molly, "and I hope most of them will. Now about making purchases--of wedding gifts, wedding finery, and so forth. New Orleans will of course be our best place for shopping if we want to see the goods before buying. Does anybody feel inclined to go there and attend to the matter?" There was silence for a moment. Then Captain Raymond said, "The _Dolphin_ and I are at the service of any one--or any number--who would like to go." Both Maud and Molly thought themselves too busy with home preparations, and after some discussion it was finally decided that Mrs. Travilla, Violet, and the captain, Eva and Max, Lulu and Chester, Grace and Harold should form the deputation and that they would go the next Monday morning--this being Saturday. That matter settled, the Emburys and Percivals took their departure. Then a thought seemed to strike Grandma Elsie. "Annis," she said, turning to her cousin, "cannot you and Cousin Ronald go with us? I wish you would." "Why, yes; if you want us I think we can," laughed Annis, turning an inquiring look upon her husband. "If you wish it, my dear," he answered pleasantly. "I always enjoy being with the cousins." And so it was decided they would be of the party. CHAPTER X. "Now, my daughters, Lucilla and Grace, if you have any preparations to make for your trip to New Orleans, my advice is that you attend to them at once," Captain Raymond said when their callers had gone. "Yes, sir," they both returned, making prompt movement to obey; Lucilla adding, "though I am sure we have but little to do." "And what are your directions to me, Captain Raymond? or am I to be left entirely to my own devices?" laughed Violet. "I think my wife is wise enough to be safely so left," he replied in his usual pleasant tones, and with a look of fond appreciation; "and perhaps might give some advice to my daughters," he added. "And now I think of it, perhaps it might be well to consult with them in regard to some matters," said Violet, and hurried away after the girls, who had gone up to their sleeping apartments. "Have not you some preparations to make also, Elsie?" asked Mr. Dinsmore of his daughter. "Very little," she answered with a smile; "only some packing that my maid can do in a few minutes. Ah, there is someone wanting to speak to me, I think," as an elderly negro came out upon the veranda, bowed to the company in general, then looked toward her with a sort of pleading expression, as if he had a petition to offer. She rose and went to him, asking in kindly inquiring tone, "What is it, Uncle Joe?" "Ise come to ax a favor, mistiss," he replied, bowing low. "Ole Aunt Silvy she mighty porely--mos' likely gwine die befo' many days--an' she doan pear to feel pow'ful sure ob de road for to git to de bes' place on de furder side ob de river. She says Miss Elsie knows da way and maybe she come and 'struct her how to find it." "Indeed I shall be very glad if I can help her to find it," Elsie answered with emotion. "I will go with you at once." Then turning to her son, "Harold," she said, "Uncle Joe reports a woman at the quarter as very ill; will you go down there with me and see if your medical skill can give her any relief?" "Certainly, mother dear;" replied Harold, hastening to her side; and excusing herself to her guests and taking her son's arm, Mrs. Travilla at once set off for the quarter, Uncle Joe following respectfully at a little distance, ready to point out the cabin where the ailing negress lay. They found her tossing about on her bed, moaning and groaning. "Oh, mistiss," she cried as they entered, "you's berry good comin' fo' to see dis po' ole darky. I'se pow'ful glad for to see you, mistiss, an' de young massa too. Uncle Joe, set out dat cheer fo' de mistiss and dat oder one for de young massa." Uncle Joe hastened to do her bidding, while Harold felt her pulse and questioned her in regard to her illness. She complained of misery in her head, misery in her back, and being "pow'ful weak," finishing up with the query, "Is I gwine die dis day, suh?" "I think not," he replied, "you may live for weeks or months. But life is very uncertain with us all, and I advise you to promptly make every preparation for death and eternity." "Dat's what I gwine do when mistiss tell me how," she groaned, with a look of keen distress directed toward Mrs. Travilla. "I will try to make the way plain to you," that lady returned in compassionate tones. "It is just to come to the Lord Jesus confessing that you are a helpless, undone sinner and asking him to help you--to take away the love of sinning and wash you in his own precious blood. The Bible tells us 'He is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him.' And he says, 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' So that if you come, truly seeking him with all your heart--desiring to be saved, not only from eternal death but from sin and the love of it--he will hear and save you." "Won' you pray de good Lawd for dis ole darky, mistiss?" pleaded the woman. "You knows bes' how to say de words, an' dis chile foller you in her heart." At that Mrs. Travilla knelt beside the bed and offered up an earnest prayer couched in the simplest words, so that the poor ignorant creature on the bed could readily understand and feel it all. "Dis chile am berry much 'bliged, mistiss," she said, when Mrs. Travilla had resumed her seat by the bedside. "I t'ink de good Lawd hear dat prayer an open de gate ob heaben to ole Silvy when she git dar." "I hope so indeed," Mrs. Travilla replied. "Put all your trust in Jesus and you will be safe; for he died to save sinners such as you and I. We cannot do anything to save ourselves, but to all who come to him he gives salvation without money and without price. Don't think you can do anything to earn it; it is his free gift." "But de Lawd's chillens got to be good, mistiss, aint dey?" "Yes; they are not his children if they do not try to know and do all his holy will. Jesus said, 'If ye love me, keep my commandments.' 'Ye are my friends, if ye do whatsoever I command you.' We have no right to consider ourselves Christians if we do not try earnestly to keep all his commands, and do all his holy will." Harold had sat there listening quietly to all his mother said and had knelt with her when she prayed. Now, when she paused for a little, he questioned Aunt Silvy about her ailments, gave her directions for taking some medicine, and said he would send it presently from the house. Mrs. Travilla added that she would send some delicacies to tempt the sickly appetite; then with a few more kindly words they left the cabin, bidding Uncle Joe a kindly good-by as they went. "You do not think Aunt Silvy really a dying woman, Harold?" his mother said in a tone of inquiry, as they walked on together. "No, mamma; I shall not be surprised if she lives for years yet," Harold answered cheerily. "No doubt she is suffering, but I think medicine, rest, and suitable food will relieve her and she will probably be about again in a week or two. But preparation for death and eternity can do her no harm." "No, certainly; to become truly a Christian must add to the happiness--as well as safety--of anyone." "And you have brought that happiness to many a one, my dear mother," Harold said, giving her a tenderly affectionate look. "How often in thinking of you I recall those words of the prophet Daniel, 'And they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars for ever and ever.'" "'Tis a precious promise," she said with emotion. "Oh, my son, make it the business of your life to do that; to help to the healing of souls--the immortal part--even more than that of the frail bodies which must soon die." "Yes, mother," he said with emotion, "I do try constantly to do that; and it is a great comfort and help to me to know that my dear mother is often asking for me help from on high." "Yes," she said; "without that none of us could accomplish anything in the way of winning souls for Christ; and every Christian should feel that that is his principal work. This life is so short and the never-ending ages of eternity are so long. 'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave whither thou goest.'" They walked on in silence for a little, then Harold remarked that the air was delightful and a little more extended walk might prove beneficial to them both. "Yes," replied his mother, "let us take a stroll through the orange orchard; the sight and perfume of the fruit and blossoms are delightful." "Yes, indeed!" he said, "and you can see, mother, whether everything is properly cared for." "I expect to find it so," she returned, "as I have every reason to believe my overseer both faithful and competent." They enjoyed their stroll greatly and she found no reason to change her estimate of the overseer. It was lunch time when they returned to the house, and on leaving the table some of their party went for a row on the bayou while the rest chose riding or driving through the beautiful woods. Evelyn and Max, Lucilla and Chester formed the riding party and greatly enjoyed their little excursion. The courting of the two young couples was carried on in a very quiet way, but was none the less satisfactory and enjoyable for that. But all four of them felt a great interest in the approaching wedding and much of their talk as they rode was of it, and what gifts to the bride would be the most appropriate and acceptable. "Chester, you know you have promised to advise me what to give to Sidney," Lucilla said, with a smile into his eyes. "You dear girl! so I will and I make that same request of you, for I am sure you know far more about such matters than I do," he returned with a very loverlike look. "Quite a mistake, Mr. Dinsmore," she laughed. "But I understood you intended to give some part of the trousseau--perhaps the wedding dress." "Yes; that and pretty much all the rest of it. And I am sure your help will be invaluable in the choice of the various articles." "Thank you," she said, with a pleased laugh. "It is very nice to have you think so highly of my judgment and taste; but I hope you will let Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi and Eva assist in the selection." "Certainly, if you wish it, but I do not promise to let their opinions have as much weight with me as yours." "No, you needn't," she returned merrily; "it is by no means disagreeable to have you consider mine the most valuable, even though it be really worthless in other people's esteem. It is very possible Sidney might prefer their choice to mine." "Ah! but she won't have the chance. By the way, your father has a good deal of taste in the line of ladies' dress, has he not?" "I think so," she returned with a pleased smile; "he has selected many an article of dress for me, and always suited my taste as well as if I had been permitted to choose for myself. What he buys is sure to be of excellent quality and suited to the intended wearer's age, complexion, and needs." "You are very fond of your father," Chester said with a smile. "Indeed I am," she returned in an earnest tone. "I believe I give him all the love that should have been divided between him and my mother, had she lived. Mamma Vi calls him my idol; but I don't think I make him quite that. He has at least one rival in my affection," she added with a blush, and in a tone so low that he barely caught the words. "And I may guess who that is, may I, dearest?" he returned in the same low key and with a look that spoke volumes of love, and joy in the certainty of her affection. Max and Eva, riding on a trifle faster, were just far enough ahead and sufficiently absorbed in their own private chat to miss this little colloquy. There were some love passages between them also; some talk of what they hoped the future held in store for them when they should be old enough for the dear, honored father to give his consent to their immediate marriage. Neither of them seemed to have a thought of going contrary to his wishes; so strong was their affection for him and their faith in his wisdom and his love for them. All four greatly enjoyed their ride and returned to their temporary home in fine health and spirits. Chester had gotten rid of his troublesome cough before landing in Louisiana and was now looking younger and handsomer than he had before that almost fatal wound--a fact which greatly rejoiced the hearts of his numerous relatives and friends. None more so than that of his betrothed, for whose defence he had risked his life. By the time the Viamede dinner hour had arrived all the pleasure parties had returned and were ready to do justice to the good cheer provided in abundance. And the meal was enlivened by cheerful chat. The evening was spent much as the previous one had been and all retired early, that Sabbath morning might find them rested, refreshed, and ready for the duties and enjoyments of the sacred day. CHAPTER XI. Sabbath morning dawned bright and clear and as in former days all the family, old and young, attended church and the pastor's Bible class. And in the afternoon the house and plantation servants collected on the lawn and were addressed by Captain Raymond and Dr. Harold Travilla. Hymns were sung too, and prayers offered. The services over, the little congregation slowly dispersed; some lingering a few minutes for a shake of the hand and a few kind words from their loved mistress Mrs. Travilla, her father, her son, and Captain Raymond; then as the last one turned to depart, the captain and the doctor walked down to the quarter for a short call upon old Aunt Silvy, still lying in her bed. Mrs. Travilla had seated herself in the veranda and seemed to be doing nothing but gaze out upon the lovely landscape--the velvety, flower-bespangled lawn, the bayou, and the fields and woods beyond. But the slight patter of little feet drew her attention from that and turning she found Elsie and Ned at her side. "Grandma, will it be disturbing if I talk to you and ask some questions?" asked the little girl. "No, dear child, not at all," was the kindly-spoken reply. "I am always glad to help my dear little grandchildren to information when it is in my power. Here is an empty chair on each side of me. Draw them up closely, you and Ned, and seat yourselves and then I hope we can have a nice talk." "Yes, ma'am; and it will be a pleasant rest too," returned the little girl, as she and her brother followed the directions. "Papa told me once that the meaning of the word Sabbath is rest. But what I wanted particularly to ask about this time, grandma, is the Feast of the Passover. Will you please tell us why it was kept and why they called it that?" "Surely, my dear children, you have heard the story of the institution of that feast of the Jews called the Passover!" said Grandma Elsie in some surprise. "In the twelfth chapter of Exodus there is a full account of its institution. Every householder in Israel was to take a lamb of a year old, without blemish; and at even on the 14th day of the month it was to be slain. The householder was then to take of the blood of the lamb and sprinkle the door-posts of his house. That was to be a sign to the destroying angel, who was to slay all the firstborn of the Egyptians that night, not to enter and slay here. Then they were to roast the flesh of the lamb and eat it that night with unleavened bread and bitter herbs. The lives of the Israelites were saved by the angel passing over, instead of entering the house to destroy life." "Oh, yes, grandma, I understand," said the little girl. "But why is Christ called our passover? You know the text--'for even Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us.'" "You know," said her grandmother, "that Jesus is often called the 'Lamb of God'; that paschal lamb was a type of Christ and is so spoken of in many Scriptures." "Thank you, grandma, for telling me," Elsie said gratefully. "And the Jews kept that feast every year from that time till the time of Christ, I suppose. And he kept it too. Wasn't it at that feast that he instituted what we call the Lord's Supper?" "Yes," replied her grandmother; "he used the bread and wine which were a part of that feast, saying, 'Take, eat; this is my body. And he took the cup and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, Drink ye all of it; for this is my blood of the New Testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.'" "Oh, grandma, how good and kind he was to shed his blood for us! To die that dreadful, dreadful death of the cross that we might go to heaven!" exclaimed the little girl with tears in her sweet blue eyes. "I do love him for it, and I want to be his servant, doing everything he would have me do." "That is as we all should feel, dear child," replied her grandmother, bending down to press a kiss upon the rosy cheek. "I do, grandma," said Ned. "Do you think the Lord Jesus takes notice that we love him and want to do as he tells us?" "Yes, Neddie dear, I am quite sure of it," replied his grandmother. "The Psalmist says, 'Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways. For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, oh, Lord, thou knowest it altogether.'" "It is so good, grandma, that God doesn't think us not worth noticing," said Elsie; "that he sees and cares for us all the time and lets us ask his help whenever we will." "It is indeed good, my child, and we are sure of it. Jesus said, 'Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall to the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.'" "I think God was very good to give us our father and mother and grandma; brother Max too and our nice sisters and--and all the rest of the folks," remarked Ned reflectively. "I am very glad you appreciate all those blessings, my little son," said his mother's voice close at his side. "Yes, mamma. And oh, mamma! can't Elsie and I go along with the rest of you to New Orleans to-morrow?" "I think so," she replied with a smile. "I am pretty sure your father will say yes if you ask him. Then he will have all his children along, and that is what he likes." "He and Uncle Harold went down to the quarter," said Elsie, "and here they come now." Ned hurried to meet them, preferred his request, and the next moment came running back with the joyful announcement, "Papa says, yes we may. Oh, Elsie, aren't you glad?" "Yes," she said. "I always like to be with papa and mamma and grandma, and it's ever so pleasant to be on our yacht." "'Specially when we have both papa and brother Max to make it go all right," said Ned. "You think it takes the two of us, do you?" laughed his father, taking a seat near his wife and drawing the little fellow in between his knees. "No, papa; I know you could do it all by your own self," returned Ned. "But when brother Max is there you don't have to take the trouble to mind how things are going all the time." "No, that's a fact," returned his father, with a pleased laugh. "Brother Max can be trusted, and knows how to manage that large vessel quite as well as papa does. But what will you and Elsie do while we older people are shopping?" "Why, my dear, there will be so many of us that we will hardly all want to go at once," remarked Violet. "I think there will always be someone willing to stay with the little folks." "Yes, mamma," said Grace, who had drawn near, "I shall. Shopping is apt to tire me a good deal, and I think I shall prefer to spend the most of the time on the _Dolphin_." "Yes, daughter, it will certainly be better for you," her father said, giving her an appreciative smile. "You can go when you wish and feel able, and keep quiet and rest when you will. But we will leave the rest of our talk about the trip until to-morrow, choosing for the present some subject better suited to the sacredness of the day. I will now hear the texts which my children have got ready to recite to me." "Yes, sir," said Grace. "Shall I go and tell Max and Lu that you are ready?" "You may," the captain answered and she went, to return in a moment with her brother and sister, Chester and Eva. "Why, I have quite a class," the captain said, with a look of pleasure. "I for my part esteem it a privilege to be permitted to make one of the number, captain," said Chester. "As we all do, I think," said Eva. "Thank you both," said the captain. "Our principal subject to-day is grace; God's grace to us. Can you give me a text that teaches it, Chester?" "Yes, sir. Paul says in his epistle to the Ephesians, 'That in the ages to come he might shew the exceeding riches of his grace, in his kindness toward us through Christ Jesus. For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God.'" "'Being justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus,'" quoted Max in his turn. Then Evelyn, "'Therefore it is of faith, that it might be by grace; to the end the promise might be sure to all the seed; not to that only which is of the law, but to that also which is of the faith of Abraham; who is the father of us all.'" Lucilla's turn came next and she repeated a text from 2d Peter: "'Grow in grace, and in the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. To him be glory both now and forever. Amen.'" "I have two texts that seem to go well together," said Violet. "The first is in Proverbs, 'Surely he scorneth the scorners: but he giveth grace unto the lowly.' The other is in James, 'But he giveth more grace. Wherefore he saith, God resisteth the proud but giveth grace unto the humble.'" It was Grace's turn and she repeated, with a look of joy, "'For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory; no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly. Oh, Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee.'" "I have a little one, papa," said his daughter Elsie: "'Looking diligently lest any man fail of the grace of God.'" "This is mine and it is short too," said Ned. "'Thou therefore, my son, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus.'" "Yes, my boy, that is a short verse, but long enough if you will be careful to put it in practice," said his father. Grandma Elsie, sitting near, had been listening attentively to the quotations of the younger people and now she joined in with one: "'And of his fulness have all we received, and grace for grace. For the law was given by Moses, but grace and truth came by Jesus Christ.' 'Wherefore gird up the loins of your mind, be sober, and hope to the end for the grace that is to be brought unto you at the revelation of Jesus Christ.'" As she ceased, Cousin Ronald, who had drawn near, joined in the exercise, repeating the text, "'What shall we say then? Shall we continue in sin that grace may abound?... Shall we sin because we are not under the law, but under grace? God forbid,'" then, at the captain's request, followed them with a few pertinent remarks. A little familiar talk from the captain followed and then came the call to the tea table. All retired early to their beds that night that they might be ready to leave them betimes in the morning and set out in good season on their trip to the city. They succeeded in so doing, all feeling well and in the best of spirits. The weather was fine, their voyage a prosperous one without any remarkable adventure, and the shopping proved quite as interesting and enjoyable as any of the shoppers had expected. They all made the yacht their headquarters while they stayed, and the little ones hardly left it at all. They had always a companion; generally it was Grace, and she exerted herself for their entertainment--playing games with them and telling them stories or reading aloud from some interesting book. All enjoyed the return voyage to Viamede and the warm welcome from Grandpa and Grandma Dinsmore on their arrival there. Then it was a pleasure to display their purchases and hear the admiring comments upon them. The bridal veil and the material for the wedding dress were greatly admired and all the purchases highly approved of by both these grandparents and the relatives from the Parsonage, Magnolia, and Torriswood, all of whom came in early in the evening, full of interest in the results of the shopping expedition. They had a pleasant social time together, the principal topic of conversation being the bride's trousseau and so forth, and the various arrangements for the coming festivities to be had in connection with the approaching marriage. Chester had been very generous in providing the trousseau, and Sidney was very grateful to him. Each of the Raymonds made her a gift of a handsome piece of sliver, Grandma Elsie adding a beautiful set of jewelry. Sidney was delighted with her gifts. "Oh, Ches, but you are good to me!" she exclaimed with glad tears in her eyes; "and all the rest of you, dear friends and relatives. This jewelry, Cousin Elsie, is lovely, and I shall always think of you when I wear it. All the silver is just beautiful too, and indeed everything. I feel as rich as a queen." "And when you have Cousin Bob added to all the rest, how do you suppose you are going to stand it?" laughed Harold. "Oh, as the gifts are partly to him, he will help me to stand it," Sidney returned, with a smiling glance at her affianced. "I'll do my best," he answered, returning the smile. "You must not allow yourselves to be overwhelmed yet," remarked Mr. Embury, "when not half the relatives and friends have been heard from." "And I'll warrant my sister Betty will remember my bride with something worth while," remarked the bridegroom-elect. "Yes, she will; I haven't a doubt of it," said Mrs. Embury; "and as they are in good circumstances it will no doubt be something handsome." "Of course it will," said Dick. "Sister Betty was always a generous soul, taking delight in giving." "Being related to you both, Bob and Sid, I want to give you something worth while. What would you like it to be?" said Mrs. Keith. "Oh, never mind, Isa," exclaimed Dr. Johnson, jocosely, "your husband is to tie the knot, and if he does it right--as no doubt he will--he will give me my bride, and that will be the best, most valuable gift any one could bestow upon me." "Yes," laughed Isa; "but it won't hurt you to have something else--something from me too." "Oh, by the way, why shouldn't we have a triple wedding?" exclaimed Maud. "I think it would be just lovely! It struck me so when I heard yesterday of the engagement of Max and Eva." At that the young people colored, the girls looking slightly embarrassed, but no one spoke for a moment. "Don't you think it would make a pretty wedding, Cousin Vi?" asked Maud. "I dare say it would, Maud," replied Mrs. Raymond, "but our young folks are too young yet for marriage, my husband thinks, and should all wait for a year or two. Besides," she added with playful look and tone, "there would be hardly time to make ready a proper trousseau for either, and certainly not for both." "Oh, well, I hardly expected to be able to bring it about," returned Maud, "but I certainly do think it would be pretty." "So it would," said Mrs. Embury; "very pretty indeed, but that wouldn't pay for hurrying anyone into marriage before he or she is ready." "No," said Cousin Ronald, "it is always best to make haste slowly in matters so vitally important." "Wouldn't you be willing to make haste quickly in this instance, dearest?" queried Chester in a low aside to Lucilla; for as usual they sat near together. "No," she returned with a saucy smile, "I find courting times too pleasant to be willing to cut them short; even if father would let me; and I know he would not." "And he won't let the other couple; which is good, since misery loves company." "Ah, is courting me such hard work?" she asked, knitting her brows in pretended anger and disgust. "Delightful work, but taking you for my very own would be still better." "Ah, but you see that Captain Raymond considers me one of the little girls who are still too young to leave their fathers." "Well, you know I am pledged never to take you away from him." "Yes, I am too happy in the knowledge of that ever to forget it. But do you know I for one should not fancy being married along with other couples--one ceremony serving for all. I should hardly feel sure the thing had been thoroughly and rightly done." "Shouldn't you?" laughed Chester. "Well, then, we will have the minister and ceremony all to ourselves whenever we do have it." Just then the lady visitors rose to take leave, and Chester, who had promised to return with Dr. and Mrs. Percival to Torriswood for the night, had time for but a few words with Lucilla. "I hope to be here again to-morrow pretty soon after breakfast," he said. "I grudge every hour spent away from your side." "Really, you flatter me," she laughed. "I doubt if anybody else appreciates my society so highly." "You are probably mistaken as to that," he said. "I am quite aware that I am not your only admirer, and I feel highly flattered by your preference for me." "Do you?" she laughed. "Well, I think it would not be prudent to tell you how great it is--if I could. Good-night," giving him her hand, which he lifted to his lips. As usual she had a bit of chat with her father before retiring to her sleeping apartment for the night, and in that she repeated something of this little talk with Chester. "Yes, he is very much in love, and finds it hard to wait," said the captain; "but I am no more ready to give up my daughter than he is to wait for her." "I am in no hurry, papa," said Lucilla, "I do so love to be with you and under your care--and authority," she added with a mirthful, loving look up into his eyes. "Yes, daughter dear, but do you expect to escape entirely from that last when you marry?" "No, sir; and I don't want to. I really do love to be directed and controlled by you--my own dear father." "I think no man ever had a dearer child than this one of mine," he said with emotion, drawing her into his arms and caressing her with great tenderness. He held her close for a moment, then releasing her bade her go and prepare for her night's rest. Max and Evelyn were again sauntering along near the bayou, enjoying a bit of private chat before separating for the night. "What do you think of Maud's proposition, Eva?" he asked. "It seems hardly worth while to think about it at all, Max," she replied in a mirthful tone; "at least not if one cares for a trousseau; or for pleasing your father in regard to the time of--taking that important step; tying that knot that we cannot untie again should we grow ever so tired of it." "I have no fear of that last so far as my feelings are concerned, dearest, and I hope you have none," he said in a tone that spoke some slight uneasiness. "Not the slightest," she hastened to reply. "I think we know each other too thoroughly to indulge any such doubts and fears. Still, as I have great faith in your father's wisdom, and courting times are not by any means unpleasant, I feel in no haste to bring them to an end. You make such a delightful lover, Max, that the only thing I feel in a hurry about is the right to call the dear captain father." "Ah, I don't wonder that you are in haste for that," returned Max. "I should be sorry indeed not to have that right. He is a father to love and to be proud of." "He is indeed," she responded. "I fell in love with him at first sight and have loved him more and more ever since; for the better one knows him the more admirable and lovable he seems." "I think that is true," said Max. "I am very proud of my father and earnestly desire to have him proud of me." "Which he evidently is," returned Eva, "and I don't wonder at it." "Thank you," laughed Max; then added more gravely, "I hope I may never do anything to disgrace him." "I am sure you never will," returned Eva in a tone that seemed to say such a thing could not be possible. "Had we not better retrace our steps to the house now?" she asked the next moment. "Probably," said Max. "I presume father would say I ought not to deprive you of your beauty sleep. But these private walks and chats are so delightful to me that I am apt to be selfish about prolonging them." "And your experience on shipboard has accustomed you to late hours, I suppose?" "Yes; to rather irregular times of sleeping and waking. A matter of small importance, however, when one gets used to it." "But there would be the rub with me," she laughed, "in the getting used to it." CHAPTER XII. "Cousin Ronald, can't you make some fun for us?" asked Ned at the breakfast table the next morning. "We haven't had any of your kind since we came here." "Well, and what of that, youngster? must you live on fun all the time?" asked a rough voice directly behind the little boy. "Oh! who are you? and how did you come in here?" he asked, turning half round in his chair, in the effort to see the speaker. "Oh, pshaw! you're nobody. Was it you, Cousin Ronald? or was it brother Max?" "Polite little boys do not call gentlemen nobodies," remarked another voice that seemed to come from a distant corner of the room. "And I didn't mean to," said Ned, "but the things I want to say will twist up, somehow." "That bird you are eating looks good," said the same voice; "couldn't you spare me a leg?" "Oh, yes," laughed Ned, "if you'll come and get it. But one of these little legs wouldn't be much more than a bite for you." "Well, a bite would be better than no breakfast at all; and somebody might give me one of those nice-looking rolls." "I'm sure of it if you'll come to the table and show yourself," replied Ned. "Here I am then," said the voice close at his side. "Oh, are you?" returned Ned. "Well, help yourself. You can have anything you choose to take." "Now, Ned, do you call that polite?" laughed Lucilla. "As you invited him to the table you surely ought to help him to what he has asked for." At that Ned looked scrutinizingly at Cousin Ronald's plate, then at his brother's, and seeing that both were well filled remarked, "I see he's well helped already and oughtn't to be asking for more till he gets that eaten up." "Oh, you know too much, young man," laughed Max. "It isn't worth while for Cousin Ronald and me to waste our talents upon you." "Oh, yes, it is, Brother Max," said the little fellow, "for it's fun, even though I do know it's one or the other or both of you." "Oh, Cousin Ronald," exclaimed Elsie, "can't you make some fun at the wedding, as you did when Cousin Betty was married? I don't remember much of it myself, but I've heard other folks tell about it." "Why not ask Max instead of me?" queried Mr. Lilburn. "Oh!" cried the little girl, "I'd like to have both of you do it. It's more fun with two than with only one." "And it might be well to consult cousins Maud and Dick about it," suggested Grandma Elsie. "You can do so to-day, as we are all invited to take lunch at Torriswood." "Are we? oh, that's nice!" exclaimed Elsie, smiling brightly. "You will let us go, papa, won't you?" "Yes; I expect to take you there." "And if we all go Cousin Ronald and Max might make some fun for us there. I guess the Torriswood folks would like it," remarked Ned insinuatingly. "But might not you grow tired--having so much of it?" asked Max. "No, indeed!" cried the little fellow. "It's too much fun for anybody to get tired of it." "Any little chap like you, perhaps," remarked the strange voice from the distant corner. "Pooh! I'm not so very little now," returned Ned. "Not too little to talk a good deal," laughed Grandpa Dinsmore. "This is a lovely morning," remarked Dr. Harold, "the roads are in fine condition too, and I think the distance to Torriswood is not too great to make a very pleasant walk for those of us who are young and strong." "And there are riding horses and conveyances in plenty for any who prefer to use them," added his mother. Evelyn, Lucilla, and Max all expressed their desire to try the walk, and Grace said, "I should like to try it too;" but both her father and Dr. Harold put a veto upon that, saying she was not strong enough, so must be content to ride. "Cousin Ronald and brother Max, can't we have some fun there to-day, as well as at the wedding time?" said Ned in his most coaxing tones. "Possibly, bit laddie," returned the old gentleman pleasantly. "If I am not too auld, your good brother is no' too young." "But you are the more expert of the two, sir," said Max; "and perhaps it may be the better plan for us both to take part." "Ah, well, we'll see when the time comes," responded the old gentleman. "I like well to please the bit laddie, if it can be done without vexing or disturbing anybody else." "I don't think it can do that," observed Ned wisely, "for it's good fun and everybody likes fun. Even my papa does," he added with a smiling glance up into his father's face. "Yes; when it does not annoy or weary anyone else," the captain said in return. "Will Chester be over here this morning, Lu?" asked Violet. "He expected to when he went away last night," was the reply. "But possibly he may not come if he hears that we are to go there." "I think he is too much a man of his word to be hindered by that," her father said, giving her a reassuring smile. And he was right, for Chester was with them even a little earlier than usual. "Maud told me you were all coming over to lunch with her," he said, "but as some of you have never seen the place, I thought you might not object to a pilot, and the exercise would be rather beneficial to me." "You are right there," said Harold. "You know that as your physician I have prescribed a good deal of outdoor exercise." "Yes; I have been taking the prescription, too, and I find it beneficial; especially when I am so fortunate as to secure pleasant company." His glance at Lucilla as he spoke seemed to imply that there was none more desirable than hers. "Then, as the walk is a long one, I would suggest that we start as soon as may suit the convenience of the ladies," said Harold, and Evelyn and Lucilla hastened to make such preparation as they deemed necessary or desirable. The Parsonage was scarce a stone's throw out of their path and they called there on their way. They owed Isadore a call and were willing to make one upon her sister Virginia also--now making her home at the Parsonage--though she had not as yet called upon them. They found both ladies upon the veranda. Isadore gave them a joyful welcome, Virginia a cool one, saying, "I should have called upon you before now, but I know poor relations are not apt to prove welcome visitors." "But I had thought you were making your home at Viamede," said Dr. Harold. "No; not since Dick and Bob removed to Torriswood. I couldn't think of living on there alone; so came here to Isa, she being my nearest of kin in this part of the world." Harold thought he did not envy Isa on that account, but prudently refrained from saying so. Isa invited them to stay and spend the day there, but they declined, stating that they were on their way to Torriswood by invitation. "Yes," said Virginia; "they can invite rich relations but entirely neglect poor me." "Why, Virgie," exclaimed Isadore in surprise, "I am sure you have been invited there more than once since you have been here." "Well, I knew it was only a duty invitation and they didn't really want me; so I didn't go. I have a little more sense than to impose my company upon people who don't really want it." "I shouldn't think anybody would while you show such an ugly temper," thought Lucilla, but refrained from saying it. She and her companions made but a short call, presently bade good-by and continued on their way to Torriswood. They received a warm welcome there and were presently joined by the rest of their party from Viamede. There was some lively and animated chat in regard to letters sent and letters received, the making of the wedding dress and various other preparations for the coming ceremony, to all of which little Ned listened rather impatiently; then, as soon as a pause in the conversation gave him an opportunity, he turned to Dr. Percival, saying, "Cousin Dick, wouldn't it be right nice to have a little fun?" "Fun, Neddie? Why, certainly, my boy; fun is often quite beneficial to the health. But how shall we manage it? have you a good joke for us?" "No, sir," said Ned, "but you know we have two ventriloquists here and--and I like the kind of fun they make. Don't you?" "It is certainly very amusing sometimes, and I see no objection if our friends are willing to favor us with some specimens of their skill," was the reply, accompanied by a glance first at Mr. Milburn, then at Max. "Oh!" exclaimed Maud, "that might be a good entertainment for our wedding guests!" "Probably," returned her husband, "but if it is to be used then it would be well not to let our servants into the secret beforehand." "Decidedly so, I should say," said Max. "It would be better to reserve that entertainment for that time." "But surely it would do no harm to give us a few examples of your skill to-day, when the servants are out of the room," said Maud. "No, certainly not, if anything worth while could be thought of," said Max; "but it seems to me that it must be quite an old story with all of us here." "Not to me, brother Max," exclaimed Ned. "And the funny things you and Cousin Ronald seem to make invisible folks say make other people laugh as well as me." "And laughter is helpful to digestion," said a strange voice, apparently speaking from the doorway. "But should folks digest too well these doctors might find very little to do. So it is not to be wondered at if they object to letting much fun be made." "But the doctors haven't objected," laughed Dr. Percival, "and I have no fear that work for them will fail even if some of their patients should laugh and grow fat." "I presume that's what the little fellow that wants the fun has been doing," said the voice; "for as regards fat he is in prime condition." At that Ned colored and looked slightly vexed. "Papa, am I so very fat?" he asked. "None too fat to suit my taste, my son," replied the captain, smiling kindly on the little fellow. "And you wouldn't want to be a bag of bones, would you?" queried the voice. "No," returned Ned sturdily, "I'd a great deal rather be fat; bones are ugly things any way." "Good to cover up with fat, but very necessary underneath it," said the voice. "You couldn't stand or walk if you had no bones." "No; to be sure not; though I never thought about it before," returned Ned. "Some ugly things are worth more, after all, than some pretty ones." "Very true," said the voice; "so we must not despise anything merely because it lacks beauty." "Is it you talking, Cousin Ronald, or is it brother Max?" asked Ned, looking searchingly first at one and then at the other. "No matter which, laddie," said the old gentleman; "and who shall say it hasn't been both of us?" "Oh, yes, maybe it was! I couldn't tell," exclaimed Ned. But lunch was now ready and all repaired to the table. The blessing had been asked and all were sitting quietly as Dr. Percival took up a knife to carve a fowl. "Don't, oh, don't!" seemed to come from it in a terrified scream. "I'm all right. No need of a surgeon's knife." Everyone was startled for an instant, the doctor nearly dropping his knife; then there was a general laugh and the carving proceeded without further objection. The servants were all out of the room at the moment. "Ah, Cousin Ronald, that reminds me of very old times, when I was a little child," said Violet, giving the old gentleman a mirthful look. "Ah, yes!" he said, "I remember now that I was near depriving you of your share of the fowl when breakfasting one morning at your father's hospitable board. Have you not yet forgiven that act of indiscretion?" "Indeed, yes; fully and freely long ago. But it was really nothing to forgive--your intention having been to afford amusement to us all." "Neddie, shall I help you? are you willing to eat of a fowl that can scream out so much like a human creature?" asked Dr. Percival. "Oh, yes, Cousin Doctor; 'cause I know just how he did it," laughed the little boy. Then the talk about the table turned upon various matters connected with the subject of the approaching wedding--whether this or that relative would be likely to come; when he or she might be expected to arrive, and where be entertained; the adornment of the grounds for the occasion; the fashion in which each of the brides's new dresses should be made and what jewelry, if any, she should wear when dressed for the ceremony. Also about a maid of honor and bridesmaids. "I want to have two or three little flower girls," said Sidney; "and I have thought of Elsie Dinsmore, Elsie Embury, and Elsie Raymond as the ones I should prefer; they are near enough of an age, all related to me and all quite pretty; at least they will look so when handsomely dressed," she added with a laughing look at the one present, who blushed and seemed slightly embarrassed for a moment, but said not a word. "I highly approve if we can get the other two here in season," said Maud. "Then for my maid of honor I must have one of you older girls," continued Sidney. "Perhaps I'll want all three. I don't know yet how many groomsmen Robert is going to have." "Cousin Harold and my friend Max, if they will serve," said Robert, glancing inquiringly at them in turn. "Thank you, Bob," said Harold; "seeing you are a brother physician--cousin as well--I cannot think of refusing. In fact I consider myself quite honored." Max also accepted the invitation with suitable words and the talk went on. "Are you expecting to take a trip?" asked Harold. "Yes; we talk of going to the Bahamas," said Robert. "It is said to be a delightful winter resort and neither of us has ever been there." "Then I think you will be likely to enjoy your visit there greatly," responded Harold. "So we think," said Robert. "But now about groomsmen; I'd like to add your brother Herbert and Sidney's brother Frank if we can get them here, and they are willing to serve. Chester won't, because Lu must not be a bridesmaid, having served twice or thrice already in that capacity--and you know the old saying, 'Three times a bridesmaid never a bride.'" "I have little doubt of the willingness of the lads if they are here in season," returned Harold; "but I think Herbert's movements will depend largely upon those of Cousin Arthur Conly. It would hardly do for all three of us to absent ourselves from professional duties at the same time." "But Frank can be spared from his, I suppose?" Robert said inquiringly, turning to Chester as he spoke. "Yes; for a short time, I think," was Chester's reply. "Come, let us all go out on the lawn and consult in regard to the best place for having the arch made under which our bridal party are to stand," Maud said, addressing the company in general as they left the table. The invitation was accepted and they spent some time in strolling about under the trees, chatting familiarly; the principal topic being the one proposed by Mrs. Percival, but considering also the question where it would be best to set the tables for the wedding guests. "It is likely to be a large company," said Maud, "but I think we can accommodate them all comfortably." "Yes; I should think so," said Grandma Elsie. "Your lawn is large and lovely. I am very glad, Dick, that you secured so beautiful a place." "Thank you, cousin," he returned, "I think I was fortunate in getting it; as Maud does too. She likes it well." "And you prefer it to Viamede?" "Only because it is my own," he answered with a smile. "One could not find a lovelier place than Viamede." "But you lost the housekeeping of your cousin Virginia by making the change," Harold observed with a humorous look. "Hardly!" laughed Dick; "she was that but in name. And the change to Isa's housekeeping and companionship must be rather agreeable to her, I should think." "She seems to me much the more agreeable of the two," said Harold. "Yes; Isa is a lovely woman. And Virginia has her good qualities, too." As Torriswood was but little farther from the bayou than Viamede, it was presently decided by the young people that they would return by boat, and upon starting they found it so pleasant that they took a much longer sail, reaching their destination barely in time for dinner. "Does Sidney's evident happiness in the near approach of her marriage make my little girl unhappy and discontented with her father's decision in regard to hers?" asked Captain Raymond, when Lucilla came to him for the usual bit of good-night chat. "Oh, no, papa; no indeed!" she exclaimed with a low, happy laugh. "Have you forgotten, or don't you know yet, how dearly that same little girl loves to be with you?" "Really, I believe she does," he said, caressing her with tenderness, "and though it is undeniably partly for his own--her father's--sake, that he insists upon delay, it is still more for yours--believing as he does that you are yet much too young for the cares and duties of married life. I want you to have a good play-day before going into them," he added, with another caress. "You dear, kind father!" she said in response. "I could wish to be always a child if so I might be always with you." "Well, daughter, we may hope for many years together in this world and a blessed eternity together in heaven." "Yes, papa, there is great happiness in that thought. Oh, I am glad and thankful that God gave me a Christian father." "And I that I have every reason to believe that my dear eldest daughter has learned to know and love him. To belong to Christ is better than to have the wealth of the world. Riches take to themselves wings and fly away; but he has said, 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.'" "Such a sweet, precious promise, father!" "Yes; it may well relieve us from care and anxiety about the future; especially as taken in connection with that other precious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'" "Don't you think, papa, that if we always remembered and fully believed the promises of God's word we might--we should be happy under all circumstances?" "I do indeed," he said emphatically. "We all need to pray as the disciples did, 'Lord increase our faith,' for 'without faith it is impossible to please him.'" CHAPTER XIII. The next three weeks passed very delightfully to our friends at Viamede. There were rides, drives, boating, and fishing excursions, not to speak of rambles through the woods and fields and quiet home pleasures. Also the approaching wedding and the preparations for it greatly interested them all, especially the young girls. It was pleasantly exciting to watch the making of the bride's dresses and of their own, intended to be worn on that important occasion. Besides, after a little there were various arrivals of relations and friends to whom invitations had been sent: the whole families from Riverside, Ion, Fairview, the Oaks, the Laurels, Beechwood, and Roselands. Herbert Travilla would have denied himself the pleasure of the trip in order that Dr. Arthur Conly might take a much-needed rest, but it was finally decided that both might venture to absent themselves from their practice for a short season. All Grandma Elsie's children and grandchildren were taken in at Viamede, making the house very full, and the rest were accommodated with the other relatives at the Parsonage, Magnolia Hall, and Torriswood; in which last-named place the family from the Oaks were domiciled. It was not until a very few days before that appointed for the wedding that the last of the relatives from a distance arrived. To the extreme satisfaction of all concerned the wedding day dawned bright and beautiful--not a cloud in the sky. The ceremony was to be at noon, and the guests came pouring in shortly before that hour. The grounds were looking their loveliest--the grass like emerald velvet bespangled with fragrant flowers of every hue, the trees laden with foliage, some of them--the oranges and magnolias in particular--bearing blossoms; the former their green and golden fruit also. Under these an arch, covered with smilax, had been erected, and from its centre hung a large bell formed of the lovely and fragrant orange blossoms; the clapper made of crimson roses. Under that the bridal party presently took their stand. First came the three little flower girls--Elsie Dinsmore, Elsie Raymond, and Elsie Embury--dressed in white silk mull, and each carrying a basket of white roses; then the bridesmaids and groomsmen--Frank Dinsmore with Corinne Embury, Harold Travilla with Grace Raymond, Herbert Travilla and Mary Embury--the girls all dressed in white and carrying bouquets of smilax and white flowers. Max had declined to serve on hearing that Eva could not serve with him on account of being still in mourning for her mother. Lastly came the bride and groom, Sidney looking very charming in a white silk trimmed with abundance of costly lace, wearing a beautiful bridal veil and wreath of fresh and fragrant orange blossoms, and carrying a bouquet of the same in her hand. The party stood underneath the arch, the bride and groom directly beneath the bell in its centre, while the guests gathered about them, the nearest relatives taking the nearest stations. Mr. Cyril Keith was the officiating minister. It was a pretty ceremony, but short, and then the congratulations and good wishes began. Those over, the guests were invited to seat themselves about a number of tables scattered here and there under the trees and loaded with tempting viands. The minister craved a blessing upon the food and the feast began. An effort had been made to some extent so to seat the guests that relatives and friends would be near each other. The entire bridal party was at one table, the other young people of the connection were pretty close at hand--the older ones and their children not much farther off. Everybody had been helped and cheery chat, mingled with some mirth, was going on, when suddenly a shrill voice, that seemed to come from the branches overhead, cried out, "What you 'bout, all you folks? Polly wants some breakfast." Everybody started and looked up into the tree from which the sounds had seemed to come; but no parrot was visible there. "Why, where is the bird?" asked several voices in tones of surprise. But hardly had the question been asked when another parrot seemed to speak from a table near that at which the bridal party sat. "Polly's hungry. Poor old Polly--poor old soul!" "Is that so, Polly? Then just help yourself," said Dr. Percival. "Polly wants her coffee. Poor old Polly, poor old soul!" came in reply, sounding as if the bird had gone farther down the table. Then a whistle was heard that seemed to come from some distance among the trees, and hardly had it ceased when there was a loud call, "Come on, my merry men, and let us get our share of this grand wedding feast." "Tramps about! and bold ones they must be!" exclaimed one of the neighborhood guests. "Really I hope they are not going to make any trouble!" cried another. "I fear we have no weapons of defence among us; and if we had I for one would be loath to turn a wedding feast into a fight." "Hark! hark!" cried another as the notes of a bugle came floating on the breeze, the next minute accompanied by what seemed to be the sound of a drum and fife playing a national air, "what, what can it mean? I have heard of no troops in this neighborhood. But that's martial music, and now," as another sound met the ear, "don't you hear the tramp, tramp?" "Yes, yes, it certainly must be troops. But who or what can have called them out?" asked a third guest, starting to his feet as if contemplating rushing away to try to catch a glimpse of the approaching soldiers. "Oh, sit down and let us go on with our breakfast," expostulated still another. "Of course they are American troops on some trifling errand in the neighborhood and not going to interfere with us. There! the music has stopped and I don't hear their tramp either. Dr. Percival," turning in his host's direction and raising his voice, "can you account for that martial music playing a moment since?" "I haven't heard of any troops about, but am quite sure they will not interfere with us," returned the doctor. "Please, friends, don't let it disturb you at all." Little Ned Raymond was looking and listening in an ecstasy of delight. "Oh, Cousin Ronald and brother Max, do some more!" he entreated in a subdued, but urgent tone. "Folks do believe it's real soldiers and it's such fun to see how they look and talk about it." The martial music and the tramp, tramp began again and seemed to draw nearer and nearer, and several dogs belonging on the place rushed away in that direction, barking furiously. It seemed to excite and disturb many of the guests, and Violet said, "There, my little son, I think that ought to satisfy you for the present. Let our gentlemen and everybody else have their breakfast in peace." "Good advice, Cousin Vi," said Mr. Lilburn, "and the bit laddie may get his fill of such fun at another time." "Really I don't understand this at all," remarked a lady seated at the same table with the gentleman who had called to Dr. Percival; "that martial music has ceased with great suddenness, and I no longer hear the tramp, tramp of the troops." "I begin to have a very strong suspicion that ventriloquism is responsible for it all," returned the gentleman with a smile. "Did you not hear at the time of the marriage of Dr. Johnson's sister that a ventriloquist was present and made rare sport for the guests?" "Oh, yes, I think I did and that he was one of the relatives. I presume he is here now and responsible for these strange sounds. But," she added thoughtfully, "there are several sounds going on at once; could he make them all, do you think?" "Perhaps the talent runs in the family and there is more than one here possessing it." "Ah, yes, that must be it," remarked another guest, nodding wisely. "I presume it is in the family, and what sport it must make for them." "But what has become of those tramps--the merry men who were going to claim a share of this feast?" queried a young girl seated at the same table. "Perhaps they have joined the troops," laughed another. "But hark! they are at it again," as a shrill whistle once more came floating on the breeze from the same direction as before, followed by the words, "Come on, my merry men; let us make haste ere all the best of the viands have disappeared down the throats of the fellows already there." Mr. Hugh Lilburn had overheard the chat about the neighboring table and thought best to gratify the desire to hear further from the merry men of the wood. A good many eyes were turned in the direction of the sounds, but none could see even one of the merry men so loudly summoned to make a raid upon the feasting company. Then another voice seemed to reply from the same quarter as the first. "The days of Robin Hood and his merry men are over lang syne; and this is no' the country for ony sic doin's. If we want a share o' the grand feast we maun ask it like decent, honest folk, tendering payment if that wad no' be considered an insult by the host an' hostess." At that Dr. Percival laughed and called out in a tone of amusement, "Come on, friends, and let me help you to a share of the eatables; we have enough and to spare, and you will be heartily welcome." "Thanks, sir," said the voice; "perhaps we may accept when your invited guests have eaten their fill and departed." "Very well; manage it to suit yourselves," laughed the doctor. Then another voice from the wood said, "Well, comrades, let us sit down here under the trees and wait for our turn." All this had caused quite an excitement and a great buzz of talk among the comparatively stranger guests; yet they seemed to enjoy the dainty fare provided and ate heartily of it as they talked, listening, too, for a renewal of the efforts of the ventriloquists. But the latter refrained from any further exercise of their skill, as the time was drawing near when the bride and groom were to set out upon their bridal trip. They and their principal attendants repaired to the house, where the bride exchanged her wedding gown for a very pretty and becoming travelling dress, her bridesmaids and intimate girl friends assisting her. Her toilet finished, they all ran down into the lower hall--already almost crowded with other guests--and, laughing and excited, stood awaiting her appearance at the head of the stairway. She was there in a moment--her bouquet of orange blossoms in her hand. The hands of the laughing young girls were instantly extended toward her and she threw the bouquet, saying merrily: "Catch it who can, and you will be the first to follow me into wedded happiness." It so happened that Evelyn Leland and Lucilla Raymond stood so near together that their hands almost touched and that the bouquet fell to both--each catching it with one hand. Their success was hailed by a peal of laughter from all present, Chester Dinsmore and Max Raymond particularly seeming to enjoy the sport. The bride came tripping down the stairway, closely followed by her groom, and the adieus began; not especially sad ones, as so many of the near and dear relatives left behind expected to see them again ere many weeks should pass--and quite a goodly number followed them down to the edge of the bayou, where lay the boat that was to carry them over the first part of their wedding journey. They stepped aboard amid showers of rice, accompanied by an old shoe or two, merry laughter, and many good wishes for a happy and prosperous trip; and as they seated themselves, a beautiful horseshoe formed of lovely orange blossoms fell into the bride's lap. The little vessel was bountifully adorned with flags of various sizes--by the previous arrangement of Dr. Percival, who knew them both to be devoted admirers of the flag of our Union--and as the vessel moved away there came again from among the trees at a little distance, the sound of a bugle, the drum and the fife playing the "Star-Spangled Banner," than which nothing could have been more appropriate. As the boat disappeared and the music died away something of a lonely feeling came over many of those left behind, and the guests not related began to make their adieus and depart to their homes. But the relatives tarried somewhat longer, chatting familiarly among themselves and re-examining the many handsome bridal gifts. "They have fared well," said Mrs. Betty Norton, Dr. Robert's sister, "I am so glad for them both. I'm fond of my brother Bob, and well pleased with the match he has made. And not less so with Dick's," she added, turning with a smile to Maud, who stood at her side. "Thank you, Betty," said Maud. "I was well pleased with the relationship we held to each other before, and am glad it has been made nearer. Though at first--when Dick proposed--I was afraid it--the relationship--ought to be a bar to our union. However, he said it was not near enough for that, and as he is a good physician I supposed he knew--so did not say him nay," she added, with a laughing look up into her husband's face as at that moment he drew near and stood at her side. "Ah, don't you wish you had?" he returned, laying a hand lightly on her shoulder and giving her a very loverlike look and smile. "I have serious objections to being questioned too closely," she said laughingly; "and please to remember, sir, that I did not promise never to have a secret from you even if you're my other--and perhaps better half." "Oh, I always understood it was the woman's privilege to be that," he laughed; "and I certainly expect it of you, my dear." "Why, how absurd in you!" she exclaimed. "With such a husband as mine it would be utterly impossible for me to be the better half." "But it is quite the thing for each to think the other is," said Grandma Elsie, regarding them with an affectionate smile. "A state of feeling that is certain to make both very happy," remarked Captain Raymond, who happened to be standing near. "As you and I know by experience," said Violet with a bright look up into his face. "Yes," said her cousin Betty, "and anybody who knows you two as well as I do may see the exemplification of that doctrine in your lives. I have always known that you were a decidedly happy couple." "But needn't plume yourself very much on that discovery, Cousin Betty," laughed Lucilla, "I think everybody makes it who is with them for even a day or two." "And his children are not much, if at all, behind his wife in love for him, or behind him in love for her," added Grace, smiling up into her father's face. "All doing their best to fill him with conceit," he said, returning the smile, but with a warning shake of the head. "Where are Elsie and Ned?" he asked, adding, "It is about time we were returning home--to Viamede." "Yes," said Violet, "we must hunt them up at once." "I will find them, papa and mamma," Grace answered, hastening from the room. The children were playing games on the lawn, but all ceased and came running to Grace as she stepped out upon the veranda and called in musical tones to her little sister and brother. "What is it?" they asked as they drew near, "time to go home?" "Yes; so papa and mamma think; and we must always do what they say, you know." "Yes, indeed!" answered Elsie, "and it's just a pleasure because they always know best and are so kind and love us so dearly." "We've been having an elegant time and it's just lovely here at Torriswood," said little Elsie Embury, "but as it is Uncle Dick's place we can come here often; and besides Viamede is quite as pretty, and we are to go there for the rest of the day." "Oh, yes! aren't you glad?" responded several other young voices. The carriages which had brought them were now seen to be in preparation to convey them to that desired destination, and presently one after another received its quota and departed. One three-seated vehicle contained Mrs. Travilla, her father and his wife, Captain and Mrs. Raymond and their little boy and girl. Naturally the talk ran upon the scenes through which they had just been passing. "It was right odd that Eva and Lu should have caught that bridal bouquet together," laughed Violet. "My dear, does it not make you tremble with apprehension lest those two weddings should take place somewhat sooner than you wish?" "I cannot say that I am greatly alarmed," the captain returned pleasantly. "I have too much confidence in the affection and desire to please their father of my eldest son and daughter, to greatly fear that they will disregard my wishes and opinion in reference to that, or anything else indeed." "And I feel very sure that your confidence is not misplaced," said Mrs. Travilla. "Also I think you are wise in wishing them--young as they are--to defer marriage for a few years." Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore expressed a hearty agreement in that opinion, and Violet said it was hers also. "But I could see," she added with playful look and tone, "that the lovers were both pleased and elated. However, it is not supposed to mean speedy matrimony, but merely that they will be the first of those engaged in the sport to enter into it." "Yes," Captain Raymond said laughingly, "and I have known of one case in which the successful catcher--though the first of the competitors to enter into the bonds of matrimony--did not do so until six years afterward. So, naturally, I am not greatly alarmed." A smaller vehicle, driving at some little distance in their rear, held the two young couples of whom they were speaking, and with them also the episode of the throwing and catching of the bouquet was the subject of conversation. "It was capitally done, girls," laughed Max, "and possibly may encourage father to shorten our probation--somewhat at least." "Yes, I am sure I wish it may," said Chester. "I hope you will not object, Lu?" "I don't believe it would make a particle of difference in the result whether I did or not," she laughed. "If you knew father as well as I do you would know that he does not often retreat from a position that he has once taken. And he is not superstitious enough to pay any attention to such an omen as we have had to-day. Nor would I wish him to, as I have the greatest confidence in his wisdom and his love for his children." "To all of which I add an unqualified assent," said Max heartily. "My father's opinion on almost any subject has far more weight with me than that of any other man." CHAPTER XIV. Viamede presently showed as beautiful and festive a scene as had Torriswood earlier in the day--the velvety grass bespangled with sweet-scented flowers of varied hues, the giant oaks and magnolias, the orange trees with their beautiful glossy leaves, green fruit and ripe, lovely blossoms; also many flags floating here and there from upper windows, verandas, and tree tops. There were not a few exclamations of admiration and delight from the young people and children as carriage after carriage drove up and deposited its living load. A very gay and mirthful time followed; sports begun at Torriswood were renewed here with as much zest and spirit as had been shown there; the large company scattering about the extensive grounds and forming groups engaged in one or another game suited to the ages and capacity of its members. But some preferred strolling here and there through the alleys and groves, engaging in nothing more exciting or wearying than sprightly chat and laughter, while the older ladies and gentlemen--among them Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, Mr. and Mrs. Ronald and Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Lilburn, Mr. and Mrs. Embury, and Mr. and Mrs. Keith, Mrs. Travilla, and Mr. and Mrs. Leland, Dr. Arthur Conly and his Marian--gathered in groups on the verandas or the nearer parts of the lawn. Edward Travilla and his Zoe were down among the little folks, overseeing the sports of their own twin boy and girl and their mates, as were also Captain Raymond and his Violet, with their Elsie and Ned. His older son and daughters, with Chester Dinsmore and his brother Frank, could be seen at some little distance, occupying rustic seats under a wide-spreading tree and seemingly enjoying an animated and amusing chat. Drs. Harold and Herbert Travilla, strolling along with the two older daughters of Mr. Embury, presently joined them, and Dr. and Mrs. Percival shortly followed, the mirth and jollity apparently increasing with every addition. "They seem to be very merry over yonder," remarked Mrs. Embury, with a smiling glance at that particular group. "It does me good to see Dick take a little relaxation--he is usually so busy in the practice of his profession." "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, "and the evidently strong affection between him and Maud is very delightful to see." "As is that between the captain and Violet," added her cousin Annis. "I thought her young for him when they married, but I never saw a more attached couple. They make no display of it before people, but no close observer could be with them long without becoming convinced of the fact." "That is so, I think," said Mrs. Leland. "The captain is a fond father, but he has told Vi more than once that to lose her would be worse to him than being called to part with all his children." "Ah, I hope neither trial may ever be appointed him," said Grandma Elsie, low and softly, ending with a slight sigh. "And so Chester and Lucilla, Max and Eva are engaged," remarked Mrs. Embury in a reflective tone; "and so far as I know the entire connection seems satisfied with the arrangement." "I have yet to hear of objection from any quarter," Mrs. Leland said with a smile, "and I can say with certainty that Lester and I are well satisfied, so far as our niece Eva is concerned. I think the captain is right and wise though, in bidding them delay marriage for at least a year or two--all of them being so young." "I think," said Mrs. Arthur Conly, joining in the talk, "that Frank Dinsmore is evidently very much in love with Grace." "In which I sincerely hope he will get no encouragement from the captain," Dr. Conly added quickly and with strong emphasis. "Grace is much too young, and entirely too feeble to safely venture into wedlock for years to come." "And I think you may safely trust her father to see that she does not," said Grandma Elsie. "I am sure he agrees in your opinion and that Grace is too good and obedient a daughter ever to go contrary to his wishes." Gradually, as the sun drew near his setting, the participants in the sports gave them up and gathered in the parlors or upon the verandas, most of them just about weary enough with the pleasant exercise they had been taking to enjoy a little quiet rest before being summoned to partake of the grand dinner in process of preparation by Viamede's famous cooks. Lucilla and her sister Grace, wishing to make some slight change in the arrangement of hair or dress, hastened up the broad stairway together on their way to the room now occupied by Grace and Elsie. In the upper hall they met their father, coming from a similar errand to his own apartment. "Ah, daughters," he said in his usual kindly tones, "we have had much less than usual to say to each other to-day, but I hope you have been enjoying yourselves?" and as he spoke he put an arm around each and drew them closer to him. "Oh, yes, yes, indeed, papa!" both replied, smilingly and in mirthful tones, Lucilla adding, "Everything seems to have gone swimmingly to-day." "Even to the catching of the bride's bouquet, I suppose," returned her father, giving her an amused yet searching and half-inquiring look. At that Lucilla laughed. "Yes, papa; wasn't it odd that Eva and I happened to catch it together?" "And were both highly elated over the happy augury?" he queried, still gazing searchingly into her eyes. "Hardly, I think, papa; though Chester and Max seemed rather elated by it. But really," she added with a mirthful look, "I depend far more upon my father's decision than upon dozens of such auguries; and besides am in no haste to leave his care and protection or go from under his authority." "Spoken like my own dear eldest daughter," he returned with a gratified look, and giving her a slight caress. "It would be strange indeed, if any one of your children did want to get from under it, papa," said Grace, with a look of ardent affection up into his eyes. "I am glad to hear you say that, daughter," he returned with a smile, and softly smoothing the shining, golden hair, "because it will be years before I can feel willing to resign the care of my still rather feeble little Grace to another, or let her take up the burdens and anxieties of married life." "You may be perfectly sure I don't want to, papa," she returned with a gleeful, happy laugh. "It is just a joy and delight to me to feel that I belong to you and always shall as long as you want to keep me." "Which will be just as long as you enjoy it--and we both live," he added a little more gravely. Then releasing them with an injunction not to waste too much time over their toilet, he passed on down the stairway while they went on into their tiring-room. "Oh, Lu," said Grace as she pulled down her hair before the glass, "haven't we the best and dearest father in the world? I like Chester ever so much, but I sometimes wonder how you can bear the very thought of leaving papa for him." "It does not seem an easy thing to do," sighed Lucilla, "and yet----" But she paused, leaving her sentence unfinished. "Yet what?" asked Grace, turning an inquiring look upon her sister. "Well, I believe I'll tell you," returned Lucilla in a half-hesitating way. "I have always valued father's love oh, so highly, and once when I happened accidentally to overhear something he said to Mamma Vi, it nearly broke my heart--for a while." Her voice quivered with the last words, and she seemed unable to go on for emotion. "Why, Lu, what could it have been?" exclaimed Grace in surprise, and giving her sister a look of mingled love and compassion. With an evident effort Lucilla went on: "It was that she was dearer to him than all his children put together--that he would lose every one of them rather than part with her. It made me feel for a while as if I had lost everything worth having--papa's love for me must be so very slight. But after a long and bitter cry over it I was comforted by remembering what the Bible says, 'Let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself.' And the words of Jesus, 'For this cause shall a man leave father and mother, and cleave to his wife: and they twain shall be one flesh.' So I could see it was right for my father to love his wife best of all earthly creatures--she being but a part of himself--and besides I could not doubt that he loved me and each one of his children very, very dearly." "Yes, I am sure he does," said Grace, vainly trying to speak in her usual cheery, light-hearted tones. "Oh, Lu, I don't wonder you cried over it. It would just kill me to think papa didn't care very much about me." "Oh, Gracie, he does! I know he does! I am sure he would not hesitate a moment to risk his life for any one of us." "Yes, I am sure of it! and what but his love for you makes him so unwilling to give you up to Chester? I can see that Ches feels it hard to wait, but father certainly has the best of rights to keep his daughters to himself as long as they are under age." "And as much longer as he chooses, so far as I am concerned. I am only too glad that he seems so loath to give me up. My dear, dear father! Words cannot express my love for him or the regret I feel for the rebellious conduct which gave him so much pain and trouble in days long gone by." "Dear Lu," said Grace, "I am perfectly sure our dear father forgave all that long ago." "Yes, but I can never forget or forgive it myself. Nor can I forget how glad and thankful he was that I was not the one killed by the bear out at Minersville, or his saving me that time when I was so nearly swept into Lake Erie by the wind; how closely he hugged me to his breast--a tear falling on my head--when he got me safely into the cabin, and the low-breathed words, 'Thank God, my darling, precious child is safe in my arms.' Oh, Gracie, I have seemed to hear the very words and tones many a time since. So I cannot doubt that he does love me very much; even if I am not so dear to him as his wife is." "And you love mamma, too?" "Yes, indeed! she is just like a dear older sister. I may well love her since she is so dear to papa, and was so kind and forbearing with me in those early years of her married life when I certainly was very far from being the good and lovable child I ought to have been. She was very forbearing, and never gave papa the slightest hint of my badness." "She has always been very good and kind to us," said Grace, "and I love her very dearly." "And papa showed his love for me in allowing Chester to offer himself because he had saved my life--for otherwise he would have forbidden it for at least another year or two." "Yes, I know," said Grace. "We certainly have plenty of proofs that father does love us very much." "But we must not delay at this business, as he bade us hasten down again," Lucilla said, quickening her movements as she spoke. "No; I'm afraid he is beginning to wonder what is keeping us so long," said Grace, following her example. They had no idea how their father was engaged at that moment. As he reached the lower hall Frank Dinsmore stepped forward and accosted him. "Can I have a moment's chat with you, captain?" he asked in an undertone, and with a slightly embarrassed air. "Certainly, Frank. It is a very modest request," was the kindly-toned response, "What can I do for you?" "Very nearly the same thing that you have so kindly done for my brother, sir," replied the young man, coloring and hesitating somewhat in his speech. "I--I am deeply, desperately in love with your daughter, Miss Grace, and----" "Go no farther, my young friend," interrupted the captain in a grave though still kindly tone. "I have no objection to you personally, but Grace is entirely too young and too delicate for her father to consider for a moment the idea of allowing her to think of such a thing as marriage. Understand distinctly that I should be not a whit more ready to listen to such a request from any other man--older or younger, richer or poorer." "But she is well worth waiting for, sir, and if you would only let me speak and try to win her affections, I----" "That must be waited for, Frank. I cannot and will not have her approached upon the subject," was the almost stern rejoinder. "Promise me that you will not do or say anything to give her the idea that you want to be more to her than a friend." "That is a hard thing you are requiring, sir," sighed Frank. "But quite necessary if you would be permitted to see much of Grace," returned the captain with great decision. "And, seeing that you feel toward her as you have just told me you do, I think the less you see of each other--or hold intercourse together--the better. Should she be in good, firm health some six or eight years hence, and you and she then have a fancy for each other, her father will not, probably, raise any objection to your suit; but until then I positively forbid anything and everything of the kind." "I must say I find that a hard sentence, captain," sighed the would-be suitor. "It strikes me that most fathers would be a trifle more ready to make an eligible match for a daughter of Miss Grace's age. She is very young, I acknowledge, but I have known some girls to marry even younger. And you will not even allow her to enter into an engagement?" "No; I have no desire to rid myself of my daughter; very far from it. For my first set of children I have a peculiarly tender feeling because--excepting each other--they have no very near relative but myself. They were quite young when they lost their mother, and for years I have felt that I must fill to them the place of both parents as far as possible, and have tried to do so. As one result," he added with his pleasant smile, "I find that I am exceedingly loath to give them up into any other care and keeping." "But since we are neighbors and distant connections, and my brother engaged to Miss Lu, you do not absolutely forbid me your house, captain?" "No; you may see Grace in my presence--perhaps occasionally out of it--provided you carefully obey my injunction to refrain from anything like love-making." "Thank you, sir; I accept the conditions," was Frank's response, and the two separated just as Lucilla and Grace appeared at the top of the stairway near which they had been standing, Frank passing out to the veranda, the captain moving slowly in the opposite direction. "There's father now!" exclaimed Grace, tripping down the stairs. "Papa," as he turned at the sound of her voice and glanced up at her, "I've been re-arranging my hair. Please tell me if you like it in this style." "Certainly, daughter; I like it in any style in which I have ever seen it arranged," he returned, regarding it critically, but with an evidently admiring gaze. "I am glad and thankful that you have an abundance of it--such as it is," he added sportively, taking her hand in his as she reached his side. Then turning to Lucilla, "And yours, too, Lulu, seems to be in well-cared-for condition." "Thank you, papa dear; I like occasionally to hear you call me by that name so constantly used in the happy days of my childhood." "Ah! I hope that does not mean that these are not happy days?" he said, giving her a look of kind and fatherly scrutiny. "Oh, no, indeed, father! I don't believe there is a happier girl than I in all this broad land." "I am thankful for that," he said with a tenderly affectionate look into her eyes as she stood at his side gazing up into his; "for there is nothing I desire more than the happiness of these two dear daughters of mine." "Yes, father dear, we both know you would take any amount of trouble for our pleasure or profit," said Grace gayly; "but just to know that we belong to you is enough for us. Isn't it, Lu?" "And are so dear to him," added Lucilla. "I couldn't be the happy girl I am if I didn't know that." "Never doubt it, my darlings; never for a moment," he said in a moved tone. "Oh, so here you are, girls!" exclaimed a familiar voice just in their rear. "I have been all round the verandas, looking for you, but you seemed to be lost in the crowd or to have vanished into thin air." "Certainly not that last, sister Rose," laughed the captain. "I am happy to say there is something a good deal more substantial than that about them." "Yes, I see there is; they are both looking remarkably well. And now I hope we can have a good chat. There has hardly been an opportunity for it yet--there being such a crowd of relations and friends, and such a commotion over the wedding--and you know I want to hear all about what you did and saw in Florida. Also to tell you of the improvements we are talking of making at Riverside." "You will have hardly time for a very long talk, Rosie," said her mother, joining them at that moment. "The call to dinner will come soon. But here are comfortable chairs and a sofa in which you can rest and chat until then." "Yes, mamma, and you will join us, will you not? And you too, brother Levis?" as the captain turned toward the outer door. "I shall be pleased to do so if my company is desired," he replied, taking a chair near the little group already seated. "Of course it is, sir. I always enjoyed your company even when you were my respected and revered instructor with the right and power to punish me if I failed in conduct or recitation," returned Rosie in the bantering tone she had so often adopted in days gone by. "I am rejoiced to hear it," he laughed. "And you may as well make yourself useful as story-teller of all you folks saw and did in Florida," she continued. "Much too long a tale for the few minutes we are likely to be able to give to it at present," he said. "Let us reserve that for another time and now hear the story of your own prospective doings at Riverside." "Or talk about this morning's wedding. It was a pretty one; wasn't it? I never saw Sidney look so charming as she did in that wedding gown and veil. I hope they will have as pleasant a wedding trip as my Will and I had; and be as happy afterward as we are." "I hope so, indeed," said her mother, "and that their after life may be a happy and prosperous one." "Yes, mamma, I join you in that. And, Lu, how soon do you expect to follow suit and give her the right to call you sister?" "When my father bids me; not a moment sooner," replied Lucilla, turning an affectionately smiling look upon him. He returned it, saying, "Which will not be for many months to come. He is far from feeling ready yet to resign even one of his heart's best treasures." "Oh, it is a joy to have you call me that, papa!" she exclaimed low and feelingly. They chatted on for a few minutes longer, when they were interrupted by the call to the dinner table. A very welcome one, for the sports had given good appetites and the viands were toothsome and delicious. The meal was not eaten in haste or silence, but amid cheerful, mirthful chat and low-toned, musical laughter, and with its numerous courses occupied more than an hour. On leaving the banqueting room they again scattered about the parlors, verandas, and grounds, resuming the intimate and friendly intercourse held there before the summons to their feast. Captain Raymond had kept a watchful eye upon his daughters--Grace in especial--and now took pains to seat her near himself on the veranda, saying, "I want you to rest here a while, daughter, for I see you are looking weary; which is not strange, considering how much more than your usual amount of exercise you have already taken to-day." "Yes, I am a little tired, papa," she answered, with a loving smile up into his eyes as she sank somewhat wearily into the chair, "and it is very, very pleasant to have you so kindly careful of me." "Ah!" he returned, patting her cheek and smiling affectionately upon her, "it behooves everyone to be careful of his own particular treasures." "And our dear Gracie is certainly one of those," said Violet, coming to the other side of the young girl and looking down a little anxiously into the sweet, fair face. "Are you very weary, dearest?" "Oh, not so very, mamma dear," she answered blithely. "This is a delightful chair papa has put me into, and a little rest in it, while digesting the good hearty meal I have just eaten, will make me all right again, I think." "Won't you take this other one by her side, my love? I think you too need a little rest," said the captain gallantly. "Thank you, I will if you will occupy that one on her other side, so that we will have her between us. And here come Lu and Rosie, so that we can perhaps finish the chat she tells me she was holding with you and the girls before the call to dinner." "I don't believe we can, mamma," laughed Grace, "for here come Will Croly and Chester to take possession of them; Eva and Max too, and Frank." "Then we will just defer it until another time," said Violet. "Those who have children will soon be leaving for their homes and those left behind will form a smaller, quieter party." Violet's surmises proved correct, those with young children presently taking their departure in order that the little ones might seek their nests for the night. The air began to grow cool and the family and remaining guests found it now pleasanter within doors than upon the verandas. Music and conversation made the time pass rapidly, a light tea was served, Mr. Dinsmore--Mrs. Travilla's father--read a portion of Scripture and led in a short prayer, a little chat followed, and the remaining guests bade adieu for the present and went their ways; Maud's two brothers and the Dinsmores from the Oaks among them. "Now, Grace, my child, linger not a moment longer, but get to bed as fast as you can," said Captain Raymond to his second daughter as they stood upon the veranda, looking after the departing guests. His tone was tenderly affectionate and he gave her a good-night caress as he spoke. "I will, father dear," she answered cheerfully and made haste to do his bidding. "She is looking very weary. I fear I have let her exert herself to-day far more than was for her good," he remarked somewhat anxiously to his wife and Lucilla standing near. "But I hope a good night's rest will make it all right with her," Violet returned in a cheery tone, adding playfully, "and we certainly have plenty of doctors at hand, if anything should go wrong with her or any of us." "Excellent ones, too," said Lucilla; "but I hope and really expect that a good night's rest will quite restore her to her usual health and strength. So, father, don't feel anxious and troubled." "I shall endeavor not to, my wise young mentor," he returned with a slight laugh, laying a hand lightly upon her shoulder as he spoke. "Oh, papa, please excuse me if I seemed to be trying to teach you!" she exclaimed in a tone of penitence. "I'm afraid it sounded very conceited and disrespectful." "If it did it was not, I am sure, so intended, so I shall not punish you this time," he replied in a tone which puzzled her with the question whether he were jesting or in earnest. "I hope you will if you think I deserve it, father," she said low and humbly, Violet having left them and gone within doors, and no one else being near enough to overhear her words. At that he put his arm about her and drew her closer. "I but jested, daughter," he said in tender tones, "and am not in the least displeased with you. So your only punishment shall be an order presently to go directly to your room and prepare for bed. But first let us have our usual bit of bedtime chat, which I believe I enjoy as fully as does my little girl herself." "Oh, father, how kind in you to say that!" she exclaimed in low, but joyous tones. "I do dearly love to make you my confidant--you are so wise and kind and I am so sure that you love me dearly, as your very own God-given property. Am I not that still as truly as I ever was?" "Indeed you are! as truly now as when you were a babe in arms," he said, with a happy laugh and drawing her closer to his heart. "A treasure that no amount of money could buy from me. Your price is above rubies, my own darling." "What sweet words, papa!" she exclaimed with a happy sigh. "But sometimes when I think of all my past naughtiness--giving you so much pain and trouble--I wonder that you can love me half so well as you do." "Dear child, I think I never loved you the less because of all that, nor you me less because of the severity of my discipline." "Papa, I believe I always loved you better for your strictness and severity. You made it so clear to me that it was done for my best good and that it hurt you when you felt it your duty to give me pain." "It did indeed!" he said; "but for a long time now my eldest daughter has been to me only a joy, a comfort, a delight--so that I can ill bear the thought of resigning her to another." "Ah, father, what sweet, sweet words to hear from your lips! they make me so glad, so happy." "Pleasant words those for me to hear, and a pleasant thought that my dear eldest daughter is not in haste to leave my protecting care for that of another. I trust Chester is inclined to wait patiently until the right time comes?" "He has made it evident to me that he would much rather shorten the time of waiting if there were a possibility of gaining my father's consent." "But that there is not," the captain replied with decision. "If I should consider only my own feeling and inclination and my belief as to what would be really best for you, I should certainly keep full possession of my eldest daughter for several years to come. I have had a talk with Dr. Conly on the subject, and he, as a physician, tells me it would be far better in most cases, for a girl to remain single until well on toward twenty-five." "Which would make her quite an old maid, I should think, papa," laughed Lucilla. "Yet if you bid me wait that long and can make Chester content--I'll not be at all rebellious." "No, I don't believe you would; but I have really no idea of trying you so far. By the way, Rosie and her Will, Maud and Dick seem two very happy couples." "Yes, indeed, father; it is a pleasure to watch them. And do you know I think Frank Dinsmore is casting longing eyes at our Grace." "But you don't think the dear child cares at all for him?" "Oh, no, sir! no, indeed! Grace doesn't care in the least for beaux, and loves no other man half so well as she does her father and mine." "Just as I thought; but I want you quietly to help me prevent any private interviews between them--lest she might learn to care for him." "Thank you for trusting me, papa; I will do any best," she responded. Then they bade good-night and Lucilla went to her room. She found Eva there and they chatted pleasantly together as they prepared for bed. Eva had noticed Frank's evident devotion to Grace and spoke of it, adding, "It is a pity, for of course your father--I had very nearly said father, for I begin to feel as if I belonged in his flock--considering us older ones too young to marry, will say she is very far from being old enough for loverlike attentions." "Yes, he does," replied Lucilla, "and I want your help in a task he has set me--the endeavor to keep them from being alone together." "I'll do so with pleasure," laughed Evelyn, "and I think probably it would be just as well to take Grace herself into the plot, for I'm very sure she doesn't care a pin for Frank, but dotes upon her father." CHAPTER XV. The ladies of the Torriswood party retired for the night almost immediately on their arrival there, but the gentlemen lingered a little in the room used by Dr. Percival as his office. There was some cheerful chat over the events of the day in which, however, Frank Dinsmore took no part. He sat in moody silence, seeming scarcely to hear what the others were saying. "What's the matter with you, Frank?" queried the doctor at length. "Didn't things go off to suit you to-day?" "Well enough," grumbled Frank, "except that I don't seem to be considered as worthy as my brother is of being taken into--a certain family really no better than my own, unless as regards wealth." "Oh, ho! so that's the way the land lies! It's Grace Raymond you're after, eh? And she won't consent?" "Her father won't. I must not say a word to her on the subject." "And he is right, Frank," returned the doctor gravely. "She is far too young and too delicate to begin with such things. Art would tell you that in a moment if you should ask him. My opinion as a physician is that marriage now would be likely to kill her within a year; or, if she lived, make her an invalid for life." "I'd be willing to let marriage wait if I might only speak and win her promise; but no, I'm positively forbidden to say a word." "You would gain nothing by it if you did," said Chester. "She is devoted to her father and hasn't the least idea of falling in love with any other man." "Ridiculous!" growled Frank. "Well, things being as they are, I'll not tarry long in this part of the country. I'll go back and attend to the business of our clients, and you, Chester, can stay on here with your fiancée and her family, and perhaps gather up a larger amount of health and strength." "Don't be in a hurry about leaving us, Frank," said Dick cordially. "Maud has been calculating on at least a few days more of your good company; and there's no telling when you may find it convenient to pay us another visit." "Thanks, Dick; you are hospitality itself; and this is a lovely home you have secured, for yourself and Maud. I'll sleep on the question of the time of departure. And now good-night and pleasant dreams. I hope none of your patients will call you out before sunrise." And with that they separated, each to seek his own sleeping apartment. For some hours all was darkness and silence within and without the house. Then the doctor was awakened by the ringing of his night bell. "What is wanted?" he asked, going to the open window. "You, doctah, fast as you kin git dar, down to Lamont--ole Massa Gest's place. Leetle Miss Nellie she got a fit." "Indeed! I am very sorry to hear it. I'll be there as soon as possible," and turning from the window the doctor rang for his servant, ordered horses saddled and brought to a side door, then hurried on his clothes, explaining matters to the now awakened Maud as he did so--gathered up the remedies likely to be needed, and hastened away. Directing his servant to keep close in his rear he rode rapidly in the direction of the place named by the messenger. He found the child very ill and not fit to be left by him until early morning. It was in the darkest hour, just before day, that he started for home again. All went well till he was within a few rods of home, but then his horse--a rather wild young animal--took fright at the hoot of an owl in a tree close at hand, reared suddenly and threw him violently to the ground, then rushed away in the direction of his stable. "Oh, doctah, sah, is you bad hurted?" queried the servant man, hastily alighting and coming to his master's side. "Pretty badly, I'm afraid, Pete," groaned the doctor. "Help me to the house, and then you must ride over to Viamede as fast as you can, wake up Dr. Harold Travilla and ask him to come to me immediately to set some broken bones. Take one of the other horses with you for him to ride. Ah," as he attempted to rise, "I'm hardly able to walk, Pete; you will have to pretty nearly carry me to the house." "I kin do dat, doctah; Ise a strong-built nigger; jes lemme tote you 'long like de mammies do de leetle darkies." And with that Pete lifted Dr. Percival in his arms carried him to the house and on up to his own sleeping room, where he laid him gently down upon his bed in an almost fainting condition. Maud was greatly alarmed, and bade Pete hasten with all speed for one or another of the doctor cousins. "Harold, Harold!" groaned the sufferer, "he is older than Herbert and nearer than Art, who is at the Parsonage. And he can bring Herbert with him should he see fit." Pete, alarmed at the condition of his master, to whom he had become strongly attached, made all the haste he could to bring the needed help; but the sun was already above the tree tops when he reached Viamede. The first person he saw there was Captain Raymond, who had just stepped out upon the veranda. "Morning, sah! is you uns one ob de doctahs?" he queried in anxious tones, as he reined in his horse at the foot of the veranda steps. "No," replied the captain; "but there are doctors in the house. You are from Torriswood, I think. Is any one ill there?" "Massa doctah, he's 'most killed! Horse frowed him. Please, sah, where de doctahs? I'se in pow'ful big hurry to git dem dere fore----" "Here," called the voice of Harold from an upper window; "is it I that am wanted? I'll be down there in five minutes or less." "Yes, I think it is you, and probably Herbert also, who are wanted in all haste at Torriswood," answered Captain Raymond, his voice betraying both anxiety and alarm. "It seems Dick has met with a serious accident and has sent for one or both of you." "Yes," replied Herbert, speaking as Harold had from the window, "we will both go to him as speedily as possible and do what we can for his relief. Please, captain, order another horse saddled and brought round immediately." The captain at once complied with the request, and in a very few minutes both doctors were riding briskly toward Torriswood. They found their patient in much pain from a dislocated shoulder and some broken bones; all of which they proceeded to set as promptly as possible. But there were symptoms of some internal injury which occasioned more alarm than the displacement and fracture of the bones. They held a consultation outside of the sick room. "I think we should have Cousin Arthur here," said Harold. "'In multitude of counsellors is safety,' Solomon tells us, and Art excels us both in wisdom and experience." "Certainly," responded Herbert; "let us summon him at once. I am glad indeed that he is still within reach." "As I am. I will speak to Maud and have him sent for immediately." A messenger was promptly despatched to the Parsonage and returned shortly, bringing Dr. Conly with him. Another examination and consultation followed and Dr. Percival, who had become slightly delirious, was pronounced in a critical condition; yet the physicians, though anxious, by no means despaired of his ultimate recovery. The news of the accident had by this time reached all of the connection in that neighborhood, and silent petitions on his behalf were going up from many hearts. On behalf of his young wife also, for poor Maud seemed well-nigh distracted with grief and the fear of the bereavement that threatened her. Mrs. Embury, too, was greatly distressed, for Dick and she had been all their lives a devotedly attached brother and sister. No day now passed in which she did not visit Torriswood that she might catch a sight of his dear face and learn as far as possible his exact state; though neither her nursing nor that of other loving relatives was needed--the doctors and an old negress, skilled in that line of work, doing all that could be done for his relief and comfort. Mrs. Betty Norton, his half-sister, was scarcely less pained and anxious; as indeed were Maud's brothers and all the relatives in that region. It was from her father Lucilla first heard of the accident--when she joined him on the veranda at Viamede directly after the departure of the doctors and Pete for Torriswood. "Oh, father," she exclaimed, "I do hope he is not seriously injured! Poor Maud! She must be sorely distressed, for he has proved such a good, kind husband, and she almost idolizes him." "Yes, I feel deeply for her as well as for him. We will pray for them both, asking that if it be consistent with the will of God, he may be speedily restored to perfect health and strength." "Yes, papa; what a comfort it is that we may cast upon the Lord all our care for ourselves and others!" "It is indeed! I have found it so in many a sore trial sent to myself or to some one dear to me. I am glad for Maud that she has her brothers with her now." "I too, papa, and I suppose Chester will stay with her to-day." "Most likely; and my daughter must not feel hurt should he not show himself here at his usual early hour, or even at all to-day." "I'll try not, papa. I am sure it would be very selfish in me to grudge poor dear Maud any show of sympathy or any comfort she might receive from him--her own dear eldest brother." "Yes, so I think," said her father, "and I should not expect it of any one of my daughters." Chester came at length, some hours later than his wont, and looking grave and troubled. In answer to inquiries, "Yes, poor Dick is certainly badly hurt," he said, "and Maud well-nigh distracted with grief and anxiety. She is a most devoted wife and considers him her all." "But the case is not thought to be hopeless?" Mr. Dinsmore said inquiringly. "No, not exactly that, but the doctors are not yet able to decide just what the internal injury may be." "And while there is life there is hope," said Grandma Elsie in determinately cheerful tones. "It is certainly in his favor that he is a strong, healthy man, in the prime of life." "And still more that he is a Christian man; therefore ready for any event," added her father. "And so loved and useful a man that we may well unite in prayer for his recovery, if consistent with the will of God," said Captain Raymond. "And so we will," said Cousin Ronald. "I feel assured that no one of us will refuse or neglect the performance of that duty." "And we can plead the promise, 'If two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven,'" said Mrs. Dinsmore. "So I have strong hope that dear Dick will be spared to us. He is certainly a much loved and very useful man." "And Maud must be relieved as far as possible from other cares," remarked Mrs. Travilla. "I shall at once invite my brother and his family here. There is room enough, especially as my two sons are there and will be nearly, if not all, the time while Dick is so ill." "No, cousin," said Chester, "thank you very much, but Cousin Sue is making herself very useful and could not well be spared. She has undertaken the housekeeping, leaving Maud to devote herself entirely to Dick." "Oh, that is good and kind in her," was the quick response from several voices. "And very fortunate it is that she happened to be there, ready for the undertaking," said Mrs. Rose Croly; "and if Dick had to have that accident he couldn't have found a better time for it than now, while there are three good doctors at hand to attend to him." "True enough," assented Chester. "Things are never so bad but they might be worse." Days of anxiety and suspense followed, during which Dr. Percival's life seemed trembling in the balance. Drs. Harold and Herbert scarcely left the house and spent much of their time in the sick room, while Dr. Conly made several visits every day, sometimes remaining for hours, and the rest of the relatives and near friends came and went with kind offers and inquiries, doing all in their power to show sympathy, and give help, while carefully avoiding unwelcome intrusion or disturbance of the quiet that brooded over Torriswood and seemed so essential under the circumstances. Nothing was neglected that could be done for the restoration of the loved sufferer, and no one of the many relatives and connections there felt willing to leave the neighborhood while his life hung in the balance. Chester spent a part of each day with his distressed and anxious sister, and a part with his betrothed, from whom he felt very unwilling to absent himself for even one whole day. The young people and some of the older ones made little excursions, as before, on the bayou and about the woods and fields, Captain Raymond and Violet usually forming a part of the company; especially if his daughter Grace and Frank Dinsmore were in it. At other times they gathered upon the veranda or in the parlors and entertained each other with conversation, music, or games of the quiet and innocent kind. In the meantime many earnest prayers were sent up on behalf of the injured one--the beloved physician--in the closet, in the family worship, and in the sanctuary when they assembled there on the Sabbath day; and many a silent petition as one and another thought of him on his bed of suffering. They prayed in faith, believing that if it were best in the sight of Him who is all-wise and all-powerful and with whom there is no variableness or shadow of turning, their petition would be granted. And at length so it proved; the fever left him, consciousness and reason were restored, and presently the rejoicing physicians were able to declare the danger past, the recovery certain should nothing occur to cause a relapse. Then there was great rejoicing among those who were of his kith and kin, and those to whom he was the beloved physician. Then such as were needed at their places of residence presently bade farewell and departed for their homes; Drs. Conly and Herbert Travilla among them, leaving Dr. Harold in sole charge of the invalid. Those who had come on the _Dolphin_ decided to return on it, though they would linger somewhat longer--no one feeling it a trial to have to delay for days or weeks where they were. Frank Dinsmore was one of the earliest to leave, and Chester, finding that more Southern climate beneficial to him at that season of the year, was entirely willing to entrust the business of the firm to his brother for a time. So, relieved of anxiety in regard to Dick and still numerous enough to make a very pleasant party, the time passed swiftly and most agreeably to them--especially to the two affianced pairs and the children; Cousin Ronald and Max now and then entertaining them by the exertion of their ventriloquial powers. The young people from Magnolia Hall were often with them and their presence added zest to the enjoyment of little Elsie and Ned in the fun made by their indulgent ventriloquists. That particular sport was apt to begin unexpectedly to the children, making it a little more difficult to recognize it as the doings of the ventriloquists. One afternoon, after playing romping games upon the lawn until weary enough to enjoy a quiet rest on the veranda where the older people were, they had hardly seated themselves when they heard a sound of approaching footsteps, then a voice that seemed like that of a little girl, asking, "Dear little ladies and gentlemen, may I sit here with you for a while? I'm lonesome and would be glad of good company, such as I am sure yours must be." Some of the children, hearing the voice but not able to see the speaker, seemed struck dumb with surprise. It was Violet who answered, "Oh, yes, little girl. Take this empty chair by me and tell me who you are." "Oh, madam, I really can't tell you my name," answered the voice, now seeming to come from the empty chair by Violet's side. "It seems an odd thing to happen, but there are folks who do sometimes forget their own name." "And that is the case with you now, is it?" laughed Violet. "Your voice sounds like that of a girl, but I very much doubt if you belong to our sex." "Isn't that rather insulting, madam?" asked the voice in an offended tone. "Oh, I know you're not a girl or a woman either!" cried Ned Raymond gleefully, clapping his hands and laughing with delight. "You're a man, just pretending to be a little girl." "That is insulting, you rude little chap, and I shall just go away," returned the voice in indignant tones, followed immediately by the sound of footsteps starting from the chair beside Violet and gradually dying away in the distance. "Why, she went off in a hurry and I couldn't see her at all!" exclaimed one of the young visitors; then, as everybody laughed, "Oh, of course it was Cousin Ronald or Cousin Max!" "Why, the voice sounded to me like that of a little girl," said Violet, "and Cousin Ronald and Max are men." "Of course they are, and could not talk in the sweet tones of my little girl," said a rough masculine voice that seemed to come from the doorway into the hall. Involuntarily nearly everybody turned to look for the speaker, but he was not to be seen. "And who are you and your girl?" asked another voice, seeming to speak from the farther end of the veranda. "People of consequence, whom you should treat with courtesy," answered the other, who seemed to stand in the doorway. "As we will if you will come forward and show yourselves," laughed Lucilla, putting up her hand as she spoke to drive away a bee that seemed to buzz about her ears. "Never mind, Lu; its sting won't damage you seriously," said Max, giving her a look of amusement. "Oh, hark! here come the soldiers again!" exclaimed Elsie Embury, as the notes of a bugle, quickly followed by those of the drum and fife, seemed to come from a distant point on the farther side of the bayou. "Don't be alarmed, miss; American soldiers don't harm ladies," said the voice from the farther end of the veranda. "No, I am not at all alarmed," she returned with a look of amusement directed first at Cousin Ronald, then at Max; "not in the least afraid of them." The music continued for a few minutes, all listening silently to it, then as the last strain died away a voice spoke in tones apparently trembling with affright, "Oh, please somebody hide me! hide me quick! quick! before those troops get here. I'm falsely accused and who knows but they may shoot me down on sight?" The speaker was not visible, but from the sounds seemed to be on the lawn and very near at hand. "Oh, run round the house and get the servants to hide you in the kitchen or one of the cellars," cried Ned, not quite able, in the excitement of the moment, to realize that there was not a stranger there who might be really in sore peril. "Thanks!" returned the voice, and a sound as of some one running swiftly in the prescribed direction accompanied and followed the word. Then the tramp, tramp, as of soldiers on the march, and the music of the drum and fife seemed to draw nearer and nearer. "Why, it's real, isn't it?" exclaimed one of the children, jumping up and trying to get a nearer view of the approaching troop. "Oh, don't be afraid," laughed Grace; "I'm sure they won't hurt us or that poor, frightened man either." "No," chuckled Ned. "If he went to the kitchen, as I told him to, he'll have plenty of time to hide before they can get here." "Sure enough, laddie," laughed Cousin Ronald, "they don't appear to be coming on very fast. I hear no more o' their music or their tramp, tramp. Do you?" "No, sir; and I won't believe they are real live fellows till I see them." "Well now, Ned," said Lucilla, "I really believe they are very much alive and kindly making a good deal of fun for us." "Who, who, who?" came at that instant from among the branches of the tree near at hand--or at least seemed to come from there. "Our two ventriloquist friends," replied Lucilla, gazing up into the tree as if expecting to see and recognize the bird. "Oh, what was that?" exclaimed one of the little girls, jumping up in affright, as the squeak of a mouse seemed to come from among the folds of her dress. "Nothing dangerous, my dear," said Mr. Dinsmore, drawing her into the shelter of his arms. "It was no mouse; only a little noise." "Oh, yes, uncle, I might have known that," she said with a rather hysterical little laugh. Just then the tramp, tramp was heard again apparently near at hand, at one side of the house, where the troops might be concealed by the trees and shrubs; the music of the drum and fife following the next moment. "Oh," cried Ned, "won't they catch that fellow who just ran round to the kitchen as I told him to?" "If they do I hope they won't hurt him," laughed Lucilla. The music seemed to arouse the anger of several dogs belonging on the place and at that moment they set up a furious barking. The music continued and seemed to come nearer and nearer, the dogs barked more and more furiously; but presently the drum and fife became silent, the dogs ceased barking and all was quiet. But not for long; the voice that had asked for a hiding-place spoke again close at hand. "Here I am, safe and sound, thanks to the little chap who told me where to hide. The fellows didn't find me and I'm off. But if they come here looking for me, please don't tell which way I've gone. Good-by." "Wait a minute and tell us who you are before you go," called out Eric Leland, and from the tree came the owl's "Who, who, who?" "Who I am?" returned the manlike voice, seeming to speak from a greater distance, "Well, sir, that's for me to know and you to find out." "Now please tell us which of you it was--Cousin Ronald and Max," said Ned, looking from one to the other. "That's for us to know and you to find out, little brother," laughed Max. "Papa," said Ned, turning to their father, "I wish you'd order Max to tell." "Max is of age now and not at present under my orders," replied Captain Raymond, with a humorous look and smile, and just then came the call to the tea table. Ned was unusually quiet during the meal, gazing scrutinizingly every now and then at his father or Max. When they had returned to the veranda he watched his opportunity and seized upon a moment when he could speak to his brother without being overheard by anyone else. "Brother Max," he queried, "won't you ever have to obey papa any more?" "Yes, little brother," returned Max, looking slightly amused, "I consider it my duty to obey papa now whenever it pleases him to give me an order; and that it will be my duty as long as he and I both live." "And you mean to do it?" "Yes, indeed." "So do I," returned Ned with great decision. "And I think all our sisters do too; because the Bible tells us to; and besides papa knows best about everything." "Very true, Ned; and I hope none of us will ever forget that or fail to obey his orders or wishes or to follow his advice." CHAPTER XVI. Dr. Percival had so far recovered as to be considered able to lie in a hammock upon an upper veranda where he could look out upon the beauties of the lawn, the bayou, and the fields and woods beyond. Dr. Harold Travilla was still in attendance and seldom left him for any great length of time, never alone, seldom with only the nurse--Maud, one of Dick's sisters, or some other relative being always near at hand, ready to wait upon him, chat pleasantly for his entertainment, or remain silent as seemed best to suit his mood at the moment. He was very patient, cheerful, and easily entertained, but did not usually talk very much himself. One day he and Harold were alone for a time. Both had been silent for some moments when Dick, turning an affectionate look upon his cousin, said in grateful tones, "How very good, kind, and attentive you have been to me, Harold. I think that but for you and the other two doctors--Cousins Arthur and Herbert--I should now be lying under the sod; and I must acknowledge that you are a most excellent physician and surgeon," he added with an appreciative smile and holding out his hand. Harold took the hand and, pressing it affectionately in both of his, said with feeling, "Thank you, Dick. I consider your opinion worth a great deal, and it is a joy to me that I have been permitted to aid in helping on your recovery; but I am no more deserving of thanks than the others. Indeed both Herbert and I felt it to be a very great help to be able to call Cousin Arthur in to give his opinion, advice, assistance; which he did freely and faithfully. He is an excellent physician and surgeon--as I know you to be also: knowledge which increases the delight of having been--by God's blessing upon our efforts--able to pull you through, thus saving a most useful life." "Thank you," replied Dick in a moved tone. "By God's help I shall try to make it more useful in the future than it has been in the past--should he see fit to restore me to health and vigor. I feel at present as if I might never again be able to walk or ride." "I think you need change of climate for a while," said Harold. "What do you say to going North with us, if Captain Raymond should give you and Maud an invitation to take passage in his yacht?" "Why, that is a splendid idea, Harold!" exclaimed Dick, with such a look of animation and pleasure as had not been seen upon his features for many a day. "Should I get the invitation and Bob come back in time to attend to our practice, I--I really shall, I think, be strongly inclined to accept." "I hope so indeed," Harold said with a smile, "and I haven't a doubt that you will get it; for I know of no one who loves better than the captain to do good or give pleasure. Ah! speak of angels! here he is with his wife and yours," as just at that moment the three stepped out from the open doorway upon the veranda. "The three of us, Harold? Are we all angels to-day?" asked Violet, with a smile, stepping forward and taking Dick's hand in hers. "Quite as welcome as if you were, cousin," said Dick. "Ah, captain! it was you we were speaking of at the moment of your arrival." "Ah? a poor substitute for an angel, I fear," was the rejoinder in the captain's usual pleasant tones. "But I hope it was the thought of something which it may be in my power to do for you, Cousin Dick." "Thanks, captain; you are always most kind," returned Dick, asking Harold by a look to give the desired explanation, which he did at once by repeating what had just passed between him and Dr. Percival in regard to a Northern trip to be taken by the latter upon his partner's return from his bridal trip. Captain Raymond's countenance brightened as he listened and scarcely waiting for the conclusion, "Why, certainly," he said. "It will be an easy matter to make room for Cousins Dick and Maud, and a delight to have them with us on the voyage and after we reach home until the warm weather sends us all farther North for the summer." "Oh, delightful!" cried Maud. "Oh, Dick, my dear, it will set you up as nothing else could; and you may hope to come back in the fall as well and strong as ever." Dr. Percival looked inquiringly at Violet. "Yes, cousin," she said with a smile, "I think we can make you very comfortable; and that without inconveniencing anybody; especially as Grandpa and Grandma Dinsmore decline to return in the _Dolphin_. They go from here to Philadelphia by rail, to visit her relations there or in that region. So you need not hesitate about it for a moment, and," glancing at her brother, "you will have your doctor along to see that you are well taken care of and not allowed to expose yourself on deck when you should be down in the saloon or lying in your berth." "Yes," laughed Harold, "I shall do my best to keep my patient within bounds and see that he does nothing to bring on a relapse and so do discredit to my medical and surgical knowledge and skill." "Which I should certainly be most sorry to do," smiled Dick. "If I do not do credit to it all, it shall be no fault of mine. Never again, cousin, can I for a moment forget that you stand at about the head of your profession--or deserve to, certainly--as both physician and surgeon. Captain, I accept your kind offer with most hearty thanks. I feel already something like fifty per cent. better for the very thought of the rest and pleasure of the voyage, the visit to my old home and friends, and then a sojourn during the hot months in the cooler regions of the North." From that time his improvement was far more rapid than it had been, and Maud was very happy over that and her preparations for the contemplated trip, in which Grandma Elsie and Cousins Annis and Violet gave her valuable assistance. At length a letter was received telling that the newly-married pair might be expected two days later. Chester brought the news to Viamede shortly after breakfast and all heard it with pleasure, for they were beginning to feel a strong drawing toward their northern homes. "It is good news," said Grandma Elsie; "and now I want to carry out a plan of which I have been thinking for some time." "In regard to what?" asked her father. "The reception to be given our bride and groom," she answered. "I want it to be given here; all the connection now in these parts to be invited, house and lawn to be decorated as they were for our large party just after the wedding, and such a feast of fat things as we had then to be provided." "That is just like you, mother," said Captain Raymond; "always thinking how to give pleasure and save trouble to other people." "Ah, it seems to me that I am the one to do it in this instance," she returned with a gratified smile, "having the most means, the most room of any of the connection about here, abundance of excellent help as regards all the work of preparation and the entertainment of the guests; indeed everything that the occasion calls for. Dick and Maud are in no case to do the entertaining, though I do certainly hope they may both be able to attend--he, poor fellow, lying in a hammock on the veranda or under the trees. If they like they may as well come fully prepared for their journey and start with us from here." "A most excellent and kind plan, cousin, as yours always are," said Chester, giving Mrs. Travilla a pleased and grateful look. "I have no doubt it will be accepted if Dr. Harold approves." "As he surely should, since it is his mother's," remarked Violet in her sprightly way. "Suppose you drive over at once, mamma, see the three, and have the whole thing settled." "A very good idea I think, Vi," was the smiling rejoinder. "Captain, will you order a carriage brought round promptly, and you and Vi go with me?--taking Elsie and Ned also, if they would care for a drive," she added, giving the little folks a kindly inquiring look. Both joyfully accepted the invitation, if papa and mamma were willing; Elsie adding: "And if Cousin Dick is not well enough for us to go in, we can stay in the carriage or out in the grounds, till you and papa and mamma are ready to come back." "Yes," said her father; "so there is no objection to your going." "There will still be a vacant seat," said Grandma Elsie, "will you not go with us also, Grace? I have heard Harold say driving was good exercise for you." "Oh, thank you, ma'am," said Grace. "I should like it very much, if papa approves," glancing with an inquiring smile at him. "Certainly. I am quite sure that my daughter Grace's company will add to my enjoyment of the drive," was the captain's kindly response. "And, Grandma Elsie, cannot you find some use for the stay-at-homes?" asked Max. "Chester and myself for instance. Would there be any objection to having 'Old Glory' set waving from the tree tops to-day?" "None whatever," she returned with her sweet smile. "I, for one, never weary of seeing it 'wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.'" "I think anyone who does isn't worthy to be called an American!" exclaimed Lucilla with warmth. "Unless so unfortunate as to be only a South American," remarked Eva with a smile. "You would not expect such an one to care for our Old Glory." "Oh, no, certainly not; it is no more to them than to the rest of the world." "But I dare say it is a good deal to some of the rest of the world; judging from the way they flock to these shores," said Chester. "Which I sincerely wish some of them wouldn't," said Lucilla; "the ignorant, idle, and vicious. To read of the great numbers constantly coming in often makes me tremble for our liberties." "Honest and industrious ones we are always glad to welcome," said Chester, "but the idle and vicious ought to be kept out. And as our own native born boys must be twenty-one years old before being allowed to vote, I think every foreigner should be required to wait here that same length of time before receiving the right of suffrage." "And I heartily agree with you in that," said Captain Raymond. "But unfortunately we have too many selfish politicians--men who are selfishly set upon their own advancement to wealth and power and care little, if anything, for their country and their country's good--who, to gain votes for themselves, have managed to have the right of suffrage given those worthless, ignorant foreigners in order to get into place and power through them." "I haven't a particle of respect for such men," exclaimed Lucilla hotly; "and not much, more for some others who are so engrossed in the management of their own affairs--the making of money by such close attention to business, that they can't, or won't look at all after the interests of their country." "Very true, my dear sister," said Max, with a roguish look and smile, "so it is high time the ladies should be given the right of suffrage." "The right! I think they have that already," she returned with rising color and an indignant look, "but domineering men won't allow them to use it." "Why, daughter," laughed the captain, "I had no idea that you were such a woman's rights woman. Surely it is not the result of my training." "No, indeed, papa; though you have tried to teach me to think for myself," she returned with a blush and smile, adding, "I am not wanting to vote--even if I were old enough, which I know I am not yet--but I do want the laws made and administered by my own countrymen, and that without any assistance from ignorant foreigners." "Ah, and that is perhaps the result of my teachings. Are you not afraid, Chester," turning to him, "that one of these days she may prove too independent for you?" "Ah, captain, if you are thinking of frightening me out of my bargain let me assure you at once that it is perfectly useless," laughed Chester in return. "Ah, yes; I suppose so," sighed the captain in mock distress. "But I must go now and order the carriage," he added, rising and hastening away in the direction of the stables. "And we to make our preparations for the drive and call at Torriswood," said Grandma Elsie, addressing Violet and the younger ones, expecting to be of the party. "Dick and Maud should have as early a report of our plans and purposes as we can well give them." To that Violet and Grace gave a hearty assent, the little ones echoing it joyfully, and by the time the carriage could be brought to the door they were all ready to enter it. They found Maud and Dick full of pleasurable excitement, the former already at work upon her packing. Grandma Elsie's plan and invitation were highly appreciated by both and joyfully accepted. The arrangements were soon made. If all went well with Dr. and Mrs. Johnson they would reach Viamede the next afternoon, stay there in the enjoyment of its hospitality until toward bedtime of that evening, then come on to Torriswood, and a day or two later the others would start upon their northward journey; all going together to New Orleans, Grandpa and Grandma Dinsmore taking the cars there for Philadelphia, and the rest starting for home by water--along the Gulf of Mexico, around Florida, and up the Atlantic coast. The whole plan met Dr. Harold's unqualified approval, while Dr. Percival was so charmed with it that he insisted that the very prospect of it all had nearly restored him to health and strength. "Is that so, cousin?" exclaimed Violet with a pleased laugh, "why, you will be another Samson by the time we reach our homes." "Ah, if I can only recover the amount of strength I had before my accident I shall be satisfied," said he, "and I shall know how to appreciate it as I never did in the past." All the necessary arrangements having now been made, the Viamede party presently returned to their temporary home, which they found looking very gay and patriotic with flags fluttering from tree tops, gables, windows, and verandas; for the young folks left behind had been very busy in their work of adornment. The result of their labors met with warm approval from Grandma Elsie, the captain, and Violet. Grace and Elsie Raymond, too, expressed themselves as highly pleased, while Ned quite went into raptures at the sight of so fine a display of the "Star-spangled Banner." "Now, Cousin Ronald," he exclaimed, turning to Mr. Lilburn, "don't you think it is the very prettiest flag that floats?" "As bonny a one as ever I saw, laddie," responded the old gentleman with a genial smile. "And don't you know that having adopted this as my country, I now consider it as truly my ain banner as it is yours?" "Oh, yes, sir, and I like you to," returned Ned with a pleased look. "I like this to be your country as well as mine." "It's a grand country, laddie," was the pleasant-toned response, "and the native land of my bonny young wife and the dear little bairns of my son Hugh; so I may well give it a share of my affection." The weather continued fine, all the preparations were carried forward successfully, and by noon of the next day the Percivals were ready to enjoy a brief stay at Viamede and gaining strength, but carefully attended and watched over by his cousin Harold, and Maud full of life and gayety because of his improvement and the pleasant prospect before them. It would be so delightful, she thought and said, to see her old home and friends and acquaintances about there, Dick taking his ease among them all for a time; and then to spend some weeks or months, farther north, enjoying sea breezes and sea bathing. All the cousins, older and younger, from Magnolia Hall and the Parsonage were gathered there before the hour when the boat bringing their bride and groom might be expected, and as it rounded to at the wharf quite a little crowd could be seen waiting to receive them. The Johnsons had not been apprised of the reception awaiting them and were expecting to go on immediately to Torriswood, but the boat was hailed and stopped by Chester, and at the same time seeing the festive preparations and the assemblage of relatives, they understood what was going on and expected, and stepped quickly ashore, where glad greetings were exchanged; then all moved on to the house where Dr. Percival lay in a hammock on the front veranda. "Oh, Dick, dear fellow, are you still unable to move about?" asked Dr. Johnson, grasping his hand and looking down into his thin, pale face with eyes that filled with tears in spite of himself. "Oh, I'll soon be all right, Bob; though if it hadn't been for Harold here," giving the latter a warmly affectionate glance, "I doubt if you would have found a partner in your practice on your return." "In that case I am certainly under great obligations to you, Harold," Robert said with feeling, as he and Harold grasped hands with cousinly warmth. "You could hardly have done me a greater service." "Don't talk of obligations," said Harold with emotion. "Dick and you and I are not only all members of the same profession, but all near kinsmen; so that Dick had a double and strong claim upon me and my services." "And we all think he needs a change," said Maud, standing near, "and so, by Cousin Elsie's kind invitation, we are going with her and the rest, in the captain's yacht, to visit them and our old homes; then on farther North to the seashore." "The very best thing that could be done, I think," said Robert; "it certainly is Dick's turn to have a holiday while I stay and attend to our practice." The mirth, jollity, and feasting that followed, filling up the rest of the day, were very similar to those of the day of the wedding, weeks before. Dr. Percival was still feeble, and Mrs. Travilla had some arrangements to make in regard to the conduct of affairs at Viamede after her departure, which together made it best to delay for a few days. But at length all was ready, the good-byes were said, and the return journey to their northern homes was begun. As had been planned Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore took the cars at New Orleans, while the _Dolphin_, bearing the remaining members of their party, passed from west to east along the Gulf of Mexico, around the southern coast of Florida and up its eastern coast and that of the Carolinas. Quite a voyage, but neither tedious nor tiresome to the passengers, so pleasant did they find each other's society and the variety of books and sports provided for their entertainment. During the greater part of the voyage the weather was pleasant enough to allow them to spend the most of their days upon deck, where they could walk about or sit and chat beneath an awning. "Grandma," said little Elsie, coming to Mrs. Travilla's side one morning as she sat on deck busied with a bit of fancy work, "would it trouble you to talk to Ned and me a little while?" "No, dear," was the smiling reply, "but what is it that you wish to hear from me?" "Something about General Marion, grandma, if you please. I know a little about him and admire him very much indeed. He was a South Carolina man, I know, and when I heard papa say a while ago that we were on the South Carolina coast, it made me think of Marion and that I should be very glad to hear something more of what he did in the Revolution." "And so would I, grandma; ever so much," added Ned, who was close at his sister's side. "Then sit down, one on each side of me, and I will tell you some things that I have read about General Francis Marion, one of the boldest, most energetic, and faithful patriots of the Revolution. He was born in South Carolina in 1732, and it is said was so small a baby that he might have been easily put into a quart pot." "He must have had to grow a good deal before he could be a soldier, grandma," laughed Ned. "Yes, but he had forty-three years to do it in," said Elsie. "That many years before the Revolutionary War began," said her grandma, "but he was only twenty-seven when he became a soldier by joining an expedition against the Cherokees and other hostile Indian tribes on the western frontier of his State. When the Revolution began he was made a captain in the second South Carolina regiment. He fought in the battle at Fort Sullivan, on Sullivan's Island, in the contest at Savannah, and many another. He organized a brigade and became brigadier of the militia of South Carolina. After the battle of Eutaw he became senator in the Legislature, but soon went back into the army and remained there till the close of the war." "Grandma, didn't he and his soldiers camp in the swamps a good deal of the time?" asked Elsie. "Yes; and often had but little to eat--sometimes sweet potatoes only, and but a scant supply of them. A story is told of a young British officer from Georgetown coming to treat with him respecting prisoners, when Marion was camping on Snow's Island--at the confluence of the Pedee River and Lynch's Creek. The Briton was led blindfolded to Marion's camp. There for the first time he saw that general--a small man--with groups of his men about him, lounging under the magnificent trees draped with moss. When they had concluded their business Marion invited the Englishman to dine with him. The invitation was accepted, and great was the astonishment of the guest when the dinner was served; only some roasted potatoes on a piece of bark. 'Surely, general,' he said, 'this cannot be your ordinary fare?' 'Indeed it is,' replied Marion, 'and we are fortunate on this occasion, entertaining company, to have more than our usual allowance.' "It is said that the young officer gave up his commission on his return, saying that such a people could not, and ought not to be subdued." "Marion and his men must have loved their country and liberty to be willing to live in swamps with nothing but potatoes to eat," said Elsie; "it makes me think of the stories I've read and heard about Robin Hood and his merry men." "Yes," said her grandmother, "and Lossing tells us Marion's men were as devoted to him as those of Robin Hood were to their leader. Our poet Bryant has drawn a telling picture of that noble band in his "SONG OF MARION'S MEN. "Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass; Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. "Woe to the English soldiery, That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear; When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. "Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gather'd To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. "Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads-- The glitter of their rifles. The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp-- A moment--and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. "Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs, Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, With tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore." "And we did drive the British away--or Marion and his men, and the rest of our brave soldiers did," exclaimed Ned when the recitation of the poem was finished, "didn't they, grandma?" "Yes, Neddie boy, God helped us to get free and become the great nation which we are to-day; and to him let us give all the glory and the praise." "Yes, grandma, I know that even those brave and good fighters couldn't have done it if God hadn't helped them. Did Marion live long after the war was over?" "About a dozen years. He died on the 29th of February, 1795. We are told his last words were, 'Thank God, since I came to man's estate I have never intentionally done wrong to any man.'" "And is that all the story about him?" asked Ned regretfully. "Enough for the present, I think," replied his grandma; "when you are older you can read of him in history for yourself. However, some of his work will come in incidentally as I go on with some other historical sketches. I want to tell you something of Mrs. Rebecca Motte--one of the brave and patriotic women living in South Carolina at that time--and the doings of the British and Americans on her estate. "Mrs. Motte was a rich widow. She had a fine large mansion occupying a commanding position on the road between Charleston and Camden. The British, knowing that she was a patriot, drove her and her family from their home to a farmhouse which she owned, upon a hill north of her mansion, into which they put a garrison of one hundred and fifty men under Captain M'Pherson, a brave British officer. "Early in May he was joined by a small detachment of dragoons sent from Charleston with despatches for Lord Rawdon. They were about to leave when Marion and Lee, with their troops, were seen upon the height at the farmhouse where Mrs. Motte was now living. So the dragoons remained to give their help in the defense of the fort. "Lee took position at the farmhouse, and his men, with a fieldpiece which General Greene had sent them, were stationed on the eastern slope of the high plain on which Fort Motte stood. Marion at once threw up a mound and planted the fieldpiece upon it in a position to rake the northern face of the parapet of the fort against which Lee was about to move. "M'Pherson was without artillery. Between Fort Motte and the height where Lee was posted was a narrow valley which enabled his men to come within a few hundred yards of the fort. From that they began to advance by a parallel--a wide trench--and by the 10th of the month they were so far successful that they felt warranted in demanding a surrender. They sent a summons to M'Pherson, but he gallantly refused to comply. "That evening our men heard that Lord Rawdon had retreated from Camden, was coming in that direction, and would relieve Fort Motte. The next morning beacon fires could be seen on the high hills of Santee, and that night the besieged were greatly rejoiced to see their gleam on the highest ground of the country opposite Fort Motte. They were delighted, but soon found that they had rejoiced too soon. "Lee proposed a quicker plan for dislodging them than had been thought of before. Mrs. Motte's mansion, in the center of their works, was covered with a roof of shingles now very dry, as there had been no rain for several days and the heat of the sun had been great. Lee's idea was to set those shingles on fire and so drive the enemy out. He had been enjoying Mrs. Motte's hospitality and her only marriageable daughter was the wife of a friend of his, so he was very loath to destroy her property, but on telling her his plan, he was much relieved to find that she was not only willing, but desirous to serve her country by the sacrifice of her property. "He then told his plan to Marion and they made haste to execute it. It was proposed to set the roof on fire with lighted torches attached to arrows which should be shot against it. Mrs. Motte, seeing that the arrows the men were preparing were not very good, brought out a fine bow and bundle of arrows which had come from the East Indies, and gave them to Lee. "The next morning Lee again sent a flag of truce to M'Pherson, the bearer telling him that Rawdon had not yet crossed the Santee, and that immediate surrender would save many lives. "But M'Pherson still refused, and at noon Nathan Savage, a private in Marion's brigade, shot toward the house several arrows with lighted torches attached. Two struck the dry shingles and instantly a bright flame was creeping along the roof. Soldiers were sent up to knock off the shingles and put out the fire, but a few shots from Marion's battery raked the loft and drove them below. Then M'Pherson hung out a white flag, the Americans ceased firing, the flames were put out, and at one o'clock the garrison surrendered themselves prisoners of war. "Then Mrs. Motte invited both the American and the British officers to a sumptuous dinner which she had had made ready for them." Grace Raymond had drawn near and was listening in a very interested way to the story as told by Mrs. Travilla. "Grandma Elsie," she said as that lady paused in her narrative, "do you remember a little talk between the American and British officers at that dinner of Mrs. Motte's?" "I am not sure that I do," was the reply. "Can you repeat it for us?" "I think I can give at least the substance," said Grace. "One of the prisoners was an officer named Captain Ferguson. He was seated near Colonel Horry, one of our American officers. Addressing him, Ferguson said, 'You are Colonel Horry, I presume, sir?' Horry replied that he was and Ferguson went on, 'Well, I was with Colonel Watson when he fought your General Marion on Sampit. I think I saw you there with a party of horse, and also at Nelson's Ferry, when Marion surprised our party at the house. But I was hid in high grass and escaped. You were fortunate in your escape at Sampit, for Watson and Small had twelve hundred men.' "'If so,' said Horry, 'I certainly was fortunate, for I did not suppose they had more than half that number,' Then Ferguson said, 'I consider myself equally fortunate in escaping at Nelson's Old Field.' "'Truly you were,' Horry returned sarcastically, 'for Marion had but thirty militia on that occasion,' The other officers at the table could not refrain from laughing. General Greene afterward asked Horry how he came to affront Captain Ferguson, and Horry answered that he affronted himself by telling his own story.'" "Ah, I think our soldiers were the bravest," was little Elsie's comment upon that anecdote. "Yes," said her grandma, "probably because they were fighting for liberty and home." "Please, grandma, tell us another Revolutionary story," pleaded Ned. "Did you ever hear the story of what Emily Geiger did for the good cause?" asked Grandma Elsie in reply. "No, ma'am; won't you please tell it?" "Yes. Emily was the daughter of a German planter in Fairfield District. She was not more than eighteen years old, but very brave. General Greene had an important message to send to Sumter, but because of the danger from the numbers of Tories and British likely to be encountered on the way none of his men seemed willing to take it; therefore he was delighted when this young girl came forward and offered to carry his letter to Sumter. But fearing she might lose it on the way, he made her acquainted with its contents. "She mounted a fleet horse, crossed the Wateree at the Camden Ferry, and hastened on toward Sumter's camp. On the second day of her journey, while passing through a dry swamp, she was stopped and made prisoner by some Tory scouts, who suspected her because she came from the direction of Greene's army. They took her to a house on the edge of the swamp and shut her up in a room, while they sent for a woman to search her person. "Emily was by no means willing to have the letter found upon her person, so as soon as left alone she began tearing it up and swallowing it piece by piece. After a while the woman came and searched her carefully, but found nothing to criminate the girl, as the last piece of the letter had already gone down her throat. "Her captors, now convinced of her innocence, made many apologies and allowed her to go on her way. She reached Sumter's camp, gave him Greene's message, and soon the British under Rawdon were flying before the Americans toward Orangeburg." "Is that all, grandma?" asked Ned, as Mrs. Travilla paused and glanced up smilingly at Captain Raymond, who now drew near. "All for the present, Neddie," she replied. "Some other time I may perhaps think of other incidents to give you." "Ah, mother, so you have been kindly entertaining my children, who are great lovers of stories," remarked the captain. "I hope they have not been too exacting in their entreaties for such amusement?" "Oh, no," she replied; "they wanted some episodes in the history of the State we are passing, and I have been giving them some account of the gallant deeds of General Marion and others." "He was a brave, gallant man, was Francis Marion, thoroughly patriotic, and one of the finest characters of that time; a countryman of whom we may well be proud," remarked the captain, speaking with earnestness and enthusiasm; "and with it all he was most humane; a great contrast to some of the British officers who burnt houses, robbed and wronged women and children--rendering them shelterless, stripping them of all clothes except those they wore, not to speak of even worse acts of barbarity. Bancroft tells us that when the British were burning houses on the Little Pedee, Marion permitted his men of that district to go home and protect their wives and families; but that he would not suffer retaliation and wrote with truth, 'There is not one house burned by my orders or by any of my people. It is what I detest, to distress poor women and children.'" "I am proud of him as one of my countrymen," said Grace. "He was sometimes called 'The swamp Fox,' was he not, papa?" "Yes; the swamps were his usual place of refuge and camping ground." "I admire him very much and like to hear about him and all he did for our country," said little Elsie; "but I am glad and thankful that I didn't live in those dreadful war times." "As you well may be, my dear child," said her father. "We cannot be too thankful for the liberty we enjoy in these days and which was largely won for us by Marion and other brave and gallant patriots of those darker days. They, and our debt of gratitude to them, should never be forgotten or ignored." CHAPTER XVII. The _Dolphin's_ passengers greatly enjoyed their voyage up the Atlantic coast, yet were not sorry when they reached their desired haven--the city within a few miles of their homes. Dr. Percival had gained strength every day and now could go about very well with the help of a friend's arm or a cane, and spent but a part of his time lounging in an easy-chair or resting upon a couch. A telegram had carried to their home friends the information that they expected to reach port on that day, and carriages were there in waiting to convey them to their several places of abode. Dr. Conly had come for Dr. and Mrs. Percival, as had also Mr. Dinsmore from the Oaks; the one claiming that Roselands was Dick's old home, therefore undoubtedly the proper place for him at present--the other that Maud belonged at the Oaks and of course her husband with her. Grandma Elsie had already given them a warm invitation to Ion, and Captain Raymond and Violet the same to Woodburn. It seemed a little difficult to decide which had the prior claim. Dr. Harold said it should be Ion first in order that he might still have his patient where he could keep continued and careful watch over him; and as he grew better and stronger the others could have their turns at entertaining him and Maud. To that Dick laughingly replied that he was now tolerably used to obeying Harold's orders, so should submit to his decision, still hoping that in time he and Maud might have the pleasure of accepting the other invitations in turn. That seemed to give tolerable satisfaction as about as good an arrangement as could well be made. The Beechwood and Woodburn family carriages and Max's pony were there, also the carriage from Fairview for Evelyn. Max helped her into it, then mounted his steed and rode alongside, the Woodburn carriage driving a little ahead of them, while the other vehicles were somewhat in their rear. All reached their destinations in safety, each party receiving a joyful welcome on their arrival. Chester, after a brief but affectionate good-by, "for a short time," to Lucilla, had taken a seat in Mr. Dinsmore's carriage, as he and his brother still made their home at the Oaks. Both pairs of lovers had greatly enjoyed their daily intercourse upon the _Dolphin_ and gave that up with some feeling of regret, but comforted themselves with the thought that twenty-four hours would seldom pass without allowing them at least a brief interview. Bidding good-by to Eva at the gate into Fairview Avenue, Max rode rapidly onward and entered the Woodburn grounds just in the rear of his father's carriage, then dismounted at the veranda in time to take part in assisting the ladies and children to alight. "Oh, how delightful it is to be at home again!" exclaimed Grace, dancing about and gazing this way and that into the beautifully kept grounds. "I am always glad to go, but still gladder to get back." "And so am I," "And I," exclaimed the younger ones. "And I am as glad as anybody else, I think," said Max, "though I should not be if I were here alone--without father, Mamma Vi, and the sisters and little brother." "No, indeed! the dear ones make more than half of home," Lucilla said with a loving glance around upon the others, then one of ardent affection up into her father's face. "Yes," said Grace, "father alone is more than half of home to each and every one of us." An assertion which no one was in the least inclined to contradict. "He certainly is to me--his wife," said Violet, giving him a look that spoke volumes of respect and love. "And I certainly know of no man who has less reason to complain of the lack of appreciation by his nearest and dearest," responded the captain in tones slightly tremulous with feeling, and a look of fond, proud affection, first at his wife, then at his children, each in turn. "This is certainly a happy home-coming to us all," said Max, "to me in especial, I think, as the one who has seen so little of it for years past. It is to me the dearest spot on earth; though it would not be without the dear ones it holds." But housekeeper and servants had now come crowding about with glad greetings, which were warmly returned, and then the family scattered to their rooms to prepare for the dinner just ready to be served. All our returned travellers were received with joyful greetings at their homes, not excepting Dr. Harold Travilla at Ion; and all there seemed to rejoice that they were to be the first to entertain the cousins--Dr. Percival and Maud. They were warmly welcomed and speedily installed in most comfortable quarters--a suite of beautifully furnished apartments--on the ground floor, that Dick might be spared the exertion of going up and down even the easiest flight of stairs. They were more than content. "We seem to have come into a haven of rest, Maud, my love," Dick remarked as he lay back in his reclining chair, and gazed about with eyes that kindled with joy and admiration. "Yes, my dear," laughed Maud, "it would seem almost appropriate to put another letter into that noun and call it a heaven--so beautiful and tasteful is everything around us." "Yes; I wish everybody had as good, kind, capable, and helpful friends and relatives as ours, and as able to give them such royal entertainment." "Cousin Elsie is the very person to have large means," said Maud, "for she seems to be always thinking of others and what she can do for their comfort and happiness. There is not a particle of selfishness or self-righteousness about her." "I heartily agree with you there," said Dick. "I have known her since I was the merest child and she has always seemed to live to do good and show kindness to all around her. She evidently looks upon her wealth as simply a trust--something the Lord has put into her hands to be used for his glory and the good of her fellow creatures." "I am sure you are right about that," said Maud. "And her children resemble her in it. What could have exceeded the kindness of Cousins Harold and Herbert--Cousin Arthur Conly, too--when you were so ill? Oh, Dick dear, I thought I was going to lose you! Oh, how could I ever have borne that?" she added with a sob; "and I am sure you and I owe your life to their skilful treatment, their untiring care and devotion." "We do indeed," he said with emotion; "but for their untiring efforts and God's blessing upon them I should now be under the sod--and my darling a widow," he added tenderly and in quivering tones, drawing her down to give her a fond caress. "And how kind Vi and her husband have been," he went on. "The captain is a grand good man and quite as anxious to use all he has for the glory of God and the good of his fellow creatures as dear Cousin Elsie herself." "Yes; I don't wonder his wife and children love him so dearly; and I could hardly love him better were he my own brother," said Maud. "I am so glad he and Cousin Violet fancied each other and married when they did." "Yes, they are the most enjoyable of relatives to us and very happy in each other." Here their bit of chat was interrupted by a tap on the door opening into the hall. Dr. Harold had come to say that dinner was on the table, and ask if his patient felt able, and if it would be enjoyable to join the family at their meal. "Indeed I should like it," was Dick's prompt response, "and I think too that I am entirely equal to the exertion." "Perhaps even with only your cane, if I give you the support of my arm," suggested Harold. "Thank you, yes," returned Dick, with a pleased look, as Harold assisted him to rise and Maud handed him his cane. So the little journey was made successfully and the social meal greatly enjoyed. At its conclusion Harold assisted Dr. Percival to his couch again, where he lay down, just weary enough to take a long, refreshing nap. On leaving the table, Grandma Elsie went to the telephone and called to Woodburn. Violet answered, "What is it, mother?" and received the reply, "I expect the whole connection here to take tea and spend the evening, and I want you all to come." The captain, standing near, heard the message also, and as Violet turned inquiringly to him, "Surely there is nothing to prevent any of us from going," he said, and she at once answered, "Thank you, mother, you may expect us all." The same invitation had been already sent to, and accepted by, the others, and some time before the tea hour they were all there, glad to meet and exchange greetings, and chat about all that had occurred since they last saw each other. And Dr. Percival, refreshed and strengthened by his dinner and a long, sound sleep after it, was able to enjoy it all, perhaps as keenly as anyone else. They talked of whatever had occurred among them during the time that they had been separated, and of their plans for the coming heated term--who would pass it at home and who go North to find a cooler climate. But it was not necessary to decide fully upon their plans, as some weeks must elapse ere carrying them out and there would be a good deal of intercourse among them in the meantime. They scattered to their homes early in the evening that Dr. Percival might not be kept up or awake, and that the little ones might be safely and in good season bestowed in their nests for the night. Dr. Percival improved rapidly in the next few weeks; so rapidly that he was able to make a visit to Roselands, the Oaks, and Woodburn, each in turn, and felt that he should greatly enjoy the journey to the North and the sojourn by the seaside there which awaited him, his wife, and friends. Our two pairs of lovers went quietly and happily on with their courting, considered plans for future house-building and housekeeping, and what should be done and enjoyed in the meantime, and it seemed but a little while till they were again on board the _Dolphin_ and speeding on their northward course. It was the same party that had come in her on that last voyage from the South. Max was still in the enjoyment of his furlough and by his father's request now took command of the vessel; but, the weather being fine throughout the voyage, his duties were not arduous and Evelyn had no reason to complain of want of attention from her fiancé. Nor had Lucilla; Chester being seldom absent from her side during the day or evening. So that Captain Raymond began to feel at times that he was already losing--to some extent--his eldest daughter. He sighed over it to himself, but made no complaint to either of them. Lucilla's affection for him did not seem to have suffered any abatement; as had been her custom, she often came to him for a bit of private chat early in the morning or in the evening after the others had gone to their staterooms; and in these private interviews she was the same ardently affectionate daughter she had been for years; so that he felt he had no reason to fear that her lover had stolen all her heart. But she was very keen-sighted as regarded him and his feelings toward her. One evening as, according to his custom, he paced the deck after all the passengers had retired for the night, he heard her light step at his side and then her voice asking in its sweetest tones, "Papa dear, mayn't I walk with you for at least a few minutes? I am neither sleepy nor tired, and it is so seldom now that I can have my own dear father all to myself." "Yes, daughter dear," he said, putting an arm about her and caressing her with tenderness. "I am very glad to have your company if it is not going to weary you or rob you of needed sleep." Then he drew her hand within his arm and they paced slowly back and forth, conversing in subdued tones. "It is so sweet to be alone with you once in a while, my own dear father," she said. "I think, papa, if my engagement has made any change in my feelings toward you it has been to make you seem to me nearer and dearer, if possible, than ever. Oh, I think it would break my heart if I should ever have to go so far away from you that I could not see and talk with you every day!" "Dear child, those are sweet words to my ear," he said in moved tones, "and I am most thankful that, so far as we can see into the future, there seems little or no danger that we will ever be so separated in this world." "Yes, papa; that assurance is one of my greatest joys. And I am so glad that my dear father is so strong and well, and not so very old," she added with a smile and a look of loving admiration up into his face. "I am not very young, daughter," he returned pleasantly, "though I think my natural strength has not abated, and life seems as enjoyable to me as ever. But the happy thought is that God our heavenly Father rules and reigns and shall choose all our changes for us; for to his wisdom and love there is no limit. How sweet are the words, 'I have loved thee with an everlasting love,' 'As the Father hath loved me, so have I loved you.' If we are his children we need not fear to trust our all in his hands. We need not desire to choose for ourselves as regards the things of this life, or the time when he shall call us to our heavenly home." "That is a very sweet thought, father," she said. "What a care and anxiety it would be to us to have to choose all those changes for ourselves. How kind in the dear Lord Jesus to bid his disciples to take no thought--which you have explained to me means no care or anxiety--for the morrow--telling them that 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'" "Yes; and when troubled with cares and fears for the future we may be sure that it is because we are lacking in that faith which trusts all in his hands." "Oh, I want that faith!" she exclaimed earnestly, though her voice was low and sweet. "Papa, pray for me that I may have it." "I will, daughter, I do," he said; "there is nothing I desire more strongly for you and all my dear children than that." They were silent for a moment, then she asked, "Where are we now, papa? and to what port bound as the first?" "We are nearing Delaware Bay," he replied, "and expect to pass up it and the river to Philadelphia, where we will add Grandpa and Grandma Dinsmore to our party, then come down and round the southern part of New Jersey and on up the eastern coast to Atlantic City. Rooms have been engaged for us at Haddon Hall and there we purpose staying for perhaps a fortnight, then we think of going on up the New England coast, perhaps as far as Bar Harbor in Maine." "Oh, I like that plan," she said; "for we have never yet visited either of those places, and I have wanted to see them both." "I shall be glad to give you that pleasure, daughter," he said. "Now it is high time you were in bed and asleep; so bid me good-night and go." Our travellers reached Philadelphia the next day, took on board Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, passed down the river and bay again, and up the Atlantic coast to the city of that name, as the captain had planned. They were charmed with their quarters; rooms near the sea--looking out directly upon it--with a private porch where they could sit and enjoy the breeze and an extended view of the ocean, watching the vessels pass and repass, outward bound or coming from distant ports to the harbors farther up the coast. Strolling along the broad plank walk, four miles in length and close to the sea, was another pleasure; as were also the driving down on the beach at low tide, and the little excursions out to Longport and other adjacent villages. Most of the days were spent in making these little trips--sometimes in carriages, at others in the electric cars--and the evenings in wandering by moonlight along the board walk. There were various places of innocent amusement too--such as the Japanese garden and the piers, where seals and other curiosities were on exhibition. They found the table excellent and everything about the establishment homelike, neat, and refined, and their hostess so agreeable, so charming, that their only regret was that they saw so little of her--so many were the calls upon her time and attention. "She certainly must need an occasional rest," said Grandma Elsie one day, talking with Violet and the captain, "and we must invite her to pay us a visit in our southern homes." To that proposal both Captain Raymond and Violet gave an unqualified assent, saying that they would be pleased indeed to entertain her. A fortnight was spent there most pleasantly, after which the _Dolphin_ carried them up the coast to Bar Harbor, where we will leave them for the present. A LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS AND OTHER POPULAR BOOKS BY MARTHA FINLEY _ELSIE DINSMORE._ _ELSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS._ _ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD._ _ELSIE'S WOMANHOOD._ _ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD._ _ELSIE'S CHILDREN._ _ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD._ _GRANDMOTHER ELSIE._ _ELSIE'S NEW RELATIONS._ _ELSIE AT NANTUCKET._ _THE TWO ELSIES._ _ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN._ _ELSIE'S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN._ _CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE._ _ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS._ _ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS._ _ELSIE'S VACATION._ _ELSIE AT VIAMEDE._ _ELSIE AT ION._ _ELSIE AT THE WORLD'S FAIR._ _ELSIE'S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS._ _ELSIE AT HOME._ _ELSIE ON THE HUDSON._ _ELSIE IN THE SOUTH._ _MILDRED KEITH._ _MILDRED AT ROSELANDS._ _MILDRED'S MARRIED LIFE._ _MILDRED AND ELSIE._ _MILDRED AT HOME._ _MILDRED'S BOYS AND GIRLS._ _MILDRED'S NEW DAUGHTER._ _CASELLA._ _SIGNING THE CONTRACT AND WHAT IT COST._ _THE TRAGEDY OF WILD RIVER VALLEY._ _OUR FRED._ _AN OLD-FASHIONED BOY._ _WANTED, A PEDIGREE._ _THE THORN IN THE NEST._ TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES Some quotes are opened with marks but are not closed. Obvious errors have been silently closed, while those requiring interpretation have been left open. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained. 
14280	----	HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS A SEQUEL TO ELSIE DINSMORE BY MARTHA FINLEY Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by M.W. DODD, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. Copyright, 1898, by DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. "Hope not sunshine every hour, Fear not clouds will always lower." --Burns. Elsie's Holidays at Roselands. CHAPTER I. "Oh Truth, Thou art, whilst tenant in a noble breast, A crown of crystal in an iv'ry chest." Elsie felt in better spirits in the morning; her sleep had refreshed her, and she arose with a stronger confidence in the love of both her earthly and her heavenly Father. She found her papa ready, and waiting for her. He took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. "My precious little daughter," he said, "papa is very glad to see you looking so bright and cheerful this morning. I think something was wrong with my little girl last night. Why did she not come to papa with her trouble?" "_Why_ did you think I was in trouble, papa?" she asked, hiding her face on his breast. "How could I think otherwise, when my little girl did not come to bid me good night, though she had not seen me since dinner; and when I went to give her a good-night kiss I found her pillow wet, and a tear on her cheek?" "_Did_ you come, papa?" she asked, looking up in glad surprise. "I did. Now tell me what troubled you, my own one?" "I am afraid you will be angry with me, papa," she said, almost under her breath. "Not half so angry as if you refuse to give me your confidence. I would be glad to know that my little daughter had not a single thought or feeling concealed from me." He paused a moment, looking down at the little blushing face, half hidden on his breast, then went on: "Elsie, daughter, you are more precious to me than aught else in the wide world, and you need not fear that any other can ever take your place in my heart, or that I will make any connection that would render you unhappy. I want no one to love but my little girl; and you must not let the gossip of the servants disturb you." Elsie looked up in unfeigned astonishment. "Papa! you seem to know everything about me. Can you read my thoughts?" "_Almost_, when I can see your face," he answered, smiling at her puzzled look. "I cannot quite, though; but I can put things together and make a pretty good guess, sometimes." She lay still on his breast for a moment; then, raising her eyes timidly to his face again, she said in a half-hesitating way, "I am afraid it is very naughty in me, papa, but I can't help thinking that Miss Stevens is very disagreeable. I felt so that very first day, and I did not want to take a present from her, because it didn't seem exactly right when I didn't like her, but I couldn't refuse--she wouldn't let me--and I have tried to like her since, but I can't." "Well, darling, I don't think I am just the proper person to reprove you for _that_," he replied, trying to look grave, "for I am afraid I am as naughty as you are. But we won't talk any more about her. See what I have for you this morning." He pointed to the table, where lay a pile of prettily bound books, which Elsie had not noticed until this moment. They were Abbot's works. Elsie had read several of his historical tales, and liked them very much; and her father could hardly have given a more acceptable present. "I was sorry for your disappointment yesterday," he said, "but I hope these will make up for it, and they will give you a great deal of useful information, as well as amusement; while it could only be an injury to you to read that trashy book." Elsie was turning over the books with eager delight. "_Dear_ papa, you are so kind and good to me," she said, laying them down to put her arms around his neck and kiss him. "I like these books very much, and I don't at all care to read that other one since you have told me you do not approve of it." "That is my own darling child," said he, returning her caress, "your ready obedience deserved a reward. Now put on your hat, and we will take our walk." Mr. Travilla joined them in the avenue, and his kind heart rejoiced to see how the clouds of care and sorrow had all passed away from his little friend's face, leaving it bright and beaming, as usual. Her father had one hand, and Mr. Travilla soon possessed himself of the other. "I don't altogether like these company-days, when you have to be banished from the table, little Elsie," he remarked. "I cannot half enjoy my breakfast without your bright face to look at." "I don't like them either, Mr. Travilla, because I see so little of papa. I haven't had a ride with him since the company came." "You shall have one this afternoon, if nothing happens," said her father quickly. "What do you say, Travilla, to a ride on horseback with the four young ladies you took charge of yesterday, and myself?" "Bravo! I shall be delighted to be of the party, if the ladies don't object; eh! Elsie, what do you think?" with a questioning look down into her glad face, "will they want me?" "You needn't be a bit afraid, Mr. Travilla," laughed the little girl; "I like you next to papa, and I believe Lucy and the rest like you better." "Oh! take care, Elsie; are you not afraid of hurting his feelings?" "No danger, as long as _she_ puts me first," Mr. Dinsmore said, bestowing a smile and loving glance on her. Caroline Howard was in Elsie's room, waiting to show her bracelet, which had just been handed to her by her maid; Pomp having brought it from the city late the night before. "Oh! Elsie, I am so glad you have come at last. I have been waiting for half an hour, I should think, to show you these," she said, as Elsie came in from her walk. "But how bright and merry you look; so different from last night! what ailed you then?" "Never mind," replied Elsie, taking the bracelet from her hand, and examining it. "Oh! this is _very_ pretty, Carry! the clasp is so beautiful, and they have braided the hair so nicely." "Yes, I'm sure mamma will like it. But now that Christmas is gone, I think I will keep it for a New Year's gift. Wouldn't you, Elsie?" "Yes, perhaps--but I want to tell you, Carry, what papa says. He and Mr. Travilla are going to take you, and Lucy, and Mary, and me, riding on horseback this afternoon. Don't you think it will be pleasant?" "Oh, it will be _grand_!" exclaimed Carry. "Elsie, I think now that your papa is very kind; and do you know I like him very much, indeed; quite as well as I do Mr. Travilla, and I always liked _him_--he's so pleasant, and so funny, too, sometimes. But I must go and show my bracelet to Lucy. Hark! no, there's the bell, and I'll just leave it here until after breakfast." Elsie opened a drawer and laid it carefully in, and they ran off to the nursery. "Elsie," said her father, when they had finished the morning lessons, "there is to be a children's party to-night, at Mr. Carleton's, and I have an invitation for you. Would you like to go?" "Do you wish me to go, papa?" she asked. "Not unless _you_ wish to do so, daughter," he said kindly. "I cannot go with you, as there are to be none but little people, and I never feel altogether comfortable in seeing my darling go from home without me; and you will, no doubt, be very late in returning and getting to bed, and I fear will feel badly to-morrow in consequence; but this once, at least, you shall just please yourself. All your little guests are going, and it would be dull and lonesome for you at home, I am afraid." Elsie thought a moment. "Dear papa, you are very kind," she said, "but if you please, I would much rather have you decide for me, because I am only a silly little girl, and you are so much older and wiser." He smiled, and stroked her hair softly, but said nothing. "Are you going to stay at home, papa?" she asked presently. "Yes, daughter, I expect to spend the evening either in this room or the library, as I have letters to write." "Oh, then, papa, please let me stay with you! I would like it _much_ better than going to the party; will you, papa? please say yes." "But you know I cannot talk to you, or let you talk; so that it will be very dull," he said, pushing back the curls from the fair forehead, and smiling down into the eager little face. "Oh! but if you will only let me sit beside you and read one of my new books, I shall be quite contented, and sit as quiet as a little mouse, and not say one word without leave. Mayn't I, papa?" "I said you should do as you pleased, darling, and I always love to have my pet near me." "Oh, then I shall stay!" she cried, clapping her hands. Then, with a happy little sigh, "It will be so nice," she said, "to have one of our quiet evenings again." And she knew, by her father's gratified look, that she had decided as he would have had her. A servant put his head in at the door. "Massa Horace, dere's a gen'leman in de library axin for to see you." "Very well, Jim, tell him I will be there in a moment. Elsie, dear, put away your books, and go down to your little friends." "Yes, papa, I will," she replied, as he went out and left her. "How kind papa is to me, and how I do love him!" she murmured to herself as she placed the books carefully in the drawer where they belonged. She found Lucy and Mary busily engaged in dressing a doll, and Carry deeply interested in a book. But several of the little ones were looking quite disconsolate. "Oh, Elsie, do come and play with us," said Flora; "Enna won't play anything we like. We've been playing keeping house, but Enna will be mother all the time, and she scolds and whips us so much that we are all tired of it." "Well, what shall we play?" asked Elsie, good-naturedly. "Will you build houses?" "No, I'm tired of that, because Enna takes all the blocks," said another little girl. "She isn't at all polite to visitors, is she, Flora?" "No," replied Flora, "and I don't _ever_ mean to come to see her again." "I don't care," retorted Enna, angrily, "and I don't take _all_ the blocks, either." "Well, _most_ all, you do," said the other, "and it isn't polite." "They're mine, and I'll have as many as I want; and I don't care if it _isn't_ polite," Enna answered, with a pout that by no means improved her appearance. "Will you play 'O sister, O Phebe?'" asked Elsie. "No, no!" cried several little voices, "Enna always wants to be in the middle; and besides, Arthur always wants to play, and he will kiss us; and we don't like it." Elsie was almost in despair; but Herbert, who was lying on a sofa, reading, suddenly shut his book, saying, "I tell you what, Elsie! tell us one of those nice fairy stories we all like so much!" "Yes, do, do!" cried several of the little ones, clapping their hands. So Elsie drew up a stool close to Herbert's sofa, and the little ones clustered around her, Enna insisting on having the best place for hearing; and for more than an hour she kept them quiet and interested; but was very glad when at last the maid came to take them out walking, thus leaving her at liberty to follow her own inclination. "What are you going to do now, Elsie?" asked Caroline, closing her book. "I am going down to the drawing-room to ask Aunt Adelaide to show me how to crochet this mitten for mammy," Elsie answered. "Won't you come along, girls?" "Yes, let's take our sewing down there," said Lucy, gathering up the bits of muslin and silk, and putting them in her work-box. Elsie glanced hastily around as they entered, and gave a satisfied little sigh on perceiving that Miss Stevens was not in the room, and that her Aunt Adelaide was seated with her embroidery near one of the windows, while her papa sat near by, reading the morning paper. The little girls soon established themselves in a group on the opposite side of Miss Adelaide's window, and she very good-naturedly gave Elsie the assistance she needed. "Elsie," said Lucy, presently, in an undertone, "Carry has been showing us her bracelet, and I think it is beautiful; she won't tell whose hair it is--I guess it's her sister's, maybe--but I'm sure yours would make just as pretty a bracelet, and I want one for my mamma; won't you give me one of your curls to make it? you have so many that one would never be missed." "No, Miss Lucy," said Mr. Dinsmore, looking at them over his paper, "you can't have one of my curls; I can't spare it." "I don't want one of _your_ curls, Mr. Dinsmore," laughed Lucy, merrily. "I didn't ask for it. Your hair is very pretty, too, but it would be quite too short." "I beg your pardon, Miss Lucy, if my ears deceived me," said he, with mock gravity, "but I was quite certain I heard you asking for one of my curls. Perhaps, though, you are not aware of the fact that my curls grow on two heads." "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Dinsmore," replied Lucy, laughing again, "but it was one of Elsie's curls I asked for." "Elsie doesn't own any," said he; "they all belong to me. I let her wear them, to be sure, but that is all; she has no right to give them away." He turned to his paper again, and Elsie bent over her work, her face flushed, and her little hand trembling so that she could scarcely hold her needle. "I'm afraid I ought to tell papa," she thought, "that I did give one of my curls away. I never thought about his caring, but I might have known, because when I wanted my hair cut last summer, he said they shouldn't one of them be touched. Oh! dear, why didn't I think of that? I am afraid he will be very much displeased." "Don't tell him, then," whispered the tempter, "he is not likely ever to miss it." "Nay, but it would be _wrong_ to hide your fault," said conscience. "I _will_ tell him," she resolved. "Wait till to-morrow, then," whispered the tempter again; "if you tell him now, very likely he will deprive you of your ride this afternoon, as a punishment." So the struggle went on in the little breast while others were chatting and laughing around her, never suspecting what a battle the little girl was fighting within her own heart. Presently Lucy jumped up. "Oh! I am so tired sewing; come, girls, let's put on our things, and take a run in the garden." Carry and Mary readily assented. "I must speak to papa first," Elsie said in a half whisper, "but don't wait for me." She had spoken low, but not so low that his quick ear did not catch the sound. He had heard her, and laying his paper down on his knee, as the other little girls ran away, he turned half round and held out his hand, asking, with a smile, "Well, daughter, what is it? what have you to say to papa?" She went to him at once, and he was surprised to see how she was trembling, and that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes full of tears. "Why! what ails my darling?" he asked tenderly. Adelaide had left the room a moment before, and there was no one near enough to hear. "Please, papa, don't be very angry with me," she pleaded, speaking very low and hesitatingly. "I did not know you cared about my curls; I did not think about their belonging to you, and I did give one to Carry." He was silent a moment, evidently surprised at her confession; then he said gently, "No, dearest, I will not be angry this time, and I feel sure you will not do so again, now you know that I _do_ care." "No, _indeed_, I will not, dear papa," she replied in a tone of intense relief. "But you are not going to punish me?" she asked, beginning to tremble again. "I was _so_ afraid to tell you, lest you would say I should not have my ride this afternoon." "Why, then, did you not put off your confession until after the ride?" he asked, looking searchingly into her face. "I wanted to very much, papa," she said, looking down and blushing deeply, "but I knew it would be very wrong." "My dear, conscientious little daughter," he said, taking her on his knee, "your father loves you better than ever for this new proof of your honesty and truthfulness. Deprive you of your ride? no, indeed, I feel far more like rewarding than punishing you. Ah! I had forgotten! I have something for you;" and he put his hand into his pocket and brought out a letter. "Oh! it is from Miss Rose! dear, darling Miss Rose!" was Elsie's joyful exclamation, as he put it in her hand. She made a movement as if to get down from his knee, but he detained her. "Sit still and read it here, darling," he said, "I love to have you on my knee, and if there are any hard places I can help you." "Thank you, papa; sometimes there are hard places--at least pretty hard for a little girl like me--though I think Miss Rose tries to write plainly because she knows that I cannot read writing as well as big people can." She was eagerly tearing off the envelope while she answered him, and then settling herself comfortably she began to read. He watched with deep interest the varying expression of her fine open countenance as she read. Once or twice she asked him to tell her a word, but the most of it she got through without any difficulty. At last she had finished. "It is such a nice letter, papa," she said as she folded it up, "and so good of Miss Rose to write to me again so soon." "Are you not going to let _me_ enjoy it, too?" he asked. She put it into his hand instantly, saying, with a blush, "I did not know you would care to read it, papa." "I am interested in all that gives either pleasure or pain to my little girl," he answered gently. "I wish to be a sharer in all her joys and sorrows." Elsie watched him while he read, almost as intently as he had watched her; for she was anxious that he should be pleased with Miss Rose's letter. It was a cheerful, pleasant letter, well suited to interest a child of Elsie's years; giving an account of home scenes; telling of her little brothers and sisters, their love for each other; the little gifts they had prepared in anticipation of Christmas, etc., etc. At the close she made some allusion to Elsie's letters, and expressed her heartfelt sympathy in her little friend's happiness. "I am so glad, my darling," she wrote, "that your father now loves you so dearly, and that you are so happy in his love. My heart ached for you in the bitter disappointment of your first meeting with him. It is true you never said that you were disappointed, but there was a tone of deep sadness in your dear little letter, the cause of which I--who knew so well how you had looked and longed for his return, and how your little heart yearned for his affection--could not fail to guess. But, dear child, while you thus rejoice in an _earthly_ father's love, do not forget that you have a Father in Heaven, who claims the _first_ place in your heart; and who is the giver of every good gift, not even excepting the precious love that now makes your young life so bright and happy. Keep close to Jesus, dear Elsie: His is the only _truly satisfying_ love--the only one we can be certain will never fail us." "Is it not a nice letter, papa?" asked the little girl, as he refolded and gave it to her again. "Very nice, daughter," he answered, in an absent way. He looked very grave, and Elsie studied his countenance intently while, for some moments, he sat with his eyes bent thoughtfully upon the carpet. She feared that something in the letter had displeased him. But presently he looked at her with his usual affectionate smile, and laying his hand caressingly on her head, said, "Miss Allison seems to warn you not to trust too much to the permanence of my affection; but you need not fear that you will ever lose it, unless, indeed, you cease to be deserving of it. No, nor even then," he added, drawing her closer to him, "for even should you grow very naughty and troublesome, you would still be _my child_--a part of myself and of my lost Elsie, and therefore very dear to me." "Ah! papa, how could I ever _bear_ to lose your love? I think I should die," she said, dropping her head on his breast, with almost a sob. "Oh! if I am ever very, _very_ naughty, papa, punish me as severely as you will; but oh, never, _never_ quit _loving_ me." "Set your heart at rest, my darling," he said, tenderly, "there is no danger of such a thing. I could not do it, if I wished." Ah! there came a time when Elsie had sore need of all the comfort the memory of those words could give. "What are you going to wear to Isabel Carleton's party, to-night, Elsie?" asked Lucy, at the dinner table. "Nothing," replied Elsie, with an arch smile, "I am not going, Lucy," she added. "Not going! well, now, that is _too_ bad," cried Lucy, indignantly. "I think it's really mean of your papa; he never lets you go anywhere." "Oh, Lucy! he let me go to town with Carry the other day; he has let me stay up late two or three nights since you came; he is going to let me ride with the rest of you this afternoon, and he said that I might do just as I pleased about going to-night," Elsie summed up rather triumphantly, adding, in a very pleasant tone, "It is entirely my own choice to stay at home; so you see, Lucy, you must not blame my papa before you know." Lucy looked a little ashamed, while Mary Leslie exclaimed: "Your own choice, Elsie? why, how strange! don't you like parties?" "Not nearly so well as a quiet evening with papa," replied Elsie, smiling. "Well, you are a queer girl!" was Mary's comment, while Caroline expressed her disappointment and vainly endeavored to change Elsie's determination. The little girl was firm, because she felt sure she was doing right, and soon managed to change the subject of conversation to the pleasure nearest at hand--the ride they were to take immediately after dinner. They were a merry party, and really enjoyed themselves about as much as they had expected; but they returned earlier than usual, as the gentlemen decided that the little ladies needed some time to rest before the evening entertainment. Elsie assisted her young friends to dress for the party--generously offering to lend them any of her ornaments that they might fancy--saw them come down, one after another, full of mirth and eager expectation, and looking so pretty and graceful in their beautiful evening-dresses, heard their expressions of commiseration toward herself, and watched the last carriage roll away without a sigh or regret that she was left behind. And in another moment a graceful little figure glided quietly across the library, and sitting down on a stool at Mr. Dinsmore's feet, looked lovingly into his face with a pair of soft, dark eyes. His pen was moving rapidly over the paper, but ere long there was a pause, and laying his hand caressingly on the curly head, he said, "How quiet my little girl is; but where is your book, daughter?" "If you please, papa, I would rather answer Miss Rose's letter." "You may," he said, "and if you want to stay with me, you may ring the bell and tell the servant to bring your writing desk here." She joyfully availed herself of the permission, and soon her pen was vainly trying to keep pace with her father's. But presently his was thrown aside, and rising, he stood behind her chair, giving her directions how to sit, how to hold the pen, how to form this or that letter more correctly, guiding her hand, and commending her efforts to improve. "There, you have spelled a word wrong, and I see you have one or two capitals where there should be a small letter; and that last sentence is not perfectly grammatical," he said. "You must let me correct it when you are done, and then you must copy it off more carefully." Elsie looked very much mortified. "Never mind, daughter," he said kindly, patting her cheek; "you do very well for a _little_ girl; I dare say I made a great many more mistakes at your age, and I don't expect you to do better than I did." "Oh, papa, the letters I sent you when you were away must have been full of blunders, I am afraid," she said, blushing deeply; "were you not very much ashamed of me? How could you bear to read them?" "Ashamed of you, darling? No, indeed, neither of you nor them. I loved them all the better for the mistakes, because they showed how entirely your own they were; and I could not but be pleased with them when every line breathed such love to me. My little daughter's confidence and affection are worth more to me than the finest gold, or the most priceless jewels." He bent down and kissed her fondly as he spoke; then, returning to his seat, bade her finish her letter and bring it to him when done. He took up his pen, and Elsie collected her thoughts once more, worked busily and silently for another half hour, and then brought her sheet to him for inspection; presenting it with a timid, bashful air, "I am afraid it is very full of mistakes, papa," she said. "Never mind, daughter," he answered, encouragingly; "I know that it takes a great deal of practice to make perfect, and it will be a great pleasure to me to see you improve." He looked over it, pointed out the mistakes very kindly and gently, put the capitals in their proper places, corrected the punctuation, and showed her how one or two of her sentences might be improved. Then, handing it back, he said, "You had better put it in your desk now, and leave the copying until to-morrow, as it will soon be your bedtime, and I want you on my knee until then." Elsie's face grew very bright, and she hastened to do his bidding. "And may I talk, papa?" she asked, as he pushed away his writing, wheeled his chair about toward the fire, and then took her on his knee. "Yes," he said, smiling, "that is exactly what I want you to do. Tell me what you have been doing all day, and how you are enjoying your holidays; or talk to me of anything that pleases, or that troubles you. I love to be made the confidant of my little girl's joys and sorrows; and I want her always to feel that she is sure of papa's sympathy." "I am so glad that I may tell you everything, my own papa," she answered, putting her arm around his neck, and laying her cheek to his. "I have enjoyed this day very much, because I have been with you nearly all the time; and then, I had that nice letter from Miss Rose, too." "Yes, it was a very pleasant letter," he said; and then he asked her what she had been doing in those hours when she had not been with him; and she gave him an animated account of the occurrences of that and several of the preceding days, and told of some little accidents that had happened--amongst them that of the broken doll; and spoke of the sorrow it had caused her; but she did not blame either Flora or Enna, and concluded her narrative by saying that, "good, kind Mrs. Brown had mended it, so that it was almost as good as ever." He listened with evident interest to all she said, expressed sympathy in her little trials, and gave her some good advice. But at length he drew out his watch, and with an exclamation of surprise at the lateness of the hour, told her it was half an hour after her bedtime, kissed her good-night, and dismissed her to her room. CHAPTER II. "There comes Forever something between us and what We deem our happiness." BYRON'S SARDANAPALUS. It was quite late when the young party returned, and the next day all were dull, and more than one peevish and fretful; so that Elsie, on whom fell, almost entirely, the burden of entertaining them, had quite a trying time. She noticed at breakfast that Arthur seemed in an uncommonly bad humor, preserving a sullen and dogged silence, excepting once when a sly whisper from Harry Carrington drew from him an exclamation of fierce anger that almost frightened the children, but only made Harry laugh. Presently after, as they were about dispersing, Arthur came to her side and whispered that he had something to say to her in private. Elsie started and looked extremely annoyed, but said at once that he might come to her room, and that there they could be quite alone, as mammy would be down-stairs getting her breakfast. She led the way and Arthur followed. He glanced hastily around on entering and then locked the door and stood with his back against it. Elsie became very pale. "You needn't be _afraid_" he said, sneeringly, "I'm not going to _hurt_ you!" "What do you want, Arthur? tell me quickly, please, because I must soon go to papa, and I have a lesson to look over first," she said, mildly. "I want you to lend me some money," he replied, speaking in a rapid and determined manner; "I know you've got some, for I saw your purse the other day, and it hadn't less than five dollars in it, I'm sure, and that's just the sum I want." "What do you want it for, Arthur?" she asked in a troubled voice. "That's none of your business," he answered, fiercely. "I want the money; I _must_ have it, and I'll pay it back next month, and that's all you need to know." "No, Arthur," she said gently, but very firmly, "unless you tell me all about it, I cannot lend you a single cent, because papa has forbidden me to do so, and I cannot disobey him." "Nonsense! that's nothing but an excuse because you don't choose to do me a favor," returned the boy angrily; "you weren't so particular about obeying last summer when he made you sit all the afternoon at the piano, because you didn't choose to play what he told you to." "That was because it would have been breaking God's command; but this is very different," replied Elsie, mildly. "Well, if you _must_ know," said he, fiercely, "I want it to pay a debt; I've been owing Dick Percival a dollar or so for several weeks, and last night he won from me again, and he said if I didn't pay up he'd report me to papa, or Horace, and get the money from them; and I got off only by promising to let him have the full amount to-day; but my pocket money's all gone, and I can't get anything out of mamma, because she told me the last time I went to her, that she couldn't give me any more without papa finding out all about it. So you see there is nobody to help me but you, Elsie, for there's never any use in asking my sisters; they never have a cent to spare! Now be a good, obliging girl; come and let me have the money." "Oh! Arthur, you've been gambling; how _could_ you do so?" she exclaimed with a horrified look. "It is so _very_ wicked! you'll go to ruin, Arthur, if you keep on in such bad ways; do go to grandpa and tell him all about it, and promise never to do so again, and I am sure he will forgive you, and pay your debts, and then you will feel a great deal happier." "Tell papa, indeed; never! I'd _die_ first! Elsie, you _must_ lend me the money," he said, seizing her by the wrist. "Let go of me, Arthur," she said, trying to free herself from his grasp. "You are stronger than I am, but you know if you hurt me, papa will be sure to find it out." He threw her hand from him with a violence that made her stagger, and catch at the furniture to save herself from falling. "Will you give me the money then?" he asked angrily. "If I should do so, I would have to put it down in my expense book, and tell papa all about it, because he does not allow me to spend one cent without telling him just what it went for; and that would be much worse for you, Arthur, than to go and confess it yourself--a _great deal_ worse, I am sure." "You could manage it well enough, if you wanted to," said he, sullenly; "it would be an easy matter to add a few yards to the flannel, and a few pounds to the tobacco that you bought so much of for the old servants. Just give _me_ your book, and I'll fix it in a minute, and he'll never find it out." "Arthur!" she exclaimed, "I could _never_ do such a wicked thing! I would not deceive papa so for any money; and even if I did he would be sure to find it out." Some one tried the door. Arthur put his hand on the lock; then, turning toward Elsie again, for an instant, shook his fist in her face, muttering, with an oath, that he would be revenged, and make her sorry for her refusal to the last day of her life. He then opened the door and went out, leaving poor Elsie pale, and trembling like a leaf. The person, whoever it was, that had tried the door had gone away again, and Elsie had a few moments alone to recover herself, before Chloe came to tell her that her father could not have her with him that morning, as a gentleman had called on business. And much as Elsie had always enjoyed that hour, she was almost glad of the respite, so fearful was she that her papa would see that something had agitated her, and insist upon knowing what it was. She was very much troubled that she had been made the repository of such a secret, and fearful that she ought to tell her father or grandfather, because it seemed so very important that Arthur should be stopped in his evil courses. But remembering that he had said that her assistance was his only hope for escaping detection, she at length decided that she need not speak about the matter to any one. She had a trying time that day, endeavoring to keep the children amused; and her ingenuity and patience were taxed to the utmost to think of stories and games that would please them all. It was still early in the afternoon when she seemed to have got quite to the end of her list. She was trying to amuse Enna's set, while her three companions and Herbert were taking care of themselves. They had sat down on the floor, and were playing jack-stones. "Let us play jack-stones, too," said Flora. "I don't know how; but Elsie, you can teach me, can't you?" "No, Flora, I cannot indeed, for papa says I must not play that game, because he does not like to have me sit down on the floor," replied Elsie. "We must try to think of something else." "We needn't sit on the floor, need we? Couldn't we play it on the table?" asked Flora. "I don't know; perhaps we could; but papa said I mustn't play it," replied Elsie, shaking her head doubtfully. "But maybe he'd let you, if we don't sit on the floor," persisted the little girl. Several other little ones joined their entreaties to Flora's, and at length Elsie said, "Well, I will go and ask papa; perhaps he may let me, if I tell him we are not going to sit on the floor." She went to his dressing-room, but he was not there. Next she tried the library, and was more successful; he was in an easy chair by the fire, reading. But now that she had found him, Elsie, remembering how often he had told her never to ask a second time to do what he had once forbidden, was more than half afraid to prefer her request, and very much inclined to go back without doing so. But as she stood a moment irresolute, he looked up from his book, and seeing who it was, smiled and held out his hand. She went to him then, and said timidly, "Papa, some of the little ones want me to play jack-stones, to teach them how; may I, if we don't sit on the floor?" "Elsie," he replied, in a tone of great displeasure, "it was only the other day that I positively forbade you to play that game, and, after all that I have said to you about not asking a second time, it surprises me very much that you would dare to do it. Go to my dressing-room, and shut yourself into the closet there." Elsie burst into tears, as she turned to obey, then, hesitatingly, asked, "May I go down first, papa, and tell the children that I can't come to play with them?" "Elsie!" he exclaimed, in his sternest tone; and not daring to utter another word, trembling and weeping, she hastened from the room, and shut herself up as he had bidden her. The closet was large, and there was a stool she could sit on; but when she had shut the door, it was both dark and cold. It was a dismal place to be in, and poor Elsie wondered how long she would have to stay there. It seemed a long, long time; so long that she began to think it must be night, and to fear that perhaps her papa had forgotten all about having sent her there, or that he considered her so very naughty as to deserve to stay there all night. But at last she heard his step, and then he opened the door and called, "Elsie!" "Yes, papa, I am here," she replied in a trembling voice, full of tears. "Come to me," he said; and then, as he took her hand, "Why, how cold you are, child," he exclaimed; "I am really sorry you have been so long in that dismal place. I did not intend to punish you so severely, and should not have kept you there more than half an hour, at the _very longest_; but company came in, and I quite forgot you." While speaking thus he had led her up to the fire and sat down with her on his knee. "My poor darling!" he said, "these little hands are very cold, let papa rub them; and are your feet cold too?" "Yes sir," she replied, and he pulled off her shoes and stockings, and moving his chair closer to the fire, held her feet out toward the blaze, and rubbed them in his warm hands. "You have been crying a good deal," he said, looking keenly into her face. "Yes, papa," she replied, dropping her face on his breast and bursting into tears; "I thought you were going to leave me there all night." "Did you? and were you afraid?" "No, papa, not _afraid_, because I know you would be sleeping in the next room; and besides, God could take care of me as well in the closet as anywhere else. Is it getting night, papa, or morning?" "It is beginning to grow dark," he said. "But tell me why you cried, if you were not afraid." "Partly because I was uncomfortable, papa, but more because I was sorry I had been naughty, and displeased you, and afraid that I can never learn to be good." "It is very strange," he remarked, "that you cannot learn not to ask to do what I have forbidden. I shall have to punish you every time you do it; for you _must_ learn that no _means no_, and that you are never to coax or tease after papa has once said it. I love my little girl very dearly, and want to do all I can to make her happy, but I must have her entirely submissive and obedient to me. But stop crying now," he added, wiping her eyes with his handkerchief. "Kiss me, and tell me you are going to be a good girl, and I will forgive you this time." "I will try, papa," she said, holding up her face for the kiss; "and I would not have asked to play that, but the children begged me so, and I thought you only said I mustn't, because you didn't want me to sit on the floor; and we were going to try it on the table." "Did I give that reason?" he asked gravely. "No, papa," she replied, hanging her head. "Then you had no right to think so. That _was one_ reason, but not the _only_ one. I have heard it said that that play enlarges the knuckles, and I don't choose to have these little hands of mine robbed of their beauty," he added, playfully raising them to his lips. Elsie smiled faintly, then drew a deep sigh. "Is it so very hard to give up jack-stones?" he asked. "No, papa; I don't care anything about _that_, but I was just thinking how very naughty I must be growing; for you have had to punish me twice in one week; and then I have had such a hard day of it--it was so difficult to amuse the children. I think being up so late last night made them feel cross." "Ah!" he said, in a sympathizing tone; "and had you all the burden of entertaining them? Where were Louise and Lora?" "They are hardly ever with us, papa; we are too little to play with them, they say, and Enna won't do anything her little friends want her to, and"--she paused, and the color rushed over her face with the sudden thought--"I am afraid I am telling tales." "And so they put upon you all the trouble of entertaining both your own company and theirs, eh? It is shameful! a downright imposition, and I shall not put up with it!" he exclaimed indignantly. "I shall speak to Lora and Louise, and tell them they must do their share of the work." "Please, papa, _don't_," Elsie begged in a frightened tone. "I would a great deal rather just go on as we have been; they will be so vexed." "And suppose they are! they shall not hurt you," he said, drawing her closer to him; "and they have no reason to be. I think the children will all want to go to bed early to-night," he added, "and then you can come here and sit by me while you copy your letter; shall you like that?" "Very much, papa, thank you." "Well, then we will put on the shoes and stockings again," he said pleasantly, "and then you must bathe your eyes, and go to your supper; and, as soon as the others retire, you may come back to me." Elsie had to make haste, for the tea-bell rang almost immediately. The others were just taking their places at the table when she entered the room, and thus, their attention being occupied with the business in hand, she escaped the battery of questions and looks of curiosity which she had feared. Flora did turn round after a little, to ask: "Why didn't you come back, Elsie; wouldn't your papa let you play?" But Elsie's quiet "no" seemed to satisfy her, and she made no further remark about it. As Mr. Dinsmore had expected, the children were all ready for bed directly after tea; and then Elsie went to him, and had another quiet evening, which she enjoyed so much that she thought it almost made up for all the troubles and trials of the day; for her father, feeling a little remorseful on account of her long imprisonment in the closet, was, if possible, even more than usually tender and affectionate in his manner toward her. The next morning Mr. Dinsmore found an opportunity to remonstrate with his sisters on their neglect of the little guests, but did it in such a way that they had no idea that Elsie had been complaining of them--as, indeed, she had not--but supposed that he had himself noticed their remissness; and feeling somewhat ashamed of their want of politeness, they went into the children's room after breakfast, and exerted themselves for an hour or two, for the entertainment of the little ones. It was but a spasmodic effort, however, and they soon grew weary of the exertion, and again let the burden fall upon Elsie. She did the best she could, poor child, but these were tiresome and trying days from that until New Year's. One afternoon Mr. Horace Dinsmore was sitting in his own room, buried in an interesting book, when the door opened and closed again very quietly, and his little girl stole softly to his side, and laying her head on his shoulder, stood there without uttering a word. For hours she had been exerting herself to the utmost to amuse the young guests, her efforts thwarted again and again by the petulance and unreasonableness of Walter and Enna; she had also borne much teasing from Arthur, and fault-finding from Mrs. Dinsmore, to whom Enna was continually carrying tales, until, at length, no longer able to endure it, she had stolen away to her father to seek for comfort. "My little girl is tired," he said, passing his arm affectionately around her, and pressing his lips on her forehead. She burst into tears, and sobbed quite violently. "Why, what is it, darling? what troubles my own sweet child?" he asked, in a tone of mingled surprise and alarm, as he hastily laid aside his book and drew her to his knee. "Nothing, papa; at least, nothing very bad; I believe I am very silly," she replied, trying to smile through her tears. "It must have been something, Elsie," he said, very gravely; "something quite serious, I think, to affect you so; tell me what it was, daughter." "Please don't ask me, papa," she begged imploringly. "I hate concealments, Elsie, and shall be very much displeased if you try them with me," he answered, almost sternly. "Dear papa, _don't_ be angry," she pleaded, in a tremulous tone; "I don't want to have any concealments from you, but you know I ought not to tell tales. You won't _make_ me do it?" "Is that it?" he said, kissing her. "No, I shall not ask you to tell tales, but I am not going to have you abused by anybody, and shall take care to find out from some one else who it is that annoys you." "Oh, papa, please don't trouble yourself about it. I do not mind it at all, now." "But _I_ do," replied her father, "and I shall take care that you are not annoyed in the same way again." The tears rose in Elsie's eyes again, and she reproached herself severely for allowing her father to see how troubled she had been; but she said not another word, for she well knew from his look and tone that it would be worse than useless. CHAPTER III. "Revenge, at first though sweet, Bitter, ere long, back on itself recoils." MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. "Tis easier for the generous to forgive, Than for offence to ask it." THOMSON'S EDMUND AND ELEONORA. The last day of the old year had come; the afternoon was bright and warm for the season, and the little folks at Roselands were unanimously in favor of a long walk. They set out soon after dinner, all in high good humor except Arthur, who was moody and silent, occasionally casting an angry glance at Elsie, whom he had not yet forgiven for her refusal to lend him money; but no one seemed to notice it, and for some time nothing occurred to mar their enjoyment. At length, some of the older ones, seeing that the sun was getting low, called to the others that it was time to return, and all turned their faces homeward, walking more soberly and silently along than at first, for they were beginning to feel somewhat fatigued. They were climbing a steep hill. Elsie and Caroline Howard reached the top first, Arthur and Harry Carrington being but a few steps behind. Elsie stooped to pick up a pebble, and Arthur, darting quickly past her, managed to give her a push that sent her rolling down the bank. She gave one frightened cry as she fell, and the next instant was lying pale and motionless at the bottom. All was now terror and confusion among the children; the little ones, who all loved Elsie dearly, began to scream and cry. Harry, Lucy, Carry, and Mary, rushed down the path again as fast as they could, and were soon standing pale and breathless beside the still form of their little companion. Carry was the only one who seemed to have any presence of mind. She sat down on the ground, and lifting Elsie's head, laid it on her lap, untied her bonnet-strings, and loosened her dress. "Jim," she said to the black boy, who stood blubbering by her side, "run quickly for the doctor. And you, Harry Carrington, go for her father, as fast as you can. Lucy, crying so won't do any good. Haven't some of you a smelling-bottle about you?" "Yes, yes, here, here! quick! quick! Oh, Carry, say she isn't dead!" cried Mary Leslie, diving into her pocket and bringing out a small bottle of smelling salts that some one had presented her as a Christmas gift. "No, she is not dead, Mary; see, she is beginning to open her eyes," replied Carry, now bursting into tears herself. But Elsie opened them only for an instant, moaned as if in great pain, and relapsed again into insensibility, so like death that Carry shuddered and trembled with fear. They were not more than a quarter of a mile from the house, but it seemed almost an age to the anxious Carry before Mr. Dinsmore came; although it was in reality but a few moments, as Harry ran very fast, and Mr. Dinsmore sprang into the carriage--which was at the door, some of the party having just returned from a drive--the instant he heard the news, calling to Harry to accompany him, and bidding the coachman drive directly to the spot, with all speed. The moment they were off he began questioning the boy closely as to the cause of the accident. Harry could not tell much about it. "She had fallen down the hill," he said, "but he did not see what made her fall." "Was she much hurt?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, his voice trembling a little in spite of himself. Harry "did not know, but feared she was pretty badly injured." "Was she insensible?" "Yes, she was when I left," Harry said. Mr. Dinsmore leaned back in the carriage with a groan and did not speak again. In another moment they had stopped, and flinging open the door, he sprang to the ground, and hurried toward the little group, who were still gathered about Elsie just as Harry had left them; some looking on with pale, frightened faces, others sobbing aloud. Walter was crying quite bitterly, and even Enna had the traces of tears on her cheeks. As for Arthur, he trembled and shuddered at the thought that he was perhaps already a murderer, and frightened and full of remorse, shrank behind the others as he saw his brother approach. Elsie still lay with her head in Carry's lap. Hastily pushing the others aside, Mr. Dinsmore stooped over her, sorrow and intense anxiety written in every line of his countenance. Again Elsie opened her eyes, and smiled faintly as she saw him bending over her. "My precious one," he murmured in a low, moved tone, as he gently lifted her in his arms; "are you much hurt? Are you in pain?" "Yes, papa," she answered feebly. "Where, darling?" "My ankle, papa; it pains me terribly; and I think I must have hit my head, it hurts me so." "How did she come to fall?" he asked, looking round upon the little group. No one replied. "Please, papa, don't ask," she pleaded in a faint voice. He gave her a loving, pitying look, but paid no other heed to her remonstrance. "Who was near her?" he asked, glancing sternly around the little circle. "Arthur," said several voices. Arthur quailed beneath the terrible glance of his brother's eye, as he turned it upon him, exclaiming bitterly: "Yes, I understand it all, now! I believe you will never be satisfied until you have killed her." "Dear papa, please take me home, and don't scold poor Arthur," pleaded Elsie's sweet, gentle voice; "I am not so very badly hurt, and I am sure he is very sorry for me." "Yes, darling," he said, "I will take you home and will try to do so without hurting you;" and nothing could exceed the tenderness with which he bore her to the carriage, supported her in his arms during the short ride, and on their arrival carried her up to her room and laid her down upon a sofa. Jim had brought the doctor, and Mr. Dinsmore immediately requested him to make a careful examination of the child's injuries. He did so, and reported a badly sprained ankle, and a slight bruise on the head; nothing more. "Are you quite sure, doctor, that her spine has sustained no injury?" asked the father anxiously, adding, "there is scarcely anything I should so dread for her as that." "None whatever," replied the physician confidently, and Mr. Dinsmore looked greatly relieved. "My back does not hurt me at all, papa; I don't think I struck it," Elsie said, looking up lovingly into his face. "How did you happen to fall, my dear?" asked the doctor. "If you please, sir, I would rather not tell," she replied, while the color rushed over her face, and then instantly faded away again, leaving her deathly pale. She was suffering great pain, but bearing it bravely. The doctor was dressing the injured ankle, and her father sat by the sofa holding her hand. "You need not, darling," he answered, kissing her cheek. "Thank you, papa," she said, gratefully, then whispered, "Won't you stay with me till tea-time, if you are not busy?" "Yes, daughter, and all the evening, too; perhaps all night." She looked her happiness and thanks, and the doctor praised her patience and fortitude; and having given directions concerning the treatment of the wounded limb, bade his little patient good-night, saying he would call again in the morning. Mr. Dinsmore followed him to the door. "That's a sweet child, Mr. Dinsmore," he remarked. "I don't know how any one could have the heart to injure her; but I think there has been foul play somewhere, and if she were mine I should certainly sift the matter to the bottom." "That I shall, you may rest assured, sir; but tell me doctor, do you think her ankle very seriously injured?" "Not permanently, I hope; indeed, I feel quite sure of it, if she is well taken care of, and not allowed to use it too soon; but these sprains are tedious things, and she will not be able to walk for some weeks. Good-night, sir; don't be too anxious, she will get over it in time, and you may be thankful it is nothing worse." "I am, indeed, doctor," Mr. Dinsmore said, warmly grasping the hand the kind-hearted physician held out to him. Everybody was asking what the doctor had said, and how much Elsie was injured, and Mr. Dinsmore stepped into the drawing-room a moment to answer their inquiries, and then hastened back to his child again. She looked so glad to see him. "My poor little pet," he said, pityingly, "you will have a sad New Year's Day, fastened down to your couch; but you shall have as much of my company as you wish." "Shall I, papa?--then you will have to stay by me all day long." "And so I will, dearest," he said, leaning fondly over her, and stroking back the hair from her forehead. "Are you in much pain now, darling?" he asked, as he noticed a slight contraction of her brow, and an almost deadly pallor around her mouth. "Yes, papa, a good deal," she answered faintly; "and I feel so weak. Please take me in your arms, papa, I want to lay my head against you." He raised her up gently, sat down on the end of the couch where her head had been, lifted her to his knee, and made Chloe place a pillow for the wounded limb to rest upon. "There, darling, is that better?" he asked, soothingly, as she laid her head wearily down on his breast, and he folded his arms about her. "Yes, papa; but, oh, it aches very much," she sighed. "My poor little daughter! my poor little pet!" he said, in a deeply compassionate tone, "it is so hard to see you suffer; I would gladly take your pain and bear it for you if I could." "Oh, no, dear papa, I would much rather bear it myself," she answered quickly. The tea-bell rang, and Elsie half started up. "Lie still, dearest," her father said. "I am in no hurry for my tea, so you shall have yours first, and I will hold you while you eat it. What will you have? You may ask for anything you want." "I don't know, papa; whatever you please." "Well, then, Aunt Chloe, go down and bring up whatever good things are there, and she can take her choice. Bring a cup of hot tea, too, I think it may do her good to-night." "Thank you, dear papa, you are so kind," Elsie said, gratefully. When the carriage had driven off with Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie, the rest of the young party at once turned their steps toward the house; Arthur skulking in the rear, and the others eagerly discussing the accident as they went. "Arthur pushed her down, I am _sure_ he did," said Lucy, positively. "I believe he hates her like poison, and he has been at her about something the several days past--I know it just by the way I've seen him look at her--yes, ever since the morning after the Carleton party. And now I remember I heard his voice talking angrily in her room that very morning. I went to get a book I had left in there, and when I tried the door it was locked, and I went away again directly." "But what has that to do with Elsie's fall?" asked Mary Leslie. "Why, don't you see that it shows there was some trouble between them, and that Arthur had a _motive_ for pushing her down," returned Lucy, somewhat impatiently. "Really, Mary, you seem quite stupid sometimes." Mary looked hurt. "I don't know how any one could be so wicked and cruel; especially to such a dear, sweet little girl as Elsie," remarked Carry Howard. "No, nor I," said Harry; "but the more I think about it the more certain I feel that Arthur did really push her down; for now I remember distinctly where she stood, and it seems to me she could not possibly have fallen of herself. Besides it was evident enough that Arthur felt guilty from the way he acted when Mr. Dinsmore came, and when he spoke to him. But perhaps he did not do it quite on purpose." "Oh!" exclaimed Mary, "I do think I should be frightened to death if Mr. Dinsmore should look at me as he did at Arthur." "Looks can't hurt," observed Harry, wisely; "but I wouldn't be in Arthur's shoes just now for considerable; because I'll venture to say Mr. Dinsmore will do something a good deal worse than _look_, before he is done with him." When they reached the house Lucy went directly to her mamma's room. Herbert, who was more ailing than usual that day, lay on a sofa, while his mamma sat by his side, reading to him. They had not heard of the accident, and were quite startled by Lucy's excited manner. "Oh, mamma!" she cried, jerking off her bonnet, and throwing herself down on a stool at her mother's feet, "we have had such a dreadful accident, or hardly an _accident_ either, for I feel perfectly certain Arthur did it on purpose; and I just expect he'll kill her some day, the mean, wicked boy!" and she burst into tears. "If I were Mr. Dinsmore I'd have him put in jail, so I would," she sobbed. "Lucy, my child, what _are_ you talking about?" asked her mother with a look of mingled surprise and alarm, while Herbert started up asking, "Is it Elsie? Oh! Lucy, is she much hurt?" "Yes," sobbed Lucy, "we all thought she was dead, it was so long before she spoke, or moved, or even opened her eyes." Herbert was crying, too, now, as bitterly as his sister. "But, Lucy dear," said her mother, wiping her eyes, "you haven't told us anything yet. Where did it happen? What did Arthur do? And where is poor little Elsie now?" "Her papa brought her home, and Jim went for the doctor, and they're doing something with her now in her own room--for Pomp said Mr. Dinsmore carried her right up there! Oh I mamma, if you had seen him look at Arthur!" "But what did Arthur do?" asked Herbert anxiously. "He pushed her down that steep hill that you remember you were afraid to try to climb the other day; at least we all think he did." "But surely, he did not do it intentionally," said Mrs. Carrington, "for why should he wish to harm such a sweet, gentle little creature as Elsie?" "Oh! mamma," exclaimed Herbert, suddenly matching hold of her hand and he grew very pale, and almost gasped for breath. "What is it, Herbert dear, what is it?" she asked in alarm; for he had fallen back on his pillow, and seemed almost ready to faint. "Mamma," he said with a shudder, "mamma, I believe I know. Oh! why didn't I speak before, and, perhaps, poor little Elsie might have been saved all this." "Why, Herbert, what can _you_ know about it?" she asked in extreme surprise. "I will tell you, mama, as well as I can," he said, "and then you must tell me what I ought to do. You know, mamma, I went out to walk with the rest the afternoon after that party at Mr. Carleton's; for if you remember, I had stayed at home the night before, and gone to bed very early, and so I felt pretty well and able to walk. But Elsie was not with us. I don't know where she could have been; she always thinks of my lameness, and walks slowly when I am along, but this time they all walked so fast that I soon grew very tired, indeed, with trying to keep up. So I sat down on a log to rest. Well, mamma, I had not been there very long when I heard voices near me, on the other side of some bushes, that, I suppose, must have prevented them from seeing me. One voice was Arthur's, but the other I didn't know. I didn't want to be listening, but I was too tired to move on; so I whistled a little, to let them know I was there; they didn't seem to care, though, but went on talking quite loud, so loud that I could not help hearing almost every word; and so I soon learned that Arthur owed Dick Percival a gambling debt--a debt of _honor_, they called it--and had sent this other boy, whom Arthur called Bob, to try to collect it. He reminded Arthur that he had promised to pay that day, and said Dick must have it to pay some debts of his own. "Arthur acknowledged that he had promised, expecting to borrow the money from somebody. I didn't hear the name, and it never struck me until this moment who it was; but it must have been Elsie, for I recollect he said she wouldn't lend him anything without telling Horace all about it, and that, you know, is Mr. Dinsmore's name; and I have found out that Arthur is very much afraid of him; almost more than of his father, I think. "He talked very angrily, saying he knew that was only an excuse, because she didn't wish to do him a favor, and he'd pay her for it some day. Then they talked about the debt again, and finally the boy agreed that Dick would wait until New Year's Day, when Arthur said he would receive his monthly allowance, and so would certainly be able to pay it. "Now, mamma," concluded Herbert, "what ought I to do? Do you think it is my duty to tell Arthur's father?" "Yes, Herbert, I do," said Mrs. Carrington, "because it is very important that he should know of his son's evil courses, that he may put a stop to them; and besides, if Arthur should escape punishment this time, Elsie may be in danger from him again. I am sorry it happened to be you rather than some other person who overheard the conversation; but it cannot be helped, and we must do our duty always, even though we find it difficult and disagreeable, and feel afraid that our motives may be misconstrued." Herbert drew a deep sigh. "Well, mamma, must I go just now, to tell him?" he asked, looking pale and troubled. Mrs. Carrington seemed to be considering the matter for a moment. "No, my dear," she said; "I think we had better wait a little. Probably Mr. Dinsmore will make an investigation, and perhaps he may be able to get at the truth without your assistance; and if not, as the mischief is already done, it will be time enough for your story to-morrow." Herbert looked a good deal relieved, and just then they were summoned to tea. The elder Mr. Dinsmore had been out all the afternoon, and not returning until just as the bell rang for tea, heard nothing of Elsie's injury until after he had taken his seat at the table. The children had all reported that Arthur had pushed her down, and thus the story was told to his father. The old gentleman was very angry, for he had a great contempt for such cowardly deeds; and said before all the guests that if it were so, Arthur should be severely punished. Mr. Horace Dinsmore came down as the rest were about leaving the table. "I should like to have a few moments' conversation with you, Horace, when you have finished your tea," his father said, lingering behind the others. "It is just what I wish, sir," replied his son; "I will be with you directly. Shall I find you in the library?" "Yes. I hope the child was not hurt, Horace?" he added, inquiringly, stepping back again just as he had reached the door. "Pretty badly, I am afraid," said Mr. Dinsmore, gravely; "she is suffering a good deal." Mr. Dinsmore was not long at the table, for he was anxious to get back to his child; yet his father, whom he found striding back and forth across the library, in a nervous, excited way, hailed him with the impatient exclamation, "Come at last, Horace, I thought you would never have done eating." Then throwing himself into a chair, "Well, what is to be done about this bad business?" he asked. "Is it true that Arthur had a hand in it?" "I have not a doubt of it myself, sir," replied his son. "They all agree that he was close to her when she fell, and neither he nor she denies that he pushed her; she only begs not to be forced to speak, and he says nothing. "And now, father, I have fully made up my mind that either that boy must be sent away to school, or I must take Elsie and make a home for her elsewhere." "Why, Horace! that is a sudden resolution, is it not?" "No, father, not so much as it seems. I have suspected, for some time past, that Elsie had a good deal to bear from Arthur and Enna--to say nothing of an older person, to whom Enna is continually carrying tales. Elsie is too generous to tell tales, too meek and patient to complain, and so it has been only very gradually that I have learned how much of petulance, tyranny, and injustice she has had to endure from those from whom she certainly had a right to expect common kindness, if not affection. "Yesterday afternoon she came to me in such a state of nervous excitement as convinced me that something had gone very much amiss with her, but what it was I did not know, for she seemed unwilling to tell, and I would not force her to do so. "However, by putting a few questions to some of the little guests, I have since learned enough to fill me with indignation at the treatment to which my child has been subjected, even during the last two weeks; and now the occurrences of this afternoon have put the finishing stroke to all this, and I cannot any longer feel that my child is safe where Arthur is. It is a great mercy that she escaped being killed or crippled for life," and he dropped his face into his hands and shuddered. "Don't, Horace, my son," his father said kindly, laying his hand on his shoulder. "I don't like to see you give way so. It is not worth while troubling ourselves about what _might_ have been, and we will take measures to prevent such occurrences in the future. "But you mustn't think of leaving us to set up a separate establishment, unless you are intending to marry again, and I don't believe you are." Mr. Dinsmore shook his head. "Nothing of the kind," he said; "but I must protect my child; she has no one else to look to for protection, or sympathy, or love--my poor little one!--and it would be hard indeed if she could not have them from me." "So it would, Horace, certainly. I am afraid we have none of us treated the poor little thing quite as kindly as we might, but I really was not aware that she had been so much abused, and shall certainly speak to Mrs. Dinsmore about it. And Arthur shall be sent away to school, as you have suggested. It is what I have been wanting to do for some time, for he is getting quite beyond Miss Day; but his mother has always opposed it, and I have foolishly given up to her for peace sake. I set my foot down now, however, and he _shall go_. He deserves it richly, the young rascal! such a base, cowardly act as to attack a little girl, big, strong boy that he is! I'm ashamed of him. You, Horace, were a wild, headstrong fellow, but I never knew you do a _mean_ or _cowardly_ thing; you were always above it." "I hope so, indeed, sir. But now, to go back to the present business, do you not think it would be well to call all the young people together and have a thorough investigation of this affair? I have promised Elsie that she shall not be forced to speak, but I hope we may be able to learn from the others all that we need to know." "Yes, yes, Horace, we will do so at once!" replied his father, ringing the bell. "They must be all through with their tea by this time, and we will invite them into the drawing-room, and cross-question them until we get to the bottom of the whole thing." A servant answered the bell, and received directions to request--on his master's behalf--all the guests, both old and young, as well as every member of the family, to give their attendance in the drawing-room for a few moments. "Stay, father," said Horace, "possibly Arthur might be induced to confess, and so spare himself and us the pain of a public exposure; had we not better send for him first?" His father assented, and the servant was ordered to go in search of Arthur, and bring him to the library. Arthur had been expecting such a summons, and had quite made up his mind what to do. "Confess!" he said to himself; "no, indeed, I'll not! nobody but Elsie knows that I did it, and she'll never tell; so I'll stick to it that it was only an accident." He came in with a look of sullen, dogged determination on his countenance, and stood before his father and brother with folded arms, and an air of injured innocence. He was careful, however, not to meet his brother's eye. "Arthur," began his father, sternly, "this is shameful, cowardly behavior, utterly unworthy of a son of mine--this unprovoked assault upon a defenceless little girl. It has always been considered a cowardly act to attack one weaker than ourselves." "I _didn't_ do it! she slipped and fell of herself," replied the boy fiercely, speaking through his clenched teeth. "Arthur," said his brother, in a calm, firm tone, "the alternative before you is a frank and full confession here in private, or a disgraceful, public exposure in the drawing-room. You had better confess, for I have not the least doubt of your guilty because I well know that Elsie would have asserted your innocence, had she been able to do so with truth." "She _wouldn't_; she hates me," muttered the boy; "yes, and I hate her, too," he added, almost under his breath. But his brother's quick ear caught the words. "Yes," he answered, bitterly; "you have given full proof of that; but _never_, while I live, shall you have another opportunity to wreak your hellish rage upon her." But threats and persuasions were alike powerless to move Arthur's stubborn will; for, trusting to their supposed inability to prove his guilt, he persisted in denying it; and at length, much against his inclination, was forced to accompany his father and brother to the drawing-room, where the entire household was already assembled. There was a good deal of excitement and whispering together, especially amongst the younger portion of the assembly, and many conjectures as to the cause of their being thus called together; nearly all giving it as their decided opinion that Elsie's accident had something to do with it. Herbert was looking pale and nervous, and kept very close to his mamma, Harry Carrington and Carrie Howard were grave and thoughtful, while Lucy and Mary seemed restless and excited, and the lesser ones full of curiosity and expectation. There was quite a little buzz all over the room as the two gentlemen and Arthur entered, but it died away instantly, and was succeeded by an almost death-like stillness, broken the next moment by the elder Mr. Dinsmore's voice, as he briefly stated his object in thus calling them together, and earnestly requested any one present who could throw the least light on the subject, to speak. He paused, and there was a moment of profound silence. "Who was nearest to Elsie when she fell?" he asked; "can any one tell me?" "Arthur, sir," replied several voices. Another pause. "Who else was near her?" he asked. "Miss Carrie Howard, I have noticed that you and Elsie are usually together; can you tell me if she could have fallen of herself? Were you near enough to see?" Carrie answered reluctantly: "Yes, sir; I had stepped from her side at the moment she stooped to pick up something, and feel quite certain that she was not near enough to the edge to have fallen of herself." "Thank you for your frank reply. And now, Master Harry Carrington, I think I heard some one say you were quite close to Arthur at the time of Elsie's fall; can you tell me what he did to her? You will confer a great favor by answering with equal frankness." "I would much rather have been excused from saying anything, sir," replied Harry, coloring and looking as if he wished himself a thousand miles away; "but since you request it, I will own that I was close to Arthur, and think he must have pushed Elsie in springing past her, but it may have been only an accident." "I fear not," said the old gentleman, looking sternly at his son. "And now, does any one know that Elsie had vexed Arthur in any way, or that he had any unkind feelings toward her?" "Yes, papa," Walter spoke up suddenly. "I heard Arthur, the other day, talking very crossly about Elsie, and threatening to pay her for something; but I didn't understand what." Mr. Dinsmore's frown was growing darker, and Arthur began to tremble and turn pale. He darted a fierce glance at Walter, but the little fellow did not see it. "Does any one know what Elsie had done?" was the next question. No one spoke, and Herbert fidgeted and grew very pale. Mr. Horace Dinsmore noticed it, and begged him if he knew anything to tell it at once; and Herbert reluctantly repeated what he had already told his mother of the conversation in the woods; and as he concluded, Lora drew a note from her pocket, which she handed to her father, saying that she had picked it up in the school-room, from a pile of rubbish which Arthur had carelessly thrown out of his desk. Mr. Dinsmore took it, glanced hastily over the contents, and with a groan, exclaimed: "Is it possible!--a gambler already! Arthur, has it really come to this? "Go to your room, sir," he added, sternly, "there to remain in solitary confinement until arrangement can be made to send you to school at a distance from the home which shall be no longer polluted by your presence; for you are unworthy to mingle with the rest of the family." Arthur obeyed in sullen silence, and his father, following, turned the key upon him, and left him to solitude and his own reflections. "Did my little daughter think papa had quite forgotten his promise?" asked Mr. Horace Dinsmore, as again he stood by Elsie's couch. "No, papa," she said, raising her eyes to his face with a grateful, loving look; "it seemed very long, but I knew you would come as soon as you could, for I know you never break your word." Her confidence pleased him very much, and with a very gratified look he asked whether he should sit by her side or take her again upon his knee. "Take me on your knee again, if you please, papa," she said, "and then will you read a little to me? I would like it so much." "I will do anything that will give my little girl pleasure," he replied, as he once more lifted her gently, and placed her in the desired position. "What shall the book be?" he asked; "one of the new ones I bought you the other day?" "Not that, to-night; if you please, papa; I would rather hear a little from an old book," she answered, with a sweet smile lighting tip her little pale face; "won't you please read me the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah?" "If you wish it, dearest; but I think something lively would be much better; more likely to cheer you up." "No, dear papa; there is nothing cheers me up like the Bible, it is so sweet and comforting. I do so love to hear of Jesus, how he bore our griefs and carried our sorrows." "You are a strange child," he said, "but you shall have whatever you want to-night. Hand me that Bible, Aunt Chloe, and set the light a little nearer." Mr. Dinsmore was an uncommonly fine reader, and Elsie lay listening to that beautiful passage of Holy Writ, as one might listen to strains of the softest, sweetest music. "Now, dear papa, the twenty-third of Luke, if you please," she said, when he had finished. He turned to it, and read it without any remark. As he closed the book and laid it aside, he saw that tears were trembling on the long, silken lashes that rested on the fair young cheek; for her eyes were closed, and but for those tell-tale drops he would have thought her sleeping. "I feared it would make you sad, darling," he said, brushing them away, and kissing her fondly. "No, dear papa, _oh, no_!" she answered, earnestly; "thank you very much for reading it; it has made me feel a great deal better." "Why did you select those particular passages?" he asked, with some curiosity. "Because, papa, they are all about Jesus, and tell how meekly and patiently he bore sorrow and suffering. Oh, papa, if I could only be like him! I am not much like him, but it makes it easier to forgive and to be patient, and kind, and gentle, when we read about him, how good he was, and how he forgave his murderers." "You are thinking of Arthur," he said. "_I_ shall find it very hard to forgive him; can _you_ do so?" "Yes, papa, I think I can. I have been praying for him, and have asked God to help me to forgive and love him." "He has treated you very badly; I know all about it now." And then, in answer to her surprised, inquiring look, he proceeded to give her an account of all that had taken place that evening in the library and drawing-room. "And he hates me, papa," she said, mournfully, the tears filling her eyes; "why should he feel so? I have always tried to be kind to him." "Yes, I know it," he replied, "you have often done him kindnesses, and I know of no other cause for his enmity, unless it is that you have sometimes been obliged to bear witness against him." "Yes, papa, on several occasions when he was putting all the blame of his naughty deeds on little Walter, or poor Jim." "You were perfectly right," he said, caressing her; "and he will not have another opportunity to vent his spite upon you, as he is to be sent away to boarding-school immediately." "Oh, papa!" she exclaimed, "I am so sorry for him, poor fellow! It must be so dismal to go off alone among strangers. Dear papa, _do_ ask grandpa to forgive him, just this once; and I don't believe he will ever behave so again." "No, daughter, I shall not do anything of the kind," he answered, decidedly. "I think it will be for Arthur's own good to be sent away, where he will not have his mother to spoil him by indulgence; and besides, I cannot feel that _you_ are safe while he is about the house, and I consider it my first duty to take care of you; therefore, I have insisted upon its that either _he_ must be sent away, or you and I must go and make a home for ourselves somewhere else." "Oh, papa, how delightful that would be, to have a home of our own!" she exclaimed eagerly; "_will_ you do it some day?" "Should you like it so much?" he asked. "Oh, yes, papa, so very, _very_ much! When will you do it, papa?" "I don't know, darling; some day, if we both live; perhaps when you are old enough to be my housekeeper." "But that will be such a long, long time to wait, papa," she said--the eager, joyous expression fading away from her face, and the pale, wearied look coming back again. "Perhaps we will not wait for that, darling; I did not say that we would," he replied, in a soothing tone, as he passed his hand caressingly over her hair and cheek. Then he added, a little mischievously, "I think, possibly, I might induce Miss Stevens to keep house for us. Shall I ask her?" "Oh, papa, no; that would spoil it all," she said, with a blush and a look of surprise; "and besides, I'm sure Miss Stevens would feel insulted if anybody should ask her to go out as housekeeper." "No, I think not, if _I_ asked her," laughed Mr. Dinsmore; "but you need not be alarmed; I have no notion of doing it. "Now, daughter, I shall bathe your ankle with that liniment again, and put you in bed, and you must try to go to sleep." "My prayers first, papa, you know," she replied, making an effort to get down upon the floor. But he held her fast. "No, daughter, you are not able to kneel to-night," he said, "and therefore it is not required; the posture makes but little difference, since God looks not at it, but at your heart." "I know that, papa, but I ought to kneel if I can; and if I may, I would much rather try." "No, I shall not allow you to do so; it would not be right," he replied decidedly; "you may say them here, while I have you in my arms, or after I have put you in bed." "Then I will say them in my bed, papa," she answered submissively. She was very patient and quiet while her father and nurse dressed her ankle, and prepared her for bed, and when he had laid her in and covered her up, he sat down beside her and listened to the low, murmured words of her prayer. "I think you prayed for me as well as for Arthur," he remarked when she had done; "what did you request for me?" "I asked, as I always do, that you might love Jesus, papa, and be very happy, indeed, both in this world and the next." "Thank you," he said, "but why are you so anxious that I should love him? It would not trouble _me_ if _you_ did not, so long as you loved and obeyed me." A tear trickled down her cheek and fell upon the pillow as she answered, in a half tremulous tone: "Because I know, papa, that no one can go to heaven who does not love Jesus, nor ever be really happy anywhere, for the Bible says so. Papa, you always punish me when I am disobedient to you, and the Bible says God is our Father and will punish us if we do not obey him; and one of his commands is: Thou shalt love the Lord thy God; and in another place it says: Every one that loveth him that begat loveth him also that is begotten of him." He did not reply, and his countenance was almost stern in its deep gravity. Elsie feared she had displeased him. "Dear papa," she said, stretching out her little hand to him, "I am afraid I have said things to you that I ought not; are you angry with me?" "No, daughter," he replied, as he bent down and kissed her cheek; "but you must not talk any more to-night. I want you to shut your eyes and go to sleep." She threw her arm around his neck and returned his caress, saying, "Good-night, dear, _dear_ papa; I do love you _so_ much;" then turned away her face, shut her eyes, and in a few moments was sleeping sweetly. The next morning quite a number of the little folks begged leave to go in after breakfast to see Elsie, and as she seemed much better--indeed, quite well, except that she could not put her foot to the floor--Mr. Dinsmore gave a ready consent. They found Elsie dressed and lying upon a sofa, with the lame foot on a pillow. She seemed very glad to see them, looked as smiling and cheerful as if nothing ailed her; and to all their condolences replied that she did not mind it very much; she was doing nicely--papa and everybody else was so kind--and the doctor said he hoped she would be able to run about again in a few weeks. They were all around her, talking and laughing in a very animated way, when Mr. Dinsmore came in, and going up to her couch, said, "Elsie, daughter, I have an errand to the city this morning; but, as I have promised to give you all you want of my company to-day, I will commission some one else to do it, if you are not willing to spare me for a couple of hours; do you think you could do without your papa that long? It shall be just as you say." "You know I love dearly to have you by me, papa," she answered, smiling up into his face; "but I will be quite satisfied with whatever you do, because you always know best." "Spoken like my own little girl," he said, patting her cheek. "Well, then I will leave these little folks to entertain you for a short time; and I think you will not be sorry, when I return, that you left it to me to do as I think best. Kiss papa good-bye, darling. Aunt Chloe, take good care of her, and don't let her be _fatigued_ with company." He turned to look at her again, as he reached the door, and Elsie gaily kissed her hand to him. Before long, Chloe, seeing that her young charge was beginning to look weary, sent away all the little folks except Herbert, who, at Elsie's request, remained with her, and seated in her little rocking-chair, close by her side, did his best to amuse her and make her forget her pain, sometimes reading aloud to her, and sometimes stopping to talk. Many an hour Elsie had spent by his couch of suffering, reading, talking or singing to him, and he rejoiced now in the opportunity afforded him to return some of her past kindness. They had always been fond of each other's society, too, and the time passed so quickly and pleasantly that Mr. Dinsmore's return, only a very little sooner than he had promised, took them quite by surprise. Herbert noticed that he had a bundle in his hand, and thinking it was probably some present for Elsie, and that they might like to be alone, slipped quietly away to his mamma's room. "What is that, papa?" Elsie asked. "A New Year's gift for my little girl," he answered, with a smile, as he laid it down by her side. "But I know you are tired lying there; so I will take you on my knee, and then you shall open it." She looked quite as eager and interested as he could have wished, as he settled her comfortably on his knee, and laid the bundle in her lap. Her hands trembled with excitement and haste, as she untied the string, and with an exclamation of joyful surprise, brought to light a large and very beautiful wax doll. "Oh, _papa_, how _pretty_!" she cried, in ecstasy. "And it is as large as a real, live baby, and has such a sweet, dear little face, and such pretty little hands, just like a real baby's--and the dearest little toes, too," she added, kissing them. "I love it already, the little dear! and how prettily it is dressed, too, like a little baby-girl." He enjoyed her pleasure intensely. "But you have not come to the bottom of your bundle yet," he said; "see here!" and he showed her quite a pile of remnants of beautiful lawns, muslins, silk, etc., which he had bought to be made up into clothing for the doll. "I did not buy them ready made," he said, "because I thought you would enjoy making them yourself." "Oh, how nice, papa. Yes, indeed, I shall enjoy it, and you are so _very_ good and kind to me," she said, holding up her face for a kiss. "Now, with you beside me, and plenty to do making pretty things for this dear new dolly, I think I shall hardly mind at all having to stay in the house and keep still. I'll call her Rose, papa, mayn't I? for dear Miss Allison." "Call it what you like, darling; it is all your own," he replied, laughing at the question. "I'm its mother, ain't I?--and then you must be its grandfather!" she exclaimed, with a merry laugh, in which he joined her heartily. "You ought to have some gray hairs, papa, like other grandfathers," she went on, running her fingers through his hair. "Do you know, papa, Carry Howard says she thinks it is so funny for me to have such a young father; she says you don't look a bit older than her brother Edward, who has just come home from college. How old are you, papa?" "You are not quite nine, and I am just about eighteen years older; can you make that out now?" "Twenty-seven," she answered, after a moment's thought; then, shaking her head a little, "that's pretty old, I think, after all. But I'm glad you haven't got gray hairs and wrinkles, like Carry's papa," she added, putting her arms around his neck, and laying her head down on his breast. "I think it is nice to have such a young, handsome father." "I think it is very nice to have a dear little daughter to love me," he said, pressing her to his heart. Elsie was eager to show her new doll to Carry and Lucy, and presently sent Chloe to invite them to pay her another visit. "Bring Mary Leslie, too, mammy, if she will come; but be sure not to tell any of them what I have got," she said. Chloe found them all three in the little back parlor, looking as if they did not know what to do with themselves, and Elsie's invitation was hailed with smiles and exclamations of delight. They all admired the doll extremely, and Carry, who had a great taste for cutting and fitting, seized upon the pile of silks and muslins, exclaiming eagerly, that she should like no better fun than to help Elsie make some dresses. "Oh, yes!" cried Lucy, "let us all help, for once in my life I'm tired to death of play, and I'd like to sit down quietly and work at these pretty things." "I, too," said Mary, "if Elsie is willing to trust us not to spoil them," "Indeed, _I'll_ not spoil them, Miss Mary; I've made more dolls' clothes than a few," remarked Carry, with a little toss of her head. "I am not at all afraid to trust you, Carry, nor the others either," Elsie hastened to say; "and shall be very glad of your assistance." Work-boxes were now quickly produced, and scissors and thimbles set in motion. Mr. Dinsmore withdrew to the other side of the room, and took up a book; thus relieving the little ladies from the constraint of his presence, while at the same time he could keep an eye upon Elsie, and see that she did not over-fatigue herself with company or work. "What a nice time we have had," remarked Mary Leslie, folding up her work as the dinner-bell rang. "May we come back this afternoon, Elsie? I'd like to finish this apron, and I'm to go home to-morrow." Mr. Dinsmore answered for his little girl, "When Elsie has had an hour to rest, Miss Mary, she will be glad to see you all again." "Yes, do come, girls," Elsie added, "if you are not tired of work. I am sorry that you must go to-morrow, Mary. Carry and Lucy, _you_ are not to leave us so soon, are you?" "No," they both replied, "we stay till Saturday afternoon. And intend to make dolly two or three dresses before we go, if her mother will let us," Carry added, laughingly, as she put away her thimble and ran after the others. All the guests left the next morning, excepting the Carringtons and Caroline Howard, and the house seemed very quiet--even in Elsie's room, where the little girls were sewing--while Harry and Herbert took turns in reading aloud; and in this way they passed the remainder of their visit very pleasantly, indeed. Elsie felt her confinement more when Sabbath morning came, and she could not go to church, than she had at all before. Her father offered to stay at home with her, remarking that she must feel very lonely now that all her little mates were gone; but she begged him to go to church, saying that she could employ herself in reading while he was away, and that would keep her from being lonely, and then they could have all the afternoon and evening together. So he kissed her good-bye, and left her in Chloe's care. She was sitting on his knee that evening; she had been singing hymns--he accompanying her sweet treble with his deep bass notes; then for a while she had talked to him in her own simple, childlike way, of what she had been reading in her Bible and the "Pilgrim's Progress," asking him a question now and then, which, with all his learning and worldly wisdom, he was scarcely as capable of answering as herself. But now she had been for some minutes sitting perfectly silent, her head resting upon his breast, and her eyes cast down, as if in deep thought, He had been studying with some curiosity the expression of the little face, which was much graver than its wont, and at length he startled her from her reverie with the question, "What is my little girl thinking about?" "I was thinking, papa, that if you will let me, I should like very much to give Arthur a nice present before he goes away. May I?" "You may if you wish," he said, stroking her hair. "Oh, thank you, papa," she answered joyously, "I was half afraid you would not let me; then, if you please, won't you, the next time you go to the city, buy the very handsomest pocket Bible you can find?--and then, if you will write his name and mine in it, and that it is a token of affection from me, I will be so much obliged to you, dear papa." "I will do so, daughter, but I am afraid Arthur will not feel much gratitude to you for such a present." "Perhaps he may like it pretty well, papa, if it is _very handsomely_ bound," she said, rather doubtfully; "at any rate I should like to try. When does he go, papa?" "Day after to-morrow, I believe." "I wish he would come in for a few minutes to see me, and say good-bye; do you think he will, papa?" "I am afraid not," replied her father, shaking his head; "however, I will ask him. But why do you wish to see him?" "I want to tell him that I am not at all vexed or angry with him, and that I feel very sorry for him, because he is obliged to go away all alone amongst strangers, poor fellow!" she sighed. "You need not waste any sympathy on him, my dear," said her father, "for I think he rather likes the idea of going off to school." "Does he, papa? Why, how strange!" exclaimed the little girl, lost in astonishment. As Mr. Dinsmore had predicted, Arthur utterly refused to go near Elsie; and, at first, seemed disposed to decline her gift; but at length, on Lora suggesting that he might require a Bible for some of his school exercises, he accepted it, as Elsie had thought he might, on account of the handsome binding. Elsie was hurt and disappointed that he would not come to see her; she shed a few quiet tears over his refusal, because she thought it showed that he still disliked her, and then wrote him a little note, breathing forgiveness, sisterly affection, and regard for his welfare. But the note was not answered, and Arthur went away without showing any signs of sorrow for his unkind treatment of her; nor, indeed, for any of his bad conduct. Miss Day had returned, and the rest of her pupils now resumed their studies; but Elsie was, of course, quite unable to attend in the school-room, as her ankle was not yet in a condition to be used in the least. Her father said nothing to her about lessons, but allowed her to amuse herself as she liked with reading, or working for the doll. She, however, was growing weary of play, and wanted to go back to her books. "Papa," she said to him one morning, "I am quite well now, excepting my lameness, and you are with me a great deal every day, may I not learn my lessons and recite them to you?" "Certainly, daughter, if you wish it," he replied, looking much pleased; "I shall consider it no trouble, but, on the contrary, a very great pleasure to teach you, if you learn your lessons well, as I am sure you will." Elsie promised to be diligent, and from that day she went on with her studies as regularly as if she had been in school with the others. She felt her confinement very much at times, and had a great longing for the time when she could again mount her pony, and take long rides and walks in the sweet fresh air; but she was not often lonely, for her papa managed to be with her a great deal, and she never cared for any other companion when he was by. Then, Mr. Travilla came in frequently to see her, and always brought a beautiful bouquet, or some fine fruit from his hot-house, or some other little nicety to tempt an invalid's appetite, or what she liked, even better still, a new book. Her aunts Adelaide and Lora, too, felt very kindly toward her, coming in occasionally to ask how she was, and to tell her what was going on in the house; and sometimes Walter brought his book to ask her to help him with his lessons, which she was always ready to do, and then he would sit and talk a while, telling her what had occurred in the school-room, or in their walks or rides, and expressing his regret on account of the accident that prevented her from joining them as usual. Her doll, too, was a great source of amusement to her, and she valued it very highly, and was so extremely careful of it that she hardly felt willing to trust it out of her own hands, lest it should be broken. Especially was she annoyed when Enna, who was a very careless child, wished to take it; but it was a dangerous thing to refuse Enna's requests, except when Mr. Dinsmore was by, and so Elsie always endeavored to get the doll out of sight when she heard her coming. But one unfortunate afternoon Enna came in quite unexpectedly, just as Elsie finished dressing it in a new suit, which she had completed only a few moments before. "Oh, Elsie, how pretty it looks!" she cried. "Do let me take it on my lap a little while. I won't hurt it a bit." Elsie reluctantly consented, begging her to be very careful, "because, Enna," she said, "you know if you should let it fall, it would certainly be broken." "You needn't be afraid," replied Enna, pettishly, "I guess I can take care of a doll as well as you." She drew up Elsie's little rocking-chair, as she spoke, and taking the doll from her, sat down with it in her arms. Elsie watched nervously every movement she made, in momentary dread of a catastrophe. They were alone in the room, Chloe having gone down to the kitchen on some errand. For a few moments Enna was content to hold the doll quietly in her arms, rocking backwards and forwards, singing to it; but ere long she laid it down on her lap, and began fastening and unfastening its clothes, pulling off its shoes and stockings to look at its feet--dropping them on the floor, and stooping to pick them up again, at the same time holding the doll in such a careless manner that Elsie expected every instant to see it scattered in fragments on the floor. In vain she remonstrated with Enna, and begged her to be more careful; it only vexed her and made her more reckless; and at length Elsie sprang from her couch and caught the doll, just in time to save it, but in so doing gave her ankle a terrible wrench. She almost fainted with the pain, and Enna, frightened at her pale face, jumped up and ran out of the room, leaving her alone. She had hardly strength to get back on to her couch; and when her father came in, a moment after, he found her holding her ankle in both hands, while the tears forced from her by the pain were streaming down over her pale cheeks. "Why, my poor darling, what is it?" he exclaimed, in a tone of mingled surprise and alarm. "Oh, papa," she sobbed, "Enna was going to let my doll fall, and I jumped to catch it, and hurt my ankle." "And what did you do it for?" he said angrily. "I would rather have bought you a dozen such dolls than have had your ankle hurt again. It may cripple you for life, yet, if you are not more careful." "Oh, papa, please don't scold me, please don't be so angry with me," she sobbed. "I didn't have a minute to think, and I won't do it again." He made no reply, but busied himself in doing what he could to relieve her pain; and Chloe coming in at that moment, he reproved her sharply for leaving the child alone. The old nurse took it very meekly, far more disturbed at seeing how her child was suffering than she could have been by the severest rebuke administered to herself. She silently assisted Mr. Dinsmore in his efforts to relieve her; and at length, as Elsie's tears ceased to flow, and the color began to come back to her cheeks, she asked, in a tone full of loving sympathy, "Is you better now, darlin'?" "Yes, mammy, thank you; the pain is nearly all gone now," Elsie answered gently; and then the soft eyes were raised pleadingly to her father's face. "I'm not angry with you, daughter," he replied, drawing her head down to his breast, and kissing her tenderly. "It was only my great love for my little girl that made me feel so vexed that she should have been hurt in trying to save a paltry toy." After this Mr. Dinsmore gave orders that Enna should never be permitted to enter Elsie's room in his absence, and thus she was saved all further annoyance of that kind; and Chloe was careful never to leave her alone again until she was quite well, and able to run about. That, however, was not for several weeks longer, for this second injury had retarded her recovery a good deal; and she began to grow very weary, indeed, of her long confinement. At length, though, she was able to walk about her room a little, and her father had several times taken her out in the carriage, to get the fresh air, as he said. It was Saturday afternoon. Elsie was sitting on her sofa, quietly working, while her nurse sat on the other side of the room, knitting busily, as usual. "Oh, mammy!" exclaimed the little girl, with sigh, "it is such a long, long time since I have been to church. How I wish papa would let me go to-morrow! Do you think he would, if I should ask him?" "Dunno, darlin'! I'se 'fraid not," replied the old woman, shaking her head doubtfully. "Massa Horace berry careful ob you, an' dat ankle not well yet." "Oh! but, mammy, I wouldn't need to walk, excepting just across the church, for you know papa could carry me down to the carriage," said the little girl eagerly. Mr. Dinsmore came in soon afterwards, and, greeting his little girl affectionately, sat down beside her, and, taking a newspaper from his pocket, began to read. "Papa, mayn't I sit on your knee?" she asked softly, as he paused in his reading to turn his paper. He smiled, and without speaking lifted her to the desired position, then went on reading. She waited patiently until there was another slight pause; then asked in her most coaxing tone, "Papa, may I go to church to-morrow?" "No," he said, decidedly, and she dared not say another word; but she was sadly disappointed, and the tears sprang to her eyes, and presently one rolled down and fell upon her lap. He saw it, and giving her a glance of mingled surprise and displeasure, put her back upon the sofa again, and returned to his paper. She burst into sobs and tears at that, and laying her head down upon the cushion, cried bitterly. Her father took no notice for a little while; then said, very gravely, "Elsie, if you are crying because I have put you off my knee, that is not the way to get back again. I must have _cheerful_ submission from my little girl, and it was precisely _because_ you were crying that I put you down." "Please take me again, papa, and I won't cry any more," she answered, wiping her eyes. He took her in his arms again, and she nestled close to him, and laid her head down on his breast with a sigh of satisfaction. "You _must_ learn not to cry when I do not see fit to acquiesce in your wishes, my daughter," he said, stroking her hair. "I do not think you quite well enough yet to go to church; and to-morrow bids fair to be a stormy day. But I hope by next Sabbath you may be able to go." Elsie tried to submit cheerfully to her father's decision, but she looked forward very anxiously all the week to the next Sabbath. When it came, to her great delight, she was permitted to attend church, and the next morning she took her place in the school-room again. She was far from enjoying the change from her father's instruction to Miss Day's; yet Arthur's absence rendered her situation far more comfortable than it had formerly been, and she still continued several studies with her father, and spent many happy hours with him every day. And thus everything moved on quite smoothly with the little girl during the remainder of the winter. CHAPTER IV. "Remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy." Exod. 10:6. "We ought to obey God rather than men." Acts 5:29. "Dear papa, are you sick?" It was Elsie's sweet voice that asked the question in a tone of alarm. She had just finished her morning lessons, and coming into her father's room, had found him lying on the sofa, looking flushed and feverish. "Yes, daughter," he said, "I have a severe headache, and some fever, I think. But don't be alarmed, my pet, 'tis nothing at all serious," he added in a more cheerful tone, taking both her little hands in his, and gazing fondly into the beautiful dark eyes, now filled with tears. "You will let me be your little nurse, my own dear papa, will you not?" she asked coaxingly. "May I bring some cool water and bathe your head?" "Yes, darling, you may," he said, releasing her hands. Elsie stole softly out of the room, but was back again almost in a moment, followed by Chloe, bearing a pitcher of ice-water. "Now, mammy, please bring a basin and napkin from the dressing-room," she said, in a low tone, as the old nurse set down her burden. "And then you may darken the room a little. And shall I not tell her to send Jim or Jack for the doctor, papa?" "It is hardly necessary, darling," he replied, with a faint smile. "Oh! please, papa, my own dear, darling papa, do let me!" she entreated. "You know it cannot do any harm, and may do a great deal of good." "Ah! well, child, do as you like," he replied with a weary sigh; "but the doctor will, no doubt, think me very foolish to be so easily frightened." "Then, papa, I will tell him it was I, not you, who were frightened, and that you sent for him to please your silly little daughter," Elsie said, fondly laying her cheek to his, while he passed his arm around her, and pressed her to his side. "Here are de tings, darlin'," said Chloe, setting down the basin, and filling it from the pitcher. "That is right, you good old mammy. Now close the blinds, and then you may go and tell Jim to saddle a horse and ride after the doctor immediately." Chloe left the room, and Elsie brought another pillow for her father, smoothed his hair, bathed his forehead, and then, drawing a low chair to the side of the sofa, sat down and fanned him gently and regularly. "Why!" said he, in a gratified tone, "you are as nice a little nurse as anybody need ask for; you move about so gently, and seem to know just the right thing to do. How did you learn?" "I have had bad headaches so often myself, papa, that I have found out what one wants at such times," replied the little girl, coloring with pleasure. He closed his eyes and seemed to be sleeping, and Elsie almost held her breath, lest she should disturb him. But presently the dinner-bell rang, and, opening them again, he said, "Go down, my daughter, and get your dinner." "I am not hungry, papa," she replied. "Please let me stay and wait on you. Won't you have something to eat?" "No, my dear, I have no desire for food; and you see, Chloe is coming to take care of me; so I wish you to go down at once," he said in his decided tone, and Elsie instantly rose to obey. "You may come back if you choose when you have eaten your dinner," he added kindly. "I love to have you here." "Thank you, papa, I will," she answered, with a brightened countenance, as she left the room. She was soon in her place again by his side. He was sleeping--and taking the fan from Chloe's hand without speaking, she motioned her away, and resuming her seat, sat for an hour or more, fanning him in perfect silence. The physician had come while the family were at dinner, and leaving some medicine, had gone again, saying he was in haste to visit another patient; and assuring Elsie, whom he met in the hall as he was going out, that he did not think her papa was going to be very ill. This assurance had comforted her very much, and she felt quite happy while sitting there watching her father's slumbers. At length he opened his eyes, and smiling fondly on her, asked: "Does not my little girl want some play this afternoon? Your little hand must surely be very tired wielding that fan;" and taking it from her, he drew her head down to his breast and stroked her hair caressingly. "No, my own papa, I would much rather stay with you, if you will let me," she answered eagerly. "I am afraid I _ought_ to be very determined, and send you out to take some exercise," he replied, playfully running his fingers through her curls; "but it is too pleasant to have you here, so you may stay if you like." "Oh, thank you, dear papa! and will you let me wait on you? What can I do for you now?" "You may bring that book that lies on the table there, and read to me. You need not learn any lessons for to-morrow, for I intend to keep you with me." The next day, and the next, and for many succeeding ones, Mr. Dinsmore was quite too ill to leave his bed, and during all this time Elsie was his constant companion by day--except for an hour every afternoon, when he compelled her to go out and take some exercise in the open air--and she would have sat by his side at night, also, but he would by no means permit it. "No, Elsie," he replied to her repeated entreaties, "you must go to bed every night at your usual hour, and stay there until your accustomed hour for rising. I will not have you deprived of your rest unless I am actually dying." This was said in the determined tone that always silenced Elsie at once, and she submitted to his decision without another word, feeling very thankful that he kept her so constantly at his side through the day. She proved herself the best and most attentive of nurses, seeming to understand his wishes intuitively, and moving about so gently and quietly--never hurried, never impatient, never weary of attending to his wants. His eyes followed with fond delight her little figure as it flitted noiselessly about the room, now here, now there, arranging everything for his comfort; and often, as she returned to her station at his side, he would draw her down to him, and stroke her hair, or pat her cheek, or kiss the rosy lips, calling her by every fond, endearing name--rose-bud--his pet--his bird--his darling. It was she who bathed his head with her cool, soft hands, in his paroxysms of fever, smoothed his hair, shook up his pillows, gave him his medicines, fanned him, and read or sang to him, in her clear sweet tones. He was scarcely considered in danger, but his sickness was tedious, and would have seemed far more so without the companionship of his little daughter. Every day seemed to draw the ties of affection more closely between them; yet, fond as he was of her, he ever made her feel that his will was always to be law to her; and while he required nothing contrary to her conscience, she submitted without a murmur, both because she loved him so well that it was a pleasure to obey him, and also because she knew it was her duty to do so. But, alas! duty was not always to be so easy and pleasant. It was Sabbath morning. All the family had gone to church, excepting Elsie, who, as usual, sat by her papa's bedside. She had her Bible in her hand, and was reading aloud. "There, Elsie, that will do now," he said, as she finished her chapter. "Go and get the book you were reading to me yesterday. I wish to hear the rest of it this morning." Poor little Elsie! she rose to her feet, but stood irresolute. Her heart beat fast, her color came and went by turns, and her eyes filled with tears. The book her father bade her read to him was simply a fictitious moral tale, without a particle of religious truth in it, and, Elsie's conscience told her, entirely unfit for Sabbath reading. "Elsie!" exclaimed her father, in a tone of mingled reproof and surprise, "did you hear me?" "Yes, papa," she murmured, in a low tone. "Then go at once and get the book, as I bid you; it lies yonder on the dressing-table." Elsie moved slowly across the room, her father looking after her somewhat impatiently. "Come, Elsie, make haste," he said, as she laid her hand upon the book. "I think I never saw you move so slowly," Without replying she took it up and returned to the bedside. Then, as he caught sight of her face, and saw that her cheeks were pale and wet with tears, he exclaimed, "What, _crying_, Elsie! what ails you, my daughter? Are you ill, darling?" His tone was one of tender solicitude, and accompanied with a caress, as he took her hand and drew her towards him. "Oh, papa!" she sobbed, laying her head on the pillow beside him, "please do not ask me to read that book to-day." He did not reply for a moment, and when he did, Elsie was startled by the change in his tone; it was so exceedingly stern and severe. "Elsie," he said, "I do not _ask_ you to read that book, I _command_ you to do it, and what is more, _I intend to be obeyed_. Sit down at once and begin, and let me have no more of this perverseness." "Dear papa," she answered in low, pleading, trembling tones, "I do not, _indeed_, I do not want to be perverse and disobedient, but I cannot break the Sabbath-day. _Please_, papa, let me finish it to-morrow." "Elsie!" said he, in a tone a little less severe, but quite as determined, "I see that you think that because you gained your point in relation to that song that you will always be allowed to do as you like in such matters; but you are mistaken; I am _determined_ to be obeyed this time. I would not by any means bid you do anything I considered wrong, but I can see no harm whatever in reading that book to-day; and certainly I, who have lived so much longer, am far more capable of judging in these matters than a little girl of your age. Why, my daughter, I have seen ministers reading worse books than that on the Sabbath." "But, papa," she replied timidly, "you know the Bible says: 'They measuring themselves by themselves, and comparing themselves among themselves, are not wise;' and are we not just to do whatever God commands, without stopping to ask what other people do or say? for don't even the best people very often do wrong?" "Very well; find me a text that says you are not to read such a book as this on the Sabbath, and I will let you wait until to-morrow." Elsie hesitated. "I cannot find one that says just _that_, papa," she said, "but there is one that says we are not to think our own thoughts, nor speak our own words on the Sabbath; and does not that mean worldly thoughts and words? and is not that book full of such things, and only of such?" "Nonsense!" he exclaimed, impatiently, "let me hear no more of such stuff! you are entirely too young and childish to attempt to reason on such subjects. Your place is simply to obey; are you going to do it?" "Oh, papa!" she murmured, almost under her breath, "I cannot." "Elsie," said he, in a tone of great anger, "I should certainly be greatly tempted to whip you into submission, had I the strength to do it." Elsie answered only by her tears and sobs. There was silence for a moment, and then her father said: "Elsie, I expect from my daughter entire, unquestioning obedience, and until you are ready to render it, I shall cease to treat you as my child. I shall banish you from my presence, and my affections. This is the alternative I set before you. I will give you ten minutes to consider it. At the end of that time, if you are ready to obey me, well and good--if not, you will leave this room, not to enter it again until you are ready to acknowledge your fault, ask forgiveness, and promise implicit obedience in the future." A low cry of utter despair broke from Elsie's lips, as she thus heard her sentence pronounced in tones of calm, stern determination; and, hiding her face on the bed, she sobbed convulsively. Her father lifted his watch from a little stand by the bedside, and held it in his hand until the ten minutes expired. "The time is up, Elsie," he said; "are you ready to obey me?" "Oh, papa!" she sobbed, "I cannot do it." "Very well, then," he said, coldly; "if neither your sense of duty, nor your affection for your sick father is strong enough to overcome your self-will, you know what you have to do. Leave the room at once, and send one of the servants to attend me. I will not have such a perverse, disobedient child in my presence." She raised her head, and he was touched by the look of anguish on her face. "My daughter," he said, drawing her to him, and pushing back the curls from her face, "this separation will be as painful to me as to you; yet I cannot yield my authority. I _must_ have obedience from you. I ask again, will you obey me?" He waited a moment for an answer; but Elsie's heart was too full for speech. Pushing her from him, he said: "Go! remember, whenever you are ready to comply with the conditions, you may return; but _not till then_!" Elsie seized his hand in both of hers, and covered it with kisses and tears; then, without a word, turned and left the room. He looked after her with a sigh, muttering to himself, "She has a spice of my own obstinacy in her nature; but I think a few days' banishment from me will bring her round. I am punishing myself quite as much, however, for it will be terribly hard to do without her." Elsie hastened to her own room, almost distracted with grief; the blow had been so sudden, so unexpected, so terrible; for she could see no end to her banishment; unless, indeed, a change should take place in her father's feelings, and of that she had very little hope. Flinging herself upon a couch, she wept long and bitterly. Her grief was deep and despairing, but there was no anger in it; on the contrary, her heart was filled with intense love to her father, who, she doubted not, was acting from a mistaken sense of duty; and she could scarcely bear the thought that now she should no longer be permitted to wait upon him, and attend to his comfort. She had sent a servant to him, but a servant could ill supply a daughter's place, and her heart ached to think how he would miss her sympathy and love. An hour passed slowly away; the family returned from church, and the bell rang for dinner. But Elsie heeded it not; she had no desire for food, and still lay sobbing on her couch, till Chloe came to ask why she did not go down. The faithful creature was much surprised and distressed at the state in which she found her child, and raising her in her arms tenderly, inquired into the cause of her grief. Elsie told her in a few words, and Chloe, without finding any fault with Mr. Dinsmore, strove to comfort the sorrowing child, assuring her of her own unalterable affection, and talking to her of the love of Jesus, who would help her to hear every trial, and in his own good time remove it. Elsie grew calmer as she listened to her nurse's words; her sobs and tears gradually ceased, and at length she allowed Chloe to bathe her face, and smooth her disordered hair and dress; but she refused to eat, and lay on her couch all the afternoon, with a very sad little face, a sob now and then bursting from her bosom, and a tear trickling down her cheek. When the tea-bell rang, she reluctantly yielded to Chloe's persuasions, and went down. But it was a sad, uncomfortable meal to her, for she soon perceived, from the cold and averted looks of the whole family, that the cause of her banishment from her papa's room was known. Even her Aunt Adelaide, who was usually so kind, now seemed determined to take no notice of her, and before the meal was half over, Enna, frowning at her across the table, exclaimed in a loud, angry tone, "Naughty, bad girl! Brother Horace ought to whip you!" "That he ought," added her grandfather, severely, "if he had the strength to do it; but he is not likely to gain it, while worried with such a perverse, disobedient child." Elsie could not swallow another mouthful, for the choking sensation in her throat; and it cost her a hard struggle to keep back the tears that seemed determined to force their way down her cheek at Enna's unkind speech; but the concluding sentence of her grandfather's remark caused her to start and tremble with fear on her father's account; yet she could not command her voice sufficiently to speak and ask if he were worse. There was, indeed, a very unfavorable change in Mr. Dinsmore, and he was really more alarmingly ill than he had been at all. Elsie's resistance to his authority had excited him so much as to bring on a return of his fever; her absence fretted him, too, for no one else seemed to understand quite as well how to wait upon him; and besides, he was not altogether satisfied with himself; not entirely sure that the course he had adopted was the right one. Could he only have got rid of all doubts of the righteousness and justice of the sentence he had pronounced upon her, it would have been a great relief. He was very proud, a man of indomitable will, and very jealous of his authority; and between these on the one hand, and his love for his child and desire for her presence, on the other, a fierce struggle had been raging in his breast all the afternoon. As soon as she dared leave the table Elsie stole out into the garden, there to indulge her grief, unseen by any but the eye of God. She paced up and down her favorite walk, weeping and sobbing bitterly. Presently her attention was attracted by the galloping of a horse down the avenue, and raising her head, she saw that it was the physician, returning from a visit to her father. It was not his usual hour for calling, and she at once conjectured that her father was worse. Her first impulse was to hasten to him, but instantly came the recollection that he had banished her from his presence, and sinking down upon a bank, she burst into a fresh paroxysm of grief. It was so hard--so _very_ hard--to know that he was ill and suffering, and not to be permitted to go to him. At length she could bear it no longer, and springing up she hurried into the house, and gliding softly up the stairs, stationed herself at her papa's door, determined to intercept some one passing in or out, and inquire how he was. She had not been long there when her Aunt Adelaide came out, looking troubled and anxious. "Oh, Aunt Adelaide," cried the child in a hoarse whisper, catching her by the dress, "dear Aunt Adelaide, _do_ tell me, is papa worse?" "Yes, Elsie," she replied coldly, attempting to pass on; "he is much worse." The little girl burst into an agony of tears. "You may well cry, Elsie," remarked her aunt severely, "for it is all your fault, and if you are left an orphan, you may thank your own perverseness and obstinacy for it." Putting both hands over her face, with a low cry of anguish, Elsie fell forward in a deep swoon. Adelaide caught her ere she had quite reached the floor, and hastily loosening her dress, looked anxiously around for help; but none was at hand, and she dared not call aloud lest she should alarm her brother. So laying her gently down on the carpet, she went in search of Chloe, whom she found, as she had expected, in Elsie's room. In a few hurried words Adelaide made her understand what had occurred, and that Elsie must be removed without the slightest noise or disturbance. Another moment and Chloe was at her darling's side, and raising her gently in her strong arms, she bore her quickly to her room, and laying her on a couch, proceeded to apply restoratives, murmuring the while, in low, pitiful tones, "De dear, precious lamb! it mos' breaks your ole mammy's heart to see you dis way." It was long ere consciousness returned; so long that Adelaide, who stood by, gazing sorrowfully at the little wan face, and reproaching herself for her cruelty, trembled and grew pale with apprehension. But at last, with a weary sigh, Elsie opened her eyes, and looked up, with a sad, bewildered expression, into the dusky face bent so anxiously over her, and then, with a feeling of intense relief, Adelaide slipped away to her own room, leaving them alone together. "What is it, mammy? Oh, I know! I remember! Oh, mammy, mammy! will my dear, precious papa die?" sobbed the poor little girl, throwing her arms around her nurse's neck. "I hope not, darling" replied Chloe, soothingly. "Massa Horace am pretty sick, I know; but I tinks de good Lord spare him, if we pray." "Oh, yes, yes, mammy, let us pray for him. Let us both pray very earnestly, and I am sure God will spare him, because he has _promised_ to grant whatever two shall agree to ask." They knelt down, and Chloe prayed in her broken way; and when she had finished, Elsie poured out such a prayer as comes only from a heart ready to break with its load of sorrow and care. None but he who has tried it can tell what a blessed relief comes to those who thus "cast their care on Jesus." Elsie's burden was not less, but she no longer bore it alone; she had rolled it upon the Lord and he sustained her. She shed a few quiet tears after she had laid her head upon her pillow, but soon forgot all her sorrows in a deep, sweet sleep, that lasted until morning. It was still early when she awoke and sprang up, with the intention of hastening, as usual, to her father's side; but alas! in another moment memory had recalled all the distressing events of the previous day, and, sinking back upon her pillow, she wept long and bitterly. But at length she dried her tears, and, kneeling at the bedside, poured out her sorrows and supplications into the ear of her Saviour, and thus again grew calm and strong to endure. As soon as she was dressed she went to her papa's door, hoping to see some one who could tell her how he was; but no one came, and she dared not venture in, and her intense anxiety had yet found no relief when the bell summoned the family to breakfast. The same cold looks awaited her there as on the night before, and the poor child could scarcely eat, and was glad when the comfortless meal was over. She followed Adelaide to Mr. Dinsmore's door, and begged her with tears and sobs to ask her papa to allow her to come to him, if it was only for one moment, just to look at him, and then go away again. Adelaide was touched by her evident anxiety and distress, and said, almost kindly, as she laid her hand on the handle of the door, "Well, Elsie, I will ask him; but I have no idea that it will be of any use, unless you will give up your foolish obstinacy." Elsie stood outside waiting with a beating heart, and though her aunt was really gone but a moment, it seemed a long time to her ere the door again opened. She looked up eagerly, and read the answer in Adelaide's face, ere she heard the coldly spoken, stern message-- "Your papa says you very well know the conditions on which you will be admitted to his presence, and that they are as unalterable as the laws of the Medes and Persians." The tears gushed from Elsie's eyes, and she turned away with a gesture of despair. "Elsie," said her aunt, "let me advise you to give up at once; for I am perfectly certain you never can conquer your father." "Oh, Aunt Adelaide! that is not what I want," murmured the child, in low, broken accents. But Adelaide went on without noticing the interruption-- "He is worse, and growing worse all the time, Elsie; his fever has been very high ever since yesterday afternoon--and we all know that it is nothing but your misconduct that has caused this relapse." Elsie could bear no more, but rushing away to her own room, and locking herself in, she gave way without restraint to her feelings of distress and anguish. Knowing that she was not expected in the school-room--as she had paid no attention to study since the beginning of her father's illness--she did not leave her room again until dinner-time. She was on her way to the dining-room, when her Aunt Adelaide, passing her in the hall, caught hold of her, saying, "Elsie, your papa is so ill that the doctor trembles for his life; he says he is certain that he has something on his mind that is distressing him and causing this alarming change, and unless it is removed he fears he will never be any better. Elsie, _you know what that something is_." Elsie stood as if turned to stone, while Adelaide, letting go her arm, moved quickly away, leaving her alone, stunned, bewildered, terrified by the suddenness of the dreadful announcement. She could not think or reason; she could only press her hands to her temples, in the vain endeavor to still their wild throbbing; then, turning back to her own room again, she threw herself upon her knees, and, resting her head against the bed, gave vent to her over-wrought feelings in such groans of anguish as seldom come from the heart of one so young. At first she could neither weep nor pray; but at length tears came to her relief, and she poured out agonizing supplications "that her dear, _dear_ papa might be spared, at least, until he had learned to love Jesus, and was fit to go to heaven." She felt as though her heart would break at the very thought of being separated from him forever in this world, but even that was as nothing compared to the more terrible fear of not meeting him in another. That was a long, sad afternoon to the poor child; the longest and saddest she had ever known. Chloe now and then brought her word how her father was, but no one else came near her to speak a word of comfort or hope. Towards evening they had given up almost all hope; he had ceased to recognize any one, and one after another, parents, brother, sisters, and servants, had been permitted to take a last look--all but little Elsie, his own and only child--the one nearest and dearest to him, and to whom he was all the world--she alone was forbidden to come. She had begged and plead, in tones that might have melted a heart of stone, to be permitted to see his face once more in life; but Mrs. Dinsmore, who had taken the direction of everything, said, "No, her father has forbidden it, and she shall not come unless she expresses her willingness to comply with his conditions." Adelaide had then ventured a plea in her behalf, but the reply was: "I don't pity her at all; it is all her own doing." "So much the harder is it for her to bear, I presume," urged Adelaide. "There, Adelaide, that will do now! Let me hear no more about it," replied her lady mother, and there the matter dropped. Poor little Elsie tried to be submissive and forgiving, but she could not help feeling it terribly hard and cruel, and almost more than she could bear, thus to be kept away from her sick and dying father. It was long ere sleep visited her weary eyes that night; hour after hour she lay on her pillow, pouring out prayers and tears on his behalf, until at length, completely worn out with sorrow, she fell into a deep and heavy slumber, from which she waked to find the morning sun streaming in at the windows, and Chloe standing gazing down upon her with a very happy face. She started up from her pillow, asking eagerly, "What is it, mammy? Oh! what is it? is my papa better?" "Yes, darling Massa Horace much better dis mornin'; de doctor say 'he gwine git well now for sartin, if he don't git worse again.'" "Oh, mammy! It seems too good to be true! Oh, how very, very good God has been to me!" cried the little girl, weeping for very joy. For a moment, in the intensity of her happiness, she forgot that she was still in disgrace and banishment--forgot everything but the joyful fact that her father was spared to her. But, oh! she could not forget it long. The bitter recollection soon returned, to damp her joy and fill her with sad forebodings. CHAPTER V. "I'll do whate'er thou wilt, I'll be silent; But oh! a reined tongue, and a bursting heart, Are hard at once to bear." JOANNA BAILLIE'S BASIL. Mr. Dinsmore's recovery was not very rapid. It was several weeks after he was pronounced out of danger ere he was able to leave his room; and then he came down looking so altered, so pale, and thin, and weak, that it almost broke his little daughter's heart to look at him. Very sad and lonely weeks those had been to her, poor child! She was never once permitted to see him, and the whole family treated her with marked coldness and neglect. She had returned to her duties in the school-room--her father having sent her a command to that effect, as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to think of her--and she tried to attend faithfully to her studies, but more than once Miss Day had seen the tears dropping upon her book or slate, and reproved her sharply for not giving her mind to her lessons, and for indulging in what she called her "babyish propensities." Mr. Dinsmore made his first appearance in the family circle one morning at breakfast, a servant assisting him down stairs and seating him in an easy-chair at the table, just as the others were taking their places. Warm congratulations were showered upon him from all sides. Enna ran up to him, exclaiming, "I'm _so_ glad to see you down again, brother Horace;" and was rewarded with a smile and a kiss; while poor little Elsie, who had been directed, she knew not why, to take her old seat opposite to his, was unable to utter a word, but stood with one hand on the back of her chair, pale and trembling with emotion, watching him with eyes so blinded by tears that she could scarcely see. But no one seemed to notice her, and her father did not once turn his eyes that way. She thought of the morning when she had first met him there, her poor little heart hungering so for his love; and it seemed as if she had gone back again to that time; and yet it was worse; for now she had learned to love him with an intensity of affection she had then never known, and having tasted the sweetness of his love, her sense of suffering at its loss was proportionally great; and utterly unable to control her feelings, she silently left the room to seek some place where she might give her bursting heart the relief of tears, with none to observe or reprove her. Elsie had a rare plant, the gift of a friend, which she had long been tending with great care, and which had blossomed that morning for the first time. The flower was beautiful and very fragrant, and as the little girl stood gazing upon it with delighted eyes, while awaiting the summons to breakfast, she had said to Chloe, "Oh! how I should like papa to see it! He is so fond of flowers, and has been, so anxious for this one to bloom." But a deep sigh followed as she thought what a long, long time it was likely to be before her father would again enter her room, or permit her to go into his. He had not, however, forbidden her to speak to him, and the thought struck her that, if he should be able to leave his room before the flower had faded, so that she could see and speak to him, she might pluck it off and present it to him. She thought of it again, while weeping alone in her room, and a faint hope sprang up in her heart that the little gift might open the way for a reconciliation. But she must wait and watch for an opportunity to see him alone; for she could not, in the present state of affairs, think of addressing him before a third person. The opportunity came almost sooner than she had dared to hope, for, on passing the library door just after the morning lessons were over, she saw him sitting there alone; and trembling between hope and fear, she hurried at once to her room, plucked the beautiful blossom from its stem, and with it in her hand hastened to the library. She moved noiselessly across the thickly carpeted floor, and her papa, who was reading, did not seem to be aware of her approach, until she was close at his side. He then raised his head and looked at her with an expression of surprise on his countenance. "Dear papa," said the little girl, in faltering accents, as she presented the flower, "my plant is bloomed at last; will you accept this first blossom as a token of affection from your little daughter?" Her pleading eyes were fixed upon his face, and ere she had finished her sentence, she was trembling violently at the dark frown she saw gathering There. "Elsie," said he, in the cold, stern tone she so much dreaded, "I am sorry you have broken your flower. I cannot divine your motive--affection for me it cannot be; for that such a feeling exists in the breast of a little girl, who not only could refuse her sick father the very small favor of reading to him, but would rather see him _die_ than give up her own self-will, I cannot believe. No, Elsie, take it away; I can receive no gifts nor tokens of affection from a rebellious, disobedient child." The flower had fallen upon the floor, and Elsie stood in an attitude of utter despair, her head bent down upon her breast, and her hands hanging listlessly at her side. For an instant she stood thus, and then, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she sank down on her knees beside her father's chair, and seizing his hand in both of hers, pressed it to her heart, and then to her lips, covering it with kisses and tears, while great bursting sobs shook her whole frame. "Oh, papa! dear, _dear_ papa! I _do love_ you! indeed, _indeed_ I do. Oh, how could you say such cruel words to me?" she sobbed. "Hush!" he said, withdrawing his hand. "I will have nothing but the truth from you, and 'actions speak louder than words.' Get up immediately, and dry your tears. Miss Day tells me that you are ruining your eyes by continual crying; and if I hear any more such complaints, I shall punish you severely. I will not allow it at all, for you have nothing whatever to make you unhappy but your own misconduct. Just as soon as you are ready to submit to my authority, you will find yourself treated with the same indulgence and affection as formerly; but remember, _not till_ then!" His words were like daggers to the affectionate, sensitive child. Had he stabbed her to the heart he could not have hurt her more. "Oh, papa!" she murmured in heart-broken accents, as in obedience to his command she rose to her feet, struggling hard to keep back the tears he had forbidden her to shed. But her emotion did not seem to move him. Her conduct during his severe illness had been so misrepresented to him, that at times he was wellnigh convinced that her seeming affection was all hypocrisy, and that she really regarded him only in the light of a tyrant, from whose authority she would be glad to escape in any way. "Pick up your flower and leave the room," he said. "I have no desire for your company until you can learn to obey as you ought." Silently and mechanically Elsie obeyed him, and hastening to her own room again, threw herself into her nurse's arms, weeping as though she would weep her very life away. Chloe asked no questions as to the cause of her emotion--which the flower in her hand, and the remembrance of the morning's conversation, sufficiently explained--but tried in every way to soothe and encourage her to hope for future reconciliation. For some moments her efforts seemed to be quite unavailing; but suddenly Elsie raised her head, and wiping away her tears, said, with a convulsive sob, "Oh! I am doing wrong again, for papa has forbidden me to cry so much, and I must try to obey him. But, oh!" she exclaimed, dropping her head on her nurse's shoulder, with a fresh burst of tears, "how can I help it, when my heart is bursting?" "Jesus will help you, darlin'," replied Chloe, tenderly. "He always helps his chillens to bear all dere troubles an' do all dere duties, an' never leaves nor forsakes dem. But you must try, darlin', to mind Massa Horace, kase he is your own papa; an' de Bible says, 'Chillen, obey your parents.'" "Yes, mammy, I know I ought, and I _will_ try," said the little girl, raising her head and wiping her eyes; "but, mammy, you must pray for me, for it will be very, very difficult." Elsie had never been an eye-servant, but had always conscientiously obeyed her father, whether present or absent, and henceforward she constantly struggled to restrain her feelings, and even in solitude denied her bursting heart the relief of tears; though it was not always she could do this, for she was but young in the school of affliction, and often, in spite of every effort, grief would have its way, and she was ready to sink beneath her heavy weight of sorrow. Elsie had learned from God's holy word, that "affliction cometh not forth of the dust, neither doth trouble spring out of the ground;" and she soon set herself diligently to work to find out why this bitter trial had been sent her. Her little Bible had never been suffered to lie a single day unused, nor had morning or evening ever failed to find her in her closet; she had neglected none of the forms of religion, and her devotions had been far from heartless; yet she discovered with pain that she had of late spent less time, and found less of her enjoyment in these duties than formerly; that she had been, too much engrossed by an earthly love, and needed this trial to bring her nearer to her Saviour, and teach her again to seek all her happiness in "looking unto him." And now the hours that she had been wont to pass in her father's society were usually spent in her own room, alone with her Bible and her God, and there she found that sweet peace and joy which the world can neither give nor take away; and thus she gathered strength to bear her troubles and crosses with heavenly meekness and patience; and she had indeed great need of a strength not her own, for every day, and almost every hour brought with it its own peculiar trial. No one but the servants--who still loved her dearly--treated her with kindness; but coldness and neglect were the least she had to bear. She was constantly reminded, even by Walter and Enna, that she was stubborn and disobedient, and there was so little pleasure in her walks and rides, either when taken alone or in company with them, that she gradually gave them up almost entirely--until one day, her father's attention being called to it, by a remark of Mrs. Dinsmore's, "that it was no wonder the child was growing thin and pale, for she did not take exercise enough to keep her in health," he called her to him, reprimanded her severely, and laid his commands upon her "to take a walk and ride every day, when the weather would at all permit, but never dare to go alone farther than into the garden." Elsie answered with meek submission, promising obedience; and then turned quickly away to hide the emotion that was swelling in her breast. The change in her father was the bitterest part of her trial; she had so revelled in his affection, and now it seemed to be all withdrawn from her; and from the fond, indulgent parent, Mr. Dinsmore seemed suddenly to have changed to the cold, pitiless tyrant. He now seldom took any notice of his little daughter, and never addressed her unless it were to utter a rebuke, a threat, a prohibition, or command, in tones of harshness and severity. Elsie bore it with all the meekness and patience of a martyr, but ere long her health began to suffer; she grew weak and nervous, and would start and tremble, and change color at the very sound of her father's step or voice--those sounds which she had once so loved to hear--and the little face became thin and pale, and an expression of deep and touching sadness settled down upon it. Love was as necessary to Elsie's health and happiness as sunshine to the flowers, and even as the keen winds and biting frosts of winter wilt and wither the tender blossoms, so did all this coldness and severity, the gentle, sensitive spirit of the little child. Mr. Travilla had called several times during the early part of Mr. Dinsmore's illness, while Elsie had been his nurse, and she sometimes wondered that she had seen nothing of him during all these sorrowful weeks; but the truth was, Mr. Travilla had been absent from home, and knew nothing of all that had been going on at Roselands. As soon, however, as he returned, and heard how ill his friend had been, he called to express his sympathy, and congratulate him on his recovery. He found Mr. Dinsmore seated in an easy-chair in the library, still looking weak and ill, and more depressed in spirits than he had ever seen him. "Ah! Dinsmore, my dear fellow, I hear you have been very ill; and, indeed, I must say you are looking far from well yet," Travilla exclaimed in his cheerful, hearty way, shaking his friend's hand warmly. "I think my little friend, Elsie, has deserted her post almost too soon; but I suppose you have sent her back to her lessons again," he remarked, glancing around as if in search of her. "I have no need of nursing now," replied Mr. Dinsmore, with a sad sort of smile. "I am able to ride, and even to walk out, and shall, I hope, soon be quite myself again." He then introduced another topic of conversation, and they chatted for some time. At length Mr. Travilla drew out his watch. "I see it is past school-hours," he said; "might I see my little friend? I have brought a little gift for her, and should like to present it in person." Mr. Dinsmore had become quite animated and cheerful during their previous conversation, but a great change came over his face while Mr. Travilla was making his request, and the expression of his countenance was very cold and stern, as he replied, "I thank you, Travilla, on her behalf; but, if you please, I would much prefer your not giving her anything at present, for, I am sorry to say, Elsie has been very stubborn and rebellious of late, and is quite undeserving of any indulgence." Mr. Travilla looked exceedingly astonished. "Is it _possible_!" he exclaimed. "Really, I have had such an exalted opinion of Elsie's goodness, that I could not have credited such a charge from any one but her father." "No, nor could I," replied Mr. Dinsmore, leaning his head upon his hand with a heavy sigh; "but it is as I tell you, and you see now that I have some cause for the depression of spirits upon which you have been rallying me. Travilla, I love that child as I have never loved another earthly thing except her mother, and it cuts me to the quick to have her rebel as she has been doing for the last five weeks; it is almost more than I can bear in my present weak state. I thought she loved me devotedly, but it seems I was mistaken, for surely obedience is the best test of love, and she refuses me that." He paused for a moment, apparently quite overcome by his feelings, then went on; "I have been compelled to banish her from my presence, but, alas! I find I cannot tear her from my heart, and I miss her every moment." Mr. Travilla looked very much concerned. "I am sorry, indeed," he said, "to hear such an account of my little friend; but her love for you I cannot doubt, and we will hope that she will soon return to her duty." "Thank you, Travilla; I am always sure of your sympathy in any kind of trouble," replied Mr. Dinsmore, trying to speak cheerfully; "but we will leave this disagreeable subject, and talk of something else." In a few moments Mr. Travilla rose to take leave, declining Mr. Dinsmore's urgent invitation to remain to dinner, but promising to come again before long and stay a day or two. His kind heart was really pained to learn that there was again a misunderstanding between his little friend--as he had been in the habit of calling Elsie--and her father; and as he rode home silently pondering the matter, he determined that he would very soon fulfil his promise of paying a longer visit, for he could not refrain from indulging a faint hope that he might be able to accomplish something as mediator between them. A few days after this, Elsie was passing down the hall. The doors and windows were all open, for it was a warm spring day, and as she passed the drawing-room door, she paused a moment and looked in. Her father sat reading near one of the windows, and her eyes were riveted upon his face. He was still pale from his recent illness; and his face had a troubled, care-worn look, very different from its usual expression. Oh! what a _longing_ desire came over the little girl at that sight, to go to him and say that she was sorry for all the past, and that in the future she would be and do everything that he asked. She burst into tears and turned hastily away. She was hurrying out to the garden, but at the door she encountered her aunt Adelaide. "What is the matter, Elsie?" she asked, putting her hand on the child's shoulder and forcibly detaining her. "Oh! Aunt Adelaide," sobbed the little girl, "papa looks so ill and sad." "And no wonder, Elsie," replied her aunt severely; "_you_ are quite enough to make him sad, and ill, too, with your perverse, obstinate ways. You have yourself to thank for it all, for it is just that, and nothing else, that ails him." She turned away as she spoke, and poor Elsie, wringing her hands in an agony of grief, darted down the garden-walk to her favorite arbor. Her eyes were so blinded by tears that she did not see that Mr. Travilla was sitting there, until she was close beside him. She turned then, and would have run away again, but he caught her by the dress, and drawing her gently toward him, said in a mild, soothing tone-- "Don't run away from me, my poor little friend, but tell me the cause of your sorrow, and who knows but I may be able to assist you." Elsie shook her head mournfully, but allowed him, to set her on his knee, and put his arm around her. "My poor child! my poor, dear little girl!" he said, wiping away her tears, and kissing her very much as her father had been in the habit of doing. It reminded her of him and his lost love, and caused a fresh burst of tears and sobs. "Poor child!" said Mr. Travilla again, "is there nothing I can do for you? Will you not tell me the cause of your grief?" "Oh, Mr. Travilla!" she sobbed, "papa is very much displeased with me, and he looks so sad and ill, it almost breaks my heart." "And why is he displeased with you, my dear? If you have done wrong and are sorry for your fault, I am sure you have only to confess it, and ask forgiveness, and all will be right again," he said kindly, drawing her head down upon his breast, and smoothing back the curls from her flushed and tear-stained face. Elsie made no reply, and he went on-- "When we have done wrong, my dear little girl--as we do all sometimes--it is much more noble to acknowledge it and ask pardon, than to try to hide our faults; and you know, dear little Elsie," he added in a graver tone, "that the Bible teaches us that children must obey their parents." "Yes, Mr. Travilla," she answered, "I know that the Bible says: 'He that covereth his sins shall not prosper,' and I know it tells me to obey my father; and I do think I am willing to confess my faults, and I do try to obey papa in everything that is right; but sometimes he bids me disobey God; and you know the Bible says: 'We ought to obey God rather than men.'" "I am afraid, my dear," said Mr. Travilla gently, "that you are perhaps a little too much inclined to judge for yourself about right and wrong. You must remember that you are but a very little girl yet, and that your father is very much older and wiser; and therefore I should say it would be much safer to leave it to him to decide these matters. Besides, if he _bids_ you do thus and so, I think all the responsibility of the wrong--supposing there _is_ any--will rest with _him_, and _he_, not _you_, will have to account for it." "Oh! no, Mr. Travilla," replied the little girl earnestly, "my Bible teaches me better than that; for it says: '_Every one_ of us shall give account of _himself_ to God;' and in another place: 'The soul that sinneth _it_ shall die.' So I know that _I_, and not papa, nor any one else, will have to give account for _my_ sins." "I see it will never do for me to try to quote Scripture to you," he remarked, looking rather discomfited; "for you know a great deal more about it than I do. But I am very anxious to see you and your father friends again, for I cannot bear to see you both looking so unhappy. "You have a good father, Elsie, and one that you may well be proud of--for a more high-minded, honorable gentleman cannot be found anywhere; and I am quite sure he would never require you to do anything very wrong. Have you any objection, my dear, to telling me what it is?" "He bade me read to him, one Sabbath-day, a book which was only fit for week-day reading, because it had nothing at all in it about God, or being good--and I could not do that; and now he says I must say I am sorry I refused to obey him that time, and promise always to do exactly as he bids me in future," replied Elsie, weeping; "and oh! Mr. Travilla, I cannot do that. I cannot say I am sorry I did not disobey God, nor that I will disobey him in future, if papa bids me." "But if that was a sin, Elsie, it was surely a very _little_ one; I don't think God would be very angry with you for anything so small as that," he said very gravely. "Mr. Travilla," Elsie replied in a tone of deep solemnity, "it is written, 'Cursed is every one that continueth not in _all_ things which are written in the book of the law to do them;' _that_ is in the Bible; and the catechism says: '_Every sin_ deserveth the wrath and curse of God!' And oh! Mr. Travilla," she added in a tone of anguish, "if you knew how _hard_ it is for me to keep from giving up, and doing what my conscience says is wrong, you wouldn't try to persuade me to do it." Mr. Travilla knew not what to say; he was both perplexed and distressed. But just at that moment a step was heard coming down the path. Elsie recognized it instantly, and began to tremble, and the next moment her father entered the arbor. Mr. Dinsmore felt a pang of jealousy at seeing his little girl in Travilla's arms, which he would have been ashamed to acknowledge to himself, but it caused his tone to be even more than usually stern and severe as he hastily inquired, "What are you doing here, Elsie--crying again, after all I have said to you? Go to your room this moment, and stay there until you can show a cheerful face!" Mr. Travilla set her down, and she obeyed without a word, not even daring to look at her father. There was a moment of embarrassing silence after she had gone. Then Travilla said, "It seems Elsie stumbled upon me here quite unexpectedly, and I detained her somewhat against her will, I believe, and have been doing my best to persuade her that she ought to be entirely submissive to you." Mr. Dinsmore looked interested, but replied with a sigh, "I fear you did not succeed; she is sadly obstinate, and I begin to fear I shall have to use great severity before I can conquer her." Mr. Travilla hesitated a moment, then said, "I am afraid, Dinsmore, that she has the right of it; she quoted Scripture to me till I really had no more to say." Mr. Dinsmore looked displeased. "_I_ should think," he said almost haughtily, "that the fifth commandment would be answer enough to any argument she could bring to excuse her disobedience." "We do not all see alike, Dinsmore," remarked his friend, "and though I do not say that you are wrong, I must acknowledge that were I in your place, I should do differently, because I should fear that the child was acting from _principle_ rather than self-will or obstinacy." "_Give up_ to her, Travilla? never! It astonishes me that you could suggest such a thing!" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore with almost fierce determination. "No, I _will_ conquer her! I will break _her will_, though in doing so I break my own heart." "And _hers_, too," murmured Travilla in a low, sad tone, more as if thinking aloud than answering his friend. Mr. Dinsmore started. "No, no," he said hurriedly, "there is no danger of _that_; else she would certainly have given up long ago." Travilla shook his head, but made no reply; and presently Mr. Dinsmore rose and led the way to the house. CHAPTER VI. "The storm of grief bears hard upon her youth, And bends her, like a drooping flower, to earth." ROWE'S FAIR PENITENT. "You are not looking quite well yet, Mr. Dinsmore," remarked a lady visitor, who called one day to see the family; "and your little daughter, I think, looks as if she, too, had been ill; she is very thin, and seems to have entirely lost her bright color." Elsie had just left the room a moment before the remark was made. Mr. Dinsmore started slightly. "I believe she _is_ a little pale," he replied in a tone of annoyance; "but as she makes no complaint, I do not think there can be anything seriously amiss." "Perhaps not," said the lady indifferently; "but if she were _my_ child I should be afraid she was going into a decline." "Really, Mrs. Grey, I don't know what should put such a notion into your head!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinsmore, "for I assure you Elsie has always been a perfectly healthy child since I have known her." "Ah! well; it was but the thought of a moment," replied Mrs. Grey, rising to take leave, "and I am glad to hear there is no ground for fear, for Elsie is certainly a very sweet little girl." Mr. Dinsmore handed Mrs. Grey to her carriage, and re-entering the house went into the little back parlor where Elsie, the only other occupant of the room, sat reading, in the corner of the sofa. He did not speak to her, but began pacing back and forth across the floor. Mrs. Grey's words had alarmed him; he could not forget them, and whenever in his walk his face was turned towards his child, he bent his eyes upon her with a keen, searching gaze; and he was surprised that he had not before noticed how thin, and pale, and careworn that little face had grown. "Elsie," he said suddenly, pausing in his walk. The child started and colored, as she raised her eyes from the book to his face, asking, in a half tremulous tone, "What, papa?" "Put down your book and come to me," he replied, seating himself. His tone lacked its usual harshness, yet the little girl came to him trembling so that she could scarcely stand. It displeased him. "Elsie," he said, as he took her hand and drew her in between his knees, "why do you always start and change color when I speak to you? and why are you trembling now as if you were venturing into the lion's jaws?--are you afraid of me?--speak!" "Yes, papa," she replied, the tears rolling down her cheeks, "you always speak so sternly to me now, that I cannot help feeling frightened." "Well, I didn't intend to be stern this time," he said more gently than he had spoken to her for a long while; "but tell me, my daughter, are you quite well?--you are growing very pale and thin, and I want to know if anything ails you." "Nothing, papa, but--" the rest of her sentence was lost in a burst of tears. "But what?" he asked almost kindly. "Oh, papa! you know! I want your love. _How can I live without it_?" "You need not, Elsie," he answered very gravely, "you have only to bow that stubborn will of yours, to have all the love and all the caresses you can ask for." Wiping her eyes, she looked up beseechingly into his face, asking, in pleading tones, "_Dear_ papa, won't you give me one kiss--just _one_? Think how long I have been without one." "Elsie, say 'I am sorry, papa, that I refused to obey you on that Sabbath-day; will you please to forgive me? and I will always be obedient in future,' That is all I require. Say it, and you will be at once entirely restored to favor." "I am _very sorry_, dear papa, for _all_ the naughty things I have ever done, and I will always try to obey you, if you do not bid me break God's commandments," she answered in a low, tremulous tone. "That will not do, Elsie; it is not what I bid you say. I will have no _if_ in the matter; nothing but _implicit, unconditional_ obedience," he said in a tone of severity. He paused for a reply, but receiving none, continued: "I see you are still stubborn, and I shall be compelled to take severe measures to subdue you. I do not yet know what they will be, but one thing is certain--I will not keep a rebellious child in my sight; there are boarding-schools where children can be sent who are unworthy to enjoy the privileges and comforts of home." "Oh, papa! dear, _dear_ papa, don't send me away from you! I should die!" she cried in accents of terror and despair, throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him with a convulsive grasp. "Punish me in any other way you choose; but oh! _don't_ send me where I cannot see you." He gently disengaged her arms, and without returning her caress, said gravely, and almost sadly, "Go now to your room. I have not yet decided what course to take, but you have only to submit, to escape _all_ punishment." Elsie retired, weeping bitterly, passing Adelaide as she went out. "What is the matter now?" asked Adelaide of her brother, who was striding impatiently up and down the room. "Nothing but the old story," he replied; "she is the most stubborn child I ever saw. Strange!" he added musingly, "I once thought her rather _too_ yielding. Adelaide," he said, sitting down by his sister, and leaning his head upon his hand, with a deep-drawn sigh, "I am _terribly_ perplexed! This estrangement is killing us both. Have you noticed how thin and pale she is growing? It distresses me to see it; but what can I do?--give up to her I cannot; it is not once to be thought of. I am sorry I ever began the struggle, but since it _is_ begun she _must_ and _shall_ submit; and it has really become a serious question with me, whether it would not be the truest kindness just to conquer her thoroughly and at once, by an appeal to the rod." "Oh no, Horace, don't! don't think of such a thing, I beg of you!" exclaimed Adelaide, with tears in her eyes; "such a delicate, sensitive little creature as she is, I do believe it would quite break her heart to be subjected to so ignominious a punishment; surely you could adopt some other measure less revolting to one's feelings, and yet perhaps quite as effectual. I couldn't _bear_ to have you do it. I would try everything else first." "I assure you, Adelaide, it would be _exceedingly_ painful to my feelings," he said, "and yet so anxious am I to subdue Elsie, and end this trying state of affairs, that were I certain of gaining my point, even by great severity, I would not hesitate a moment, but I am very doubtful whether she could be conquered in that way, and I would not like to undertake it unless I could carry it through. I hinted at a boarding-school, which seemed to alarm her very much; but I shall not try it, at least not yet, for she is my only child, and I still love her too well to give her up to the tender mercies of strangers. Ah! you don't know how strongly I was tempted to give her a kiss, just now, when she begged so hard for it. But what _shall_ I do with her, Adelaide?--have you no suggestion to make?" "Indeed, I don't know what to say, Horace; I shouldn't like to give up to her, if I were you; it does seem as if you ought to conquer her, and if you don't do it now, I do not believe you ever will." "Yes, that is just it," he said. "I have sometimes felt sorry for having begun the struggle, and yet perhaps it is just as well, since it must have come sooner or later. Ten years hence I shall want to take her occasionally to the theatre or opera, or perhaps now and then to a ball, and unless I can eradicate these ridiculously strict notions she has got into her head, she will be sure to rebel then, when she will be rather too old to punish, at least in the same way in which I might punish her now." "A thought has just struck me, Horace," said Adelaide suddenly. "Well, what is it?" he asked. Adelaide hesitated. She felt some little sympathy for Elsie, and did not quite like to propose a measure which she knew would give her great pain; but at length she said, in a half-regretful tone-- "I think, Horace, that Aunt Chloe upholds Elsie in her obstinacy, and makes her think herself a martyr to principle, for you know she has the same strange notions, which they both learned from the old housekeeper, Mrs. Murray, who was an old-fashioned Presbyterian, of the strictest sort; and now, as Elsie is still so young, it seems to me it might be _possible_ to change her views, if she were entirely removed from all such influences. But take notice, Horace, I do not advise it, for I know it would wellnigh break both their hearts." For a moment Mr. Dinsmore seemed lost in thought. Then he spoke: "That is a wise suggestion, Adelaide. I thank you for it, and shall certainly take it into consideration. Yet it is a measure I feel loth to adopt, for Chloe has been a most faithful creature. I feel that I owe her a debt of gratitude for the excellent care she has taken of Elsie, and of her mother before her, and as you say, I fear it would wellnigh break both their hearts. But if less severe measures fail, I shall feel compelled to try it, for I am more anxious than I can tell you to bring Elsie to unconditional obedience." "Here is a letter for you, Elsie," said her grandfather, the next morning, at the breakfast-table. "Here, Pomp"--to the servant--"hand this to Miss Elsie." The child's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she held out her hand eagerly to take it. But her father interfered. "No, Pomp," he said, "bring it to me; and remember, in future, that _I_ am to receive _all_ Miss Elsie's letters." Elsie relinquished it instantly, without a word of remonstrance, but her heart was so full that she could not eat another morsel; and in spite of all her efforts the tears would come into her eyes, as she saw her father deliberately open and read the letter, and then refold and put it into his pocket. He looked at her as he did so, and seeing the tears rolling down her cheeks, sternly bade her leave the room, She obeyed, feeling more angry and rebellious toward him than she ever had before. It seemed so cruel and unjust to deprive her of her own letters; one of Miss Rose's--as she knew it must be, for she had no other correspondent--which never contained anything but what was good, and kind, and comforting. They were always a great treat to the little girl, and she had been longer than usual without one, and had been looking longingly for it every day for several weeks past; for sad and lonely as her days now were, she felt very keenly the need of her friend's sympathy and love; and now to have this letter taken from her just as she laid her hand upon it, seemed a disappointment almost too great to be endured. She had a hard struggle with herself before she could put away entirely her feelings of anger and impatience. "Oh! this is not honoring papa," she said to herself; "he may have good reasons for what he has done; and as _I_ belong to him, he certainly has a sort of right to everything that is mine. I will try to be submissive, and wait patiently until he sees fit to give me my letter, as perhaps he will, some time." All the morning the thought of her letter was scarcely out of her mind, and as soon as she was released from school duties, and dressed for dinner, she went down to the drawing-room, hoping that her father might be there, and that he would give it to her. But he was not in, and when he came, brought a number of strangers with him, who remained until after tea; so that all the afternoon passed away without affording her an opportunity to speak to him. But, to her great joy, the visitors all left early in the evening, excepting a very mild, pleasant-looking, elderly gentleman, who had settled himself in the portico, with Enna on his knees. Elsie was watching her fathers movements, and was not sorry to see him, after the departure of his guests, return to the drawing-room, and take up the evening paper. No one else was at that end of the room, so now, at last, she might speak to him without fear of being overheard. She was glad, too, that his back was towards her, for she had grown very timid about approaching him of late. She stole softly up to the back of his chair, and stood there for some moments without speaking; her heart beat so fast with mingled hope and fear, that it seemed impossible to command her voice. But at last, coming to his side, she said, in a tone so low and tremulous as to be almost inaudible, "Papa." "Well, Elsie, what do you want?" he asked, with his eyes still on the paper. "Dear papa, I do so want to see Miss Rose's letter; won't you please give it to me?" She waited a moment for a reply; then asked again, "May I not have it, papa?" "Yes, Elsie, you may have _that_, and _everything_ else you want, just as soon as you show yourself a submissive, obedient child." Tears gathered in Elsie's eyes, but she resolutely forced them back, and made one more appeal. "_Dear_ papa," she said, in pleading, tearful tones, "you don't know how I have looked and longed for that letter; and I _do want_ it so _very_ much; won't you let me see it just for a few moments?" "You have your answer, Elsie," he said coldly; "and it is the only one I have to give you." Elsie turned and walked away, silently crying as she went. But ere she had reached the door he called her back, and looking sternly at her, as she again stood trembling and weeping at his side, "Remember," he said, "that from this time forth, I forbid you to write or receive any letters which do not pass through my hands, and I shall not allow you to correspond with Miss Allison, or any one else, indeed, until you become a more dutiful child." "Oh, papa! what will Miss Allison think if I don't answer her letter?" exclaimed Elsie, weeping bitterly. "I shall wait a few weeks," he said, "to see if you are going to be a better girl, and then, if you remain stubborn, I shall write to her myself, and tell her that I have stopped the correspondence, and my reasons for doing so." "Oh, papa! _dear_ papa! _please_ don't do that!" cried the little girl in great distress. "I am afraid if you do she will never love me any more, for she will think me such a very bad child." "If she does, she will only have a just opinion of you," replied her father coldly; "and _all_ your friends will soon cease to love you, if you continue to show such a wilful temper; my patience is almost worn out, Elsie, and I shall try some very severe measures before long, unless you see proper to submit. Go now to your own room; I do not wish to see you again to-night." "Good-night, papa," sobbed the little girl, as she turned to obey him. "Elsie, my daughter," he said, suddenly seizing her hand, and drawing her to his side, "why will you not give up this strange wilfulness, and let your papa have his own darling again? I love you dearly, my child, and it pains me more than I can express to see you so unhappy," he added, gently pushing back the curls from the little tear-stained face upturned to his. His tone had all the old fondness, and Elsie's heart thrilled at the very sound; his look, too, was tender and affectionate, and throwing down his paper he lifted her to his knee, and passed his arm around her waist. Elsie laid her head against his breast, as was her wont before their unhappy estrangement, while he passed his hand caressingly over her curls. "Speak, my daughter," he said in a low tone, full of tenderness; "speak, and tell papa that he has his own dutiful little daughter again. His heart aches to receive her; must he do without her still?" The temptation to yield was very strong. She loved him, oh, how dearly! Could she bear to go on making him unhappy? And it was such _rest_--such _joy_--thus once more to feel herself folded to his heart, and hear his dear voice speaking to her in loving, tender tones. Can it be wondered at that for a moment Elsie wavered? On the one hand she saw her father's fond affection, indulgent kindness, and loving caresses; on the other, banishment from his love, perhaps from home, cold, stern, harsh words and looks; and what more might be meant by the very severe measures threatened, she trembled to think. For a moment she was silent, for a mighty struggle was going on in her heart. It was hard, _very_ hard, to give up her father's love. But the love of Jesus!--ah, that was more precious still! The struggle was past. "Papa," she said, raising an earnest, tearful little face to his, and speaking in tones tremulous with emotion, "dear, _dear_ papa, I do love you so very, _very_ much, and I do want to be to you a good, obedient child; but, papa, Jesus says, 'He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me,' and I must love Jesus best, and keep _his_ commandments _always_. But you bid me say that I am sorry I refused to break them; and that I will yield implicit obedience to you, even though you should command me to disobey him. Oh, papa, I cannot do _that_, even though you should never love me again; even though you should put me to death." The cold, stern expression had returned to his face before she had half finished, and putting her off his knee, he said, in his severest tone, "Go, disobedient, rebellious child! How often have I told you that you are too young to judge of such matters, and must leave all that to me, your father and natural guardian, whom the Bible itself commands you to obey. I will find means to conquer you yet, Elsie. If affection and mild measures will not do it, severity shall." He rose and walked hastily up and down the floor, excited and angry, while poor Elsie went weeping from the room. "Is that one of your sisters, my dear?" asked the old gentleman of Enna, as he saw the sobbing Elsie pass through the hall, on her way up-stairs. "No; that is brother Horace's daughter," replied Enna scornfully; "she is a real naughty girl, and won't mind her papa at all." "Ah!" said the old gentleman gravely, "I am sorry to hear it; but I hope you will always obey your papa." "Indeed, my papa lets me do _just_ as I please," said Enna, with a little toss of her head. "_I_ don't have to mind anybody." "Ah! then I consider you a very unfortunate child," remarked the old gentleman, still more gravely; "for it is by no means good for a little one like you to have too much of her own way." Mr. Grier--for that was the old gentleman's name--had been much interested in the little Elsie's appearance. He had noticed the look of sadness on her fair young face, and conjectured, from something in the manner of the rest of the family toward her, that she was in disgrace; yet he was sure there was no stubbornness or self-will in the expression of that meek and gentle countenance. He began to suspect that some injustice had been done the little girl, and determined to watch and see if she were indeed the naughty child she was represented to be, and if he found her as good as he was inclined to believe, to try to gain her confidence, and see if he could help her out of her troubles. But Elsie did not come down again that evening, and though he saw her at the breakfast-table the next morning, she slipped away so immediately after the conclusion of the meal, that he had no opportunity to speak to her; and at dinner it was just the same. But in the afternoon, seeing her walk out alone, he put on his hat and followed at a little distance. She was going toward the quarter, and he presently saw her enter a cabin where, he had been told, a poor old colored woman was lying ill, perhaps on her death-bed. Very quietly he drew near the door of the hut, and seating himself on a low bench on the outside, found that he could both see and hear all that was going on without himself being perceived, as Elsie had her back to the door, and poor old Dinah was blind. "I have come to read to you again, Aunt Dinah," said the little girl, in her sweet, gentle tones. "Tank you, my young missus; you is bery kind," replied the old woman feebly. Elsie had already opened her little Bible, and in the same sweet, gentle voice in which she had spoken, she now read aloud the third chapter of St. John's gospel. When she had finished reading the sixteenth verse--"God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life,"--she paused and exclaimed, "Oh! Aunt Dinah, is not that beautiful? Does it not make you glad? You see it does not say whosoever is good and holy, or whosoever has not sinned, but it is whosoever believes in Jesus, the only begotten Son of God. If it was only the good, Aunt Dinah, you and I could never hope to be saved, because we are both great sinners." "Not you, Miss Elsie! not you, darlin'," interrupted the old woman; "ole Dinah's a great sinner, she knows dat well nuff--but you, darlin', you never did nuffin bad." "Yes, Dinah," said the little voice in saddened tones, "I have a very wicked heart, and have been a sinner all my life; but I know that Jesus died to save sinners, and that whosoever believes in him shall have eternal life, and I do believe, and I want you to believe, and then you, too, will be saved." "Did de good Lord Jesus die for poor ole Dinah, Miss Elsie?" she asked eagerly. "Yes, Aunt Dinah, if you will believe in him; it says for _whosoever believeth_." "Ole Dinah dunno how to believe, chile; can't do it nohow." "You must ask God to teach you, Dinah," replied the little girl earnestly, "for the Bible says 'faith'--that means believing--'is the gift of God.'" "You don't mean _dat_, Miss Elsie! You don't mean dat God will save poor ole Dinah, an' gib her hebben, an' all for nuffin?" she inquired, raising herself on her elbow in her eagerness. "Yes, Dinah; God says without money and without price; can't you believe him? Suppose I should come and put a hundred dollars in your hand, saying, 'Here, Aunt Dinah, I _give_ you this; you are old, and sick, and poor, and I know you can do nothing to earn it, but it is a _free_ gift, just _take_ it and it is yours;' wouldn't you believe me, and take it?" "_'Deed_ I would, Miss Elsie, kase you nebber tole nuffin but de truff." "Well, then, can't you believe God when he says that he will save you? Can't you believe Jesus when he says, 'I _give_ unto them eternal life'?" "Yes, yes, Miss Elsie! I do b'lieve; read de blessed words again, darlin'." Elsie read the verse again, and then finished the Chapter. Then closing the book, she asked softly, "Shall we pray, now, Aunt Dinah?" Dinah gave an eager assent; and Elsie, kneeling down by the bedside, prayed in simple, childlike words that Jesus would reveal himself to poor old Dinah, as _her_ Saviour; that the Holy Spirit would be her sanctifier and comforter, working faith in her, and thereby uniting her to Christ; that God would adopt her into his family, and be her God and portion forever; and that Jesus would be her shepherd, so that she need fear no evil, even though called to pass through the dark valley of the shadow of death. "Amen!" was Dinah's fervent response to each of the petitions. "De good Lord bless you, darlin'," she said, taking Elsie's little white hand in hers, and pressing it to her lips; "de good Lord bless an' keep you, an' nebber let trouble come near you. You knows nuffin 'bout trouble now, for you's young, an' handsome, an' rich, an' good; an' Massa Horace, he doats on you; no, _you_ knows nuffin 'bout trouble, but ole Dinah does, kase she's ole, an' sick, an' full ob aches and pains." "Yes, Aunt Dinah, and I am very sorry for you; but remember, if you believe in Jesus, you will soon go to heaven, where you will never be sick or in pain any more. But, Dinah,"--and the little voice grew very mournful--"we cannot always know when others are in trouble; and I want you to pray for me that I may always have strength to do right." "I will, darlin', 'deed I will," said Dinah earnestly, kissing the little hand again ere she released it. As Elsie ceased speaking, Mr. Grier slipped quietly away, and continued his walk. From what he had just seen and heard, he felt fully convinced that Elsie was not the wicked, disobedient child Enna had represented her to be; yet he knew that Enna was not alone in her opinion, since it was very evident that Elsie was in disgrace with the whole family--her father especially--and that she was very unhappy. He felt his heart drawn out in sympathy for the child, and longed to be able to assist her in regaining her father's favor, yet he knew not how to do it, for how was he to learn the facts in the case without seeming to pry into the family secrets of his kind entertainers? But there was one comfort he could do for her--what she had so earnestly asked of Dinah--and he would. As he came to this resolution he turned about and began to retrace his steps toward the house. To his surprise and pleasure, upon turning around a thicket, he came suddenly upon Elsie herself, seated upon a bench under a tree, bending over her little Bible, which lay open on her lap, and upon which her quiet tears were dropping, one by one. She did not seem aware of his presence, and he stood a moment gazing compassionately upon her, ere he spoke. "My dear little girl, what is the matter?" he asked in a gentle tone, full of sympathy and kindness, seating himself by her side. Elsie started, and raising her head, hastily brushed away her tears. "Good evening, sir," she said, blushing painfully, "I did not know you were here." "You must excuse my seeming intrusion," replied the old gentleman, taking her hand in his. "I came upon you unawares, not knowing you were here; but now that we have met, will you not tell me the cause of your grief? Perhaps I may be able to assist you." "No, sir," she said, "you could not do anything for me; but I thank you very much for your kindness." "I think," said he, after a moment's pause, "that I know something of your trouble; you have offended your father; is it not so, my dear?" Elsie answered only by her tears, and he went on. Laying his hand upon the Bible, "Submission to parents, my dear child," he said, "you know is enjoined in this blessed book; children are here commanded to honor and obey their father and mother; it is _God's_ command, and if you love his holy word, you will obey its precepts. Surely your father will forgive, and receive you into favor, if you show yourself penitent and submissive?" "I love my papa very, _very_ dearly," replied Elsie, weeping, "and I do want to obey him; but he does not love Jesus, and sometimes he bids me break God's commandments, and then I cannot obey him." "Is that it, my poor child?" said her friend pityingly. "Then you are right in not obeying; but be _very sure_ that your father's commands _are_ opposed to those of God, before you refuse obedience; and be very careful to obey him in all things in which you can conscientiously do so." "I do try, sir," replied Elsie meekly. "Then be comforted, my dear little girl. God has surely sent you this trial for some wise and kind purpose, and in his own good time he will remove it. Only be patient and submissive. He can change your father's heart, and for that you and I will both pray." Elsie looked her thanks as they rose to return to the house, but her heart was too full for speech, and she walked silently along beside her new friend, who continued to speak words of comfort and encouragement to her, until they reached the door, where he bade her good-by, saying that he was sorry he was not likely to see her again, as he must leave Roselands that afternoon, but promising not to forget her in his prayers. When Elsie reached her room, Chloe told her her father had sent word that she was to come to him as soon as she returned from her walk, and that she would find him in his dressing-room. Chloe had taken off the little girl's hat and smoothed her hair ere she delivered the message, and with a beating heart Elsie proceeded immediately to obey it. In answer to her timid knock, her father himself opened the door. "Mammy told me that you wanted me, papa," she said in a tremulous voice, and looking up timidly into his face. "Yes, I sent for you; come in," he replied; and taking her by the hand he led her forward to the arm-chair from which he had just risen, where he again seated himself, making her stand before him very much like a culprit in the presence of her judge. There was a moment's pause, in which Elsie stood with her head bent down and her eyes upon the carpet, trembling with apprehension, and not knowing what new trial might be in store for her. Then she ventured to look at her father. His face was sad and distressed, but very stern. "Elsie," he began at length, speaking in slow, measured tones, "I told you last evening that should you still persist in your resistance to my authority, I should feel compelled to take severe measures with you. I have now decided what those measures are to be. Henceforth, so long as you continue rebellious, you are to be banished entirely from the family circle; your meals must be taken in your own apartment, and though I shall not reduce your fare to bread and water, it will be very plain--no sweetmeats--no luxuries of any kind. I shall also deprive you entirely of pocket-money, and of all books excepting your Bible and school-books, and forbid you either to pay or receive any visits, telling all who inquire for you, why you cannot be seen. You are also to understand that I forbid you to enter any apartment in the house excepting your own and the school-room--unless by my express permission--and never to go out at all, even to the garden, excepting to take your daily exercise, accompanied always and only by a servant. You are to go on with your studies as usual, but need not expect to be spoken to by any one but your teacher, as I shall request the others to hold no communication with you. This is your sentence. It goes into effect this very hour, but becomes null and void the moment you come to me with acknowledgments of penitence for the past, and promises of implicit obedience for the future." Elsie stood like a statue; her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed upon the floor. She had grown very pale while her father was speaking, and there was a slight quivering of the eyelids and of the muscles of the mouth, but she showed no other sign of emotion. "Did you hear me, Elsie?" he asked. "Yes, papa," she murmured, in a tone so low it scarcely reached his ear. "Well, have you anything to say for yourself before I send you back to your room?" he asked in a somewhat softened tone. He felt a little alarmed at the child's unnatural calmness; but it was all gone in a moment. Sinking upon her knees she burst into a fit of passionate weeping. "Oh! papa, papa!" she sobbed, raising her streaming eyes to his face, "will you never, _never_ love me any more?--must I never come near you, or speak to you again?" He was much moved. "I did not say _that_, Elsie," he replied. "I hope most sincerely that you _will_ come to me before long with the confessions and promises I require; and then, as I have told you so often, I will take you to my heart again, as fully as ever. Will you not do it at once, and spare me the painful necessity of putting my sentence into execution?" he asked, raising her gently, and drawing her to his side. "Dear papa, you know I cannot," she sobbed. "Then return at once to your room; my sentence must be enforced, though it break both your heart and mine, for I _will_ be obeyed. _Go_!" he said, sternly putting her from him. And weeping and sobbing, feeling like a homeless, friendless outcast from society, Elsie went back to her room. The next two or three weeks were very sad and dreary ones to the poor little girl. Her father's sentence was rigidly enforced; she scarcely ever saw him excepting at a distance, and when once or twice he passed her in going in and out, he neither looked at nor spoke to her. Miss Day treated her with all her former severity and injustice, and no one else but the servants ever addressed her. She went out every day for an hour or two, in obedience to her father's command, but her walks and rides were sad and lonely; and during the rest of the day she felt like a prisoner, for she dared not venture even into the garden, where she had always been in the habit of passing the greater part of her leisure hours, in the summer season. But debarred from all other pleasures, Elsie read her Bible more and more constantly, and with ever increasing delight; it was more than meat and drink to her; she there found consolation under every affliction, a solace for every sorrow. Her trial was a heavy one; her little heart often ached sadly with its intense longing for an earthly father's love and favor; yet in the midst of it all, she was conscious of a deep, abiding peace, flowing from a sweet sense of pardoned sin, and a consciousness of a Saviour's love. At first Elsie greatly feared that she would not be allowed to attend church, as usual, on the Sabbath. But Mr. Dinsmore did not care to excite too much remark, and so, as Elsie had always been very regular in her attendance, to her great joy she was still permitted to go. No one spoke to her, however, or seemed to take the least notice of her; but she sat by her father's side, as usual, both in the carriage and in the pew, and there was some pleasure even in that, though she scarcely dared even to lift her eyes to his face. Once during the sermon, on the third Sabbath after their last interview, she ventured to do so, and was so overcome by the sight of his pale, haggard looks, that utterly unable to control her emotion, she burst into tears, and almost sobbed aloud. "Elsie," he said, bending down, and speaking in a stern whisper, "you _must control_ yourself." And with a mighty effort she swallowed down her tears and sobs. He took no further notice of her until they were again at their own door, when, lifting her from the carriage, he took her by the hand and led her to his own room. Shutting the door, he said sternly, "Elsie, what did you mean by behaving so in church? I was ashamed of you." "I could not help it, papa; indeed I could not," replied the little girl, again bursting into tears. "What were you crying about? tell me at once," he said, sitting down and taking off her bonnet, while she stood trembling before him. "Oh, papa! dear, _dear_ papa!" she cried, suddenly throwing her arms round his neck, and laying her cheek to his; "I love you so much, that when I looked at you, and saw how pale and thin you were, I couldn't help crying." "I do not understand, nor want such love, Elsie," he said gravely, putting her from him; "it is not the right kind, or it would lead you to be docile and obedient. You certainly deserve punishment for your behavior this morning, and I am much inclined to say that you shall not go to church again for some time." "Please, papa, don't say that," she replied tearfully; "I will try never to do so again." "Well," he replied, after a moment's reflection, "I shall punish you to-day by depriving you of your dinner, and if you repeat the offence I shall whip you." Elsie's little face flushed crimson. "I know it is an ignominious punishment, Elsie," said her father, "and I feel very loth to try it with you, but I greatly fear I shall be compelled to do so before I can subdue your rebellious spirit; it will be the _very last_ resort, however. Go now to your room." This last threat might almost be said to have given Elsie a new dread; for though his words on several former occasions had seemed to imply something of the sort, she had always put away the thought as that of something too dreadful to happen. But now he had spoken plainly, and the trial to her seemed inevitable, for she could never give the required promise, and she knew, too, that he prided himself on keeping his word, to the very letter. Poor little girl! she felt very much like a martyr in prospect of torture or the stake. For a time she was in deep distress; but she carried _this_ trouble, like all the rest, to her Saviour, and found relief; many precious, comforting texts being brought to her mind: "The king's heart is in the hand of the Lord as the rivers of water: he turneth it whithersoever he will." "My grace is sufficient for thee." "As thy days, so shall thy strength be." These, and others of a like import, came to her remembrance in this hour of fear and dread, and assured her that her heavenly Father would either save her from that trial, or give her strength to endure it; and she grew calm and peaceful again. "The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous runneth into it and is safe." CHAPTER VII. "Alone! alone! how drear it is Always to be alone!" WILLES It was only a few days after Adelaide had suggested to her brother the propriety of separating Elsie from her nurse, that he had the offer of a very fine estate in the immediate neighborhood of his father's plantation. Mr. Granville, the present owner, was about removing to a distant part of the country, and having become somewhat reduced in circumstances, was anxious to sell, and as the place suited Mr. Dinsmore exactly, they were not long in coming to an arrangement, satisfactory to both, by which it passed into his hands. Horace Dinsmore had inherited a large fortune from his mother, and having plenty of money at his command, he immediately set about making sundry improvements upon his new purchase; laying out the grounds, and repairing and enlarging the already fine old mansion, adding all the modern conveniences, and furnishing it in the most tasteful and elegant style. And so "Rumor, with her thousand tongues," soon had it noised abroad that he was about to bring home a second wife, and to that cause many attributed Elsie's pale and altered looks. Such, however, was not Mr. Dinsmore's intention. "I must have a housekeeper," he said to Adelaide. "I shall send Chloe there. She will do very well for the present, and it will give me the opportunity I desire of separating her from Elsie, while in the meantime I can be looking out for a better." "But you are not going to leave us yourself, Horace?" said his sister inquiringly. "Not immediately, Adelaide; I intend to end this controversy with Elsie first, and I indulge the hope that the prospect of sharing such a home with me as soon as she submits, will go far towards subduing her." Mr. Dinsmore shrank from the thought of Elsie's grief, if forced to part from her nurse; but he was not a man to let his own feelings, or those of others, prevent him from carrying out any purpose he had formed, if, as in this case, he could persuade himself that he was doing right. And so--all his arrangements being now made--the very morning after his late interview with Elsie, Chloe was summoned to his presence. He informed her of his purchase, and that it was his intention to send her there to take charge of his house and servants, for the present. Chloe, who was both extremely surprised and highly flattered by this proof of her young master's confidence, looked very much delighted, as, with a low courtesy, she expressed her thanks, and her willingness to undertake the charge. But a sudden thought struck her, and she asked anxiously if "her child" was to go with her. Mr. Dinsmore said "_No_," very decidedly; and when Chloe told him that that being the case, she would much rather stay where she was, if he would let her, he said she could not have any choice in the matter; _she_ must go, and Elsie must stay. Chloe burst into an agony of tears and sobs, begging to know why she was to be separated from the child she had loved and cherished ever since her birth; the child committed to her charge by her dying mother? What had she done to so displease her master, that he had determined to subject her to such a bitter trial? Mr. Dinsmore was a good deal moved by her grief, but still not to be turned from his purpose. He merely waited until she had grown somewhat calmer, and then, in a tone of great kindness, but with much firmness and decision, replied, "that he was not angry with her; that he knew she had been very faithful in her kind care of his wife and child, and he should always take care of her, and see that she was made comfortable as long as she lived; but, for reasons which he did not think necessary to explain, he considered it best to separate her from Elsie for a time; he knew it would be hard for them both, but it _must_ be done, and tears and entreaties would be utterly useless; she must prepare to go to her new home that very afternoon." So saying he dismissed her, and she went back to Elsie's room wellnigh heart-broken; and there the little girl found her when she came in from school duties, sitting beside the trunk she had just finished packing, crying and sobbing as she had never seen her before. "Oh, mammy, mammy! what _is_ the matter? _dear_ old mammy, what ails you?" she asked, running to her, and throwing her arms around her neck. Chloe clasped her to her breast, sobbing out that she must leave her. "Massa Horace was going to send her away from her precious child." Elsie was fairly stunned by the announcement, and for a moment could not speak one word. To be separated from her beloved nurse who had always taken care of her!--who seemed almost necessary to her existence. It was such a calamity as even her worst fears had never suggested, for they never had been parted, even for a single day; but wherever the little girl went, if to stay more than a few hours, her faithful attendant had always accompanied her, and she had never thought of the possibility of doing without her. She unclasped her arms from Chloe's neck, disengaging herself from her loving grasp, stood for a moment motionless and silent; then, suddenly sinking down upon her nurse's lap, again wound her arms about her neck, and hid her face on her bosom, sobbing wildly: "Oh, mammy, mammy! you shall not go! Stay with me, mammy! I've nobody to love me now but you, and my heart will break if you leave me. Oh, mammy, say that you won't go!" Chloe could not speak, but she took the little form again in her arms, and pressed it to her bosom in a close and fond embrace, while they mingled their tears and sobs together. But Elsie started up suddenly. "I will go to papa!" she exclaimed; "I will beg him on my knees to let you stay! I will tell him it will kill me to be parted from my dear old mammy." "'Tain't no use, darlin'! Massa Horace, he say I _must_ go; an' you know what dat means, well as I do," said Chloe, shaking her head mournfully; "he won't let me stay, nohow." "But I must try, mammy," Elsie answered, moving toward the door. "I think papa loves me a little yet, and maybe he will listen." But she met a servant in the hall who told her that her father had gone out, and that she heard him say he would not return before tea-time. And Chloe was to go directly after dinner; so there was no hope of a reprieve, nothing to do but submit as best they might to the sad necessity of parting; and Elsie went back to her room again, to spend the little time that remained in her nurse's arms, sobbing out her bitter grief upon her breast. It was indeed a hard, hard trial to them both; yet neither uttered one angry or complaining word against Mr. Dinsmore. Fanny, one of the maids, brought up Elsie's dinner, but she could not eat. Chloe's appetite, too, had failed entirely; so they remained locked in each other's embrace until Jim came to the door to tell Chloe the carriage was waiting which was to convey her to her new home. Once more she strained her nursling to her breast, sobbing out the words: "Good-by, darlin'! de good Lord bless an' keep you forebber an' ebber, an' nebber leave you alone." "Oh, mammy, mammy, don't leave me!" almost shrieked the child, clinging to her with a convulsive grasp. "Don't now, darlin'! don't go for to break dis ole heart! You knows I _must_ go," said Chloe, gently disengaging herself. "We'll ask de Lord to bring us together again soon, dear chile, an' I think he will 'fore long," she whispered in Elsie's ear; and with another fond caress she left her all drowned in tears, and half fainting with grief. An hour might have passed--it seemed longer than that to Elsie--when the door opened, and she started up from the sofa, where she had flung herself in the first abandonment of her sorrow. But it was only Fanny, come to tell her that Jim had brought her horse to the door, and to prepare her for her ride. She quietly submitted to being dressed; but, ah! how strange it seemed to have any other than Chloe's hands busy about her! It swelled her young heart wellnigh to bursting, though Fanny, who evidently understood her business well, was very kind and attentive, and full of unobtrusive sympathy and love for her young charge. The brisk ride in the fresh air did Elsie good, and she returned quite calm and composed, though still very sad. Fanny was in waiting to arrange her dress again, and when that was done, went down to bring up her supper. It was more tempting than usual, but Elsie turned from it with loathing. "Do, Miss Elsie, _please_ do try to eat a little," urged Fanny, with tears in her eyes. "What will Massa Horace say if he axes me 'bout your eatin' an' I'm 'bliged to tell him you didn't eat never a mouthful of dinner, an' likewise not the first crumb of your supper?" That, as Fanny well knew, was a powerful argument with Elsie, who, dreading nothing so much as her father's displeasure, which was sure to be excited by such a report of her conduct, sat down at once and did her best to make a substantial meal. Fanny was not more than half satisfied with the result of her efforts; but seeing it was useless to press her any further, silently cleared away the tea-things and carried them down-stairs, and Elsie was left alone. Alone! She looked around upon the familiar furniture with a strange feeling of desolation; an over-powering sense of loneliness came over her; she missed the dear face that had been familiar to her from her earliest infancy, and had ever looked so lovingly upon her; the kind arms wont to fold her in a fond embrace to that heart ever beating with such true, unalterable affection for her; that breast, where she might ever lean her aching head, and pour out all her sorrows, sure of sympathy and comfort. She could not stay there, but passing quickly out on to the balcony upon which the windows of her room opened, she stood leaning against the railing, her head resting upon the top of it, and the silent tears dropping one by one upon the floor. "Oh, mammy, mammy!" she murmured half aloud, "why did you leave your poor heart-broken child? How can I live without you--without any one to love me?" "Elsie," said Mr. Dinsmore's voice, close at her side, "I suppose you think me a very cruel father thus to separate you from your nurse. Is it not so?" "Papa, dear papa, don't say that," she cried with a burst of sobs and tears, as she turned hastily round, and taking his hand in both of hers, looked up pleadingly into his face. "I know you have a right to do it, papa; I know I belong to you, and you have a right to do as you will with me, and I will try to submit without murmuring, but I cannot help feeling sad, and shedding some tears." "I am not blaming you for crying now; it is quite excusable under the circumstances," he replied in a slightly softened tone, adding, "I take no pleasure in causing you sorrow, Elsie; and though I have sent away your nurse, I have provided you with another servant, who will, I think, be respectful and kind, and attentive to all your wishes. If she is not, you have only to complain to me, and she shall be at once removed, and her place supplied by another. And I have good reasons for what I am doing. You have resisted my authority for a long time now, and I must try the effect of placing you under new influences. I fear Chloe has, at least tacitly, encouraged you in your rebellion, and therefore I intend to keep you apart until you have learned to be submissive and obedient." "Dear papa," replied the little girl meekly, "you wrong poor mammy, if you think she would ever uphold me in disobedience to you; for on the contrary, she has always told me that I ought, on all occasions, to yield a ready and cheerful obedience to every command, or even _wish_ of yours, unless it was contrary to the word of God." "There! that is just it!" said he, interrupting her with a frown; "she and Mrs. Murray have brought you up to believe that you and they are wiser and more capable of interpreting the Bible, and deciding questions of right and wrong, than your father; and that is precisely the notion that I am determined to get out of your head." She opened her lips to reply, but bidding her be silent, he turned to leave her; but she clung to him, looking beseechingly up into his face. "Well," he said, "what is it--what do you want?" She struggled for utterance. "Oh, papa!" she sobbed, "I feel so sad and lonely to-night--will you not sit down a little while and take me on your knee?--my heart aches so to lay my head against you just for one moment. Oh, papa, dear papa, will you not let me--will you not kiss me once, _just once_? You know I am all alone!--_all alone_!" He could not resist her pleading looks and piteous accents. A tear trembled in his eye, and hastily seating himself, he drew her to his knee, folded her for an instant in his arms, laid her head against his breast, kissed her lips, her brow, her cheek; and then putting her from him, without speaking a word, walked quickly away. Elsie stood for a moment where he had left her, then sinking on her knees before the sofa, whence he had just risen, she laid her head down upon it, weeping and sobbing most bitterly, "Oh! papa, papa! oh, mammy, mammy, dear, dear mammy! you are all gone, all gone! and I am alone! alone! all alone!--nobody to love me--nobody to speak to me. Oh, mammy! Oh, papa! come back, come back to me--to your poor little Elsie, for my heart is breaking." Alas! that caress, so earnestly pleaded for, had only by contrast increased her sense of loneliness and desolation. But in the midst of her bitter grief a loving, gentle voice came to her ear, whispering in sweetest tones, "_I_ will _never_ leave thee, nor forsake thee." "When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, I, the Lord, will take thee up." "I will deliver thee in six troubles; yea, in seven there shall no evil touch thee." And the sobs were hushed--the tears flowed more quietly, until at length they ceased altogether, and the little sorrowing one fell asleep. "As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you; and ye shall be comforted." CHAPTER VIII. "No future hour can rend my heart like this, Save that which breaks it." MATURIN'S BERTRAM. "Unless thy law had been my delight, I should then have perished in mine affliction." PSALM 119: 92. Elsie was sitting alone in her room when there came a light tap on the door, immediately followed, much to the little girl's surprise, by the entrance of her Aunt Adelaide, who shut and locked the door behind her, saying, "I am glad you are quite alone; though, indeed, I suppose that is almost always the case now-a-days. I see," she continued, seating herself by the side of the astonished child, "that you are wondering what has brought me to visit you, to whom I have not spoken for so many weeks; but I will tell you. I come from a sincere desire to do you a kindness, Elsie; for, though I don't know how to understand nor excuse your obstinacy, and heartily approve of your father's determination to conquer you, I must say that I think he is unnecessarily harsh and severe in some of his measures--" "Please don't, Aunt Adelaide," Elsie interrupted, in a pleading voice, "please don't speak so of papa to me; for you know I ought not to hear it." "Pooh! nonsense!" said Adelaide, "it is very naughty in you to interrupt me; but, as I was about to remark, I don't see any use in your being forbidden to correspond with Miss Allison, because her letters could not possibly do you any harm, but rather the contrary, for she is goodness itself--and so I have brought you a letter from her which has just come enclosed in one to me." She took it from her pocket as she spoke, and handed it to Elsie. The little girl looked longingly at it, but made no movement to take it. "Thank you, Aunt Adelaide, you are very kind indeed," she said, with tears in her eyes, "and I should dearly love to read it; but I cannot touch it without papa's permission." "Why, you silly child! he will never know anything about it," exclaimed her aunt quickly. "_I_ shall never breathe a word to him, nor to anybody else, and, of course, you will not tell on yourself; and if you are afraid the letter might by some mischance fall into his hands, just destroy it as soon as you have read it." "Dear Aunt Adelaide, please take it away and don't tempt me any more, for I want it so very much I am afraid I shall take it if you do, and that would be so very wrong," said Elsie, turning away her head. "I presume you are afraid to trust me; you needn't be, though," replied Adelaide, in a half offended tone. "Horace will never learn it from me, and there is no possible danger of his ever finding it out in any other way, for I shall write to Rose at once, warning her not to send you any more letters at present." "I am not at all afraid to trust you, Aunt Adelaide, nor do I think there is any danger of papa's finding it out," Elsie answered earnestly; "but I should know it myself, and God would know it, too, and you know he has commanded me to obey my father in everything that is not wrong; and I _must_ obey him, no matter how hard it is." "Well, you are a strange child," said Adelaide, as she returned the letter to her pocket and rose to leave the room; "such a compound of obedience and disobedience I don't pretend to understand." Elsie was beginning to explain, but Adelaide stopped her, saying she had no time to listen, and hastily quitted the room. Elsie brushed away a tear and took up her book again--for she had been engaged in preparing a lesson for the next day, when interrupted by this unexpected visit from her aunt. Adelaide went directly to her brother's door, and receiving an invitation to enter in answer to her knock, was the next instant standing by his side, with Miss Allison's letter in her hand. "I've come, Horace," she said in a lively tone, "to seek from you a reward of virtue in a certain little friend of mine; and because you alone can bestow it, I come to you on her behalf, even at the expense of having to confess a sin of my own." "Well, take a seat, won't you?" he said good-humoredly, laying down his book and handing her a chair, "and then speak out at once, and tell me what you mean by all this nonsense." "First for my own confession then," she answered laughingly, accepting the offered seat. "I received a letter this morning from my friend, Rose Allison, enclosing one to your little Elsie." He began to listen with close attention, while a slight frown gathered on his brow. "Now, Horace," his sister went on, "though I approve in the main of your management of that child--which, by the way, I presume, is not of the least consequence to you--yet I must say I have thought it right hard you should deprive her of Rose's letters. So I carried this one, and offered it to her, assuring her that you should never know anything about it; but what do you think?--the little goose actually refused to touch it without papa's permission. She _must_ obey him, she said, no matter how hard it was, whenever he did not bid her do anything wrong. And now, Horace," she concluded, "I want you to give me the pleasure of carrying this letter to her, with your permission to read it. I'm sure she deserves it." "Perhaps so; but I am sure _you_ don't, Adelaide, after tampering with the child's conscience in that manner. You may send her to me, though, if you will," he said, holding out his hand for the letter. "But are you quite sure that she really wanted to see it, and felt assured that she might do so without my knowledge?" "Perfectly certain of it," replied his sister confidently. They chatted for a few moments longer; Adelaide praising Elsie, and persuading him to treat her with more indulgence; and he, much pleased with this proof of her dutifulness, half promising to do so; and then Adelaide went back to her room, despatching a servant on her way to tell Elsie that her papa desired to see her immediately. Elsie received the message with profound alarm; for not dreaming of the true cause, her fears at once suggested that he probably intended putting his late threat into execution. She spent one moment in earnest prayer for strength to bear her trial, and then hastened, pale and trembling, to his presence. How great, then, was her surprise to see him, as she entered, hold out his hand with a smile, saying, in the kindest tone, "Come here to me, my daughter!" She obeyed, gazing wonderingly into his face. He drew her to him; lifted her to his knee; folded her in his arms, and kissed her tenderly. He had not bestowed such a loving caress upon her--nor indeed ever kissed her at all, excepting on the evening after Chloe's departure--since that unhappy scene in his sick-room; and Elsie, scarcely able to believe she was awake, and not dreaming, hid her face on his breast, and wept for joy. "Your aunt has been here telling me what passed between you this afternoon," said he, repeating his caress, "and I am much pleased with this proof of your obedience; and as a reward I will give you permission, not only to read the letter she offered you, but also the one I retained. And I will allow you to write to Miss Allison once, in answer to them, the letter passing through my hands. I have also promised, at your aunt's solicitation, to remove some of the restrictions I have placed upon you, and I now give you the same liberty to go about the house and grounds which you formerly enjoyed. Your books and toys shall also be returned to you, and you may take your meals with the family whenever you choose." "Thank you, papa, you are very kind," replied the little girl; but her heart sank, for she understood from his words that she was not restored to favor as she had for a moment fondly imagined. Neither spoke again for some moments. Each felt that this delightful reunion--for it was delightful to both--this enjoyment of the interchange of mutual affection, could not last. Silent caresses, mingled with sobs and tears on Elsie's part, passed between them; and at length Mr. Dinsmore said, "Elsie, my daughter, I hope you are now ready to make the confession and promises I require?" "Oh, papa! dear papa!" she said, looking up into his face with the tears streaming down her own, "have I not been punished enough for that? and can you not just punish me whenever I disobey you, without requiring any promise?" "Stubborn yet, Elsie," he answered with a frown. "No; as I have told you before, my word is as the law of the Medes and Persians, which altered not. I have required the confession and promise, and _you must make them_." He set her down, but she lingered a moment. "Once more, Elsie, I ask you," he said, "will you obey?" She shook her head; she could not speak. "Then go," said her father. "I have given you the last caress I ever shall, until you submit." He put the letters into her hand as he spoke, and motioned her to be gone; and Elsie fled away to her own room, to throw herself upon the bed, and weep and groan in intense mental anguish. She cared not for the letters now; they lay neglected on the floor, where they had fallen unheeded from her hand. The gloom on her pathway seemed all the darker for that bright but momentary gleam of sunshine. So dark was the cloud that overshadowed her that for the time she seemed to have lost all hope, and to be able to think of nothing but the apparent impossibility of ever regaining her place in her father's heart. His last words rang in her ears. "Oh! papa, papa! my own papa!" she sobbed, "will you never love me again? never kiss me, or call me pet names? Oh, _how can_ I bear it! how can I ever live without your love?" Her nerves, already weakened by months of mental suffering, could hardly bear the strain; and when Fanny came into the room, an hour or two later, she was quite frightened to find her young charge lying on the bed, holding her head with both hands and groaning, and speechless with pain. "What's de matter darlin'?" she asked; but Elsie only answered with a moan; and Fanny, in great alarm, hastened to Mr. Dinsmore's room, and startled him with the exclamation: "Oh, Massa Horace, make haste for come to de chile! she gwine die for sartain, if you don't do sumfin mighty quick!" "Why, what ails her, Fanny?" he asked, following the servant with all speed. "Dunno, Massa; but I'se sure she's berry ill," was Fanny's reply, as she opened the door of Elsie's room, and stepped back to allow her master to pass in first. One glance at Elsie's face was enough to convince him that there was some ground for her attendant's alarm. It was ghastly with its deadly pallor and the dark circles round the eyes, and wore an expression of intense pain. He proceeded at once to apply remedies, and remained beside her until they had so far taken effect that she was able to speak, and looked quite like herself again. "Elsie!" he said in a grave, firm tone, as he placed her more comfortably on her pillow, "this attack has been brought on by violent crying; you must not indulge yourself in that way again." "I could not help it, papa," she replied, lifting her pleading eyes to his face. "You _must_ help it in future, Elsie," he said sternly. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she struggled to keep them back. He turned to leave her, but she caught his hand, and looked so beseechingly in his face, that he stopped and asked in a softened tone, "What is it, my daughter?" "Oh, papa!" she murmured in low, tremulous accents, "love me a little." "I do love you, Elsie," he replied gravely, and almost sadly, as he bent over her and laid his hand upon her forehead. "I love you only too well, else I should have sent my stubborn little daughter away from me long ere this." "Then, papa, kiss me; just _once_, dear papa!" she pleaded, raising her tearful eyes to his face. "No, Elsie, not _once_ until you are entirely submissive. This state of things is as painful to me as it into you, my daughter; but I cannot yield my authority, and I hope you will soon see that it is best for you to give up your self-will." So saying, he turned away and left her alone; alone with that weary home-sickness of the heart, and the tears dropping silently down upon her pillow. Horace Dinsmore went back to his own room, where he spent the next half hour in pacing rapidly to and fro, with folded arms and contracted brow. "Strange!" he muttered, "that she is _so hard_ to conquer. I never imagined that she could be so stubborn. One thing is certain," he added, heaving a deep sigh; "we must separate for a time, or I shall be in danger of yielding; for it is no easy matter to resist her tearful pleadings, backed as they are by the yearning affection of my own heart. How I love the perverse little thing! Truly she has wound herself around my very heart-strings. But I _must_ get these absurd notions out of her head, or I shall never have any comfort with her; and if I yield _now_, I may as well just give that up entirely; besides, I have _said_ it; and _I will_ have her to understand that my word is law." And with another heavy sigh he threw himself upon the sofa, where he lay in deep thought for some moments; then, suddenly springing up, he rang the bell for his servant. "John," he said, as the man appeared in answer to his summons, "I shall leave for the North to-morrow morning. See that my trunk is packed, and everything in readiness. You are to go with me, of course." "Yes, Massa, I'll 'tend to it," replied John, bowing, and retiring with a grin of satisfaction on his face. "Berry glad," he chuckled to himself, as he hurried away to tell the news in the kitchen, "_berry_ glad dat young Massa's got tired ob dis dull ole place at last. Wonder if little Miss Elsie gwine along." Elsie rose the next morning feeling very weak, and looking pale and sad: and not caring to avail herself of her father's permission to join the family, she took her breakfast in her own room, as usual. She was on her way to the school-room soon afterwards, when, seeing her papa's man carrying out his trunk, she stopped and inquired in a tone of alarm-- "Why, John! is papa going away?" "Yes, Miss Elsie; but ain't you gwine along? I s'posed you was." "No, John," she answered faintly, leaning against the wall for support; "but where is papa going?" "Up North, Miss Elsie; dunno no more 'bout it; better ask Massa Horace hisself," replied the servant, looking compassionately at her pale face, and eyes brimful of tears. Mr. Dinsmore himself appeared at this moment, and Elsie, starting forward with clasped hands, and the tears running down her cheeks, looked piteously up into his face, exclaiming, "Oh, papa, dear are you going away, and without me?" Without replying, he took her by the hand, and turning back into his room again, shut the door, sat down, and lifted her to his knee. His face was very pale and sad, too, but withal wore an expression of firm determination. Elsie laid her head on his shoulder, and sobbed out her tears and entreaties that he would not leave her. "It depends entirely upon yourself, Elsie," he said presently. "I gave you warning some time since that I would not keep a rebellious child in my sight; and while you continue such, either you or I must be banished from home, and I prefer to exile myself rather than you; but a submissive child I will not leave. It is not yet too late; you have only to yield to my requirements, and I will stay at home, or delay my journey for a few days, and take you with me. But if you prefer separation from me to giving up your own self-will, you have no one to blame but yourself." He waited a moment, then said: "Once more I ask you, Elsie, will you obey me?" "Oh, papa, always, if--" "Hush!" he said sternly; "you _know_ that will not do;" and setting her down, he rose to go. But she clung to him with desperate energy. "Oh, papa," she sobbed, "when will you come back?" "That depends upon _you_, Elsie," he said. "Whenever my little daughter writes to me the words I have so vainly endeavored to induce her to speak, that _very day_, if possible, I will start for home." He laid his hand on the handle of the door as he spoke. But clinging to him, and looking up beseechingly into his face, she pleaded, in piteous tones, amid her bitter sobs and tears, "Papa, dear, _dear_ papa, kiss me once before you go; just _once_, papa; perhaps you may never come back--perhaps I may die. Oh, papa, papa! will you go away without kissing me?--me, your own little daughter, that you used to love so dearly? Oh, papa, my heart will break!" His own eyes filled with tears, and he stooped as if to give her the coveted caress, but hastily drawing back again, said with much of his accustomed sternness-- "No, Elsie, I cannot break my word; and if you are determined to break your own heart and mine by your stubbornness, on your own head be the consequences," And putting her forcibly aside, he opened the door and went out, while, with a cry of despair, she sank half-fainting upon the floor. She was roused ere long by the sound of a carriage driving up to the door, and the thought flashed upon her, "He is not gone yet, and I may see him once more;" and springing to her feet, she ran downstairs, to find the rest of the family in the hall, taking leave of her father. He was just stooping to give Enna a farewell kiss, as his little daughter came up. He did not seem to notice her, but was turning away, when Enna said, "Here is Elsie; aren't you going to kiss _her_ before you go?" He turned round again, to see those soft, hazel eyes, with their mournful, pleading gaze, fixed upon his face. He never forgot that look; it haunted him all his life. He stood for an instant looking down upon her, while that mute, appealing glance still met his, and she ventured to take his hand in both of hers and press it to her lips. But he turned resolutely away, saying, in his calm, cold tone, "No! Elsie is a stubborn, disobedient child. I have no caress for her." A moan of heart-breaking anguish burst from Elsie's pale and trembling lips; and covering her face with her hands, she sank down upon the door-step, vainly struggling to suppress the bitter, choking sobs that shook her whole frame. But her father was already in the carriage, and hearing it begin to move, she hastily dashed away her tears, and strained her eyes to catch the last glimpse of it, as it whirled away down the avenue. It was quite gone; and she rose up and sadly re-entered the house. "I don't pity her at all," she heard her grandfather say, "for it is all her own fault, and serves her just right." But so utterly crushed and heart-broken was she already, that the cruel words fell quite unheeded upon her ear. She went directly to her father's deserted room, and shutting herself in, tottered to the bed, and laying her face on the pillow where his head had rested a few hours before, clasped her arms around it, and wetted it with her tears, moaning sadly to herself the while, "Oh, _papa_, my own dear, darling papa! I shall never, _never_ see you again! Oh, how can I live without you? who is there to love me now? Oh, papa, papa, will you never, never come back to me? Papa, papa, my heart is breaking! I shall die." From that time the little Elsie drooped and pined, growing paler and thinner day by day--her step more languid, and her eye more dim--till no one could have recognized in her the bright, rosy, joyous child, full of health and happiness, that she had been six months before. She went about the house like a shadow, scarcely ever speaking or being spoken to. She made no complaint, and seldom shed tears now; but seemed to have lost her interest in everything and to be sinking into a kind of apathy. "I wish," said Mrs. Dinsmore one day, as Elsie passed out into the garden, "that Horace had sent that child to boarding-school, and stayed at home himself. Your father says he needs him, and as to her--she has grown so melancholy of late, it is enough to give one the vapors just to look at her." "I am beginning to feel troubled about her," replied Adelaide, to whom the remark had been addressed; "she seems to be losing flesh, and strength, too, so fast. The other day I went into her room, and found Fanny crying heartily over a dress of Elsie's which she was altering. 'Oh! Miss Adelaide,' she sobbed, 'the chile gwine die for sartain!' 'Why no, Fanny,' I said, 'what makes you think so? she is not sick.' But she shook her head, saying, 'Just look a here, Miss Adelaide,' showing me how much she was obliged to take the dress in to make it fit, and then she told me Elsie had grown so weak that the least exertion overcame her. I think I must write to Horace." "Oh, nonsense, Adelaide!" said her mother, "I wouldn't trouble him about it. Children are very apt to grow thin and languid during the hot weather, and I suppose fretting after him makes it affect her rather more than usual; and just now in the holidays she has nothing else to occupy her thoughts. She will do well enough." So Adelaide's fears were relieved, and she delayed writing, thinking that her mother surely knew best. Mrs. Travilla sat in her cool, shady parlor, quietly knitting. She was alone, but the glance she occasionally sent from the window seemed to say that she was expecting some one. "Edward is unusually late to-day," she murmured half aloud. "But there he is at last," she added, as her son appeared, riding slowly up the avenue. He dismounted and entered the house, and in another moment had thrown himself down upon the sofa, by her side. She looked at him uneasily; for with the quick ear of affection she had noticed that his step lacked its accustomed elasticity, and his voice its cheerful, hearty tones. His orders to the servant who came to take his horse had been given in a lower and more subdued key than usual, and his greeting to herself, though perfectly kind and respectful, was grave and absent in manner; and now his thoughts seemed far away, and the expression of his countenance was sad and troubled. "What ails you, Edward--is anything wrong, my son?" she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder, and looking into his face with her loving, motherly eyes. "Nothing with _me_ mother," he answered affectionately; "but," he added, with a deep-drawn sigh, "I am sorely troubled about my little friend. I called at Roselands this afternoon, and learned that Horace Dinsmore has gone North--to be absent nobody knows how long--leaving her at home. He has been gone nearly a week, and the child is--heart-broken." "Poor darling! is she really so much distressed about it, Edward?" his mother asked, taking off her spectacles to wipe them, for they had suddenly grown dim. "You saw her, I suppose?" "Yes, for a moment," he said, struggling to control his feelings. "Mother, you would hardly know her for the child she was six months ago! she is so changed, so thin and pale--but that is not the worst; she seems to have lost all her life and animation. I felt as though it would be a relief even to see her cry. When I spoke to her she smiled, it is true; but ah! such a sad, hopeless, dreary sort of smile--it was far more touching than tears, and then she turned away, as if she had scarcely heard or understood what I said. Mother, you must go to her; she needs just the sort of comfort you understand so well how to give, but which I know nothing about. You will go, mother, will you not?" "Gladly, Edward! I would go this moment, if I thought I would be permitted to see her, and could do her any good." "I hardly think," said her son, "that even Mrs. Dinsmore would refuse you the privilege of a private interview with the child should you request it, mother; but, no doubt, it would be much pleasanter for all parties if we could go when Elsie is at home alone; and fortunately such will be the case to-morrow, for, as I accidentally learned, the whole family, with the exception of Elsie and the servants, are expecting to spend the day abroad. So if it suits you, mother, we will drive over in the morning." Mrs. Travilla expressed her readiness to do so; and about the middle of the forenoon of the next day their carriage might have been seen turning into the avenue at Roselands. Pomp came out to receive the visitors. "Berry sorry, Massa and Missus," he said, making his best bow to them as they alighted from the carriage, "dat de family am all from home with the single 'ception of little Miss Elsie. But if you will be pleased to walk into the drawin'-room, an' rest yourselves, I will call for suitable refreshments, and Fanny shall be instantly despatched to bring de young lady down." "No, thank you, Pomp," replied Mr. Travilla pleasantly, "we are not at all in want of refreshments, and my mother would prefer seeing Miss Elsie in her own room. I will step into the drawing-room, mother, until you come down again," he added in an undertone to her. Pomp was about to lead the way, but Mrs. Travilla gently put him aside, saying that she would prefer to go alone, and had no need of a guide. She found the door of Elsie's room standing wide to admit the air--for the weather was now growing very warm indeed--and looking in, she perceived the little girl half reclining upon a sofa, her head resting on the arm, her hands clasped in her lap, and her sad, dreamy eyes, tearless and dry, gazing mournfully into vacancy, as though her thoughts were far away, following the wanderings of her absent father. She seemed to have been reading, or trying to read, but the book had fallen from her hand, and lay unheeded on the floor. Mrs. Travilla, stood for several minutes gazing with tearful eyes at the melancholy little figure, marking with an aching heart the ravages that sorrow had already made in the wan child face; then stealing softly in, sat down by her side, and took the little forlorn one into her kind motherly embrace, laying the weary little head down on her breast. Elsie did not speak, but merely raised her eyes for an instant to Mrs. Travilla's face, with the dreary smile her son had spoken of, and then dropped them again with a sigh that was half a sob. Mrs. Travilla pressed her quivering lips on the child's forehead, and a scalding tear fell on her cheek. Elsie started, and again raising her mournful eyes, said, in a husky whisper, "Don't, dear Mrs. Travilla _don't_ cry. I never _cry_ now." "And why not, darling? Tears are often a blessed relief to an aching heart, and I think it would do you good; these dry eyes need it." "No--no--I _cannot_; they are all dried up--and it is well, for they always displeased my papa," There was a dreary hopelessness in her tone, and in the mournful shake of her head, that was very touching. Mrs. Travilla sighed, and pressed the little form closer to her heart. "Elsie, dear," she said, "you must not give way to despair. Your troubles have not come by chance; you know, darling, who has sent them; and remember, it is those whom the Lord _loveth_ he chasteneth, and he will not _always_ chide, neither will he keep his anger forever." "Is he angry with me?" she asked fearfully. "No, dearest, it is all sent in _love_; we cannot see the reason now, but one day we shall--when we get home to our Father's house, for then everything will be made plain; it may be, Elsie dear, that you, by your steady adherence to the right, are to be made the honored instrument in bringing your father to a saving knowledge of Christ. You would be willing to suffer a great deal for that, dear child, would you not? even all you are suffering now?" "Ah, yes, indeed!" she said earnestly, clasping her hands together; "but I am afraid it is _not that_! I am afraid it is because I loved my papa _too_ well, my dear, _dear_ papa--and God is angry with me--and now I shall never, never see him again," She groaned aloud, and covered her face with her hands; and now the tears fell like rain, and her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs. Mrs. Travilla hailed this outburst of grief with deep thankfulness, knowing that it was far better for her than that unnatural apathy, and that when the first violence of the storm had subsided, the aching heart would find itself relieved of half its load. She gently soothed the little weeper until she began to grow calm again, and the sobs were almost hushed, and the tears fell softly and quietly. Then she said, in low, tender tones, "Yes, my darling, you will see him again; I feel quite sure of it. God is the hearer of prayer, and he will hear yours for your dear father." "And will he send my papa hack to me I oh, will he come _soon_? do you think he will, dear Mrs. Travilla?" she asked eagerly. "I don't know, darling; I cannot tell _that_; but one thing we do know, that it is _all_ in God's hands, and he will do just what is best both for you and your father. He may see fit to restore you to each other in a few weeks or months, and I hope and trust he will; but however _that_ may be, darling, remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, 'Your Father knoweth that ye have _need_ of _all_ these things.' He will not send you any unnecessary trial, nor allow you to suffer one pang that you do not need. It may be that he saw you were loving your earthly father too well, and has removed him from you for a time, that thus he may draw you nearer to himself; but never doubt for one moment, dear one, that it is all done in _love_. 'As many as I _love_, I rebuke and chasten.' They are the dear Saviour's own words." When Mrs. Travilla at length rose to go, Elsie clung to her tearfully, entreating that she would stay a little longer. "I will, dear child, since you wish it so much," said the lady, resuming her seat, "and I will come again very soon, if you think there will be no objection. But, Elsie, dear, can you not come to Ion, and spend the rest of your holidays with us? Both Edward and I would be delighted to have you, and I think we could make you happier than you are here." "I cannot tell you how very much I should like it, dear Mrs. Travilla, but it is quite impossible," Elsie answered, with a sorrowful shake of the head. "I am not allowed to pay or receive visits any more; papa forbade it some time ago." "Ah, indeed! I am very sorry, dear, for I fear that cuts me off from visiting you," said Mrs. Travilla, looking much disappointed. "However," she added more cheerfully, "I will get my son to write to your papa, and perhaps he may give you permission to visit us." "No, ma'am, I cannot hope that he will," replied Elsie sadly; "papa never breaks his word or changes his mind." "Ah! well, dear child," said her friend tenderly, "there is one precious blessing of which no one can deprive you--the presence and love of your Saviour; and if you have that, no one can make you wholly miserable. And now, dear child, I must go," she added, again clasping the little girl to her heart, and kissing her many times. "God bless and keep you, darling, till we meet again, and we will hope that time will come ere long." Mr. Travilla was waiting to hand his mother into the carriage. Neither of them spoke until they had fairly left Roselands behind them, but then he turned to her with an anxious, inquiring look, to which she replied: "Yes, I found her in just the state you described, poor darling! but I think I left her a little happier; or rather, I should say, a little less wretched than I found her. Edward, Horace Dinsmore does not know what he is doing; that child's heart is breaking." He gave an assenting nod, and turned away to hide his emotion. "Can you not write to him, Edward, and describe the state she is in, and beg him, if he will not come home, at least to permit us to take her to Ion for a few weeks?" she asked, laying her hand on his arm. "I will do so, mother, if you think it best," Mr. Travilla replied; "but I think I know Horace Dinsmore better than you do, and that such a proceeding would do more harm than good. He is very jealous of anything that looks like interference, especially between him and his child, and I fear it would only irritate him, and make him, if possible, still more determined. Were I asked to describe his character in a few words, I should say he is a man of indomitable will." "Well, my son, perhaps you are right," said his mother, heaving a deep sigh; "and if so, I can see nothing more we can do but pray for the little girl." Mrs. Travilla was right in thinking that her visit had done Elsie good; it had roused her out of the torpor of grief into which she had sunk; it had raised her from the depths of despair, and shown her the beacon light of hope still shining in the distance. This last blow had come with such crushing weight that there had seemed to be no room left in her heart for a thought of comfort; but now her kind friend had reminded her of the precious promises, and the tender love that were still hers; love far exceeding that of any earthly parent--love that was able even to bring light out of all this thick darkness; love which was guiding and controlling all the events of her life, and would never allow her to suffer one unnecessary pang, but would remove the trial as soon as its needed work was done; and she was now no longer altogether comfortless. When Mrs. Travilla had left, she took up her Bible--that precious little volume, her never-failing comforter--and in turning over its leaves her eye fell upon these words: "Unto you it is given in the behalf of Christ, not only to believe on him, but also to suffer for his sake." They sent a thrill of joy to her heart; for was not _she_ suffering for _his_ sake? was it not because she loved him too well to disobey his commands, even to please her dearly beloved earthly father, that she was thus deprived of one privilege, and one comfort after another, and subjected to trials that wrung her very heart? Yes, it was because she loved Jesus. She was bearing suffering for his dear sake, and here she was taught that even to be permitted to _suffer_ for him, was a privilege. And she remembered, too, that in another place it is written: "If we _suffer_, we shall also reign with him." Ah! those are tears of joy and thankfulness that are falling now. She has grown calm and peaceful, even happy, for the time, in the midst of all her sorrow. CHAPTER IX. "Heaven oft in mercy smites, e'en when the blow Severest is." JOANNA BAILLIE'S ORRA. "The heart knoweth his own bitterness." PROV. 14:10. But only a few days after Mrs. Travilla's visit, an event occurred, which, by exciting Elsie's sympathy for the sorrows of another, and thus preventing her from dwelling so constantly upon her own, was of great benefit to her. Adelaide received a letter bringing tidings of the death of one who had been very dear to her. The blow was very sudden--entirely unexpected--and the poor girl was overwhelmed with grief, made all the harder to endure by the want of sympathy in her family. Her parents had indeed given their consent to the contemplated union, but because the gentleman, though honorable, intelligent, educated and talented, was neither rich nor high-born, they had never very heartily approved of the connection, and were evidently rather relieved than afflicted by his death. Elsie was the only one who really felt deeply for her aunt; and her silent, unobtrusive sympathy was very grateful. The little girl seemed almost to forget her own sorrows, for the time, in trying to relieve those of her bereaved aunt. Elsie knew--and this made her sympathy far deeper and more heartfelt--that Adelaide had no consolation in her sore distress, but such miserable comfort as may be found in the things of earth. She had no compassionate Saviour to whom to carry her sorrows, but must bear them all alone; and while Elsie was permitted to walk in the light of his countenance, and to her ear there ever came the soft whispers of his love--"Fear not: thou art mine"--"_I_ have loved thee with an _everlasting_ love"--"_I_ will _never_ leave thee nor forsake thee," to Adelaide all was darkness and silence. At first Elsie's sympathy was shown in various little kind offices; sitting for hours beside her aunt's couch, gently fanning her, handing her a drink of cold water, bringing her sweet-scented flowers, and anticipating every want. But at last she ventured to speak. "Dear Aunt Adelaide," she whispered, "I am so sorry for you. I wish I knew how to comfort you." "Oh, Elsie!" sobbed the mourner, "there is no comfort for me, I have lost my dearest treasure--my all--and no one cares." "Dear Aunt Adelaide," replied the child timidly, "it is true I am only a little girl, but I do care very much for your grief; and surely your papa and mamma are very sorry for you." Adelaide shook her head mournfully. "They are more glad than sorry," she said, bursting into tears. "Well, dear aunty," said Elsie softly, "there is One who does feel for you, and who is able to comfort you if you will only go to him. One who loved you so well that he died to save you." "No, no, Elsie! not me! He cannot care for me! He cannot love me, or he would never have taken away my Ernest," she sobbed. "Dear Aunt Adelaide," said Elsie's low, sweet voice, "we cannot always tell what is best for us, and will make us happiest in the end. "I remember once when I was a very little child, I was walking with mammy in a part of my guardian's grounds where we seldom went. I was running on before her, and I found a bush with some most beautiful red berries; they looked delicious, and I hastily gathered some, and was just putting them to my mouth when mammy, seeing what I was about, suddenly sprang forward, snatched them out of my hand, threw them on the ground, and tramped upon them; and then tearing up the bushes treated them in the same manner, while I stood by crying and calling her a naughty, cross mammy, to take my nice berries from me." "Well," asked Adelaide, as the little girl paused in her narrative, "what do you mean by your story? You haven't finished it, but, of course, the berries were poisonous." "Yes," said Elsie; "and mammy was wiser than I, and knew that what I so earnestly coveted would do me great injury." "And now for the application," said Adelaide, interrupting her; "you mean that just as mammy was wiser than you, and took your treasure from you in kindness, so God is wise and kind in taking mine from me; but ah! Elsie, the analogy will not hold good; for my good, wise, kind Ernest could never have harmed me as the poisonous berries would you. No, no, no, he always did me good!" she cried with a passionate burst of grief. Elsie waited until she grew calm again, and then said gently, "The Bible says, dear aunty, that God 'does not willingly afflict nor grieve the children of men.' Perhaps he saw that you loved your friend too well, and would never give your heart to Jesus unless he took him away, and so you could only live with him for a little while in this world. But now he has taken him to heaven, I hope--for Lora told me Mr. St. Clair was a Christian--and if you will only come to Jesus and take him for your Saviour, you can look forward to spending a happy eternity there with your friend. "So, dear Aunt Adelaide, may we not believe that God, who is infinitely wise, and good, and kind, has sent you this great sorrow in love and compassion?" Adelaide's only answer was a gentle pressure of the little hand she held, accompanied by a flood of tears. But after that she seemed to love Elsie better than, she ever had before, and to want her always by her side, often asking her to read a chapter in the Bible, a request with which the little girl always complied most gladly. Adelaide was very silent, burying her thoughts almost entirely in her own bosom; but it was evident that the blessed teachings of the holy book were not altogether lost upon her, for the extreme violence of her grief gradually abated, and the expression of her countenance, though still sad, became gentle and patient. And could Elsie thus minister consolation to another, and yet find no lessening of her own burden of sorrow? Assuredly not. She could not repeat to her aunt the many sweet and precious promises of God's holy word, without having them brought home to her own heart with renewed power; she could not preach Jesus to another without finding him still nearer and dearer to her own soul; and though there were yet times when she was almost overwhelmed with grief, she could truly say that the "consolations of God were not small with her." There was often a weary, weary aching at her heart--such an unutterable longing for her father's love and favor as would send her weeping to her knees to plead long and earnestly that this trial might be removed; yet she well knew who had sent it, and was satisfied that it was one of the "_all_ things which shall work together for good to them that love God," and she was at length enabled to say in reference to it: "Thy will, not mine, be done," and to bear her cross with patient submission. But ah! there was many a bitter struggle, first! She had many sad and lonely hours; and there were times when the yearning of the poor little heart for her father's presence, and her father's love, was almost more than weak human nature could endure. Sometimes she would walk her room, wringing her hands and weeping bitterly. "Oh, papa! papa!" she would exclaim, again and again, "how can I bear it? how _can_ I bear it? will you never, never come back? will you never, never love me again?" And then would come up the memory of his words on that sad, sad day, when he left her--"Whenever my little daughter writes to me the words I have so vainly endeavored to induce her to speak, that very day, if possible, I will start for home"--and the thought that it was in her power to recall him at any time; it was but to write a few words and send them to him, and soon he would be with her--he would take her to his heart again, and this terrible trial would be over. The temptation was fearfully strong; the struggle often long and terrible; and this fierce battle had to be fought again and again, and once the victory had wellnigh been lost. She had struggled long; again and again had she resolved that she would not, could not, _dare_ not yield! but vainly she strove to put away the sense of that weary, aching void in her heart--that longing, yearning desire for her father's love. "I cannot bear it! oh, I _cannot_ bear it!" she exclaimed, at length; and seizing a pen, she wrote hastily, and with trembling fingers, while the hot, blinding tears dropped thick and fast upon the paper--"Papa, come back! oh, come to me, and I will be and do all you ask, all you require." But the pen dropped from her fingers, and she bowed her face upon her clasped hands with a cry of bitter anguish. "How can I do this great wickedness and sin against God?" The words darted through her mind like a flash of lightning, and then the words of Jesus seemed to come to her ear in solemn tones: "He that loveth father and mother more than me, is not worthy of me!" "What have I done?" she cried. "Has it come to this, that I must choose between my father and my Saviour? and _can_ I give up the love of Jesus? oh, never, _never_!-- 'Jesus, I my cross have taken _All_ to leave and follow thee.'" she repeated, half aloud, with clasped hands, and an upward glance of her tearful eyes. Then, tearing into fragments what she had just written, she fell on her knees and prayed earnestly for pardon, and for strength to resist temptation, and to be "faithful unto death," that she might "receive the crown of life." When Elsie rapped at her aunt's dressing-room door the next morning, no answer was returned, and after waiting a moment, she softly opened it, and entered, expecting to find her aunt sleeping. But no, though extended upon a couch, Adelaide was not sleeping, but lay with her face buried in the pillows, sobbing violently. Elsie's eyes filled with tears, and softly approaching the mourner, she attempted to soothe her grief with words of gentle, loving sympathy. "Oh! Elsie, you cannot feel for me; it is impossible!" exclaimed her aunt passionately. "_You_ have never known sorrow to be compared to mine! You have never loved, and lost--you have known none but mere childish griefs." "'The heart knoweth his own bitterness!'" thought Elsie, silent tears stealing down her cheeks, and her breast heaving with emotion. "Dear Aunt Adelaide," she said in tremulous tones, "_I_ think I _can_ feel for you. Have I not known _some_ sorrow? Is it nothing that I have pined all my life long for a mother's love? nothing to have been separated from the dear nurse, who had almost supplied her place? Oh, Aunt Adelaide!" she continued, with a burst of uncontrollable anguish, "is it nothing, _nothing_ to be separated from my beloved father, my dear, only parent, whom I love better than my life--to be refused even a parting caress--to live month after month, and year after year under his frown--and to fear that his love may be lost to me forever? Oh! papa, papa, will you never, _never_ love me again?" she cried, sinking on her knees, and covering her face with her hands, while the tears trickled fast between the slender fingers. Her aunt's presence was for the moment entirely forgotten, and she was alone with her bitter grief. Adelaide looked at her with a good deal of surprise. She had never before seen her give way to such a burst of sorrow, for Elsie was usually calm in the presence of others. "Poor child!" she said, drawing the little girl towards her, and gently pushing back the hair from her forehead, "I should not have said that; you have your own troubles, I know; hard enough to bear, too. I think Horace is really cruel, and if I were you, Elsie, I would just give up loving him entirely, and never care for his absence or his displeasure." "Oh, Aunt Adelaide! not love my own dear papa? I _must_ love him! I could not help it if I would--no, not even if he were going to kill me; and please don't blame him; he does not mean to be cruel. But oh! if he would only love me!" sobbed the little girl. "I am sure he does, Elsie, if that is any comfort; here is a letter from him; he speaks of you in the postscript; you may take it to your room and read it, if you like," replied her aunt, putting a letter into Elsie's hand. "Go now, child, and see if you can extract any comfort from it." Elsie replied with a gush of tears and a kiss of thanks, for her little heart was much too full for speech. Clasping the precious letter tightly in her hand, she hastened to her own room and locked herself in. Then drawing it from the envelope, she kissed the well-known characters again and again, dashing away the blinding tears ere she could see to read. It was short; merely a letter of condolence to Adelaide, expressing a brother's sympathy in her sorrow; but the postscript sent one ray of joy to the little sad heart of his daughter. "Is Elsie well? I cannot altogether banish a feeling of anxiety regarding her health, for she was looking pale and thin when I left home. I trust to _you_, my dear sister, to send _immediately_ for a physician, and also to write at once should she show any symptoms of disease. Remember she is my _only_ and darling child--very near and dear to me still, in spite of the sad estrangement between us." "Ah! then papa has not forgotten me! he does love me still--he calls me his darling child," murmured the little girl, dropping her tears upon the paper. "Oh, how glad, how glad I am! surely he will come back to me some day;" and she felt that she would be very willing to be sick if that would hasten his return. CHAPTER X. "In this wild world the fondest and the best Are the most tried, most troubled, and distress'd." CRABBE. It was about a week after this that Elsie's grandfather handed her a letter directed to her in her father's handwriting, and the little girl rushed away to her room with it, her heart beating wildly between hope and fear. Her hand trembled so that she could scarcely tear it open, and her eyes were so dimmed with tears that it was some moments before she could read a line. It was kind, yes, even affectionate, and in some parts tender. But ah! it has brought no comfort to the little girl! else why does she finish with a burst of tears and sobs, and sinking upon her knees, hide her face in her hands, crying with a bitter, wailing cry, "Oh, papa! papa! papa!" He told her of the estate he had purchased, and the improvements he had been making; of a suite of rooms he had had prepared and furnished expressly for her, close to his own apartments--and of the pleasant home he hoped they would have there together, promising to dispense with a governess and teach her himself, for that he knew she would greatly prefer. He drew a bright picture of the peaceful, happy life they might lead; but finished by telling her that the condition was entire, unconditional submission on her part, and the alternative a boarding-school, at a distance from home and friends. He had, on separating her from her nurse, forbidden her to hold any communication with her, or even to ride in the direction of the Oaks--as his estate was called--and Elsie had scrupulously obeyed him; but now he bade her go and see the lovely home and beautiful apartments he had prepared for her, and judge for herself of the happiness she might enjoy there--loved, and caressed, and taught by him--and then decide. "If she were ready to give up her wilfulness," he wrote, "she might answer him immediately; and he would then return and their new home should receive them, and their new life begin at once. But if she were still inclined to be stubborn and rebellious, she must take a month to consider, ere he would receive her reply." Ah! to little Elsie it was a most enchanting picture he had drawn. To live in her father's house--his own home and hers--to be his constant and loved companion--to exchange Miss Day's teaching for his--to walk, to ride, to sit with him--in a word, to live in the sunshine of his love--oh, it would be paradise upon earth! And then the alternative! Oh, how dreadful seemed to the shrinking, sensitive child, the very thought of being sent away amongst entire strangers, who could not be expected to care for her, or love her; who would have no sympathy with her highest hopes and desires, and instead of assisting her to walk in the narrow way, would strive to turn her feet aside into the paths of worldly conformity and sin: for, alas! she well knew it was only to the care of such persons her father would be likely to commit her, wishing, as he did, to root out of her mind what he was pleased to call the "narrow prejudices of her unfortunate early training." Poor child! she shrank from it in terror and dismay. But should she choose that which her poor, hungry heart so yearned for--the home with her father--she must pledge herself to take as her rule of faith and practice, _not_ God's holy word, which had hitherto been her guide-book, but her father's wishes and commands, which she well knew would often be entirely opposed to its teachings. It was indeed a hard choice; but Elsie could not hesitate where the path of duty was so plain. She seemed to hear a voice saying to her: "This is the way, walk ye in it." "We ought to obey God rather than men." "Ah!" she murmured, "I _cannot_ do this great wickedness and sin against God, for if my earthly father's frown is so dreadful, so _very_ hard to bear, how much worse would be my heavenly Father's? But, oh, that boarding-school! How can I ever endure its trials and temptations? I am so weak and sinful! Ah! if papa would but spare me this trial--if he would only let me stay at home--but he will not--for he has _said_ I must go, and never breaks his word;" and again her tears fell fast, but she dashed them away and took up her Bible. It opened at the fiftieth chapter of Isaiah, and her eye fell upon these words: "For the Lord God will help me: therefore shall I not be confounded: therefore have I set my face like a flint, and I know that I shall not be ashamed. Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness and hath no light? let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God." Ah! here was comfort. "The Lord God will help me!" she repeated; and bowing her face over the holy book she gave thanks for the precious promise, and earnestly, tearfully pleaded that it might be fulfilled unto her. Then rising from her knees, she bathed her eyes and rang for Fanny to prepare her for her ride. It was the usual hour for it, her horse was already at the door, and very soon the little girl might have been seen galloping up the road towards the Oaks, quite alone, excepting that Jim, her constant attendant, rode some yards in the rear. It was a pleasant summer morning; there had been just rain enough the night before to cool the air and lay the dust, and everything was looking fresh and beautiful--and had the little Elsie's heart been as light and free from care as would have seemed natural to one of her age, she would no doubt have enjoyed her ride extremely. It was but a short one, and the place well known to her, for she had often passed it, though she had never yet been in the grounds. In a few moments she reached the gate, and Jim having dismounted and opened it for her, she rode leisurely up a broad, gravelled carriage-way, which wound about through the grounds, giving the traveller a number of beautiful views ere he reached the house, a large building of dark-gray stone, which stood so far back, and was so entirely hidden by trees and shrubbery, as to be quite invisible from the highway. Now the road was shaded on either hand by large trees, their branches almost meeting overhead, and anon, an opening in their ranks afforded a glimpse of some charming little valley, some sequestered nook amongst the hills, some grassy meadow, or field of golden wheat, or a far-off view of the sea. "Oh, how lovely!" murmured the little girl, dropping the reins on her horse's neck and gazing about her with eyes now sparkling with pleasure, now dimmed with tears; for, alas! these lovely scenes were not for her; at least not now, and it might be, never; and her heart was very sad. At length she reached the house. Chloe met her at the door, and clasped her to her bosom with tears of joy and thankfulness. "Bless de Lord for his goodness in sendin' my chile back to her ole mammy again," she said; "I'se so glad, darlin', so berry glad!" And as she spoke she drew the little girl into a pleasant room, fitted up with books and pictures, couches and easy-chairs and tables, with every convenience for writing, drawing, etc. "Dis am Massa Horace's study," she said, in answer to the eager, inquiring glance Elsie sent round the room, while she removed her hat and habit, and seated her in one of the softly-cushioned chairs; "an' de next room is your own little sittin' room, an' jes de prettiest ever was seen, your ole mammy tinks; and now dat she's got her chile back again she'll be as happy as de day am long." "Oh, mammy," sobbed the child, "I am not to stay." Chloe's look of delight changed to one of blank dismay. "But you are comin' soon, darlin'?" she said inquiringly. "I tink Massa Horace 'tends to be here 'fore long, sartain, kase he's had de whole house fixed up so fine; an' I'se sure he never take so much trouble, an' spend such loads ob money fixin' up such pretty rooms for you, ef he didn't love you dearly, an' 'tend to have you here 'long with himself." Elsie shook her head sorrowfully. "No, mammy, he says not unless I give up my wilfulness, and promise to do exactly as he bids me; and if I will not do that, I am to be sent away to boarding-school." The last words came with a great sob, as she flung herself into Chloe's outstretched arms, and hid her face on her bosom. "Poor darlin'! poor little pet!" murmured the nurse, hugging her tight, while her own tears fell in great drops on the golden curls. "I thought your troubles were all over. I s'posed Massa Horace had found out you wasn't bad after all, an' was comin' right home to live with you in dis beautiful place. But dere, don't, don't you go for to break your little heart 'bout it, dear; I'se sure de good Lord make um all come right in de end." Elsie made no reply, and for a little while they mingled their tears in silence. Then she raised her head, and gently releasing herself from Chloe's embrace, said, "Now, mammy, I must go all about and see everything, for that was papa's command." Chloe silently led the way through halls, parlors, drawing-room, library, dining, sitting and bed-rooms, servants' apartments, kitchen, pantry, and all; then out into the grounds, visiting in turn vegetable and flower gardens, lawn, hot-houses and grapery; and finally, bringing the little girl back to her papa's study, she led her from there into his bed-room and dressing-room, and then to her own apartments, which she had reserved to the last. These were three--bed-room, sitting-room, and dressing-room--all beautifully furnished with every comfort and convenience. Elsie had gazed on all with a yearning heart, and eyes constantly swimming in tears. "Ah! mammy," she exclaimed more than once, "what a lovely, _lovely_ home! how happy we might be here!" The sight of her father's rooms and her own affected her the most, and the tears fell fast as she passed slowly from one to another. Her own little sitting-room was the last; and here sinking down in an easy-chair, she gazed about her silently and tearfully. On one side the windows looked out upon a beautiful flower-garden, while beyond were hills and woods; on the other, glass doors opened out upon a grassy lawn, shaded by large trees, and beyond, far away in the distance, rolled the blue sea; all around her she saw the evidences of a father's thoughtful love; a beautiful piano, a harp, a small work-table, well furnished with every requisite; books, drawing materials--everything to give pleasure and employment; while luxurious couches and easy-chairs invited to rest and repose. Several rare pictures, too, adorned the walls. Elsie was very fond of paintings, and when she had gazed her fill upon the lovely landscape without, she turned from one of these to another with interest and pleasure; but one was covered, and she was in the act of raising her hand to draw aside the curtain, when her nurse stopped her, saying, "Not now, darlin', try de piano first." She opened the instrument as she spoke, and Elsie, running her fingers over the keys, remarked that it was the sweetest-toned she had ever heard. Chloe begged her to play, urging her request on the plea that it was so very long since she had heard her, and she might not have another opportunity soon. Just at that instant a little bird on a tree near the door poured forth his joy in a gush of glad melody, and Elsie, again running her fingers lightly over the keys, sang with touching sweetness and pathos-- "Ye banks an' braes o' bonny Doon, How can ye look sae bright an' fair? How can you sing, ye little bird, An' I sae weary, full of care?" etc. The words seemed to come from her very heart, and her voice, though sweet and clear, was full of tears. Chloe sobbed aloud, and Elsie, looking lovingly at her, said softly, "Don't, dear mammy! I will sing a better one;" and she played and sang-- "He doeth all things well." Then rising, she closed the instrument, saying, "Now, mammy, let me see the picture." Chloe then drew aside the curtain; and Elsie, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, stood for many minutes gazing upon a life-sized and speaking portrait of her father. "Papa! papa!" she sobbed, "my own darling, precious papa! Oh! could you but know how dearly your little Elsie loves you!" "Don't now, darlin'! don't take on so dreadful! It jes breaks your ole mammy's heart to see her chile so 'stressed," Chloe said, passing her arm around the little girl's waist, and laying her head on her bosom. "Oh, mammy, will he ever smile on me again? Shall I ever live with him in this dear home?" sobbed the poor child. "Oh! it is hard, hard to give it all up--to have papa always displeased with me. Oh, mammy, there is such a weary aching at my heart--is it _never_ to be satisfied?" "My poor, poor chile! my poor little pet, I'se _sure_ it'll all come right by-an'-by," replied Chloe soothingly, as soon as emotion would suffer her to speak. "You know it is de Lord that sends all our 'flictions, an' you must 'member de pretty words you was jes a singin', 'He doeth _all_ things well.' He says, 'What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know here after.' De great God can change your father's heart, and 'cline him to 'spect your principles, and I _do_ blieve he will do it." Elsie sobbed out her dread of the boarding-school, with its loneliness and its temptations. "Now don't you go for to be 'fraid of all dat, darlin'," replied her nurse. "Has you forgotten how it says in de good book, 'Lo, I am with you _always_, even unto the end of the world'? an' if _he_ is with you, who can hurt you? Jes _nobody_." A text came to Elsie's mind: "The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms!" and lifting her head, she dashed away her tears. "No," she said, "I will _not_ be afraid; at least I will _try_ not to be. 'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?' But, oh! mammy, I must go now, and I feel as if I were saying farewell to you and this sweet home forever; as if I were never to live in these pretty rooms--never to see them again." "Hush! hush, darlin'! 'tain't never best to borrow trouble, an' I'se sure you'll come back one ob dese days," replied Chloe, forcing herself to speak cheerfully, though her heart ached as she looked into the soft, hazel eyes, all dimmed with tears, and marked how thin and pale the dear little face had grown. Elsie was passing around the room again, taking a farewell look at each picture and piece of furniture; then she stood a moment gazing out over the lawn, to the rolling sea beyond. She was murmuring something to herself, and Chloe started as her ear faintly caught the words: "In my Father's house are many mansions." "Mammy!" said the child, suddenly turning and taking her hand, "look yonder!" and she pointed with her finger. "Do you see that beautiful, tall tree that casts such a thick shade? I want to be buried right there, where papa can see my grave when he sits in here, and think that I am with him yet. When I am gone, mammy, you must tell him that I told you this. It would be so pleasant to be there--it is such a lovely spot, and the distant murmur of the sea seems like a lullaby to sing the weary one to rest." She added, dreamily, "I would like to lie down there now." "Why, what you talkin' 'bout, Miss Elsie? My chile musn't say such tings!" exclaimed Chloe in great alarm. "Your ole mammy 'spects to die long 'nough 'fore you do. You's berry young, an? 'tain't worth while to begin talkin' 'bout dyin' yet." Elsie smiled sadly. "But you know, mammy," she said, "that death often comes to the youngest. Mamma died young, and so may I. I am afraid it isn't right, but sometimes I am so sad and weary that I cannot help longing very much to die, and go to be with her and with Jesus; for they would always love me, and I should never be lonely any more. Oh! mammy, mammy, must we part?--shall I ever see you again?" she cried, throwing herself into her nurse's arms. "God bless an' keep you, darlin'!" Chloe said, folding her to her heart; "de good Lord take care ob my precious lamb, an' bring her back to her ole mammy again, 'fore long." Elsie shut herself into her own room on her return to Roselands, and was not seen again that day by any one but her maid, until just at dusk Adelaide rapped softly at her door. Elsie's voice, in a low, tremulous tone, answered, "Come in," and Adelaide entered. The little girl was just in the act of closing her writing-desk, and her aunt thought she had been weeping, but the light was so uncertain that she might have been mistaken. "My poor darling!" she said in low, pitiful accents, as, passing her arm around the child's waist, she drew her down to a seat beside herself upon the sofa. Elsie did not speak, but dropping her head upon Adelaide's shoulder, burst into tears. "My poor child! don't cry so; better days will come," said her aunt soothingly, running her fingers through Elsie's soft curls. "I know what has been the trial of to-day," she continued, still using the same gentle, caressing tone, "for I, too, had a letter from your papa, in which he told me what he had said to you. You have been to see your new home. I have seen it several times and think it very lovely, and some day I hope and expect you and your papa will be very happy there." Elsie shook her head sorrowfully. "Not _now_, I know," said Adelaide, "for I have no need to ask what your decision has been; but I am hoping and praying that God may work the same change in your father's views and feelings which has been lately wrought in mine; and then he will love you all the better for your steadfast determination to obey God rather than man." "Oh, Aunt Adelaide! will it _ever_ be?" sighed the poor child; "the time seems so very long! It is so dreadful to live without my papa's love!" "He does love you, Elsie, and I really think he suffers nearly as much as you do; but he thinks he is right in what he requires of you, and he is so very determined, and so anxious to make a gay, fashionable woman of you--cure you of those absurd, puritanical notions, as he expresses it--that I fear he will never relent until his heart is changed; but God is able to do that." "Oh, Aunt Adelaide!" said the little girl mournfully, "pray for me, that I may be enabled to wait patiently until that time shall come, and never permitted to indulge rebellious feelings towards papa." Adelaide kissed her softly. "Poor child!" she whispered, "it is a hard trial; but try, dearest, to remember who sends it." She was silent a moment; then said, reluctantly, "Elsie, your papa has entrusted me with a message to you, which I was to deliver after your visit to the Oaks, unless you had then come to the resolution to comply with his wishes, or rather, his commands." She paused, and Elsie, trembling, and almost holding her breath, asked fearfully, "What is it, Aunt Adelaide?" "Poor darling!" murmured Adelaide, clasping the little form more closely, and pressing her lips to the fair brow; "I wish I could save you from it. He says that if you continue obdurate, he has quite determined to send you to a convent to be educated." As Adelaide made this announcement, she pitied the child from the bottom of her heart; for she knew that much of Elsie's reading had been on the subject of Popery and Papal institutions; that she had pored over histories of the terrible tortures of the Inquisition and stories of martyrs and captive nuns, until she had imbibed an intense horror and dread of everything connected with that form of error and superstition. Yet, knowing all this, Adelaide was hardly prepared for the effect of her communication. "Oh, Aunt Adelaide!" almost shrieked the little girl, throwing her arms around her aunt's neck, and clinging to her, as if in mortal terror, "Save me! save me! Oh! tell papa I would rather he would kill me at once, than send me to such a place." And she wept and sobbed, and wrung her hands in such grief and terror, that Adelaide grew absolutely frightened. "They will not dare to hurt you, Elsie," she hastened to say. "Oh, they will! they will!--they will try to make me go to mass, and pray to the Virgin, and bow to the crucifixes; and when I refuse, they will put me in a dungeon and torture me." "Oh, no, child," replied Adelaide soothingly, "they will not _dare_ to do so to _you_, because you will not be a nun, but only a boarder, and your papa would be sure to find it all out." "No, no!" sobbed the little girl, "they will hide me from papa when he comes, and tell him that I want to take the veil, and refuse to see him; or else they will say that I am dead and buried. Oh, Aunt Adelaide, beg him not to put me there! I shall go crazy! I feel as if I were going crazy now!" and she put her hand to her head. "Poor, poor child!" said Adelaide, weeping. "I wish it was in my power to help you. I would once have advised you to submit to all your father requires. I cannot do that now, but I will return some of your lessons to me. It is God, my poor darling, who sends you this trial, and he will give you strength according to your day. _He_ will be with you, wherever you are, even should it be in a convent; for you know he says: '_I_ will _never_ leave thee, nor forsake thee;' and 'not a hair of your head shall fall to the ground without your Father.'" "Yes, I know! I know!" Elsie answered, again pressing her hands to her head; "but I cannot think, and everything seems so dreadful." Adelaide was much alarmed, for Elsie looked quite wild for a moment; but after staying with her for a considerable time, saying all she could to soothe and comfort her--reminding her that it would be some weeks ere the plan could be carried out, and that in that time something might occur to change her father's mind, she left her, though still in deep distress, apparently calm and composed. CHAPTER XI. "In vain she seeks to close her weary eyes, Those eyes still swim incessantly in tears-- Hope in her cheerless bosom fading dies, Distracted by a thousand cruel fears, While banish'd from his love forever she appears." MRS. TIGHE'S PSYCHE. When thus alone the little Elsie fell upon her knees, weeping and sobbing. "Oh!" she groaned, "I cannot, _cannot_ bear it!" Then she thought of the agony in the garden, and that bitter cry, "Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me!" followed by the submissive prayer, "If this cup may not pass from me except I drink it, thy will, not mine be done." She opened her Bible and read of his sufferings, so meekly and patiently borne, without a single murmur or complaint; borne by One who was free from all stain of sin; born not for himself, but for others; sufferings to which her own were not for a moment to be compared; and then she prayed that she might bear the image of Jesus; that like him she might be enabled to yield a perfect submission to her heavenly Father's will, and to endure with patience and meekness whatever trial he might see fit to appoint her. Elsie was far from well, and for many long hours after she had sought her pillow she lay tossing restlessly from side to side in mental and physical pain, her temples throbbing, and her heart aching with its intense longing for the love that now seemed farther from her than ever. And thought--troubled, anxious, distracting thought--was busy in her brain; all the stories of martyrs and captive nuns which she had ever read--all the descriptions of the horrible tortures inflicted by Rome upon her wretched victims, came vividly to her recollection, and when at length she fell asleep, it was but to wake again, trembling with fright from a dream that she was in the dungeons of the Inquisition. Then again she slept, but only to dream of new horrors which seemed terribly real even when she awoke; and thus, between sleeping and waking, the hours dragged slowly along, until at last the day dawned, after what had seemed to the little girl the longest night she had ever known. Her maid came in at the usual hour, and was surprised and alarmed to find her young mistress still in bed, with cheeks burning and eyes sparkling with fever, and talking in a wild, incoherent manner. Rushing out of the room, Fanny hastened in search of Miss Adelaide, who, she had long since discovered, was the only one of the family that cared for Elsie; and in a few moments the young aunt was standing at the bedside, looking with tearful eyes at the little sufferer. "Oh, Miss Adelaide!" whispered the girl, "I tink she's _berry_ sick; shan't we send for de doctah?" "Yes, tell Jim to go for him _immediately_, and to stop on his way back and tell Aunt Chloe that she is wanted here just as soon as she can possibly come," replied Adelaide quickly, and then she set herself to work to make the child as comfortable as possible, remaining beside her until Chloe came to take her place, which was in less than an hour after she had received the summons, and just as the breakfast-bell rang at Roselands. "So Elsie has taken a fever, and there is no knowing what it is, or whether it is contagious or not," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore. "It is really fortunate that we were just going away for our summer trip. I shall take all the children now, and we will start this very day; what a good thing it is that Elsie has kept her room so constantly of late! Can you pack in time for the afternoon train, Adelaide?" "I shall not go now, mamma," replied Adelaide quietly. "Why not?" asked her mother in a tone of surprise. "Because I prefer to stay with Elsie." "What absurd folly!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinsmore. "Aunt Chloe will do everything that is necessary, and you don't know to what infection you may be exposing yourself." "I don't think there is any danger, mamma; and if Elsie should be very ill Aunt Chloe will need assistance; and I am not willing to leave Horace's child to the care of servants. Elsie has been a great comfort to me in my sorrow," she added, with tears in her eyes, "and I will not forsake her now; and you know, mamma, it is no self-denial, for I have no heart for gayety. I would _much_ rather stay." "Certainly; stay if you like," answered her father, speaking for the first time. "I do not imagine that Elsie's disease is contagious; she has doubtless worried herself sick, and it would not look well to the neighbors for us all to run away and leave the child so ill. Ah! there is the doctor, and we will have his opinion," he exclaimed, as through the half-open door he caught a glimpse of the family physician descending the stairs. "Ask him in to breakfast, Pomp. Good-morning, doctor! how do you find your patient?" "I think her quite a sick child, sir, though of the precise nature of her disease I am not yet able to form a decided opinion," replied the physician, accepting the offered seat at the table. "Is it anything contagious?" inquired Mrs. Dinsmore anxiously. "I cannot yet say certainly, madam, but I think not." "Shall we send for Horace? that is, would you advise it?" asked Mr. Dinsmore hesitatingly. "Oh, no," was the reply; "not until we have had more time to judge whether she is likely to be very ill; it may prove but a slight attack." "I shall write this very day," was Adelaide's mental resolve, though she said nothing. Mrs. Dinsmore hurried her preparations, and the middle of the afternoon found Adelaide and Elsie sole occupants of the house, with the exception of the servants. Adelaide watched the carriage as it rolled away, and then, with feelings of sadness and desolation, and a mind filled with anxious forebodings, returned to her station at Elsie's bedside. The child was tossing about, moaning, and talking incoherently, and Adelaide sighed deeply at the thought that this was perhaps but the beginning of a long and serious illness, while she was painfully conscious of her own inexperience and want of skill in nursing. "Oh!" she exclaimed half aloud, "if I only had some kind, experienced friend to advise and assist me, what a blessed relief it would be!" There was a sound of carriage-wheels on the gravel walk below, and hastily turning to Chloe, she said, "Go down and tell them I must be excused. I cannot see visitors while my little niece is so very ill." Chloe went, but returned almost immediately, followed by Mrs. Travilla. With a half-smothered exclamation of delight, Adelaide threw herself into the kind, motherly arms extended to receive her, and burst into tears. Mrs. Travilla let them have their way for a moment, while she stroked her hair caressingly, and murmured a few soothing words. Then she said, softly, "Edward called at the gate this morning, and learned all about it; and I knew you were but young, and would feel lonely and anxious, and I love the dear child as if she were my own, and so I have come to stay and help you nurse her, if you will let me." _"Let_ you! dear Mrs. Travilla; I can never repay your kindness." Mrs. Travilla only smiled, and pressed the hand she held; and then quietly laying aside her bonnet and shawl, took up her post at the bedside, with the air of one quite at home, and intending to be useful. "It is such an inexpressible relief to see you sitting there," whispered Adelaide. "You don't know what a load you have taken off my mind." But before Mrs. Travilla could reply, Elsie started up in the bed, with a wild outcry: "Oh, don't, papa! don't send me there! They will kill me! they will torture me! Oh, let me stay at home with you, and I will be very good." Mrs. Travilla spoke soothingly to her, and persuaded her to lie down again. Elsie looked at her quite rationally, and holding out her hand, with a faint smile, said: "Thank you, Mrs. Travilla; you are very kind to come to see me; I am very sick; my head hurts me so;" and she put her hand up to it, while again her eyes rolled wildly, and she shrieked out, "Oh, Aunt Adelaide! save me! save me! don't let them take me away to that dreadful place! Must I go now? to-day?" she asked in piteous accents. "Oh! I don't want to go!" and she clung shuddering to her aunt, who was bending over her, with eyes swimming in tears. "No, darling, no," she said, "no one shall take you away; nobody shall hurt you." Then in answer to Mrs. Travilla's inquiring look, she explained, speaking in an undertone: "He had decided to place her in a convent, to complete her education. I told her of it last night," she added mournfully, "as he requested, and I very much fear that the fright and terror she suffered on that account have helped to bring on this attack." "Poor, dear, precious lamb!" sighed Chloe, who stood at the foot of the bed, gazing sadly at her nursling, and wiping away tear after tear, as they chased each other down her sable cheek. "I wish Massa Horace could see her now. I'se sure he nebber say such cruel tings no more." "He ought surely to be here! You have sent for him, Adelaide?" Mrs. Travilla said inquiringly. "She is very ill, and it is of great importance that her mind should be set at rest, if indeed it _can_ be done at present." "I wrote this morning," Adelaide said, "and I shall write every day until he comes." Elsie caught the words, and turning with an eager look to her aunt, she again spoke quite rationally, "Are you writing to papa, Aunt Adelaide?" she asked. "Oh! _beg_ him to come home soon, _very_ soon; tell him I want to see him once more. Oh, Aunt Adelaide, he _will_ kiss me when I am dying, won't he? Oh, say you think he will." "I am _sure_ of it, darling," replied Adelaide soothingly, as she bent down and kissed the little feverish cheek; "but we are not going to let you die yet." "But will you ask papa? will you _beg_ him to come?" pleaded the little voice still more eagerly. "I will, I _have_, darling," replied the aunt; "and I doubt not that he will start for home immediately on receiving my letter." Day after day the fever raged in Elsie's veins, and when at length it was subdued, it left her very weak indeed; but the doctor pronounced her free from disease, and said she only needed good nursing and nutritious diet to restore her to health; and Mrs. Travilla and Chloe, who had watched day and night by her couch with intense anxiety, wept for joy and thankfulness that their precious one was yet spared to them. But alas! their hopes faded again, as day after day the little girl lay on her bed, weak and languid, making no progress toward recovery, but rather losing strength. The doctor shook his head with a disappointed air, and drawing Adelaide aside, said, "I cannot understand it, Miss Dinsmore; has she any mental trouble? She seems to me like one who has some weight of care or sorrow pressing upon her, and sapping the very springs of life. She appears to have no desire to recover; she needs something to rouse her, and revive her love of life. _Is_ there anything on her mind? If so, it must be removed, or she will certainly die." "She is very anxious to see her father," said Adelaide, weeping. "Oh, _how_ I wish he would come! I cannot imagine what keeps him. I have written again and again." "I wish he was here, indeed," replied the doctor, with a look of great anxiety. "Miss Adelaide," he suddenly exclaimed, "if she were ten years older I should say she was dying of a broken heart, but she is so young the idea is absurd." "You are right, doctor! it is nothing but that. Oh! how I wish Horace would come!" cried Adelaide, walking up and down the room, and wringing her hands. "Do you notice, doctor," she asked, stopping before him, "how she watches the opening of the door, and starts and trembles at every sound? It is killing her, for she is too weak to bear it. Oh! If Horace would only come, and set her mind at rest! He has been displeased with her, and threatened to send her to a convent, of which she has a great horror and dread--and she idolizes him; and so his anger and his threats have had this sad effect upon her, poor child!" "Write again, Miss Adelaide, and tell him that her _life_ depends upon his speedy return and a reconciliation with him. If he would not lose her he must at _once_ relieve her of every fear and anxiety," said the physician, taking up his hat. "_That_ is the medicine she needs, and the _only_ one that will do her much good. Good-morning. I will be in again at noon." And Adelaide, scarcely waiting to see him off, rushed away to her room to write to her brother exactly what he had told her, beseeching him, if he had any love for his child, to return immediately. The paper was all blistered with her tears, for they fell so fast it was with difficulty she could see to write. "_She_ has spoken from the first as though it were a settled thing that this sickness was to be her last; and now a great, a terrible dread is coming over me that she is right. Oh, Horace, will you not come and save her?" Thus Adelaide closed her note; then sealing and despatching it, she returned to the bedside of her little niece. Elsie lay quietly with her eyes closed, but there was an expression of pain upon her features. Mrs. Travilla sat beside her, holding one little hand in hers, and gazing with tearful eyes upon the little wan face she had learned to love so well. Presently those beautiful eyes unclosed, and turned upon her with an expression of anguish that touched her to the very heart. "What is it, darling--are you in pain?" she asked, leaning over her, and speaking in tones of the tenderest solicitude. "Oh! Mrs. Travilla," moaned the little girl, "my sins--my sins--they are so many--so black. 'Without holiness no man shall see the Lord.' God says it; and I--I am _not_ holy--I am _vile_--oh, _so_ vile, so sinful! Shall I ever see his face? how can I dare to venture into his presence!" She spoke slowly, gaspingly--her voice sometimes sinking almost to a whisper; so that, but for the death-like stillness of the room, her words would scarcely have been audible. Mrs. Travilla's tears were falling very fast, and it was a moment ere she could command her voice to reply. "My precious, _precious_ child," she said, "_He_ is able to save to the _uttermost_. 'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from _all_ sin.' He will wash you in that precious fountain opened for sin, and for all uncleanness. He will clothe you with the robe of his own righteousness, and present you faultless before the throne of God, without spot or wrinkle, or any such thing. _He_ has said it, and shall it not come to pass, my darling? Yes, dear child, I am confident of this very thing, that he who has begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ." "Oh, yes, he will, I know he will. Precious Jesus! _my_ Saviour," murmured the little one, a smile of heavenly peace and joy overspreading her features; and, closing: her eyes, she seemed to sleep, while Adelaide, unable longer to control her feelings, stole softly from the room, to seek a place where she might weep without restraint. An hour later Adelaide sat alone by the bedside, Mrs. Travilla having found it necessary to return to Ion for a few hours, while Chloe had gone down to the kitchen to see to the preparation of some new delicacy with which she hoped to tempt Elsie's failing appetite. Adelaide had been sitting for some moments gazing sadly at the little pale, thin face, so fair, so sad, yet so full of meekness and resignation. Her eyes filled as she looked, and thought of all that they feared. "Elsie, darling! precious little one," she murmured in low, tremulous tones, as she leant over the child in tender solicitude. "Dear Aunt Adelaide, how kind you are to me," said the little girl, opening her eyes and looking up lovingly into her aunt's face. There was a sound of carriage-wheels. "Is it my papa?" asked Elsie, starting and trembling. Adelaide sprang to the window. No, it was only a kind neighbor, come to inquire how the invalid was. A look of keen disappointment passed over the expressive countenance of the little girl--the white lids drooped over the soft eyes, and large tears stole from beneath the long dark lashes, and rolled silently down her cheeks. "He will not come in time," she whispered, as if talking to herself. "Oh, papa, I want to hear you say you forgive all my naughtiness. I want one kiss before I go. Oh, take me in your arms, papa, and press me to your heart, and say you love me yet!" Adelaide could bear it no longer; the mournful, pleading tones went to her very heart. "Dear, _dear_ child," she cried, bending over her with streaming eyes, "he _does_ love you! I _know_ it. _You_ are the very idol of his heart; and you must not die. Oh, darling, live for his sake, and for mine. He will soon, be here, and then it will be all right; he will be so thankful that he has not lost you, that he will never allow you to be separated from him again." "No, oh, no! he said he did not love a rebellious child," she sobbed; "he said he would never kiss me again until I submit; and you know I cannot do that; and oh, Aunt Adelaide, _he never breaks his word_!" "Oh, Horace! Horace! will you _never_ come? will you let her die? so young, so sweet, so fair!" wept Adelaide, wringing her hands. But Elsie was speaking again, and she controlled herself to listen. "Aunt Adelaide," she murmured, in low, feeble tones, "I am too weak to hold a pen; will you write something for me?" "I will, darling; I will do anything I can for you," she replied. Then turning to the maid, who had just entered the room: "Fanny," she said, "bring Miss Elsie's writing-desk here, and set it close to the bedside. Now you may take that waiter down-stairs, and you need not come in again until I ring for you." Elsie had started and turned her head on the opening of the door, as she invariably did, looking longingly, eagerly toward it--then turned away again with a sigh of disappointment. "Poor papa! poor, dear papa!" she murmured to herself; "he will be so lonely without his little daughter. My heart aches for you, my own papa." "I am quite ready now, Elsie, dear. What do you wish me to write?" asked her aunt. "Aunt Adelaide," said the little girl, looking earnestly at her, "do you know how much mamma was worth? how much money I would have if I lived to grow up?" "No, dear," she replied, much surprised at the question, for even in health Elsie had never seemed to care for riches; "I cannot say exactly, but I know it is a great many thousands." "And it will all be papa's when I am gone, I suppose. I am glad of that. But I would like to give some of it away, if I might. I know I have no _right_, because I am so young--papa has told me that several times--but I think he will like to do what I wish with a part of it; don't you think so, too, Aunt Adelaide?" Adelaide nodded assent; she dared not trust herself to speak, for she began to comprehend that it was neither more nor less than the last will and testament of her little niece, which she was requesting her to write. "Well, then, Aunt Adelaide," said the feeble little voice, "please write down that I want my dear papa to support one missionary to the heathen out of my money. Now say that I know he will take care of my poor old mammy as long as she lives, and I hope that, for his little Elsie's sake, he will be very, _very_ kind to her, and give her everything she wants. And I want him to do something for Mrs. Murray, too. Mamma loved her, and so do I; for she was very kind to me always, and taught me about Jesus; and so I want papa to give her a certain sum every year; enough to keep her quite comfortable, for she is getting old, and I am afraid she is very poor." "I have written all that, Elsie; is there anything more?" asked Adelaide, scarcely able to command her voice. "Yes, if you please," replied the little girl; and she went on to name every member of the family, from her grandfather down--servants included--setting apart some little gift for each; most of them things already in her possession, though some few were to be bought, if her papa was willing. Even Miss Day was not forgotten, and to her Elsie bequeathed a valuable ring. To her Aunt Adelaide she gave her papa's miniature, a lock of her own hair, and a small Testament. "Are you really willing to part with your papa's picture, Elsie, dear?" asked Adelaide. "I thought you valued it very highly." "I cannot take it with me, dear Aunt Adelaide," was the quiet reply, "and he will not want it himself, and I believe you love him better than any one else. Oh, Aunt Adelaide, comfort my poor papa when I am gone, and he is left _all alone_!" she exclaimed, the big tears chasing each other down her cheeks. "It is so sad to be alone, with nobody to love you; my poor, poor papa! I am all he has." "You have given nothing to him, Elsie," said Adelaide, wiping away her tears, and glancing over what she had just written. "Yes, there is a little packet in my desk directed to him. Please give him that, and my dear, precious little Bible. I can't part with it yet, but when I am gone." She then mentioned that she had pointed out to her nurse the spot where she wished to be buried, and added that she did not want any monument, but just a plain white stone with her name and age, and a text of Scripture. "That is all, and thank you very much, dear auntie," she said, when Adelaide had finished writing down her directions; "now, please put the pen in my fingers and hold the paper here, and I think I can sign my name." She did so quite legibly, although her hand trembled with weakness; and then, at her request, the paper was folded, sealed, and placed in her desk, to be given after her death to her father, along with the packet. It was evidently a great relief to Elsie to get these things off her mind, yet talking so long had exhausted all her little strength, and Adelaide, much alarmed at the death-like pallor of her countenance, and the sinking of her voice, now insisted that she should lie quiet and try to sleep. Elsie made an effort to obey, but her fever was returning, and she was growing very restless again. "I cannot, Aunt Adelaide," she said at length, "and I want to tell you a little more to say to papa, for I may not be able again. I am afraid he will not come until I am gone, and he will be so sorry; my poor, poor papa! Tell him that I loved him to the very last; that I longed to ask him to forgive me for all the naughty, rebellious feelings I have ever had towards him. Twice, since he has been displeased with me, I have rebelled in my heart--once when he refused to give me Miss Allison's letter, and again when he sent mammy away; it was only for a few moments each time; but it was very wicked, and I am very sorry." Sobs choked her utterance. "Poor darling!" said Adelaide, crying bitterly. "I don't think an angel could have borne it better, and I know he will reproach himself for his cruelty to you." "Oh, Aunt Adelaide, _don't_ say that; don't _let_ him reproach himself, but say all you can to comfort him. I am his child--he had a right--and he only wanted to make me good--and I needed it all, or God would not have permitted it." "Oh, Elsie, darling, I _cannot_ give you up! you _must not_ die!" sobbed Adelaide, bending over her, her tears falling fast on Elsie's bright curls. "It is too hard to see you die so young, and with so much to live for." "It is very _sweet_ to go home so soon," murmured the soft, low voice of the little one, "so sweet to go and live with Jesus, and be free from sin forever!" Adelaide made no reply, and for a moment her bitter sobbing was the only sound that broke the stillness of the room. "Don't cry so, dear auntie," Elsie said faintly. "I am very happy--only I want to see my father." She added something incoherently, and Adelaide perceived, with excessive alarm, that her mind was again beginning to wander. She hastily summoned a servant and despatched a message to the physician, urging him to come immediately, as there was an alarming change in his patient. Never in all her life had Adelaide suffered such anxiety and distress as during the next half-hour, which she and the faithful Chloe spent by the bedside, watching the restless tossings of the little sufferer, whose fever and delirium seemed to increase every moment. Jim had not been able to find the doctor, and Mrs. Travilla was staying away longer than she had intended. But at length she came, and, though evidently grieved and concerned at the change in Elsie, her quiet, collected manner calmed and soothed Adelaide. "Oh, Mrs. Travilla," she whispered, "do you think she will die?" "We will not give up hope yet, my dear," replied the old lady, trying to speak cheerfully; "but my greatest comfort, just at present, is the sure knowledge that she is prepared for any event. No one can doubt that she is a lamb of the Saviour's fold, and if he is about to gather her into his bosom--" She paused, overcome by emotion, then added in a tremulous tone, "It will be a sad thing to _us_, no doubt, but to her--dear little one--a blessed, _blessed_ change." "I cannot bear the thought," sobbed Adelaide, "but I have scarcely any hope now, because--" and then she told Mrs. Travilla what they had been doing in her absence. "Don't let that discourage you, my dear," replied her friend soothingly. "I have no faith in presentiments, and while there is life there is hope." Dr. Barton, the physician, came in at that moment, looked at his young patient, felt her pulse, and shook his head sorrowfully. Adelaide watched his face with the deepest anxiety. He passed his hand over Elsie's beautiful curls. "It seems a sad pity," he remarked in a low tone to her aunt, "but they will have to be sacrificed; they must be cut off immediately, and her head shaved." Adelaide shuddered and trembled. "Is there any hope, doctor?" she faltered almost under her breath. "There is _life_ yet, Miss Adelaide," he said, "and we must use all the means within our reach; but I wish her father was here. Have you heard nothing yet?" "No, nothing, nothing!" she answered, in a tone of keen distress; then hastily left the room to give the necessary orders for carrying out the doctor's directions. "No, no, you must not! Papa will not allow it--he will be very angry--he will punish me if you cut off my curls!" and Elsie's little hand was raised in a feeble attempt to push away the remorseless scissors that were severing the bright locks from her head. "No, darling, he will not be displeased, because it is quite necessary to make you well." said Mrs. Travilla in her gentle, soothing tones; "and your papa would bid us do it, if he were here." "No, no, don't cut it off. I _will_ not, I _cannot_ be a nun! Oh, papa, save me! save me!" she shrieked. "Dear child, you are safe at home, with none but friends around you." It was Mrs. Travilla's gentle voice again, and for a moment the child seemed calmed; but only for a moment; another wild fancy possessed her brain, and she cried out wildly, "Don't! don't!--take it away! I will not bow down to images! No, no, I will not." Then, with a bitter, wailing cry, that went to the heart of every one who heard it: "Oh, papa, don't be angry! I will be good! Oh, I am all alone, nobody to love me." "Elsie, darling, we are all here, and we love you dearly, _dearly_," said Adelaide in quivering tones, while her scalding tears fell like rain upon the little hand she had taken in hers. "My papa--I want my papa; but he said he would never kiss me till I submit;" the tone was low and plaintive, and the large mournful eyes were fixed upon Adelaide's face. Then suddenly her gaze was directed upward, a bright smile overspread her features, and she exclaimed in joyous accents, "Yes, mamma, yes; I am coming! I will go with you!" Adelaide turned away and went weeping from the room, unable to bear any more. "Oh, Horace! Horace, what have you done!" she sobbed, as she walked up and down the hall, wringing her hands. The doctor came out, but she was too much absorbed in her grief to notice him. He went to her, however, and took her hand. "Miss Adelaide," he said kindly, "it is true your little niece is very ill, but we will not give up all hope yet. It is possible her father's presence may do something, and surely he will be here ere long. But try to calm yourself, my dear young lady, and hope for the best, or I fear I shall have another patient on my hands. I will stay with the little girl myself to-night, and I wish I could prevail upon you to lie down and take some rest, for I see you need it sadly. Have you had your tea?" Adelaide shook her head. "I _could_ not eat," she said sadly. "You ought at least to _try_; it would do you good," he urged. "No, you will not? well, then, you will lie down; indeed, you must; you will certainly be ill." Adelaide looked the question she dared not ask. "No," he said, "there's no _immediate_ danger, and if there should be any important change I will call you." And, reassured on that point, she yielded to his persuasions and went to bed. CHAPTER XII. "I drink So deep of grief, that he must only think, Not dare to speak, that would express my woe: Small rivers murmur, deep gulfs silent flow." MARSTON'S SOPHONIESA. It was no want of love for his child that had kept Mr. Dinsmore from at once obeying Adelaide's summons. He had left the place where she supposed him to be, and thus it happened that her letters did not reach him nearly so soon as she had expected. But when at length they were put into his hands, and he read of Elsie's entreaty that he would come to her, and saw by the date how long she had been ill, his distress and alarm were most excessive, and within an hour he had set out on his return, travelling night and day with the greatest possible despatch. Strangers wondered at the young, fine-looking man, who seemed in such desperate haste to reach the end of his journey--sat half the time with his watch in his hand, and looked so despairingly wretched whenever the train stopped for a moment. Elsie was indeed, as Adelaide had said, the very idol of his heart; and at times he suffered but little less than she did; but his will was stronger even than his love, and he had fondly hoped that this separation from him would produce the change in her which he so much desired; and had thus far persuaded himself that he was only using the legitimate authority of a parent, and therefore acting quite right; and, in fact, with the truest kindness, because, as he reasoned, she would be happier all her life if once relieved from the supposed necessity of conforming to rules so strict and unbending. But suddenly his eyes seemed to have been opened to see his conduct in a new light, and he called himself a brute, a monster, a cruel persecutor, and longed to annihilate time and space, that he might clasp his child in his arms, tell her how dearly he loved her, and assure her that never again would he require her to do aught against her conscience. Again and again he took out his sister's letters and read and re-read them, vainly trying to assure himself that there was no danger; that she _could_ not be so very ill. "She is so young," he said to himself, "and has always been healthy, it _cannot_ be that she will die." He started and shuddered at the word. "Oh, no! it is impossible!" he mentally exclaimed. "God is too merciful to send me so terrible an affliction." He had not received Adelaide's last, and was therefore quite unprepared to find his child so near the borders of the grave. It was early on the morning of the day after her fearful relapse, that a carriage drove rapidly up the avenue, and Horace Dinsmore looked from its window, half expecting to see again the little graceful figure that had been wont to stand upon the steps of the portico, ready to greet his arrival with such outgushings of joy and love. But, "Pshaw!" he exclaimed to himself, "of course she is not yet able to leave her room; but my return will soon set her up again--the darling! My poor little pet!" he added, with a sigh, as memory brought her vividly before him as he had last seen her, and recalled her sorrowful, pleading looks and words; "my poor darling, you shall have all the love and caresses now that your heart can desire." And he sprang out, glancing up at the windows above, to see if she were not looking down at him; but she was not to be seen; yet it did not strike him as strange that all the shutters were closed, since it was the east side of the house, and a warm summer's sun was shining full upon them. A servant met him at the door, looking grave and sad, but Mr. Dinsmore waited not to ask any questions, and merely giving the man a nod, sprang up the stairs, and hurried to his daughter's room, all dusty and travel-stained as he was. He heard her laugh as he reached the door. "Ah! she must be a great deal better; she will soon be quite well again, now that I have come," he murmured to himself, with a smile, as he pushed it open. But alas! what a sight met his eye. The doctor, Mrs. Travilla, Adelaide, and Chloe, all grouped about the bed, where lay his little daughter, tossing about and raving in the wildest delirium; now shrieking with fear, now laughing an unnatural, hysterical laugh, and so changed that no one could have recognized her; the little face so thin, the beautiful hair of which he had been so proud all gone, the eyes sunken deep in her head, and their soft light changed to the glare of insanity. Could it be Elsie, his own beautiful little Elsie? He could scarcely believe it, and a sickening feeling of horror and remorse crept over him. No one seemed aware of his entrance, for all eyes were fixed upon the little sufferer. But as he drew near the bed, with a heart too full for speech, Elsie's eye fell upon him, and with a wild shriek of mortal terror, she clung to her aunt, crying out, "Oh, save me! save me! he's coming to take me away to the Inquisition! Go away! go away!" and she looked at him with a countenance so full of fear and horror, that the doctor hastily took him by the arm to lead him away. But Mr. Dinsmore resisted. "Elsie! my daughter! it is I! your own father, who loves you dearly!" he said in tones of the keenest anguish, as he bent over her, and tried to take her hand. But she snatched it away, and clung to her aunt again, hiding her face, and shuddering with fear. Mr. Dinsmore groaned aloud, and no longer resisted the physician's efforts to lead him from the room. "It is the delirium of _fever_," Dr. Barton said, in answer to the father's agonized look of inquiry; "she will recover her reason--if she lives." The last words were added in a lower, quicker tone. Mr. Dinsmore covered his face, and uttered a groan of agony. "Doctor, is there _no_ hope?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "Do you wish me to tell you precisely what I think?" asked the physician. "I do! I do! let me know the worst!" was the quick, passionate rejoinder. "Then, Mr. Dinsmore, I will be frank with you. Had you returned one week ago, I think she _might_ have been saved; _possibly_, even had you been here yesterday morning, while she was still in possession of her reason; but now, I see not one ray of hope. I never knew one so low to recover." He started, as Mr. Dinsmore raised his face again, so pale, so haggard, so grief-stricken had it become in that one moment. "Doctor," he said in a hollow, broken voice, "save my child, and you may take all I am worth. I cannot live without her." "I will do all I can," replied the physician in a tone of deep compassion, "but the Great Physician alone can save her. We must look to him." "Doctor," said Mr. Dinsmore hoarsely, "if that child dies, I must go to my grave with the brand of Cain upon me, for I have killed her by my cruelty; and oh! doctor, she is the very light of my eyes--the joy of my heart! How _can_ I give her up? Save her, doctor, and you will be entitled to my everlasting gratitude." "Surely, my dear sir, you are reproaching yourself unjustly," said the physician soothingly, replying to the first part of Mr. Dinsmore's remark. "I have heard you spoken of as a very fond father, and have formed the same opinion from my own observation, and your little girl's evident affection for you." "And I _was_, but in _one_ respect. I insisted upon obedience, even when my commands came in collision with her conscientious scruples; and she was firm; she had the spirit of a martyr--and I was very severe in my efforts to subdue what I called wilfulness and obstinacy," said the distracted father in a voice often, scarcely audible from emotion. "I thought I was right, but now I see that I was fearfully wrong." "There is _life_ yet, Mr. Dinsmore," remarked the doctor compassionately; "and though human skill can do no more, he who raised the dead child of the ruler of the synagogue, and restored the son of the widow of Nain to her arms, can give back your child to your embrace; let me entreat you to go to _him_, my dear sir. And now I must return to my patient. I fear it will be necessary for you to keep out of sight until there is some change, as your presence seems to excite her so much. But do not let that distress you," he added kindly, as he noticed an expression of the keenest anguish sweep over Mr. Dinsmore's features; "it is a common thing in such cases for them to turn away from the very one they love best when in health." Mr. Dinsmore replied only by a convulsive grasp of the friendly hand held out to him, and hurrying away to his own apartments, shut himself up there to give way to his bitter grief and remorse where no human eye could see him. For hours he paced backward and forward, weeping and groaning in such mental agony as he had never known before. His usual fastidious neatness in person and dress was entirely forgotten, and it never once occurred to his recollection that he had been travelling for several days and nights in succession, through heat and dust, without making any change in his clothing. And he was equally unconscious that he had passed many hours without tasting any food. The breakfast-bell rang, but he paid no heed to the summons. Then John, his faithful servant, knocked at his door, but was refused admittance, and went sorrowfully back to the kitchen with the waiter of tempting viands he had so carefully prepared, hoping to induce his master to eat. But Horace Dinsmore could not stay away from his child while she yet lived; and though he might not watch by her bed of suffering, nor clasp her little form in his arms, as he longed to do, he must be where he could hear the sound of that voice, so soon, alas! to be hushed in death. He entered the room noiselessly, and took his station in a distant corner, where she could not possibly see him. She was moaning, as if in pain, and the sound went to his very heart. Sinking down upon a seat, he bowed his head upon his hands, and struggled to suppress his emotion, increased tenfold by the words which the next instant fell upon his ear, spoken in his little daughter's own sweet voice. "Yes, mamma; yes," she said, "I am coming! Take me to Jesus." Then, in a pitiful, wailing tone, "I'm _all alone_! There's nobody to love me. Oh, papa, kiss me just once! I will be good; but I must love Jesus best, and obey him always." He rose hastily, as if to go to her, but the doctor shook his head, and he sank into his seat again with a deep groan. "Oh, papa!" she shrieked, as if in mortal terror, "don't send me there! they will kill me! Oh, papa, have mercy on your own little daughter!" It was only by the strongest effort of his will that he could keep his seat. But Adelaide was speaking soothingly to her. "Darling," she said, "your papa loves you; he will not send you away." And Elsie answered, in her natural tone, "But I'm going to mamma. Dear Aunt Adelaide, comfort my poor papa when I am gone." Her father started, and trembled between hope and fear. Surely she was talking rationally now; but ah! those ominous words! Was she indeed about to leave him, and go to her mother? But she was speaking again in trembling, tearful tones: "He wouldn't kiss me! he said he never would till I submit; and oh! he never breaks his word. Oh! papa, papa, will you _never_ love me any more? I love _you_ so _very_ dearly. You'll kiss me when I'm dying, papa dear, won't you?" Mr. Dinsmore could bear no more, but starting up he would have approached the bed, but a warning gesture from the physician prevented him, and he hurried from the room. He met Travilla in the hall. Neither spoke, but Edward wrung his friend's hand convulsively, then hastily turned away to hide his emotion, while Mr. Dinsmore hurried to his room, and locked himself in. He did not come down to dinner, and Adelaide, hearing from the anxious John how long he had been without food, began to feel seriously alarmed on his account, and carried up a biscuit and a cup of coffee with her own hands. He opened the door at her earnest solicitation, but only shook his head mournfully, saying that he had no desire for food. She urged him, even with tears in her eyes, but all in vain; he replied that "he could not eat; it was impossible." Adelaide had at first felt inclined to reproach him bitterly for his long delay in returning home, but he looked so very wretched, so utterly crushed by the weight of this great sorrow, that she had not the heart to say one reproachful word, but on the contrary longed to comfort him. He begged her to sit down and give him a few moments' conversation. He told her why he had been so long in answering her summons, and how he had travelled night and day since receiving it; and then he questioned her closely about the whole course of Elsie's sickness--every change in her condition, from first to last--all that had been done for her--and all that she had said and done. Adelaide told him everything; dwelling particularly on the child's restless longing for him, her earnest desire to receive his forgiveness and caress before she died, and her entreaties to her to comfort her "dear papa" when she was gone. She told him, too, of her last will and testament, and of the little package which was, after her death, to be given to him, along with her dearly loved Bible. He was deeply moved during this recital, sometimes sitting with his head bowed down, hiding his face in his hands; at others, rising and pacing the floor, his breast heaving with emotion, and a groan of anguish ever and anon bursting from his overburdened heart, in spite of the mighty effort he was evidently making to control himself. But at last she was done; she had told him all that there was to tell, and for a few moments both sat silent, Adelaide weeping quietly, and he striving in vain to be calm. At length he said, in a husky tone, "Sister Adelaide, I can never thank you as you deserve for your kindness to her--my precious child." "Oh, brother!" replied Adelaide, sobbing, "I owe her a debt of gratitude I can never pay. She has been all my comfort in my great sorrow; she has taught me the way to heaven, and now she is going before." Then, with a burst of uncontrollable grief, she exclaimed: "Oh, Elsie! Elsie! darling child! how _can_ I give you up?" Mr. Dinsmore hid his face, and his whole frame shook with emotion. "My punishment is greater than I can bear!" he exclaimed in a voice choked with grief. "Adelaide, do you not despise and hate me for my cruelty to that angel-child?" "My poor brother, I am very sorry for you," she replied, laying her hand on his arm, while the tears trembled in her eyes. There was a light tap at the door. It was Doctor Barton. "Mr. Dinsmore," he said, "she is begging so piteously for her papa that, perhaps, it would be well for you to show yourself again; it is just possible she may recognize you" Mr. Dinsmore waited for no second bidding, but following the physician with eager haste, was the next moment at the bedside. The little girl was moving restlessly about, moaning, "Oh! papa, papa, will you never come?" "I am here, darling," he replied in tones of the tenderest affection. "I _have_ come back to my little girl" She turned her head to look at him. "No, no," she said, "I want my papa." "My darling, do you not know me?" he asked in a voice quivering with emotion. "No, no, you shall not! I will never do it--_never_. Oh! make him go away," she shrieked, clinging to Mrs. Travilla, and glaring at him with a look of the wildest affright, "he has come to torture me because I won't pray to the Virgin." "It is quite useless," said the doctor, shaking his head sorrowfully; "she evidently does not know you." And the unhappy father turned away and left the room to shut himself up again alone with his agony and remorse. No one saw him again that night, and when the maid came to attend to his room in the morning, she was surprised and alarmed to find that the bed had not been touched. Mr. Travilla, who was keeping a sorrowful vigil in the room below, had he been questioned, could have told that there had been scarcely a cessation in the sound of the footsteps pacing to and fro over his head. It had been a night of anguish and heart-searching, such as Horace Dinsmore had never passed through before. For the first time he saw himself to be what he really was in the sight of God, a guilty, hell-deserving sinner--lost, ruined, and undone. He had never believed it before, and the prayers which he had occasionally offered up had been very much in the spirit of the Pharisee's, "God, I thank thee that I am not as other men are!" He had been blessed with a pious mother, who was early taken from him; yet not too early to have had some influence in forming the character of her son; and the faint but tender recollection of that mother's prayers and teachings had proved a safeguard to him in many an hour of temptation, and had kept him from falling into the open vices of some of his less scrupulous companions. But he had been very proud of his morality and his upright life, unstained by any dishonorable act. He had always thought of himself as quite deserving of the prosperity with which he had been blessed in the affairs of this world, and just as likely as any one to be happy in the next. The news of Elsie's illness had first opened his eyes to the enormity of his conduct in relation to her; and now, as he thought of her pure life, her constant anxiety to do right, her deep humility, her love to Jesus, and steadfast adherence to what she believed to be her duty, her martyr-like spirit in parting with everything she most esteemed and valued rather than be guilty of what seemed to others but a very slight infringement of the law of God--as he thought of all this, and contrasted it with his own worldly-mindedness and self-righteousness, his utter neglect of the Saviour, and determined efforts to make his child as worldly as himself, he shrank back appalled at the picture, and was constrained to cry out in bitterness of soul: "God be merciful to me, a sinner." It was the first _real_ prayer he had ever offered. He would fain have asked for the life of his child, but dared not; feeling that he had so utterly abused his trust that he richly deserved to have it taken from him. The very thought was agony; but he dared not ask to have it otherwise. He had given up all hope that she would be spared to him, but pleaded earnestly that one lucid interval might be granted her, in which he could tell her of his deep sorrow on account of his severity toward her, and ask her forgiveness. He did not go down to breakfast, but Adelaide again brought him some refreshment, and at length he yielded to her entreaties that he would try to eat a little. She set down the salver, and turned away to hide the tears she could not keep back. Her heart ached for him. She had never seen such a change in a few hours as had passed over him. He seemed to have grown ten years older in that one night--he was so pale and haggard--his eyes so sunken in his head, and there were deep, hard lines of suffering on his brow and around his mouth. His meal was soon concluded. "Adelaide, how is she?" he asked in a voice which he vainly endeavored to make calm and steady. "Much the same; there seems to be very little change," replied his sister, wiping away her tears. Then drawing Elsie's little Bible from her pocket, she put it into his hand, saying, "I thought it might help to comfort you, my poor brother;" and with a fresh burst of tears she hastily left the room and hurried to her own, to spend a few moments in pleading for him that this heavy affliction might be made the means of leading him to Christ. And he--ah! he could not at first trust himself even to look at the little volume that had been so constantly in his darling's hands, that it seemed almost a part of herself. He held it in a close, loving grasp, while his averted eyes were dim with unshed tears; but at length, passing his hand over them to clear away the blinding mist, he opened the little book and turned over its pages with trembling fingers, and a heart swelling with emotion. There were many texts marked with her pencil, and many pages blistered with her tears. Oh, what a pang that sight sent to her father's heart! In some parts these evidences of her frequent and sorrowful perusal were more numerous than in others. Many of the Psalms, the Lamentations of Jeremiah, and the books of Job and Isaiah, in the Old Testament, and St. John's gospel, and the latter part of Hebrews, in the New. Hour after hour he sat there reading that little book; at first interested in it only because of its association with her--his loved one; but at length beginning to feel the importance of its teachings and their adaptedness to his needs. As he read, his convictions deepened the inspired declaration that "without holiness no man shall see the Lord," and the solemn warning, "See that ye refuse not him that speaketh. For if they escaped not who refused him that spake on earth, much more shall not we escape, if we turn away from him that speaketh from heaven," filled him with fear of the wrath to come; for well he remembered how all his life he had turned away from the Saviour of sinners, despising that blood of sprinkling, and rejecting all the offers of mercy; and he trembled lest he should not escape. Several times during the day and evening he laid the book aside, and stole softly into Elsie's room to learn if there had been any change; but there was none, and at length, quite worn out with fatigue and sorrow--for he had been several nights without any rest--he threw himself down on a couch, and fell into a heavy slumber. About midnight Adelaide came and woke him to say that Elsie had become calm, the fever had left her, and she had fallen asleep. "The doctor," she added, "says this is the crisis, and he begins to have a _little_ hope--very faint, indeed, but still a _hope_--that she may awake refreshed from this slumber; yet it might be--he is fearful it is--only the precursor of death." The last word was almost inaudible. Mr. Dinsmore trembled with excitement. "I will go to her," he said in an agitated tone. "She will not know of my presence, now that she is sleeping, and I may at least have the sad satisfaction of looking at her dear little face." But Adelaide shook her head. "No, no," she replied, "that will never do; for we know not at what moment she may awake, and the agitation she would probably feel at the sight of you would be almost certain to prove fatal. Had you not better remain here? and I will call you the moment she wakes." Mr. Dinsmore acquiesced with a deep sigh, and she went back to her post. Hour after hour they sat there--Mrs. Travilla, Adelaide, the doctor, and poor old Chloe--silent and still as statues, watching that quiet slumber, straining their ears to catch the faint sound of the gentle breathing--a sound so low that ever and anon their hearts thrilled with the sudden fear that it had ceased forever; and one or another, rising noiselessly, would bend over the little form in speechless alarm, until again they caught the low, fitful sound. The first faint streak of dawn was beginning in the eastern sky when the doctor, who had been bending over her for several minutes, suddenly laid his finger on her pulse for an instant; then turned to his fellow-watchers with a look that there was no mistaking. There was weeping and wailing then in that room, where death-like stillness had reigned so long. "Precious, precious child! dear lamb safely gathered into the Saviour's fold," said Mrs. Travilla in quivering tones, as she gently laid her hand upon the closed eyes, and straightened the limbs as tenderly as though it had been a living, breathing form. "Oh, Elsie! Elsie! dear, _dear_ little Elsie!" cried Adelaide, flinging herself upon the bed, and pressing her lips to the cold cheek. "I have only just learned to know your value, and now you are taken from me. Oh! Elsie, darling, precious one; oh! that I had sooner learned your worth! that I had done more to make your short life happy!" Chloe was sobbing at the foot of the bed, "Oh! my child! my child! Oh! now dis ole heart will break for sure!" while the kind-hearted physician stood wiping his eyes and sighing deeply. "Her poor father!" exclaimed Mrs. Travilla at length. "Yes, yes, I will go to him," said Adelaide quickly. "I promised to call him the moment she waked, and _now_--oh, _now_, I must tell him she will never wake again." "No!" replied Mrs. Travilla, "rather tell him that she has waked in heaven, and is even now singing the song of the redeemed." Adelaide turned to Elsie's writing-desk, and taking from it the packet which the child had directed to be given to her father as soon as she was gone, she carried it to him. Her low knock was instantly followed by the opening of the door, for he had been awaiting her coming in torturing suspense. She could not look at him, but hastily thrusting the packet into his hand, turned weeping away. He well understood the meaning of her silence and her tears, and with a groan of anguish that Adelaide never could forget, he shut and locked himself in again; while she hurried to her room to indulge her grief in solitude, leaving Mrs. Travilla and Chloe to attend to the last sad offices of love to the dear remains of the little departed one. The news had quickly spread through the house, and sobs and bitter weeping were heard in every part of it; for Elsie had been dearly loved by all. Chloe was assisting Mrs. Travilla. Suddenly the lady paused in her work, saying, in an agitated tone, "Quick! quick! Aunt Chloe, throw open that shutter wide. I thought I felt a little warmth about the heart, and--yes! yes! I was not mistaken; there _is_ a slight quivering of the eyelid. Go, Chloe! call the doctor! she may live yet!" The doctor was only in the room below, and in a moment was at the bedside, doing all that could be done to fan into a flame that little spark of life. And they were successful. In a few moments those eyes, which they had thought closed forever to all the beauties of earth, opened again, and a faint, weak voice asked for water. The doctor was obliged to banish Chloe from the room, lest the noisy manifestation of her joy should injure her nursling, yet trembling upon the very verge of the grave; and as he did so, he cautioned her to refrain from yet communicating the glad tidings to any one, lest some sound of their rejoicing might reach the sick-chamber, and disturb the little sufferer. And then he and the motherly old lady took their stations at the bedside once more, watching in perfect silence, and administering every few moments a little stimulant, for she was weak as a new-born infant, and only in this way could they keep the flickering flame of life from dying out again. It was not until more than an hour had passed in this way, and hope began to grow stronger in their breasts, until it became almost certainty that Elsie would live, that they thought of her father and aunt, so entirely had their attention been engrossed by the critical condition of their little patient. It was many minutes after Adelaide left him ere Mr. Dinsmore could think of anything but the terrible, crushing blow which had fallen upon him, and his agonized feelings found vent in groans of bitter anguish, fit to melt a heart of stone; but at length he grew somewhat calmer; and as his eye fell upon the little packet he remembered that it was her dying gift to him, and with a deep sigh he took it up and opened it. It contained his wife's miniature--the same that Elsie had always worn suspended from her neck--one of the child's glossy ringlets, severed from her head by her own little hands the day before she was taken ill--and a letter, directed in her handwriting to himself. He pressed the lock of hair to his lips, then laid it gently down, and opened the letter. "Dear, dear papa," it began, "my heart is very sad to-night! There is such a weary, aching pain there, that will never be gone till I can lay my head against your breast, and feel your arms folding me tight, and your kisses on my cheek. Ah! papa, how often I wish you could just look down into my heart and see how _full_ of love to you it is! I am always thinking of you, and longing to be with you. You bade me go and see the home you have prepared, and I have obeyed you. You say, if I will only be submissive we will live there, and be so very happy together, and I cannot tell you how my heart longs for such a life with you in that lovely, lovely home; nor how happy I could be there, or _anywhere_ with you, if you would only let me make God's law the rule of my life; but, my own dear father, if I have found your frown so dreadful, so _hard_ to bear, how much more terrible would my Heavenly Father's be! Oh, papa, _that_ would make me wretched indeed! But oh, I cannot _bear_ to think of being sent away from you amongst strangers! Dear, _dear_ papa, will you not spare your little daughter this trial? I will try to be so very good and obedient in everything that my conscience will allow. I am so sad, papa, so very sad, as if something terrible was coming, and my head feels strangely. I fear I am going to be ill, perhaps to die! Oh, papa, will I never see you again? I want to ask you to forgive me for all the naughty thoughts and feelings I have ever had towards you. I think I have never disobeyed you in _deed_, papa--except the few times you have known of, when I forgot, or thought you bade me break God's law--but twice I have rebelled in my heart. Once when you took Miss Rose's letter from me, and again when mammy told me you had said she must go away. It was only for a little while each time, papa, but it was very wicked, and I am very, _very_ sorry; will you please forgive me? and I will try never to indulge such wicked feelings again." The paper was blistered with Elsie's tears, and _other_ tears were falling thick and fast upon it now. "_She_ to ask forgiveness of me, for a momentary feeling of indignation when I so abused my authority," he groaned. "Oh, my darling! I would give all I am worth to bring you back for one hour, that I might ask _your_ forgiveness, on my knees." But there was more of the letter, and he read on: "Dear papa," she continued, "should I die, and never see you again in this world, don't ever feel vexed with yourself, and think that you have been too severe with me. I know you have only done what you had a right to do--for am I not your own? Oh, I _love_ to belong to you, papa! and you meant it all to make me good; and I needed it, for I was loving you _too_ dearly. I was getting away from my Saviour. But when you put me away from your arms and separated me from my nurse, I had no one to go to but Jesus, and he drew me closer to him, and I found his love very sweet and precious; it has been all my comfort in my great sorrow. Dear papa, when I am gone, and you feel sad and lonely, will not _you_ go to Jesus, too? I will leave you my dear little Bible, papa. Please read it for Elsie's sake, and God grant it may comfort you as it has your little daughter. And, dear papa, try to forget these sad days of our estrangement, and remember only the time when your little girl was always on your knee, or by your side. Oh! it breaks my heart to think of those sweet times, and that they will never come again! Oh, for one kiss, one caress, one word of love from you! for oh, how _I love_ you, my own dear, be loved, precious papa! "Your little daughter, "ELSIE." Mr. Dinsmore dropped his head upon his hands, and groaned aloud. It was his turn now to long, with an _unutterable_ longing, for one caress, one word of love from those sweet lips that should never speak again. A long time he sat there, living over again in memory every scene in his life in which his child had borne a part, and repenting, oh, so bitterly! of every harsh word he had ever spoken to her, of every act of unjust severity; and, alas! how many and how cruel they seemed to him now! Remorse was eating into his very soul, and he would have given worlds to be able to recall the past. CHAPTER XIII. "Joy! the lost one is restored!! Sunshine comes to hearth and board." MRS. HEMANS. "O remembrance! Why dost thou open all my wounds again?" LEE'S THEODOSIUS. "I am a fool, To weep at what I am glad of." SHAKS. TEMPEST. "But these are tears of joy! to see you thus, has filled My eyes with more delight than they can hold." CONGREVE. Mr. Dinsmore was roused from the painful reverie into which he had fallen by a light rap on his dressing-room door; and, supposing it to be some one sent to consult him concerning the necessary arrangements for the funeral, he rose and opened it at once, showing to the doctor, who stood there, such a grief-stricken countenance as caused him to hesitate whether to communicate his glad tidings without some previous preparation, lest the sudden reaction from such despairing grief to joy so intense should be too great for the father to bear. "You wish to speak to me about the--" Mr. Dinsmore's voice was husky and low, and he paused, unable to finish his sentence. "Come in, doctor," he said, "it is very kind in you, and--" "Mr. Dinsmore," said the doctor, interrupting him, "are you prepared for good news? can you bear it, my dear sir?" Mr. Dinsmore caught at the furniture for support, and gasped for breath. "What is it?" he asked hoarsely. "_Good_ news, I said," Dr. Barton hastened to say, as he sprang to his side to prevent him from falling. "Your child yet lives, and though her life still hangs by a thread, the crisis is past, and I have some hope that she may recover." "Thank God! thank God!" exclaimed the father, sinking into a seat; and burying his face in his hands, he sobbed aloud. The doctor went out and closed the door softly; and Horace Dinsmore, falling upon his knees, poured out his thanksgivings, and then and there consecrated himself, with all his talents and possessions, to the service of that God who had so mercifully spared to him his heart's best treasure. Adelaide's joy and thankfulness were scarcely less than his, when to her, also, the glad and wondrous tidings were communicated. And Mr. Travilla and his mother shared their happiness, as they had shared their sorrow. Yet they all rejoiced with trembling, for that little life was still for many days trembling in the balance; and to the father's anxiety was also added the heavy trial of being excluded from her room. The physician had early informed him that it would be risking her life for him to enter her presence until she should herself inquire for him, as they could not tell how great might be the agitation it would cause her. And so he waited, day after day, hoping for the summons, but constantly doomed to disappointment; for even after she had become strong enough to look about her, and ask questions, and to notice her friends with a gentle smile, and a word of thanks to each, several days passed away, and she had neither inquired for him nor even once so much as mentioned his name. It seemed passing strange, and the thought that perhaps his cruelty had so estranged her from him that she no longer cared for his presence or his love, caused him many a bitter pang, and at times rendered him so desperate that, but for the doctor's repeated warnings, he would have ended this torturing suspense by going to her, and begging to hear from her own lips whether she had indeed ceased to love him. Adelaide tried to comfort and encourage him to wait patiently, but she, too, thought it very strange, and began to have vague fears that something was wrong with her little niece. She wondered that Dr. Barton treated the matter so lightly. "But, then," thought she, "he has no idea how strongly the child was attached to her father, and therefore her strange silence on the subject does not strike him as it does us. I will ask if I may not venture to mention Horace to her." But when she put the question, the doctor shook his head. "No," he said; "better let her broach the subject herself; it will be much the safer plan." Adelaide reluctantly acquiesced in his decision, for she was growing almost as impatient as her brother. But fortunately she was not kept much longer in suspense. The next day Elsie, who had been lying for some time wide awake, but without speaking, suddenly asked: "Aunt Adelaide, have you heard from Miss Allison since she went away?" "Yes, dear, a number of times," replied her aunt, much surprised at the question; "once since you were taken sick, and she was very sorry to hear of your illness." "Dear Miss Rose, how I want to see her," murmured the little girl musingly. "Aunt Adelaide," she asked quickly, "has there been any letter from papa since I have been sick?" "Yes, dear," said Adelaide, beginning to tremble a little; "one, but it was written before he heard of your illness." "Did he say when he would sail for America, Aunt Adelaide?" she asked eagerly. "No, dear," replied her aunt, becoming still more alarmed, for she feared the child was losing her reason. "Oh, Aunt Adelaide, do you think he will _ever_ come home? Shall I ever see him? And do you think he will love me?" moaned the little girl. "I am sure he _does_ love you, darling, for indeed he mentions you very affectionately in his letters," Adelaide said, bending down to kiss the little pale cheek. "Now go to sleep, dear child," she added, "I am afraid you have been talking quite too much, for you are very weak yet." Elsie was, in fact, quite exhausted, and closing her eyes, fell asleep directly. Then resigning her place to Chloe, Adelaide stole softly from the room, and seeking her brother, repeated to him all that had just passed between Elsie and herself. She simply told her story, keeping her doubts and fears confined to her own breast; but she watched him closely to see if he shared them. He listened at first eagerly; then sat with folded arms and head bent down, so that she could not see his face; then rising up hastily, he paced the floor to and fro with rapid strides, sighing heavily to himself. "Oh, Adelaide! Adelaide!" he exclaimed, suddenly pausing before her, "are _my_ sins thus to be visited on my innocent child? better death a thousand times!" And sinking shuddering into a seat, he covered his face with his hands, and groaned aloud. "Don't be so distressed, dear brother, I am sure it cannot be so bad as you think," whispered Adelaide, passing her arm around his neck and kissing him softly. "She looks bright enough, and seems to perfectly understand all that is said to her." "Dr. Barton!" announced Pompey, throwing open the door of the parlor where they were sitting. Mr. Dinsmore rose hastily to greet him. "What is the matter? is anything wrong with my patient?" he asked hurriedly, looking from one to the other, and noticing the signs of unusual emotion in each face. "Tell him, Adelaide," entreated her brother, turning away his head to hide his feelings. Adelaide repeated her story, not without showing considerable emotion, though she did not mention the nature of their fears. "Don't be alarmed," said the physician, cheerfully; "she is _not_ losing her mind, as I see you both fear; it is simply a failure of memory for the time being; she has been fearfully ill, and the mind at present partakes of the weakness of the body, but I hope ere long to see them both grow strong together. "Let me see--Miss Allison left, when? a year ago last April, I think you said, Miss Adelaide, and this is October. Ah! well, the little girl has only lost about a year and a half from her life, and it is altogether likely she will recover it; but even supposing she does not, it is no great matter after all." Mr. Dinsmore looked unspeakably relieved, and Adelaide hardly less so. "And this gives you one advantage, Mr. Dinsmore," continued the doctor, looking smilingly at him; "you can now go to her as soon as Miss Adelaide has cautiously broken to her the news of your arrival." When Elsie waked, Adelaide cautiously communicated to her the tidings that her father had landed in America, in safety and health, and hoped to be with them in a day or two. A faint tinge of color came to the little girl's cheek, her eyes sparkled, and, clasping her little, thin hands together, she exclaimed, "Oh! can it really be true that I shall see my own dear father? and do you think he will _love_ me, Aunt Adelaide?" "Yes, indeed, darling; he _says_ he loves you dearly, and longs to have you in his arms." Elsie's eyes filled with happy tears. "Now you must try to be very calm, darling, and not let the good news hurt you," said her aunt kindly; "or I am afraid the doctor will say you are not well enough to see your papa when, he comes." "I will try to be very quiet," replied the little girl; "but, oh! I _hope_ he will come soon, and that the doctor will let me see him." "I shall read to you now, dear," remarked Adelaide, taking up Elsie's little Bible, which had been returned to her some days before; for she had asked for it almost as soon as she was able to speak. Adelaide opened to one of her favorite passages in Isaiah, and read in a low, quiet tone that soon soothed the little one to sleep. "Has my papa come?" was her first question on awaking. "Do you think you are strong enough to see him?" asked Adelaide, smiling. "Oh, yes, Aunt Adelaide; is he here?" she inquired, beginning to tremble with agitation. "I am afraid you are not strong enough yet," said Adelaide doubtfully; "you are trembling very much." "Dear Aunt Adelaide, I will try to be very calm; _do_ let me see him," she urged beseechingly; "it won't hurt me half so much as to be kept waiting." "Yes, Adelaide, she is right. My precious, precious child! they shall keep us apart no longer." And Elsie was gently raised in her father's arms, and folded to his beating heart. She looked up eagerly into his face. It was full of the tenderest love and pity. "Papa, papa, my _own_ papa," she murmured, dropping her head upon his breast. He held her for some moments, caressing her silently; then laid her gently down upon her pillow, and sat by her side with one little hand held fast in his. She raised her large, soft eyes, all dim with tears, to his face. "Do you love me, my own papa?" she asked in a voice so low and weak he could scarcely catch the words. "Better than life," he said, his voice trembling with emotion; and he leaned over her, passing his hand caressingly over her face. "Does my little daughter love me?" he asked. "Oh, so very, _very_ much," she said, and closing her eyes wearily, she fell asleep again. And now Mr. Dinsmore was constantly with his little girl. She could scarcely bear to have him out of her sight, but clung to him with the fondest affection, which he fully returned; and he never willingly left her for an hour. She seemed to have entirely forgotten their first meeting, and everything which had occurred since, up to the beginning of her illness, and always talked to her father as though they had but just begun their acquaintance; and it was with feelings half pleasurable, half painful, that he listened to her. It was certainly a relief to have her so unconscious of their estrangement, and yet such an utter failure of memory distressed him with fears of permanent and serious injury to her intellect; and thus it was, with mingled hope and dread, that he looked forward to the fulfilment of the doctor's prophecy that her memory would return. She was growing stronger, so that she was able to be moved from her bed to a couch during the day; and when she was very weary of lying, her father would take her in his arms and carry her back and forth, or, seating himself in a large rocking-chair, soothe her to sleep on his breast, holding her there for hours, never caring for the aching of his arms, but really enjoying the consciousness that he was adding to her comfort by suffering a little himself. Mrs. Travilla had some time since found it absolutely necessary to give her personal attention to her own household, and Adelaide, quite worn out with nursing, needed rest; and so, with a little help from Chloe, Mr. Dinsmore took the whole care of his little girl, mixing and administering her medicines with his own hand, giving her her food, soothing her in her hours of restlessness, reading, talking, singing to her--exerting all his powers for her entertainment, and never weary of waiting upon her. He watched by her couch night and day; only now and then snatching a few hours of sleep on a sofa in her room, while the faithful old nurse took his place by her side. One day he had been reading to Elsie, while she lay on her sofa. Presently he closed the book, and looking at her, noticed that her eyes were fixed upon his face with a troubled expression. "What is it, dearest?" he asked. "Papa," she said in a doubtful, hesitating way, "it seems as if I had seen you before; have I, papa?" "Why, surely, darling," he answered, trying to laugh, though he trembled inwardly, "I have been with you for nearly two weeks, and you have seen me every day." "No, papa; but I mean before. Did I _dream_ that you gave me a doll once? Were you ever vexed with me? Oh, papa, help me to think," she said in a troubled, anxious tone, rubbing her hand across her forehead as she spoke. "Don't try to think, darling," he replied cheerfully, as he raised her, shook up her pillows, and settled her more comfortably on them. "I am not in the least vexed with you; there is nothing wrong, and I love you very, _very_ dearly. So shut your eyes and try to go to sleep." She looked only half satisfied, but closed her eyes as he bade her, and was soon asleep. She seemed thoughtful and absent all the rest of the day, every now and then fixing the same troubled, questioning look on him, and it was quite impossible to interest her in any subject for more than a few moments at a time. That night, for the first time, he went to his own room, leaving her entirely to Chloe's care. He had watched by her after she was put in bed for the night, until she had fallen asleep; but he left her, feeling a little anxious, for the same troubled look was on her face, as though even in sleep memory was reasserting her sway. When he entered her room again in the morning, although it was still early, he found her already dressed for the day, in a pretty, loose wrapper, and laid upon the sofa. "Good-morning, little daughter; you are quite an early bird to-day, for a sick one," he said gayly. But as he drew near, he was surprised and pained to see that she was trembling very much, and that her eyes were red with weeping. "What is it, dearest?" he asked, bending over her in tender solicitude; "what ails my little one?" "Oh, papa," she said, bursting into tears, "I remember it all now. Are you angry with me yet? and must I go away from you as soon as--" But she was unable to finish her sentence. He had knelt down by her side, and now raising her gently up, and laying her head against his breast, he kissed her tenderly, saying in a moved tone, in the beautiful words of Ruth, the Moabitess, "The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part me and thee." He paused a moment, as if unable to proceed; then, in tones tremulous with emotion, said: "Elsie, my dear, my _darling_ daughter, I have been a very cruel father to you; I have most shamefully abused my authority; but never again will I require you to do anything contrary to the teachings of God's word. Will you forgive your father, dearest, for all he has made you suffer?" "Dear papa, don't! oh, _please_ don't say such words to me!" she said; "I cannot bear to hear them. You had a right to do whatever you pleased with your own child." "No, daughter; not to force you to disobey God," he answered with deep solemnity. "I have learned to look upon you now, not as absolutely my own, but as belonging first to him, and only lent to me for a time; and I know that I will have to give an account of my stewardship." He paused a moment, then went on: "Elsie, darling, your prayers for me have been answered; your father has learned to know and love Jesus, and has consecrated to his service the remainder of his days. And now, dear one, we are travelling the same road at last." Her happiness was too deep for words--for anything but tears; and putting her little arms around his neck, she sobbed out her joy and gratitude upon his breast. Aunt Chloe had gone down to the kitchen, immediately upon Mr. Dinsmore's entrance, to prepare Elsie's breakfast, and so they were quite alone. He held her to his heart for a moment; then kissing away her tears, laid her gently back upon her pillow again, and took up the Bible, which lay beside her. "I have learned to love it almost as well as you do, dearest," he said. "Shall we read together, as you and Miss Rose used to do long ago?" Her glad look was answer enough; and opening to one of her favorite passages, he read it in his deep, rich voice, while she lay listening, with a full heart, to the dearly loved words, which sounded sweeter than ever before. He closed the book. He had taken one of her little hands in his ere he began to read, and still holding it fast in a close, loving grasp, he knelt down and prayed. He thanked God for their spared lives, and especially for the recovery of his dear little one, who had so lately been tottering upon the very verge of the grave--and his voice trembled with emotion as he alluded to that time of trial--and confessed that it was undeserved mercy to him, for he had been most unfaithful to his trust. And then he asked for grace and wisdom to guide and guard her, and train her up aright, both by precept and example. He confessed that he had been all his days a wanderer from the right path, and that if left to himself he never would have sought it; but thanked God that he had been led by the gracious influences of the Holy Spirit to turn his feet into that straight and narrow way; and he prayed that he might be kept from ever turning aside again into the broad road, and that he and his little girl might now walk hand in hand together on their journey to the celestial city. Elsie's heart swelled with emotion, and glad tears rained down her cheeks, as thus, for the first time, she heard her father's voice in prayer. It was the happiest hour she had ever known. "Take me, papa, please," she begged, holding out her hands to him, as he rose from his knees, and drawing his chair close to her couch sat down by her side. He took her in his arms, and she laid her head on his breast again, saying, "I am _so_ happy, so _very_ happy! Dear papa, it is worth all the sickness and everything else that I have suffered." He only answered with a kiss. "Will you read and pray with me every morning, papa?" she asked, "Yes, darling," he said, "and when we get into our own home we will call in the servants morning and evening, and have family worship. Shall you like that?" "_Very_ much, papa! Oh, how nice it will be! and will we go _soon_ to our own home, papa?" she asked eagerly. "Just as soon as you are well enough to be moved, dearest. But here is Aunt Chloe with your breakfast, so now we must stop talking, and let you eat." "May I talk a little more now, papa?" she asked, when she had done eating. "Yes, a little, if it is anything of importance," he answered smilingly. "I wanted to say that I think our new home is very, very lovely, and that I think we shall be _so_ happy there. Dear papa, you were so very kind to furnish those pretty rooms for me! thank you _very_ much," she said, pressing his hand to her lips. "I will try to be so good and obedient that you will never regret having spent so much money, and taken so much trouble for me." "I know you will, daughter; you have always been a dutiful child," he said tenderly, "and I shall never regret anything that adds to your happiness." "And will you do all that you said in that letter, papa? will you teach me yourself?" she asked eagerly. "If you wish it, my pet; but if you prefer a governess, I will try to get one who will be more kind and patient than Miss Day. One thing is certain, _she_ shall never teach you again." "Oh, no, papa, please teach me yourself. I will try to be very good, and not give you much trouble," she said coaxingly. "I will," he said with a smile. "The doctor thinks that in a day or two you may be able to take a short ride, and I hope it will not be very long before we will be in our own home. Now I am going to wrap you up, and carry you to my dressing-room to spend the day; for I know you are tired of this room." "How pleasant!" she exclaimed; "how kind you are to think of it, papa! I feel as glad as I used to when I was going to take a long ride on my pony." He smiled on her a pleased, affectionate smile, and bade Chloe go and see if the room was in order for them. Chloe returned almost immediately to say that all was in readiness; and Elsie was then raised in her father's strong arms, and borne quickly through the hall and into the dressing-room, where she was laid upon a sofa, and propped up with pillows. She looked very comfortable; and very glad she was to have a little change of scene, after her long confinement to one room. Just as she was fairly settled in her new quarters, the breakfast-bell rang, and her father left her in Chloe's care for a few moments, while he went down to take his meal. "I have brought you a visitor, Elsie," he said when he returned. She looked up, and, to her surprise, saw her grandfather standing near the door. He came forward then, and taking the little, thin hand she held out to him, he stooped and kissed her cheek. "I am sorry to see you looking so ill, my dear," he said, not without a touch of feeling in his tone--"but I hope you will get well very fast now." "Yes, grandpa, thank you; I am a great deal better than I was," she answered, with a tear in her eye; for it was the first caress she ever remembered having received from him, and she felt quite touched. "Have the others come, grandpa?" she asked. "Yes, my dear, they are all at home now, and I think Lora will be coming to speak to you presently, she has been quite anxious to see you." "Don't let her come until afternoon, father? if you please," said his son, looking anxiously at his little girl. "Elsie cannot bear much yet, and I see she is beginning to look exhausted already." And he laid his finger on her pulse. "I shall caution her on the subject," replied his father, turning to leave the room. Then to Elsie, "You had better go to sleep now, child! sleep and eat all you can, and get strong fast." "Yes, sir," she said faintly, closing her eyes with a weary look. Her father placed her more comfortably on the pillows, smoothed the cover, closed the blinds to shut out the sunlight, and sat down to watch her while she slept. It was a long, deep sleep, for she was quite worn out by the excitement of the morning; the dinner-hour had passed, and still she slumbered on, and he began to grow uneasy. He was leaning over her, with his finger on her slender wrist, watching her breathing and counting her pulse, when she opened her eyes, and looking up lovingly into his face, said "Dear papa, I feel so much better." "I am very glad, daughter," he replied; "you have had a long sleep; and now I will take you on my knee, and Aunt Chloe will bring up your dinner." Elsie's appetite was poor, and her father spared neither trouble nor expense in procuring her every dainty that could be thought of which was at all suited to her state of health, and he was delighted when he could tempt her to eat with tolerable heartiness. She seemed to enjoy her dinner, and he watched her with intense pleasure. "Can I see Lora now, papa?" she asked, when Chloe had removed the dishes. "Yes," he said. "Aunt Chloe, you may tell Miss Lora that we are ready to receive her now." Lora came in quite gay and full of spirits; but when she caught sight of Elsie, lying so pale and languid in her father's arms, she had hard work to keep from bursting into tears, and could scarcely command her voice to speak. "Dear Lora, I am so glad to see you," said the little girl, holding out her small, thin hand. Lora took it and kissed it, saying, in a tremulous tone, "How ill you look!" Elsie held up her face, and Lora stooped and kissed her lips; then bursting into tears and sobs, she ran out of the room. "Oh, Adelaide!" she cried, rushing into her sister's room, "how she is changed! I should never have known her! Oh! do you think she can ever get well?" "If you had seen her two or three weeks ago, you would be quite encouraged by her appearance now," replied her sister. "The doctor considers her out of danger now, though he says she must have careful nursing; and that I assure you she gets from her father. He seems to feel that he can never do enough for her, and won't let me share the labor at all, although I would often be very glad to do it." "He _ought_ to do all he can for her! he would be a _brute_ if he didn't, for it was all his doing, her being so ill!" exclaimed Lora indignantly. "No, no; I ought not to say that," she added, correcting herself immediately, "for we were _all_ unkind to her; I as well as the rest. Oh, Adelaide! what a bitter thought that was to me when I heard she was dying! I never realized before how lovely, and how very different from all the rest of us she was." "Yes, poor darling! she has had a hard life amongst us," replied Adelaide, sighing, while the tears rose to her eyes. "You can never know, Lora, what an agonizing thought it was at the moment when I believed that she had left us forever. I would have given worlds to have been able to live the last six years over again. But Horace--oh, Lora! I don't believe there was a more wretched being on the face of the earth than he! I was very angry with him at first, but when I saw how utterly crushed and heartbroken he was, I couldn't say one word." Adelaide was crying now in good earnest, as well as Lora. Presently Lora asked for a full account of Elsie's illness, which Adelaide was beginning to give, when a servant came to say that Elsie wanted to see her; so, with a promise to Lora to finish her story another time, she hastened to obey the summons. She found the little girl still lying languidly in her father's arms. "Dear Aunt Adelaide," she said, "I wanted to see you; you haven't been in to-day to look at your little patient." Adelaide smiled, and patted her cheek. "Yes, my dear," she said, "I have been in twice, but found you sleeping both times, and your father keeping guard over you, like a tiger watching his cub." "No, no, Aunt Adelaide; papa isn't a bit like a tiger," said Elsie, passing her small, white hand caressingly over his face. "You mustn't say that." "I don't know," replied Adelaide, laughing and shaking her head; "I think anybody who should be daring enough to disturb your slumbers would find there was considerable of the tiger in him." Elsie looked up into her father's face as if expecting him to deny the charge. "Never mind," said he, smiling; "Aunt Adelaide is only trying to tease us a little." A servant came in and whispered something to Adelaide. "Mr. and Mrs. Travilla," she said, turning to her brother; "is Elsie able to see them?" "Oh, yes, papa, please," begged the little girl in a coaxing tone. "Well, then, for a few moments, I suppose," he answered rather doubtfully; and Adelaide went down and brought them up. Elsie was very glad to see them; but seeing that she looked weak and weary they did not stay long, but soon took an affectionate leave of her, expressing the hope that it would not be many weeks before she would be able to pay a visit to Ion. Her father promised to take her to spend a day there as soon as she was well enough, and then they went away. Elsie's strength returned very slowly, and she had many trying hours of weakness and nervous prostration to endure. She was almost always very patient, but on a few rare occasions, when suffering more than usual, there was a slight peevishness in her tone. Once it was to her father she was speaking, and the instant she had done so, she looked up at him with eyes brimful of tears, expecting a stern rebuke, or, at the very least, a look of great displeasure. But he did not seem to have heard her, and only busied himself in trying to make her more comfortable; and when she seemed to feel easier again, he kissed her tenderly, saying softly: "My poor little one! papa knows she suffers a great deal, and feels very sorry for her. Are you better now, dearest?" "Yes, papa, thank you," she answered, the tears coming into her eyes again. "I don't know what makes me so cross; you are very good not to scold me." "I think my little girl is very patient," he said, caressing her again; "and if she were not, I couldn't have the heart to _scold_ her after all she has suffered. Shall I sing to you now?" "Yes, papa; please sing 'I want to be like Jesus.' Oh, I _do_ want to be like him! and then I should never even _feel_ impatient." He did as she requested, singing in a low, soothing tone that soon lulled her to sleep. He was an indefatigable nurse, never weary, never in the least impatient, and nothing that skill and kindness could do for the comfort and recovery of his little daughter was left undone. He carried her in his arms from room to room; and then, as she grew stronger, down into the garden. Then he sent for a garden chair, in which he drew her about the gardens with his own hands; or if he called a servant to do it, he walked by her side, doing all he could to amuse her, and when she was ready to be carried indoors again, no one was allowed to touch her but himself. At last she was able to take short and easy rides in the carriage--not more than a quarter of a mile at first, for he was very much afraid of trying her strength too far--but gradually they were lengthened, as she seemed able to bear it. One day he was unusually eager to get her into the carriage, and after they had started, instead of calling her attention to the scenery, as he often did, he began relating a story which interested her so much that she did not notice in what direction they were travelling until the carriage stopped, the foot-man threw open the door, and her father, breaking off in the middle of a sentence, sprang out hastily, lifted her in his arms, and carried her into the house. She did not know where she was until he had laid her on a sofa, and, giving her a rapturous kiss, exclaimed-- "Welcome home, my darling! welcome to your father's house." Then she looked up and saw that she was indeed in the dear home he had prepared for her months before. She was too glad to speak a word, or do anything but gaze about her with eyes brimming over with delight; while her father took off her bonnet and shawl, and setting her on her feet, led her across the room to an easy-chair, where he seated her in state. He then threw open a door, and there was another pleasant surprise; for who but her old friend, Mrs. Murray, should rush in and take her in her arms, kissing her and crying over her. "Dear, _dear_ bairn," she exclaimed, "you are looking pale and ill, but it does my auld heart gude to see your winsome wee face once more. I hope it will soon grow as round and rosy as ever, now that you've won to your ain home at last. But where, darling, are all your bonny curls?" she asked suddenly. "In the drawer, in my room at grandpa's," replied the little girl with a faint smile. "They had to be cut off when I was so sick. You were not vexed, papa?" she asked, raising her eyes timidly to his face. "No, darling, not _vexed_ certainly, though very sorry indeed that it was necessary," he said in a kind, gentle tone, passing his hand caressingly over her head. "Ah, well," remarked Mrs. Murray cheerfully, "we winna fret about it; it will soon grow again, and these little, soft rings of hair are very pretty, too." "I thought you were in Scotland, Mrs. Murray; when did you come back?" asked the little girl. "I came to this place only yesterday, darling; but it is about a week since I landed in America." "I am so glad to see you, dear Mrs. Murray," Elsie said, holding fast to her hand, and looking lovingly into her face. "I haven't forgotten any of the good things you taught me." Then turning to her father, she said, very earnestly, "Papa, you won't need now to have me grow up for a long while, because Mrs. Murray is such an excellent housekeeper." He smiled and patted her cheek, saying pleasantly, "No, dear, I shall keep you a little girl as long as ever I can; and give Mrs. Murray plenty of time to make a good housekeeper of you." "At what hour will you have dinner, sir?" asked the old lady, turning to leave the room. "At one, if you please," he said, looking at his watch. "I want Elsie to eat with me, and it must be early, on her account." Elsie's little face was quite bright with pleasure. "I am so glad, papa," she said, "it will be very delightful to dine together in our own house. May I always dine with you?" "I hope so," he said, smiling. "I am not fond of eating alone." They were in Mr. Dinsmore's study, into which Elsie's own little sitting-room opened. "Do you feel equal to a walk through your rooms, daughter, or shall I carry you?" he asked, bending over her. "I think I will try to walk, papa, if you please," she said, putting her hand in his. He led her slowly forward, but her step seemed tottering, and he passed his arm around her waist, and supported her to the sofa in her own pretty little boudoir. Although it was now quite late in the fall, the weather was still warm and pleasant in that southern clime--flowers were blooming in the gardens, and doors and windows stood wide open. Elsie glanced out of the window, and then around the room. "What a lovely place it is, papa!" she said; "and everything in this dear little room is so complete, so very pretty. Dear papa, you are very, _very_ kind to me! I will have to be a very good girl to deserve it all." "Does it please you, darling? I am very glad," he said, drawing her closer to him. "I have tried to think of everything that would be useful to you, or give you pleasure; but if there is anything else you want, just tell me what it is, and you shall have it." "Indeed, papa," she said, smiling up at him, "I could never have thought of half the pretty things that are here already; and I don't believe there is anything else I could possibly want. Ah! papa, how happy I am to-day; so very much happier than when I was here before. Then I thought I should never be happy again in this world. There is your picture. I cried very much when I looked at it that day, but it does not make me feel like crying now, and I am so _glad_ to have it. Thank you a thousand times for giving it to me." "You are very welcome, darling; you deserve it all, and more than all," replied her father tenderly. "And now," he asked, "will you look at the other rooms, or are you too tired?" "I want to try the piano first, if you please, papa," she said; "it is so long since I touched one." He opened the instrument, and then picked her up and seated her on the stool, saying, "I am afraid you will find yourself hardly equal to the exertion; but you may try." She began a little piece which had always been a favorite of his--he standing beside her, and supporting her with his arm--but it seemed hard work; the tiny hands trembled so with weakness and he would not let her finish. "You must wait until another day, dearest," he said, taking her in his arms; "you are not strong enough yet, and I think I will have to _carry_ you through the other rooms, if you are to see them at all. Shall I?" She assented, laying her head down languidly on his shoulder, and had very little to say, as he bore her along through the dressing-room, and into the bed-room beyond. The bed looked very inviting with its snowy drapery, and he laid her gently down upon it, saying, "You are too much fatigued to attempt anything more, and must take a nap now, my pet, to recruit yourself a little before dinner." "Don't leave me, papa! _please_ don't!" she exclaimed, half starting up as he turned toward the door. "No, dearest," he said, "I am only going to get your shawl to lay over you, and will be back again in a moment." He returned almost immediately, but found her already fast asleep. "Poor darling! she is quite worn out," he murmured, as he spread the shawl carefully over her. Then taking a book from his pocket, he sat down by her side, and read until she awoke. It was the sound of the dinner-bell which had roused her, and as she sat up looking quite bright and cheerful again, he asked if she thought she could eat some dinner, and would like to be taken to the dining-room. She assented, and he carried her there, seated her in an easy-chair, wheeled it up to the table, and then sat down opposite to her, looking supremely happy. The servants were about to uncover the dishes, but motioning them to wait a moment, Mr. Dinsmore bowed his head over his plate, and asked a blessing on their food. It sent a glow of happiness to Elsie's little, pale face, and she loved and respected her father more than ever. She seemed to enjoy her dinner, and he watched her with a pleased look. "The change of air has done you good already, I think," he remarked; "you seem to have a better appetite than you have had since your sickness." "Yes, papa, I believe everything tastes good because it is home," she answered, smiling lovingly up at him. After dinner he held her on his knee a while, chatting pleasantly with her about their plans for the future; and then, laying her on the sofa in her pretty boudoir, he brought a book from his library, and read to her. It was a very interesting story he had chosen; and he had been reading for more than an hour, when, happening to look at her he noticed that her eyes were very bright, and her cheeks flushed, as if with fever. He suddenly closed the book, and laid his finger on her pulse. "Oh! papa, please go on," she begged; "I am so much interested." "No, daughter, your pulse is very quick, and I fear this book is entirely too exciting for you at present--so I shall not read you any more of it to-day," he said, laying it aside. "Oh! papa, I want to hear it so much; do please read a _little_ more, or else let me have the book myself," she pleaded in a coaxing tone. "My little daughter must not forget old lessons," he replied very gravely. She turned away her head with almost a pout on her lip, and her eyes full of tears. He did not reprove her, though, as he once would have done; but seeming not to notice her ill-humor, exerted himself to soothe and amuse her, by talking in a cheerful strain of other matters; and in a very few moments all traces of it had disappeared, and she was answering him in her usual pleasant tone. They had both been silent for several minutes, when she said, "Please, papa, put your head close down to me, I want to say something to you." He complied, and putting her little arm around his neck, she said, in a very humble tone, "Dear papa, I was very naughty and cross just now; and I think I have been cross several times lately; and you have been so good and kind not to reprove or punish me, as I deserved. Please, papa, forgive me; I am very sorry, and I will try to be a better girl." He kissed her very tenderly. "I do forgive you freely, my little one," he said, "I know it seemed hard to give up the story just there, but it was for your good, and you must try always to believe that papa knows best. You are very precious to your father's heart, Elsie, but I am not going to _spoil_ my little girl because I love her so dearly; nor because I have been so near losing her." His voice trembled as he pronounced the last words, and for a moment emotion kept him silent. Then he went on again. "I shall never again bid you do violence to your conscience, my daughter, but to all the commands which I _do_ lay upon you I shall still expect and require the same ready and cheerful obedience that I have heretofore. It is my duty to require, and yours to yield it." "Yes, papa, I know it is," she said with a little sigh, "but, it is very difficult sometimes to keep from wanting to have my own way." "Yes, darling, I know it, for I find it so with myself," replied her father gently; "but we must, ask God to help us to give up our own wills, and be satisfied to do and have what we _ought_, rather than what we would _like_." "I will, papa," she whispered, hugging him tighter and tighter. "I am so glad you teach me that." They were quite quiet again for a little while. She was running her fingers through his hair. "Oh, papa!" she exclaimed, "I see two or three white hairs! I am so sorry! I don't want you to get old. What made these come so soon, papa?" He did not reply immediately, but, taking her in his arms, held her close to his heart. It was beating very fast. Suddenly she seemed to comprehend. "Was it because you were afraid I was going to die, papa?" she asked. "Yes, dearest, and because I had reason, to think that my own cruelty had killed you." The words were almost inaudible, but she heard them. "Dear _dear_ papa, how I love you!" she said, putting her arms around his neck again; "and I am so glad, for your sake, that I did not die." He pressed her closer and closer, caressing her silently with a heart too full for words. They sat thus for some time, but were at length interrupted by the entrance of Chloe, who had been left behind at Roselands to attend to the packing and removal of Elsie's clothes, and all her little possessions. She had finished her work, and her entrance was immediately followed by that of the men-servants bearing several large trunks and boxes, the contents of which she proceeded at once to unpack and rearrange in the new apartments. Elsie watched this operation with a good deal of interest, occasionally directing where this or that article should be put; but in the midst of it all was carried off by her father to the tea-table. Soon after tea the servants were all called together, and Mr. Dinsmore, after addressing a few words to them on the importance of calling upon God--the blessings promised to those who did, and the curses pronounced upon those individuals and families who did not--read a chapter from the Bible and offered up a prayer. All were solemn and attentive, and all seemed pleased with the arrangement--for Mr. Dinsmore had told them it was to be the regular custom of the house, morning and evening--but Elsie, Mrs. Murray, and Chloe fairly wept for joy and thankfulness. Elsie begged for another chapter and prayer in the privacy of her own rooms, and then Chloe undressed her, and her father carried her to her bed and placed her in it with a loving good-night kiss. And thus ended the first happy day in her own dear home. CHAPTER XIV. "Her world was ever joyous; She thought of grief and pain As giants in the olden time, That ne'er would come again." MRS. HALE'S ALICE RAY. "Then all was jollity, Feasting, and mirth." ROWE'S JANE SHORE. It was with a start, and a momentary feeling of perplexity as to her whereabouts, followed almost instantly by the glad remembrance that she was indeed at _home_, that the little Elsie awoke the next morning. She sat up in the bed and gazed about her. Everything had a new, fresh look, and an air of simple elegance, that struck her as very charming. A door on her right, communicating with her father's sleeping apartment, was slightly ajar, and she could hear him moving about. "Papa!" she called, in her sweet, silvery tones. "Good-morning, daughter," he said, appearing in answer to her summons. "Why, how bright my little girl is looking this morning!" "Yes, papa, I feel so well and strong I do believe I can walk to the dining-room. Please, may I get up now?" "Yes; Aunt Chloe may dress you, and call me when you are ready," he replied, bending down to give her a kiss. Chloe was just coming in from a small adjoining room which had been appropriated to her use, and exclaimed with delight at her darling's bright looks. "Dress her very nicely, Aunt Chloe," said Mr. Dinsmore, "for I think it is quite possible we may have visitors to-day; and besides, I want her to look her best for my own enjoyment," he added, with a loving look and smile directed toward his little girl. Chloe promised to do her best; and he seemed entirely satisfied with the result of her labors, as well he might, for Elsie looked very lovely in her simple white dress, and little embroidered pink sacque, which seemed to lend a faint tinge of color to her pale cheeks. She was tired, though, with the dressing, and quite willing to give up her plan of walking to the dining-room, and let her father carry her. After breakfast he sat with her on his knee for a little while, and then, laying her on the sofa and giving her a kiss, he told her he must leave her with Chloe for an hour or two, as he had some business matters to arrange with her grandfather, after which he would take her to ride. "I wish you didn't have to go, papa; but please come back as soon as you can," she said coaxingly. "I will, darling. And now, Aunt Chloe, I leave her in your care; don't let her do anything to tire herself," he said as he went out. Elsie listened until she heard the sound of his horse's hoofs as he galloped down the avenue, and then turning to her nurse, she exclaimed eagerly, "Now, mammy, please hand me my work-box and that unfinished slipper." "You's not fit to sew, darlin' chile," objected the careful old woman, doing as she was asked, nevertheless. "Well, mammy, I want to try, and I'll stop directly if it tires me," replied the little girl. "Please put me in my rocking-chair. They are for papa, you see, and I want to get them done before Christmas." "Dere's plenty ob time yet 'fore Christmas, darlin', to do dat little bit," Chloe said; "'tain't comin' dis four or five weeks; better wait till you git stronger." Elsie was not to be dissuaded, however, from making the attempt; but a very few moments' work satisfied her that she was still too weak for such an employment; and she readily consented to let Chloe put away her work-box and lay her on her sofa again, where she spent the rest of the time in reading her Bible until her father returned. Then came her ride, and then a nap, which took up all the morning until near dinner-time. She found Mr. Travilla sitting there, talking with her father, when she awoke. She was very glad to see him, and to hear that he was going to stay to dinner; and they had quite a little chat together about the new home and its surroundings. After dinner, her Aunt Adelaide, Lora, and Walter called to see them and the house; but both they and Mr. Travilla went away early--he promising to bring his mother to see her very soon--and then she was left alone with her father again. "Would you like now to hear the remainder of the story we were reading yesterday, daughter?" he asked. "Very much, papa; I have been wanting it all day." "Why did you not ask for it, then?" he inquired. "Because, papa, I was ashamed, after being so naughty about it yesterday," she answered, hanging her head and blushing deeply. "Well, you shall have it now, daughter," he said luridly, pressing his lips to the little blushing cheek. "I had forgotten about it, or I would have given you the book to read while I was out this morning." A very pleasant, happy life had now begun for our little Elsie: all her troubles seemed to be over, and she was surrounded by everything that heart could wish. Her father watched over her with the tenderest love and care; devoting the greater part of his time to her entertainment and instruction, sparing neither trouble nor expense to give her pleasure, and though still requiring unhesitating, cheerful obedience to his wishes and commands--yet ruling her not less gently than firmly. He never spoke to her now in his stern tone, and after a while she ceased to expect and dread it. Her health improved quite rapidly after their removal to the Oaks, and before Christmas came again she was entirely equal to a little stroll in the grounds, or a short ride on her favorite pony. Her cheeks were becoming round and rosy again, and her hair had grown long enough to curl in soft, glossy little ringlets all over her head, and her father thought her almost prettier than ever. But he was very careful of her still, scarcely willing to have her a moment out of his sight, lest she should become over-fatigued, or her health be injured in some way; and he always accompanied her in her walks and rides, ever watching over her with the most unwearied love. As her health and strength returned he permitted her, in accordance with her own wishes, gradually to resume her studies, and took great pleasure in instructing her; but he was very particular to see that she did not attempt too much, nor sit poring over her books when she needed exercise and recreation, as she was sometimes rather inclined to do. "Massa, dere's a gentleman wants to speak to you," said a servant, looking in at the study door one afternoon a few days before Christmas. "Very well, John, show him into the library, and I will be there in a moment," replied Mr. Dinsmore, putting down his book. He glanced at Elsie's little figure, half buried in the cushions of a great easy-chair near one of the windows, into which she had climbed more than an hour before, and where she had been sitting ever since, completely lost to all that might be going on about her, in the deep interest with which she was following the adventures of FitzJames in Scott's "Lady of the Lake." "Daughter, I am afraid you are reading more to-day than is quite good for you," he said, looking at his watch. "You must put up your book very soon now, and go out for a walk. I shall probably be down in ten or fifteen minutes; but if I am not, you must not wait for me, but take Aunt Chloe with you." "Yes, papa," she replied, looking up from her book for an instant, and then returning to it again as he left the room. She had not the least intention of disobeying, but soon forgot everything else in the interest of her story. The stranger detained Mr. Dinsmore much longer than he had expected, and the short winter day was drawing rapidly to a close when he returned to his study, to find Elsie--much to his surprise and displeasure--precisely where he had left her. She was not aware of his entrance until he was close beside her; then, looking up with a start, she colored violently. He gently took the book from her hand and laid it away, then, lifting her from the chair, led her across the room, where he seated himself upon the sofa, and drawing her in between his knees, regarded her with a look of grave, sad displeasure. "Has my little daughter any idea how long it is since her father bade her put up her book?" he asked in a gently reproving tone. Elsie hung her head in silence, and a tear rolled quickly down her burning cheek. "It grieves me very much," he said, "to find that my little girl can be so disobedient! it almost makes me fear that she does not love me very much." "Oh, papa, don't! oh, don't say that! I can't bear to hear it!" she cried, bursting into an agony of tears and sobs, and hiding her face on his breast. "I do love you _very_ much, papa, and I can't bear to think I've grieved you," she sobbed. "I know I am very naughty, and deserve to be punished--but I didn't mean to disobey, only the book was so interesting I didn't know at all how the time went." He sighed, but said nothing; only drew her closer to him, pulling his arm around her, and stroking her hair in a gentle, caressing way. There was no sound for some moments but Elsie's sobs. Then she asked in a half whisper, "Are you going to punish me, papa?" "I shall take the book from you for a few days; I hope that will be punishment enough to make you pay better attention to my commands in future," he said very gravely. "Dear papa how kind you are! I am sure I deserve a great deal worse punishment than that," she exclaimed, raising her head and looking up gratefully and lovingly into his face, "but I am very, very sorry for my disobedience; will you please forgive me?" "I will, daughter," and he bent down and kissed her lips. "Now go," he said, "and get your cloak and hood. I think we will still have time for a little stroll through the grounds before dark." Elsie had very little to say during their walk, but moved silently along by her father's side, with her hand clasped in his; and he, too, seemed unusually abstracted. It was quite dusk when they entered the house again, and when the little girl returned to the study, after Chloe had taken off her wrappings, she found her father seated in an easy-chair, drawn up on one side of a bright wood fire that was blazing and crackling on the hearth. Elsie dearly loved the twilight hour, and it was one of her greatest pleasures to climb upon her father's knee and sit there talking or singing, or perhaps, oftener, just laying her head down on his breast and watching the play of the fire-light on the carpet, or the leaping of the flame hither and thither. Mr. Dinsmore sat leaning back in his chair, apparently in deep thought, and did not hear Elsie's light step. She paused for one instant in the doorway, casting a wistful, longing look at him, then, with a little sigh, walked softly to the other side of the fire-place, and seated herself in her little rocking-chair. For several minutes she sat very quietly gazing into the fire, her little face wearing a very sober, thoughtful look. But she was startled out of her reverie by the sound of her father's voice. "Why am I not to have my little girl on my knee to-night?" he was asking. She rose instantly, in a quick, eager way, and ran to him. "If you prefer the rocking-chair, stay there, by all means," he said. But she had already climbed to her accustomed seat, and, twining her arms around his neck, she laid her cheek to his, saying, "No, indeed, papa; you know I don't like the rocking-chair half so well as your knee; so please let me stay here." "Why did you not come at first, then?" he asked in a playful tone. "Because I was afraid, papa," she whispered, "_Afraid_!" he repeated, with an accent of surprise, and looking as if he felt a little hurt. "Yes, papa," she answered in a low tone, "because I have been so very naughty this afternoon that I know I don't deserve to come." "Did you not hear me say I forgave you?" he asked. "Yes, papa." "Very well, then, if you are forgiven you are taken back into favor, just as if you had not transgressed; and if you had quite believed me, you would have come to me at once, and claimed a daughter's privilege, as usual," he said very gravely. "I do believe you, papa; I know you always speak the truth and mean just what you say," she replied in half-tearful tones, "but I know I don't deserve a place on your knee to-night." "What you _deserve_ is not the question at present; we are talking about what you can _have_, whether you _deserve_ it or not. "Ah!" he continued in a low, musing tone, more as if thinking aloud than speaking to her, "just so it is with us all in reference to our Heavenly Father's forgiveness; when he offers us a full and free pardon of all our offences, and adoption into his family, we don't more than half believe him, but still go about groaning under the burden of our sins, and afraid to claim the privileges of children. "It hurts and displeases me when my child doubts my word, and yet how often I dishonor my Father by doubting his. 'He that believeth not God, maketh him a liar.' 'Without faith it is impossible to please him.'" He relapsed into silence, and for some moments neither of them spoke. He was passing his hand caressingly over her hair, and she resting in his arms and gazing thoughtfully into the fire. "What is my little one thinking of?" he asked at last. "I was thinking what a very naughty girl I have been this afternoon, and what a dear, kind papa I have," she said, looking up lovingly into his face. "You were so kind, papa, not to punish me as I deserved. I was afraid you would send me directly to bed, and I should miss my pleasant evening with you." "I hope, my darling," he answered gently, "that you do not think, when I punish you, it is from anything like a feeling of revenge, or because I take pleasure in giving you pain? Not at all. I do it for your own good--and in this instance, as I thought you were sorry enough for having grieved and displeased me to keep you from repeating the offence, I did not consider any further punishment necessary. But perhaps I was mistaken, and it was only fear of punishment that caused your tears," he added, looking keenly at her. "Oh, no, papa! no indeed!" she exclaimed earnestly, the tears rushing into her eyes again; "it is worse than any punishment to know that I have grieved and displeased you, because I love you so very, _very_ dearly!" and the little arm crept round his neck again, and the soft cheek was laid to his. "I know it, darling," he said, "I fully believe that you would prefer any physical suffering to the pain of my displeasure." "Papa," she said, after a few moments' silence, "I want to tell you something." "Well, daughter, I am ready to listen," he answered pleasantly; "what is it?" "I was looking in my desk to-day, papa, for a letter that I wrote to you the evening before I was taken sick, and I couldn't find it. Did Aunt Adelaide give it to you?" "Yes, dear, I have it, and one of your curls," he said, pressing her closer to him. "Yes, papa, _that_ was what I wanted to tell you about. I am afraid I was very naughty to cut it off after all you said about it last Christmas; but everything was so strange that night--it seems like a dreadful dream to me now. I don't think I was quite in my right mind sometimes, and I thought I was going to die, and something seemed to tell me that you would want some of my hair when I was gone, and that nobody would save it for you; and so I cut it off myself. You do not mind about it, papa, dear, do you? You don't think it was _very_ naughty in me?" she asked anxiously. "No, darling, no; it was very right and kind, and much more than I deserved," he answered with emotion. "I am glad you are not angry, papa," she said in a relieved tone, "and, indeed, I did not mean to be naughty or disobedient." John was just bringing in the lights, and Mr. Dinsmore took a note from his pocket, saying, "I will read this to you, daughter, as it concerns you as well as myself." It was an invitation from Mrs. Howard--the mother of Elsie's friend, Caroline--to Mr. Dinsmore and his little girl, to come and spend the Christmas holidays with them. "Well, my pet, what do you say to it? would you like to go?" he asked, as he refolded the note and returned it to his pocket. "I don't know, papa; it seems as if it would be pleasant, as we are both invited; but home is so sweet, and I am so happy just alone with you that I hardly want to go away; so if you please, papa, I would much rather just leave it all to you." "Well, then, we will stay quietly at home," he said, with a gratified look; "and I think it will be much the better plan, for you are not strong enough yet for gayety, and it would be very little pleasure for you to be there while unable to join in the sports, and obliged always to keep early hours. "But we might have a Christmas dinner at home, and invite a few friends to help us eat it. Whom would you like to have?" "Mr. and Mrs. Travilla, and Aunt Adelaide, and Lora, if you please, papa, and anybody else you like," she replied, looking very much pleased. "I should like to have Carry Howard, but of course I can't--as she is going to have company of her own; and I believe nearly all the little girls I am acquainted with are to be there." "Yes, I suppose so. Well, we will ask those you have mentioned, and I hope they will come. But there is the tea-bell, and I shall carry my dolly out to the dining-room," he said, rising with her in his arms. "Papa," she said, when they had returned to their seats by the study fire, "may I give mammy a nice present this Christmas?" "Yes," he replied kindly, "I supposed you would want to give some presents, and I have just been thinking how it might be managed, as you are not fit to shop for yourself. As you have not had any pocket-money for several months, I will allow you now to spend as much as you choose--provided you keep within tolerably reasonable bounds," he added, smiling; "so you may make out a list of all the articles you want, and I will purchase them for you. Will that do?" "Oh, nicely, papa!" she cried, clapping her hands with delight, "it was very good of you to think of all that." "De slippers is come, darlin'; Bill, he fotched 'em from de city dis afternoon," remarked Chloe, as she was preparing her little charge for bed that night. "Oh, have they, mammy? let me see them!" was Elsie's eager exclamation. Chloe went to her room and was back again in a moment with a bundle in her hand, which Elsie immediately seized and opened with eager haste. "Oh, how pretty!" she cried, capering about with them in her hands, "aren't they, mammy? Won't papa be pleased?" Then starting at the sound of his step in the adjoining room, she threw them into a drawer which Chloe had hastily opened for the purpose. "Elsie," said her father, opening the door and putting in his head, "why are you not in bed, my daughter? you will take cold standing there half undressed. Go to bed immediately." "Yes, papa, I will," she replied submissively; and he drew back his head again and shut the door. "'Mighty narrow 'scape dat," remarked Chloe, laughing; "ef Massa had come jes a minute sooner, de cat been out de bag sure 'nough." Elsie made out her list the next day, with the help of some suggestions from her father, and by Christmas eve all the purchases had been made, and one of the closets in her bed-room was quite filled with packages of various sizes and shapes. The little girl was all excitement, and did not want to go to bed when the hour came. "Please, papa, let me stay up a little longer," she pleaded coaxingly. "I am not a bit sleepy." "No, my daughter; you must go at once," he said; "early hours are of great importance in your present state of health, and you must try to put away all exciting thoughts, and go to sleep as soon as you can. You will try to obey me in this?" "Yes, papa; I am sure I ought to be very good when you are so kind and indulgent to me," she replied, as she put up her face for the usual good-night kiss. "God bless and keep my little one, and give her many happy returns of this Christmas eve," said Mr. Dinsmore, folding her to his heart. Elsie had intended to stay awake until her father should be in bed and asleep, and then to steal softly into his room and take away the slippers he usually wore, replacing them with the new ones which she had worked. But now she engaged Chloe to do this for her, and in obedience to his directions endeavored to put away all exciting thoughts and go to sleep, in which she succeeded much sooner than she could have believed possible. She was up and dressed, and saying "Merry Christmas!" at her papa's door, quite early the next morning. "Come in," said he, "and tell me what fairy has been here, changing my old slippers to new ones." "No fairy at all, papa; but just dear old mammy," she cried, springing into his arms with a merry, ringing laugh. "Ah, but I know very well it wasn't Aunt Chloe's fingers that worked them," he said, kissing her first on one cheek, then on the other. "I wish you a very merry Christmas, and a _very happy_ New Year, my darling. Thank you for your gift; I like it very much, indeed; and now see what papa has for _you_." And opening a pretty little box that stood on his dressing-table, he took from it a beautiful pearl necklace and bracelets, and clasped them round her neck and arms. "Oh, how beautiful! dear papa, thank you very much," she exclaimed, delighted. "Your Aunt Adelaide thought you didn't care much for ornaments," he remarked, looking much pleased. "I do when _you_ give them to me, papa," she answered, raising her eyes to his face with one of her sweet, loving smiles. "I am very glad my present pleases you," he said, "but for fear it should not, I have provided another," and he placed in her hand a very handsomely bound volume of Scott's poems. "I don't deserve it, papa," she said, coloring deeply, and dropping her eyes on the carpet. "You shall have it, at any rate," he replied, laying his hand gently on her drooping head; "and now you can finish the 'Lady of the Lake' this afternoon, if you like. His prose works I may perhaps give you at some future day; but I do not choose you should read them for some years to come. But now we will lay this book aside for the present, and have our morning chapter together." They had finished their devotions, and she was sitting on his knee, waiting for the breakfast-bell to ring. "When did you find an opportunity to work these without letting me into the secret?" he asked, extending his foot, and turning it from side to side to look at his slipper. "It puzzles me to understand it, since I know that for weeks past you have scarcely been an hour out of my sight during the day--not since you were well enough to sew," he said, smiling down at her. There was an expression of deep gravity, almost amounting to sadness, on Elsie's little face, that surprised her father a good deal. "All, papa!" she murmured, "it makes me feel sad, and glad, too, to look at those slippers." "Why, darling?" he asked in a tender tone. "Because, papa, I worked almost the whole of them last summer, in those sorrowful days when I was all alone. I thought I was going to die, papa, for I was sure I could not live very long without you to love me, and I wanted to make something for you that would remind you of your little girl when she was gone, and perhaps convince you that she did really love you, although she seemed so naughty and rebellious," The tears were streaming down her cheeks, and there was a momentary struggle to keep down a rising sob; and then she added-- "I finished them since I came here, papa, a little at a time, whenever you were not with me." He was deeply moved. "My poor darling!" he sighed, drawing her closer to him, and caressing her tenderly, "those were sad days to us both, and though I _then_ persuaded myself that I was doing my duty toward you, if you had been taken away from me I could never have forgiven myself, or known another happy moment. But God has treated me with undeserved mercy." After breakfast the house-servants were all called in to family worship, as usual; and when that had been attended to, Elsie uncovered a large basket which stood on a side-table, and with a face beaming with delight, distributed the Christmas gifts--a nice new calico dress, or a bright-colored hand-kerchief to each, accompanied by a paper of confectionery. They were received with bows and courtesies, broad grins of satisfaction, and many repetitions of "Tank you, Miss Elsie! dese berry handsome--berry nice, jes de ting for dis chile." Mr. Dinsmore stood looking on highly gratified, and coming in for a share of the thanks. An hour or two later, Elsie's little pony, and her father's larger but equally beautiful steed, were brought up to the door, and they rode down to the quarter, followed by Jim and Bill, each carrying a good-sized basket; and there a very similar scene was gone through with--Elsie finishing up the business by showering sugar-plums into the outstretched aprons of the little ones, laughing merrily at their eagerness, and highly enjoying their delight. She half wished for an instant, as she turned her horse's head to ride away again, that she was one of them, so much did she want a share of the candy, which her father refused to let her taste, saying it was not fit for her when she was well, and much less now while she had yet hardly recovered from severe illness. But it was a lovely morning, the air pure and bracing, and everything else was speedily forgotten in the pleasure of a brisk ride with her father. They rode several miles, and on their return were overtaken by Mr. Travilla, who remarked that Elsie had quite a color, and was looking more like herself than he had seen her since her sickness. He was on horseback, and his mother arrived a little later in the carriage, having called at Roselands on the way, and picked up Adelaide. Lora did not come, as she had accepted an invitation to spend the holidays at Mr. Howard's, where a little girl about her own age, a cousin of Carry's, from the North, was spending the winter. Mr. Travilla put a beautiful little pearl ring on Elsie's finger, which she gracefully thanked him for, and then showing it to her father, "See, papa," she said, "how nicely it matches the bracelets." "Yes, daughter, it is very pretty," he replied, "and one of these days, when you are old enough to wear it, you shall have a pin to match." Mrs. Travilla and Adelaide each gave her a handsome book--Adelaide's was a beautifully bound Bible--and Elsie was delighted with all her presents, and thought no little girl could be richer in Christmas gifts than herself. The day passed very pleasantly, for they were quite like a family party, every one seeming to feel perfectly at home and at ease. The negroes were to have a grand dinner at the quarter, and Elsie, who had been deeply interested in the preparations--cake-baking, etc.--was now very anxious to see them enjoying their feast; so about one o'clock she and her father invited their guests to walk down there with them to enjoy the sight. "_I_, for one, would like nothing better," said Mr. Travilla, offering his arm to Adelaide, while Mr. Dinsmore took Mrs. Travilla, Elsie walking on the other side and keeping fast hold of his hand. They found it a very merry scene; and the actors in it scarcely enjoyed it more than the spectators. Their own dinner was served up somewhat later in the day, and with appetites rendered keen by their walk in the bracing air, they were ready to do it full justice. Adelaide, at her brother's request, took the head of the table, and played the part of hostess very gracefully. "Ah, Dinsmore," remarked Travilla, a little mischievously, glancing from one to the other, "you have a grand establishment here, but it still lacks its chief ornament. Miss Adelaide fills the place _to-day_, most gracefully, it is true; but then we all know she is only borrowed for the occasion." Mr. Dinsmore colored a little and looked slightly annoyed. "Elsie will supply that deficiency in a few years," he said, "and until then, I think I can depend upon the kindness of my sisters. Besides, Travilla," he added laughingly, "you must not forget the old proverb about people who live in glass houses." "Ah," replied Travilla, looking affectionately at his mother, "_I have_ a mistress for my establishment, and so can _afford_ to wait for Elsie." The child looked up quickly, with a slight flush on her face. "You needn't, Mr. Travilla!" she said, "for I am _never_ going to leave my father; and you know he promised not to give me away, so if you want a little girl you will have to look somewhere else." "Ah! well, I will not despair yet," he replied laughingly, "for I have learned that ladies, both little and large, very often change their minds, and so I shall still live in hopes." "You know I like you very much indeed, Mr. Travilla--next best to papa--but then I couldn't leave him for _anybody_, you see," Elsie said in a deprecating tone, and looking affectionately up into his face. "No, my dear, that is quite right, and I don't feel at all hurt," he answered with a good-natured smile, which seemed to relieve her very much. Tea was over, the guests had returned to their homes, and Mr. Dinsmore sat by the fire, as usual, with his little girl upon his knee. "We have had a very pleasant day, papa, haven't we?" she remarked. "Yes, darling, I have enjoyed it, and I hope you have, too." "Very much indeed, papa; and I do like all my presents so much." "If I should ask you to give me something of yours, would you be willing to do it?" he inquired in a grave tone. "Why, papa!" she said, looking up quickly into his face, "doesn't everything I have belong to you?" "In some sense it does, certainly," he replied, "and yet I like you to feel that you have some rights of property. But you did not answer my question." "I can't think what it can be, papa; but I am sure there is nothing of mine that I wouldn't be very glad to give you, if you wanted it," she said earnestly. "Well, then," said he, "your aunt gave you a new Bible to-day, and as you don't need two, will you give the old one to me?" A slight shade had come over the little girl's face, and she sat for a moment apparently in deep thought; then, looking up lovingly into his face, she replied, "I love it very much, papa, and I don't know whether any other Bible could ever seem _quite_ the same to me--it was mamma's, you know--and it has been with me in all my troubles, and I don't think I could be quite willing to give it to anybody else; but I am very glad to give it to you, my own dear, dear papa!" and she threw her arms around his neck. "Thank you very much, my darling. I know it is a very strong proof of your affection, and I shall value it more than its weight in gold," he said, pressing her to his heart, and kissing her tenderly. CHAPTER XV. "Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every sense, and every heart, is joy." THOMSON. It was spring again; early in April; the air was filled with the melody of birds, and balmy with the breath of flowers. All nature was awaking to renewed life and vigor; but not so with our little friend. She had never fully recovered her strength, and as the season advanced, and the weather became warmer she seemed to grow more languid. Her father was very anxious about her, and sending for Dr. Barton one morning, held a long consultation with him, the result of which was a determination on Mr. Dinsmore's part that he would take his little girl travelling for some months. They would go North immediately; for the doctor said it was the best thing that could be done; in fact the only thing that would be likely to benefit her. When the doctor had gone, Mr. Dinsmore went into Elsie's little sitting-room, where she was busily engaged with her lessons. "I am not quite ready yet, papa," she said, looking up as he entered; "isn't it a little before the time?" "Yes, a little," he replied, consulting his watch, "but you needn't mind that lesson, daughter; I'm afraid I have been working you too hard." "Oh, no, papa! and if you please, I would rather finish the lesson." "Very well, then, I will wait for you," he said, taking up a book. She came to him in a few moments, saying that she was quite ready now, and when he had heard her recitations, and praised her for their excellence, he bade her put her books away and come and sit on his knee, for he had something to tell her. "Is it good news, papa?" she asked, as he lifted her to her accustomed seat. "Yes, I hope you will think so: it is that you and I, and mammy, and John are about to set out upon our travels. I am going to take you North to spend the summer, as the doctor thinks that is the best thing that can be done to bring back your health and strength." Elsie's eyes were dancing with joy. "Oh, how delightful that will be!" she exclaimed. "And will you take me to see Miss Rose, papa?" "Yes, anywhere that you would like to go. Suppose we make out a list of the places we would like to visit," he said, taking out pencil and paper. "Oh, yes, papa," she answered eagerly; "I would like to go to Washington, to see the Capitol, and the President's house, and then to Philadelphia to see Independence Hall, where they signed the Declaration, you know, and then to New York, and then to Boston; for I want to see Bunker Hill, and Faneuil Hall, and all the places that we read so much about in the history of the Revolution, and--but, papa, may I _really_ go _wherever_ I want to?" she asked, interrupting herself in the midst of her rapid enumeration, to which he was listening with an amused expression. "I said so, did I not?" he replied, smiling at her eagerness. "Well, then, papa, I want to see Lakes Champlain and Ontario; yes, and all those great lakes--and Niagara Fails; and to sail up or down the Hudson River and the Connecticut, and I would like to visit the White Mountains, and--I don't know where else I would like to go, but--" "That will do pretty well for a beginning, I think," he said, laughing, "and by the time we are through with all those, if you are not ready to return home, you may be able to think of some more. Now for the time of starting. This is Wednesday--I think we will leave next Tuesday morning." "I am glad it is so soon," Elsie said, with a look of great satisfaction, "for I am in such a hurry to see Miss Rose. Must I go on with lessons this week, papa?" "With your music and drawing; but that will be all, except that we will read history together for an hour every day. I know a little regular employment will make the time pass much more quickly and pleasantly to you." Elsie could now talk of very little but her expected journey, and thought that time moved much more slowly than usual; yet when Monday evening came and she and her father walked over the grounds, taking leave of all her favorite haunts, everything was looking so lovely that she half regretted the necessity of leaving her beautiful home even for a few months. They started very early in the morning, before the sun was up, travelling to the city in their own carriage, and then taking the cars. They visited Baltimore and Washington, staying just long enough in each place to see all that was worth seeing; then went on to Philadelphia, where they expected to remain several weeks, as it was there Miss Rose resided. Mr. Allison was a prosperous merchant, with a fine establishment in the city, and a very elegant country-seat a few miles out of it. On reaching the city Elsie was in such haste to see her friend, that she entreated her father to go directly to Mr. Allison's, saying she was certain that Miss Rose would wish them to do so. But Mr. Dinsmore would not consent. "It would never do," he said, "to rush in upon our friends in that way, without giving them any warning; we might put them to great inconvenience." So John was sent for a carriage, and they drove to one of the first hotels in the city, where Mr. Dinsmore at once engaged rooms for himself, daughter, and servants. "You are looking tired, my child," he said, as he led Elsie to her room and seated her upon a sofa; "and you are warm and dusty. But mammy must give you a bath, and put on your loose wrapper, and I will have your supper brought up here, and then you must go early to bed, and I hope you will feel quite bright again in the morning." "Yes, papa, I hope so; and then you will take me to see Miss Rose, won't you?" she asked coaxingly. "I will send them our cards to-night, my dear, since you feel in such haste," he replied in a pleasant tone, "and probably Miss Rose will be here in the morning if she is well, and cares to see us." John and the porter were bringing up the trunks. They set them down and went out again, followed by Mr. Dinsmore, who did not return until half an hour afterwards, when he found Elsie lying on the sofa, seeming much refreshed by her bath and change of clothing. "You look better already, dearest," he said, stooping to press a kiss on her lips. "And you, too, papa," she answered, smiling up at him. "I think it improves any one to get the dust washed off. Won't you take your tea up here with me? I should like it so much." "I will, darling," he said kindly; "it is a great pleasure to me to gratify you in any harmless wish." And then he asked her what she would like for her supper, and told Chloe to ring for the waiter, that she might order it. After their tea they had their reading and prayer together; then he bade her good-night and left her, telling Chloe to put her to bed immediately. Chloe obeyed, and the little girl rose the next morning, feeling quite rested, and looking very well and bright. "How early do you think Miss Rose will come, papa?" was the first question she put to him on his entrance into her room. "Indeed, my child, I do not know, but I certainly should not advise you to expect her before ten o'clock, at the very earliest." "And it isn't eight yet," murmured Elsie, disconsolately. "Oh, papa, I wish you would take me to see her as soon as breakfast is over." He shook his head. "You must not be so impatient, my little daughter," he said, drawing her towards him. "Shall I take you to Independence Hall to-day?" "Not until Miss Rose has been here, if you please, papa; because I am so afraid of missing her." "Very well, you may stay in this morning, if you wish," he replied in an indulgent tone, as he took her hand to lead her down to the breakfast-table. So Elsie remained in her room all the morning, starting at every footstep, and turning her head eagerly every time the door opened: but no Miss Rose appeared, and she met her father at dinner-time with a very disconsolate face. He sympathized in her disappointment, and said all he could to raise her drooping spirits. When dinner was over, he did not ask if he should take her out, but quietly bade her go to Chloe and get her bonnet put on. She obeyed, as she knew she must, without a word, but as he took her hand on her return, to lead her out, she asked, "Is there no danger that Miss Rose will come while we are gone, papa?" "If she does, my dear, she will leave her card, and then we can go to see her; or very possibly she may wait until we return," he answered in a kind, cheerful tone. "But at any rate, you must have a walk this afternoon." Elsie sighed a little, but said no more, and her father led her along, talking so kindly, and finding so many pretty things to show her, that after a little she almost forgot her anxiety and disappointment. They were passing a confectioner's, where the display of sweetmeats in the window was unusually tempting. Elsie called his attention to it. "See, papa, how _very_ nice those candies look!" He smiled a little, asking, "Which do you think looks the most inviting?" "I don't know, papa, there is such a variety." "I will indulge you for once--it isn't often I do," he said, leading her into the store; "so now choose what you want and I will pay for it." "Thank you, papa!" and the smile that accompanied the words was a very bright one. When they returned to their hotel Elsie eagerly inquired of Chloe if Miss Rose had been there, and was again sadly disappointed to learn that she had not. "Oh, papa!" she said, bursting into tears, "what _can_ be the reason she doesn't come?" "I don't know, darling," he answered soothingly; "but never mind; she is probably away from home, and perhaps will return in a day or two." The next morning Mr. Dinsmore would not hear of staying in to wait for a call that was so uncertain, but ordered a carriage immediately after breakfast, and had Elsie out sight-seeing and shopping all day. One of their visits--one which particularly pleased and interested the little girl--was to Independence Hall, where they were shown the bell which in Revolutionary days had, in accordance with its motto, "Proclaimed liberty throughout all the land, to all the inhabitants thereof." "I am so glad to have seen it, papa," Elsie said. "I have always felt so interested in its story, and shall never forget it so long as I live." "Yes," he said, with a pleased smile, "I was sure you would enjoy seeing it; for I know my little girl is very patriotic." Other historical scenes were visited after that, and thus several days passed very pleasantly. Still there were no tidings of Miss Allison, and at last Elsie gave up expecting her; for her father said it must certainly be that the family had left the city for the summer, although it was so early in the season; so he decided that they would go on and visit Boston, and the White Mountains; and perhaps go up the Hudson River, too, and to Niagara Falls, and the lakes, stopping in Philadelphia again on their return; when their friends would probably be in the city again. It was on Saturday morning that he announced this decision to Elsie, adding that they would remain where they were over the Sabbath, and leave for New York early Monday morning. Elsie sighed at the thought of giving up for so long a time all hope of seeing Miss Rose, and looked very sober for a little while, though she said nothing. "Well, I believe we have seen all the sights in this city of Brotherly Love, so what shall we do with ourselves to-day?" her father asked gayly, as he drew her towards him, and playfully patted her cheek. "I should like to go back to the Academy of Fine Arts, if you will take me, papa; there are several pictures there which I want very much to see again." "Then get your bonnet, my pet, and we will go at once," he said; and Elsie hastened to do his bidding. There were very few other visitors in the Academy when Mr. Dinsmore and his little girl entered. They spent several hours there, almost too much absorbed in studying the different paintings to notice who were coming or going, or what might be passing about them. They themselves, however, were by no means unobserved, and more than once the remark might have been heard from some one whose eyes were turned in that direction, "What a very fine-looking gentleman!" or, "What a lovely little girl!" One young lady and gentleman watched them for some time. "What a very handsome and distinguished-looking man he is," remarked the lady in an undertone, "His face looks familiar, too, and yet I surely cannot have met him before." "Yes, he is a fine, gentlemanly looking fellow," replied her companion in the same low tone, "but it is the little girl that attracts my attention. She is perfectly lovely! his sister, I presume. There, Rose, now you can see her face," he added, as at that moment Elsie turned toward them. "Oh, it is a dear little face! But can it be? no, surely it is impossible! yes, yes, it _is_, my own little Elsie!" For at that instant their eyes met, and uttering a joyful exclamation, the little girl darted across the room, and threw herself into the lady's arms, crying, "Oh, Miss Rose! dear, dear Miss Rose, how glad I am!" "Elsie! darling! why, where did you come from?" and Rose's arms were clasped about the little girl's waist, and she was showering kisses upon the sweet little face. "I did not even know you were in the North," she said presently, releasing her from her embrace, but still keeping fast hold of her hand, and looking down lovingly into her face. "When did you come? and who is with you? but I need scarcely ask, for it must be your papa, of course." "Yes, ma'am," replied Elsie, looking round, "there he is, and see! he is coming toward us. Papa, this is Miss Rose." Rose held out her hand with one of her sweetest smiles. "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Dinsmore, especially as you have brought my dear little friend with you. This is my brother Edward," she added, turning to her companion. "Mr. Dinsmore, Edward, and little Elsie, of whom you have so often heard me speak." There was a cordial greeting all around; then questions were asked and answered until everything had been explained; Mr. Dinsmore learning that Mr. Allison's family were out of the city, passing the summer at their country-seat, and had never received his cards; but that to-day, Rose and her brother had come in to do a little shopping, and finding that they had an hour to spare, had fortunately decided to pay a visit to the Academy. When these explanations had been made, Edward and Rose urged Mr. Dinsmore to return with them to their home and pay them a long visit, saying that they knew nothing else would at all satisfy their parents, and at length he consented to do so, on condition that they first dined with him at his hotel, to which they finally agreed. Elsie was delighted with the arrangement, and looked happier, her father laughingly affirmed, than she had done for a week. She was seated by Miss Rose at dinner, and also in the carriage during their ride, which was a beautiful one, and just long enough to be pleasant. They had passed a number of very handsome residences, which Rose had pointed out to Elsie, generally giving the name of the occupant, and asking how she liked the place. "Now, Elsie, we are coming to another," she said, laying her hand on the little girl's arm, "and I want you to tell me what you think of it. See! that large, old-fashioned house built of gray stone; there, beyond the avenue of elms." "Oh, I like it so much! better than any of the others! I think I should like to live there." "I am very glad it pleases you," Rose answered with a smile, "and I hope you will live there, at least for some weeks or months." "Oh, it is your home? how glad I am!" exclaimed the little girl as the carriage turned into the avenue. "This is a very fine old place, Miss Allison," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, turning toward her; "I think one might well be content to spend his days here." Rose looked gratified, and pointed out several improvements her father had been making. "I am very proud of my home," she said, "but I do not think it more lovely than Roselands." "Ah! Miss Rose, but you ought to see the Oaks--papa's new place," said Elsie, eagerly. "It is much handsomer than Roselands, I think. Miss Rose must visit us next time, papa, must she not?" "If she will, daughter, Miss Allison, or any other member of her father's family, will always find a warm welcome at my house." Rose had only time to say "Thank you," before the carriage had stopped, and Edward, springing out, was ready to assist the others to alight. Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie were left standing upon the piazza, looking about them, while Edward was engaged for a moment in giving some directions to the coachman, and Rose was speaking to a servant who had come out on their approach. "Mamma is lying down with a bad headache, Mr. Dinsmore, and papa has not yet returned from the city," said Rose, turning to her guests; "but I hope you will excuse them, and Edward will show you to your room, and try to make you feel at home." Mr. Dinsmore politely expressed his regret at Mrs. Allison's illness, and his hope that their arrival would not be allowed to disturb her. Miss Allison then left him to her brother's care, and taking Elsie's hand, led her to her own room. It was a large, airy apartment, very prettily furnished, with another a little smaller opening into it. "This is my room, Elsie," said Miss Rose, "and that is Sophy's. You will sleep with her, and so I can take care of you both, for though Chloe can attend you morning and evening as usual, she will have to sleep in one of the servants' rooms in the attic." She had been taking off Elsie's bonnet, and smoothing her hair as she spoke, and now removing her own, she sat down on a low seat, and taking the little girl on her lap, folded her in her arms, and kissed her over and over again, saying softly, "My darling, darling child! I cannot tell you how glad and thankful I am to have you in my arms once more. I love you very dearly, little Elsie." Elsie was almost too glad to speak, but presently she whispered, "Not better than I love you, dear Miss Rose. I love you next to papa." "And you are very happy now?" "Very, very happy. Do you like my papa, Miss Rose?" "Very much, dear, so far," Rose replied with simple truthfulness; "he seems to be a very polished gentleman, and I think is extremely handsome; but what is best of all, I can see he is a very fond father," she added, bestowing another kiss upon the little rosy cheek. "I am so glad!" exclaimed the little girl, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. Then she added, in a deprecating tone, "But he doesn't spoil me, Miss Rose; indeed he does not. I always know I must obey, and promptly and cheerfully, too." "No, dearest, I did not think you had been spoiled; indeed, I doubt if it would be possible to spoil you," Rose answered in a tone of fondness. "Ah! you don't know me, Miss Rose," said Elsie, shaking her head. "If papa were not very firm and decided with me, I know I should be very wilful sometimes, and he knows it, too; but he is too really kind to indulge me in naughtiness. My dear, dear papa! Miss Rose, I love him so much." "I am so glad for you, my poor little one," murmured Rose, drawing the little girl closer to her. "It seemed so sad and lonely for you, with neither father nor mother to love you. And you were very ill last summer, darling? and very unhappy before that? Your Aunt Adelaide wrote me all about it, and my heart ached for my poor darling; oh, how I longed to comfort her!" "Yes, Miss Rose, that was a dreadful time; but papa only did what he thought was right, and you cannot think how kind he was when I was getting better." Elsie's eyes were full of tears. "I know it, darling, and I pitied him, too, and often prayed for you both," said Rose. "But tell me, dearest, was Jesus near to you in your troubles?" "Yes, Miss Rose, very near, and very precious; else how could I have borne it at all? for oh, Miss Rose, I thought sometimes my heart would break!" "It was a bitter trial, dearest, I know; and certain I am that you must have had much more than your own strength to enable you to be so firm," said Rose, tenderly. "Ah, there is Sophy!" she added quickly, as a mass of flaxen curls, accompanied by a pair of dancing blue eyes, appeared for an instant at the door, and then as suddenly vanished. "Sophy! Sophy, come here!" she called, and again the door opened and the owner of the blue eyes and flaxen ringlets--a little girl about Elsie's age, came in, and moved slowly towards them, looking at the stranger in her sister's lap with a mingled expression of fun, curiosity, and bashfulness. "Come, Sophy, this is Elsie Dinsmore, whom you have so often wished to see," said Rose. "Elsie, this is my little sister Sophy. I want you to be friends, and learn to love one another dearly. There, Sophy, take her into your room, and show her all your toys and books, while I am changing my dress; that will be the way for you to get acquainted." Sophy did as she was desired, and, as Rose had foreseen, the first feeling of bashfulness soon wore off, and in a few moments they were talking and laughing together as though they had been acquainted as many months. Sophy had brought out a number of dolls, and they were discussing their several claims to beauty in a very animated way when Rose called to them to come with her. "I am going to carry you off to the nursery, Elsie, to see the little ones," she said, taking her young visitor's hand; "should you like to see them?" "Oh, so much!" Elsie exclaimed eagerly; "if Sophy may go, too." "Oh, yes, Sophy will come along, of course," Miss Rose said, leading the way as she spoke. Elsie found the nursery, a beautiful, large room, fitted up with every comfort and convenience, and abounding in a variety of toys for the amusement of the children, of whom there were three--the baby crowing in its nurse's arms, little May, a merry, romping child of four, with flaxen curls and blue eyes like Sophy's, and Freddie, a boy of seven. Harold, who was thirteen, sat by one of the windows busily engaged covering a ball for Fred, who with May stood intently watching the movements of his needle. Elsie was introduced to them all, one after another. Harold gave her a cordial shake of the hand, and a pleasant "Welcome to Elmgrove," and the little ones put up their faces to be kissed. Elsie thought Harold a kind, pleasant-looking boy, not at all like Arthur, Fred and May, dear little things, and the baby perfectly charming, as she afterwards confided to her father. "May I take the baby, Miss Rose?" she asked coaxingly. Miss Rose said "Yes," and the nurse put it in her arms for a moment. "Dear, pretty little thing!" she exclaimed, kissing it softly. "How old is it, Miss Rose? and what is its name?" "She is nearly a year old, and we call her Daisy." "I'm sure your arms must be getting tired, miss, for she's quite heavy," remarked the nurse presently, taking the child again. Miss Rose now said it was time to go down-stairs, and left the room, followed by Elsie, Harold, and Sophy, the last-named putting her arm around Elsie's waist, saying what a delightful time they would have together, and that she hoped she would stay all summer. They had not quite reached the end of the hall when Elsie saw her father come out of the door of another room, and hastily releasing herself from Sophy's arm, she ran to him, and catching hold of his hand, looked up eagerly into his face, saying, "Oh, papa, do come into the nursery and see the dear little children and the baby! it is so pretty." He looked inquiringly at Miss Allison. "If you care to see it, Mr. Dinsmore," she said, smiling, "there is no objection; we are very proud of our baby." "Then I should like to go," he replied, "both to gratify Elsie and because I am fond of children." Rose led the way and they all went back to the nursery, where Mr. Dinsmore kissed the little folks all round, patted their heads and talked kindly to them, then took the babe in his arms, praising its beauty, and tossing it up till he made it laugh and crow right merrily. "I often wish I had seen my baby," he remarked to Rose, as he returned it to the nurse. Then laying his hand on Elsie's head, "Do you know, Miss Allison," he asked, "that I never saw my little girl until she was nearly eight years old?" "Yes," she replied, "I knew her before you did, and sympathized strongly in her longing for a father's love." "Ah! we both lost a good deal in those years, and if I could live them over again it should be very different," he said, with a loving glance at his daughter's face; "nothing should keep me from my child. Though no doubt it has all been for the best," he added, with a slight sigh, as he thought of the worldly wisdom he would have taught her. They all now went down to the parlor, where Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie were introduced to Richard Allison, a wild boy full of fun and frolic, between Rose and Harold in age. Edward was the eldest of the family, and quite sober and sedate. Richard took a great fancy to Elsie from the first moment, and very soon had coaxed her out to the lawn, where he presently engaged her in a merry game of romps with Sophy, Harold, and himself, which was finally brought to a conclusion by the arrival of the elder Mr. Allison, almost immediately followed by the call to supper. Mr. Allison had a pleasant face, and was a younger looking man than might have been expected in the father of such a family. He welcomed his guests with the greatest cordiality, expressing the hope that they intended paying a long visit to Elmgrove, which he said they owed him in return for Rose's lengthened sojourn at Roselands. Mrs. Allison also made her appearance at the tea-table, saying that she had nearly recovered from her headache; although she still looked pale and languid. She had a kind, motherly look, and a gentle, winning address that quite took Elsie's fancy; and was evidently pleased at their arrival, and anxious to entertain them in the most hospitable manner. Mr. Dinsmore and his little girl were the only guests, and all the children, excepting the baby, were allowed to come to the table. They seemed to be well-bred children, behaved in a quiet, orderly way, and asked politely for what they wanted, but were rather too much indulged, Mr. Dinsmore thought, as he observed that they all ate and drank whatever they fancied, without any remonstrance from their parents. Elsie was seated between her father and Miss Rose. "Will your little girl take tea or coffee, Mr. Dinsmore?" asked Mrs. Allison. "Neither, thank you, madam: she will take a glass of milk if you have it; if not, cold water will do very well," "Why, Elsie, I thought I remembered that you were very fond of coffee," Rose remarked, as she filled a tumbler with milk and set it down beside the little girl's plate. "Elsie is a good child, and eats and drinks just whatever her father thinks best for her, Miss Allison," said Mr. Dinsmore, preventing Elsie's reply. "No, no; not any of those, if you please," for Rose was putting hot, buttered waffles upon Elsie's plate; "I don't allow her to eat hot cakes, especially at night." "Excuse me, Mr. Dinsmore, but are you not eating them yourself?" asked Rose, with an arch smile. "Yes, Miss Rose; and so may she when she is my age," he answered in a pleasant tone, accompanied by an affectionate glance and smile bestowed upon his little daughter. "I think you are quite right, Mr. Dinsmore," remarked Mrs. Allison. "I know we pamper our children's appetites entirely too much, as I have often said to their father; but he does not agree with me, and I have not sufficient firmness to carry out the reform by myself." "No, I like to see them enjoy themselves, and whatever I have, I want my children to have, too," said Mr. Allison, bluntly. "It would seem the kindest treatment at first sight, but I don't think it is in the end," replied Mr. Dinsmore. "To buy present enjoyment at the expense of an enfeebled constitution is paying much too dear for it, I think." "Ah! young people are full of notions," said the elder gentleman, shaking his head wisely, "and are very apt to be much more strict with the first child than with any of the rest. You are bringing this one up by rule, I see; but mark my words: if you live to be the father of as many as I have, you will grow less and less strict with each one, until you will be ready to spoil the youngest completely." "I hope not, sir; I am very sure I could not possibly love another better than I do this," Mr. Dinsmore said with a smile, and coloring slightly, too; then adroitly changed the subject by a remark addressed to Edward. Immediately after tea the whole family adjourned to the sitting-room, the servants were called in, and Mr. Allison read a portion of Scripture and prayed; afterwards remarking to Mr. Dinsmore that it was his custom to attend to this duty early in the evening, that the younger children might have the benefit of it without being kept up too late. Mr. Dinsmore expressed his approval, adding that it was his plan also. "Papa," whispered Elsie, who was close to him, "I am to sleep with Sophy." "Ah! that will be very pleasant for you," he said, "but you must be a good girl, and not give any unnecessary trouble." "I will try, papa. There, Sophy is calling me; may I go to her?" "Certainly;" and he released her hand, which he had been holding in his. "I want to show you my garden," said Sophy, whom Elsie found in the hall; and she led the way out through a back door which opened into a garden now gay with spring flowers and early roses. Sophy pointed out the corner which was her especial property, and exhibited her plants and flowers with a great deal of honest pride. "I planted every one of them myself," she said. "Harold dug up the ground for me, and I did all the rest, I work an hour every morning pulling up the weeds and watering the flowers." "Oh? won't you let me help you while I am here?" asked Elsie, eagerly. "Why, yes, if you like, and your papa won't mind I think it would be real fun. But he's very strict, isn't he, Elsie? I feel quite afraid of him." "Yes, he is strict, but he is very kind, too." "Let's go in now," said Sophy; "I've got a beautiful picture-book that I want to show you; and to-morrow's Sunday, you know, so if you don't see it to-night, you'll have to wait till Monday, because it isn't a Sunday book." "What time is it?" asked Elsie. "I always have to go to bed at half-past eight." "I don't know," said Sophy, "but we'll look at the clock in the dining-room," and she ran in, closely followed by her little guest. "Just eight! we've only got half an hour; so come along. But won't your papa let you stay up longer?" "No," Elsie answered in a very decided tone; and they hurried to the parlor, where they seated themselves in a corner, and were soon eagerly discussing the pictures in Sophy's book. They had just finished, and Sophy was beginning a very animated description of a child's party she had attended a short time before, when Elsie, who had been anxiously watching her father for the last five minutes, saw him take out his watch and look at her. "There, Sophy," she said, rising, "I know papa means it is time for me to go to bed." "Oh, just wait one minute!" But Elsie was already half way across the room. "It is your bedtime, daughter," said Mr. Dinsmore, smiling affectionately on her. "Yes, papa; good-night," and she held up her face for the accustomed kiss. "Good-night, daughter," he replied, bestowing the caress. Then laying his hand gently on her head, he said softly, "God bless and keep my little one." Rose, who was seated on the sofa beside him, drew Elsie to her, saying, "I must have a kiss, too, darling." "Now go, daughter," said Mr. Dinsmore, as Rose released her from her embrace, "go to bed as soon as you can, and don't lie awake talking." "Mayn't I talk at all, after I go to bed, papa?" "No, not at all." Seeing that Elsie was really going, Sophy had put away her book, and was now ready to accompany her. She was quite a talker, and rattled on very fast until she saw Elsie take out her Bible; but then became perfectly quiet until Elsie was through with her devotions, and Chloe had come to prepare her for bed. Then she began chatting again in her lively way, Elsie answering very pleasantly until she was just ready to step into bed, when she said gently, "Sophy, papa said, before I came up, that I must not talk at all after I got into bed, so please don't be vexed if I don't answer you, because you know I _must_ obey my father." "Pshaw! how provoking. I thought we were going to have such a good time, and I've got ever so much to say to you." "I'm just as sorry as you are, Sophy, but I can't disobey papa." "He'd never know it," suggested Sophy in a voice scarcely above a whisper. Elsie started with astonishment to hear Miss Rose's sister speaking thus. "Oh, Sophy! you can't mean to advise me to deceive and disobey my father?" she said. "God would know it, and papa would soon know it, too, for I could never look him in the face again until I had confessed it." Sophy blushed deeply. "I didn't think about its being deceitful. But would your papa punish you for such a little thing?" "Papa says disobedience is never a little thing, and he always punishes me when I disobey him; but I wouldn't care so much for that, as for knowing that I had grieved him so; because I love my papa very dearly. But I must not talk any more; so good-night;" and she climbed into bed, laid her head on the pillow, and in a very few moments was fast asleep. CHAPTER XVI. "Hail, Holy Day! the blessing from above Brightens thy presence like a smile of love, Smoothing, like oil upon a stormy sea, The roughest waves of human destiny-- Cheering the good, and to the poor oppresse'd Bearing the promise of their heavenly rest." MRS. HALE'S PRIME OF LIFE. When Chloe came in to dress her young charge the next morning, she found her already up and sitting with her Bible in her hand. "Don't make a noise, mammy," she whispered; "Sophy is still asleep." Chloe nodded acquiescence, and moving softly about, got through the business of washing and dressing her nursling, and brushing her curls, without disturbing the sleeper. Then they both quietly left the room, and Elsie, with her Bible in her hand, rapped gently at her father's door. He opened it, and giving her a kiss and a "Good-morning, darling," led her across the room to where he had been sitting by a window looking into the garden. Then taking her on his knee, and stroking her hair fondly, he said with a smile, "My little girl looks very bright this morning, and as if she had had a good night's rest. I think she obeyed me, and did not lie awake talking." "No, papa, I did not, though I wanted to very much," she answered with a slight blush. "We did not have our chapter together last night," he said, opening the Bible, "but I hope we will not miss it very often." Their plan was to read verse about, Elsie asking questions about anything she did not understand, and her father explaining and making remarks, he having read it first in the original, and generally consulted a commentator also. Then Elsie usually had one or two texts to recite, which she had learned while Chloe was dressing her; after that they knelt down and Mr. Dinsmore prayed. They never read more than a few verses, and his prayer was always short, so that there was no room for weariness, and Elsie always enjoyed it very much. They had still a little time to talk together before the breakfast-bell rang, of which Elsie was very glad, for she had a great deal to say to her father. "It is such a sweet, sweet Sabbath-day, papa," she said, "is it not? and this is such a nice place, almost as pretty as our own dear home; and are they not pleasant people? I think they seem so kind to one another, and to everybody." "Which must mean you and me, I suppose; there is no one else here," he answered smilingly. "Oh! the servants, you know, papa, and the people at the hotel: but don't you think they are kind?" "Yes, dear, they certainly seem to be, and I have no doubt they are." "And the baby, papa! isn't it pretty, and oh, papa, _don't_ you like Miss Rose?" "I hardly know her yet, daughter, but I think she is very sweet looking, and seems to be gentle and amiable." "I am glad you like her, papa; and I knew you would," Elsie said in a tone of great satisfaction. The church the Allisons attended was within easy walking distance of Elmgrove, and service was held in it twice a day; the whole family, with the exception of the very little children and one servant, who stayed at home to take care of them, went both morning and afternoon, and Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie accompanied them. The interval between dinner and afternoon service Elsie spent in her father's room, sitting on a stool at his feet quietly reading. When they had returned from church Miss Allison gathered all the little ones in the nursery and showed them pictures, and told them Bible stories, until the tea-bell rang; after which the whole family, including children and servants, were called together into the sitting-room to be catechized by Mr. Allison; that was succeeded by family worship, and then they sang hymns until it was time for the children to go to bed. As Elsie laid her head on her pillow that night, she said to herself that it had been a very pleasant day, and she could be quite willing to live at Elmgrove, were it not for the thought of her own dear home in the "sunny South." The next morning her father told her they would be there for several weeks, and that he would expect her to practise an hour every morning--Miss Rose having kindly offered the use of her piano--and every afternoon to read for an hour with him; but all the rest of the day she might have to herself, to spend just as she pleased; only, of course, she must manage to take sufficient exercise, and not get into any mischief. Elsie was delighted with the arrangement, and ran off at once to tell Sophy the good news. "Oh! I am ever so glad you are going to stay!" exclaimed Sophy joyfully. "But why need your papa make you say lessons at all? I think he might just as well let you play all the time." "No," replied Elsie, "papa says I will enjoy my play a great deal better for doing a little work first, and I know it is so. Indeed, I always find papa knows best." "Oh, Elsie!" Sophy exclaimed, as if struck with a bright thought, "I'll tell you what we can do! let us learn some duets together." "Yes, that's a good thought," said Elsie; "so we will." "And perhaps Sophy would like to join us in our reading, too," said Mr. Dinsmore's voice behind them. Both little girls turned round with an exclamation of surprise, and Elsie, taking hold of his hand, looked up lovingly into his face, saying, "Oh, thank you, papa; that will be so pleasant." He held out his other hand to Sophy, asking, with a smile, "Will you come, my dear?" "If you won't ask me any questions," she answered a little bashfully. "Sophy is afraid of you, papa," whispered Elsie with an arch glance at her friend's blushing face. "And are not you, too?" he asked, pinching her cheek. "Not a bit, papa, except when I've been naughty," she said, laying her cheek lovingly against his hand. He bent down and kissed her with a very gratified look. Then patting Sophy's head, said pleasantly, "You needn't be afraid of the questions, Sophy; I will make Elsie answer them all." Elsie and her papa stayed for nearly two months at Elmgrove, and her life there agreed so well with the little girl that she became as strong, healthy and rosy as she had ever been. She and Sophy and Harold spent the greater part of almost every day in the open air--working in the garden, racing about the grounds, taking long walks in search of wild flowers, hunting eggs in the barn, or building baby-houses and making tea-parties in the shade of the trees down by the brook. There was a district school-house not very far from Elmgrove, and in their rambles the children had made acquaintance with two or three of the scholars--nice, quiet little girls--who, after a while, got into the habit of bringing their dinner-baskets to the rendezvous by the brook-side, and spending their noon-recess with Elsie and Sophy; the dinner hour at Mr. Allison's being somewhat later in the day. Sophy and Elsie were sitting under the trees one warm June morning dressing their dolls. Fred and May were rolling marbles, and Harold lay on the grass with a book in his hand. "There come Hetty Allen and Maggie Wilson," said Sophy, raising her head. "See how earnestly they are talking together! I wonder what it is all about. What's the matter, girls?" she asked, as they drew near. "Oh, nothing's the matter," replied Hetty, "but we are getting up a party to go strawberrying. We've heard of a field only two miles from here--or at least not much over two miles from the school-house--where the berries are very thick. We are going to-morrow, because it's Saturday, and there's no school, and we've come to ask if you and Elsie and Harold won't go along." "Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Sophy, clapping her hands; "it will be such fun, and I'm sure mamma will let us go." "Oh, that's a first-rate idea!" cried Harold, throwing aside his book; "to be sure we must all go." "Will you go, Elsie?" asked Maggie; adding, "we want you so very much." "Oh, yes, if papa will let me, and I think he will, for he allows me to run about here all day, which I should think was pretty much the same thing, only there will be more fun and frolic with so many of us together, and the berries to pick, too; oh, I should like to go very much indeed!" Hetty and Maggie had seated themselves on the grass, and now the whole plan was eagerly discussed. The children were all to meet at the school-house at nine o'clock, and proceed in a body to the field, taking their dinners along so as to be able to stay all day if they chose. The more the plan was discussed, the more attractive it seemed to our little friends, and the stronger grew their desire to be permitted to go. "I wish I knew for certain that mamma would say yes," said Sophy. "Suppose we go up to the house now and ask." "No," objected Harold, "mamma will be busy now, and less likely to say yes, than after dinner. So we had better wait." "Well, then, you all ask leave when you go up to dinner, and we will call here on our way home from school to know whether you are going or not," said Hetty, as she and Maggie rose to go. Harold and Sophy agreed, but Elsie said that she could not know then, because her father had gone to the city and would not be back until near tea-time. "Oh, well, never mind! he'll be sure to say yes if mamma does," said Harold, hopefully. And then, as Hetty and Maggie walked away, he began consulting with Sophy on the best plan for approaching their mother on the subject. They resolved to wait until after dinner, and then, when she had settled down to her sewing, to present their request. Mrs. Allison raised several objections; the weather was very warm, the road would be very dusty, and she was sure they would get overheated and fatigued, and heartily wish themselves at home long before the day was over. "Well, then, mamma, we can come home; there is nothing to prevent us," said Harold. "Oh, mamma, do let us go just this once," urged Sophy; "and if we find it as disagreeable as you think, you know we won't ask again." And so at last Mrs. Allison gave a rather reluctant consent, but only on condition that Mr. Dinsmore would allow Elsie to go, as she said it would be very rude indeed for them to go and leave their little guest at home alone. This conversation had taken place in Mrs. Allison's dressing-room, and Elsie was waiting in the hall to learn the result of their application. "Mamma says we may go if your papa says yes," cried Sophy, rushing out and throwing her arms round Elsie's neck. "Oh, aren't you glad? Now, Elsie, coax him hard and make him let you go." "I wouldn't dare to do it; I should only get punished if I did, for papa never allows me to coax or tease, nor even to ask him a second time," Elsie said, with a little shake of her head. "Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Sophy, "I often get what I want by teasing. I guess you never tried it." "My papa is not at all like your father and mother," replied Elsie, "and it would be worse than useless to coax after he has once said no." "Then coax him before he has a chance to say it," suggested Sophy, laughing. "Perhaps that might do if I can manage it," said Elsie, thoughtfully. "I wish he would come!" she added, walking to the window and looking out. "He won't be here for an hour or two, at any rate, if he dined in the city," said Sophy. "Oh, how warm it is! let's go to our room, Elsie, and take off our dresses and have a nap. It will help to pass away the time until your papa comes." Elsie agreed to the proposal, and before long they were both sound asleep, having tired themselves out with romping and running. When Elsie awoke she found Chloe standing over her. "You's had a berry good nap, darlin', an' you's berry warm," she whispered, as she wiped the perspiration from the little girl's face. "Let your ole mammy take you up an' give you a bath an' dress you up nice an' clean, 'fore Miss Sophy gits her blue eyes open." "Oh, yes, that will make me feel so much better," agreed the little girl, "and you must make me look very nice, mammy, to please papa. Has he come yet?" "Yes, darlin'; master's been home dis hour, an' I 'specs he's in de parlor dis minute talkin' 'long of Miss Rose an' de rest." "Then hurry, mammy, and dress me quickly, because I want to ask papa something," Elsie said in an eager whisper, as she stepped hastily off the bed. Chloe did her best, and in half an hour Elsie, looking as sweet and fresh as a new-blown rose in her clean white frock and nicely brushed curls, entered the parlor where her father, Mrs. Allison, Miss Rose, and her elder brother were seated. Mr. Dinsmore was talking with Edward Allison, but he turned his head as Elsie came in, and held out his hand to her with a proud, fond smile. She sprang to his side, and, still going on with his conversation, he passed his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek, while she leaned against his knee, and with her eyes feed lovingly upon his face waited patiently for an opportunity to prefer her request. Miss Rose was watching them, as she often did, with a look of intense satisfaction, for it rejoiced her heart to see how her little friend revelled in her father's affection. The gentlemen were discussing some scientific question with great earnestness, and Elsie began to feel a little impatient as they talked on and on without seeming to come any nearer to a conclusion: but at last Edward rose and left the room in search of a book which he thought would throw some light on the subject; and then her father turned to her and asked, "How has my little girl enjoyed herself to-day?" "Very much, thank you, papa; but I have something to ask you, and I want you to say yes. Please, papa, _do!_ won't you?" she pleaded eagerly, but in a low tone only meant for his ears. "You know I love to gratify you, daughter," he said kindly, "but I cannot possibly say yes until I know what you want." "Well, papa," she replied, speaking very fast, as if she feared he would interrupt her, "a good many little girls and boys are going after strawberries to-morrow: they are to start from the school-house, at nine o'clock in the morning, and walk two miles to a field where the berries are very thick; and they've asked us to go--I mean Harold and Sophy and me--and we all want to go _so much_; we think it will be such fun, and Mrs. Allison says we may if you will only say yes. Oh, papa, _do please_ let me go, _won't_ you?" Her tone was very coaxing, and her eyes pleaded as earnestly as her tongue. He seemed to be considering for a moment, and she watched his face eagerly, trying to read in it what his answer would be. At length it came, gently, but firmly spoken, "No, daughter, you cannot go. I do not at all approve of the plan." Elsie did not utter another word, of remonstrance or entreaty, for she knew it would be useless; but the disappointment was very great, and two or three tears rolled quickly down her cheeks. Her father looked at her a moment in some surprise, and then said, speaking in a low tone, and very gravely, "This will never do, my daughter. Go up to my room and stay there until you can be quite cheerful and pleasant; then you may come down again." Elsie hurried out of the room, the tears coming thick and fast now, and almost ran against Edward in the hall. "Why, what is the matter, my dear?" he asked in a tone of surprise and alarm, laying his hand on her shoulder to detain her. "Please don't ask me, Mr. Edward. Please let me go," she sobbed, breaking away from him and rushing up the stairs. He stood for an instant looking after her, then turning to go back to the parlor, encountered Rose, who was just coming out. "What ails her?" he asked. "I don't know. Something that passed between her and her father. I rather suspect he sent her upstairs as a punishment." "Pshaw! I've no patience with him. The dear little thing! I don't believe she deserved it." Rose made no reply, but glided up-stairs, and he returned to the parlor to finish the discussion with Mr. Dinsmore. In the meantime Elsie had shut herself into her father's room, where she indulged for a few moments in a hearty cry, which seemed to do her a great deal of good. But presently she wiped away her tears, bathed her eyes, and sat down by the window. "What a silly little girl I am," she said to herself, "to be crying just because I can't have my own way, when I know it will not alter papa's determination in the least; and when I know, too, that I have always found his way the best in the end! Oh, dear, I have quite disgraced myself before Miss Rose and her mother, and the rest, and vexed papa, too! I wish I could be good and then I might be down-stairs with the others, instead of alone up here. Well, papa said I might come down again as soon as I could be pleasant and cheerful, and I think I can now, and there is the tea-bell." She ran down just in time to take her place with the others. She raised her eyes to her father's face as he drew her chair up closer to the table. The look seemed to ask forgiveness and reconciliation, and the answering smile told that it was granted; and the little heart bounded lightly once more, and the sweet little face was wreathed in smiles. Sophy and Harold were watching her from the other side of the table, and their hopes rose high, for they very naturally concluded from her beaming countenance that she had carried her point, and they would all be allowed to go to the strawberry party next day. Their disappointment was proportionally great, when, after supper, Elsie told them what her father's answer had really been. "How provoking!" they both exclaimed; "why, you looked so pleased we were sure he had said yes; and we had quite set our hearts on it." "What is the matter?" asked Richard, who had just come up to them. They explained. "Ah! so that was what you were crying about this afternoon, eh?" he said, pinching Elsie's cheek. "Did you really, Elsie?" asked Sophy, in surprise. Elsie blushed deeply, and Richard said, "Oh, never mind; I dare say we've all cried about more trifling things than that in our day. Let's have a good game of romps out here on the lawn. Come, what shall it be, Elsie?" "I don't care," she replied, struggling to keep down an inclination to cry again. "Puss wants a corner," suggested Harold; "trees for corners." "Here goes, then!" cried Richard. "Sophy, you stand here; Elsie, you take that tree yonder. Here, Fred and May, you can play, too. One here and another there: and now I'll be the puss." So the game commenced, and very soon every disappointment seemed to be forgotten, and they were all in the wildest spirits. But after a while, as one romping game succeeded another, Elsie began to grow weary, and seeing that her father was sitting alone upon the piazza, she stole softly to his side, and putting her arm round his neck, laid her cheek to his. He passed his arm around her waist and drew her to his knee. "Which was my little daughter doubting this afternoon," he asked gently, as he laid her head against his breast; "papa's wisdom or his love?" "I don't know, papa; please don't ask me. I'm very sorry and ashamed," she said, hanging her head and blushing deeply. "I should be very happy," he said, "if my little girl could learn to trust me so entirely that she would always be satisfied with my decisions--always believe that my reasons for refusing to gratify her are good and sufficient, even without having them explained." "I do believe it, papa, and I am quite satisfied now," she murmured. "I don't want to go at all. Please forgive me, dear papa." "I will, daughter; and now listen to me. I know that you are not very strong, and I think that a walk of two miles or more in this hot June sun, to say nothing of stooping for hours afterwards picking berries, exposed to its rays, would be more than you could bear without injury; and if you want strawberries to eat, you may buy just as many as you please, and indeed you can get much finer ones in that way than you could find in any field. You need not tell me it is the fun you want, and not the berries," he said, as she seemed about to interrupt him, "I understand that perfectly; but I know it would not be enough to pay you for the trouble and fatigue. "And now to show you that your father does not take pleasure in thwarting you, but really loves to see you happy, I will tell you what we have been planning. Miss Rose and her brothers tell me there is a very pretty place a few miles from here where strawberries and cream can be had; and we are going to make up a family party to-morrow, if the weather is favorable, and set out quite early in the morning in carriages. Mrs. Allison will provide a collation for us to carry along--to which we will add the berries and cream after we get there--and we will take books to read, and the ladies will have their work, and the little girls their dolls, and we will spend the day in the woods. Will not that be quite as pleasant as going with the school-children?" The little arm had been stealing round his neck again while he was telling her all this, and now hugging him tighter and tighter, she whispered: "Dear papa, you are very kind to me, and it makes me feel so ashamed of my naughtiness. I always find in the end that your way is best, and then I think I will never want my own way again, but the very next time it is just the same thing over. Oh, papa, you will not get out of patience with me, and quit loving me, and doing what is best for me, because I am foolish enough to wish for what is not?" "No, darling, never. I shall always do what seems to me to be for your good, even in spite of yourself. I who have so often been guilty of murmuring against the will of my heavenly Father, who, I well know, is infinite in wisdom and goodness, ought to be very patient with your distrust of a fallible, short-sighted earthly parent. But come, darling, we will go up-stairs; we have just time for a few moments together before you go to bed." On going to their bedroom after leaving her father, Elsie found Sophie already there, impatiently waiting to tell her of the plan for the morrow, which she had just learned from Richard. She was a little disappointed to find that it was no news to Elsie, but soon got over that, and was full of lively talk about the pleasure they would have. "It will be so much pleasanter," she said, "than going berrying with those school-children, for I dare say we would have found it hot and tiresome walking all that distance in the sun; so I'm right glad now that your father said no, instead of yes. Aren't you, Elsie?" "Yes," Elsie said with a sigh. Sophy was down on the floor, pulling off her shoes and stockings. "Why, what's the matter?" she asked, stopping with her shoe in her hand to look up into Elsie's face, which struck her as unusually grave. "Nothing, only I'm so ashamed of crying when papa said I shouldn't go," Elsie answered, with a blush. "Dear papa! I always find he knows best, and yet I'm so often naughty about giving up." "Never mind, it wasn't much. I wouldn't care about it," said Sophy, tossing away her shoe, and proceeding to pull off the stocking. Chloe whispered in Elsie's ear, "Massa not vexed wid you, darlin'?" Elsie smiled and shook her head. "No, mammy, not now." The little girls were awake unusually early the next morning, and the first thing they did was to run to the window to ascertain the state of the weather. It was all they could desire; a little cooler than the day before, but without the slightest appearance of rain; so the young faces that surrounded the breakfast table were very bright and happy. The carriages were at the door very soon after they left the table. It did not take many minutes to pack them, and then they set off all in high glee; more especially the little ones. Everything passed off well; there was no accident, all were in good humor, the children on their best behavior, and they found the strawberries and cream very fine; so that when the day was over, it was unanimously voted a decided success. A few days after this the children were again in their favorite spot down by the brook. They were sitting on the grass talking, for it was almost too warm to play. "How nice and cool the water looks!" remarked Sophy, "Let's pull off our shoes and stockings, and hold up our dresses and wade about in it. It isn't at all deep, and I know it would feel so good and cool to our feet." "Bravo! that's a capital idea!" cried Harold, beginning at once to divest himself of his shoos and stockings; then rolling his pantaloons up to his knees he stepped in, followed by Sophy, who had made her preparations with equal dispatch. "Come, Elsie, aren't you going to get in, too?" she asked, for Elsie still sat on the bank making no movement towards following their example. "I should like to, very much; but I don't know whether papa would approve of it." "Why, what objection could he have? it can't do us any harm, for I'm sure we couldn't drown if we tried," said Harold. "Come now, Elsie, don't be so silly. I wouldn't ask you to do anything your papa had forbidden, but he never said you shouldn't wade in the brook, did he?" "No, he never said anything about it," she answered, smiling, "for I never thought of doing such a thing before." "Come, Elsie, do," urged Sophy; "it is such fun;" and at length Elsie yielded, and was soon enjoying the sport as keenly as the others. But after a while they grew tired of wading, and began to amuse themselves by sailing bits of bark and leaves on the water. Then Harold proposed building a dam; and altogether they enjoyed themselves so thoroughly, that they quite forgot how time was passing until the lengthening shadows warned them that it was long past their usual hour for returning home. "Oh, we must make haste home," exclaimed Harold suddenly; "it can't be very far from tea-time, and mamma won't like it if we are late." They hurried out of the water, dried their feet as well as they could, put on their shoes and stockings, and started on a run for the house. But they had not gone more than half-way when Elsie cried out that she had lost her rings. "Those beautiful rings! Oh, dear! where did you lose them?" asked Sophy. "I don't know at all; I just missed them this minute, and I am afraid they are in the brook;" and Elsie turned and ran back as fast as she could; followed by the others. "We'll all hunt," said Harold, kindly, "and I guess we'll find them; so don't cry, Elsie;" for the little girl was looking much distressed. "O Elsie, I'm afraid your papa will be very angry; and perhaps whip you very hard," exclaimed Sophy; "they were such pretty rings." "No, he won't whip me; he never did in his life," replied Elsie quickly, "and he has often told me he would never punish me for an accident, even though it should cost the loss of something very valuable. But I am very sorry to lose my rings, because, besides being pretty, and worth a good deal of money, they were presents, one from papa, and the other from Mr. Travilla." "But, Elsie, I thought your papa was awfully strict, and punished you for every little thing," "No; for _disobedience_, but not for accidents." They searched for some time, looking all about the part of the stream where they had been playing, and all over the bank, but without finding the rings; and at last Elsie gave it up, saying it would not do to stay any longer, and they could look again to-morrow. "O Elsie!" cried Sophy, as they were starting again for home, "you must have got your dress in the water, and then on the ground, for it is all muddy." "Oh, dear!" sighed Elsie, examining it, "how very dirty and slovenly I must look; and that will vex papa, for he can't bear to see me untidy. Can't we get in the back way, Sophy? so that I can get a clean dress on before he sees me? I don't mean to _deceive_ him. I will tell him all about it afterwards, but I know he wouldn't like to see me looking so." "Yes, to be sure," Sophy said in reply; "we can go in at the side door, and run up the back stairs." "And we may be in time for tea yet, if papa is as late getting home as he is sometimes," remarked Harold; "so let us run." Mr. Allison was late that evening, as Harold had hoped, and tea was still waiting for him, as they learned from a servant whom they met in passing through the grounds: but when they reached the porch upon which the side door opened, they found, much to their surprise and chagrin, that the ladies were seated there with their work, and Mr. Dinsmore was reading to them. He looked up from his book as they approached, and catching sight of his little girl's soiled dress, "Why, Elsie," he exclaimed, in a mortified tone, "can that be you? such a figure as you are! Where have you been, child, to get yourself in such a plight?" "I was playing in the brook, papa," she answered in a low voice, and casting down her eyes, while the color mounted to her hair. "Playing in the brook! that is a new business for you, I think. Well, run up to Aunt Chloe, and tell her I want you made decent with all possible haste or you will be too late for tea. But stay," he added as she was turning to go, "you have been crying; what is the matter?" "I have lost my rings, papa," she said, bursting into tears. "Ah! I am sorry, more particularly because it distresses you, though. But where did you lose them, daughter?" "I don't know, papa, but I am afraid it was in the brook." "Ah, yes! that comes of playing in the water. I think you had better keep out of it in the future: but run up and get dressed, and don't cry any more; it is not worth while to waste tears over them." Elsie hurried upstairs, delivered her father's message, and Chloe immediately set to work, and exerting herself to the utmost, soon had her nursling looking as neat as usual. Rose had followed the little girls upstairs, and was helping Sophy to dress. "Dere now, darlin'; now I tink you'll do," said Chloe, giving the glossy hair a final smooth. "But what's de matter? what my chile been cryin' 'bout?" "Because, mammy, I lost my rings in the brook, and I'm afraid I will never find them again." "No such ting, honey! here dey is safe an' sound," and Chloe opened a little jewel-box that stood on the toilet-table, and picking up the rings, slipped them upon the finger of the astonished and delighted child; explaining as she did so, that she had found them on the bureau where Elsie must have laid them before going out, having probably taken them off to wash her hands after eating her dinner. Elsie tripped joyfully downstairs. "See, papa! see!" she cried holding up her hand before him, "they were not lost, after all. Oh, I am so glad! aren't you, papa?" "Yes, my dear, and now I hope you will be more careful in future." "I will try, papa; but must I never play in the brook any more? I like it so much." "No, I don't like to forbid it entirely, because I remember how much I used to enjoy such things myself at your age. But you must not stay in too long, and must be careful not to go in when you are heated with running, and always remember to dip your hands in first. And another thing, you must not stay out so late again, or you may give trouble. You must always be ready at the usual hour, or I shall have to say you must sup on bread and water." "Oh! I think that would be rather too hard, Mr. Dinsmore," interposed Mrs. Allison, "and I hope you will not compel me to be so inhospitable." "I hope there is not much danger that I shall ever have to put my threat into execution, Mrs. Allison, for it is not often that Elsie is twice guilty of the same fault; one talking generally does her," he answered with an affectionate glance at his little daughter. "Then I call her a very good child," remarked the lady emphatically; "it is no unusual thing for mine to require telling half a dozen times. But walk in to tea," she added, folding up her work. "Ah! Sophy, I am glad to see you looking neat again. I think you were in no better plight than Elsie when you came in." For some time after this, the young people were very careful to come in from their play in good season; but one afternoon they had taken a longer walk than usual, going farther down their little brook, and establishing themselves in a new spot where they imagined the grass was greener, and the shade deeper. The day was cloudy, and they could not judge of the time so well as when they could see the sun, and so it happened that they stayed much later than they should have done. Elsie was feeling a little anxious, and had once or twice proposed going home, but was always overruled by Harold and Sophy, who insisted that it was not at all late. But at length Elsie rose with an air of determination, saying she was sure it _must_ be getting late, and if they would not go with her, she must go alone. "Well, then, we will go, and I guess it's about time," said Harold; "so come along, Soph, or we'll, leave you behind." Elsie hurried along with nervous haste, and the others had to exert themselves to keep up with her, but just as they reached the door the tea-bell rang. The children exchanged glances of fright and mortification. "What shall we do?" whispered Elsie. "Dear! if we were only dressed!" said Sophy. "Let's go in just as we are; maybe no one will notice." "No," replied Elsie, shaking her head, "that would never do for me; papa would see it in a moment and send me away from the table. It would be worse than waiting to dress." "Then we will all go upstairs and make ourselves decent, and afterwards take the scolding as well as we can," said Harold, leading the way. Chloe was in Sophy's room, waiting to attend to her child. She did not fret the little girl with lamentations over her tardiness, but set about adjusting her hair and dress as quickly as possible. Elsie looked troubled and anxious. "Papa will be very much vexed, and ashamed of me, too, I am afraid," she said with tears in her eyes. "And, Sophy, what will your mamma say? Oh! how I wish I had come in sooner!" "Never mind," replied Sophy; "mamma won't be very angry, and we'll tell her the sun wouldn't shine, and so how were we to know the time." Elsie was ready first, but waited a moment for Sophy, and they went down together. Her first sensation on entering the room and seeing that her father's chair was empty, was certainly one of relief. When her eye sought Mrs. Allison's face, it was quite as pleasant as usual. "You are rather late, little girls," she said in a cheerful tone, "but as you are usually so punctual, we will have to excuse you this once. Come, take your places." "It was cloudy, you know, mamma, and we couldn't see the sun," said Harold, who was already at the table. "Very well, Harold, you must try to guess better next time. Rose, help Elsie to some of that omelet and a bit of the cold tongue." "No, thank you, ma'am; papa does not allow me to eat meat at night," said the little girl resolutely, turning her eyes away from the tempting dish. "Ah! I forgot, but you can eat the omelet, dear," Mrs. Allison said; "and help her to the honey, and a piece of that cheese, Rose, and put some butter on her plate." It cost Elsie quite a struggle, for she was as fond of good things as other children, but she said firmly, "No, thank you, ma'am, I should like the omelet, and the honey and the cheese too, very much, but as I was late to-night, I can only have dry bread, because you know my papa said so." Harold spoke up earnestly. "But, mamma, it wasn't her fault; she wanted to come home in time, and Sophy and I wouldn't." "No, mamma, it wasn't her fault at all," said Sophy, eagerly, "and so she needn't have just bread, need she?" "No, Elsie dear, I think not. Do, dear child, let me help you to something; here's a saucer of berries and cream; won't you take it? I feel quite sure your papa would not insist upon the bread and water if he were here, and I am sorry he and Edward happen to be away to tea." "As it was not your fault, Elsie dear, I think you might venture," said Rose, kindly. "I wouldn't want you to disobey your papa, but under the circumstances, I don't think that it would be disobedience." "You are very kind, Miss Rose, but you don't know papa as well as I do," Elsie replied, a little sadly. "He told me I must always be in in time to be ready for tea, and he says nothing excuses disobedience; and you know I could have come in without the others; so I feel quite sure I should get nothing but bread for my supper if he were here." "Well, dear, I am very sorry, but if you think it is really your duty to sup on dry bread, we will all honor you for doing it," Mrs. Allison said. And then the matter dropped, and Elsie quietly ate her slice of bread and drank a little cold water, then went out to play on the lawn with the others. "Did you ever see such a perfectly conscientious child?" said Mrs. Allison to Rose. "Dear little thing! I could hardly stand it to see her eating that dry bread, when the rest were enjoying all the luxuries of the table." "No, mamma, it fairly made my heart ache. I shall tell her father all about it when he comes in. Don't you think, mamma, he is rather too strict and particular with her?" "I don't know, Rose, dear; I'm afraid she is much better trained than mine; and he certainly is very fond of her, and quite indulgent in some respects." "Fond of her! yes, indeed he is, and she loves him with her whole heart. Ah! mamma, you don't know how glad it makes me to see it. The poor little thing seemed to be literally famishing for love when I first knew her." When Elsie had done anything which she knew would displease her father, she never could rest satisfied until she had confessed it and been forgiven. Through all her play that evening she was conscious of a burden on her heart; and every now and then her eyes were turned wistfully in the direction from which she expected him to come. But the clock struck eight, and there were no signs of his approach, and soon it was half-past, and she found she must go to bed without seeing him. She sighed several times while Chloe was undressing her, and just as she was about leaving her, said, "If papa comes home before I go to sleep, mammy, please ask him to let me come to him for one minute." "I will, darlin'; but don't you try for to stay awake; kase maybe massa ain't gwine be home till berry late, an' den he might be vexed wid you." It was nearly ten o'clock when Mr. Dinsmore returned, and he was talking on the piazza with Mr. and Miss Allison for nearly half an hour afterwards; but Chloe was patiently waiting for him, and meeting him in the hall on the way to his room, presented Elsie's request. "Yes," he said, "see if she is awake, but don't disturb her if she is not." Chloe softly opened the door, and the little girl started up, asking in an eager whisper, "Did he say I might come, mammy?" "Yes, darlin'," said Chloe, lifting her in her arms and setting her down on the floor. And then the little fairy-like figure in its white night-dress stole softly out into the hall, and ran with swift, noiseless steps across it, and into the open door of Mr. Dinsmore's room. He caught her in his arms and kissed her several times with passionate fondness. Then sitting down with her on his knee, he asked tenderly, "What does my darling want with papa to-night?" "I wanted to tell you that I was very naughty this afternoon, and didn't get home until just as the tea-bell rang." "And you were very glad to find that papa was not here to make you sup upon bread and water, eh?" "No, papa, I didn't eat anything else," she said in a hurt tone; "I wouldn't take such a mean advantage of your absence." "No, dearest, I know you would not. I know my little girl is the soul of honor," he said, soothingly, pressing another kiss on her cheek; "and besides, I have just heard the whole story from Miss Rose and her mother." "And you _wouldn't_ have let me have anything but bread, papa, would you?" she asked, raising her head to look up in his face. "No, dear, nothing else, for you know I must keep my word, however trying it may be to my feelings." "Yes, papa; and I am so glad you do, because then I always know just what to expect. You are not angry with me now, papa?" "No, darling, not in the very least; you are entirely forgiven. And now I want you to go back to your bed, and try to get a good night's sleep, and be ready to come to me in the morning. So good-night, my pet, my precious one. God bless and keep my darling. May He ever cause His face to shine upon you, and give you peace." He held her to his heart a moment, then let her go: and she glided back to her room, and laid her head on her pillow to sleep sweetly, and dream happy dreams of her father's love and tenderness. She was with him again the next morning, an hour before it was time for the breakfast-bell to ring, sitting on his knee beside the open window, chatting and laughing as gleefully as the birds were singing on the trees outside. "What do you think of this?" he asked, laying an open jewel-case in her lap. She looked down, and there, contrasting so prettily with the dark blue velvet lining, lay a beautiful gold chain and a tiny gold watch set with pearls all around its edge. "Oh, papa!" she cried, "is it for me?" "Yes, my pet. Do you like it?" "Indeed I do, papa! it is just as lovely as it can be!" she said, taking it up and turning it about in her hands. "It looks like mamma's, only brighter, and newer; and this is a different kind of chain from hers." "Yes, that is entirely new; but the watch is the one she wore. It is an excellent one, and I have had it put in order for her daughter to wear. I think you are old enough to need it now, and to take proper care of it." "I shall try to, indeed. Dear, darling mamma! I would rather have her watch than any other," she murmured, a shade of tender sadness coming over her face for a moment. Then, looking up brightly, "Thank you, papa," she said, giving him a hug and a kiss; "it was so kind in you to do it. Was that what you went to the city for yesterday?" "It was my principal errand there." "And now how sorry and ashamed I should be if I had taken advantage of your absence to eat all sorts of good things." "I think we are never sorry for doing our duty," her father said, softly stroking her hair, "and I think, too, that my little girl quite deserves the watch." "And I'm _so_ glad to have it!" she cried, holding it up, and gazing at it with a face full of delight. "I must run and show it to Sophy!" She was getting down from his knee; but he drew her back. "Wait a little, daughter; I have something to tell you." "What, papa?" "We have paid our friends a very long visit, and I think it is time for us to go, if we would not have them grow weary of us: so I have decided to leave Elmgrove to-morrow." "Have you, papa? I like to travel, but I shall be so sorry to leave Sophy, and Miss Rose, and all the rest; they are so kind, and I have had such a pleasant time with them." "I have told you the bad news first," he said, smiling; "now I have some good. We are going to take a trip through New England and the State of New York; and Miss Rose and Mr. Edward have promised to accompany us: so you see you will not have to part with them just yet." Elsie clapped her hands at this piece of good news. "O papa, how pleasant it will be! Dear, _dear_ Miss Rose; I am so glad she is going." "And Mr. Edward?" "Yes, papa, I like him too, but I love Miss Rose the best of all. Don't you, papa?" Her father only smiled, and said "Miss Rose was very lovely, certainly." The breakfast-bell rang, and she ran down, eager to show her watch. It was much admired by all; but there was great lamentation, especially amongst the younger members of the family, when it was announced that their guests were to leave them so soon. "Why couldn't Elsie stay always?" they asked. "Why couldn't she live with them? they would only be too glad to have her." Mr. Dinsmore laughed, and told them he could not possibly spare Elsie, for she was his only child, and he had no one else to share his home. "But you may stay too, Mr. Dinsmore," said Sophy; "there's plenty of room, and mamma and Rose like to have you read to them." Rose blushed, and shook her head at Sophy, and Mr. Dinsmore replied that it would be very pleasant to live at Elmgrove, but that Elsie and he had a home of their own to which they must soon return, and where she would be very glad to receive a visit from any or all of them. CHAPTER XVII. "Have you arranged your plans in regard to what places you will visit and in what order you will take them?" asked Mr. Allison, addressing Mr. Dinsmore. "We have not," he replied; "that is, not very definitely; only that we will visit New England and New York." "Elsie looks as if she could make a suggestion," remarked Miss Rose, with a smiling glance at the bright, animated face of the little girl. "I should like to if I were old enough," said the child, dropping her eyes and blushing as she perceived that at that moment she was the object of the attention of every one at the table. "We will consider you so, my dear," laughed Mr. Allison. "Come, give us the benefit of your ideas." Still Elsie hesitated till her father said pleasantly, "Yes, daughter, let us have them. We can reject or adopt them as we see fit." "Yes, papa," she returned. "I was just thinking that Valley Forge and Paoli are both in this State, and I should like very much to see them both." "I call that a very good idea," said Mr. Edward Allison. "I have always intended to visit those historical places, but have never done so yet." "Then let us go," said Rose, "for I, too, should like very much to see them; if the plan suits you, Mr. Dinsmore," she added, giving him a smiling glance. "Perfectly," he said; "it will be a new and interesting experience to me, as I have never visited either spot, though quite familiar with their history, as doubtless you all are." "Then we may consider that matter as settled," remarked Edward with satisfaction. Elsie hardly knew whether to be more glad or sorry when the time came for the final leave-taking; but the joyful thought that Miss Rose was to accompany them fairly turned the scale in favor of the former feeling; and though she brushed away a tear or two at parting from Sophy, she set off with a bright and happy face. They spent several weeks most delightfully in travelling about from place to place, going first to Valley Forge--a little valley so called because a man named Isaac Potts had a forge there on a creek which empties into the Schuylkill River. He was an extensive iron manufacturer. The valley is a deep, short hollow, seemingly scooped out from a low, rugged mountain. The Americans had their camp on a range of hills back of the village, Washington his quarters at the house of Isaac Potts. It was a stone building standing near the mouth of the creek. Our friends were invited in by a cheerful old lady living there, and shown Washington's room. It was very small, but they found it interesting. The old lady took them into it, and, leading-the way to an east window, said: "From here Washington could look to those slopes yonder and see a large part of his camp." Then, lifting a blue sill, she showed a little trap-door and beneath it a cavity, which she said had been arranged by Washington as a hiding place for his papers. On leaving that house, our little party went to view the ruins of an old flour-mill near by. "This was going in those revolutionary days," said the old lady, who was still with them, "and soon after the battle of Brandywine, before the encampment in this valley, the Americans had a large quantity of stores here in this mill. Washington heard that the British General Howe had sent troops to destroy them, and he sent some of his men, under Alexander Hamilton and Captain Henry Lee, to get ahead of the British; which they did. Knowing there was danger of a surprise, they had a flat-bottomed boat ready to cross the river in, and two videttes out on the hill to the south yonder"--pointing with her finger. "Well, the soldiers had crossed the river and were just going to begin the work they had come to do, when the guns of the videttes were heard, and they were seen running down the hill with the British close after them. Lee, the videttes, and four of the other men ran across the bridge--the enemy sending a shower of bullets after them--while the others, with Hamilton, took to the boat. They were fired upon too, but got away safely. The two parties had got separated, and neither one knew just how the other had fared. Lee sent a note to Washington telling his fears for Hamilton and his men; and while Washington was reading it Hamilton rode up with a face full of distress, and began telling the general his fears for Lee; then Washington relieved him by handing him Lee's note to read." Our party thanked the old lady for her story, and Mr. Dinsmore asked what more there was to see. "There's an observatory over yonder on that south hill," she said, pointing to it. "It was there a large part of the American army was quartered--on the hill, I mean. If you go up to the top of the building you can see a good deal of the camping ground from it." "Thank you," he returned, slipping a silver dollar into her hand. "We are all greatly obliged for your kindness in showing us about this interesting place and refreshing our memories in regard to its history." The others thanked her also; then taking a carriage they drove to the observatory she had pointed out. They were told that it stood on the spot where Washington's marquee was placed on his arrival at Valley Forge. It was a neat octagonal structure about forty feet high, with a spiral staircase in the centre leading up to an open gallery on the top. They went up, and found it gave them a fine view of the greater part of what had been the camping ground. "Our troops came here from Whitemarsh, if my memory serves me right," said Edward Allison. "Yes," assented Mr. Dinsmore. "It was Washington's decision that they should do so, as here he would be near enough to watch the movements of the British army, then in possession of Philadelphia. He wished, for one thing, to keep the foraging parties in check, protecting the people from their depredations." "Wasn't it in the winter they were here, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes; and the poor fellows found it terribly cold; especially for men so poorly provided as they were with what are esteemed by most civilized people as the barest necessities of life--food, clothing, shoes, and blankets." "Yes, I remember reading about it--how their poor feet bled on the ground as they marched over it, with neither shoes nor stockings," said Elsie, tears springing to her eyes as she spoke. "And didn't they suffer from hunger too, papa?" "Yes, they did, poor fellows!" he sighed. "They endured a great deal in the hope of winning freedom for themselves, their children, and their country. They had not even material to raise their beds from the ground, and in consequence many sickened and died from the dampness." "It is really wonderful how they bore it all," said Edward. "They certainly must have been true and ardent patriots." "We were told that Washington's marquee stood just here in that time," said Elsie. "What did he want with it when he had a room in Mr. Potts' house?" "He occupied the marquee only while his men were building their huts," explained her father, "then afterward took up his quarters in that house." Our party now returned to their carriage and drove to Paoli--some nine miles distant. They were told that the place of the massacre was about a quarter of a mile from the highway, and leaving their vehicle at the nearest point, they followed a path leading through open fields till they came to the monument. They found it a blue clouded marble pedestal, surmounted by a white marble pyramid, standing over the broad grave in which lie the remains of the fifty-three Americans found in that field the morning after the massacre, and buried by the neighboring farmers. "Papa," said Elsie, "won't you please go over the story?" "If a short rehearsal will not be unpleasant to our friends," he answered kindly. Both Rose and Edward assured him they would be glad to listen to it, and he at once began. "It was but a few days after the battle of Brandywine that Wayne was here with about fifteen hundred men and four pieces of cannon, Washington having given him directions to annoy the enemy's rear and try to cut off his baggage train. This place was some two or three miles southwest of the British lines, away from the public roads, and at that time covered with a forest. "But for the treachery of a Tory the British would have known nothing of the whereabouts of these patriots who were struggling to free their country from unbearable oppression. But Howe, learning it all from the Tory, resolved to attempt to surprise and slaughter the Americans. He despatched General Grey (who was afterwards a murderer and plunderer at Tappan and along the New England coast) to steal upon the patriot camp at night and destroy as many as he could. "Wayne heard that something of the kind was intended, but did not believe it. Still, he took every precaution; ordered his men to sleep on their arms with their ammunition under their coats--to keep it dry I suppose, as the night was dark and stormy. "Grey and his men marched stealthily on them in the night, passing through the woods and up a narrow defile. It was about one o'clock in the morning that they gained Wayne's left. Grey was a most cruel wretch, called the no-flint general because of his orders to his soldiers to take the flints from their guns; his object being to compel them to use the bayonet; his orders were to rush upon the patriots with the bayonet and give no quarter. In that way, in the darkness and silence, they killed several of the pickets near the highway. "The patrolling officer missed these men, his suspicions were aroused, and he hastened with his news to Wayne's tent. Wayne at once paraded his men, but unfortunately in the light of his fires, which enabled the enemy to see and shoot them down. Grey and his men came on in silence, but with the fierceness of tigers; they leaped from the thick darkness upon the Americans, who did not know from which quarter to expect them. The Americans fired several volleys, but so sudden and violent was the attack that their column was at once broken into fragments, and they fled in confusion. One hundred and fifty Americans were killed and wounded in this assault. It is said that some of the wounded were cruelly butchered after surrendering and asking for quarter. But for Wayne's coolness and skill his whole command would have been killed or taken prisoners. He quickly rallied a few companies, ordered Colonel Humpton to wheel the line, and with the cavalry and a part of the infantry successfully covered a retreat." "Then did all who had not already been killed get away from the British, papa?" asked Elsie. "Not quite all; they captured between seventy and eighty men, taking, besides, a good many small arms, two pieces of cannon, and eight wagon-loads of baggage and stores." "Weren't some of the British killed?" she asked. "Only one captain and three privates; and four men were wounded." The story was finished, and having seen all there was to see in connection with it, our travellers went on their way and pursued their journey, not feeling at all hurried, seeing all they wanted to see, and stopping to rest whenever they felt the need of it. Elsie enjoyed it all thoroughly. There was no abatement of the tender, watchful care her father had bestowed upon her in their former journey, and added to that was the pleasant companionship of Miss Rose and her brother. Mr. Edward was very kind and attentive to both his sister and Elsie, always thinking of something to please them or add to their comfort; and both he and Rose treated the little girl as though she were a dear, younger sister. Elsie was seldom absent from her father's side for many minutes, yet sometimes in their walks she found herself left to Mr. Edward's care, while Rose had Mr. Dinsmore's arm. But that did not trouble the little girl; for loving them both so dearly, she was very anxious that they should like each other; and then she could leave Mr. Edward and run to her papa whenever she pleased, sure of being always received with the same loving smile, and not at all as though they felt that she was in the way. 
32225	----	generously made available by Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See http://www.archive.org/details/elsieatviamede00finl ELSIE AT VIAMEDE * * * * * A LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS AND OTHER POPULAR BOOKS BY MARTHA FINLEY _ELSIE DINSMORE._ _ELSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS._ _ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD._ _ELSIE'S WOMANHOOD._ _ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD._ _ELSIE'S CHILDREN._ _ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD._ _GRANDMOTHER ELSIE._ _ELSIE'S NEW RELATIONS._ _ELSIE AT NANTUCKET._ _THE TWO ELSIES._ _ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN._ _ELSIE'S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN._ _CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE._ _ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS._ _ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS._ _ELSIE'S VACATION._ _ELSIE AT VIAMEDE._ _ELSIE AT ION._ _ELSIE AT THE WORLD'S FAIR._ _ELSIE'S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS._ _ELSIE AT HOME._ _ELSIE ON THE HUDSON._ _ELSIE IN THE SOUTH._ _ELSIE'S YOUNG FOLKS._ _ELSIE'S WINTER TRIP._ _ELSIE AND HER LOVED ONES._ * * * * * _MILDRED KEITH._ _MILDRED AT ROSELANDS._ _MILDRED'S MARRIED LIFE._ _MILDRED AND ELSIE._ _MILDRED AT HOME._ _MILDRED'S BOYS AND GIRLS._ _MILDRED'S NEW DAUGHTER._ * * * * * _CASELLA._ _SIGNING THE CONTRACT AND WHAT IT COST._ _THE TRAGEDY OF WILD RIVER VALLEY._ _OUR FRED._ _AN OLD-FASHIONED BOY._ _WANTED, A PEDIGREE._ _THE THORN IN THE NEST._ * * * * * ELSIE AT VIAMEDE by MARTHA FINLEY Author of "Elsie Dinsmore," "The Mildred Books," "Thorn in the Nest," Etc., Etc., Etc. New York Dodd, Mead & Company Publishers Copyright, 1892 by Dodd, Mead & Company. All rights reserved. ELSIE AT VIAMEDE. CHAPTER I. IT was a beautiful evening at Viamede: the sun nearing its setting, shadows sleeping here and there upon the velvety flower-bespangled lawn, and filling the air with their delicious perfume, the waters of the bayou beyond reflecting the roseate hues of the sunset clouds, and the song of some negro oarsmen, in a passing boat, coming to the ear in pleasantly mellowed tones. Tea was over, and the family had all gathered upon the veranda overlooking the bayou. A momentary silence was broken by Rosie's pleasant voice: "Mamma, I wish you or grandpa, or the captain, would tell the story of Jackson's defence of New Orleans. Now while we are in the neighborhood we would all, I feel sure, find it very interesting. I think you have been going over Lossing's account of it, mamma," she added laughingly, "for I found his 'Pictorial History of the War of 1812' lying on the table in your room, with a mark in at that part." "Yes, I had been refreshing my memory in that way," returned her mother, smiling pleasantly into the dark eyes gazing so fondly and entreatingly into hers. "And," she added, "I have no objection to granting your request, except that I do not doubt that either your grandfather or the captain could do greater justice to the subject than I," glancing inquiringly from one to the other. "Captain, I move that you undertake the task," said Mr. Dinsmore. "You are, no doubt, better prepared to do it justice than I, and I would not have my daughter fatigued with the telling of so long a story." "Always so kindly careful of me, my dear father," remarked Mrs. Travilla in a softly spoken aside. "I am doubtful of my better preparation for the telling of the story, sir," returned the captain in his pleasant tones, "but if both you and mother are disinclined for the exertion I am willing to undertake the task." "Yes, do, captain; do, papa," came in eager tones from several young voices, and lifting baby Ned to one knee, Elsie to the other, while the rest of the young members of the household grouped themselves about him, he began his story after a slight pause to collect his thoughts. "You all, I think, have more or less knowledge of the War of 1812-14, which finished the work of separation from the mother country so nearly accomplished by the War of the Revolution. Upon the close of that earlier contest, England, it is true, acknowledged our independence, but evidently retained a hope of finally recovering her control here. "All through the intervening years, our sailors on our merchant vessels, and even, in some instances, those belonging to our navy, were subjected to insults and oppression when met on the high seas by the more powerful ones of the English. The conduct of British officers--claiming the right to search our vessels for deserters from theirs, and often seizing American born men as such--was most gallingly insulting; the wrongs thus inflicted upon our poor seamen were enough to rouse the anger and indignation of the meekest of men. The clearest proofs of citizenship availed nothing; they were seized, carried forcibly aboard the British ships, and, if they refused to serve their captors, were brutally flogged again and again. "But I will not go into details with which you are all more or less acquainted. We did not lack abundant cause for exasperation, and at length, though ill prepared for the struggle, our government declared war against Great Britain. "That war had lasted two years; both parties were weary of the struggle, and negotiations for peace were being carried on in Europe. In fact the treaty had been signed, December 24, in the city of Ghent, Belgium, but news did not travel in those days nearly so fast as it does now, and so it happened that the battle of New Orleans was fought two weeks afterward, January 8, 1815, both armies being still in ignorance of the conclusion of peace." "What a pity!" exclaimed Grace. "And Andrew Jackson was the commanding general?" remarked Walter in a tone between inquiry and assertion. "Was he an American by birth, Brother Levis?" "Yes; his parents were from Ireland, but he was born on the border between North and South Carolina, in 1767; so that he was old enough to remember some of the occurrences of the Revolutionary War; one of them being himself carried to Camden, South Carolina, as a prisoner, and there nearly starved to death and brutally treated by a British officer; cut with a sword because he refused to black his boots for him." "Was that so, sir?" queried Walter. "Well, I shouldn't wonder if the recollection of all that made him more ready to fight them in the next war, particularly at New Orleans, than he would have been otherwise." "No doubt," returned the captain. "Jackson was a man of great energy, determination, and persistence. It is said his maxim was, 'till all is done nothing is done.' In May of 1814 he was made a major-general in the regular army and appointed to the command of the Department of the South, the Seventh Military District, with his headquarters at Mobile, of which the Americans had taken possession as early as April, 1812. "Jackson's vigilance was sleepless. The Spanish had possession of Pensacola, and, though professing neutrality, were secretly favoring the British. Of this Jackson promptly informed our government, but at that time our War Department was strangely apathetic, and his communication was not responded to in any way. "But he had trusty spies, both white and dark-skinned, everywhere, who kept him informed of all that was taking place in the whole region around. He knew that British marines were allowed to land and encamp on shore; that Edward Nichols, their commander, was a guest of the Spanish governor, and the British flag was unfurled over one of the forts. Also, that Indians were invited to enroll themselves in the service of the British crown, and that Nichols had sent out a general order to his soldiers, and a proclamation to the people of Kentucky and Louisiana, announcing that the land and naval forces at Pensacola were only the van of a far larger number of vessels and troops which were intended for the subjugation of Louisiana and especially the city of New Orleans. "Jackson arrived in that city on the 2d of December, and prepared to defend it from the British, whom he had driven out of Florida. They had planned to take the lower Mississippi Valley, intending to keep possession of the western bank of the river. They had among them some of the finest of Wellington's troops, who, but a short time before, had been engaged in driving Napoleon out of Europe. "In December, 12,000 men under the command of Sir Edward Packenham, brother-in-law of Wellington, were landed below New Orleans. They had come from Jamaica across the Gulf of Mexico. Their expedition was a secret one, and they approached New Orleans midway between Mobile Bay and the Mississippi River, entering Lake Borgne and anchoring there. "A small American navy, composed of five gunboats, opposed their progress, but was soon dispersed by their superior force of fifty vessels, large and small. Then the British took full possession of the lake, and landed troops upon a lonely island called the Isle des Pois (or Pea Island). "Some Spaniards, who had formerly lived in New Orleans, told Cochrane of Bayou Bienvenu, at the northwestern extremity of Lake Borgne, by which he could nearly reach the city, the bayou being navigable for large barges to within a few miles of the Mississippi River. "A party was sent to explore it, and found that by following it and a canal they would reach a spot but half a mile from the river and nine miles below the city. "They hurried back to Cochrane with a report to that effect, and by the 23d of December half of the army had reached the spot. "A few months before--September 1st--the British sloop of war _Sophia_, commanded by Captain Lockyer, had sailed from Pensacola with despatches for Jean Lafitte, inviting him and his band to enter the British service." "Lafitte! Who was he, Brother Levis?" queried Walter. "A Frenchman," replied the captain, "who, with his elder brother, Pierre, had come to New Orleans some six years before. They were blacksmiths, and for a time worked at their trade; but afterward they engaged in smuggling, and were leaders of a band of corsairs, seizing, it was said, merchantmen of different nations, even some belonging to the people of the United States, and for that they were outlawed, though there was some doubt that they were really guilty. But they carried on a contraband trade with some of the citizens of Louisiana, smuggling their wares into New Orleans through Bayou Teche, or Bayou Lafourche and Barataria Lake. That had brought them into trouble with the United States authorities, and the British thought to get the help of the buccaneers in their intended attack upon the city, where Pierre Lafitte was at that time a prisoner. "Captain Lockyer carried to Jean a letter from Colonel Nichols offering him a captain's commission in the British Navy and $30,000, and to his followers exemption from punishment for past deeds, indemnification for any losses, and rewards in money and lands, if they would go into the service of England's king. "Lockyer also brought another paper, in which they were threatened with extermination if they refused the offers in the first." "Were they frightened and bribed into doing what the British wished, sir?" asked Walter. "No," replied the captain; "they seized Captain Lockyer and his officers, and threatened to carry them to New Orleans as prisoners of war; but Lafitte persuaded them to give that up, and they released the officers. Lafitte pretended to treat with them, asking them to come back for his reply in ten days, and they were permitted to depart. "After they had gone, he wrote to a member of the legislature telling of the visit of the British officers, what they had said to him and his men, and sending with his letter the papers Captain Lockyer had left with him. He also offered his own and his men's services in defence of the city, on condition that past offences should never be brought up against them. "Troops were badly needed in the American army, and Governor Claiborne was inclined to accept Lafitte's offer; but the majority of his officers were opposed to so doing, thinking the papers sent were forgeries, and the story made up to prevent the destruction of the colony of outlaws, against whom an expedition was then fitting out. Lafitte knew of the preparations, but supposed they were for an attack upon the British. They, the members of the expedition, made a sudden descent upon Barataria, captured a large number of Lafitte's men, and carried them and a rich booty to New Orleans. "Some of the Baratarians escaped, Jean and Pierre Lafitte among them. They soon collected their men again near the mouth of Bayou Lafourche, and after General Jackson took command in New Orleans, again offered their services, which Jackson accepted, sending a part to man the redoubts on the river, and forming of the rest a corps which served the batteries with great skill. "In his letter at the time of sending information with regard to the attempt of the British to bribe him to enter their service, Jean Lafitte said: 'Though proscribed in my adopted country, I will never miss an occasion of serving her, or of proving that she has never ceased to be dear to me.'" "There!" exclaimed Lulu with enthusiasm, "I don't believe he was such a very bad man, after all." "Nor do I," her father said with a slight smile; then went on with his story. "Early on the 15th of December, Jackson, hearing of the capture of the gunboats, immediately set to work to fortify the city and make every possible preparation to repulse the expected attack of the enemy. He sent word to General Winchester, in command at Mobile, to be on the alert, and messengers to Generals Thomas and Coffee urging them to hasten with their commands to assist in the defence of the city. "Then he appointed, for the 18th, a grand review of all the troops in front of the Cathedral of St. Louis, in what is now Jackson Square, but at that time was called Place d'Armes. "All the people turned out to see the review. The danger was great, the military force with which to meet the foe small and weak, but Jackson made a stirring address, and his aide, Edward Livingston, read a thrilling and eloquent one. "They were successful in rousing both troops and populace to an intense enthusiasm, taking advantage of which, Jackson declared martial law and a suspension of the writ of _habeas corpus_." "What is that, papa?" asked Grace. "It is a writ which in ordinary times may be given by a judge to have a prisoner brought before him that he may inquire into the cause of his detention and have him released if unlawfully detained. It is a most important safeguard to liberty, inherited by us from our English ancestors." "Then what right had Jackson to suspend it, sir?" queried Walter. "A right given by the constitution of the United States, in which there is an express provision that it may be suspended in cases of rebellion or invasion, should the public safety demand it," replied the captain: then resumed his narrative. "After the review, Jean Lafitte again offered his own services and those of his men, urging their acceptance, and they were mustered into the ranks and appointed to important duty. "Jackson showed himself sleeplessly vigilant and wonderfully active, making every possible preparation to meet and repulse every coming foe. "On the evening of the 23d, the schooner _Carolina_, one of the two armed American vessels in the river, moved down and anchored within musket shot of the centre of the British camp. Half an hour later she opened a tremendous fire upon them from her batteries, and in ten minutes had killed or wounded a hundred or more men. The British answered with a shower of Congreve rockets and bullets, but with little or no effect, and in less than half an hour were driven in confusion from their camp. "They had scarcely recovered from that when they were startled by the sound of musketry in the direction of their outposts. Some prisoners whom General Keane had taken told him there were more than 12,000 troops in New Orleans, and he now felt convinced that such was the fact. He gave Thornton full liberty to do as he would. "Thornton moved forward and was presently met by a column under Jackson. There was some fierce fighting, and at length the British fell sullenly back. About half past nine the fighting was over; but two hours later, when all was becoming quiet in the camp, musket firing was heard in the distance. Some drafted militia, under General David Morgan, had heard the firing upon the _Carolina_ early in the evening, insisted upon being led against the enemy, and on their way had met some British pickets at Jumonsville and exchanged shots with them. By that advance against the foe, Jackson had saved New Orleans for the time, and now he set vigorously to work to prepare for another attack, for he knew there would be another. Also, that the men who were to make it were fresh from the battlefields of Europe--veteran troops not likely to be easily conquered or driven away. He omitted nothing which it was in his power to do for the defence of the city, setting his soldiers to casting up intrenchments along the line of the canal from the river to Cypress Swamp. They were in excellent spirits, and plied their spades with such energy and zeal that by sunset a breastwork three feet high might be seen along the whole line of his army. "The American troops were quite hilarious on that Christmas eve, the British soldiers gloomy and disheartened, having lost confidence in their commander, Keane, and finding themselves on wet ground, under a clouded sky, and in a chilly atmosphere; but the sudden arrival of their new commander, Sir Edward Packenham, in whose skill and bravery they had great confidence, filled them with joy. "But while the Americans were at work preparing for the coming conflict, the foe were not idle; day and night they were busy getting ready a heavy battery with which to attack the _Carolina_. On the morning of the 27th, they had it finished, began firing hot shot upon her from a howitzer and several twelve and eighteen pounders, and soon succeeded in setting her on fire, so that she blew up. "It was a tremendous explosion, but fortunately her crew had abandoned her in time to escape it. The _Louisiana_, who had come down to her aid, was near sharing her fate, but, by great exertion on the part of her crew, she was towed out of reach of the enemy's shot, anchored nearly abreast of the American camp, on the other side of the river, and so saved to take a gallant part in the next day's fight. Packenham next ordered his men to move forward and carry the intrenchments of the Americans by storm. They numbered 8000, and toward evening the two columns, commanded respectively by Generals Gibbs and Keane, obeyed that order, moving forward, driving in the American pickets and outposts, and at twilight they encamped, some of them seeking repose while others began raising batteries near the river. "The Americans, however, kept them awake by quick, sharp attacks, which the British called 'barbarian warfare.'" "Barbarian warfare, indeed!" sniffed Walter. "I wonder if it was half so barbarous as what they employed the Indians to do to our people." "Ah, but you must remember that it makes a vast difference who does what, Walter," laughed Rosie. "Oh, yes, of course," returned the lad; and Captain Raymond went on with his story. "Jackson was busy getting ready to receive the enemy: watching their movements through a telescope, planting heavy guns, blowing up some buildings that would have interfered with the sweep of his artillery, and calling some Louisiana militia from the rear. By the time the British were ready to attack, he had 4000 men and twenty pieces of artillery ready to receive them. Also the _Louisiana_ was in a position to use her cannon with effect in giving them a warm reception. "As soon as the fog of early morning had passed away, they could be seen approaching in two columns, while a party of skirmishers, sent out by Gibbs, were ordered to turn the left flank of the Americans and attack their rear. "Just then a band of rough looking men came down the road from the direction of the city. They were Baratarians, who had run all the way from Fort St. John to take part in the fight, and Jackson was delighted to see them. He put them in charge of the twenty-four pounders and they did excellent service. "Next came the crew of the _Carolina_, under Lieutenants Norris and Crawley, and they were given charge of the howitzer on the right. A galling fire of musketry fell upon the British as they advanced in solid column, then the batteries of the _Louisiana_ and some of Jackson's heavy guns swept their lines with deadly effect, one of the shots from the _Louisiana_ killing and wounding fifteen men. The British rocketeers were busy on their side, too, but succeeded in inflicting very little damage upon the Americans. "But I must leave the rest of the story for another time, for I see we are about to have company," concluded the captain, as a carriage was seen coming swiftly up the driveway. It brought callers who remained until the hour for the retiring of the younger ones among his hearers. CHAPTER II. THE next evening the Viamede family were again gathered upon the veranda, and, at the urgent request of the younger portion, seconded by that of the older ones, the captain resumed the thread of his narrative. "Keane's men," he said, "could no longer endure the terrible fire that was so rapidly thinning their ranks, and they were presently ordered to seek shelter in the little canals, where, in mud and water almost waist deep, they leaned forward, concealing themselves in the rushes which grew on the banks. They were Wellington's veterans, and must have felt humiliated enough to be thus compelled to flee before a few rough backwoodsmen, as they considered Jackson's troops. "In the meantime, Gibbs and Rennie were endeavoring to flank the American left, driving in the pickets till they were within a hundred yards of Carroll and his Tennesseeans. Carroll perceived their object and sent Colonel Henderson with 200 Tennesseeans to cut Rennie off from the main body of the enemy by gaining his rear. Henderson went too far, met a large British force, and he and five of his men were killed and several wounded. But Gibbs, seeing how hard the fight was going with Keane, ordered Rennie to fall back to his assistance. Rennie reluctantly obeyed, but only to be a witness of Keane's repulse. Packenham, deeply mortified by the unexpected disaster to his veterans, presently ordered his men to fall back, and retired to his headquarters at Villere's." "Had he lost many of his men that day, sir?" queried Walter. "The British loss in the engagement is said to have been about one hundred and fifty," replied Captain Raymond; "that of the Americans nine killed and eight wounded. Packenham called a council of war, at which it was resolved to bring heavy siege guns from the navy and with them make another attempt to conquer the Americans and get possession of the city, which Packenham now began to see to be by no means the easy task he had at first imagined. He perceived that it was difficult, dangerous, and would require all the skill of which he was master; that his movements must be both courageous and persevering if he would save his army from destruction. "Jackson, too, was busy with his preparations, extending his line of intrenchments, placing guns, establishing batteries, and appointing those who were to command and work them. "A company of young men from the best families, under Captain Ogden, were made his body-guard and subject to his orders alone. They were posted in Macarte's garden. "Everybody was full of enthusiasm, active and alert. Particularly so were the Tennessee riflemen; they delighted in going on 'hunts,' as they called expeditions to pick off the sentinels of the enemy. So successful were they in this kind of warfare on Jackson's left, very near the swamp, that soon the British dared not post sentinels there. They (the British) threw up a strong redoubt there which Captain You and Lieutenant Crawley constantly battered with heavy shot from their cannon; but the British persevered, and by the end of the month had mounted several heavy guns, with which, on the 31st, they began a vigorous fire upon the Americans. "That night the whole of the British army moved forward to within a few hundred yards of the American lines, and in the gloom, began rapid work with spade and pickaxe. They brought up siege guns from the lake, and before dawn had finished three half-moon batteries at nearly equal distances apart, and six hundred yards from the American line. "They (the batteries) were made of earth, hogsheads of sugar, and whatever else could be laid hold of that would answer the purpose. Upon them they placed thirty pieces of heavy ordnance, manned by picked gunners of the fleet, who had served under Nelson, Collingwood, and St. Vincent. "That morning was the 1st of January, 1815. A thick fog hid the two armies from each other until after eight o'clock. Then a gentle breeze blew it aside, and the British began firing briskly upon the American works, doubtless feeling sure they would presently scatter them to the winds, and that their own army, placed ready in battle array, would then rush forward, overpower the Americans, and take the city. "Heavier and heavier grew their bombardment; the rocketeers sent an incessant shower of fiery missiles into the American lines and upon Jackson's headquarters at Macarte's, more than a hundred balls, shells, and rockets striking the building in the course of ten minutes. He and his staff immediately left the house, and in the meantime he had opened his heavy guns on the assailants. "The British were amazed to find heavy artillery thundering along the whole line, and wondered how and where the Americans had got their guns and gunners. "It was a terrible fight. Packenham sent a detachment of infantry to turn the American left, but they were driven back in terror by the Tennesseeans under Coffee. After that, the conflict was between the batteries alone, and before noon the fire of the British had sensibly abated. Then they abandoned their works and fled helter-skelter to the ditches for safety; for their demi-lunes were crushed and broken, the hogsheads, of which they were largely composed, having been reduced to splinters and the sugar that had filled them mixed with the earth. Some of their guns were dismounted, others careened so that it was very difficult to work them, while the fire of the Americans was still unceasing. At noon, as I have said, they gave up the contest. That night they crawled back and carried away some of their cannon, dragging them with difficulty over the wet ground, and leaving five of them a spoil to the Americans. "They (the British) were deeply chagrined by their repulse, had eaten nothing for sixty hours, nor had any sleep in all that time, so that their New Year's Day was even gloomier than their Christmas had been. "The Americans, on the other hand, were full of joy that they had been able to repulse their own and their country's foes; and their happiness was increased by the news that they were soon to have a re-enforcement, Brigadier-General John Adair arriving with the glad tidings that 2000 drafted militia from Kentucky were coming to their assistance. These arrived on the 4th of the month, and 700 of them were sent to the front under Adair. "Packenham had lost some of his confidence in the ability of himself and his troops to conquer the Americans, but hoped to be more successful in a new effort. He decided to try to carry Jackson's lines on both sides of the river. He resolved to rebuild his two batteries near the levee, which had been destroyed by the Americans, mount them well, and employ them in assailing the American right, while Keane, with his corps, was to advance with fascines to fill the ditches, and scaling ladders with which to mount the embankments. "But first 1500 infantry, with some artillery, were to be sent under cover of night to attack Morgan, whose works were but feebly manned, and, getting possession, enfilade Jackson's line, while the main British army attacked it in front. "All the labor of completing these arrangements was finished on the 7th, and the army, now 10,000 strong, was in fine spirits, no doubt thinking they had an easy task before them. But Jackson saw through their designs, and was busily engaged in making his preparations. He had thrown up a redoubt on the edge of the river, and mounted it with cannon so as to enfilade the ditch in front of his line. He had, besides, eight batteries at proper distances from each other, and Patterson's marine battery across the river, mounting nine guns; also the _Louisiana_ near at hand and ready to take any part she could in assisting him. "The plain of Chalmette was in front of Jackson's line. His whole force on the New Orleans side of the river was about 5000; only 2200 of them were at his line; only 800 of them were regulars, most of them being new recruits commanded by young officers. "The British attempted to carry out Packenham's plans, but Thornton was delayed in reaching Morgan by the falling of the water in the canal and river, so that the sailors had to drag the boats through the mud in many places, and it was three o'clock in the morning before half his force had crossed. Besides, the powerful current of the Mississippi carried them down stream, and they were landed at least a mile and a half below the point at which they had intended to disembark, and the roar of the cannon on the plain of Chalmette was heard before all had landed. The British had formed in line and advanced to within 450 yards of the American intrenchments, and there, under Gibbs and Keane, they stood in the darkness, fog, and chilly air, listening for the boom of Thornton's guns. "The time must have seemed long to them, and doubtless they wondered what delayed him. But day began to dawn, the red coats of the enemy could be dimly seen by our troops through the fog, and Lieutenant Spotswood, of battery No. 7, opened the battle by sending one of his heavy shots in among them. "The fog rolled away, and the British line was seen extending two-thirds of the distance across the plain of Chalmette. A rocket was sent up from each end of the line and it broke into fragments, the men forming into columns by companies. Then Gibbs moved forward toward the wooded swamp, his troops, as they advanced, terribly pelted by the fire of the Americans, the batteries Nos. 6, 7, and 8 pouring shot incessantly into their line, making lanes through it. "Some sought shelter from the storm behind a projection of the swamp into the plain; but in vain. Whole platoons were prostrated, but their places were instantly filled by others. "The company who were to have brought the fascines and scaling ladders had forgotten them, and that, with the terrible fire of the American batteries, wrought some confusion in the ranks; but they pressed on bravely, cheering each other with loud huzzas, their front covered by blazing rockets. As rank after rank fell under the fire of the Americans, their places were instantly occupied by others, and the column pushed on toward the American batteries on the left and the weaker line defended by the Kentuckians and the Tennesseeans. "Those British troops were Wellington's veterans who had fought so bravely in Europe, and now, in spite of the awful slaughter in their ranks, they moved unflinchingly forward, without pause or recoil, stepping unhesitatingly over their fallen comrades, till they were within two hundred yards of our lines, when General Carroll's voice rang out in clear, clarion tones, 'Fire!' and, at the word, the Tennesseeans rose from behind their works, where they had lain concealed, and poured in a deadly fire, each man taking sure aim, and their bullets cutting down scores of the enemy. "Then, as the Tennesseeans fell back, the Kentuckians stepped quickly into their places and poured in their fire with equally deadly aim; then another rank followed, and still another, so that the fire slackened not for a moment, while at the same time grape and round shot from the batteries went crashing through the British ranks, making awful gaps in them. "It was enough to appall the stoutest heart, and their lines began to waver; but their officers encouraged them with the cry, 'Here comes the Forty-fourth with the fascines and the ladders!'" "Papa, what are fascines?" asked Grace. "Long faggots used for different purposes in engineering," he replied. "It was true they were coming with them, Packenham at their head, encouraging his men by stirring words and deeds; but presently a bullet struck his bridle arm, and his horse was shot under him. He quickly mounted a pony belonging to his favorite aid, but another shot disabled his right arm, and, as his pony was being led away to the rear, another passed through his thigh, killed the horse, and he and it fell to the ground together. He was carried to the rear and placed under an oak, where he soon died in the arms of Sir Duncan McDougall, the aid who had resigned the pony to him. "Other officers fell, till there were not enough to command. General Keane was shot through the neck, and the wound compelled him to leave the field. General Gibbs was mortally wounded and died the next day. Major Wilkinson, who then took command, fell on the parapet, mortally wounded; then the British fled in wild confusion." "But they had been very brave," remarked Grace. "What a pity it was that they had to fight in such a bad cause. Were there very many of them killed, papa?" "Yes, a great many. Of a regiment of brave Highlanders, with twenty-five officers, only nine officers and one hundred and thirty men could be mustered after the terrible fight was over. Another regiment had lost five hundred men. "While this fighting had been going on, another of their divisions of nearly one thousand men, led by Colonel Rennie, attacked an unfinished redoubt on Jackson's right and succeeded in driving out the Americans there, but could not hold it long, being terribly punished by Humphreys' batteries and the Seventh Regiment. Yet Rennie succeeded in scaling the parapet of the American redoubt. Beale's New Orleans Rifles poured such a tempest of shot upon the officers and men in the redoubt that nearly every one was killed or wounded. Rennie, who had just shouted, 'Hurrah, boys! the day is ours!' fell mortally wounded. "And now this attacking column also fell back, and by hastening to the plantation ditches, sought shelter from the terrible tempest of shot and shell coming from Jackson's lines. "General Lambert with his troops tried to come to the aid of Packenham, Gibbs, and Keane, but was able only to cover the retreat of their vanquished and flying columns." "And the victory was won then, papa?" queried Lulu. "Yes, though the battle had lasted but a short time; by half past eight A. M. the musketry fire had ceased, though the artillery kept theirs up till two o'clock in the afternoon." "Were both Americans and British playing their national airs while the fight was going on, sir?" asked Walter. "The British had no music but a bugle," replied the captain, "not even a drum or a trumpet; but all through the fight, from the time they sent up their first signal rocket, the New Orleans Band was stationed near the spot where the American flag was flying, playing national airs to cheer and animate our soldiers." "Were not the British rather more successful in another part of the field, Captain?" asked Eva. "Yes," he replied; "in their attack upon the troops on the right bank of the river, they being only militia and few in number; also fatigued and poorly armed. Morgan, their commander, was compelled to spike his cannon and throw them into the river, his men being driven from their intrenchments. "Then Thornton, his assailant, pushed on to Patterson's battery, three hundred yards in the rear, and Patterson, threatened by a flank movement also, was compelled to spike his guns and flee on board of the _Louisiana_, his sailors helping to get her out of the reach of the foe. "But Thornton soon heard of the disasters of his comrades on the other side of the river, and received orders to rejoin them. Jackson had sent four hundred men to re-enforce Morgan, but there was now no need of their services. Thornton re-embarked his troops at twilight, the Americans repossessed themselves of their works, and Patterson removed the spikes from his guns, put his battery in better position, and at dawn informed Jackson of what he had done by heavy firing upon the British outposts at Bienvenu's. "In that battle of January 8, 1815, the British had lost twenty-six hundred men, seven hundred killed, fourteen hundred wounded, and five hundred made prisoners; while the Americans had only eight killed and thirteen wounded. Lossing tells us, 'The history of human warfare presents no parallel to this disparity in loss.' "In Thornton's attack, the British loss was a little more than one hundred; the American, one killed and five wounded. On that side of the river the British secured their only trophy of their efforts to capture New Orleans. So Lossing tells us, adding, 'It was a small flag, and now [1867], hangs conspicuously among other war trophies in Whitehall, London, with the inscription: "Taken at the battle of New Orleans, January 8, 1815."'" "That looks as though our British cousins must esteem it quite a triumph to be able to succeed in taking anything from Uncle Sam," laughed Rosie. "Yes," said Walter, "I think they compliment us by making so much of that one little trophy." "So do I," said Lulu. "Papa, is that the end of your story?" "No, not quite," replied the captain. "After the battle had come to an end, Jackson and his staff passed slowly along his whole line, speaking words of congratulation and praise to his brave troops, officers and men. Then the band struck up 'Hail Columbia,' and cheer after cheer for the hero went up from every part of the line. The citizens also, who had been anxiously and eagerly watching the battle from a distance, joined in the cheering. Then, after refreshing themselves with some food (doubtless having gone into the battle without waiting to eat their breakfast), the soldiers set to work to bury the dead of the enemy in front of Jackson's lines, and take care of the wounded. "General Lambert sent a flag of truce asking for an armistice in order to bury his dead, and Jackson granted it on condition that the British should not cross to the right bank of the river. "The next morning, detachments from both armies were drawn up in front of the American lines, at a distance of three hundred yards, then the dead bodies between that point and the intrenchments were carried by the Americans upon the very scaling ladders left there by the British, and delivered to them. They were buried on Bienvenu's plantation, and, as Lossing tells us, the graves were still there undisturbed when he visited the spot in 1861. He says also that it is regarded with superstitious awe by the negroes in the neighborhood. "The wounded who had been taken prisoners were carried to the barracks in New Orleans and tenderly cared for by the citizens. Some of the dead British officers were buried that night by torch light in the garden at Villere's; the bodies of others, among whom were Packenham, Rennie, and Gibbs, were sent to their friends in England." The captain paused, and Violet said playfully, "I fear we are fatiguing you, my dear; suppose you leave the rest of your story for another time." "And that we have some music now," added her mother, a suggestion which was immediately adopted, the whole party adjourning to the parlor. CHAPTER III. THE captain opened the piano and glanced smilingly at his young wife. But Violet shook her head playfully. "I think mamma should be the player to-night," she said. "She has scarcely touched the piano for months, and I am really hungry to have her do so." "Will you give us some music, mother?" queried the captain, offering to lead her to the instrument. "Yes," she returned laughingly. "I could never wilfully allow my daughter to suffer from hunger when in my power to relieve it." "Patriotic songs first, please, mamma," entreated Walter, as she took her seat before the instrument. "I do believe we all feel like singing 'Hail, Columbia!' and the 'Star-Spangled Banner.' At least I do, I am sure." "I presume we are all in a patriotic frame of mind to-night," she returned, giving him a smile of mingled love and pride as she struck a chord or two, then dashed off into "Yankee-doodle-dandy," with variations. "Hail Columbia!" and "Star-Spangled Banner" followed, old and young uniting together with enthusiasm in singing the patriotic words, but still other voices were unexpectedly heard joining in on the concluding strains: "That star-spangled banner, oh, long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!" "Oh, Cousin Molly and Mr. Embury! Dick, too! and Betty!" cried Violet, hurrying with outstretched hand toward the doorway into the hall, where the cousins stood in a little group looking smilingly in upon them. "Come in; I am delighted to see you." The invitation was promptly accepted, and for the next few minutes there was a tumultuous exchange of joyous greetings. Dr. Percival and his half brother, Robert Johnson, had been spending some months together in Europe, their sister Betty visiting friends in Natchez through the winter, and only that morning the three had returned to Magnolia Hall, where Betty had a home with her sister Molly, and the brothers were always welcome guests. Presently all were seated and a very animated conversation ensued, the newly arrived having much to tell and many inquiries to make concerning absent friends and relatives. After a little it came out that Betty was engaged and shortly to be married, provided "Uncle Horace" was satisfied with regard to the suitableness of the match, of which no one acquainted with the reputation, family, and circumstances of the favored lover, felt any doubt. It was a love match on both sides; the gentleman, an American, engaged in a lucrative business, of irreproachable character and reputation, pleasing appearance and manners, in fact, all that could reasonably be desired, assured of which, Mr. Dinsmore gave a prompt consent, adding his warm congratulations, which Betty accepted with blushes and smiles. "I was not unprepared for this, Betty," he said with a smile, "having received a letter from the gentleman himself, asking for the hand of my niece, Miss Johnson." "O Betty, how nice!" cried Rosie with a gleeful laugh, and softly clapping her hands. "When is it to be? I hope before we leave for the North, for I, for one, want to see what a pretty bride you will make, and I dare say Mr. Norris, your favored suitor, feels in as great haste as I." "I am quite aware that I have no beauty to boast of, coz," laughed Betty, "but I believe it's a conceded point that a woman always looks her best at such a time, and in bridal attire. However that may be, though, I shall want you all present, so I will hurry my preparations in order that the great event may take place while you are here to have a share in it. By the way, I have laid my plans to have three bridesmaids and several maids of honor, and I have planned that they shall be my three young friends, Cousin Rosie Travilla, Evelyn Leland, and Lucilla Raymond," glancing from one to another as she spoke, then adding, "Now don't decline, any one of you, for I shall be mortally offended if you do." "No danger of that, unless compelled by some one of the older folks," laughed Rosie, turning inquiringly toward her mother, while Evelyn colored and smiled, hesitated momentarily, then said in a noncommittal way, "You are very kind, Betty, but I'll have to think about it a little and ask permission." Lulu's face grew radiant with delight. "O Betty, how good of you!" she exclaimed. "Papa, may I?" turning a very pleading look upon him and hurrying to his side. He took her hand in his, smiling affectionately into the eager, entreating eyes. "I think you may, daughter," he said kindly, "since Cousin Betty is so good as to include you in the invitation. I see nothing in the way at present." "Oh, thank you, sir!" she cried joyously, then turned to listen with eager interest to an animated discussion going on among the ladies in regard to the most suitable and tasteful attire for bride and bridesmaids or maids of honor. "The bride will, of course, wear white," Violet was saying, "but it would be pretty and in accordance with the fashion for her maids of honor to dress in colors." "Yes," assented Rosie, "and I propose blue for Eva, delicate straw or canary color for Lu, who has a complexion just to suit, and pink for me. What do you say, girls?" turning to them where they stood side by side. "I like the idea," replied Evelyn, Lulu adding, "And so do I. Do you approve, papa?" hurrying to his side again. "Yes, daughter; if it pleases you and meets the approval of the ladies." "You are so good to me, dear papa!" she exclaimed with a look of gratitude and affection. But it was growing late, and leaving various matters to be settled in another interview to be held at an early day, the cousins bade good night and departed. "Papa, I do think I have just the best and kindest father in the whole world!" exclaimed Lulu, seating herself upon his knee and putting her arm about his neck, her lips to his cheek, when he had come to her room for the usual good-night bit of chat. "Rather strong, isn't it?" he queried laughingly, holding her close and returning her caress with interest. "Not too strong, you dear, dear papa!" she said, hugging him tighter. "Oh, if ever I'm disobedient or ill tempered again I ought to be severely punished." "My dear child," he said gravely, smoothing her hair with caressing hand as he spoke, "do not ever again give your father the pain of punishing you. Watch and pray, and try every day to grow into the likeness of the dear Master. It makes me happy that you want to please me, your earthly father, but I would have you care far more about pleasing and honoring Him." "I do care about that, papa. Oh, I want very much to have Him pleased with me, but next to that I want to please you, because you are such a good, kind father, and I love you so dearly." "Yes, daughter, and I esteem your love one of the great blessings of my life, while you are dearer to me than words can express: one of God's good gifts for which I am truly thankful. But I must now bid you good-night and leave you to rest, for it is growing late." "Yes, sir. But I feel as wide-awake as possible--I'm so excited thinking about Betty's wedding. So I wish you'd stay just a little bit longer. Can't you, papa?" "No, daughter, I must leave you and you must go to bed at once; try to banish exciting thoughts, and get to sleep." "I'll try my very best to obey my own dear father," she returned, looking up into his face with eyes full of ardent affection. He smiled, held her close for a moment, repeating his caresses, saying low and tenderly, "God bless and keep my dear daughter through the silent watches of the night, and wake her in the morning in health and strength, if it be His will." Then releasing her he left the room. She was soon in the land of dreams; the sun was shining when she awoke again. The wedding and matters connected with it were the principal topics of discourse at the breakfast table. Betty had expressed an ardent wish to have present at the ceremony all the relatives from the neighborhood of her old home, saying that she and Molly had already despatched invitations which she hoped would be accepted, and now it was settled that Mr. Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie should write at once, urging all to come to Viamede and remain till the summer heats would make it more prudent to return to a cooler climate. There was talk, too, of an entertainment to be given there to the bride and groom, of suitable wedding gifts, and also the attire of maids of honor. The young girls selected to take part in the ceremony were particularly interested, excitable Lulu especially so; she could hardly think of anything else, even in the school-room, and as a consequence recited so badly that her father looked very grave indeed, and when dismissing the others told her she must remain in the school-room studying, until she could recite each lesson very much more creditably to both herself and her teacher. "Yes, sir," she said in a low, unwilling tone, casting down her eyes and coloring with mortification; "but I think the lessons were dreadfully hard to-day, papa." "No, daughter, it is only that your mind is dwelling upon other things. You must learn to exercise better control over your thoughts and concentrate them always upon the business in hand." "But, papa, I'll never be able to learn the lessons before dinner time, and I am hungry now; are you going to make me fast till I recite perfectly?" "No, my child: you may eat when the rest of us do, and finish your tasks afterward. You may have a cracker now if you are hungry." "Oh, may I go and get her some, papa?" asked Grace, who had lingered behind the others, full of concern and sympathy for her sister, and was now standing close at his side. "Yes, my darling," he said, smiling upon the little girl, and smoothing her hair with softly caressing hand. "Oh, thank you, sir!" and away she ran, to return in a few moments with a plate of crackers, when she found Lulu alone, bending over a book, apparently studying with great diligence. "Oh, thank you, Grace!" she exclaimed; "you are ever so good. I was so taken up with the talk about the wedding at breakfast time, that I didn't eat nearly so much as usual. Some folks in papa's place would have made me fast till my lessons were learned; but he's such a good, kind father; isn't he?" "Yes, indeed!" returned Grace emphatically, setting down the plate as she spoke. "Now I'll run away and let you learn your lesson." Lulu did not feel fully prepared for her recitations when the dinner bell rang, but, having her father's permission, she went to the table with the others. At the conclusion of the meal he inquired in an aside, his tone kind and pleasant, if she were ready for him. "No, sir," she replied, "not quite." "You may take half an hour to digest your dinner, then go back to your tasks," he said. "Yes, sir, I will," she answered, taking out the pretty little watch, which was one of his gifts, and noting the time. Then, in company with Rosie, Evelyn, and Grace, she went out upon the lawn and sauntered about under the trees, gathering flowers. She was careful to return to the school-room at the appointed hour. Presently her father followed her. "Are those lessons ready, daughter?" he asked in his usual kindly tones. "No, sir; not quite," she replied. "I am sorry," he said, "as if they were, I would hear them at once and you might make one of the party who are going over to Magnolia Hall." "Papa, I should so like to go along!" she exclaimed, looking up coaxingly into his face. "And I would be glad to give you the pleasure," he said with a slight sigh; "but you know I cannot do that, having already told you your lessons must be creditably recited before you can be allowed any further recreation." "They're so long and hard, papa," grumbled Lulu, looking wofully disappointed. "No, my child; with your usual attention you could easily have learned them before the regular school hours were over," he said. "I am not going with the others and will come for your recitation in another hour or perhaps sooner." So saying he turned and left the room. "Oh, dear! I do wish I was old enough not to have lessons to learn," sighed Lulu. But seeing there was no escape, she turned to her tasks again, and when her father came in according to his promise, was able to say she was ready for him and to recite in a creditable manner. He gave the accustomed meed of praise, smiling kindly on her as he spoke. "There, daughter," he added, "you see what you can do when you give your mind to your work, and I hope that in future you will do so always at the proper time." "I hope so, papa; I do really mean to try," she replied, hanging her head and blushing. "Are the ladies and girls all gone?" "Yes; some time ago," he said. "I am sorry I could not let you go with the others, as I have no doubt you would have enjoyed doing so." "I hope you didn't stay at home just to hear my lessons, papa?" she said regretfully. "I might possibly have gone could I have taken my eldest daughter with me," he replied, "though there were other matters calling for my attention. However," he added with a smile, "you need not measure my disappointment by yours, as I am certain it was not nearly so great." At that moment a servant came to the door to tell the captain that a gentleman had called on business, and was in the library waiting to see him. "Very well; tell him I will be there presently," replied Captain Raymond. Then turning to Lulu, "You may amuse yourself as you like for an hour, then prepare your lessons for to-morrow." "Yes, sir," she answered, as he left the room, then put on her hat and taking a parasol wandered out upon the lawn. The captain had been giving the young people some lessons in botany, and the girls were vieing with each other as to who should gather into her herbarium the largest number of plants and flowers, particularly such as were to be found in that region, but never, or very rarely, in the more northern one they called their home. Lulu had found, and, from time to time, placed in her herbarium, several which she highly prized for both beauty and rarity, and now she went in quest of others. She had scarcely left the house when, much to her surprise, she met her baby brother and his nurse. "Why, Neddie dear, I thought you had gone----" but she paused, fearing to set the child to crying for his mother. "Marse Ned's sleeping when dey goes, Miss Lu; I spec's dey'll be back fo' long," said the nurse; and catching him up in her arms she began a romping play with him, her evident object to ward off thoughts of his absent mother. Lulu walked on, spent a half hour or more gathering flowers, then returned to the school-room, where she had left her herbarium lying on her desk. But Master Ned, there before her, had pulled it down on the floor, where he sat tearing out the plants which she had prepared and placed in it with so much labor and care. At that trying sight, Lulu's anger flamed out as it had not in years; not since the sad time when little Elsie was so nearly sacrificed to her eldest sister's lack of self-control. "You naughty, naughty, naughty boy!" she exclaimed, snatching the herbarium from the floor. "I'd just like to shake you well, and spank you, too. You deserve it richly, for you have no business to be here meddling with my things!" At that the baby boy set up a wail. Then their father's voice was heard from the veranda outside. "Come here to papa, Neddie boy," and the little fellow, who had now scrambled to his feet, hastened to obey. Lulu trembled and flushed hotly. "I wish I'd known papa was so near and I'd kept my temper, too," she sighed ruefully to herself, then set to work to repair damages to the best of her ability; but, as her passion cooled, with thoughts dwelling remorsefully upon her unkind treatment of her baby brother, also apprehensively on the consequent displeasure of her dearly loved father. She loved little Ned too, and heartily wished she had been more gentle and forbearing toward him. But her hour of recreation was past, and with Ned's baby prattle to his father, as he sat on his knee, coming to her ear through the open window, she sat down at her desk, took out her books, and tried to study; but it seemed impossible to fix her thoughts upon the business in hand, and presently hearing the patter of the little fellow's feet as he ran along the veranda, then out into the garden, she sprang up and followed him. "O Neddie dear," she said, catching him in her arms and giving him a hearty kiss, "sister is ever so sorry she was cross to you. Will you forgive her and love her still?" "Ess," returned the baby boy with hearty good will, putting his chubby arms about her neck and hugging her tight; then cooing sweetly, "Ned 'oves oo, Lu." "And Lu loves you, Neddie darling," she returned, kissing him again and again. Then setting him down, she sped back to the school-room, took up her book, and made another attempt to study; but without success; laying it aside again almost immediately, she went in search of her father. He had left the veranda, but going on into the library, she found him in an easy chair, with a newspaper in his hand which he seemed to be reading with great attention, for he did not turn his head or eyes toward her as she drew near and stood at his side. She waited longingly for a recognition of her vicinity, but he gave none, seeming too intent upon his paper to be aware of it; and he had taught her that she must not rudely interrupt him or any grown person so engaged, but wait patiently till her presence was noted and inquiry made as to what she wished to say. The five or ten minutes she stood silently waiting seemed a long time to her impatient temperament. "Oh, would papa never give her an opportunity to speak to him?" At last, however, as he paused in his reading to turn his paper, she ventured a low breathed, "Papa." "Go instantly to your own room, taking your books with you, Lucilla, and don't venture to leave it till you have my permission," he said in stern, cold accents, and without giving her so much as a glance. She obeyed in silence. Reaching her own room she again opened her book and tried to study; but found herself so disturbed in mind that it was wellnigh impossible to take in the meaning of the words as she read them over and over. "I can't learn these lessons till I've made it up with papa," she sighed half aloud, and putting down the book opened her writing desk. In a few minutes she had written a very humble little note, saying how sorry she was for the indulgence of her passion and her unkindness to her darling little brother; but that she had asked and received his forgiveness; then sought her father to beg him to forgive her too, and tell him she was ready to submit to any punishment he thought best to inflict. But oh, might it not be something that would be over before the rest of the family should come home from their drive? She signed herself "Your penitent little daughter Lulu," folded the note, sealed it up in an envelope, and wrote her father's name on the outside. She could hear the prattle of her baby brother coming from the lawn. Her window opened upon an upper veranda, and going out there, she called softly, "Ned, Neddie dear!" The little fellow looked up and laughed. "Lu!" he called; then catching sight of the note in her hand, "What oo dot?" he queried. "A letter for papa," she replied. "Will you take it to him and ask him to please read it?" "Ess; fro it down," he said, holding up both hands to catch it. "Me will tate it to papa." It fell on the grass at his feet, he stooped and picked it up, then trotted away with it in his hand. Again Lulu took up her book and tried to study, but with no better success than before. "What will papa do and say to me?" she was asking herself. "Oh, I hope he won't keep me long in suspense! I don't believe he will; he never does, and--ah, yes, I hear his step." She rose hastily, hurried to the door and opened it. He stood on the threshold. "Papa," she said humbly, "I am very, very sorry I was passionate and cross to dear little Ned." "As I am," he replied, stepping in, securing the door, then taking her hand, leading her to the side of an easy chair and seating himself therein. "I was deeply grieved to hear my eldest daughter speak in such angry words and passionate tones to her baby brother. It not only gave the dear little fellow pain, but set him a very bad example which I greatly fear he will follow one of these days, so giving me the pain of punishing him and you that of seeing him punished!" "Papa, I am the one who ought to be punished," she burst out in her vehement way, "and I just hope you will punish me well. But oh, please don't say I shall not go to Cousin Betty's wedding, or not be one of her bridesmaids or maids of honor." He made no reply at first. There was a moment's silence, then she exclaimed, "Oh, papa, I just can't bear it! I'd even rather have the severest whipping you could give me." "You are a little too old for that now," he said in moved tones, drawing her to a seat upon his knee. "It has always been to me a hard trial to feel called upon to punish my dear child in that way; a sad task to have to do so in any way; and if you are a good girl from now on to the time of the wedding, you may accept Betty's kind invitation." "Oh, thank you, sir! thank you very much indeed!" she exclaimed. "I don't deserve to be allowed to, but oh, I do fully intend to rule my temper better in future!" "I hope so indeed; but you will not succeed if you try merely in your own strength. Our sufficiency is of God, and to Him alone must we look for strength to resist temptation and be steadfast in fighting the good fight of faith. Try, my dear child, to be always on your guard! 'Watch and pray,' is the Master's command, repeated again and again. 'Take ye heed, watch and pray.' ... 'Watch ye, therefore.' ... 'And what I say unto you I say unto all, Watch.' ... 'Watch ye and pray lest ye enter into temptation.'" "Papa, I do really mean to try very hard to rule my own spirit," she said humbly; "I have been trying." "Yes, dear child, I have not been blind to your efforts," he returned in tender tones. "I know you have tried, and I believe you will try still harder, and will at length come off conqueror. I fear I have not been so patient and forbearing with you to-day as I ought. I think now I should have let you speak when you came to me in the library a while ago. Your father is by no means perfect, and therefore has no right to expect perfection in his children." "But I had indulged my temper, papa, and did deserve to be punished for it." "Yes, that is true. But it is all forgiven now, and your father and his eldest daughter are at peace again," he added, giving her a loving embrace. "And that makes me so happy," she said, lifting her dewy eyes to his. "I am always very far from happy when I know that my dear father is displeased with me." "You love him, then?" "Oh, yes, yes, indeed! dearly! dearly!" she exclaimed, putting her arms about his neck and laying her cheek to his. He held her close for a moment, then saying, "Now I want you to spend an hour over your lessons for to-morrow, after which you and I will have a walk together," he left her. By tea time the family were all at home again, and their talk at the table was almost exclusively of the preparations for the approaching wedding. "Mamma," said Rosie at length, "I for one would dearly like to go to New Orleans and select dress and ornaments for myself; also a present for Betty." "I see no objection, if a proper escort can be provided," was the smiling rejoinder. "Suppose we make up a party to go there, do the necessary shopping, and visit the battle fields and everything of interest connected with them," suggested Captain Raymond. "We can stay a day or two if necessary, and I think we'll all feel repaid." The proposal was received with enthusiasm by the younger portion of the family, and even the older ones had nothing to say against it. Lulu was silent, but sent a very wistful, pleading look in her father's direction. It was answered with a nod and smile, and her face grew radiant, for she knew that meant that she would be permitted to take the little trip with the others. "Dear papa, thank you ever so much," she said, following him into the library as they left the table. "For what?" he asked jestingly, laying a hand upon her head and smiling down into the happy, eager face. "Giving me permission to go with you and the rest to New Orleans." "Ah, did I do that?" he asked, sitting down and drawing her to a seat upon his knee. "Not in words, papa, but you looked it," she returned with a pleased laugh, putting her arm about his neck and kissing him with ardent affection. "Didn't you, now?" "I don't deny that I did, yet it depends largely upon the good conduct of my eldest daughter," he said in a graver tone, smoothing her hair caressingly as he spoke. "I hope she will show herself so sweet tempered and obedient that it may not be necessary to leave her behind because she is lacking in those good qualities." "Papa," she replied low and feelingly, "I will ask God to help me to be patient and good." "And if you ask for Jesus' sake, pleading his gracious promise, 'If ye ask anything in my name, I will do it,' your petition will be granted." At that moment the other girls came running in, Rose saying eagerly, "Oh, Brother Levis, we all hope you will be so kind as to go on with your historical stories of doings and happenings at New Orleans. Please treat us to some of them to-night, and let us have all before we visit their scenes, won't you?" "Certainly, Sister Rose," he replied, adding, "It looks very pleasant on the veranda now. Shall we establish ourselves there?" "Yes, sir, if you please," she said, dancing away, the others following. Presently all were quietly seated, the older people almost as eager for the story as were the young, and the captain began. "While the armies before New Orleans were burying their dead, others of the British troops were trying to secure for themselves the free navigation of the Mississippi below the city by capturing Fort St. Philip, which is in a direct line some seventy or eighty miles lower down the stream, and was considered by both British and Americans as the key of the State of Louisiana. "The fort was at that time garrisoned by three hundred and sixty-six men under the command of Major Overton of the rifle corps, with the addition of the crew of a gun-boat. Just about the time that the British killed in the battle of New Orleans were being carried by the Americans under Jackson to their comrades for burial, a little squadron of five English vessels appeared before the fort and anchored out of range of its heavy guns, the bomb vessels with their broadsides toward it; and at three o'clock they opened fire on it. Their bombardment went on with scarcely a pause till daybreak of the 18th, when they had sent more than a thousand shells, using for that purpose twenty thousand pounds of powder. They had sent, too, beside the shells, many round and grape shot. "During those nine days the Americans were in their battery, five of the days without shelter, exposed to cold and rain a part of the time; but only two of them were killed and seven wounded. "On the 18th, the British gave up the attempt. That same day a general exchange of prisoners took place, and that night the British stole noiselessly away. By morning they had reached Lake Borgne, sixty miles distant from their fleet. "They could not have felt very comfortable, as the wintry winds to which they were exposed were keen, and the American mounted men under Colonel De la Ronde, following them in their retreat, annoyed them not a little. "The British remained at Lake Borgne until the 27th, then boarded their fleet, which lay in the deep water between Ship and Cat Islands. "In the meantime Jackson had been guarding the approach to New Orleans lest they might return and make another effort against it. But on leaving that vicinity they went to Fort Bowyer, at the entrance to Mobile Bay, thirty miles distant from the city of that name, then but a village of less than one thousand inhabitants. The fort is now called Fort Morgan. "It was but a weak fortress, without bomb-proofs, and mounting only twenty guns, only two of them larger than twelve pounders, some of them less. It was under the command of Major Lawrence. "The British besieged it for nearly two days, when Lawrence, a gallant officer, was compelled to surrender to a vastly superior force. "It is altogether likely that the British would then have gone on to attack Mobile, had not news come of the treaty of peace between the United States and Great Britain. "The news of Jackson's gallant defence of New Orleans caused intense joy all over the Union, while in England it was heard with astonishment and chagrin." "They didn't know before how Americans could fight," said Walter with a look of exultation, "and they have never attacked us since." "No," said his mother, "and God grant that we and our kinsmen across the sea may ever henceforward live in peace with each other." "It seems a great pity that the news of peace had not come in time to prevent that dreadful battle of New Orleans and the after fighting of which you have just been telling us, Captain," remarked Evelyn. "Yes," he replied; "and yet, perhaps, it may have been of use in preventing another struggle between the two nations; we have had difficulties since, but fortunately they have thus far been settled without a resort to arms." "I suppose there was an exchange of prisoners?" Walter said inquiringly. "Yes, though, in regard to some, the Dartmoor captives in especial, it was strangely slow." "Dartmoor, papa?" Grace said with inquiring look and tone. "Yes; Dartmoor is a desolate region in Devonshire; its prison, built originally for French prisoners of war, had thirty acres of ground enclosed by double walls, within which were seven distinct prisons. "At the close of the War of 1812-14 there were about six thousand prisoners there, twenty-five hundred of them impressed American seamen who had refused to fight against their country, having been forced into the British Navy and being still there at the beginning of the struggle. Some of the poor fellows, though, had been in Dartmoor Prison ten or eleven years. Think what an intense longing they must have felt for home and their own dear native land! How unbearable the delay to liberate them must have seemed! They were not even permitted to hear of the treaty of peace till three months after it had been signed. But after hearing of it, they were in daily expectation of being released, and just think how hope deferred must have made their hearts sick. Some of them showed a disposition to attempt an escape, and on the 4th of April they demanded bread, and refused to eat the hard biscuits that were given them instead. "Two evenings later they very reluctantly obeyed orders to retire to their quarters, some of them showing an inclination to mutiny, passing beyond the limits of their confinement, when, by the orders of Captain Shortland, commander of the prison, they were fired upon; then the firing was repeated by the soldiers without the shadow of an excuse, as was shown by the impartial report of a committee of investigation, the result of which was the killing of five men and the wounding of thirty-three." "I hope those soldiers were hung for it!" exclaimed Walter, his eyes flashing. "No," replied the captain, "the British authorities pronounced it 'justifiable homicide'; which excited the hottest indignation on this side of the ocean; but now the memory of it has nearly passed away." "Now, Brother Levis, if you're not too tired, won't you please go on and tell us all about the taking of New Orleans in the last war?" asked Walter, looking persuasively into the captain's face. "Certainly, if all wish to hear it," was the pleasant toned reply; and all expressing themselves desirous to do so, he at once began. "Ship Island was appointed as the place of rendezvous for both land and naval forces, the last named under the command of Captain David G. Farragut, the others led by General Butler. "Farragut arrived in the harbor of the island, on the 20th of February, 1862, on his flag-ship, the _Hartford_, in which he sailed on the 2d, from Hampton Roads, Virginia, but sickness had detained him for a time at Key West. "The vessels of which he had been given the command, taken collectively, were styled the Western Gulf Squadron. Farragut had been informed that a fleet of bomb vessels, under Commander David D. Porter, would be attached to his squadron. Porter was the son of Commodore David Porter, who had adopted Farragut when a little fellow and had him educated for the navy. It was he who commanded the _Essex_ in the War of 1812, and Farragut was with him, though then only in his twelfth year." "Then he must have been past sixty at the time of the taking of New Orleans," remarked Walter reflectively. "He and Porter joined forces at Key West," continued the captain. "Porter's fleet had been prepared at the Navy Yard in Brooklyn, exciting much interest and curiosity. There were twenty-one schooners of from two to three hundred tons each; they were made very strong and to draw as little water as possible. Each vessel carried two thirty-two pounder rifled cannon, and was armed besides with mortars of eight and a half tons weight that would throw a fifteen-inch shell which, when filled, weighed two hundred and twelve pounds. "Farragut's orders were to proceed up the Mississippi, reducing the forts on its banks, take possession of New Orleans, hoist the American flag there, and hold the place till more troops could be sent him. "An expedition was coming down the river from Cairo, and if that had not arrived he was to take advantage of the panic which his seizure of New Orleans would have caused, and push on up the river, destroying the rebel works. His orders from the Secretary of War were, 'Destroy the armed barriers which these deluded people have raised up against the power of the United States Government, and shoot down those who war against the Union; but cultivate with cordiality the first returning reason which is sure to follow your success.' Farragut, having received these orders, at once began carrying them out, with the aid of the plans of the works on the Mississippi which he had been directed to take, particularly of Fort St. Philip, furnished him by General Barnard, who had built it years before. "The plan made and carried out was to let Porter's fleet make the attack upon the forts first, while Farragut, with his larger and stronger vessels, should await the result just outside the range of the rebel guns; then, when Porter had succeeded in silencing them, Farragut was to push on up the river, clearing it of Confederate vessels, and cutting off the supplies of the fort. That accomplished, Butler was to land his troops in the rear of Fort St. Philip and try to carry it by assault. Those two forts, St. Philip and Jackson, were about thirty miles from the mouth of the river, Fort Jackson on the right bank, and Fort St. Philip on the left. "Ship Island, the place of rendezvous, is about one hundred miles northeast of the mouth of the Mississippi. In the last war with England, as I have told you, St. Philip had kept the British in check for nine days, though they threw one thousand shells into it. "Fort Jackson was a larger fortification, bastioned, built of brick, with casemates and glacis, rising twenty-five feet above the water. Some French and British officers, calling upon Farragut before the attack, having come from among the Confederates, while visiting whom they had seen and examined these forts with their defences, warned him that to attack them would only result in sure defeat; but the brave old hero replied that he had been sent there to try it on and would do so; or words to that effect. "The forts had one hundred and fifteen guns of various kinds and sizes, mostly smooth-bore thirty-two pounders. Above them lay the Confederate fleet of fifteen vessels, one of them an iron-clad ram, another a large, unfinished floating battery covered with railroad iron. Two hundred Confederate sharp-shooters kept constant watch along the river banks, and several fire-rafts were ready to be sent down among the Federal vessels. Both these and the sharp-shooters were below the forts. Also there were two iron chains stretched across the river, supported upon eight hulks which were anchored abreast. "Farragut's naval expedition was the largest that had ever sailed under the United States flag, consisting of six sloops of war, twenty-one mortar schooners, sixteen gun-boats, and other vessels, carrying in all two hundred guns. "But the vessels were built for the sea and were now to work in a much narrower space--a river with a shifting channel and obstructed by shoals. "To get the larger vessels over the bar at the southwest pass was a work of time and great labor. They had to be made as light as possible and then dragged through a foot of mud. Two weeks of such labor was required to get the _Pensacola_ over, and the _Colorado_ could not be taken over at all. "The mortar vessels were towed up stream and began to take their places. Porter disguised them with mud and the branches of trees, so that they could not be readily distinguished from the river banks, being moored under cover of the woods on the bank just below Fort Jackson. The stratagem was successful; his vessels were moored where he wished to have them, the nearest being two thousand eight hundred and fifty yards from Fort Jackson, and three thousand six hundred and eighty from Fort St. Philip. "On the opposite side of the river, and a little farther from the forts, Porter had his six remaining vessels stationed, screening them also with willows and reeds, and mooring them under cover of the woods to conceal their true character. "On the 18th of April, before nine o'clock in the morning, the attack was begun by a shot from Fort Jackson, then, as soon as Porter was ready, the _Owasco_ opened fire, and the fourteen mortar boats concealed by the woods, also the six in full sight of the forts, began their bombardment. "The gun-boats took part in the conflict by running up and firing heavy shells when the mortars needed relief. Porter was on the _Harriet Lane_, in a position to see what was the effect of the shells, and direct their aim accordingly. "The fight went on for several days, then Farragut, deeming there was small prospect of reducing the forts, prepared to carry out another part of his instructions by running past them. He called a council of the captains in the cabin of the _Hartford_, and it was then and there decided that the attempt should be made. "It was an intensely dark night, the wind blowing fiercely from the north, but Commander Bell with the _Winona_, the _Itasca_, _Kennebec_, _Iroquois_, and the _Pinola_ ran up to the boom. The _Pinola_ ran to the hulk under the guns of Fort Jackson, and an effort was made to destroy it with a petard, but failed. The _Itasca_ was lashed to the next hulk, but a rocket sent up from the fort showed her to the foe, who immediately opened a heavy fire upon her. But half an hour of active work with chisels, saws, and sledges parted the boom of chains and logs, and the hulk to which she was attached swung round and grounded her in the mud in shallow water. But the _Pinola_ rescued her. "Two hours later an immense fire-raft came roaring down the stream, but, like those sent before, it was caught by our men and rendered harmless. They would catch such things with grappling-irons, tow them to the shore, and leave them there to burn out harmlessly. "Day after day the bombardment went on, fire-rafts coming down the river every night, but Fort Jackson still held out, though its citadel had been set on fire by the shells from the mortar boats, and all the commissary stores and the clothing of the men destroyed; also the levee had been broken in scores of places by the exploding shells, so that the waters of the river flooded the parade ground and casemates. "By sunset on the 23d, Farragut was ready for his forward movement, but Porter, with his mortar boats, was to stay and cover the advance with his fire. Farragut, on board his flag-ship, the _Hartford_, was to lead the way with it, the _Brooklyn_, and the _Richmond_. "These vessels formed the first division, and were to keep near the right bank of the river, fighting Fort Jackson, while Captain Theodorus Bailey was to keep close to the western bank with his (the second) division, to fight Fort St. Philip. His vessels were the _Mississippi_, _Pensacola_, _Varuna_, _Oneida_, _Katahdin_, _Kineo_, _Wissahickon_, _Portsmouth_. "Captain Bell still commanded the same vessels which I just mentioned as his, and his appointed duty was to attack the Confederate fleet above the forts, to keep the channel of the river, and push right on, paying no attention to the forts themselves. "In obedience to these orders, the _Itasca_ ran up to the boom, and at eleven o'clock showed a night signal that the channel was clear of obstruction excepting the hulks, which, with care, might be passed safely. "A heavy fog, and the settling of the smoke from the steamers upon the waters, made the night a very dark one. No sound came from the forts, yet active preparations were going on in them for the approaching struggle, and their fleet was stationed near them in readiness to assist in the effort to prevent the Union vessels from ascending the river. "At one o'clock every one on the Union ships was called to action, but the fleet remained stationary until two, and at half past three Farragut's and Bailey's divisions were moving up the river, each on its appointed side, and at the rate of four miles an hour. "Then Porter's mortars, still at their moorings below the forts, opened upon those forts a terrible storm, sending as many as, if not more than, half a dozen shells, with their fiery trails, screaming through the air at the same moment. "But no sound came from the forts until they discovered Captain Bailey's ship, the _Cayuga_, just as she had passed the boom, when they brought their heavy guns to bear upon her, and broke the long silence with their roar. "When she was close under Fort St. Philip she replied with heavy broadsides of grape and canister as she passed on up the river. "The other vessels of Bailey's division followed closely after, each imitating the _Cayuga's_ example in delivering a broadside as she passed the forts, which they did almost unharmed, with the exception of the _Portsmouth_, a sailing vessel, which lost her tow, on firing her broadside, and drifted down the river. "Captain Bell and his division were not quite so fortunate. Three of his vessels passed the forts, but the _Itasca_ received a storm of shot, one of which pierced her boiler, and she drifted helplessly down the river. The _Kennebec_ lost her way among the obstructions and went back to her moorings below; the _Winona_, too, recoiled from the storm. "In the meantime, Farragut was in the fore rigging of the _Hartford_, watching with intense interest, through his night glass, the movements of the vessels under the command of Bailey and Bell, while the vessels he commanded in person were slowly nearing Fort Jackson. He was within a mile and a quarter of it when its heavy guns opened upon him. They were well aimed, and the _Hartford_ was struck several times. "Farragut replied with two guns which he had placed upon his forecastle, while at the same time he pushed on directly for the fort. When within a half mile of it he sheered off and gave them heavy broadsides of grape and canister; so heavy that they were driven from all their barbette guns. But the casemate guns were kept in full play, and the fight became a very severe one. "The _Richmond_ soon joined in it; the _Brooklyn_ got entangled with some of the hulks that bore up the chain, and so lagged behind. She had just succeeded in freeing herself from them, when the Confederate ram _Manassas_ came furiously down upon her, and when within about ten feet, fired a heavy bolt at her from its trap-door, aiming for her smoke stack; but fortunately the shot lodged in some sand-bags that protected her steam-drum. "The next moment the ram butted into the _Brooklyn's_ starboard gangway; but she was so effectually protected by chain armor that the _Manassas_ glanced off and disappeared in the darkness. "All this time a raking fire from the fort had been pouring upon the _Brooklyn_, and just as she escaped from the _Manassas_ a large Confederate steamer attacked her. She pushed slowly on in the darkness, after giving the steamer a broadside that set it on fire and speedily destroyed it, and suddenly found herself abreast of Fort St. Philip. "She was very close to it, and speedily brought all her guns to bear upon it in a tremendous broadside. "In his report Captain Craven said, 'I had the satisfaction of completely silencing that work before I left it, my men in the tops witnessing, in the flashes of the shrapnel, the enemy running like sheep for more comfortable quarters.' "While the _Brooklyn_ was going through all this, Farragut was having what he called 'a rough time of it.' While he was battling with the forts, a huge fire-raft, pushed by the _Manassas_, came suddenly upon him all ablaze, and in trying to avoid it the _Hartford_ got aground, and the incendiary came crashing alongside of her. "In telling of it Farragut said, 'In a moment the ship was one blaze all along the port side, half way up the main and mizzen tops. But thanks to the good organization of the fire department, by Lieutenant Thornton, the flames were extinguished, and at the same time we backed off and got clear of the raft. All this time we were pouring shells into the forts and they into us; now and then a rebel steamer would get under our fire and receive our salutation of a broadside.' The fleet had not fairly passed the forts when the Confederate ram and gun-boats hastened to take part in the battle. "The scene was now both grand and awful. Just think of two hundred and sixty great guns and twenty mortars constantly firing, and shells exploding in and around the forts; it 'shook land and water like an earthquake,' Lossing tells us, 'and the surface of the river was strewn with dead and helpless fishes.' Major Bell, of Butler's staff, wrote of it, 'Combine all that you have ever heard of thunder, and add to it all you have ever seen of lightning, and you have, perhaps, a conception of the scene. And,' continues our historian, 'all this destructive energy, the blazing fire-rafts and floating volcanoes sending forth fire and smoke and bolts of death, the thundering forts, and the ponderous rams, were crowded, in the greatest darkness just before dawn, within the space of a narrow river, "too narrow," said Farragut, "for more than two or three vessels to act to advantage. My greatest fear was that we should fire into each other; and Captain Wainwright and myself were hallooing ourselves hoarse at the men not to fire into our ships."' "The _Cayuga_ met the flotilla of Confederate rams and gun-boats as soon as she passed Fort St. Phillip. For a few minutes there were eighteen Confederate vessels intent upon her destruction." "Was the _Manassas_ one of the eighteen, sir?" queried Walter. "Yes," replied the captain, "and the floating battery _Louisiana_ was another. Captain Mitchell was the name of her commander, and he was also commandant of the remaining sixteen vessels of that rebel fleet. "Captain Bailey could not fight so many at once without some assistance, so used his skill in avoiding the butting of the rams and the efforts to board his vessel. At the same time he was making such good use of his guns that, while saving his own vessels, he compelled three of the Confederate gun-boats to surrender to him before Captain Boggs and Captain Lee, of the _Varuna_ and the _Oneida_ came to his assistance. "The _Cayuga_ had then been struck forty-two times and a good deal damaged in spars and rigging, but, in accordance with Farragut's orders, she moved up the river as leader of the fleet. "It was upon the _Varuna_ that the enemy next poured out the vials of his wrath. In his report of the fight Captain Boggs, her commander, said that immediately after passing the forts he found himself 'amid a nest of rebel steamers.' He rushed into their midst, giving each a broadside as he passed. The first of those steamers seemed to be crowded with troops. One of the _Varuna's_ shots exploded her boiler and she drifted ashore. Next a gun-boat and three other vessels were driven ashore in flames, and presently they blew up, one after another. "Then the _Varuna_ was furiously attacked by the _Governor Moore_, commanded by Beverly Kennon, one who had left the United States service for that of the rebels. His vessel raked along the _Varuna's_ port, killing four men and wounding nine. Captain Boggs sent a three-inch shell into her, abaft her armor, and several shots from the after rifled gun, which partially disabled her, and she dropped out of action. "In the meantime, another ram struck the _Varuna_ under water with its iron prow, giving her a heavy blow in the port gangway. The _Varuna_ answered with a shot, but it glanced harmlessly from the armored prow of the rebel ram, and it, backing off a shorting distance, shot forward again, gave the _Varuna_ another blow in the same place, and crushed in her side. "But the ram had become entangled, and was drawn around to the side of the _Varuna_, and Captain Boggs gave her five eighteen shells abaft her armor from his port guns. In telling of it afterward he said, 'This settled her and drove her ashore in flames.' "But his own vessel was sinking; so he ran her into the bank, let go her anchor, and tied her bow up to the trees, but all the time kept his guns at work crippling the _Moore_. "He did not cease firing till the water was over the gun-tracks, but then turned his attention to getting his wounded and the crew out of the vessel. "Just then, Captain Lee, commander of the _Oneida_, came to his assistance. But Boggs waved him after the _Moore_, which was then in flames and presently surrendered to the _Oneida_. Kennon, her commander, had done a cowardly deed in setting her on fire and fleeing, leaving his wounded to the horrible fate of perishing in the flames. The surrender was, therefore, made by her second officer. "That ended the fight on the Mississippi River; it had been a desperate one, but lasted only an hour and a half, though nearly the whole of the rebel fleet was destroyed. The National loss was thirty killed and not more than one hundred and twenty-five wounded." CHAPTER IV. CAPTAIN RAYMOND paused, seemingly lost in thought. All waited in silence for a moment, then Violet, laying a hand on his arm, for she was seated close at his side, said with a loving smile into his eyes: "My dear, I fear we have been tiring you." "Oh no, not at all!" he replied, coming out of his revery and taking possession of the pretty hand with a quiet air of ownership. "I am sure nobody else is," said Walter; "so please go on, sir, won't you? and tell us all about the taking of the forts and the city." "I will," replied the captain. "By the way, I want to tell you about a powder boy on board of the _Varuna_, Oscar Peck, a lad of only thirteen years, who showed coolness and bravery which would have entitled a man to praise. "Captain Boggs was very much pleased with him, and in his report to Farragut praised him warmly. He said that seeing the lad pass quickly he asked where he was going in such a hurry. 'To get a passing box, sir,' replied the lad; 'the other was smashed by a ball.' When the _Varuna_ went down Oscar disappeared. He had been standing by one of the guns and was thrown into the water by the movement of the vessel. But in a few minutes he was seen swimming toward the wreck. Captain Boggs was standing on a part of the ship that was still above water, when the lad climbed up by his side, gave the usual salute, and said, 'All right, sir, I report myself on board.'" "Ah," cried Walter exultantly, "he was a plucky American boy! I'm proud of him." "Yes," said the captain, "and the more men and boys we have of a similar spirit the better for our dear land. "But to go on with my story. Captain Bailey moved on up the river with his crippled vessel, the _Cayuga_, leaving the _Varuna_ to continue the fight at the forts. "A short distance above Fort St. Philip was the Quarantine Station. Opposite to it was a Confederate battery in charge of several companies of sharp-shooters, commanded by Colonel Szymanski, a Pole. "On perceiving the approach of the _Cayuga_, they tried to flee, but a volley of canister-shot from her guns called a halt, and they were taken prisoners of war. "By that time the battle at the forts was over and the remaining twelve ships presently joined the _Cayuga_. Then the dead were carried ashore and buried." "And where was Butler all this time, sir?" queried Walter. "He had been busy preparing for his part of the work while the naval officers were doing theirs," was the reply. "His men were in the transports at the passes and could hear distinctly the booming of the guns and mortars, but the general was at that time on the _Saxon_, which was following close in the rear of Bailey's division, until the plunging of shot and shell into the water around her warned Butler that he had gone far enough. He then ordered the _Saxon_ to drop a little astern, an order which was by no means disagreeable to her captain and was promptly obeyed, for he had on board eight hundred barrels of gunpowder; a dangerous cargo, indeed, when exposed to the fiery missiles of the enemy." "Wasn't it?" exclaimed Rosie. "Where was Porter just then, sir?" asked Walter. "He and his mortar fleet were still below the forts," replied the captain, "and just as Butler had ordered his vessel away from that dangerous spot, the rebel monitor _Manassas_ came moving down into the midst of his fleet. She had just been terribly pounded by the _Mississippi_ and was a helpless wreck, but that was not perceived at first, and some of the mortars opened fire upon her, but stopped when they saw what was her condition: her hull battered and pierced, her pipes twisted and riddled by shot, smoke pouring from every opening. In a few minutes her only gun went off, flames burst out from stern, trap-door, and bow port, and she went hissing to the bottom of the river. "Butler now hurried to his transports and took them to Sable Island, twelve miles in the rear of Fort St. Philip. From there they went in small boats, through the narrow and shallow bayous, piloted by Lieutenant Weitzel. It was a most fatiguing journey, the men sometimes having to drag their boats through cold, muddy water waist deep. But the brave, patriotic fellows worked on with a will, and by the night of the 27th they were at the Quarantine, ready to begin the assault on Fort St. Philip the next day, when they were landed under cover of the guns of the _Mississippi_ and the _Kineo_. Butler sent a small force to the other side of the river above Fort Jackson, which Porter had been pounding terribly with the shells from his mortars. On the 26th, Porter sent a flag of truce with a demand for the surrender of the fort, saying that Farragut had reached New Orleans and taken possession. "Colonel Higginson, the commander of the fort, replied that he had no official report of that surrender, and that until he should receive such he would not surrender the fort; he could not entertain such a proposition for a moment. "On the same day, General Duncan, commander of the coast defences, but at that time in Fort Jackson, sent out an address to the soldiers, saying, 'The safety of New Orleans and the cause of the Southern Confederacy, our homes, families, and everything dear to man yet depend upon our exertions. We are just as capable of repelling the enemy to-day as we were before the bombardment.' "Thus he urged them to fight on. But they did not all agree with the views he expressed. They could see the blackened fragments of vessels and other property strewing the waters of the river as it flowed swiftly by, and the sight convinced them of the truth of the report which had reached them of the fall of New Orleans. They had heard, too, of the arrival of Butler's troops in the rear of Fort St. Philip. "Doubtless they talked it all over among themselves that night, as a large number of them mutinied, spiked the guns bearing up the river, and the next day went out and surrendered themselves to Butler's pickets on that side of the river, saying they had been impressed, and would not fight the government any longer. Their loss made the surrender of the fort a necessity, and Colonel Higginson accepted the generous terms offered him by Porter. He and Duncan went on board the _Harriet Lane_ and the terms of surrender were reduced to writing. "While that was going on in her cabin, a dastardly deed was done by the Confederate officer Mitchell, who, as I have said, commanded the battery called the _Louisiana_. It lay above the forts. He had it towed out into the strong current, set on fire and abandoned, leaving the guns all shotted, expecting she would float down and explode among Porter's mortar fleet; but a good Providence caused the explosion to come before she reached the fleet. It took place when she was abreast of Fort St. Philip, and a soldier, one of its garrison, was killed by a flying fragment. Then she went to the bottom, and the rest of the Confederate steamers surrendered. "Porter and his mortar fleet were still below the forts, but Farragut had now thirteen of his vessels safely above them and was ready to move upon New Orleans. "Half an hour after he reached the Quarantine, he sent Captain Boggs to Butler with despatches. Boggs went in a small boat through shallow bayous in the rear of Fort St. Philip, and, as I have already said, the next day Butler and his troops arrived at the Quarantine in readiness to assault the forts. "Fort St. Philip was as perfect when taken by the Union forces as before the fight, and Fort Jackson was injured only in its interior works. "The entire loss of the Nationals in all this fighting was 40 killed and 177 wounded. No reliable report was given of the Confederate losses in killed and wounded. The number of prisoners amounted to nearly one thousand. "General Lovell, who had command of the Confederate troops at New Orleans, had gone down the river in his steamer _Doubloon_, and arrived just as the National fleet was passing the forts. He was near being captured in the terrible fight that followed, but escaped to the shore and hurried back to New Orleans as fast as courier horses could carry him. "A rumor of the fight and its results had already reached the city, and when he confirmed it a scene of wild excitement ensued; soldiers hurried to and fro, women were in the street bareheaded, brandishing pistols, and screaming, 'Burn the city! Never mind us! Burn the city!' "Merchants fled from their stores, and military officers impressed vehicles to carry cotton to the levees to be burned. Four millions of dollars in specie was sent out of the city by railway; foreigners crowded to the consulates to deposit money and other valuables for safety, and Twiggs, the traitor, fled, leaving to the care of a young woman the two swords that had been awarded him for his services in Mexico. "Lovell believed that he had not a sufficient number of troops to defend the city, and convinced the city authorities that such was the fact. Then he proceeded to disband the conscripts and to send munitions of war, stores of provisions, and other valuable property to the country by railroad and steamboats. Some of the white troops went to Camp Moore, seventy-eight miles distant, by the railroad, but the negro soldiers refused to go. "The next morning Farragut came on up the river, meeting on the way blazing ships filled with cotton floating down the stream. Then presently he discovered the Chalmette batteries on both sides of the river only a few miles below the city. The river was so full that the waters gave him complete command of those confederate works, and, causing his vessels to move in two lines, he set himself to the task of disabling them. "Captain Bailey in the _Cayuga_ was pressing gallantly forward and did not notice the signal to the vessels to move in close order. He was so far ahead of the others that the fire of the enemy was for a time concentrated upon his vessel; for twenty minutes she sustained a heavy cross fire alone. But Farragut hastened forward with the _Hartford_, and, as he passed the _Cayuga_, he gave the batteries heavy broadsides of grape, shell and shrapnel; so heavy were they that the first discharge drove the Confederates from their guns. The other vessels of the fleet followed the _Hartford's_ example, and in twenty minutes the batteries were silenced and the men running for their lives. "Oh, what a fearful scene our vessels passed through! The surface of the river was strewn with blazing cotton bales, burning steamers and fire-rafts, all together sending up clouds of dense black smoke. But they were nearing the city, these National vessels, and the news that such was the case had caused another great panic, and, by order of the Governor of Louisiana and General Lovell, the destruction of property went on more rapidly than before. Great quantities of cotton, sugar, and other staple commodities of that region of country, were set on fire, so that for a distance of five miles there seemed to be a continuous sheet of flame accompanied by dense clouds of smoke; for the people, foolishly believed that the Government, like themselves, regarded cotton as king, and that it was one of the chief objects for which the National troops were sent there. So they brought it in huge loads to the levee, piled it up there, and burnt not less than fifteen hundred bales, worth about $1,500,000. For the same reason they burned more than a dozen large ships, some of which were loaded with cotton, as well as many magnificent steamboats, unfinished gun-boats, and other vessels, sending them down the river wrapped in flames; hoping that in addition to destroying the property the Federals were after, they might succeed in setting fire to and destroying their ships and boats. "But the vessels of Farragut's squadron all escaped that danger, and in the afternoon, during a fierce thunderstorm, they anchored before the city. "Captain Bailey was sent ashore with a flag and a summons from Farragut for the surrender of the city; also a demand that the Confederate flag should be taken down from the public buildings and replaced by the stars and stripes. "Escorted by sensible citizens he made his way to the City Hall, through a cursing and hissing crowd. Lovell, who was still there, positively refused to surrender, but seeing that he was powerless to defend the city he said so and, advising the mayor not to surrender or allow the flags to be taken down, he withdrew with his troops. "The mayor was foolish enough to follow that very foolish advice, and sent to Farragut a silly letter saying that though he and his people could not prevent the occupation of their city by the United States, they would not transfer their allegiance to that government, which they had already deliberately repudiated. "While this was going on troops from the _Pensacola_ had landed and hoisted the United States flag over the Government Mint; but scarcely had they retired from the spot when the flag was torn down by some young men and dragged through the streets in derision." "Our flag! the glorious stripes and stars!" exclaimed Lulu, her eyes flashing; "I hope they didn't escape punishment for such an outrage as that?" "One of them, a gambler, William B. Mumford by name, afterward paid the penalty for that and other crimes, on the scaffold," replied her father. "A few hours after the pulling down of that flag, General Butler arrived and joined Farragut on the _Hartford_. On the 29th, Butler reported to the Secretary of War, and, referring to the treatment of the flag, said, 'This outrage will be punished in such a manner as in my judgment will caution both the perpetrators and the abettors of the act, so that they shall fear the stripes, if they do not reverence the stars, of our banner.' "The secessionists expressed much exultation over the treatment of the flag and admiration of the rebellious deed. "Farragut was very patient with the rebels, particularly the silly mayor; in reply to whose abusive letter he spoke of the insults and indignities to the flag and to his officers, adding, 'All of which go to show that the fire of this fleet may be drawn upon the city at any moment, and in such an event the levee would, in all probability, be cut by the shells and an amount of distress ensue to the innocent population which I have heretofore endeavored to assure you that I desire by all means to avoid. The election therefore is with you; but it becomes me to notify you to remove the women and children, from the city within forty-eight hours, if I have rightly understood your determination.' "To this the foolish mayor sent a most absurd reply, saying that Farragut wanted to humble and disgrace the people, and talking nonsense about 'murdering women and children.' It was a decidedly insolent epistle; but the commander of a French ship of war, that had just come in, was still more impertinent. He wrote to Farragut that his government had sent him to protect the 30,000 of its subjects in New Orleans. And that he should demand sixty days, instead of forty-eight hours as the time to be given for the evacuation of the city, his letter closed with a threat: 'If it is your resolution to bombard the city, do it; but I wish to state that you will have to account for the barbarous act to the power which I represent.' "Farragut was much perplexed, and troubled with doubts as to what to do, but was soon greatly relieved by the news of the surrender of the forts below, making it almost certain that Butler would soon be there to relieve him of the care of the city, and with that in prospect he was able to quietly await the arrival of the land forces. "The people of New Orleans believed it impossible that those forts could be taken, and deemed it safe to indulge in their defiant attitude toward the Federal forces already at their doors; but this unwelcome news convinced them of the folly and danger of further resistance and defiance of the General Government, and a sort of apology was made to Farragut for the pulling down of the flag from the Mint; it was said to have been the unauthorized act of the men who performed it. "The next day Captain Bell landed with a hundred marines, hauled down the emblems of rebellion on the Mint and Custom House, flung to the breeze the National flag in their places, then locking the Custom House door, carried the key to his vessel. "There was a military organization in New Orleans, called the European Brigade, composed of British, French, and Spanish aliens, whose ostensible purpose was to aid the authorities in protecting the citizens from unruly members; but now finding their occupation almost at an end, its English members voted at their armory that, as they would have no further use for their weapons and accoutrements, they should be sent to Beauregard's army at Corinth, as 'a slight token of their affection for the Confederate States.'" "I should say that was but a poor sort of neutrality," remarked Rosie. "So I think," responded the captain; then went on with his story. "Only a few hours after Mumford and his mates had pulled down the flag, Butler arrived, joined Farragut on the _Hartford_, and presently made to the Secretary of War the report of which I have already spoken. "He hurried back to his troops and made arrangements for their immediate advance up the river. On the first of May he appeared before New Orleans with his transports bearing two thousand men; the general with his wife, his staff, and one thousand four hundred troops, was on the _Mississippi_, the vessel in which he had sailed from Hampton Roads sixty-five days before. "At four o'clock on the afternoon of that day the troops began to land: first, a company of the Thirty-first Massachusetts, presently followed by the rest of the regiment, the Fourth Wisconsin, and Everett's battery of heavy field guns. "They formed in procession, acting as an escort to General Butler and General Williams and his staff, and marched through several streets to the Custom House, their band playing the 'Star-Spangled Banner.' They had been given strict directions not to resent any insults that might be offered by the vast crowd gathered in the streets, unless ordered so to do; if a shot should be fired from any house, they were to halt, arrest the inmates, and destroy the building. "Their patience was greatly tried during that short march, the crowd constantly growing greater and more boisterous and pouring out upon them volleys of abusive epithets, both vulgar and profane, applying them to the general as well as his troops." "I think anybody but an American would have ordered his soldiers to fire upon them for that," remarked Walter. "Did they do no fighting at all at the time, sir?" "No," replied the captain; "they were obedient to the orders of their superior officers and brave enough to endure the undeserved abuse in silence. "At length their destination was reached, Captain Everett posted his cannon around the Custom House, quarters there were given to the Massachusetts regiment, and the city was comparatively quiet through the night. "General Butler passed the night on board the _Mississippi_, and at an early hour in the evening sent out a proclamation to the citizens of New Orleans. It was first sent to the office of the _True Delta_ to be printed; but the proprietor flatly refused to use his types in such an act of submission to Federal rule." "I hope he wasn't allowed to do as he pleased about it?" growled Walter. "I think hardly," returned the captain with an amused smile. "Some two hours later a file of soldiers were in his office, half a dozen of whom were printers, and in a very short time the proclamation was sent out in printed form. "Meanwhile the Federal officers had taken possession of their city quarters. General Butler was at the St. Charles Hotel, and invited the city authorities to a conference with him there. That very foolish mayor, Monroe, told the messenger sent to him that his place of business was at the City Hall. He was answered by a suggestion that such a reply was not likely to prove satisfying to the commanding general, and then prudently decided to go and wait on General Butler at the St. Charles. "Some of his friends accompanied him; among them Pierre Soulé, who had been a representative to Congress before the war. "General Butler and these callers had a talk together in regard to the proper relations existing between the General Government and the city of New Orleans, Butler maintaining that the authority of the Government of the United States was and ought to be supreme; it had a right to demand the allegiance of the people, and that no other authority could be allowed to conflict with it in ruling the city. "The mayor, Soulé, and his friends, on the contrary, insisted that Louisiana was an independent sovereignty and that to her alone the people owed their allegiance. They asserted that the National troops were invaders, the people doing right in treating them with contempt and abhorrence, and that they would be fully justified in driving them away if it were in their power to do so. "While this hot discussion was going on, a messenger came from General Williams, who had command of the regiment protecting headquarters, saying that he feared he could not control the mob which had collected in the street. "Butler calmly replied: 'Give my compliments to General Williams, and tell him if he finds he cannot control the mob, to open upon them with artillery.' "At that the mayor and his friends sprang to their feet, exclaiming excitedly, 'Don't do that, General.' Butler asked, 'Why not?' and went on, 'The mob must be controlled. We can't have a disturbance in the street.' "At that the mayor stepped out upon the balcony and spoke to the mob, telling them of the general's orders and advising them to disperse. "At that interview General Butler read to his callers the proclamation he was about to issue. Soulé told him it would give great offence, and that the people would never submit to its demands; for they were not conquered and could not be expected to act as a conquered people would. 'Withdraw your troops and leave the city government to manage its own affairs,' he said. 'If the troops remain there will certainly be trouble.'" "And Butler, of course, did as he was told," laughed Rosie. "Not exactly," returned the captain. "'I did not expect to hear from Mr. Soulé a threat on this occasion,' he said. 'I have long been accustomed to hear threats from Southern gentlemen in political conventions, but let me assure the gentlemen present that the time for tactics of that nature has passed, never to return. New Orleans _is_ a conquered city. If not, why are we here? How did we get here? Have you opened your arms and bid us welcome? Are we here by your consent? Would you, or would you not, expel us if you could? New Orleans has been conquered by the forces of the United States, and by the laws of all nations lies subject to the will of the conquerors.'" "Some of the New Orleans people, especially the women, behaved very badly, did they not, captain?" asked Evelyn. "Yes; though no man was injured by the troops, who behaved in a perfectly orderly manner; no woman was treated with the slightest disrespect, though the women were very offensive in their manifestations of contempt of the officers, not omitting even the commanding officer himself. They would leave street cars and church pews when a Federal officer entered them; the sidewalks also, going round the gentlemen, turning up their noses and sometimes uttering abusive words; they wore secession colors in their bonnets, sang rebel songs, and turned their backs on passing soldiers, when out on their balconies, and played airs that were used with rebel words; indeed they tried to show in every possible way their contempt and aversion for the Union officers and soldiers. At length a woman of the 'dominant class,' meeting two Union officers on the street, spit in their faces. Then General Butler decided to at once put a stop to such proceedings, and on the 5th of May he issued order No. 28, which had the desired effect." "What was it, papa? What did he order the people, or the soldiers, to do?" queried Lulu. "The amount of the order was that every woman who should behave as that one had, insult or show contempt for any officer or soldier of the United States, should be regarded and held liable to be treated as not of good moral character. The mayor made it the subject of another impudent and absurd letter to General Butler, for which he was arrested, but he was soon released again upon making a humble apology." "Did they let him be mayor again, papa?" asked Grace. "No; instead General G. F. Sheply of Maine, was appointed Military Governor of New Orleans, and made an excellent one, having the city made cleaner, and in consequence more wholesome, than it had been for years, if ever before. Soon after that William B. Mumford was arrested, tried by a military court for treason in having torn down the flag, found guilty, and hanged." CHAPTER V. THERE was a moment of silence broken by Lulu with an eager exclamation. "Oh, papa, don't you remember that when we were at Saratoga last summer you promised that sometime you would tell us about the fighting in the Revolution near and at Fort Schuyler? and won't you please do so now?" "I will if the others wish to hear it," he replied, and a general eager assent being given he at once began the story. "Fort Schuyler," he said, "at first called Fort Stanwix, in honor of the general of that name, who directed the work of its erection, stood at the head of boat navigation on the Mohawk, where the village of Rome now is. It cost the British and Colonial Government two hundred and sixty-six thousand four hundred dollars and was a strong post of resistance to attack from the French in Canada, with whom, as you all know, I think, the colonists were often at war, on their own account or that of the mother country, and a powerful protection to the Indian trade. It commanded the portage between Lake Ontario and the Mohawk valley, the theatre of many stirring events during the War of the Revolution. Indians and Tories kept in terror the people who lived there and were loyal to the cause of their country. There were daylight struggles and stealthy midnight attacks in such numbers that Tryon County came to be spoken of as 'the dark and bloody ground.' "Congress perceiving the importance of defending the northern and western frontiers of New York from incursions by the British and Indians, sent General Schuyler to strengthen old Fort Stanwix, which had been allowed to fall into a state of decay so that it was little more than a ruin, and, if he found it necessary, to erect other fortifications. "General Phillip Schuyler was a gentleman of fortune, of military skill, experience, sound judgment, and lofty patriotism. Lossing tells us that, 'for causes quite inexplicable, he was superseded in effect by Gates in March 1777, but reinstated in May, and that no appointment could have been more acceptable to the people of northern New York, who were at that time in a state of great excitement and alarm.' "In recent campaigns against the French and Indians on Lakes Champlain and George, General Schuyler had done great service to the colony and the people along the northern frontier. That of itself was sufficient cause for attachment to him, besides his many virtues, which had endeared him to all who knew him. And in fighting the British he would be defending his own home and large landed estate. "In March, 1777, Burgoyne arrived at Quebec, bearing the commission of a lieutenant-general, and by the first of June a force of seven thousand men was collected for him and mustered at St. John's at the foot of Lake Champlain. Also the British Lieutenant-colonel St. Leger, was sent with a force of seven hundred rangers up the St. Lawrence and Lake Ontario to Oswego. He was to gather the Indians, make friends with them, and get them to act as his allies; then to sweep the valley of the Mohawk, with the help of Johnson and his Tories, take Fort Schuyler, and afterward join Burgoyne. "Colonel Peter Gansevoort was at that time in command of Fort Schuyler. The people of Tryon County, hearing of St. Leger's movement, and that a descent was to be made upon them by the way of Oswego, were greatly alarmed. In June a man from Canada was arrested as a spy and from him the Americans learned that a detachment of British, Canadians, and Indians was coming against them on their way to join Burgoyne at Albany." "But Burgoyne never got there--to Albany--until he went as a prisoner; did he, sir?" asked Walter. "No, my boy, he was defeated and made prisoner while on his way to the city. The battle of Saratoga was a disastrous one to the invaders of our land. "The intelligence of which I just spoke as given by the spy was afterward confirmed by Thomas Spencer, a friendly Oneida half breed sachem, who was sent to Canada as a secret emissary and there became acquainted with the plans of Burgoyne. "For a time the loyal people, the Whigs, who were for their native land and not for the English king who had been showing himself a tyrant and oppressor, were almost paralyzed with alarm. Fort Schuyler was still unfinished and the garrison feeble. But Colonel Gansevoort was hopeful, vigilant, and active. He wrote urgently to General Schuyler for aid, and the general made a like appeal to the Provincial Congress of New York, and the General Congress. But it was too late for them to send him help before the attack would be made. "On the 2d of August Brant and Lieutenant Bird began the investment of the fort, and on that very day Gansevoort and his little garrison of seven hundred and fifty men received a re-enforcement of two hundred men under Lieutenant-colonel Melon, and two bateaux loaded with provisions and military stores; a most welcome addition to the scant supplies in the fort. "The next day Colonel St. Leger arrived with the rest of his troops. The siege was begun on the 4th. The Indians, hiding in the bushes, wounded some of our men who were at work on the parapets, and a few bombs were thrown into the fort. "The next day it was the same; the Indians spread themselves about through the woods encircling the fort, and all through the night tried to intimidate the Americans by their hideous yells. "On that very day General Herkimer was coming to its aid with more than eight hundred men of the militia of Tryon County. He was near Oriskany, a little village eight miles eastward from the fort; from there he sent a messenger to tell Colonel Gansevoort that he was approaching, and asking to be informed of the man's arrival by the firing of three guns in quick succession, knowing that they could be heard at Oriskany. But unfortunately his messenger did not reach the fort until the next day, and while Herkimer, who though brave was cautious, decided to halt till he should hear the signal or receive re-enforcements, some of his officers and men were impatient to push on. "Herkimer would not consent, and two of his colonels, Paris and Cox, called him a coward and a Tory. Herkimer replied calmly, 'I am placed over you as a father and guardian and shall not lead you into difficulties from which I may not be able to extricate you.' "But they continued their taunts and demands till he was stung by them into giving the command, 'March on!' "St. Leger knew of the advance of Herkimer and his troops and sent a division of Johnston's Greens, under Major Watts, Brant with a strong body of Indians, and Colonel Butler with his rangers, to intercept him and prevent his making an attack upon the entrenchments which he had made about Fort Schuyler. "Gansevoort noticed the silence in the enemy's camp, and also the movement of his troops down toward the river along the margin of the wood. When the courier came with the message from Herkimer he understood the meaning of it all, and immediately fired the signal guns. "Herkimer had said in his message that he intended, on hearing the signals, to cut his way through the camp of the enemy to the fort, and asked that a sortie from it should be made at the same time. "As quickly as possible Gansevoort had it made. A detachment of two hundred men, of his own and Wesson's regiments, with an iron three-pounder, were detailed for the duty; then fifty more were added for the protection of the cannon and to assist in whatever way they could. Colonel Marinus Willett was given the command. "It rained heavily while the necessary preparations were going on in the fort, but the moment it ceased Willett and his men hastened out and attacked the enemy furiously. "The advanced guard were driven in, and so sudden and impetuous was the charge that Sir John Johnson had no time to put on his coat. He tried to bring his troops into order, but they were so panic stricken that they fled, and he with them. They crossed the river to St. Leger's camp and the Indians concealed themselves in the deep forest. "The Americans took much plunder; all Sir John's baggage and his papers, as well as those of other officers, giving valuable information to the garrison of Fort Schuyler; also the British colors, all of which--there were five--the Americans presently raised upon their flagstaff, beneath their own rude flag--fashioned, as I have already told some of you, out of strips of red and white obtained by tearing up men's shirts for the one, and joining bits of scarlet cloth for the other; while a blue cloak belonging to Captain Abraham Swartwout, of Dutchess County, then in the fort, was used to form the ground for the white stars, and the staff upon which all these hung was in full view of the enemy. Then the whole garrison mounted the parapets and made the forest ring with three loud cheers. "While all this was going on in and around the fort, General Herkimer and his men were coming toward it through the woods. It was a dark, sultry morning. The troops were chiefly militia regiments and marched in an irregular, careless way, neglecting proper precautions. "Brant and his Tories took advantage of this carelessness, hid themselves in a ravine which crossed Herkimer's path, and had a thick growth of underwood along its margin, which made it easy for them to conceal themselves, and when all except the rear-guard of the unsuspecting Americans had entered the ravine, where the ground was marshy and crossed by a causeway of earth and logs, Brant gave a signal, immediately followed by a warwhoop, and the savages fell upon our poor men with spear, hatchet, and rifle-ball; as Lossing says, 'like hail from the clouds that hovered over them.' "The rear-guard fled and left the others to their fate, yet perhaps suffered more from the pursuing Indians than they would if they had stood their ground, helping their fellows. The attack had been so sudden that there was great confusion in the ranks; but they presently recovered and fought like veterans; fought bravely for their lives, and for their country." "And were many of them killed, sir?" asked Walter. "Yes," replied the captain sighing; "the slaughter was dreadful, and the good general was soon among the wounded. A musket ball passed through his horse, killing it and sadly wounding him, shattering his leg just below the knee. He at once ordered the saddle taken from his horse and placed against a large beech tree near by, and there he sat during the rest of the fight, calmly giving his orders while the enemy's bullets whistled around him like sleet, killing and wounding his men on every side." "He was no coward after all," exclaimed Walter, his eyes shining. "But did any of our men escape being killed, sir?" "After a little they formed themselves into circles," continued the captain, "so meeting the enemy at all points, and their fire became so destructive that the Tories and the Johnson Greens charged with the bayonet, and the patriots being equally prompt to defend themselves, it became a terrible hand to hand fight. "It was at length stopped by the shower that had delayed the sortie from the fort; both parties seeking shelter under the trees. Then, as soon as the shower was over, Colonel Willett made his sally from the fort, attacking Johnson's camp, and the battle at Oriskany was renewed. "It is said to have been the bloodiest of the war in proportion to the numbers engaged. It is stated that about one-third of the militia fell on the battle ground, and as many more were mortally wounded or carried into captivity. About fifty wounded were carried from the field on litters, General Herkimer among them. He was taken to his own home, where he died ten days afterward." "But who gained the victory, papa?" asked Lulu. "The Americans, the others having fled; but they were unable to accomplish the object of the expedition--the relief of Fort Schuyler. And surrounded as they were by the enemy, the men in the fort could gain no intelligence as to the result of the fight at Oriskany, and St. Leger took advantage of their ignorance to falsely represent the British to have been the victors to the total defeat of the Americans, and announce a victorious advance by Burgoyne. "Two American officers, Colonel Billenger and Major Frey, who had been taken prisoners, were forced to write a letter to Colonel Gansevoort, containing many misrepresentations and advising him to surrender. This Colonel Butler delivered to Gansevoort and verbally demanded his surrender. "Gansevoort refused, saying he would not answer such a summons verbally made unless by St. Leger himself. "The next morning Butler and two other officers drew near the fort carrying a white flag, and asked to be admitted as bearers of a message to the commander of the fort. "The request was granted, but they were first blindfolded, then conducted to the dining room of the fort, where they were received by Gansevoort, the windows of the room being closed and candles lighted." "What was that for, papa?" asked Grace. "To prevent them from seeing what was the condition of things within the fort," replied her father. "And was Gansevoort alone with them, papa?" "No; he had with him Colonels Willett and Mellen. Butler and his companions were politely received, and one of them, Major Ancram by name, made a little speech, telling of the humanity of St. Leger's feelings, and his desire to prevent bloodshed; that he found it difficult to keep the Indians in check, and that the only salvation of the garrison was an immediate surrender of the fort and all its stores. Officers and soldiers would be allowed to keep their baggage and other private property, and their personal safety would be guaranteed. He added that he hoped these honorable terms would be immediately accepted, for if not it would not be in St. Leger's power to offer them again." "So the Americans of course were afraid to reject them?" sniffed Walter. "Hardly," returned the captain with a smile. "But that was not all Ancram said with a view to inducing them to do so. He went on to say that the Indians were eager to march down the country, laying it waste and killing the inhabitants; that Herkimer's relief corps had been totally destroyed, Burgoyne had possession of Albany, and there was no longer any hope for this garrison." "What a liar he was, that Ancram!" exclaimed Walter. "Why, Burgoyne had not even got as far as Saratoga then." "No," responded the captain, "and the bright and plucky officers of Fort Schuyler, to whom he was speaking, were not so easily hood-winked; they saw through his designs, and were not to be deceived by the falsehoods and misrepresentations of his address. "It was Colonel Willett who, with the approval of Gansevoort, made answer, speaking, as Lossing says, with 'emphasis,' and looking Ancram full in the face. "'Do I understand you, sir? I think you say that you came from a British colonel, who is commander of the army that invests this fort; and, by your uniform, you appear to be an officer in the British service. You have made a long speech on the occasion of your visit, which, stripped of all its superfluities, amounts to this: that you come from a British colonel to the commandant of this garrison, to tell him that, if he does not deliver up the garrison into the hands of your colonel, he will send his Indians to murder our women and children. You will please to reflect, sir, that their blood will be upon your heads, not upon ours. We are doing our duty; this garrison is committed to our care, and we will take care of it. After you get out of it, you may turn round and look at its outside, but never expect to come in again unless you come a prisoner. I consider the message you have brought a degrading one for a British officer to send, and by no means reputable for a British officer to carry. For my own part, I declare, before I would consent to deliver this garrison to such a murdering set as your army, by your own account, consists of, I would suffer my body to be filled with splinters and set on fire, as you know has at times been practiced by such hordes of women and children killers as belong to your army.'" "Good!" said Walter; "and the other two American officers, I suppose, agreed with him." "Yes," Captain Raymond replied, "and they all felt satisfied that they would not be so urgently pressed to surrender at once, and on conditions so favorable, if their prospects were as dark as their besiegers would have them believe." CHAPTER VI. "ST. LEGER made another effort to induce them to do so," continued Captain Raymond. "On the 9th he sent a written demand offering about the same terms as before. "Gansevoort replied in writing: 'Sir, your letter of this date I have received, in answer to which I say, that it is my determined resolution, with the force under my command, to defend this fort to the last extremity, in behalf of the United States, who have placed me here to defend it against all their enemies.'" "Did the British give it up then, papa?" asked Grace. "No; they began digging and making preparations to run a mine under the strongest bastion of the fort, while at the same time they sent out an address to the people of Tryon County, signed by Clause, Johnson, and Butler, urging them to submit to British rule, asserting that they themselves were desirous to have peace, and threatening that in case of refusal all the horrors of Indian cruelty would be visited upon them. Also they called upon the principal men of the valley to come up to Fort Schuyler and compel its garrison to surrender, as they would be forced to do in the end." "Did the men in the fort give up then, papa?" queried Grace. "No, no indeed, little daughter!" he replied. "They were brave men, and staunch patriots, and had no intention to surrender so long as they could possibly hold out; but fearing ammunition might give out, their supply of provisions too, they resolved to send word to General Schuyler, who was then at Stillwater, asking for aid from him in their sore extremity. "Of course it would be a hazardous attempt, but Colonel Willett offered to be the messenger, and one stormy night he and Lieutenant Stockwell left the fort at ten o'clock by the sally-port, each armed with a spear, and crept along the morass on hands and knees, to the river, which they crossed upon a log. Their way lay through a tangled wood and they soon lost it. The bark of a dog presently warned them that they were near an Indian camp, and fearing to either advance or retreat they stood still there for several hours. "But at length the dawn of day showed them where they were, so that they were able to find the right road and pursue their way. They took a zigzag course, now on land, now through the bed of a stream, to foil any attempt on the part of some possible pursuer to gain upon them by the scent of their footsteps. "They arrived safely at the German Flats, mounted fleet horses, and sped down the valley to the quarters of General Schuyler. On arriving they learned that he had already heard of the defeat of Herkimer, and was preparing to send succor to the besieged in the fort. "Meanwhile St. Leger was pressing his siege, and the garrison, hearing nothing of the successful journey of their messengers, or of aid coming to them from any quarter, many of them began to grow despondent and to hint to their commander that it might be best to surrender, as their supply of both provisions and ammunition was getting low. "But Gansevoort was too brave and hopeful to think of so doing. He told the despondent ones that in case help did not arrive before their supplies were exhausted, they would sally forth in the night and cut their way through the enemy's camp. "But relief came in an unexpected manner, that always reminds me of that siege of Samaria by the host of the Syrians, in the days of Elisha the prophet of Israel, and the way the Lord took to deliver them, causing 'the Syrians to hear a noise of chariots and a noise of horses, even the noise of a great host; and they said one to another, Lo, the King of Israel hath hired against us the Kings of the Hittites and the Kings of the Egyptians to come upon us. Wherefore they arose and fled in the twilight, and left their tents and their horses, and there asses, even the camp as it was, and fled for their lives.' For suddenly and mysteriously the British, Indians, and Tories besieging Fort Schuyler did the same--fled, leaving tents, artillery, and camp equipage behind them." "Why, papa, how very strange!" exclaimed Lulu, "were they really frightened in the same way?" "Not exactly the same but somewhat like it," replied her father. "General Schuyler, then at the mouth of the Mohawk, had made an appeal to his men for volunteers to go to the relief of Gansevoort and his men, now besieged by the enemy in Fort Schuyler, and Arnold and his troops, most of them Massachusetts men, responded with alacrity and, joined by the First New York regiment, they marched at once. "Arnold's force was much smaller than that of St. Leger's and he resorted to stratagem as the only means of securing his end. A half idiot, a nephew of General Herkimer, named Hon-Yost Schuyler, a coarse, ignorant fellow, had been taken prisoner along with that Walter Butler who had been arrested while carrying to the people of Tryon County the call for them to force the defenders of Fort Schuyler to surrender, tried and condemned as a spy. "The same thing had befallen Hon-Yost, but his mother plead for him, and though at first Arnold was inexorable, he at length agreed to release the fellow on condition that he would go to Fort Schuyler and alarm St. Leger with the story that the Americans were coming against him in force to compel the raising of the siege. "Hon-Yost seemed not at all unwilling, readily gave the required promise, and his mother offered to remain as a hostage for his faithful performance of the duty; but Arnold chose instead Nicholas, the brother of Hon-Yost, as his security. "Hon-Yost managed the business with great adroitness. Before leaving he had seven bullets shot through his coat, which he showed to the British and Indians on arriving at their encampment as proof of 'a terrible engagement with the enemy.' He was acquainted with many of the Indians, and when he came rushing into the camp almost out of breath with haste and fright, apparently, telling this story, with the added information that the Americans were coming and he had barely escaped with his life, his hearers were very much alarmed. "They asked what were the numbers of the Americans, and in reply he shook his head mysteriously, pointing as he did so to the leaves on the trees, as if he would say that they were numberless. "The Indians, who had been uneasy and moody ever since the battle of Oriskany, and were at the moment of Hon-Yost's arrival holding a pow-wow to plead with the 'Great Spirit' to guide and direct them, at once resolved to flee, and told St. Leger of their decision. "He sent for Hon-Yost, questioned him, and was told that Arnold would be there in twenty-four hours with two thousand men. "Hon-Yost had come in to the camp alone, he and the Oneida chief having laid their plans before hand, the chief to arrive a little later than the other, so that they would not appear to be in collusion, and just as Hon-Yost finished his story to St. Leger, the chief and two or three straggling Indians of his tribe, who had joined him on his way, came in with the same story of the near approach of a large body of Americans. One told St. Leger that Arnold had three thousand men with him; another that the army of Burgoyne was cut to pieces. They pretended that a bird had brought them news that the valley below was swarming with warriors. "The savages were now thoroughly alarmed, and all the bribes and promises of St. Leger could not induce them to remain any longer; they suspected foul play and would not touch the strong drink he offered, and when, finding that they would go, he asked them to take the rear in retreating, they indignantly refused, saying, 'You mean to sacrifice us. When you marched down you said there would be no fighting for Indians; we might go down and smoke our pipes; numbers of our warriors have been killed, and you mean to sacrifice us also.' "The council broke up, the Indians fled, the panic was communicated to the rest of the army, and they fled in terror to their boats on Oneida Lake, the Indians making merry over their flight, hurrying on after them with the warning cry: 'They are coming, they are coming!' So alarmed were the Tories and British troops that they threw away their knapsacks and their arms as they ran. Also the Indians killed or robbed many of them and took their boats, so that St. Leger said, 'they became more formidable than the enemy we had to expect.'" "And did the Americans chase them that time, sir?" asked Walter. "Yes; Gansevoort at once sent word to Arnold that the British were retreating, and Arnold sent nine hundred men in pursuit. The next day he himself reached the fort; but he and his men presently marched back to the main army, then at Stillwater, leaving Colonel Willett in command of Fort Schuyler. "So ended the siege of which Lossing says that 'in its progress were shown the courage, skill, and endurance of the Americans everywhere so remarkable in the revolution.'" "Yes, sir," said Walter; "but will you please tell what became of Hon-Yost?" "Yes; he went with the British as far as Wood Creek, then managed to desert and at once carried the news of Arnold's approach to Fort Schuyler. He went back to Fort Dayton, afterward fled with his family and fourteen of his Tory friends, and joined Sir John Johnson. When the war was over he returned to the valley, where he died in 1818." CHAPTER VII. "NOW, papa, if you're not too tired won't you please tell us about the writing of the 'Star-Spangled Banner'?" pleaded Lulu, with a smiling, coaxing look up into her father's face. "I am not too tired, and if all wish to hear it, will willingly tell the story to the best of my ability," he replied, taking in his and softly patting the hand she had laid on his knee. "I'm sure we will all be glad to hear it, sir," said Walter. "It happened in the War of 1812, didn't it?" "Yes. The British had taken Washington, where they had behaved more like vandals than civilized men, burning and destroying both public buildings and private property--the Capitol, the President's house, the Arsenal, the library of Congress, and barracks for nearly three thousand troops; besides private property--a large ropewalk, some houses on Capitol Hill, and a tavern; all of which they burned. The light of the fire was seen at Baltimore, and the news of the capture of Washington caused intense excitement there; particularly because it was known that the British were so much exasperated at the Baltimoreans on account of its being the place whence had been sent out many swift clipper-built vessels and expert seamen who had struck heavy blows at British commerce on the high seas. "Baltimore is on the Patapsco River, ten miles from Chesapeake Bay. The narrow strait connecting harbor and bay is defended by Fort McHenry, which stood there at that time. It was expected that Baltimore would be the next point of attack by the enemy, and there was, of course, great excitement. "General Samuel Smith, who had been a revolutionary officer, at once exerted himself to prepare both Baltimore and Annapolis for successful defence. He was a fine officer. You all perhaps remember him as commander at Fort Mifflin when attacked by the British and Hessians in the Revolutionary War. He had been active in this war also, ever since the appearance of a British squadron in the Chesapeake, in the spring of the previous year, 1813." "And this was in the fall of 1814, was it not, captain?" queried Evelyn. "Yes, early in September. In the spring of 1813 it was rumored that the British were coming to attack the city, and several persons were arrested as traitors and spies. Also five thousand men were quickly in arms ready to defend the city, and companies of militia came pouring in from the country. All this within a few hours. "Then General Striker's brigade and other military bodies, to the number of five thousand and with forty pieces of artillery, were reviewed. The marine artillery of Baltimore was one hundred and sixty in number, commanded by Captain George Stiles, and composed of masters and master's mates of vessels there. It was a corps celebrated for its gallantry, and was armed with forty-two pounders. "Finding the city so well prepared to give them a warm reception the British abandoned their intention to attack it, went to sea, and Baltimore enjoyed a season of repose. But, as I have been telling you, they returned after the capture of Washington, and again the people set to work at preparations for defence. "General Smith was made first in command of all the military force intended to insure the safety of the city. But it is with the attack upon Fort McHenry and its repulse that we are concerned. The fort was garrisoned by about a thousand men under the command of Major George Armistead." "Regulars, sir?" asked Walter. "Some were, others volunteers," replied the captain. "There were, besides, four land batteries to assist in the work. But I will not go into particulars in regard to them, as I know they would be rather uninteresting to the greater part of my listeners. "It was on Sunday evening, September 11, that the British were seen in strong force at the mouth of the Patapsco, preparing to land at North Point, fifteen miles from the city by land, twelve by water. Their fleet anchored off that point, two miles from the shore. It was a beautiful night, a full moon shining in a cloudless sky, and the air balmy. "Ross intended to take Baltimore by surprise, and had boasted that he would eat his Sunday dinner there. At two o'clock in the morning the boats were lowered from his ships, and seamen and land troops went on shore, protected by several gun brigs anchored very near. The men were armed, of course, and each boat had a carronade ready for action. Admiral Cockburn and General Ross were on shore by about seven o'clock with 5000 land troops, 2000 seamen, and 2000 marines. "Their intention was to march rapidly upon Baltimore and take it by surprise, therefore they carried as little baggage as possible, and only eighty rounds apiece of ammunition. At the same time a frigate was sent to make soundings in the channel leading to Baltimore, as the navy was intended to take part in the attack upon the city." "Oh, wasn't everybody terribly frightened, papa?" asked Grace. "There was a good deal of alarm," replied the captain, "and many of the citizens fled, with their valuables, to places in the interior of the country, filling the hotels for nearly a hundred miles north of the city. "I will not at present go into the details of the battle of North Point, which immediately followed, but will tell of what was going on upon the water. "The British frigates, schooners, sloops, and bomb-ketches had passed into the Patapsco early in the morning, while Ross was moving from North Point, and anchored off Fort McHenry, but beyond the reach of its guns. The bomb and rocket vessels were so posted as to act upon Fort McHenry and the fortifications on the hill, commanded by Rodgers. The frigates were stationed farther outward, the water being too shallow to allow them to approach within four or five miles of the city, or two and a half of the fort. "Besides, the Americans had sunk twenty-four vessels in the narrow channel between Fort McHenry and Lazaretto Point, to prevent the passage of the vessels of the enemy. "That night was spent by the British fleet in preparations for the morrow's attack upon the fort and the entrenchments on the hill, and on the morning of the 13th their bomb-vessels opened a heavy fire upon the American works, about seven o'clock, and at a distance of two miles. They kept up a heavy bombardment until three o'clock in the afternoon. "Armistead at once opened the batteries of Fort McHenry upon them, but, after keeping up a brisk fire for some time, discovered that his missiles fell short and were harmless. It was a great disappointment to find that he must endure the tremendous shower of the shells of the enemy without being able to return it in kind, or do anything whatever to check it. But our brave fellows kept at their posts, enduring the storm with great courage and fortitude. "At length a bomb-shell dismounted one of the twenty-four pounders, killing Lieutenant Claggett and wounding several of his men. That caused some confusion, which Cochrane perceived, and, hoping to profit by it, he ordered three of his bomb-vessels to move up nearer the fort, thinking to thus increase the effectiveness of his guns. "No movement could have been more acceptable to Armistead, and he quickly took advantage of it, ordering a general cannonade and bombardment from every part of the fort, thus punishing the enemy so severely that in less than half an hour he fell back to his old anchorage. "One of their rocket vessels was so badly injured that, to save her from being entirely destroyed, a number of small boats had to be sent to tow her out of the reach of Armistead's guns. The garrison gave three cheers and ceased firing. "The British vessels returned to their former stations and again opened fire, keeping up, with very little intermission, a furious bombardment until past midnight, when it was discovered that they (the British) had sent a pretty large force up the Patapsco to capture Fort Covington, commanded by Lieutenant Newcomb, of the United States Navy, and the City Battery, then attack Fort McHenry in the rear. For this purpose there had been sent one thousand two hundred and fifty men in barges, with scaling ladders and other implements for storming the fort. But providentially their errand was made known to the garrison of Fort McHenry in good season by the throwing up of rockets to examine the shores, and not the fort alone but also two redoubts on the Patapsco immediately opened a heavy fire upon them, and drove them away. "So heavy was the firing that the houses of Baltimore were shaken to their very foundations. Lossing tells us that Rodgers's men in Fort Covington worked their guns with effect, but to Webster's continuous cannonade with his six gun battery Armistead said he was persuaded the country was much indebted for the final repulse of the enemy. The historian adds that he thinks it not too much to say that Webster's gallant conduct on that occasion saved both Fort McHenry and the city." "Were any of the British killed, sir?" asked Walter. "Yes, a large number; also two of their vessels were sunk." "And did they go on firing at the fort?" "They did, until seven o'clock in the morning of the 14th, then ceased entirely." "Oh, papa, you have not told us of the writing of the 'Star-Spangled Banner'!" exclaimed Lulu. "Wasn't it that night it was written?" "Yes; by Mr. Francis S. Key, a resident of Georgetown in the District of Columbia, who was at that time a volunteer in the light artillery commanded by Major Peter. "When the British returned to their vessels after the capture of Washington, they carried with them Dr. Beanes, a well known physician of Upper Marlborough. Cockburn carried him away on board the flag-ship of Admiral Cochrane, in spite of the intercession of his friends. "Then Mr. Key was entreated by the friends to go to Cochrane and intercede for the doctor's release. Key consented, obtained permission of the President, and went under a flag of truce in the cartel ship _Minden_ in company with General Skinner. "When they reached the British fleet it was at the mouth of the Potomac, preparing to attack Baltimore, and though Cochrane agreed to release Dr. Beanes, he refused to let him or his friends return then. They were placed on board the _Surprise_ and courteously treated. The fleet sailed up to the Patapsco, and they were transferred to their own vessel, but with a guard of marines to prevent them from landing and communicating with their friends and countrymen. "Their vessel was anchored in sight of Fort McHenry, and from her deck the Americans watched the fight, oh, so anxiously! and though it was, as I have said, over before midnight, those anxious watchers did not know until morning how it had ended--whether by surrender of the fort, or the abandonment on the part of the enemy of the attempt to take it. It was with very anxious hearts they waited for the coming of the dawn, but at last, in the dim light, as the day began to break, their eyes were gladdened by the sight, through their glasses directed toward Fort McHenry, of the beautiful stars and stripes 'still there,' and to their great joy they soon learned that the attack on Baltimore had failed, that Ross was killed, and the British were returning to their vessels. "It was while pacing the deck during the bombardment, full of anxiety for the result, that Mr. Key composed that song so dear to the American heart, 'The Star-Spangled Banner.'" "Oh, let us sing it!" exclaimed Lulu, and with one consent, patriotic enthusiasm swelling in every breast, they did so, the voices of old and young uniting in the soul-stirring words. "Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming And the rockets' red glare The bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? "On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? Now it catches the gleam Of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected, now shines in the stream; 'Tis the star-spangled banner; oh, long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! "And where are the foes who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war, and the battle's confusion, A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps pollution; No refuge could save The hireling and slave, From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! "Oh, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation! Then conquer we must When our cause it is just, And this be our motto, 'In God is our trust'; And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!" A moment of silence followed the dying away of the last strains, then Captain Raymond resumed his narrative: "The first rough notes of the song were written by Key upon the back of a letter he happened to have in his pocket, and after his arrival in Baltimore he wrote it out in full. The next morning he read it to his uncle, Judge Nicholson, one of the gallant defenders of the fort, asking his opinion of it. The judge was delighted with it, took it to the printing office of Captain Benjamin Edes, and directed copies to be struck off in handbill form. That was done, the handbills were distributed, and it was sung first in the street, in front of Edes' office, by James Lawrenson, a lad but twelve years of age. That was on the second day after the bombardment of Fort McHenry. The song was 'set up,' printed, and distributed by another lad seventeen or eighteen years old, named Samuel Sands. It created intense enthusiasm, was sung nightly at the theater, and everywhere in public and private." "Papa," asked Lulu, "what became of that very star-spangled banner Mr. Key was looking for when he wrote the song?" "I presume it is still in existence," replied her father. "Lossing says it was shown him in Baltimore, during the Civil War, by Christopher Hughes Armistead, the son of the gallant defender of the fort, and that it had in it eleven holes made by the shot of the British during the bombardment." "Had not the British made very sure beforehand of being able to take Baltimore, Captain?" asked Evelyn. "Yes; and their intention was to make it the base for future operations. As early as the 17th of June a London paper said, 'In the diplomatic circles it is rumored that our naval and military commanders on the American station have no power to conclude any armistice or suspension of arms. They carry with them certain terms which will be offered to the American government at the point of the bayonet. There is reason to believe that America will be left in a much worse situation, as a naval and commercial power, than she was at the commencement of the war." "Ah, but they crowed too soon--before they were out of the woods," laughed Walter. "They needed the lesson they got at Baltimore, and the one Jackson gave them some months later at New Orleans." CHAPTER VIII. "CAPTAIN, I fear we have been imposing sadly upon good nature in asking so much history of you in one evening," remarked Grandma Elsie; "and you have been extremely kind in complying with the request." "It has been a pleasure to me, mother," he returned. "There is hardly a subject more interesting to me than the history of my dear native land, and it is my ardent desire to train and teach my children to be earnestly, intelligently patriotic." "Including your pupils in the list, I presume, sir?" supplemented Rosie, with a saucy smile up into his face. "Of course, little sister, and as many others as I can influence," was his pleasant toned rejoinder. "But I am happy to believe that there are few Americans who are not ardent lovers of their own country, considering it the best the sun shines upon." "As it certainly is, sir!" exclaimed Walter. "I'm more thankful than words can express that God gave me my birth in the United States of America." "As I have no doubt we all are, little brother," said Violet. "But to change the subject: when shall we take that delightful trip to New Orleans? I suppose the sooner the better, that we may not be too much hurried with the necessary dressmaking?" "I think so," said her mother, "for both the reason you have given and because the weather will soon become unpleasantly warm for shopping in the city." "You are going with us, mamma?" queried Rosie. "I really have not thought of it, and probably it would be more prudent for me to stay quietly where I am, Rosie dear," she replied. "Oh, mamma, we must have you along if you are able to go!" exclaimed Walter. "Please do say that you will." "Yes, mamma dear, I think it would do you good," said Violet; and all the young folks joined urgently in the request that she would make one of the party. "Perhaps you might, Elsie," her father said in reply to an inquiring look directed to him. "I incline to the opinion that such a change, after your long seclusion here, might, probably would be, of benefit." "Possibly, father," she said, "though I had been thinking my staying at home might make Vi more comfortable in leaving her little ones for a day or two." "I do not care to go, and will gladly take charge of the babies if Vi and the captain will trust me with them," Grandma Rose hastened to say, and was warmly thanked by both parents, and assured that they would have no hesitation in doing so except on the score of giving her too much care and trouble and missing her pleasant companionship on the contemplated trip. However, after some further discussion of the matter, it was decided that Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore would remain at Viamede in charge of house and little ones during the short absence of the others on the contemplated trip. "Papa, dear papa," Lulu said, with tears shining in her eyes, and putting her arms lovingly about his neck when he had come into her room to bid her good-night, as his custom was, "you are so good to me, your own bad, quick-tempered little daughter! Oh, I do want to be good and make you glad that I belong to you." "I am that, my darling, in spite of all your faults," he said, caressing her tenderly. "You are very dear to your father's heart, and I am not without hope that you will one day gain full control of the temper which causes so much pain to both you and me." "Oh, I do hope I shall, papa, and I want you to punish me every time I indulge it," she said, "but I'm so glad, so thankful to you that you have said I may go with you and the others to-morrow. I feel that I don't deserve it in the least, but I do intend to try as hard as possible to rule my own spirit in future." "I am glad to hear it, daughter," the captain responded, imprinting a kiss upon her forehead. "But I must leave you now, for it is growing late and you ought to be in bed, that you may be ready to rise betimes in the morning." "Yes, sir; but oh, do stay one minute longer; I--I----" she paused, blushing and a trifle shame faced. "What is it, daughter?" he asked, smoothing her hair and cheek caressingly. "Never be afraid to tell your father all that is in your heart." "Yes, sir; I don't think I'm really afraid--yes, I am a little afraid you might be displeased, and I don't want to do anything to vex or trouble my dear, kind father, but if you're willing, papa, I would like to be allowed to choose for myself what I'm to wear to the wedding." "Your taste and wishes shall certainly be consulted, daughter," he replied kindly, "yet I am not prepared to promise that you may have in every case exactly what you would prefer; we must take your mamma and Grandma Elsie into our counsels in order to make sure of getting what will be most becoming and appropriate." "Dear me, I would like to be grown up enough to be considered capable of choosing things for myself!" she exclaimed with rueful look and tone. "But oh, don't be grieved and troubled," as her ear caught the sound of a low breathed sigh; "I'm determined I will be good about it. It certainly would be a very great shame if I were anything else, papa, after all your undeserved goodness to me." "I do not like to refuse my dear child anything she asks," he said, drawing her into a closer embrace, "but I know too much indulgence would not be for her happiness in the end. And since life is short and uncertain with us all, it may be that she will not be long troubled by being subject to her father's control." "Oh, papa, please don't talk so!" she exclaimed, sudden tears springing to her eyes. "I can't bear to think of ever losing my own dear, dear father. I hope God may let you live till he is ready to take me too." "If he sees best I hope we may long be spared to each other," the captain said, holding her close to his heart. "But now about the matter of which we were speaking. Wise as my dear eldest daughter considers herself, her father thinks Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi, by reason of their superior age and knowledge, will be better capable of judging what will be most suitable for her to wear as one of the bride's-maids. And as they are very tasteful in their own dress, and her father is ready to go to any reasonable expense that his dear little girl may be suitably and tastefully attired, also entirely willing to allow her to decide for herself wherever there is a choice between two or more equally suitable articles, do you not think, as he does, that she should be ready and willing to take what the ladies and he deem most suitable in other things which she would perhaps prefer to have somewhat different?" "Yes, you dear papa," she returned, with a look of ardent affection into his eyes. "I do always find out in the end that you know best; and I'd even rather wear any of the dresses I have now than not have you pleased with me; for I know I'm never the least bit happy when you are displeased with me." "Neither am I," he sighed; "it troubles me more than I can tell when my dear daughter Lulu is disobedient and wilful. But it is high time you were in bed and resting. God our heavenly Father bless my dear child and keep her safely through the silent watches of the night." And, bestowing upon her another tender embrace, he released her and left the room. She was quite ready for bed, and as she laid her head on her pillow, "Lulu Raymond," she said to herself, "if you do the least thing to vex or trouble that dear father of yours, no punishment he could possibly inflict would be equal to your deserts." In another minute she was fast asleep, nor did she move again till awakened by some slight sound to find the sun already shining in at her windows. Her father had directed her the night before what to wear as most suitable for making the trip to the city and back again, and she now made her toilet in haste, but with the care that he required, and which her own neat taste made desirable. She had just finished when he came in. "That is right," he said, with an approving smile, and bending down to give her the usual morning caress; "my little girl looks neat and bright, and I hope is quite well." "Yes, papa," she returned, putting her arms round his neck and her lips to his in an ardent kiss; "and are you and all the rest?" "All, so far as I know, and all who are to take the little trip with us full of pleasurable excitement. We must now go down to breakfast, which is earlier than usual this morning, for we expect the boat in an hour or so." He took her hand and led her from the room as he spoke. "The others have nearly all gone down already," he added, "and there is the bell now; so we have no time to lose." Lulu was full of pleasurable excitement. "Oh, I'm so glad and so thankful to you, papa, that you will let me go!" she exclaimed, lifting to his eyes sparkling with joyous anticipation; "for I know I don't deserve it in the very least. But I do intend to be as pleasant tempered and obedient as possible." "I don't doubt it, daughter, or expect to have any trouble with you," he said kindly. But now they had reached the dining room door, morning salutations were exchanged as the different members of the family came flocking in, all quickly took their places at the table, the blessing was asked, and the meal began. The talk was almost exclusively of what would probably be seen and done during the trip by those who were to take it, suitable gifts for the bride that was to be, and necessary or desirable shopping for themselves and those remaining at home. Lulu, sitting beside her father, asked in a low aside, "Papa, may I buy a handsome present for Cousin Betty? I've had occasion to spend hardly any pocket-money since we have been here; so I think I've enough to get her something handsome." "I shall be pleased to have you do so," he replied, with a pleasant smile. "And I may choose it myself?" "Yes; but don't you think it would be well to get some assistance from the rest of us in making your choice?" "Oh, yes, sir; yes indeed. I really would not want to buy anything you and Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi thought unsuitable, or that would not be likely to please Cousin Betty." "And may I too, papa?" asked Grace, who, seated close to his other side, had overheard the bit of low toned talk. "Yes, yes indeed, little daughter," he replied, laying a caressing hand upon her head for an instant. An hour later the little party were all on board the boat steaming away in the direction of the Gulf, and the talk was more of the beautiful country they were passing through than of the history of that portion yet to be visited. Their route grew more interesting to the young people, and indeed to all, as they came upon scenes made memorable by events in the Revolutionary and Civil Wars and that of 1812-14. As they passed up the river, the captain pointed out Forts St. Philip and Jackson, and other localities connected with the doings and happenings of those times, all gazing upon them as scenes to be indelibly impressed upon the memory of every lover of our dear native land. The localities about New Orleans connected with the struggle there against British invaders and aggressors, received due attention also, and were regarded with equal interest by the young girls and Walter, to say nothing of the older members of the party. Lulu and Grace, not to speak of Rosie and Evelyn, who were allowed more latitude in their selection, or of Walter, who was more than willing to trust to "mamma's taste" rather than his own, readily adopted the opinions of papa, Grandma Elsie, and Mamma Vi. On the evening of their second day in the city they went to their hotel, weary enough, to enjoy a few hours of rest. "Mamma dear," said Violet, glancing at her mother's face as they entered the lower hall, "you do look so fatigued; let us step into this parlor and rest a little before going to our rooms." "Perhaps it would be as well to do so," replied Mrs. Travilla, following her daughter into the room and sinking wearily into an easy chair which Violet drew forward for her. "Oh, dear Grandma Elsie, how tired you do look!" exclaimed Grace; and Walter, speaking at the same instant, said in a tone of deep concern, "Oh, mamma, how pale you are! You must be ill. I wish Cousin Arthur, or some other good doctor, was here to do something to make you feel better." "Mamma, dear mamma, I fear you are really ill!" exclaimed Rosie in a tone of anxiety, while Lulu ran back into the hall in search of her father, who had stepped aside to the clerk's desk to attend to some business matter; for to her he was a tower of strength to be flown to in every need. But an elderly lady and gentleman, the only other occupants of the parlor at the moment, hastily rose and drew near the little group, the lady saying in a tone of mingled concern and delight, "It is my Cousin Elsie--Mrs. Travilla--I am sure! You know me, dear cousin? Mildred Keith--Mrs. Dr. Landreth? And this is my husband, the doctor. I think he could do something to relieve you." "Cousin Mildred! Oh, what a joyful surprise! how glad I am to see you!" exclaimed Mrs. Travilla, the color coming back to her cheek, and the light to her eyes, as she raised herself to a sitting posture and threw her arms about Mildred's neck. The two held each other in a long, tender embrace, hardly conscious for the moment of the presence of the others, who stood looking on in surprise and delight, Captain Raymond and Lulu having joined the group. Then mutual introductions and joyous greetings followed, questions about absent dear ones were asked and answered, and each party learned that the other was in the city for but a brief sojourn, purposing to go thence to Viamede or its near vicinity. And in the meanwhile Mrs. Travilla seemed to have forgotten her weariness and exhaustion, and was looking more than ordinarily young and bright. Dr. Landreth remarked it with a pleased smile. "I am glad to meet you, Cousin Elsie," he said, "though you seem no longer in need of my services as physician." "No indeed, Cousin Charlie," she returned brightly; "you are so excellent a doctor that your very presence--especially when accompanied by that of your wife"--with a smiling glance at Mildred--"does one good like a medicine." "Still, if you will allow it, I will prescribe, were it only to keep my hand in," he said: "an hour's rest on a couch in your own room, to be followed by a good, substantial meal either there or at the table with the rest of us." "Exactly the prescription I should give were I your physician, mother," said Captain Raymond. "May I not assist you to your room?" "Yes," she said with a smile. "As I know Dr. Landreth to be an excellent physician I shall follow his advice, confidently expecting to profit by so doing. Doctor," turning to him, "we have a pleasant private parlor where we take our meals and enjoy each other's society in the intervals of sight-seeing, shopping, etc. I hope you and Cousin Mildred will join us at meal-times, and all times when you find it agreeable, making yourselves perfectly at home. Now good-by for the present. I hope to be able, after an hour's rest, to join you all at the tea-table." With evident pleasure her invitation was accepted; an hour later she made her appearance in the parlor, much refreshed by rest and sleep; a tempting meal was partaken of by all, with evident appetite, the remainder of the evening passed in delightful social intercourse, and all retired early that they might be ready for a long day of interesting and, to the children especially, captivating shopping; for, as Rosie remarked, "Nothing could be more enjoyable than the business of selecting wedding gifts and pretty things to be worn at the wedding festivities." She was delighted with her own finery and presents for Betty, selected by herself with her mother's assistance, Violet occasionally giving her opinion or advice, Mrs. Landreth and the gentlemen doing the same when asked. They consisted of handsome jewelry and silver. Walter, too, chose, with his mother's help, a set of gold lined silver spoons for his cousin Betty. Evelyn's gift was a handsome silver pie knife and salt spoons. Lulu, too, and Grace, gave silver, also a pair of beautiful gold bracelets. The captain's own gift was an expensive set of jewelry; Violet's a lovely bridal veil; Grandma Elsie's a beautiful and costly diamond pin, to which she afterward added a check for five thousand dollars. Also Dr. and Mrs. Landreth bought as their gift some very handsome articles of dress and house furnishing. The shopping and a little sight-seeing filled up the time till Saturday, when they returned to Viamede by the same boat that had brought the captain and his party to the city. It was a very warm and joyous welcome that awaited them there from Grandpa and Grandma Dinsmore, and little Elsie and Ned Raymond, and none the less joyous was the greeting given to Dr. and Mrs. Landreth by their relatives and old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore. To each of the four it was a delightful reunion, and much of the evening was passed in recalling the events of their intercourse in those early days when Elsie and her cousin Annis were happy children together, these older ones gay, young married folks, the eldest son of each couple but a baby boy, though now each was the head of a young family of his own. These reminiscences were very interesting to themselves, Grandma Elsie, and the Keiths, who had been invited to Viamede to take tea with these relatives, and who were to go to the parsonage after a short stay with these others. But after a little the young folks grew tired of listening to the talk, and sought out another part of the veranda where they could converse among themselves without disturbing their elders. Captain Raymond's eyes followed the movements of his little girls with a look of fond fatherly pride, not without a shade of anxiety as they noted the weariness in Grace's face, and presently he rose and drew near the little group. "Gracie, my darling, do you not want to go to your bed?" he asked. "I think my little girl is looking tired and would be better for a long night's rest." "Yes, papa, I am 'most too tired to keep my eyes open," she replied, with a faint smile up into his face. "Then come, my pet," he said, bending down and taking her in his arms; "I will carry you to your room and bid the others good-night for you when I come down again; you are too tired to wait to do that yourself," and he carried her away. Lulu sprang up and ran after them. "Shall I go too, papa?" she asked. "If you, too, feel too tired to stay up for prayers," he answered pleasantly; "otherwise I would not have you absent from that service." "Yes, sir, I'm not too tired. Good-night, Gracie," she said, and ran back to her mates. Their tongues were running on the old theme of the wedding so soon to take place, gifts to the bride, and dresses to be worn by her and her attendants. But all of them were pretty well worn out with the shopping and traveling gone through in the last few days, seeing which their elders thought best to hold the evening service a little earlier than usual, then retired to rest. "Papa, please may I ask a few questions now, before you leave me?" Lulu entreated when he came in to bid her good-night. "Yes," he replied with an amused look; "that is number one, and how many are to follow?" seating himself and drawing her to his knee. "Oh, I don't know exactly, sir; it will depend somewhat upon the answers, I think," she returned laughingly, putting an arm round his neck and kissing him with ardent affection. "Then let me go through the ordeal as soon as possible," he responded, patting her cheek and pressing his lips to hers. "I hope it won't be a very dreadful ordeal to you, papa," she said, smiling up into his eyes. "Firstly, then, are we to have school as usual between this and the time of the wedding?" "Yes," was the prompt, decided reply. "Oh, dear!" she said between a sigh and a laugh, "I 'most wish you were one of the fathers that could be coaxed. But oh, please don't begin to look sorry and grave. I'm determined I will be good about that and everything; just as good as I know how to be; and if I'm not I just hope you'll punish me well, only not by refusing to allow me to act as bridesmaid to Cousin Betty." "Love to your father and a desire to please him seems to me a far better motive for good behavior than fear of punishment," he said with grave look and tone. "Yes, sir; and that is my motive; please believe it, my own dear, dear father," she said, lifting dewy eyes to his. "Then I have strong hope that my pleasure in the coming festivities will not be spoiled by having a naughty, rebellious little daughter to deal with, or an idle one, either. Now what else?" "Only this, papa: that if you should have letters to write you will let me help you, using my typewriter, you know." "Thank you, my dear little helpful daughter. Should I find that I have letters you could answer for me in that way, I will call upon you for your offered assistance, as I well know it will be a pleasure to you to render it," he replied, with a smile and another tender caress. "And I hope you feel no doubt that it is not for lack of love for his dear child that your father refuses the holiday you have asked for." "No indeed, papa. I know you love me dearly. It would break my heart to think you didn't." "As it would mine to think my little girl did not love me. Now you must go at once to bed. Good-night and pleasant dreams." CHAPTER IX. IT was early morning at Ion, breakfast awaiting the return of Mr. Edward Travilla, who had ridden into the village on some business errand, leaving word that he would be back within the hour to partake of the morning meal with his wife. Zoe, tastefully attired, was on the veranda, and the twin babies, fresh from their bath, looking, the young mother averred, like little angels in their dainty white robes, were toddling about there, laughing, cooing, and prattling. They were the idols of her heart. She romped and played with them now, but with frequent pauses to listen for the sound of a horse's hoofs or gaze down the avenue, saying in joyous tones to the babies, "Papa is coming, coming soon; dear, dear papa! and mamma and his darlings will be so glad to see him. Ah, there he is at last!" she added at length, as a horseman turned in at the great gates and came at a quick canter up the avenue. He lifted his hat with a bow and smile to his wife as he drew near; then alighting at the steps, where a servant took the reins and led the horse away, he hastily ascended them, and the next moment was seated with a little one upon each knee. "Papa's darlings!" he said, caressing them in turn; "papa's dear pets!" "Tell papa we have been wanting him," said Zoe, standing alongside, smoothing Edward's hair with softly caressing hand, and smiling down fondly into the faces of the three; "tell him he stayed so long we did not know how to wait." "I must acknowledge I am a trifle late, my dear," Edward said, smiling up into the pretty, rosy face, "detained by business; but here is my atonement," handing her a telegram which he took from his pocket. Zoe read it aloud. It was an invitation to a wedding (whose it did not say), at Viamede to take place in three weeks from that day. "Why, who on earth can be going to be married?" she exclaimed in surprise. "Rosie? Evelyn? Lulu? Every one of them is too young." Then with a look into Edward's laughing eyes, "Now you needn't laugh, Ned. I know and acknowledge that Rosie is a little older than I was when we married, but we would not have made such haste except under those peculiar circumstances." "Quite true, my dear," he responded. "But I suppose you will hardly think it necessary to decline the invitation on that account?" "Oh, no indeed," was the quick, laughing rejoinder. "I am altogether in favor of accepting--shall begin my preparations at once. But there's the breakfast bell." When they had fairly begun their meal the subject was renewed, Edward remarking, "My dear, you will want a new dress. If you like we will drive into the city this morning, make necessary purchases, and at once set Alma or some other dressmaker at work." "Oh, thank you, dear Ned," she returned, her eyes shining with pleasure; "no woman ever had a more generous husband than mine. But there are so many ways for your money to go, and I have several that would be, with remodelling and retrimming, tasteful, handsome, and becoming as any new one." "But you must have a new one, my love," Edward replied decidedly. "I can easily afford it, and it is a great pleasure to me to see my little wife well and becomingly dressed." "A very nice speech, my dear husband," returned Zoe laughingly, "and really I have not the heart to refuse you the pleasure of seeing your wife arrayed in finery just suited to your taste. So I am very glad you are willing to go with me and assist in the selection. Shall we take the babies along?" "To help with the shopping? I doubt if we would find them of much assistance." "They are good little things though, and would not be any hindrance," returned the young mother laughingly. "But the trip might interfere with their morning nap, so if you think best we will leave the darlings at home." "I really think they would have a more comfortable time," Edward said; "we also. Hark! there's the telephone. Excuse me a moment, my dear." "Certainly, my love, but as I may possibly be the one wanted, I'll go along; by your leave," she added laughingly, running after him as he left the room. The call proved to be from Mrs. Elsie Leland. A telegram from Viamede had reached them also, and they would be at Ion in the course of an hour to talk over necessary arrangements for the journey, if, as they supposed, Edward and Zoe would like to take it in company with them. They too were invited, of course? "Yes," Edward answered; "mamma would certainly not neglect her eldest son at such a time. Come over as soon as you like, prepared to drive into the city with us to make necessary purchases before setting the dressmakers at work upon suitable adornments for the ladies of our party." "Nothing to be bought for the gentlemen, I suppose?" was Elsie's response, accompanied by a low, sweet laugh. "Will be happy to accept your invitation. Good-by till then." "Now let us go back and finish our breakfast," said Zoe. "If the Lelands are to be here in half an hour we have no time to spare." They were turning away when the bell rang again. It was Ella Conly who called this time. The same invitation for herself and brothers had just been received. They knew that Ned and Zoe must of course have shared the summons to Viamede, and, if convenient, they would call at Ion after tea that evening to talk over plans and preparations. They were cordially urged to do so. Then Edward called to his Uncle Horace at the Oaks, his Aunt Rose at the Laurels, and Aunt Lora Howard at Pinegrove, and learned to his satisfaction that all had received, and would accept the same invitation. But they had not yet settled upon their plans in regard to needed preparations and the time of setting out upon their journey. Edward suggested that it might be satisfactory for all to meet at Ion that evening and talk the matter over, an invitation which was promptly accepted by all. "Now let us finish our breakfast," Edward said, leading the way back to the table. "Yes," said Zoe, "for I am sure that I for one have no time to waste if I'm to be ready to start for the city in an hour." She was ready, however, when, in less than an hour, the Fairview carriage drove up bringing the Lelands. Elsie declined an invitation to alight. "We have none too much time now," she said, "for shopping cannot always be done in haste, and we are not making a very early start. Just get in here with us, you two, will you not? There is plenty of room, and we can talk over matters and settle plans as we drive." "A very good idea, and we are much obliged," returned Edward, handing Zoe in and taking a seat by her side. "Who is to be married, Elsie?" asked Zoe. "Surely it could not be mamma herself?" she added, with a light laugh. "I feel quite sure she would not accept the best and greatest man upon earth." "And I feel as sure of that as you do," said Mrs. Leland. "She thinks of my father not as lost to her but waiting for her to rejoin him in the better land. I have been trying to think who the coming bride is to be, and suppose it is Betty Johnson." "But it may be that the groom and not the bride belongs to our family," remarked Lester. "Who more likely than Dick Percival?" "Why, yes, to be sure!" exclaimed Edward. "It is about time Dick had a wife. And mother would of course be interested and ready to do anything in her power to make it pleasant for him and her." "Well, I should really like to know something more about it before choosing gifts for her," remarked Zoe. "I too," said Elsie. "Then suppose we let that wait for another day, and content ourselves with purchasing what is needed for the adorning of you two ladies," suggested Edward; and that was what, after a little further consultation, was decided upon. The city was reached in safety, and some hours later they returned, as Zoe said, "Laden with lovely things for their own adornment." The babies were on the veranda waiting, watching eagerly for papa and mamma, who, their nurse kept telling them, would soon be seen coming up the avenue. When they did appear, alighting from the Fairview carriage, they were recognized with a glad cry, and Zoe, forgetting her weariness, ran to the little ones, embraced first one and then the other, put a toy in the hand of each, spent another minute or two caressing them, then hurried to her own apartments to dress for tea and the family gathering expected in the evening. Elsie and her husband had driven home, but would return for the informal assembly of the members of the connection. The guests came early, Ella Conley and her brothers from Roselands being the first. Ella was in high glee. She had long felt an ardent desire to visit Viamede, and now hailed with delight the opportunity to do so. The circumstances of both brothers had greatly improved; they were disposed to be very generous to the only sister remaining at home with them, and had told her she must have a new, handsome dress for the wedding, and everything else she needed to fit her out well for the journey and a sojourn of some weeks at Viamede. Zoe felt flattered by being consulted in regard to necessary or desirable purchases, and greatly enjoyed exhibiting her own, and describing Elsie's, of that day. Then the other families, or delegates from them, arrived in rapid succession, and a merry sociable interview ensued. All were quite resolved, should nothing interfere, to accept the invitation to Viamede, but some of them could not yet decide upon the exact time when they would be prepared to leave their homes for that distant point, and for an absence of several weeks. But the Ion, Oaks, Fairview, and Roselands people would all go in two weeks in company. It was still early, when wheels were heard approaching from the direction of the village, a hack turned in at the gate, drove rapidly up the avenue, halted at the veranda steps, and an old gentleman alighted. "Cousin Ronald!" exclaimed Elsie Leland, Edward, and Zoe in a breath, and they and the others gathered about him with words of cordial greeting and welcome. "You have given us a most pleasant surprise, Cousin Ronald," Edward said when the old gentleman was comfortably seated in an easy chair. "You have not been to tea?" "Yes, laddie, I took that in the village yonder where I alighted frae the cars. But the auld folks seem to be missing here," glancing about in search of them as he spoke. "I dinna see your honored grandsire, his wife, or my sweet Cousin Elsie, your mither. The bairns Rosie and Walter, too, are not here; what's become o' them a', laddie? They're no ill, I hope?" "They were quite well at last accounts, sir," replied Edward. "They have spent the winter and early spring at Viamede, and will not return for some weeks yet." "Ah ha! um h'm! ah ha!" murmured the old gentleman reflectively. "It's no the best o' news to me--an auld mon who has been wearyin' for a sight o' your mother's sweet face." "Don't say that, cousin, for we are going there ourselves, and shall be glad indeed to take you with us. I know of no one who would be a more welcome guest to my mother." "Have a care, sir, that ye dinna tempt an auld mon too far," laughed Cousin Ronald. "Oh, but you must go with us, sir," said Zoe. "What would mamma say if we failed to bring you? Besides, we want your company even if mamma would not be displeased were you not with us." "Ah ha! um h'm! ah ha! Weel, my bonny leddy, I can no refuse an invitation that holds out so great a prospect of enjoyment." "No, you must not think of refusing, Cousin Ronald!" exclaimed Edward and his sister Elsie, speaking simultaneously. "Indeed no," said Mr. Horace Dinsmore; "we can assure you of a hearty welcome, and my sister, as Zoe says, would be by no means pleased should we fail to take you along with us. But since the first division of our company does not start for two weeks, there will be abundance of time to hear from her on the subject." "Certainly there will, uncle," responded Edward. "I shall write to mamma to-night. Several of us have heard from her to-day by telegraph, Cousin Ronald, and we think we shall surely have letters soon." Then followed the story of the telegrams received that day, and the guesses and surmises as to whose wedding they were invited to attend. Mr. Lilburn was evidently much interested and more than willing to yield to their persuasions to accompany them to Viamede. "Well, friends and cousins," he said, "there is scarce anything I can think of at this moment that would delight me more than to gang with you to see them at that lovely spot--an earthly paradise, as it may well be called. I am somewhat fatigued the now, but rest for a few days--the days that must come and go afore you start--will no doubt supply the needed strength for the new journey; and the wedding festivities to follow will not come amiss even to a man of my ain venerable age." "No, indeed!" exclaimed Zoe, "I should think not. Surely people of any age may enjoy gay and festive scenes and doings. It has always been a source of regret to me that Edward's and my nuptials were graced by none of them." "Possibly there may be better luck for you next time, my dear," remarked Edward laughingly. "Indeed I want no next time," she returned with spirit. "I've no intention of trying a second husband lest I might do worse than I did in taking you." "It strikes me there might be a possibility of doing very much worse, my dear niece," remarked Mr. Horace Dinsmore pleasantly. "As it does me," responded Zoe, with a proudly affectionate look into her young husband's eyes. "I am glad to hear it," was his answering remark, given with a smiling, affectionate glance into the bright, sweet face. For the next two weeks Zoe and the other ladies of the connection were very delightfully busy with their preparations for the wedding. Letters had come telling that Betty was, as had been conjectured, the prospective bride; also who was to be the groom, where the ceremony was to take place, the bridal feast to be partaken of, with other interesting particulars. The dresses of bride, bridesmaids, and maids of honor were not described, as they would be seen by all the relatives at, if not before, the wedding. The journey to New Orleans was made by rail; from there they took a steamboat for Berwick Bay, preferring to make the rest of the journey by water. The party consisted of the Dinsmores, Lelands, Travillas, Conleys, and their Aunt Adelaide, Mrs. Allison of Philadelphia, who had come on from her home shortly before to join these relatives in their trip to Louisiana; for she too had been urgently invited to attend the wedding; and last but not least was Mr. Ronald Lilburn. They were a cheerful set, the younger ones quite gay and mirthful. There were a few other passengers, among whom was a lady clad in deep mourning--widow's weeds--who kept her face carefully concealed by her thick crape veil and sat apart, seeming to studiously avoid all contact with her fellow voyagers; observing which they refrained from making advances toward acquaintanceship. But now and then Dr. Conley turned an observing eye upon her. There was a droop about her figure that struck him as an indication of illness or exhaustion from some other cause. At length he rose, and stepping to her side, said in a low sympathizing tone, "I fear you are ill, madam. I am a physician, and if I can do anything for you my services are at your command." She made an inarticulate reply, in tones quivering with emotion, staggered to her feet as she spoke, made one step forward and would have fallen had he not caught her with his arm. Her head dropped upon his shoulder, and instantly the other members of his party gathered about them with hurried, excited exclamations. "What is the matter?" "Is she ill?" "Do you know her, Art? She has fainted, has she not?" The last exclamation and query came from the lips of Mrs. Elsie Leland. "Yes; she is quite unconscious," was Arthur's low toned reply "and this thick, heavy veil is smothering her." The next instant he had succeeded in disentangling it. With a quick movement he threw it back, lifted the seemingly lifeless form, laid it on a settee with the head low, laid his finger on her pulse for an instant, then began compressing the ribs and allowing them to expand again. "I will have to loosen her clothing," he said, leaning over her to do so; then for the first time catching sight of her face, he started back with a low, pained exclamation: "My sister Virginia! is it possible!" "Virginia!" exclaimed Adelaide and Calhoun in a breath; for both were standing near; "can it be?" The others exchanged glances of astonishment; then Ella asked in low, terrified tones, "O Art, is she--is she dead? Poor, poor Virgie!" "No; it is only a faint," he answered, going on with his efforts to restore consciousness, in which he was presently successful. Virginia's eyes opened, looked up into his with evident recognition, then closed, while tears stole down her cheeks. He leant over her in brotherly solicitude. "Virgie, my poor, dear sister," he said in tones tremulous with emotion, "you are with relatives and friends who will gladly do anything and everything in their power for your comfort and happiness. I think you are not well----" She seemed to be making an effort to speak, and, leaving his sentence unfinished, he bent down over her with his ear almost touching her lips. "Starving," was the whispered word that came in reply, and he started back aghast, his features working with emotion. "Can it be possible!" was his half suppressed exclamation. "What is it?" asked Calhoun; "what does she say?" "She is faint and ill with hunger," returned his brother in a moved tone. "Get me a glass of hot milk as quickly as you can, Cal," and Calhoun hurried away in quest of it. In a very few minutes he was back again with a large tumbler of rich, sweet milk, which Virginia drank with avidity. Some more substantial food was then given her, and after a little she was able to exchange greetings with the other relatives on board and to give some account of herself. "Henry Neuville is dead, and I set out on my journey to beg a home with Isa as soon as I had seen him laid decently away," she said. "I have no means at all--unfortunate creature that I am--but perhaps I can make myself useful enough to earn my bread." "And your brothers will be both able and willing to clothe you," said the doctor, Calhoun adding, "certainly; and to give you a home, too, should Isa and her husband find it inconvenient to do so." At that tears coursed down Virginia's cheeks. "You are good, kind brothers," she said; "far better to me than I deserve. But living with a man of the stamp of Henry Neuville has taught me how to appreciate true gentlemen." "O Virgie, did he die as he had lived?" asked her cousin Elsie. "I saw no sign of repentance or reformation," returned Virginia; "he died of drink and with curses on his tongue. I can't mourn his loss; how could I? but I'm the most unfortunate woman--the poorest in the whole connection. I wasn't brought up to support myself either, and can't do it." "Perhaps you may learn how," said Zoe encouragingly. "There are many avenues to self-support now open to women, you know." A look of disgust and annoyance was Virginia's only response to that. A few moments of silence ensued, broken only by the prattle of the little ones, then there was a sudden sound as of some heavy body plunging into the water, and a shrill cry: "Man overboard!" A great commotion instantly followed, the captain giving his orders to lower a boat and go in search of the man, and at the same time slowing the movements of the steamer. Our party were much interested and excited, most of them full of concern for the drowning one, who seemed to have strangely disappeared, for not a trace of him could be seen as the boat was rowed hither and thither; and at length, resigning all hope of finding even the lifeless body, the men returned to the larger vessel to report their failure. The ladies were in tears, and as the captain drew near, Zoe asked in tones tremulous with emotion, "Is there no hope at all of saving the poor fellow, captain?" "I'm afraid he's gone to the bottom, ma'am, though it's odd he couldn't keep up for the few minutes it took to launch the boat; but I suppose the wheel must have struck him. By the way," he added, as if struck by a sudden thought, "I don't know yet who it was. I must have the crew mustered on deck and see who is missing." He proceeded to do so at once, when to the surprise of all it was discovered that no one was missing. "A stowaway, evidently!" growled the captain, "and he's got his desserts; though I wouldn't have let him drown if I could have helped it." At that instant a light broke upon Edward Travilla and Dr. Conley, and both turned hastily toward their guest, Mr. Ronald Lilburn. He was sitting near, quietly listening to the talk, his features expressing grave concern, yet they could perceive a sparkle of fun in his eye. Edward stepped to his side, and, bending down over him, spoke in an undertone close to his ear. "I think you could tell us something of the man, Cousin Ronald." "I, laddie? What would I ken o' the folk i' this part o' the world?" queried the old gentleman, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Ah, sir, who is to say he belonged to this part of the world?" laughed Edward. "I must own that I strongly suspect he was a countryman of yours; a Scotchman, at least." Then going to the side of his wife he said a word or two in an undertone that chased away her tears, while she sent a laughing glance in Cousin Ronald's direction. But they were drawing near their journey's end, and presently everything else seemed to be forgotten in gazing upon the ever changing beauties of the landscape as they threaded their way through lake and lakelet, past swamp, forest, plain, and plantation. They gazed with delight upon the cool, shady dells carpeted with a rich growth of flowers, miles upon miles of smoothly shaven lawns, velvety green and shaded by magnificent oaks and magnolias, lordly villas peering through groves of orange trees, tall white sugarhouses, and the long rows of cabins of the laborers, forming all together a panorama of surpassing loveliness. "Oh, it is an earthly paradise, is it not, Ned?" cried Zoe, clasping her hands in an ecstacy of delight. "Very, very beautiful," he responded, his eyes shining with pleasure. "But you know this is not, like yours, my first sight of it; I spent a very happy winter here in the days when my dear and honored father was with us." "And I," said his sister Elsie, softly sighing at the thought that that loved parent had left them to return no more. "It will not seem the same without him; yet with so many dear ones left--especially our dear, dear mother--our visit can hardly be otherwise than most enjoyable. Ah, Ned, is not that our own orange orchard just coming into view?" "It is, my dear sister; we will be there in a very few minutes now." "At home and with mamma!" she exclaimed in joyous tones; then called to her little sons, "Come here, Ned and Eric. We are almost at dear grandmamma's house, and she will soon have you in her arms." At that the little fellows came running to her with a joyous shout, for they dearly loved their Grandma Elsie, and to their infant minds the time of separation from her had seemed very long. To their Aunt Adelaide, the Conleys--Arthur excepted--and the young Dinsmores the scenes were equally new, and called forth from one and all demonstrations of admiration and delight. Very soon the boat reached and rounded to at the landing, where were gathered all the members of the Viamede, Magnolia Hall, and parsonage families to meet and welcome these dear ones from their own old homes farther to the north. It was an altogether joyous meeting, Cousin Ronald and Virginia, as well as the rest, receiving most kind and cordial greeting, though the latter was an entirely unexpected guest. Isadore took her sister in her arms, kissed and wept over her as a near and dear one who had gone through great trials during the years of their separation. "What a long, long while it is since we parted, and what sore trials you have gone through in the meantime, Virgie!" she sighed. "Ah, I hope the future may have better things in store for you." "I should say it ought indeed, considering all I've had to suffer in the past," returned Virginia. "I've come to beg a home with you, Isa, as you might have had to of me if I had been the lucky one in the matter of drawing a prize in the matrimonial lottery." "I will try to do the very best I can for you, Virgie," was Isadore's pleasant toned reply, though it was not with unmingled satisfaction that she saw opening before her the prospect of receiving this selfish, indolent sister into her peaceful, well regulated household as a permanent addition to it. Zoe was in ecstasies over the beauties of Viamede--the large, palatial mansion, the beautiful grounds, the lovely scenery. "Oh, mamma," she exclaimed, pausing on the veranda to take a general survey, "it is just too lovely for anything! It really exceeds my expectations, though they were raised very high by all I have heard of the beauties of Viamede. I wonder you can ever resign yourself to leaving it for a longer time than the hot season, when it is not so healthy as your more northern home." "Yes, I sometimes wonder at myself," Elsie said with a smile; "and yet both Ion and the Oaks are very dear to me--so many happy years of my life have been passed in them. Ah, no, I could not give up those dear homes entirely any more than I could this." "Ah, you are a most fortunate woman, cousin mine," remarked Mr. Lilburn, standing by, "and worthy of it all; no one more so." "Ah, Cousin Ronald, you, like all the rest of my friends, are only too ready to pass my imperfections by and see only virtues; some of them altogether imaginary, I fear," she returned with a smile. "I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you here again, and I hope you may so greatly enjoy your sojourn among us that you will be pleased to repeat your visit whenever opportunity offers." "Ah, many thanks, cousin, but have a care lest you should be in danger of seeing me here oftener than will be found agreeable," was his laughing reply. At that Elsie only shook her head with a playful smile, then turned to baby Lilly, who was reaching out her little arms to grandma, crying, "Take! take, gamma!" "No, no, mother dear," Edward said, coming up to them and taking his little daughter from the nurse's arms, "I can't have you wearying yourself with her." Then to the child, "Papa is going to carry you upstairs, little pet. Dear grandma has been sick and is not strong enough to carry you about. The friends and relatives will all be here for some time, mother?" turning to her again. "Yes," she replied; "they will all stay to tea." "And Zoe and I will join you and them again in a few minutes," he said, moving on through the hall, in the direction of the stairway. All scattered to their rooms then, but reassembled on the veranda some few minutes before the call to the tea-table. It was a large, merry, informal tea-party, Grandma Elsie having been most hospitably urgent that everyone should stay, partake with her and the others who had been making Viamede their home for months past, and spend the evening. The approaching wedding and matters connected with it were naturally the principal themes of discourse, and Betty was good-humoredly rallied on the conquest she had made and the pleasant prospect of having a home of her own with at least one loyal subject. Zoe insisted on a description of the trousseau, especially the wedding dress. "Drive over to Magnolia Hall day after to-morrow and you shall see everything for yourself, Zoe," Betty said, laughing and blushing; "at least all but the gifts which have not yet come in." "Thank you; I think I'll accept that invitation," returned Zoe. "But I suppose there is something to be seen here?" "Yes; the dresses of the bridesmaids and maids of honor," said Rosie; "and we who are to wear them think them quite beautiful. Don't we, girls?" turning toward Evelyn and Lulu, who answered with an emphatic, "Yes, indeed!" "Suppose you come and take a look at them, Zoe," proposed Rosie, as they left the table, and Zoe promptly accepted the invitation, Betty, Elsie Leland, Ella, and Virginia, and the Dinsmore cousins going along. "Oh, they are lovely!" was the united exclamation at sight of the dresses, Zoe adding, "I can't say which is handsomest." "That's just how it is with me," laughed Betty; "but I own to thinking the bride's dress a trifle handsomer than any of these." "Ah, yes; but just think how we may outshine you when our turns come to wear a wedding dress," said Rosie. "I mean to have one that shall be a marvel of beauty and taste. Don't you, Eva and Lu?" "I very much doubt whether I shall ever have any," replied Evelyn, with her grave, sweet smile. "If you don't it will be your own fault, I am sure," said Rosie. "And it will be just the same with Lu." "I'm not going to get married ever!" cried Lulu emphatically. "I wouldn't leave my father for all the rest of the men in all the world." "Ah, your father is glad to hear it," said a voice close at her side, while a hand was laid affectionately on her shoulder. "But my dear eldest daughter is still quite too young to be even thinking of such things." "Then I won't think of them if I can help it, papa dear," she said, lifting loving, smiling eyes to his face, "for indeed I do want to obey even your slightest wish." "I don't doubt it, daughter," he returned, pressing affectionately the hand she had slipped into his. "Now, Elsie," said Zoe, addressing Mrs. Leland, "let us show our wedding finery. You, Ella Conley, I suppose won't care to open your trunks, as they are to be carried over to the Parsonage." "They have already gone," said Isadore, she also having joined the party of inspection, "but the finery can be shown there just as well." "Yes, it can wait," returned Ella, "and will perhaps be all the more appreciated for not being seen along with so many other beauties." "I am the only one who has no finery to exhibit," remarked Virginia in an ill used tone. But they were already on the way to Mrs. Leland's room and no one seemed to hear or heed the complaint, everybody being too much engrossed with the business in hand to take notice of her ill-humor. But it was Saturday evening and the Parsonage and Magnolia Hall people returned to their homes at an early hour, taking their guests with them. "Now, daughter," Captain Raymond said, turning to Lulu as the last carriage disappeared from sight, "go at once to your own room and prepare for bed." "Yes, sir; and must I say good-night now to you?" she asked in a low tone, close at his ear. "No," he returned, with a smile, "I will be with you presently for a few minutes." She looked her thanks, and hastened to obey. "I am quite ready for bed, papa," she said when he came into her room. "Please mayn't I sit on your knee for five or ten minutes?" "That is just what I want you to do," he said, taking possession of an easy chair and drawing her to the coveted place. "I must have a little talk with my dear eldest daughter," he continued, smoothing her hair and cheek caressingly. "What about, papa dear?" she asked, nestling closer in his arms. "I haven't been misbehaving, have I? You are not displeased with me, are you?" "No, dear child; only afraid that you may be caring too much about dress and finery, and that perhaps I am not altogether blameless in regard to that--that I may not have guarded my dear little girl against it as I should." "I am afraid that perhaps I do care too much about it, papa dear," she sighed, hanging her head, while blushes dyed her cheek; "but I'm sure it is all my own fault, not yours at all; so please don't feel badly about it." He took up her Bible, opened it, and read, "Whose adorning, let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel; but let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price. For after this manner in the old time the holy women also, who trusted in God, adorned themselves." "Papa, is it wrong to wear nice, pretty clothes, and to enjoy having them?" she asked, as he closed the book and laid it aside. "Is that what is meant in those verses?" "I think not," he said; "if I understood it in that way I should feel it wrong to allow a daughter of mine to wear them. I think it means that you are not to care too much about such adornment, but more, much more, for that other and greater adornment, even the hidden man of the heart, the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, remembering that in the sight of God it is of great price, worth infinitely more than any ornament of gold, the richest jewels, or the finest attire. Cultivate that with all diligence, my own darling child, if you desire to please and honor your heavenly Father and make yourself even dearer than you now are to your earthly one, and lovelier in his eyes." "Oh, I do, papa! I do want to please and honor God, and you too; I want to be just a joy and blessing and comfort to you, my own dear, dear father! I don't think you have any idea how very, very dearly I love you, papa," putting her arms about his neck and kissing him over and over again. "Gracie and I think--indeed we feel quite sure--that no other children ever had such a dear, good, kind father as ours. And I know Max thinks the same." "Well, daughter, I delight in having you and all my children think so, however mistaken you maybe," he said, with a pleased smile, holding her close and returning her caresses; "and it certainly is the earnest desire of my heart to be the best, kindest, and dearest of fathers to the darling children God has given me." "As I am sure you are, dear papa," she said. "I never have any doubt of it at all, even when you punish me. And, papa," she added, with an effort, "if you think finery bad for me, I am willing to be dressed just as plainly as you think best." "That is my own dear little girl," he returned, with a gratified look; "but I have not been dressing you better--more richly, gayly, or tastefully--than seems to me right and proper; also, I think quite as much sin may be committed by being proud of plainness in dress as proud of wearing finery. What I am aiming at is to have my little daughter look upon dress as a secondary matter, and feel far more anxious to be one who is pleasing in the sight of her heavenly Father than one admired and envied by some earthly creature as the possessor of wealth, and fine or costly raiment. In short, I want you to feel that the style and richness of your attire is a matter of little consequence, while to live in the light of God's countenance, pleasing and honoring him and growing in holiness and conformity to his will, is to be desired and striven for beyond everything else." "Yes, papa," she said softly, "I will ask God to help me to do so; and you will pray for me too, won't you?" "Indeed I will, my darling; we will kneel down and ask him now; ask for help to keep from indulging in worldly mindedness and vanity, and that our earnest desire and effort may ever be to serve and honor and glorify him in all our words and ways." "My own dear father," she said, when they had risen from their knees, "I am sure that if I don't grow up a good Christian the fault will not be yours." Then, glancing at the bed where Grace lay in a profound sleep, "I am so glad and thankful that I am not feeble like poor, dear Gracie, because if I had to go to bed and to sleep so early as she almost always does, I'd miss these nice talks from you. But, fortunately, she doesn't need so much help to be good as I do. Ah, papa, I've given you a great deal more trouble to train me up right than she ever has, or will." "My darling," he said, "if you only grow up to be a noble, useful Christian woman, such as I hope one day to see you, I shall feel more than repaid for all the anxiety, care, and trouble of your training." CHAPTER X. GUESTS and entertainers, old and young, went to church the next morning, riding, driving, or walking, as best suited the inclination of each. In the afternoon there was the usual gathering of the house servants and field hands on the lawn, near the veranda, where the family and guests were seated, and Mr. Dinsmore, Dr. Landreth, and Captain Raymond each gave them a little talk suited to their capacities, and the sacredness of the day, and their needs as members of the fallen race of man. The captain, standing before them with an open Bible in his hand, said, "My friends, I want to talk with you a little, about some of the words spoken by the Apostle Paul when he was taking leave of the elders of the Church at Ephesus. He told them that he had been testifying both to the Jews, and also to the Greeks, repentance toward God and faith toward our Lord Jesus Christ. Now, what is meant by repentance toward God? It is a feeling of true sorrow for our sins against him (and everything wrong we have done, or thought, or felt was a sin against God). And what is it to have faith toward our Lord Jesus Christ? To believe in him as one abundantly able and willing to save us--to save us from sin, from the love of it, and the punishment due to us for it. We are all sinners; we have all come short of the glory of God, neglecting many things that we ought to have done, and doing very many things that we ought not to have done. We are all born with a sinful nature, and God only can change it, so that we will hate sin and love holiness: he only can give us true faith in his dear Son the Lord Christ. "'By grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God.' We are saved by grace; it is only of God's undeserved goodness, not because we have done or can do anything pleasing in his sight. Paul speaks in this same chapter of the Gospel of the grace of God. Gospel means good news, and what could be better news than that? that God offers us salvation of his free, unmerited grace? What an offer that is! salvation as his free, undeserved gift, without money, and without price. His offer is, 'Come unto me and be ye saved all ye ends of the earth.' No one is left out; this wonderful offer is to each one of us, and to every other inhabitant of this world, so that if any one fails to be saved, the fault will be all his own. For God has said, 'I have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth: wherefore turn yourselves and live ye.' And oh, how plain he has made it that he does love us and would have us live! 'For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'" The service was not a long one, and when it was over the captain repaired to the school-room with Lulu and Grace to hear them recite their Bible verses and catechism. When that duty had been attended to, "Now, daughters," he said, "if you have anything to say, or questions suitable to the sacredness of the day to ask, I am ready to listen and reply to the best of my ability; but even a child may ask a question that a grown person cannot answer," he added with a smile. "Indeed, papa," said Grace, putting an arm round his neck and laying her cheek lovingly to his, "I think you do know 'most everything; and I'm oh! so glad God gave you to me for my own father." "I know you are, Gracie, I'm sure of it; but you can't be gladder than I am that he is my father, too," said Lulu, lifting to his eyes full of filial love and reverence. "Nor than I am that these two little girls are my very own," responded the captain, holding both in a close embrace. "But now for the questions." "I have one to ask, papa," said Lulu. "It is, what does the Bible mean by growing in grace?" "Growing in likeness to Jesus and in conformity to his will; having more and more of the love and fear of God in our hearts; more faith and patience, and more love to our fellow-creatures; for the more we love the Master, the more will we love those whom he died to redeem." "And the more we love him, the more we will try to be like him?" Lulu said in a tone of mingled assertion and inquiry. "Yes, my child; and it is the dearest wish of my heart that I may see my children thus growing in grace, and in likeness to the dear Master." "Papa, I want to," said Grace softly; "oh, I want to, very much!" "Then ask God to help you, my darling, remembering that he is the hearer and answerer of prayer." "And you will ask him for both of us, won't you, papa?" "I will, I do, my darling; there is never a day when I do not pray earnestly for each one of my dear children, that God will make them his own true followers and keep them in every time of trial and temptation, taking them safely to heaven at last. Life in this world is exceedingly short compared with the eternal existence which awaits us all in another--that life of infinite joy and blessedness at God's right hand, or of everlasting, untold misery, unending, inconceivable anguish, in the blackness of darkness, shut out forever from his presence," he added in moved tones. "God in his infinite goodness and mercy grant that the first and not the last may be the portion of each one of my beloved children!" "Oh, papa," said Grace softly, "how can any one help loving the dear Saviour who died that we might go to heaven and not to that other awful place!" "Oh," said Lulu, "I do want to love him more and serve him better! When I think of his wonderful goodness and love to us poor sinners, I'm just as ashamed as I can be that I don't love him at all as I ought, and am so often ill-tempered and selfish and bad. Papa, I do really think it is kind and good in you to punish me when I deserve it, and need it to make me a better girl." "And I shall be very glad indeed if you never again make it necessary for me to do so," he responded. "I do hope I won't," she returned. "Papa, I'm very much afraid I'll be thinking and talking to-day about the wedding and what everybody is going to wear at it, and I know I won't be in half so much danger of doing so if I keep close to you; so mayn't I?" "Yes, daughter; I am always glad to have you near me," he said kindly; "and it pleases me that you are desirous to avoid temptation to do wrong." "And you are just as willing to let me keep near you, papa?" Grace said inquiringly, and with a wistful, pleading look up into his face. "Certainly, my dear little daughter. I love you not a whit less than I do your sister," he said, drawing her into a closer embrace. "However, you may both stay here reading your Bibles and Sunday school books for a half hour longer. Then I will come for you and you may spend the rest of the day as close to your father's side as you choose." With that he left them. "Such a dear, good father as ours is!" exclaimed Lulu, gazing after him with loving, admiring eyes. "Yes, indeed! I am sure there couldn't be a better or dearer one. Oh, I do love him so!" said Grace, turning over the leaves of her Bible. "Let's read verse about, Lu." "I'm agreed; and let it be the Book of Esther. I do think that is such a lovely story." "So it is; and so is Ruth, and that's shorter. I don't believe we'll have time to read all of Esther before papa comes for us." "Maybe not," assented Lulu; "so we will read Ruth." They had finished the story and were talking it over together when their father came. It was then nearly tea time. Sacred music filled up most of the evening, and all the young girls and boys retired early to bed that they might be ready for the pleasures and employments of the coming day. The older people sat somewhat longer upon the veranda, conversing upon topics suited to the sacredness of the day. They were Christians, and loved to speak of the Master and the things concerning his kingdom. "Then they that feared the Lord spake often one to another: and the Lord hearkened and heard it, and a book of remembrance was written before him for them that feared the Lord and that thought upon his name. And they shall be mine, saith the Lord of hosts, in that day when I make up my jewels; and I will spare them as a man spareth his own son that serveth him." As usual, Lulu was up early the next morning, and joined her father in a walk under the trees along the bank of the bayou. "Well, daughter, has the rest of the Sabbath made you ready for work in the school-room again?" he asked, smiling down affectionately into her face, rosy, bright, and happy with health and gay spirits. "Yes, papa, I feel more like it than I did on Saturday," she answered, lifting to his sparkling eyes, full of affection. "I rejoice to hear it," he said; "for it is by no means a pleasant task to me when I have to compel a pupil--whether one of my own children or the child of someone else--against his or her inclination; though I enjoy teaching when all are happy and interested." "As we all ought to be when we have such a good, kind, wise teacher, dear papa," she returned. "It will be difficult, very difficult, I'm afraid, to give my mind to lessons when we are all so much taken up with the preparations for the wedding, but I'm determined to try my very best to do so to please my dearest, kindest, best of fathers," lifting his hand to her lips. "A father who would far rather be obeyed from love than fear," he said, with a tender, loving look down into her face. "Yes, I know you would, papa, and my love for you is, oh! ever so much stronger than my fear; though I own I am afraid of your displeasure and punishments, for I know you can punish severely when you think it your duty and for my good; but I respect and love you too a great deal more than I would or could if you indulged me in bad behavior." "I don't doubt it," he said; "and I, as I have often told you, punish you when I deem it needful, because I know you will be the happier in the end for being compelled to try to conquer your faults; happier than you ever could be if allowed to indulge them." "Yes, papa, I know that is so; I am never at all happy when indulging wrong tempers and feelings," she acknowledged, with another loving look up into his face. At that moment they were joined by Evelyn and Rosie. "Brother Levis," said Rosie, "you surely are not going to be so unreasonable and tyrannical as to require lessons of us to-day?" "I'm afraid I am, little sister," he replied, with a smile, "and I hope you are not going to be so naughty and rebellious as to require any kind of discipline?" "I don't know," she said, with a pretended pout; "I feel no inclination at all toward lessons, but a very strong one in favor of a ride or drive over to Magnolia Hall." "Which can be gratified when study and recitations have been duly attended to," returned the captain; "and if in need of an escort you may call upon me for that service." "Oh, a thousand thanks! that will do very well indeed!" she exclaimed in a tone of relief and pleasure. "And all the good and industrious little girls may go along," added the captain, with a smiling look into Lulu's eagerly inquiring face. "Thank you, papa; thank you very much!" she exclaimed joyously. "I do want to go, and intend to be as industrious as possible, and as good and obedient, so that you can take me. And you'll take Gracie too if she wants to go, won't you?" "Certainly," he said; "Gracie deserves all the indulgences and pleasures I can give her." "You are very kind indeed, Captain, to spend so much of your time in teaching us to-day; for I feel very sure you would enjoy going to Magnolia Hall with the other gentlemen and the ladies this morning," remarked Evelyn, with a grateful, affectionate look up into his face. "Thank you, my dear," he replied. "It would be pleasant to me to go, but it is also a pleasure to help my own children, and other appreciative pupils, to climb the hill of science." Just then Grace and little Elsie came running to meet them, and the next minute the breakfast bell summoned them all to the house. After breakfast followed family worship, school, play-time, then dinner, and, late in the afternoon, the pleasant drive through the woods to Magnolia Hall. It was only for a call, however, and at tea-time the Viamede family and all their guests gathered about the table there. From then until the wedding day the young folks were in a state of pleasurable excitement, though the captain kept his pupils steadily at their work, and they found it not impossible to fix their minds upon their studies for a portion of each day. The other relatives invited had arrived, and in a few days the marriage was to take place. It was Saturday morning. Scarcely two hours had been spent in the school-room when the captain dismissed his pupils, telling them, with his pleasant smile, that they had done very well indeed, and would be allowed a holiday until the wedding festivities were over, an announcement no one was sorry to hear, although he had made the lessons interesting and enjoyable to them as ever since undertaking the work of teaching them. All returned warm thanks, and Rosie, Evelyn, and Walter hastened from the room, which Captain Raymond had already left; but his two little girls lingered there a while longer, putting their desks in perfect order. "Gracie," said Lulu, "how much money have you left?" "Not a single cent," was the reply in a rather rueful tone; "and I suppose yours is all gone too?" "Yes; every cent of it. I feel as poor as a church mouse." "But we are not wanting to buy anything just now, and papa will be giving us some pocket-money again pretty soon," returned Grace in a determinedly cheerful tone. "Yes, so he will! Oh, what a dear, good, kind father he is! I really don't believe there are very many girls of our ages that get so much pocket-money every week. And papa gave us so much extra money too, to use in buying our gifts for Cousin Betty." "Oh, yes, and now I think of it, I don't believe we ought to expect any more pocket-money for a good while. Do you, Lu?" "No, I don't; for this wedding's costing a good deal--to papa as well as other folks; and the journey home will cost ever so much, besides all that papa paid to bring us here. Then, too, he's going to see Max again after we get home, and will maybe take one or both of us along--if we're good." "Oh, do you think so?" exclaimed Grace. "Oh, I'd love to see Maxie! but if only one of us can go it ought to be you, because you're the oldest, and so well that it wouldn't give papa half so much trouble to take care of you as of me." "I'm just sure papa doesn't think it any trouble to take care of you, Gracie," returned Lulu in her quick, earnest way. "And you are a better girl than I, therefore more deserving of such indulgences." "That's a mistake of yours, Lu," said Grace; "you've been good as gold ever since we came to Viamede--as well as before--and helped papa with your typewriter, while I haven't done anything but wait on him a little, and try to learn my lessons well, and amuse the little ones sometimes." Lulu's face had grown very red while Grace was speaking, and she hung her head in a shamefaced, remorseful way. "No, Gracie," she said in a low, mortified tone, "I haven't been half so good as you think; I displeased papa very much that day when you all went to Magnolia Hall, and I had to stay at home and learn my lessons over. I was very angry and cross with dear little Ned because he meddled with my herbarium, which I had carelessly left lying out on my desk. If papa had punished me very severely it would have been no more than I deserved, but all he did was to send me to my room for a while till I told him how sorry I was and asked forgiveness of him, and Neddie, too." Grace looked surprised. "No, I never heard a word of it before," she said; "but I'm sure you did all you could when you asked forgiveness of both of them--papa and Neddie." The little girls had no idea that their father was within hearing, yet such was the case, and their little talk pleased him greatly. "The darlings!" he said to himself, "they shall not be long penniless, for their father thinks them very worthy to be trusted with pocket-money. Two more unselfish children I am sure it would be hard to find." With that he rose and went to the library, to which they presently followed him, asking if there were anything he wanted them to do. "Why, it is your play-time, daughters," he returned, with a loving smile into the bright young faces. "But we'd like to do something to help you, dear papa," Grace said, laying her small, white hand on his arm, and looking lovingly up into his face. "Yes, indeed we would, papa," said Lulu, standing on his other side, and putting her arm round his neck. "Please, if you have letters to answer, mayn't I write them for you on my typewriter?" "Does my dear eldest daughter deem that a privilege?" he asked, smiling down into her beseeching eyes, while he put one arm round her, the other about Grace's waist, and drew both in between his knees, kissing first one and then the other. "Indeed I do, papa," Lulu answered in an earnest tone; "it's very sweet to me to feel that I am of even a little use to my dear, dear father, who does so much for me, taking so much trouble to teach me, and gives me so many, many nice things to eat, to wear, to read, and to amuse myself with--so many that it would take quite a long while to count them all up." "Ah, that reminds me," he said, taking out his pocket-book, "I shouldn't wonder if my little girls had about emptied their purses in buying gifts for the bride that is to be, and so forth. Get them out and let me see what can be done toward replenishing them." He noted with pleasure that as he spoke each young face grew very bright. "We've left them upstairs, papa," said Lulu, "and though you're ever so kind," hugging and kissing him again, "we don't want to take any more now when you have to spend so very much on the wedding, and to take us all home to Woodburn." "No, indeed we don't, you dear, dear papa," chimed in Grace, nestling closer to him and patting his cheek lovingly. "My precious darlings!" he said, holding them close, "your father can spare it without denying himself or anybody else anything at all needful; and he feels very sure that he could not get more enjoyment out of it in any other way. So get your purses and bring them here to me," he concluded, releasing them from his embrace. They ran joyfully to do his bidding, and on their return each found a little pile of money waiting for her--two clean, fresh one dollar bills, two silver half dollars, four quarters, and ten dimes; all looking as if just issued from the mint. "Oh! oh! oh!" they cried, "how much! and all so bright and new!" Lulu adding, "Papa, are you quite, quite sure you can really spare all this without being--embarrassed?" "Yes, quite sure," he returned, regarding her with a twinkle of fun in his eyes; "I really think I should not be greatly embarrassed if called upon for twice as much." At that Lulu drew a long breath of relief, while Grace threw her arms about his neck, saying, "You dear, dear papa! I don't believe any other children ever had such a good, kind father as ours." "Well, now, I really hope there are a great many other fathers quite as good and kind as yours," he said, with a smile, pinching the round, rosy cheek, kissing the ruby lips, and fondly stroking the soft, shining curls of her pretty head. "I hope so," said Lulu, "but I'm just sure there's not another one I could love so, so dearly as ours. I do think God was very good to me in making me yours, papa. Your very own little daughter." "And me too," said Grace. "Yes; good to me as well as to you," responded the captain, "for my darlings seem to me the dearest, most lovable children in the world. Well, Lulu daughter, you may help me with your machine for a half hour, if you wish." "Oh, yes, papa; yes, indeed! I'll be glad to!" she exclaimed, hastening to uncover it, put in the paper, and seat herself before it, while her father took up a letter, glanced over the contents, then began his dictation. It was a business note and had no interest for Grace, who presently wandered out upon the veranda with her well filled purse in her hand. Grandma Elsie sat there alone, reading. "What a bright, happy face, my little Gracie," she said, glancing up from her book as the child drew near. "Has some special good come to you, dear?" "Yes, ma'am; see!" exclaimed the little girl, displaying her well filled purse; "it was empty, and my dear papa has just filled it. You see, Grandma Elsie," drawing near and lowering her voice, "I was wanting to buy a few things for good-by presents to some of the poor old colored folks, but I'd spent every cent of my money and thought I'd have to give it up; and I'm oh, so glad that I won't have to now. And--Oh, Grandma Elsie, you and mamma will help me to think what will be best to get for them, won't you?" "I will be very glad to do anything I can to help you, dear child," replied Grandma Elsie in her low, sweet tones, and softly stroking the golden curls as the little girl stood close at her side. "Suppose you get a pencil and paper from the school-room and make out a list of those to whom you wish to give, and opposite to each name the gift that seems most suitable." Grace's reply was a joyful assent, and she hurried away in search of the required articles. She was not gone more than a very few minutes, but on her return found that her Mamma Vi, Rosie, and Evelyn had joined Grandma Elsie on the veranda, had been told by her what was the business in hand, and were desirous to have a share in it. They had a pleasant time over their lists, each making out one for herself, while Lulu finished the work she had undertaken for her father. They decided to write to the city for what was wanted, and that anyone else who wished could send at the same time; so that matter was satisfactorily disposed of. "Oh!" exclaimed Grace, struck by a sudden thought, "suppose I run to the library and tell papa and Lu about it, and get him to tell her what to say, and let her write on the typewriter for the things?" Everyone thought it an excellent idea, and Grace immediately carried it out. "I quite approve," her father said, when she had told her story and made her request. "I too," said Lulu, "and I'll join you if papa will help me to decide what to buy. I'll write the letter too, if he will tell me what to say." "I am entirely willing to do both, daughter," he said. "Let us set to work at once, as it will soon be dinner-time, and I want to take my little girls out for a drive this afternoon." "Oh, thank you, papa, thank you very much!" they cried in joyous tones. "Is anybody else going, papa?" asked Lulu. "Your Grandma Elsie, Mamma Vi, and our little ones, in our carriage; as many more as may wish to go either in other carriages or on horseback. Perhaps you would prefer to ride your pony?" "No, sir; not if you are to be in the carriage I may ride in." "Ah, you are very fond of being with your father," he said, with a pleased smile. "Yes, sir; yes, indeed! just as close as I can get," stroking and patting his cheek, then pressing her lips to it in an ardent kiss. "And it's exactly the same with me, you dear, darling papa!" exclaimed Grace, putting an arm round his neck. "And it's exactly the same with every one of your children from big Maxie down to baby Ned." "I believe it is, and it makes me very happy to think so," he replied. "But now, my dears, we must to work on our list of articles." CHAPTER XI. IT was a large party that set out from Viamede shortly after leaving the dinner-table. Most of the young people--among them Chester, Frank, Maud, and Sydney Dinsmore, Evelyn Leland, Rosie and Walter Travilla--preferred riding. These, having swifter steeds, presently distanced the rest of the riders, as well as those who were driving, and in passing a plantation, which was the home of Nettie Vance, an old school-mate of the Viamede young folks at the time, several years before, of their attendance at Oakdale Academy, they were joined by her and a young man whom she introduced as her brother, both well mounted and looking merry and happy. "Bob and I were just starting out for a ride," she said, "and consider ourselves fortunate in meeting with such good company. May I take my place alongside of you, Miss Leland? I have a bit of news to tell which I think will interest you and Miss Travilla. It is that Signor Foresti, who, as you will doubtless remember, was a teacher of music--anything but an agreeable one, by the way--at Oakdale Academy when we were there together, is quite ill, partly from an accident, partly from drink, and extremely poor. I must say I hardly pity him very much for that last, but I do feel sorry for his wife and children." "I too," said Evelyn. "I wish it were in my power to relieve them, but my purse is about empty just at present. However, I will report the matter at Viamede, and I am sure the kind friends there will see that something is done toward supplying their pressing needs." "Yes," returned Nettie, "I have heard a great deal of the kindness and benevolence of Mrs. Travilla and her father; of Captain Raymond's also; though I for one could hardly blame him if he utterly refused to give any assistance to a man who had abused his daughter as Foresti did Lulu." "Nor I," said Evelyn; "yet I feel almost certain that he will assist Foresti. He would not let the wife and children suffer for the man's ill deeds, nor indeed the man himself, unless I am greatly mistaken; for the captain is a truly Christian gentleman." "Indeed he is," said Rosie, "and very benevolent; exceedingly kind to the poor; to anyone who is in distress of any kind. I am very proud of that brother-in-law of mine, Nettie, and don't care who knows it." "I do not wonder at that," returned Nettie. "I certainly should be if he were mine; it is very plain from the way in which Lulu and Gracie look at him that they are both fond and proud of their father." "Nor do I wonder at it," said Robert Vance, joining in the conversation. "Nettie pointed him out to me at church last Sunday, and I remarked then that he was as fine looking a man as ever I saw; tall, straight, handsome in feature, and of most noble countenance." "Thank you," Rosie said, with a smile and a bow. "I think him all that, and as noble in character as in looks. It is my opinion that my sister Violet drew a prize in the matrimonial lottery; and the captain also, for Vi is in every way worthy of him." "Surely," returned the young man, "one glance at her is sufficient to assure one of that." Rosie and Evelyn then asked where the Forestis were to be found, and what were their most pressing needs, and having learned those particulars, promised that someone from Viamede would call to see and relieve them, Rosie adding, with a smile, "We, as you probably know, are busy with preparations for a wedding in the family, yet I have no doubt some one or more among us could find time to attend to this call for help." "Yes," said Walter, who had been quietly listening to the talk, "mamma will be sure to find time for such an act of kindness; she always does." "I am sure of it," responded Nettie heartily, "from her sweet looks and all I have heard of her. And so your cousin, Miss Johnson, is going to be married?" she added, looking at Rosie. "We received our invitations yesterday, and are busy with our preparations. It must be delightful to have such a thing coming off in the family; particularly to be the bride; for I hear it is to be quite a grand affair and the match an excellent one." "Yes," returned Rosie, "we are all much pleased with what we have heard of the gentleman, and I hope they are going to be very happy together." "I hope so, indeed," responded Nettie. "I am but slightly acquainted with Miss Johnson, but have always liked her looks." It was near tea-time when the Viamede party reached home again; the ladies and little girls had barely time to dress for the evening before the summons to the table. It was while all where seated about it that Rosie and Evelyn told of the news learned from Nettie Vance in regard to Signor Foresti and his family. "Ah, poor things! we must do something for them," Grandma Elsie said, when the story was finished. "Papa, shall we stop there to-morrow on our way to or from church? It would be a work of mercy suited to the day, I think. Do not you?" "Yes," replied Mr. Dinsmore; "and it might be well to carry a basket of provisions with us." Lulu had listened in silence while the others were talking, and all through the evening she had but little to say, seeming much of the time lost in thought, though usually she was quite talkative, unless, as occasionally happened, checked by a slight reminder from her father that it would be more becoming in a child of her age to show herself a quiet listener to older people. The captain noticed her abstraction, but, guessing at the cause, said nothing about it till they were alone together in her bedroom; then, drawing her to his knee, "My little girl has been unusually silent this evening," he said. "Is anything wrong with her?" She drew a long sigh. "I have been trying to decide a question of duty, papa," she said, "and, please--I'd like you to tell me what to do." "In regard to what, daughter?" "Giving a part of my money--the money you put into my purse this morning--to--to the Forestis." "I think it would be right and kind for you to do so. Do not you?" "Yes, sir; and I will do it," she said with sudden determination. "It will be returning good for evil, as the Bible bids us; won't it, papa?" "Yes; and I think will help you to forgive the man for his ill treatment of my dear little daughter," drawing her closer and kissing her fondly. "Yes, sir; even the resolve has made me feel more kindly toward him. How much ought I to give, papa? I hardly think I'll have very much left after I've paid for the presents I've sent for, for the servants here." "No, not a very great deal, I presume; but you are not likely to need much before there will be more pocket-money coming to you." "Oh, no, sir, I'll not, of course, because my dear, dear father provides everything I need to eat or wear, and pays my travelling expenses too, so that I'm not really obliged to spend anything on myself," she said, putting an arm about his neck and laying her cheek lovingly to his. "Papa, do you think a dollar will be enough for me to give the Forestis?" "You may decide that question for yourself, my darling," he said, patting her cheek and stroking her hair; "I leave it entirely to you to give much, little, or nothing, as conscience and inclination dictate." "Thank you, papa; you are very kind to say that; but please tell me if you think a dollar will be enough for me?" "Yes, I do," was his reply, and Lulu looked satisfied and relieved. "I'm glad, papa," she said, "for I really do not know that I shall have more than that left after paying for the presents for the servants; and of course I can't give more than I have." "Quite true," he returned, with a slight smile. "I would have you make it a rule never to go into debt for your own gratification or for any other object. 'Out of debt, out of danger,' is an old and wise saying. Now, daughter, it is time to say good-night; but first let me remind you that to-morrow is the Lord's day, and to be kept holy. Try not to think of the exciting events expected in the coming week, but to spend the time in the worship of God and the study of his word, that you may grow in grace and conformity to his will, thus becoming 'meet for the inheritance of the saints in light,' and ready, when he shall call you away from earth, to dwell forever with him in that holy, happy land where sin and sorrow are unknown. We will kneel down together now for a moment and ask him to help us both to do so, 'running with patience the race set before us, ever looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith.'" Sunday was passed by the Viamede family in the usual quiet way, most of its hours filled up with divine service in the sanctuary or at home, and all retired to rest at an early hour, to rise the next morning in renewed health and strength, the children rejoicing in their holiday and the near approach of the wedding festivities. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore had the day before, on their way to church, called upon the Italian music teacher, taking with them delicacies for the sick man, and other articles of food for the rest of the family; some money also, in which was included Lulu's dollar; and finding the services of a physician were needed, had engaged to send one. Dr. Dick Percival undertook the errand, made a professional call, and on his return reported the man quite ill, but likely to recover with good and competent nursing. He went over again on Monday morning, but called first at Viamede to report to his uncle Dinsmore and the captain. Lulu was present at the interview and heard with interest all that Cousin Dick had to tell about the signor and his family. "There are three children," said Dick--"forlorn looking little creatures, with apparently no playthings except a few broken bits of china, and for doll babies, some corn cobs wrapped in rags." "Oh, papa," exclaimed little Elsie, seated upon her father's knee, "mayn't I send dem some of my dollies?" "Yes, if you want to do so," he replied, smiling upon her, and smoothing her curls caressingly with his hand. "And I will hunt up some playthings for them too, if I may, papa," said Lulu. "Certainly," he said; "you may do so at once, and we three and Gracie will drive over there in the carriage, which I will order immediately; that is, if Cousin Dick does not object to our company?" "Not by any means, Captain; I shall be delighted to have it," said Dr. Percival. "And will you drive over with me, Art?" turning to Dr. Conley. "With pleasure, Dick," was the reply, and in a short time all were on their way, the children well laden with toys and sweets for the little Forestis. Violet had been invited to accompany her husband, but declined because of some preparations still to be made for the wedding. Little Ned, however, had no such excuse, and gladly made one of the merry little party in his father's carriage. Dr. Percival, having other patients needing his attention, said he intended to make but a short call upon the Italian, and the captain did not think it worth while for his children to alight; but from the carriage they witnessed with delight the pleasure conferred upon the little Forestis by their gifts. Captain Raymond left them for a few moments while he went in to see the sick man, to whom he spoke with the utmost kindness, condoling with him on his sufferings, and inquiring if they were very great. "De bains ish ver bad, sare," replied the man, with a heavy sigh. Then, with an earnest look into the captain's face, his own flushing hotly, "You, sare, ish de fader off Mees Lu Raymond?" he said inquiringly. "I am, sir," replied the captain with some sternness of look and tone. "Mees Lu, she bees one goot leetle girl for send me that monish yesterday," continued Foresti; "dot make me ver sorry I haf so leetle batience mit her dat time she sthrike me mit de music book." "Yes," said Captain Raymond, "and I trust that when you are again able to teach you will try to be more patient and forbearing with your pupils. It will be better for both you and them." "Yes, sare, I vill try dat blan; but mine batience bees sorely dried mit de mishtakes off dose careless bupils I haf to teach." "I dare say that is true," said the captain, "but one who finds it impossible to have patience with pupils, should try some other way of making a livelihood than by teaching." In another minute or two the captain left--not waiting for the doctors, who were, as he knew, going in another direction--re-entered his carriage, and started on the return trip to Viamede. "Papa," asked Lulu, "can't we take a little different route going home?" "Yes," he replied in an indulgent tone, and gave the necessary directions to the driver. It was a pleasant, shady road into which they presently turned, and the children chatted and laughed right merrily, receiving no rebuke from their father and fearing none. They had not gone far on that road when they espied two horsemen approaching from the opposite direction. "Oh," cried little Elsie, "here come Cousin Ronald and Uncle Horace." "An unexpected meeting, Captain," Mr. Dinsmore remarked, with a bow and smile as they drew near. "But none the less pleasant," returned Captain Raymond. "Very true, sir," said Mr. Lilburn, bowing and smiling in his turn. "For the captain and you young folks, no doubt, but a trifle less delightful for us who have the load to carry," seemed to come from the mouth of one of the horses as he tossed his head to shake off a fly. "True enough, Selim. You doubtless envy me with only this gentleman to carry; and I pity you from the bottom of my heart; only that it must be good fun to hear those little folks chatting and laughing," was the answering remark apparently made by the horse ridden by Mr. Lilburn, speaking as they passed the captain's carriage. Lulu and Grace clapped their hands, laughing merrily, while baby Ned exclaimed, with a look of astonishment, "Me didn't fink horsey could talk like udder folks!" "Oh, yes! but why did they never do it before?" cried little Elsie. "Papa, did you know they could talk?" "I never heard them do so before, daughter," the captain said, with an amused smile down into the earnest, surprised little face, "and I suspect that it is only when Cousin Ronald is about that they can." CHAPTER XII. RIDES, drives, sports of various kinds, and preparations for the wedding, made the time pass very rapidly and pleasantly to the young folks at Viamede, Magnolia Hall, and the Parsonage, until at length all was in readiness for the expected festivities. The ceremony was to be performed at the church, the Rev. Cyril Keith officiating, and to be immediately succeeded by a wedding breakfast on the lawn at Magnolia Hall. That was to be about noon, so did not interfere with the usual morning meal and family devotions at Viamede. When these had been attended to, the ladies and young girls scattered to their rooms to dress for the important occasion. It had been arranged that Grace Raymond and Rose Lacy were to act as flower girls, dressed in white tarlatan, and white hats trimmed with white ribbon, and each carrying a basket filled with white roses, white japonicas, and smilax. Rose Travilla, Evelyn Leland, and Lulu Raymond, dressed as had been planned at the first, were to act as bridesmaids, while Lora Howard, Maud and Sydney Dinsmore, were to be maids of honor, dressed in white, and carrying bouquets of white flowers. Betty's own dress was a rich white silk, trimmed with elegant and costly lace--the gift of her brother-in-law, Mr. Embury--and a tulle veil, fastened to her head with a wreath of orange blossoms. Her bouquet was of bride roses and smilax. The Dinsmore and Howard cousins were to act as ushers and groomsmen. All this had been satisfactorily arranged, and rehearsals gone through with several times at Magnolia Hall and Viamede, that each one might be perfect in his or her part; otherwise timid little Gracie could not have been induced to undertake her share in the ceremony. When she and Lulu were dressed for the occasion they went in search of their father to ask his opinion of their appearance and attire. He scanned each daintily attired, graceful little figure with a look of proud, fond affection, clasped them in his arms and kissed them tenderly. "My darlings look very sweet in their father's eyes," he said; "but do not be too proud of your appearance, for fathers are apt to see their own children through rose-colored glasses; and it is not very likely that you will attract particular attention among so many attendants upon the bride, who will doubtless be gazed upon more admiringly and critically than anyone else." "I'm ever so glad of that, papa," Gracie said, with a sigh of relief; "because I don't like to be viewed with a critic's eye," she concluded with a merry, though slightly disturbed little laugh. "Well, dear child, just try to forget yourself, and I have no doubt everything will go right," he said, drawing both her and Lulu closer into his arms for a little more petting and caressing. That was interrupted by the entrance of their mamma Vi, coming upon the same errand that had brought them. "Will I do, my dear?" she asked, with a bright, winsome smile. "Ah, my Violet, my sweet and beautiful flower," he returned, regarding her with ardently admiring eyes, "I fear you will outshine the bride. You look very like one yourself, except a most becoming air of maturity; scarcely older and certainly not less beautiful than when you gave yourself to me." "And accepted you in return; deeds which I have never yet for a moment regretted," she said, with a coquettish smile up into his face; for he had put his little girls gently aside and risen to take a critical survey of his young and beautiful wife. "And never shall if in my power to prevent it, my love, my darling," he said low and tenderly, laying a hand upon her shoulder, and bending down to press a fond kiss upon her lips. They were in the library, whither the captain had gone, after arraying himself for the wedding festival, to wait for the ladies and damsels who were to go under his care. "Ah, Brother Levis, I have caught you in the very act," laughed Rosie, dancing into the room, already in bridesmaid's attire, and looking but little less attractive than Violet herself. "Ah! and what of that, little sister?" he asked. "Who has a better right than her husband to bestow caresses upon a beautiful and attractive woman?" "Captain Raymond, being my teacher, has an undoubted right to question me in the school-room," laughed Rosie, with an arch look up into his face, "but--I don't know that he has here and now. Now please let me have your candid opinion of my dress and appearance." "You will do very well, little sister; there is no fault to be found with your appearance, so far as I can see," he answered in a non-committal tone, and with a mischievous twinkle of fun in his eye. At that Rosie pretended to pout. "You keep all your compliments for Vi," she said. "But--ah, here comes Eva, and I wonder if you can afford one to her. She is certainly worthy of it." Evelyn did indeed look sweet and fair in a becoming white chip hat and her pretty dress of pale blue silk trimmed with lovely lace. Rosie's own dress was a delicate pink; Lulu's canary color; all of the same material. "That she is, in my opinion," returned the captain, bestowing a fatherly caress upon the young orphan girl, then offering the same to Rosie. "Well, now, you are a nice brother--my big, big brother, you remember," she laughed, "so I won't repulse you; help yourself and let us have it over." Just at that moment her mother came in, dressed for the wedding in a beautiful pearl-colored silk and point lace, a knot of white roses at her throat and in her belt, her lovely and abundant golden brown hair simply and tastefully arranged. "Mamma!" exclaimed Violet, "you are the most beautiful and tastefully attired one among us!" "In the partial eyes of my daughter Violet," was the smiling rejoinder. "But to me her youthful beauty far exceeds her mother's fading charms." "I incline to the opinion that the fading is perceptible to no eyes but your own, mother," remarked the captain gallantly. "I also," said Violet; "a richer, riper bloom is all that I can see." "Or that anybody else can," added Walter, who, ready dressed for the wedding, had entered the room just in time to catch Violet's first exclamation. Then the other members of the family and the guests came flocking in, the carriages were announced as waiting for their living freight, and presently all were seated in them and on their way to the church, which they found crowded with invited guests and other spectators. The ceremony was short, but impressive. Bride, bridesmaids, flower girls, and maids of honor were all looking their best, and behaved admirably; groom, groomsmen, and ushers also, among whom were a brother and an intimate friend of the bridegroom, the young cousins Arthur and Walter Howard, Chester and Frank Dinsmore, and little Walter Travilla. Old Mr. Dinsmore, the uncle and guardian of the bride, gave her away, and was the first to salute, and call her by her new name on the completion of the ceremony, the first to congratulate the groom, and wish them a great deal of happiness. Other affectionate greetings and best wishes followed in quick succession; then the carriages were re-entered, and all drove to Magnolia Hall to partake of the wedding breakfast. The place was looking its very loveliest: the grass on the lawn like a velvet carpet of emerald green, spangled with many flowers of varied hues, which filled the air with delicious perfume, and there, scattered about underneath the magnolia, orange, and other beautiful shade trees, were many small tables resplendent with the finest napery, shining silver, cut glass, and delicate china, and loaded with delicate and delicious viands. Presently every table was surrounded by a merry group quite disposed to do justice to the tempting fare, and the air filled with the pleasant hum of happy voices and low, gleeful laughter. The bride and groom, with their attendants, were seated about two tables not many feet apart, while the older members of the Viamede family and Cousin Ronald occupied another, quite near to both; and Mr. Embury and his Molly, with the Parsonage family, Virginia and the older Embury children, filled a third, not far from either of the others, when presently Nero, a great big Newfoundland dog belonging to Mr. Embury, showed himself at his master's side, looking up wistfully into his face. "I'm hungry, good master," were the words that seemed to come from his lips, "and surely your faithful dog might have a taste of this feast." At that some of the guests looked startled and astounded, too much surprised to speak, but Mr. Embury, who was not ignorant of Cousin Ronald's talents, though a little startled at first, recovered his wits instantly, and replying, "Certainly, certainly, Nero; that's only fair," handed the dog a generous bit of chicken, and bade him carry it to a distance and eat it. An order which was promptly obeyed. "Ah ha, ah ha, um h'm! that's a bright and capable dog, Mr. Embury," remarked Cousin Ronald, elevating his eyebrows in mock surprise. "What would you take for him, sir?" "He is not for sale, Mr. Lilburn," was Mr. Embury's grave rejoinder. "You must surely see for yourself, sir, that he is no ordinary dog, but an uncommonly valuable animal. There are not many of his race who can speak so plainly." "Ah ha, ah ha, um h'm! that is very true, sir. I don't wonder you are not inclined to part with him, for it is no easy matter to find a dog that can speak such good English, nor for that matter any other language." "No, sir, they are scarce indeed," said Mr. Embury, "and I had no idea Nero was one of them until he spoke just now." "Ah, I'm afraid the power of speech will be lost by him as suddenly as it was found," remarked Mrs. Embury with a low, gleeful laugh. "There must certainly be a ventriloquist among us," remarked the groom, with a searching look at Cousin Ronald. "Ah, do you really think so, sir?" inquired Mr. Lilburn gravely, "and would you do me the favor to point him out?" "Well, sir, I cannot say that I am absolutely certain, but strongly incline to the opinion that he sits in the chair occupied by yourself." "Indeed, sir, I didna think I filled the place so ill that room could be found in it for another mon!" exclaimed Mr. Lilburn, again raising his eyebrows like one astonished, then sending a downward glance over his own portly person, and assuming so comical an expression of countenance that no one could see it without smiling or laughing outright. So fully was he absorbing the attention of all that no one noticed the return of Nero until words were again heard apparently issuing from his lips. "That was a nice morsel, master, but not enough to satisfy the appetite of a dog of my size; so another bit, sir, if you please." "Yes, sir, you shall have it, since you ask so politely," returned Mr. Embury, handing him another and larger piece of the chicken, "but carry it off where there will be no danger of contact with wedding finery." Nero obeyed, and as he trotted away, a voice that seemed to come from behind Mr. Embury, said whiningly: "I'm hungry too, sir, and surely a human creature should be treated at least as well as a dog." At that Mr. Embury turned suddenly round as if to see the speaker, nearly everyone else doing likewise, but no beggar was in sight. "Well, sir," he said, "I cannot give to an invisible suppliant; show yourself if you want anything." "Sir," replied the voice, now seeming to come from a clump of bushes near at hand, "I'm not used to begging, and don't want to be seen. Can you not send a servant here with a plateful of your most toothsome viands?" "Quite a modest request, sir," returned Mr. Embury, laughing. "But I think you will have to wait till the servants have more leisure; at present they are all fully occupied in waiting upon my guests." "But then you'll let him have something to eat, won't you, papa?" pleaded little Mary Embury. "You never do turn anybody away hungry." "Certainly not, little daughter; if he could be found he should be fed." "But shan't I drive him out, sir?" queried a servant man; "we doan' want no beggahs 'bout yar. Dey mout help deirselfs to some o' de silvah when nobody aint lookin'." "Well, Bill, you might drive him out; he's perhaps a tramp watching his opportunity to help himself." Bill, well pleased with the errand, set down with alacrity the dish he carried, and hurried toward the clump of bushes that apparently concealed the tramp. "Ki, you ole tief you!" he cried, "git long out ob dis; nobody doan' want yo' hyar! I'se break yo' skull fo' yo' ef ye doan be gone putty quick!" He pulled apart the bushes as he spoke, but instantly started back in astonishment and terror as he perceived that no one was concealed there. "Whar dat fellah dun gone?" he exclaimed. "Dis chile doan' see nobody dar nohow 'tall!" "Ha, ha! you don't look in the right place," cried the same voice that had begged for food a moment before, the speaker seeming to be directly behind him; and Bill wheeled about with unusual alacrity with the intention of seizing his tormentor, but turned almost white with terror on perceiving that no one was there. "Wha--wha--wha dat raskil done gone?" he exclaimed, "t'ot he right dar, an' he aint nowhar 'bout." "Never mind, Bill; it seems he has saved you the trouble of driving him off," said Mr. Embury, "and you may come back to your duties. More coffee is wanted here." Bill obeyed, but on his return with the coffee kept glancing apprehensively in the direction of the bushes. "I wonder where the man did go!" exclaimed little Mary presently. "I've been watching, and don't know how he could get away without being seen." "Beggars are sometimes very quick at hiding, little lassie," remarked Mr. Lilburn. "Ha, ha! so they are!" cried the voice of the beggar, sounding as though he stood just behind her chair. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with a start and a backward glance. "Why, where is he? I don't see him at all." "Don't be frightened, daughter," Mr. Embury said in an encouraging tone. "No, bit lassie, he's not dangerous," remarked Mr. Lilburn, with a reassuring smile. "Oh, do you know him, sir?" she asked, looking up inquiringly into his face. "I didna see him," replied the old gentleman laughingly, "but judging by his voice I think I know who he is--a quiet, inoffensive countrymon o' me ain." "Ah, yes, a rather intimate acquaintance of yours, sir, is he not?" queried Norton, with a searching look into the face of the old gentleman and a half mocking smile. "I think I may have heard the voice before, sir," Mr. Lilburn replied with unmoved countenance. "It is not unusual for beggars to accost one who is by no means o' the same class as themselves. In fact, as ony body can see, it would be useless to ask alms o' those no richer than themselves." "Ah, true enough, sir!" was the reply. Meanwhile, many mirthful glances had been exchanged by those--particularly the young folks--acquainted with the secret of Cousin Ronald's peculiar talent, and the guests at more distant tables were looking on with a good deal of curiosity. Bill was presently questioned as he passed them on his way to and from the kitchen. "What was it you saw yonder in that bush, Bill?" "Nothin' 'tall, sah." "But you seemed frightened; you looked scared." "Dat's de reason, sah; somebody talkin' an' nobody dare." "Why, how was that, Bill?" queried another voice. "Dunno, sah; maybe witches roun'; 'spect dat de splanation ob de mattah." "Oh, of course," laughed the gentleman; "but one hardly expects such company at a wedding." Questions were put to Mr. and Mrs. Embury and others as the guests drew together again upon the conclusion of the meal, but no satisfactory answers were elicited. A reception occupied some hours after that, then all returned to their homes, to meet again at Viamede in the evening, where a beautiful and bountiful entertainment awaited them. The next evening a smaller party was given at the Parsonage, and on the following afternoon the bride and groom took their departure for a little trip northward, expecting to settle down in their own home upon their return. CHAPTER XIII. IT was only the next day after the departure of Betty and her husband that a letter was received by Mrs. Cyril Keith, informing her of the death of her aunt Delaford, leaving the bulk of her large fortune to her, and a fat legacy to each of the Conley brothers--Calhoun, Arthur, Walter, and Ralph--and the sisters Virginia and Ella. Isadore was well satisfied with the provisions of the will, as were the others also, with the exception of Virginia, who frowned and grumbled audibly that she herself might have been made to share equally with Isadore, who had a good home and husband already, therefore really needed less than herself, "lone and lorn, and poor as a church mouse." "But you have no children, Virgie," said her cousin Elsie, in whose presence the remark was made, "no one to support but yourself; and the interest of this money will be sufficient for your comfortable maintenance." "Possibly, if I had a home, as Isa has; but not without," returned Virginia in a pettish tone, while her eyes flashed angrily. Elsie bore patiently with the rebuff, and said no more at that time, but considered the matter earnestly, carefully, and prayerfully, in the privacy of her own room, then had a talk about it with her father, without whose approval she seldom took a step of any great importance. Finding him alone on the veranda, "Papa," she said, taking a seat by his side, "I want a few minutes' chat with you before we are joined by anyone else. You heard Virginia's complaint of yesterday--that she had no home of her own. I have been thinking it over, also of the fact that Dick and Bob are in the same condition, and it has occurred to me that I might invite them to take possession here while we are absent at our more northern home, giving employment to the servants, keeping the house in repair, and the grounds in order; that is, merely overseeing the work and looking to me for the means necessary to cover the expense, I to retain my present satisfactory overseer, and pay his wages out of the returns from the crops; also those of the laborers." "You mean that you would simply give a home here to your cousins?" returned Mr. Dinsmore interrogatively. "Yes, sir; a home without expense--except, perhaps, some small increase of the wages of the servants in consideration of the additional work made for them, and a share of the fruits, vegetables, fowls, and so forth, raised upon the plantation." "A share? meaning all they might want to use? the 'and so forth' I suppose, meaning milk, cream, butter, and eggs?" "Yes, sir." "I should call it a very generous offer, and I have no objection to bring it forward, seeing that you are well able to afford it, if it is your pleasure so to do." "I am glad my project meets with your approval," she said, with a smile, "for otherwise, as I think you know, papa, it would never be carried out. Ah, how thankful I should be, and I hope I am, that I have been given the financial ability to do such kindness to others!" "Yes," he said, with an affectionate smile into the soft brown eyes looking into his; "I know of no one who enjoys doing kindness more than my dear eldest daughter. "What a delightful winter and early spring we have had here," he continued after a pause; "but it is now growing so warm that I think we must soon be moving northward." "Yes, sir; when the last arrivals have had a week or more of the enjoyment to be found in this lovely region of country." "Yes; they are enjoying it," he said, with a pleased smile; "the younger ones especially, the children of your brother and sister not less than the others. And by the way, daughter, I think you will be doing no little kindness to your cousins Cyril and Isadore by giving Virginia a home here." "Yes, I think their home life will be more peaceful," she said in assent. "Poor Virgie seems to be not of--the happiest or most contented disposition." "No, she never was," said Mr. Dinsmore; "a discontented, fretful, complaining creature she has always been since I have known her, and she was a very little child when our acquaintance began." In the course of that day Elsie's plans were made known to the Keiths, Virginia, and her cousins Dick Percival and his half-brother Bob Johnson, joyfully accepted by the two gentlemen, and half ungraciously by Virginia, who said complainingly, that "Viamede was a pretty enough place, to be sure, but would be dreadfully lonesome for her when the boys were away." "Then you can amuse yourself with a book from the library, a ride or drive, as the horses and carriages will be left here for your use and that of Dick and Bob," Elsie answered pleasantly, while Isadore, blushing vividly for her sister, exclaimed, "O Virgie, you could not have a lovelier, sweeter home, and I think Cousin Elsie is wonderfully kind to offer it!" "Of course, I'm greatly obliged to her," Virginia said, coloring slightly as though a trifle ashamed of her want of appreciation of the kind offer "and I'll not damage anything, so that the house will be none the worse for my occupancy, but possibly a little better." "Yes, perhaps it may," Elsie said pleasantly, "though the servants usually left in charge are careful about airing it and keeping everything neat and clean. I really think you will have no trouble with your housekeeping, Virgie." "That seems a pleasant prospect, for I never liked housekeeping," returned Virginia, "and I really am much obliged to you, Cousin Elsie." "You are very welcome, and I hope will be happy here," was the kindly reply. Another fortnight of constant intercourse between the three places--Viamede, Magnolia Hall, and the Parsonage--of rides, drives, walks, sailing or rowing about on the lagoon, and every other pleasure and entertainment that could be devised, then the party began to break up, those from the north returning to their homes, most of them by rail, as the speediest and the most convenient mode of travel. However, Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, Evelyn, Grandma Elsie and her youngest two, Cousin Ronald and the Woodburn family, returned together by sea, making use of the captain's yacht, which he had ordered to be sent to him in season for the trip by the Gulf and ocean. There was no urgent need of haste, and the captain did not deny that he was conscious of a longing to be, for a time, again in command of a vessel sailing over the briny deep; besides, it would be less fatiguing for the little ones, to say nothing of their elders. The little girls were full of delight at the prospect of both the voyage and the return to their lovely homes, yet could not leave beautiful Viamede without deep regret. It was the last evening but one of their stay; all were gathered upon the veranda looking out upon the lagoon sparkling in the moonlight, and the velvety flower-bespangled lawn, with its many grand and beautiful old trees. The little ones had already gone to their nests, but Evelyn, Lulu, and Grace were sitting with the older people, Grace on her father's knee, the other two together close at hand. There had been some cheerful chat, followed by a silence of several minutes. It was broken by a slight scuffling sound, as of a negro's footstep, in the rear of Elsie's chair, then a voice said in mournful accents, "Scuse de in'truption, missus, but dis chile want to 'spress to you uns dat we uns all a'most heart-broke t'inkin' how you's gwine 'way an' p'r'arps won't be comin' heah no mo' till de ol'est ob us done gone foreber out dis wicked worl'." Before the sentence was completed every eye had turned in the direction of the sounds; but nothing was to be seen of the speaker. "Oh, that was you, Cousin Ronald," laughed Rosie, recovering from the momentary start given her by the seemingly mysterious disappearance of the speaker. "Ah, Rosie, my bonnie lassie, how can you treat your auld kinsman so ill as to suspect him of murdering the king's English in that style?" queried the old gentleman in hurt, indignant tones. "Because, my poor abused cousin, I am utterly unable to account in any other way for the phenomenon of an invisible speaker so close at hand." Cousin Ronald made no reply, for at that instant there came a sound of bitter sobbing, apparently from behind a tree a few feet from the veranda's edge, then a wailing cry, "Oh, Miss Elsie, Massa Dinsmore, and de res' ob you dar, doan' go for to leab dis po' chile! She cayn't stan' it nohow 'tall! her ole heart like to break! Doan' go way, massa an' missus; stay hyah wid de niggahs dat lubs you so!" "Oh, Cousin Ronald, don't!" Elsie said in half tremulous tones. "It seems too real, and almost breaks my heart; for I am greatly attached to many of these poor old men and women." "Then I think they will not distress you with any more complaints and entreaties to-night, sweet cousin," returned the old gentleman in pleasant, though half regretful tones. CHAPTER XIV. THE next day the servants were gathered on the lawn and presented with the parting gifts procured for them by the ladies and little girls, which they received with many thanks and demonstrations of delight. But the following morning, when the time of parting had really come, there were some tears shed by the old retainers, yet they were greatly cheered by the assurances of their loved mistress, her father, and Captain Raymond, that in all probability it would not be very long before the family would be there again for a season. The feelings of the departing ones were of a mingled character--regret at leaving lovely Viamede, and joy in the prospect of soon being again in their own sweet homes farther north. The weather was delightful, light fleecy clouds tempering the heat of the sun; the fields and plantations clothed in the richest verdure of spring; the air filled with the perfume of flowers and vocal with the songs of birds; then on reaching Bayou Teche they found their own yacht, the _Dolphin_, awaiting them. The young folks of the party greeted her with a clapping of hands and many another demonstration of delight, and soon all were on board, and she was steaming out through the bay, into the Gulf beyond, her passengers, from Grandpa Dinsmore down to baby Ned, grouped together on deck underneath an awning. "We are in the Gulf now, aren't we, sir?" asked Walter at length, addressing the captain. "Yes, my boy," was the pleasant toned reply; "and are there any places along its coast that you or any of the others would particularly like to see?" "Oh, yes, sir; yes, indeed!" exclaimed Walter with enthusiasm. "I for one would like greatly to see Mobile Bay with its fort. Morgan is the name?" "Yes; Fort Morgan is at the extremity of Mobile Point, where Fort Bowyer stood in the War of 1812-14. You remember what happened there at that time?" "It was attacked by the British, wasn't it, sir?" "Yes; in September, 1814, by a British squadron of two brigs and two sloops of war, aided by a land force of one hundred and thirty marines and six hundred Indians, led by Captain Woodbine, who had been trying to drill them at Pensacola. "Florida did not belong to us at that time; the Spaniards had made a settlement at Pensacola in 1696, were still there at the time of our last war with England, and favored the British, who there, as well as in other parts of Florida, organized expeditions against the United States, the Spanish governor, though professing neutrality, evidently siding with and giving them aid and comfort." "And when then did we get possession of Florida, sir?" asked Walter. "In July of 1821," answered the captain. "Didn't Jackson capture Pensacola at one time during that war with England, Captain?" asked Evelyn. "Yes; in the attack about which Walter was just asking, before Lafitte forwarded to New Orleans those documents showing how the British were trying to get him into their service, Jackson had perceived that the Spaniards were, as I have said, secretly siding with the British, and now, with the positive proof furnished by those papers before him, he squarely accused Manrequez, the Spanish governor at Pensacola, of bad faith. "Then followed a spicy correspondence, which Jackson closed by writing to the governor, 'In future I beg you to withhold your insulting charges against my government for one more inclined to listen to slander than I am; nor consider me any more a diplomatic character unless so proclaimed from the mouth of my cannon.' "Then he set to work to raise troops, and in a very short time had two thousand sturdy young Tennesseeans ready for the field. "But before these reached Mobile, hostilities had begun. Jackson himself went there early in August, and on his arrival perceived that an attempt would be made by the British to seize it as soon as their talked of great expedition should be ready to move. "Fort Bowyer was but a small and weak fortification; had no bomb-proofs, and but twenty guns, only two of them larger than twelve pounders, some still smaller in size. "Yet small and weak as was the fort, it was the chief defence of Mobile; so Jackson threw into it a hundred and thirty of his Second Regular Infantry, under Major William Lawrence, who was as gallant an officer as any in the service. "Lawrence at once made every preparation in his power to resist the expected attack. But before he could complete his work, on the morning of the 12th of September, the British Lieutenant-colonel Nichols appeared on the peninsula back of the fort, with, as I have said, his marines and Indians, the latter under the command of Captain Woodbine, who had been drilling them at Pensacola. "Later in the evening of the same day the four British vessels of which I spoke appeared in sight, and anchored within six miles of Mobile Point. They were a part of a squadron of nine vessels in Pensacola Bay, under the command of Captain Percy. "Our little garrison slept upon their arms that night. The next morning Nichols caused a howitzer to be dragged to a sheltered point within seven hundred yards of the fort, and threw some shells and solid shot from it, but without doing much damage." "And our fellows fired back at him, of course?" exclaimed Walter excitedly. "Yes, but their fire was equally harmless; but later in the day Lawrence's guns quickly dispersed some of Percy's men who were attempting to cast up intrenchments, and in the same way several light boats, whose men were engaged in sounding the channel nearest the fort. "The next day was occupied in very much the same way, but on the third the garrison perceived that an assault was to be made from both land and water. At two o'clock the vessels were seen approaching, and Lawrence called a council of officers. "All were determined to resist to the last, and if finally compelled to surrender, to do so only on condition that officers and privates should retain their arms and private property, be treated as prisoners of war, and protected from the savages. "The words adopted as the signal for the day were, 'don't give up the fort.' "At half past four the battle began, the four vessels opening fire simultaneously, and pouring broadside after broadside upon the fort, which returned a fearful fire from its circular battery. "While this was going on in front, Captain Woodbine was assailing our men in the rear, from behind his sand-dune, with a howitzer and a twelve-pounder. "So the battle raged for an hour; then the flag of the _Hermes_ was shot away, and Lawrence stopped firing to learn if she had surrendered; but the _Caron_ fired another broadside, and the fight went on with renewed vigor. Soon a shot cut the cable of the _Hermes_, and she floated away with the current, her head toward the fort, and her decks swept of men and everything by a raking fire from the fort. "Then the fort's flag-staff was shot away and her ensign fell, but the British, instead of following Lawrence's humane example, redoubled their fire. At the same time, Woodbine, supposing that the fort had surrendered, hastened toward it with his Indians, but they were driven back by a storm of grape-shot, and almost immediately the flag was seen again floating over the fort at the end of the staff to which Major Lawrence had nailed it." "And was that the end of the fight, papa?" asked Lulu. "Very nearly, if not quite," he replied. "Two of the attacking vessels presently withdrew, leaving the helpless _Hermes_ behind; she finally grounded upon a sand-bank, when Percy fired and abandoned her. Near midnight her magazine exploded." "I should think that was a great victory; was it not, Brother Levis?" queried Walter. "I think it was," the captain said. "The result was very mortifying to the British. It was entirely unexpected, and Percy had said that he would allow the garrison only twenty minutes to capitulate. It is not surprising that he expected to take the weak little fort, with its feeble garrison of one hundred and thirty, when he brought against it over thirteen hundred men and ninety-two pieces of artillery. "The Americans lost only eight men, one-half of whom were killed. The assailants lost two hundred and thirty-two, one hundred and sixty-two of them killed. "One result of that fight was that the Indians lost faith in the invincibility of the British, and many of them deserted, and sought safety from the anger of Jackson by concealing themselves in the interior of their broad country." "Papa," said Grace earnestly, "did not God help our cause because we were in the right?" "No doubt of it, daughter," replied the captain; "ours was a righteous cause, a resistance to intolerable oppression and wrong, as our poor sailors felt it to be when a British man-of-war would stop our merchantmen on the high seas and force into their service any man whom they choose to say was an Englishman. "But I need not enlarge upon that subject to my present audience, as I am convinced that you all know of and appreciate that bitter wrong. "To resume. The Americans were highly gratified with the result of the conflict at Fort Bowyer, and their zeal was greatly quickened for volunteering for the defence of New Orleans, whose citizens testified their appreciation of Major Lawrence's achievement by resolving to present him with an elegant sword in the name of their city." "Was there not a second attack by the British upon Fort Bowyer, Captain?" asked Evelyn. "Yes; after their defeat at New Orleans. That, you will remember, was on the 8th of January, 1815. They reached their fleet, lying in the deep water between Ship and Cat Islands, on the 29th of that month, Fort Bowyer on the 9th of February, and besieged it for nearly two days, when Major Lawrence found himself compelled to surrender to a superior force. That left Mobile at the mercy of the foe, but just then came the news of peace, concluded at Ghent nearly two months before." "But wasn't there some fighting done there or at Mobile in the Civil War, sir?" asked Walter. "Yes; on August 5, 1864, the government forces under Farragut attacked the Confederate defences there, consisting principally of the two forts, Morgan on the eastern side of the bay, and Gaines on the western, about three miles apart. "A line of piles and a double one of torpedoes stretched nearly across from Fort Gaines to Fort Morgan, leaving only a narrow channel between that fort and the point of termination. It was through that channel, indicated by a red buoy, that blockade runners passed in and out, and inside of these defences lay the Confederate ironclad _Tennessee_, and three wooden gun-boats. It was early in the morning of that August day that Farragut's signal was given, for the advance of his seven sloops of war. The firing was heavy and destructive on both sides. But I will not go into particulars at this time, only saying that the result was in favor of the Federals; but the victory cost many lives--of Federals 335 men, of whom 113 were drowned in the _Tecumseh_--the leading monitor, which had struck a torpedo and gone down--and 52 killed by shot, while the Confederate loss was 10 killed, 16 wounded, and 280 prisoners, besides the loss in the forts, which is unknown." Just at this point a passing vessel attracted the attention of the captain and his listeners, and the conversation was not renewed until after dinner. CHAPTER XV. IT was Mrs. Travilla, or Grandma Elsie, as Lulu and Grace called her, who that afternoon started the captain upon the historical sketches so greatly enjoyed by the younger part of the company, to say nothing of the older ones. "We will pass near enough to Forts Gaines and Morgan to get a view of them--the outside at least--will we not, Captain?" she asked, with a smile. "Yes, mother," he replied. "Pensacola also, whither, as I have said, the British went after their fruitless attack upon Fort Bowyer--now Fort Morgan--then occupied by the Spaniards under Manrequez, and where they were publicly received as friends and allies. "All that, and the revelations of Jean Lafitte concerning their attempt to engage him and his outlaws to help them in their contemplated attack upon New Orleans, kindled the hottest indignation in the minds of Jackson and the people of the Southwest. The general issued a proclamation in retort for one sent out by the British officer Nichols shortly before, in which he had made inflammatory appeals to the French, who were prejudiced against the Americans, and the Kentuckians, who were discontented because of a seeming neglect by their government--a state of things largely owing to the arts of ambitious politicians. "Nichols had also sent out Indian runners to excite their fellows against the Americans, and in that way he gathered nearly a thousand Creeks and Seminoles at Pensacola, where they were supplied with abundance of arms and ammunition. "Jackson, in his proclamation--told of all this the conduct of the British, and the perfidy of the Spaniards--and called upon the people of Louisiana to 'arouse for the defence of their threatened country.'" "And did they do it, sir?" queried Walter. "Yes; they were thoroughly roused and much excited by the threatening aspect of affairs, and at once set vigorously to work to prepare for determined resistance to the threatened invasion of their country and their homes. "Jackson was impatient to march on Pensacola and break up that rendezvous of the enemies of the United States, but it was slow work to get his troops together, and November had come before he had his forces ready for the attack. "At last, however, he had four thousand men gathered at Fort Montgomery, due north from Pensacola, and on the 3d of the month they marched for that place, some Mississippi dragoons leading the way. "On the evening of the 6th, Jackson, with his whole army, encamped within two miles of their destination. Major Pierre was sent to the Spanish governor with a flag of truce, and a message from his general saying that he had not come to injure the town, or make war upon a neutral power, but to deprive the enemies of the republic of a place of refuge. Pierre was also told to demand the surrender of the forts. "The British, however, were in possession of Fort St. Michael, over which their's and the Spanish flags had been waving together until the day before, and as soon as the American flag of truce was seen approaching, it was fired upon from the fort by a twelve-pounder. "Pierre returned to Jackson and reported these facts; then Jackson sent to the governor a Spaniard whom he had captured on the way, demanding an explanation. "The governor asserted that he knew nothing of the outrage, and promised that another flag should be respected. "At midnight Pierre, sent again by Jackson, called once more upon the governor with a proposal that American garrisons should be allowed to take possession of the forts until Manrequez could man them with a sufficient number of Spanish troops to enable him to maintain the neutrality of his government against violations of it by the British, who had taken possession of the fortresses, it seemed, in spite of the Spanish governor's protests, the American troops to be withdrawn as soon as the additional Spanish ones arrived. "The governor rejected the propositions and before dawn three thousand of the Americans were marching upon Pensacola. They passed along the beach, but the sand was so deep that they could not drag their cannon through it. Then the centre of their column charged gallantly into the town, but on reaching the principal street they were met by a shower of musketry from the gardens and houses, while a two-gun battery opened upon them with balls and grape-shot. "But Captain Laval and his company charged and captured the battery, when the governor quickly showed himself with a flag, and promised to comply with any terms offered if Jackson would spare the town." "I hope Jackson wasn't too good to him," laughed Rosie. "The surrender of all the forts was what Jackson demanded and received," replied the captain. "But one, six miles away, called Fort Barancas, and commanding the harbor, in which the British vessels lay, was still in the hands of the enemy. Jackson determined to march suddenly upon it the next morning, seize it, turn its guns on the British vessels, and capture or injure them before they could escape. "But before morning the British squadron had gone, carrying with it Colonel Nichols, Captain Woodbine, the Spanish commandant of the fort, and about four hundred men, besides a considerable number of Indians; and before leaving they had blown up the fort. "Jackson suspected that they had gone to make another attack upon Fort Bowyer and the town of Mobile, so hurried away in that direction, leaving Manrequez angry and indignant at this treatment of himself by the British, and the Indians filled with the idea that it would be very imprudent for them to again defy the wrath of Andrew Jackson; much dejected and alarmed, they scattered themselves through the forests. "As for Jackson, when he reached Mobile, on the 11th of November, he received messages urging him to hasten to the defence of New Orleans. "He left that place on the 21st, reached it on the 2d of December--but of what he accomplished there I have already told you." "Yes, papa," said Lulu; "I'll never forget that interesting story. But do tell me, will we pass near enough to Mobile to see those forts?" "Yes," he said; then turning to Grandma Elsie, asked, "Mother, would you like to stop and visit the forts?" "I am willing if the rest wish it," she replied; "but otherwise would prefer to press on toward home, my Ion home, which, now that we have left Viamede fairly behind, I begin to long to see again." "That being the case I am sure no one of us will wish to stop," returned the captain gallantly, a sentiment at once re-echoed by Mr. Dinsmore and all present. "We are nearing there now, are we not, my dear?" asked Violet. "Yes; we are moving rapidly, and if all goes well may expect to see the forts early this evening." There was an exclamation of pleasure from several of the young people; then Lulu asked, "Papa, are there not some other historical places we shall have to pass while we are in the Gulf or after we reach the ocean?" "Quite a number, daughter, but we will not delay our voyage in order to visit them at this time." "Perhaps some other day, then?" she returned inquiringly, smiling up into his face as she spoke. "Very possibly," he returned, smoothing her hair with caressing hand; for she was, as usual, close at his side. A pause in the talk was at length broken by a remark from Cousin Ronald. "You had some great men among your Union officers, Captain, in both army and navy, in the days of that terrible Civil War." "We had indeed, sir," was the hearty response; "a number of them in both arms of the service, and none more worthy of respect and admiration than Farragut, who did such splendid service at both New Orleans and Mobile Bay, to say nothing of other places. The city of Mobile could not be captured as New Orleans had been, by reason of shoal water and obstructions in the channel, but the passage of blockade runners, carrying supplies to the Confederacy, was stopped, which was the main object of the expedition." "Yes, he did good service to his country," returned Mr. Lilburn, "although, if I mistake not, he was a Southerner." "He was born in Tennessee," replied Captain Raymond. "In the winter of 1860-61 he was on waiting orders at Norfolk, Virginia, where he watched with intense interest the movements of the Southern States, and especially the effort to carry Virginia out of the Union into the Confederacy; and when that was accomplished he remarked that 'the State had been dragooned out of the Union.' "He talked very freely on the subject, and was told that a person with such sentiments as his 'could not live in Norfolk.' 'Well, then,' he replied, 'I can live somewhere else,' and that very evening left the place, with his wife and son. That was the 18th of April, 1861. He went first to Baltimore, but afterward took a cottage at Hastings-on-the-Hudson. "The next December he was summoned to Washington, and on the 2d of February sailed from Hampton Roads for New Orleans." "Where he certainly did splendid service to his country," remarked Mr. Lilburn. "I hope she appreciated it." "I think she did," returned the captain; "he received many marks of the people's appreciation, among them a purse of $50,000, which was presented him for the purchase of a home in New York City." "Did he live to see the end of the war, sir?" asked Walter. "Yes; he was on the James River with General Gordon when Richmond was taken, and on hearing the news the two rode there post-haste, reaching the city a little ahead of President Lincoln. A few days after that the naval and military officers at Norfolk, with some of the citizens who had remained true to the Union, gave him a public reception. "Farragut was one of the speakers, and in the course of his remarks said: 'This meeting recalls to me the most momentous events of my life, when I listened in this place till the small hours of the morning, and returned home with the feeling that Virginia was safe and firm in her place in the Union. Our Union members of the convention were elected by an overwhelming majority, and we believed that every thing was right. Judge, then, of our astonishment in finding, a few days later, that the State had been voted out by a miserable minority, for want of firmness and resolution on the part of those whom we trusted to represent us there, and that Virginia had been dragooned out of the Union. I was told by a brother officer that the State had seceded, and that I must either resign and turn traitor to the government which had supported me from childhood, or I must leave this place. "'Thank God, I was not long in making my decision. I have spent half my life in revolutionary countries, and I know the horrors of civil war; and I told the people what I had seen and what they would experience. They laughed at me, and called me "granny," and "croaker"; and I said, "I cannot live here, and will seek some other place where I can live." I suppose they said I left my country for my country's good, and I thank God I did.'" "A countryman to be proud of," remarked Mr. Lilburn. "Oh, I wish I could have seen him!" exclaimed Grace. "Papa, wasn't he a Christian man?" "I think so, daughter," replied the captain. "He is said to have had a strong religious nature and a firm reliance upon Providence, believing in God's constant guidance." "Do you remember," said Grandma Elsie, "those lines of Oliver Wendell Holmes' written in honor of Admiral Farragut, and read at a dinner given him, in which this passage occurs? "Fast, fast are lessening in the light The names of high renown, Van Tromp's proud besom pales from sight, Old _Benbow's_ half hull down. "Scarce one tall frigate walks the sea, Or skirts the safer shores, Of all that bore to victory Our stout old commodores. "Hull, Bainbridge, Porter--where are they? The answering billows roll, Still bright in memory's sunset ray, God rest each gallant soul! "A brighter name must dim their light, With more than noontide ray: The Viking of the river fight, The Conqueror of the bay. "I give the name that fits him best-- Ay, better than his own-- The Sea-King of the sovereign West, Who made his mast a throne." "A fine poem indeed, and with a subject worthy of all its praise," remarked Cousin Ronald, as Mrs. Travilla ceased. "No wonder you are proud of him, cousins, for he was, as I said a moment since, one to be proud of; I should be proud indeed of him were he a countryman of mine." "As each one of us--his countrymen and women--certainly is," said Mr. Dinsmore. There was a silence of a few moments, presently broken by the captain. "Yes," he said, "I think there are few, if any, of his countrymen, who are not proud of our grand naval hero, Farragut; and there were others among our naval heroes of that day, almost, if not quite, as worthy of our affectionate admiration. Captain, afterward Admiral, Bailey, for instance, who was second in command at the taking of New Orleans, leading, in the _Cayuga_, the right column of the fleet of government vessels in the passage of Forts St. Philip and Jackson, the capture of the Chalmette batteries and the city. "As you probably remember, he passed up ahead of the fleet, through the fire of the forts, the Confederate vessels, the rams, fire-rafts, blazing cotton bales, and dense clouds of smoke, meeting the attacks of all unaided. "Also it was he who was sent by Farragut in company with only one other man, Lieutenant George H. Perkins, to demand the surrender of the city, the taking down of the Confederate flag, and the hoisting in its stead of the Stars and Stripes. "It certainly required no small amount of courage to pass through those city streets surrounded by a hooting, yelling, cursing crowd, threatening them with drawn pistols and other weapons. "And who can fail to admire the words of Bailey, in his official report of the victory: 'It was a contest of iron hearts in wooden ships against iron-clads with iron beaks--and the iron hearts won?' "And not less admirable was his modest behavior at a dinner given him at the Astor House, when called upon to reply to the toast of 'The Navy.'" "Ah, what was that, sir?" asked Mr. Lilburn, pricking up his ears. "I was reading an account of it only the other day," pursued Captain Raymond. "The old hero straightened himself up, and began, 'Mr. President and gentlemen--hem--thank ye.' Then made a long pause, glancing up and down the table. 'Well, I suppose you want to hear about that New Orleans affair?' he continued. At that there were cries of 'Yes! yes!' and a great stamping of feet. So Bailey went on; 'Well, d'ye see, this was the way of it. We were lying down the river below the forts, and Farragut, he--he signalled us to go in and take 'em. Being as we were already hove short, it didn't take much time to get under way, so that wasn't so much of a job as ye seem to think. And then the engineers, they ran the ships, so all we had to do was to blaze away when we got up to the forts, and take 'em, according to orders. That's just all there was about it.' And he sat down amid thunders of applause." "Ah ha, um h'm, ah ha! a nice, modest fellow he must have been," remarked Cousin Ronald, nodding reflectively, over his cane. The call to tea interrupted the conversation, but on leaving the table all gathered upon the deck again to watch the sunset, the rising of the moon, and for the forts, Morgan and Gaines, which they were now rapidly nearing, and upon which all gazed with interest as the captain pointed them out and the vessel steamed slowly past. "Ah, what a terrible thing is war!" sighed Grandma Elsie. "God forbid that this dear land should ever again be visited with that fearful scourge!" "Ah, I can say amen to that!" Mrs. Dinsmore exclaimed, low and tremulously, thinking of the dear young brothers who had fallen victims in that unnatural strife. "We cannot be thankful enough for the peace and prosperity that now bless our native land." "No; and may it ever continue," added her husband. "Her growth and prosperity since that fearful struggle ended have been something wonderful." A few moments of silence followed, the vessel moving swiftly on her way, and a gentle breeze fanning the cheeks of her passengers as they sat there placidly gazing out over the moonlit waters, then the quiet was suddenly broken in upon by a loud guffaw, followed by a drunken shout. "Aint I fooled ye nice, now? Ye didn't know I was aboard, capting, nor any o' the rest o' ye. Ye didn't guess ye'd got a free passenger aboard 'sides that old Scotch feller a-settin' yander a-looking like he feels hisself as good 's any o' the rest, ef he don't pay nothin' fer his trip." Everyone started and turned in the direction of the sounds. "A stowaway!" exclaimed Captain Raymond. "The voice seems to come from the hold. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen; I must see to his case, and that we are secured from the danger of a visit from him, as he is evidently a drunken wretch," and with the words he hastened away in the direction of the sounds. "Ha, ha! I hear ye, capting!" shouted the voice; "but drunken wretch or not, I wouldn't harm a hair o' any o' yer heads. All I'm a-wantin' is a free passage up furder north, where I come from." "Oh, mamma, I'm so frightened! so 'fraid the bad man will hurt my dear papa," cried little Elsie, clinging to her mother, while tears filled her sweet blue eyes. "No, papa will whip de naughty mans," said Ned, shaking his baby fist in the direction of the sounds. "Ah ha, ah ha, um h'm! little laddie; I have no doubt your papa is bigger and stronger than the naughty mans," said Cousin Ronald, "and if he catches the good-for-nothing scamp, can whip him within an inch of his life." At that Walter burst into a laugh. "Now, Cousin Ronald," he said, "I'd not be a bit surprised to learn that you are well acquainted with that scamp. However, I'll run after Brother Levis to see the fun, if there is any, but I'm sure nobody need be one bit afraid," and with that away he ran. "Ah, Cousin Ronald," began Violet, laughing, the others joining in with her, and all entirely occupied in looking at the old gentleman, whose face, however, could be but indistinctly seen, as he had so placed himself that the moonlight did not fall fully upon it, "confess that----" But she got no further. A shout of drunken laughter from the other side of the vessel again startled them. "Ha, ha! the capting's gone in the wrong direction to catch this customer. But he needn't to hunt me up. I'm a real harmless kind o' chap, an' wouldn't hurt a hair o' any o' your heads." Again every head was turned in the direction of the sounds, but seeing no one they all burst into gleeful laughter, in which the captain presently joined, having returned from his bootless search, fully convinced that it need be carried no farther. CHAPTER XVI. IT was a bright, sweet May morning. _Reveille_ sounded at the Naval Academy at Annapolis, and with the first tap of the drum Max woke and sprang from his bed. He glanced from the window as he hurried on his clothes, and a low exclamation of surprise and delight burst from his lips. "What now, Raymond?" queried Hunt, who was dressing with equal expedition. "The _Dolphin_! the _Dolphin_!" cried Max, in a joyful, exultant tone. "She lies at anchor down yonder, and I haven't a doubt that I shall see my father and all the rest presently." "Possible? What a fortunate fellow you are, Raymond," returned Hunt, hurrying to the window to take a hasty peep. "Sure enough! and what a beauty she is, that _Dolphin_! and the captain will be here presently getting you leave to spend the day on board; and it being Saturday, and he and the commandant old friends, there'll be no trouble in managing it. Accept my most hearty congratulations, old fellow." "Thank you," said Max, vainly trying to suppress his excitement, for his affectionate, boyish heart was bounding with joy at the thought of presently seeing all his loved ones; most of all, the father who was to him the personification of all that was good, honorable, brave, noble, and true; the father to whom, he knew beyond a doubt, he himself was an object of strong parental affection and pride. "And it's fortunate for you that I'm the fellow to set the room to rights on this memorable occasion," continued Hunt. "I say, Raymond, I think you must have been born under a lucky star." "Ah, yes, old fellow," laughed Max, "I rather suspect that's what's the matter. But hark! what's that?" as approaching footsteps were heard in the hall without. A rap quickly followed. Max flew to the door and threw it open, to find a messenger there from the commandant requiring his presence immediately in the grounds below. Little doubting what awaited him, Max obeyed the summons with joyful alacrity, running down one flight of stairs after another till the lowest hall was reached, then out into the grounds, sending an eagerly inquiring look from side to side. Ah, yes, in the shade of a tree, yonder, a few yards from the door-way, stood the commandant in earnest conversation with another gentleman, not in uniform, but of decidedly soldierly bearing. Max recognized the face and form on the instant, and flew to meet him. Both gentlemen turned at the sound of the approaching footsteps. Max hastily saluted his superior officer, saying half breathlessly, "I am here, sir." "So I see, Raymond," was the smiling rejoinder, "and for the present I resign you to this gentleman's care," turning toward the captain. Max's hand was instantly clasped in that of his father, who held it fast and, bending down, kissed his son with ardent affection, saying, with emotion, and in low, earnest tones, "My boy, my dear, dear boy!" "Papa, papa!" cried Max, his voice, too, trembling with feeling and excitement, "I never was gladder in my life!" "I am very glad for you, Max," said the commandant, in kindly sympathizing tones. "And Raymond, let me assure you that the lad is worthy of every indulgence that could be afforded him; a more industrious or better behaved cadet I have never had under my care. Hoping to see you again in the course of the day, I bid you good-morning. You also, Max," and with a bow and smile he left father and son alone together. "So good a report of his eldest son makes your father a very happy man, Max," the captain said, pressing the hand he held, and gazing into the rosy, boyish face with eyes brimful of fatherly love and pride. "Thank you for saying it, papa," returned Max, flushing with joy; "but with such a father I ought to be a better and brighter boy than I am. But I do try, papa, and I mean always to try to honor you by being and doing all I know you would wish." "I haven't a doubt of it, my son," the captain said, again affectionately pressing the lad's hand, then letting it go; "but now I must return to the _Dolphin_, taking my eldest son with me if he wishes me to do so." "Yes, indeed, papa!" cried the boy, ready to dance with delight; "but may I go back to my room for a moment first? I'm afraid that in my hurry to obey the summons of the commandant, I haven't left everything quite in ship shape." "Yes, go, son," replied his father; "and if your morning devotions have not been attended to, do not neglect them any longer. I will wait for you here under the trees. By the way, I am to hear your recitations for this morning, so you may bring the needed books with you." "Yes, sir," returned Max, and hurried away, his father looking after him with proudly beaming eyes till the lithe, graceful young figure disappeared within the door-way, then taking a morning paper from his pocket, he seated himself on a bench beneath a tree to await the lad's return. He had not long to wait; in a few minutes Max was again at his side, and the two were wending their way toward the row-boat that was to take them to the _Dolphin_, anchored some distance out in the stream. All was so still and quiet in and about the vessel that morning that her passengers slept later than usual, but Lulu, as generally happened, was one of the earliest risers, and had not been up long before she hastened to the deck to exchange the accustomed morning greeting with her father. But, to her surprise and disappointment, a hasty glance about the deck showed her that he was not there. "Why, what is the matter?" she said to herself. "I'm afraid papa must be sick, for I do not know what else would keep him in his stateroom till this time of day. But," with another sweeping glance from side to side, "we're certainly anchored; and where? Why, it looks like--yes, it is Annapolis!" hearing the splash of oars and catching sight of a row-boat with several persons in it, "for there's papa, and Max with him. Oh, oh, oh, how glad I am!" and with the words she ran to the side of the vessel and the next minute was in Max's arms. It was a very hearty embrace on the part of both, their father standing by and watching them with shining eyes. "O Maxie, how you have grown!" exclaimed Lulu, gently withdrawing herself from his embrace and scanning him with keen scrutiny from head to foot; "you look every inch a naval cadet." "Do I?" he queried laughingly. "Thank you, for I consider it a decided compliment. And you too have changed; you are taller, and look more than ever like papa." "O Max, you could not say anything that would please me better than that," she exclaimed, flushing with pleasure; "and I can return the compliment with interest. I think you will look exactly like our dear father when you are his age," turning toward the captain, and lifting her eyes to his full of ardent filial affection; for he was standing there regarding both with fatherly tenderness, and pride in their youthful comeliness of form and feature. "My dear, dear children!" he said, bending down to give Lulu the usual morning caress, "your mutual love makes me very happy. May it never be less than it is now!" At that moment Violet, Grace, and the two little ones joined them, and more hearty, loving embraces followed, all, except Violet, being as much taken by surprise at the sight of Max as Lulu had been. Grace almost cried with joy as Max caught her in his arms and hugged her close, kissing her sweet lips again and again. "I doubt," he said laughingly, as he let her go, "if there is another fellow at the Academy who has such sisters as mine, or such a young, pretty mamma, or darling baby brother and sister," kissing each in turn; "and," looking up into his father's face, a telltale moisture gathering in his eyes, "I'm perfectly certain there's not one can show a father to be so proud of." "Ah, my dear boy, Love is blind to defects and very keen-sighted as regards good and admirable qualities in those she favors," was the captain's answering remark. "What a surprise you have given us, papa!" exclaimed Lulu; "me at least, for I hadn't the least idea we were coming here." "No, but some of the rest of us knew," said Violet, with a merry little laugh; "your father told me of his intentions last night--as a secret, however, for he wanted to give you and Gracie a pleasant surprise." "And it was certainly a pleasant one to me," said Max. "Papa, thank you ever so much." "Did you get leave for him to stay all day, papa?" asked Lulu in a tone that seemed to say she hoped so with all her heart. "He will be with us through the day, except during the two hours of drill, which we will all go to see; also all day to-morrow," was the captain's reply to that, and it seemed to give pleasure to all who heard it: all the passengers on board, for by that time the others had come up to the deck, and one after another gave Max a pleased and hearty greeting--the older people as one they had expected to see, the younger with joyful surprise. They gathered about him, some of them--Walter in especial--with many questions in regard to the daily routine of life at the Academy, all of which Max answered readily and to the best of his ability. "Haven't you lessons to say to-day?" queried Walter. "Yes, but I'm to recite them to papa," Max replied, with a pleased, smiling glance into his father's face. "You may well look pleased, Max, for he's an excellent teacher, as all his Viamede pupils can testify," remarked Rosie demurely. "Oh, yes, I remember now that he has been teaching you all while you were down there," said Max. "Well, I never saw a better teacher, though perhaps, being his son and very fond of him, it's possible I may be a partial judge." "Quite possible, my boy," laughed his father, "and I think no one of my pupils is disposed to view me with a critic's eye." "You need not say the rest of it, papa," said Lulu, "for I'm sure you haven't any imperfections to be passed by." "Quite right, Lu," laughed Violet. But at that moment came the call to breakfast, a summons everyone was ready to obey with alacrity. They had a pleasant, social time about the table; the fare was excellent, appetites were of the best, and everyone was in fine spirits and high good-humor. Max was called upon to answer so many questions with regard to life at the Naval Academy, and his replies were listened to with so much deference, that the captain began to fear his boy might become insufferably conceited. Disturbed by that fear, he watched him so closely and with so grave an air that at length Max noticed it, and was much disturbed with the fear that he had unwittingly done or said something to hurt or displease his dearly loved father. He took the first opportunity--following the captain about the vessel, after breakfast and family prayers were over, till they found themselves alone together for a moment--to inquire, in a tone of much concern, if it were so. "No, my son, not at all," was the kindly reply, "but I felt a little anxious lest my boy should be spoiled and made conceited by being applied to by older people for so much information." "I hope not, papa; I know very well it was only because I've been living there and they haven't; and that every one of them knows far more than I do about many another thing." "Quite true, my son," the captain said, with a smile, adding, "and now you may get out your books and look over those lessons, as I shall soon be ready to hear them." "Yes, sir; it will be really a great treat to recite to my old tutor once more," returned the lad, with a look of relief and pleasure. "I am very glad indeed that he is not displeased with me as I feared." "Very far from it, my dear boy," was the captain's kindly rejoinder; "the account given me to-day by the commandant, of your conduct and attention to your studies, was most gratifying to my pride in my eldest son." Those words, and also the warm praise bestowed upon his recitations when they had been heard, filled the boy's heart with happiness. His father returned to the Academy with him at the hour for drill, but the others witnessed it from the deck of the _Dolphin_. At its conclusion, Captain Raymond and his son returned to the yacht, Max having permission to remain there until near ten o'clock on Sunday night. A trip up the river had been planned for the afternoon, and anchor was weighed and the yacht started as soon as her commander and his son had come aboard. All were seated upon the deck under an awning, greatly enjoying a delicious breeze, the dancing and sparkling of the water, and the distant view of the shore arrayed in the lovely verdure of spring. Mrs. Dinsmore, Mrs. Travilla, and Mrs. Raymond sat together, busy with fancy work and chatting cheerily, while the younger ones had their drawing materials or books--except Grace, who was dressing a doll for little Elsie. Few of them, however, were accomplishing a great deal, there being so small necessity for the employment and so many things to withdraw their attention from it. Max speedily made his way to Mrs. Travilla's side. She looked up from her work, and greeted him with her sweet smile. "It is quite delightful to have you among us again, my dear boy," she said, taking his hand and pressing it affectionately in hers. "Thank you, dear Grandma Elsie," he returned, his eyes sparkling; "it is a great pleasure to hear you say so, though I don't know how to believe that you can enjoy it half so much as I do." "I am glad to hear that you do, laddie," she said brightly. "Now suppose we have a bit of chat together. Take that camp chair by your grandmother's side and tell her how you enjoy that artillery exercise you have just been going through." "Thank you, ma'am," said Max laughingly, as he took the seat indicated. "It's really delightful to be treated as a relative by so dear and sweet a lady, but you do look so young that it seems almost ridiculous for a great fellow like me to call you grandma." "Does it? Why, your father calls me mother, and to be so related to him surely must make me your grandmother." "But you are not really old enough to be his mother, and I am his oldest child." "And begin to feel yourself something of a man, since you are not called Max, but Mr. Raymond at the Academy yonder?" she returned in a playfully interrogative tone. Max seemed to consider a moment, then smiling, but blushing vividly, "I'm afraid I must plead guilty to that charge, Grandma Elsie," he said with some hesitation. "What is that, Max?" asked his father, drawing near just in time to catch the last words. "That I begin to feel that--as if I'm a--at least almost--a man, sir," answered the lad, stammering and coloring with mortification. "Ah, that's not so very bad, my boy," laughed his father. "I believe that at your age I was more certain of being one than you are--really feeling rather more fully convinced of my wisdom and consequence than I am now." "Were you indeed, papa? then there is hope for me," returned the lad, with a pleased look. "I was really afraid you would think me abominably conceited." "No, dear boy, none of us think you that," said Mrs. Travilla, again smiling sweetly upon him. "But you have not yet answered my query as to how you enjoyed the artillery exercise we have just seen you go through." "Oh, I like it!" returned Max, his eyes sparkling. "And I don't think I shall ever regret my choice of a profession if I succeed in passing, and become as good an officer as my father has been," looking up into the captain's face with a smile full of affection and proud appreciation. "Now I fear my boy is talking of something that he knows very little about," said the captain, a twinkle of fun in his eye. "Who told you, Max, that your father had been a good officer?" "My commandant, sir, who knows all about it, or at least thinks he does." At that instant there was a sound like the splashing of oars on the farther side of the vessel, and a boyish voice called out, "Ahoy there, Raymond! A message from the commandant!" "Oh, I hope it isn't to call you back, Maxie!" exclaimed Lulu, springing up and following Max and her father as they hastened to that side of the vessel, expecting to see a row-boat there with a messenger from the Academy. But no boat of that kind was in sight. Could it have passed around the vessel? Max hurried to the other side to make sure but no boat was there. "Oh!" he exclaimed, with a merry laugh, "it was Mr. Lilburn," and he turned a smiling, amused face toward the old gentleman, who had followed, and now stood close at his side. "Eh, laddie! what was Mr. Lilburn?" queried the accused. "That I'm no down there in a boat is surely evident to all who can see me standing here. Are ye no ashamed to so falsely accuse an auld friend who wad never do harm to you or yours?" Then a voice seemed to come from a distant part of the vessel. "Ah, sir, ye ken that ye're known to be up to such tricks. All only to make fun for your friends, though, not to cause fright or harm to anyone--unless it might be a gambler or some other rascal." "Hear that, now, cousin!" cried Mr. Lilburn. "Somebody seems ready to do justice to the auld man our fine young cadet here is so ready to suspect and accuse." By this time all the other passengers had joined them, everybody but the very little ones understood the joke, and it was received with merry peals of laughter. To Max the afternoon and evening seemed to pass very quickly, so delightful was it to be once more surrounded by his dear ones, not the least pleasant part being a half hour spent alone with his father after the others had retired; he had so many little confidences that he would not willingly have shared with anyone else, and they were heard with so much evident interest, such hearty sympathy, and replied to with such good and kindly advice. Max was even more firmly convinced than ever before that such another dear, kind, and lovable father as his was nowhere to be found. And, by the way, the captain was almost equally sure that no other man had a son quite so bright, handsome, intelligent, noble, industrious, and in every way worthy to be the pride of his father's heart, as this dear lad who was his own. "God, even the God of his fathers, keep my dear boy in every hour of trial and temptation, and help him to walk steadily in the strait and narrow way that leads to everlasting life," he said with emotion when bidding his son goodnight. "Keep close to the dear Master, my son, ever striving to serve and honor him in all your words and ways, and all will be well with you at the last." CHAPTER XVII. THE captain, Max, and Lulu were all three early on deck the next morning--as lovely a May morning as ever was seen. The sun had but just showed his face above the horizon when Lulu mounted the companion-way to the deck, but she found her father and brother already there, sitting side by side, both looking very happy and content. "Good-morning, papa and Max," she said, hurrying toward them. The salutation was returned by both in cheery, pleasant tones. "I thought I'd be the very first on deck; but here you both are before me," she added as she gained her father's side. "But pleased to have you join us," he said, drawing her to a seat upon his knee. "A sweet Sabbath morning, is it not? And how did my little girl sleep?" "As well as possible, thank you, papa. It is much cooler here than at Viamede now, and a delightful breeze came in at the window. But I almost always sleep well, and that is something to be thankful for, isn't it?" "It is, indeed," he responded. "May my dear eldest daughter never be kept awake by the reproaches of a guilty conscience, cares and anxieties, or physical distress; though that last I can hardly hope she will escape always until she reaches that blessed land where 'the inhabitant shall not say, I am sick.'" "Yes, sir," she said, "I ought to be very thankful that I am so healthy; I hope I am; but any kind of physical pain I have ever been tried with is far easier for me to bear than the reproaches of a guilty conscience. I can never forget how hard they were to endure after I had hurt dear little Elsie so because I was in a passion." "I can't bear to think of that time," said Max; "so let us talk of something else. The view here is lovely, is it not, papa?" "Oh," cried Lu in surprise, "we are at anchor again in the river at Annapolis, aren't we, papa?" "Yes; I brought you all back here in the night, to spend the Sabbath. I think we will go into the city to church this morning, and have some religious exercises on the vessel this afternoon and evening." "Oh, I like that plan, papa," said Max, "especially the afternoon part, for I am really hungry for one of those interesting Bible lessons with you for my teacher." "Yes, Maxie, I pity you that you can't share them with Gracie and me every Sunday," said Lulu. "Papa, won't you give us--Max and Gracie and me--a private Bible lesson all to ourselves after the service for the grown folks, sailors and all, has been held, just as you used to do when we were all at home at Woodburn?" "Quite willingly, if my children wish it; indeed, it is what I had contemplated doing," replied the captain; "for we cannot better employ the hours of the holy Sabbath than in the study of God's Word, which he has given us to be a 'lamp to our feet and a light to our path' that we may journey safely to that happy land where sin and sorrow are unknown. "Never forget, my children, that we are but strangers and pilgrims upon this earth, only passing through it on our way to an eternal home of either everlasting blessedness or never ending woe--a home where all is holiness, joy, peace, and love, or to that other world of unending remorse and anguish, 'the blackness of darkness forever.'" "It is very difficult to keep that always in mind, papa," said Max. "I hope you will often ask God to help us--me especially--to remember it constantly, and live, not for time, but for eternity." "I do, my dear boy; there is never a day when I do not ask my heavenly Father to guard and guide each one of my dear children and give them a home with him at last. But we must all strive to enter in at the strait gate, remembering the warning of Jesus, 'Strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.'" Violet joined them at that moment, then the rest of the party, one after another. Then came the call to breakfast; and soon after leaving the table, and the holding of the regular morning service on the vessel, nearly everyone went ashore and to church. At the close of the exercises there, they returned to the _Dolphin_, dined, a little later assembled under the awning on the deck, and being presently joined by the greater part of the crew, another short service, consisting of the reading of the Scriptures, with explanatory remarks, prayer, and the singing of hymns, followed. After that, the captain took his three older children aside and gave them, as in the dear old times at Woodburn, a Bible lesson, in which they were free to ask of him as many questions as they would. "Papa," said Grace, "I was reading in Isaiah this morning this verse, 'Therefore, thus saith the Lord God, Behold I lay in Zion for a foundation, a stone, a tried stone, a precious corner-stone, a sure foundation.' Does it mean the dear Lord Jesus, papa?" "Yes, daughter; in both the Old and New Testaments Christ Jesus is called a Foundation. The foundation of a building is the part that supports all the rest; and that Jesus is to all his Church, his people. He is the foundation of all the comforts, hopes, happiness of the Christian; the foundation of the covenant God has made with his Church; the foundation of all the sweet and precious promises of God's Word; a sure foundation on which his people may securely rest, knowing that he will never deceive, fail, or forsake anyone who trusts in him. He is the only Saviour, the head of the Church, the only Mediator between God and man. "We are not to look too much to our feelings, doings, prayers, or even our faith, but on the finished work of Christ. We can have assurance of hope, but must attain to it by resting upon God's word of promise, remembering that it is Christ's righteousness which God accepts, not ours, so imperfect, so unworthy of mention. "In that way only can we have peace and safety, for our own righteousness is but as filthy rags, exceedingly offensive in the sight of God, who is 'of purer eyes than to behold sin, and cannot look upon iniquity,' so utterly abhorrent is it to his holy nature. "The Bible tells us, 'He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life; he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him.'" "Papa," said Grace, low and feelingly, "those are dreadful words, 'the wrath of God abideth on him.'" "They are indeed," he said. "The one great question is, 'Do you believe on the Son of God?' There in Egypt, when God sent those plagues upon Pharaoh and his people, it was not the feelings of the Israelites that saved them, but the blood on the door-posts, symbolizing the blood of Christ, which would in future ages be offered to satisfy the demands of God's broken law; and it was when he saw that blood that the angel passed over, harming them not. "The scape-goat too, was a type of Christ bearing the sins of the people away into the wilderness; if our sins are laid on Jesus they will come no more into remembrance before our righteous Judge, but covered with the beautiful robe of his righteousness, God will treat us as if it were our very own. Ah, my beloved children, it is the dearest wish of your father's heart that each one of you may have that righteousness put upon you!" A slight pause; then Grace said in low, clear, and joyous tones, "Papa, I think we have. I feel that I do love Jesus and trust in him, and so do Max and Lulu, I believe." "I do," said Max with feeling. "I know I am very, very far from perfect, but I do desire above everything else to be a follower of Jesus, and known as such; to live near him, and honor him in all my words and ways." "My boy, nothing could have made me happier than that confession from your lips," his father said with emotion. "And it is no less a joy of heart to me to know that my dear little Grace is a follower of Jesus." He drew her nearer as he spoke, then turned loving, questioning eyes upon Lulu. "Papa," she said in tremulous tones, "I--I feel that I am not worthy to be called one of Jesus' disciples, but I do love him, and long to grow in likeness to him. I do ask him very, very often to take away all the evil that is in me, and make me just what he would have me to be." "And he will hear your prayer, he will grant your petition," her father replied in moved tones. "Oh, my dear children, your father's heart is full of thankfulness that he has reason to hope and believe that you are all true followers of the blessed Master, and that we may all live and love together, not in this world only, but also in the next." To Max that delightful day and evening seemed very short. He was surprised when his father, glancing at his watch, said, "It is half past nine, my son. Say good-night and good-by to your friends here, for we must go back to the Academy. It need not be a very sad parting," he added, with a smile, "as you may expect to see some, if not all, of us next month, at the time of the commencement exercises." "Thank you, papa; that is good news," said the lad, his countenance brightening very much, "for it is the greatest treat to a fellow to see home folks once in a while." "I know that, my boy. I haven't forgotten the feelings of a cadet, which are pretty much like those of other lads." The farewells were quickly spoken, father and son entered the waiting row-boat, and in a few minutes were at the Academy. Captain Raymond bade his son good-by at the door, reminding him in cheerful tones that he might hope to see him, and perhaps the entire Woodburn family, again in a few weeks. With that pleasant prospect in view, Max went to his room in excellent spirits. He found Hunt already there. "Hello, Max! glad to see you back again," he exclaimed in a tone of hearty good-will. "Had a royal time of it, I suppose?" "Delightful!" cried Max gayly; "and the best of it is that my father holds out the prospect of another visit from our whole family at the time of the June commencement, which you know is not so very far off." "Well, I must say you're a lucky dog, Raymond," returned Hunt. "I wish I had the same prospect of seeing my folks; but they're too far off, and money's too scarce." Violet was alone on deck when her husband returned to the yacht, the others having retired to the cabin or their state-rooms. "Waiting for me, love?" he asked, as he stepped to her side and passed an arm round her waist. "Yes," she said; "the air is so pleasant here, and I thought it would be really delightful for us two to have the deck entirely to ourselves for a while." "Nothing could be pleasanter to me, dearest," he said, giving her his arm and beginning a leisurely promenade. "And you have left Max at the Academy again?" she said interrogatively. "How manly he grows, the dear fellow! and so handsome; he's a son to be proud of, Levis." "So his father thinks," returned the captain, with a low, happy little laugh. "My dear boy is one of God's good gifts to me." "And how evidently he admires and loves his father--as he well may, I think. He grows more and more like you in looks, too, Levis. I can imagine that at his age you were just what he is now." "No, my dear; if I am not much mistaken he is both a handsomer and a better lad than his father was at the same age." "Doubtless not half so conceited and vain as his father was then or is now," she returned, with her low, sweet silvery laugh. "There must have been a vast improvement, however, before I had the happiness of making his acquaintance." "Max's?" he queried with mock gravity. "The acquaintance of Max's father, sir," she replied demurely. "I have known the captain now for five years, and can truly say I have never seen him show such vanity and conceit as you are pleased to charge him with, or at least to say were once among his attributes; and I will not have him slandered, even by you." "Very well, then, let us change the subject of discourse." "Agreed. How soon do we leave Annapolis to pursue our homeward way?" "A little after midnight, if that plan suits my wife's wishes." "Entirely. But you are not going to remain on deck till then?" "Probably. I feel no inclination for sleep at present, and the air outside here is, as you remarked a moment since, delightful." "Especially when enjoyed in such good company, I presume?" "Yes, that makes a vast difference, of course, yet I can hardly ask you to stay very long with me; cannot have the cruelty to rob my heart's best treasure--my young and lovely wife--of her beauty sleep." "What a gallant speech!" she laughed; "it surely deserves the reward of at least another half hour of her delectable society. Ah, my best and dearest of husbands," she added in a more serious tone, "there is nothing else in the world I so keenly enjoy as these rare times when I can have you all to myself." "Yet I cannot believe they are ever more enjoyable to you than to me, my love," he returned; "sweet as your society was to me in the days of our courtship, it is, I think, even sweeter now. And I hope mine is not less enjoyable to you." "Indeed, no," she said earnestly; "you seem to grow dearer and more lovable every day that we live together; a blessing far, far beyond my deserts. Oh, I can never cease to marvel that I have won so great a prize in the matrimonial lottery." "It is wondrous strange," he returned, with a happy laugh, "that a young, beautiful girl, belonging to one of the very best families in the land, and who might have had her pick and choice among its most desirable matches, should have been able to secure a middle-aged widower with three children. You may well wonder at so great good fortune falling to your lot, lady mine," with a strong emphasis upon that last word. "Ah, my husband, you could hardly bestow upon me a sweeter name than that," she said softly, and with a bright, winsome look up into his face. "It is so sweet to belong to you, and to have you belong to me. And then our darling children are such treasures." "Yes; our two dear babies." "Ah, yes; but I meant to include the others also; for I surely may claim now that even Lulu loves me, not as a mother exactly, but as a dear older sister." "Yes, I am certain of it, dearest," he said in tones expressing heart-felt happiness; "she shows it in many ways, and however many and serious her faults may be, hypocrisy and deceit are not among them." "No, indeed! I never knew anyone more perfectly free from those faults--so perfectly open and candid. I am sure that if her life were in peril she would not be deceitful or untrue in order to save it." "Thank you, my love," he said with emotion. "I share that belief, and it has been a great consolation to me when sorely distressed by her very serious faults." "But she is overcoming those under her father's wise and affectionate training." "I think she is," he said; "she is certainly struggling hard against them, though the training you speak of, has, I fear, been far from faultless." "Ah, you have not so much confidence in her father's wisdom as I have," returned Violet, with a smile and a look up into his face which expressed a world of loving appreciation. The conversation then turned upon other themes not unsuited to the sacredness of the day; they seated themselves and sang a hymn or two together, then Violet went below and sought her berth, to be followed an hour later by her husband. CHAPTER XVIII. THE next morning the _Dolphin's_ passengers, on awaking, found her speeding on her homeward way. No one regretted it, for all were full of joy at the thought of seeing home again, delightful as had been their sojourn at lovely Viamede and on the vessel. It was still early in the day when they reached their wharf, but carriages from Ion, Fairview, and Woodburn were in waiting, conveyances for the luggage also, and in a very short time they had left the city behind, and were whirling rapidly over the familiar road toward the loved homes they had left some months before--a happy company, the younger ones full of mirth and gayety. The grounds belonging to each estate were looking their loveliest, and the returning travelers were greeted with the warmest of welcomes. Zoe and Edward had reached Ion some days in advance of the others, and seen to it that everything there was in perfect order, while at Woodburn such matters had received careful attention from Christine and Alma. "Welcome home, my love," the captain said to his wife as the carriage turned in at the great gates. "And you too, my darlings," addressing his children. "Is it almost as lovely here as at Viamede?" "Oh, yes; yes, indeed, papa!" they responded, baby Ned adding, "Oh, me so blad to det home adain." Then a joyous bark was heard, and Prince, Max's dog, came bounding to meet them. "Oh, dere our big doggie Prince!" cried Ned, with a joyous laugh, and clapping his chubby hands. "Maxie dere too, papa?" "No, Neddie boy; we have left Brother Maxie behind at Annapolis," answered his father; then as the carriage came to a standstill, he threw open the door, exclaiming, "Home at last!" sprang to the ground, and proceeded to hand out wife and children. "Yes," said Violet, who, as well as the children, had been gazing with delight upon the grounds from the carriage window, "and I for one am as glad as I was to see Viamede on our arrival there. How very lovely everything is looking! Ah, Christine and Alma," as the two came hurrying out to greet the returned travellers, "I hope you are well? What good care you have taken of everything in our absence." "Thanks, Mrs. Raymond; it is very kind in you to notice it; and we are delighted to see you all at home again," the two women returned, smiling with pleasure over the arrival and Violet's appreciative words, to which the captain added his hearty commendation, and the children glad, warm greetings. Prince's actions, in the meantime, told the same story of his feelings; he was fawning upon one and another, capering about and wagging his tail with many a joyous bark that seemed to say, "I am very glad, very happy to see you all here again," and receiving much loving stroking and patting in return. The servants, too, came crowding about, with smiling faces and exclamations of joy and thankfulness. "Bress de Lawd yous all safe home agin!" "We's pow'ful glad to see you, cap'n, Miss Wi'let, an' all ob de chillens!" "Dis chile 'specs yo's pow'ful hungry, Miss Wi'let an' de res'; but de dinnah's 'mos' ready fo' to dish up," remarked the cook. "Oh, we are not starving, by any means, Aunt Judy," returned Violet. "We had an excellent and abundant breakfast on board the _Dolphin_, and it is hardly the regular dinner hour yet." "And oh, papa, mayn't we run about everywhere and look at everything?" asked Lulu and Grace half breathlessly. "Certainly, daughters," he replied, smiling affectionately into the eager upturned faces, "though as dinner is so nearly ready, I think it might be well to first take off your hats and make yourselves neat for the table; then keep within doors until after the meal." "Oh, yes, sir," cried Lulu, "and there is no place we want to see more than our own rooms. So come, Gracie, let's hurry up there. Hark! there's my Polly screaming 'Lu! Lu!' She seems to know I've got home. Who can have told her? And where's your kitten?" "Here," returned Gracie; "don't you see I've got her in my arms? and I do believe she's glad to see me. Oh, you pretty pet! I often wanted to see you while I was away." They were hurrying up the stairs while they talked, and presently reached their own little sitting room. "Oh!" they cried in a breath, "how sweet and lovely it does look!" Then they made a hasty circuit of Lulu's bedroom and the little tower room opening into it, exclaiming again and again at the beauty of the furnishings, as though they had never seen them before, and the extreme neatness which attested the good housekeeping of Christine. Last of all they entered Grace's bedroom, to find its appearance quite as inviting as that of the others. "How sweet it does look, Lu!" exclaimed Grace. "Oh, I do think we have just the sweetest home, as well as the dearest, kindest father in the whole world!" "Of course we have," returned Lulu. "I'd a thousand times rather be his child than any king's daughter." "Would you, indeed, my dear child?" asked a familiar voice close behind her, while a kind hand was laid upon each shoulder. "Well, my darlings, contentment is better than wealth, and most assuredly your father would not exchange you for any king's daughters, or the children of any other man." As he spoke he bent down to press a fatherly kiss upon Lulu's lips, then putting an arm round Grace, caressed her in like manner. "Now make yourselves neat for the dinner-table, daughters," he said, "and after the meal, if you wish you may spend the whole afternoon in going over the house and grounds." "Oh, thank you, papa," they exclaimed, looking full of delight. "Lu! Lu!" called Polly from the sitting room, "what you 'bout? Polly wants a cracker." "O Polly, I beg your pardon; but you have been so quiet ever since I came in that I really forgot all about you," laughed Lulu, running toward the cage, followed by her father and Grace. "So you want a cracker, do you?" "You shall have it, Polly," the captain said, opening the door of a small cupboard where things of that sort were wont to be kept. "Yes, here is a paper of them," taking one out and handing it to the parrot, who promptly took it in one claw, and, standing on the other foot, began biting off bits and disposing of them with a comically serious air and evident enjoyment. Just then the little ones came running in, eager to see Polly and hear her talk. But she was too much absorbed with her cracker to vouchsafe them a single word. "Is mamma ready for dinner, Elsie?" the captain asked presently. "Yes, sir," answered Violet's own voice from the doorway; "and there is the bell." "Then we will go down at once," said the captain, picking up Elsie and Ned, and following his wife down the stairs, Lulu and Grace bringing up the rear. The diningroom looked very attractive as they entered it; there was perfect neatness and order, vases of freshly cut flowers stood here and there, delighting the senses with their beauty and fragrance, and forming a lovely decoration for the table, which presented a most inviting appearance thus ornamented and set out with delicate china, snowy damask, and glittering cut glass and silver ware. Everyone regarded it with evident satisfaction, Violet saying gayly, "After all, my dear, can any lovelier or better place be found than this--our own sweet home?" "There is no dearer spot on earth to me, my love," he answered, with a smile that spoke fond affection, and delight in her appreciation of his efforts for her happiness and enjoyment. "I think no place on earth could be more beautiful than Viamede," remarked Lulu; "but this is more charming because it is our very own." "Yes," chimed in Grace, "papa's and mamma's and ours. It is ever so good in you, papa, to let us own it too." "Ah?" he returned laughingly, "but that is because I own you, you know." He had lifted baby Ned to his high chair, and now all seated themselves and the blessing was asked. They were a lively, happy little dinner-party, the children allowed a share in the conversation. "Papa," asked Grace at length, "are we to begin lessons to-morrow?" "No," he replied, "I will give you two days to run about and see everything here, at Ion, Fairview, the Oaks, and so forth. Then you must settle down to work and be very good and industrious if you want to be of the Annapolis party in June." "Oh, that will be so delightful, papa, and we do intend to be as good and industrious as possible!" she exclaimed, Lulu adding, "I am sure I do, and if I should deserve punishment, papa," she went on in an undertone hardly audible to anyone but him, for as usual she was seated close at his right hand, "please do make it something else than being left at home." "I have little fear of being compelled to punish you in that way or any other, daughter," he replied, giving her a loving look. "Thank you, dear papa; it is so kind in you to say that; and Gracie and I do just love to belong to you," raising her voice a little, "Don't we, Gracie?" "I do, I'm sure," returned Grace, with a loving smile up into her father's face. "Well, what shall we do this afternoon?" queried Violet. "I for one feel inclined to go all over the house and grounds, to look at every dear, familiar spot." "Well, my dear, then that is what we will do," responded her husband; "and the children may go with us or refrain, as they please," with a smiling glance from Lulu to Grace, which both answered with an eagerly expressed desire to accompany him and Violet; Grace adding, "But I do want to see Elf and Fairy more than anything else." "Well, dear child," said her father, "they are disporting themselves out yonder in the meadow, and you may run out to look at and pet them as soon as we leave the table, if you wish." "Oh, thank you, papa, that is just what I'd like to do!" she replied. "And I think all the rest of us will be glad to go with you," said Violet. Ned, however, presently began to nod, and had to be carried away to his crib before the others were quite ready to leave the table. "I think Elsie, too, looks as if she would enjoy a nap more than anything else," remarked the captain, with a kind look at his youngest daughter, who seemed to be very nearly nodding over her plate. "Oh, no, papa!" she said straightening up and opening her eyes very wide; "please, I want to see the ponies first." "Very well, so you shall, and the nap can come afterward," he returned in an indulgent tone. "Then, as we are all done eating, shall we not go at once, my dear?" asked Violet. "I think it would be well to do so," he returned. "Put on your hats, children, and we will go." Elf and Fairy seemed glad to see their young mistresses, who stroked, patted, and fed them with bits of sugar. The next thing was to explore every nook and corner of the grounds, which to them all looked lovelier than ever. Then they returned to the house, little Elsie willingly submitted to being laid in her crib, for she was very sleepy, and the captain, Violet, Lulu, and Grace went over the whole house, finding it in beautiful order, and saying to each other that it seemed a sweeter home than ever. By that time there were callers from Ion, the Oaks, Roselands, and the Laurels, those from Ion bringing the news that Grandma Elsie invited all to a family reunion to be held at her home on the afternoon and evening of the next day. An invitation that every member of the Woodburn family was glad to accept. "Ah, Brother Levis," said Rosie coaxingly, "you surely will not be so unkind as to require lessons of us to-morrow?" "No, little sister, to-morrow and the next day may be given up to amusement; but after that I shall hope and expect to have some very industrious pupils." "As you certainly shall," she replied, with a grave, emphatic nod; "I am glad of the promised holiday; duly grateful for it, too, as I presume all your scholars are." "Yes, yes, indeed we are, sir!" was the hearty response from Evelyn and Walter, Lulu and Grace adding, "And so are we, papa." The callers left early, declining an invitation to stay to tea; the family partook of their evening meal; Grace and the little ones, wearied with their journey, the excitement of the homecoming, and seeing so much company, went early to bed; an errand took the captain into the village for a short season, and Violet and Lulu were left for an hour or more to each other's society. They were on the veranda together, pacing slowly back and forth, each with an arm about the other's waist. "Oh, Mamma Vi, isn't it just delightful to be at home again?" exclaimed Lulu. "Yes, indeed! when the home is such an one as ours, and with such a man as your father at the head of affairs," returned Violet. "Lu dear, I'm so glad that you and all his children love him as you do, though really I do not see how any one of you could help it." "Nor do I, Mamma Vi; and I'm very glad that you love him so too; that makes me love you even better than I could if you didn't appreciate him so highly. But we can't love him so dearly without loving one another; can we?" "No, certainly not; I am very fond of all five of his children as well as of their father," Violet replied, with her low, sweet laugh. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation errors were corrected. Inconsistent hyphenation was retained. Page 27, "suceeeded" changed to "succeeded" (Rennie succeeded in) Page 76, "surrrender" changed to "surrender" (would not surrender the) Page 77, "mutined" changed to "mutinied" (them mutinied, spiked) Page 80, "confederates" changed to "Confederates" (drove the Confederates) Page 81, "quantites" changed to "quantities" (Great quantities of cotton) Page 82, "strips" changed to "stripes" (by the stars and stripes) Page 94, "sufficent" changed to "sufficient" (sufficient cause for) Page 102, "Ganesvoort" changed to "Gansevoort" (delivered to Gansevoort) Page 133, "whereever" changed to "wherever" (for herself wherever) Page 140, "y" changed to "by" (profit by so doing) Page 146, "he" changed to "be" (would be back) 
46188	----	ELSIE'S YOUNG FOLKS IN PEACE AND WAR BY MARTHA FINLEY [Illustration] NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1900. BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. ELSIE'S YOUNG FOLKS. CHAPTER I. It was a lovely summer day, bright and clear, but the heat so tempered--there on the coast of Maine--by the delicious sea breeze that it was delightful and exhilarating. The owner and passengers of the _Dolphin_ had forsaken her more than a fortnight ago, and since spent their days and nights at a lovely villa on shore there in Bar Harbor; but now no longer able to resist the attractions of the beautiful sea, the most of them had come aboard, and were sitting, standing, or roaming about the deck. "Oh, I'm so glad to be in our own dear sea home again!" cried Elsie Raymond. "Aren't you, Ned?" "Yes; though we have been having a splendid time on shore in Bar Harbor." "Yes, so we have; but as we expect to be back again in a few days, we needn't fret at all about leaving it." "No, nor we needn't if we were just going back to Woodburn, our own beautiful home--certainly a better place than this in fall and winter, anyhow." "But I'm glad to have a sail again," said Elsie. "Brother Max says we'll soon see some places where they had sea fights in our two wars with England," remarked Ned, with satisfaction. "Oh, does he? I mean to ask papa or grandma to tell us about them," exclaimed Elsie, in tones of excitement. "Oh, yes, let's!" cried Ned. "But the men are taking up the anchor," he added hastily, "and I must see that first. Come," catching his sister's hand and hurrying her along to a good position from which to view the operation. That duly attended to, they sought out their grandma, who happened to be at the moment sitting a little apart from the others, and made their request. She smilingly consented to tell them all she could recall on the subject that would be interesting to them, and bidding them seat themselves close beside her she began. "Your father has told me that we are now going out to the extreme eastern point of the State--and of our country--the United States. West Quoddy Head is its name now, but in very early times it was called Nurumbega. In 1580 John Walken, in the service of Sir Humphrey Gilbert, conducted an expedition to its shores, and reached the Penobscot River. In 1603 two vessels, the _Speedwell_ and the _Discoverer_, entered the Penobscot Bay and the mouth of a river--probably the Saco. About three years after that two French Jesuits, with several families, settled on Mount Desert Island. A few years later some twenty-five French colonists landed on Mount Desert and founded a settlement called St. Saviour. But not long afterward they were driven away by some English under command of Captain Argal, who considered them trespassers upon English soil. That, I think, is enough of the very early history of Maine, for to-day, at least." "Oh, yes, grandma! but won't you please tell about Revolutionary times and the war of 1812-14?" pleaded Elsie. "Maine was one of the thirteen colonies, wasn't she?" "No, dear; she was considered a part of Massachusetts at that time, and did not become a separate State until 1820." "Oh, didn't the people there care about the Revolution and help in it?" asked Elsie in a tone of disappointment. "Yes, dear, they did. In a county convention in 1774 Sheriff William Tyng declared his intention to obey province law and not that of parliament. He advised a firm and persevering opposition to every design, dark or open, framed to abridge our English liberties." "English!" exclaimed Ned, in a half scornful tone, at which his grandma smiled, and stroking his curls caressingly, said, "Yes, Neddie, at that time--before the Revolutionary War--our people liked to call themselves English." "But we don't now, grandma; we're Americans." "Yes; that is the name we have given ourselves in these days; but we consider the English our relations--a sort of cousins." "Well, then I hope we and they will never fight any more," said Elsie. "But, please, grandma, tell us something more of what has happened along this coast." "In 1775," continued her grandma, "the British kept the coast of New England from Falmouth (now called Portland) to New London in continual alarm; they were out in every direction plundering the people to supply their camp with provisions." "In this State, grandma?" asked Ned. "Yes; and in Connecticut and Massachusetts. They bombarded Stonington, in Connecticut, shattered houses and killed two men. That was in August or September. In October Mowatt was sent to Falmouth in Maine to get a supply of provisions from the people there, and to demand a surrender of their arms. They refused and defied him; then--after giving time for the women and children to leave the town--he bombarded and set it on fire. More than four hundred houses were destroyed--nearly all the town of about five hundred buildings." "What a cruel thing!" exclaimed Elsie; "I suppose they had to give up then?" "No," said Mrs. Travilla; "so brave and determined were they that they repulsed the marauders and would not let them land." "Grandma," asked Elsie, "didn't Arnold go through Maine with an army to attack Canada about that time?" "Yes; about the middle of August a committee of Congress visited Washington in his camp, and together they formed a plan to send a force into Canada by way of the Kennebec River to co-operate with General Schuyler, who was preparing to invade that province by way of the Northern lakes. Arnold was well known to be brave. He had been complaining of being ill-used upon Lake Champlain. Washington desired to silence his complaints, and knowing that this expedition was suited to his talents he appointed him to command, and gave him the commission of colonel in the Continental army. "The force under his command consisted of eleven hundred hardy men--ten companies of musketeers from New England, and three companies of riflemen from Virginia and Pennsylvania. Those riflemen were commanded by Captain Daniel Morgan, who afterward did such good work for our country in her hard struggle for liberty. Arnold and his troops marched from Cambridge to Newburyport, where they embarked on transports which carried them to the mouth of the Kennebec. They went up that river in bateaux and rendezvoused at Fort Western, opposite the present town of Augusta. Now they had come to the edge of a vast and almost uninhabited wilderness." "And had to go through it, grandma?" asked Ned. "Yes; they were very brave men, ready to encounter difficulties and dangers for the sake of securing their country's freedom. Two small parties were sent on in advance to reconnoitre, and the rest moved forward in four divisions, Morgan with his riflemen in the van. Arnold, who was the last, passed up the river in a canoe." "Hadn't they a very hard time going through that wilderness, grandma?" asked Elsie. "Yes, very hard indeed; over craggy knolls, deep ravines, through creeks and ponds and deep morasses; sometimes paddling along a stream in their canoes--sometimes carrying them around a fall on their shoulders. Suddenly, at length, they came to a mountain covered with snow. At its foot they encamped for three days. Then they went on again, but a heavy rain set in, sending down such torrents from the hills that the river rose eight feet in one night. The water came roaring down the valley where our soldiers were, so unexpectedly and powerfully that they had scarcely time to retreat and get into their bateaux before the whole plain was flooded with water. Seven boats were overturned and the provisions in them lost. Many of them were made sick, too, by the storm and exposure, and so grew sad and discouraged. Some gave up and went back to their homes, while Arnold went on with the rest. The rain changed to snow, and there was ice in the water in which the poor fellows had to wade to push their bateaux along through ponds and marshes near the sources of the Dead River. "At last they reached Lake Megantic. They encamped on its eastern shore, and the next morning Arnold, with a party of fifty-five men on shore with Captain Nanchet and thirteen with himself in five bateaux and a birch canoe, pushed on down the river to a French settlement to get provisions to send back to his almost starving men. They passed seventeen falls, marching through snow two inches deep, then reached the Highlands which separate the waters of New England from Canada. But as it is of the history of Maine I am telling you, and Arnold and his band have now passed out of it, we will leave the rest of his story for another time." "He did a good deal more for his country before he turned traitor, didn't he, grandma?" asked Elsie. "Yes; he fought bravely again and again. The great victory at Saratoga was largely due to him; in a less degree to Morgan." "Daniel Morgan who commanded at the battle of the Cowpens?" asked Elsie. "The very same," replied Mrs. Travilla. "Didn't some other things happen along this coast, grandma?" asked Ned. "Yes, indeed; several things. In the war of 1812-14 there occurred a naval battle near Portland, between the American ship _Enterprise_ and the English brig _Boxer_. On the morning of the 1st of September, 1813, the _Enterprise_ sailed from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and on the morning of the 3d chased a schooner suspected of being a British privateer, into Portland harbor. The next day she left that harbor and steered eastward looking for British cruisers. On the 5th they discovered in a bay what Captain Burrows supposed to be a vessel of war getting under way. She was a British brig, and on sighting the _Enterprise_ she displayed four British ensigns, fired several guns as signals to boats that had been sent ashore to return, and crowding canvas, bore down gallantly for the _Enterprise_. "Seeing that, Burrows cleared his ship for action, sailed out a proper distance from land to have plenty of sea room for the fight, then shortened sail and edged toward the _Boxer_. That was at three o'clock in the afternoon. Twenty minutes later the two brigs closed within half pistol shot, and both opened fire at the same time. The sea was almost quiet, there was but little wind, and that condition of things made the cannonading very destructive. Ten minutes after the firing began the _Enterprise_ ranged ahead of the _Boxer_, steered across her bows and delivered her fire with such precision and destructive energy that at four o'clock the British officer in command shouted through his trumpet that he had surrendered, but his flag being nailed to the mast, could not be lowered until the _Enterprise_ should cease firing." "And did she, grandma?" asked Ned. "Yes; I do not think our men ever fired on a foe whom they believed to be ready to surrender. Captain Blyth of the _Boxer_ was already dead, having been nearly cut in two by an eighteen-pound ball, and Captain Burrows was mortally wounded. He had been helping the men to run out a carronade, and while doing so a shot, supposed to be a canister ball, struck his thigh, causing a fatal wound. He lived eight hours, and must have suffered terrible agony. He refused to be carried below until the sword of the commander of the _Boxer_ should be brought to him. He took it eagerly when brought, saying, 'Now I am satisfied; I die contented.'" "What did they do for a commander after their captain was so dreadfully injured?" asked Elsie. "Lieutenant Edward R. M'Call took command of the _Enterprise_ and showed great skill and courage," replied Grandma Elsie. "On the morning of the 7th he took both vessels into Portland Harbor, and the next day the bodies of the two commanders were buried side by side in the same cemetery, and with all the honors to which their rank and powers entitled them." "Were the ships quite spoiled, grandma?" asked Ned. "The _Enterprise_ was not, but the _Boxer_ was much cut up in both hull and rigging," she replied. "The battle showed that the Americans exceeded the English in both nautical skill and marksmanship. Lossing tells us that a London paper, speaking of the battle, said, 'The fact seems to be but too clearly established that the Americans have some superior mode of firing, and we cannot be too anxiously employed in discovering to what circumstances that superiority is owing.'" "I think the man who wrote that was feeling mortified that one of their vessels had been whipped by one of ours," remarked Ned sagely. "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, "I think the nailing of their flag to the mast showed that they felt confident of victory. Cooper tells in his history that when the _Enterprise_ hailed to know if the _Boxer_ had struck--as she kept her flag flying--one of the officers of the British vessel leaped upon a gun, shook both fists at the Americans, and shouted 'No, no, no!' adding some opprobrious epithets." "Oh, didn't that make our fellows angry?" asked Ned. "I think not," replied Grandma Elsie; "it seems to have amused them, as they saw that he was ordered down by his superiors." "Was it a long fight, grandma?" asked Elsie. "It had lasted only thirty-five minutes when the _Boxer_ surrendered." "Had a great many of her men been killed?" asked Ned. "I don't know," replied his grandma, "but on the _Enterprise_ there was but one besides Burrows; Midshipman Kervin Waters, who had been mortally wounded, died a few weeks later. He was buried by the side of his gallant leader--Burrows." "Oh, dear!" sighed little Elsie, "war is so dreadful!" "It is indeed," said her grandma, "and it was made especially dreadful at that time to the people of this country by reason of our being so much weaker than England in men, money, and ships." "But it was a blessing that our seamen were so much more skilful than hers, Grandma Elsie," said Max, who had drawn near in time to hear the last few sentences. "Our little navy did good work in that war, small as she was in comparison with the enemy's. We had but twenty ships to her thousand, yet showed ourselves strong enough to put an end to her tyrannical conduct toward our poor sailors. She has never interfered again in that way with them." "And never will, I think," added Grandma Elsie. "The two Anglo-Saxon nations are good friends now, and I trust always will be." "I hope so indeed," said Max. "We must be prepared for war, but I hope may be long able to maintain peace with all other nations." "A hope in which we can all join, I think," said Mrs. Travilla, glancing around upon the circle of interested faces; for all the _Dolphin's_ passengers had by this time gathered about them. "You were talking of the war of 1812, were you, mother?" asked Captain Raymond. "Yes; I was telling the children of the fight between the _Boxer_ and the _Enterprise_," replied Mrs. Travilla. "And oh, won't you tell us some more, grandma?" entreated Ned. "I think your father could do it better," she said, looking persuasively at the captain. "I am not at all sure of that," he said; "but if you wish it I will tell what I can remember of such occurrences at the points along the coast which we are about to visit. But first let me beg that every one will feel free to leave the vicinity should my story seem to them dull and prosy," he added, with a smiling glance about upon the little company. There was a moment's pause; then Violet said laughingly, "That was very kind and thoughtful my dear, and I for one shall not hesitate to go should I feel inclined." The captain responded with a bow and smile; then, after a moment's pause, began upon the chosen theme. CHAPTER II. "Eastport--which we will presently visit," began Captain Raymond, "is on Moose Island, in Passamaquoddy Bay. At the time of our last war with them the English claimed it as belonging to New Brunswick, under the treaty of 1783. Early in July, 1814, Sir Thomas Hardy sailed secretly from Halifax for that place, with quite a force of men for land and sea service. On the 11th the squadron entered Passamaquoddy Bay and anchored off Fort Sullivan, at Eastport. Major Perley Putnam was in command of the fort, with a garrison of fifty men and six pieces of artillery. Hardy demanded an instant surrender, and gave only five minutes' time for consideration. Putnam promptly refused to surrender--but the inhabitants of the island were greatly alarmed and not disposed to resist, so entreated him to yield, which he did on condition that private property should be respected. "When the agreement was signed, the British took possession of the fort, the town of Eastport, and all the islands and villages in and around Passamaquoddy Bay, landing a thousand armed men, with women and children, fifty or sixty pieces of cannon, and a battalion of artillery." "And did they stay there, papa?" asked Elsie. "Oh, I hope they are not there now!" "I have no doubt that nearly, if not all of them, are in their graves by this time, daughter," replied the captain; then went on: "The British made declaration that these islands were in their permanent possession, and ordered all the inhabitants to take an oath of allegiance within seven days, or leave the territory." "Allegiance to the King of England, papa?" asked Elsie; "and did any of them do it?" "Yes, that is what was meant, and about two-thirds of the people took it. They, the English, took all the public property from the custom-house, and tried to force the collector to sign unfinished treasury notes to the value of nine thousand dollars. But he refused, saying, 'Hanging will be no compulsion.'" "Did that mean that he wouldn't do it even if he knew they would hang him if he refused?" asked Elsie. "Yes, that was just it," said her father. "Having accomplished what he wished to do at Eastport--securing it to his country, as he thought--leaving eight hundred troops to hold it, Hardy sailed away along the coast of Maine and Massachusetts, spreading alarm as he went. But the people prepared to meet his expected attack--manning their forts and arming them. When Sherbrook and Griffith sailed, they intended to stop at Machias and take possession of it; but falling in with the brig _Rifleman_, and being told by its commander that the United States corvette _John Adams_ had gone up the Penobscot, they made haste to the mouth of that river to blockade her. They passed up the Green Island channel and entered the fine harbor of Castine on the morning of the 1st of September. On the edge of the water south of the village was the half moon redoubt called Fort Porter, armed with four twenty-pounders and two fieldpieces, and manned by about forty men under Lieutenant Lewis, of the United States army. At sunrise Lewis was called upon to surrender. He saw that resistance would be impossible, so resolved to flee. He gave the enemy a volley from his twenty-pounders, then spiked them, blew up the redoubt, and with the fieldpieces he and the garrison fled over the high peninsula to its neck and escaped up the Penobscot. Then the British took possession of the town and control of the bay. "The _John Adams_ had just come home from a successful cruise, and coming into Penobscot Bay in a thick fog had struck a rock and received so much injury that it was found necessary to lay her up for repairs. They did their best to take her out of harm's way, but it was with difficulty they could keep her afloat until she reached Hampden, a few miles below Bangor. Some of her crew were disabled by sickness, and so she was almost helpless. "Sherbrook, the commanding officer of the British vessels, was told all this as soon as he landed at Castine, and he and Griffith, commander of the fleet, at once sent a land and naval force to seize and destroy the _John Adams_. The expedition sailed in the afternoon of the day of the arrival at Castine. The people along the Penobscot were not at all inclined to submit to the British if they could possibly escape doing so. On the day the British sailed up the river word was sent by express to Captain Morris, and he at once communicated with Brigadier-General John Blake, at his home in Brower, opposite Bangor, asking him to call out the militia immediately. Blake lost no time in assembling the tenth Massachusetts division, of which he was commander. That evening he rode down to Hampden, where he found Captain Morris busy with his preparations for defence. He had taken the heavy guns of his ship to the high right bank of the Soadabscook, fifty rods from the wharf, and placed them in battery there so as to command the river approaches from below. "The next morning he and Blake held a consultation on the best methods of defence, citizens of Bangor and Hampden taking part in it. Captain Morris had little confidence in the militia, but expressed his intention to meet the enemy at their landing-place, wherever that might be, and also his resolution to destroy the _Adams_ rather than allow it to fall into their hands. "Belfast was taken the next morning by General Gosselin, at the head of six hundred troops. At the same time another detachment marched up the western side of the Penobscot unmolested, and reached Bald Hill Cove at five o'clock in the evening. The troops and eighty marines bivouacked there that night in a drenching rain. During that day about six hundred raw militia, who had never seen anything more like war than their own annual parade, had gathered at Hampden and been posted by General Blake in an admirable position on the brow of a hill. Lieutenant Lewis and the forty men who had fled from Castine had joined him. The artillery company of Blake's brigade was there also, with two brass three-pounders, and an iron eighteen-pound carronade from the _Adams_ was placed in battery in the road near the meeting-house in charge of Mr. Bent of the artillery. Many of the militia were without weapons or ammunition, but Captain Morris supplied them as far as he could. "While these arrangements were being made Captain Morris had mounted nine short eighteen-pounders from the _Adams_ upon the high bank over Crosby's wharf, and placed them in charge of his first lieutenant, assisted by the other two. With the rest of his guns he took his position on the wharf, with about two hundred seamen and marines and twenty invalids, ready to defend his crippled ship to the last extremity. "The next morning all that region was covered by a dense fog. The different British detachments joined together, and by five o'clock were moving on toward Hampden--moving cautiously in the mist, with a vanguard of riflemen, and on the flanks detachments of sailors and marines with a six-pound cannon, a six and a half inch howitzer, and a rocket apparatus. The British vessels at the same time moved slowly up the river within supporting distance. "Blake had sent out two flank companies to watch and annoy the approaching foe, and between seven and eight o'clock they reported them as coming up the hill to attack the Americans. The fog was so thick that they could not be seen, but Blake pointed his eighteen-pounder in that direction, his fieldpieces also, and fired away with a good deal of effect, as he learned afterward; but the fog was too thick for him to see it at the time. His plan was to reserve his musket firing until the enemy should be near enough to be seriously hurt; but his men, being raw militia and without the protection of a breastwork in front, lost courage while standing there awaiting the approach of the enemy, and when it came suddenly into view, marching at double-quick and firing volleys in rapid succession, they were panic-stricken, broke ranks, and fled in every direction, leaving Blake and his officers alone. Lieutenant Wadsworth saw it all from the upper battery where he was, and sent word immediately to Morris, who was on the wharf. "The flight of the militia had left Morris' rear and flank exposed, and he saw that it would be impossible to defend himself against such a force as was about to attack him. He therefore ordered Wadsworth to spike his guns and retreat with his men across the bridge over the Soadabscook, while it was yet open, for the stream was fordable only at low water, and the tide was rising. "Wadsworth obeyed, his rear gallantly covered by Lieutenant Watson with some marines. At the same time the guns on the wharf were spiked, the _John Adams_ was set on fire, and Morris' men retreated across the Soadabscook, he being the last man to leave the wharf. Before he reached the bridge the British were on the bank above him; but he dashed across the stream, armpit deep in the water, and under a galling fire from their muskets, unhurt, joined his friends on the other side--Blake and his officers and a mere remnant of his command among them--and all retreated to Bangor. Morris did not stay there, however, but soon made his way overland to Portland." "Did the British harm the people in that town, papa?" asked Elsie. "They took possession, and there was no further resistance," replied the captain. "Then they sent some vessels, with about five hundred men, to Bangor. A mile from the town they were met by a flag of truce from the magistrates, who asked terms of capitulation. The answer was that private property would be respected. It was about ten o'clock when they reached the town, and Commodore Barrie gave notice that if the people would cheerfully send in the required supplies they should not be harmed in person or property. But he had hardly done so before he gave his sailors to understand that they might plunder as much as they pleased." "And did they, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes," he said, "history tells us that almost every store on the western side of the creek, which there empties into the Penobscot, was robbed of all valuable property. Colonel John, however, did all he could to protect the inhabitants. The British forced the people to surrender all their arms, military stores, and public property of every kind, and to report themselves prisoners of war for parole, with a promise that they would not take up arms against the British. "Having robbed the people of property worth twenty-three thousand dollars, destroyed, by burning, fourteen vessels, and stolen six, which they carried away with them, they left Bangor for Hampden, which they treated in the same way. There they desolated the church--tearing up the Bible and psalm-books, and demolishing the pulpit and pews. Lossing tells us that the total loss of property at Hampden, exclusive of the cargo of the _Commodore Decatur_, was estimated at forty-four thousand dollars. And in a note he adds that Williamson's 'History of Maine' says, 'In the midst of the rapine a committee waited on Barrie, and told him that the people expected at his hands the common safeguards of humanity, if nothing more; to which the brutal officer replied, "I have none for you. My business is to burn, sink, and destroy. Your town is taken by storm, and by the rules of war we ought to both lay your village in ashes and put its inhabitants to the sword. But I will spare your lives, though I don't mean to spare your houses."'" "Oh, what a cruel wretch!" said Evelyn. "A perfect savage, I should call him!" exclaimed Lucilla hotly. "I entirely agree with you, ladies," said Mr. Lilburn, "and am sorry indeed to have to own him as a countryman of mine." "Well, Cousin Ronald," returned Mrs. Travilla pleasantly, "there are plenty of Americans of such character that I should be loth indeed to own them as relatives." "And there were plenty such in the days of our two wars with England, as any one must acknowledge, remembering the lawless bands of marauders called Cowboys and Skinners," said Violet; "they were more detestable than the British themselves--even such as that Barrie, Tarleton, and others too numerous to mention." "Will they ever come here again, papa?" asked Ned. "I think not, son," replied the captain; "most, if not all of them, are now dead." "Yes, it must have been a long, long while ago," remarked the little lad reflectively. "We are going now to Passamaquoddy Bay, aren't we, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes," he said, "and hope to reach there early this afternoon." "And I hope we will see all that Lossing tells about," said Grace. "I think you may feel reasonably certain of that," her father responded, in his kindly, pleasant tones. "We pass Machias on the way to Passamaquoddy Bay, don't we, father?" asked Grace. "Yes," he replied, "we are nearing it now." "Oh, I remember something about what occurred there in the Revolution; but won't you please tell us the story again?" she exclaimed. "I will," he said. "We had then an exposed coast many miles in extent, and not a single armed vessel to protect it, while Britain was the first naval power of the world. A few of our planters and merchants had been trained in the royal navy, and so had a good many American seamen, to some extent, in helping England in her wars with the French in the twenty years preceding our Revolution; but our wise men who were directing public affairs could see no material for organizing a marine force, so devoted themselves to the business of raising an army. Immediately after the battle of Lexington the British began depredations along the New England coast, and soon private vessels were gotten out by patriot volunteers, who armed them as well as they could, and did their best to defend the coast. "You know news did not fly so fast in those days as it does now, but when at length the people of Machias heard of the affair at Lexington it of course caused great excitement, and a desire to defend their country against the foe. There in their own harbor lay a British armed schooner called the _Margaretta_. She had two sloops with her, and the three were busied in getting lumber for the British army in Boston. A party of the young men of the town determined to try to capture her while her officers were at church on shore. They seized one of the sloops, chased the schooner out of the harbor, and after a severe fight compelled her to surrender. "It was the first naval engagement of the Revolution. There were forty of the Americans, commanded by Jeremiah O'Brien, and about twenty of them, and as many of the British, were killed in the fight. The captain of the cutter was one of the mortally wounded. Soon afterward O'Brien captured two small English cruisers, making their crews prisoners, and carrying them to Watertown, where the Provincial Congress of Massachusetts was in session. That body then took measures to establish a coast marine to intercept English transports bringing supplies for the British troops, and gave O'Brien employment in that service, with a captain's commission. "The British force under Sherwood and Griffiths, after their raid up the Penobscot, went back to Machias. They landed at Buck's Harbor, three miles below the town, and marched against the fort, which the garrison deserted and blew up." "Are we going to Machias now, papa?" asked Ned. "No," said his father, "we are nearing Passamaquoddy Bay now. We will spend a little time there, then turn and go back to the Penobscot, to visit historical scenes along its course. You perhaps remember that the British went there shortly after having taken Eastport and Fort Sullivan on Moose Island in Passamaquoddy Bay. They were taken on the 11th of July, 1812; Castine on September 1 of the same year." "And about a year after came the fight between the _Enterprise_ and the _Boxer_, which occurred September 5, 1813," observed Max. "Yes," said his father, with a smile, "and of course you remember the notable victory vouchsafed us by Providence five days later on Lake Erie?" "Perry's victory, sir? Yes, indeed! Also Macdonough's on Lake Champlain, which was given him on the 11th of the next September, 1814." But they were now entering the bay, and historical reminiscence gave place to talk of the beauty of the scenery, Captain Raymond, who had been there before, pointing out and naming the different islands and villages. They did not land, but steamed slowly about the bay, finding so much to interest them that they lingered there until nightfall. They then steamed out into the ocean, taking a westward course. It was a beautiful moonlight evening, and all gathering together on deck, passed the time in cheerful chat concerning the scenes just visited and those they expected to visit in the near future. At length there was a pause in the conversation, presently broken by little Ned. "Oh, dear!" he sighed, "I'm just hungry for a little fun. I don't see what's the use of having ventriloquists along, if they don't make some fun for us once in a while." "Now, Master Ned, do you call that a polite speech?" asked a strange voice that seemed to come from a short distance in his rear. Ned sprang to his feet and turned toward it. "I--I didn't mean to be rude, Cousin Ronald or Brother Max, whichever you are; but I am ever so hungry for a bit of fun." "And you consider that a healthful appetite, do you?" queried the voice. "Yes, sir; for 'Laugh and grow fat' is an old saying, so I've heard." "Well, well, well! I have understood that you rather objected to being considered fat," laughed the invisible speaker. "Oh, well, I don't believe a bit of fun once in a while would do much harm in that way," returned the little fellow. "At any rate, I'm more than willing to try it." "Well, suppose we try it with the understanding that if you get too fat you are to be reduced to your present suitable size by a low and spare diet?" "No, indeed!" cried Ned. "I won't consent to that. Don't you know that boys need to eat plenty, if they are to grow up into big, strong men?" "Enough, but not too much, Neddie," laughed his cousin, Dr. Percival, sitting near. "Uncle Harold, you know all about it, for you're a good doctor," said Ned, appealing to Dr. Travilla; "oughtn't little boys to have plenty to eat?" "Yes, Ned; plenty, but not too much." "Well, that's just what I want," laughed Ned. "Oh, what was that?" as a cry, "Help! help, or I shall drown!" came from the water not far from the side of the vessel. Cousin Ronald and Max exchanged inquiring glances, and the latter rose hastily to his feet. "Throw him a rope, my men!" he called to a group of sailors at the farther end of the vessel. The words had hardly left his lips ere the order was obeyed, and the next moment the dripping figure of a young lad in a bathing suit was drawn up and landed upon the deck. "Thanks, thanks, gentlemen," he panted; "you've helped me to a narrow escape from a watery grave. I ventured out too far--alone in the moonlight and----" "Don't try to talk, my man; you are too much exhausted," interrupted Dr. Travilla, for he, Captain Raymond, Max, Mr. Lilburn, Chester, and Dr. Percival had all hurried to the spot to see and assist the rescued stranger. "Thanks! I'll do," he said, "if you'll kindly help me to rub down, and lend me some things till these can be made dry." "Certainly," replied Captain Raymond, and at once gave directions that the stranger be taken to a comfortably warm stateroom, provided with everything needful, and his wet garments dried and returned to him as quickly as possible. Then turning to his brother-in-law, "I leave the rest to your care, Harold," he said. "Oh, Brother Max," cried Ned, as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies and children, "I thought it was you or Cousin Ronald calling for help just for fun, and it was a real drowning man, after all." "A mere lad, Ned, and I am very glad we were able to give him help in season." The incident had created quite a little excitement, and all eagerly awaited Harold's report. He rejoined them in a few minutes, looking so undisturbed that they at once felt that his new patient was in no danger. "He will be all right presently," he said, in answer to their eagerly inquiring looks and questions. "When we heard his cry for help he had hardly more than just realized his danger. He is somewhat ashamed of his venturesomeness, and anxious to get back to his friends without letting them know of the peril he was in." Turning to Captain Raymond, "He will be very glad and grateful if you will go a little out of your way and land him at the spot where he entered the water, so that he may be able to steal up to the house of his friends without arousing their suspicions concerning the danger he has been in." "I think we may do that," the captain said, in his kindly tones. "It will probably not delay us more than an hour or so, and we are not so hurried for time that we need decline to submit to that." Max at once gave the necessary orders, the course of the vessel was changed, and ere long the young stranger was landed at the spot where he had entered the water. Then the _Dolphin_ proceeded on her westward way, and when her passengers awoke in the morning they were nearing Penobscot Bay. CHAPTER III. All were eager to visit the historical places immediately upon their arrival. As they entered the harbor of Castine Mrs. Travilla remarked that it was quite as picturesque as she expected from Lossing's description. "Ah, I entirely agree with you, Cousin Elsie," responded Mr. Lilburn; "it is so bonny a place that I do not wonder it was coveted by the enemy." The whole party presently landed, a guide was found who promised to conduct them to all the points of historical interest, and they set out upon their search. They very much admired the situation of the town, and the view from it of the bay, with its picturesque islands. They visited old Fort George, built by the British in 1779, in the centre of the peninsula, and repaired, fraised, and armed by them in 1814. It was only a ruin now, but interesting because of what it had been in those earlier days. The view from its banks, which were about eighteen feet high from the bottom of the six feet deep ditch, was very interesting. Looking northwestward from the fort they could see on the right the entrance to the canal cut by the British across Castine Neck, turning the peninsula into an island. It was about eighty rods long and twelve feet deep, and now had a bridge across it. Between the promontory and an island could be seen the mouth of the Penobscot River. On the extreme left they could see the town of Belfast, thirteen miles distant. Leaving that point they visited the remains of several other forts built by the British, after which they returned to the yacht for the evening meal and the night's rest. The _Dolphin_ was allowed to remain stationary until all her passengers were on deck again the next morning; then the anchor was lifted, and she steamed up the river. Favored with delightful weather they greatly enjoyed the trip up the beautiful, winding stream. They had taken on board a man well acquainted with the river and every point of interest upon its banks, and who pointed out each one as they neared it. As they entered Marsh Bay the young people were told that the British squadron lay there one night on their way toward Hampden. Elsie and Ned showed keen interest when told of it, and in hearing from their father of the cannon-ball of the British that lodged in a storehouse there in 1814. "Do you remember the story Lossing tells about a Norway pine somewhere in this region?" asked Mrs. Travilla, addressing Captain Raymond. "Something of it," he said, with an amused smile, and the children at once begged to hear it. "Will you gratify them, mother?" asked the captain. "You probably have a better recollection of his story than I." "I will do my best," she said, and began at once. "Lossing says the tree was about a mile above here, and the only one of its kind in that region--a round, compact tree, its short trunk looking as if composed of a group of smaller ones, and the limbs growing so near the ground that it was difficult to get under it. At the time that the British landed at Frankford some man who had a large quantity of bacon, being afraid they would rob him of it, carried it to that tree and hung the pieces in among the branches to hide them from the foe; and though the British passed along the road only a short distance from the tree, they did not notice its peculiar fruit, so did not meddle with it, and his bacon was saved; always afterward that Norway pine was called the Bacon Tree." "Thank you, grandma; that was a nice story," said Elsie. "Haven't you another little story for us, grandma?" asked Ned, in coaxing tones. "I do always like your stories ever so much." At that Grandma Elsie laughed a pleasant little laugh, then went on: "Lossing tells us quite an interesting little story of a remarkable black man whom he visited somewhere near here. His name was Henry Van Meter, and he was then ninety-five years old. During the Revolution he was a slave to Governor Nelson of Virginia. After that he became a seaman, and was one of the crew of the privateer _Lawrence_, which sailed from Baltimore in 1814. I suppose Lossing questioned him about his long life, and heard his story of it. He remembered having seen Washington many times. The estate of Governor Nelson, his first master, was sold after the war, to pay his debts, and Henry was bought by a planter beyond the Blue Ridge. The new master wanted him to marry one of his slave girls, and told him if he did he would order in his will that he should be made a free man at his (the master's) death. In telling of it Henry said, 'I didn't like the gals, and didn't want to wait for dead men's shoes. So master sold me to a man near Lexington, Kentucky, and there was only one log house in that town when I went there.' "He was soon sold to another man, who treated him shamefully, and one night he mounted one of his master's horses and fled to the Kentucky River, where he turned the horse loose, and told him to go home if he had a mind to, as he didn't want to steal him. Some kind white people helped Henry over the river into Ohio, and at Cincinnati he then took the name of Van Meter--the family name of some of the Shenandoah Valley people who had been kind to him. "Afterward Henry became the servant of an officer in the army of General St. Clair, and served with our troops in the Northwest under General Wayne. After that he lived in Chillicothe, then came East to Philadelphia. There some Quaker sent him to school, and he learned to read and write. He became a sailor, went to Europe several times in that capacity, and when the war broke out he shipped as such on board the privateer _Lawrence_. It was taken by the British, and he was thrown into Dartmoor Prison, and saw the massacre there in 1815." "Oh, what was that, grandma?" asked Ned, in tones of excitement. "I didn't think I ever heard about it." "Lossing tells us," replied his grandmother, "that Dartmoor was a depot for prisoners in England; that it was situated in a desolate region, was built in 1809 for a place in which to confine French prisoners. At the time the treaty of peace was made with us there were six thousand American prisoners in it--two thousand five hundred of them American seamen, put there for refusing to fight in the British Navy against their countrymen. They were there when the war began in 1812. For some unknown reason there was great delay in setting those prisoners free after the treaty of peace was made. It was nearly three months before they were allowed to know that the treaty had been signed. From the time they first heard of it they were every day expecting to be set at liberty, and naturally grew very impatient over the delay. On the 4th of April they demanded bread instead of hard biscuit, which they refused to eat. On the evening of the 6th they showed great unwillingness to obey the order to retire to their quarters, and some of them not only refused to do that, but went beyond their prescribed limits. Then Captain Shortland, who had charge of the military guard, ordered them to fire on the Americans, which they did. The soldiers, I believe, fired a second time. Five prisoners were killed and thirty-three wounded." "Why, that was just murder, wasn't it, grandma?" asked Ned. "And didn't they hang those soldiers for doing it?" "No; the British authorities called it 'justifiable homicide,' which meant it was all right enough." "In which decision I, for one, am far from agreeing," remarked Mr. Lilburn emphatically. "It created intense indignation in this country at the time," said the captain; "but is now seldom remembered, and the two nations are, and I hope always will be, good friends." The _Dolphin_ ascended the river only as far as Bangor, and returned by moonlight to Castine, where they anchored for some hours; then at an early hour in the morning they steamed out into the ocean again, and pursued a westward course until they reached Portland. There they landed and paid a visit to the cemetery where lay the remains of the brave captains of the _Enterprise_ and the _Boxer_; also those of Midshipman Kervin Waters. "They are buried side by side, as if they were brothers, instead of enemies who were killed fighting each other," said little Elsie softly. "But perhaps they were good Christian men, each fighting for what he thought was the right of his own country. Papa, can you tell us about the funeral? I suppose they had one?" "Yes, daughter, a solemn and imposing one. The two battered vessels were lying at the end of Union Wharf. A civil and military procession had been formed at the court-house at nine in the morning of the 9th of September. The coffins were brought from the vessels in barges of ten oars each, rowed by minute strokes of ship-masters and mates, most of the barges and boats in the harbor accompanying them. When the barges began to move, and while the procession was passing through the streets to the church, minute guns were fired by artillery companies. Also while the procession marched from the church to the cemetery here, which is about a mile distant from the church. "The chief mourners who followed the corpse of Captain Burrows were Dr. Washington, Captain Hull, and officers of the _Enterprise_. Those who followed Captain Blyth's were the officers of the _Boxer_, on parole. Both were followed by naval and military officers in the United States service, the crews of the two vessels, civil officers of the State and city, military companies, and a large concourse of citizens. Only a few weeks before Captain Blyth was one of the pall-bearers at the funeral of our Lawrence, the gallant commander of the _Chesapeake_, at Halifax." "That dear brave man that said, 'Don't give up the ship,' papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes, daughter. Now let us read the inscription on his tombstone: 'In memory of Captain Samuel Blyth, late Commander of his Britannic Majesty's brig _Boxer_. He nobly fell on the 5th day of September, 1813, in action with the United States brig _Enterprise_. In life honorable; in death glorious. His country will long deplore one of her bravest sons, his friends long lament one of the best of men. �. 29. The surviving officers of his crew offer this feeble tribute of admiration and respect.'" "It sounds as though they had respected and loved him," said the little girl. "That next grave is where Burrows lies, isn't it, papa? and won't you please read its inscription?" They drew nearer and the captain read aloud: "'Beneath this stone moulders the body of William Burrows, late commander of the United States brig _Enterprise_, who was mortally wounded on the 5th of September, 1813, in an action which contributed to increase the fame of American valor, by capturing his Britannic Majesty's brig _Boxer_, after a severe contest of forty-five minutes. �. 28. A passing stranger has erected this memento of respect to the manes of a patriot, who, in the hour of peril, obeyed the loud summons of an injured country, and who gallantly met, fought, and conquered the foeman.'" "And that one on the pillars, papa--whose is it?" Elsie asked, as her father paused with a slight sigh. "That is the tomb of Midshipman Waters," he said. "We will go nearer and read its inscription: 'Beneath this marble, by the side of his gallant commander, rest the remains of Lieutenant Kervin Waters, a native of Georgetown, District of Columbia, who received a mortal wound, September 5, 1813, while a midshipman on board the United States brig _Enterprise_, in an action with his Britannic Majesty's brig _Boxer_, which terminated in the capture of the latter. He languished in severe pain, which he endured with fortitude, until September 25, 1813, when he died with Christian calmness and resignation, aged eighteen. The young men of Portland erect this stone as a testimony of their respect for his valor and virtues.'" "Twenty days to suffer so," sighed Elsie. "Oh, it was dreadful!" Max and Evelyn stood near, side by side. "Dreadful indeed!" Evelyn sighed, in low quivering tones as they turned away. "Oh, Max! I wish you did not belong to the navy!" "Why, dearest?" he asked in tender tones. "It is not only in the navy that men die suddenly and of injuries; and many a naval officer has lived to old age and died at home in his bed. And we are under the same Protecting Care on the sea as on the land." "Yes, that is a cheering thought," she said, "and since you love the sea, it is wrong and selfish in me to regret your choice of a profession. And I could not be induced to resign my sailor lover for any landsman," she added, with a charming blush and smile. That evening, joining her father, as she so often did, in his quiet promenade of the deck before retiring for the night, Lucilla spoke of their visit to the cemetery, and said, "I have always been so glad that you left the navy, papa, so that we could have you always at home with us, and I am gladder still when I think that if we should have another war you will not be in danger of such a fate as that which befell Burrows and Blyth." "Unless I am needed, volunteer my services, and am accepted," he returned, in a slightly playful tone. "Oh, papa, don't, please don't!" she exclaimed, clinging more closely to him. "It will be dreadful enough to have Max in such danger, but to have you, too, in it would be heart-breaking." "Well, dear child, we won't be so foolish as to trouble ourselves about what may never happen. And if it ever should happen, we must just put our trust in the Lord, believing that he doeth all things well, and trusting his promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' And you can rejoice in the fact that Chester is neither sailor nor soldier," he added, with a smile, and softly patting the hand resting upon his arm. "Yes, father dear, that is no small comfort," she said; "especially as I know he is patriotic enough to do all in his power for his country." "Ah, no doubt of that! I think Chester would be as ready as any one else to take up arms in her defence if he saw that his services were needed. And I don't believe this daughter of mine would say a word to prevent him." "I think not, papa; but I hope I may never be tried in that way." "A hope in which I heartily join you, daughter. I should be glad indeed to know that we were done with wars. But that is so uncertain that we, as a nation, must be ever prepared to repel attack--on land or sea. 'Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.'" "And liberty is worth that price, isn't it, father?" she said, with a bright smile up into his face. "Yes; so we think; we could never be content without it." They paced silently back and forth for a few moments, then Lucilla asked, "How long are we going to lie quietly here in Portland harbor, papa?" "That will depend upon the wishes of the majority of our company," he answered; "which I think we will learn at the breakfast table to-morrow morning." CHAPTER IV. It was a bright and cheerful party that gathered about the _Dolphin's_ breakfast table the next morning. Greetings were exchanged, a blessing asked upon the food, and Captain Raymond began helping his guests. "I notice we are still lying quietly in Portland harbor," remarked Dr. Percival. "Do we remain here another day, captain?" "That must be as the majority decide," was the pleasant-toned rejoinder. "Please, friends, express your wishes freely." No one spoke for a moment--each waiting for the others. Then Violet said, in her lively pleasant way, "Cousin Ronald, you are the eldest, and should feel entitled to speak first." "Thanks, cousin," he returned, "but I really have no choice; am perfectly willing to go or stay, as may best please the majority of my friends here." "Do you think of returning directly to Bar Harbor, captain?" asked Mrs. Travilla. "If that is what you would all prefer, mother. But how would you all like to take a short sea voyage--sailing eastwardly from here, at some distance from the coast, and perhaps going on up the coast of New Brunswick?" Every one, from Mr. Lilburn down to little Ned, seemed charmed with the idea, and as the weather was all that could be desired, it was decided that they would start as soon as the anchor could be lifted and sufficient steam gotten up. They carried out their plan, and had a delightful voyage lasting several days. It was on Saturday that they left Portland; the Sabbath found them far from land, and, as at former times, services were conducted on board the yacht with the singing of hymns, the offering up of prayers, the reading of the Scriptures, and of a sermon by Captain Raymond. After that they formed themselves into a Bible class, and Mr. Lilburn was persuaded to take the lead, choosing the subject while the others sat about him, Bibles in hand. Opening his, the dear old gentleman began: "Let us take for our theme Jesus Christ our Lord, and what it is so to know him that we shall have eternal life. Here in the seventeenth chapter of John's gospel in his--the Master's--wonderful prayer we read, 'And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.' Paul tells us in his letter to the Philippians, 'I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord.' His acquaintance was not with the Christ of Galilee, whom he had not known, but with the ascended Christ; he who said to the Apostle John on Patmos, 'I am he that liveth and was dead, and behold I am alive again forever more.' In the tenth verse of the first chapter of his gospel John tells us, 'He was in the world and the world was made by him and the world knew him not.' In first John third chapter and last clause of the first verse, 'Therefore the world knoweth us not, because it knew him not.' A self-seeking, worldly-minded man does not know Christ, and cannot understand him who is aiming day by day to live above the world and get the Christ view of life. Captain, can you tell us why it is that the worldly-minded do not know Jesus?" "Because," replied the captain, "the cares and pleasures of this world are crowding Him out of their hearts, as he himself tells us in the parable of the sower. But some of those who loved him failed for a time to recognize him when he was close to them. In the last chapter of his gospel John tells us, 'But when the morning was now come, Jesus stood on the shore; but the disciples knew not that it was Jesus.' Mary also had failed at first to recognize him when he spoke to her as she stood weeping beside his sepulchre. And how long he talked with those two on the way to Emmaus, and they did not recognize him until he sat down to eat with them, took bread, and blessed and brake it, and then vanished out of their sight! Ah, Jesus is often near us and we know him not." "And he is our Master," said Mrs. Travilla, in her low, sweet tones. "In John thirteen, thirteenth, talking with his disciples Jesus says, 'Ye call me Master and Lord; and ye say well, for so I am.' And Paul tells the Ephesians that their Master is in heaven. 'And ye masters do the same things unto them, forbearing, threatening, knowing that your Master also is in heaven.'" "There are five Greek words translated Master," continued the captain; "one meaning overseer, another teacher, still another signifying absolute ownership; another, leader--one who goes before us; still another, one exercising supreme authority or power. Oh, that to-day each one of us may know Christ as our supreme Lord and Master who alone has absolute ownership of our lives and all our powers." "Let us look for other texts bearing upon this subject," said Mr. Lilburn. "Have not you one for us, Harold?" "Yes," replied Harold, "here in first John, second chapter, is given a test of our knowledge of Christ. 'Hereby do we know that we know him if we keep his commandments. He that saith I know him and keepeth not his commandments is a liar and the truth is not in him.'" "And here in John's gospel," said Mrs. Lilburn, "where Jesus is talking with his disciples, that same night in which he was betrayed, he says: 'A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.'" "And again," said Evelyn, "in the fifteenth chapter and twelfth verse, 'This is my commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved you. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.'" "What wonderful love--oh, what wonderful love was His!" exclaimed Mrs. Travilla, in low moved tones. "And how sweet are those words: 'I have loved thee with an everlasting love.' 'For a small moment have I forsaken thee; but with great mercies will I gather thee.'" "Let us sing to His praise," suggested Mr. Lilburn, and Violet, seating herself at the instrument, struck a few chords, then started the hymn: "Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing, My dear Redeemer's praise," the others joining in with a will--evidently singing with spirit and understanding, for the sweet words were familiar to all. The short service over, they scattered in groups here and there, chatting quietly with each other. For a few moments Mrs. Travilla and her cousin and old-time intimate friend, Annis--now Mrs. Lilburn--were together a little apart from the others, talking low and confidentially. They talked of the past, the present, and the future, as regarded life in both this world and the next. "How sweet is that Bible lesson which we have just had," said Annis, at length. "How I love those words of Jesus--'Ye call me Master and Lord; and ye say well; for so I am.'" "Yes," returned Elsie; "they are very dear to me. Oh, how sweet to know that he is ever with us--always close at hand, full of love, infinite in power and willingness to bless; to help in every trouble, to give 'the oil of joy for mourning and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.' Oh, how true are the words: 'The joy of the Lord is your strength.' If we only have that we can bear all troubles and trials. It makes one happy in the present, and takes away all dread of the future; so sweet and sustaining is it to know that He who has all power in heaven and on earth is your friend, loving you with an everlasting, infinite love; caring for you at all times and in all places." "Yes, yes," said Annis softly. "'Sing, O daughter of Zion; shout, O Israel; be glad and rejoice with all thy heart, O daughter of Jerusalem' ... 'The Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing.' Are they not sweet words, Elsie?" "Indeed they are! These others too--'God commendeth his love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.'" There was a moment of silence; then Annis said, "You seem to me a very happy Christian, Elsie. Is it not because the joy of the Lord is indeed your strength?" "Oh, Annis, who could be otherwise than happy in the consciousness of that love; and in the thought of how soon one will be with the Master, and like Him; and with all the dear ones gone before, never, never to be separated from them again?" "Yes, dear cousin, and how blest are we in the knowledge that our dear ones gone before were His, and are with Him now, and will be ready to greet us with great joy when we too shall reach that blessed shore." "'The joy of the Lord is your strength,'" again quoted Mrs. Travilla, in her low, sweet tones. "Don't you think, Annis, that the Covenanters and Puritans,--good, devoted Christians as most of them were,--in opposing the lightness, worldly-mindedness, and frivolity of their foes, went too far to the other extreme, leaving out from their teachings the joy of the Lord? Do you not remember that the Jews were told by Nehemiah, Ezra, and the others, 'This day is holy unto the Lord your God; mourn not nor weep. Go your way, eat the fat and drink the sweet; and send portions unto them for whom nothing is prepared: for this day is holy unto our Lord; neither be ye sorry; for the joy of the Lord is your strength. So the Levites stilled all the people, saying, Hold your peace, for the day is holy; neither be ye grieved. And all the people went their way, to eat, and to drink, and to send portions, and to make great mirth, because they had understood the words that were declared unto them.'" "Yes," said Annis, "it seems to be human nature to go to extremes, and I think much harm is often done in that way. For instance, the Covenanters and Puritans of old times were so disgusted with the errors and selfish indulgences of the Papists--their turning the Sabbath into a holiday, which might rightly be spent in merrymaking and sport--that they themselves robbed it of all enjoyment, and made it a dull, gloomy time to their young people, with little or no hint in it of the strengthening joy of the Lord." "I think you are right," returned Mrs. Travilla, in a musing tone. "The Sabbath is not a day for frivolity, but it is one for joy and gladness--the joy of the Lord strengthening us for duty, trial, and temptation. What but that sustained the martyrs when called upon to lay down their lives for the sake of Him who died to redeem them? And oh, how that gracious, precious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be,' relieves one of the dread of what the future may have in store for us; what bereavements, losses, sufferings, mental or physical! How often and sweetly He bids us fear not. 'O Israel, Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flames kindle upon thee. For I am the Lord, thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour.'" "Yes," said Annis, "oh, how often, how tenderly he bids us fear not. It is like a mother hushing her frightened child. 'Say to them that are of a fearful heart, fear not.... Fear thou not, for I am with thee.... For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying to thee, fear not, I will help thee. Fear not, I have redeemed thee, thou art mine.... Fear not, O Jacob my servant, and Jeshurun whom I have chosen.'" "'Whom I have chosen,'" repeated Elsie. "How those words bring to mind what Jesus our dear Master said to his disciples in that last talk with them in the room where they had eaten the passover--'Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you.' Oh, what love and condescension to choose us sinful creatures for his own!" "'And ordained you that ye should go and bring forth fruit,'" said Annis, going on with the quotation, "'and that your fruit should remain; that whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, he will give it you.' I remember," she went on musingly, "that when I was a little girl I used to think I should like to be a Christian, and would be if only I knew how. The way seems very easy now--just to listen to the dear Saviour's gracious invitation, 'Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,' accept it, and give myself to him." "Yes," said Elsie, "his promise joined to that--'and ye shall find rest unto your souls'--is sure; it never fails." CHAPTER V. Before the next Sabbath our friends had returned to Bar Harbor. For some weeks longer they remained in that vicinity; then, cooler weather making a more southerly climate desirable, they sailed for home. Dr. Percival was so far recovered that he felt in haste to get back to Torriswood and at work among his patients again. He and his Maude paid a flying visit to old friends and relatives at the Oaks and Ion, then hastened to Louisiana by rail. Max Raymond, to the great satisfaction of himself, his _fiancée_, and his friends, was favored with a lengthening of his furlough, which enabled him to spend some weeks at home in his father's house. Lucilla persuaded Evelyn to be her guest at the same time, Chester was there every evening, and so the courting went merrily on. There was much talk about the new house the captain proposed building, much discussion of the question whether the one building should be made suitable and sufficiently large for two families,--half of it for Max and Eva,--or whether a separate house should be put up for them in another part of the grounds. The decision was finally left to the brides-elect, and as they were very strongly attached, and Max was likely to be often away on the sea for months and years together, they thought it best the two dwellings should be under the same roof, and their decision was highly approved by the captain and all their relatives and friends. Then followed consultations in regard to the exact spot upon which it should stand, and the studying and comparing of plans to make it as commodious, convenient, and beautiful as possible. The captain was evidently ready to go to any reasonable amount of expense in order to give them an ideal home, his means being ample and his love for his children very great. But all the time was not spent in that way, for other relatives claimed a share in Max's prized companionship; invitations were given and visits paid to the Oaks, Ion, Fairview, the Laurels, Roselands, Pinegrove, Ashlands, and Riverside. Sometimes the invitation was for dinner or tea, sometimes for the whole day--or longer for the young folks, if not for the older ones and the children. It was on the last day of October they dined at Riverside, nearly all the connection meeting them there, and at Rosie's earnest solicitation Evelyn and Lucilla, Max and Chester accepted an invitation to stay until the next morning, Captain Raymond giving a rather unwilling consent to let Lucilla do so. "It is Hallowe'en, you know, and I'm just pining for a bit of fun," Rosie said privately to the girls, after seeing the older guests depart. "You two are engaged, to be sure, but 'there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,'" she added, with a laugh and a twinkle of fun in her eye. "But we are not wanting slips," laughed Lucilla. "Nor much afraid we will get them," added Evelyn merrily. "Still we might have a little fun." "Provided we take it early enough to get to bed in good season," added Lucilla, in a mirthful tone. "My father, you know, is very particular about that--so kindly anxious is he to keep me in good health." "Which is altogether right, wise, and kind, I am sure," returned Rosie; "and I don't intend to tempt you to go contrary to his wishes. I'm obliged to him for granting my request for permission to keep you here all night, and I shall not urge you to stay up later than he would allow you to if you were at home. If we try some old-fashioned games we can suit ourselves as to the hour for the experiments." "Yes," laughed Evelyn, "I shall be quite as sure of the fulfilment of the augury if we get it some hours earlier than people of old times used to look for it." "Then we will just wait till our old folks get to bed--which they always do in good season," said Rosie. "Your husband approves, I suppose?" remarked Lucilla inquiringly. "Oh, yes!" laughed Rosie; "he sees no harm in it, and approves of his wife having all the pleasure she can. I wish we could have had Grace stay and share the fun, but her father vetoed that almost before I had fairly given the invitation." "Yes," said Lucilla, "poor Gracie is so feeble that father has to be very careful of her." "Yes; I know," said Rosie, "but I thought he might have left her for once, considering that my two doctor brothers are here for the night--unless called out by some inconveniently sick person." "Which we will hope they won't be, for even doctors should have a little amusement once in a while," said Evelyn. "Yes," said Rosie, "and they enjoyed the golf this afternoon, and appear to be having a pleasant time with Max, Chester, and the others out on the river bank there now." The girls were on the veranda overlooking the river, and just at that moment were joined by Rosie's mother-in-law, the older Mrs. Croly. She sat down and chatted with them for a few moments, then bade them good-night, and went to her own apartments. It was growing dusk then, the young men came in, and presently they all repaired to the drawing-room, where for the next hour or two they entertained each other with music and conversation. Max had some interesting adventures to narrate, to which both young men and maidens were eager listeners. In the pause that followed the conclusion of the second tale the clock in the hall was heard to strike. "Eleven!" exclaimed Lucilla, in a tone of surprise and dismay. "Father would say I ought to have gone to my room and my bed more than an hour ago." "Oh, no! not on Hallowe'en," laughed Rosie; and just then a servant brought in a basket filled with ears of corn, and set it down in their midst. "What's that for, Rosie?" asked Harold. "You can hardly ask your guests to eat raw corn, especially at this late hour? As a physician I must most emphatically enter my protest." "Perhaps Rosie is benevolently trying to bring practice into her brothers' hands," remarked Herbert facetiously. "But we are not looking for that at present, but for fun--pure fun, that will bring damage to nobody." "Yes, my dear brothers, that's what I am endeavoring to do," she returned in sprightly tones. "Perhaps you have not heard of the new game with ears of corn? You folks are all invited to be blindfolded, each in turn, and in that condition to draw out an ear of corn by which to foretell your future fate. A tasselled ear will promise you great joy, a big, full one good luck for a year. A short one will mean a gift is coming, a red or yellow one no luck at all." "Quite a new idea," said Herbert, "and as there is nothing said about love or marriage, I suppose even engaged folks may try it; married ones also." "Oh, yes!" replied Rosie, producing a dainty lace-trimmed handkerchief. "Eva, will you kindly consent to take the first turn?" "If you wish it," returned Evelyn, and the handkerchief was bound about her head and she was led to the basket. "I suppose I am not to choose by feeling, either, but just to take the first one I happen to touch?" she said inquiringly. The others assented, and she drew out an ear. "Oh, good luck for you!" exclaimed Rosie. "It is as big and full a one as the basket holds." Lucilla was told it was her turn, the handkerchief was bound about her eyes, and she stooped over the basket and drew out quite a short ear. "Ah, you see I am not so lucky as you were, Eva," she exclaimed, passing her fingers from end to end. "But it isn't bad," said Rosie. "That means a gift is coming to you soon." "A good or a bad one?" laughed Lucilla. "Perhaps papa would say I deserved a bad one for staying up so late." "Oh, no! I think he expected something of the kind--he declined to let Grace stay, you know," said Rosie, "and I did want her badly. Well, gentlemen, which of you will take his turn now?" At that they all insisted that she should take hers first, which she did, bringing out a tasselled ear. "Oh, I am fortunate!" she cried, with a merry peal of laughter, "for a tasselled ear is said to mean great joy." After that the young men took their turns. Chester got a big, full ear, Max a short one, Herbert a tasselled one, Harold a yellow one, which Rosie told him with sighs and groans meant no luck at all. "But don't be discouraged, brother dear," she said, patting him affectionately on the shoulder, "though older than myself, you are young enough to have lots of good luck after this year is out." "Many thanks for the assurance, sister mine," he laughed, "and though older than yourself, I believe I am young enough to wait a year for any special good luck." "And I hope you will have enough afterward to reward you for the patient waiting, Uncle Harold," said Lucilla. "If he gets all he deserves it will be a great deal," added Evelyn. "You are good, kind comforters--both; accept my warmest thanks," laughed Harold. There was a little more lively chat, then the young girls said good-night and went to their rooms--two on the second floor with a communicating door between. Rosie accompanied them, leaving her husband to attend to the gentlemen guests. "See here, girls," she said, pointing to a basket of rosy-cheeked apples on a stand; "these were put here to induce you to try another Hallowe'en experiment. If you want to see what your future husbands will look like, eat one of these standing before the mirror, brushing your hair all the time, and now and then--when you can get up courage enough--look over your left shoulder." "Oh, that won't require any courage, Rosie," laughed Evelyn. "I am not in the least afraid of Max--brave officer though he is." "And I stand in quite as little fear of Chester," said Lucilla. "So that really it seems that your good apples will be almost thrown away." "Ah, you two forget the 'many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,'" laughed Rosie. "And it cannot possibly do your lovers any harm, or alienate their affections from you." "No, we are not at all afraid of that," said Lucilla, "and as your apples look very tempting, I believe I shall run the risk of eating one presently. I suppose I must first don a dressing gown and take down my hair." "Yes," said Rosie; "you are to stand before the mirror brushing it diligently while eating the apple. And you will try it too, won't you, Eva?" "Well, yes," returned Evelyn, "just for fun; and if anybody but Max comes to me I shall be sure it is not a truthful augury." "Max is a fine fellow and has always been one of my favorites," said Rosie, "but there are others in the world that might do just as well, in case you and Max should have a falling out. Or you may live long enough to marry several times." Evelyn laughed at that, saying she was quite sure once would be enough for her. "I know you girls did not come prepared to stay all night," said Rosie, "so I have laid out a night-dress and dressing-gown for each of you. Get into them, and you will look nice and pretty enough for an interview with your future husbands." They thanked her, and, examining the garments which she took from a wardrobe in Eva's room, pronounced them really pretty enough to wear to the breakfast table. They made haste with their toilets, and in a few minutes each was standing before a mirror, eating an apple and brushing out her hair. Then Rosie left them with a promise to be back again before very long to learn of their success. She artfully left ajar both doors leading into the hall. They opened noiselessly, and presently each had admitted a young man, who, wearing slippers, moved with noiseless tread, and as the girls looked over their left shoulders Eva caught sight of Harold standing a few feet in her rear, gazing steadily at her, a kindly smile upon his features; while at the same moment Lucilla perceived Herbert at a similar distance from her, gazing intently and admiringly upon her. "Oh, Uncle Herbert," she laughed, "this cannot be a true sign, for I know well enough that neither of us has any loverlike feeling toward the other." Almost before she finished her sentence he had vanished, and she heard Evelyn saying in mirthful tones, "Ah, Uncle Harold, this is the no luck at all--prophesied by that yellow ear of corn; for, as you know, I am already pledged to another." At that Harold sighed deeply and withdrew. But scarcely had he and his brother disappeared when Max silently took his place, Chester at the same time coming up behind Lucilla so that she saw him in the mirror, to which she had again turned, brush in hand. "Oh, is it you, Chester? You are the right man in the right place," she laughed. "I hope so, darling," he returned. "What lovely hair!" passing his hand caressingly over it; "so long and thick too. I never before saw it to such advantage." Max was standing silently behind Evelyn, and just at that moment she caught sight of him in the glass. She turned quickly, and he caught her in his arms, giving her a rapturous kiss. "Don't be disappointed that I am your future mate," he said. "Certainly not, since you were already my own free choice," she returned, looking up into his face with one of her sweetest smiles. Just then Lucilla's voice was heard coming from the next room, "Is that you, Max?" and in a moment the four were together, gayly laughing and chatting, both young men insisting that that style of wearing the hair--streaming over the shoulders--was extremely becoming. Then Rosie and her Will joined them for a moment, after which they all bade good-night, and the girls were left alone to seek repose. CHAPTER VI. The young people had a merry time over their breakfast the next morning, rehearsing all they had gone through in their celebration of Hallowe'en, each one seeming to have enjoyed his or her part in it. They lingered over the meal, but soon after leaving the table scattered to their homes, excepting Eva, who returned to Woodburn with Max and Lucilla. On arriving there Lucilla hastened to the library, where she found her father examining some business letters. "Good-morning, papa!" she said. "Here is your amanuensis, and haven't you something for her to do?" "Yes," he replied, looking up at her with a smile, as she stood close at his side, "and the first thing is to give her father a kiss; that is, if she will not find it a disagreeable task." "Anything else than that, father dear," she returned, bending down to give and receive a caress. "And won't you let me help, as usual, with your correspondence?" "I shall be very glad to do so," he returned, rising to take the cover from her typewriter, and put the paper in place. Then she seated herself and he began dictating. When they had finished, "Did you miss me last night and this morning, father?" she asked. "I did indeed," he said; "but that is something I will have to get used to, when Chester takes you from me." He ended with a sigh. "Oh, papa, don't sigh so over it!" she exclaimed. "You know it isn't as if I had to go away to a distance from you. I shall be close at hand, and you can call me to your side whenever you will." "Which will be pretty often, I think," he said, with a smile, drawing her closer to him, and caressing her hair and cheek with his hand. "Had you a pleasant time last evening? And did you go to bed in season, as your father would have seen that you did had you been at home?" "No, I did not get to bed early, papa," she replied. "I thought you would excuse me for staying up, for once, to try my fortune. For you see, we all wanted to know who were to be our future life partners, Rosie telling us that there was 'many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,' so that our engagements didn't make us safe." She concluded with a light laugh and look that seemed to say she felt no fear that he would be seriously displeased with her. "You stayed up to try your fortune, did you?" he returned, with a look of amusement. "Why, my child, I thought you considered it already made." "So I do, papa, and last night's experience only confirmed my belief." Then she went on to tell him the whole story, he seeming to enjoy the tale as she told it. "You are not vexed with me, papa, for staying up so late, just for once?" she asked, when her tale was told. "No," he replied, "though I should be far from willing to have you make a practice of it. "'Early to bed and early to rise, Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,' the old saying is, and I want you to be all three." "As you are, father; and I am the first, at all events," she returned, with a happy little laugh. "You have never had to pay a big doctor's bill for me." "No; but to escape that is the least of my reasons for wanting to keep you healthy." Just then Max came in with Eva, bringing a book on architecture. "Here are some plans for houses, father," he said, laying the book open before the captain. "Please look at this, and tell me what you think of it, as in some respects it is what would suit us. You too, Lu. Eva and I like the most of it very much." The captain and Lucilla examined it with interest, and were as well pleased as were Max and Evelyn. It was a matter in which they and Chester also were deeply interested, and they were taking time and trouble to make sure of having their future home all that could be desired. It was not to be built in haste. They had agreed to take plenty of time and thought in regard to all the interior arrangements, making everything as convenient as possible, as well as to the exterior, which they were resolved should be such as to cause the building to be recognized as an ornament to its neighborhood. Chester was the one most anxious to get the house built and to secure his bride; the other three seemed well content to defer their marriage until the captain should give full and hearty consent. The exact spot on which the building should stand had been selected, and the plans for it almost matured, when there came an order for Max to join a naval vessel about to sail for a distant foreign port. There was a tender and sorrowful leave-taking, and Max was absent from the home circle for many months. For a time those left behind seemed to have lost much of their interest in the building of the new home. Then came the fall rains, after that the winter storms, and it was decided that the actual work should not be begun until spring. Then Grace had a serious illness, which kept her in bed for several weeks, and she had hardly recovered when the little ones at Fairview were taken down with measles. They all passed through that trouble safely, but the weather had now grown warm enough to make a more northern climate desirable, and they--the whole Fairview family, accompanied by their grandma and the Raymonds--went aboard the captain's yacht and sailed up the coast and the Hudson River to Evelyn's pretty home, Crag Cottage. That became their headquarters for the summer, though occasional short trips were taken to one or another of the points of interest in New York and the adjoining States. They all enjoyed themselves, though Chester and Max were missed--especially by Lucilla and Evelyn. Chester, however, joined the party late in the season, and was with them on the journey home. Soon after their return, work was begun upon the proposed site of the new double dwelling, the cellars were dug, and the foundation was laid. But the work proceeded slowly. Max was not likely to be at home again soon, and it was well to take time to have everything done in the best possible manner. Evelyn and Lucilla had fully decided upon a double wedding, which of course could not take place until Max obtained a furlough, and came home for a visit of some weeks or months. Chester felt the delay hard upon him, but had to content himself with being allowed to spend all his spare time with his betrothed. Fall and winter passed quietly. There were the usual holiday festivities and exchange of gifts, then quiet home duties and pleasures filled up the days, and the weeks glided swiftly by. One morning in February the captain, looking over his daily paper, uttered an exclamation of mingled regret and indignation. "What is it, my dear?" asked Violet. "Something that troubles you, I perceive." "Yes," he replied; "here is a piece of very bad news. The _Maine_, one of our favorite battleships, lying at anchor in Havana harbor, has been suddenly destroyed by a terrible explosion--wrecked and sent to the bottom with 266 American seamen; only the captain and a few of his officers who were on shore escaping the awful fate of the others." "Oh, that is dreadful, dreadful!" cried Violet. "But how did it happen? What was the cause?" "That has yet to be discovered, my dear," replied Captain Raymond; "but I have little doubt that it was the work of some enemy among the Spaniards. They have been angry at the presence of the vessel in their harbor--their newspapers calling it a taunt and a banter, for they know our people sympathize with the Cubans. Somebody has done this evil deed; it remains to be discovered who it was." "This is Sigsbee's despatch to the government," he added, and read aloud: "_Maine_ blown up in Havana Harbor at nine-forty to-night. Many wounded and doubtless more killed or drowned. Wounded and others on board Spanish man-of-war and Ward Line steamers. Send light-house tenders from Key West for crew and the few pieces of equipment above water. None has clothing other than that upon him. Public opinion should be suspended until further report. All officers believed to be saved. Jenkins and Merritt not yet accounted for. Many Spanish officers, including representatives of General Blanco, now with me to express sympathy." "SIGSBEE." It was directly after breakfast and the family were all present. Lucilla and Grace seemed much excited, and little Ned asked anxiously if "Brother Max" was on that ship. "No, my son," replied his father; "I am very glad to know certainly that he was not. Have you forgotten that he is with Commodore Dewey on the coast of China?" "Oh, yes, papa! I forgot where Havana was. I remember now that it is not in China, but in Cuba." "Oh, that is a dreadful piece of news, papa!" said Lucilla, in tones of excitement. "Won't it be likely to bring on a war with Spain--especially as we have been feeling so sorry for the poor Cubans whom she has been abusing so terribly?" "I am really afraid it can hardly fail to cause war," replied the captain. "But that will depend very much upon the result of the investigation which will no doubt be made by our government." "Oh, I hope we won't have war!" cried Grace, shuddering at the thought. "War is a very dreadful thing," sighed her father, "but sometimes the right thing on one side--that of those who undertake it for the downtrodden and oppressed." "But we are not such folks, are we, papa?" asked Ned. "No, son; but the poor Cubans are, and the question is whether we should not undertake to win their freedom for them." "By fighting the Spaniards who abuse them so, papa?" asked little Elsie. "Yes." "What have they been doing to them, papa?" asked Ned. "Oppressing, robbing, murdering them, burning down their houses, forcing them into the cities and towns and leaving them to starve to death there." "Why, papa, how dreadful! I should think our folks ought to go and fight for them. I wish I was big enough to help." "My dear little son, I am glad you are not," said his mother, drawing him to her side and giving him a fond caress. "Why, mamma?" "Because you might be badly hurt or even killed, and that would break your mother's heart." "Then, mamma, I'm glad I don't have to go, for I wouldn't like to hurt you so," said the little fellow, stroking and patting his mother's cheek, and gazing fondly into her eyes. "Oh, I hope it won't come to war for us!" exclaimed Grace; "though I should like to have the poor Cubans helped. Just think how dreadful, if Max should be engaged in a naval battle." "Well, my child, we won't borrow trouble about that," said her father soothingly. "And I hope there is not much danger, as he is away off in the China seas," said Lucilla, trying to cheer Grace, though she herself had little idea that he would escape taking part if there should be war. "In case of war, that will hardly excuse him from doing his duty," said their father; "nor would our dear brave boy wish to be excused. But we will all pray that he may be spared injury, if such be the Lord's will." "Indeed we will, in that case, pour out constant petitions for him--the dear fellow!" said Violet, with emotion. "But, Levis, do you think this will bring on war?" "It looks very likely to me," replied her husband, sadness perceptible in both his countenance and tones. "And, really, I think it is our duty to interfere for those poor, savagely treated Cubans. I think it is high time that this powerful people undertook their cause." "And I suppose the Spaniards are already angry with the Americans for sympathizing with those poor, oppressed Cubans," said Lucilla. "Yes," said her father, "and this awful deed--the blowing up of our grand battleship with its hundreds of sailors--is doubtless an expression of their ill-will." And that was not the thought of Captain Raymond alone, but of many others as well. The wrongs and sufferings of the Cubans had so touched the hearts of thousands of the Americans that they felt strongly impelled to make some effort to help them to win their freedom; and now this wanton destruction of one of our favorite battleships--and, what was far worse, the lives of nearly three hundred innocent men--so increased their anger and distrust that it could scarcely be restrained. Through all the land of the Americans there was a strong feeling of indignation over the treachery and cruelty of the blow that had destroyed that gallant ship and sacrificed so many innocent lives; but the people were sternly quiet while the Court of Inquiry was making its investigations. They were ready to punish the doers of that dastardly deed, but not without proof of their guilt. For forty days they and their Congress silently awaited the report of the board of naval officers engaged in examining into the evidences of the cause of the destruction of the _Maine_. Their verdict came at length, but in rather vague form--that, according to the evidence obtainable, the vessel had been destroyed by an explosion against her side from without. So much was clearly proven, but they did not say by whom the evil deed was done. More than a week before that report came in, both Congress and the people had been greatly moved by the speech of Senator Proctor, describing what he had witnessed in Cuba, the scenes of starvation and horror; men, women, and children robbed of their homes, their cattle--all their earthly possessions--driven into the towns and left to starve to death in the streets. The senator's speech made a great impression, and there were others on the same subject and in a like strain, delivered by members of the commission sent to Cuba by the New York _Journal_. Some days later--on the 28th--came the report of the Court of Inquiry into the _Maine_ catastrophe, and put an end to the patience of Congress, which had long been ready to undertake the cause of the oppressed and suffering Cubans. It was not until noon of the 11th of April that the President's message reached Congress. In that he turned over to it the whole policy of the government toward Spain. Congress did not make a formal declaration of war with Spain until the 25th of April, but actual hostilities began on the 19th. Indeed, four days before the declaration of war the United States navy began the blockade of Cuba, and captured a vessel on the high seas. CHAPTER VII. Max Raymond, buried in thought, was pacing the deck of the _Olympia_. "Hello, Raymond, have you heard the news?" asked a fellow officer, hurrying toward him in evident excitement. "No; what is it? News from home?" asked Max, pausing in his walk with a look of eager interest. "Just that. The commodore has had a warning to leave Hong-Kong. War has been declared by our government, and Great Britain has issued a proclamation of neutrality. The official warning comes from the authorities here." "Ah!" exclaimed Max, "I knew--we all knew--that it would come soon. It is well the commodore has had all our vessels put in war paint, and every preparation made for departure upon short notice." "Yes; Commodore Dewey is a wise man and officer. I'm glad he's at the head of affairs in this fleet. It looks as if we would have some fighting soon, Raymond." "Yes, Dale, and it behooves us to be prepared for wounds or death. We are about to fight in a good cause, I think--for the freedom of the poor, oppressed, downtrodden Cubans. But where are we to go now, do you know?" "Only that it must be out of this harbor quite promptly. It can hardly be to travel the seven thousand miles back to San Francisco." They were not kept long in suspense. Presently, anchors were taken up, and with bands playing and flags flying the fleet of vessels steamed out of the harbor, while the British residents of the city crowded the quay and shipping, cheering and saluting the Americans as the warships passed. That first voyage of the squadron was but a short one, a few miles up the coast to Mirs Bay, a Chinese harbor, where they anchored and awaited orders from home, the _McCulloch_ having been left behind to bring them when they should arrive. The next day she came, bringing this message, dated Washington, April 24: "DEWEY, Asiatic Squadron: War has commenced between the United States and Spain. Proceed at once to Philippine Islands. Commence operations at once, particularly against the Spanish fleet. You must capture the vessels or destroy. Use utmost endeavors." "LONG." This message was what Commodore Dewey had been waiting for since his arrival at Hong-Kong in January. He had formed his plans, and was ready to carry them out without delay. His captains were called to a short conference, and about midnight the fleet sailed on its errand of battle. They turned south toward the Philippine Islands, 620 miles away. The nearest United States port was San Francisco, 7000 miles distant. No neutral power would permit him to take more than enough of coal to carry his vessels home by the most direct route, so that there was but one course open to Dewey and his fleet--the capturing of a Spanish harbor somewhere in Asiatic waters, which he could make a naval base. One of Dewey's ships--the _Petrel_--was slow, and as the fleet of vessels must keep together, that delayed them. It was three days before they reached the line of coast of the Island of Luzon. It was reported that the enemy might be found in Subig Bay, so that was carefully reconnoitred, but the Spanish were not there; the fishermen about the harbor said they had seen no Spanish fleet, and though every nook and corner of the bay was examined, not so much as a gunboat could be found. So the American fleet passed on to Manila, 30 miles away. It seemed evident that the Spaniards had chosen that station because there they would have the aid of shore batteries. It is said that their ships were comparatively antiquated, but not so much so as to make their defeat at all certain. Their guns were as good as those of the American ships, and they had more of them: to Dewey's six fighting ships Admiral Montojo had ten, and two torpedo boats besides. The Spaniards had no vessel to rank with the _Olympia_, but the numbers of their vessels, it might have been expected, would probably, in skilled hands, have more than made up for that. The Americans had the advantage in batteries, but not overwhelmingly. The _McCulloch_ did not go into action at all, and the Spanish torpedo boats were sunk before their guns would bear. The Americans were greatly superior in everything that goes to win victory; but that they did not know until the fight had been going on for some time; and as Commodore Dewey led his fleet along the coast of Luzon, toward the harbor where he knew the enemy lay in wait for them, he had nothing less than a desperate battle to expect. The Americans were brave; we know of no cowardice among them, but to the thoughtful ones--Max Raymond among them--it was a solemn reflection that they might be nearing mutilation and sudden, painful death. The Spanish ships were anchored in a harbor protected by shore batteries. To reach them the Americans must pass down a channel sixteen miles long, guarded on each side by powerful forts armed with modern guns; and it was to be expected that it held many mines prepared to blow up our vessels. Knowing all these things, Commodore Dewey, his officers, and his men must have been expecting a hard fight, with no certainty of winning the victory. There was probably but little sleep on board the vessel that night. About ten o'clock Saturday night the men were sent to their stations for battle. Max had spent some leisure time in writing to the dear ones in his home, and the still dearer one pledged to become his wife, telling just where he was and the prospect immediately before him, expressing his hope that all would go well with the Americans--now championing the cause of the poor, oppressed Cubans and of these downtrodden Filipinos--and that he would be able to write further after the conflict ended, should he pass safely through it; but if he should be killed or seriously wounded, doubtless the news would reach them in due season, and they must think of him as having fallen in a good cause, hoping to meet them all in a better land. A little before that, the commodore was walking back and forth on the starboard side of the upper deck, when he noticed an old sailor who seemed to be trying to find something to do on the port side. He was a man who had been forty years in the service of the navy and army of the United States, and was a privileged character on the _Olympia_. He seemed to be keeping a careful lookout on the commodore, who noticed it and perceived that he had something on his mind. "Well, Purdy, what is it?" he asked. Purdy straightened up and saluted. "I hope, sir," he said, "ye don't intend to fight on the 3d of May." "And why not?" asked the commodore. "Well, ye see, sir," Purdy replied, in the most serious manner, "the last time I fought on the 3d of May I got licked--at the battle of Chancellorsville, under Fighting Joe Hooker." "All right, Purdy, we won't fight on the 3d of May this time," said the commodore; "but when we do fight, Purdy, you'll have a different kind of a May anniversary to think about. Remember that, Purdy." "Ay, ay, sir," replied Purdy, saluting, then hurrying away to rejoin his blue jacket comrades, whom he told, "We'll lick those Spaniards if they was ten times as many as they are." The moon was in its first quarter, and though often veiled by clouds its light might enable the Spaniards on the fortified points here and there to perceive the stealthy approach of their foe. Max, on the watch with others, overheard the commodore say, as they neared the opening between Mariveles and the Island of Corregidor, "We ought to hear from this battery about now." But its guns were silent. They went on two miles further without perceiving any evidence that the Spaniards were awake and aware of their approach. "They seem far from alert and watchful," Max presently remarked. But at that moment a bright light was thrown on the Point, an answering one was seen on the island, as if they were signalling each other, then a rocket soared up from the centre of Corregidor, and the commodore said, "It has taken them a long time to wake up, but probably they will make it all the hotter for us when they begin." Day had not yet dawned when they reached the mouth of Manila Bay. They did not stop to reconnoitre, but pressed on at once, running the gantlet of batteries and concealed mines without waiting for daylight to make it easier. They waited a little for the setting of the moon, then went on in single file, the _Olympia_ leading and the _McCulloch_ bringing up the rear, and with no lights except one lantern at the stern of each ship for the next to steer by. A great light marked the entrance to the harbor, gleaming in the darkness as though to welcome the gray ships stealing so quietly in, as if to come suddenly and unexpectedly upon their prey. The forts were as silent as though all their defenders were asleep or dead. That was a wonder to the Americans, for the rush of their vessels through the water seemed to make a sound that might be heard by the enemy, and every moment they expected it to attract their attention; and so anxious were they to pass unnoticed, that they spoke to each other in whispers, and moved about with muffled tread. They were in momentary expectation of a cannon shot or the explosion of a mine that might rend the plates of some one of their ships; but nothing of either kind occurred, until the last ship in the procession--the _McCulloch_--gave the first alarm. Coal was flung on her furnace, and a red flame flared up, lighting up the waters and the rigging of the ship itself and of those ahead. All the men on the fleet turned expectantly toward the batteries on the land, thinking that shots would certainly come now. But all was silence there. Again and again the unlucky beacon flared, and after the third time it was noticed by the flash of a gun on a rock called El Fraile. But the aim was not good, and the shot did not strike any of our vessels. The _Concord_ fired in return, and cannon roared from the _Boston_, the _McCulloch_, and again from the _Concord_, but the _Olympia_ and other big ships passed on in silent dignity. The commodore was standing on the bridge of the _Olympia_, piloting his fleet, and the shot from El Fraile had given him a clear idea of how the shore lay. And now, having passed that battery, all the defences of the harbor's mouth were left behind, and excepting mines that might lie concealed under the water there was no further danger to meet until they should reach the city with its forts at Cavité. As the ship steamed on up the bay, Max and Dale standing together on deck fell into conversation. "What ails these Spaniards?" queried Dale. "I, for one, expected nothing less than a severe fight at the very mouth of this bay, but they have let us come in and on up toward their city almost unnoticed. The strait where we came in is only about five miles wide, and broken by three islands, all fortified, and armed with Krupp guns. And on the mainland there are two forts--one on each side--which, as I have been told, are armed with steel rifled cannon." "Yes," said Max, "and we passed them all within easy range, and received only ineffective fire from one battery. But this is only the beginning; at any minute we may come in contact with a mine in the channel which will explode, or an electric mine may be discharged in a way to work us serious mischief." "True enough," said Dale; "and it behooves us to be ready for the worst. There will probably be men killed and wounded on both sides." "Yes," sighed Max; "war is an awful thing; but in this instance right is on our side, because we have undertaken the cause of the oppressed. And," he added with an effort, "if we have made our peace with God--are believing in the Lord Jesus Christ and trusting in his perfect righteousness--death will be no calamity to us; and if we are wounded, no matter how painfully, he will give us strength to bear it." "I do not doubt it," said Dale; "nor that you are in that state of preparation, Raymond. I hope I am also; and that being the case, we surely can go bravely on to meet whatever awaits us." "I hope so," said Max, "and believing, as I do, that we are in the right, I have a strong hope that God will give us the victory." "Ah, see!" cried a voice near them, "yonder are the Spanish ships, lying at anchor under the batteries at Cavité." "Yes," said another, "and there is the old town of Manila, with its low clustering roofs and towering cathedral." Men crowded to the best points from which to obtain a good view, and stood in silence gazing upon it. Max had a glass, and looking through it could see the roofs and quays of the city crowded with spectators. Evidently the engagement with the battery at El Fraile had been heard and had alarmed the city. Dewey had planned for a prompt fight, but did not intend to have his men go into it hungry; and now some of his sailors were passing up and down distributing cups of hot coffee and biscuits. That duly attended to, signals fluttered from the gaff, black balls were run up to every peak on all the vessels, and, breaking out, displayed the great battle flags. At that, some nine-inch guns on Fort Lunette were fired--without doing any damage--and the American vessels suddenly moved on to closer quarters. "Hold your fire!" was the order from the flagship, and two shots from the _Concord_ was the only answer given to the forts. Onward the fleet sped toward that of the Spaniards, which was silent also. Suddenly there was a muffled roar, and a great volume of mud and water was thrown into the air right before the flagship, showing that the dreaded mines were near. In an instant there was another explosion, but neither did any harm; and they were all our men saw of the Spanish explosives of that sort. Now the fleet was nearing the enemy. On the _Olympia's_ bridge stood Commodore Dewey, with Captain Gridley and Flag-captain Lamberton at his side. The Spanish ships now joined the forts in pouring their fire on the advancing foe, but still there was no response. Presently the sun rose red and glaring with midsummer heat, and at that the commodore, turning to the officer at his side, said quietly, "You may fire now, Gridley, when ready." Gridley was ready, and the next instant an eight-inch shell was on its way toward the enemy, who was only about 4500 yards distant. Presently a signal from the flagship gave the same permission to the other vessels, and the whole fleet was engaged. Shortly before that, Dewey had assembled the men of the _Olympia_ and given them this final direction for their conduct during the fight: "Keep perfectly cool, and pay attention to nothing but orders." Such was the watchword through his whole fleet that morning, and the result was a deliberate and deadly fire. The ships steamed along in regular order--the _Olympia_, the _Baltimore_, the _Raleigh_, _Petrel_, _Concord_, and _Boston_--parallel to the Spanish ships, working every gun that could be brought to bear, and receiving the fire of ships and forts in return. The fire of the Spanish guns was a succession of brilliant misses--shots that came very near hitting, but did not quite do so. It was, as Dewey put it in his report, "vigorous, but generally ineffective." But the aim was not always bad. One shell struck the gratings of the bridge of the _Olympia_; one narrowly missed the commodore himself, and so hot did the fire become that he bade Captain Gridley go into the conning tower lest both of them might be killed or disabled at once. On the _Boston_ a six-inch gun was disabled, and a box of ammunition exploded. Also a shell burst in a stateroom, and set it on fire. Our six vessels steamed along down past the Spanish line, the port side of every ship a mass of flame and smoke, then circling around in a grand sweep--that made the Spaniards think for a moment they were pulling out of action--the column returned again on its course, and the men of the starboard batteries had a chance to try their skill while their fellows rested. They had made this circuit but three times when three of the Spanish ships were on fire. Looking through glasses the shots could be seen striking the Spanish hulls, which were thinly plated. Admiral Montojo, stung into fury by his losses, slipped the cables of his flagship, just as the Americans were beginning their third round, and under full steam darted out as if intending to attack the _Olympia_. But as his vessel--the _Reina Christina_--swung away from her fellows the fire of the whole American fleet was concentrated upon her. The storm of shot and shell came pouring down upon her, pierced her hull like paper, swept her decks and spread death and destruction on every side. Her engines were pierced, her bridge shot away. She could hardly be controlled by her helm, and as she turned her stern to the American fire an eight-inch gun on the _Olympia_ sent a projectile that struck her there, tore its way forward, exploding ammunition, shattering guns, killing men, piercing partitions, tearing up decks, and finally exploding in her after-boiler. Agonized screams of wounded men were heard rising above the thunder of the battle, and the _Reina Christina_ staggered back with flames leaping from her hatches. While this was going on the two Spanish torpedo boats slipped out and ran for the American fleet. One hastened toward the supply ships, but was caught by the _Petrel_, driven ashore, and fired upon until she blew up. The other, running for the _Olympia_, was struck by a shell, broke in two, and sank out of sight. Five times the circuit was made by the American ships; then a signal fluttered from the yard of the _Olympia_, and the fleet turned away to the other side of the harbor, where the _McCulloch_ and the colliers had been lying. At that the Spaniards, supposing the Americans were retreating, raised a resounding cheer. The men on the American ships were not so well pleased. They were asking what this move was for, and when told that it was in order to give them their breakfast, there was much grumbling. "Breakfast!" exclaimed one of the gunners, "who wants any breakfast? Why can't we finish off the Dons, now we've got them going?" But breakfast was not what the delay was for. A misunderstood signal had made the commodore fear that the supply of ammunition for the five-inch guns on board of some of the vessels was running low, and he wished to replenish their stock. It was found, however, not to be necessary. But officers and sailors had their breakfast and a three hours' rest, during which guns and machinery that had been used in that morning's fight were examined and a supply of fresh ammunition was prepared. Then the signals for a renewal of the battle were given, and the ships again bore down upon the enemy, revolving as before in a great circle of smoke and fire, but at closer range than at first. The Spaniards seemed desperate, fired wildly, and in a half-hearted way. The _Reina Christina_ was blown up by the shells of the _Baltimore_; quickly after the _Don Juan de Austria_ was destroyed by the _Raleigh_, and so on till all of the ten Spanish ships had been destroyed or had surrendered. Admiral Montojo had transferred his flag to the _Isla de Cuba_, and fought till her guns were silenced and she was in flames; then leaving her to her fate, he escaped to the city. It is said that a great crowd of people had come out from that city that morning to see "the pigs of Yankees" annihilated. The last ship left fighting was the _Don Antonio de Ulloa_, and at length she sank, with her flag still nailed to her mast. One of the American shots entered the magazine at Cavité, and that ended the resistance of the shore batteries. Then from the _Olympia_ was flung out the signal, "The enemy has surrendered," the hot, weary, smoke-begrimed men swarmed cheering out of turrets and up from the bowels of the ships, and the flagship's band broke out with the "Star Spangled Banner," for the victory of Manila was won, the first victory of the war with Spain for the help of the sorely oppressed Cubans. CHAPTER VIII. Max had done bravely and well, and no one rejoiced more keenly in the victory than he, though his heart bled for the wounded and slain. He as well as others listened eagerly for the accounts of the captains of the other vessels of the fleet as they came on board to report to the commodore. "How many killed?" was demanded of each one, as he stepped on the deck, and great was the surprise and satisfaction on learning that none had been killed. "Only eight wounded, none seriously," was the reply of Captain Dyer of the _Baltimore_. "But six shells struck us, and two burst inboard without hurting any one." "Not a dashed one," was the next captain's answer. "None killed and none wounded," said the third, "but I don't yet know how it happened. I suppose you fellows were all cut up." "My ship wasn't hit at all," was the next report. It was known that the _Boston_ had been on fire, therefore it was expected that her captain would have to report a serious list of casualties, and when he announced that no one had been killed or wounded on his vessel the news spread quickly through the flagship, and the men cheered vociferously. The _Baltimore_ had been struck by a sixty-pound projectile, fired from a land battery. It struck the ship about two feet above the upper deck, between two guns which were being served; pierced two plates of steel each one-quarter of an inch thick; then ploughed through the wooden deck, striking and breaking a heavy beam, by which it was turned upward; then it passed through a steel hatch-combing; disabled a six-inch gun; hurtled around the semicircular shield which surrounded the gun, missing the men at it; reversed its course and travelled back to a point almost opposite that at which it had entered the ship, and thus passed out. It had passed between men crowded at their quarters and had touched none, but it exploded some loose ammunition, by which eight were wounded. Max listened to the accounts of the almost bloodless victory with a heart swelling with gratitude to God, and full of hope for the success of America's effort to free the victims of Spanish cruelty and oppression. What glad tidings his next letter would carry to the dear ones at home. They would rejoice over the victory, and his safety too, though that might be again imperilled at any time. This naval battle had been fought on Sunday. On Monday morning Captain Lamberton went on shore to receive the formal surrender of the fort at Cavité. They had hauled down their flag the day before, but now tried to prove that they had never done so. Perceiving that, the captain drew out his watch. Before leaving his ship he had directed that unless he returned in an hour those works should be bombarded. Forty-five minutes of that hour were now gone, and he said to the Spaniards: "Unless you surrender unconditionally so soon that I can get back to my ship in fifteen minutes, the _Petrel_ will open fire on your works." That had the desired effect; they surrendered at once, and priests and nuns came humbly to beg him to restrain his men from murdering all the wounded in the hospitals. They had been told that that was the invariable practice of the barbarous "Yanquis." The next day the _Raleigh_ and _Baltimore_ went down to the mouth of the bay and, after a brief attack, captured the forts on Corregidor and Sangley Point. The guns in these works were destroyed by wrapping them with gun cotton and exploding it with electricity. The officer in command at Corregidor went aboard the _Raleigh_ to surrender himself, and while there seemed greatly alarmed to find the ship drifting in the main channel, or Boca Grand, and demanded that he be at once put ashore. Asked the reason of his alarm and haste to get away, he said the channel was full of contact mines, and though the Americans might be satisfied to brave death by them he was not, and it was not fair to expose a prisoner to almost certain destruction. And that was the channel through which the American fleet had entered the harbor. Four days after his victory Dewey, having all the harbor defences at his command, sent off the _McCulloch_ to Hong-Kong with his first despatches to Washington. So a week had passed after the rumors from Madrid before the American people received definite information in regard to Dewey's successes in the Philippines. These are the despatches: MANILA, May 1.--Squadron arrived at Manila at daybreak this morning. Immediately engaged the enemy and destroyed following Spanish vessels: _Reina Cristina_, _Castilla_, _Don Antonio de Ulloa_, _Isla de Luzon_, _Isla de Cuba_, _General Lezo_, _Marques del Duoro_, _El Correo_, _Velasco_, _Isla de Mindanao_, a transport, and water battery at Cavité. The squadron is uninjured, and only a few men are slightly wounded. Only means of telegraphing is to American consul at Hong-Kong. I shall communicate with him. DEWEY. MANILA, May 4.--I have taken possession of the naval station at Cavité, Philippine Islands, and destroyed the fortifications. Have destroyed fortifications at bay entrance, Corregidor Island, parolling the garrison. I control the bay completely, and can take the city at any time. The squadron is in excellent health and spirits. The Spanish loss not fully known, but is very heavy. One hundred and fifty killed, including captain, on _Reina Cristina_ alone. I am assisting in protecting Spanish sick and wounded. Two hundred and fifty sick and wounded in hospital within our lines. Much excitement in Manila. Will protect foreign residents. DEWEY. A message of congratulation from the President and people of the United States was the immediate response to Dewey's despatches, and with it the information that the President had appointed the victorious commander a rear-admiral. Doubtless a rumor concerning the nature of that despatch quickly reached all the vessels of the fleet, for the next morning watchful eyes on many of them turned to the flagship to see what flag would be run up to the mainmast, and when they saw that it was a blue flag as of yore, but had two stars instead of one, the guns of the squadron roared out a salute to the new admiral. No one there was more rejoiced than Max, who both respected and loved his gallant commander; and no one in America felt happier over the good news in Dewey's despatches than those to whom Max was so dear. It was a blessed relief to their anxiety to learn that no one in the squadron had been killed, and none more than slightly wounded. CHAPTER IX. The news of the destruction of the _Maine_ was quite as exciting to our friends at Ion as to those of Woodburn. All saw that war between the United States and Spain could not be long delayed, and when it was declared, both Harold and Herbert Travilla volunteered their services as physicians and surgeons to the troops to be sent to Cuba or Puerto Rico. Their mother gave consent, though her heart bled at thought of the toils and dangers they would be called upon to endure, but she felt that they were right in their desire to help the poor Cubans to such freedom as we enjoy. No one had felt a deeper sympathy for the despoiled and starving reconcentradoes than she. Her sons were not going as soldiers, to be sure, but as greatly needed help to those who were to do the fighting. Captain Raymond was strongly inclined to offer his services to the government, but was deterred by the earnest, tearful entreaties of his wife and daughters. They urged him to refrain, for their sakes, as there seemed to be no lack of men who could be better spared--at least so it seemed to them. "Oh, father," said Grace, "don't think of such a thing! There are plenty of other men who are not so much loved and needed in their own homes; so that the poor Cubans will be sure to get free without our risking the loss of the dearest father that anybody ever had." It was shortly after breakfast on a beautiful May morning, and the whole family were together on the front veranda, the captain occupying an easy chair, while looking over the morning paper. Grace had come close to his side, and was standing there as she spoke. "Is that your opinion of him?" he asked, smiling up into her eyes. "Yes, sir; and always has been," she answered, accepting a silent invitation to a seat upon his knee, and putting an arm around his neck. "Oh, father, I don't know how I could live without you!" she exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears at the very thought. "Nor I," said Lucilla. "No greater calamity than the loss of our father could possibly befall us. And there are plenty of other people to look after the Cubans." "So I think," said Violet. "If our country was in peril it would be a different matter. And, my dear, as your eldest son is in the fight--such a dear fellow as he is too!--I am sure that ought to be considered your full share of giving and doing for the Cuban cause." "I should think so indeed!" chimed in Lucilla and Grace in a breath. "And, oh, I can't bear to think that my dear brother Max may get wounded!" exclaimed Elsie; and Ned added, "And if he does, I'd just like to shoot the fellow that shoots him." "We must try not to feel revengeful, my little son," said his father. "Well, papa, please promise not to offer to go into the fight," pleaded Grace, and the others all added their earnest solicitations to hers, till at length they won the desired pledge. They were too dear to the captain's heart to be denied what they pleaded for so earnestly and importunately. Grace was feebler and oftener ailing that spring than she had been for several years before, and Dr. Arthur Conly, or one or the other of his partners,--Harold and Herbert Travilla,--was often there to give advice and see that it was followed. It had been Harold oftener, of late, than any one else, and he had grown very fond of the sweet girl who always listened with such deference to his advice, and called him "uncle" in her sweet voice. The thought of leaving her gave him a keener pang than anything else, as he contemplated leaving his home for the labors and dangers of the seat of war. He was glad indeed when he learned that the captain would remain at home to take care of her and the rest of his family. Grace noticed with pleasure that as the time of his leaving drew near his manner toward her grew more affectionate, till it seemed almost as tender as that of her father, and she thought it very nice that Uncle Harold should be so fond of her. She looked up to him as one who was very wise and good, and wondered that he should care particularly for her, as she was not really related to him at all. He was fond of Lucilla also, but Grace seemed to him the lovelier of the two. He had always been fond of her, but did not know until about to leave her for that dangerous field of usefulness that his affection was of the sort to make him long for her as the partner of his life. But so it was. Yet could it be? Would the captain ever consent to such a mixture of relationships? He feared not; and at all events it was quite certain that he would not be allowed to try to win his coveted prize for years to come--she being so young, and far from strong and well. Then as he was about to risk his life on battlefields, it would be cruelty to her to try to win her love before he went. He resolved to go without revealing his secret to any one. But he had never had an important secret from his mother; all his life he had been used to talking freely with her, telling of his hopes, aims, and wishes, his doubts and perplexities, and almost before he knew it he had said enough of his feelings for Grace to show to that mother's keen-sighted affection how the land lay. "Grace is very lovely, and a dear child," she said low and gently; "but, as you know, she is not well or strong. Also she is so young that her father would not hear of her marrying for years to come." "No, mother, nor would I advise it; unless," he added with a low, embarrassed laugh, "to a physician who would take special care of her health." "You refer to one physician in particular, I perceive," returned his mother, with a low, musical laugh, and laying her hand in his, for they were sitting side by side on the veranda. "Well, my dear boy. I advise you to wait till your return home before you say anything to either her or her father. But have you thought what a mixture of relationships such a marriage would make? Your brother-in-law would be also your father-in-law, and Grace aunt to her half-brother and sister." "Yes, mother, it would cause some awkward relationships; but as there is no tie of blood between us, perhaps that need not matter. But I shall say nothing till I come home, and not then without the captain's permission." "That is right. But do you think Grace suspects?" "Hardly, mother; I am only her 'uncle,' you know," Harold answered, with a laugh in which there was little or no mirth. "Although I am certainly very fond of Grace," said his mother, "I cannot help regretting that your affections have not gone out to some one else rather than to her--because of her feeble health and the connection through your sister and her father." "Yes, they are objections," he returned, with a sigh; "but mother dear, you will not consider them insuperable if I can persuade the captain not to do so?" "Oh, no! not if you win, or have won, her heart. I should not think of raising the least objection, and surely the captain, who is a devoted father, would not, should he see that her affections are engaged." "That is my hope," said Harold; "and, as I have said, I do not intend to offer myself without his knowledge and consent, though I had hard work to refrain to-day when Grace and I were left alone together for a few minutes, and she expressed, with tears in her sweet blue eyes, such anxiety at the thought of my being in danger of wounds or death in the coming struggle in Cuba. Mother dear, Herbert and I will not, of course, be in as great danger as will the fighting men of our army and navy, but there is a possibility that we may not return unharmed, and in case I should not I would not have Grace know of my love and intention to--ask her to become my wife." "I think you are right, my son," his mother said, with emotion. "But, ah, I hope and shall pray constantly that my dear boys may come back to me unharmed." "And it will be a great help and comfort to them to know that their dear mother's prayers are following them," rejoined Harold, tenderly pressing the hand she had laid in his. The next moment Herbert joined them, and he too had a farewell talk with his mother, for the brothers were to leave for Tampa the next morning to join the troops about to sail for Cuba. CHAPTER X. By the last of May there were sixteen thousand men at Tampa under the command of General Shafter, but it was not until the 14th of June that they set sail for Cuba. On a clear, scorchingly hot morning, June 22d, they landed at Daiquiri, twelve miles east of the entrance to Santiago Bay. From all accounts things seem to have been wofully mismanaged, so that our poor soldiers had no facilities for landing. Those who loaded the ship, it would appear, must have been great bunglers--either exceedingly ignorant in regard to such work or most reprehensibly careless. In consequence, scarcely anything could be found when wanted. Medical stores were scattered among twenty vessels; so that when fever broke out in the trenches before Santiago it was almost impossible to get the needed remedies; probably--though there were never enough on the field--some medicines were left on the ships and carried back to the United States. All this made the work of the physicians doubly trying. Besides, they were too few in number, the wounded many more than it had been expected they would be, and brought in faster than they could be attended to; the surgeons worked all night by the light of spluttering lamps, and there was not enough of even surgical instruments. But the poor wounded men were wonderfully brave and patient. Harold and Herbert Travilla felt that they had not engaged in a cause which did not need them. After the fighting began their labors were exhausting; all the more so because of the drain upon their sympathies. On the morning of July 2d our troops were found safely intrenched on the ridge of the hill above Santiago. The day before had been one of heavy losses to our army--many officers and men killed and wounded. And now, just as light began to show in the east, the Spaniards opened a heavy fire on our works. Our men made few replies, for ammunition was getting scarce; and so anxious for it were the soldiers that they hailed an ammunition train with great joy, though they were half starved and knew that no provisions could come while the road was crowded with such trains. The war artist, Frederic Remington, tells of the delight with which the poor hungry fellows hailed a pack-train loaded with ammunition, though they knew that no food would be brought them that night. "The wounded going to the rear cheered the ammunition, and when it was unpacked at the front the soldiers seized it like gold. They lifted a box in the air and dropped it on one corner, which smashed it open. "'Now we can hold San Juan hill against them garlics; hey, son?' yelled a happy cavalryman to a doughboy. "'You bet! until we starve to death.' "'Starve nothin'--we'll eat them gun-teams.'" The soldiers refilled their cartridge belts, then crouched all day in trenches, watching for an assault, and firing just often enough to keep the enemy from advancing upon them. While doing so they could hear the thunder of the navy's guns far away in the southwest, where it was engaging a battery. At the same time, down in the harbor of Santiago, Cervera was getting ready to make his rush out of the harbor the next day. The Spaniards made a dash at our men about half-past nine that night, and drove them back for a few minutes from several points on their line, but they soon returned and drove the Spaniards back with heavy loss. * * * * * The next day, July 3d, was Sunday, and on the great ships of the American squadron, floating heavily in a half-circle about the mouth of Santiago harbor, the men were swarming on deck in fresh clean white clothes, ready for muster. About nine o'clock the flagship _New York_ showed the signal: "Disregard flagship's movements," and steamed away toward the east. Admiral Sampson had gone in it for a conference with General Shafter, whose troops were then resting after their dreadful fight on San Juan hill and El Caney. Of our ships on watch outside of the harbor, the _Brooklyn_ was to the southwest, the _Texas_ directly south, while the three big battleships, _Indiana_, _Iowa_, and _Oregon_, made a curve inshore east of the Morro. The little picket boat _Vixen_ was there also, and the _Gloucester_ farthest east and nearest inshore. The _New York_, now absent, was the one ship supposed to be able to compete with the Spaniards in speed, and her departure left a broad gap in the blockading line. The lookouts on the fleet had reported fires burning on the hills all the night before, and Commodore Schley, who was in command in Admiral Sampson's absence, signalled to the _Texas_ the query: "What is your theory about the burning of the block-houses on the hill last night?" He sat on the deck waiting for an answer, and at the same time watching a cloud of smoke rising from the interior of the harbor behind the hills. It did not necessarily mean anything serious, for about that time in the morning a tug was apt to make a visit to the Estrella battery. Still, they watched it, and presently the quartermaster on the forward bridge said quietly to the navigating officer, "That smoke's moving, sir." That officer took a peep himself, and what he saw nearly made him drop the glass. "Afterbridge there," he called loudly through a megaphone; "tell the commodore the enemy is coming out." His words were heard all over the ship, and commodore, officers, sailors, powder-boys were all rushing for their station. The cry rang out, "Clear ship for action," and gongs and bugles which call to general quarters clanged and pealed on the quiet air. There were echoes of the same sounds from the other ships, and the signals, "The enemy is escaping," ran to the masthead of the _Brooklyn_, the _Texas_, and the _Iowa_ at the same moment; for that suspicious smoke had been watched from all the ships. It seemed that all the vessels of the blockade had caught the alarm at the same time, and the flagship's signal was quickly changed for another--"Clear ship for action!" But it was quite unnecessary. On every ship men were dropping off the white clothes which they had donned for general muster, and hurrying to their quarters without waiting for a command. Every wooden thing was tumbled overboard, water-tight compartments were hastily shut, hose was coupled up and strung along the decks ready to fight fire, battle-hatches were lowered, and in less time than it takes to tell of it all this was accomplished. Then at the sudden blast of a bugle the five hundred and more men to a ship stood at their posts, each one where he would be most needed in battle, and all perfectly silent. Doubtless every eye was turned toward Estrella Point, where the Spanish vessels, if indeed coming out, must first show themselves, and there presently a huge black hull appeared. It came out far enough to show a turret, and from that came a flash, and then the boom of a heavy shot, instantly answered by a six-pounder from the _Iowa_. The battle had begun, and "Fighting Bob" Evans had fired the first shot. That ship just coming out was the _Maria Teresa_, and she was followed by the _Vizcaya_, the _Cristobal Colon_, and the _Almirante Oquendo_. All the American ships were standing in toward the harbor to meet them, firing rapidly from every gun that could be brought to bear. It was uncertain at first which way the Spaniards would turn when they had passed the shoals that extend half a mile beyond the mouth of the harbor. If they turned eastward they would have to run into the midst of the most formidable ships of our squadron. If they went directly west they might outrun the battleships and escape. The _Brooklyn_ was the fastest ship on the blockade, and was also in the best position to head off the Spaniards should they take that course. But it was possible she might be lost, as she was no match for the number of the enemy that would be in a position to engage her when she came up to them. Commodore Schley says that the possibility of losing his ship in that way entered very clearly into his calculations, but also that in sinking the _Brooklyn_ the Spaniards would be delayed long enough for the battleships to come up to them and that then there would be no reason to fear their escape. The difficulty was that because the _Brooklyn_ was on a parallel course with the Spaniards, and going in a directly opposite direction, she would have to make a complete circle in order to chase them; and had they had the speed with which they were credited, that would have put the _Brooklyn_ out of the fight, one of her engines being uncoupled, and in consequence her speed greatly reduced. But the Spanish vessels fell far behind their estimated speed, so that the _Brooklyn_ was able to circle about and still overhaul the fleetest of them, and the _Texas_, the slowest of our battleships, held its own in the race. The _Maria Teresa_ passed the shoals and turned west. The little _Vixen_, lying near the _Brooklyn_, when she saw the _Maria Teresa_ turn toward her, fired off her six-pounders, then slipped away, while the rest of the American ships came rushing down toward the enemy with their funnels belching black smoke, and turrets, hulls, and tops spurting out red flames and yellow smoke. They steamed toward the foe as fast as possible, at the same time firing fiercely from every gun that could be brought to bear, and paying no attention to the shore batteries which were firing upon them. The _Indiana_ was nearest the shore and nearest the _Maria Teresa_, the leading ship of the enemy, when the fight began. It is said that the water fairly boiled with the flood of projectiles from Morro and the broadside with which the _Maria Teresa_ opened battle. As she turned toward the west the shot from the _Indiana_ struck her more than once; but after that the _Indiana_ gave her attention to the _Vizcaya_. By this time all the American ships were engaged, but in the dense smoke it was almost impossible to make out how great was the success of any single one. But Commodore Eaton, who was watching the fight from the tug _Resolute_, says: "As the _Vizcaya_ came out I distinctly saw one of the _Indiana's_ heavy shells strike her abaft the funnels, and the explosion of this shell was followed by a burst of flame, which for a time obscured the after part of the stricken ship." The _Iowa_ and _Oregon_, belching forth great clouds of smoke until they looked like huge yellow clouds on the water, steamed straight toward the fleeing enemy. Says Mr. Abbott: "As the battleships closed in on their prey, they overlapped each other, and careless use of the guns or failure to make out accurately the target might have resulted in one of our ships firing into another. But so skilfully were they handled that at no time were they put in jeopardy from either the guns or the rams of each other, though at one time the _Oregon_ was firing right across the deck of the _Texas_." The end of the _Maria Teresa_, the first ship to leave the harbor, came upon her very swiftly, and was frightful. The shells and small projectiles searched out every part of her, spreading death and ruin, and soon setting her woodwork ablaze. The scarlet flames like snakes' tongues darted viciously from her sides; but her gunners stood manfully to their guns. Little smoke hung about her, and her bold black hulk seen against the green background of the hills made her a perfect target. A shot from the _Brooklyn_ cut her main water-pipe, and a shell--probably from the _Oregon_--entered her hull and exploded in the engine room; a six-inch shell from the _Iowa_ exploded in her forward turret, killing or wounding every man at the guns; while the storm of smaller projectiles swept her decks, and with the noise of their bursting made it impossible for the men to hear their officers' commands. Admiral Cervera was on that vessel. One of his officers, telling of it afterward, said: "He expected to lose most of his ships, but thought the _Cristobal Colon_ might escape; that is why he transferred his flag to the _Maria Teresa_, that he might perish with the less fortunate." And this is the story told an American journalist by another officer who stood by the admiral's side while that dreadful fight went on. Of a shell from the _Brooklyn_ he said: "It struck us in the bow, ploughing down amidships; then it exploded. It tore down the bulkheads, destroyed stanchions, crippled two rapid-fire guns, and killed fifteen or twenty men." Of a shell from the _Iowa_ he said: "It struck the eleven-inch gun in the forward turret of the cruiser, cutting a furrow as clean as a knife out of the gun. The shell exploded halfway in the turret, making the whole vessel stagger and shake in every plate. When the fumes and smoke had cleared away so that it was possible to enter the turret, the other gunners were sent there. The survivors tumbled the bodies which filled the wrecked turret through the ammunition hoist to the lower deck. Even the machinery was clogged with corpses. All our rapid-fire guns aloft soon became silent, because every gunner had been either killed or crippled at his post and lay on the deck where he fell. There were so many wounded that the surgeons ceased trying to dress the wounds. Shells had exploded inside the ship, and even the hospital was turned into a furnace. The first wounded who were sent there had to be abandoned by the surgeons, who fled for their lives from the intolerable heat." The _Teresa_ came under the fire of our guns about 9.35 that morning. Fifteen minutes later smoke was rising from her ports and hatches, showing that she had been set afire by the American shells. The shot from the _Brooklyn_ that cut her water-main made it impossible to extinguish the flames, and the fire from the American ships grew more accurate and deadly every minute; so she was beached and her flag hauled down in token of surrender. The men on the _Texas_ raised a shout of joy. But Captain Philip spoke from the bridge: "Don't cheer, men; those poor fellows are dying." For less than forty minutes Admiral Cervera had been running a race for life, and now, clad in underclothes, he tried to escape to the shore on a raft, directed by his son, but was captured and taken to the _Gloucester_, where he was received with the honors due his rank. His voyage from Santiago had been just six miles and a half, but had cost the lives of nearly half his officers and crew. The _Vizcaya_ had followed the _Teresa_ at a distance of about eight hundred yards in coming out of Santiago harbor. Upon her decks, in Havana harbor, Cuba, Spanish officers had looked down with careless indifference upon the sunken wreck of our gallant battleship, the _Maine_, and it may be supposed that when she came ploughing out of the bay, Wainwright, late of the _Maine_, now on the little _Gloucester_, aimed some shots at her with a special ill-will. But the _Vizcaya_, under gathered headway, rushed on to the west, passing the heavier battleships _Iowa_ and _Indiana_, but receiving terrible punishment from their guns. A lieutenant of the _Vizcaya_, taken prisoner to the United States, in an interview by a newspaper reporter, told of the murderous effect of the shells from the _Indiana_. "They appeared to slide along the surface of the water and hunt for a seam in our armor," he said. "Three of those monster projectiles penetrated the hull of the _Vizcaya_, and exploded there before we started for the shore. The carnage inside the ship was something horrible and beyond description. Fires were started up constantly. It seemed to me that the iron bulkheads were ablaze. Our organization was perfect. We acted promptly and mastered all small outbreaks of flame, until the small ammunition magazine was exploded by a shell. From that moment the vessel became a furnace of fire. While we were walking the deck, headed shoreward, we could hear the roar of the flames under our feet above the voice of artillery. The _Vizcaya's_ hull bellowed like a blast furnace. Why, men sprang from the red-hot decks straight into the mouths of sharks." But the _Vizcaya_ lasted longer than the _Almirante Oquendo_, which followed her out of the harbor. The _Vizcaya_ turned at the mouth of the harbor and went west, the _Brooklyn_, _Oregon_, and _Texas_ in hot pursuit, while the _Indiana_ and _Iowa_ attacked the _Oquendo_. She had been credited with as great speed as that of her sister ships, but this day moved so slowly that she fared worse than any of her comrades. She stood the fire of her foes five minutes longer than had the _Teresa_, then with flames pouring out of every opening in her hull, she ran for the beach, hauling down her flag as she went, in token of surrender, while at the same time men were dropping from her red-hot decks into the water. Thus, in the first three-quarters of an hour two great Spanish war vessels were destroyed, and the American fleet was concentrating its fire on the other two. The fighting men on the vessels were not the only ones who did noble work for their country that day. In the engine rooms and stoke-holes of the men-of-war, on that scorching hot July day, men worked naked in fiery heat. They could hear the thunder of the guns above them, and feel the ship tremble with the shock of the broadsides. How the battle was going they could not see. Deep in their fiery prison, far below the lapping waves that rushed along the armored hull, they only knew that if disaster came they would suffer first and most cruelly. A successful torpedo stroke would mean death to them, every one. The clean blow of an enemy's ram would in all probability drown them like rats in a cage, even if it did not cause them to be parboiled by the explosion of their own boilers. A shot in the magazine would be their death warrant. All the perils which menaced the men who were fighting so bravely at the guns on deck threatened the sooty, sweating fellows who shovelled coal and fixed fires down in the hold, with the added certainty that for them escape was impossible, and the inspiration which comes from the very sight of battle was denied them. They did their duty nobly. If we had not the testimony of their commanders to that effect, we still should know it, for they got out of every ship not only the fullest speed with which she was credited under the most favorable circumstances, but even more--notably in the cases of the _Texas_ and _Oregon_, which, despite bottoms fouled from long service in tropical waters, actually exceeded their highest recorded speed in the chase. On the _Oregon_, when she was silently pursuing the _Colon_ at the end of the battle, Lieutenant Milligan, who had gone down into the furnace room to work by the side of the men on whom so much depended, came up to the captain to ask that a gun might be fired now and then. "My men were almost exhausted," said Milligan, "when the last thirteen-inch gun was fired, and the sound of it restored their energy, and they fell to work with renewed vigor. If you will fire a gun occasionally it will keep their enthusiasm up." On most of the ships the great value of the work the men in engine rooms were doing was recognized by the captain's sending down every few minutes to them an account of how the fight progressed. Each report was received with cheers and redoubled activity. On the _Brooklyn_, when the _Colon_ was making her final race for life, Commodore Schley sent orderlies down to the stoke-holes and engine room with this message: "Now, boys, it all depends on you. Everything is sunk except the _Colon_, and she is trying to get away. We don't want her to, and everything depends on you." The _Colon_ did not get away. The _Vizcaya_ was still making a gallant running fight, and in some degree protecting the magnificent _Cristobal Colon_. While these fled, disaster fell upon the two torpedo-boat destroyers, _Pluton_ and _Furor_. Instead of dashing at the nearest American ship--which would have been their wisest course--both followed the example of the cruisers, and turned along the shore to the westward. Either of them would have been more than a match for the little _Gloucester_, but her commander, Richard Wainwright, sped forward in a cloud of smoke from her own guns, receiving unnoticed shots from the batteries and the nearer Spanish cruisers, though one six-inch shell would have destroyed her. The batteries of the _Pluton_ and _Furor_ were of twice the power of the _Gloucester's_, and they had, besides, the engine of destruction which they could send out from their torpedo tubes. But in a few minutes Wainwright was engaged with them both at short range and under the fire of the Socapa battery. The other American battleships had been firing at them, but desisted when they perceived that the _Gloucester_ alone was capable of managing them. In a very few minutes they both began to smoke ominously, and their fire became much less rapid. Then the _Furor_ moved as if her steering gear had been cut. Wainwright and his men redoubled their efforts at the guns. Suddenly, on the _Furor_, amidships, there shot up a great cloud of smoke and flame, with a deafening roar and shock that could be felt across the water, even amid the thunders of the guns. A shell from one of the battleships had struck her fairly, and broken her in two, exploding either the magazine or the boilers, or both, and she sank like a stone. Wainwright pursued the other torpedo boat, the _Pluton_, more vigorously. She was already badly crippled, and tried hard to escape; but at last, fairly shot to pieces, she hauled down her flag, and ran for the line of breaking surf, where her men leaped overboard to escape the fierce flames that were sweeping relentlessly below from bow to stern. The sight of their danger and distress changed Wainwright from a pitiless foe to a helping friend. He manned his boats and went to the rescue of those still alive on the burning ship. Many were saved, and the Americans had hardly left the smoking ship when it blew up with a resounding roar, and vanished as had its companion. Just forty minutes they had lasted under the American fire, and without being at any time a serious menace to our ships. The battle had now lasted for about three-quarters of an hour. The _Infanta Maria Teresa_ and the _Oquendo_ were blazing on the beach with their colors struck. The battleship _Indiana_ had been signalled to turn in toward the shore and give aid to the survivors on the burning ships. Only two Spanish vessels were left--the _Vizcaya_, running and fighting bravely in a hopeless struggle for life, and the _Cristobal Colon_, which was rushing at great speed down the coast to the westward. In the chase of these two vessels the _Brooklyn_ held the place of honor. Her position on the blockade at the time that the enemy came out was a commanding one, and her speed kept her well to the front. At the beginning of the fight the _Texas_ was next her. In this battle she developed marvellous speed, and fought with reckless gallantry. The _Oregon_ was third at the start, but by a wonderful dash passed the _Texas_ and actually caught up with the _Brooklyn_, whose tars turned out on deck to cheer her--the wonderful fighter from the Pacific coast dockyard. The _Iowa_ was only a short distance in their rear, and the fire of the four was now concentrated upon the unhappy _Vizcaya_, which had escaped serious injury while the attention of the entire American fleet was given to the _Oquendo_ and the _Teresa_, but now with four of the best fighting machines in the world devoting their entire attention to her, she began to go to pieces. The heavy shells and smaller projectiles that struck her made a great clangor, and caused her great frame to quiver. When an hour had passed the _Brooklyn_, _Oregon_, and _Texas_ were the only ones still pursuing her. The _Indiana_ had been left behind, and the _Iowa_ had stopped to aid the burning and drowning men on the blazing warships. The fire of the three warships was concentrated on the _Vizcaya_. Word was passed to the turrets and tops of the _Brooklyn_ to aim at the _Vizcaya_ only. They were scarcely more than half a mile from her, and the effect of the shots began to tell. One of the _Brooklyn_ gunners reported to the lieutenant who had charge of that turret that he didn't see any of the shots dropping into the water. "Well, that's all right," replied the officer; "if they don't drop into the water they are hitting." And so they were. The beautiful woodwork inside of the vessel was all in a blaze. The hull was pierced below the water line, the turrets were full of dead and wounded men, and the machinery was shattered. Captain Eulate, her commander, was a brave officer and a gentleman, but he found himself compelled to abandon the fight, so turned his ship's prow toward that rocky shore on which lay the wrecks of the _Oquendo_, the _Teresa_, and the _Furor_. As the _Vizcaya_ swung about, a shell from the _Oregon_ struck her fairly in the stern. An enormous mass of steel, charged with explosives of frightful power, it rushed through the steel framework of the ship, shattering everything in its course, crashed into the boiler, and exploded. Words are powerless to describe the ruin that resulted. Men, guns, projectiles, ragged bits of steel and iron, splinters, and indescribable _débris_ were hurled in every direction, while flames shot up from every part of the ship. A fierce fire raged between her decks, and those who were gazing at her from the decks of the American men-of-war could see what looked like a white line reaching from her bow to the water, which was in fact the naked men dropping one after another over the side to seek the cool relief of the ocean from the fiery torment they were enduring. The _Colon_ was now left alone, and was doing her utmost to escape. The men on our foremost pursuing ships soon perceived that there could be no hope of escape for her. Commodore Schley saw it, and began to lighten the strain on his men. They were called out on the superstructure to see what had been done by the guns of the fleet and to watch the chase. They came pouring out from the turrets, up from the engine rooms and magazines--stalwart fellows, smoke-begrimed and sweaty. Almost abeam they saw the _Vizcaya_ with men dropping from every port. Far astern were the smoking wrecks of the _Teresa_ and _Oquendo_, ahead on the right was the _Colon_, fleeing for her life, while the _Brooklyn_ rushed after her relentlessly. As the men crowded on along the decks and on the turret top, they suddenly and spontaneously sent up a cheer for Admiral Schley. The admiral, on the bridge above them, looked down upon them with moistened eyes. "They are the boys who did it," he said to one who stood beside him, and he spoke truly. Then the men cheered the _Oregon_, which was coming up gallantly, and her men returned the cheer. Now all felt that even the last of Cervera's vessels was sure to be soon taken, and signals of a social and jocular character were exchanged. One from the _Brooklyn_ suggested to the _Oregon_ that she try one of her thirteen-inch guns on the chase. The great cannon flashed and roared from the forward turret, and the shell, which rushed past the _Brooklyn_ with a noise like a railway train, fell short. On they rushed, the _Oregon_ visibly gaining on the fastest ship of the Spanish navy; a battleship built for weight and solidity overhauling a cruiser built for speed! Another shell was sent, and fell so near the _Colon_ that the captain seemed to read in it the death-warrant of his ship. He turned her toward the shore and beached her, hauling down his flag as she struck. Captain Cook went in a boat to take possession of the prize, his crew being ordered not to cheer or exult over the vanquished. The _Colon_ surrendered at 1.10 P.M., ending a naval battle that lasted less than four hours, and possessed many extraordinary and unique qualities. It completed the wreck of Spanish naval power and dealt the decisive stroke that deprived Spain of her last remnant of American colonies. It was of absorbing interest to naval experts in all parts of the world, and it was unique in that while the defeated fleet lost six ships, more than six hundred men killed and drowned, and eighteen hundred prisoners, many of them wounded, the victors had but one man killed and one wounded. No wonder that when the fight was over, the victory won--such a victory too--a Christian man, such as Captain Philip of the _Texas_, whose crew were cheering in a very delirium of joy, should call them about him, and, uncovering his head, say in a reverential tone: "I want to make public acknowledgment here that I believe in God the Father. I want you all to lift your hats and from your hearts offer silent thanks to the Almighty." And truly they had abundant reason for great thankfulness, having escaped with so few casualties, while the foe suffered so terribly, scores of them being literally roasted alive, for the whole interior of the ships, _Vizcaya, Oquendo_, and _Teresa_ became like iron furnaces at white heat. Even the decks were red hot, and the wounded burned where they lay. So crazed by the sight of the agony of men wounded and held fast by the jamming of gratings, were some of those otherwise unhurt, that they could hardly be induced to respond to efforts for their own rescue. They would cling to a ladder or the side of a scorching hot ship and have to be literally dragged away before they would loose their hold and drop into a boat below. Our sailors worked hard on blistering decks, amid piles of ammunition that were continually being exploded by the heat, and under guns that might at any minute send out a withering blast, risking life and limbs in succoring their defeated foes; for it is not too much to say that in that work of mercy the bluejackets encountered dangers quite as deadly as those they had met in the fury of battle. The poor marksmanship of the Spaniards saved our ships from being much damaged. A good many shots struck: the _Brooklyn_ bore in all some forty scars of the fight, twenty-five of them having been shells; but she was so slightly injured that she could have begun all over again when the _Colon_ turned over on the shore. The _Iowa_ was hit twice, the _Texas_ three times, one shell smashing her chart-house and another making a hole in her smokestack. The injuries to the other ships were of even less importance. CHAPTER XI. That morning that Cervera attempted his flight from Santiago, General Shafter sent into the Spanish lines by a flag of truce a demand for the surrender of the city. "I have the honor to inform you," he said, "that unless you surrender I shall be compelled to shell Santiago de Cuba. Please instruct the citizens of all foreign countries, and all women and children, that they should leave the city before 10 A.M. to-morrow." That flag of truce had been gone only two or three hours when there came a sudden rumor that the Spanish fleet had gone to destruction, depriving Santiago of her chief defence. Our soldiers were so sure of the prowess of our sailors that they hailed the rumor as fact,--as news of a victory,--and when later in the evening the actual intelligence of Schley's glorious triumph reached them they went wild with joy; danced on the crest of the defences, in full view of the Spaniards, venturing to do so because--as there was a truce--no jealous sharpshooter would dare fire on them. And the band played patriotic and popular airs, particularly "There'll be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night." Bonfires were made and salutes fired. Drs. Harold and Herbert Travilla, wearied with their labors for the sick and wounded, rejoiced as heartily as any one else over the good news, yet at the same time felt pity for the suffering of those of the foe who had perished so miserably by shot, shell, and fire. They would have been glad to aid the wounded prisoners, but their hands were already full, in giving needed attention to our own men so sorely injured by Spanish shot and shell. So incessant and arduous had been their labors in that line, and so fierce and exhausting was the heat, that they were themselves well-nigh worn out. There had been hope that the city would surrender, but on the night of the 3d--the day of the naval battle--four thousand fresh Spanish troops entered it, and the hoped-for surrender was not made. The Americans in the trenches were hot, hungry, and water-soaked, and some of them grew very impatient. Said one of the Rough Riders: "Now that we've got those Dagoes corralled, why don't we brand them?" On the 6th something happened that broke the monotony and gave great joy to the soldiers in the trenches. A cavalcade of men was seen coming from the beleaguered city, the first of whom was quickly recognized as Lieutenant Hobson, who with his seven comrades had gone out one night, weeks before, on a vessel, the _Merrimac_, to sink her across the narrow entrance to the channel leading into Santiago harbor, and so bottle up the Spanish fleet. They failed, and were taken prisoners by the Spaniards, and had been spending weeks shut up in Morro castle, but now were exchanged for seven prisoners taken at San Juan. At sight of them the American soldiers seemed to go mad with joy. They yelled, danced, laughed, and even wept for joy. Then the band on the foremost line struck up "The Star Spangled Banner," and all stood silent at a salute. But the moment the music ceased it seemed as if Bedlam had broken loose. The regulars crowded about the heroes, cheering them, shaking them by the hand, while they from their ambulance yelled compliments and congratulations to the tattered and dirty soldiers. And when those returned sailors reached the fleet after dark, they found the ships' companies turned out as if to greet an admiral at least, coming to visit them, and as their launch was seen approaching from the shore the cheers of their brother tars made the hills of Cuba ring almost as had the thundering fire of Morro and Estrella when levelled against them nearly six weeks before. The surrender of Santiago took place on the 18th of July. By that time there was a great deal of sickness among our troops, and our friends Harold and Herbert Travilla were kept very busy attending to the sick and wounded. So overworked were they, and so injuriously affected by the malarious climate, that both became ill; Herbert so much so that he could scarcely keep about, and his brother began to question whether it were not his duty to take or send him home, or farther north, to join their mother and a number of the relatives and connections who were spending the summer on the Hudson, or at some Northern seaside resort, which he was at liberty to do, as they were serving as volunteer surgeons, and without pay. On the morning after the surrender Herbert found himself entirely unfit for duty, and on his account Harold felt much depressed as he went through the hospital examining and prescribing for his patients. Presently he heard a quick, manly step, then a familiar voice saying in cheery tones: "Good-morning, Harold! How are you?" The young doctor turned quickly with the joyous exclamation: "Why, Brother Levis! can it be possible that this is you?" holding out his hand in cordial greeting as he spoke. "Not only possible, but an undeniable fact," returned Captain Raymond, with his pleasant smile, and giving the offered hand a warm, brotherly pressure. "And you came in your yacht? Have some of the family come with you--my mother----" "Oh, no!" returned the captain quickly; "at present it is much too warm for her--or any of our lady friends--in this locality. She and my family are at Crag Cottage, and by her request I have come to take you and Herbert aboard the _Dolphin_ and carry you to her. And I didn't come alone; your brothers Edward and Walter are with me, and your cousin Chester also." "Oh, what delightful news!" exclaimed Harold, his eyes shining with joy. "And your yacht is here?" "Lying down yonder in the harbor, just waiting for two additions to her list of passengers. But where is Herbert?" looking about as if in search of him. "Lying in our tent; on the sick list, poor dear fellow!" sighed Harold. "Can you wait five minutes for me to get through here for the present? Then I will take you to him." "Certainly; longer than that, if necessary. Ah, I see it was time--high time for me to come for you boys." Harold smiled in a rather melancholy way at that. "I have grown to feel quite old since we have been here in the midst of so much suffering, and obliged to take so heavy a load of care and responsibility--performing serious operations and the like," he said with a sigh. "I must find you a seat," he added, glancing about in search of one. "No, no," the captain hastened to say; "I should prefer walking around here and making acquaintance with some of these poor brave fellows--if you think it would not be unpleasant to them." "I think they would be pleased to have you do so," was Harold's reply. A few minutes later he and the captain went into the tent where Herbert lay in a burning fever. The very sight of the captain and the news that he had come to carry him and Harold north to cooler climate, mother, and other dear ones seemed so greatly to revive him that he insisted upon being considered quite able to be taken immediately on board the yacht, and his brother and brother-in-law promptly set about preparations to carry out his wish. "You will go too, Harold?" he said inquiringly to his brother. "To the _Dolphin_? Yes, certainly, old fellow; you are my patient now, and I must see to it that you are well accommodated and cared for," returned Harold in a sprightly tone. "And you are going with me to see to that throughout the voyage?" "I don't know," Harold returned in a tone of hesitation; "these poor, wounded, and sick fellows----" "You'll be down on your back as sick as any of them if you stay here another week," growled Herbert. "And with nobody to take care of you you'll die, and that'll break mother's heart. And as you are working without pay, you've a right to go as soon as you will." "Yes," said the captain, "and if you fall sick you'll be no service, but only in the way. Better let me attend to the necessary arrangements for you, and carry you off along with your brother." After a little hesitation Harold consented to that, saying that after seeing Herbert on board the yacht he would return, make all necessary arrangements, bid good-bye to his patients, then board the _Dolphin_ for the homeward voyage. "That's right, brother mine," Herbert said, with a pleased smile; "I'd be very unwilling to go, leaving you here alone; and what would mother say?" It took but a few minutes to pick up their few belongings, and they were soon on the deck of the yacht receiving the warm greetings of their brothers and cousins, who, however, seemed greatly concerned over their weary and haggard looks. "You are worn out, lads," said Edward, "and the best and kindest thing we can do will be to carry you up north to a cooler climate; and to mother and the others, who will, I hope, be able soon to nurse you back to health and strength." "So say I," said Chester. "And I," added Walter. "I have always found mother's nursing the best to be had anywhere or from anybody." "Yes," said the captain, "and there are sisters and others to help with it at Crag Cottage, where I hope to land you a few days hence." In a brief time Herbert was comfortably established in one of the neat staterooms, and left in Edward's charge, while Harold went ashore to make his farewell visit to his hospital patients, while Chester and Walter accompanied the captain in paying a visit to some of the men-of-war officered by old acquaintances and chums of the last-named when he belonged to the navy. It was most interesting to them all to see both the men and the vessels that had taken part in that remarkable battle, and to hear accounts of its scenes from the actors in them. In fact, so much interested were they that Captain Raymond said he could not have Edward and Harold miss it; they must visit the vessels later, leaving Chester and Walter in charge of Herbert, since he was too ill to accompany them. That afternoon the plan was carried out, and that night the _Dolphin_ started on her return voyage to the north. The change from the rough camps on Cuban soil to the luxurious cabin of the _Dolphin_ was very agreeable and refreshing to the young volunteer physicians, but they were too thoroughly worn out with their toils, anxieties, and privations for even so great and beneficial a change to work an immediate cure. They were still on the sick list when they reached Crag Cottage. CHAPTER XII. Crag Cottage had been at Evelyn's desire so added to in the past years that it could now accommodate a large number of guests. There were so many who were near and dear to her, and whom she loved to gather about her, that she could not be content till this was done. Now the families of Fairview, Ion, and Woodburn were all spending the summer there; also Ronald Lilburn and Annis, his wife--though just now several of the gentlemen had gone to Cuba to learn of the welfare of Harold and Herbert Travilla, about whom their mother had grown very solicitous. They had been gone long enough for hopes to be entertained of their speedy return, but there was no certainty in regard to the time of their arrival at the cottage. It was late in the afternoon. The elder people were gathered on the front porch overlooking the river, most of the younger ones amusing themselves about the grounds. Grandma Elsie was gazing out upon the river, with a slightly anxious expression of countenance. "Looking for the _Dolphin_, mamma?" asked her daughter Violet. "Yes; though it is hardly time to expect her yet, I fear." "Oh, yes, mamma, for there she is now!" exclaimed Violet, springing to her feet in her delight, and pointing to a vessel passing up the river, which had just come into sight. Many of those on the porch and the young folks in the grounds had also caught sight of her, and a joyous shout was raised: "The _Dolphin!_ the _Dolphin!_ there she is! the folks have come!" "Oh, can we run down and get aboard of her, mamma?" asked Elsie Raymond. "I'm in such a hurry to see papa and get a kiss from him." "You won't have long to wait for that, I am sure," returned her mother, with a smile. "But it will be better to wait a few minutes and get it here. There are so many of us that if we should all go down to the landing we would be very much in the way." Others thought the same, and the ladies and children waited where they were while Mr. Leland and Edward, his eldest son, went down the winding path that led to the little landing-place at the foot of the hill, to greet the friends on board the yacht and give any assistance that might be needed. They found all well but the two doctors, Harold able to walk up to the house with the help of a sustaining arm, Herbert having to be borne on a litter. The mother's heart ached at sight of his wan cheeks and sunken eyes, but he told her the joy of her presence and loving care would soon work a change for the better. He was speedily carried to a comfortable bed, and everything done to cheer, strengthen, and relieve him. Nor was Harold's reception any less tenderly affectionate and sympathizing. His mother was very glad that he was not so ill as his brother, and hoped the pure air and cooler climate would soon restore him to his wonted health and strength. "I hope so, mother dear," he said, forcing a playful tone and a smile, "and that they will soon do as much for Herbert also. He, poor fellow, is not fit to be up at all, and I think it will be well for me to retire early." "You must do just what you deem best for your health, my dear boy," said his mother. "But shall I not send for a physician, as I fear neither of you is well enough to manage the case of the other?" "No, no, mother, please don't!" exclaimed Herbert; "Harold is well enough to prescribe for me, and I prefer him to any other doctor." "As I should, if he were quite well," she said, regarding Harold with a proud, fond smile, which he returned, saying in cheerful tones, "My trouble is more weariness than illness, mother, and I hope a few days of rest here in the pleasant society of relatives and friends will quite restore me to wonted health and vigor." "I hope so, indeed," she said, "and that Herbert may not be far behind you in recovering his." In the meantime joyful greetings were being exchanged among the relatives and friends upon the porch, and the returned travellers were telling of what they had seen and heard in their absence, especially on the coast of Cuba. It was all very interesting to the auditors, but the tale was not half told when the tea-bell summoned them to their evening meal. Chester had a good deal more to tell Lucilla as they wandered about the grounds together after leaving the table. And she was greatly interested. "I should like to get aboard a battleship," she said; "particularly the _Oregon_. What a grand vessel it must be!" "It is," said Chester, "and did grand work in that battle; a battle which will go down in history as a most remarkable one. I am proud of the brave tars who fought it, and not less so of the fine fellows who kept up the fires under the engines, which were as necessary to the gaining of the victory as was the firing of the guns." "But, oh, the terrible carnage!" exclaimed Lucilla, with a shudder. "Yes, that was awful; and what a wonder--what a cause for gratitude to God--that but one was killed and so few badly wounded on our ships." "Yes, indeed! and truly I believe that was because we were fighting for the deliverance of the downtrodden and oppressed. Don't you, Chester?" "Most assuredly I do," was his emphatic rejoinder. "Has there been any news from Manila?" he asked presently. "No," she said, "but we are looking every day for a letter from Max. Oh, I do hope he is still unharmed! That victory of Dewey's seems to me to have been as great and wonderful as this later one at Santiago." "So I think. Ah, Lu, darling, I wish Max might be ordered home soon, both for his own sake and ours." "Yes; but try to be patient," she returned, in a light and cheery tone. "I am sure we are having pleasant times as things are, and we are young enough to wait, as my father says. I am still almost three years younger than he thinks a girl ought to be to undertake the cares of married life." "I don't mean you shall have much care, and I am sure you are fully capable of all you would be called upon to do. My darling, if you don't have an easy life it shall be from no fault of mine." "I am sure of that, Chester, and not in the least afraid to trust my happiness to your keeping. But I am willing to wait somewhat longer to please father and to have Max present--especially as Eva's bridegroom. Oh, I think a double wedding will be just lovely!" "If one didn't have to wait for it," sighed Chester. "Yet it is a great consolation that we can be together pretty nearly every day in the year." "Yes, you are a very attentive lover, and I appreciate it." Later in the evening, when most of the guests had retired to their apartments for the night, the captain and his eldest daughter had a bit of private chat upon the porch, for she still retained her love for that, and it was hardly less enjoyable to him. "You don't know how I missed this bit of private talk with you, father, while you were away on your little trip," she said, with a loving look up into his eyes as she stood by his side with his arm about her waist. "Probably not more than I did, daughter mine," he returned, stroking her hair caressingly, then pressing his lips to her forehead and cheek. "Pacing the deck alone I missed my little girl more than I can tell her." "Ah, didn't you almost wish you had granted my request to be allowed to go along with you?" she asked, with a pleased little laugh. "No, my child; you are too great a treasure for me willingly to expose you to the risks of such a voyage at such a time." "You dear father! you are so kindly careful of me, and of all your children." "It behooves a man to be careful of his treasures," he said. "I should have greatly enjoyed your companionship, daughter, if I could have had it without risk to you." "I should have liked to see the warships and the scene of the battle," she said. "What a terrible battle it was, father--for the Spaniards, at least." "Yes," he sighed. "May the time soon come when men shall learn war no more, but shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks." "It doesn't seem as though that time can be very near," she said. "Papa, do you think Max is in much danger there in Manila?" "I hardly know, daughter; I hope we shall hear from him soon. I hardly think there will be much, if any more, fighting for him to do there at present. But his next letter will probably enable us to judge better about that." "Oh, I hope it will come soon!" she exclaimed in a tone of ardent desire. "As I do," he sighed. "I cannot but feel anxious about my dear boy; though the worst seems to be over, there." The next morning's mail brought the desired letters to father, sisters, and ladylove. The captain's gave news of the doings of the army and navy, and after a private perusal he read the greater part of it aloud to the family and friends. It told of the irksomeness of their situation, the weariness of the watching and waiting for troops that did not come, the admiral's patience and forbearance in taking the delay so quietly, the troubles with the insurgents under Aguinaldo, and the commanders of the warships of several European nations. "We know," he said, "that those fellows are looking out for the first sign of weakness on our part, or the first disaster that might befall us, intending to take advantage of it to intervene. I can tell you, father, that Admiral Dewey is a credit to his country and that country's navy. He is very kind-hearted, and takes excellent care of his men; he is gentle, kind to all, but thorough, determined, and energetic; everything under his control must be as perfect as possible. When it comes to the necessity for fighting he believes in being most thoroughly prepared, and striking quick, hard blows, soon putting the enemy in a condition where it cannot fight. He says little or nothing about what he expects, but seems to be always ready for whatever happens. The behavior of the foreign ships must be a constant worry to him, though he says little or nothing about it. The Germans here seem to study methods of annoying us. Their ships are constantly coming in or going out of Manila Bay at all hours, and on the most frivolous pretexts--sometimes at night, in a way that makes our lookouts think them Spanish torpedo boats; and should we send a shot at one of them it might cause the gravest international complications. And the German navy officers make the Spanish officers their chosen companions. "The other day our admiral learned that one of the German vessels had violated neutrality by landing provisions in Manila. He summoned the flag lieutenant to his cabin and when the officer came--'Oh, Brumby,' he said, 'I wish you to take the barge and go over to the German flagship. Give Admiral von Diederich my compliments, and say that I wish to call his attention to the fact that the vessels of his squadron have shown an extraordinary disregard of the usual courtesies of naval intercourse, and that finally one of them has committed a gross breach of neutrality in landing provisions in Manila, a port which I am blockading.' The admiral spoke in a quiet, gently modulated voice, but as the lieutenant turned to go he called him back and added in a wrathful tone, 'And, Brumby, tell Admiral von Diederich that if he wants a fight, he can have it right now.' "The message had the desired effect, and we have had much less annoyance from the Germans since. "The English squadron here is equal to the German, and I am glad to be able to say that the British officers lose no opportunity to show their friendship for us. I am told that the German admiral asked Captain Chichester, the British commander, what the English would do in case the Germans should protest against an American bombardment of Manila, and that the messenger received the answer: 'Say to Admiral von Diederich that he will have to call on Admiral Dewey to find out what the British ships will do in such an event. Admiral Dewey is the only man authorized to answer that question.' I cannot vouch for the exact truthfulness of this report," Max went on, "but I can for the hostility of the Germans and the friendliness of the English. And we hear reliable reports of sailors' fights in Hong-Kong, in which British and Yankee bluejackets fight shoulder to shoulder against German seamen subjects of the Kaiser." "Oh, that is good!" exclaimed Lucilla, as her father paused in his reading, "and I hope we and the British will always be friends after this. Don't you think, father, that joining together we could rule the world?" "Yes; and I hope, with you, that we may always be friends; though it is not necessary that we should always take part in each other's quarrels." "I hope Max is well?" said Violet inquiringly. "Yes," said his father, "he tells me he is, and that he came through the battle without the slightest wound." "I hope the President will let Dewey come home soon, and Brother Max with him," said little Elsie. "Doesn't he say anything about it, papa?" "No, my child, except that he fears it will be months, if not years, before we see each other again. But we won't despair; it may be that the war will be short, and peace return our dear boy to us sooner than now seems likely." The captain seemed to have finished reading the part of Max's letter which he thought best for all to hear, and was folding it up. "Mother," he said, turning to Mrs. Travilla, "the air out here is delightful this morning; don't you think it might do Harold good to lie yonder in the hammock? and that he could come out with the assistance of my arm?" "I certainly do," she said, "and thank you for your kind offer. Both he and Herbert will be deeply interested in the contents of Max's letter--if you are willing to let them see or hear it." "Certainly, mother," the captain hastened to say. "I will carry it in and read it to them before we bring Harold out." And so he did. They were both greatly interested, and upon the conclusion of the reading Harold was glad to accept the offer of the captain to help him out to the porch and into a hammock, where he could lie at ease and enjoy the companionship of other members of the party, older and younger. They were all ready to wait upon him and to do whatever they could for his comfort and entertainment. None more so than Grace, whose ministrations he seemed to prefer to any other. As the days went on they were often left alone together, while husbands and wives and lovers devoted themselves to each other; Mrs. Travilla herself to her sicker son, and Evelyn to her housekeeping and correspondence, especially the letters to Max, her affianced. Grace was fond of Harold, as she thought any one might be of so kind an uncle, whose medical skill had many times relieved suffering for her, and who had always shown kindly sympathy in her ailments. She wanted to make a suitable return for it all, so endeavored to amuse him with cheerful chat, music, and reading aloud anything that he seemed to care to hear. He fell more deeply in love with her day by day, and often found it difficult to refrain from telling the tale to her, and pleading for a return. His mother saw it all, and at length advised him to speak to Grace's father, tell him the whole story, and crave permission to do and say what he could to win her heart. "I have thought it might be best to wait some years, mother," he said. "I fear he will be astonished, indignant, and deprive me of her sweet society." "Astonished he probably will be," she said, "but surely not indignant; and when he has fully considered the matter, remembering that there is no tie of blood between you, I think he will not withhold his consent, provided you are willing to defer marriage till she is of suitable age." "I hope you are right, mother, but such a mixture of relationships as it would make--I fear he will think that an insurmountable difficulty." "But to rob his dearly loved daughter of a life of wedded happiness he will think still worse, if I am not greatly mistaken in him. And as for the mixture of relationships, you can still be brother to him and your sister Violet, and Grace remain his daughter." "You are the best of comforters and advisers, mother," he said, "and I will take your advice, and make a clean breast of it to the captain at the earliest opportunity." He did so before the day was over. Seeing the captain in the grounds, he joined him with a request for a bit of private chat. "Certainly," said the captain, leading the way to the summerhouse on the edge of the cliff. "If you want assistance in any way that I can give it, I need hardly tell you that it will be a pleasure to me to do so; especially as you are the brother of my dear wife." "Thank you, Brother Levis, I do not doubt that in the least; and yet----" He stammered and paused, coloring deeply. "I think you need not hesitate to tell me," the captain said, with a look of surprise. "I feel very sure you would not ask anything wrong or unreasonable." "No; my request is neither, I think. It is that I may, if I can, win the heart and hand of your daughter Grace." "Surely, surely you must acknowledge that that is unreasonable!" exclaimed the captain, in a tone of astonishment not unmixed with indignation. "Such a mixture of relationships--making you your sister's son-in-law, and my daughter my sister-in-law!" "My mother's idea is that we might keep to our own relationships as they are now; and she thinks as there is absolutely no tie of blood between us there could be nothing wrong in such a marriage." "No, perhaps not absolutely wrong, but very distasteful to me. Besides, as you yourself must acknowledge, Grace is entirely too young to marry." "But all the time growing older, as well as more and more beautiful, and I can wait. She is worth waiting for as long as Jacob served for Rachel. And would it not be wise to give her to a physician, who will make her health his constant care?" "Perhaps so," returned the captain, with a rather perplexed and sad sort of smile; "and if you have won her heart and are willing to wait till she is of suitable age, I--don't forbid you to tell her--how dearly you love her--if you can." "A thousand thanks, Brother Levis!" exclaimed Harold, seizing the captain's hand in a vise-like grasp, and giving it a hearty shake. "I don't know how to put my love into words--it seems to me they would be powerless to express it--but I shall try and hope to win a return by untiring devotion." "She has a loving heart, and her father finds it hard to be called upon to resign the first place in it," the captain said, with an involuntary sigh. "But let us hope that it will be for her happiness, captain; and I think we both love her well enough to resign a good deal for that." "Her father certainly does," said the captain. "Dear child! she has been a great comfort and blessing to me since my eyes first rested upon her dear little face. She has never caused me a pang, except by her ill-health and feebleness." "I have known her long enough and well enough to be sure of that," said Harold. "She certainly has a lovely disposition, as well as a beautiful face and form. I feel that to win her for my own will be the greatest good fortune that could possibly come to me." "I am glad you appreciate the worth of my dear child," the captain said, with emotion, "and if you have won her heart I am not afraid to trust her happiness to your keeping. But, understand, I cannot let you take her at once." "Yes, I understand, and shall not take any unfair advantage of your reluctantly granted permission, Brother Levis; but if I can win her consent, her heart, I shall be a very happy man, and wait contentedly--or at least ungrumblingly--until you grant us leave to become husband and wife." Harold was not long in availing himself of the consent given. He was on the watch for an opportunity to tell his tale of love to the one most deeply concerned. He coaxed her out to that very spot where he and her father had had their private talk, there told her what she was to him, and asked if she could return his affection and willingly give herself to him. She was evidently much surprised, listened with an agitated air and face suffused with blushes, then said low and hesitatingly: "Oh, Uncle Harold! how can you? You are so good and wise--so much older than I am--and--and father has often told me that I am only a little girl--not nearly old enough to think about--about such things--and so I am sure he wouldn't want you to talk to me as you did just now." "But I spoke to him first, and gained his permission to tell you of my love. He probably will not let us marry for some years to come, even if you care for me in that way; but he is willing that we should become engaged if we choose, and be lovers till he thinks you are old enough to marry. And oh, darling! if you care for me, and will promise to be mine at some future day, it will make me the happiest of men. Oh, dearest! can't you love me in that way, even just a little?" he concluded imploringly, taking her hand in his and holding it in a tenderly affectionate pressure. "I can't help loving you, Uncle Harold, you are so, _so very_ good and kind to me. But I never thought of--of your being my lover; for I'm not wise and good enough for you." "I should put it just the other way, that I am not half wise and good enough for you, my darling, my fairy queen," he said, venturing to put an arm about her, draw her into a close embrace, and press an ardent kiss upon her lips. She made no resistance, and a few more words of love and whispered tenderness caused the sweet, blushing face to grow radiant with happiness. She did not deny that she returned his affection, but at length owned in a few low-breathed, hesitating words that she did. Her face was beaming when they returned to the house, and when she came to her father for the usual good-night caress, he folded her close to his heart and gazing searchingly into the sweet, blushing face, said tenderly: "My darling little daughter looks very happy to-night. Won't you let your father into the secret of it?" "Yes, indeed, papa; I never meant to keep anything from you," she murmured, half under her breath, and hiding her blushing face on his breast. "I always mean to tell you every thing worth while, because we love each other so very, very dearly. I am happy because of what Uncle Harold has been telling me; and he says he told you first, so you know. And you are willing, papa?" "Yes, daughter, when the right time comes, since it seems it will make you happy. But," he sighed, "it is a little hard for your father to find other men getting the love of his dear daughters away from him." "Oh, papa, dear, dearest papa, don't think that!" she said, with tears in her voice. "I've always loved you dearly, and it seems to me that I love you better just now than I ever did before." "Ah, is that so, daughter mine?" he said, giving her another tender caress; "it makes me happy to hear it, and to believe that my dear Grace will never cease to love me, and will always feel sure of her father's loving sympathy in all her joys and sorrows." "It is very sweet to know that, papa dear," she said. "Oh, I am just the happiest girl, with so many and such dear loved ones. But even with all the others, father, I couldn't do without your love." "I hope not, dear child. It would be hard indeed for me to doubt that, or to be deprived of yours. But now bid me good-night and go to your rest, for late hours have always been bad for you." "Yes, sir, I know; and my dear, kind father is always so tenderly careful of me," she said, giving and receiving a close, loving embrace. It had been a sultry day, followed by a delightful evening, a cool, refreshing breeze coming from the river, and a full moon in a clear sky making it almost as light as day in the grounds, about which the elder members of the party were scattered. The captain left the porch where he and his daughter Grace had had their little chat, and joined a group under the trees on the lawn. It consisted of Mrs. Travilla--or Grandma Elsie, as his first set of children had been accustomed to call her--her daughters, Mrs. Leland and Mrs. Raymond, and her sons Harold, Herbert, and Walter. There was a slight flutter of excitement among them as he joined them and took possession of a vacant seat. "I am glad you have come, captain," said Mrs. Travilla. "Harold has just been telling us of your great kindness to him, and I want to thank you for it." "Ah! what was that?" he asked in a tone that seemed to express surprise. "There are few things I would not do for you or yours, mother." "I believe that, and you have given him the right to win, if he can, a precious treasure; and to give to me the dearest of little daughters." "Ah, yes!" he said, as if just comprehending her meaning, "and to her father she is such a treasure as any man might covet and be rejoiced to win." "An opinion in which I am sure we will all agree," said Violet. "I, who certainly know her well, think she is an inestimable treasure." "An opinion in which we can all join you, I am sure," added Herbert, "and I think my brother a most fortunate man." "That is exactly what he thinks of himself," said Harold, with a happy laugh. "Though there has to be a long, long waiting spell before the full extent of that happiness can be realized." "How our young folks are pairing off!" remarked Mrs. Leland, with a slight sigh. "Ah, yes," said Violet, "but fortunately they don't pair off with strangers and leave us. That makes it much easier to bear, doesn't it, my dear?" "Yes; except for the mixture of relationships," returned the captain a trifle ruefully. "Is the thing to be kept a secret?" queried Mrs. Leland. "I am entirely willing it should be known in the connection," said Captain Raymond. CHAPTER XIII. It was growing late, and Evelyn's guests, accustomed to keeping early hours while at Crag Cottage, had nearly all retired to their rooms for the night. But Chester Dinsmore and Lucilla Raymond were just returning from a stroll down the river bank, and as they neared the house they could see the captain pacing the front porch. "There is papa now," said Lucilla. "I am afraid he will think I have been out rather late." "Are you afraid of a scolding?" asked Chester. "No; I may get a gentle reproof, but nothing worse. Papa never really scolds; but I can't bear to have him displeased with me. My dear, dear father! I believe I give him all the love that would have been divided between him and my mother had she lived." "I am not surprised at that," returned Chester, "for he is certainly worthy of it. I have learned to love and honor him myself as if I were his own son." "Oh, Chester, how glad I am to hear you say that!" exclaimed Lucilla. But that ended the talk, for they were at the foot of the porch steps, and the captain spoke, addressing them. "Ah, so here you are at last, my dears. I was beginning to feel a trifle anxious lest something had befallen you." "Oh, no, father! we are all right," exclaimed Lucilla, in lively tones, "but the bewitching moonlight and pleasant breeze tempted us to linger longer than usual. I hope you are not vexed with us?" "Not very seriously, daughter," he said, with a smile, "but it is high time now that you were getting ready for your night's rest. I want you to have plenty of that, and I know you like to be up early." "Yes, indeed, father; for my early walks and talks with you are among my greatest pleasures." "Your father in the morning, your lover at night," Chester said, with a pleasant laugh. "I'm glad and thankful, captain, that you let me have her for something like half the time. Good-night, now! and pleasant dreams to you both," he added, turning away and passing into the house, hardly waiting for their return of his parting good wishes. "Now I suppose I must say good-night and go too," Lucilla said, putting her arms about her father's neck and looking up lovingly into his face. "I shall take about five minutes of your society first," he returned, smiling and patting her cheek. "I have something to tell you; something that will, perhaps, be a little surprise to you." "Nothing bad, I hope, father?" "No, not exactly bad--though I must own it is something of a trial to me. Your sister Grace has followed your bad example, and given the first place in her heart to another; my consent has been asked, given, and they are engaged, though not to marry for the next five years." "Father!" exclaimed Lucilla, in a tone of utter astonishment, "to whom? Chester's brother Frank?" "What a guess!" laughed her father. "No; try again." She reflected a moment, then--"It can't be Uncle Harold?" she ventured, in a tone that seemed to say that that was hardly possible. "He is surely much too old for her." "Unfortunately I cannot make that objection, since there is some years' less difference in their ages than in your Mamma Vi's and mine." "Oh, papa! and are they really lovers, and engaged?" "Yes; though such a match is very distasteful to me--simply on account of the mixed-up relationship that their marriage would bring about; but when I found the fancy and affection were mutual, I could not withhold my consent." "You dear father! you are always so kindly considerate of other people's welfare and happiness," she said in tones tremulous with emotion. "I am sure nobody ever had a kinder, better father than ours." "It is most pleasant to have my daughter think so, whether I deserve it or not," he said low and tenderly, holding her close to his heart and pressing kisses on her forehead, cheek, and lips. "Now go and make yourself ready for bed," he added, "and don't let this bit of surprising news keep you from sleeping. I want my dear eldest daughter fresh and bright for my entertainment in the morning." The house being so full, Lucilla, Grace, and Evelyn shared the same room. Grace was in bed, but not asleep as usual, Eva preparing for rest, when Lucilla came in from her talk with her father. She glanced at her sister, and seeing her eyes closed thought her sleeping. "Oh, Eva!" she whispered to her friend, "do you know--have you heard the news?" "News? No. I have been busy about household matters, and no one has told anything. What is it--war news?" "No, oh, no!" glancing smilingly toward Grace; "something even more interesting, I think, unless Max were concerned in it. It is that we have another pair of lovers in the house--Gracie there and Uncle Harold. I'll have to quit calling him 'uncle,' though, since he is to be my brother one of these days." "Is it possible! Well, he has won a prize, I think." Grace was not asleep now; her wide open eyes were fixed upon the two girls and her cheeks rosy with blushes. "No, it's I that have, Eva," she said. "I don't know how anybody so good and wise and kind could take a fancy to poor silly little me!" At that Lucilla ran to the bed, threw her arms about her sister, and showered kisses upon her lips and cheeks. "You dear, dear thing! you are neither poor nor silly," she said. "I think the only wonder is that all the men don't fall head over ears in love with you. They certainly would if they had good sense, taste, and discernment." At that Grace indulged in a peal of low, soft laughter. "You funny girl!" she said. "I am glad indeed that they are not so silly, for what in the world could I do with so many lovers? One is quite a plentiful supply for me." "That's right, Gracie," exclaimed Evelyn. "I'm sure one such as mine should be quite enough for anybody." "Well, I'm not going to say 'Uncle Harold' any more," laughed Lucilla. "No, he doesn't want either of us to," said Grace. "But now I suppose both he and papa would say I must try to go at once to sleep." "Yes; so I'll stop hugging and kissing you, and be quiet as a mouse, getting ready for bed, so as not to keep you awake," said Lucilla, giving her a final loving embrace, then gliding away from the bed to the toilet table. "Do you think Max will like it?" asked Evelyn, in an undertone. "Yes, I do. He and Harold have always been good friends. But as papa says, it will make an unpleasant mixture of relationships. He will be brother-in-law to Grace besides being her own father," she added, with a slight laugh; "yet I know very well she will always remember that he is her father--her dearly loved and honored father." "I am certain of it," said Evelyn; "and that she would never make the match without her father's knowledge and consent." "No, indeed!" responded Lucilla, turning a loving look upon the now sleeping Grace. Lucilla had scarcely left her father on the porch when Violet joined him there. "I thought it possible, Levis, that you might not object to your wife's company in your walk here," she said in a lively tone, and slipping her hand into his arm. "Object, my darling, light of my eyes and joy of my heart!" he said in a loving, mirthful tone, bending down to kiss the sweet lips. "Yours is the sweetest companionship I know of. I should be glad to think mine was as delightful to you." "As I don't know how to measure either one, I can only say that it is the most delightful of all in the world to me," she returned with a happy laugh. Then in a somewhat graver tone, "Oh, my dear husband, you don't know how dearly I and all your children love you! Neither Elsie nor Ned is ever willing to go to bed without your fatherly good-night caresses, and they always bewail the necessity for doing that when you are away from home." "Probably not regretting it more than their father does," he said. "Yes, the love of my children is a highly esteemed blessing to me, and, unfortunately, I cannot help feeling it something of a grief and disappointment when I learn that their tenderest affection has been transferred to another." "Ah, you are thinking of Grace and Harold. But be comforted, my dear; I am certain that Grace does not love her father less because Harold has won a place in her heart. I do not love my dear mother any the less for loving you, my dear husband, or you any the less for loving her." "I am glad to hear it, my darling," he said, tenderly pressing the hand she had laid in his. "And surely we cannot blame my brother and your daughter for loving each other when they are both so worthy of affection that no one who knows them can help giving it to them." "You are a special pleader, my dear," he said with a smile; "and they hardly need one with me, for I am fond of them both--particularly of my frail young daughter." "Ah, and does not that cause you to rejoice that she loves, and is beloved by, a good and successful physician?" "That is a cause for thankfulness, my dear," he returned pleasantly. "But shall we not go in now and retire to rest? It is growing late." "Yes, if you have finished your evening promenade; I don't want to rob you of that." "I think I have taken sufficient exercise, and now prefer rest and sleep," he answered laughingly, as he drew her on toward the doorway. As Lucilla came tripping down the stairway the next morning, Harold was passing through the lower hall. "Good-morning, Lu," he said, looking up at her. "Good-morning, Dr. Travilla," she returned demurely. "What!" he exclaimed, "what's that you are calling me?" "Dr. Travilla. That's your name, isn't it?" "Yes--to strangers and people not related to me; but--you called me 'uncle' yesterday." "But you're not my uncle, and it seems you intend to become my brother-in-law, so----" "So Harold without the 'uncle' would be the most appropriate name, wouldn't it?" "Perhaps so, if--if you won't think it disrespectful." "Not a bit of it. Call me Harold, or I'll be very apt to call you Mrs. Dinsmore one of these days." They ended with a laugh and cordial handshaking, just as the captain appeared in the outer doorway. Then they joined him in a stroll about the grounds. "There is a dark cloud in the east," remarked Lucilla, in a regretful tone; "we are likely to have a rainy day, are we not, papa?" "Yes," he said, "but it need not necessarily be an unpleasant one. We may find plenty of indoor employment and recreations." "Yes," said Harold, "there have been many pleasant rainy days in my past experiences. And they are not so bad for a strong, healthy man, even if he must go out in the rain." "And when gardens and fields are needing rain, we long and pray for it," added Lucilla. "How is Grace this morning?" asked Harold. "She was still sleeping when I left the room," replied Lucilla; "but probably she is up and ready for the call to breakfast by this time." "And there it is," said the captain, as the sound of the ringing of a hand-bell came from the house; "so let us go in and not keep the others waiting." They met Violet and Grace in the hall as they entered, and it was pretty to see the latter's blush and smile as Harold greeted her. The clouds were increasing and growing darker, and before they left the table the rain had begun to fall. So they talked of indoor occupations and amusements. "We might have a little fun, if everybody's willing," remarked Ned Raymond, giving Mr. Lilburn a significant look and smile. "Yes; little boys--big ones too--can generally get up some fun among themselves when they try," was Cousin Ronald's answering remark, without the slightest indication that he took Ned's hint. "And I know Cousin Ronald is very kind about helping in that," returned Ned insinuatingly. "Yes, he is fond of giving pleasure to his young friends," remarked Mrs. Lilburn, with a loving smile up into her husband's face. "I think, Ned, he will help you to some before the day is over." They were on the porch, for there was no wind at the moment to drive the rain in upon them, and it was cooler there than within doors. As Annis finished speaking there was a sudden cry of distress, seemingly coming from the river just below. "Help! help! I shall drown! nobody will help me!" It was a man's voice and there was a foreign accent in the tones. It made quite a stir in the little assembly on the porch, the lads exclaiming: "Oh, the poor fellow! Can't we help him, Grandma Elsie? Surely the men on the _Dolphin_ will do what they can!" But hardly were the words spoken when another voice called out in reply to the first: "Hould on there, me jewel, an' I'll give ye a lift. I'm the b'ye that kin do it." "Oh, I hope he will get him out!" cried Ned, in great excitement. "Papa, you'll let them take him on board the yacht, won't you?" "Certainly, if he wishes to be taken there," replied the captain, with a smiling glance at Cousin Ronald. Just then the second voice called out, "Here he is--the half drownded Frenchman; an' now will the likes of yees aboord that craft take 'im in an' dry 'im off?" "Of course; that's exactly what the captain would do if he were here," answered a third voice, which sounded exactly like that of the man at present in charge of the yacht. "Oh, I'm glad he didn't drown!" exclaimed Elsie Raymond, with a sigh of relief. "I presume such people don't often drown, Elsie dear," laughed her mother. "Oh, mamma, I often hear of people drowning," said the little girl. "And, Uncle Harold, don't they need a doctor when they are nearly drowned?" "They are very apt to," he replied with a slight laugh. "Do you want me to go down now and see about that man?" "If you could, without getting wet," she answered hesitatingly. "Suppose I go," said her Uncle Herbert; "I'm pretty well now, and am perhaps almost as skilful a physician as my older brother." But now the captain interposed. "I can't have either of my young brothers expose himself to this rain, for the men on the yacht are quite competent to deal with that Frenchman's case." "I should say so indeed," said Mr. Lilburn gravely, "for it is not likely that he was in the water many minutes. So, my wee bonny bairnie Elsie, dinna fash yersel' ony mair aboot him," he concluded, with an affectionate look and smile into the face of the little girl. "Oh, Cousin Ronald, did you do it all?" exclaimed Ned. "Dear me, how stupid I am! I might have known it was you." "I doubt if you really know it yet, laddie," laughed the old gentleman. Ned turned to his father. "Papa, may I take an umbrella and just run down to the _Dolphin_ for a few minutes to ask about it?" "It is not worth while," replied the captain; "I am very sure you would make no discoveries." "Then it was you, Cousin Ronald, wasn't it, now? Please own up," exclaimed Ned, with a laughing look into the old gentleman's face. "Folk shouldna find fault with what they've asked for," was the old gentleman's non-committal rejoinder. "Oh, no, sir! no indeed! but I was not meaning to find fault," laughed Ned; "I think it was good fun, and hope you will give us more of it." Just as he pronounced the last word a fierce bark, seemingly that of a very large dog, followed instantly by a scream as if a woman were in pain and terror, startled them all, and there were outcries of affright from the children, while several of the grown people started to their feet and looked anxiously in the direction of the sounds, which had seemed to come from the vicinity of the porch, but a little farther toward the rear of the house. Another bark from the dog, then a woman's voice in tones of wild affright, "Oh, somebody help, help! this dog will tear me to pieces." Mr. Leland and Walter Travilla stepped quickly to the end of the porch nearest the sounds and looked around the corner of the house, but instantly reported that neither woman nor dog was to be seen. "Oh, another sell from Cousin Ronald!" laughed Ned. "Oh, there it is again!" for just then there was a sound as of a loud knock at a side door, and a man's coarse voice thundering, "Let me in oot o' this rain, ye slowgoing, good-for-naught biddies. Let me in, I say, and be quick about it." A woman's scream followed instantly, "Oh, captain, or some o' you gentlemen, come here quick and save us from this drunken rascal." Some of those on the porch were a little startled for an instant, but a laugh quickly followed, and the fun went on for some minutes--bees, mice, chickens, and puppies being heard, but not seen or felt. But the rainfall was growing heavier, and at length Harold suggested that it might be well for Grace, if not for all, to go within doors to escape the dampness. Nearly all at once complied with the suggestion, and Mrs. Travilla, inviting Grace to a seat by her side, said low and tenderly: "Harold gave me a piece of news last night that has made me very happy. I hope one of these days to number you among my dear daughters, and shall feel most happy in doing so." "Oh, Grandma Elsie, it is so kind in you to say that!" returned Grace tremulously, but blushing with pleasure as she spoke; "it will be very sweet to have you for my mother, for I have loved you dearly ever since I first saw you." At that moment Walter came and took a seat on the other side of her. "Oh, Gracie," he said in an undertone, "I am so glad of Harold's news--that I am to have you for a sister at some future day. I'll try to be a good brother to you." "And I certainly intend to do my best to be a good sister to you, Walter," she answered in the same low tone, and with a vivid blush and one of her sweetest smiles. "Thanks," he said. "I wish the wedding was to take place directly; some time this fall, at least. Couldn't we coax your father to allow it?" She laughed and shook her head. "Papa would never allow it, and I--don't believe I could consent myself. Really, the very thought of doing anything so important so suddenly more than half frightens me." "Harold is a mild, good-natured kind of fellow; you needn't be afraid of him," laughed Walter. "No, not of him exactly," returned Grace, laughing a little also and blushing quite a good deal, "but of--of the sudden change in my way of life--leaving my father and all the rest of my family." But there the talk between them ended for the time, for Harold's near relatives came up, one after another, to tell Grace how welcome a new member of their near connection she would be. Chester Dinsmore was the only one who expressed any regret, and that not to Grace, but to Lucilla. "I am sorry for my brother Frank," he said. "He has been desperately in love with her, but your father would not let him speak. And I thought it would be pleasant to be so closely and doubly connected--two sisters marrying brothers." "I am sorry, since it disappoints you," said Lucilla. "But I hope Frank will soon get over his disappointment and find some one who will suit him still better. Besides, Grace being so delicate, it is well for her to get into the hands of a good physician." "True enough," returned Chester, "and we may as well look at it in that way, for there is no use in fretting over what can't be helped." September had come; the summer heat was over and business called the gentlemen of our party to their more southern homes. Preparations began, and one little company after another departed, leaving the rest feeling somewhat lonely and dull without them. The captain and his family, Grandma Elsie, Evelyn, and Mr. and Mrs. Lilburn were to go in the yacht, which carried them away a few days later--down the Hudson River and down the Atlantic coast to the seaport near their Southern homes. A joyous welcome from lovers, relatives, and friends awaited them there. Then followed the fall, winter, and early spring months, filled up and made delightful by the accustomed round of study, needlework, social calls, and visits, interspersed with religious duties and charitable work, etc. Evelyn was often at Woodburn, and she and Lucilla made many pretty things for the adornment of their future homes. The weddings were to be postponed till Max came home, and to their disappointment that home-coming was deferred month after month till Chester grew exceedingly weary of waiting. Letters were received occasionally from Max, but he knew no more than they when he would be able to rejoin them and claim his bonny bride. The waiting was doubtless harder for him than for Chester or either of the girls. They indeed seemed to take it quietly and contentedly. Grace was very happy with her lover close at hand and often visiting her professionally or otherwise. And with her this state of things seemed to be conducive to health; she grew rosier, stronger, gayer, and more lively in her speech and manner than she had ever been before. So great a joy was it to her father to perceive the change that he soon fully forgave Harold for seeking her affection while she was still so young and feeble. Harold seemed to be waiting very patiently, and when Chester grumbled at his long enforced wait, Lucilla sometimes playfully called his attention to the good example set him by Harold. "But there isn't the same need of waiting in our case," he would reply, "for, I am thankful to say, you are as healthy a girl as any that I know of." "Yes; but think of the disappointment to Max and Eva if we shouldn't wait for them, when we can be together almost as much as if we were married, and all the time doing things to make our new home as lovely as possible." The continuance of war in the Philippines, a cause of more or less regret to everybody, was doubly so to Max's friends and relatives, because it delayed his return month after month. They missed him particularly when Christmas time came and he was not there to share in the pleasant exchange of gifts and greetings. They had sent gifts to him, hoping they would reach him in good season, and as usual they bestowed them upon each other. For weeks beforehand Violet had spent a good deal of time in her studio, and the result was a handsome portrait of the captain for each of his older daughters. They were highly pleased with them, saying that nothing else could have given them so much pleasure. The captain's gifts to them and Violet were valuable books and some fine paintings for their walls. "You see, Chester," Lucilla said, when exhibiting hers to him, "that we are getting more and more for the adornment of our home while we wait for it." "Adornment which could go on just as well if we were already in it," he returned, with a rather rueful laugh. "Well, for your consolation please remember that it is near enough to be looked at every day," replied Lucilla, in a sprightly tone. "And see here what your _fiancée_ has prepared for you," drawing a small package from her pocket as she spoke. "Thanks! Some of her own work, I hope," he said, with a gratified look and smile. "Yes, I would have you enjoy as much of my work as possible." He had it opened now, and found it a beaded purse. "Oh, how handsome!" he cried. "Many, many thanks, dearest! I have no need of a reminder of you, but if I had, this would be one every time I looked at it. Now here is my gift to you," taking in his turn a little package from his pocket and putting it in her hand. It was a miniature of himself--a fine likeness--attached to a beautiful gold chain. "Oh, it is excellent, and nothing could have pleased me better!" she exclaimed, as she examined it. Harold had the same sort of gift for Grace, and she had embroidered for him a set of fine linen cambric handkerchiefs, with which he seemed greatly pleased. Every member of that family, and each of the others in the connection, had prepared some gift of more or less value for each of the others, for their servants and dependents, and for the neighbors poor enough to need assistance from those able to give it. As usual there was a grand dinner at Ion, to which all the connection were invited; and pretty much the same thing was repeated at Woodburn on New Year's day. Max was missed and talked of at both gatherings, always being mentioned as one of whom they were proud and fond, while to Evelyn and the Woodburn family his absence detracted much from the enjoyment of the festivities. Yet they comforted themselves with the hope that the trouble in the Philippines would soon be over, and he allowed to return to his home and dear ones, now so anxious to see him, and to claim his promised wife. CHAPTER XIV. The winter passed away without any untoward event to our friends at Woodburn, Ion, Fairview, and the vicinity; March and April succeeded, then early in May came the news that Admiral Watson was ordered to proceed to Manila and relieve Admiral Dewey. He sailed from San Francisco on the 16th. It was not until late in June that he reached his destination, but Admiral Dewey had left there for Hong-Kong on the 23d of May, and placed the _Olympia_ in dry-dock for the ten days he thought best to stay at that point in order to recruit his own health and that of his men. He left Hong-Kong on June 6, and reached Singapore June 11. On the 23d he was at Colombo, on the island of Ceylon. He touched at various points on his homeward route--Port Said, Trieste, Naples, Leghorn--at every place being received with highest honors. On August 28 he was in the neighborhood of Nice and Villefranche, enjoying the delightful climate and beautiful scenery of that part of the world. On the 4th of September he reached Gibraltar. His vessel gave the usual salute, heartily acknowledged by the garrison, and the admiral was warmly welcomed by its commander-in-chief, General Biddulph. He seems to have stayed there six days, as it was on the 10th he sailed for New York by way of the Azores. On Tuesday morning, September 26, he anchored inside Sandy Hook--three days earlier than he was expected. A reception committee in New York City had been busily making ready to give him a grand "Welcome Home," which they intended should eclipse in gorgeous pageantry everything that had preceded it in the way of public demonstration. They had written to Admiral Dewey to know when he would arrive in order that they might fix a date for the grand display, and he had written them from Leghorn, more than a month before: "I shall, without fail, reach the Lower Bay on Friday, September 29." The glad news of his arrival quickly spread by telegraph, and cannon were fired and bells rung in many cities throughout the country. The New York Reception Committee hastened to welcome him as soon as they knew of the arrival of the _Olympia_. Rear-Admirals Philip and Sampson came also; but first of all came Sir Thomas Lipton, the British challenger for the cup which has been so long in our possession, his vessel lying near where the _Olympia_ anchored. But presently another yacht came steaming rapidly down the river, and Max recognized it with an exclamation of delight, for it was the _Dolphin_, and in a few minutes more Captain Raymond was on the deck of the _Olympia_, grasping his son's hand, while his eyes shone with fatherly pride and affection. "My boy, my dear boy!" he said, in tones tremulous with emotion; "thank God that we are permitted to meet again." "Father, my dear, dear father, how I have longed for this meeting with you!" was Max's answering exclamation. "Oh, tell me, are all our dear ones alive and well?" "Yes, my son, and waiting yonder in the yacht for you. Surely the admiral will allow you to go aboard her with me for a little visit." The admiral and the captain were not strangers to each other. A cordial greeting passed between them, they chatted as old friends for a few minutes, then Captain Raymond carried his son off to the _Dolphin_, where he was received most joyfully, and exchanged loving embraces with his affianced, his sisters, "Mamma Vi," "Grandma Elsie," and little brother. They told him they had spent the greater part of the summer at Crag Cottage--which they still considered their temporary home--but for the present were on board the yacht, as the best place from which to view the naval welcome to Admiral Dewey. Time flew fast in the glad mutual intercourse they had lacked for so many months. Max had many questions to ask in regard to friends and relatives and all that had been going on in the neighborhood of his home and theirs. But his short leave had soon expired, and his father conveyed him back to the _Olympia_ and left him there with the warmly expressed hope that they would soon be able to be together constantly for a time. At the naval anchorage at Tompkinsville a fleet was gathered to welcome Dewey's return, and his vessel steamed thither on Wednesday--the day after her arrival at Sandy Hook. As she swept up the bay the salute due to an Admiral of the United States Navy rang out over the harbor from the forts and the assembled fleet for the first time in many years. There were also the music of marine bands, the pealing of naval bugles, the shrill whistles of numerous small craft, the cheering of excursion parties, and the rapid dash of the steam launches, all combining to make the scene a very lively one. During that day and the next the admiral and his officers had little rest, for their time was devoted to receiving the hurried visits of State and city officials, of naval and military officers, and of thousands of private citizens. One of the calls was that of a committee from Washington, to tell Dewey of the arrangements for his reception and the sword presentation there, and of an invitation to dine with President McKinley on October 3d. On Thursday, Captain Lamberton of the _Olympia_ had a pleasant task--that of pinning upon the breast of each man of Dewey's fleet who had taken part in the fight at Manila the bronze medal of honor voted him by Congress. That was followed by the presentation to Admiral Dewey of the first American admiral's flag ever flung to the breeze, the flag first hoisted to the mast-head of Farragut's flagship, the _Hartford_, before New Orleans. Another thing very pleasing to the admiral was the receipt of an order from Washington granting special permission to the thirty-four Chinamen on board of the _Olympia_ who had taken part in the battle at Manila to land and have a share in the great parade. The city was a blaze of flags and bunting by day, and of electric lights by night. On the Brooklyn Bridge over eight thousand electric bulbs were arranged to form the words "Welcome Dewey"; powerful searchlights flashed from the towers over city and bay, and red fire burned along shores on the vessels at night. The naval parade on Friday was the most magnificent display of the kind ever seen in this country. The _Olympia_ led the way, followed by battleships, cruisers, revenue cutters, torpedo boats, and innumerable craft of all descriptions. Over three million people lined the river banks to see the magnificent pageant. At Riverside--where Grant is buried--a salute was fired in his honor. Two beautiful allegorical floats were anchored there, representing "Victory" and "Peace." Here the _Olympia_ and her consorts dropped anchor, while the long fleet passed in review. In the evening there was a fine electric and pyrotechnic display throughout the city and along the river. The next day, Saturday, September 30, came the land parade, which was as interesting as had been the naval one. At five o'clock the admiral was up, and personally inspected his men. A committee of gentlemen escorted him to the City Hall, where he was met by Admiral Schley, Captain Walker, Captain Coghlan, Captain Dyer, Governor Roosevelt, and others who had won distinction in the war. It was observed that he greeted Schley with marked cordiality. From there the party went to a stand in front of the Hall, and Dewey was presented by Mayor Van Wyck, on behalf of the City of New York, with a handsome and costly loving cup of fine gold. The admiral and his party then hastened to the pier to take the boat to Grant's tomb, where the procession formed. It was a great one, and every step of the way was an ovation. First came Sousa's immense band of musicians, then the sailor boys of Manila, the bluejackets of Santiago, and the boys from fifteen States, who had taken part in the Spanish-American war. The immense crowds along the sidewalks cheered them lustily; none more so than the "Fighting Tenth" of Pennsylvania. But the part of the procession which attracted the most attention was the carriage drawn by four beautiful bay horses in which rode Admiral Dewey and Mayor Van Wyck. Dewey rode with uncovered head bowing right and left until he reached the reviewing stand. The triumphal arch with its marble-like colonnade made a beautiful picture. On its top was a heroic figure of Farragut--who gave Dewey his first lesson in sailing over hidden mines and destructive torpedoes--seeming to look down upon his brave and successful pupil with admiration and approval. The celebration was a great success, showing how heartily the American people appreciated their gallant hero. The next day, being the Sabbath, was spent in rest and comparative quiet. On Monday, October 2, Dewey went by rail from New York to Washington, his journey thither proving a continual ovation. It was in the early evening he reached that city, and as the train neared the station a battery boomed out the admiral's salute, announcing his arrival to the waiting multitudes. The Third Cavalry was there to receive him, and he was driven to the White House to pay his respects to the Chief of the Nation. He was warmly welcomed by the President and his Cabinet and many naval officers. After that the entire party went to review the civic parade which had been planned in honor of the admiral. The next day Admiral Dewey was presented with the sword voted him by Congress. A vast concourse of people assembled to witness the imposing and impressive ceremony, which took place in front of the Capitol, in the presence of the President and his Cabinet and the principal officers of the several departments of the government. General Miles was grand marshal of the escort, attended by a large staff of officers of the army and navy, all in full dress uniform and superbly mounted. Just as the meridian gun sounded high noon, Admiral Dewey, leaning upon the President's arm, walked upon the platform. Following them were judges of the Supreme Court, governors of States, senators, and members of Congress, and the general officers of the army and navy. Congress had directed that the sword should be presented by the Secretary of the Navy, and he did so in most appropriate and eloquent language. "No captain," he said, "ever faced a more crucial test than when, that morning, bearing the fate and the honor of your country in your hand, thousands of miles from home, with every foreign port in the world shut to you, nothing between you and annihilation but the thin sheathing of your ships, your cannon, and your devoted officers and men, you moved upon the enemy's batteries on shore and on sea with unflinching faith and nerve, and before the sun was halfway up in the heavens had silenced the guns of the foe, sunk the hostile fleet, demonstrated the supremacy of the American sea power, and transferred to the United States an entire of the islands of the Pacific." In closing his speech the Secretary handed the sword to the President as Commander-in Chief of the Army and Navy, and the President, speaking a few appropriate words as he did so, handed it to the admiral, who took it, saving: "I thank you, Mr. President, for this great honor you have conferred upon me. I thank the Congress for what it has done. I thank the Secretary of the Navy for his gracious words. I thank my country for this beautiful gift, which shall be an heirloom in my family forever, as an evidence that republics are not ungrateful. And I thank you, Mr. Chairman and gentlemen of the committee, for the gracious, kindly, and cordial welcome which you have given me to my home." CHAPTER XV. It was a lovely evening, and a pleasant company had gathered upon the deck of the _Dolphin_, Captain Raymond's yacht, lying in New York harbor; there were Mrs. Travilla, or Grandma Elsie, as some of her loved ones called her, Captain Raymond himself, his wife and children, older and younger, Evelyn Leland, Dr. Harold Travilla, and Chester Dinsmore. They were scattered in groups--the three pairs of lovers in one, and conversing in low, earnest tones, now and then varied by a ripple of laughter. "I should like it very, very much," said Eva, "but doubt if the captain proves willing." "Doubtless if he consulted only his own inclination he would not consent," said Max; "but father is anything else but selfish, and loves you so dearly, Eva, that I by no means despair of persuading him to give you your wish in regard to this." "I have hardly a doubt of that," said Lucilla, "and I am highly in favor of the plan, though I was not at first." "It suits me exactly," remarked Chester, in a gleeful tone. "I greatly like the idea of taking my wife home with me." "Something that more than one of us would be glad to do," sighed Harold, squeezing affectionately a little hand of which he had taken possession a moment before. "Never mind, old fellow, your turn will come one of these days, I hope," said Chester. "Perhaps when you two have waited as long as Lu and I have now." "Ah, I'm afraid we have even a longer wait than that before us," returned Harold. "But we can see each other every day--be together a good deal of the time," remarked Grace, in low, soothing tones. "Well, let us have the thing settled, by hearing what father has to say about it," said Max, for at that moment the captain might be seen approaching their group. "About what, my son?" he asked, as he took a vacant seat close at hand, for he had overheard the last few words. "As to the place where our nuptials should be celebrated, sir," returned Max, with a little, happy laugh. "Where else but in your homes?" asked his father. "I should like to have both my children married in my house, but Eva and you, I suppose, would prefer to have yours and hers in her home--Fairview." "No, sir," said Evelyn, "my very strong wish is to have mine celebrated in my own old home--the house my father built and owned--Crag Cottage." "Ah, my dear child, that is natural!" returned the captain in a tone of mingled surprise and acquiescence, "and I should be loath to stand in the way of such a wish. But I thought you and Lucilla were planning to have but one ceremony for the two couples of you?" "Yes, sir; and since talking it over we have concluded that Crag Cottage would be a suitable place for it, if you do not object." "It seems to me that there are reasons both for and against it," he said thoughtfully, "but since you four are the ones most nearly concerned, I think it will be only right and kind to let you decide the question among yourselves. But it is growing late in the season, and if the ceremony is to be performed here at the North, it should take place quite soon. Can you make needed preparations in a few days?" "I think we can," both girls answered to that question. "Very well, then, so far as I am concerned you shall do just as you please. For that matter, you are all of legal age to do so whether you have my permission or not." At that all four instantly disclaimed any intention or desire to go contrary to his wishes, and Eva added: "I shall of course write at once to my uncle and aunt asking their consent and approval; for, though of legal age, I owe to them more than that for the great kindness they have shown me ever since the death of my dear father." "That is a right feeling you have toward them," remarked Captain Raymond, in a tone of commendation, "but I have no idea that they will oppose your wishes in the least in this matter." "No, I am almost sure they will not," she said; "but I shall write them to-night, and hope for a prompt reply. There will be some necessary shopping to do, and New York City will be the best place for that." "Decidedly," assented the captain, "and you could have no better helpers in that than my wife and her mother." "And yourself, papa," laughed Lucilla. "As purse-bearer?" he asked, with a smile. "I shall certainly be that, and ready to exercise my taste as regards the choice of the goods." "And I may be the housekeeper here on the _Dolphin_ while you are away on your pleasant errands, I suppose," said Grace. "Yes, if you like, daughter," returned the captain; and Harold added, "And I as your assistant, if you are willing to make use of me." "To see to it that she does not overwork herself," said the captain. "And what may Chester and I be allowed to do?" queried Max. "To keep them company,--if they desire it,--manage the vessel, and keep the children out of mischief, especially from falling overboard, and entertained in harmless ways." "I think we can do all that," said Max; "but how long do you expect to be absent, father? Are we to lie still in the harbor here till you return?" "Just as you please," said his father. "If you choose to steam along the shores, out into the ocean or up the river, you have full liberty to do so. All I ask is that you take good care of the children and the vessel." "Well, sir, I think that with Chester's and Harold's help I can engage to do all that," laughed Max. "Don't you think so, lads?" turning first to one, then to the other of the young men. Both returned an affirmative reply, then they all joined the group of older ladies, told of their plans and purposes, and asked for advice, and whether the assistance they wanted in their shopping might be confidently expected. At first both ladies were surprised that the young people should think of having their weddings before returning home, but, after a little discussion, highly approved of the plan, and expressed themselves as willing as possible to assist in the shopping and all needful preparations. Then they discussed the question what it would be needful or advisable to purchase, what dresses should be made and where the work could be done in the speediest and most approved manner, as it was wisest and best to consider and decide upon these matters before setting out to do their errands. Evelyn wrote her letter to her uncle and aunt before retiring for the night, and had it posted early the next morning. Shortly after breakfast the shopping party went into the city on their pleasant errand, and a little later the _Dolphin_ weighed anchor and steamed out of harbor, going seaward. The party on its deck was a cheerful, even merry one, Max and Chester rejoicing in the near approach of their long looked-for nuptials; Harold happy in having full possession for the time of his affianced, and Elsie and Ned Raymond in gay, youthful spirits, for they loved to be on the yacht and with Brother Max, Uncle Harold, and also Chester, with whom they had become almost as free and affectionate as if he were an own brother. "Where are we going now, Brother Max?" asked Ned. "I think we will put it to vote," replied Max. "My idea is that it might be very pleasant to steam along near the shore of the Sound on one side going out, and on the other returning; so getting a view of the country on both. Grace, as you are the only lady present, I think you should have the first vote. Shall we do as I have proposed, or something different?" "It sounds very pleasant, Max," replied Grace, "but I don't wish to decide the question, for I shall enjoy going anywhere in the _Dolphin_, and with such pleasant company." "Rather non-committal," laughed Max. "Well, Chester and Harold, what do you say?" Both answered that they approved his plan, and would like nothing better, and Elsie and Ned exclaimed with enthusiasm that _they_ would like nothing better. "A unanimous vote in favor," commented Max, "so the thing is settled." "And we can settle to something," remarked Elsie, in a tone of satisfaction; "Uncle Harold, don't you want to tell us about some of the poor wounded or sick fellows you attended in Cuba?" "I fear I have not much to tell of them--seeing I have already told so much--except that they were wonderfully brave and patient, full of love for their country and compassion for the downtrodden, inhumanly treated Cubans," replied Dr. Travilla. "I think our soldiers were very brave, patient, and uncomplaining," said Elsie. "I am very proud of them, especially because they didn't do cruel deeds such as I have read of soldiers of other nations doing in time of war." "Yes, I think they deserved that commendation," said Harold. "And the attempt of Hobson and his men to block the entrance to Santiago harbor by sinking the _Merrimac_ there was brave as brave could be. We have indeed cause to be proud of our soldiers." "And so we are!" cried Ned enthusiastically, "and," turning toward his brother, "just as proud of the brave fellows that were at Manila as of those in Cuba." "Thank you, young man," returned Max, with a bow and a smile. "We certainly have every reason to believe that our doings there have been appreciated by our kind countrymen." "Brother Max, could you help feeling a little bit afraid when your ship went into that long channel with its many forts and torpedoes?" "I certainly cannot say that I was entirely free from fear," acknowledged Max; "but I had no desire to escape the danger by giving up my part in the coming fight, for I felt that we were on the right side of it--undertaken for the oppressed--and that my Heavenly Father was able to protect me, and all of us." "And he did," exclaimed Elsie, in joyful tones; "it was just wonderful how you all escaped being killed, and only a few were slightly wounded." "It was indeed," assented Max, "and a great cause for thankfulness." "Do you like Admiral Dewey, Brother Max?" asked Ned. "Yes, yes indeed!" was the earnest, smiling reply. "He is determined with his men, but very kind-hearted. The man who has been guilty of a fault may be pretty sure of pardon if he confesses it, but not if he tells a falsehood to escape his deserts. Lying is a thing which Dewey utterly detests." "I wish I could get acquainted with him," said Elsie; "though I suppose he wouldn't like to be bothered with talking to a little girl of my age." "I don't know about that," laughed Max; "he is said to be very fond of children." "Has he any of his own?" she asked, with a look of interest. "One son; but he is grown up and is in business." "Oh, do tell me what sort of folks the Filipinos are?" "I will do my best," replied Max. "The men are not tall, but have good forms and well-shaped heads. Their looks are boyish, and they seem never to grow old. They have black, glossy hair that seldom grows gray. The women are graceful and rather good-looking. They usually wear their hair loose, and no hat or bonnet on their heads. Their dress is a satin skirt handsomely embroidered, and a waist of pina cloth, having flowing sleeves. They wear a scarf of the finest quality, and beautifully embroidered, about their neck and shoulders. An American lady there told me that they often spend years on the embroidery of a single garment, and that she and others of our ladies had gone into raptures over that work, but could seldom secure a specimen. They are very cleanly people--bathe a great deal, and keep their clothing very clean; their houses also are kept clean, neat, and tidy. The women sew, spin, weave, and gather thatch to keep the hut in repair. They also catch fish for the family to eat, and are skilful at that business. They carry burdens on their heads, and that makes them erect and graceful. A good many of both Spaniards and Chinamen have married Filipino women, and the children, called Mestizoes, make good citizens, seeming to inherit the patient industry of the Chinese father and the gentle disposition and dignified self-possession of the Filipino mother. But now I think I have done my share of talking for the present, and must leave the rest of you to do yours while I see if all is going right with our vessel," added Max, rising and leaving the group as he spoke. "Uncle Harold, do you know the captain they call 'Fighting Bob'?" asked Ned. "Slightly," returned his uncle, "and a brave, noble man he is--a naval officer to be proud of; perfectly fearless and cool in battle, kind and helpful to conquered foes. He was commander of the _Iowa_, to which the Spanish ship _Vizcaya_ surrendered. Her captain, in a speech in Spain, had said that he would tow back the _Iowa_ to his king; but he was not able to do so. The _Iowa_ drove shell after shell into his vessel, till she was a mass of flames, and struck her flag. "Then 'Fighting Bob' sent out his boats to rescue the prisoners on the ship and in the water, and took back to the _Iowa_ several officers and two hundred and forty men, her captain, Eulate, among them. It is said to have been a horrible scene--so many dead and wounded men, and Captain Eulate, limping, and with his head bound up. He saluted as he stepped upon the deck of the _Iowa_, and so did Captain Evans. "'You are Captain Evans? This is the _Iowa_?' asked Captain Eulate. 'Yes,' said Captain Evans, and took Eulate's hand in both of his, shaking it warmly. Eulate stepped back, unbuckled his sword, kissed it, and with the most elegant grace, handed it, hilt forward, to Captain Evans. But he refused to take it, turning the palm of his hand outward and waving it back, at the same time shaking his head--a very emphatic refusal. "The Spaniards, officers and men, looked on in astonishment. Captain Eulate pressed Captain Evans' hand, and the crew gave Eulate three cheers, for he had fought well, and only gave up when his ship was in flames and sinking. "Just then a terrific explosion was heard on the _Vizcaya_, which was only a short distance off, and a solid column of smoke went up nearly four thousand feet, it is said, taking the form of a gigantic mushroom. At that Captain Eulate turned around, pointing with one hand to his ruined ship, with the other toward his officers and men, '_Veeski! Veeski!_' he cried at the top of his voice, while tears rolled down his cheeks. His men sprang toward him, and many of them kissed his hand. He said in Spanish, 'My brave marines!' and looked away." "That was a very interesting story, uncle," said Elsie, as Dr. Travilla paused. "I hope there's more of it." "Oh, yes, please go on, Uncle Harold," said Ned. "Our ships took all the Spanish ones, didn't they?" "Yes; the _Maria Teresa_ was now a wreck also, and the _Iowa_ went to the relief of her drowning and burning men. Admiral Cervera was taken prisoner and brought on board the _Iowa_. When he stepped aboard, with his staff, Captain Evans stood with uncovered head, and the marine guard presented arms. Captain Eulate stepped toward him, touched his sword with his hand and pressed it to his breast, crying out in Spanish, pointing toward Captain Evans, evidently extolling his bravery and generosity. The admiral made a courtly bow to Captain Evans, and shook hands with him. The rest of the Spanish officers kissed the hand of the Spanish admiral four times, and embraced and kissed Captain Eulate. The men of the crew, too, would now and then see a comrade whom they had supposed dead, and they would fall to embracing and kissing." "Did Captain Evans thank God for his victory, as Captain Philip did, uncle?" asked Elsie. "No; but when some one blamed him for not having done so, he said that while preparations were being made for it he found that he was surrounded by boats carrying dying and wounded prisoners, and others of the crew of the _Vizcaya_, to the number of two hundred and fifty. 'To leave these men to suffer for want of food and clothing, while I called my men aft to offer prayers, was not my idea of either Christianity or religion,' he wrote in reply. 'I preferred to clothe the naked, feed the hungry, and succor the sick, and I am strongly of the opinion that Almighty God has not put a black mark against me on account of it. I do not know whether I shall stand with Captain Philip among the first chosen in the hereafter, but I have this to say in conclusion, that every drop of blood in my body on the afternoon of July 3d, was singing thanks and praise to Almighty God for the victory we had won.'" "They call Captain Evans 'Fighting Bob,' don't they, uncle?" asked Ned. "Yes; but it is said that he does not like it, and insists that he is no more of a fighter than very many of his brother officers. But it is really used as an honor to one whom his countrymen admire. But probably he will do no more fighting, as, by his own request, he has been detached from the command of the _Iowa_, and made a member of the Board of Inspection and Survey--a change he was entitled to, having already served more than his term of sea duty." "Oh, uncle!" said Elsie, in a tone of entreaty, "can't you tell us something more about Captain Philip? I do like him so, because of his being such a good Christian man." "He is that," said Dr. Travilla emphatically, "and one of the bravest and most modest of men. When asked for his photograph he replied that he had never had one taken; and on being urgently invited to be present at a reception to Lieutenant Hobson, given in New York, he shook his head, saying the trial would be too much for him. But I dare say his real reason was a fear that his presence might deprive the young officer of some of the attention and honor due to him." "Have you ever seen him, uncle?" asked Elsie. "Yes, once, for a few minutes, and I have heard him described as mild-mannered, full of fun, with gray mustache, a kindly face, and mild blue eyes, and it is said that he is fond of his men as they are of him. He said to some one, 'I have a stout ship and a crew of Americans. So had the other captains. That was why we won.' He fairly earned his promotion, first to the rank of commodore, then to that of admiral. "Now you two have taken in a good deal of information; don't you think it might be well for you to take some exercise in running about the deck?" concluded Uncle Harold, in a kindly tone, to which Elsie and Ned responded with a cheerful, "Yes, sir! Thank you for the stories," then ran away to carry out his suggestions, Grace calling after them to be very careful not to go into any dangerous place. "We won't," Ned called back. "We want to live to go to that double wedding." "Yes, Ned," said Elsie, in a much lower tone, "and we want to buy some handsome presents for the brides. I spoke to mamma about that, and she said she and papa and grandma would give us our turn at the business of shopping; maybe day after to-morrow, for they expect to come back to the _Dolphin_ to-morrow evening, and if the weather is suitable we can go into the city directly after breakfast the next morning." "Oh, good!" cried Ned. "Won't it be fun? I hope papa has plenty of money for us to spend, so that we can get something very handsome--jewelry, perhaps. That will be the most suitable and acceptable, I suppose." "Probably," returned Elsie. "Grandma, papa, and mamma will be the ones to decide." "Of course," said her brother; "but they'll let us have some say about it too." Max and Chester were at the same moment standing together at some little distance in a friendly discussion of a similar topic--what gifts they should procure for their brides. "Jewelry of some sort would, I suppose, be considered the most appropriate," remarked Chester half inquiringly. "That is my idea," returned Max. "I believe the majority of ladies can hardly have too much of it--though I have never noticed Eva cared very much about it. I think, however, that Lu does; I know that some years ago she had a strong desire for more than father deemed best for her." "Tastes differ," sagely remarked Chester, "and I wish to give her whatever she would prefer." "Certainly," said Max; "that is right and kind, and just my feeling in regard to the gift to Eva." "Well," said Chester, "fortunately we do not need to decide the question until we see what the jewellers and other merchants have to offer." "Shall we go together to make our selections?" asked Max. "I should like to do so, if it suits you; and to have your father along--Cousins Elsie and Violet also, if they feel inclined to go." "Yes, indeed!" said Max; "for they both have excellent taste and judgment. I don't know any one whose opinion on the subject I should consider more valuable." "Nor do I," responded Chester. "We are very fortunate in our lady friends, and I may well add in gentlemen also, Max--your father in especial." "Thank you," returned Max, with a smile of gratification; "I think there is not a more perfect man and gentleman anywhere to be found; but that may be because I am his son." "Oh, no! not altogether, at any rate," said Chester; "for you are by no means alone in your favorable opinion." "No, I flatter myself that I am not. Ah! do you see how earnestly Harold and Grace are talking together? I shouldn't wonder if they are upon the very same subject we have just been discussing." "Quite likely. It seems to be the most important subject for older and younger of our party at present." "Yes. By the way, Chester, we are hurrying matters so that we can hardly hope or expect to have very many of our Southern relatives and friends to witness the ceremony." "No, I suppose we can't. But we might invite them to visit us in our own house as soon after we get there as they please," laughed Chester. "True enough!" exclaimed Max, looking highly pleased at the thought, "and how delightful it would be to entertain them there." "So I think, and you don't know how I have wanted a home for that, as well as for my own private enjoyment." "I have had some very severe attacks of homesickness since I left my father's house for the Naval Academy, so that I think I can understand your feelings," Max said, with a smile. "And I expect to be somewhat envious of you and Lu some months hence, when I have to leave wife and home to go--perhaps to the other side of the world." "Yes, Max, when I think of that I am sorry for you, and for ourselves that we must be so often deprived of your pleasant society." They were steaming along within sight of the shore, and just at that moment the children came running to ask Max some question about what could be seen there. He listened and replied very kindly, Chester now and then taking part in the talk. The day and evening passed pleasantly to all on board; the children retired at their accustomed early hour, Grace helping Elsie in preparing for her couch, lest the dear little sister should miss Mamma too sorely, and wet her pillow with tears. Ned considered himself almost a man now, and quite fit to do without any attention in that line. "I do miss Mamma," Elsie said, as she laid herself down in the berth, "but it is very nice to share this stateroom with you for once, Gracie dear." "And I am very glad to have you do so," replied Grace; "for I shall not miss Lu half so much with you in her place." "It's nice and kind in you to say that," returned Elsie, with a loving look and smile. "But don't feel as if you must come to bed as early as I do, but go back and enjoy Brother Max, Uncle Harold, and Chester a little longer, for I am sure they want you." "Well, then I'll kiss you good-night, you darling little sister, and go back to them for perhaps another hour," Grace said, accompanying her words with a tender caress. She found the gentlemen still on deck, where she had left them, and they gave her no reason to doubt that her society was welcome to them. An hour was spent in cheerful chat, and some singing of appropriate songs and hymns, then they bade good-night, and all retired to their staterooms, Max having first attended to all his duties as captain of the vessel. The night passed quietly, and the next morning all woke rested and refreshed, ready to enjoy their breakfast, and after that the walks and talks upon deck, varied by resting in steamer chairs while chatting and gazing out upon the water and the land, out of sight of which they seldom were. The weather was all that could be desired, and they rejoiced in that fact for both themselves and their friends, the shoppers. The latter came on board soon after the yacht had come to anchor again in New York harbor. Their bright, cheerful faces told at once of success with what had been undertaken and of satisfaction with their purchases, and their tongues speedily repeated the pleasant story of beautiful silks, satins, laces and other trimmings, for in the family circle they did not care to make a secret of their needful, or desirable, preparations for the approaching ceremony. All passed the night on the vessel, Violet remarking that one night at the best of hotels was quite enough for her; she felt so much more at home on their own delightful yacht. But shortly after breakfast the children were taken into the city to select their bridal gifts, their father and mother going along with them. Grace, in compliance with a suggestion from her father, was quite willing to entrust the selection of her gifts to him and Mamma, shopping being always wearisome work for her. Grandma Elsie, Evelyn, and Lucilla remained on the vessel, with Grace, to take a good rest, while the young men went in search of their gifts for the brides that were to be. "How many dresses did you have fitted?" asked Grace. "Two apiece," replied her sister; "our wedding gowns and one other for each of us. The others were expressed home at once, to be made up by our own dressmakers, who, as you know, have our measures, so that they may be ready to wear by the time we return, or very soon after." "A very good plan, I think," said Grace. "Eva, have you heard from your uncle and aunt in reply to your note the other day?" "Yes," Evelyn replied, with a smile, "and I am happy to say that they highly approve of our plans and purposes--not bidding me beware of the truth of the old saying, 'Marry in haste and repent at leisure,' but promising to have everything in readiness for us and our ceremony. Isn't it good of them?" "Very nice and kind, I think," said Grace. "How favorably everything seems to go with you! I am very glad for you both." "Thank you," said Eva. "We might make a triple wedding of it if your father would only consent." "Oh, no! I don't wish it. Father is right, I know; he always is; and I don't want to leave him yet for anybody." "And you are entirely right in that, my dear," said Grandma Elsie. "I can see that, although I should dearly love to gain possession of my new little daughter at once." "It is very nice and kind in you, Grandma Elsie, to be so ready to claim me for your own," Grace returned, happy tears shining in her eyes. "Ah, I fear your father might see that in a different light," returned Grandma Elsie, with one of her sweet smiles. "I think he would prefer to keep you all his own, and I cannot blame him. Now, girls," turning to the others, "suppose we make out a list of the relatives and friends who should be invited to your wedding, so that that matter can be promptly attended to." The girls gave a ready assent and the list was presently prepared. "Now I have been thinking," Eva said, as they finished, "that as October is so delightful a month, even up here on the Hudson, we might as well take a little more time for our preparations, spending it at Crag Cottage; and that would make it possible for our friends to attend the ceremony, should they choose to come. You could spare that much more time from your home, couldn't you, Grandma Elsie?" "Easily; and I think it a very good idea. If anything like the entire number of our friends should come, you would not have sleeping accommodations for nearly all of them, and the hotels in the neighborhood are, I think, closed, or will be by that time; but a noon wedding would enable guests to come in the morning and leave before night." "Oh, that's a capital idea, Grandma Elsie!" exclaimed Lucilla. "Don't you think so, Eva?" "I do, and think every one else will," returned Evelyn joyously. "Then our wedding gifts can be shown at the cottage, packed, and sent home afterward in time to get there before we do--as we are to take a trip to Niagara Falls before going home." When the shoppers returned and were told of this plan, they one and all highly approved; so it was decided upon, and the necessary preparations were promptly made. The children were in high spirits, delighted with the purchases they had made; the older people seemed equally satisfied with theirs, though their report was given in quieter fashion. Some of the smaller gifts the purchasers brought with them, but the others were to be sent first to Crag Cottage, and after the wedding from there to the brides' homes. After some little discussion of the plan, an immediate return to Crag Cottage was decided upon, and presently the yacht was steaming up the river. CHAPTER XVI. It was a pleasant, happy party that gathered round the breakfast table at Crag Cottage the next morning, and a bountiful and excellent meal which they found spread before them. Mrs. Elsie Leland--acting mistress of the house for the present--was highly pleased with the new arrangements planned for the double wedding. "The extension of the time allotted for the preparations would make it much easier to carry them out," she said, "while invited guests would have more time for the carrying out of theirs; though I doubt if many of them would think it paid to take so long and expensive a journey even to see that interesting sight--a double wedding." "I dare say not," said her husband. "Chester, do you expect your brother and sisters to be here?" "Hardly; the time being so short and the journey so long. And Frank, I hear, has found a ladylove down there--which will be likely to keep him away. Each of my sisters, as you probably know, has a young child,--Maud, indeed, has two, Sidney one,--and they would probably want neither to bring them along nor leave them behind." "No, I suppose they will hardly want to journey so far for a short visit, and will think it too late in the season for a long one," remarked Grandma Elsie. "Yes; I fear that will keep Uncle Horace and Aunt Rose from joining us, though they are no farther away than Philadelphia," said Chester. "And, as Grandpa sometimes says, they are now not so young as they once were," said Mrs. Leland. "We would be delighted to have them with us, but can scarcely hope for it." "No," said Violet, "and most of our relatives and friends, having had their summer outings, returned home, and settled down again, can hardly be expected to start out on so long a journey for so short a bit of entertainment." "Especially as there are a number of somebodies getting married every day," laughed Lucilla. "Yes," said Harold, with a smile, "it is a very common occurrence." The two weeks passed quickly and happily away, the older ones attending to necessary preparations, the younger filling up much of the time with pleasant little excursions up and down the river in the yacht, or walks, rides, and drives on land. The wedding presents began to come in. The captain's principal gift they knew was their joint home on his estate, Woodburn, but there were a number of minor ones--in the way of silver for their tables, Sèvres china, and napery, cut-glass and bric-a-brac. The gifts of Elsie and Ned consisted of similar articles. Gracie's gift, chosen by her father and "Mamma Vi," was a gold bracelet for each, ornamented with precious stones. Each lover had visited Tiffany's and bought for his bride a very handsome ornament called a sunburst--a star of diamonds to be worn as locket or brooch. They were presented on the morning of the wedding, and the girls were delighted with them, as they were with Harold's gift--a very beautiful opal ring to each. It was nearing ten o'clock the night before the wedding, and Captain Raymond was taking his usual stroll back and forth upon the porch before retiring, when Lucilla came to him for the usual bit of good-night chat so pleasant to them both. He put his arm about her and held her close to his heart, as he had so often done before. For a moment neither spoke, then she said sobbingly: "Oh, father, my dear father, this is the last time! How can I bear it! oh, how can I bear it! how can I leave you, even for Chester, whom I do love dearly." "No, dear child," he said in tones tremulous with emotion, "it need not be the last time. We shall be near enough to see and embrace each other very often while God spares our lives; and we will not love each other less because we are not living all the time under the same roof." "No, papa, no, indeed! Oh, I could never bear it if it wasn't for knowing that! You have been such a good, kind, wise, and loving father to me. Oh, I wish I had always been the good, obedient biddable child I ought to have been." "Yes, daughter dear, I know it; I know you do; while I often wish I had been more patient and gentle--less stern with you. But let us forgive and forget, and each try in the future to be all to the other that could be desired. My own dear, dear child! 'The Lord bless thee: the Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee: the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.'" "Thank you, my dear, dear father," she said. "That is such a sweet blessing, and I do so love to hear it from your lips. Oh, I can never be thankful enough that I have a Christian father!" "Nor I for the good hope that my dear eldest daughter is a true servant, with me, of the same blessed Master. Now let us say good-night, for it is time you were preparing for your rest." Most of the invited guests except a few who would arrive in the morning had come, but, by sending the young gentlemen and lads to sleep in the yacht, room had been made for all. The ceremony took place the next day at high noon--the brides, the gifts, the house bedecked with flowers, all looking very lovely. A grand wedding breakfast followed, then bridal dresses were exchanged for travelling suits, handsome and becoming, and the newly married couples, accompanied by Grace and Harold, went aboard the _Dolphin_, which carried them to the city, where they would take the cars for Niagara. Harold and Grace saw them on the train, waved them good-bye as it started, then returned on the yacht to Crag Cottage. A few days later the _Dolphin_ was again speeding southward, carrying her owner and his family--including Mrs. Travilla and her son Harold, also the Lelands, to their homes. They had a delightful voyage, and arrived at their destination in fine health and spirits. But that was not the last trip made by the yacht for that season; within a fortnight she was again steaming up the Hudson, and in the harbor of the city where the bridal party had left her they found her lying at anchor one day, when the train bearing them on their return from the west came rushing into the station. "Oh, it really seems something like getting home!" Lucilla exclaimed as she stepped upon the deck. "But father did not come!" she added, with a slight sigh of disappointment, glancing about in the vain hope of catching sight of the manly form and face she loved so well. "No, Mrs. Dinsmore, but you'll be sure to get sight of the captain when you reach the other end of the voyage," said Mr. Bailey, temporary skipper, coming forward with a bow and smile. "And the voyage will be but a short one if the weather continues good," remarked Max, offering a hand to Bailey in cordial greeting, then introducing his bride. "Yes," said Bailey, taking in his the hand she offered, and looking at her with admiring eyes, "I used to know her pretty well as Miss Leland. I wish you both a great deal of happiness and prosperity. And you and your bride the same, Mr. Dinsmore," shaking hands with Chester in his turn. "I think, ladies and gentlemen, you will find everything shipshape in the saloon and staterooms; the captain was very particular about all that." "Yes," said Evelyn, "and now that we are here on the dear old yacht I feel that the discomforts of travel by rail are happily gotten rid of; everything is so clean, quiet, and homelike here." "I think it is delightful," said Lucilla; "only I am disappointed that father did not come." "No doubt it was having too many other things to attend to that prevented him," said Max. "And doubtless he will meet us at the wharf when we land." The weather was all that could be desired, the yacht in fine condition, and in due time they anchored in the harbor of their own city, and presently landed, to find a number of the dear ones waiting for them. Captain Raymond was there with his entire family, and Lucilla had scarcely stepped ashore ere she found herself in his arms, his kiss of fatherly love upon her lips. "How glad I am to have you here again, my darling," he said in tender tones. "I hope you have enjoyed your trip, and come back to me feeling well and strong?" "Oh, yes, father dear, yes indeed! and so, so glad to be with you again! I could never, never live without my father." "That is pretty much as I feel about my eldest daughter," he returned with a smile, and repeating his caresses. Then Eva must take her turn, and the son and son-in-law each received a cordial grasp and shake of the hand. Then joyous greetings were exchanged with the Lelands, Violet, Elsie, and Ned. The Woodburn and Fairview carriages were there, and nearby stood another--a two-seated, very handsome vehicle, with a pair of fine, spirited-looking grays attached. Greetings over, the captain led the way to the equipage, and turning with a kind, fatherly smile toward the bridal party, "Here, my children," he said, "is a gift from your father to be held and used--enjoyed, too, I trust--by the four of you in common." "Father, I'm afraid you are doing too much for us!" exclaimed Max, with emotion. "A grand good gift, sir, for which I heartily thank you," said Chester warmly. "Dear father, don't ruin yourself by heaping so many, many gifts upon us," cried Lucilla, turning, and putting her hand in his, while Evelyn said, with starting tears "that it was really too much." "No, I am perfectly able to afford it, my dears, and shall be very glad if it adds to your enjoyment of your new home," said the generous giver. "Get in now, drive over to your new home, and see if everything about house and grounds has been arranged to suit your taste." They obeyed, and found the carriage, as they afterward said, the easiest, most comfortable one they had ever ridden in, and the horses the finest of thoroughbreds. "These are grand fellows, Max; I'll warrant your father has spent no trifle on their purchase," remarked Chester as they sped onward with easy, graceful motion. "Just what I think," said Max. "No more generous man than he ever lived." "I only hope he won't ruin himself by heaping expensive gifts and favors upon us," said Evelyn. "I hope not, indeed!" sighed Lucilla, with a slight tremble in her tones. "Don't be anxious and troubled about it, sister mine," said Max very kindly. "I happen to know that father has abundant means. And being so generous of nature it is a delight to him to give--especially to his wife and children." "What a dear, good father he is! It is just a delight to me that I may call him that now," said Evelyn. Their carriage reached its destination some minutes ahead of the captain's, and they immediately alighted and gazed about them with wondering and delighted eyes--so many improvements had been made since last they saw the place, trees and flowers, lovely and fragrant, having been transplanted from other places to adorn this. They wandered here and there, expressing in looks and joyous exclamations admiration, gratitude, and delight. They had hardly made acquaintance with all the beauties of the place when the other carriage drove up and the rest of the family joined them. Then, as the captain afterward said, they well-nigh overwhelmed him with the extravagant outpouring of their admiration, gratitude, and delight. "I am very glad that you are all so well pleased," he said, in return. "My wife and I have greatly enjoyed this labor of love,--the overseeing and directing of these improvements,--and that they find such favor with you all more than repays us. But, come, let us go inside and see how well you are satisfied with things there." He led the way as he spoke, and they found themselves in a wide hall with a broad and easy stairway leading to the rooms above, and on either side, on that floor, large, elegantly furnished rooms,--parlors, libraries, dining rooms, a set for each little family,--beautiful lace curtains at the windows, handsome paintings handsomely framed, on the walls, many of them presents from Grandma Elsie and others of the Ion family and Violet's relatives on the neighboring estates, and other gifts and adornments too numerous to mention. The young folks had decided to call their place Sunnyside, and so lovely was it that the name seemed very appropriate. The upper rooms were found scarcely less attractive in themselves or their furnishings than the lower ones. A grand dinner was in course of preparation in Lucilla's kitchen, and presently all sat down to it, served in her dining-room. After that the whole party went over to Woodburn, no one of them feeling satisfied without a peep at it--the dear old home all loved so well. THE END. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. 
45804	----	ELSIE AND HER NAMESAKES _A LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS_ By MARTHA FINLEY ELSIE DINSMORE ELSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD ELSIE'S WOMANHOOD ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD ELSIE'S CHILDREN ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD GRANDMOTHER ELSIE ELSIE'S NEW RELATIONS ELSIE AT NANTUCKET THE TWO ELSIES ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN ELSIE'S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS ELSIE'S VACATION ELSIE AT VIAMEDE ELSIE AT ION ELSIE AT THE WORLD'S FAIR ELSIE'S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS ELSIE AT HOME ELSIE ON THE HUDSON ELSIE IN THE SOUTH ELSIE'S YOUNG FOLKS ELSIE'S WINTER TRIP ELSIE AND HER LOVED ONES ELSIE AND HER NAMESAKES ELSIE AND HER NAMESAKES BY MARTHA FINLEY [Illustration] NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY Publishers Copyright, 1905 By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY _Published October, 1905_ CHAPTER I Things were going on blithely at Woodburn, everybody deeply interested in the preparations for the approaching wedding, as were all the relatives and connections on the neighboring estates and those on more southern plantations. Woodburn seemed a centre of attraction; relatives and friends were constantly coming and going, many consultations were held as to suitable gifts, especially for Grace and Harold. There was great interest shown by all in the preparation of the trousseau, and Alma and one or two assistants were very busy over it. There were many shopping expeditions, in which Grace sometimes shared, though rather against Harold's wishes, so fearful was he that she might take cold or suffer from over-exertion. He had long been her careful physician, but now was not only that, but also her promised husband and ardent lover. And to please him Grace left the greater part of the shopping to the other members of the family, and made some of her selections by samples brought by them or the mails. In the meantime, plans for the wedding and the honeymoon were discussed. Some one spoke of a trip to the North, but Harold vetoed that promptly. "It was too late in the season now for Grace to try that. He must take her to a warmer climate." "Then let us all go to Viamede for the winter," suggested his mother. "Would not that suit you, Gracie dear?" "Yes, indeed, Grandma Elsie; I think there is no sweeter spot upon earth," was the pleased response. "Then that is where we will go," Harold said with a happy laugh, "and I hope our mother and other dear ones will either accompany or follow us." "Oh, I like that plan," exclaimed Violet, "but I think few of us will be quite ready to leave our homes here by the time the bridal party starts." "Then suppose you go in relays," suggested Chester. "Why not say we, instead of you, Brother Chester," laughed Elsie Raymond. "I'm sure grandma included you in her invitation." "Certainly," said Grandma Elsie, giving Chester one of her sweet smiles. "May I not count you and Lucilla among my grandchildren?" "Indeed, I am delighted to have you do so, and proud to be able to claim real blood relationship," returned Chester. "And but for the claims of business, I should be glad to accept your kind invitation. Those, however, will not permit it." There were exclamations of regret from several of those present, Grandma Elsie among them. "But Sister Lu can go, can't she?" asked Elsie Raymond. "Go and leave my husband!" exclaimed Lucilla in mock indignation. "Who could suspect me of being so unfeeling a wife?" "Oh, no, Lu dear, I didn't mean that," Elsie hastened to say. "I know you and Brother Chester are very fond of each other, but so are you and papa; and all the rest of us love you dearly; and we won't any of us like to do without you, even for a few weeks. Oh Brother Chester, can't you get somebody else to manage your business while you go along with us?" "No, little sister; and seeing my wife does not want to leave me, I am not willing to do without her, either." "And you are quite right about it, Chester," said the captain, sighing slightly and giving his eldest daughter a look of warm, fatherly affection; "much as I shall certainly miss her even for the few weeks of our separation, I must concede that she is right in putting your claim to her companionship first." "And I know it's right when you say so, papa; so I'll try to be content," said Elsie cheerfully. "But you and Baby Mary will go with us, won't you, Eva?" "And leave Lu alone all day while Chester is away at his office? Oh, I couldn't think of doing that! And, besides, I think home is the best place for baby and me for the present," returned Evelyn, gazing lovingly down at the cooing babe upon her knee. "Oh, thank you, Eva," cried Lucilla, clapping her hands in delight; "the thought of having you and baby left half reconciles me to seeing the others go, leaving me behind; only--oh, father," with a pathetic look at him and a quiver of pain in her voice, "what shall I--what can I do without you?" At that he stepped to her side and laid his hand tenderly on her head. "We will comfort ourselves with the thought that the parting will be for but a brief season, daughter dear," he said in moved tones; "and with the prospect of the joyful reunion in store for us all in the spring." "And you will help me with frequent letters, papa dear, won't you?" she asked, trying to speak lightly and cheerfully. "I think there will be a daily bulletin, perhaps more than one--at least with Eva's share counted in," the captain replied with an affectionate look at his daughter-in-law and her babe. "Oh, I hope so, father; and of course Lu will share with me the pleasure of mine," responded Evelyn with a bright, glad look up into his eyes. "And though Viamede is ever so delightful, I think we will all soon be in haste to get home to see our dear little baby," Elsie exclaimed, hurrying to Eva's side to pet and fondle the little one. "Yes; we will all sadly miss both her and her mother," said Violet. "Indeed we will," added her mother, "and I sincerely wish we could take her and all the Sunnyside folk with us. We will hope to do so the next time we go to Viamede." This was an afternoon chat in the library, where they had gathered for the time, some few of the cousins with them, and little, feeble Ned asleep on a couch. "Go to Viamede? When will we go?" he asked feebly, rousing just in time to catch his grandmother's concluding words. "We hope to do so in the afternoon of the wedding day, carrying my pet patient along," replied Harold, taking the small, white hand in his and patting it affectionately. "Papa and mamma, too?" queried Ned, rather anxiously. "We are going in your papa's yacht, and they are to follow us in a few days by rail, join us on the Florida coast; and from there we expect to go on together to Viamede." "Oh, that's nice--but--oh, what can I do without papa and mamma? Will you and Gracie take care of me?" "Some of the time, I think, but your grandma still more; and your sister Elsie, and some of the cousins who will be with us, will help entertain you." "And with all those you can do without papa and mamma for a few days, can't you, sonny boy?" queried Violet, leaning over him and patting his cheek caressingly. "Yes, mamma; I love my dear grandma and uncle and Sister Elsie--the cousins, too--but I'll miss you and papa." "Then you must try to be patient and happy thinking it will be only a few days before we may hope to be together again," returned his mother, repeating her caresses. "And show yourself a manly little man of whom we can all be proud as well as fond," added his father, standing by his side, smoothing his hair and looking down smilingly into his face. "I'll try, papa," responded the little fellow, "and I do believe we will have a nice time if--if I can keep on getting well." "We will hope for that, and you will have your good doctor with you. And you must keep up your spirits with the thought that we expect to be all together again in a few days." Grandma Elsie had been taking part in some of the business visits to the neighboring city, but now she decided to leave all that to the younger ladies and devote herself to the entertainment of Ned, Elsie and any other of the young people of the family connection who might care to share with them in listening to the interesting facts and stories which she would relate for Ned's enjoyment and instruction. She presently announced this determination, which was gladly received by all the children present, and asked if any of them could suggest a subject for to-morrow's discourse. Elsie responded with an eager look of delight and entreaty. "Well, dear child, what is it?" asked her grandma. "Something about Washington, grandma, beginning with what he did when he was a very young man. I'd like to hear all you can tell us about Braddock's defeat." "Then that shall be our subject to-morrow, if all my audience should be pleased to have it so," was the kindly reply; to which several young voices responded with expressions of pleasure in the prospect. CHAPTER II The next day Grandma Elsie, true to her promise, remained with the children at Woodburn, while the younger ladies went on their shopping expedition to the city. Ned had been carried down to the library, and lay there on a sofa, his pale face bright with expectation; for he dearly loved grandma's stories, especially now when it seemed too great an exertion to hold a book and read for himself; his sister Elsie was there, too, and so were several of the young cousins from Ion and Fairview, who had come riding in on their bicycles, full of joyful expectation, for grandma's stories were to them a great delight. They gathered about her, and she began. "I am going to tell you of our Washington and some of his deeds and experiences. He has been called the Father of his Country. Some one once gave the toast, 'Washington: Providence left him childless that his country might call him father.'" "Had he never any children at all, grandma?" asked Ned. "None of his very own; only some step-children. He married a widow who had some by a former husband. "Washington was very young when he left school and began life as a surveyor. At sixteen he was public surveyor of Culpeper County, and he continued there at that work for three years. Then, at nineteen, he was made adjutant-general, with the rank of major, in one of the four military districts into which Virginia was divided. "In 1753 Great Britain instructed her governors of the American colonies to serve notice on the French that their forts built on western lands claimed by the English were an encroachment on her colonies; and if the French resisted, they were instructed to use force to drive them away. "Washington was then twenty-one--a tall, grave, handsome young man, and one with the talents and information required; he had courage, experience in the woods, knowledge about forts and tact with savages. The governor offered the dangerous and difficult mission to him, and he accepted it. "This was in the summer. In October the governor resolved to enlarge his army to ten companies of one hundred men each, and no officer in that Virginia regiment was to rank higher than captain. Indignant at that, Washington resigned and left the army. "The next February Braddock came from England with two regiments of troops, supplies and artillery. He landed in Virginia, and Washington sent him a congratulatory letter. Shortly afterward Braddock invited him to become his aide-de-camp, and he willingly accepted the invitation. He joined Braddock at Frederickstown, feeling much displeased that the army should pass through Maryland instead of Virginia. "Braddock--proud Englishman--despised all colonials except Franklin and Washington, but from the beginning he was pleased with them." "Colonial, grandma?" said Ned, inquiringly. "Yes, dear; you must remember that at that time there were no United States of America; instead, just thirteen colonies subject to Great Britain, and all on or near the Atlantic coast. Our country has grown very much since then." "And in more ways than one, hasn't it, grandma?" remarked Elsie Raymond with a look of joy and pride. "Yes, dear; it is many times as large, as wealthy and full of comforts and conveniences. Indeed, I think we may safely say that we are the richest and most powerful nation in the world. God has been wonderfully good to us, and to Him be all the glory and the praise. "In the days I am telling you of there were no railroads, and the rough mountain roads would be very difficult to cross with the heavy artillery and baggage. Therefore, Washington urged a forward movement with a small but chosen band and only such artillery and light stores as were absolutely necessary. "Washington went with the rear division, riding in a covered wagon, for he had been quite sick with fever and pains in his head, and was not yet able to sit a horse. He overtook the advance division at the mouth of the Youghiogheny River, fifteen miles from Fort Duquesne, and the next morning, though still very weak in body, attended Braddock on horseback. The ground was very steep on the north side of the Monongahela, which made it necessary to ford the river twice and march a part of the way on the south side. About noon they were within ten miles of Fort Duquesne. It was here they crossed to the north side, and their road lay through a level plain, at the north end of which a gradual ascent began, leading to hills of some height, and then through an uneven country covered with trees. Three hundred men, under Colonel Gage, marched first, then came another party of two hundred, then Braddock with the main body, artillery and baggage. "All had crossed the river, and the advance body was going cheerfully up the hill, on each side of which was a ravine eight or ten feet deep, covered with trees and long grass. General Braddock had not employed any scouts. He despised Indians, colonists and their irregular kind of warfare. A hundred friendly Indians had joined him on the march, but he treated them so coldly, in spite of all Washington could say in their favor, that they had all gone away. They came again on the very night before this dress parade between the ravines, and again offered their assistance; but in spite of all Washington could say in favor of employing them, the general refused to do so." "And were the French and their Indians hiding in those ravines, grandma?" asked Ned. "Yes," she replied; "that was just what they were doing, and after the first British division had got well into the field between the ravines, without seeing or hearing an enemy, they suddenly received a volley of musket-balls in their faces. As one of the soldiers afterward said, they could only tell where the enemy were by the smoke of their muskets. But the British at once returned a fire that killed the French commander, and was so heavy that the Indians thought it came from artillery, and were about to retreat when Dumas, who was in command now that his superior officer was killed, rallied them and sent them, under French officers, to attack the right flank while he held the front. "The British now received another rain of bullets, and the wood rang with the savage yells of the Indians, but they could see only smoke, except when now and then an Indian ventured from behind a tree to take a scalp. The Virginians, used to the Indian's way of fighting, dropped on the ground or rushed behind trees, and the British regulars tried to imitate them. Braddock, just then reaching the scene, was furious at that. Riding about the field, he forced his men, both British and Virginians, back into the ranks, just where the enemy could get full sight of them and shoot them down the more readily." "Why, grandma, what did he do that for?" asked Ned. "It seems he wanted them to keep rank just because he considered that the regular thing to do." "Stupid old fellow!" exclaimed one of the other young listeners. "Yes; he does not seem to have been very bright in that particular line," assented Mrs. Travilla, "but he was very brave; four horses were shot under him, and he mounted a fifth. All his aides were shot down but one--our Washington; though hardly well enough to sit in his saddle, he rode about the field delivering Braddock's orders to the troops, so making himself a conspicuous target for the enemy, who fired at him again and again, but could not kill him--did not even succeed in wounding him, though two horses were shot under him, and he sprang upon a third and went fearlessly on with his work." "But he was not wounded. I remember reading that," said Elsie. "Surely, grandma, God took care of him, that he might after a while become the Father of his Country." "Yes, God protected him, and that made it impossible for the foe to destroy him." "But they killed Braddock, didn't they?" asked Ned. "I don't know," replied Mrs. Travilla, "that Braddock was fatally wounded at that time, but I have seen an account of his fatal wounding, which may or not be true. It is thought that among the Americans who were in the fight were two of the name of Fausett--brothers--Thomas and Joseph. Thomas is said to have been a man of gigantic frame and of uncivilized, half savage propensities. It is said that he spent most of his life in the mountains, living as a hermit on the game that he killed. In the battle we are talking of he saw his brother behind a tree, saw Braddock ride up to him in a passion and strike him down with his sword. Tom Fausett drew up his rifle instantly and shot Braddock through the lungs, partly in revenge for the outrage upon his brother and partly, as he always declared, to get the general out of the way that he might sacrifice no more of the lives of the British and Americans." "Why, grandma, did he want his own men killed?" asked Ned. "No; but he was foolish, obstinate and determined to have his own way. Those who appointed him commander of that force made a great mistake. He was a good tactician, but proud, prejudiced and conceited. Talking with Benjamin Franklin, who was then postmaster-general, he said, 'After taking Fort Duquesne, I am to proceed to Niagara, and having taken that, to Frontenac, if the season will allow time, and I suppose it will, for Duquesne can hardly detain me above three or four days; and then I can see nothing that can obstruct my march to Niagara.' Franklin thought the plan excellent if he could take his fine troops safely to Fort Duquesne, but told him there might be danger from Indian ambuscades; the savages, shooting unexpectedly from their places of concealment in the woods, might destroy his army in detail. Braddock thought that an absurd idea, and replied that the Indians might be formidable enemies to raw American troops, but it was impossible they should make an impression upon the King's regular and disciplined troops. And, as I have already told you, that was the idea he acted upon in the fight, which is always spoken of as 'Braddock's defeat.' He insisted that his men should be formed in regular platoons; they fired by platoons--at the rocks, into the bushes and ravines, and so killed not enemies only, but many Americans--as many as fifty by one volley." "Oh, how dreadful!" cried Elsie; "killing their own comrades instead of the enemies they were fighting." "Grandma, did Tom Fausett's shot kill Braddock at once?" asked Ned. "No; it was on the 9th of July he was shot, and he died on the evening of the 13th. It was on that day the remnant of his army went into camp at the Great Meadows. In the evening, after the fight, Braddock exclaimed, 'Who would have thought it?' "Then he remained silent until a few minutes before he died, when he said, 'We should better know how to deal with them another time.' They buried him before daybreak in the road and levelled his grave with the ground, lest the Indians should find and mutilate his body. The chaplain had been wounded, and Washington read the burial service." "At the Great Meadows, grandma?" asked Elsie. "About a mile from Fort Necessity," replied Mrs. Travilla. "I have read that on the 17th the sick and wounded reached Fort Cumberland, and the next day Washington wrote to a friend that since his arrival there he had heard a circumstantial account of his own death and dying speech, and now he was taking the earliest opportunity of contradicting the first, and of giving the assurance that he had not yet composed the latter." "Well, I hope he got the praise he deserved from somebody," said Elsie. "Yes, he did," replied her grandma. "An eloquent and accomplished preacher, Rev. Samuel Davies, who a few years later became president of Princeton College, in a sermon to one of the companies organized after Braddock's defeat, after praising the zeal and courage of the Virginia troops, added: 'As a remarkable instance of this, I may point out to the public that heroic youth, Colonel Washington, whom I cannot but hope Providence has hitherto preserved in so signal a manner for some important service to his country.'" "And doesn't it seem that that was what God preserved him for, grandma?" exclaimed Elsie, her eyes shining with pleasure. "It does, indeed; God was very good to us in giving us such a leader for such a time as that of our hard struggle for the freedom which has made us the great and powerful nation that we now are." "And we are not the only people that think very highly of Washington," remarked one of the cousins in a tone which was half assertive, half inquiring. "No, indeed," replied Mrs. Travilla; "one English historian has said that Washington's place in the history of mankind is without a fellow, and Lord Brougham said more than once, 'It will be the duty of the historian in all ages to let no occasion pass of commemorating this illustrious man; and until time shall be no more will a test of the progress which our race has made in wisdom and virtue be derived from the veneration paid to the immortal name of Washington.'" "That's high praise, grandma, isn't it?" said Eric Leland; "and I think our Washington deserved every word of it." "As I do," she replied; "he was just, generous, disinterested--spending so many of the best years of his life in fighting for the freedom of his country, and that without a cent of pay--wise, fearless, heroic, self-sacrificing; he feared God, believed in Christ, was a man of prayer, fully acknowledging divine aid and direction in all that he attempted and all he accomplished. He was a wonderful man, a God-given leader to us in a time when such an one was sorely needed." "When was the war quite over, grandma?" asked Ned. "The treaty of peace was signed in Paris on the 20th of January, 1783," replied Mrs. Travilla. "News did not then fly nearly so fast as it does now, and it was not till the 17th of the following April that Washington received the proclamation of peace by our Congress. On the 19th of April, the anniversary of the shedding of the first blood of the war, at Lexington, eight years before, the cessation was proclaimed at the head of every regiment of the army. That was by Washington's general orders, in which he added, 'The chaplains of the several brigades will render thanks to Almighty God for all His mercies, particularly for His overruling the wrath of man to His own glory, and causing the rage of war to cease among the nations.'" CHAPTER III Noticing now that weak little Ned began to look weary and sleepy, Mrs. Travilla bade the other children go out and amuse themselves a while wherever they liked about the house and grounds; so they quietly left the room. "Please don't go away, grandma. Please stay beside me while I take my nap," murmured the little fellow, opening his eyes to look up at her, then closing them again. "No, darling, I won't," she said soothingly. "I have a book and am going to sit here beside you and read while you sleep." Elsie and the others refreshed themselves with some lively sport upon the lawn; then the young guests, thinking it time to return to their homes, mounted their bicycles and departed, leaving Elsie sitting in the veranda, whiling away the time with a bit of fancy work while waiting and watching for the return of father and mother and the other loved ones from their city shopping. Meantime, she was thinking how very much she would like to give her dear sister Grace a handsome wedding present, and regretting that she had not expected the wedding to come so soon and saved her pocket money for that purpose. She had not wasted it, but had been more liberal in gifts to some others and spent more in self-indulgences than now seemed to have been at all necessary. But these regretful meditations were at length interrupted by the carriage turning in at the great gates and coming swiftly up the driveway. "Oh, I am so glad you have come back at last, papa, mamma, and all the rest of you dear folks," she exclaimed, hastening to meet them as they alighted and came up the veranda steps. "I suppose you have bought ever so many beautiful things." "Yes, so we have," replied her mother. "Many more than were at all necessary," laughed Grace. "If this sort of kindness killed, I am afraid I should not live very long." "But it does not, and you look very rosy and well for you," laughed Elsie as Grace reached her side, put an arm about her and gave her a kiss. "Yes, she has stood the ordeal very well so far," remarked Dr. Harold, giving his affianced a very lover-like glance and smile. "I am ever so glad of that," said Elsie. "And oh, I do want to see all those pretty things! Mayn't they be carried into the library, mamma? Grandma and Ned will want to see them, and they are in there." "Yes," replied Violet, leading the way, "and we will all go in there and examine them together. I hear Ned talking, so there is no danger of waking him out of a nap." All followed her lead, a servant, bearing the heavier packages, bringing up the rear. All enjoyed examining the purchases--rich silks, laces, ribbons and jewelry--and some minutes were spent in lively chat over them and about other pretty things seen in the city stores. Then Grace was summoned to the sewing room to inspect the work going on there. Violet went with her, and Harold hastened away to see a patient, the captain and Elsie following him as far as the veranda, he seating himself and drawing her to his knee to pet and fondle her, as was his wont when they happened to be alone together. "Well, darling little daughter," he said, "I hope you have had a pleasant time at home with grandma and Ned and cousins while papa and mamma were away?" "Yes, sir; grandma was telling us about Washington and Braddock's defeat, and it was very interesting. So the time passed very pleasantly. Papa, what beautiful things you and mamma and the rest brought home from the city! I wish"--she paused, blushing and hanging her head. "Well, dear child, speak out and tell papa what you want," he said encouragingly. "I was just wishing I could buy a handsome wedding gift for dear Sister Grace; but I did not think she was going to be married so soon, and--and my pocket money is almost all gone." "Well, never mind," he said with a smile and patting her cheek. "I have been considering an increase of pocket money for you and Ned just at this time. I shall give each of you $50 to-morrow, to do with exactly as you please--buy for yourselves or for others or save up for some future time." "Oh, papa, thank you, thank you!" she cried joyously. "And now can you tell me what to buy for Sister Grace?" "We will consult mamma about that," he said, "and perhaps she will go with us into the city to-morrow to make the purchase." "Ah, Elsie wanting to do some shopping, too?" asked Violet's pleasant voice as she stepped out from the hall door to the veranda and came quickly toward them. "No"--to her husband--"do not get up; I will take a seat by your side," suiting the action to the word. "Yes, mamma," answered the little girl; "surely I ought to give a wedding present to Sister Grace; and papa is going to give me money--$50--to buy it with." "Oh, that is nice," said Violet. "Levis, my dear, you are certainly the best of fathers, as well as of husbands." "According to my very partial wife," he returned with a pleased little laugh. "And this one of your daughters, too, papa," said Elsie. "As well as all the kith and kin who know him well," added Violet. "What do you think of buying with that large sum of money, Elsie?" "I want your advice about that, mamma." "I believe Grace feels very rich now--in silks, satins, laces, jewelry"--Violet responded in a musing tone. "Ah, well of that last few ladies can have too much. A ring, a bracelet, would hardly come amiss." "No, mamma, I do not believe they would; and they would be becoming to sister's beautiful hands and arms. I wonder if Ned would not like to buy one or the other for her with his $50." "Let us go to the library now and consult him about it," said the captain, setting Elsie down and rising to his feet as he spoke. "The best plan, I think," said Violet. "He is sure to want to spend your gift to him in something for Grace." They found Ned still awake and pleased at their coming. "You may be newsteller and questioner, Elsie," said their father, and she told in hurried, joyous fashion what he had promised, and what she thought of buying for Grace with her $50, concluding with the query, "What will you do with your fifty, Ned?" "I do not know. I cannot go to the stores to find anything," he sighed disconsolately. "But you can trust mamma and the rest of us to select something for you," suggested his father in tender tones. "Oh, I guess that will do," responded Ned more cheerfully; "and be sure that I want it to be something handsome, if it costs every cent of the $50." So that matter was settled, and the next morning the captain, Violet and Elsie drove into the city, visited the best jewelry store, and selected a beautiful ring and bracelet. Elsie was so charmed with them that she seemed hardly able to think of anything else on the homeward drive. "I hope Ned will be pleased with the bracelet," she said; "but if he would rather have the ring for his gift to Gracie, he may, and I will give the bracelet." "That is right, daughter," said the captain. "I think they are both beautiful, and they cost very nearly the same." They found Ned awake and full of eager expectation. He heard the carriage wheels on the driveway, and cried out, "There they are, grandma, and oh, how I wish I could run out to the veranda to meet them!" "Never mind about that, sonny boy; they will be in here directly," was the kind response, and the next minute Elsie came running in, holding up two little parcels. "We have bought them, Ned," she cried. "They are just lovely, and you may open the packages and take your choice which to have for your gift to Sister Grace," and she put them in his hands as she spoke. He looked delighted, hastily tore open the larger package, and cried out, "Oh, I will take this for mine. It is the prettiest bracelet I ever saw!" "But the ring is every bit as beautiful," said Elsie, "and I do not care in the least which you give and which will be my present to Gracie." "And since you do not care in the least, it won't matter who gives which," laughed their mother. "And that makes it easy for you both," said the captain, drawing up a chair to the side of the couch for his wife, then seating himself by her side. "What do you think of them, mother?" turning to Grandma Elsie. "That they are both beautiful," she replied. "Grace is sure to be greatly pleased with them. Ah, here she comes!" as the young girl came tripping in, followed by Harold. "Oh, Gracie, here are our wedding gifts to you--Elsie's and mine. Come look at them," cried Ned, raising himself to a sitting posture in his excitement. "Oh, they are lovely, lovely!" she responded, taking them from his hands, turning them about in hers and gazing upon them delightedly. "But," she added in a regretful tone, "I am afraid you have both spent far too much on me." "Not at all, daughter; they were bought with both your mamma's and my full approval," said the captain. "What do you think of them, Harold?" as he, too, seemed to be giving the trinkets a critical examination. "I entirely agree in the opinion Grace has just expressed," he replied. "They are quite worthy of the admiration of us all. Must have cost a pretty penny, I should say." "But not too much for gifts to our dear sister Grace," said Elsie. "No, no; I quite agree with you in that opinion," replied Harold, with a smile and a look of ardent love and admiration at the sweet face of his betrothed. "Put them on, Gracie, and let us see how they will look on your pretty hand and arm," pleaded Ned, and she complied. "Ah, they fit nicely," she said with a pleased little laugh; then took them off and replaced them in their boxes, adding, "but are too handsome and costly to wear just now. They should be shown first along with the other Christmas and wedding gifts." "Such a long time to wait," sighed Ned disconsolately. "Not so very, Neddie boy," returned Grandma Elsie in a cheery tone; "this is Friday, and Christmas comes next week on Wednesday." "Oh, I am glad it is so near! But, oh, dear," he added with a sigh, "it won't be so delightful as it has been other years, because I cannot go out of doors and run and play as I have on other Christmas days." "No; but do not fret, my little son; you shall have a good time in the house," said his father. "Oh, yes, papa, and will we have a Christmas tree? I am not too old for that, am I?" "No, not at all; and I doubt if you ever will be," returned his father, smoothing his hair and smiling down into his face. "Oh, Sister Grace, will your dresses be done by that time?" asked Elsie. "Hardly, I think," smiled Grace; "but it will be another week before we sail away in our _Dolphin_; and if they are not all finished then they can be sent after us to Viamede." "I suppose, grandma, you will be wanting us all at Ion for Christmas," said Ned. "Uncle Harold, do you think I will be well enough to go?" "No, my boy; but we can have a fine Christmas here in your own home," replied his uncle in kindly tones. "Oh, yes, of course we can. There is no place better than home, anyhow; at least, not if grandma and you, uncle, are here with us." "Just what I think," said Elsie; "and you will be here, won't you, grandma and uncle?" "Part of the time," replied Mrs. Travilla; "and I think it likely that most of your other relatives will make a call on you some time during the day." "And you will stay with us between this time and that, and tell us your nice true stories, won't you, grandma?" entreated Ned. "I have planned to be here a part of almost every day until we go on board the _Dolphin_, Neddie dear," she said, smiling kindly on him as she spoke. "And you will, too, won't you, uncle?" queried the little fellow, with an entreating look up into Harold's face. "Yes; I intend to give my little patient all the care he needs from his uncle doctor," was the pleasant-toned reply. "Thank you, sir; that is good; I am glad I have such a kind uncle that knows how to treat sick folks," returned Ned, closing his eyes, composing himself for a nap, and adding, "I am tired and sleepy now. Please everybody excuse me if I do not keep awake to enjoy your company." An hour later the little boy awoke, looking and feeling stronger and better than he had at any time since the beginning of his illness; and he continued to gain as the days passed on, listening with pleasure while his grandma and others tried to entertain him with stories, and now and then joining in some quiet little game that called for no exertion of strength. At last it was Christmas eve, and he and Elsie went early to bed and to sleep after hanging up their stockings for Santa Claus to fill. They knew there was to be a Christmas tree, but the sight of it was to be deferred till the next morning, because after his night's rest Ned would be better able to enjoy it. Over at Sunnyside Evelyn sat beside the crib of her sleeping babe, busy with her needle, fashioning a dainty robe for the darling, when Lucilla stole softly in, came to her side, and speaking in an undertone, not to disturb the little sleeper, said: "Chester and I are going over to Woodburn to help in the trimming of the Christmas tree, and should be happy to have your company. Will you go along?" "Thank you, Lu; I should like to but for leaving baby, and I won't disturb her, taking her up to carry her along, she is sleeping so sweetly." "You are quite right; it would be a shame to rouse her out of that sweet sleep. The darling; how lovely she is!" responded Lucilla, leaning over the crib and feasting her eyes with a long, tender gaze into the innocent little face. "But could not you trust her to the care of her nurse for a half hour or so?" "Thank you, but I think I am more needed here than there just now. There will be a good many to join in the fun of trimming the tree--good fun, too, it will be, I know." "Yes; and you have already sent over your and Max's lovely gifts. Well, good-by, sister dear. You will be missed, but no one will blame you for staying beside your darling." Eva was missed and her absence regretted, but the work of trimming the tree went merrily on, the captain, Violet, Harold, Grace, Chester and Lucilla all taking part in the work, while visiting relatives came pouring in, bringing both Christmas and wedding gifts. There was a merry time, and Grace seemed almost overwhelmed by the multitude of rare and beautiful presents, some of them very costly, bestowed upon her. There were laces, jewelry, gold and silver tableware, several handsome pictures for her walls, pretty toilet sets, books; and from Harold's mother and Grace's father certificates of valuable stock, which would add largely to the income of the young couple. The tree was a particularly large and handsome one when brought in, and made a grand appearance, indeed, at the conclusion of the work of its trimmers. There were many expressions of gleeful admiration, then all were invited to the dining-room and feasted with cakes and ices. "Dearest, I fear this has been almost too much for you," Harold said in a low aside to his betrothed when the last of the guests had bidden adieu and departed. "I hope excitement is not going to keep you awake." "I will try not to allow it to do so," she returned in the same low key, and smiling up into his eyes. "I hope to show myself to-morrow a patient to be proud of." "As you are to-night, love, and always," returned Harold gallantly, taking her hand and carrying it to his lips. "In the estimation of my very partial lover doctor," laughed Grace. "Ah, yes; and in that of many others. The lover is craving a tête-à-tête with his best beloved, but the doctor knows she should at once retire to her couch of rest. Good-night, darling. Only a week now till I can claim you for my very own." "Good-night, my best and dearest of physicians; I will follow your prescription, as has been my wont in the past," returned Grace, gently withdrawing her hand from his grasp, then gliding into the hall and up the stairway, while Harold passed out to the veranda, where the captain and Violet, arm in arm, were pacing to and fro, chatting cosily of what they had been doing and were still to do to make the morrow a specially happy day to their children and servants. They paused in their walk at sight of Harold. "You are not going to leave us to-night?" they asked. "Yes; I have a patient to visit, and must hasten, for it is growing late." "Well, come in as early as you can to-morrow," said Violet, and the captain seconded the invitation warmly. "You may be sure I will do that," laughed Harold, "for both the enjoyment of your society and the good of my patients here. Au revoir." "Dear fellow!" exclaimed Violet, looking after him as he moved with his firm, elastic tread down the driveway and through the great gates into the road beyond; "he is worth his weight in gold, both as brother and physician, I think." "And I am pretty much of the same opinion," smiled the captain. "Now shall we go upstairs and oversee the doings of Santa Claus with those stockings?" "Yes; for I presume the youthful owners of the stockings are already safe from disturbance in the Land of Nod. Will Grace hang her stocking up, do you think?" "Hardly, I suppose; but we might steal a march upon the darling after she, too, has reached that Land of Nod." They had passed up the stairway while they talked, and were now near the door of Grace's sitting-room, and hearing their voices, though their tones were rather subdued for fear of waking the children, she opened it and came smilingly out. "Ah, papa and mamma, I presume you are about to personate old Santa Claus, and I should like to help a little," she laughed, holding up to view a string of coral beads and a pretty purse of her own knitting. "Ah," said her father, "those will give pleasure, I know. The children will be well satisfied with those articles of Santa Claus's selection. Ah, this reminds me of the first Christmas in this house, and the delight of my two daughters--Lu and Grace--over the treasures they found in their stockings. Suppose you hang up yours to-night in memory of that time." "Oh, father dear, I, having already had so many, many gifts far beyond my deserts, should feel ashamed to be seeking more," Grace replied with a look of ardent, filial love up into his face. "But do you think you could be wrong or foolish in following your father's advice?" was Violet's smiling query. "Not if it be given seriously and in earnest, mamma," returned Grace, giving her father a look of loving inquiry. "You may as well take it in earnest, daughter mine," he answered, drawing her to his side, putting an arm about her and giving her a fond caress; "should you find nothing in it of more worth than a paper of sugar plums, you will have lost nothing by the experiment. But go on now with your preparations for bed, and do not let anxiety concerning the filling of the stocking keep you awake." "Thank you, my dearest and best of fathers. I shall do my best to obey your kind order. Good-night to you and mamma," she said, retreating into her room and closing her door. She did not fasten it, though, and laughingly hung up her stocking before getting into bed. She was quite weary from the unusual exertion of the day and evening, and spite of excitement, had presently fallen into profound slumber; nor did she wake till broad daylight. Then the first thing her eye fell upon was the evidently well-filled stocking. With a light laugh she sprang out of bed, seized the stocking, crept back into bed and began an excited examination. There were fruits and candies, then a paper parcel labelled "A little Christmas gift from papa." Hastily opening it, she found a handsome new portemonnaie well filled with bank notes and change. "My dear father!" she murmured to herself low and feelingly; "was there ever such another! And mamma, too," as she picked up a pretty knitted purse, between the meshes of which shone some bright pieces of gold and silver. "But it is Christmas morning; no doubt everybody else in the house is up, and so must I be," she added half aloud, and suiting the action to the word. She was looking very sweet and fair in a pretty morning gown when, a few minutes later, her father came in, took her in his arms and wished her "A merry, happy Christmas, to be followed by the happiest of New Years." "Thank you, dear, dearest papa," she said, returning his caresses. "I feel sure it will be a happy year, because I am not to be parted from you--except for a few days till you join us on the coast of Florida." "Yes, daughter dear, Providence permitting, we shall follow you there very shortly after you reach its shores. Now we will go down to breakfast, which is ready and waiting for us, and after that and family worship children and servants are to see the Christmas tree and receive their gifts." That programme was carried out, the last act producing much mirth and jollity, amid which Harold joined them. He came full of good cheer, exchanged Christmas greetings, and gave an amusing account of Christmas doings and the effect of the Christmas tree at Ion. He and Grace had exchanged some trifling gifts by means of the Christmas tree, but now he drew her aside and added to the ornaments she wore a beautiful diamond pin. "Oh, thank you!" she said, with a pleased little laugh. "I have a surprise for you, but this lovely brooch quite casts it into the shade." As she spoke she drew from her pocket a tiny box and put it into his hand. He opened it and found a diamond stud. "Ah, what a beauty!" he exclaimed in tones of pleased surprise. "Thank you, my darling; thank you a thousand times. It is valuable in itself and still more valuable as the gift of my best beloved of earthly dear ones." "I am very glad you like my little gift," she returned, smiling up into his eyes, "though it compares but poorly with this lovely and costly one you have given me. Oh, but it is a beauty! I must show it to father, mamma and the rest." "Show us what?" asked Violet, overhearing the last few words, and turning toward the speaker. "This, that your good, generous brother has just added to my already rich store of Christmas gifts," replied Grace, joyously displaying her new treasure. "Oh, what a beauty!" cried Violet. "I am glad, Harold, that you show such good taste and generosity to the dear girl you are stealing from us." "I object to that last clause of your speech," returned her brother with mock gravity. "It will be no theft, since her father has made it a gift, in generous gratitude for my small services to your small son." "Oh, true enough," laughed Violet, "and our saved son is worth more than any quantity of such jewelry," she added in moved tones, putting an arm around Ned, who had stolen to her side in an effort to see what had caused her pleased exclamation. "Oh, what a beautiful pin, Gracie!" he exclaimed. "Did you buy it for her, uncle?" "Yes, on purpose for her," replied Harold, smiling down at the little fellow. "You do not think it too fine for her, do you?" "No, no; oh, no! nothing could be too fine for our dear, sweet, beautiful Gracie." "Just what papa thinks," the captain said, joining the little group. "Ah," glancing through the window, "here come our Sunnyside folks to spend the day with us." Visits from other relatives followed somewhat later, and some who had not been heard from the day before brought additions to the store of wedding and Christmas gifts. Ned was not forgotten or neglected, and in spite of having to remain at home and within doors, passed a very happy day. CHAPTER IV That Christmas week was a busy and cheery one to our Woodburn folk and their near and dear ones on the neighboring estates. The Fairview family were expecting to spend the rest of the winter at Viamede; Cousin Ronald and his Annis had accepted a cordial invitation to do likewise, and Grandma Elsie's brother and his family from the Oaks would also pay her a visit there, the duration of which was not settled, as that would depend upon how well Horace's affairs at home should be carried on without his presence and supervision. His little daughter Elsie was to make one of the party on the yacht, but the others would go by rail, as that would not necessitate so early a start from home. The _Dolphin_ was being put in readiness for her trip, and the overseeing of that business occupied quite a portion of Captain Raymond's time during that week. Grace made a lovely bride, surrounded by all her own and Harold's kith and kin. The ceremony took place at noon; a grand dinner followed; then wedding attire was exchanged for a pretty and becoming travelling suit, carriages conveyed bride, groom, his mother and their young charges to the _Dolphin_, and presently the southward journey was fairly begun. It had been rather hard for Ned to part from "papa and mamma" for even a few days, though with dear grandma and uncle left to him, sister and cousins also, and wearied with that grief and the exciting scenes of the day, he was soon ready to take to his berth and fall asleep. The others found it too cool for comfort on the deck, but very pleasant in the well-warmed and lighted saloon. They sat and chatted there for some little time; then retired to their staterooms for the night. The morning found Ned refreshed and strengthened, the rest in fine health and spirits. They made a cheerful, merry little company about the breakfast table, afterward took some exercise on the deck, then gathered about Grandma Elsie in the saloon and pleaded for one of her "lovely stories." "Well, dears, what shall I tell of?" she asked with her own sweet smile. "Something more of our Washington or of others of our Presidents?" "Oh, tell us about the time of our Civil War and the pictures Nast drew then," cried Elsie excitedly. "I saw something about him and his drawings the other day, and I should like to know more of him and his wonderful work. Was he an American, grandma?" "No, my dear; he was born in the military barracks of Landau, a little fortified town of Germany, and came to this country at the age of six. He and his sister were brought here by their mother. The husband and father was then on a French man-of-war; afterward he enlisted on an American vessel, and he did not join his family until Thomas, his son, was ten years old, and mother and children had been four years in this country. A comrade of his told them he was coming, and the news made a great excitement in the family. "The mother sent Thomas to buy a cake with which to welcome his father. As he was coming home with that he was passed by a closed cab. It suddenly stopped, a man sprang out, caught him up and put him in the cab, then got in himself. For an instant Thomas was frightened, thinking he was kidnapped. Then he found he was in his father's arms, and was full of joy; but he was troubled when he saw that between them they had crushed the cake. He thought his mother would be greatly disappointed by that. But she was so glad to see her husband that she did not seem to mind it--the damage to the cake; nor did the children, being so delighted to see their father and the many presents he had brought them from distant places, and to listen to all he had to tell about his travels. "Thomas was a short, stout, moon-faced lad. He attended a German school for a short time after his father came home, but he was constantly drawing pictures. His teacher would say to him, 'Go finish your picture, Nast; you will never learn to read.' Often he would draw a file of soldiers or a pair of prize fighters; sometimes things he remembered from his life in Landau--as a little girl with her pet lamb or old Santa Claus with his pack. "In 1860 he went to England, where he still made drawings. Every steamer brought letters from him and papers to the New York _News_. From England he went, that same year, to Italy to join Garibaldi." "Who was Garibaldi, grandma, and what did Nast want to join him for?" asked Ned. "To help him to get Italy free," replied Mrs. Travilla. "But I will not tell the story of Garibaldi now--some other time, perhaps. The war was not very long, and Nast stayed until it was over. In November of that same year he said 'Good-by' to his friends in Italy. Then he visited Rome, Florence and Genoa. Late in December he reached Landau, his native city. The old place had not changed, except that to him it looked much smaller than it had before. He went on through Germany, visiting art galleries and cathedrals. But he grew tired of it all and wanted to get home. He crossed the channel to England, and there heard talk of the brewing of war in this country, now his own land. He stayed a few days in London, then sailed for the United States, which he reached on February 1st, 1861. He had been gone a year, and now arrived in New York with only a dollar and a half in his pocket." "Oh, how little after such long, hard work!" exclaimed Elsie Raymond. "Yes," said Mrs. Travilla; "but he was brave and industrious and went on working as before. Mr. Lincoln had been elected to the Presidency the November before, and in March Nast went on to Washington to see his inauguration." A portfolio lay on the table beside which Mrs. Travilla now sat, and she took it up and opened it, saying, "I have some articles in this which I have been saving for years past, among them some things about Nast--some of his own writing; for I have taken an interest in him ever since the time of our Civil War. Listen to this, written of that time when Lincoln was about to be inaugurated. Nast had been ordered by his paper--the News of New York--to go on to Washington to see the inaugural ceremony. Stopping in Philadelphia, he was near Lincoln during the celebrated speech and flag-raising at Independence Hall, and afterward heard the address Lincoln made from the balcony of the Continental Hotel. "At Washington Nast stopped at the Willard Hotel, which was Lincoln's headquarters. A feeling of shuddering horror, such as a bad dream sometimes gives us, came over him there. The men who had sworn that 'Abe Lincoln' should not take his seat were not gone. Now I will read you what he says about that time." The children sat very still, listening attentively--Elsie Raymond with almost breathless interest--while her grandmother read. "'It seemed to me that the shadow of death was everywhere. I had endless visions of black funeral parades accompanied by mournful music. It was as if the whole city were mined, and I know now that it was figuratively true. A single yell of defiance would have inflamed a mob. A shot would have started a conflict. In my room at the Willard Hotel I was trying to work. I picked up my pencils and laid them down as many as a dozen times. I got up at last and walked the floor. Presently in the rooms next mine other men were walking; I could hear them in the silence. My head was beginning to throb, and I sat down and pressed my hands to my temples. Then all at once, in the Ebbett House, across the way, a window was flung up and a man stepped out on the balcony. The footsteps about me ceased. Everybody had heard the man and was waiting breathlessly to see what he would do. Suddenly, in a rich, powerful voice he began to sing "The Star Spangled Banner." The result was extraordinary. Windows were thrown up. Crowds gathered on the streets. A multitude of voices joined the song. When it was over the street rang with cheers. The men in the rooms next mine joined me in the corridor. The hotel came to life. Guests wept and flung their arms about one another. Dissension and threats were silenced. It seemed to me, and I believe to all of us, that Washington had been saved by the inspiration of an unknown man with a voice to sing that grand old song of songs.'" "Who was that man, grandma?" asked Ned. "I can't tell you that, Neddie," she replied. "I think it has never been known who he was." "Is there some more story about Nast and his pictures?" he asked. "Yes; he made a great many more pictures. One, on the first page of the Christmas _Harper_, was called 'Santa Claus.' It showed him dressed in the Stars and Stripes, distributing presents in the military camp. In the same paper was another called 'Christmas Eve.' It had two parts: one, in a large wreath, was a picture of the soldier's family at home; and in another wreath was the soldier by the camp-fire, looking at a picture of his wife and children. Letters came from all parts of the Union with thanks for that picture. A colonel wrote that it reached him on Christmas Eve; that he unfolded it by the light of his camp-fire and wept over it. 'It was only a picture,' he said, 'but I couldn't help it.'" "I don't wonder," sighed Elsie softly, "for how he must have wanted to be at home with his wife and children." Harold and Grace, who had been taking their morning exercise upon the deck, returned to the saloon and joined the group of listeners just in time to hear their mother's story of Nast's Christmas pictures. "Nast certainly did a great deal for the Union cause," said Harold. "Do you remember, mother, what Grant said of him when asked, 'Who is the greatest single figure in civil life developed by the Civil War?'" "Yes. He answered without hesitation, 'Thomas Nast. He did as much as any one man to bring the war to an end.' And many of the Northern generals and statesmen held the same opinion." "Yes, mother; and all lovers of the Union certainly owe him a debt of gratitude." "Now, children, shall I tell you something about Lincoln?" she asked. There was an eager assent, and she went on. "He was a noble, unselfish, Christian man; came to the Presidency in a dark and stormy time; did all in his power to avert civil war without allowing the destruction of the Union, denying the right of any State or number of States to go out of the Union. But the rebellious States would not listen, declared themselves out of the Union, began seizing government property, firing upon those who had it in charge, and Lincoln was compelled to call out troops for its defence. "But I shall not go over the whole sad story now. After four years, when it was all over, every loyal heart was full of joy and Lincoln's praise was on every tongue. They felt that he had saved his country and theirs, and that at the expense of great suffering to himself. But only a few days later he was fatally shot by a bad fellow, an actor named John Wilkes Booth." "One of the Confederates, grandma?" asked Ned. "I think not," she replied. "It is said that his controlling motive for the dreadful deed was insane conceit. That for weeks beforehand he had declared his purpose to do something that would make his name ring round the world." "As it has," remarked Harold; "but in such a way as I should think no sane man would desire for his." "And did they hang him?" asked Ned. "No," replied his uncle; "the awful crime was so sudden and unexpected that for several minutes the audience did not comprehend what had been done, and the assassin escaped for the time. He ran out, leaped upon a saddled horse kept waiting for him and galloped away into the country. He rode into Maryland, from there into Virginia, and took refuge in a barn. He was pursued, cavalry surrounded the barn, and called upon him and his companion to surrender. The other man did, but Booth refused and offered to fight the captain and all his men; then they set the barn on fire, and one of them, against orders, shot Booth in the neck. That shot made him helpless. He was carried out, laid on the grass, and after four hours of intense agony he died." "That was a sad, sad time," sighed Mrs. Travilla. "The whole North was in mourning for Lincoln, and even the South soon saw that it had lost its truest and best friend; and there was a movement of sympathy for our nation in its great loss throughout the world." "Yes, mother," said Harold; "and time only increases the esteem of the world for that great and good man." CHAPTER V The next day, after some healthful exercise upon the deck, the children returned to the saloon, and gathering about Grandma Elsie, begged for another story. "Something historical?" she asked with her pleasant smile. "Yes, grandma, if you please," replied Elsie. "I liked your story of Marion so much, and should be glad to hear about some other Revolutionary soldier who helped to drive away the British." "Well, if you would all like that, I will tell you of Sergeant Jasper and his brave doings." The other children gave an eager assent, and Mrs. Travilla began. "History tells us that William Jasper was born in South Carolina in 1750. That would make him about twenty-six years old when the Revolutionary War began. He was patriotic, and at once enlisted as a sergeant in the Second South Carolina Regiment. "In June, 1776, a British fleet appeared off Charleston bar, and several hundred land troops took possession of Long Island, separated from Sullivan's--on which was our Fort Sullivan--only by a narrow creek. At half-past ten o'clock on the morning of the 28th of June the British ships anchored in front of our Fort Sullivan, which instantly poured a heavy fire upon them. "But I shall not go into a detailed account of the battle, which, Lossing tells us, was one of the severest during the whole war, redounded to the military glory of the Americans, greatly increased the patriotic strength at the South, and was regarded by the British as very disastrous; for the loss of life on their ships was frightful. "But I must tell you of a daring feat performed by Sergeant Jasper. At the beginning of the action, the flag-staff of our fort was cut away by a ball from a British ship, and the Crescent flag of South Carolina, that waved opposite the Union flag upon the western bastion, fell outside upon the beach. Jasper leaped the parapet, walked the length of the fort, picked up the flag, fastened it upon a sponge staff, and in the sight of the whole British fleet, whose iron hail was pouring upon the fortress, he fixed the flag firmly upon the bastion. Then he climbed up to the parapet and leaped, unhurt, within the fort, three cheers greeting him as he did so." "Oh, how brave he was!" cried Ned. "I hope they gave him a reward for it." "Yes," said his grandma, "the governor, on the day after the battle, visited the fort, and rewarded Jasper with the gift of his own small sword, a handsome one which hung by his side, and thanked him in the name of his country. He also offered him a lieutenant's commission; but the young hero declined it, saying, 'I am not fit to keep officers' company; I am but a sergeant.' "He seems to have had no educational advantages, as he could neither read nor write." "Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed several young voices. "Yes, it was," sighed Mrs. Travilla. "I hope you are thankful, my dears, for your superior advantages. "I have read that Jasper was given a roving commission, and choosing six men from the regiment to go with him, he went here and there, and often returned with prisoners before his general knew of his absence. "Jasper had a brother who had joined the British, but he loved him so dearly that he ventured into the British garrison to see him. The brother was greatly alarmed at sight of him, lest he should be seized and hung as an American spy, his name being well known to many of the British officers. But Jasper said, 'Don't trouble yourself; I am no longer an American soldier.' "'Thank God for that, William!' exclaimed the brother, giving him a hearty shake of the hand; 'and now only say the word, my boy, and here is a commission for you, with regimentals and gold to boot, to fight for his Majesty, King George.' "But Jasper shook his head, saying that though there seemed but little encouragement to fight for his country, he could not fight against her. He stayed two or three days with his brother, hearing and seeing all that he could, then bade good-by and returned to the American camp by a circuitous route, and told General Lincoln all that he had seen." "Grandma," said Ned thoughtfully, "it seems to me he did not tell the truth when he said he was not an American soldier. Was it right for him to say that?" "I think not, Ned; but I suppose he thought it was, as he meant by it to help his country's cause. But remember, my dears, it is never right to do evil even that good may come. "But to go on with my story. Jasper soon went again to the English garrison, this time taking with him his particular friend, Sergeant Newton, a young man of great strength and courage. Jasper's brother received them very cordially, and they remained several days at the British fort without causing the least alarm. "On the morning of the third day the brother said to them, 'I have bad news to tell you.' 'Aye, what is it?' asked William. His brother replied that ten or a dozen prisoners had been brought in that morning, as deserters from Savannah; that they were to be sent there immediately, and from all he could learn, it would be likely to go hard with them, as it seemed they had all taken the King's bounty." "What does that mean, grandma?" asked Ned. "That they had agreed to remain British subjects instead of fighting for their country; and for that the British were to protect them against the Americans. But it seems they had changed their minds and gone over to the cause of their country. "Jasper asked to see the poor fellows, and his brother took him and Newton to the spot where the poor fellows were, handcuffed, and sitting or lying upon the ground. With them was a young woman, wife of one of the prisoners, sitting on the ground opposite to her husband, with her little boy leaning on her lap. Her dress showed that she was poor, and her coal-black hair spread in long, neglected tresses on her neck and bosom. Sometimes she would sit silent, like a statue of grief, her eyes fixed upon the ground; then she would start convulsively, lift her eyes and gaze on her husband's face with as sad a look as if she already saw him struggling in the halter, herself a widow and her child an orphan. The child was evidently distressed by his mother's anguish, and weeping with her. "Jasper and Newton felt keenly for them in their misery. They silently walked away into a neighboring wood, tears in the eyes of both. Jasper presently spoke. 'Newton,' he said, 'my days have been but few, but I believe their course is nearly finished.' Newton asked why he thought so, and he answered, because he felt that he must rescue those poor prisoners or die with them, otherwise the remembrance of that poor woman and her child would haunt him to his grave. "'That is exactly what I feel, too,' replied Newton, 'and here is my hand and heart to stand by you, my brave friend, to the last drop. Thank God, a man can die but once, and why should we fear to leave this life in the way of our duty?' "Then the two embraced each other and at once set about making the necessary arrangements for carrying out their desperate resolution." "Oh, how brave and kind they were!" exclaimed Elsie Raymond. "I am proud of them as my countrymen." "As we all may be," said her grandma, then went on with her story. "Shortly after breakfast the next morning the prisoners were sent on their way to Savannah, guarded by a sergeant and corporal with eight men." "Why, that was ten men for our two men to fight!" exclaimed Elsie Dinsmore. "But I hope our brave fellows didn't give it up," said Elsie Raymond. "No," replied her grandma; "Jasper presently took leave of his brother, and he and Newton started on some pretended errand to the upper country, but as soon as fairly out of sight of the town they struck into the woods and hurried after the prisoners and their guard, keeping out of sight in the bushes and anxiously watching for an opportunity to strike a blow. "I think that to most men it would have seemed great folly for two unarmed men to attempt to strike a blow at ten men carrying loaded muskets and bayonets. But they were very brave and not willing to give up their countrymen to the dreadful fate the cruel British had appointed for them. "Jasper said to Newton, 'Perhaps the guard may stop at the Spa to quench their thirst, and we may be able to attack them there.' "The Spa! What was that, grandma?" asked Ned. "A famous spring about two miles from Savannah, where travellers often stopped for a drink of its good water," she replied, then went on with her story. "Jasper and Newton hurried on and concealed themselves among the bushes that grew thickly around the spring. Soon the soldiers and their prisoners came in sight of it, and the sergeant ordered a halt. That gave our heroes a little hope, though the odds were fearfully against them. The corporal, with his guard of four men, led the prisoners to the spring, while the sergeant, with the other four, grounded their arms near the road, then brought up the rear. The prisoners, wearied with their long walk, were permitted to rest themselves on the earth. Mrs. Jones took her seat opposite her husband, as usual, and her tired little boy fell asleep on her lap. Two of the corporal's men were ordered to keep guard and the other two to give the prisoners a drink out of their canteens. They obeyed, drew near the spring, rested their muskets against a pine-tree, then dipped up the water, drank, filled their canteens again and turned to give the prisoners a drink. "'Now, Newton, is our time,' whispered Jasper. With that they sprang from their concealment, snatched up the two muskets resting against the tree, and in an instant shot down the two soldiers who were upon guard. The other two Englishmen sprang forward and seized their muskets; but before they could use them Jasper and Newton with clubbed guns levelled a blow at their heads, broke their skulls, and down they sank, pale and quivering, without a groan. Then snatching up the muskets, our heroes flew between the other British soldiers and their arms, grounded near the road, and ordered them to surrender, which they immediately did. Then they--our men--snapped the handcuffs off the prisoners and armed them with muskets." "Oh, how good!" exclaimed Ned and the little girls who were listening to Grandma Elsie's story. "But what did Mrs. Jones do while that fight was going on?" asked Elsie Dinsmore. "At the beginning of it she fainted," replied Mrs. Travilla, "and her little son stood screaming piteously over her. But when she recovered her senses and saw her husband and his friends freed from their fetters, she seemed frantic with joy. She sprang to her husband, and, with her arms about his neck, sobbed out, 'My husband is safe, bless God, my husband is safe!' Then snatching up her child, she pressed him to her heart, exclaiming, 'Thank God, my son has a father yet.' Then kneeling at the feet of Jasper and Newton, she pressed their hands vehemently, but so full was her heart that all she could say was, 'God bless you. God Almighty bless you.'" "Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Ned, clapping his hands in delight. "Then what did they all do, grandma?" asked Elsie Raymond. "Not go to Savannah, I suppose, as the British were there?" "No; they recrossed the Savannah River, taking the arms and regimentals of the dead, their prisoners, too, and safely joined the American army at Parisburg, where they were received with great astonishment and joy." "No wonder there was astonishment," said Elsie, "that two men could beat ten." "That was because the two were Americans and the others only Englishmen," chuckled Ned. "Is there any more story about Jasper, grandma?" "Not much," she replied. "He was killed at the siege of Savannah in 1779. Several gallant defenders of the French and American colors had been shot down; Sergeant Jasper sprang forward, seized the standards and kept them erect; then he, too, was prostrated by a bullet and fell into the ditch. He was carried to the camp, and soon died. Jasper's name is honored in Savannah; they have made that evident by bestowing it upon one of the city's squares." CHAPTER VI It was Sabbath morning, and our little party on the yacht were gathered about the breakfast table, Dr. Harold having just come down from the deck, where he had spent the last few minutes. "What of the weather, Harold?" asked his mother. "It is cool and cloudy," he said in reply; "rather too cool and damp for ladies and children to pass much time on deck, I think, mother. I may gather the men there and read them a sermon, but the rest of you, I hope, will be content to pass at least most of the day in these lower, warmer quarters." "I think we can very contentedly, if mother will lead us in some Bible lessons," said Grace, with a loving, smiling look at her whom, until of late, she had been wont to call Grandma Elsie. "Very willingly, daughter mine," was the sweet-toned, smiling assent, received by all the children with looks and words of pleased anticipation. On leaving the table they had family worship in the saloon, Dr. Harold leading the service as usual. Then he went upon the deck and the others gathered about Grandma Elsie. Then Elsie Raymond, sitting there Bible in hand, exclaimed eagerly, "Oh, grandma, I am glad of this opportunity to ask you about what I have been reading here--this miracle of the Lord Jesus feeding so many, many folks--five thousand men, besides women and children--on only five loaves and two fishes. It couldn't have been nearly enough, except by Jesus blessing it and making it more, could it, grandma?" "No, indeed, Elsie. Five large loaves, such as you are accustomed to seeing, would hardly be enough to feed fifty such hungry men; and those five loaves were much smaller than ours--probably little, if any, larger than our soda crackers; hardly enough to satisfy the appetite of one hungry boy." "There were two fishes besides, you know, grandma; but if they were small ones, a boy could eat them, too." "Yes; so no wonder the disciples thought it utterly impossible to feed that great crowd of hungry people, and begged Jesus to send them away to go into the villages and buy themselves victuals." "Do you suppose they had any money to buy with, grandma?" asked the little girl. "I think it probable that most of them were poor people with little or no money about them," replied Grandma Elsie. "And even if they had money, they were too many to find sufficient food in the little nearby towns. Jesus knew all that; He could see how weary and hungry many, if not all of them, were, particularly the women and little children. Jesus pitied and was ready to help them as no one else could, and no doubt he was glad He had the power. He bade His disciples not to tell them to depart, but 'Give ye them to eat,' He said; and they replied, 'We have here but five loaves and two fishes;' and Jesus said, 'Bring them hither to me.' And He said, 'Make the men sit down.' John tells us there was much grass in the place, and that the men sat down, in number about five thousand. Then He (Jesus) took the five loaves and the two fishes, and looking up to heaven, He blessed and brake the loaves, and gave them to His disciples, and they distributed them among that great multitude. All ate till they were satisfied; then Jesus said, 'Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.' John tells us, 'Therefore, they gathered them together, and filled twelve baskets with the fragments of the five barley loaves, which remained over and above unto them that had eaten.'" "It was very, very wonderful, grandma, wasn't it?" exclaimed the little girl thoughtfully. "Yes, indeed! a miracle that none but God could work. It proved that Jesus was divine. You have been reading Matthew's account of this miracle; now turn to the sixth chapter of Mark, and you will find the same story told by him. Then in the eighth we will find that he tells of another time when Jesus had worked a similar miracle--when He fed four thousand on seven loaves and a few small fishes; and they took up of the broken meat that was left seven baskets." "Yes, grandma," said the little girl, turning over the leaves of her Bible, "and it says after that first time that He departed into a mountain to pray. But after the second, 'and straightway He entered into a ship with His disciples, and came into the parts of Dalmanutha.' Where was that, grandma?" "It was a town on the west coast of the sea of Galilee. Read on now to the fourteenth verse." Elsie read, "And the Pharisees came forth and began to question with Him, seeking of Him a sign from heaven, tempting Him. And He sighed deeply in His spirit, and said, Why doth this generation seek after a sign? Verily I say unto you, There shall no sign be given unto this generation. And He left them, and entering into the ship, again departed to the other side." "Weren't the bad men wanting to do Jesus harm?" asked Ned. "Yes, they were, indeed," replied his grandma; "they hated Him because He told them of their sins. 'Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites: for ye are as graves which appear not, and the men that walk over them are not aware of them.' Then to the people: 'Beware ye of the leaven of the Pharisees, which is hypocrisy.' Again He said of them: 'In vain do they worship me, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.... Woe unto you, lawyers, for ye have taken away the key of knowledge; ye entered not in yourselves, and them that were entering ye hindered.' And as He said these things unto them, the scribes and Pharisees began to urge Him vehemently, and to provoke Him to speak of many things; laying wait for Him, and seeking to catch something out of His mouth, that they might accuse Him. They were angry and wanted to kill Jesus, because He exposed their wickedness. In another chapter we are told, 'And He went into the temple, and began to cast out them that sold therein, and them that bought; saying unto them, It is written, My house is the house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of thieves.' And He taught daily in the temple. But the chief priests and the scribes and the chief of the people sought to destroy Him, and could not find what they might do; for all the people were very attentive to hear Him." "So they went out at night, when the crowds of people who loved Him were in their homes and asleep, I suppose, the wicked, money-loving Judas showing them where He was, and led Him away to the high priest, and all the chief priests and the elders and the scribes," sighed Elsie Raymond. "Yes," said her grandma; "and they went through a mock trial, but could not get their witnesses to agree. And the high priest stood up in the midst and asked Jesus, saying, 'Answerest thou nothing? What is it which these witness against thee?' But Jesus made no answer. And the high priest asked him, 'Art thou the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?' Jesus said, 'I am; and ye shall see the son of man sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven.' Then the high priest rent his clothes and said, 'What need we any further witnesses? Ye have heard the blasphemy; what think ye?' And they all condemned Him to be guilty of death. And some began to spit on Him, and to cover His face, and to buffet Him, and to say unto Him, Prophesy: and the servants did strike Him with the palms of their hands." "And He could have struck them all dead without a word, couldn't He, grandma?" asked Ned. "Indeed He could," she replied; "but in His great love for you and for me and all His people, He chose to bear it all--all that and all the awful agony of the death upon the cross, that we might be saved. The Bible tells us, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.' The dear Saviour, who died that awful death for us, invites us all to come to Him and be saved. For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. Those are His own words, spoken to Nicodemus." "Grandma, couldn't Jesus have hindered those wicked men from treating Him so? Couldn't He have made them all die that minute if He had chosen to?" asked Ned. "Yes, he could; but as I have just told you, He bore it all, and the awful death on the cross, that we might be saved--we and all who would give themselves to Him. The Bible says Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures. He took upon Himself our human nature that He might bear our punishment and save us from eternal death." "And all His earthly life long He was looking forward to that awful, agonizing death," sighed Grace in tones tremulous with emotion. "Oh, how can we help loving Him with all our hearts?" "And striving to be like Him," added Grandma Elsie--"so unselfish, so forbearing and forgiving. Think of His loving, cheering, sympathizing talk with His disciples in that very night in which He was betrayed and His awful suffering began. Remember, He knew all the agony He was to go through that very night--in the garden of Gethsemane, where He prayed in so great an agony that His sweat became as it were great drops of blood falling down upon the ground. After that the betrayal, arrest, trial before the Jewish authorities, with all the abuse heaped upon Him there, then in the morning before Pilate and Herod, the scourging, the clothing with the purple robe and crown of thorns, the mocking salutation, 'Hail, King of the Jews,' the smiting of His head with the reed they had put in His right hand, the mocking bowing of the knees and spitting upon Him. Then He was led out wearing the purple robe and crown of thorns, the cry of the chief priests and officers, 'Crucify Him! Crucify Him! Away with Him! Away with Him! Crucify Him!'" Grandma Elsie paused, her eyes filled with tears, her lips trembling with emotion. "Oh, how wonderful it was that Jesus bore it all, when even without a word He could have made every one of those dreadful persecutors die," said Elsie Dinsmore. "Yes," said her aunt; "His love and compassion for us sinners was wonderfully great. Oh, how we should love Him, how carefully obey all His commands! Ah, how sweet it is to belong to Him! 'Since He is mine and I am His, what can I want beside.'" "Grandma, I want to belong to Him," said Alie Leland; "how shall I get to be His, and know that I am?" "Give yourself to Him, dear child, asking Him to make you just what He would have you to be. His promise is, 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out;' and who shall doubt His own word? And how kind and forgiving He was! Peter, who had denied Him, then repented with bitter weeping, seems to have been one of the first to whom He appeared after His resurrection. You remember, the angel whom the woman found sitting in the tomb said to them, 'Go tell His disciples and Peter.'" "And if we are really His disciples we will be forgiven, too, won't we, grandma?" said Elsie Raymond. "Yes; we will ask Him to help us to be so, and He will." "Grandma," said Ned, "wasn't it strange that when Jesus could make victuals so easily He should say to the disciples, 'Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost'?" "I think it was to teach us all that waste is sinful; that nothing which could be made useful to us or to any one else should be thrown away. Let us take the lesson to heart and carefully obey this, and every teaching of our dear Lord and Master," was the gentle, sweet-toned reply, the eyes of the speaker shining with love to Him of whom she spoke, and joy that she was His very own for time and for eternity. CHAPTER VII "Where are we now, uncle? Have we come down to Florida yet?" asked Ned at the breakfast table. "Yes; we are now moving along down the east coast of that State," replied Dr. Harold; "and now we may as well decide at which and how many of its ports we will call. Should you enjoy visiting St. Augustine and Fort Marion again, Elsie?" he queried with a look of amusement at his niece. "Oh, no, indeed, uncle!" was the quick, emphatic reply, accompanied by a little shiver, as if the very name brought some unpleasant recollection. "But why not?" asked Elsie Dinsmore with a look of surprise and curiosity. "Oh," exclaimed Elsie Raymond, "it's a dreadful place, over three hundred years old, with dungeons where people used to be tortured long, long ago, and we seemed to hear one of them saying, 'Here have I lain for three hundred years with none to pity or help. Oh, 'tis a weary while! Shall I never, never escape?'" "But as Cousin Ronald is not with us now we needn't fear a repetition of that," remarked Dr. Harold reassuringly. "Still, perhaps we may as well pass St. Augustine by this time, and visit places or things we did not look at before. Mother, what do you say to seeing something of the sponging business?" "That it would be instructive and probably quite interesting," was the pleased reply. "Sponging business!" echoed Ned. "What does that mean?" "The work of gathering sponges and making them ready for the market," replied his uncle. "Oh, I think that would be interesting!" cried the little fellow. "Do they grow down under the water, and are they nice and clean when they are brought up, uncle?" "Not very, Ned," replied Dr. Harold, smiling kindly upon his young questioner; "but with your grandma's help I think I can give you all needed information on the subject; and afterward you may be able to see for yourself." "Oh, that'll be good! Will you tell me about it, grandma?" asked Ned, turning excitedly to her. "Sonny boy, we will have a nice talk about it in the saloon after our family worship," Mrs. Travilla replied in her usual kindly tone. "And I am sure we will all be glad to hear whatever you can tell us on the subject, mother," said Grace. "I know it will be interesting to me, and a good preparation for the sight of the spongers' work." The two Elsies and Alie Leland expressed their pleasure in the prospect of both the information promised by Grandma Elsie and the afterward sight of the doings of the spongers. "I think, if it suits you, mother," said Dr. Harold, "we will have our talk on the sponging subject before our morning exercise upon the deck. Sitting still for a while will aid the digestion of this hearty breakfast, and the sun will make the deck a little warmer for us afterward." Everybody seemed pleased with that plan, and it was carried out, Dr. Harold making one of his mother's little audience. "Haven't you a map of Florida, Harold?" she asked. "Oh, yes, mother, I have," he replied; "also some pictures that will be helpful." He hastened to his stateroom and brought them out. "Ah, these will be quite a help," she said. "Come, children, let us look at the map first." Then, as they gathered round the table on which she had laid the map, "There, on the east coast, near the southern end of the State, you see Miami, and starting from a point near it a chain of keys, or islands, begins which extends in the shape of a horn away down into the Gulf of Mexico, the Dry Tortugas being the westernmost. Sponges are found in the waters surrounding most of these keys, also between them and the mainland as far as Cape Sable. This is called 'the key grounds.' Some few of the people living on the larger islands and spongers from Key West are the only persons who engage in that work there. In the Gulf of Mexico, on the west coast, are the 'bay grounds,' which yield the most. They extend from John's Pass, a few miles north of the entrance to Tampa Bay, to St. Mark's Lighthouse." "How far is that, grandma?" asked Ned. "How far, Harold?" she asked. "About two hundred miles, mother," he replied. "There are some few sponges found between Tampa Bay and Cape Sable, but not enough to make it worth while to take special trips to that point," she continued. "Now, who can tell me whether it is to the vegetable or animal kingdom sponge belongs?" "Oh, grandma," laughed Ned, "I'm sure a sponge isn't an animal." "Are you?" she queried with an amused smile. "Now, little girls, what are your opinions in regard to the matter?" "Why, I never thought of a sponge as being either an animal or a vegetable!" exclaimed Alie Leland. "Which is it, grandma?" "It belongs to the animal kingdom," was the reply. "I have never seen it in its natural state, but from what I have read and heard I know it is a very different looking object from what it becomes in being prepared for the market. When first brought up from the water it looks something like a jelly-fish or mass of liver, its entire surface covered with a thin, slimy skin, usually of a dark color, and having openings into what we call the holes of the sponge. What we call a sponge is really only the skeleton of one." "And men go down into deep water to get them, do they?" queried Ned. "Do you know how deep the water is on this coast, Harold?" asked his mother. "I have been told from ten to fifty feet here in Florida, mother, but considerably more in the Mediterranean Sea; and the finest grades are found in the deepest water. Sponges from that sea are said to be superior in quality to those found in either Florida or the West Indies." "Go on, my son, and give us all the information you can," said his mother as he paused. "If you wish it, mother," he replied with an affectionate look and smile. "In the waters of Florida and the West Indies the fishing is done in flat-bottomed boats called dingies. A tin or wooden pail with a glass bottom is used to help locate the sponges by lowering it into the water and looking down through it. When that has been done, they are brought up by means of a pole some thirty feet long, with a sharp, curved, double hook, with which they, the sponges, are detached and drawn up to the surface. Having gotten a boatload, it is laid out to decompose in a kraal on the beach, where it is washed by the sea. At that time the odor is very unpleasant. When they have been in the kraal about a week they are beaten out with a short, heavy stick, which removes most of the slime and animal matter still remaining in them, and where the black scum still adheres they are scraped with a knife. The sponges are next squeezed out right thoroughly with the hands, then taken to the shore and strung on pieces of coarse twine about six feet long, and then they are ready for sale by auction." "What is a kraal, uncle?" asked Ned. "It is a pen, generally about ten feet square, built of wattled stakes, and is placed in shallow water near some key or island," replied Dr. Harold. "Here is a picture of one," he added, taking it from the table and holding it out so that all could see. It was gazed upon with interest. Then several other pictures were shown, examined and commented upon interestedly--one or two spongers at work on the water, one of them with the long, hooked pole, the other gazing through the bucket with the glass bottom. Another picture was of the sponge yard at Key West, showing the sponges drying. There were pictures of sponge auctions, too, and of a boat bringing sponges to the wharf at Key West. "And can we see all these things when we get there--to Key West, I mean?" asked Ned, adding, "I think it would be a good deal better--more interesting--to look at them than only at their pictures." "I hope to give you that pleasure, Neddie boy," replied his uncle, smiling on him and patting his cheek. "We will very likely have to wait a day or two at Key West for your father and mother and the rest who are to join us there and pass with us through the Gulf of Mexico on the way to Viamede." "Is there a town there, uncle?" asked Elsie. "Yes; a well-built one, with wide streets crossing at right angles, and having churches, schools and a fine Marine Hospital belonging to the United States." "Hotels, too, I suppose," remarked Elsie Dinsmore, "but we won't care for them, having this delightful yacht to stay in." "No; and in it we can sail about and see the originals of the pictures we have been looking at. Large quantities of sponges, turtles and fish are sent out from Key West to our Atlantic cities. But wrecking is the principal business of the place." "Why, what does that mean, uncle?" asked Ned. "You know what we mean when we say a vessel has been wrecked, don't you?" his uncle asked in reply. "Well, about forty-five or fifty vessels are wrecked in the course of a year near Key West, and the people of that island help to save the cargoes, doing so in a way to benefit the owners as well as themselves. I am told they derive an annual profit of about two hundred thousand dollars." "It (Key West) is considered an important military station, is it not?" asked Grace. "Yes; being the key to the Florida Pass and the Gulf of Mexico," replied Harold. "It has a large and safe harbor, which will admit vessels drawing twenty-two feet of water; and Fort Taylor, which defends it, is a powerful work." "Oh, I for one expect to have a good time there!" exclaimed his cousin Elsie; "we can visit the town and the fort to see what they are like, then come back to this yacht and have a good time here while waiting for the rest of our party." "Yes, I think we can," assented Dr. Harold. "And now suppose we all wrap up and go on deck for a little healthful exercise." They did so, and all greatly enjoyed their promenade, though Ned soon grew weary enough to be glad to go below again and lie down for a little nap. Grandma and sister went with him, the other children soon followed, and Grace and her husband were left alone together, a state of things by no means disagreeable to either. It was still very early in their honeymoon, and dearly as they loved their mother and the little folks so nearly related to them, they were glad now and then to be left quite to themselves--Harold that he might pet and caress his heart's idol unobserved, and Grace that she might receive and return such tokens of ardent affection unabashed by the thought of indifferent or amused spectators of the scene. But at length they began taking note of the progress that they were making toward their destination, and Grace asked: "How soon do you think we will reach Key West?" "We are nearing it now," replied Harold, "and will anchor in the harbor to-night, I think." "Oh, I am glad to hear that!" exclaimed Grace. "And how soon do you think father and his party will join us?" "Doubtless in a few days we shall see them. They will come down by rail to Cedar Keys, from there by steamer to Key West." "And they will want to stay a few days to see the sponge auctions, sponge yard and so forth; and after that we will have the rest of our pleasant journey in the yacht to Viamede, mother's beautiful and delightful Southern home." "To me it is both beautiful and delightful," returned Harold, smiling fondly upon her, "and I am very glad that it is to my little wife also." "Oh, she's not so very little!" exclaimed Grace with an amused and happy laugh, drawing herself up to her full height as she spoke. "Yet rather small compared to your tall, broad-shouldered husband," returned Harold, accompanying his words with a very loverlike caress. "Now, Rory, leave off, sir; You'll hug me no more; That is eight times to-day That you've kissed me before," sang Grace, ending with a merry laugh. "Then here goes another on that to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers says Rory O'More." rejoined Harold in laughing reply, and suiting the action to the word. The _Dolphin_ entered the harbor of Key West early that evening and anchored near the shore. All her passengers were on deck, eager to take a bird's-eye view of the place, expecting to do more than that in the morning. "I suppose we will all go ashore directly, or at least pretty soon after breakfast, won't we, Harold?" asked Elsie Dinsmore. "Hardly all of us, Cousin Elsie," replied Harold, giving Ned a regretful glance as he spoke; "the exertion would be too great for my young patient's strength, and surely some one of us should stay here in our yacht with him." "And his grandmother is the very one to do that," quickly responded Mrs. Elsie Travilla. "But, mother, you should not be deprived of the sight of this town of Key West," remonstrated Harold, and Ned's sisters, Grace and Elsie, each promptly offered to stay and take care of their little invalid brother. "Very good and kind of you both," remarked Harold with a pleased smile, "but now I think of it, we are likely to lie in this port for some days, and that being the case, can divide forces and make two trips to the town, some going to-day, others to-morrow." "That entirely obviates the difficulty," said his mother. "I will be caretaker of my little grandson to-day, and perhaps some one else may be to-morrow." A sailor had been sent ashore to inquire for mail and telegrams, and now approached our party with several letters and a telegram, that last directed to Dr. Harold, who took and promptly opened it. "Ah ha!" he said with a pleased smile; "the rest of our party will be here with us soon--to-night or to-morrow, I think." "Oh, that's good!" cried Ned joyously; "how glad I'll be to see dear papa and mamma! With them here I sha'n't care at all for not being able to go on shore." Everybody else seemed to share his delight at the prospect of the expected addition to their company, and talked merrily of what they hoped to do and see in the next few days. "I wish you could go ashore with the rest of us, Neddie dear," said his sister in a regretful tone, taking his hand in hers and giving it an affectionate squeeze. "You poor little brother, it does seem hard that you have to miss so many of the pleasures the rest of us have." "It's good of you to feel so for me, Elsie dear," he replied, returning the squeeze and smiling up into her face, "but I don't mind it a bit if I can have grandma or mamma or papa with me; they're so kind and tell me such nice stories; and I can have a rest or a nap whenever I want it." CHAPTER VIII The departure of the bridal party from Woodburn was soon followed by that of the guests, till all were gone but those from Sunnyside. They were entreated to linger, and assured there was nothing to hurry them away from their father's house. "I can't bear to have you go yet," said Violet entreatingly. "You are the only ones of my husband's children left to us, and the house will seem desolate enough to him and me till we, too, can start for Viamede. Besides, you are none of you going there with us, so we want to see all we can of you now and here." "We do, indeed," said the captain; "and especially of you, Max, as there is no knowing how long it may be before Uncle Sam will let us have you with us again." "True, father, and I don't want to lose a minute of the time I may have with you," returned Max feelingly, "or with the other dear ones--wife, child, sister and brother," he added, glancing from one to another. "No; and we all want to be together while we can; it is so sad to have to part even for a time," sighed Lucilla, turning a regretfully affectionate look upon one and another, especially her father, her eyes filling as they met the tenderly loving expression in his. "Yes, parting is hard," he said with forced cheerfulness; "but we will console ourselves with the thought that it is not likely to be for very long. We seem to be in that respect an unusually happy family." "True, and I think our wedding party has been an entire success," said Violet in her usual sprightly tones; "nothing went wrong, and our darling Grace made the loveliest of brides." There was a word of cordial assent to that from all present except Baby Mary, who had fallen asleep in her mother's arms. "How long may you stay with us this time, Max?" asked Chester. "I must leave next Tuesday morning," was the reply. "May I trust you to take good care of my wife and daughter while they are left alone with you and Sister Lu?" "Certainly; I intend to do the very best I can for them," returned Chester with the air of one making a very solemn promise. "I hope you are willing to trust me, Sister Eva?" turning to her. "Perfectly," she said with a pleasant little laugh. "And Lu and I will try to take good care of Baby Mary's Uncle Chester." "Ah, it seems it is worth my while to claim to be that," he laughed. "My dear," said Violet, addressing the captain, "don't you think we can make our arrangements to leave for Viamede by next Tuesday morning?" "Yes; I think we can if you wish to go then," he replied; "and by so doing we should probably reach Key West only a day or two later than our party on the _Dolphin_." "Which would be very pleasant for our dear ones, especially Elsie and Ned." "And how glad they will be to see papa and mamma," remarked Lucilla, unable to repress a sigh as she spoke. "Daughter dear, I am sorry, indeed, that you, Chester, Eva and Max are not all to be of our party," her father said, regarding her with a loving, regretful look; "but cheer up with the thought that the separation is not likely to be a very long one. We may hope to be all together again in a few months; and I hope with Ned quite restored to wonted health and strength." "Oh, I hope so," she said. "Dear little fellow! His Sister Lu is very fond of him. And, father, you will write frequently to me?" "Every day if you will do the same by me," he answered with a smile. "And in addition to that we can have telegrams and 'phone messages. So that the separation, will not be so bad as it was in the days when I was in Uncle Sam's naval service. Now I think I'll go to the 'phone and ask if cousins Ronald and Annis can be ready to start on Tuesday morning." He did so, and the answer was in the affirmative. Everybody was glad, for those cousins were esteemed good company by one and all, and Ned was known to be always greatly entertained by Cousin Ronald's use of his ventriloquial powers. "The fun he will make for our Neddie boy will do the little chap a world of good, no doubt," said Max with satisfaction. "Surely it will," said Lucilla; "and I am so glad that Dr. Harold still has him in his charge, for certainly Harold is a skilful physician, even though related to us," she added with a little laugh. "Yes," said her father; "I am glad he is to be with us, and that our dear ones here will still have the services of his brother Herbert and Dr. Arthur Conly, both equally skilful in the practice of their profession. Don't let them neglect you, daughter," he added earnestly. "Don't fail to summon them promptly, Chester, should any one of you be at all ill." "Rest assured I will not, sir," returned Chester with prompt decision. "Trust me to do my very best for the health and happiness of the two dear ladies left in my charge; the little newcomer also." "Thank you, Brother Chester," said Max. "It is a great comfort to me that I can leave my dear ones in your care." "It seems hard to give our dear ones into the care of others," sighed Violet. "It was hard for us to part with our darling Neddie for even a few days, but mamma and Harold can and will take better care of him than we could, and we hope to join them very soon." "Yes," said the captain; "and when we start we may hope to overtake them in somewhat less than two days." "Yes, father," responded Max; "and what a blessing it is that travelling is so much speedier work than it used to be even not so very many years ago." "And that messages can be sent and received so promptly by telegraph and 'phone," responded the captain. "It seems to bring distant parts of the world much nearer than they used to be, so that temporary separations by land or sea are not now the sore trials they were in former days." "Eva and I feel it a great comfort," said Max, turning to his wife and child with a tender smile, "as in case I were needed here I might be so easily summoned and come promptly, even at the risk of having to resign from the navy," he added in a half jesting tone. "Ah, Max, the possibility of tempting you to so rash an act as that would certainly make me hesitate to summon you, except in a case of the direst necessity," said Eva in tones tremulous with emotion. "But we will hope that no such necessity may ever arise," remarked Captain Raymond in a cheery tone. "By the way, let us take another look at Grace's bridal gifts. Many of them are well worth close scrutiny." "Yes, indeed," said Violet; "and I must see them carefully packed away to-day or to-morrow." "Oh, let us help you with it to-day, Mamma Vi," said Lucilla. "Thank you, I will," replied Violet. Examining, chatting over and the packing away of the numerous bridal gifts occupied the greater part of the afternoon; an early tea followed, and soon after that the Sunnyside folk returned to their homes, thinking it not well to have the baby out any later than that in cold weather. For the next few days Violet and the captain felt it lonely enough without the dear ones aboard the _Dolphin_, but busied themselves with preparations for following them, and in the meantime greatly enjoyed their daily intercourse with their near and loved neighbors, his older children and the baby granddaughter. So the time passed, and to most of them it seemed but a little while before Tuesday morning dawned. Good-bys were then said; Max went his way northward and the others of the captain's party took a southward-bound train of cars, which carried them to Cedar Keys, on the western Florida coast. From there they went down by steamer to Key West. As we have seen, the captain had sent a telegram ahead, and their arrival was a glad event, but not a surprise to the _Dolphin's_ passengers. Ned's joy was very great. He had been happy with grandma, uncle and sisters, but papa and mamma were even more to him than were they, so that their coming seemed to quicken his recovery. Several days were spent at that port, that all might have abundant opportunity to see all on both land and water that they cared to see. Ned had no desire to visit the sponge yards or auctions, but some sponges were brought on board the _Dolphin_, and he was rather startled for a moment when, on picking one up, a scream as of pain and anger seemed to come from it. "Don't, you naughty boy; just let me alone!" "Oh," cried Ned, dropping it hastily, "I didn't know you were alive. But don't be scared; I'll not hurt you." Then noticing a quizzical look in his father's eye, and catching the sound of a half-smothered laugh from his sister and some of the others, he suddenly comprehended how it happened that the sponge seemed so alive and able to speak in good, plain English. "Oh, I know; it was Cousin Ronald making the thing talk; for it can't be that it's alive after being pulled up out of the water and scraped and cleaned and all that." "Silly boy! Dead folks can't talk, but I can," the sponge seemed to reply, speaking in a sneering tone. "No," laughed Ned; "but Cousin Ronald isn't dead, if you are. Besides, I don't believe you could talk when you were alive." "Huh! Much you know about it. Some silly little folks think they know a great deal more than they do." Ned seemed highly amused. "Oh, it's good fun, Cousin Ronald, so please keep on," he begged, looking up into the kindly face of the old gentleman. "Well, now," Mr. Lilburn exclaimed, as if much surprised, "I don't live in that bit of sponge." "No," laughed Ned; "it's much too little for anybody to live in; but I think your voice can get in it, and it's real fun to hear it talk, so please make it say something more." "I used to live on the rocks away down under the water," the sponge seemed to say; "that was my home, and I wanted to stay there, but a cruel man came down, pulled me off, and brought me up, and I've had an awful time ever since; they shook me and scraped me and squeezed me so hard and long that now I'm more dead than alive." "Oh, it's too bad!" exclaimed Ned. "I think they might have let you live on in your own home. Maybe we might send you back to it, if you were alive; but it's no use now if you are dead." "Well, Neddie boy, don't you think Mr. Sponge has talked enough now?" asked Cousin Ronald in his own natural voice. "I am really afraid our good friends here must be tired of the very sound of his voice." "Perhaps they are," replied Ned; "and I'm afraid you are tired making him talk. But it has been good fun, and I am very much obliged to you for it, Cousin Ronald." "You are very welcome," replied Mr. Lilburn; "and I am very glad to be able to give a bit of amusement to a young cousin who has been so ill." "Thank you, sir; you are ever so kind," returned Ned in grateful tones. All this happened on deck, late in the afternoon, and Dr. Harold now said he thought it time for his little patient to be taken down into the saloon, as the air was growing quite cool. "Oh uncle, I don't want to go down yet, leaving all this good company," exclaimed Ned imploringly. "But you don't want to get worse, do you?" asked Harold in kindly tones. "And mother will go with you," said Violet, rising and taking his hand in hers. "Father, too; and he'll carry you down," added the captain, taking the little fellow in his arms and hastening toward the stairway leading to the cabin of the vessel. Violet followed close behind them, and Dr. Harold and Grace brought up the rear; Grandma Elsie, the younger Elsies and Alie Leland following them also, Annis and Cousin Ronald, too, so that in a few minutes the _Dolphin's_ passengers had all deserted the deck for the saloon. Then presently came the call to supper, and all gathered about a table well furnished with wholesome, satisfying food and drink. Grace sat at her father's right hand, between him and her husband, and as he carved the fowl and filled the plates, he every now and then gave her a pleased, scrutinizing, smiling glance. "You are looking bright and well, daughter," he said at length. "Your honeymoon seems to agree with you, though it is perhaps rather early to judge of that." "It has been very delightful so far, papa," she returned with a smiling glance first at him and then up into Harold's face; "it could hardly be otherwise in such a vessel and in such company--with a dear mother, a good doctor, a kind husband--indeed, everything heart could wish, except the dear ones left behind--my dear father, mamma and sisters Lu and Eva; not to mention darling Baby Mary. And now," she concluded, "since two of the dearest ones, and Cousin Ronald and Annis have joined us, I am full of content, of joy, and very, very happy." "Yes, Gracie, it's ever so nice to have them all here--particularly papa and mamma," remarked Ned, with a sigh of content; "and I hope Cousin Ronald is going to make lots of fun for us." "But maybe Dr. Harold won't approve of so much fun for his young patient," suggested a voice that seemed to come from somewhere in Ned's rear. "Oh, who are you now?" queried the little fellow, turning half round in his chair to look behind him. "Somebody that knows a thing or two," replied the same voice, now apparently coming from a distant part of the room. "Oh, you do, do you?" laughed Ned. "Well, I think I begin to know who you are," he added, turning a half-convinced, half-inquiring look upon Cousin Ronald. "Ha! ha! Some little boys think themselves very wise, even when they don't understand a matter at all," returned the voice of the invisible speaker. "But I do, though," returned Ned; "I know Cousin Ronald and a thing or two about what he can do. But it's fun, anyhow; it seems so real, even if I do know he's doing it." "And you think I'm your Cousin Ronald, do you? Do I look like that old gent?" asked the voice, seeming to come from within an adjoining stateroom. "Old gent isn't a nice name to give a real gentleman like our Cousin Ronald," retorted Ned in a tone of disgust, which caused a laugh of amusement from most of those about the table. "There, my son, that will do now; let us see you finish your supper quietly," said Captain Raymond, and Ned obeyed. CHAPTER IX The next morning the weather was such as made the _Dolphin's_ saloon a more attractive place to her passengers than was her deck; so there they all gathered and sat chatting cosily together till at length the children began asking Grandma Elsie for another of her interesting historical stories. "I think it is Captain Raymond's turn to be narrator now," she said with a smiling glance at him, "and I feel inclined to be one of the audience." "And I am inclined to be a listener to a story from you, mother," he returned pleasantly; "or if you are unwilling to entertain us in that way this morning, perhaps Cousin Ronald may feel inclined to do so." "Thanks for the invitation, captain, but I would vastly prefer the rôle of listener," was Mr. Lilburn's response to that, and after a moment's silent consideration the captain said: "As we are now passing through the Gulf of Mexico, some distance south of the States of Alabama and Mississippi, I suppose a few passages from their history may prove interesting and instructive to at least the younger members of my audience. Shall I give them?" The query seemed addressed to the children, and was promptly replied to by a chorus of expressions of pleasure in the prospect; for all there knew the captain to be an interesting narrator of historical events. "I shall begin with Alabama, just now the nearer of the two States," he said. "The word Alabama signifies 'Here we rest.' It is an Indian expression. Fernando de Soto was the first white man who ever entered the State. That was in 1540. His coming displeased the Indians who lived there and considered the country their own, therefore they opposed his progress in several battles. He found them more civilized than in other sections of America which he visited. Just above the confluence of the Tombigbee and Alabama rivers they had a place called Maubila, consisting of eighty handsome houses, each large enough to contain a thousand men. Round about them was a high wall, made of immense trunks of trees set deep in the ground and close together, strengthened with cross-timbers and interwoven with large vines. "De Soto and his men entered the town, and were presently treacherously attacked by ten thousand of the Indians. The Spaniards resisted the attack, and a battle ensued which lasted nine hours, and resulted in the destruction of the town and the killing of six thousand Indians. The Spaniards, too, suffered terribly, lost eighty men, forty-five horses and all their baggage and camp equipage." "So it was very bad for both armies, wasn't it, papa?" said Ned. "Yes, it was, indeed," replied his father, "but the Spaniards were the ones most to blame. This country belonged to the Indians; what right had the Spaniards to come here and try to take it from them? Surely, none at all. What presumption it was in the sovereigns of Europe to give to whomsoever they pleased great tracts of land in America to which they themselves had no real right. "But to go back to my story. The Indians were desperate, and fought the invaders, contesting every rood of the ground from the hour of their landing. And naturally, whenever a Spaniard fell into their hands, they returned cruelty for cruelty; and the Spaniards were very, very cruel to men, women and children; but De Soto grew tired of having the cruelty of his men returned upon them, therefore he invited a powerful Creek chief to meet him for a friendly talk. But the chief scorned the invitation, called the white men by the names they deserved, and gave them warning that he would never cease making war upon them as long as one of their hated race remained in the country. And both he and his followers carried out their threat, resorting to ambush and stealthy surprises, killing scores, whose heads they chopped off and carried on the ends of poles. "But some of this you have been told before in our talks over the history of Florida. "De Soto crossed Northern Georgia and Northeastern Alabama to Maubila, where they had that terrific fight of which I have just told you. The following winter was a severe one, passed by the Spaniards in the country of the Chickasaws, around the tributaries of the Yazoo. In the spring a furious engagement took place with the Chickasaws, in which the Spaniards came near being annihilated. In April the forlorn remnant began again tramping through the wilderness, blindly groping for the land where De Soto had been told he would find great quantities of gold. "In the month of May, 1541, De Soto and his men reached the bank of the Mississippi River, above the mouth of the St. Francis. The men stood a long time, gazing upon it with awe and admiration, for it is one of the mightiest rivers of the world, and they were the first Europeans to see it at any distance above its mouth." "And did they stop there, papa?" asked Ned. "No, my son; they were not yet ready to give up their search for gold and for the Pacific Ocean, which they believed was now not far away." "Didn't know much about geography, did they?" laughed Ned. "No; scarcely anything of that of this continent," replied his father; "but perhaps my little son is not much wiser now in regard to what was then the condition of what is now this great country of ours. Can you tell him, Grace, what it was at that time?" "In 1540, papa? A wilderness peopled only by savages and wild beasts. It was not until 1620 that the pilgrims came to Massachusetts. The first settlement in Maryland was not made until 1631. Virginia's first settlers came in 1607. But the French Huguenots planted a colony in South Carolina as early as May, 1562, twenty years later than De Soto's visit to Alabama. Georgia was the last settled of the thirteen original colonies." "And those thirteen colonies were all there was of our country at the time of the Revolutionary War, weren't they?" asked Elsie Dinsmore. "Yes," replied the captain; "thirteen colonies at the beginning of that war, thirteen States before it ended. "But to go back to the story of Alabama. It seems to have been left to the Indians until the spring of 1682, when Robert Cavalier de la Salle descended the Mississippi to its mouth, named the country Louisiana, and took possession of it in the name of the King of France. All the Mississippi valley was then claimed by France, but in 1763 she ceded it to England. West Florida, from 1764 to 1781, included quite a good deal of the present territory of Alabama and Mississippi. In May of 1779 Spain declared war against Great Britain, and the next March the Spanish governor of Louisiana captured Mobile. In 1783 Great Britain ceded to the United States all territory east of the Mississippi, except Florida, which she ceded back to Spain. "Alabama was at that time almost entirely in the occupation of the Indians. There was a garrison of Spanish troops at Mobile, one at St. Stephen's, on the Tombigbee, and there were trading posts at different points in the South and West. And now the United States bought the whole country west of what is now Georgia to the Mississippi, and in 1817 made it the Mississippi Territory. Fort Stoddard was built near the confluence of the Alabama and Tombigbee. During the War of 1812 with Great Britain there was a great deal of fighting with the Indians of Alabama. The Creeks were the principal tribe, and in 1812 they were stirred up to war by Tecumseh, the celebrated Shawnee warrior. In August they attacked Fort Mimms; the garrison made a desperate resistance, but were overcome, and out of three hundred men, women and children, only seventeen survived the massacre. "This aroused the adjoining States to action. Generals Jackson, Claiborn, Floyd and Coffee entered the Indian country and defeated the Indians at Talladega, where two hundred and ninety of their warriors were slain. In the same month (November) General Floyd attacked the Creeks on their sacred ground, at Autossee. Four hundred of their houses were burned and two hundred of their warriors killed, among whom were the kings of Autossee and Tallahassee. The last stand of the Creeks was at Horseshoe Bend, where the Indians fought desperately, but were defeated with the loss of nearly six hundred men. The remaining warriors submitted, and in 1814 a treaty of peace was made, and the remainder of the Creeks have removed beyond the Mississippi. "After that people poured in from Georgia, the two Carolinas, Kentucky, Tennessee and Virginia. The State grew rapidly in wealth and population, so that in 1860 it was the fourth of the South in importance and the second in the amount of cotton produced." "It was a slave State, wasn't it, papa, and one that seceded in the time of the Civil War?" asked Elsie Raymond. "Yes; on the 11th of January, 1861, the State seceded from the Union and joined the Southern Confederacy. A sad thing for her, for a great deal of the desperate fighting took place within her borders. The losses in the upper counties were immense, and raiding parties frequently desolated the central ones. Forts Gaines and Morgan, defending the entrance to Mobile Bay, were besieged and taken by the United States forces in 1865, and in the same year the victory of Mobile Bay, the severest naval battle of the war, was won by the national forces under Admiral Farragut." "But the folks there are not rebs any more, I suppose," remarked Ned in a tone of inquiry. "No, my son," replied the captain. "I believe the most, if not all, of them are good Union people, now proud and fond of this great country, the United States of America." CHAPTER X "Your story of Alabama was very interesting, I think, papa," said Elsie Raymond, "and if you are not too tired, won't you now tell us about Mississippi?" "Yes," replied the captain. "I have told you about De Soto and his men coming there in 1540. At that time what is now the territory of that State was divided between the Chickasaw, Choctaw and Natchez Indians. It was more than a hundred years afterward, in 1681, that La Salle descended the Mississippi River from the Illinois country to the Gulf of Mexico; and in 1700 Iberville, the French governor of Louisiana, planted a colony on Ship Island, on the gulf coast. That settlement was afterward removed to Biloxi, on the mainland. Bienville, another governor of Louisiana, established a post on the Mississippi River, and called it Fort Rosalie. That was in 1761, and now the city of Natchez occupies that spot. A few years later, in 1729, the Natchez Indians, growing alarmed at the increasing power of the French, resolved to exterminate them. On the 28th of November of that year they attacked the settlement of Fort Rosalie and killed the garrison and settlers--seven hundred persons. When that terrible news reached New Orleans, Bienville resolved to retaliate upon the murderers. The Chickasaws were enemies of the Natchez; he applied to them for help, and they furnished him with sixteen thousand warriors. With them and his own troops Bienville besieged the Natchez in their fort, but they escaped in the night and fled west of the Mississippi. The French followed and forced them to surrender, then took them to New Orleans, sent them to the island of St. Domingo, and sold them as slaves." "All of them, papa?" asked Ned. "Nearly all, I believe," replied his father; "they were but a small nation, and very little was heard of them after that. The Chickasaws were a large and powerful tribe living in the fertile region of the upper Tombigbee; the French knew that they had incited the Natchez against them, and now Bienville resolved to attack them. In 1736 he sailed from New Orleans to Mobile with a strong force of French troops and twelve hundred Choctaw warriors. From Mobile he ascended the Tombigbee River in boats for five hundred miles, to the southeastern border of the present county of Pontotoc. The Chickasaw fort was a powerful stronghold about twenty-five miles from that point. "Bienville took measures to secure his boats, then advanced against the enemy. He made a determined assault on their fort, but was repulsed with the loss of one hundred men, which so discouraged him that he dismissed the Choctaws with presents, threw his cannon into the Tombigbee, re-embarked in his boats, floated down the river to Mobile, and from there returned to New Orleans. "He had expected to have the co-operation of a force of French and Indians from Canada, commanded by D'Artaguette, the pride and flower of the French at the North, and some Indians from Canada, assisted by the Illinois chief Chicago, from the shore of Lake Michigan. All these came down the river unobserved to the last Chickasaw bluff. From there they penetrated into the heart of the country. They encamped near the appointed place of rendezvous with the force of Bienville, and there waited for some time for intelligence from him. It did not come, and the Indian allies of D'Artaguette became so impatient for war and plunder that they could not be restrained, and at length he (D'Artaguette) consented to lead them to the attack. He drove the Chickasaws from two of their fortified villages, but was severely wounded in his attack on the third. Then the Indians fled precipitately, leaving their wounded commander weltering in his blood. Vincennes, his lieutenant, and their spiritual guide and friend, the Jesuit Senate, refused to fly, and shared the captivity of their gallant leader." "And did the Indians kill them, papa?" asked Ned. "No, not then; hoping to receive a great ransom for them from Bienville, who was then advancing into their country, they treated them with great care and attention; but when he retreated they gave up the hope of getting anything for their prisoners, therefore put them to a horrible death, burning them over a slow fire, leaving only one alive to tell of the dreadful fate to their countrymen." "Oh, how dreadful!" sighed Elsie Raymond. "I'm thankful we did not live in those times and places." "Yes, so am I," said her father. "God has been very good to us to give us our lives in this good land, and these good times. It is years now since the Indians were driven out of Alabama and Mississippi. They and Florida passed into the hands of the English in 1763. In 1783 the country north of the thirty-first parallel was included within the limits of the United States. According to the charter of Georgia, its territory extended to the Mississippi, but in 1795 the legislature of that State sold to the general government that part which now constitutes the States of Alabama and Mississippi. In 1798 the Territory of Mississippi was organized, and on the 10th of December, 1817, it was admitted into the Union as a State. On the 9th of January, 1861, the State seceded from the Union and joined the Southern Confederacy. And some dreadful battles were fought there in our Civil War--those of Iuka and Corinth, Jackson, Champion Hills and other places. That war caused an immense destruction of property. The State was subject to military rule until the close of the year 1869, when it was readmitted into the Union." The captain paused, seeming to consider his story of the settlement of the State of Mississippi completed; but Grandma Elsie presently asked: "Isn't there something more of interest in the story of the Natchez which you could tell us, captain?" "Perhaps so, mother," he replied. "It was a remarkable tribe, more civilized than any other of the original inhabitants of these States. Their religion was something like that of the fire-worshippers of Persia. They called their chiefs 'suns' and their king the 'Great Sun.' A perpetual fire was kept burning by the ministering priest in the principal temple, and he also offered sacrifices of the first fruits of the chase; and in extreme cases, when they deemed their deity angry with them, they offered sacrifices of their infant children to appease his wrath. When Iberville was there, one of the temples was struck by lightning and set on fire. The keeper of the fane begged the squaws to throw their little ones into the fire to appease the angry god, and four little ones were so sacrificed before the French could persuade them to desist from the horrid rite. The 'Great Sun,' as they called their king, had given Iberville a hearty welcome to his dominions, paying him a visit in person. He was borne to Iberville's quarters on the shoulders of some of his men, and attended by a great retinue of his people. A treaty of friendship was made, and the French given permission to build a fort and establish a trading-post among the Indians--things that, however, were not done for many years. A few stragglers at that time took up their abode among the Natchez, but it was not until 1716 that any regular settlement was made; then Fort Rosalie was erected at that spot on the bank of the Mississippi where the city of Natchez now stands. "Well, as I have told you, Grand or Great Sun, the chief of the Natchez, was at first the friend of the whites; but one man, by his overbearing behavior, brought destruction on the whole colony. The home of the Great Sun was a beautiful village called the White Apple. It was spread over a space of nearly three miles, and stood about twelve miles south of the fort, near the mouth of Second Creek, and three miles east of the Mississippi. M. D. Chopart, the commandant of the fort, was so cruel and overbearing, so unjust to the Indians, that he commanded the Great Sun to leave the village of his ancestors because he, M. D. Chopart, wanted the grounds for his own purposes. Of course the Great Sun was not willing, but Chopart was deaf to all his entreaties, which led the Natchez to form a plot to rid their country of these oppressors. "Before the attempt to carry it out, a young Indian girl, who loved the Sieur de Mace, ensign of the garrison, told him with tears that her nation intended to massacre the French. He was astonished, and questioned her closely. She gave him simple answers, shedding tears as she spoke, and he was convinced that she was telling him only the truth. So he at once repeated it to Chopart, but he immediately had the young man arrested for giving a false alarm. "But the fatal day came--November 29, 1729. Early in the morning Great Sun, with a few chosen warriors, all well armed with knives and other concealed weapons, went to Fort Rosalie. Only a short time before the company had sent up a large supply of powder and lead, also provisions for the fort. The Indians had brought corn and poultry to barter for ammunition, saying they wanted it for a great hunt they were preparing for, and the garrison, believing their story, were thrown off their guard, and allowed a number of the Indians to come into their fort, while others were distributed about the company's warehouse. Then, after a little, the Great Sun gave a signal, and the Indians at once drew out their weapons and began a furious massacre of the garrison and all who were in or near the warehouse. And the same bloody work was carried on in the houses of the settlers outside of the fort. "It was at nine o'clock in the morning the dreadful slaughter began, and before noon the whole male population of that French colony--seven hundred souls--were sleeping the sleep of death. The women and children were kept as prisoners, and the slaves that they might be of use as servants. Also two mechanics, a tailor and a carpenter, were permitted to live, that they might be of use to their captors. Chopart was one of the first killed--by a common Indian, as the chiefs so despised him that they disdained to soil their hands with his blood. "The Great Sun sat in the company's warehouse while the massacre was going on, smoking his pipe unconcernedly while his warriors were piling up the heads of the murdered Frenchmen in a pyramid at his feet, Chopart's head at its top, above all those of his officers and soldiers. As soon as the Great Sun had been told by his Indians that all the Frenchmen were dead, he bade them begin their pillage. They then made the negro slaves bring out the plunder for distribution, except the powder and military stores, which were kept for public use in future emergencies." "And did they bury all those seven hundred folks that they killed, papa?" asked Ned. "No," replied his father; "they left them lying strewed about in every place where they had struck them down to death, dancing over their mangled bodies with horrid yells in their drunken revelry; then they left them there unburied, a prey for hungry dogs and vultures. And all the dwellings in all the settlements they burned to ashes." "Didn't anybody at all get away from them, uncle?" asked Alie Leland. "Nobody who was in the buildings at the time of the massacre," replied the captain; "but two soldiers who happened to be then in the woods escaped and carried the dreadful tidings to New Orleans." "I'm glad they didn't go back to the fort and get caught by those savage Indians," said Elsie Dinsmore. "But how did they know that the Indians were there and doing such dreadful deeds?" "By hearing the deafening yells of the savages and seeing the smoke going up from the burning buildings. Those things told them what was going on, and they hid themselves until they could get a boat or canoe in which to go down the river to New Orleans, which they reached in a few days; and there, as I have said, they told the sad story of the awful happening at the colony on the St. Catherine." "Were there any other colonies that the Indians destroyed in that part of our country, papa?" asked his daughter Elsie. "Yes; one on the Yazoo, near Fort St. Peter, and those on the Washita, at Sicily Island, and near the present town of Monroe. It was a sad time for every settlement in the province." "When the news of this terrible disaster reached New Orleans, the French began a war of extermination against the Natchez. They drove them across the Mississippi, and finally scattered and extirpated them. The Great Sun and his principal war chiefs were taken, shipped to St. Domingo and sold as slaves. Some of the poor wretches were treated with barbaric cruelty--four of the men and two of the women were publicly burned to death at New Orleans. Some Tonica Indians brought down a Natchez woman, whom they had found in the woods, and were allowed to burn her to death on a platform erected near the levee, the whole population looking on while she was consumed by the flames. She bore all that torture with wonderful fortitude, not shedding a tear, but upbraiding her torturers with their want of skill, flinging at them every opprobrious epithet she could think of." "How very brave and stoical she must have been, poor thing!" remarked Grace. "But, papa, have not the Natchez always been considered superior to other tribes in refinement, intelligence and bravery?" "Yes," he replied; "it is said that no other tribe has left so proud a memorial of their courage, independent spirit and contempt of death in defence of their rights and liberties. The scattered remnants of the tribe sought an asylum among the Chickasaws and other tribes who were hostile to the French; but since that time the individuality of the Natchez tribe has been swallowed up among others with whom they were incorporated. In refinement and intelligence they were equal, if not superior, to any other tribe north of Mexico. In courage and stratagem they were inferior to none. Their form was noble and commanding, their persons were straight and athletic, their stature seldom under six feet. Their countenances indicated more intelligence than is commonly found in savages. Some few individuals of the Natchez tribe were to be found in the town of Natchez as late as the year 1782, more than half a century after the Natchez massacre." CHAPTER XI "Well, well, well! I should think you youngsters might be ashamed to keep that poor captain talking and telling stories so long, just for your amusement," remarked a strange voice, coming apparently from the half open doorway of a nearby stateroom. "Can't you let him have a little rest now?" "Of course," replied Ned. "He tells splendid stories, and we like to listen to them; but we don't want him to go on if he feels tired, for he is our own dear, kind, good papa, whom we love ever so much." "Huh!" returned the voice; "actions speak louder than words. So don't coax for any more stories now. Have a good game of romps instead." "The rest can do that," said Ned; "but uncle doctor wouldn't be likely to let me romp very much." "And you think you have to obey him, do you?" "Of course, if I want him to cure me; and I'm very sure you would think me a naughty boy if I didn't." "If you didn't want to be cured?" "No; if I didn't mind my uncle doctor." "I thought he was your brother; he's married to your sister, isn't he?" "Yes," laughed Ned; "and that makes him my brother; but he's my mother's own brother, and that makes him my uncle. So he's both uncle and brother, and that makes him a very near relation indeed." "So it does, my little fellow, and you would better mind all he says, even if he is a young doctor that doesn't know quite all the old doctors do." "He knows a great deal," cried Ned indignantly; "lots more, I guess, than some of the other doctors that think they are very smart and know everything." "Well, you needn't get mad about it," returned the voice. "I like Dr. Harold Travilla, and when I get sick I expect to send for him." "But who are you?" asked Ned. "Why don't you come out of that stateroom and show yourself?" "Perhaps I might if I got a polite invitation," replied the voice. Ned was silent for a moment, first looking steadily toward the door from which the voice had seemed to come, then turning a scrutinizing, questioning gaze upon Cousin Ronald. The others in the room were all watching the two and listening as if much entertained by the talk between them. "I just know it's you, Cousin Ronald, making fun for us all," the little boy remarked at length; "and that's very kind in you, for fun is right good for folks, isn't it, Uncle Harold?" "Yes, I think so," replied the doctor; "'laugh and grow fat' is an old saying. So I hope the fun will prove beneficial to my young patient." "I hope so," said the captain, "and now suppose you young folks rest yourselves with some sort of games." "I think we would all better wrap up and try a little exercise upon the deck first, and after that have some games," said Harold, and everybody promptly followed his advice. When they had had their exercise and played a few games, dinner was served. After that they again gathered in the saloon, and presently the young folks asked for another of the captain's interesting stories of the States. "Well, my dears, about which State do you wish to hear now?" he asked. "I believe we all want Louisiana, papa," replied his daughter Elsie. "We know the story of the battle of New Orleans under General Jackson--that grand victory--and pretty much all that went on in the time of the Civil War, I believe; but I don't remember that you have ever given us any of the early history of that State." "Well, I shall try to do so now," her father said in reply, and after a moment's silent thought he began. "Louisiana is the central Gulf State of the United States, and has the Gulf of Mexico for its southern boundary; the Sabine River and Texas form the western boundary, and on the east is the Mississippi River, separating it from the State of that name, which is the northern boundary of that part of Louisiana east of the river. The part west of that river is bounded on the north by Arkansas. "That part of what is now our country was not taken by the whites from the Indians so early as the more northern and eastern parts. History tells us that Robert Cavalier de la Salle descended the Mississippi to its mouth in April, 1682, named the country Louisiana, and took possession of it in the name of the King of France. In 1699 Iberville tried to form a settlement along the lower part of the river, but succeeded only in forming the colony of Biloxi, in what is now the State of Mississippi. In 1712, Louis XIV. of France named the region for himself, and granted it to a wealthy capitalist named Antony Crozat, giving him exclusive trading rights in Louisiana for ten years. In about half that time Crozat gave back the grant to the King, complaining that he had not been properly supported by the authorities, and had suffered such losses in trying to settle the province as almost to ruin him. "In the same year a man named John Law got the King to give him a charter for a bank and for a Mississippi company, and to grant the province to them. For a time he carried out his scheme so successfully that the stock of the bank went up to six hundred times its par value; but it finally exploded and ruined every one concerned in it. "It had, however, accomplished the settlement of New Orleans. In 1760 a war was begun between England and France, in which the former took Canada from the latter. Then a good many Canadians emigrated to Louisiana, and settled in that part of it west of the Mississippi. In 1762 France ceded her possessions in Louisiana west of the Mississippi to Spain, and the country east of that river to England. New Orleans was soon taken possession of by the Spanish authorities, who proved themselves so cruel and oppressive that the French settlers were filled with dismay. The Spaniards still held that province at the time of the American Revolution, and near the close of that war the Spanish governor of New Orleans captured the British garrison at Baton Rouge." "I suppose that was hardly because he wanted to help us," laughed Elsie Dinsmore. "No," smiled the captain; "I rather think he wanted to help himself. The navigation of the Mississippi River was opened to all nations by the treaty of 1783, but the New Orleans Spaniards completely neutralized it by seizing all merchandise brought to that city in any but Spanish ships. In 1800 Spain ceded Louisiana back to France, but it suited Napoleon, then emperor of that country, to keep the transfer a secret until 1803, when he sent out Laussat as prefect of the colony, who informed the people that they were given back to France, which news filled them with joy. "Jefferson was then our President, and on learning these facts, he directed Robert Livingston, the American Minister at Paris, to insist upon the free navigation of the Mississippi, and to negotiate for the acquisition of New Orleans itself and the surrounding territory. Mr. Monroe was appointed with full powers to assist him in the negotiation. "Bonaparte acted promptly. He saw that the English wanted Louisiana and the Mississippi River, and was determined that they should not have them. They had twenty vessels in the Gulf of Mexico, and he saw that they might easily take Louisiana, and to deprive them of all prospect of that, he was inclined to cede it to the United States. He (Bonaparte) speedily decided to sell to the United States not New Orleans only, but the whole of Louisiana, and did so. On the 30th of April, 1803, the treaty was signed. Our country was to pay $15,000,000 for the colony, be indemnified for some illegal captures, and the vessels of France and Spain, with their merchandise, were to be admitted into all the ports of Louisiana free of duty for twelve years. Bonaparte stipulated in favor of Louisiana that as soon as possible it should be incorporated into the Union and its inhabitants enjoy the same rights, privileges and immunities as other citizens of the United States; and the third article of the treaty, securing these benefits to them, was drawn up by Bonaparte himself and presented to the plenipotentiaries with the request that they would make it known to the people of Louisiana that the French regretted to part with them, and had stipulated for all the advantages they could desire; and that in giving them up France had secured them the greatest of all; for in becoming independent they would prosper as they never could have done under any European government. But he bade them, while enjoying the privileges of liberty, ever to remember that they were French, and preserve for their mother country the affection which a common origin inspires. "This was a most important transaction, and its completion gave equal satisfaction to both parties. Livingston said, 'I consider that from this day the United States takes rank with the first powers of Europe, and she is entirely escaped from the power of England;' and Bonaparte said, 'By this cession of territory I have secured the power of the United States, and given to England a maritime rival who at some future time will humble her pride.' "And that seems like a prophecy which came true, when one thinks of Jackson's victory on the 8th of January, 1815," remarked Grandma Elsie. "Yes," assented the captain; "that was a signal overthrow to British troops on the plains of Louisiana." "Yes; I remember that was a great victory for our United States troops," said Elsie Dinsmore. "But who of our folks took possession now that it was bought from the French, and just when did they do it?" "It was on the 20th of December of that same year," replied the captain, "that General Wilkinson and Governor Claiborne, who were jointly commissioned to take possession of the country for the United States, entered New Orleans at the head of the American troops. The French governor gave up his command, and the tri-colored flag of France gave place to the star-spangled banner." "Oh, that was good," said Elsie Dinsmore; "and was Louisiana made a State at once, captain?" "No," he replied; "it was erected into a Territory by Congress in 1804. In 1810 the Spanish post at Baton Rouge was seized by the United States forces under General Wilkinson and the territory connected with it added to Louisiana, which in 1812 was admitted into the Union as a State." "But, papa, was what is now the State of Louisiana all we bought from France by that treaty of 1803?" asked Grace. "No, by no means," replied the captain. "The territory purchased by that treaty is now occupied by the States of Louisiana, Arkansas, Missouri, Iowa, Minnesota, Kansas, Nebraska, Oregon, Dakota, Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho and Washington." "My, what a big purchase it was!" cried Ned. "But how did France get so much?" "No doubt she just helped herself," laughed his sister. "The State went out of the Union in the time of the Civil War, didn't it, papa?" "Yes; on the 26th of January, 1861, but was readmitted into the Union on the 25th of June, 1868." CHAPTER XII "These stories of the States have been very interesting to me, captain," remarked Mr. Lilburn, breaking a little pause which had followed the conclusion of the brief sketch just given of the early history of Louisiana. "I feel flattered that my crude efforts in that line should be so highly appreciated," returned the captain, with a gratified smile as he spoke, then added, "And now, if you feel like making a return in kind, Cousin Ronald, suppose you give us a page or two of Scottish history, than which I think there is hardly anything more interesting." "I acknowledge that it is very interesting to me, a native of that land, though now feeling myself a full-fledged American, but how is it with these younger folk?" returned Mr. Lilburn, glancing inquiringly around upon the ladies and children. It was Grandma Elsie who answered in tones of pleased anticipation, "Indeed, cousin, I should be delighted; for to me the history of that grandfather land of mine is only secondary in interest to that of this, my dear native land, largely peopled by the descendants of those who struggled so bravely for civil and religious liberty in Scotland." "Ah, cousin mine, I am glad to ken that you care for that auld fatherland o' yours and mine," returned the old gentleman, smiling affectionately upon her. "There are many passages in her history that are interesting and heart stirring to the pride and love of the descendants of the actors in the same. But to what particular passages in her history shall I call your attention now?" The query seemed addressed to all present, and Elsie Dinsmore answered quickly and earnestly, "Oh, tell us all you can about that beautiful, unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots. I suppose you must have seen all the palaces and castles she ever lived in there in Scotland?" "Yes, my bonny bairn, I have, and regard them with great interest because of her one-time occupation of them. Linlithgow Castle is now only a picturesque old ruin, yet one may stand in the very room, now roofless, to be sure, where Queen Mary was born. The walls of that castle were very thick and strong, but not then deemed strong enough to protect the royal infant, born on the 7th of December, 1542. There was rejoicing at her birth, but it would have been greater had she been a lad instead of a lass. Her father, then on his deathbed, exclaimed when he heard the news, 'Woe to the crown of Scotland; it came with a lass and it will go with a lass.' "Her sex was a disappointment to Scottish hearts, yet still they loved her, and would do all in their power to protect and defend her, especially from the English King, Henry VIII., with whom they were then at war, and who was doing all in his power to get possession of the little princess, purposing in time to marry her to his son, and so unite the two kingdoms under one crown." "Why, that would have been a fine way to put a stop to the fighting between the two kingdoms, I should think," said Elsie Dinsmore. "Perhaps, if he had offered good terms, but those he did offer were so harsh that Scotland's Parliament rejected them, and for greater security both Mary and her mother were taken from Linlithgow to Stirling Castle, a grand fortress atop of a lofty hill above the beautiful valley of Monteith. It seemed a safe place for the bonny baby queen, but some wicked, treacherous men formed a plot to carry her off to England; but it failed because her guardians were so very cautious as never to admit more than one person at a time to see her. "So many dangers threatening her, it was thought best to crown her queen as soon as possible, and when she was nine months old she was one Sunday morning taken from her nursery to the chapel of the castle. There one of her nobles held her on the throne and spoke for her the words she should have spoken had she been old enough. Then the Cardinal held the crown over her head, and for a moment clasped her tiny fingers about the scepter, and buckled the sword of state around her waist. Then every peer and prelate present, one after another, knelt before her, held his right hand above her baby head, and swore to defend her with his life. But alas, alas! few o' them proved faithful to their oath. "A strange life lay before that little babe. She was perhaps six years of age when taken to France as a safer place for her than Scotland. She was married early in life to the young King Francis II., but in seventeen months his death made her a widow. She left France for her own land, and arrived at Leith in August, 1561, doubtless little dreaming the sad fate in store for her in the British Isles," sighed the kind-hearted old gentleman, then for a moment he seemed lost in thought. "Can you tell us in what town and castle she made her home?" asked Elsie Dinsmore. "Holyrood Castle in Edinburgh," replied Mr. Lilburn. "It was in the chapel of that castle she was married to her cousin, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, in July, 1565. She was then about twenty-three years of age." "Did she love him, Cousin Ronald?" asked Elsie Raymond. "No doubt of it, lassie, for she had plenty of other offers; it really seemed as though every royal bachelor and widower wanted her for a wife. And small wonder, for she was very sweet and beautiful. "She called Darnley the handsomest man she had ever seen; doubtless it was his good looks she fell in love with, but a few weeks of wifehood with him showed her that his character was far less admirable than his looks; he was vain, selfish, ungrateful, took all her favors as a matter of course and asked for more. Soon after their marriage the English ambassador wrote of them, 'The Queen doth everything in her power to oblige Darnley, but Darnley does not do the least thing to oblige her.' She had a few weeks of happiness during their wedding journey through the interior of Scotland, but soon after that Darnley began treating her with brutal unkindness. At a public banquet, only four months after their marriage, he began to drink to excess, urging his guests to do the same. Queen Mary tried quietly to check him, but he turned upon her with such vulgar violence that she left the room in tears. And he was so insolent to the Court in general that he was soon almost universally detested." "And I should hardly think it was possible for poor Queen Mary to go on loving him," said Elsie Dinsmore. "Nor should I," said Mr. Lilburn; "for certainly he was very different from what she had believed him to be when she married him. And, poor lady, she greatly needed the right sort of husband to protect and help her, for the nobles who surrounded her were treacherous, unprincipled men, ready to commit any crime that would enable them to govern Scotland to suit themselves, by making the sovereign a mere cipher in their hands. I presume you all know something of the brutal murder of Rizzio?" "Yes, sir, I believe we do; but please tell us the whole story about it," said Elsie Raymond. "He was a singer in the chapel of Holyrood Castle, had a voice of wonderful power and sweetness, which so pleased the Queen that she made him leader of the singing in her chapel services. He was a homely man, but a clever linguist, faithful and prudent, and Queen Mary made him her private secretary. The treacherous lords wanted to get rid of him because he was not one of them, yet had so great influence with the Queen; they determined to murder him, and that on the pretence that the Queen was so fond of him as to make Darnley jealous. It was all a pretence, just to trump up a reason for murdering Rizzio. "One evening in March, 1566, Queen Mary was in her library at supper, with three friends as her guests--a lady, a gentleman and Rizzio. She did not know that her Lord Chancellor Morton had, just after dusk, led a body of armed men into the courtyard of this, her Holyrood Castle. Some of these men had hidden themselves in Darnley's room, just underneath these apartments of hers, and a winding staircase led up from them. Suddenly Darnley, who had come up this private stairway, entered the room, sat down in a vacant chair beside her, put his arm around her waist and gave her an affectionate kiss. "It was a Judas kiss, for at the same time the murderers whom he was assisting had stolen softly into the Queen's bedroom, and now they crowded through the doorway into her presence. She was alarmed, and at once demanded the reason for their intrusion. "They said they meant no harm to her, only to the villain near her. "Rizzio understood, and said to her, 'Madam, I am lost!' 'Fear not,' she answered, 'the King will never suffer you to be slain in my presence, nor can he forget your many faithful services.' "The words seemed to touch Darnley's heart and make him unwilling to perform his part in the wicked work, and Ruthven exclaimed fiercely, 'Sir, look to your wife and sovereign.' "At that Darnley forced Mary into a chair and held her there so tightly that she could not rise, while one of the ruffians presented a pistol to her side and swore a horrible oath that he would shoot her dead if she resisted. "'Fire,' she replied, 'if you have no respect for my life,' and her husband pushed away the weapon. "But now others of the murderous crowd were in the room, lighting it up with the glare of torches, and Rizzio, clinging to the Queen's dress, begged piteously, 'Save my life, madam! Save my life for God's dear sake!' "But she could not. The assassins rushed upon him, overturning the table with its lights and dishes. Queen Mary fainted, and Rizzio was dragged out into a narrow passageway and stabbed again and again until his shrieks were hushed in death. There is still a stain upon Holyrood's floor said to have been caused by his blood." "And what about Queen Mary? Did they hurt her, Cousin Ronald?" asked Ned, much interested in the story. "When she came out of her faint, poor lady! those lawless nobles, wicked murderers, told her she was their prisoner, then set a guard at her door, and left her to spend the night in anxiety, horror and fear." "Oh, how wicked and cruel they were!" exclaimed Elsie Raymond. "I hope they got punished for it somehow!" "It looks as though Darnley did," said Mr. Lilburn, "for in a little less than a year after the murder of Rizzio he, having gone with a few friends to a private house, was in the night blown up with gunpowder; and only about two months afterward Queen Mary married the Earl of Bothwell. That disgusted her best subjects, so that they made her a prisoner and forced her to abdicate in favor of her son, James VI. "Queen Mary escaped from her prison, collected a large army, and fought for the recovery of her crown and throne, but was defeated, then fled to England. But Queen Elizabeth, though her cousin, was very jealous of her, kept her imprisoned for many years, then had her beheaded." "Had she any right to do that?" asked Elsie Dinsmore in indignant tones. "No," replied Mr. Lilburn; "none but the might that is said to make right. Queen Mary was in her power, with none to defend her. Queen Mary, when on trial, said to her judges, 'I am a Queen, subject to none but God. Him do I call to witness that I am innocent of all the charges brought against me. And recollect, my lords, the theatre of the world is wider than the realm of England.'" "And did they kill her, Cousin Ronald?" asked Ned. "Yes; they beheaded her in Fotheringay Castle. It is said that every one was impressed by the melancholy sweetness of her face and the remains of her rare beauty as she drew near the spot where her life was to be ended. Her executioners knelt down and asked her forgiveness for what they were about to do, and she replied, 'I forgive you and all the world with all my heart.' Then turning to the women who attended her, she said, 'Pray do not weep. Believe me, I am happy to leave the world. Tell my son that I thought of him in my last moments, and that I sincerely hope his life may be happier than mine.' "Then there was a dreadful silence as she knelt down and laid her head upon the block. In another minute the chief executioner held it up in his hand, saying, 'So perish all the enemies of Queen Elizabeth.'" "What a shame!" cried Ned. "I hope the time came when Queen Elizabeth had to have her head chopped off." "No," replied Mr. Lilburn; "but hers was not a happy death. She seems to have been almost crazed with grief and remorse over the death of Essex, threw herself on the floor, and lay there, refusing food and medicine for several days and nights, till death came to end the sorrowful scene." "Then, perhaps, she suffered more than Queen Mary did in her dying time, as I certainly think she deserved to," said Elsie Dinsmore. "Yes, I think she did," responded Mr. Lilburn; "it seems very possible that her cruel, unjust treatment of her cousin, Queen Mary, may have helped to burden her conscience and increase her remorse till she felt that life was a burden too heavy to bear." "Do you think she really wanted to die, and was courting death, Cousin Ronald?" asked Grandma Elsie. "Her refusal of food and medicine looks like it," he replied; "yet one can hardly suppose that death would be anything but a terror to one whose character was so far from Christian. Her public conduct was worthy of the highest encomium, but not so with her private life. Yet I wadna wish to sit in judgment on her at this late day." CHAPTER XIII The next day was the Sabbath, the weather clear and mild enough for all, passengers and crew, to gather upon the deck for a short service of prayer, singing of hymns and a sermon read by the captain. After that there was an hour of Bible study in the saloon, Mr. Lilburn leading by request of the others. Turning over the leaves of his Bible, "Suppose we take for our subject the Confessing of Christ before Men," he said. "Here in Romans we read, 'The word is nigh thee, even in thy mouth, and in thy heart; that is, the word of faith which we preach; that if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation. For the Scripture saith, Whosoever believeth on Him shall not be ashamed.' "What a burning desire Paul had for the salvation of souls. He said, 'Brethren, my heart's desire and prayer to God for Israel is that they might be saved.' And if we are Christians we will be often in prayer and often making effort for the salvation of souls. Let us ask ourselves if it is indeed so with us. And let us strive to make it so, earnestly doing all in our power to win souls to Christ, telling them of the great love wherewith He has loved us, bleeding and dying that we might live; and that all we have to do is simply to come, to believe, to take this offered salvation. 'Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.' We have only to call upon His name with real desire for His help, and in an instant He is with us, offering us full and free salvation, purchased for us by His suffering and death, so that we may have it without money and without price. Now, friends, please read in turn texts bearing upon this great subject." Then Grandma Elsie read, "'For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world, through Him, might be saved.'" Then Grace, "'Christ is the end of the law for righteousness to every one that believeth.'" Then the captain, "'Knowing that a man is not justified by the works of the law, but by the faith of Jesus Christ, even we have believed in Jesus Christ, that we might be justified by the faith of Christ, and not by the works of the law; for by the law shall no flesh be justified.'" Then Violet, "'By grace ye are saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God, not of works, lest any man should boast.'" Harold was the next, "'God hath not appointed us to wrath, but to obtain salvation by our Lord Jesus Christ,'" he read, and that closed the lesson, the younger ones seeming to have nothing ready; then presently came the summons to the dinner table. "Aren't we getting pretty near to Louisiana, papa?" asked Ned at the breakfast table the next morning. "Near enough for a distant view of its shore," was the smiling reply. "Oh, I'm glad! Are we going to stop at New Orleans, papa?" "No; we will not go up to that city this time, but travel directly to Viamede by the shortest route." "Oh, I am glad of that, for I just long for a sight of our beautiful Viamede; and I think I shall get well there right fast," laughed Ned. "Maybe so, if you are careful to obey your doctor," said Harold, smiling kindly upon the little fellow. "It will be ever so nice to get there," exclaimed Elsie Raymond. "Grandma, you were so kind to invite us all." "Not kinder to you than to myself, since to have you all there makes the place twice as enjoyable and attractive to me," was the pleasant-toned reply. "Will the friends and relatives about there be expecting us, mother?" asked Grace. "I think they will, as they were written to that we expected to arrive just about the time we are now likely to reach there." "I think we shall," said the captain; and they did, to find the expectant relatives gathered at the wharf ready to give them a joyful greeting; for dearly they all loved Viamede's sweet mistress, and they also cherished a warm affection for those who accompanied her, especially her son Harold and his bride. The congratulations to them were warm, especially those of Dr. Percival, who felt that he owed his life to God's blessing upon Harold's wise and kind treatment during the severe illness caused by that sad fall from his horse many months ago. And now he and his Maud had a treasure which they were very proud to show to Grandma Elsie and all the others--a lovely baby girl, another Elsie. And Dr. and Mrs. Johnson had still another to show, exhibiting it with much parental pride, speaking of it as still another namesake for their dearly loved cousin, Mrs. Elsie Travilla. She was much moved. "I am greatly honored," she said; "so many naming their darlings for me. I have brought two with me--Elsie Dinsmore and Elsie Raymond; there is one--Elsie Keith--at the Parsonage; one at Magnolia Hall--Elsie Embury; and now these two dear babies, making six here in all. Yes, and in my more Northern home neighborhood there is my eldest daughter, named for me by her father, and there are several others, the children of friends who have honored me in the same way. I certainly am greatly honored. But, dear Dick and Rob, will it not make confusion to have two of the same name at Torriswood?" "Oh, I think not, cousin," laughed Dick; "ours can be Elsie P. and Rob's Elsie J." "And, oh, Cousin Elsie, if only they get your sweet disposition along with the name," exclaimed Maud, "they will have reason to thank us for giving it to them." "As I certainly do my father and mother," said little Elsie Keith, standing near and listening with interest to the talk about the name she bore. "They have often told me I must try to be like the dear lady relation whose name I bear." "Dear child, may you succeed in greatly improving upon your pattern," Mrs. Travilla responded, smiling upon the little girl, gently smoothing her hair and giving her a kiss. But now came the summons to the dinner table. By the written orders of Viamede's mistress, sent weeks before, a fine, abundant, luxurious meal had been made ready for the occasion, and soon all were seated about the hospitable board regaling themselves upon all the luxuries to be had in that part of the country at that time of the year. They ate with appetites, at the same time enjoying "the feast of reason and the flow of soul." The children had a table to themselves, that they might chatter to their hearts' content without disturbing the older folk, and they fully appreciated the privilege. "Oh, Elsie Raymond!" exclaimed Mildred Keith, the eldest of the children from the Parsonage, "I haven't seen your tee-tee. Didn't you bring it along?" "No," replied Elsie; "Ned's couldn't be brought because he was not well enough to care for it on the _Dolphin_, and wouldn't have felt willing to leave it to other folks to be troubled with; so it had to be left at home, and as we didn't want to part them, I left mine too." "Oh, that was good and kind in you," was Mildred's answering remark. "So we won't have the tee-tees to make fun for us with Cousin Ronald's help," said another of the cousins. "But I know he can make fun even without the little monkeys." "And he's always so very kind about making fun for us," said another. "He's a dear old gentleman! I'm as fond of him as if he was a near relation." "And you had a wedding at your house just a little while ago," said another. "I like both Cousin Harold and Cousin Grace, and it seems nice that they are married to each other." "But does Cousin Violet like it? I heard the folks say it would make her mother to her brother." "Yes; but, besides, it makes mamma and Sister Grace sisters; so Gracie can say mamma or sister, just as she pleases; but I don't believe it will make a bit of difference in their love for each other." "No; I don't believe it will, or make her, your mother, and Dr. Harold feel at all differently toward each other. I dare say they will all feel and act toward each other about as they did before the wedding." "I'm sorry your sisters Lu and Eva didn't come this time and bring that little Mary. Why didn't they and Chester come?" "Chester couldn't well leave his business, Sister Lu didn't want to leave him, and Eva thought home was better for Baby Mary," Elsie Raymond said in reply. "It seemed hard to leave them behind, but papa said it couldn't be helped. Oh, I wish you could all see Baby Mary! She is such a dear, pretty little thing." But all the talk was not going on at the children's table; the grown folks were doing their full share, and that with evident enjoyment. "We understood, Cousin Elsie," said Dr. Percival, "that the cousins from the Oaks and Fairview were to be here." "Yes, and I think they will be in a few days, coming by rail. They were not quite ready to start when we were, nor would the yacht have held us all. And we may hope for another carousal when they do get here," she added with a merry look and musical laugh. "Ah, that's a pleasant prospect, if we are to be invited to take part in it," laughed the doctor. "Ah, Dick, you surely know that is of course," she returned with a look that said more than her words. "A family party here without you in it would hardly be worthy of that name to me." "Ah, cousin, you are indeed kind to say and to feel so, for I don't seem to myself to deserve to be so estimated by you. I am really worth but little except as a physician; and Harold here can outdo me in that line," he added, giving Harold a warmly affectionate look and smile. "I must beg leave to differ as to that, Cousin Dick," returned Harold brightly. "I know of no physician to whom I would sooner trust the life of any ailing dear one than to yourself." "Thanks; that is certainly a very strong endorsement you give me," laughed Dick, coloring with pleasure. "And I can give you the same," said his half brother and partner, Dr. Johnson. "We seem to be a family of remarkably good physicians, if we do say it ourselves," he added with a hearty laugh. "I don't think you need; you may safely trust to other folks doing it," remarked Captain Raymond pleasantly. "But don't expect any of us to get sick in order to give you fellows a chance to show your skill," observed Mr. Dinsmore gravely. "Oh, no, uncle; we can find plenty of patients among the constant dwellers in this region; so you may feel quite safe from our experimenting upon you--unless you get up an accident that will call for our aid," said Dick. "I assure you I have no idea of doing that, even to help my nephews and grandson to plenty of employment to keep them out of mischief," laughed Mr. Dinsmore. "And you needn't, grandpa, so far as I am concerned," said Harold, with a humorous look and smile. "This is Grace's and my honeymoon, you know, and we are entitled to a full holiday." "So you are, and I shall do nothing to interfere with it," returned Mr. Dinsmore with assumed gravity, but a twinkle of fun in his eye. "Are Chester and Lu coming with the other party, uncle?" asked Maud. "No; I understand that Chester has too much business calling for his attention, and that Lu, like the good, affectionate wife that she is, could not be persuaded to leave him; and Eva remains at home for their sake and that of her baby." And so the talk went on till all the courses of the grand dinner had been served and heartily partaken of. Then all, old and young, gathered in the drawing-room and spent a pleasant hour in friendly chat. After that cordial good-nights were exchanged, accompanied with plans and promises in regard to future intentions, and one after another the relatives and guests departed for their own homes. Little, feeble Ned had already been taken to his nest for the night, but the other children were now permitted a brief sojourn upon the front veranda, made delightful by the sweet scent of the orange blossoms upon the trees and the many lovely flowers adorning the moonlighted lawn, that light giving them also a charming view of the more distant landscape. CHAPTER XIV It was a bright, cheerful party that gathered about the Viamede breakfast table the next morning. "Southern air seems to agree finely with my young patient thus far," remarked Dr. Harold, looking smilingly at Ned, who was partaking of the good fare provided with an appetite such as he had not shown before since the beginning of his illness. "Yes, uncle doctor, I'm hungry this morning, and everything tastes good," laughed Ned. "But Viamede victuals always were ever so nice." "And home victuals poor and tasteless?" queried the lad's mother, feigning a look of grieved surprise. "Oh, no, mamma; home victuals are good--very good--when one is well, so as to have a good appetite," returned Ned reassuringly. "Very true, son," said his father; "and you used to show full appreciation of them. So mamma need not feel hurt that you so greatly enjoy your present fare." "And p'raps his good appetite will make the little chap strong enough for a row on the bayou a bit arter gittin' done his breakfast," said a rough voice, seemingly coming from an open doorway into the outer hall. "Now, who are you talking that way about me?" queried Ned, turning half way round in his chair in an effort to catch sight of the speaker. "Who am I? Somebody that knows a thing or two 'bout boys an' what they can do, an' what they like; an' I guess you're not much different from other fellows o' your age an' sect. Be ye now?" "No, I guess not," laughed Ned. "I don't belong to any sect, though. But I suppose you mean sex. I'm of the male kind." "Oh, you are. Then I s'pose you're brave enough to venture a row on the bayou without fear o' bein' drowned?" "Yes, indeed, with all these grown-up folks along to take care of me," laughed Ned. Then looking across the table at Mr. Lilburn, "Now that was just you talking, Cousin Ronald, wasn't it?" "Why, Neddie boy, do you think that is the kind of English I speak?" queried Mr. Lilburn in a hurt tone, as if he felt insulted by such a suspicion in regard to his knowledge and use of the English tongue. "No, Cousin Ronald, I didn't mean any harm; but haven't you different kinds of voices for different times and occasions?" returned Ned. "And weren't you kindly trying to make a bit of fun for me?" "Ah, little chap, you seem to be good at guessing," laughed Mr. Lilburn; "a bit of a Yankee, aren't you?" "No, sir; I'm a whole one," cried Ned, echoing the laugh. "But, papa," turning to his father, "can't we get in a boat and have a row on the bayou?" "Well, Ned, I suppose that might be possible," was the smiling rejoinder. "Suppose we take a vote on the question. All in favor of the proposition say aye." At that there was a simultaneous aye from the voice of each one at the table. Then Grandma Elsie said, "I think it would be enjoyable, but probably the cousins may be coming in to make their party calls before we get back." "I think not, mamma, if we start early and do not go too far," said Violet; "and we can leave word with the servants that our absence will be short, so that any one who comes will be encouraged to wait a bit." "I should think they well might," smilingly added Mrs. Lilburn, "seeing what a delightful place they would have to wait in, and plenty of interesting reading matter at hand." "Yes, I think we really might venture it," said Dr. Harold, "especially as the little jaunt will probably be for the health of all taking part in it." So it was decided upon, and the plan carried out shortly after leaving the table. Every one, especially the younger folk, seemed delighted with the idea and eager for the start. Ned was well wrapped up under the supervision of his mother and uncle, and seated in a part of the boat where there could not be any danger for him of even a slight wetting. All found it a delightful trip, and returned refreshed and strengthened, the younger ones full of mirth and jollity. It so happened that they were just in time to greet an arrival of cousins from Magnolia Hall and the Parsonage, presently followed by those from Torriswood. Cordial greetings were exchanged and an hour or two spent in pleasant intercourse, in which plans were laid for excursions here and there through the lovely surrounding country and entertainments at one and another of their homes. "Don't wait for the coming of the rest of your party of relatives," said Dr. Percival. "We will look forward to the pleasure of having you all again, with that agreeable addition to the company." "Thank you, Dick," returned Grandma Elsie with her own sweet smile, "we can hardly have more than would be agreeable of these lovely excursions or the delightful visits to the hospitable homes of our kith and kin in this region. And the oftener any or all of you visit us here at Viamede, the better." "And please understand that we all echo in our hearts the sentiments just expressed by our mother," supplemented Violet in her sprightly way. "Yes," laughed the captain; "I can vouch for the correctness of my wife's strange and strong assertion." "And I," added Harold, "join with my brother physician in recommending for the health, as well as present enjoyment of us all, the taking of an unlimited number of these delightful excursions by land and water." "Now let's follow that good prescription," laughed Elsie Dinsmore, and the other young people received the suggestion with clapping of hands and words of most decided approval. A merry, enjoyable fortnight followed before the expected increase in their numbers, during which Cousin Ronald often entertained them with exhibitions of his skill as a ventriloquist. It did not mystify and puzzle them as it had done when they first made his acquaintance, but, nevertheless, was the exciting cause of much mirth and hilarity. Especially when there happened to be some neighbor present who was ignorant of the old gentleman's peculiar talent; and that often made the call of such casual acquaintances the more desirable and welcome. The relatives from Magnolia Hall, Torriswood and the Parsonage were often visitors at Viamede, sitting with its family on the veranda in the afternoons and evenings, and quite frequently callers, more or less intimate, would be there with them; and if Mr. Lilburn felt in the mood or was urged by one or more of the young folks of the family to try his skill, he would kindly do so. Early one evening, when the gathering was larger than usual, Ned crept to Cousin Ronald's side and whispered in his ear an urgent request for a bit of the fun he alone could make. "Perhaps, sonny boy, if an idea comes to me," replied the old gentleman in the same low key. "Go back now to your mother and be quiet and easy for your health's sake." Ned obeyed, and leaning on his mother's lap, with her arm around him, listened eagerly for he hardly knew exactly what. Presently a voice was heard, seemingly coming from a clump of bushes not far away, "Ladies and gentlemen, young folks too, what good times you're having! While I'm but a poor fellow, wandering and homeless in a strange land, no roof to cover me, no bed to sleep in, and nothing to eat. Ah, woe's me! What can I do but lie down and die?" "No, you needn't," called out Ned. "Go round to the kitchen and ask politely for something to eat, and you'll get it." "I don't believe they'd give me a bite. I'm not a beggar, either, an' to take to that trade wad be worse nor dying an honest, upright, self-supporting man." "Why, who is it, and what does he want?" queried one of Viamede's visitors in tones of surprise and disgust. "Let's go down and see; give him some money, if he'll take it, to buy himself some supper and pay for a night's lodging," said another guest, jumping up and moving toward the veranda steps. "Tell him we will give him something to eat--send it out there to him, if he wishes," said Grandma Elsie, speaking very soberly, though she felt pretty certain they would find no one there. The lads hurried down to the bushes that seemed to hide the stranger, and Ned clapped his hands in ecstasy over the idea that they had been so easily and completely duped. "They'll be greatly surprised and disappointed," said Elsie Dinsmore, "and it's almost too bad, for they seem very kind-hearted and ready to help one in distress." The other young folks were laughing in an amused way. "And it was just you, Cousin Ronald, wasn't it?" asked Elsie Raymond. "Why, what a strange idea!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "I haven't been down there on the lawn for hours." "But maybe your voice has," laughed Elsie. "Oh, here they come to tell us about it," exclaimed Alie Leland, as the lads were seen hurrying back in a very excited way. "There's nobody there!" cried one. "We searched all about and couldn't find a soul." "No, indeed, we couldn't, and it's very mysterious, I think," added the other. "Looks as if he'd run off before you got there," said Ned. "He couldn't. There wasn't time," panted the foremost lad as they came up the steps of the veranda. "Well, then, it's his own fault if he misses getting something to eat," said Ned, trying hard to keep from laughing. "Strange how blind some folks are," remarked the same strange voice, seeming now close to the veranda, and followed by a profound sigh. "Why, there he is again, and nearer than before!" cried one of the lads who had been trying to find him, and both peered eagerly over the railing; but to their evident astonishment, could see no one. "Dear me, where in the world is he?" exclaimed again the boy who had first spoken. "His voice sounded even nearer than before and yet he's nowhere to be seen." "Oh, let's look under the veranda," suggested the other. "Perhaps he may have crept in there." "Oh, yes, if Mrs. Travilla is willing," returned his companion. "I have no objection," she said pleasantly, and they proceeded to look, but soon announced that there was no one to be found there. "And it certainly isn't worth your while to take such trouble to find so good for naught a scamp," returned Mr. Lilburn in his natural voice. "I wadna try it any more, lads." "Ha, ha, ha. I knew you couldn't find me!" laughed the invisible speaker, the voice this time apparently coming from the roof of the veranda. "Well," cried Ned, "how in the world did he get up there? What a famous climber he must be!" At that the mystified stranger boys hurried down the veranda steps again and some little distance down the path leading across the grounds from the front of the dwelling, turned there and stood looking up at the veranda's roof. "Why, there's nothing and nobody there!" they exclaimed breathlessly as they hurried back again. "It certainly is a most mysterious thing," panted one. "How a fellow could be so close by and then disappear so suddenly and completely I can't imagine." "Well, well, lads, such a slippery ne'er-do-weel isna worth worrying about," said Mr. Lilburn. "And we needna trouble oursel's if he goes hungry." "But I should be sorry indeed to have any of my guests do that," said Grandma Elsie as just at that moment servants appeared carrying silver salvers laden with fruit and cakes. That seemed a welcome interruption to even the sorely puzzled stranger boys, and when that feasting was over the captain called for music, and his wife, going to the piano, played "Yankee Doodle" with variations, then "Star-Spangled Banner," in the singing of which all joined heartily. Just as the last strain died away the strange voice was heard again from the far end of the veranda. "That's a grand old song. Just the kind for every American to sing, whether he's rich or poor." "Oh, there he is again!" cried the stranger lads, springing to their feet and looking eagerly in the direction of the sounds. "But just as invisible as ever," gasped one. "How on earth does he manage to disappear so quickly?" At that there was a half-suppressed titter among the young folks of the house, while Mr. Lilburn said in his own natural tones, "Tut, tut, young fellows; I'd pay no attention to him. He isn't worth minding." "No, indeed," said Dr. Harold, "he isn't, and wouldn't attempt to harm any one of us, even if he wanted to, as we are so many and he but one." "No," said the voice, "I'm not worth minding, not at all dangerous, for I wouldn't hurt anybody if I wanted to, and wouldn't dare do it if I had sic a wicked inclination." "Well, sir, it's very, very queer how you can be so plainly heard and not seen at all," remarked one of the puzzled young fellows. Then pulling out his watch, "But it's high time for me to go home now." "For me, too," said his companion, and bidding good-night to their hostess and the company, they went away together. "Good! They didn't find out anything," chuckled Ned when they were beyond hearing. Then began plans for the next day's outing, and conjectures as to when they might look for the expected addition to this Viamede party from their more northern homes. That was brought about in a few days, and added pleasure to their picnics, excursions and family gatherings at Torriswood, Magnolia Hall, the Parsonage and Viamede itself. CHAPTER XV To Lucilla it seemed hard to part for some months, just after the wedding, from her darling sister Grace, from Elsie and Ned also, to say nothing of Harold and his lovely mother; and for the fortnight or more that elapsed before the other company left she clung very closely to her father and Max, not neglecting Violet either. But when they also were gone she gave herself more unreservedly to Eva and Baby Mary, enjoying them keenly through the day while business claimed Chester's attention, then him in the evenings and early mornings until he must hie away to his office in Uniontown. During the time that elapsed between the departure of the first and second party of relatives and friends to the South there was an almost daily exchange of visits with the Oaks and Fairview families, those at Ion also, and it was a joy to know that they--the Ion people--were not to flit with the others, and that the Roseland and Beechwood friends had planned to remain at home through the winter also; and particularly that Drs. Arthur Conly and Herbert Travilla were evidently intending to do likewise, except as they travelled about the adjacent country in the practice of their profession. And the Ion family--Edward Travilla, his wife and children--having visited Viamede only the year before, were expecting to spend their winter at their own home; and Zoe, with kind-hearted concern for Evelyn and Lucilla, made frequent little visits to Sunnyside, which she urgently invited them to return; and they did so when there were no other more important calls upon their time and the weather was suitable for little Mary to be taken out; for to both mother and aunt she seemed too dear and precious to be left behind. Then there was the pleasant task of the daily correspondence with their nearest and dearest of absent relatives and friends--Eva with her husband, father-in-law and Violet, Lucilla with her father, brother and sister. How delightful it was to get their letters. How eagerly they both watched for the coming of the daily mail. Lucilla sadly missed her morning strolls with her father about the grounds; yet not so much as she might have done at another season of the year, for it was often too cold and stormy for such rambles even had he been there; and she would console herself with writing to him what she might have said with her tongue had he been there to listen to her loving, daughterly confidences and expressions of affection. And she could seek his wise counsels and receive them in his answering epistle. So she strove to be patient and content, rejoicing in the glad hope that the separation was to be for but a few short months. "And," she would say to herself, "how much better off I am than poor, dear Eva, my husband coming home every night, while hers is to be gone for weeks or months." Eva sorely missed her absent husband, but the darling baby daughter was a great joy and comfort. So passed January, February and March, and with the coming in of April Eva and Lucilla rejoiced in the thought that in a few weeks the dear ones now at Viamede would be returning to their more northern homes, as were the Ion folks, the kith and kin, or those left in charge, at the Oaks, Fairview, Beechwood, Roselands, the Laurels and Riverside. Dr. Arthur Conly and his Marian, strongly attached to each other, and almost idolizing their baby boy, were an ideally happy pair, and Roselands had grown even more lovely than it was in earlier days. As they were about to leave the breakfast table one fair April morning a ring from the telephone bell summoned the doctor to make a prompt call at Sunnyside. He replied that he would be there as soon as possible, which would be in a few minutes, his gig being already at the door. Turning about, he found his wife close at his side. "I must set off at once for Sunnyside," he said; "Lucilla is ill. Will you go along?" "Yes, indeed. She has been such a dear, kind friend to me that I love her as if she were my own sister. And we can safely trust our darling Ronald for an hour or two to the care of his nurse." "With perfect safety. She is his devoted slave," laughed the doctor. So the two set off at once on their errand of mercy and loving kindness. They found Chester at home, Dr. Herbert Travilla already there, Lucilla in bed, suffering but patient, Zoe from Ion and Ella from Beechwood already there to do what they could for her, and Eva passing in and out, anxious to do all in her power, yet not willing to neglect Baby Mary. An hour or two later a baby boy was gently laid down by Lucilla's side. "Your son, dearest," Chester said in rapturous tones; "the little Levis Raymond we have been hoping for." "Oh, how glad I am!" she cried. "My father's first grandson, and bearing his name. Baby dear, you shall be your mother's Ray of Sunshine. Oh, how I want to show you to my father, your grandfather." "There, love," Chester said, giving her a kiss of ardent affection, "that will do; don't talk any more now, lest you wear yourself out." "That is good advice, Cousin Lu, and I hope you will follow it," said Dr. Conly. "You must take care of yourself now for the sake of your husband and son." "I will," she answered; "but, oh, Chester, send father word as soon as you can." "Dearest," he said with a happy laugh, "I have already done so. Before leaving us he charged me not to delay a moment to let him know if you were taken ill; to send word promptly, and I have obeyed." "And he will soon be here to see this, his first grandson! I am so glad I could give him one," she exclaimed in tones of delight. "As I am," responded Chester. "But, love, don't talk any more just now, but try for a nap such as the tiny newcomer seems to be taking." "I will, if only to please and satisfy you, my dear husband," she returned with a happy little laugh, and almost instantly passed into the land of dreams, while Chester softly withdrew from the room, leaving her in the charge of a skilful, trustworthy nurse. He found Eva with her baby and Marian and the doctors on the front veranda. "You are looking very happy, Chester," laughed Dr. Herbert; "almost as if you had fallen into a fortune since I came here this morning." "Pretty much as I feel," returned Chester, his countenance telling more of joy and thankfulness than his tongue. "Lu has fallen into a comfortable sleep," he went on. "The little newcomer seems to be as welcome to her as to me." "And I think my wife and I can fully appreciate her and your joy over him," said Dr. Conly, exchanging an affectionate, smiling glance with his Marian. "The 'phone has already carried the news to all our relatives in this neighborhood and brought pleased and congratulatory replies," said Herbert; "and you 'phoned her father, did you not, Chester?" "Yes," replied Chester; "and there, no doubt, comes his response," he added, as the ringing of his telephone bell was heard at that moment, "so now we may learn how he feels about it," and he hastened to the instrument, the others following, all eager to learn what the message from the absent dear ones might be. The captain's own breathed of thankfulness and ardent parental love for his dear daughter, who, he hoped, would soon be well and strong. He was glad to have a grandson, and appreciated the naming of the child for him. "A most kind, affectionate message," remarked Chester, with a sigh of satisfaction as he turned from the instrument to Eva and the others. "Lu will be pleased when I tell her what her father says. How she does love and cling to him! I am glad, indeed, that we may hope to see him and all the party here again in a few weeks." "So am I," said Dr. Conly; "and in the meantime we will do our best to bring Lu safely on to her usual robust health and strength." "And to have her son in like flourishing condition," added Dr. Herbert with genial look and smile directed to the father of the little lad. CHAPTER XVI Captain Raymond was sitting alone in the library at Viamede, busily engaged in examining and answering letters received by that morning's mail when the telephone brought him Chester's message in regard to Lucilla--her illness and the birth of their little son. It was news of deepest interest and importance to the loving, anxious father. He answered at once, then went out into the grounds to seek his wife, who, with Elsie and Ned, had remained at home while the rest of their party and neighbor friends had gone off on various excursions by land or water. Ned was not yet strong enough to be continually on the go, and his parents and sister had elected to stay at home with him on this occasion. Violet was now sitting under the orange-trees with a child on each side, who were listening with keen interest to a story which she was reading to them. She paused at the sound of her husband's footsteps, and looking up into his face laughingly exclaimed, "Why, how happy you look, my dear! Have you good news?" "Yes, love," he replied. "I have a grandson; and mother and child seem to be doing well." "Oh, papa! a grandson. Why, whose baby is it? Another for Eva?" queried Elsie in great excitement. "No; it is your sister Lu who is the mother this time, and Chester is its father." "Oh, a dear little boy! I wish we were there to see him," cried Ned. "I hope to take you there in a few weeks," returned his father with a pleased smile. "We won't delay much longer, for I should really like a sight of the little fellow myself." "As I certainly should," said Violet. "Dear Lu! I have no doubt she is very happy over it. And they have named him for you, haven't they, Levis?" "Yes, my dear; for me, his only living grandsire," returned the captain, tone and accompanying smile both showing the pleasure he felt in being thus affectionately remembered by both parents of the little one. "Yes, so you are; and I should have been exceedingly surprised had they given the child any other name; for Lu loves you with all her heart, and Chester seems to feel quite as if you were his own father." "I believe that is so," returned the captain, his tone and countenance expressing satisfaction. "I am fortunate as concerns sons-in-law, except in the mixture of relationship in the gaining of the last, and that seems to work well enough thus far." "I think it does, and it has ceased to trouble me," said Violet. "But this news makes me feel like hurrying home to Woodburn, and I am sure will have that effect upon Grace when she hears it." "I dare say," assented the captain; "and I think we need not linger here longer than another fortnight." "I am so glad," cried Grace when she heard the news. "Lu wanted to give you your first grandson, and now she has got her wish." "I fully appreciate the affection which prompted the wish, and am glad, especially for her sake, that it has been granted," returned the captain with a look that said even more than the words. "As I am," said Dr. Harold; "especially as I know that it was Chester's wish as much as hers." The Torriswood folk had come in with the Travillas, and now expressed their gratification at the news. "A little nephew for us," exclaimed Maud. "And I am glad for Chester as well as Lu, as it seems he wanted it; but I'm glad our baby is a girl that we could name for dear Cousin Elsie," giving a warmly loving look to Grandma Elsie as she spoke. "As I am," said her husband, adding, "and I only hope that a close resemblance in both looks and character may accompany the name." "As I do in regard to my little darling," said Sidney and Dr. Johnson, speaking simultaneously; then they laughed, and Sidney added, "I shall write to the happy parents, offering my warm congratulations." "And I shall do likewise," said Maud, "telling them I am glad I am aunt to the wonderful little chap." "And I shall write to Lu that she may consider me both his cousin and his grandma," laughed Violet. "Oh, mamma," exclaimed her daughter Elsie, "you know I don't like to have you called a grandma. It sounds as if you were old, and you are not at all old." "Well, dear child, you needn't mind. It won't make me a day older," laughed Violet. "Nor me, although it would seem to make me a great-grandmother," added Grandma Elsie pleasantly. "While no one would suspect you from your looks of being even a grandmother," remarked the captain gallantly. "No," said Dr. Percival; "I have seen many much younger women who looked a great deal older." "Oh, Dick, Dick, Cousin Dick, don't turn flatterer," she laughed, though looking not at all displeased. "Though I am not very sorry to hear such flattering remarks, as they are evidently pleasing to my children." "Indeed they are," said Violet; "all the more so because we see that they are perfectly truthful." "Well, it is high time that we busy doctors and proposed letter writers were going home," said Dr. Percival, rising to take leave. "Yes," said Maud, following his example, "especially as Elsie P. and Elsie J. must be wanting their mothers by this time." "So we are off for Torriswood," said Sidney. "Good-by, dear friends and relatives, till next time. We hope to have this call returned this evening or to-morrow morning," and with that the four took their departure. "And I must write at once to dear Lu a letter of warm congratulation," said Grace, following her father into the library, and being herself followed by Dr. Harold, announcing his intention to do likewise. They were all letters which, when received by Lucilla, seemed to her very sweet and refreshing, her father's even more so than either of the other two. But before they reached her she and Chester had had several messages from him by telegram or telephone. And all these were shared with Evelyn, Lucilla's constant, loved companion and dear sister. Most of them also by the nearby friends and relatives, whose love and sympathy were shown by almost daily calls and hours of pleasant intercourse. No one came oftener or showed more sympathy and kindness than Zoe, Mrs. Edward Travilla. "I am glad for you, Lu, that your baby is a boy, since that was what you wanted," she remarked to Lucilla one day; "but for my part, if I have another child I hope it may be a girl, so that I can name it for mamma. She is and has always been such a dear, kind mother to me." "Yes, she is certainly one of the dearest and sweetest of women," responded Lucilla heartily; "but there are so many Elsies that it really seems a little confusing. I believe I should rather like to have one myself if that were not the case," she added laughingly, "for I do dearly love Grandma Elsie, as I have been used to calling her. My, what a mixed-up set we are becoming! For, as you know, she is mother now to my sister Grace." "Who, to my delight, is my sister now, since she is the wife of my husband's brother," returned Zoe exultingly. "And mine, since I am the wife of her brother," laughed Evelyn. "Oh, we are a mixed-up set, but perhaps none the less happy and well off for that." "No, I think not," said Zoe. "And I am quite sure of it," said Lucilla; "and as my husband is a distant relative of yours, Zoe, you and I can claim kin, can't we?" "Yes, and we will. We will call ourselves cousins from this time forward." "And as my Aunt Elsie, Grandma Elsie's oldest daughter, is sister to your husband, can't you and I claim kin, Zoe?" asked Evelyn. "Certainly," promptly replied Zoe; "we will consider ourselves cousins now." "So we will; it is a very comfortable way to settle matters," laughed Evelyn. "We have been calling you Aunt Zoe, but you are too young for that, and we have been growing up to you in age." "So you have. Well, how soon do you expect our kith and kin to come from Viamede to their more northern homes?" "Father says in two or three weeks," replied Lucilla, "and I hope I shall be allowed to sit up by that time. Oh, you don't know how I long to show him my little Ray of Sunshine!" she added, gently patting the sleeping babe by her side. "Oh, both Chester and I want very much to have him resemble his grandfather, my dear father, in looks, character and everything." "As I hope and believe he will," said Zoe in tones of sympathy and encouragement. CHAPTER XVII At Viamede, Chester's daily message by 'phone or telegraph was eagerly awaited and greatly rejoiced over, as it reported steady improvement in Lucilla's health, constant gaining in strength, and the new baby also in most flourishing condition. All wanted to see him; no one more than Grace, who felt that the child of her beloved only own sister must and would be very near and dear to her, while to the others he was fully as near and dear as darling Baby Mary. They would have returned home immediately but for the fact that Dr. Harold and his brother physicians considered it safer for both Grace and Ned to remain in the warmer climate until some day late in May. The older Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and the Oaks and Fairview families went home somewhat earlier, travelling by rail, but Mr. and Mrs. Lilburn accepted an invitation to return in the _Dolphin_, as did Grandma Elsie; and, of course, Grace and Harold were to be passengers in her, making with Violet, her two children, and the captain himself quite a party--much the same party that had come in her. During these weeks of waiting they continued their pleasant little excursions by land and water and their sociable evening parties on the veranda, or out under the trees, generally enlivened by exhibitions of Cousin Ronald's ventriloquial skill, or made interesting by a bit of history or some sort of story told by Captain Raymond. On Sunday mornings they all attended church and heard a sermon by their pastor, the Rev. Cyril Keith, and in the afternoon the colored people were invited to assemble on the lawn, when the captain would give them a brief and plain discourse about the dear Lord Jesus and His dying love, making the way of salvation very clear and plain. They would have prayer, too, and the singing of gospel hymns, the colored people joining in with fervor and in many cases rich melody, having beautiful voices. In the evening the captain would catechise his own children, and there would be religious conversation and the singing of hymns. They were sweet, peaceful, improving Sabbaths, enjoyable at the time and pleasant to look back upon. It was on a lovely morning in the latter part of May that they left beautiful Viamede and sailed away for their more northern homes, going with mingled feelings of joy and sorrow, for who could leave Viamede or part with the dear relatives in that region without regret? Or who could fail to rejoice in the prospect of soon seeing the sweet homes for which they were now bound and the tenderly loved ones there? Harold was very happy in the consciousness of being able to take both Grace and Ned back to their home in almost perfect health, and very careful was he to watch against any exposure for them to wind or weather that might result in the renewal of any of their ailments. When the weather was bright, clear and not too cold he encouraged them to be on the deck in the bracing air, but in cloudy or damp weather insisted on their remaining below in saloon or stateroom. At such times Grandma Elsie, Cousin Ronald or the captain would be called upon to provide entertainment, and one or another was sure to comply. "Papa," said Elsie Raymond on one of these occasions, "I should like it very much if you would give us a little history of Texas." "If I should attempt to give you all its history it would be a very long story," he said with a smile; "but I shall give a brief outline and try to make it interesting, for I want you to have some knowledge of the early history of each of our States. "A colony of Frenchmen were the first whites who settled in Texas. They were led by La Salle. He meant to found a colony near the mouth of the Mississippi, but by mistake entered Matagorda Bay, went five or six miles up the Lavaca, and there built Fort St. Louis. That was about the year 1686. In the spring of the next year he was murdered by his men. They had been quarrelling and killing each other, and when the Indians heard of the death of La Salle they attacked the fort and killed all the men left but four, whom they carried into captivity. Some two years later a Spanish expedition sailed into Matagorda Bay, intending to drive away the French, but found they were gone and their fort destroyed. A few years afterward several settlements were made in that State--what is now that State--by the Spaniards, but soon abandoned because of Indian hostilities. "It seems that both the Spaniards and French considered the province their own, though it did not really belong to either of them, for the Indians were the rightful owners. In 1712, Louis XIV. of France granted it to Crozat, the man to whom he had granted Louisiana. That so alarmed the Spaniards in Mexico that they promptly made numerous settlements in Texas, thinking in that way to secure the province for themselves. The French tried to expel them, but did not succeed. "Some years later four hundred families were sent by the Spanish Government from the Canary Isles to Texas, and joined there by others from Mexico. These founded the city of San Antonio. "For some time the Indians of Texas and Louisiana were very troublesome, but in 1732 the Spaniards defeated them in a great battle, and so quieted them for some years. "You know our Revolutionary War began in 1775. Spain declared war against England in 1779 and carried on active hostilities against the British on the Mississippi. Then a prosperous trade was carried on between the Spanish settlement of Natchez, in Mississippi, and the interior of Texas, and became the means of making that province known to the Americans. "After the United States came into possession of Louisiana, a treaty between them and Spain fixed the Sabine River as the eastern boundary of Texas upon the gulf. West of that river was a tract called the Neutral Ground, occupied by bands of outlaws and desperate men, who lived by robbery and plunder. The Spanish authorities had tried to expel them, but could not. Our government sent a force against them and drove them away, but they came back and went on with their robberies. "About that time a civil war was raging in Mexico, and that favored the plans of a man who wanted to conquer Texas to the Rio Grande and establish a republican government. There was a good deal of fighting and much slaughter of both Americans and Spaniards, the latter being victors in the end; but I shall not go into particulars at this time, but leave you young people to read the whole sad story when you are older. For years it was fighting, wounding, killing, the Mexicans murdering many Americans in cold blood after they had surrendered as prisoners of war. But at last the independence of Texas was secured. And after a little she asked to be annexed to the United States, which request was finally granted. By a joint resolution of Congress she was annexed to the Union on February 28, 1845." "She seceded in the time of the Civil War, did she not, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes," he replied; "but was readmitted into the Union in March, 1870." "Texas is a very big State, isn't it, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes, the largest of all our States," he replied; "and it has every variety of surface--plain, mountain, hill and desert. Its coast is lined with a chain of low islands, forming a series of bays, lagoons and sounds. There are a number of rivers, several of them very long; 1800 miles is the length of the Rio Grande, which is the largest of them. It forms the southwestern boundary. There is a salt lake near it, from which large quantities of salt are taken every year." "The climate is warm, is it not, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes," he said; "it claims to be called the Italy of America. It has a delightful, unwavering summer sea breeze and the nights are always cool enough to make a blanket acceptable, even when the day has been oppressively hot. But now that surely is enough of that one State for to-day." "Yes, papa, and many thanks to you for giving us so interesting an account," said Grace. Elsie and Ned added their thanks, then Elsie took up a book, and Ned went to his berth for a nap. CHAPTER XVIII Grandma Elsie, Violet and Grace were all sewing on some delicate pink silk material, trimming it with bows of ribbon of the same color and duchess lace. Young Elsie presently drew near and asked what they were making. "Guess," laughed her mother. "What does it look like?" "As if it might be going to be a baby afghan," ventured the little girl. "Oh, is it one for Sister Lu's new baby?" "It is," returned her mother; "you must indeed be a bit of a Yankee to guess so well." "I believe I am, as papa says he is one," replied Elsie. "I hope it will be as pretty as the one you made for Baby Mary's carriage. Oh, are you going to give little Ray a carriage, too?" "Yes, indeed; we must do all for him that we did for his little cousin." "But you use different colors, so that they will always know which is which, don't you, mamma?" "Yes, for that reason and because of the different complexions of the two children. Mary is fair, golden haired and has blue eyes, while Ray has his mother's dark eyes and hair." "Oh, yes, and I think it's nice that they differ in that way, and really suppose one is just about as pretty as the other. Anyhow, I expect to think so, because I'm aunt to both of them." "That's right," laughed her mother; "be as impartial as you can." "Mary we know to be a dear little thing, whom no one with any heart could help loving," said Grandma Elsie, "and I am pretty certain we will find Ray equally lovable." "And isn't he some relation to you, grandma?" asked Elsie. "Yes, through his father, who is a Dinsmore--a cousin of mine. Lucilla's married name is the same as was my maiden name." "And Lu is my sister, and that makes me aunt to the dear little fellow, just as I am to Brother Max's little daughter. I think it's nice to be aunt to such dear babies." From that time on Elsie watched with great interest the work of getting the little coach quite ready for its intended baby owner, which was entirely completed before the _Dolphin_ reached the dock at Uniontown. Meantime, great preparations for the coming of her passengers had been going on at Woodburn, Ion, the Laurels, Riverside, Fairview, Roselands, Sunnyside and Beechwood. Nearly all the relatives from those places met them on the landing, ready to convey them to their homes, or wherever they might want to go. But that was to Woodburn for all, the captain told them, great preparations having been made there, by his orders sent on some days previously, for a grand welcoming feast. The Woodburn and Sunnyside carriages were in waiting, were entered as soon as the glad greetings had been exchanged, and all went on their way rejoicing. Lucilla, now quite able to be up and about, was there in the library, with her babe sleeping in a crib by her side. She would stay there, she told Eva, who, with her baby, sat there with her; that she would want her father to come to her there and see her and Ray alone before she should meet the others. "I want a private interview first, if only for five minutes," she said. "Then I shall be ready and glad to see the others." "I shall see that it is as you wish, dear sister," said Evelyn, and she kept her word. The captain met her and Baby Mary as he stepped upon the veranda, gave a warm embrace to each, then sent a hurried glance around, evidently in search of Lucilla. "Sister Lu wants to see you alone first, father, and show you her baby boy--your first grandson--with no one else to look on," Evelyn said with a smile. "She is in the library waiting for you." "Ah, yes, that is well," he said, and hastened there while the others were still engaged in the exchange of greetings. As he entered Lucilla started to her feet with a glad cry, "Oh, father, father, my own dear father!" He caught her in his arms and held her fast, caressing her with exceeding tenderness. "My darling, my own dear, dear child. God be thanked that I come home to find you here, restored to usual health and strength." "And you, father? You are well?" she asked, looking lovingly into his eyes. "Quite well, daughter mine," he answered with another tender caress, "and if I were not, the sight of this dear child of mine would be almost enough to make me so." "And the sight of your new grandchild, your first grandson, might help the cure, might it not?" she answered with a proud, joyful glance directed at the tiny sleeper in the crib. "Ah, what a darling!" her father said, releasing her and leaning over the crib. "His grandfather's heart has wide room in it for him. He is a beautiful babe in his grandsire's eyes, a dear one to his grandfather's heart. I feel very rich with two lovely grandchildren." "May I come in?" asked Violet's voice at the door. "Oh, yes, indeed, Mamma Vi," answered Lucilla in joyous tones. "How glad I am to have you at home again," she added as they exchanged a hearty embrace. "Now come and look at my baby boy, my little Ray of Sunshine, from Sunnyside," she added with a gleeful laugh. Violet's expressed admiration was quite equal to the mother's wishes. "Oh, he is a lovely little fellow!" she exclaimed, leaning over the crib as his grandfather had done; "and it's so fortunate that it is a boy, so that now we have both granddaughter and grandson." Just then Grace's voice at the door asked, "May I come in?" "Indeed you may!" cried Lucilla, running to meet her with delighted look and outstretched arms. "Oh, Gracie dear, how I have been longing for you, to see your dear face and show you my new treasure, my son and your nephew. Come and look at him." The words were accompanied by an ardent embrace each to the other, then Lucilla drew Grace to the side of the crib, the captain and Violet making room for her there, and bending over it she exclaimed, "Oh, Lu, what a darling, beautiful little fellow! As pretty, as lovely and sweet looking as Max and Eva's little Mary, whom we all love so dearly." Just then other voices were heard at the door, asking permission to enter, familiar voices--those of Dr. Harold, Elsie and Ned--and it being granted, the children rushed in, the doctor following with the baby carriage that had been trimmed on board the _Dolphin_. "A gift for that young gentleman from his loving grandsire, Mrs. Dinsmore," he announced with a graceful bow to Lucilla. "Oh," she cried, clapping her hands in delight, "what a beauty! Thank you, father dear, and you, too, Mamma Vi, and Sister Grace, for the beautiful work is yours, I know. Oh, how good and kind you all are to me and my baby boy!" She was gloating over the pretty little vehicle and its adornment as she spoke. "What lovely lace and ribbons, the colors exactly such as will show off to the best advantage my baby boy's complexion, hair and eyes. It is a delightful surprise, for I was not expecting anything of the kind." "I am very glad it pleases you, my dear daughter," her father said, with his own kind smile, and laying a hand affectionately upon her shoulder. "As I am," said Violet; "and I want you to know that mamma helped largely with the work of trimming the little coach. Your baby boy is related to her, she says." "Yes, and I am glad to know it," smiled Lucilla; "and glad that my marriage gives me some small claim to relationship to her. No one could have a right to claim it to a better, lovelier, dearer person." "That is true, daughter," the captain said with emotion. At that moment Chester came in with a pleased and cordial welcome to the returned travellers, and presently all went out together to join the others--returned travellers, dear relatives and welcome guests. To Grandma Elsie Lucilla gave the warmest of greetings and thanks for her share in trimming the lovely little coach for her baby boy. "You are very welcome, my dear; it was a labor of love," was the gentle-spoken, smiling response. There were hearty greetings, loving caresses, merry jests and happy laughter. No one was weary, for voyaging in Captain Raymond's well-conditioned, well-furnished yacht was no strain upon the physical nature; his late passengers were, therefore, in prime condition, as were the other guests, coming from luxurious homes and not weary and worn with toil beyond their strength. But soon came the call to the hospitable board, laden with all the luxuries of the land and season, to which they brought good, healthful appetites and where were enjoyed also to the full the pleasures of social intercourse between those nearly related and of similar views and temperament. And that last went on after they had left the table for parlors and porches. But at length the guests began to bid adieu until all had departed except the Sunnyside folk, who still sat on the veranda with the immediate Woodburn family. The babies were both awake now, each resting on its mother's lap or in her arms. "I feel very rich with two such grandchildren," observed the captain, glancing with a happy smile from one to the other. "As we do, though they are not our grandchildren," laughed Chester. "Don't we, Lu and Eva?" Both ladies replied in the affirmative, each looking down with intense, joyful affection upon her little one. "I should think you might, because they are both so pretty, sweet and good," remarked their young aunt Elsie. "Of course they are, and I'm glad to be their uncle," said Ned. "As I am to be yours," said Dr. Harold, drawing him to a seat upon his knee. "Are you glad to be at home again?" "Yes, sir; and glad that you are to live here in our house now, instead of taking Gracie away from us to some other place." "I should be sorry, indeed, to take her away from you and the rest of the family here, and I don't think I shall ever carry her off very far from you and the others who love her so dearly," replied Harold; "but you wouldn't mind my going, if I left her behind with you, would you?" "Why of course I should, uncle doctor. I might get sick again and perhaps die if I hadn't you to cure me." "Oh, that needn't follow while you have your other uncles--my brother Herbert and Dr. Arthur Conly. Either of them would be as likely to succeed in curing you as I." "By the blessing of God upon their efforts," said the captain. "But without that no one could succeed." "Most true, sir, and I did not mean to ignore that undeniable and important fact," said Dr. Harold. "I never use a remedy without craving His blessing upon it, and I desire to give to Him all the glory and the praise." "Yes, we know you do, brother dear," said Violet, "and that is why we are so ready to trust our dear ones to your care when they are ill." "And please understand that I was not doubting that or your knowledge or skill," added Captain Raymond with most cordial look and tone. Just then a colored man was seen coming up the driveway with two little monkeys in his arms. "Oh," cried the children in delighted chorus, "there are our tee-tees. Ajax has brought them from Ion." And they ran to meet him, holding out their arms to their pets. "Yaas, little massa and missus, I'se brung um, an' I reckon dey's glad to come," returned Ajax, loosening his hold, when the little fellows sprang from his arms to those of their young master and mistress, who at once carried them up into the veranda and exhibited them with great pride and pleasure, while the captain stepped down to the side of Ajax and rewarded him liberally for the service done; thanking him, too, and bidding him carry warm thanks to those who had cared for the little animals and returned them in prime condition. "We are so glad to get them back, the dear, funny little fellows," remarked Elsie to Lucilla and Evelyn; "and they will make fun for our little nephew and niece when they are old enough to understand and enjoy it." "Thank you, Elsie dear," returned Eva with her own sweet smile. "You are very kind, Sister Elsie, to begin so soon to think of amusement for our babies," laughed Lucilla, "and I hope you and Ned may be able to keep your monkeys alive and well till they are old enough to enjoy them." "Yes, indeed, I hope so," responded Elsie. "I want both Mary and Ray to have lots of fun when they are old enough for it." "Yes," said Dr. Harold, "I am always in favor of timely, innocent fun as a great promoter of health." "Yes," said Lucilla, "'laugh and grow fat' is an old adage, and we'll try to have our babies do it, won't we, Eva?" "I certainly intend to do all I can to make my darling bit lassie both healthy and happy," returned Evelyn, looking down with a tender, loving smile at the little one on her knee. "But fun and frolic need not fill up all the time. There is a quiet kind of happiness that would be better as a steady diet, I think, than constant frolic and fun. I hope she will be a contented little body, for there is much truth and wisdom in that other old adage, 'Contentment is better than wealth.'" Both Violet and the captain expressed warm approval of her sentiments, as did Lucilla, Chester and Dr. Harold also. "But I'd like to have some fun now with our tee-tees," said Ned, stroking and patting his as he held it in his arms. "I wish we had Max or Cousin Ronald here to make them talk." "I'd wish so, too, if it would do any good," said Elsie. "No," laughed Lucilla, "it wouldn't, and I am reminded of the old saying, 'If wishes were horses, then beggars might ride.'" "As you two are so glad to get your tee-tees back again, don't you feel sorry for Lily and Laurie, that they had to part with them?" asked Violet. "Yes, mamma," replied Ned, "I do; but they have had them a good while." "I'm sorry for them," Elsie said in a regretful tone, "and I wish we could buy them tee-tees or something else that they'd like just as well." "Perhaps we can," said their father. "We will think about it." "Oh, papa, I'm glad to hear you say that," she said in joyous tones, "for I do feel sorry for them." "And so do I," said Ned; "sorry enough to give all the pocket money I have now to buy them something nice." CHAPTER XIX At Ion was now gathered as pleasant a family party as that now in session at Woodburn. Grandma Elsie was there with her father and his wife, her son Edward with Zoe, his wife, and their two children, the twins Laurie and Lily, Ion being their home. Herbert and Walter were also present, and all the Fairview folk; for Mrs. Elsie Leland wanted a chat on family affairs and relatives with her mother, whom, until to-day, she had not seen for several weeks; such a chat as they could not well take in the larger company of relatives and friends whose society they had just been enjoying at Woodburn. And Mr. Leland and his little daughters had naturally accompanied the wife and mother, knowing that they were always welcome guests at Ion. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, the older ones in a quiet, cheerful way, the younger ones, gathered in a separate group at the farther end of the veranda, with a good deal of fun and frolic until Ajax was seen coming round the corner of the house with the two little tee-tees in his arms and passing down the driveway in the direction of the front entrance to the grounds. "Ajax, what are you doing with those little monkeys? Where are you taking them?" cried Lily, hurrying down the steps and running after him. "Ober to Woodburn, where dey b'long, Miss Lily," he answered, pausing in his walk and turning toward her. "Oh, I wish you wouldn't. I was most in hopes they'd let us keep them. They are such funny little fellows, I don't like to give them up." "But I'se tole to take 'em dar, an' I'se got to do it," replied Ajax in a regretful tone. "I'll fetch 'em back hyar ef de Woodburn folks 'low me to." "But they won't. They'll be sure to keep them if they're there," sobbed the little girl, tears rolling down her cheeks. But even as she spoke a hand was laid gently on her shoulder, and her father's voice said in kindest tones, "Don't cry, daughter dear. We must let the tee-tees go home to their owners, but you and Laurie shall have other pets in place of them. I have a pretty Maltese kitten bought for you and a fine dog for your brother. Come back to the veranda and these new pets shall be brought out." "Oh, papa, how nice! Thank you ever so much!" cried Lily, brushing away her tears and putting her hand in his to be led back to the veranda, where the new pets were speedily produced, to the evident delight of the young owners and the admiration of their guests. And when Ajax returned with Captain Raymond's kindly expressed thanks, Lily's grief seemed fully assuaged. The older people, who had paused in their more important conversation to observe what was going on among the children, now resumed it, Grandma Elsie asking Walter of his engagements during the past winter. He replied that he had been busy with his studies, but had found some time for missionary work, especially on the Sabbath, among the poor and degraded, particularly foreigners of the lower class. "And, mother," he added, "I have quite decided that I want to go into the ministry. I want to be a missionary to the poor and needy, the ignorant and helpless." "My dear son," she replied with emotion, "how glad I am to hear it! I want you to be a winner of souls, a helper of the helpless, in this, your own land, or in some other; preferably this, because you will be nearer to me and I can see you oftener." "Yes, mother," he returned, "and I think I could hardly find a better field than among the mountains of Kentucky or Tennessee." "No, I don't believe you could," said his grandfather approvingly. "Those mountaineers are our own people, destitute as regards both temporal and spiritual things, and have a prior claim to that of those in heathen lands; and love for our land and nation should draw us strongly to their aid, even if we did not care for their eternal salvation." Others in the little company gave expression to similar views and feelings, then they discussed ways and means of helping the work already going on among those mountaineers, and there was a general expression of intention to do more for that corner of the Lord's vineyard than they had ever yet done. "And by way of carrying out our intentions, suppose we take up a collection now," suggested Edward Travilla. "I doubt if that would be our wisest course if we want to give liberally," remarked his sister Elsie, "for I presume no one has much in hand at this moment." "So I dare say our motto just now would better be a lazy one, 'Not to-day, we'll do it to-morrow," laughed Zoe. "Yes; let us appoint a collector for to-morrow," said her husband. "I propose Walter for the job. All in favor say 'aye.'" An invitation which all immediately accepted. "I am quite willing," he said, "and shall include Woodburn folks and maybe some of the other nearby relatives in my list of hoped-for and tried-for subscribers. I expect to beg in good season to-morrow morning. So please all be ready for prompt compliance with my solicitation." Then Mr. Dinsmore suggested that it might be well now to have the evening family devotions ere the young folks grew too weary and sleepy to enjoy a share in them, and in response all were called within doors and the service held. About the same time similar services were going on at Woodburn, after which the Sunnyside folk bade good-night and sought their own homes, Chester drawing Ray in his new coach and a servant doing a like service for Baby Mary, her devoted mother walking close by the side of the dainty little vehicle. The next morning Chester set off for his place of business at his usual hour, and just as he disappeared down the road, Lucilla, still standing upon the veranda, saw, to her delight, her father approaching from Woodburn. "Oh, father," she cried, "I am so glad to see you." "Are you?" he said, coming up the steps and taking her in his arms for a tender caress; "well, daughter dear, the joy is mutual. How is my little grandson this morning?" "Well, I believe, father, but still asleep. Won't you come in and have a cup of coffee?" He accepted the invitation, and they chatted together while she finished her breakfast, Chester's hurried departure having called her away from the table a trifle too soon. The nurse girl brought Ray in, ready washed and dressed for the day, just as they finished their meal. "Give him to me," said the captain, and taking him in his arms, carried him out to the veranda, Lucilla following. It was a warm morning, and they sat down there side by side. "To his grandfather he seems a lovely little darling," the captain said, caressing the child as he spoke. "Lucilla, my daughter, I hope you will prove a good, kind, patient, faithful mother, bringing him up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord." "Oh, father," she replied in tones tremulous with emotion, "I want to do so, but--oh, you know what a bad natural temper I have, and I very much fear that I shall not always be patient with him, dearly as I love him." "Watch and pray, daughter dear; ask the Lord daily, hourly for strength, grace, wisdom according to your need. God is the hearer and answerer of prayer. He says, 'Call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver thee and thou shalt glorify me.' Trust in Him, and He will deliver you from the power of the tempter and your own evil nature." "I will, father; I do," she said; "and it helps and comforts me to know that you pray for me; especially remembering that gracious, precious promise of our Lord, 'If two of you shall agree on earth, as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.'" "Yes, it is indeed a gracious, precious promise, and can never fail," he said. "But now I must go, daughter. Do you and Eva come over to Woodburn again to-day as early as may suit your convenience," he added, putting the child into her arms and giving to each a good-by caress. Shortly after breakfast at Ion that morning Walter walked over to Fairview and called upon the Lelands for their contributions for the benefit of the Kentucky and Tennessee mountaineers. All, father and mother to youngest child, gave liberally in proportion to their ability. "Oh, I am delighted!" exclaimed Walter. "I think I shall go on and present the cause to all the kith and kin in this neighborhood." "Do," said his sister; "there won't be one who will not give according to his or her ability. And when through with this, brother dear, come here and pay us as long a visit as you can." "Thank you, I think I shall, especially if you get mother to be here at the same time; but I don't want to miss a minute of her society." "Which you cannot love better than I do," returned his sister, with a look that said more than her words, "and as she is decidedly fond of us both, I think she will not refuse to accompany you here at my earnest request, or to stay as long as you do." "No, indeed; I am very sure she won't. I am going back now to Ion, and mother will go with me in the gig to drive round to the home of each of our relatives and near connections in this neighborhood, and ask them to give what they can or like to give to this good object. We will take Woodburn last, and get either Harold or the captain to put the money in the right shape--a check, I suppose--and mail it so that it will reach the spot as soon as possible." With that Walter bade good-by and hastened to carry out his programme, which he, with his mother's help, did successfully, every one solicited by them giving liberally to the good cause, and the captain attending promptly to the dispatch of the funds. CHAPTER XX That May day ended in a lovely evening, warm enough to make outside air the most agreeable, so directly after an early tea the Woodburn family gathered upon the veranda, where they were presently joined by the Sunnyside folk, babies and all, who received the warmest of welcomes, though they had been absent from the older home but a few hours. Naturally the first topic of conversation related to that day's visit from Grandma Elsie and Walter and its main object--the appeal for help to the good work going on among the mountaineers of Kentucky and Tennessee. "I am glad we were given the opportunity to help it," remarked the captain. "It has set me to thinking of the pioneers and early settlers of that section of our land. Among them Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton." "Oh, papa, please tell us about them!" exclaimed Elsie. "Some time, daughter," he answered pleasantly; "but the rest of this little company may not care to hear the old stories repeated just now." At that there was a unanimous expression of desire to do so, and he presently began. "Simon Kenton's lifetime took in both our wars with England, as he was born in 1755 and lived until April, 1836. Virginia was his native State, but his father was Irish and his mother Scotch. They were poor, and Simon received but little education. At the age of sixteen he had a fight with another young fellow named William Veach about a love affair. He thought he had killed Veach, so fled over the Alleghanies. There he called himself Simon Butler. He formed friendships with traders and hunters, among them Simon Girty." "Girty, that cruel, cruel wretch!" cried Elsie. "How could anybody want to have him for a friend?" "He was a bad, cruel man," replied her father, "but perhaps never had any good teaching. His father had died and his mother married again, and they were all taken prisoners by the Indians and his step-father burned at the stake when Simon Girty was but five years old. It was three years before he was released, and I do not know that he ever had any education. Many cruel deeds are told of him, but he was really a good friend to Simon Kenton, and once saved him from being burned at the stake by the Indians. "But to go back, Kenton was soon persuaded by a young man named Yager, who had been taken by the Western Indians when a child, and spent a good many years among them, to go with him to a land called by the Indians Kan-tuc-kee, which he described as a most delightful place. "They two, with a third young man named Strader, set off in high spirits, expecting to find a paradise. But they wandered through the wilderness for weeks hoping to find the promised land, but without success. Then they tried hunting and trapping for nearly two years. But being discovered by the Indians, they had to abandon those hunting grounds and try elsewhere; but to tell of it all would make too long a story. "In 1778 Kenton joined Daniel Boone in his expedition against the Indian town on Paint Creek. On his return from that he was sent by Colonel Bowman, with two companions, to make observations upon the Indian towns on Little Miami, the colonel considering the idea of an expedition against them. Kenton reached the spot in safety, and if he had attended only to what he was sent to do he might have succeeded well and been very useful to the settlers in Kentucky, but before leaving the towns he stole a number of the Indians' horses. "The Indians missed their horses early the next morning, found the trail of those who had taken them, and at once pursued after them. Kenton and his companions soon heard the cries of the Indians in their rear and knew they were being pursued, so saw the necessity of riding for their lives, which they did, dashing through the woods at a furious rate, with the hue and cry of the Indians after them ringing in their ears; but suddenly they came to an impenetrable swamp. "There they paused a few moments, listening for the sounds of pursuit; but hearing none, they started on again, skirted the swamp for some distance, hoping to be able to cross it, but finding they could not, they dashed on in a straight line for the Ohio. For forty-eight hours they continued their furious speed, halting only once or twice for a few minutes to eat a little, and reached the Ohio in safety. But there they had to pause and consider what to do, for the river was high and rough and the jaded horses could not be induced to try to swim it. The men might yet have escaped if they had only abandoned the horses; but that Kenton could not make up his mind to do. He and his companions consulted over the matter, and feeling sure that they were as much as twelve hours in advance of their Indian pursuers, they decided to conceal the horses in the nearby ravine and themselves in an adjoining wood, hoping that by sunset the high wind would abate and the river become quiet enough for them to cross safely with the animals. "But when the waited-for time came the wind was higher and the water rougher than ever. Still they stayed where they were through the night. The next morning was mild, and they heard no sound of pursuing Indians, so they again tried to urge the horses over the river. But the animals seemed to remember its condition on the previous day, and could not be induced to go into it at all. "It was quite a drove of horses they had stolen, but now they found they must abandon all but the three they could mount; so that they did, and started down the river, with the intention to keep the Ohio and Indiana side till they should arrive opposite Louisville. "But they had waited too long, and even now were slow in carrying out their intention. They had not gone more than a hundred yards on their horses when they heard a loud halloo, coming apparently from the spot they had just left. They could not escape; were quickly surrounded by their pursuers, one of Kenton's companions killed, the other, effecting his escape while Kenton was taken prisoner, falling a victim to his love of horses." "I suppose he deserved it, as he had stolen the horses," remarked Elsie. "Yes," replied her father, "he had no more right to steal from the Indians than from white people, and his sin found him out." "Did they kill him, papa?" asked Ned. "No; they kicked and cuffed him as much as they cared to, then made him lie down upon his back and stretch his arms to their full length, passed a stout stick across his breast and fastened his wrists to each extremity of it by thongs of buffalo-hide. Then they drove stakes into the ground near his feet and fastened them in the same way. After that they tied a halter round his neck and fastened it to a sapling growing near. Lastly they passed a strong rope under his body, wound it several times round his arms at the elbows, so lashing them to the stick which lay across his breast, and to which his wrists were fastened; all this in a manner that was peculiarly painful. He could not move at all, either feet, arms or head, and was kept in that position till the next morning. Then, as they wanted to go back to the spot from which they had come, they unfastened him, put him on the back of a wild, unbroken colt, one of those he had stolen, lashed him by the feet to it and tied his hands behind him. And so he was driven into the cruel captivity, a captivity which has been spoken of as being as singular and remarkable in other respects as any in the whole history of Indian warfare upon this continent. "Kenton refused with strange infatuation to adopt proper measures for his safety while he might have done so. With strange obstinacy he remained on the Ohio shore until flight became useless. He was often at one hour tantalized with a prospect of safety and the next plunged into the deepest despair. Eight times he had to run the gauntlet, three times he was tied to a stake and thought himself about to suffer a terrible death. Any sentence passed upon him by one council, whether to give him mercy or death, would presently be reversed by another. Whenever Providence raised up a friend in his favor, some enemy immediately followed, unexpectedly interposed and turned his glimpse of sunshine into deeper darkness than ever. For three weeks he was in that manner see-sawing between life and death." "And did they kill him at last, papa?" asked Ned. "No," replied the captain. "An Indian agent of the name of Drewyer, who was anxious to gain intelligence for the British commander at Detroit in regard to the strength and condition of the settlements in Kentucky, got Kenton free from the Indians just as for the fourth time they were about to bind him to a stake and burn him. He (Drewyer) did not get anything of importance out of Kenton, who was three weeks later sent a prisoner to Detroit, from which place he made his escape in about eight months; then he went back to Kentucky. He was very brave, a valuable scout, a hardy woodsman, a good Indian fighter. He performed many daring feats as the friend and companion of Daniel Boone, once saving his life in a conflict with the Indians." "Had not Logan something to do with Kenton's rescue by that Canadian trader Drewyer?" asked Harold, who had been listening with interest to the captain's story. "Yes," was the reply; "Logan, the Mingo chief. At Detroit Kenton was held as a prisoner of war, and there he worked for the garrison at half pay, till he was aided by a trader's wife to escape. That was in July, 1779. He commanded a battalion of Kentucky volunteers as major under General Anthony Wayne in 1793-94, became brigadier-general of Ohio militia in 1805, and fought at the battle of the Thames in 1813." "I hope his country rewarded his great services as it ought," remarked Grace in tones of inquiry. "Ah!" replied her father, "I am sorry to say that in his old age he was reduced to poverty, the immense tracts of land which he possessed being lost through the invasion of settlers and his ignorance of law. "In 1824 he went to Frankfort to petition the legislature of Kentucky to release the claim of the State upon some mountain land owned by him. He was in tattered garments, and his appearance excited ridicule, but on being recognized by General Thomas Fletcher, he was taken to the capitol, seated in the speaker's chair, and introduced to a large assembly as the second great adventurer of the West. His lands were released and a pension of $240 was procured for him from Congress. "He died near the spot where, fifty-eight years before, he had escaped death at the hands of the Indians. Kenton County, Kentucky, was named in his honor. "Now let me read you a passage from a book I was examining the other day, in which there is an interesting account of Kenton's appearance and manner in his old age," said the captain. "It is in the library, and I shall be back with it in a moment." Several of the younger ones in the little company at once offered to do the errand for him, but thanking them, and saying that he could find it more readily than they, he went in, and soon returned with the book in his hand. Then he read aloud, "'Kenton's form, even under the weight of seventy-nine years, is striking, and must have been a model of manly strength and agility. His eye is blue, mild and yet penetrating in its glance. The forehead projects very much at the eyebrows, which are well defined, and then recedes, and is neither very high nor very broad. His hair, which in active life was light, is now quite gray; his nose is straight, and his mouth before he lost his teeth must have been expressive and handsome. I observed that he had yet one tooth, which, in connection with his character and manner of conversation, was continually reminding me of Leatherstocking. The whole face is remarkably expressive, not of turbulence or excitement, but rather of rumination and self-possession. Simplicity, frankness, honesty and strict regard to truth appeared to be the prominent traits of his character. In giving an answer to a question which my friend asked him, I was particularly struck with his truthfulness and simplicity. The question was, whether the account of his life, given in the "Sketches of Western Adventure" was true or not. "Well, I'll tell you," said he, "not true. The book says that when Blackfish, the Injun warrior, asked me, when they had taken me prisoner, if Colonel Boone sent me to steal their horses, I said 'No, sir.'" Here he looked indignant and rose from his chair. "I tell you I never said 'sir' to an Injun in my life; I scarcely ever say it to a white man." Here Mrs. Kenton, who was engaged in some domestic occupation at the table, turned round and remarked that when they were last in Kentucky some one gave her the book to read to her husband, and that when she came to that part he would not let her read any further. "And I tell you," continued he, "I was never tied to a stake in my life to be burned. They had me painted black when I saw Girty, but not tied to a stake." We are inclined to think, notwithstanding this, that the statement in the Sketches of his being three times tied to the stake is correct, for the author of that interesting work had before him a manuscript account of the pioneer's life, which had been dictated by Mr. Kenton to a gentleman of Kentucky a number of years before, when he had no motive to exaggerate and his memory was comparatively unimpaired. But he is now beyond the reach of earthly toil, or trouble, or suffering. His old age was as exemplary as his youth and manhood had been active and useful. And though his last years were clouded by poverty, and his eyes closed in a miserable cabin to the light of life, yet shall he occupy a bright page in our border history and his name soon open to the light of fame.'" A slight pause followed the conclusion of the captain's reading of the sketch of the life of Kenton, then Grace said earnestly, "Thank you, father, for giving us so extended an account of Kenton's life and services to our country. He deserved the kindly and grateful remembrance of his countrymen." "So I think," said Harold, "and that he will never be forgotten. Poor fellow! I am sorry indeed that he was robbed of his lands, and so spent his old age and died in poverty." CHAPTER XXI The next day was the Sabbath, the first since the return of our friends from Viamede. They attended, as usual, the morning services of the sanctuary, and in the afternoon gathered upon the veranda at Woodburn for the private, conversational study of some scriptural theme. "What is to be our lesson for to-day, captain?" queried Mr. Lilburn when they had seated themselves, each with Bible in hand. "I have thought of the sacrificial shedding of blood," was the reply. "Here in Hebrews 9:22, 'And almost all things are by the law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood is no remission.' The blood of sacrifices was typical of the atoning blood of Christ. Paul tells us, 'Neither by the blood of goats and calves, but by His own blood He entered in once into the holy place, having obtained eternal redemption for us.... So Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many.' Now let us read in turn texts bearing upon this great subject. Violet, my dear, will you begin?" "Yes," she replied. "Matthew, Mark and Luke each tell us of Jesus' words in giving His disciples the cup of wine at His last supper on earth; He said to them, 'This is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.'" It was now Harold's turn, and he read: "'Then Jesus said unto them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, except ye eat the flesh of the Son of man, and drink His blood, ye have no life in you. Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed. He that eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, dwelleth in me, and I in him.'" It was now Grace's turn, and she read: "'Take heed, therefore, unto yourselves, and to all the flock, over the which the Holy Ghost hath made ye overseers to feed the church of God, which He hath purchased with His own blood.'" Then Elsie read: "'Whom God hath set forth to be a propitiation through faith in His blood, to declare His righteousness for the remission of sins that are past through the forbearance of God.'" Then Ned: "'Much more, then, being now justified by His blood, we shall be saved from wrath through Him.'" Grandma Elsie, sitting next, now read from Ephesians: "'But now in Christ Jesus ye who sometimes were far off are made nigh by the blood of Christ.... In whom we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His grace.'" Then Lucilla: "'Neither by the blood of goats and calves, but by His blood He entered in once into the holy place, having obtained eternal redemption for us. For if the blood of bulls and of goats, and the ashes of an heifer sprinkling the unclean, sanctifieth to the purifying of the flesh, how much more shall the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered Himself without spot to God, purge your conscience from dead works to serve the living God?'" Then Chester read: "'Having, therefore, brethren, boldness to enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way, which He hath consecrated for us, through the veil, that is to say His flesh, of how much sorer punishment, suppose ye, shall he be thought worthy who hath trodden under foot the Son of God and hath counted the blood of the covenant, wherewith He was sanctified, an unholy thing, and hath done despite unto the Spirit of Grace?'" Evelyn, sitting next, then read: "'Unto Him that loved us and washed us from our sins in His own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God and His Father; to Him be glory and dominion for ever and ever.'" Then Mrs. Annis Lilburn, sitting next, read: "'And they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book and to open the seals thereof; for thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by Thy blood out of every kindred and tongue and people and nation.'" Walter sat next, and he read: "'These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'" Then Mr. Lilburn, next and last, read: "'And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony.' The one there spoken of as overcome is, as doubtless you all know, Satan, spoken of in this chapter of Revelation as the accuser of our brethren, accusing them before God day and night; but by the blood of the Lamb of God, and only by that, could they or any one overcome him." "'Who His own self bare our sins in His own body on the tree, that we, being dead to sins, should live unto righteousness: by whose stripes ye were healed,'" quoted Grandma Elsie in low, moved tones. "Oh, how can we help loving Him with all our hearts and serving Him with all our powers?" "'For Christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh, but quickened by the Spirit,'" quoted the captain, then added: "'The blood of Jesus Christ His son cleanseth us from all sin.'" Lucilla followed: "'Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and sent His son to be the propitiation for our sins.'" Evelyn followed: "'Ye know that He was manifested to take away our sins; and in Him is no sin.... He is the propitiation for our sins; and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world.'" "'And we have seen and do testify that the Father sent the Son to be the Saviour of the world. Whosoever shall confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in him and he in God,'" quoted Violet with feeling, then she started a hymn, in which all joined with fervor: "Come, let us sing of Jesus, While hearts and accents blend; Come, let us sing of Jesus, The sinner's only Friend; His holy soul rejoices, Amid the choirs above, To hear our youthful voices Exulting in His love. "We love to sing of Jesus, Who wept our path along; We love to sing of Jesus, The tempted and the strong; None who besought His healing He passed unheeded by, And still retains His feeling For us above the sky. "We love to sing of Jesus, Who died our souls to save; We love to sing of Jesus, Triumphant o'er the grave; And in our hour of danger We'll trust His love alone Who once slept in a manger, And now sits on the throne. "Then let us sing of Jesus While yet on earth we stay, And hope to sing of Jesus Throughout eternal day; For those who here confess Him He will in heaven confess, And faithful hearts that bless Him He will forever bless." That hymn finished, Grandma Elsie started another beautiful one, in which all joined: "I love to tell the story Of unseen things above, Of Jesus and His glory, Of Jesus and His love. I love to tell the story, Because I knew it's true; It satisfies my longings As nothing else can do. CHORUS: "I love to tell the story, 'Twill be my theme in glory, To tell the old, old story, Of Jesus and His love. "I love to tell the story; More wonderful it seems Than all the golden fancies Of all our golden dreams. I love to tell the story, It did so much for me; And that is just the reason I tell it now to thee. "I love to tell the story; 'Tis pleasant to repeat What seems, each time I tell it, More wonderfully sweet. I love to tell the story, For some have never heard The message of salvation From God's own holy word. "I love to tell the story; For those who know it best Seem hungering and thirsting To hear it like the rest. And when, in scenes of glory, I sing the new, new song, Twill be the old, old story That I have loved so long." Several prayers followed the singing of the hymns, and then the meeting closed with the singing of the Doxology, in which all, old and young, took part. CHAPTER XXII That week, the first after the return of the _Dolphin_, bringing the last instalment of visitors to Viamede, was filled with family parties, given in the daytime for the sake of the little ones, who in each case were quite as welcome guests as the older folk. But the weather was growing warm, and the doctors advised a speedy flitting northward. "To go speedily will be best for you all, especially my Grace, Ned and the little ones, Mary and Ray," said Dr. Harold, addressing the usual family party gathered for the evening upon the veranda at Woodburn. "So I think," said the captain; "and as on like occasions in the past, the _Dolphin_ is at the service of you all; can be made fully ready in a day." "And Crag Cottage will be ready and glad to accommodate you all as soon as the _Dolphin_ can carry you there," added Evelyn in pleasant, playful tones. "Oh, thank you, Eva," cried several voices, Lucilla adding: "There is no place I should prefer to that." Then turning to her husband, "You can go too, can't you, Chester?" "Perhaps for a brief sojourn; then leave my wife and son there for a longer time, going for them when fall weather shall have made it safe for them to come home again," he replied in cheerful tones. Then turning to Dr. Harold: "I hope," he added, "that you are intending to spend the summer there, keeping guard over our family treasures committed to your care?" "I have planned doing so, provided Cousin Arthur and my brother Herbert will undertake the care of all our patients in this neighborhood, of which I have no doubt," was the ready reply. "Then I must take charge in the fall, giving them a vacation in their turn." "Yes, I am very sure you will do right and generously by them," remarked Grace, giving him a look of love and confidence. "Oh, I am glad to think of being on our good _Dolphin_ again and then at dear, sweet Crag Cottage," cried Ned, clapping his hands in delight. "Oh, papa, can't we have a voyage out in the ocean, too?" "Perhaps so," said his father. "I see nothing to prevent, if all my passengers desire it. However, we can decide that question after going aboard the yacht." "Yes, and I feel pretty sure we will all be in favor of a little trip far enough toward the east side of the ocean to be at least for a few hours out of sight of land on this side," laughed Lucilla. "And how soon shall we start?" asked Chester. "The yacht can be ready by the day after to-morrow," said the captain; "and if all the passengers are ready, we will start in the evening of that day." Violet, Evelyn and Lucilla all replied at once that they could be ready almost at a moment's notice, having for weeks past been looking forward to this flitting and preparing for it. "And, father," added Evelyn, "I should like to have Cousins Ronald and Annis Lilburn as my guests for the summer. Can you not invite them now through the 'phone, and ask how soon they can be ready, if willing to go?" "I can," he replied in a pleased tone, and went at once to the instrument. Their answer was that they would be delighted to go, and would be ready by the time mentioned for the starting of the vessel. Captain Raymond then 'phoned to Ion, told of the proposed starting of the _Dolphin_ for a northern trip, to end finally at Crag Cottage on the Hudson, and gave a warm invitation from Evelyn to Grandma Elsie and Walter to join the party and be her guests for the summer, if they should care to stay so long. A gratified acceptance, with an assurance that they would be ready in season, came in reply, and all the Woodburn company were jubilant over the prospect of the pleasant trip and the enjoyable summer at Crag Cottage likely to follow. Captain Raymond kept his promise to have the _Dolphin_ ready in good season, and all the passengers were aboard when the anchor was lifted early in the evening of the appointed day. The weather was fine, and they found the deck a delightful place for promenading or sitting at ease on the comfortable seats provided. There was much cheerful chat, sometimes mirthful, sometimes serious; there were jests and badinage, fun and frolic, especially among the children, with Cousin Ronald to help it on, and there was music--first songs, afterward hymns of praise, repetitions of passages of Scripture and prayers of thankfulness and petitions for God's protecting care. Then the little ones were sent to their nests for the night, and somewhat later the older ones retired to theirs. Lucilla's idea of an eastward trip till out of sight of land was carried out to her satisfaction and amusement, then the _Dolphin_ turned, passed through Long Island Sound and up the Hudson River to Crag Cottage, which they reached in safety and all in good health. There, as always before, they had a pleasant, restful time, often enlivened by the fun Cousin Ronald's talent could make, and after a while varied by trips here and there in the yacht. Chester spent a few days there, then returned home with the understanding that he would probably be with them again before the season was over. He was missed, but with Mr. Lilburn, Captain Raymond, Dr. Harold and Walter Travilla still left, the ladies and children were not without protectors and helpers of the stronger sex. And in a few days a glad surprise was given them all, Evelyn in especial, by the unexpected arrival of Max. He had obtained a furlough and could be with them for some weeks. "Now I think with two ventriloquists here we shall have some fun," exclaimed Ned shortly after his brother's arrival. "Ah, Ned, Ned, is that all you care about in seeing your only brother?" queried Max in tones of heartfelt disappointment and an expression of deep despondency. "Oh, no, no, indeed!" cried Ned. "I'm ever so glad to have you here, Maxie, if you never do any ventriloquism at all. Please believe me." "Well, I suppose I must, since I know you have been trained up to speak the truth," returned Max, brightening a little, "and I hope the company of your only brother may afford you some slight enjoyment, even should there be no practice of ventriloquism." "Yes, brother, you may be sure of it," replied Ned, striving to suppress a slight sigh. "And your brother must be allowed a good, enjoyable time with his wife, little daughter and new little nephew before we trouble him to attend to anything else," remarked Violet in an amused tone. "And in the meantime the rest of us can, perhaps, be depended upon to entertain your young laddie, Cousin Violet," said Mr. Lilburn, with a kindly, amused look at Ned. "I see that, as usual, you have the _Dolphin_ lying here at your dock, father," said Max, "and I suppose that you all take occasional trips in her." "Yes, son, and I think you will not object to accompanying us in that, will you?" "Oh, no, sir; no, indeed; I shall be very glad to do so, as babies and all can be made as comfortable there as anywhere on land." "By the way," said Dr. Harold, "a lady patient was telling me the other day of a visit she had paid to the village of Catskill, interested in it because of having seen Joseph Jefferson playing 'Rip Van Winkle,' and that has given me a desire to see the place." "So you shall," said the captain; "the _Dolphin_ can readily be persuaded to make that trip, and I presume none of our party would object to going there in her." He sent a smiling glance around as he spoke, and it was responded to by smiles and exclamations of pleasure in the prospect. "I don't know anything about Rip Van Winkle," said Elsie, turning toward her father. "Is it a story, papa, and will you tell me about it?" "Yes, daughter," he replied; "it is a story and only a story; not fact at all, but seeming so real as played by Jefferson that very many people were and are greatly interested in it. Rip Van Winkle is represented as an ignorant, good-natured man, made and kept poor by love of liquor, which so soured his wife against him that she drove him out of the house. Once it was at night and in a terrible thunder storm. He goes into a steep and rocky clove in the Kaatskill Mountains, and meets with some queer, silent people, who give him drinks of liquor that put him to sleep, and he does not wake again for twenty years, and in that time he had changed from a comparatively young man to a feeble, old one with white hair and a long white beard. In the meantime his wife, thinking him dead, had married the man--Derrick by name--who had stolen his house and land. She had done it in order to keep herself and little daughter from starvation, and he was now trying to force little Meenie, Rip's daughter, to marry his nephew, Cookles, though she did not want him, as she loved another, young Hendrick, who was her playmate when they were children, but is now a sailor and away on his vessel--has been gone five years--but now he comes back just in time to put a stop to the mischief Derrick and his nephew, Cookles, are trying to do to Meenie and Gretchen in order to get full possession of the house and land. He and Rip are able to prove that those, the house and land, are not his and never were. "So the story ends well; the scamps are defeated, and the rightful owners are happy in regaining the property and being restored to each other," concluded the captain. "Thank you, papa," said Elsie; "it was a nice story, because it ended well." "And wouldn't you like to see the place where all that is said to have happened?" asked Dr. Harold. "Yes, indeed," she answered; and after a little more chat on the subject, it was decided that they would visit the village of Catskill the next day and see the very spot where all these strange events were supposed to have taken place. "The scenery about there is said to be very fine, is it not?" asked Mr. Lilburn. "It is," replied Captain Raymond; "and I think we who are strong enough to climb steep ascents will be well repaid for the effort. Our best plan will be to leave the yacht for a hotel, as in order to see all that is worth seeing we must spend some days in the vicinity." "Yes," said Dr. Harold; "and the ladies and babies and our not very strong little Ned will need to stay in the village while we stronger ones climb about the cliffs." "I think you are right in that," assented his mother. "By the way," she continued, "do you think, gentlemen, that it was quite correct for the author of the play to bring in Hudson and some of his men as taking part in causing Rip's long nap? From the accounts given of his life and death, it would seem that he was set adrift by his sailors considerably more to the north, and perished in the sea." "That is so, mother," returned the captain; "but it is about as true as the story of Rip's long nap." "And that couldn't be true," remarked Elsie wisely, "for nobody could live half as long as that without eating anything, could they, Uncle Harold?" "No, certainly not," replied her uncle, smiling at the very idea. "No one but a very ignorant person could be made to believe the story true." "Still, we can enjoy looking at the scenes of the supposed occurrences," remarked Captain Raymond. "Shall we go to-morrow?" Every one seemed in favor of that proposition, and the next morning, the weather being favorable and the yacht in excellent condition, they started upon their trip shortly after breakfast. Comfortable accommodations were found in the hotel at Catskill, and the ladies seemed well satisfied with what they could see and enjoy in going about the valley while the stronger members of the party should climb the steep cliffs and explore all the places where Rip was said to have wandered, and especially the spot where his very long sleep was supposed to have been taken. The beautiful scenery of that region was greatly enjoyed by all, male and female, old and young, so all agreed in prolonging their visit to the stay of several days. Then they boarded the yacht and started for their Crag Cottage home again. Max was very fond of his baby daughter, and when they were all comfortably established aboard the yacht he took her in his arms to pet and fondle her; but as he did so he was startled for an instant by a joyous exclamation that seemed to come from her lips, "Oh, papa, I love you, and am so glad you are here with mamma and me again." But glancing at Cousin Ronald, Max laughed and replied: "Are you, daughter? Well, I hope the time will never come when you will be other than very glad to see your father." "Ah, that's the first talking she has done in quite a while," laughed her mother. "Oh, was it you who made her do it, Brother Max?" asked Ned excitedly. "No," replied Max; "I was as much surprised at the moment as anybody else. But isn't it natural that the joy of seeing her long absent father should loosen her tongue?" "I guess it is more natural that Cousin Ronald should do it," laughed Ned. "He could, I know, and I suspect that he did." "Do you plead guilty, Cousin Ronald?" queried Evelyn, giving him a look of amusement. "Well, now, you should not be too curious, Cousin Eva," was the non-committal reply. "Is she too curious?" asked Ned. "Don't you think, Cousin Ronald, that it's all right for her to want to know what has made little Mary talk so well to-night?" "Of course it is," little Mary seemed to say. "And I hope to talk a good deal while my papa is with us." "Yes, I hope you will," said Ned. "I think he'll help you about it. Don't you wish you'd been climbing those mountains along with him?" "No, Uncle Ned; it was nicer to be with mamma in the village." Ned laughed at that, and turning to the other baby, asked: "How was it with you, Ray? Didn't you want to go along with the big folks?" "No; you ain't one of the big folks, are you?" Ray seemed to reply; and Ned colored, as there was a general laugh from those present. "A good deal bigger and older than you are," was his rather ungracious rejoinder. "Don't be vexed with my baby boy, little brother," said Lucilla; "you know he didn't say that of himself. Somebody put the words into his mouth, or, to speak more literally, caused them to seem to come from his tongue, though he does not know how to talk at all." "Oh, yes, I know, and I'm not vexed with him now," said Ned. "I oughtn't be, as I'm his uncle and want him to be fond of me, as I hope he will be when he's old enough to know about such things." "Yes, Ned, you may be sure he will," said Max. "You and I are going to try to be such nice, good uncles that he will be proud to own us as such." "And I shall try to be such a grandfather that he and Baby Mary will be proud to own me as theirs," said the captain. "It will be strange, indeed, if they are not, father," said Lucilla. "Yes, indeed! I am very proud of being your daughter, papa, as I think the others are," said Grace; "and I am sure Max and Ned are proud of being your sons." "Indeed we are," said Max. "I know I am," laughed Ned. "So now I guess we are all pleased with each other and are going home to Crag Cottage quite happy." Everybody laughed at that, and all reached their temporary home in excellent spirits. It was a lovely and enjoyable one, situated on a charming part of the Hudson River's western bank, the house most comfortable and convenient, the grounds tastefully laid out and kept in excellent order. Max and Eva had reason to be proud and fond of their country seat. They and most of their guests remained there for some weeks until Max's furlough expired and fall weather rendered the return to their warmer Southern homes desirable. And the homeward journey in the _Dolphin_ was a most agreeable winding up of their summer trip to the North. THE END * * * * * TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ p134 "which she ceded back to spain." replaced with "which she ceded back to Spain." p278 "yet shall be occupy a bright page in our border" replaced with "yet shall he occupy a bright page in our border" 
18058	----	ELSIE'S VACATION AND AFTER EVENTS by MARTHA FINLEY Author of "Elsie Dinsmore," "Elsie at Home," etc. Special Authorized Edition [Illustration] M. A. Donohue & Co. Chicago New York Copyright, 1891. By Dodd, Mead & Company. Made in U.S.A. ELSIE'S VACATION CHAPTER I. Captain Raymond went back to the hotel feeling somewhat lonely and heartsore over the parting from his eldest hope, but as he entered the private parlor where his young wife and most of the party were, his look and manner had all their accustomed cheeriness. He made a pleasant remark to Violet, fondled the little ones, and talked for a few minutes in his usual agreeable way with Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and the others; then glancing about the room, as if in search of someone or something, asked, "Where are Lulu and Gracie?" "Why, I thought they were here," Violet answered in some surprise, following the direction of his glance. "They seem to have slipped out of the room very quietly." "I must hunt them up, poor dears! for it is about time we were starting for the _Dolphin_," he said, hastily leaving the room. A low sobbing sound struck upon his ear as he softly opened the door of the room where his little girls had slept the previous night, and there they were down on the carpet near a window, Gracie's head in her sister's lap, Lulu softly stroking the golden curls and saying in tender tones, "Don't, Gracie dear; oh, don't! It can't be helped, you know; and we have our dear papa and Mamma Vi, and the little ones left. Besides, Maxie will come home again to visit us one of these days." "Oh, but he'll never live at home with us any more," sobbed Gracie; "at least I'm afraid he won't; and--and oh, I do love him so! and he's the only big brother we have." "But we have papa, dear, dear papa, who used to be obliged to go away and leave us; but we have him all the time now," Lulu replied half chokingly. "I wish we could have them both, but we can't, and we both do love papa the best after all." "And papa loves his two dear little girls more than tongue can tell," the captain said in tenderest tones, drawing near, bending down to take both in his arms together, and kissing first one and then the other. "Be comforted, my darlings," he went on, holding them close to his heart; "we haven't lost our Maxie by any means; and though I left him feeling a trifle homesick and forlorn, he will get over that in a day or two I know, and greatly enjoy the business of preparing himself for the life work he has freely chosen." "But, oh, papa, how he will miss our lovely home, and you, and all of us!" sobbed Gracie, hiding her tear-stained face on her father's shoulder. "Not as you would, my darling," he replied, holding her close and caressing her with great tenderness. "Boys are different from girls, and I think our dear Maxie will soon feel very happy there among his mates, though he will, I am sure, never cease to love his father, sisters, Mamma Vi, baby brother, and his home with them all." "Papa, I'm thinking how he'll miss the pleasant evenings at home--the good talks with you," sobbed the little girl. "Yes, darling, but I will tell you what we will do to partly, at least, make up that loss to our dear boy." "What, papa?" she asked, lifting her head and looking up into his face, with her own brightening a little. "Suppose we each keep a journal or diary, telling everything that goes on each day at home, and now and then send them to Maxie; so that he will know all that we are doing?" "Oh, what a good thought, papa!" exclaimed Lulu, giving him a vigorous hug and kiss. "And Maxie will write us nice, interesting letters; and some day he'll come home for a visit and have ever so much to tell us." "Yes," her father said, "and I think we will have interesting letters from him in the meantime." "And perhaps I'll learn to like writing letters, when it's just to please Maxie and comfort him," said Grace, wiping away her tears and trying to smile. "I hope so, darling," her father replied, bestowing another kiss upon the sweet little tear-stained face. "But now, my dears," he added, "put on your hats; it is time to go back to the _Dolphin_." They hastened to obey, and he led them to the parlor, where they found the rest of the party ready to accompany them on board the yacht. The sun was setting as they reached the _Dolphin's_ deck and they found a luxurious repast ready for them to partake of by the time outdoor garments could be laid aside and wind-tossed hair restored to order. The captain missed the bright face of his first-born at the table, but, exerting himself for the entertainment of the others, seemed even more than usually cheery and genial, now and then indulging in some innocent jest that made his little girls laugh in spite of themselves, and at length almost forget, for the moment, their parting from Max, and their grief over the thought that he would no longer share their lessons or their sports, and would be at home only after what, in the prospect, seemed to them a long, long time; and then but for a little while. On leaving the table all gathered upon deck. There was no wind, but the yacht had a steam engine and used her sails only on occasions when they could be of service. Stars shone brightly in the sky overhead, but their light was not sufficient to give an extended view on land or water, and as all were weary with the excitement and sightseeing of the day, they retired early to their berths. Poor Grace, worn out with her unusual excitement, and especially the grief of the parting with Max, was asleep the instant her head touched the pillow. Not so with Lulu; her loneliness and depression banished sleep from her eyes for the time, and presently she slipped from her berth, threw on a warm dressing-gown, and thrust her feet into felt slippers. The next moment she stole noiselessly into the saloon where her father sat alone looking over an evening paper. He was not aware of her entrance till she stood close at his side, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes fixed, with a gaze of ardent affection, upon his face. "Dear child!" he said, looking up from his paper, and smiling affectionately upon her; then tossing the paper aside and putting an arm about her waist, he drew her to his knee and pressed fatherly kisses upon lip and cheek and brow, asking tenderly if anything was wrong with her that she had come in search of him when he supposed her to be already in bed and sound asleep. "I'm not sick, papa," she said in reply; "but oh, I miss Maxie so!" The words were almost a sob, and she clung about her father's neck, hiding her face on his shoulder. "I, too, miss my boy more than words can tell," he replied, stroking her hair with gently caressing touch, and she was sure his tones trembled a little with the pain of the thought of Max left alone among strangers; "but I thank God, our Heavenly Father, that I have by no means lost my eldest son, while I still have another one and three dear daughters to add to my happiness in our sweet home." "I do want to add to it, you dear, dear, good papa!" she said, hugging and kissing him over and over again. "Oh, I wish I was a better girl for your sake, so that my wrong-doing would never give you pain!" "I think--and am very happy in the thought--that you are improving," he said, repeating his caresses; "and it is a great comfort to me," he continued, "that my little girls need not be sent away from home and their father to be educated." "To me also, papa," she returned. "I am very thankful that I may live with my dear father always while we are spared to each other. I don't mean to ever go away from you, papa, but to stay with you always, to wait on you and do everything I can to be a great help, comfort, and blessing to you; even when I'm grown up to womanhood." "Ah!" he returned, again smoothing her hair caressingly and smiling down into her eyes; then holding her close, "I shall be very glad to keep you as long as you may prefer life with me, my own dear, dear child," he said in tender tones. "I look upon my dear eldest daughter as one of the great blessings my Heavenly Father has bestowed upon me, and which I hope he may spare to me as long as I live." "Papa, I'm so, so glad you love me so dearly!" she exclaimed, lifting to his eyes full of love and joy; "and oh, I do love you so! I want to be a great blessing to you as long as we both live." "I don't doubt it, my darling," he replied. "I doubt neither your desire nor purpose to be such." "Yes, sir, I do really long to be the very greatest of comforts to you, and yet," she sighed, "I have such a bad temper you know, papa, I'm so wilful too, that--that I'm afraid--almost sure, indeed--I'll be naughty again one of these days and give you the pain of punishing me for it." "That would grieve me very much, but would not diminish my love for you," he said; "nor yours for me, I think." "No, indeed, papa!" she exclaimed, creeping closer into his embrace, "because I know that when you have to punish me in any way it makes you very, very sorry." "It does indeed!" he responded. "Papa," she sighed, "I'm always dreadfully sorry and ashamed after one of my times of being disobedient, wilful, and ill-tempered, and I am really thankful to you for taking so much pains and trouble to make a better girl of me." "I don't doubt it, daughter," he answered; "it is a long while now since I have had any occasion to punish you, and your conduct has rarely called for even so much as a reproof." She gave him a glad, grateful look, an embrace of ardent affection, then, laying her cheek to his, "You dear, dear papa, you have made me feel very happy," she said, "and I'm sure I am much happier than I should be if you had let me go on indulging my bad temper and wilfulness. Oh, it's so nice to be able to run to my dear father whenever I want to, and always to be so kindly received that I can't feel any doubt that he loves me dearly. Ah, how I pity poor Maxie that he can't see you for weeks or months!" "And don't you pity papa a little that he can't see Maxie?" he asked, with a smile and a sigh. "Oh, yes! yes indeed! I'm so sorry for you, papa, and I mean to do all I can to supply his place. What do you suppose Maxie is doing just now, papa?" "Doubtless he is in his room preparing his lessons for to-morrow. The bugle-call for evening study-hour sounds at half-past seven, and the lads must be busy with their books till half-after nine." He drew out his watch, and glancing at its face, "Ah, it is just nine o'clock," he said. "Kiss me good-night, daughter, and go back to your berth." CHAPTER II. Max was in his room at the Academy, busy with his tasks, trying determinately to forget homesickness by giving his whole mind to them, and succeeding fairly well. Very desirous, very determined was the lad to acquit himself to the very best of his ability that he might please and honor both his Heavenly Father and his earthly one. By the time the welcome sound of gun-fire and tattoo announced that the day's work was over he felt fully prepared for the morrow's recitations. But he was in no mood for play. The quiet that had reigned through the building for the last two hours was suddenly broken in upon by sounds of mirth and jollity--merry boyish voices talking, singing, some accompanying themselves with the twang of a banjo or the tinkle of a guitar; but Max, closing and putting his book aside, kept his seat, his elbow on the desk, his head on his hand, while with a far-away look in his dark eyes, he indulged in a waking dream. He seemed to see the _Dolphin_ steaming down the bay, his father, perhaps, sitting in the saloon with the other grown folks (the younger ones would be pretty sure to have retired to their state-rooms), and thinking and speaking of his absent son. Or, it might be, pacing the deck alone, his heart going up in prayer to God for his first-born--his "might and the beginning of his strength,"--that he might be kept from sin and every danger and evil and enabled to prove himself a brave, true follower of Christ, never ashamed or afraid to show his colors and let it be known to all with whom he had to do that he was a disciple, a servant of the dear Lord Jesus. "Lord, help me; help me to be brave and faithful and true," was the silent petition that went up from the boy's heart. "Homesick, bub?" asked a boyish voice, in mocking tones. "I believe most of the fellows are just at the first, but they get over it after a bit without much doctoring." "I'm inclined to think it is not a dangerous kind of ailment," returned Max, in a pleasant tone, lifting his head and turning toward his companion with a smile that seemed rather forced. "However, I was thinking not of home, exactly, but the homefolks who are just at present aboard my father's yacht and steaming down the bay." It was only by a great effort he repressed a sigh with the concluding words. "That's a handsome yacht and about the largest I ever saw," was the next remark of his room-mate, a lad--Benjamin Hunt by name--of about the same age as himself, not particularly handsome but with a good, honest face. "Yes, and a splendid sailor," returned Max, with enthusiasm. "Papa bought her this summer and we've had a jolly good time sailing or steaming (sometimes one and again the other, the _Dolphin_ has both sails and engines) along the coast and a short distance out to sea." "Had a good, safe captain?" Hunt asked, with a quizzical smile. "My father, a retired naval officer; there could be none better," returned Max, straightening himself slightly, while the color deepened on his cheek. "Yes; I don't wonder you are proud of him," laughed Hunt. "I happened to see him when he brought you here, and I must say I thought he had a fine military bearing and was--well, I think I might say one of the handsomest men I ever saw." "Thank you," said Max heartily, glancing up at Hunt with a gratified smile. "I suppose being so fond of him I may not be a competent judge, but to me my father seems the best, the noblest, and the handsomest man that ever lived." "Didn't force you to come here against your will, eh?" queried Hunt jestingly. "No, indeed! he only let me come because I wanted to. I think he would have been glad if I had chosen the ministry, but you see I don't think I have any talent in that line, and I inherit a love for the sea, and papa says a man can do best in the profession or business that is most to his taste, so that perhaps I may be more useful as a naval officer than I could be in the ministry." "Especially in case of war, and if you turn out a good and capable commander," returned Hunt, tossing up a ball and catching it as it fell. "I sometimes think I'd like nothing better; a fellow would have a chance to distinguish himself, such as he could never hope for in time of peace." "Yes; and if such a thing should happen I hope it will be when I'm ready to take part in the defence of my country," said Max, his cheek flushing and his eyes kindling, "but war is an awful thing considering all the killing and maiming, to say nothing of the destruction of property; and I hope our country will never be engaged in another. But excuse me," he added, opening his Bible, "I see we have scarcely fifteen minutes now before taps will sound." At that Hunt moved away to his own side of the room, from whence he watched Max furtively, a mocking smile on his lips. Max was uncomfortably conscious of it, but tried to ignore it and give his thoughts to what he was reading. Presently, closing his book he knelt and silently offered up his evening prayer, asking forgiveness of all his sins, strength to resist temptation, and never be afraid or ashamed to own himself a follower of Jesus, his loving disciple, his servant, whose greatest desire was to know and do the Master's will; and very earnestly he prayed that no evil might befall his dearly loved and honored father, his sisters or brother, Mamma Vi, or any of those he loved; that they might be taken safely through all their journeying, and he permitted to see them all again when the right time should come; and having committed both them and himself to the watchful care of his Heavenly Father, he rose from his knees and began his preparations for bed. "Well, sonny, I hope you will sleep soundly and well after saying your prayers like the goodest of little boys," sneered Hunt. "I shall sleep none the worse," returned Max pleasantly. "I'll bet not a bit better than I shall without going through any such baby-like performance." "God is very good and often takes care of those who don't ask him to," said Max; "but I don't think they have any right to expect it; also I am sure I should be shamefully ungrateful if I were to lie down for my night's rest without a word of thanks to him for his protecting care over me and mine through the day that is just past. As to its being a baby-like performance, it is one in which some of the greatest, as well as best men, have indulged. Washington was a man of prayer. So was General Daniel Morgan--that grand revolutionary officer who whipped Tarleton so completely at the battle of the Cowpens. There was Macdonough also, who gained that splendid victory over the British on Lake Champlain in the war of 1812-14. Have you forgotten that just before the fight began, after he had put springs on his cables, had the decks cleared, and everything was ready for action, with his officers and men around him, he knelt down near one of his heaviest guns and in a few words asked God to help him in the coming struggle? He might well do that, because, as you know of course, we were in the right, fighting against oppression and wrongs fit to rouse the indignation of the most patient and forbearing of mortals." "That's a fact!" interrupted Hunt. "Americans have always been forbearing at the start; but let them get once thoroughly roused and they make things hot enough for the aggressors." "So they do," said Max, "and so I think they always will; I hope so, anyhow; for I don't believe it's right for any nation to allow any of its people to be so dreadfully wronged and ill-treated as thousands of our poor sailors were, by the English, before the war of 1812 taught them better. I don't believe the mass of the English people approved, but they couldn't keep their aristocracy--who hated republicanism, and wanted always to continue superior in station and power to the mass of their countrymen and ours--from oppressing and abusing our poor sailors, impressing, flogging, and ill-treating them in various ways, and to such a degree that it makes one's blood boil in reading or thinking of it. And I think it's right enough for one to be angry and indignant at such wrongs to others." "Of course it is," said Hunt; "and Americans always will resist oppression--of themselves or their weaker brethren--and I glory in the fact. What a fight that was of Macdonough's! Do you remember the incident of the gamecock?" "No; what was it?" "It seems that one of the shots from the British vessel _Linnet_ demolished a hencoop on the deck of the _Saratoga_, releasing this gamecock, and that he flew to a gun-slide, where he alighted, then clapped his wings and crowed lustily. "That delighted our sailors, who accepted the incident as an omen of the victory that crowned their arms before the fight was over. They cheered and felt their courage strengthened." "Good!" said Max, "that cock was at better business than the fighting he had doubtless been brought up to." "Yes; so say I: "O Johnny Bull, my joe John, Behold on Lake Champlain, With more than equal force, John, You tried your fist again; But the cock saw how 'twas going. And cried 'Cock-a-doodle-doo,' And Macdonough was victorious, Johnny Bull, my joe!" "Pretty good," laughed Max. "But there are the taps; so good-night." CHAPTER III. Lulu woke early the next morning and was dressed and on deck before any other of the _Dolphin's_ passengers. Day had dawned and the eastern sky was bright with purple, orange, and gold, heralding the near approach of the sun which, just as she set her foot on the deck, suddenly showed his face above the restless waves, making a golden pathway across them. "Oh, how beautiful!" was her involuntary exclamation. Then catching sight of her father standing with his back toward her, and apparently absorbed in gazing upon the sunrise, she hastened to his side, caught his hand in hers, and carried it to her lips with a glad, "Good-morning, you dear papa." "Ah! good-morning, my darling," he returned, bending down to press a kiss on the bright, upturned face. "Such a lovely morning, papa, isn't it?" she said, standing with her hand fast clasped in his, but turning her eyes again upon sea and sky. "But where are we now? Almost at Fortress Monroe?" "Look and tell me what you see," was his smiling rejoinder, as, with a hand on each of her shoulders, he turned her about so that she caught the view from the other side of the vessel. "O papa, is that it?" she exclaimed. "Why, we're almost there, aren't we?" "Yes; we will reach our anchorage within a few minutes." "Oh, are we going to stop to see the old fort, papa?" she asked eagerly. "I think we are," was his smiling rejoinder. "But you don't expect to find in it a relic of the Revolution, do you?" he asked laughingly, pinching her cheek, then bending down to kiss again the rosy face upturned to his. "Why yes, papa; I have been thinking there must have been a fight there. Wasn't that the case?" "No, daughter; the fortress was not there at that time." "Was it in the war of 1812-14, then, papa?" "No," he returned, smiling down on her. "The building of Fortress Monroe was not begun until 1817. However, there was a small fort built on Point Comfort in 1630; also, shortly before the siege of Yorktown, Count De Grasse had some fortifications thrown up to protect his troops in landing to take part in that affair." But just then the talk was interrupted by the coming on deck of one after another of their party and the exchange of morning greetings; then followed the interest and excitement of the approach to the fortress and anchoring in its vicinity. Next came the call to breakfast. But naturally, and quite to Lulu's satisfaction, the talk at the table turned upon the building of the fort, its history and that of the adjacent country, particularly Hampton, two and a half miles distant. The captain pointed it out to them all as they stood upon the deck shortly afterward. "Which is Old Point Comfort, papa?" asked Grace. "That sandy promontory on the extremity of which stands Fortress Monroe," he answered. "Yonder, on the opposite side, is Point Willoughhy, the two forming the mouth of the James River; and these are the Rip Raps between the two. You see that there the ocean tides and the currents of the river meet and cause a constant ripple. There is a narrow channel of deep water through the bar, but elsewhere between the capes it is shallow. "Beyond the Rip Raps we see the spacious harbor which is called Hampton Roads. It is so large that great navies might ride there together." "And I think some have ridden there in our wars with England?" remarked Rosie, half inquiringly. "You are quite right," replied the captain; "that happened in both the Revolution and the last war with England. "In October, 1775, Lord Dunmore, the British governor of Virginia,--who had, however, abdicated some months earlier by fleeing on board a man-of-war, the _Fowey_,--driven by his fears, and his desire for revenge, to destroy the property of the patriots, sent Captain Squires, of the British navy, with six tenders, into Hampton Creek. "He reached there before the arrival of Colonel Woodford--who, with a hundred Culpepper men, had been sent to protect the people of Hampton--and sent armed men in boats to burn the town; protecting them by a furious cannonade from the guns of the tenders. "But they were baffled in the carrying out of their design; being driven off by Virginia riflemen, concealed in the houses. Excellent marksmen those Virginians were, and picked off so many of the advancing foe that they compelled them to take ignominious flight to their boats and return to the vessels, which then had to withdraw beyond the reach of the rifles to await reinforcements." "What is a tender, papa?" asked Grace, as her father paused in his narrative. "A small vessel that attends on a larger one to convey intelligence and supply stores," he replied; then went on with his account of Dunmore's repulse. "Woodford and his men reached Hampton about daybreak of the succeeding morning. At sunrise they saw the hostile fleet approaching; it came so near as to be within rifle shot, and Woodford bade his men fire with caution, taking sure aim. They obeyed and picked off so many from every part of the vessels that the seamen were soon seized with a great terror. The cannons were silenced,--the men who worked them being shot down,--and their commander presently ordered a retreat; but that was difficult to accomplish, for any one seen at the helm, or aloft, adjusting the sails, was sure to become a target for the sharpshooters; in consequence many of the sailors retreated to the holds of the vessels, and when their commander ordered them out on the dangerous duty, refused to obey. "The victory for the Americans was complete; before the fleet could escape, the Hampton people, with Woodford and his soldiers, had sunk five vessels." "And such a victory!" exclaimed Rosie, in an exultant tone. "Yes," the captain said, smiling at her enthusiasm. "Were the houses they fired on the very ones that are there now, papa?" asked Lulu. "Some few of them," he replied. "Nearly all were burned by Magruder in the Civil War; among them St. John's Episcopal Church, which was built probably about 1700. Before the Revolution it bore the royal arms carved upon its steeple; but soon after the Declaration of Independence--so it is said--that steeple was struck by lightning and those badges of royalty were hurled to the ground." "Just as the country was shaking off the yoke they represented," laughed Rosie. "A good omen, wasn't it, Brother Levis?" "So it would seem, viewed in the light of after events," he answered with a smile. "Papa, can't we visit Hampton?" asked Lulu eagerly. "Yes, if you would all like to do so," was the reply, in an indulgent tone and with an inquiring glance at the older members of the party. Everyone seemed to think it would be a pleasant little excursion, especially as the _Dolphin_ would carry them all the way to the town; but first they must visit the fortress. They did not, however, set out thither immediately, but remained on deck a little longer gazing about and questioning the captain in regard to the points of interest. "Papa," asked Grace, pointing in a southerly direction, "is that another fort yonder?" "Yes," he replied, "that is Fort Wool. It is a mile distant, and with Fortress Monroe defends Hampton Roads, the Gosport navy yard, and Norfolk." "They both have soldiers in them?" she said inquiringly. "Yes, daughter; both contain barracks for soldiers, and Fortress Monroe has also an arsenal, a United States school of artillery, chapel, and, besides the barracks for the soldiers, storehouses and other buildings, and covers eighty acres of ground." "And when was it finished, papa? How long did it take to build it?" "It is not finished yet," he answered, "and has already cost nearly three million dollars. It is an irregular hexagon--that is has six sides and six angles--surrounded by a tide-water ditch eight feet deep at high water." "I see trees and flower gardens, papa," she remarked. "Yes," he said, "there are a good many trees, standing singly and in groves. The flower gardens belong to the officers' quarters. Now, if you will make yourselves ready for the trip, ladies, Mr. Dinsmore, and any of you younger ones who care to go," he added, smoothing Grace's golden curls with caressing hand and smiling down into her face, "we will take a nearer view." No one felt disposed to decline the invitation and they were soon on their way to the fortress. It did not take very long to look at all they cared to see; then they returned to their vessel, weighed anchor, and passed through the narrow channel of the Rip Raps into the spacious harbor of Hampton Roads. It was a lovely day and all were on deck, enjoying the breeze and the prospect on both land and water. "Papa," said Lulu, "you haven't told us yet what happened here in the last war with England." "No," he said. "They attacked Hampton by both land and water, a force of two thousand five hundred men under General Beckwith landing at Old Point Comfort, and marching from there against the town, while at the same time Admiral Cockburn assailed it from the water. "The fortification at Hampton was but slight and guarded by only four hundred and fifty militiamen. Feeling themselves too weak to repel an attack by such overwhelming odds, they retired, and the town was given up to pillage." "Didn't they do any fighting at all, papa?" asked Lulu in a tone of regret and mortification. "I know Americans often did fight when their numbers were very much smaller than those of the enemy." "That is quite true," he said, with a gleam of patriotic pride in his eye, "and sometimes won the victory in spite of the odds against them. That thing had happened only a few days previously at Craney Island, and the British were doubtless smarting under a sense of humiliating defeat when they proceeded to the attack of Hampton." "How many of the British were there, Captain?" asked Evelyn Leland. "I have forgotten, though I know they far outnumbered the Americans." "Yes," he replied, "as I have said there were about four hundred and fifty of the Americans, while Beckwith had twenty-five hundred men and was assisted by the flotilla of Admiral Cockburn, consisting of armed boats and barges, which appeared suddenly off Blackbeard's Point at the mouth of Hampton Creek, at the same time that Beckwith's troops moved stealthily forward through the woods under cover of the _Mohawk's_ guns. "To draw the attention of the Americans from the land force coming against them was Cockburn's object, in which he was partly successful, his flotilla being seen first by the American patrols at Mill Creek. "They gave the alarm, arousing the camp, and a line of battle was formed. But just then some one came in haste to tell them of the large land force coming against the town from the rear, and presently in the woods and grain fields could be seen the scarlet uniforms of the British and the green ones of the French." "Oh, how frightened the people in the town must have been!" exclaimed Grace. "I should think they'd all have run away." "Most of them did," replied her father; "but some sick and feeble ones had to stay behind--others also in whose care they were--and trust to the supposed humanity of the British; a vain reliance it proved, at least so far as Admiral Cockburn was concerned. He gave up the town to pillage and rapine, allowing the doing of such deeds as have consigned his name to well-merited infamy. "But to return to my story: Major Crutchfield, the American commander, resolved that he and his four hundred and fifty men would do what they could to defend the town. They were encamped on an estate called 'Little England,' a short distance southwest of Hampton, and had a heavy battery of seven guns, the largest an eighteen-pounder cannon. "Major Crutchfield was convinced that the intention of the British was to make their principal attack in his rear, and that Cockburn's was only a feint to draw his attention from the other. So he sent Captain Servant out with his rifle company to ambush on the road by which Beckwith's troops were approaching, ordering him to attack and check the enemy. Then when Cockburn came round Blackbeard's Point and opened fire on the American camp he received so warm a welcome from Crutchfield's heavy battery that he was presently glad to escape for shelter behind the Point, and content himself with throwing an occasional shot or rocket into the American camp. "Beckwith's troops had reached rising ground and halted for breakfast before the Americans discovered them. When that happened Sergeant Parker, with a field-piece and a few picked men, went to the assistance of Captain Servant and his rifle company, already lying in ambush. "Parker had barely time to reach his position and plant his cannon when the British were seen rapidly advancing. "At the head of the west branch of Hampton Creek, at the Celey road, there was a large cedar tree behind which Servant's advanced corps--Lieutenant Hope and two other men--had stationed themselves, and just as the British crossed the creek--the French column in front, led by the British sergeant major--they opened a deadly fire upon them. A number were killed, among them the sergeant major--a large, powerful man. "This threw the British ranks into great confusion for the time, and the main body of our riflemen delivered their fire, killing the brave Lieutenant-Colonel Williams of the British army. But the others presently recovered from their panic and pushed forward, while our riflemen, being so few in number, were compelled to fall back. "But Crutchfield had heard the firing, and hastened forward with nearly all his force, leaving Pryor and his artillerymen behind to defend the Little England estate from the attack of the barges. But while he was moving on along the lane that led from the plantation toward Celey's road and the great highway, he was suddenly assailed by an enfilading fire from the left. "Instantly he ordered his men to wheel and charge upon the foe, who were now in the edge of the woods. His troops obeyed, behaving like veterans, and the enemy fell back; but presently rallied, and, showing themselves directly in front of the Americans, opened upon them in a storm of grape and canister from two six-pounders and some Congreve rockets. "The Americans stood the storm for a few minutes, then fell back, broke ranks, and some of them fled in confusion. "In the meantime Parker had been working his piece with good effect till his ammunition gave out. Lieutenant Jones, of the Hampton artillery, perceiving that to be the case, hurried to his assistance; but seeing an overwhelming force of the enemy approaching, they--Parker's men--fell back to the Yorktown Pike. "Jones, who had one cannon with him, found that his match had gone out, and rushing to a house near by he snatched a burning brand from the fire, hurried back, and hid himself in a hollow near a spring. "The British supposed they had captured all the cannon, or that if any were left they had been abandoned, and drawing near they presently filled the lane; then Jones rose and discharged his piece with terrible effect, many of the British were prostrated by the unexpected shot, and during the confusion that followed Jones made good his retreat, attaching a horse to his cannon, and bearing it off with him. "He hastened to the assistance of Pryor, but on drawing near his camp saw that it had fallen into the possession of the foe. "Pryor had retreated in safety, after spiking his guns. He and his command fought their way through the enemy's ranks with their guns, swam the west branch of Hampton Creek, and, making a circuit in the enemy's rear, fled without losing a man or a musket. "Jones had seen it all, and spiking his gun followed Pryor's men to the same place. "In the meantime Crutchfield had rallied his men, those who still remained with him, on the flank of Servant's riflemen, and was again fighting vigorously. "But presently a powerful flank movement of the foe showed him that he was in danger of being out off from his line of retreat. He then withdrew in good order and escaped, though pursued for two miles by the enemy. "That ended the battle, in which about thirty Americans and fifty of the British had fallen. Then presently followed the disgraceful scenes in Hampton of which I have already told you as having brought lasting infamy upon the name of Sir George Cockburn." "I think he was worse than a savage!" exclaimed Lulu hotly. "Certainly, far worse; and more brutal than some of the Indian chiefs--Brant, for instance," said Rosie, "or Tecumseh." "I cannot see in what respect he was any better than a pirate," added Evelyn, in a quiet tone. "Nor can I," said Captain Raymond; "so shameful were his atrocities that even the most violent of his British partisans were constrained to denounce them." CHAPTER IV. Before the sun had set the _Dolphin_ was again speeding over the water, but now on the ocean, and going northward, Philadelphia being their present destination. It had grown cloudy and by bedtime a steady rain was falling, but unaccompanied by much wind, so that no one felt any apprehension of shipwreck or other marine disaster, and all slept well. The next morning Lulu was, as usual, one of the first to leave her berth, and having made herself neat for the day she hurried upon deck. It had ceased raining and the clouds were breaking away. "Oh, I'm so glad!" she exclaimed, running to meet her father, who was coming toward her, holding out his hand with an affectionate smile, "so glad it is clearing off so beautifully; aren't you, papa?" "Yes; particularly for your sake, daughter," he replied, putting an arm about her and bending down to give her a good-morning kiss. "Did you sleep well?" "Yes, indeed, papa, thank you; but I woke early and got up because I wanted to come on deck and look about. Where are we now? I can see land on the western side." "Yes, that is a part of the Delaware coast," he answered. "We are nearing Cape Henlopen. By the way, do you remember what occurred near there, at the village of Lewis, in the war of 1812?" "No, sir," she said. "Won't you please tell me about it?" "I will; it is not a very long story. It was in March of the year 1813 that the British, after destroying such small merchant craft as they could find in Chesapeake Bay, concluded to blockade Delaware bay and river and reduce to submission the Americans living along their shores. Commodore Beresford was accordingly sent on the expedition in command of the _Belvidera_, _Poictiers_, and several smaller vessels. "On the 16th of March he appeared before Lewis in his vessel, the _Poictiers_, and pointing her guns toward the town sent a note addressed to the first magistrate demanding twenty live bullocks and a proportionate quantity of hay and of vegetables for the use of his Britannic majesty's squadron. He offered to pay for them, but threatened in the event of refusal to destroy the town." "The insolent fellow!" cried Lulu. "I hope they didn't do it, papa?" "No; indeed, they flatly refused compliance and told him to do his worst. The people on both sides of the bay and river had heard of his approach and armed bodies of them were gathered at points where an attack might be expected. There were still among them some of the old soldiers of the revolution, and you may be sure they were ready to do their best to repel this second invasion by their old enemy. One of these was a bent old man of the name of Jonathan M'Nult. He lived in Dover, and when, on the Sabbath day, the drums beat to arms, he, along with men of every denomination to the number of nearly five hundred, quickly responded to the call, took part in the drill, and spent the whole afternoon in making ball-cartridges. "The people of all the towns of the vicinity showed the same spirit and turned out with spades and muskets, ready to take part in the throwing up of batteries and trenches, or to fight 'for their altars and their fires'--defending wives, children, and other helpless ones. At Wilmington they built a strong fort which they named Union. "This spirited behavior of the Americans surprised Beresford, and for three weeks he refrained from any attempt to carry out his threat. "During that time Governor Haslet came to Lewis and summoned the militia to its defence. On his arrival he reiterated the refusal to supply the British invaders with what had been demanded. "Beresford repeated his threats and at length, on the 6th of April, sent Captain Byron, with the _Belvidera_ and several smaller vessels, to attack the town. "He fired several heavy round shot into it, then sent a flag of truce, again demanding the supplies Beresford had called for. "Colonel Davis, the officer in command of the militia, repeated the refusal; then Byron sent word that he was sorry for the misery he should inflict on the women and children by a bombardment. "To that a verbal reply was sent: 'Colonel Davis is a gallant officer, and has taken care of the ladies.' "Then Byron presently began a cannonade and bombardment and kept it up for twenty-two hours. "The Americans replied in a very spirited manner from a battery on an eminence. Davis's militia worked it and succeeded in disabling the most dangerous of the enemy's gunboats and silencing its cannon. "The British failed in their effort to inflict great damage upon the town, although they hurled into it as many as eight hundred eighteen and thirty-two pound shot, besides many shells and Congreve rockets. The heavy round shot injured some of the houses but the shells did not reach the town and the rockets passed over it. No one was killed. "Plenty of powder was sent for the American guns from Dupont's at Wilmington, and they picked up and sent back the British balls, which they found just fitted their cannon." "How good that was," laughed Lulu. "It reminds me of the British at Boston asking the Americans to sell them their balls which they had picked up, and the Americans answering, 'Give us powder and we'll return your balls.' But is that all of your story, papa?" "Yes, all about the fight at Lewis, but in the afternoon of the next day the British tried to land to steal some of the live stock in the neighborhood; yet without success, as the American militia met them at the water's edge and drove them back to their ships. "About a month later the British squadron dropped down to Newbold's ponds, seven miles below Lewis, and boats filled with their armed men were sent on shore for water; but a few of Colonel Davis's men, under the command of Major George H. Hunter, met and drove them back to their ships. So, finding he could not obtain supplies on the Delaware shore, Beresford's little squadron sailed for Bermuda." "Good! Thank you for telling me about it, papa," said Lulu. "Are we going to stop at Lewis?" "No, but we will pass near enough to have a distant view of the town." "Oh, I want to see it!" she exclaimed; "and I'm sure the rest will when they hear what happened there." "Well, daughter, there will be nothing to hinder," the captain answered pleasantly. "How soon will we reach the point from which we can see it best, papa?" she asked. "I think about the time we leave the breakfast table," was his reply. "Papa, don't you miss Max?" was her next question. "Very much," he said. "Dear boy! he is doubtless feeling quite lonely and homesick this morning. However, he will soon get over that and enjoy his studies and his sports." "I think he'll do you credit, papa, and make us all proud of him," she said, slipping her hand into her father's and looking up lovingly into his face. "Yes," the captain said, pressing the little hand affectionately in his, "I have no doubt he will. I think, as I am sure his sister Lulu does, that Max is a boy any father and sister might be proud of." "Yes, indeed, papa!" she responded. "I'm glad he is my brother, and I hope to live to see him an admiral; as I'm sure you would have been if you'd stayed in the navy and we'd had a war." "And my partial little daughter had the bestowal of such preferment and titles," he added laughingly. Just then Rosie and Evelyn joined them, followed almost immediately by Walter and Grace, when Lulu gave them in a few hasty sentences the information her father had given her in regard to the history of Lewis, and told of their near approach to it. Every one was interested and all hurried from the breakfast-table to the deck in time to catch a view of the place, though a rather distant one. When it had vanished from sight, Evelyn turned to Captain Raymond, exclaiming, "O sir, will you not point out Forts Mercer and Mifflin to us when we come in sight of them?" "With pleasure," he replied. "They are at Red Bank. Port Mercer on the New Jersey shore of the Delaware River, a few miles below Philadelphia, Fort Mifflin on the other side of the river on Great and Little Mud Islands. It was, in Revolutionary days, a strong redoubt with quite extensive outworks." "Did our men fight the British there in the Revolutionary war, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes; it was in the fall of 1777, soon after the battle of the Brandywine, in which, as you may remember, the Americans were defeated. They retreated to Chester that night, marched the next day toward Philadelphia, and encamped near Germantown. Howe followed and took possession of the city of Philadelphia. "The Americans, fearing such an event, had put obstructions in the Delaware River to prevent the British ships from ascending it, and also had built these two forts with which to protect the _chevaux de frise_. "The battle of the Brandywine, as you may remember, was fought on the 11th of September, and, as I have said, the British pushed on to Philadelphia and entered it in triumph on the 26th." "Papa, what are _chevaux de frise_?" asked Grace. "They are ranges of strong frames with iron-pointed wooden spikes," he answered; then went on: "In addition to these, the Americans had erected batteries on the shores, among which was the strong redoubt called Fort Mercer, which, and also Port Mifflin on the Mud Islands, I have already mentioned. Besides all these, there were several floating batteries and armed galleys stationed in the river. "All this troubled the British general, because he foresaw that their presence there would make it very difficult, if not impossible, to keep his army supplied with provisions; also they would be in more danger from the American forces if unsupported by their fleet. "Earl Howe, as you will remember, was at this time in Chesapeake Bay with a number of British vessels of war. As we have just been doing, he sailed down the one bay and up into the other, but was prevented, by these fortifications of the Americans, from continuing on up the Delaware River to Philadelphia. "Among his vessels was one called the _Roebuck_, commanded by a Captain Hammond. That officer offered to take upon himself the task of opening a passage for their vessels through the _chevaux de frise_, if Howe would send a sufficient force to reduce the fortifications at Billingsport. "Howe was pleased with the proposition and two regiments of troops were sent from Chester to accomplish the work. They were successful, made a furious and unexpected assault upon the unfinished works, and the Americans spiked their cannon, set fire to the barracks, and fled; the English demolished the works on the river front, and Hammond, with some difficulty, made a passage way seven feet wide in the _chevaux de frise_, so that six of the British vessels passed through and anchored near Hog Island." "Did they immediately attack Forts Mifflin and Mercer, papa?" asked Lulu. "It took some little time to make the needed preparations," replied the captain. "It was on the 21st of October that Count Donop, with twelve hundred picked Hessians, crossed the Delaware at Cooper's Ferry, and marched to the attack of Fort Mercer. The Americans added eight miles to the extent of their march by taking up the bridge over a creek which they must cross, so compelling them to go four miles up the stream to find a ford. "It was on the morning of the 22d that they made their appearance, fully armed for battle, on the edge of a wood within cannon shot of Fort Mercer. "It was a great surprise to our men, for they had not heard of the approach of these troops. They were informed that there were twenty-five hundred of the Hessians, while of themselves there were but four hundred men in a feeble earth fort, with but fourteen pieces of cannon. "But the brave fellows had no idea of surrendering without a struggle. There were two Rhode Island regiments, commanded by Colonel Christopher Greene. They at once made preparations for defence, and while they were thus engaged a Hessian officer rode up to the fort with a flag and a drummer, and insolently proclaimed, 'The King of England orders his rebellious subjects to lay down their arms; and they are warned that if they stand the battle, no quarter whatever will be given.' "Colonel Greene answered him, 'We ask no quarter nor will we give any.' "The Hessian and his drummer then rode hastily back to his commander and the Hessians at once fell to work building a battery within half cannon shot of the fort. "At the same time the Americans continued their preparations for the coming conflict, making them with the greatest activity and eagerness, feeling that with them skill and bravery must now combat overwhelming numbers, fierceness, and discipline. "Their outworks were unfinished but they placed great reliance upon the redoubt. "At four o'clock in the afternoon the Hessians opened a brisk cannonade, and at a quarter before five a battalion advanced to the attack on the north side of the fort, near a morass which covered it. "They found the works there abandoned but not destroyed, and thought that they had frightened the Americans away. So with a shout of victory, and the drummer beating a lively march, they rushed to the redoubt, where not a man was to be seen. "But as they reached it, and were about to climb the ramparts to plant their flag there, a sudden and galling fire of musketry and grape-shot poured out upon them, from a half-masked battery on their left flank, formed by an angle of an old embankment. "It took terrible effect and drove them back to their old intrenchments. "At the same time another division, commanded by Dunot himself, attacked the fort on the south side, but they also were driven back, with great loss, by the continuous and heavy fire of the Americans. "The fight was a short one but very severe. Donop had fallen, mortally wounded, at the first fire. Mingerode, his second in command, was wounded also, and in all the enemy left behind, in the hasty retreat which followed, some four hundred in killed and wounded. "The American galleys and floating batteries in the river galled them considerably in their retreat. "After the fight was over Manduit, the French engineer who had directed the artillery fire of the fort, was out with a detachment examining and restoring the palisades, when he heard a voice coming from among the killed and wounded of the enemy, saying, 'Whoever you are, draw me hence.' "It was Count Donop, and Manduit had him carried first into the fort, afterward to a house close at hand, occupied by a family named Whitall, where he died three days afterward. "Donop was but thirty-seven. He said to Manduit, who attended him till he died, 'It is finishing a noble career early; but I die the victim of my ambition and the avarice of my sovereign.'" "His sovereign? That was George the Third, papa?" Grace said inquiringly. "No, Donop was a Hessian, hired out to the British king by his sovereign," replied her father. "And avarice means love of money?" "Yes, daughter; and it was avarice on the part of both sovereigns that led to the hiring of the Hessians; the war was waged by the king of England because the Americans refused to be taxed by him at his pleasure and without their consent. He wanted their money. "Whitall's house, a two-story brick, built in 1748, stood close by the river," continued the captain, "and I suppose is still there; it was, in 1851, when Lossing visited the locality. "The Whitalls were Quakers and took no part in the war. When the fort was attacked Mrs. Whitall was urged to flee to some place of safety, but declined to do so, saying, 'God's arm is strong, and will protect me; I may do good by staying.' "She was left alone in the house, and, while the battle was raging, sat in a room in the second story busily at work at her spinning-wheel, while the shot came dashing like hail against the walls. At length one, a twelve-pound ball from a British vessel in the river, just grazed the walnut tree at the fort, which the Americans used as a flag-staff, and crashed into her house through the heavy brick wall on the north gable, then through a partition at the head of the stairs, crossed a recess, and lodged in another partition near where she was sitting. "At that she gathered up her work and went down to the cellar. "At the close of the battle the wounded and dying were brought into her house and she left her work to wait upon them and do all in her power to relieve their sufferings. "She attended to all, friend and foe, with equal kindness, but scolded the Hessians for coming to America to butcher the people." "I am sure she must have been a good woman," remarked Grace; "but, oh, I don't know how she could dare to stay in the house while those dreadful balls were flying about it." "No doubt she felt that she was in the way of her duty," replied the captain, "and the path of duty is the safe one. She seems to have been a good Christian woman." "Yes, indeed!" said Evelyn. "Captain, did not the British attack Fort Mifflin at the same time that the fight was in progress at Fort Mercer?" "Yes; the firing of the first gun from the Hessian battery was the signal for the British vessels in the river to begin the assault upon the other fort on its opposite side. "The _Augusta_ and several smaller vessels had made their way through the passage in the _chevaux de frise_ which Hammond had opened, and were now anchored above it, waiting for flood tide. "The _Augusta_ was a sixty-four gun ship; besides there were the _Merlin_, of eighteen guns; the _Roebuck_, of forty-four; two frigates, and a galley. All these came up with the purpose to attack the fort, but were kept at bay by the American galleys and floating batteries, which also did good service by flanking the enemy in their attack upon Fort Mercer. "The British deferred their attack upon Fort Mifflin until the next morning, when, the Hessians having been driven off from Fort Mercer, the American flotilla was able to turn its attention entirely upon the British fleet, which now opened a heavy cannonade upon Fort Mifflin, attempting also to get floating batteries into the channel back of the island. "But Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, a gallant officer in command of the fort, very vigilant and brave, thwarted all their efforts and greatly assisted the flotilla in repulsing them. "The fire of the Americans was so fierce and incessant that the British vessels presently tried to fall down the stream to get beyond its reach. But a hot shot struck the _Augusta_ and set her on fire. She also got aground on a mud bank near the Jersey shore and at noon blew up. "The fight between the other British and the American vessels went on until three o'clock in the afternoon, when the _Merlin_ took fire and blew up near the mouth of Mud Creek. "The _Roebuck_ then dropped down the river below the _chevaux de frise_, and for a short time the Americans were left in undisturbed possession of their forts. "Howe was, however, very anxious to dislodge them, because the river was the only avenue by which provisions could be brought to his army in Philadelphia. "On the 1st of November he took possession of Province Island, lying between Fort Mifflin and the mainland, and began throwing up works to strengthen himself and annoy the defenders of the fort. "But they showed themselves wonderfully brave and patient. Lieutenant-Colonel Smith was as fine an officer as one could desire to see. "The principal fortification of Fort Mifflin was in front, that being the side from which vessels coming up the river must be repelled; but on the side toward Province Island it was defended by only a wet ditch. There was a block house at each of its angles, but they were not strong, and when the Americans saw the British take possession of Province Island and begin building batteries there, they felt that unless assistance should be sent to dislodge the enemy, the fort would soon be demolished or fall into his possession." "But couldn't Washington help them, and didn't he try to?" asked Grace. "Washington was most desirous to do so and made every effort in his power," replied her father; "and if Gates had done his duty the fort might probably have been saved. Burgoyne's army had been defeated and captured some time before this, and there was then no other formidable enemy in that quarter; but Gates was jealous of Washington and, rather than have him successful, preferred to sacrifice the cause which he had engaged to defend. "He had ample stores and a formidable force, and had he come promptly to the rescue might have rendered such assistance as to enable Washington to drive the British from Philadelphia and save the forts upon the Delaware. "But, actuated by the meanest jealousy, he delayed, and would not even return Morgan's corps, which Washington had been but ill able to spare to him. "Hamilton, sent by Washington to hasten Gates's movements in the matter, grew very indignant at the slow and reluctant compliance of Gates, and by plainly expressing his opinion induced him to send a stronger reinforcement than he had intended. "Putnam also made trouble by detaining some of the troops forwarded by Gates to assist him in carrying out a plan of his own for attacking New York. "Governor Clinton then advised Hamilton to issue a peremptory order to Putnam to set those troops in motion for Whitemarsh where Washington was encamped. Hamilton did so, and the troops were sent." "Dear, dear!" sighed Lulu, "what a time poor Washington did have with Congress being so slow, and officers under him so perverse, wanting their own way instead of doing their best to help him to carry out his good and wise plans." "Yes," her father said, with a slight twinkle of fun in his eye, "but doesn't my eldest daughter feel something like sympathy with them in their wish to carry out their own plans without much regard for those of other people?" "I--I suppose perhaps I ought to, papa," she replied, blushing and hanging her head rather shamefacedly; "and yet," she added, lifting it again and smiling up into his eyes, "I do think if you had been the commander over me I'd have tried to follow your directions, believing you knew better than I." She moved nearer to his side and leaned up lovingly against him as she spoke. "Yes, dear child, I feel quite sure of it," he returned, laying his hand tenderly on her head, then smoothing her hair caressingly as he spoke. "But you haven't finished about the second attack upon Fort Mifflin, have you, brother Levis?" queried Walter. "No, not quite," the captain answered; then went on with his narrative: "All through the war Washington showed himself wonderfully patient and hopeful, but it was with intense anxiety he now watched the progress of the enemy in his designs upon Fort Mifflin, unable as he himself was to succor its threatened garrison." "But why couldn't he go and help them with his soldiers, papa?" asked Grace. "Because, daughter, if he broke up his camp at Whitemarsh, and moved his army to the other side of the Schuylkill, he must leave stores and hospitals for the sick, within reach of the enemy; leave the British troops in possession of the fords of the river; make it difficult, if not impossible, for the troops he was expecting from the North to join him, and perhaps bring on a battle while he was too weak to hope for victory over such odds as Howe could bring against him. "So the poor fellows in the fort had to fight it out themselves with no assistance from outside." "Couldn't they have slipped out in the night and gone away quietly without fighting, papa?" asked Grace. "Perhaps so," he said, with a slight smile; "but such doings as that would never have helped our country to free herself from the British yoke; and these men were too brave and patriotic to try it; they were freemen and never could be slaves; to them death was preferable to slavery. We may well be proud of the skill and courage with which Lieutenant-Colonel Smith defended his fort against the foe. "On the 10th of November the British opened their batteries on land and water. They had five on Province Island, within five hundred yards of the fort; a large floating battery with twenty-two twenty-four pounders, which they brought up within forty yards of an angle of the fort; also six ships, two of them with forty guns each, the others with sixty-four each, all within less than nine hundred yards of the fort." "More than three hundred guns all firing on that one little fort!" exclaimed Rosie. "It is really wonderful how our poor men could stand it." "Yes, for six consecutive days a perfect storm of bombs and round shot poured upon them," said the captain, "and it must have required no small amount of courage to stand such a tempest." "I hope they fired back and killed some of those wicked fellows!" exclaimed Walter, his eyes flashing. "You may be sure they did their best to defend themselves and their fort," replied the captain. "And the British loss was great, though the exact number has never been known. "Nearly two hundred and fifty of our men were killed or wounded. Lieutenant Treat, commanding the artillery, was killed on the first day by the bursting of a bomb. The next day quite a number of the garrison were killed or wounded, and Colonel Smith himself had a narrow escape. "A ball passed through a chimney in the barracks,--whither he had gone intending to write a letter,--scattered the bricks, and one of them striking him on the head knocked him senseless. "He was carried across the river to Red Bank, and Major Thayer of the Rhode Island line took command in his place. "The first day a battery of two guns was destroyed, a block house and the laboratory were blown up, and the garrison were compelled to keep within the fort. All that night the British threw shells and the scene was a terrible one indeed, especially for the poor fellows inside the fort. "The next morning, about sunrise, they saw thirty armed boats coming against them, and that night the heavy floating battery was brought to bear upon the fort. The next morning it opened with terrible effect, yet they endured it, and made the enemy suffer so much from their fire that they began to think seriously of giving up the contest, when one of the men in the fort deserted to them, and his tale of the weakness of the garrison inspiring the British with renewed hope of conquest they prepared for a more general and vigorous assault. "At daylight on the 15th two men-of-war, the _Iris_ and the _Somerset_, passed up the channel in front of the fort on Mud Island. Two others--the _Vigilant_ and a hulk with three twenty-four pounders--passed through the narrow channel on the west side and were placed in a position to act in concert with the batteries of Province Island in enfilading the American works. "At ten o'clock all was silent, and doubtless our men were awaiting the coming onslaught with intense anxiety, when a signal bugle sounded and instantly all the ships and batteries poured a storm of shot and shell from the mouths of their many guns upon the devoted little garrison." "Oh, how dreadful!" sighed Grace. "Could they stand it, papa?" "They endured it with astonishing courage," replied the captain, "while all day long, and far into the evening, it was kept up without cessation. The yards of the British ships hung nearly over the American battery; and there were musketeers stationed in their tops who immediately shot down every man who showed himself on the platform of the fort. Our men displayed, as I have said, wonderful bravery and endurance; there seems to have been no thought of surrender; but long before night palisades, block houses, parapet, embrasures--all were ruined. "Early in the evening Major Thayer sent all but forty of his men to Red Bank. He and the remaining forty stayed on in the fort until midnight, then, setting fire to the remains of the barracks, they also escaped in safety to Red Bank. "Lossing tells us that in the course of that last day more than a thousand discharges of cannon, from twelve to thirty-two pounders, were made against the works on Mud Island, and that it was one of the most gallant and obstinate defences of the war. "Major Thayer received great credit for his share in it, and was presented with a sword by the Rhode Island Assembly as a token of their appreciation of his services there." "Did not Captain--afterward Commodore--Talbot do himself great credit there?" asked Evelyn. "Yes; he fought for hours with his wrist shattered by a musket ball; then was wounded in the hip and was sent to Red Bank. He was a very brave man and did much good service during the war, principally on the water, taking vessel after vessel. In the fight with one of them--the _Dragon_--his speaking trumpet was pierced by bullets and the skirts of his coat were shot away." "How brave he must have been!" exclaimed Lulu with enthusiasm. "Don't you think so, papa?" "Indeed, I do," replied the captain. "He was one of the many men of that period of whom their countrymen may be justly proud." CHAPTER V. Little Ned, who was not very well, began fretting and reaching out his arms to be taken by his father. The captain lifted him tenderly, saying something in a soothing tone, and carried him away to another part of the deck. Then the young people, gathering about Grandma Elsie, who had been an almost silent listener to Captain Raymond's account of the attacks upon the forts, and the gallant conduct of their defenders, begged her to tell them something more of the stirring events of those revolutionary days. "You have visited the places near here where there was fighting in those days, haven't you, mamma?" asked Walter. "Yes, some years ago," she replied. "Ah, how many years ago it was!" she added musingly; then continued, "When I was quite a little girl, my father took me to Philadelphia, and a number of other places, where occurred notable events in the war of the Revolution." "And you will tell us about them, won't you, mamma?" Walter asked, in coaxing tones. "Certainly, if you and the rest all wish it," she returned, smiling lovingly into the eager young face, while the others joined in the request. "Please tell about Philadelphia first, mamma," Walter went on. "You went to Independence Hall, of course, and we've all been there, I believe; but there must be some other points of interest in and about the city, I should think, that will be rather new to us." "Yes, there are others," she replied, "though I suppose that to every American Independence Hall is the most interesting of all, since it was there the Continental Congress held its meetings, and its bell that proclaimed the glad tidings that that grand Declaration of Independence had been signed and the colonies of Great Britain had become free and independent States--though there was long and desperate fighting to go through before England would acknowledge it." "Mamma, don't you hate old England for it?" cried Walter impulsively, his eyes flashing. "No, indeed!" she replied, laughing softly, and patting his rosy cheek with her still pretty white hand. "It was not the England of to-day, you must remember, my son, nor indeed the England of that day, but her half crazy king and his ministers, who thought to raise money for him by unjust taxation of the people of this land. 'Taxation without representation is tyranny.' So they felt and said, and as such resisted it." "And I'm proud of them for doing so!" he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling. "Now, what other revolutionary places are to be seen in Philadelphia, mamma?" "There is Christ Church, where Washington, Franklin, members of Congress, and officers of the Continental army used to worship, with its graveyard where Franklin and his wife Deborah lie buried. Major-General Lee too was laid there; also General Mercer, killed at the battle of Princeton, but his body was afterward removed to Laurel Hill Cemetery." "We will visit Christ Church, I hope," said Rosie. "Carpenter's Hall too, where the first Continental Congress met, and Loxley House, where Lydia Darrah lived in Revolutionary times. You saw that, I suppose, mamma?" "Yes," replied her mother, "but I do not know whether it is, or is not, still standing." "That's a nice story about Lydia Darrah," remarked Walter, with satisfaction. "I think she showed herself a grand woman; don't you, mamma?" "I do, indeed," replied his mother. "She was a true patriot." "There were many grand men and women in our country in those times," remarked Evelyn Leland. "The members of that first Congress that met in Carpenter's Hall on Monday, the 5th of September, 1774, were such. Do you not think so, Grandma Elsie?" "Yes, I quite agree with you," replied Mrs. Travilla; "and it was John Adams--himself by no means one of the least--who said, 'There is in the Congress a collection of the greatest men upon the continent in point of abilities, virtues, and fortunes.'" "Washington was one of them, wasn't he, Grandma Elsie?" asked Lulu. "Yes, one of the members from Virginia. The others from that State were Richard Henry Lee, Peyton Randolph, Richard Bland, Benjamin Harrison, Edmund Pendleton, and Patrick Henry. Peyton Randolph was chosen president, and Charles Thomson, of Pennsylvania, secretary." "And then, I suppose, they set to work on their preparations for fighting their oppressor, George the Third," remarked Lulu, half inquiringly. "Lossing tells us," replied Mrs. Travilla, "that the delegates from the different colonies then presented their credentials, and after that there was silence, while deep anxiety was depicted on every countenance. It seemed difficult to know how to begin upon the work for which they had been called together. But at length a grave-looking member, in a plain suit of gray, and wearing an unpowdered wig, arose. So plain was his appearance that Bishop White, who was present, afterward telling of the circumstances, said he 'felt a regret that a seeming country parson should so far have mistaken his talents and the theatre for their display.' However, he soon changed his mind as the plain-looking man began to speak; his words were so eloquent, his sentiments so logical, his voice was so musical, that the whole House was electrified, while from lip to lip ran the question, 'Who is he? who is he?' and the few who knew the stranger, answered, 'It is Patrick Henry of Virginia.'" "O mamma, was it before that that he had said, 'Give me liberty or give me death'?" queried Walter, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "No, he said that a few months afterward; but about nine years before, he had startled his hearers in the Virginia House of Burgesses by his cry, 'Cæsar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell, and George the Third may profit by their example'!" "And now he was starting the Congress at its work!" "You are right; there was no more hesitation; they arranged their business, adopted rules for the regulation of their sessions, and then--at the beginning of the third day, and when about to enter upon the business that had called them together--Mr. Cushing moved that the sessions should be opened with prayer for Divine guidance and aid. "Mr. John Adams, in a letter to his wife, written the next day, said that Mr. Cushing's motion was opposed by a member from New York, and one from South Carolina, because the assembly was composed of men of so many different denominations--Congregationalists, Presbyterians, Quakers, Anabaptists, and Episcopalians,--that they could not join in the same act of worship. "Then Mr. Samuel Adams arose, and said that he was no bigot and could hear a prayer from any gentleman of piety and virtue who was at the same time a friend to his country. He was a stranger in Philadelphia, but had heard that Mr. Duché deserved that character; so he moved that he--Mr. Duché, an Episcopal clergyman--be desired to read prayers before Congress the next morning. "Mr. Duché consented, and the next morning read the prayers and the Psalter for the 7th of September; a part of it was the thirty-fifth psalm, which seemed wonderfully appropriate. Do you remember how it begins? 'Plead my cause, O Lord, with them that strive with me: fight against them that fight against me. Take hold of shield and buckler, and stand up for mine help.'" "It does seem wonderfully appropriate," said Evelyn. "Oh, I'm sure that God was on the side of the patriots, and helped them greatly in their hard struggle with their powerful foe!" "Yes, only by His all-powerful aid could our liberties have been won, and to Him be all the glory and the praise," said Grandma Elsie, gratitude and joy shining in her beautiful eyes. "But that wasn't the Congress that signed the Declaration?" Walter remarked, half inquiringly, half in assertion. "No; this was in 1774, and the Declaration was not signed until July, 1776," replied his mother. "It seems to me," remarked Lulu, "that the Americans were very slow in getting ready to say they would be free from England--free from British tyranny." "But you know you're always in a great hurry to do things, Lu," put in Grace softly, with an affectionate, admiring smile up into her sister's face. "Yes, I believe you're right, Gracie," returned Lulu, with a pleased laugh and giving Grace's hand a loving squeeze. "Yes," assented Grandma Elsie, "our people were slow to break with the mother country--as they used to call old England, the land of their ancestors; they bore long and patiently with her, but at last were convinced that in that case patience had ceased to be a virtue, and liberty for themselves and their children must be secured at all costs." "How soon were they convinced of it, mamma?" asked Walter. "The conviction came slowly to all, and to some more slowly than to others," she replied. "Dr. Franklin, Samuel Adams, and Patrick Henry were among the first to see the necessity of becoming, politically, entirely free and independent. "It is stated on good authority that Patrick Henry in speaking of Great Britain, as early as 1773, said, 'She _will_ drive us to extremities; no accommodation _will_ take place; hostilities _will soon_ commence, and a desperate and bloody touch it will be.' "Some one, present when the remark was made, asked Mr. Henry if he thought the colonies strong enough to resist successfully the fleets and armies of Great Britain, and he answered that he doubted whether they would be able to do so alone, 'but that France, Spain, and Holland were the natural enemies of Great Britain.' "'Where will they be all this while?' he asked. 'Do you suppose they will stand by, idle and indifferent spectators to the contest? Will Louis XVI. be asleep all this time? Believe me, no! When Louis XVI. shall be satisfied, by our serious opposition and our _Declaration_ of _Independence_, that all prospect of a reconciliation is gone, then, and not till then, will he furnish us with arms, ammunition, and clothing: and not with them only, but he will send his fleets and armies to fight our battles for us; he will form a treaty with us, offensive and defensive, against our unnatural mother. Spain and Holland will join the confederation! Our independence will be established! and we shall take our stand among the nations of the earth!'" "And it all happened so; didn't it, mamma?" exclaimed Rosie exultantly; "just as Patrick Henry predicted." "Yes," replied her mother, with a proud and happy smile, "and we have certainly taken our place--by God's blessing upon the efforts of those brave and gallant heroes of the revolution--as one of the greatest nations of the earth. "Yet not all the credit should be awarded them, but some of it given to their successors in the nation's counsels and on the fields of battle. The foundations were well and strongly laid by our revolutionary fathers, and the work well carried on by their successors." "Grandma Elsie, what was the story about Lydia Darrah?" asked Gracie. "I don't remember to have heard it." "She lived in Philadelphia when the British were in possession there during the winter after the battle of the Brandywine," replied Mrs. Travilla. "She belonged to the Society of Friends, most of whom, as you doubtless remember, took no active part in the war; at least, did none of the fighting, though many helped in other ways; but some were Tories, who gave aid and comfort to the enemy in other ways than by the use of arms." "What a shame!" cried Walter. "You will tell us about the doings of some of those when you are done with the story of Lydia Darrah, won't you, mamma?" "If you all wish it," she answered; then went on with her narrative: "Judging from her conduct at that time, Lydia must have been an ardent patriot; but patriots and Tories alike had British officers quartered upon them. The adjutant-general took up his quarters in Loxley House, the home of the Darrahs, and, as it was a secluded place, the superior officers frequently held meetings there for private conference on matters connected with the movements of the British troops." "One day the adjutant-general told Mrs. Darrah that such a meeting was to be held that evening, and that he wanted the upper back room made ready for himself and the friends who would be present. He added that they would be likely to stay late and she must be sure to see that all her family were early in their beds. "His tone and manner led Mrs. Darrah to think something of importance was going forward, and though she did not dare disobey his order, she resolved to try to find out what was their object in holding this private night meeting, probably hoping to be able to do something to prevent the carrying out of their plans against the liberties of her country. "She sent her family to bed, according to directions, before the officers came, and after admitting them retired to her own couch, but not to sleep, for her thoughts were busy with conjectures in regard to the mischief they--the unwelcome intruders into her house--might be plotting against her country. "She had lain down without undressing and after a little she rose and stole softly, in her stocking feet, to the door of the room where they were assembled. "All was quiet at the moment when she reached it. She put her ear to the keyhole and--doubtless, with a fast beating heart--waited there, listening intently for the sound of the officers' voices. "For a few moments all was silence; then it was broken by a single voice reading aloud an order from Sir William Howe for the troops to march out of the city the next night and make an attack upon Washington's camp at Whitemarsh. "Lydia waited to hear no more, for that was sufficient, and it would have been dangerous indeed for her to be caught there. "She hastened back to her own room and again threw herself on the bed; but not to sleep, as you may well imagine. "Presently the opening and shutting of doors told her that the visitors of the adjutant-general were taking their departure; then there was a rap on her door. But she did not answer it. It was repeated, but still she did not move or speak; but at the third knock she rose, went to the door, and found the adjutant-general there. "He informed her that his friends had gone and she might now close her house for the night. "She did so, then lay down again, but not to sleep. She lay thinking of the momentous secret she had just learned, considering how she might help to avert the threatened danger to the patriot army, and asking help and guidance from her heavenly Father. "Her prayer was heard; she laid her plans, then at early dawn arose. Waking her husband she told him flour was wanted for the family and she must go immediately to the mill at Frankford for it. Then taking a bag to carry it in, she started at once on foot. "At General Howe's headquarters she obtained a passport to leave the city. "She had a five miles' walk to Frankford, where she left her bag at the mill, and hurried on toward the American camp to deliver her tidings. "It was still quite early, but before reaching the camp she met an American officer, Lieutenant Craig, whom Washington had sent out to seek information in regard to the doings of the enemy. "Lydia quickly told him her story, then hastened back to the mill for her bag of flour and hurried home with it." "Mamma," exclaimed Walter, "how could she carry anything so big and heavy?" "Perhaps it was but a small bag," returned his mother, with a smile. "I never saw or read any statement as to its size, and perhaps the joy and thankfulness she felt in having been permitted and enabled to do such service to the cause of her country may have helped to strengthen her to bear the burden." "What a day it must have been to her!" exclaimed Evelyn, "hope and fear alternating in her breast; and how her heart must have gone up constantly in prayer to God for his blessing upon her bleeding country." "And how it must have throbbed with alternating hope and fear as she stood at the window that cold, starry night and watched the departure of the British troops to make the intended attack upon Washington and his little army," said Rosie. "And again when the distant roll of a drum told that they were returning." "Yes," said Lulu; "and when the adjutant-general came back to the house, summoned Lydia to his room, and when he got her in there shut and locked the door." "Oh," cried Grace, "did he know it was she that had told of his plans?" "No," said Mrs. Travilla; "from the accounts I have read he does not seem to have even suspected her. He invited her to be seated, then asked, 'Were any of your family up, Lydia, on the night when I received company in this house?' 'No,' she replied; 'they all retired at eight o'clock.' 'It is very strange,' he returned. 'You I know were asleep, for I knocked at your door three times before you heard me, yet it is certain we were betrayed. I am altogether at a loss to conceive who could have given information to Washington of our intended attack. On arriving near his camp, we found his cannon mounted, his troops under arms, and so prepared at every point to receive us, that we have been compelled to march back like a parcel of fools, without injuring our enemy!'" "I hope the British did not find out, before they left Philadelphia, who had given the information to the Americans, and take vengeance on her?" said Walter. "No," replied his mother, "fearing that, she had begged Lieutenant Craig to keep her secret; which he did; and so it has happened that her good deed finds no mention in the histories of that time and is recorded only by well authenticated tradition." "So all the Quakers were not Tories?" remarked Walter in a satisfied yet half inquiring tone. "Oh, no indeed!" replied his mother, "there were ardent patriots among them, as among people of other denominations. Nathaniel Green--after Washington one of our best and greatest generals--was of Quaker family, and I have heard that when his mother found he was not to be persuaded to refrain from taking an active part in the struggle for freedom, she said to him, 'Well, Nathaniel, if thee must fight, let me never hear of thee having a wound in thy back!'" "Ah, she must have been brave and patriotic," laughed Walter. "I doubt if she was so very sorry that her son was determined to fight for the freedom of his country." "No," said Rosie, "I don't believe she was, and I don't see how she could help feeling proud of him--so bright, brave, talented, and patriotic as he showed himself to be all through the war." "Yes," said Lulu, "and I don't think he has had half the honors he deserved, though at West Point we saw a cannon with an inscription on it saying it had been taken from the British army and presented by Congress to Major-General Green as a monument of their high sense of his services in the revolutionary war." "Weren't the Tories very bad men, Grandma Elsie?" asked Grace. "Not all of them, my dear," replied Mrs. Travilla, smiling lovingly into the sweet, though grave and earnest, little face; "some were really conscientiously opposed to war, even when waged for freedom from unbearable tyranny and oppression, but were disposed to be merely inactive witnesses of the struggle, some of them desiring the success of the patriots, others that of the king's troops; then there was another set who, while professing neutrality, secretly aided the British, betraying the patriots into their hands. "Such were Carlisle and Roberts, Quakers of that time, living in Philadelphia. While the British were in possession of the city those two men were employed as secret agents in detecting foes to the government, and by their secret information caused many patriots to be arrested and thrown into prison. Lossing tells us that Carlisle, wearing the meek garb and deportment of a Quaker, was at heart a Torquemada." "And who was Torquemada, mamma?" queried Walter. "A Dominican monk of Spain, who lived in the times of Ferdinand and Isabella, and was by them appointed inquisitor-general. He organized the Inquisition throughout Spain, drew up the code of procedure, and during sixteen years caused between nine and ten thousand persons to be burned at the stake." "Mamma! what a cruel, _cruel_ wretch!" cried Walter. "Oh, but I'm glad nobody can do such cruel things in these days! I hope Roberts and Carlisle weren't quite so wicked as he." "No, I should not like to think they would have been willing to go to quite such lengths, though they seem to have shown enough malignity toward their patriotic fellow-countrymen to make it evident that they had something of the spirit of the cruel and bloodthirsty Torquemada. "Though they would not bear arms for the wealth of the Indies, they were ever ready to act as guides to those whose object was to massacre their fellow-countrymen; and that only because they were determined to be free." "Were not some of those in New Jersey known as 'Pine Robbers,' Grandma Elsie?" asked Evelyn. "Yes; they infested the lower part of Monmouth County, whence they went on predatory excursions into other parts of the State, coming upon the people at night to burn, murder, plunder, and destroy. They burrowed caves in the sandhills on the borders of the swamps, where they concealed themselves and their booty." "Did they leave their hiding-places only in the night time, mamma?" asked Walter. "No," she replied, "they would sometimes sally forth during the day and attack the farmers in their fields. So that the men were compelled to carry muskets and be ready to fight for their lives, while women and children were kept in a constant state of terror." "I think I have read that one of the worst of them was a blacksmith, living in Freehold?" remarked Evelyn, half inquiringly. "Yes, his name was Fenton; he was a very wicked man, who, like many others calling themselves Tories, took advantage of the disturbance of the times to rob and murder his fellow-countrymen; he began his career of robbery and murder very early in the war. "One of his first acts, as such, was the plundering of a tailor's shop in the township. A committee of vigilance had been already organized, and its members sent Fenton word that if he did not return what he had stolen he should be hunted out and shot. "He was a coward, as such villains almost always are, and did return the clothing, sending with it a written message, 'I have returned your ---- rags. In a short time I am coming to burn your barns and houses, and roast you all like a pack of kittens.' "One summer night, shortly afterward, he led a gang of desperadoes like himself against the dwelling of an old man named Farr. There were but three persons in the house--the old man, his wife, and daughter. They barricaded their door and defended themselves for a while, but Fenton broke in a part of the door, fired through the hole at the old man and broke his leg. The women could not keep them out much longer; they soon forced an entrance, murdered the old man and woman, and badly wounded the daughter. She, however, made her escape, and the cowardly ruffians fled without waiting to secure any plunder; no doubt fearing she would bring a band of patriots to avenge the slain." "I hope that wretch, Fenton, was soon caught and well punished for his robberies and murders!" exclaimed Lulu. "He was," replied Grandma Elsie. "The Bible tells us that 'bloody and deceitful men shall not live out half their days,' and Fenton's fate was one amongst many to prove the truth of it. "He had met a young man on his way to mill, plundered and beaten him; the victim carried his complaint to Lee, and a sergeant and two soldiers were detailed to capture or kill Fenton. "They used strategy and with success. The two soldiers were secreted under some straw in the bottom of a wagon, the sergeant disguised himself as a countryman, and the young man took a seat in the vehicle. Then they drove on toward the mill, expecting to meet Fenton on the road. They were passing a low groggery among the pines, when he came out of it, pistol in hand, and impudently ordered them to stop. "They drew rein, and he came nearer, asking if they had brandy with them. They replied that they had, and handed him a bottle. Then, as he lifted it to his lips, the sergeant silently signaled to one of his hidden soldiers, who at once rose from his hiding place in the straw and shot Fenton through the head. His body was then thrown into the wagon and carried in triumph to Freehold." "The people of that part of the country must have felt a good deal relieved," remarked Rosie. "Still there were Fenton's desperado companions left." "Two of them--Fagan and West--shared Fenton's fate, being shot by the exasperated people," said her mother; "and West's body was hung in chains, with hoop iron bands around it, on a chestnut tree hard by the roadside, about a mile from Freehold." "O Grandma Elsie, is it there yet?" asked Gracie, shuddering with horror. "No, dear child, that could hardly be possible after so many years--more than a hundred you will remember when you think of it," returned Mrs. Travilla, with a kindly reassuring smile. "I hope papa will take us to Freehold," said Lulu. "I want to see the battleground." "I feel quite sure he will, should nothing happen to prevent," said Grandma Elsie. "Wasn't it at Freehold, or in its neighborhood, that a Captain Huddy was murdered by those pine robbers?" asked Evelyn. "Yes," replied Grandma Elsie. "It was only the other day that I was refreshing my memory in regard to it by glancing over Lossing's account given in his Field Book of the Revolution." "Then please tell us about it, mamma," pleaded Walter. "Very willingly, since you wish to hear it," she said, noting the look of eager interest on the young faces about her. "Captain Huddy was an ardent patriot and consequently hated by his Tory neighbors. He lived at a place called Colt's Neck, about five miles from Freehold. "One evening, in the summer of 1780, a party of some sixty refugees, headed by a mulatto named Titus, attacked Huddy's house. There was no one in it at the time but Huddy himself, and a servant girl, some twenty years old, named Lucretia Emmons." "She wouldn't be of much use for fighting men," remarked Walter, with a slight sniff of contempt. "Perhaps Captain Huddy may have thought differently," replied his mother, with a slightly amused smile. "There were several guns in the house which she loaded for Huddy while he passed from one window to another firing through them at his foes. Titus and several others were wounded; then they set fire to the house and Huddy surrendered. "He was taken on board of a boat from which he jumped into the water and escaped, assisted in so doing by the fire of some militia who were in pursuit of the Tories. "About two years later Huddy was in command of a block house near the village of Tom's River, when it was attacked by some refugees from New York, and, his ammunition giving out, he was obliged to surrender. He and his companions were taken to New York, then back to Sandy Hook, where they were placed on board a guard-ship and heavily ironed. "Shortly afterward he was taken to Gravelly Point, by sixteen refugees under Captain Lippincott, and hung on a gallows made of three rails. "He met his fate like the brave man that he was, first calmly writing his will on the head of the barrel upon which he was presently to stand for execution. "A desperate Tory, named Philip White, had been killed while Huddy was a prisoner in New York, and these men falsely accused Huddy of having had a share in his death. After hanging him that cruel, wicked Lippincott fastened to his breast a notice to the effect that they had killed Captain Huddy in revenge for the death of Philip White, and that they were determined to hang man for man while a refugee lived." "Oh, what dreadful, dreadful things people did in those days!" sighed Grace. "Did anybody venture to take the body down and bury it, Grandma Elsie?" "Yes, Captain Huddy's body was carried to Freehold and buried with the honors of war." "And did people care much about it?" "Yes, indeed! his death caused great excitement and indignation, and Dr. Woodhull, the Freehold minister, who preached the funeral sermon from the piazza of the hotel, earnestly entreated Washington to retaliate in order to prevent a repetition of such deeds. "Washington consented, but, ever merciful, first wrote to Sir Henry Clinton that unless the murderers of Captain Huddy were given up he should retaliate. "Clinton refused, and a young British officer, Captain Asgill, a prisoner in the hands of the Americans, was selected by lot for execution. Washington, however, mercifully postponed the carrying out of the sentence, feeling much pity and sympathy for the young man--doubtless for his relatives also; letters came from Europe earnestly entreating that Asgill's life might be spared; among them a pathetic one from his mother, and an intercessory one from the French minister, Count de Vergennes. "These letters Washington sent to Congress and that body passed a resolution, 'That the commander-in-chief be, and hereby is, directed to set Captain Asgill at liberty.'" "It seems to me that our people were far more merciful than the English," remarked Lulu, with a look of patriotic pride. "I think that is true," assented Grandma Elsie, "not meaning to deny that there are many kindhearted men among the British of to-day, or that there were such among them even then, but most of those then in power showed themselves to be avaricious, hardhearted, and cruel." "Yes, they wanted to make slaves of the people here," exclaimed Lulu hotly. "But they found that Americans wouldn't be slaves; that rather than resign their liberty they would die fighting for it." CHAPTER VI. It was still early in the evening when the _Dolphin_ reached her wharf at Philadelphia, where her passengers found friends and relatives waiting to give them a joyful reception. A few days passed very pleasantly in visiting these friends and places of interest in the city, particularly such as were in one way or another connected with the events of revolutionary times. Then they went up the Delaware in their yacht. Their first halting-place would be at Trenton, and naturally the talk, as they went up the river, was largely of the revolutionary events which had taken place there and at other not far distant points. Grandma Elsie was again the narrator. "In November of 1776," she began, "our country's prospects looked very dark. On the 16th, Fort Washington, on the east bank of the Hudson, and near New York City, fell into the hands of the enemy and its garrison of nearly three thousand men were made prisoners of war. "On the 20th Cornwallis crossed the Hudson at Dobbs Ferry and with his six thousand men attacked Fort Lee. The garrison hastily retreated, leaving all their baggage and military stores, and joined the main army at Hackensack, five miles away. "Then Washington, who had with him scarcely three thousand men, began a retreat toward the Delaware, hoping to obtain reinforcements in New Jersey and Pennsylvania which would enable him to make a stand against the invaders and give them battle. "But his troops had become much dispirited by the many recent disasters to our arms, delayed payment of arrears by Congress, causing them great inconvenience and suffering, and lack of proper food and clothing, and the presence of the enemy, who now had possession of New Jersey and seemed likely soon to take Philadelphia. "Just at that time, as I have said, there seemed little hope for our country. Washington's army was dwindling very rapidly, men whose terms of enlistment had expired refusing to serve any longer, so that he had but twenty-two hundred under his command when he crossed the Delaware, and two days later not more than seventeen hundred; indeed, scarcely more than a thousand on whom he could rely. "He wrote to General Lee, who had been left at White Plains with nearly three thousand men, asking him to lead his division into New Jersey, to reinforce his rapidly melting army. Lee paid no attention to the request and Washington sent him a positive command to do what he had before requested. "Lee obeyed very slowly, and while on his way was taken prisoner by the enemy." "Served him right for disobeying Washington!" growled Walter. "There could be no excuse for such disobedience," continued Grandma Elsie; "and one feels no sympathy for Lee in reading of his sudden seizure by the British, who carried him off in such haste that he had no time to dress but was taken bareheaded and in blanket coat and slippers." "I doubt if his capture was a loss to the American cause," remarked Rosie. "No," said her mother; "though much deplored at the time, I have no doubt it was really for the good of the cause. General Sullivan succeeded Lee in command and presently joined Washington with his forces." "I don't see how Washington could have patience with so many disappointments and delays," said Lulu. "Didn't he ever give way to despair, even for a little while, Grandma Elsie?" "I have never seen the least intimation of it," replied Mrs. Travilla. "He is said to have been at this time firm, calm, undaunted, holding fast to his faith in the final triumph of the good cause for which he was toiling and striving. "There seemed to be nothing but the Delaware between the enemy and his conquest of Philadelphia; the freezing of the river so that the British could pass over it on the ice might occur at any time. Some one asked Washington what he would do were Philadelphia to be taken. He answered, 'We will retreat beyond the Susquehanna River, and thence, if necessary, to the Alleghany Mountains.' Doubtless he was even then planning the masterly movements of his forces that presently drove the enemy from Trenton and Princeton." "Didn't the people of Philadelphia try to be ready to defend themselves and their city, mamma?" asked Walter. "Yes," she replied; "Congress gave the command there, with almost unlimited power, to General Putnam; then appointing a committee of three to act for them, they adjourned to reassemble at Baltimore. "In the meantime Washington was getting ready for the striking of his intended blows in New Jersey. "It would seem that General Howe, the commander-in-chief of the British forces, had planned to despatch Cornwallis up the Hudson to the assistance of Burgoyne, who was about to invade our country from Canada. But Cornwallis had a strong desire to capture Philadelphia, and probably no doubt that he could do so if allowed to carry out his plans, and to that Howe consented. "Cornwallis showed but little skill in the arrangement of his forces, scattering them here and there in detachments from New Brunswick to the Delaware and down that stream to a point below Burlington. His military stores, and his strongest detachment, were at New Brunswick. The last consisting of a troop of light horse with about fifteen hundred Hessians. "Washington decided to surprise those troops while at the same time Generals Ewing and Cadwalader, with the Pennsylvania militia, were directed to attack the posts at Bordentown, Black Horse, Burlington, and Mount Holly. Cadwalader was to cross near Bristol, Ewing below Trenton falls, while Washington, with Generals Greene and Sullivan, and Colonel Knox of the artillery, was to lead the main body of Continental troops and cross the Delaware at M'Conkey's Ferry. "Washington was very anxious to save Philadelphia, which Cornwallis was aiming to capture, and felt sure of taking without any great difficulty, after crossing the Delaware, since he had heard that the people there were for the king almost to a man. So sure was he indeed that the victory would be an easy one that he had gone back to his headquarters in New York and prepared to return to England. "Putnam, in Philadelphia, had heard of Washington's intended attack upon the British at Trenton, and to assist him sent Colonel Griffin, at the head of four hundred and fifty militia, across from Philadelphia to New Jersey with directions to make a diversion in favor of the Americans by marching to Mount Holly as if intending an attack upon the British troops under the command of Colonel Donop at Bordentown. "Donop fell into the trap, moved against Griffin with his whole force of two thousand men, and, as Griffin retreated before him, followed; then, secure like Cornwallis and other of the English officers in the belief that the Americans were well nigh subdued already, and that when once Philadelphia should fall, resistance would be about at an end, moved his troops in so dilatory a manner that he was two days in returning to his post." "Humph! they were mightily mistaken in their estimate of our people, weren't they, mamma?" exclaimed Walter. "I think they were themselves soon convinced of that," she answered with a smile; then continued her story. "Washington selected Christmas night as the time for his contemplated attack upon the British at Trenton. It was, as he well knew, the habit of the Germans to celebrate that day with feasting and drinking, and such being the case, he felt that he might reasonably expect to find them under the influence of intoxicating drinks, therefore unfit for a successful resistance. "The river had been free from ice, but in the last twenty-four hours before the time appointed for the expedition the weather changed, growing very much colder, so that the water was filled with floating ice, greatly increasing the difficulty and danger of crossing; a storm of sleet and snow set in too, and the night was dark and gloomy. "Still the little army was undaunted; they paraded at M'Conkey's Ferry at dusk, expecting to reach Trenton by midnight; but so slow and perilous was the crossing that it was nearly four o'clock when at last they mustered on the Jersey shore. "It was now too late to attack under cover of the darkness, as had been Washington's plan." "Excuse me, mamma, but surely it would be still dark at four o'clock in the morning?" Walter said half inquiringly. "Yes, my son, but you must remember they had crossed at M'Conkey's Ferry, which is eight miles higher up the river than is Trenton, so that they had that distance to march before they could make their attack. "Washington divided his forces, leading one portion himself by the upper road,--Generals Greene, Mercer, and Lord Sterling accompanying him,--and giving Sullivan command of the other, which was to approach the town by another road leading along the river. "The two arrived at Trenton about the same time, having marched so silently that the enemy was unaware of their approach till they were but a short distance from the picket guards on the outskirts of the town. "There was a brisk skirmish then, the Hessians retreating toward their main body, firing as they went from behind the houses, while the Americans pursued them closely." "Then the Hessians weren't drunk as Washington expected, were they, Grandma Elsie?" asked Grace. "Well-authenticated tradition says they were," replied Mrs. Travilla; "that they had been carousing through the night, Rall himself feasting, drinking, and playing cards at the house of Abraham Hunt, who had invited him and other officers to a Christmas supper. They had been playing all night and regaling themselves with wine. "A Tory on the Pennington road saw, about dawn, the approach of the Americans under Washington and sent a messenger with a note to warn Rall. But a negro servant who had been stationed as warden at the door refused to allow the messenger to pass in, saying, 'The gemman can't be disturbed.' "It seems that the messenger was aware of the contents of the note, or at least that it was a warning of the approach of the Americans, so, being foiled in his purpose of seeing Rall himself, he handed the note to the negro with an order to carry it at once to Colonel Rall. "The negro obeyed, but Rall, excited with wine and interested in his game, merely thrust the note into his pocket and went on with his deal. "But presently the roll of the American drums, the rattle of musketry, the tramp of horses, and the rumble of heavy gun-carriages fell upon his drowsy ear, and in a moment he was wide awake, the cards were dropped, he sprang to his feet, then rushed away to his quarters and mounted his horse with all speed; but at that time his soldiers were being driven by the Americans as chaff before the wind. "The Hessians' drums were beating to arms, and a company rushed out of the barracks to protect the patrol. Washington's troops had begun the fight with an attack upon the outermost picket on the Pennington road, and Stark, with the van of Sullivan's party, gave three cheers and rushed upon the enemy's pickets near the river with their bayonets, and they, astonished at the suddenness and fury of the charge, were seized with a panic and fled in confusion across the Assanpink. "Both divisions--the one commanded by Washington, the other under Sullivan--now pressed forward so rapidly, and with such zeal and determination, that the Hessians were not allowed to form. Nor could they get possession of the two cannon in front of Rall's quarters. "The Americans themselves were forming in line of battle when Rall made his appearance, reeling in his saddle as if drunk,--as I presume he was,--received a report, then rode up in front of his regiment and called out, 'Forward, march; advance, advance!' "But before his order could be obeyed a party of Americans hurried forward and dismounted his two cannon, accomplishing the feat without injury to themselves except that Captains William Washington and James Monroe were slightly wounded." "And where was General Washington just then, mamma?" asked Walter. "He was there in the midst of the fighting, and exposed to the same dangers as his troops. It was under his personal direction that a battery of six guns was opened upon two regiments of Hessians less than three hundred yards distant. Washington was then near the front, a little to the right, where he could be easily seen by the enemy, and made a target for their balls. But though his horse was wounded, he remained unhurt." "Oh," cried Evelyn with enthusiasm, "surely God protected him and turned aside the balls, that America might not lose the one on whom so much depended! the father of his country, the ardent patriot, the best of men and greatest of generals, as I do certainly believe he was." "I am proud that Washington was a countryman of mine," exclaimed Rosie, her eyes sparkling. "Yes, we are all proud of our Washington," said Lulu. "But what more can you tell us about the battle of Trenton, Grandma Elsie?" "Rall drew back his two regiments as if intending to reach the road to Princeton by turning Washington's left," continued Mrs. Travilla in reply. "To prevent that, an American regiment was thrown in front of him. It seemed likely that he might have forced a passage through it, but his troops, having collected much plunder in Trenton and wishing to hold on to it, persuaded him to try to recover the town. "He made the attempt, but was charged impetuously by the Americans and driven back further than before; and in that movement he himself was mortally wounded by a musket ball. His men were thrown into confusion, and presently surrendered. "Then Baylor rode up to Washington and announced, 'Sir, the Hessians have surrendered.'" "Baylor?" repeated Walter. "Who was he, mamma?" "One of Washington's aids," she replied. "In the first year of the war he was made an aid-de-camp to General Washington and in that capacity was with him in this battle." "How I envy him!" exclaimed Lulu. "I do think that if I'd been a man living in those days," said Walter, "I'd have cared for no greater honor than being aid to our Washington." His mother's only reply was a proudly affectionate look and smile as she went on with her story. "There was another regiment, under Knyphausen, which had been ordered to cover the flank. These tried to reach the Assanpink bridge, but lost time in an effort to get two cannon out of the morass, and when they reached the bridge the Americans were guarding it on both sides. They tried to ford the river, but without success, and presently surrendered to Lord Stirling, with the privilege of keeping their swords and their private baggage. That ended the battle, leaving the Americans with nearly a thousand prisoners in their hands. "Over two hundred of the Hessians had escaped--some to Princeton, others to Bordentown. There were a hundred and thirty absent, having been sent out on some expedition, and seventeen were killed. The battle had lasted thirty-five minutes, and the Americans had not lost a man." "It was wonderful, I think!" said Evelyn, in her earnest way; "certainly God helped our patriotic forefathers or they never could have succeeded in their conflict with so powerful a foe as Great Britain was even then." "It was all of God's great goodness to this land and people," said Grandma Elsie. "Had there been in that action defeat to our arms instead of victory, we would not--so soon at least--have become the free and powerful nation we are to-day. Congress lavished praise upon General Washington, but he replied, 'You pay me compliments as if the merit of the affair was due solely to me; but I assure you the other general officers who assisted me in the plan and execution have full as good a right to the encomiums as myself.'" "Possibly that was only just," remarked Rosie, "but it strikes me as very generous." "It was just like Washington," said Walter; "our Washington! I'm ever so proud of him!" "As we all are," said his mother; "but we must not forget to give the glory of that victory, and all others, and also of our final success, to him who is the God of battles, and by whose strength and help our freedom was won. As Bancroft says, 'Until that hour the life of the United States flickered like a dying flame,' but God had appeared for their deliverance and from that time the hopes of the almost despairing people revived, while the confident expectations of their enemies were dashed to the ground. Lord George Germain exclaimed after he heard the news, 'All our hopes were blasted by the unhappy affair at Trenton.'" "Unhappy affair indeed!" exclaimed Walter. "What a heartless wretch he must have been, mamma!" "And how our poor soldiers did suffer!" sighed Lulu; "it makes my heart ache just to think of it!" "And mine," said Grandma Elsie. "It is wonderful how much the poor fellows were willing to endure in the hope of attaining freedom for themselves and their country. "Thomas Rodney tells us that on the night of the attack upon Trenton of which we have been talking, while Rall caroused and played cards beside his warm fire, our poor soldiers were toiling and suffering with cold and nakedness, facing wind and sleet in the defence of their country. "The night," he says, "was as severe a night as ever I saw; the frost was sharp, the current difficult to stem, the ice increasing, the wind high, and at eleven it began to snow. It was three in the morning of the 26th before the troops and cannon were all over, and another hour passed before they could be formed on the Jersey side. A violent northeast storm of wind, sleet, and hail set in as they began their nine miles' march to Trenton, against an enemy in the best condition to fight. The weather was terrible for men clad as they were, and the ground slipped under their feet. For a mile and a half they had to climb a steep hill, from which they descended to the road that ran for about three miles between hills and forests of hickory, ash, and black oak." "Oh, how brave and patriotic they were!" exclaimed Rosie. "I remember reading that their route might be easily traced by the blood on the snow from the feet of the poor fellows, who had broken shoes or none. Oh, what a shame it was that Congress and the people let them--the men who were enduring so much and fighting so bravely for the liberty of both--bear such hardships!" "It was, indeed," sighed Grandma Elsie; "it always gives me a heartache to think of those poor fellows marching through the darkness and that dreadful storm of snow, sleet, and bitter wind and only half clothed. Just think of it! a continuous march of fifteen miles through darkness, over such a road, the storm directly in their faces. They reached their destination stiff with cold, yet rushed at once upon the foe, fighting bravely for freedom for themselves and their children. 'Victory or death,' was the watchword Washington had given them." "Were they from all the States, mamma?" asked Walter. "They were principally Pennsylvania, Virginia, and New England troops," she answered. "Grant, the British commander in New Jersey, knew of the destitution of our troops but felt no fear that they would really venture to attack him; persuading himself that they would not cross the river because the floating ice would make it a difficult, if not impossible, thing for them to return. "'Besides,' he wrote on the 21st, 'Washington's men have neither shoes nor stockings nor blankets, are almost naked, and dying of cold and want of food.'" "And didn't Rall say the Americans wouldn't dare to come against him?" asked Walter. "Yes; his reply to a warning of danger of being attacked was, 'Let them come; what need of intrenchments! We will at them with the bayonet!'" "And when they did come he was killed?" "Yes, mortally wounded; taken by his aids and servant to his quarters at the house of a Quaker named Stacey Potts; and there Washington and Greene visited him just before leaving Trenton." "They knew he was dying, mamma?" "Yes, and, as Lossing tells us, Washington offered such consolation as a soldier and Christian can bestow." "It was very kind, and I hope Rall appreciated it." "It would seem that he did, as the historian tells us it soothed the agonies of the expiring hero." CHAPTER VII. From Trenton Grandma Elsie, the captain, and their young charges went on to Princeton, where they received a most joyful welcome from Harold and Herbert Travilla, now spending their last year at the seminary. Their mother had written to them of the intended visit, and all necessary arrangements had been made. Carriages were in waiting, and shortly after their arrival the whole party were on their way to the battleground, where the attention of the young people was drawn to the various points of interest, particularly the spot where fell General Mercer. "The general's horse was wounded in the leg by a musket ball," explained Harold, in reply to a question from his little brother; "he dismounted, and was rallying his troops, when a British soldier felled him to the ground by a blow from a musket. "He was supposed to be Washington. A shout, was raised, 'The rebel general is taken!' and at that others of the enemy rushed to the spot calling out, 'Call for quarter, you d----d rebel!' "'I am no rebel!' Mercer answered indignantly, though half a dozen of their bayonets were at his breast; and instead of calling for quarter he continued to fight, striking at them with his sword till they bayoneted him and left him for dead. "He was not dead, however, but mortally wounded. "After the British had retreated he was carried to the house of Thomas Clark," continued Harold, pointing out the building as he spoke, "where he lingered in great pain till the 12th and then died." "I'm glad it wasn't Washington," said Walter. "Was Washington hurt at all, papa?" asked Grace. "No, though exposed to the hottest fire he escaped without injury," replied the captain. "God our Heavenly Father preserved him for his great work--the salvation of our country. 'Man is immortal till his work is done'--and Washington's was not done till years afterward." "Not even when the war was over; for he was our first president, I remember," said Lulu. "Yes," replied her father, "and he did much for his country in that capacity. "The night before this battle of Princeton he and his army were in a critical situation, the British being fully equal in numbers and their troops well disciplined, while about half of Washington's army was composed of raw militia--so that a general engagement the next day would be almost sure to result in defeat to the Americans. "Washington called a council of war. It was he himself who proposed to withdraw from their present position--on the high ground upon the southern bank of the Assanpink--before dawn of the next morning, and, by a circuitous march to Princeton, get in the rear of the enemy, attack them at that place, and if successful march on to New Brunswick and take or destroy his stores there. "The great difficulty in the way was that the ground was too soft, from a thaw, to make it safe and easy to move their forty pieces of cannon. "But a kind Providence removed that hindrance, the weather suddenly becoming so extremely cold that in two hours or less the roads were hard enough for the work." "As Lossing says," remarked Grandma Elsie, "'The great difficulty was overcome by a power mightier than that of man. Our fathers were fighting for God-given rights and it was by his help they at last succeeded.'" "What's the rest of the story?" asked Walter. "How did Washington and his army slip away without the British seeing them? For I suppose they had sentinels awake and out." "Washington had a number of camp fires lighted along his front," replied Harold, to whom the question seemed to be addressed, "making them of the fences near at hand. That made the British think he was encamped for the night, and Cornwallis, when some one urged him to make an attack that night, said he would certainly 'catch the fox in the morning.' The fox, of course, was Washington, but he didn't catch him. It was not till dawn he discovered that the fox had eluded him and slipped away, fleeing so silently that the British did not know in what direction he had gone till they heard the boom of the cannon in the fight here. "Cornwallis thought it was thunder, but Sir William Erskine recognized it as what it was and exclaimed, 'To arms, General! Washington has outgeneraled us. Let us fly to the rescue at Princeton.'" "How long did the battle last?" queried Walter. "The fight right here lasted about fifteen minutes, but was very severe," replied his brother. "Then Washington pushed on to Princeton, and in a ravine near the college had another sharp fight with the Fifty-fifth British regiment." "And whipped them too?" "Yes; they were soon flying toward Brunswick, the Fortieth regiment going along with them. "A part of a regiment was still in the college buildings, and Washington had some cannon placed in proper position, then began firing on them. One of the balls--it is said to have been the first--passed into the chapel and through the head of a portrait of George the Second that hung in a large frame on the wall. A few more shots were fired, and then the Princeton militia, and some other daring fellows, burst open a door of Nassau Hall and called upon the troops there to surrender, which they did promptly." "And Cornwallis had not reached there yet?" Walter said interrogatively. "No," returned Harold, "and when he did arrive he found that the battle was over, and Washington, with his victorious troops and prisoners, had already left the town and was in hot pursuit of the fleeing Fortieth and Fifty-fifth regiments." "And our poor fellows so tired and cold!" sighed Eva. "Yes," said the captain, "they had fought at Trenton on the 26th, after being up, probably, all night, getting across the river, had spent the next night in marching upon Princeton and the day in fighting; so that they must have been terribly fatigued even had they had the warm clothing and nourishing food they needed; but less than half of them had been able to procure any breakfast or dinner; and, as you all know, many of them were without shoes or stockings. Ah, how we should prize the liberty which was so dearly bought!" "So to save his army," resumed Harold, "Washington refrained from an effort to seize the rich prize at New Brunswick, and let them rest that night and refresh themselves with food; then retired to his winter quarters at Morristown. "Now, good people, if you are ready to retrace your steps, let us go back and look at the town souvenirs of the revolution; among them the portrait of Washington in the frame that used to hold that of George the Second." Our friends made but a short stay at Princeton, leaving that evening, and the next day visited the scene of the battle of Monmouth. The captain gave a rapid sketch of the movements of the opposing armies, as he did so pointing out the various positions of the different corps, describing Lee's disgraceful conduct at the beginning of the fight, telling of the just indignation of Washington, his stern reproof, Lee's angry rejoinder, and then with what consummate skill and despatch his errors were repaired by the general-in-chief--the retreating, almost routed, troops rallied, and order brought out of confusion, and how fearlessly he exposed himself to the iron storm while giving his orders so that that patriot army, which had been so near destruction, within half an hour was drawn up in battle array and ready to meet the foe. "It was a very hot day, wasn't it, papa?" asked Lulu. "One of the hottest of the season," replied her father, "ninety-six degrees in the shade; and the sun slew his victims on both sides." "Don't you think Lee was a traitor, Captain?" queried Evelyn. "Either that or insane. I think it would have been a happy thing for America if both he and Gaines had remained in their own land. They did the American cause far more harm than good. Though I by no means accuse Gaines of treachery, but he was envious of Washington, and so desirous to supersede him that he was ready to sacrifice the cause to that end." "I just wish he'd been sent back to England," said Walter. "But please tell us the rest about the battle, Brother Levis, won't you?" The captain willingly complied. "It was a dreadful battle," remarked Evelyn with a sigh, as his story came to a conclusion. "Yes, one of the most hotly contested of the war," he assented, "and resulted in victory to the Americans in spite of Lee's repeated assertion that the 'attempt was madness.' "All the other American generals did well, the country resounded with praises of Washington, and Congress passed a unanimous vote of thanks to him 'for his great and good conduct and victory.'" "It was in this battle Captain Molly fought, wasn't it?" asked Rosie. "Yes," the captain replied; and, noticing the eagerly inquiring looks of Grace and Walter, he went on to tell the story. "Molly was the wife of a cannoneer who was firing one of the field-pieces, while she, disregarding the danger from the shots of the enemy, made frequent journeys to and from a spring near at hand, thus furnishing her husband with the means of slacking his thirst, which must have been great at such work in such weather. "At length a shot from the enemy killed him, and an order was given to remove the cannon, as there was no one among the soldiers near who was capable of its management. "But Molly, who had seen her husband fall, and heard the order, dropped her bucket, sprang to the cannon, seized the rammer, and, vowing that she would avenge his death, fired it with surprising skill, performing the duty probably as well as if she had belonged to the sterner sex. "The next morning General Greene presented her--just as she was, all covered with dust and blood--to Washington, who gave her the commission of sergeant as a reward for her bravery; in addition to that he recommended her to Congress as worthy to have her name placed upon the list of those entitled to half-pay during life. "The French officers so admired her bravery that they made her many presents. Lossing tells us that she would sometimes pass along their lines and get her cocked hat full of crowns. He also says the widow of General Hamilton told him she had often seen 'Captain Molly,' as she was called, and described her as a red-haired, freckle-faced young Irish woman, with a handsome piercing eye." "Papa, did she wear a man's hat?" asked Grace. "Yes, and also an artilleryman's coat over her woman's petticoats. She had done a brave deed about nine months before the battle of Monmouth, when Fort Clinton was taken by the British. She was there with her husband when the fort was attacked, and when the Americans retreated from the fort, and the enemy were scaling the ramparts, her husband dropped his match and fled, but Molly picked it up and fired the gun, then scampered off after him. That was the last gun fired in the fort by the Americans." "And this battle of Monmouth was a great victory for us--for the Americans, I mean?" Walter said inquiringly. "Yes, in spite of the shameful retreat of Lee and the unaccountable detention of Morgan and his brave riflemen, who were within sound of the fearful tumult of the battle and eager to take part in it, Morgan striding to and fro in an agony of suspense, and desire to participate in the struggle, yet unaccountably detained where he was." "And that was some of that traitor Lee's doings, I suspect," exclaimed Lulu hotly. "Wasn't it, papa?" "My dear child, I do not know," returned the captain, "but it seems altogether probable that if Morgan could have fallen, with his fresh troops, upon the weary ones of Sir Henry Clinton, toward the close of the day, the result might have been such a surrender as Burgoyne was forced to make at Saratoga. "But as it was, while Washington and his weary troops slept that night, the general looking forward to certain victory in the morning, when he could again attack his country's foes with his own troops strengthened and refreshed by sleep, Sir Henry and his army stole silently away and hurried toward Sandy Hook." "Did Washington chase him?" asked Walter. "No," said the captain; "when he considered the start the British had, the weariness of his own troops, the excessive heat of the weather, and the deep sandy country, with but little water to be had, he thought it wiser not to make the attempt." "Papa, was it near here that the British shot Mrs. Caldwell?" asked Lulu. "No; that occurred in a place called Connecticut Farms, about four miles northwest of Elizabethtown, to which they--the Caldwells--had removed for greater safety. "It was in June, 1780. The British under Clinton and Knyphausen crossed over to Elizabethtown and moved on toward Springfield. The Americans, under General Greene, were posted upon the Short Hills, a series of high ridges near Springfield, and came down to the plain to oppose the invasion of the British. I will not go into the details of the battle, but merely say that the British were finally repulsed, Greene being so advantageously posted by that time that he was anxious for an engagement, but Knyphausen, perceiving his own disadvantage, retreated, setting fire to the village of Connecticut Farms (now called Union) on his way. "The people of the town fled when they perceived the approach of the British, but Mrs. Caldwell remained, and with her children and maid retired to a private apartment and engaged in prayer. "Presently her maid, glancing from a window, exclaimed that a red-coated soldier had jumped over the fence and was coming toward the window. "At that Mrs. Caldwell rose from the bed where she had been sitting, and at that moment the soldier raised his musket and deliberately fired at her through the window, sending two balls through her body, killing her instantly, so that she fell dead among her poor frightened children. "It was with some difficulty that her body was saved from the fire which was consuming the town. It was dragged out into the street, and lay exposed there for some time--several hours--till some of her friends got leave to remove it to a house on the other side of the street. "Her husband was at the Short Hills that night, and in great anxiety and distress about his family; the next day he went with a flag of truce to the village, found it in ruins, and his wife dead. "That cold-blooded murder and wanton destruction of the peaceful little village aroused great indignation all over the land and turned many a Tory into a Whig." "Did anybody ever find out who it was that killed her, papa?" asked Grace. "The murderer is said to have been a man from the north of Ireland, named McDonald, who for some unknown reason had taken a violent dislike to Mr. Caldwell. "But little more than a year afterward Mr. Caldwell himself was slain, in a very similar manner, but by an American soldier." "An American, Brother Levis?" exclaimed Walter, in unfeigned surprise. "Did he do it intentionally?" "The shooting was intentional, but whether meant to kill I cannot say," replied the captain; "the fellow who did it is said to have been a drunken Irishman. It happened at Elizabethtown, then in possession of the Americans. A sloop made weekly trips between that place and New York, where were the headquarters of the British army at that time--and frequently carried passengers with a flag, and also parcels. "The Americans had a strong guard at a tavern near the shore, and one or two sentinels paced the causeway that extended across the marsh to the wharf. "One day in November, 1781, the vessel came in with a lady on board who had permission to visit a sister at Elizabethtown, and Mr. Caldwell drove down to the wharf in his chaise to receive her; then, not finding her on the wharf, went aboard the sloop and presently returned, carrying a small bundle. "The sentinel on the causeway halted Mr. Caldwell and demanded the bundle for examination, saying he had been ordered not to let anything of the kind pass without strict investigation. "Mr. Caldwell refused to give it to the man--James Morgan, by name--saying it was the property of a lady and had been merely put in his care. "The sentinel repeated his demand and Mr. Caldwell turned and went toward the vessel, it is presumed to carry the bundle back to its owner, when the sentinel leveled his piece and shot him dead upon the spot. "Morgan was arrested, tried for murder, and hung. He was first taken to the church, where a sermon was preached from the text 'Oh, do not this abominable thing which I hate.' "Mr. Caldwell had been much beloved as a pious and excellent minister. He was shot on Saturday afternoon, and the next day many of his people came in to attend church knowing nothing of the dreadful deed that had been done till they arrived. "Then there was a great sound of weeping and lamentation. The corpse was placed on a large stone at the door of the house of a friend whither it had been carried, and all who wished to do so were allowed to take a last look at the remains of their beloved pastor. Then, before the coffin was closed, Dr. Elias Boudinot led the nine orphan children up to the coffin to take their last look at the face of their father, and, as they stood weeping there, made a most moving address in their behalf." A few more days were spent by our friends in and about Philadelphia, during which brief visits were paid to places interesting to them because the scenes of historical events of the Revolution--Whitemarsh, Germantown, Barren Hill, Valley Forge, beside those within the city itself. But the summer heats were over and the hearts of one and all began to yearn for the sweets of home; all the more when word reached them through the mails that the members of their party left in the Newport cottages had already succumbed to the same sort of sickness, and were on their homeward way by land. A day or two later the _Dolphin_, with her full complement of passengers, was moving rapidly southward. CHAPTER VIII. Max had a most pleasant surprise when the mail was distributed on that first morning after his arrival at the Naval Academy. Till his name was called, he had hardly hoped there would be anything for him, and then as a letter was handed him, and he recognized upon it his father's well-known writing, his cheek flushed and his eyes shone. A hasty glance at his mates showed him that each seemed intent upon his own affairs,--no one watching him,--so he broke the seal and read with swelling heart the few sentences of fatherly advice and affection the captain had found time to pen before the _Dolphin_ weighed anchor the previous evening. He knew the homesickness that would assail his son on that first day of separation from himself and all composing the dear home circle, and was fain to relieve it so far as lay in his power. Max read the letter twice, then, refolding, slipped it into his pocket to read again and ponder upon when he could find a moment of leisure and freedom from observation. More firmly convinced than ever, if that were possible, was the lad that his was the best, kindest, and dearest of fathers. "And if I don't do him credit and make him happy and proud of his first-born, it shall not be for want of trying," was his mental resolve. It was fortunate for Max that his father had been seen and admired by the cadets, who one and all thought him a splendid specimen of naval officer, and were therefore well disposed toward his son. Then Max himself had such a bright, intelligent face and genial manner, was so ready to assist or oblige a comrade in any right and honorable way that lay in his power, so very conscientious about obeying rules and doing his duty in everything, and brave in facing ridicule, insolence, and contempt, when the choice was between that and wrong-doing, that no one of them could help respecting him, whether willing to acknowledge it or not. At first the "plebes," or boys in the same class (the fourth), who had entered in June of the same year, showed a disposition to treat him, as well as the other "Seps,"--as the lads entering in September are styled,--with scorn, as knowing less than themselves; but that soon changed under the exhibition Max was able to make of all he had learned from his father during the weeks on board the _Dolphin_, showing himself perfectly at home in "rigging-loft work," rowing, and swimming, and by no means slow in taking to great-gun exercise, infantry tactics, and field artillery. Nor was he less ready in the art of swinging a hammock. His father had not neglected that part of his education, and Hunt and others who had hoped for some fun in watching his maiden effort had to own themselves defeated and disappointed. Max was as expert at that as the oldest member of the class. So the "plebes" soon dropped their air of conscious superiority and presently began to treat him as an equal; a change which he reported to his father with evident satisfaction. He wrote frequently and with much openness to that father, telling of his duties and pleasures and asking advice in any perplexity as freely as he could have asked it of any one near his own age, and with full confidence in the wisdom and the affection for him which would dictate the reply. Nor was he disappointed; almost every day a letter came from the captain, breathing strong fatherly affection, giving commendation, encouragement, and the best of advice; also telling everything about the doings and happenings in the family that was not related by Mamma Vi or one of Max's sisters, who not unfrequently added a note to papa's larger letter. All those letters, like the first, were highly prized by the recipient and read and reread in leisure moments till he could have repeated their contents almost word for word; and every perusal increased the lad's desire and determination to be and do all those dear ones--especially his father--could wish; also to please and honor him to whose service he had consecrated his life and all his powers. Max was not perfect, but he was honest and true, and sincerely desirous to do right. He was much interested in the accounts received of the visits of his father and the others to the scenes of revolutionary events in Pennsylvania and New Jersey, and, though far from regretting his choice of a profession, could not help wishing he could have made one of the party. One day, after he had spent some weeks in the Academy, he was disappointed in his expectation of receiving a letter; none came the next day; but then it occurred to him that the _Dolphin_ was probably on her homeward way and he would soon get a letter from Woodburn, telling of the arrival there of all belonging to the dear home circle. And he was right; a package of letters came presently giving an account of the events of the last days spent in Philadelphia, the return voyage, and the joy of the arrival at their own beautiful and happy home. Ah, as Max read, how he longed to be with them! Yet the concluding sentences of his father's letter restored him to contentment with things as they were. The captain had just received and read the report of his boy's conduct and academic standing for his first month and was much pleased with it. He made that very clear to the lad, calling him his dear son, his joy and pride, and telling him that until he was a father himself he could never know the joy and happiness such a report of a son's behavior and improvement of his opportunities could give. "Ah," thought the boy, "I'll try harder than ever since it gives such pleasure to my kindest and best of fathers. How glad I am to have the chance! How thankful I ought to be! I doubt if there was ever a more fortunate boy than myself." Max and his room-mate, Hunt, liked each other from the first, and seldom had the slightest disagreement. According to the rules they took turns, week about, in keeping their room in order, each trying to outdo his mate in the thoroughness with which he attended to all the minutiæ of the business. They were good-natured rivals too in other matters connected with the course of instruction they were going through: gymnastic exercises, fencing and boxing, and the drill called fire-quarters, in which the whole battalion is formed into a fire-brigade, and when the fire-bell is sounded each cadet hastens to his proper place in the troop, and the steam fire-engine and hose-carriages belonging to the Academy are brought out and used as they would be in case some building were in flames and the cadets were called upon to assist in extinguishing the blaze. Max and his chum had become quite expert at that exercise, when one night they were roused from sleep by the sound of the fire-bell, and springing up and running to their window saw that a dwelling several squares from the Academy was in flames. "It's a real fire this time!" cried Hunt, snatching up a garment and beginning a very hurried toilet, Max doing the same, "and now we'll have a chance to show how well we understand the business of putting it out." "And we must try to do credit to our training here in the Academy," added Max. An hour or more of great excitement and exertion followed, then, the fire extinguished, the brigade returned to the Academy, and the lads to their sleeping-room, so weary with their exertions that they were very soon sound asleep again. The experiences of that night furnished Max with material for an interesting letter to his father and the rest of the home folks. "I didn't know the cadets were taught how to put out fires," remarked Grace, when her father had finished reading aloud, to his wife and children, Max's story of the doings of the cadets on that night. "Yes," the captain said, "that is an important part of their education. There are a great many things a cadet needs to know." "I suppose so, papa," said Lulu, "and though Maxie doesn't say much about his own share in the work, I feel very sure he did his part. And aren't you proud of him--your eldest son?" "I am afraid I am," replied her father, with a smile in his eyes. "It may be all parental partiality, but my boy seems to me one of whom any father might well be proud." "And I am quite of your opinion, my dear," said Violet. "I am very proud of my husband's son--the dear, good, brave fellow." But the captain's eyes were again upon the letter, his face expressing both interest and amusement. "What is it, Levis?" she asked; "something more that you can share with the rest of us?" "Yes," he returned; then read aloud: "That was Friday night, and this is Saturday evening. This afternoon Hunt and I were allowed to go into the city. We were walking along one of the side streets, and came upon a man who was beating his horse most unmercifully. "The poor thing was just a bag of bones, that seemed to have nothing but skin over them, and was hitched to a cart heavily loaded with earth and stones; its head was down, and it looked ready to drop, while the savage wretch (not worthy to be called a man) was beating it furiously, and cursing and swearing in a towering passion; men and boys gathering around, and some calling him to stop. "But he didn't pay the smallest attention, till the poor beast spoke--at least the voice seemed to come from its mouth--'Aren't you ashamed to be beating me so, and swearing at me, too, when you've starved me till I haven't strength to drag even myself another step?' "At that the man stopped both his beating and swearing, and stood looking half scared out of his wits. The crowd, too, looked thunderstruck; and presently one fellow said, 'It's the story of Balaam and his ass over again. There must be an angel somewhere round,' glancing from side to side as he spoke, in a way that almost made me laugh, angry as I was at the human brute, or rather the inhuman scoundrel, who had been treating the poor creature so cruelly. "Others looked too, but didn't seem to be able to see the angel. "Hunt, standing close at my side, gave a low whistle. 'What, upon earth?' he said. 'Oh, there must be a ventriloquist somewhere in the crowd. I'd like to know who he is. Wouldn't you, Max?' "Do you really think that's the explanation?' I asked. 'Certainly,' he answered, in a tone as if he was rather disgusted at my stupidity. 'How else could you account for the seeming ability of that wretched animal to talk?' "'I can't think of any other explanation,' I answered, 'but I hope that inhuman wretch of a driver doesn't know anything about ventriloquists, and so will be afraid to ill-use the poor creature any more.' 'I hope so, indeed,' he said. 'See, the crowd are stroking and patting it, and yonder comes a man with a bucket of water, and another with a panful of oats. The ventriloquist has done some good.' "'I'm glad of it,' I replied. Then, looking at my watch, I saw that it was time for us to go back to the Academy. "Hunt told the story to some of the other fellows that evening, and there was great wonderment about the ventriloquist, and a good many wished they could have a chance to see him and some of his tricks. Some of them remarked, in a wondering way, that I seemed very indifferent about it, and then I told them of Cousin Ronald and his doings at Ion, which interested them very much, and several said they would like greatly to make his acquaintance and see and hear what he could do. Isn't it good, papa, that they have never once suspected me?" "Well," exclaimed Lulu, "Max used his talent to do good that time. Didn't he, papa?" "He did, indeed," replied the captain. "I hope that poor horse will, as a consequence, receive better treatment in future." "I'm so glad Maxie could frighten the man so and make him stop treating it so dreadfully," remarked Grace, with a sigh of relief. "I never thought before that that talent of his was good for anything but to make fun for folks." "The ability to afford amusement to others is a talent not to be despised," said her father; "for innocent mirth often does good like a medicine; but power to rescue even a dumb beast from ill-treatment is still more to be coveted, and I shall be glad indeed if Max will use his gift in that way whenever opportunity offers." CHAPTER IX. A week or more had passed since the return of our friends from their vacation in the more northern part of their loved native land, and Lulu and Grace, who had at first missed their older brother sorely from the family circle, had now begun to feel somewhat accustomed to his absence, and were very merry and happy. They had resumed their studies, reciting, as before, to their father, and took daily walks and rides on their ponies, varied by an occasional drive with the captain, Violet, and the little ones. The Ion and Fairview families, too, had gone back to old pleasures and employments; but so busy had all been, taking up familiar cares and duties, and making needed preparations for approaching winter, that only few and short visits had as yet been exchanged between them. It was in the sitting-room, and just after breakfast, that the captain had read Max's letter aloud to his wife and children. "Go to the schoolroom now, daughters, and look over your lessons for the day," he said, presently, addressing Lulu and Grace. They obeyed instantly, and as they left the room a servant came in with a note from Violet's mother, which he handed to his mistress, saying one of the Ion servants had just brought it. "Mamma's handwriting," Violet remarked to her husband as she took the note and glanced at the address upon it. "Ah! I hope they are all well?" he returned half inquiringly. "No, mamma herself is certainly not quite well," Violet answered with a disturbed look, after glancing hastily down the page; "she says as much, and that she wants me to come and spend a few days with her, bringing all the children if I choose; they will not disturb her. And you also will be most welcome. Dear, dear mamma! I shall go to her at once--unless my husband objects," she added, looking up at him with a rather sad sort of smile. "As he certainly could not think of doing, my love," he replied, in tender tones. "We must go, of course; you and the little ones, at least; we will consider about the older ones, and I shall spend my time between the two places, not being willing to stay constantly away from you, yet having some matters to attend to here, some things that ought not to be delayed." "But you will be with us a part of every day?" returned Violet, with a wistful half-inquiring look up into his face. "Yes, oh yes!" he hastened to say; "with my wife so near at hand I could not let a day go by without inflicting my presence upon her for some small part of it," he concluded in a half jesting tone, and with a fond look down into the sweet, troubled face; for he was standing close at her side. "I think it could not be harder for you than for me, my dear," she returned, with a loving smile up at him. "I should like to take all the children," she went on, "but Alma is here to make up some dresses for Lulu, and will need her at hand to try them on and make sure of the fit." "And I should seriously object to allowing Lulu to drop her studies again just as she has made a fresh and fair start with them," said the captain; "so of course she will have to stay at home. Grace also, I think, as there would be the same objection to her absence from home--as regards the lessons I mean." "But if you will allow it, I can hear her recite at Ion," Violet said. "She could learn her lessons there and still have a good deal of time to play with her little sister, who thinks no one else quite equal to her Gracie,--as she calls her,--for a playfellow." "Well, my dear, we will make that arrangement if you wish it," responded the captain. "And yet how Lulu will miss her," Violet said, a troubled look coming over her face. "I wish we could manage it so that she could go too, the dear child!" "I should be glad to give her the pleasure," returned Captain Raymond; "but really think it will not do to have her studies so interfered with now when she has but just well settled down to them. It will be a little hard for her, but perhaps not a bad lesson in patience and self-denial." "But a lesson I fear she will not enjoy," remarked Violet, with a regretful smile. Going into the schoolroom presently the captain found his two little girls industriously busy with their tasks. "Gracie, daughter," he said, "your mamma is going over to Ion for a few days, because Grandma Elsie is not very well and wants her companionship, and Mamma Vi wants you,--for little Elsie's sake,--having found you very successful in entertaining her and baby Ned. We are all invited, indeed; but I must be here the greater part of the time, as I have various matters to oversee, and Lulu cannot be spared from home as Alma is at work upon some dresses for her, and I wish her to go on diligently with her studies." "But don't I need to be attending to mine, papa?" queried Grace, looking regretfully at her sister, over whose face had come a look of keen disappointment, succeeding one of pleased anticipation called out by the beginning of her father's communication. "Yes," he said, with a smile; "we are going to let you attend to them there, Mamma Vi acting as governess." "Isn't she willing to do the same for me too, papa?" asked Lulu, in a slightly hurt tone. "I think so," he answered pleasantly; "but there is the dressmaking, and I couldn't think of such a thing as asking to have that carried on at Ion." Lulu seemed to have nothing more to say and Grace gave her a troubled look; then, with a little hesitation, "Papa," she said, "I--I think I'd rather stay at home with Lu, if I may." "No, daughter," he answered, still speaking very pleasantly. "I have not time to give my reasons just now; but I want you to go, and Lulu to stay. It will probably be for only a few days; and I think she may trust her father not to allow her to be very lonely in the meanwhile," he added, with a smile directed to Lulu, but which she did not seem to see, keeping her face down and her eyes fixed upon her book. Then he left the room, saying to Grace as he went out, "Make haste, daughter, to gather up your books and whatever else you may wish to take with you. I have already ordered the carriage and there is no time to waste. Lulu may help you if she will." "Will you, Lu?" asked Grace, with a very sympathizing look at her sister. "Oh, I wish papa had said you were to go too! Whatever shall I do without my dear, big sister!" "Never mind, Gracie; I'm sure I don't want to go where I'm not wanted," replied Lulu, in a hurt tone. "I'm sure it isn't because they wouldn't like to have you there," returned Grace, running to her sister and putting her arms about her neck. "Why don't they ask me, then?" queried Lulu, a little angrily. "May be they did. I'm most sure Grandma Elsie wouldn't forget to include you in her invitation; and, oh, yes! don't you remember papa did say we were all invited? But you know there are the lessons, and I suppose papa would rather hear them himself." "But he could hear them there." "Yes; so he could if he wanted to. But then there's the dressmaking, you know." "That could be put off for a few days," returned Lulu, with a very grown-up air. "There are plenty of ways when people want to do a thing--plenty of excuses to be thought of when they don't. Alma has numerous customers and could sew for somebody else first, giving her my time, and me hers after we get home." "Oh, maybe it could be managed in that way!" exclaimed Grace joyously; "and I'd so much rather have you along. I think I'll ask papa." "No, don't you do any such thing," returned Lulu, in a not particularly amiable tone. "If I'm not wanted, I'm sure I don't wish to go. But you'll have to hurry, Gracie. You know papa is very particular about our being prompt in obeying his orders." "Yes," returned Grace, who was again at her desk, "but I have been busy all this time getting out the books and other things I must take along, and now I'll go upstairs and get dressed and put up the things there that I want. Won't you go with me? You'll know so much better than I what I need to take." "Yes, Gracie, dear; I'll be glad to give you all the help I can. I'm glad papa said I might. Oh, but it will be lonely here without you! I do think papa might have said I could go, too." "I'd be ever so glad if he had, or would," said Grace, as hand in hand they left the room together, "but you know, Lu dear, we always find out in the end that his way is the best." "So we do, and I'll try to believe it now," returned Lulu, in a more cheerful tone than she had used since learning that the rest of the family were to go to Ion and she was to remain at home. With her good help Grace was ready in a few minutes, and just then they heard their father call to her to come at once, as the carriage was at the door. The sisters embraced each other hastily, Grace saying, "Oh, Lu, good-by, I do wish you were going along, for I can hardly bear to go without you." "Never mind, but just try to enjoy yourself as much as ever you can," returned Lulu. "Go down now, dearie, for we should never keep papa waiting, you know. Here's Agnes to carry down your satchel. I hope you won't stay long enough away from me to need many clothes, and if you do it will be easy enough to send them--the carriage going back and forth every day." Grace was half-way down the stairs before Lulu had finished. "Ain't you a gwine down to see de folks off, Miss Lulu?" queried Agnes, as she took up the satchel. "No," returned Lulu shortly; "I'm going back to the schoolroom to attend to my lessons." Agnes gave her a look of surprise as she left the room, thinking she had never known Miss Lu fail to be at the door when any of the other members of the family were leaving for more than a short drive, and she staying behind. "Where is Lulu, Gracie?" asked Violet, as the captain handed the little girl into the carriage. "I hadn't time to hunt her up, and thought she would be here at the door to say good-by to us all." "She said she must hurry back to her lessons, mamma," answered Grace, blushing for her sister. "You see she stopped to help me get ready, and I suppose she's afraid she'll not know them well by the time papa wants to hear her recite." "It would have taken very little of her time," the captain remarked, with a grave and somewhat displeased look. "Oh, well, you can bring her over to Ion, perhaps this afternoon or to-morrow, for a call, Levis," Violet hastened to say in a cheery tone. "Possibly," he answered, and was about to step into the carriage when a servant came hurrying up to ask directions in regard to some work to be done in the grounds. "My dear," said the captain to Violet, "I think it would be better for you and the children to drive on without waiting for me. I shall probably follow you in another hour or two." "Very well; please don't disappoint us if you can help it," returned Violet, and the carriage drove on, while Captain Raymond walked away in the opposite direction, to give the needed orders to his men. "I think it's a shame that I should be left behind when all the rest of the family are going to Ion to have a good time," muttered Lulu angrily, as she seated herself at her desk again and opened a book. "Papa could hear my lessons there just as well as here if he chose, and Mamma Vi might have arranged to have my dresses made a week or two later." "Miss Lu," said Agnes, opening the door and putting in her head, "Miss Alma tole me for to tell you she's 'bout ready fo' to try on yo' new dress." "Tell her to take it to my room. I'll go up there to have it tried on," replied Lulu, in a vexed, impatient tone. Then, as Agnes withdrew her head and closed the door, "Horrid thing! why couldn't she have come to me while I was up there? Here I am, hardly fairly settled to my work, and I must drop it and go back again. I'd better take my book with me, for there's no knowing how long she may keep me while she alters something that she has got wrong, for she's generally too stupid to make a thing right at the first trial. Well, perhaps she'll get done by the time papa comes back and is ready to hear me recite." So saying she went slowly from the school room and upstairs to her own apartment. There were a few minutes of waiting for Alma, which did not improve Lulu's temper, and as the girl came in she received an angry glance, accompanied by the remark, in no very pleasant tones, that she had no business to send for people till she was ready to attend to them. At that Alma colored painfully. "I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, Miss Lu," she said, "but I'll try not to keep you so very long." "If you don't, it will be about the first time that you haven't," snapped Lulu. "I think you are just about the slowest, most blundering dressmaker I ever did see." At that unkind remark, Alma's eyes filled with tears, but she went on silently with her work, making no rejoinder, while Lulu--the reproaches of conscience rendering her uneasy and irritable--fidgetted and fussed, thus greatly increasing the difficulty of the task. "Miss Lu," Alma said at last, in a despairing tone, "if you can't keep stiller, it is not possible for me to make the dress to fit you right." "Indeed!" returned Lulu scornfully, "I don't feel sure of your ability to fit it right under any circumstances--such a stupid, awkward thing as you are, and----" Her sentence was left unfinished, for at that instant, to her astonishment and dismay, her father's voice called to her from his dressing-room, in sterner accents than she had heard from him in a long while. "Lucilla, come here to me!" She had not known of his detention at home, but supposed he had gone with the others to Ion. Jerking off the waist, which Alma had already unfastened,--snatching up a dressing-sack and putting it on as she went,--she appeared before him, blushing and shamefaced. "I am both surprised and mortified by what I have just overheard," he said. "I had a better opinion of my dear, eldest daughter than to suppose she would ever show herself so heartless. You surely must have forgotten that poor Alma is a stranger, in a strange land, while you are at home, in your father's house. Go to her now, and apologize for your rudeness." Lulu made no movement to obey, but stood before him in sullen silence and with downcast, scowling countenance. He waited a moment; then said sternly, "Lucilla, you will yield instant obedience to my order, or go immediately to your own room, and not venture into my presence again until you can tell me you have obeyed." At that she turned and left the room, more angry and rebellious than she had ever been since that dreadful time at Ion when her indulgence in a fit of passion had so nearly cost little Elsie's life. "Papa will have a pretty time making me do it," she muttered angrily to herself, as she stood by a window in her bedroom looking out into the grounds. "Ask Alma's pardon, indeed! She's not even a lady; she's nothing but a poor woman, who has to support herself with her needle,--or rather with a sewing machine, and cutting and fitting,--and I think it's just outrageous for papa to tell me I must ask her pardon. I'll not do it, and papa needn't think he can make me, though----" she added, uneasily, the next minute, "to be sure, he always has made me obey him; but I'm older now; too old, I think, even he would say, to be whipped into doing what I don't choose to do. "But he forbade me to come into his presence till I obeyed, and--oh, dear, I can't live that way, because I love him so--better than any one else in all the wide world; and--and--it would just kill me to have to go without his love and his caresses; never to have him hug and kiss me, and call me his dear child, his darling. Oh, I couldn't bear it! I never could! it would just break my heart!" and her tears began to fall like rain. She cried quite violently for a while; then began to think of Alma more kindly and pityingly than ever before, as an orphan and a stranger in a strange land. "Oh, I am ashamed to have treated her so!" she exclaimed at length, "and I will ask her pardon; not only because papa has ordered me to do so, but because I am sorry for her, and really mortified to think of having treated her so badly." Fortunately, just at that moment Alma's timid rap was heard at the door and her voice saying, in a hesitating, deprecating way, "Miss Lu, please, I need to try the dress once more. I'm very sorry to disturb and trouble you, but I know you want it to be a good fit." "Yes, of course I do, Alma," returned Lulu gently, opening the door as she spoke; "you are quite right to come back with it. I'm sorry and ashamed of having been so rude and unkind to you when you were in here before," she added, holding out her hand. "It was shameful treatment. Papa said I must ask your pardon, and I think I would do it now, even if he hadn't ordered me." "It is too much, Miss Lu," Alma said, blushing, and with tears in her eyes. "I could never ask such a thing as that of a young lady like you." "Indeed, my behavior has been very unladylike to-day," sighed Lulu; "and papa is very, very much displeased with me." "I am sorry, Miss," Alma responded, in a sympathizing tone. "But the captain will not stay angry; he is so very fond of his children." "Yes; and so kind and indulgent that I ought to be the best girl in the world. Oh, I wish I had not behaved so badly!" "He will forgive you, Miss; he will not stay displeased, for his love for you is so very great," returned Alma. "There, Miss, the dress does fit you now. See in the glass. Does it not?" "Yes," Lulu replied, surveying herself in the mirror; "I could not ask a better fit, Alma." "It is lovely, Miss Lu; the stuff so fine and soft, and the colors so beautiful!" remarked the girl, gazing upon it with admiring eyes. "It is good, Miss Lu, to have a kind papa, rich enough to gif you all things needful for a young lady to wear." "Yes, and so generous and kind as mine is," sighed Lulu. "It is a very great shame that I ever do anything to displease him." Alma went back to the sewing-room, and Lulu hastened to the door of the room where her father had been when he called to her. But a glance within showed her that he was not there now. Then she ran downstairs and through library, parlors, halls,--everywhere,--looking for him. "Oh, where is he?" she sighed. "I must find him and tell him how sorry I am for my naughtiness. I can't have one minute of happiness till I have done so and got a kiss of forgiveness." Snatching a hat from the rack and putting it on as she went, she ran out and round the porches and the grounds; but nowhere was he to be seen. "Miss Lu," called a servant, at length, "is you lookin' fo' de cap'n? He's done gone to Ion, I 'spects; kase dere's whar Miss Wi'let went in de kerridge." "Did he say when he would come back?" asked Lulu, steadying her voice with quite an effort. "He gwine come back dis evenin' fo' suah, Miss Lu, to see 'bout de work on de plantation," was the reply, as the man turned to his employment again. And with a heavy sigh Lulu turned about and re-entered the house. "Oh, it's so lonesome for me here all by myself!" she said half-aloud. But there was no one near enough to hear her, and she went back to her tasks, trying to forget her troubles in study; an effort in which she was for the time partially successful. CHAPTER X. "I hope there is nothing serious ailing dear mamma," Violet said rather anxiously to herself, as the carriage rolled swiftly on toward Ion; "there was really nothing in her note to indicate it, but she has never been one to complain of even a pretty serious ailment. She is not old yet; we may hope to keep her with us for many, many years. But then she is so good--so ripe for heaven!" And a silent prayer went up to God that the dear mother might be spared for many years to help others on their pilgrim way, especially her children and grandchildren. "For oh, how we need her!" was the added thought; "what could we ever do without her--the dear, kind, loving mother to whom we carry all our troubles and perplexities, sure of comfort, the best of advice, and all the help in her power to give. Dear, dear mamma! Oh, I have never prized her as I ought!" It was only the previous evening that Mrs. Travilla herself had learned that she was assailed by more than a trifling ailment. What seemed to her but a slight one, causing discomfort, and at times quite a good deal of pain, she had been conscious of for some weeks or months, but had not thought it necessary to speak of it to anyone. About the time of her return home, however, there had been a very decided increase in the suffering; which at length led her to confide her trouble to her cousin and family physician, Dr. Arthur Conly, and she had learned from him that it was far more serious than she had supposed; that in fact her only escape from sure and speedy death lay in submission to a difficult and dangerous surgical operation. Arthur told her as gently and tenderly as he could--assuring her that there was more than a possibility of a successful result--bringing relief from her suffering and prolonging her life for many years. His first words--showing her ailment as so much more serious than she had ever for a moment supposed it to be--gave her a shock at the thought of the sudden parting from all her dear ones--father, children, and grandchildren; yet before he had finished she was entirely calm and composed. "And what would death be but going home?" she said; "home to the mansions Jesus my Saviour has prepared for those he died to redeem, and to the dear ones gone before, there to await the coming of those who will be left behind for a little while. Ah, it is nothing to dread or to fear, for 'I know that my Redeemer liveth.'" "And yet, Cousin Elsie," Arthur returned, with ill-concealed emotion, "how illy you could be spared by any of those who know and love you. Even I should feel it an almost heartbreaking thing to lose you out of my life, and your father, children----" "Yes, I know, dear cousin, and shall not hesitate to do or bear all that holds out a hope of prolonging my days here upon earth; for otherwise I should feel that I was rushing into the Master's presence unbidden, and that without finishing the work he has given me to do here. "Nor would I be willing to so pain the hearts of those who love me. I am ready to submit at once to whatever you deem necessary or expedient. But ah, my dear father! How distressed he will be when he learns all that you have just told me! I wish he might be spared the knowledge till all is over. But it would not do. He must be told at once, and--I must tell him." "That will be very hard for you, dear cousin; would it not be better----" Arthur began, but paused, leaving his sentence unfinished. "It will come best from me, I think," she returned, with a sad sort of smile. "But when?" "Day after to-morrow, if you will. I think you would prefer to have the trial over as soon as possible?" "Yes; I think it will save both me and all concerned from some of the suffering of anticipation, if you can make it suit your convenience." "Perfectly," he answered; "there are few preparations to be made and I do not want long to contemplate doing what must be a trial to so many whom I love." Their talk had been in her boudoir. He lingered but a few moments longer, then went down to the drawing-room. "Uncle," he said, in a low aside to Mr. Dinsmore, "I have just left Cousin Elsie in her boudoir and she wishes to see you there." "She is not well, Arthur?" asked the old gentleman, with a slightly startled look, as he rose from his easy chair and the two passed out into the hall together. "Not very, uncle," was the sad-toned reply. "She has been consulting me and there is something she wishes to say to you." Mr. Dinsmore paled to the very lips. "Don't keep me in suspense, Arthur; let me know the worst, at once," he said, with almost a groan. "Why has anything been hidden from me--the father who loves her better than his life?" "I have been as ignorant as yourself, uncle, till within the last half hour," replied the doctor, in a patient, deeply sympathizing tone. "It is astonishing to me that she has been able to endure so much for weeks or months past without a word of complaint. But do not despair, my dear uncle; the case is by no means hopeless." "Tell me all, Arthur; hide nothing, nothing from me," Mr. Dinsmore said with mingled sternness and entreaty, hastily leading the way as he spoke to the little reception room opening from the other side of the hall, and closing the door against any chance intruder. Arthur complied, stating the case as briefly as possible, and laying strong emphasis upon the fact that there was reason to hope for, not spared life alone, but entire and permanent relief. "God grant it!" was the old gentleman's fervent, half agonized response. "My darling, my darling! would that I could bear all the suffering for you! Arthur, when--when must my child go through the trial which you say is--not to be escaped?" "We have agreed upon the day after to-morrow, uncle, both she and I wishing to have it over as soon as possible." A few minutes later, Mr. Dinsmore passed quietly into his daughter's boudoir, where he found her alone, lying on a lounge, her eyes closed, her countenance, though deathly pale, perfectly calm and peaceful. He bent down and touched his lips to the white forehead; then as the sweet eyes opened and looked up lovingly into his, "Oh, my darling, idol of my heart," he groaned, "would that your father could himself take the suffering that I have just learned is in store for you." "Ah no, no, my dear, dear father, I could illy bear that," she said, putting an arm about his neck; "suffering and danger to you would be far harder for me than what I am now enduring or expecting in the near future. Arthur has told you all?" "Yes; kind-hearted and generous fellow that he is, he felt that he must spare you the pain of telling it yourself." "Yes, it was very, very kind," she said, "Dear papa, sit down in this easy chair, close by my side, and take my hand in yours while we talk together of some matters that need to be settled before--before I am called to go through that which may be the end of earthly life for me." Then, in response to the anguished look in his face as he bent over her with another silent caress, "My dear father, I do not mean to distress you. Arthur holds out strong hope of cure and years of health and strength to follow; yet surely it is but the part of wisdom to prepare for either event." "Yes; and I am sure you are fully prepared, at least so far as your eternal welfare is concerned; should you be called away--our grief will be for ourselves alone." "I am glad the choice is not left with me," she said, in low, sweet tones, after a moment's silence. "For your dear sake, papa, and that of my beloved children, I am more than willing to stay here on earth for many more years, yet the thought of being forever with the Lord--near him and like him--thrills my heart with joy unspeakable, while added to that is a great gladness in the prospect of reunion with the dear husband who has gone before me to that happy land. So I am not to be pitied, my dear father," she added, with a beautiful smile; "and can you not rejoice with me that the choice is not mine but lies with him whose love for us both is far greater than ours for each other?" "Yes," he replied with emotion; "blessed be his holy name that we may leave it all in his hands, trusting in his infinite wisdom and love; knowing that if called to part for a season, we shall be reunited in heaven, never again to be torn asunder." "Yes, dear father; we cannot expect to go quite together, but when reunited there in that blessed land, never again to part, the time of separation will seem to have been very short; even as nothing compared to the long, the unending eternity we shall spend together. "And oh, what an eternity of joy and bliss, forever freed from sin and suffering, near and like our Lord, altogether pleasing in his sight, no doubts, no fears, the battle fought, the victory won. 'And there shall be no more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it, and his servants shall serve him; and they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light, and they shall reign for ever and ever!'" "Yes, my darling; blessed be his holy name for the many great and precious promises of his word, and I have not a doubt of your full preparation for either event; but oh, that it may please him to spare you to me as the light, comfort, joy of my remaining days! Yet should it please him to take you to himself--ah, I cannot, dare not allow myself to contemplate so terrible a bereavement," he added, in low anguished accents, as he bent over her, softly smoothing her hair with tenderly caressing touch. "Then do not, dear father," she said, lifting to his eyes full of ardent love and sympathy; "try to leave it all with the dear Master, and he will fulfil to you his precious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' Has it not ever been the testimony of all his saints concerning his precious promises that not one faileth?" "Yes," he said, "and so will it ever be. By his grace I will trust and not be afraid for you, my beloved child; nor for myself, his most unworthy servant." Then with an upward glance, "'Lord increase our faith.' Oh, help us each to trust in thee and not to be afraid, be the way ever so dark and dreary, remembering thy gracious promise, 'I will in no wise fail thee, neither will I in anywise forsake thee.'" "Sweet, sweet words, papa," she said, low and tremulously, lifting to his eyes full of glad, grateful tears. "And those others, 'When thou passeth through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour.' "Oh, what more could I ask? what have I to do with doubt or fear, since he is mine and I am his?" "Only the physical pain," he said, low and tenderly; "and Arthur tells me that with the help of anæsthetics there will be little or none of that during the operation, but----" "What may come afterward can be easily borne, dear papa," she said, as he paused, overcome by emotion. "My dear, brave darling! a more patient, resigned sufferer never lived!" was his moved, though low-breathed, exclamation. A moment's silence fell between them, he leaning over and caressing her with exceeding tenderness; then, "Papa," she said, with a loving look up into his eyes, "I cannot bear to see you so distressed. Arthur holds out strong hope of cure, of speedy and entire recovery; and we may be spared to each other for many years if the will of God be so; but--surely it is my wisest plan to prepare for every possibility. "I feel very easy about my dear children, most of them having already arrived at years of maturity, and being comfortably settled in life; Edward and my two older daughters, at least; while the others I can leave in the safest of earthly hands, even those of my dear and honored father, whose love for them is only secondary to my own; and for each one I have reason to hope that the good part has been chosen which can never be taken away." "I do indeed love them very dearly," he responded, "for their own sake, their father's, and most of all because they are the offspring of my own beloved child. Should I outlive her, they shall want for nothing their grandfather can do to make them happy." "I know it, dear father, and can leave them to your and their heavenly Father's care without a doubt or fear," she said, with a gentle sigh over the thought of the parting with her darlings that might be so near. She went on to speak of some business matters, then said: "I think that is all, papa. I do not care to make any alteration in my will; and, as you know, you and brother Horace are my executors. To-morrow I must have a little talk with each of my children, and then I shall be ready for Arthur and his assistants. "I want all my children near at hand in case of an unfavorable result and that I am able to say a few last words, bidding them all farewell." There was again a moment of silence, her father seeming too much overcome to speak; then she went on: "I think they must not be told to-night, that the two younger ones need know nothing of the danger till the morning of the operation. I would spare them all the suffering of anticipation that I can; and were I but sure, quite sure, of going safely through it all, they should know nothing of it till afterward; but I cannot rob them of a few last words with their mother." "My darling! always unselfish, always thinking of others first!" Mr. Dinsmore said, in moved tones, bending over her and pressing his lips again and again to her pale cheek and brow. "Surely almost any mother would think of her children before herself," she returned with a sweet, sad smile. But just at that instant childish footsteps were heard in the hall without, then a gentle rap on the door, and Walter's voice asking, "Mamma, may I come in?" "Yes, my son," she answered, in cheerful tones, and in a moment he was at her side, asking, in some alarm and anxiety, "Mamma, dear, are you sick?" bending over her as he spoke, and pressing ardent kisses upon cheek and lip and brow. "Not very, mother's darling baby boy," she answered, lifting to his eyes full of tender mother love. "'Baby boy?'" repeated Walter, with a merry laugh, gently smoothing her hair, and patting her cheek lovingly, while he spoke. "Mamma, dear, have you forgotten that I am eleven years old?" "No, dear; but for all that you are still mother's dear, dear baby boy!" she said, hugging him close. "Well, I shan't mind your calling me that, you dearest mamma," laughed Walter, repeating his caresses; "but nobody else must do it." "Not even grandpa?" queried Mr. Dinsmore, with a proudly affectionate smile into the bright young face. "I don't think you'd want to, grandpa," returned the lad, "because, you know, you're always telling me I must try to be a manly boy. But I came up to remind you and mamma that it's time for prayers. Grandma sent me to do so and to ask if you could both come down now." "You will not think of going down, Elsie?" Mr. Dinsmore exclaimed in surprise, as his daughter made a movement as if to rise from her couch. "Yes, papa," she returned. "I have been resting here for some hours and feel quite able to join the family now. I am not in pain at this moment, and Arthur said nothing about keeping to my room." "Then I wouldn't, mamma," said Walter, slipping his hand into hers. "I'm sure Cousin Arthur's always ready enough to order us to keep to our rooms if there's any occasion. I'm glad he doesn't think you sick enough to have to do that." His mother only smiled in reply, and, taking her father's offered arm, moved on in the direction of the stairway, Walter still clinging to her other hand. Anxious looks and inquiries greeted her on their entrance into the parlor, where family and servants were already gathered for the evening service; but she parried them all with such cheery words and bright sweet smiles as set their fears at rest for the time. But those of Edward were presently rearoused as--the younger members of the family and the servants having retired from the room--he noticed a look of keen, almost anguished anxiety, bestowed by his grandfather upon his mother; then that her cheek was unusually pale. "Mother dear, you are not well!" he exclaimed, hastily rising and going to her. "No, not quite, my dear boy," she replied, smiling up at him; "but do not look so distressed; none of us can expect always to escape all illness. I am going back to my room now and, though able to do so without assistance, will accept the support of the arm of my eldest son, if it is offered me." "Gladly, mother dear, unless you will let me carry you; which I am fully able to do." "Oh, no, Ned," she said laughingly, as she rose and put her hand within his arm; "the day may possibly come when I shall tax your young strength to that extent, but it is not necessary now. Papa, dear," turning to him, "shall I say good-night to you now?" "No, no," Mr. Dinsmore answered, with some emotion, "I shall step into your rooms for that as it is on my way to my own." "I, too," said Mrs. Dinsmore; "and perhaps you will let me play the nurse for you if you are not feeling quite well." "Thank you very much, mamma. In case your kind services are really needed I shall not hesitate to let you know. And I am always glad to see you in my rooms." "Mother, you are actually panting for breath!" Edward exclaimed when they were half-way up the stairs. "I shall carry you," and taking her in his arms as he spoke, he bore her to her boudoir and laid her tenderly down on its couch. "Oh, mother dear," he said, in quivering tones, "tell me all. Why should your eldest son be shut out from your confidence?" "My dear boy," she answered, putting her hand into his, "can you not rest content till to-morrow? Why should you think that anything serious ails me?" "Your pale looks and evident weakness," he said, "grandpa's distressed countenance as he turns his eyes on you, and the unusually sober, serious look of Cousin Arthur as I met him passing out of the house to-night. He had been with you, had he not?" "Yes, my son, and I meant that you and your sisters should know all to-morrow or the next day. It is only for your own sake I would have had you spared the knowledge till then." "Dearest mother, tell me all now," he entreated; "for surely no certainty can be worse than this dreadful suspense." "No, I suppose not," she replied in sorrowful tones, her eyes gazing into his, full of tenderest mother love. Then in a few brief sentences she told him all. "Oh, mother dear; dearest mother!" he cried, clasping her close, "if I, your eldest son, might but take and bear it all--the pain and the danger--for you, how gladly I would do so!" "I do not doubt it, my own dear boy," she returned, in moved tones, "but it cannot be; each of us must bear his or her own burden and I rejoice that this is mine rather than that of my dear son. Do not grieve for me; do not be too anxious; remember that he whose love for me is far greater than any earthly love appoints it all, and it shall be for good. 'We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.' Blessed, comforting assurance! And how sweet are those words of Jesus, 'What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter!'" "Yes, dearest mother," he said, with emotion, "and for you it will be all joy, the beginning of an eternity of bliss, if it shall please him to take you to himself; but oh, how hard it will be for your children to learn to live without you! But I will hope and pray that the result may be for you restored health and a long and happy life." For some moments he held her in a close embrace, then, at the sound of approaching footsteps in the hall without, laid her gently down upon her pillows. "Keep it from Zoe for to-night, if possible," she said softly. "Dear little woman! I would not have her robbed of her night's rest." "I will try, mother dear," he said, pressing his lips again and again to hers. "God grant you sweet and refreshing sleep, but oh, do not for a moment hesitate to summon me if there is anything I can do to relieve you, should you be in pain, or to add in any way to your comfort." She gave the desired promise and he stole softly from the room; but not to join his wife till some moments of solitude had enabled him so to conquer his emotion that he could appear before her with a calm and untroubled countenance. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore passed into the boudoir as he left it. Rose had just learned from her husband of his talk of that evening with Dr. Conly, and what the physician had then told him of his daughter's condition and the trial awaiting her in the near future. Rose was full of sympathy for Elsie, and so overcome at the thought of the trial she must so soon pass through that she could scarcely speak. They clung to each other in a long, tender embrace, Rose shedding tears, Elsie calm and quiet. "You will let me be with you, dear Elsie?" she said at last. "Oh, how willingly I would help you bear it if I could!" "Dear mamma, how kind you are and have always been to me!" exclaimed the low sweet voice. "Your presence will be a great support while consciousness remains, but after that I would have you spared the trial. "Don't fear for me; I know that it will all be well. How glad I am that should I be taken you will be left to comfort my dear father and children. Yet I think that I shall be spared. Arthur holds out a strong hope of a favorable termination. "So, dear father," turning to him and putting her hand in his, "be comforted. Be strong and of a good courage! Do not let anxiety for me rob you of your needed rest and sleep." "For your dear sake, my darling, I will try to follow your advice," he answered, with emotion, as in his turn he folded her to his heart and bade her good-night. CHAPTER XI. The next morning found Mrs. Travilla calm and peaceful, even cheerful, ready for either life or death. She was up at her usual early hour, and Rosie and Walter, coming in for their accustomed half hour of Bible reading with mamma, found her at her writing-desk just finishing a note to Violet. "Dear mamma," exclaimed Walter, in a tone of delight, "you are looking so much better and brighter this morning. I was really troubled about you last night lest you were going to be ill; you were so pale, and grandpa looked so worried." "Grandpa is always easily frightened about mamma if she shows the slightest indication of illness," said Rosie; "as indeed we all are, because she is so dear and precious; our very greatest earthly treasure. "Mamma dearest, I am so rejoiced that you are not really sick!" she added, dropping on her knees beside her mother's chair, clasping her arms about her, and kissing her again and again with ardent affection. "I, too," Walter said, taking his station on her other side, putting an arm round her neck, and pressing his lips to her cheek. She returned their caresses with words of mother love, tears shining in her eyes at the thought that this might prove almost her last opportunity. "What do you think, Rosie?" laughed Walter. "Mamma called me her baby boy last night; me--a great fellow of eleven. I think you must be her baby girl." But Rosie made no reply. She was gazing earnestly into her mother's face. "Mamma dear," she said anxiously, "you are not well! you are suffering! Oh, what is it ails you?" "I am in some pain, daughter," Elsie answered, in a cheerful tone; "but Cousin Arthur hopes to be able to relieve it in a day or two." "Oh, I am glad to hear that!" Rosie exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. "Dearest mamma, I do not know how I could ever bear to have you very ill." "Should that trial ever come to you, daughter dear, look to God for strength to endure it," her mother said in sweetly solemn accents, as she gently smoothed Rosie's hair with her soft white hand and gazed lovingly into her eyes. "Do not be troubled about the future, but trust his gracious promise: 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be!' Many and many a time has it been fulfilled to me and to all who have put their trust in him?" "Yes, mamma, I know you have had some hard trials, and yet you always seem so happy." "You look happy now, mamma; are you?" asked Walter, a little anxiously. "Yes, my son, I am," she said, smiling affectionately upon him. "Now let us have our reading," turning over the leaves of her Bible as she spoke. "We will take the twenty-third psalm. It is short, and so very sweet and comforting." They did so, Elsie making a few brief remarks, especially on the fourth verse, which neither Rosie nor Walter ever forgot. She followed them with a short prayer, and just at its close her father came in, and, sending the children away, spent alone with his daughter the few minutes that remained before the ringing of the breakfast bell. He obeyed the summons, but she remained in her own apartments, a servant carrying her meal to her. It was something very unusual for her, and, joined to an unusual silence on the part of their grandfather, accompanied by a sad countenance and occasional heavy sigh, and similar symptoms shown by both Grandma Rose and Edward, excited surprise and apprehension on the part of the younger members of the household. Family worship, as was the rule followed immediately upon the conclusion of the meal, and Mr. Dinsmore's feeling petition on behalf of the sick one increased the alarm of Rosie and Zoe. Both followed Edward out upon the veranda, asking anxiously what ailed mamma. At first he tried to parry their questions, but his own ill-concealed distress only increased their alarm and rendered them the more persistent. "There is something serious ailing mamma," he said at length, "but Cousin Arthur hopes soon to be able to relieve her. The cure is somewhat doubtful, however, and that is what so distresses grandpa, grandma, and me. Oh, let us all pray for her, pleading the Master's precious promise, 'If two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.' "Mamma has sent for my sisters Elsie and Violet. She wants as many of her children and grandchildren near her as possible; but Harold and Herbert have to be left out because, being so far away, there is not time to summon them." "O Ned," cried Rosie, in an agony of terror, "is--is mamma in immediate danger? What--what is it Cousin Arthur is going to do?" "A--surgical operation is, he says, the only--only thing that can possibly save her life, and--he hopes it will." "But he isn't certain? O mamma, mamma!" cried Rosie, bursting into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. Zoe was sobbing too, Edward holding her in his arms and scarce able to refrain from joining with her, and at that moment the Fairview carriage drove up, and Elsie Leland, alighting therefrom, quickly came in among them, asking in alarm, as she saw their tear-stained, agitated faces, "What is the matter? Oh, is mamma ill?" Then Edward's story had to be repeated to her, and shortly after to Violet, who, with her children, arrived a little later. They too seemed almost overwhelmed with distress. "Can we go to her?" Violet asked, and Mrs. Dinsmore, who had just joined them, replied, "Not yet; your grandpa is with her, and wishes to have her to himself for a while." "Ob, I hope he will not keep us long away from her; our own, own dear mother!" exclaimed Rosie, with a fresh burst of tears and sobs. "I think not long, Rosie, dear," Mrs. Dinsmore replied soothingly, putting an arm round the weeping girl as she spoke, and smoothing her hair with gently caressing hand. "Your mamma will be asking for you all presently. She has said that until the danger is past, she wants you all near enough to be summoned to her side in a moment." "And I--we all--know she is ready for any event," Elsie Leland said, in trembling, tearful tones. "Yes; and I believe God will spare her to us for years to come, in answer to our prayers," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore in cheerful, hopeful accents. Walter had gone out into the grounds at the time the older ones repaired to the veranda, and Grace, with Violet's little ones, had joined him there on alighting from the carriage which had brought them from Woodburn. The four now came running in and Walter, noticing the looks of grief and anxiety on the faces of the older people asked anxiously, "What's the matter, folks?" then added quickly. "Oh, I hope mamma is not worse! Is that it, grandma?" His query was not answered, for at that moment Dr. Conly's carriage came driving up the avenue. All crowded about him as he alighted and came up the steps into the veranda. That, however, was nothing new for he was a great favorite, being not only their relative, but their trusted and valued physician. "You have come to see mamma?" Mrs. Leland said, half inquiringly. "Oh, Cousin Arthur, do be frank with us! do tell us plainly what you think of her case." "It is a serious one, Cousin Elsie, I will not deny that," the doctor replied, a very grave and concerned look on his face as he spoke, "and yet I have strong hope of complete recovery; so do not any of you give way to despair, but unite together in prayer for God's blessing on the means used." "Can I see her now, Aunt Rose?" he asked, turning to Mrs. Dinsmore. "I think so," she replied, leading the way, the doctor following, while the others remained where they were, waiting in almost silent suspense. To them all it seemed a long, sad day. One at a time they were admitted to a short interview with their mother, in which she spoke with each one as though it might be her last opportunity, the burden of her talk being always an earnest exhortation to a life hid with God in Christ; a life of earnest, loving service to him who had died to redeem them from sin and eternal death. She was very cheerful and spoke hopefully of the result of the operation, yet added that, as it might prove fatal, and in a way to leave her neither time nor strength for these last words, she must speak them now; but they need not despair of seeing her restored to health and given many more years of sweet companionship with her loved ones. Walter, as the youngest, took his turn last. For many minutes he could do nothing but sob on his mother's breast. "O mamma, mamma," he cried, "I cannot, cannot do without you!" "Mother knows it will be hard for her baby boy at first," she said, low and tenderly, holding him close to her heart; "but some day you will come to mamma in that happy land where there is no parting, no death, and where sorrow and sighing shall flee away; the land where 'the inhabitant shall not say I am sick'; the land where there is no sin, no suffering of any kind, and God shall wipe away all tears from our eyes. "My darling, my little son, there is nothing else mother so desires for you as that you may be a lamb of Christ's fold, and I have strong hopes that you already are. You know that Jesus died to save sinners; that he is able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by him; that you can do nothing to earn salvation, but must take it as God's free unmerited gift: that Jesus says, 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' All this you know, my son?" "Yes, mamma dearest," he sobbed. "Oh, how good it was in him to die that cruel death that we might live! Yes, I do love him, and he won't be angry with me because I'm almost heartbroken at the thought of having to do without my dear, dear mother, for many years. O mamma, mamma, how can I live without you?" "It may please the dear Lord Jesus to spare you that trial, my darling boy," she said. "I know that he will, if in his infinite wisdom he sees it to be for the best. "And we must just trust him, remembering those sweet Bible words, 'We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.' Leave it all with him, my darling, feeling perfectly sure that whatever he orders will be for the best; that though we may not be able to see it so now, we shall at the last." "But, mamma, I must pray that you may be cured and live with us for many, many years. It will not be wrong to ask him for that?" "No, not if you ask in submission to his will, remembering that no one of us knows what is really for our highest good. Remember his own prayer in his agony there in the garden of Gethsemane, 'Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done.' "He is our example and we must strive to be equally submissive to the Father's will. Remember what the dear Master said to Peter, 'What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter.'" "Mamma, I will try to be perfectly submissive to his will, even if it is to take you away from me; but oh, I must pray, pray, _pray_ as hard as I can that it may please him to spare your dear life and let me keep my mother at least till I am grown to be a man. It won't be wrong, mamma?" "No, my darling boy, I think not--if with it all you can truly, from your heart, say, 'thy will, not mine, be done.'" When Captain Raymond followed his wife and little ones to Ion, he found there a distressed household, anxious and sorely troubled over the suffering and danger of the dearly beloved mother and mistress. Violet met him on the veranda, her cheeks pale and showing traces of tears, her eyes full of them. "My darling!" he exclaimed in surprise and alarm, "what is the matter?" He clasped her in his arms as he spoke, and dropping her head upon his shoulder, she sobbed out the story of her mother's suffering and the trial that awaited her on the morrow. His grief and concern were scarcely less than her own, but he tried to speak words of comfort to both her and the others to whom the loved invalid was so inexpressibly dear. To the beloved invalid also when, like the rest, he was accorded a short interview. Yet he found to his admiring surprise that she seemed in small need of such service--so calm, so peaceful, so entirely ready for any event was she. Finding his presence apparently a source of strength and consolation, not only to his young wife, but to all the members of the stricken household, he remained till after tea, but then returned home for the night, principally for Lulu's sake; not being willing to leave the child alone, or nearly so, in that great house. CHAPTER XII. The duties of the schoolroom had filled up the rest of the morning for Lulu, so occupying her mind that she could give only an occasional thought to the sad fact that she was in disgrace with her father. Then came dinner, which she took in the dining-room, feeling it lonely enough with the whole family absent; immediately after that a music lesson filled another hour, and that was followed by an hour of practice on the piano. Then Alma wanted her again, and then, knowing it was what her father would approve, she took her usual exercise about the grounds; after which she prepared her lessons for the next day. But all the time her heart was heavy with the consciousness that "papa, dear papa," was displeased with her, and she felt that there could be no happiness for her till she had made her peace with him. "Oh," she sighed again and again, "will he never, never come, that I may tell him how sorry and ashamed I am?" But when tea-time came he was still absent, and that meal also had to be taken alone. She did not linger at the table, and on leaving it went into the library where a wood fire blazed cheerfully on the hearth, for the evenings were now quite cool, and settling herself in an easy-chair listened for the sound of his coming. She was too much disturbed, and too anxious to read or work, so sat doing nothing but listen intently for the sound of horses' hoofs or carriage-wheels on the drive without. "Will he punish me?" she was asking herself. "I believe I want him to, for I'm sure I richly deserve it. Oh, there he is! I hear his voice in the hall!" and her heart beat fast as she sprang up and ran to meet him. He was already at the door of the room when she reached it. "Papa," she said humbly, and with her eyes on the carpet, "I--I'm very, very sorry for my naughtiness this morning. I have obeyed you--asked Alma's pardon--and--please, dear papa, won't you forgive me, too?" "Certainly, dear child," he said, bending down to press a kiss upon her lips. "I am always ready to forgive my dear children when they tell me they are sorry for having offended, and ready to obey." He led her to the easy-chair by the fireside, which she had just vacated, and seating himself therein, drew her to a seat upon his knee. "Papa, I'm so sorry, so very sorry for my badness, so ashamed of not being obedient to such a dear, kind father," she said, low and tremulously, blushing painfully as she spoke. "Please, I want you to punish me well for it." "Have I not already done so, daughter?" he asked. "I doubt if this has been a happy day to you." "Oh, no, indeed, papa! I soon repented of my badness and looked everywhere for you to tell you how sorry I was and ask you to forgive me. But you were gone and so I had to wait, and the day has seemed as if it would never end, though I've been trying to do everything I thought you would bid me do if you were here." "Then I think I need add no further punishment," he said, softly caressing her hair and cheek with his hand. "But please I want you to, because I deserve it and ought to be made to pay for such badness; and I'm afraid if I'm not, I'll just be bad again soon." "Well, daughter," he replied, "we will leave that question open to consideration. I see you have books here on the table, and we will now attend to the recitations." Her recitations were quite perfect, and he gave the deserved meed of praise, appointed the tasks for the next day, then drawing her to his knee again, said: "It does not seem to me necessary, daughter, to inflict any further punishment for the wrong-doings of this morning. You are sorry for them, and do not intend to offend in the same way again?" "Yes, I am sorry, papa, and I don't mean to behave so any more; still, I'd feel more comfortable, and surer of not being just as bad again in a few days or weeks, if you'd punish me. So please do." "Very well, then, I will give you an extra task or two," he said, taking up her Latin grammar, "I will give you twice the usual lesson in this. Then, not as a punishment, but for your good, I want you to search out all the texts you can find in God's Holy Word about the sinfulness of anger and pride and the duty of confessing our faults, not only to him, but to those whom we have injured by them." Opening the Family Bible which lay on the table close at hand, "Here is one in Proverbs," he said. "'He that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them, shall have mercy."' Then turning to the New Testament, he read again, "'Therefore, if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.'" "That is in Matthew," he said, "and here in the Epistle of James," again turning over the leaves, "we read perhaps the plainest direction of all on the subject, 'Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another that ye may be healed.'" "But, papa----" she paused, hanging her head while a vivid blush suffused her cheeks. "Well, daughter, what is it? Do not be afraid to let me know all your thoughts. I want you always to talk freely to me, that if you are wrong I may be able to convince you of the right. I want my children to act intelligently, doing right because they see that it is right, and not merely because papa commands it." "Please don't be angry with me, papa, but, it did seem to me a sort of degradation to have to ask pardon of a--a woman who has to work for her living like Alma," she said with some hesitation, blushing and hanging her head as she spoke. "I am very, very sorry to hear such sentiments from a daughter of mine," he returned in a gravely concerned tone and with a slight sigh. "It is wicked pride, my child, that puts such thoughts in your head. "And who can say that there may not come a time when you too will have to work for your living? The Bible tells us riches certainly take to themselves wings and fly away." Again turning over the leaves, "Here is the passage--twenty-third chapter of Proverbs, fourth and fifth verses: 'Labor not to be rich; cease from thine own wisdom. Wilt thou set thine eyes upon that which is not? for riches certainly make themselves wings; they fly away as an eagle toward heaven.' "And how little are they really worth, while we have them? 'Riches profit not in the day of wrath,' we are told in this Holy Book. And it says a great deal of the folly and sinfulness of pride; particularly in this book of Proverbs;" turning over the leaves he read here and there--"'When pride cometh, then cometh shame; but, with the lowly is wisdom.' 'Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. Better is it to be an humble spirit with the lowly, than to divide the spoil with the proud.' "'Proud and haughty scorner is his name who dealeth in proud wrath.' "'A man's pride shall bring him low: but honor shall uphold the humble in spirit.' "'The fear of the Lord is to hate evil: pride, and arrogancy, and the evil way and the forward mouth, do I hate.'" There was a moment of silence, then Lulu said humbly, tears starting to her eyes as she spoke, "Papa, I did not know--at least I never thought about it--that pride was so wicked." "Yes," he said, "the Bible tells us that everyone proud in heart is an abomination to the Lord, that God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble; there is much in the Bible against pride and in favor of humility. We are all sinners, worthy of nothing good at the hands of God, and what have we to do with pride?" "Papa, when I say my prayers to-night I will ask God to take away all the wicked pride out of my heart; and won't you ask him too?" "I will, my darling, as I have already, very many times, and I hope you have not neglected to ask him to forgive your wrong thoughts, feelings, and actions of this morning?" "I have asked for that, papa, and I will again," she replied. They were silent again for a little while, the captain looking as if his thoughts were far away; Lulu was studying his face with eyes that presently filled with tears. "Papa," she said low, and half tremulously, "you look so sad. Is it all because you are grieved over my naughtiness?" "No, daughter, not all; indeed I was hardly thinking of that at the moment, but of the grief, sorrow and anxiety at Ion." "What about, papa?" she queried with a startled look. "Oh, I hope that nothing bad has happened to Gracie or Mamma Vi, or our little ones?" "No; I am thankful that all is right with them: but dear Grandma Elsie is in a very critical condition; I cannot tell you exactly what ails her, but she has been suffering very much for months past, keeping it to herself till yesterday, when she told it all to Cousin Arthur, and learned from him that nothing but a difficult and dangerous surgical operation could save her life. "That is to be performed to-morrow, and, whether she lives or dies, will relieve her from the dreadful agony she is enduring; for no one who knows her can doubt that she is one of God's dear children. Death will be gain to her, but a sad loss to all of us." Before he had finished Lulu's face was hidden on his shoulder and she was weeping bitterly. "O papa," she sobbed, "I'm so, so sorry for her, dear, dear Grandma Elsie! Isn't she frightened almost to death?" "No, daughter; she is very calm and peaceful, ready to live or die as God's will shall be; grieving only for those who love her so dearly and find it so difficult to be reconciled to the thought of losing her; her efforts are all to comfort them. She has set her house in order and seems quite ready for either life or death. "But we will pray--you and I--as the others are praying, that if God's will be so, she may live and go in and out before us for many years to come." "Yes, papa. Oh, I am glad that we may ask our kind heavenly Father for everything we want! Poor Mamma Vi! how her heart must ache! and is she going to stay on at Ion now, papa?" "Yes; certainly till her mother is out of danger or forever done with sin and suffering. Gracie and our two little ones will stay too; Gracie amusing the others and keeping them in the grounds, or a part of the house so distant from Grandma Elsie's room that their noise will not disturb her." "And you and I will stay on here, papa?" "Yes; I must be here a good deal of the time to oversee my workmen, and shall want my dear eldest daughter to be my companion and helper in various ways, for I know she loves to be such to her father," he added, pressing his lips to her cheek. "Indeed I do, papa! Oh, thank you for letting me!" she exclaimed, lifting her head and showing eyes shining through tears. "I'd rather be here with you, than anywhere else, my own dear, dear father!" putting her arms about his neck and hugging him close. "Only," she added, "I'd like to see Gracie and the others for a little bit every once in a while if I may." "Yes, you shall," he said, returning her embrace. "Perhaps I may be able to take you over there for a short visit almost every day. And in the meantime we may hope that lessons and the dressmaking will go on prosperously." "Are you going to spend your nights here at home, papa?" she asked with a wistful, half pleading look. "Yes, dear child; I could not think of leaving you alone; nor would your Mamma Vi wish me to do so while she has both her brother and grandfather near her, to say nothing of the women, children, and servants; you will have me close at hand every night and the greater part of the day." "Oh, I am so glad and thankful!" she said, with a sigh of relief. "I don't think I should be exactly afraid, because God would be with me, but it is so delightful to have my dear earthly father too. May I sleep in Gracie'e room to be nearer to you?" "Yes; and with the door open between it and mine, so that if you want anything in the night you will only need to call to me and I will go to you at once. "Now if there are any more questions you would like answered, let me hear them." "There is something I'd like to say, papa, but I'm--almost afraid." "Afraid of what, daughter?" he asked, as she paused in some embarrassment, and with a half pleading look into his eyes. "That you might think it saucy and be displeased with me. "Do you mean it so, daughter?" "Oh, no indeed, papa!" "Then you need not be afraid to let me hear it." "Papa, it is only that I--I think if you had talked to me this morning, when you called me to you, about the wickedness of being too proud to ask Alma's pardon, and reasoned with me as you did a little while ago, about it all, I--I'd have obeyed you at once; you know you do almost always show me the reasonableness of your commands before, or when, you lay them upon me." "Yes, my child," he said in a kindly tone, "I have done so as a rule, and should in this instance, but that I was much hurried for time. That will sometimes happen, and you and all my children must always obey me promptly, whether you can or cannot at the moment see the reasonableness of the order given. Is your estimation of your father's wisdom and his love for you so low that you cannot trust him thus far?" "O papa, forgive me!" she exclaimed, putting her arms about his neck and laying her cheek to his. "I do hope I'll never, never again hesitate one minute to obey any order from you; because I know you love me, and that you are very wise and would never bid me do anything but what I ought." "Certainly never intentionally, daughter; and surely your father, who is so many years older than yourself, should be esteemed by you as somewhat wiser." "O papa, I know you are a great, great deal wiser than I," she said earnestly. "How ridiculous it seems to think of anybody comparing my wisdom with yours! I know I'm only a silly little girl, and not a good one either, and it would be a sad thing to have a father no wiser or better than myself." CHAPTER XIII. The morning of that critical day found Grandma Elsie as calm and cheerful as she had been the previous evening, though every other face among the older members of the family showed agitation and anxiety. Her daughters, Elsie and Violet, were with her almost constantly during the early hours, doing everything in their power to show their devoted affection and make all things ready for the surgeons and their assistants; her father and his wife also giving their aid and loving sympathy, while Edward and Zoe attended to necessary arrangements elsewhere, occasionally snatching a moment to stand beside the dear sufferer and speak words of love and hope. Rosie and Walter were allowed one short interview in which they were clasped in her arms and a few loving, tender words spoken that both she and they felt might be the last. Captain Raymond came a little earlier than the doctor. Lester was already there, and each young wife found the presence of her husband a comfort and support while, in an adjoining room, they waited in almost agonizing suspense to hear that the operation was over and what was the result. They were a silent group, every heart going up in strong crying to God, that, if consistent with his holy will, the dear mother might be spared to them. And the united petition was granted; Mrs. Dinsmore presently came to them, her face radiant with joy and hope. "It is over," she said; "successfully over, and the doctors say that with the good nursing she is sure to have she will soon be restored to perfect health." The communication was received with tears of joy and thankfulness. "It will be strange indeed if she lacks anything the most devoted nurses can do for her," remarked Mr. Leland. "I should think so, with three daughters, two sons, and as many sons-in-law, to say nothing of father and mother," remarked Violet, with a tearful smile. "Levis, you will spare me to her as long as I am needed?" "Certainly, my love," he replied, without a moment's hesitation; "there is nothing we could refuse, or grudge to our beloved mother at this, or indeed at any time." "O grandma, may we go to her now?" queried Rose and Walter in a breath. "I think not yet, dears; she must be kept very, very quiet," was the gently spoken reply. "I know it would be a joy to both you and her to meet and exchange a few words, but it might be a risk for her; and I know you would far rather deny yourselves the gratification than do anything to increase her suffering; to say nothing of endangering her precious life." "O grandma, neither of us would be willing to do that for the wealth of the world!" exclaimed Rosie, with starting tears. "No, indeed!" cried Walter. "It is very hard to refrain, but we would not injure our mother for the world; our dear, dear mother!" "I am sure of it," said Grandma Rose, smiling kindly upon him. "And now, Walter, would not you and Rosie like to go over to Fairview and carry the good news to Eva and Gracie? They are there with the little ones, and I know would be very glad to hear that your dear mother is over the worst of her trial." "I am going over there for Gracie, Elsie, and Ned, to take them home to Woodburn for a while," said Captain Raymond, "and if you two would like it, will take you both with me, leave you there, bring you back here, or carry you on to Woodburn, as you may prefer." "Thank you, sir," said Rosie. "I will be pleased to go as far as Fairview with you, but not on to Woodburn at this time: because I do not feel at all sure that mamma may not be taken worse. So I shall not stay long away from home." Walter's reply was to the same effect, and as the captain's carriage and horses were already at the door, the three were presently on their way to Fairview. Grace and Evelyn were rejoiced to see them, and having been in great anxiety about their dear "Grandma Elsie," felt much relieved by the news of her which they brought. The captain was in some haste to return to Woodburn, and Rosie and Walter, finding they wanted to stay a while with Evelyn and their sister Elsie's children, decided to walk back to Ion; the distance being none too great for either their strength or enjoyment. Home and Sister Lu held strong attractions for Grace, Elsie, and Ned, and they were full of delight as papa lifted them into the carriage and took his seat beside them. "Et Ned sit on oo knee, papa," pleaded the baby, and was at once lifted to the desired place. "Papa's dear baby boy," the captain said, smoothing his curls and smiling down into the pretty blue eyes. "How glad Sister Lulu will be to see you and Elsie, and Gracie!" "And we'll be just as glad to see her, papa," said Grace. "I know it's not very long since we came away from our own dear home and Lu, but it does seem a long time." "Isn't Lu tired doing without us, papa?" asked Elsie. "I think she is," he replied; "at all events I know she will be very glad to see you. It is nearly dinner-time now," he added, looking at his watch, "so we will go directly home. But this afternoon I will take you all for a nice, long drive, then leave you little ones at Ion and take Lulu home again." Lulu had been busy all the morning attending to her studies, her practice on the piano, the demands of the dressmaker, and taking her usual exercise about the grounds. She was out in them now, watching for the coming of her father, eager to see him and to hear how it was with dear Grandma Elsie. Presently she heard the sound of carriage-wheels on the road, then in another minute the vehicle turned in at the great gates and came rapidly up the drive, little Elsie calling out from it, "Lu, Lu, we've come!" "Have you, Elsie? Oh, I'm so glad!" she called in reply. The carriage had stopped, Lulu bounded toward it, and her father, throwing open the door, helped her in. Hugs and kisses and laughter followed; so glad were the happy children to meet again after even so short a separation. In another minute the carriage drew up before the entrance to the mansion, and the captain and his joyous little troop alighted. Dinner was ready to be served, and as soon as hats and other outer garments had been disposed of the merry little party gathered about the table. Mamma was missed but it was very pleasant to all to find themselves there with their fond father and each other. Lulu's fears for dear Grandma Elsie had been much relieved by the report of the success of the surgeons, so that she was light-hearted and gay as well as the younger ones. Immediately after dinner, while the little ones took their accustomed afternoon nap, she recited her lessons, doing so in a manner that drew hearty commendation from her father, who was always glad to be able to bestow it; then, knowing it would be a joy to her to do them, he called upon her for some of the little services she was accustomed to render him. These attended to, "Now, daughter," he said, "you may dress yourself nicely for a drive. I am going to take you and your little brother and sisters for a pretty long one. Then I will drop them at Ion, and you and I, after a call of a few minutes to hear how Grandma Elsie is, will drive home together." "Oh, how pleasant that will be, papa! How good you always are to every one of us children!" she exclaimed, giving him an ardent kiss, then running away to do his bidding. A merry, happy time the children had, and on reaching Ion the little ones were ready for their supper and bed. The older ones were full of joy on learning that their loved Grandma Elsie was as comfortable and doing as well as possible under the circumstances. The captain and Lulu spent a quiet half-hour with the Ion family and Violet, then departed for Woodburn. As the carriage started, the captain put an arm round Lulu, drew her close to him, and smiling affectionately down into her face, said: "How glad I am to be able to keep one of my loved flock with me!" "And oh, how glad I am that I'm the one, you dear, dear papa!" responded the little girl, returning his loving look and smile. Then, with a sigh, "I think there are some fathers who wouldn't be very fond of even their own child, if she were so often ill-tempered and disobedient. Papa, I've been thinking all day that you didn't punish me half so severely as I deserved for my naughtiness yesterday." "I would rather err on that side than the other, daughter," he said, in tender tones, "and I hope your future behavior will be such as to prove that the slight punishment inflicted was all-sufficient." "I hope so, indeed, papa," she answered earnestly, "but if I am disobedient and ill-tempered again soon, you will be more severe with me, won't you? I really want you to, that I may improve." "Yes, daughter, I think I must," he replied a little sadly; then after a moment's silence went on again: "I expect to pay a little visit to Max in January, and if my eldest daughter has been a good and obedient child----" He paused, looking smilingly at her. "You will take me with you, papa?" she cried half-breathlessly. "Oh, how I should like it! Ah, I do hope I shall not be so bad that you will have to leave me behind." "No, I hope not. I want to take you; to share the pleasure of my dear eldest daughter will double it to me, and if neither bad conduct on your part, nor anything else happens to prevent, you shall go with me." "Oh, thank you, dear papa!" she exclaimed, her cheeks glowing and her eyes sparkling with delight, "you are so good to me that I just hate myself for ever doing anything to vex or grieve you." "My dear child," he said with emotion, "be more watchful, careful, and prayerful; fight more earnestly and determinately the good fight of faith, ever looking to God for help, for only so may you hope to gain the victory at last, and to be able to say, 'in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.'" "I will try, papa," she said, tears starting to her eyes, "but oh, it is such a hard fight for anybody with a temper like mine. Please help me all you can by praying for me, and punishing me too, whenever you see that I need it." "I will do all I can for you, my darling, in every way," he replied, "but as I have often told you, the hardest part of the conflict must inevitably be your own. "Cling close to Jesus, and cry to him every day and every hour for help, for only by his all-powerful assistance can we hope to win holiness and heaven at last." "I will try, papa, I will indeed," she said. "I am, oh, so glad and thankful that he will let me cling to him and that he promises his help to those who ask him for it." "Yes, he says, 'In me is thine help,' and having his help what can harm us? since he is the Lord who made heaven and earth." Again a few moments of silence; then Lulu said, "Papa, you have often told me I inherit my temper from you, and though I could never believe it if anybody else had told me, I have to believe you because I know you always speak the truth; but how did you ever conquer it so completely?" "By determined effort, at the same time looking to God for help," he replied; "and only by the same means can I even now keep it under control." "And you think I can learn to control mine if I use the same means?" "I do; God, our kind heavenly Father, is as able and as willing to help you as me." "Yes," she said thoughtfully, "and if I don't choose to try hard enough, at the same time praying earnestly for help, I deserve to be punished by my earthly father; and I do really hope he always will punish me till he has taught me to be as patient and self-controlled as he is," she added, nestling closer to him and slipping a hand into his. "Papa, I often wonder why I wasn't made as patient and sweet-tempered as Gracie. She doesn't seem to have any temper at all to fight." "No; but she has her own peculiar temptations, of some of which your firmer, braver nature knows nothing; and each must battle with her own faults and failings, looking to God for help in the hard struggle. To God, who, the Bible tells us, 'will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape that ye may be able to bear it.'" "It is a precious promise, papa," she said, with thoughtful look and tone, "and I am glad you reminded me of it. It makes me feel less discouraged about trying to conquer my besetting sins." "In the first chapter of Joshua," replied her father, "the Lord says to him three times, 'Be strong and of a good courage,' the last time adding, 'be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed; for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.' And that blessed assurance of the constant, sustaining presence of our God, each one of his children may take to him or herself." "What a comfort, papa!" she exclaimed. "Oh, the Bible is such a blessing! I do feel sorry for all the people who have none." "Yes," he responded, "they are greatly to be pitied, and those who have dared to take it from others will have much to answer for in the day of judgment; as will those also who, having it themselves, make no effort to supply it to such as have it not. "Ah, here we are at our own home!" he added, as the carriage drew up before the entrance. "And such a sweet home as it is!" she responded, as he threw open the door, sprang out, and took her in his arms. "Yes," he said, "so I think, and am glad my little girl appreciates it. There," setting her on her feet, "run in, daughter, and make yourself ready for the tea-table." She obeyed and presently they two were seated cozily at a little round table in the family breakfast-room, greatly enjoying their tea, broiled chicken, and waffles. "Papa," remarked Lulu, as she poured out his second cup, "I'm sorry for you that you have only me for company, but I do enjoy being--once in a while--all the family you have at home." "Do you?" he returned, with a good-humored little laugh. "Well, I am glad to have you contented and happy; and I can't deny that I should feel very lonely here to-night without the pleasant companionship of my dear eldest daughter. What do you want to do this evening? how shall we spend our time alone together? "I have my lessons to learn, you know, papa." "Ah, yes; and I must write some letters. And after that perhaps you may find a bit of sewing to do, while your father reads aloud something that will be both interesting and instructive to his dear little girl." "Yes, sir; I have some work on hand for our Dorcas Society, and though I rather dislike sewing, I shall not mind doing it while listening to your reading," she answered, smiling brightly up into his face. "Ah! then that is what we will do," he said, returning her smile. "Well, daughter, has it been a pleasant evening to you?" he asked, when the time had come for the good-nights to be said. "Indeed it has, papa," she replied, giving him an ardent hug. "Oh, I am so glad you didn't let me go to Ion with the others, but kept me at home with you. I do hope that I'll remember after this that you always know and do the very best thing for me, and that I'll never, never grow ill-tempered and rebellious, as I was yesterday." "You think you can trust your father after this, even without being told his reasons for all he does and requires?" "I hope so, papa, and indeed, indeed I'm very much ashamed of my rebellious feelings and don't intend to indulge in them any more!" she added, with a remorseful look up into his face. "Try to keep that resolution, dear child," he said. "Now good-night and pleasant dreams. May he who neither slumbers nor sleeps have you in his kind care and keeping. But if you want your earthly father, you have only to call out or run to him." CHAPTER XIV. Lulu's first thought on awaking the next morning was of dear Grandma Elsie. "I wonder," she said to herself, "if papa has not been asking news of her through the telephone; oh, I hope she is getting well!" Hurrying through the duties of the toilet, she was ready to run to meet her father when presently she heard his steps in the hall without. "Good-morning, papa," she cried. "Oh, have you heard from Ion how Grandma Elsie passed the night?" "Yes," he said, bending down to give her a good-morning kiss, "she passed a very comfortable night; is thought to be doing as well as possible. Mamma Vi and our little ones are all right also; I have just had a talk with your mamma, through the telephone." "Oh, I am glad! How nice it is that we can talk in that way to the folks at Ion and the other places where Mamma Vi's relations live!" "Yes; a telephone is really a blessing under such circumstances. I am much more reconciled to being at some short distance from my wife and little ones than I could be if without such means of communication." They went down to the library together and seating himself he drew her to his knee, saying pleasantly, "You are the youngest child at home with me, and I think I must have you here. I hope you will never think yourself too old to sometimes sit on your father's knee." "No, papa, I'm sure I never shall while you are willing to let me," she replied, putting an arm round his neck and gazing lovingly into his eyes. They chatted for a few minutes, then the breakfast bell rang, and presently they were again seated at the little round table from which they had eaten last night's supper, Lulu pouring the coffee with a very grown-up air, while her father filled her plate and his own with the tempting viands. "What a lovely, delightful home we have, papa!" she remarked, as she handed him his cup. "I do really think that with such a father and such a home I ought to be the best girl in the world; and I do mean to try to be." "I have no doubt you do, daughter, and I have seldom had occasion to find serious fault with you in the last year or more, so that I am by no means in despair of seeing you gain control of that troublesome temper which has caused so much unhappiness to both you and me." "Oh, thank you for saying it, papa!" she returned, with a bright and joyous smile. "I'm determined to try my very best to be as good as possible, both to please you and to earn that visit to Annapolis that you spoke of last night. I think it will be very delightful; and how pleased Max will be to see us; especially you." "I think he will. Ah, here comes the mail-bag!" as a servant entered with it. "Oh, I hope there's a letter from Max," Lulu said, as her father opened the bag and took out the contents--papers, magazines, and letters. "Yes, here is one from our dear boy," he said, singling out a letter and hastily tearing it open. He read it first to himself, then aloud to her--a bright, cheery, boyish, affectionate epistle such as they were accustomed to receive from Max's pen. They talked it over together while they finished their breakfast, then returned to the library where, as usual, Christine, Alma, and the servants being called in, the captain led the family devotions, reading a portion of the Scripture and engaging in prayer. "Are you going immediately to Ion, papa?" asked Lulu, when again they were alone together. "No," he replied; "I have some matters to attend to here while you are preparing your lessons. After hearing them, if your recitations and conduct have been satisfactory, I intend taking you with me to the village, where I have to make some business arrangements; then we will drive to Ion, spend a little time there, then come home, probably bringing your little sisters and brother with us as we did the other day, returning them as before to your Mamma Vi, just in time for supper and bed, and coming home alone together." "Oh, I like that, papa!" she exclaimed, "and is it what you intend doing every day?" "Every day while your Grandma Elsie is so ill that the noise might disturb her; unless the weather should be quite too inclement, I think it will be a relief to your Mamma Vi to have them here a good deal of the time, till her mother is better. "I suppose so, papa; and at the same time very pleasant for us--they are such darlings!" "So you and I think," he said, with a smile. "Now go to your lessons, daughter." At Ion Grandma Elsie lay quietly sleeping, her three daughters watching over her with tenderest care and solicitude. Scarce a sound was to be heard, either within doors or without, save the distant lowing of cattle, the twittering of birds, and the gentle sighing of the wind in the treetops; family and servants moved with cautious tread, speaking seldom, and that with bated breath, lest they should disturb her who was so dear to all hearts. To Walter it seemed very hard to be shut out of mamma's room, and he sat on the veranda watching for the coming of Cousin Arthur, to petition for admittance, if only for a moment, just to look at her and come away again. Cousin Arthur had been with her through the night, had gone away early in the morning and was expected back again soon. The half hour spent in watching and waiting seemed very long indeed to the little lad, but at last, oh joy! there was Cousin Arthur's sulky turning in at the great gates; then it came swiftly up the avenue, and Walter rose and hastened to meet the doctor as he alighted. "O Cousin Arthur!" he cried, but in subdued tones, "they've shut me out of mamma's room and I just don't know how to stand it any longer. Mayn't I go in, if it's only for a minute, to get one look at her dear face? I won't speak to her or touch her if you say I must not, but oh, I don't know how to endure being kept away from her altogether." The little fellow's tones were tremulous, and his eyes filled with tears as he spoke. Dr. Conly felt for the child, and laying a hand kindly on his head, said cheerfully, "Don't be down-hearted, my boy, your mother will be well enough in a few days, I hope, to stand quite an interview with her youngest son, and perhaps it may do for you to go in for a moment this morning; you may come upstairs with me and wait in the hall till I see how she is. If I find her well enough to stand a peep from her boy, you shall go in for a minute, provided you will promise to be cheerful and not to speak unless you have the doctor's permission." "Oh, I'll promise to do anything you bid me, if you'll only let me see her," returned Walter in eager tones, then followed the doctor with noiseless tread through the hall and up the broad stairway. Reaching his mother's door, he paused and waited outside while the doctor went quietly in. His patient seemed to be asleep, but opened her eyes and smiled up into his face as he reached the bedside. "Dear cousin," he said, low and tenderly, "are you feeling quite easy now?" "Quite so," she answered in low, sweet tones; "all is going right, I think. Is it not?" "Yes, so it would seem. You are the best of patients, and with the abundance of good nursing you are sure to have, I think we will soon have you about again. But," glancing around upon her three daughters, "she must be kept very quiet, neither talking nor being talked to much more than is absolutely necessary. "However, I am going to allow Walter a moment's sight of his mother, and as he is your baby boy, you may, if you choose, speak half a dozen words to him," he added, addressing himself directly to the patient. Then stepping to the door, he beckoned to Walter, and led him to the side of the bed. "There, laddie, you may tell her how dearly you love her, but nothing more." "Mamma, dear, darling mamma! I couldn't begin to tell it!" Walter said, low and tremulously, just touching his lips to her cheek. "Mother's darling boy!" was all she said in response, but the eyes looking into his spoke volumes of mother-love. "Don't cry, Walter, my man," his cousin said, as he led him out to the hall again; "you have behaved so well that I think you may be allowed another interview to-morrow; and I hope you will see your mother up and about again in perhaps a fortnight from this. You must pray for her healing to the Great Physician, as we all are doing: and pray in faith, for you know the Bible tells us he is the hearer and answerer of prayer." "Oh, I will! I do!" sobbed the child, "and I'm so glad there are so many others asking for her too, because the Bible says Jesus promised that his Father would grant what two or three agreed together to ask for." "Yes; pray for your mother, believe God's promises, and be happy in the expectation that she will get well; and with a mind at rest interest yourself in your studies and sports. That's my prescription for you, my lad; now go and take it like a good boy," added the doctor, with a smile, as he turned and re-entered the sick-room. "A funny prescription, and not so bad to take," laughed Walter to himself, as he wiped away his tears and hastened to the schoolroom to attend to his lessons. "Nobody here but myself," he sighed, as he crossed the threshold. "It's rather lonesome, but I'll do the best I can. It's what mamma would advise." CHAPTER XV. Grace had gone over to Fairview with her little brother and sister, accompanied by their nurse, Mamma Vi having told her she might learn her lessons there, and if Evelyn cared to hear her recite, that would answer very well. Evelyn was entirely willing, and they had just finished a few minutes before the carriage from Woodburn came driving up the avenue, bringing Grace's father and sister Lulu. They had already paid a call at Ion, and now had come to make a short one at Fairview, and pick up Gracie, little Elsie, and Ned. "Papa, papa!" shouted the two little ones, running to meet him as he came up the steps into the veranda, and holding up their faces for a kiss. "Papa's darlings!" he responded, taking them in his arms to caress and fondle them, then letting them go to give Gracie her turn. "Is my feeble little girl quite well this morning?" he asked, in tender tones. "Yes, papa, thank you," she replied, giving him a vigorous hug, "and oh, so glad to see you! Have you come to take us--Elsie and Ned and me--home for a while again?" "I have," he said, returning her hug. "I can't have your mamma at present, as her mother needs her, but my dear babies I need not do without." "Am I one of them, papa?" asked Gracie, with a smile. "I'm almost eleven; but I don't mind being one of your babies, if you like to call me that." His only reply was a smile and a loving pat on her cheek, for the two little ones were tugging at his coat and coaxing for a drive. "Why, Elsie and Ned, you haven't kissed me yet," said Lulu. "Gracie and Eva did while you were exchanging hugs and kisses with papa, and I think it's my turn now." "So it is! I love you, Lu," cried Elsie, leaving her father for a moment to throw her arms round Lulu's neck in a hearty and loving embrace; Ned quickly followed suit, then running to his father again, renewed his request for a drive in the carriage. "Yes, my son, you shall have it presently," said the captain; then he proposed to Evelyn that she and her two little cousins should join the party for a short drive in another direction, before he would take his own children home to Woodburn. His invitation was joyfully accepted and in a few minutes they had all crowded into the captain's carriage and were driving down the avenue. The little ones were very merry, and the captain did not check their mirth. He was, in fact, in very good spirits himself, because thus far Grandma Elsie's cure had progressed so favorably. It continued to do so from that time till in two weeks she was able to be up and about a part of every day, and Violet returned to Woodburn, though daily, when the weather permitted, she drove over to Ion and spent an hour or more with her mother. Quite frequently the captain drove her over himself, and leaving her there, went on into the village to attend to some business matter, calling for her on his return. On one of these occasions, going into the parlor he found there his wife, her mother, eldest sister and grandparents in earnest conversation with the doctor. When the customary greetings had been exchanged, Grandma Elsie said to him, with a smile, "Captain, these good people seem to have leagued together to send, or to take me, to Viamede to spend the winter, Cousin Arthur having given it as his opinion that a warmer climate than this would probably be of benefit just at this time." "In which I presume he is quite right, mother," returned the captain. "And surely there is no difficulty in the way?" "Nothing insurmountable," she replied. "But we want some one to go on in advance and see that everything is in order for mamma's comfort," said Violet, giving her husband a look that was half entreating, half one of confident assurance that he would deny nothing to her or her loved mother which it was at all in his power to bestow. "That, I think, would certainly be the better plan," he returned pleasantly, "and if no one more competent than myself is to be had and it suits my wife to accompany me, my services may be considered as offered." Hearty thanks were at once bestowed upon him by all present. But he disclaimed all title to them, saying, "I now have everything in order at Woodburn, so that I may feel quite easy in leaving it for even a protracted stay; and to get a view of Viamede will be a new and doubtless very pleasant experience to me, with wife and little ones along; my daughters can go on with their studies under my tuition, there as well as at home, and my intended visit to Max can be paid before starting for the far South. I only fear," he added, with a pleasant glance at Mrs. Leland, "that I may be offering to take upon myself a duty which is much to the taste of one of my brothers-in-law and might be better performed by one or both of them. "No, captain," replied Mrs. Leland, "you need have no such fear, as neither of them is just now in a position to leave home, unless it were quite necessary for dear mamma's comfort." "Then we will consider it settled that Violet and I are to go," said the captain, turning to her with his pleasant smile. "How soon can you be ready, my dear?" "By the first of next week if my husband wishes to start by that time," returned Violet gayly. "Oh, I am quite delighted at the prospect of seeing again that one of our sweet homes, and especially of doing so in company with you, Levis." The captain considered a moment. "I would not like to disappoint Max," he said. "I think I must visit him next Saturday--as I shall not probably be able to see him again before next spring. But I will make necessary arrangements beforehand and I think we may leave for the South by Wednesday morning of next week, if that will suit you, my dear?" "Entirely," she said; "it will give me just about time enough to get everything ready without hurry or confusion." So it was settled, everybody seeming well satisfied with the arrangement. A little more time was spent in discussing plans, then the captain and Violet bade good-by and set out on their return home. "You are well pleased with the prospect of this visit to Viamede, Violet, my dear?" the captain said, as they drove rapidly along the familiar road. "Oh, yes, indeed," she answered brightly; "Viamede is so lovely, a sort of earthly paradise I have always thought, and I am really delighted at the thought of showing it to you. Ah, I am quite sure, having your dear society there, I shall enjoy it more than ever!" "Thank you, dearest," was his smiling response. "I am certainly pleased with the prospect of seeing that earthly paradise, particularly with you to share my enjoyment. And how pleased Lulu and Gracie will be, for I have often heard them speak of Viamede as even lovelier than Woodburn, which they evidently esteem a very delightful and lovely home." "As it assuredly is, my dear," was Violet's smiling rejoinder. "I could not ask a lovelier, happier home than that which my husband--the very best and dearest of husbands--has provided for me. Oh, I often ask myself, 'Is there anybody else in all the wide world who has so much to be thankful for as I?'" "Ah, that fortunate mortal is surely he who sits by your side at this moment, my darling," he answered in moved tones, taking her hand in his and pressing it affectionately. But the carriage was turning in at the Woodburn gates and presently the glad shout of little voices was borne to their ears on the evening breeze. "There it is! Papa and mamma have come home!" A joyously tumultuous greeting followed, the little flock gathering about them as they alighted, talking, laughing, dancing around them, claiming their attention and their caresses. Elsie and Ned pleaded for a ride, and Grace and Lulu seemed not averse to sharing it. So there was a hasty bundling up in capes and hoods, cloaks and shawls, papa piled them in, followed them, taking Ned on his knee, and away they went for a mile or more down the road, then back again, and were presently taking off their outdoor garments in the hall, mamma helping the little ones. Then all gathered about the tea-table with appetites that made everything taste very good indeed. Elsie and Ned were too busy to talk much, but Lulu and Grace were unusually gay and mirthful, and their father indulged them in more than usual chat and laughter that were neither rude nor boisterous. Neither he nor Violet said anything of the new plans for the winter till the babies had had their evening romp and been taken away to bed. Violet, as usual, went with them, and the captain was left alone with Lulu and Grace. They were hanging lovingly about him as was their custom on such occasions, and he drew one to each knee, saying in low, tender tones, "My darlings! my precious little daughters! How rich I feel in the possession of my five dear children!" "And how rich we feel with our dear, dear father! to say nothing of our dear, sweet Mamma Vi and the two darling babies!" responded Lulu, putting her arm about his neck and her lips to his. "Yes; and our dear big brother Maxie," added Grace. "Yes, I was just going to mention him," said Lulu. "I am both very fond and very proud of Max. I wouldn't swap him for any other body's brother that ever I saw; no not even for all the nice brothers that Rosie has." "Neither would I," said Grace, "though I'm fond of them all." "Papa, when is it that we are going to see Max?" queried Lulu. "Some time in January I know you said, but will it be to spend New Year's with him?" "No; wouldn't you like to go sooner than that?" he asked, stroking her hair and looking down lovingly, smilingly into her eyes. "Oh, yes, indeed, papa! if it suits you to go and to take me," she answered eagerly. "It seems now a long, long while that I have been separated from Max, and the sooner I may go to see him the better. But have you changed your plans about it?" "Yes," he replied. "I have something to tell you both which will show you why, and also prove pleasant news to you, I think." Then he proceeded to tell them of the plans laid that afternoon at Ion, and which made it necessary that, if he went to see Max at all that winter, he must do so before the end of the week already begun. His news that their winter was to be spent at Viamede was hailed with delight by both the little girls. "I am so glad!" cried Grace, clapping her hands and smiling all over her face. "I, too," exclaimed Lulu. "Viamede is so, _so_ beautiful, and to have you there with us, you dear papa, will make us--me any way--enjoy it at least twice as much as I did before." "Me too," said Grace; "the happiest place for me is always where my own dear father is with me," hugging him tight and kissing him again and again. "My darling! my precious darlings!" the captain said in response and caressing them in turn. "I'm so sorry for poor Maxie," remarked Grace presently, "that he can't see you every day, papa, as we do, and be kissed and hugged as we are; and that he can't go to Viamede with the rest of us." She finished with a heavy sigh. "Yes," her father said, "I am sorry for him, and for ourselves, that he is not to be with us. But my dear boy is happy where he is, and I in the thought that he is preparing himself to do good service to our country; to be a valuable and useful citizen." "And we are all ever so proud of him--our dear Maxie; but I'm glad I am not a boy. Women can be very useful in the world too, can't they, papa?" "Yes; yes, indeed, my darlings; the world couldn't go on without women, any more than without men; both are necessary, and the one sex to be as much honored as the other, and I hope and trust my daughters will all grow up to be noble, true-hearted, useful women, always trying to do earnestly and faithfully the work God has given them to do." "I hope so, indeed, papa!" responded Lulu in an earnest, thoughtful tone; "if I know my own heart I do want to be a very useful woman when I'm grown up--a useful girl now--serving God with all my might; but oh, I do so easily forget and go wrong!" "Yet I can see very plainly that my dear little girl is improving," her father said, softly smoothing her hair with his hand, "and I'm sure--for the Bible tells us so--that if you fight on, looking to God for help, you will come off conqueror and more than conqueror in the end." "Yes, papa; oh, I am so glad the Bible says that!" There was a moment's silence; then Grace said, with a sigh and a voice full of tears, "Oh, I do so wish I could see Maxie before we go so far away from him! Papa, wouldn't they let him come home for just a little while?" "No, daughter; but how would you like to go with Lulu and me to pay him a little visit?" "O papa! so much if--if you think I won't be too tired to go on to Viamede so soon afterward." "I really think you could stand the two journeys, coming so near together, now that you are so much stronger than you used to be; and as you can lie and rest in the cars, and we go by water from New Orleans. Don't you feel as if you could?" "Oh, yes, papa, I feel almost sure I could!" she cried joyously. "Then we will try it," he said, fondling her; "you will have no packing to do--I am sure Mamma Vi and Lulu will be pleased to attend to all that for you--and the journey to Annapolis is not a very long or fatiguing one. So, should nothing happen to prevent, you shall make one of our little party to visit Max." Grace's eyes shone with pleasure and Lulu exclaimed delightedly, "Oh, I am so glad, Gracie! It will double my pleasure to have you along; and you needn't worry one bit about your packing of clothes or playthings, for I'm sure I can see to it all with Christine or Alma to help me; or even if I should have to do it all myself." "Oh, thank you, Lu!" exclaimed Grace, "you are just the very best sister that ever I saw! Isn't she, papa?" "I think her a very good and kind sister, and it makes me a proud and happy father to be able to give her that commendation," he answered, with a loving look down into the eyes of his eldest daughter. Just then Violet re-entered the room and a merry, happy hour followed, while plans and prospects were under discussion. "Won't you excuse Gracie and me from lessons the rest of the time before we start for Viamede, papa?" asked Lulu coaxingly. "No, daughter," replied the captain, in a pleasant tone; "there is very little either of you will be called upon to do in regard to the preparations for our southward flitting, so no occasion for you to miss lessons for so many days. Of course you cannot study on the boats and cars, at least I shall not ask it of you, and when we get to Viamede you will be glad of a little holiday to rest and run about, seeing everything that is to be seen; and all that will cause quite sufficient loss of time from your lessons." "Oh, dear," sighed Lulu, "I think it must be ever so nice to be grown up and not have any lessons to learn." "Ah, Lu," laughed Violet, "I am not so sure that grown up folks have no lessons to learn; in fact I begin to have an idea that their lessons are not seldom more trying and wearisome than those of the children." "Yes, Mamma Vi," responded Lulu, with a blush, "and I'm sorry and ashamed of my grumbling. Papa, I'm just determined I will be good and do cheerfully whatever you bid me; I have always, always found your way the very best in the end." "Why, yes, Lu; of course papa always knows far better than we do what is best for us," said Grace, leaning lovingly up against him and smiling up into his face. "Papa is very happy in having such loving, trustful little daughters," he said, passing his hand caressingly over Gracie's golden curls. CHAPTER XVI. It was a most joyful surprise to Max when, on the following Saturday, his father and sisters walked in upon him, as he left the dinner table full of life and pleasure at the thought of the half holiday that had just begun. His standing and conduct had been such that he was entitled to leave, and to be able to spend it with these dear ones was most delightful. A carriage had brought the captain and his little girls to the door, and they--father and children--took a long drive together, during which the tongues of Max and Lulu ran very fast. She and Gracie thoroughly enjoyed Max's surprise on learning of the plans for the winter, so soon to be carried out. At first he seemed to feel rather badly at the thought that they would all be so far away from him; but he presently got over that, as his father spoke of the letters he would receive from Viamede every day, and how quickly the winter would pass and all be coming home again, some of them--certainly himself--making haste to pay a visit to the Academy to see their young cadet and learn what progress he was making in preparing for future duty in the naval service of his country. At that Max's face brightened and he said heartily, "And I shall try my best to have as good a report as possible ready for you, papa, that you may be proud and happy in your first-born son. Ah, the thought of that does help me to study hard and try very, very earnestly to keep rules, so that I may be an honor, and not a disgrace to the best of fathers." "Yes, I am sure of it, my dear boy," the captain replied, laying his hand on the lad's shoulder, while the light of fatherly love and pride shone in his eyes; "I haven't a doubt that it is one of my son's greatest pleasures to make himself the joy and pride of his father's heart." They drove back to the Academy just in time for Max to be ready to report himself at evening roll-call, according to the rules, with which no one was better acquainted than the captain. He and the little girls were to start on their return journey that evening, and good-by was said at the Academy door. A very hard one it seemed to the little girls, hardly less so to Max and his father. The captain and his daughters went by boat, as less fatiguing for Grace, and reached home on Monday. The next day was a busy one to all, and Wednesday noon saw them on the cars, bound for New Orleans. A day and night were spent in the city, then they took the steamer for Berwick Bay. The morning was clear and bright and the captain, Violet, and the children all sat upon deck, greatly enjoying the breeze and the dancing of the waves in the sunlight, as the vessel cleared its port and steamed out into the gulf. "Oh, it is so pleasant here!" exclaimed Grace; "just like summer. And see the beautiful rainbow in the water that the wheel throws up!" "Oh, yes; so pretty, oh, so pretty!" cried little Elsie, clapping her hands in delight. "Oh, so pitty!" echoed baby Ned. "Take care, little ones; I fear you may fall overboard," warned the captain. "Come and sit on papa's knee, and perhaps mamma will kindly tell us of all the lovely things we will see at Viamede." They obeyed and were charmed with mamma's story of what she had done and seen at Viamede when she was a little girl, and of dear grandma being once a baby girl in the very same house, and how dearly all the old servants loved her, and how they mourned when she was taken away to live with her grandpa at Roseland. The babies and even the older folks, not excepting papa himself, seemed deeply interested, and more delighted than before that they were so soon to see Viamede. At length Ned fell asleep, Elsie presently followed his example, and older people were left to the quiet enjoyment of the lovely scenes through which they were passing; for they had now entered Teche Bayou, and from that pressed on, threading the way through lake and lakelet, past plantation and swamp, plain and forest, coming upon cool, shady dells carpeted with a rich growth of velvety grass, and flowers of varied hue, and shaded by magnificent trees, oaks and magnolias; while amid groves of orange trees they could see lordly villas, tall white sugar-houses and rows of cabins where the negro laborers dwelt. "A beautiful, beautiful country," remarked the captain, breaking a prolonged silence. "Quite up to your expectations, my dear?" queried Violet, glancing up at him, her eyes shining with pleasure. "I believe it rather exceeds them," he replied, "it is very, very lovely! an earthly paradise, so far as beauty can make it such." "Papa, do you suppose you will know which is Viamede when you see it?" queried Lulu. "I very much doubt it, daughter," he answered. "Yes, sir; there it is, just coming into sight; the sugar-house, at least, and yonder, a little beyond, is the great orange orchard." "And it's just beautiful!" cried Grace. "See, papa, the orange trees, with their beautiful, glossy leaves and ripe and green fruit, and flowers all on them at once." "And presently we will come to the beautiful lawn, with its giant oaks, magnolia trees, velvety grass and lovely flowers," exclaimed Lulu. "Oh, I am so much obliged to dear Grandma Elsie, for inviting us all to spend the winter here again!" "Yes, it was very kind," her father said, "and I hope my children will do nothing to mar the peace of the household, and so distress Mamma Vi's dear mother." "I do intend to be a very good girl, papa, and if I begin to be the least bit bad, I do hope you'll stop it at once by punishing me well and making me behave myself," Lulu said, in a low, earnest tone, speaking close to his ear. "Dear child," he returned, in the same low key in which she had spoken, "I have not the least doubt that you intend to be and do all I could ask or wish." There was no time for anything more just then, for, as they were nearing their destination, baggage must be seen to and satchels and parcels gathered up. Presently the boat rounded to at the wharf and in another minute greetings and embraces were being exchanged with the cousins, who, having been duly informed of the intended arrival, were gathered there to give a cordial and delighted welcome to Violet, her husband, and children. There were servants also, some few of the old and some new ones, each and all eager for a handshake and a few words of greeting from "Miss Wi'let and the cap'en and dere chillens," in which they were not disappointed. In a few moments the baggage had been landed and was being taken to the house, while ladies, gentlemen, and children followed, the newly arrived gazing, delighted, about upon the beauties of the place, the others asking many questions concerning Grandma Elsie and those of her family left behind--how they were in health, and when they would come to Viamede. "You will find the house in very tolerable order, I think, Vi," remarked Mrs. Keith, "though doubtless many little repairs and improvements needed, that Cousin Elsie may find everything in order when she comes. It was a good idea to get you and the captain to come a little in advance of the older folk and have everything in order for their reception." "I think so," Violet said with a smile, "and that no better person than my honored husband could have been found to undertake that task." "No more trustworthy one, I am sure, judging from his looks," returned Isa. "I am delighted with his appearance, Vi; he is as noble-looking a man as ever I saw." Violet flushed with pleasure. "And he is all that he appears to be, Isa," she said; "the better he is known the more highly is he esteemed." A bountiful supper had been prepared for the travelers, and the others stayed and partook with them, but soon after leaving the table bade good-night and went to their own homes. Then Violet took her sleepy little ones upstairs to see them to bed, leaving the captain, Lulu, and Grace on the veranda. As usual, the two were hanging lovingly about their father, he seeming to enjoy it as much as they. It was a beautiful moonlight night, warm, and sweet with the breath of flowers; away in the distance, beyond the wide-spreading lawn, they could see the waters of the bayou glittering in the moonbeams, and the soft plash of oars came pleasantly to their ears. "Oh, isn't it just lovely, here!" exclaimed Lulu, breaking a momentary silence. "Papa, did I exaggerate in telling you of the beauties of the place?" "No, I think not," he replied; "it is certainly very lovely, and I hope we are going to have a happy winter here." "I'm sure we will; I'm happy anywhere with you, my dear, dear papa," said Grace, putting an arm round his neck and pressing her lips to his cheek. "So am I," said Lulu, "unless I have been doing wrong, and papa is displeased with me. Oh, I do mean to try my very hardest to be good! and I'm sure it will be ever so much easier with you for my tutor, dear papa, than it was before, going to that horrid school and having to take music lessons from that Signor Foresti, who was so ill-tempered and struck me, when I was trying as hard as I could to play my piece just right." "Yes, daughter, I think it will be easier for you with the tutor who loves you and is loved by you," assented the captain, drawing her into a close, loving embrace. "We must see if a music teacher is to be had here, but certainly will not try Signor Foresti again." "Oh, I am glad to hear you say that, papa! though I never thought you would send me back to him again. I am, oh, so glad I belong to you instead of to--anybody else." "So am I," he responded, with a happy little laugh. "And that I do too, papa?" asked Grace, in a half-pleading tone. "Yes, yes, my own darling," he said, addressing her with great tenderness. "You are no less dear than your sister." "How good in you, papa! for I'm not half so bright or pretty as Lu," she said, patting his cheek with her small white hand. "Why, Gracie!" exclaimed Lulu, "whatever put such a thing as that into your head? You are far prettier, and better too, than I am. Isn't she, papa?" "You must not ask me such hard questions," he returned laughingly, and hugging them both up in his arms, "I really could not say that either one is prettier or dearer to me than the other, or that I love either more or less than I do each of the other three. The love differs somewhat in kind, but, I think, not in intensity." "Yes, papa, I suppose so," returned Lulu thoughtfully; "for instance you must have quite a different sort of love for Max, who is almost old enough to take care of himself, and baby Ned who is so very young and helpless." Violet joined them at that moment, reported the babies as fast asleep in the nursery, and consulted her husband as to what rooms they should occupy during their stay; saying her mother had kindly bade them please themselves in regard to that matter. "Choose for yourself, my dear," replied the captain, "and I shall be entirely satisfied; only I should like to have these children close at hand--a door of communication between their room, or rooms, and ours, if that can be easily managed. We must be near the babies of course." "Yes, indeed! Near every one of our four," returned Violet brightly; "I could not be easy otherwise, any more than their father. "But suppose I take you over the house, if you are not too tired. To-morrow, you remember, is Sunday, and I could hardly wait till Monday, to say nothing of the curiosity that must of course be consuming you." "Of course," returned the captain laughingly, as he rose and gave her his arm; "it will give me great pleasure to accompany you, if you are not too weary for such exertion." "Not a bit," she said; "the trip on the boat was more restful than fatiguing; at least so far as concerned myself. May not Lulu and Gracie come too?" "If they wish; though I fear Gracie is too tired," he said, with an inquiring glance at her. "If you would like to go, pet, papa will carry you up the stairs." "Oh, then, I would like to, papa; I'm not so very tired," she answered eagerly. "Then of course Lulu is not?" he said with a smiling glance at his eldest daughter. "No, indeed, papa; and I'd dearly love to go along," she answered, taking Gracie's hand and with her tripping along in the rear, as he and Violet passed on into the wide hall. They first inspected the rooms on the lower floor, lingering longest in the drawing-room, where the many beautiful paintings and pieces of statuary were very attractive. "We cannot give them half enough time to-night," remarked Violet, "but fortunately have good reason to hope for many opportunities for future inspection." "Yes," the captain said, glancing at Grace, then at his watch. "Shall we not call in the servants and have prayers before going upstairs? It is not far from the usual time, and I see Gracie is growing weary." Violet gave a ready assent and led the way to the family parlor where her grandfather had been wont to hold that service. The servants were summoned and came in looking well pleased. The captain made the service short out of consideration for Gracie's weariness, though, indeed, he never thought it well to lengthen it so much as to risk making it a weariness to either children or servants. A few directions in regard to securing doors and windows for the night and as to what should be done for the comfort of the family in the morning, then he, Violet, and the little girls, having exchanged kindly good-nights with the servants, went on up the broad stairway, the captain, according to promise, carrying Grace in his arms. Only a hasty survey of the upper rooms was taken that night, for all began to feel the need of rest and sleep. Apartments connected with each other and the nursery were selected for occupation, and soon all were resting peacefully in their beds. CHAPTER XVII. The Sabbath morning dawned bright and clear. Lulu rose with the sun and, before he was an hour high, was down on the veranda, gazing with delight upon the lovely landscape spread out at her feet. So absorbed in its beauties was she that she failed to hear an approaching footstep, and was aware of her father's presence only when he laid a hand gently on her head and, bending down, imprinted a kiss on her lips. "An early bird as usual, my darling!" he said. "Yes, sir, like my father, my dear, dear father," she returned, twining her arms around his neck and holding him fast for a moment. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, releasing himself and taking her hand in his. "Oh, yes, indeed, papa! Did not you?" "I did; I think we all did," he answered. "God has been very good to us. And what a lovely, lovely Sunday morning it is!" "We can all go to church, can't we, papa?" she asked. "I think so," he said. "And now you would like to walk down across the lawn, to the water's edge, with me?" "Oh, yes, indeed, papa," she cried delightedly. "It was just what I was wanting to do." "It might be well for you to have a bit of something to eat first," he said. "Ah, here is just the thing!" as a servant approached with a waiter on which were some oranges prepared for eating in the way Grandma Elsie had enjoyed them in her young days. "Thank you, Aunt Sally," the captain said, helping Lulu and himself; "you could have brought us nothing more tempting and delicious. Will you please carry some up to my wife?" "Ise done it already, sah," replied the woman, smiling all over her face, and dropping a courtesy; "yes, sah; an' she say dey's mighty nice, jes like she hab when she's heah in dis place yeahs ago." "Papa," remarked Lulu, as they presently crossed the lawn together, "I'm so glad to be here again, and with you. It was a delightful place the other time, I thought, but, oh, it seems twice as pleasant now, because my dear father is with us!" and she lifted her eyes to his face with a look of ardent affection. "Dear child, it is a great pleasure to me to be with you and the rest," he returned, pressing affectionately the little hand he held in his, "and if you do not have a happier time than you had here before, it shall not be because your father does not try to make it so. "But, my dear little daughter, remember you have the same spiritual foes to fight here as in other places. If you would be happy you must try to live very near to Jesus and to watch and pray lest you enter into temptation. Particularly must you be ever on your guard against that quick temper which has so often got you into trouble." "Papa, I do intend to," she said, with a sigh; "and I am very glad I shall have you close at hand all the time to help me in the fight; for you do help me, oh, so often--so much, dear papa!" and again she lifted loving eyes to his face. "I am very thankful that I can, my darling," he returned. "I feel that God has been very good to me in so changing my circumstances that I can be with you almost constantly to aid you in the hard task of learning to control the fiery temper inherited from me. Yet, as I have often told you, dear child, the hardest part of the fight must inevitably be your own, and only by the help of him who has all power in heaven and in earth can you conquer at last. "I want you to feel that in your inmost soul, and to beware of self-confidence, which was, I think, the cause of your sad failure of a few weeks ago." "Yes, papa," she said humbly, "I believe I had begun to feel that I was quite reformed, so did not watch and pray as constantly as I used to, and then almost before I knew it I was in a passion with poor Alma." "'When I am weak, then am I strong!' the apostle says," returned her father; "that is when we feel our weakness and trust in the strength of our Almighty Saviour; of him who has said, 'In me is thine help.' It is help, daughter, which is never refused to those who look humbly to Jesus for it." "I am so glad the Bible tells us that," she said. They walked on in silence for a little, then Lulu said, "Papa, I asked Cousin Molly last night if Professor Manton still had his school at Oakdale. She said, 'Yes, is your papa going to send you there?' and I was so glad I could answer, 'No, ma'am; he is going to teach me himself.' Then Cousin Molly said, 'Oh, is he? I am sure that will be far pleasanter for you, dear. The professor is not very popular, and I hear that his school grows smaller.'" "Ah, then, don't you think it would be only kind in me to put my eldest daughter there as a pupil?" asked the captain jestingly. "Not to me, papa, I am sure," she answered, lifting to his smiling eyes that said as plainly as any words could have spoken that she had no fear that he would do any such thing. "No; and I do not know what could induce me to do so," he returned. "So you need never ask it, but must try to content yourself with the tutor who has had charge of your education ever since Woodburn became our home." "I don't need to try, papa," she said with a happy laugh; "for it's just as easy as anything. Gracie and I both think there was never such a dear, kind teacher as ours. Neither of us wants ever to have any other." "Ah! then we are mutually pleased. And now I think we should turn and go back to the house, for it must be near the breakfast hour." They found Violet, Grace, and the little ones on the veranda, awaiting their coming, and breakfast ready to be served. Morning greetings were exchanged and all repaired to the breakfast room. The meal proved a dainty one, was daintily served and enlivened by cheerful chat on such themes as were not unsuited to the sacredness of the day. Family worship followed, and soon after the family carriage was at the door ready to convey them to the church of which their Cousin Cyril was pastor. The captain, Violet, and the two little girls, Lulu and Grace, formed the deputation from that family, the two babies remaining at home in the care of their nurse, whom they had brought with them from Woodburn. Cyril gave them an excellent sermon, and at the close of the exercises conducted a Bible class attended by nearly every one belonging to the congregation. The Viamede family remained to its close, held a little pleasant talk with the relatives from the parsonage and Magnolia Hall, then drove back to Viamede, reaching there just in time for dinner. In the afternoon the captain gathered his family and the servants under the trees in the lawn, read and expounded a portion of scripture, and led them in prayer and the singing of several familiar hymns. The evening was spent much as it would have been at Woodburn, and all retired early to rest. Monday morning found them all in good health and spirits, entirely recovered from the fatigues of the journey and ready for work or play. "We don't have to learn and recite lessons to-day, papa, do we?" asked Lulu, at the breakfast table. "I think you said we could have a day or two for play first, didn't you?" "Yes; but I shall give you your choice of having that playtime now or taking it about a week hence, when you will have Rosie and Walter with you." "May I choose too, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes." "Then I choose to wait for my holiday till the others are here to share it with us; for don't you suppose Grandma Elsie will let them, papa?" "No doubt of it," he replied. "And what is your choice, Lulu?" "The same as Gracie's, papa," she answered in bright cheerful tones. "Lessons are not bad to take, with you for my teacher," she added laughingly, "and will leave us a good deal of time for running about and looking at everything." "Besides an occasional drive or walk with mamma and papa," he supplemented, with an approving smile, adding, "the lessons shall not be long or hard to-day, so that you will still have some time for roaming about the grounds; and perhaps, if my pupils are very deserving, there may be a row on the bayou after dinner." "Oh, how delightful, papa!" they cried, in a breath. "I am glad you think so," he said, smiling on them; "there is nothing I enjoy more than giving pleasure to my wife and children," with an affectionate glance at Violet. "I hope such a little excursion will afford you pleasure, my dear?" "Yes," she returned gayly, "I think even the children will hardly enjoy it more than I; and," she added laughingly, "I shall endeavor to earn my right to it by faithfully attending to housekeeping matters in the meantime." "I don't believe there is any schoolroom here!" exclaimed Grace, as if struck with a sudden thought. "We will have to select one and get it ready before the others come," said Violet. "And for the present my dressing-room will answer very well," added the captain. So thither the children repaired at the usual hour for beginning their studies. It was at first a little difficult to fix their attention upon them, but with an earnest desire to do right, and to please their dear father, they made very determined efforts, and had their lessons well prepared by the time he came to hear them. It seemed to afford him pleasure to give the deserved meed of praise, and the young faces grew bright and gladsome under it. An hour was then given to writing and ciphering, and they were dismissed for the day. "May we go out into the grounds now, papa?" asked Lulu, as she put up her books. "Yes," he replied, "but keep near the house for the present, for it is near dinner-time now." "We will, papa," both little girls answered and hurried away. They sported about the lawn till summoned to the house by the dinner-bell, whose call they obeyed with alacrity, air and exercise having given them good appetites. "My dear," the captain said to his wife, near the conclusion of the meal, "you have had a busy morning, can you not afford to devote the afternoon to recreation?" "Certainly, if you will share it," she replied. "Are we not to have that row on the bayou?" "It is what I had planned, should my wife still feel inclined to go," he said. "Ah! that will be very enjoyable I think; and perhaps there may be time afterward for me to drive over to the parsonage. I want a bit of chat with Isa about some household matters." "Yes, I think you may have time for both," he returned. "An hour on the bayou will be sufficient for this first time; the carriage can be ordered to be in waiting when we return, and you, if the plan suits your views, can drive over to the parsonage at once, have your talk, and be at home again in season to pour out your husband's tea." "That will do nicely, thank you, sir," she returned gayly. "I see I am not likely to lack for diversion with you at the head of affairs, so I think I shall try to keep you there as long as possible." "I hope you will, Mamma Vi," said Lulu, "And any way I'm glad that when papa is about, he is the one that has control of me." "So I have at least one willing subject," remarked the captain, looking not ill-pleased. "Two, papa," said Grace, "you can always count on me for one." "I don't doubt it in the least, dear child," he said. "And now, as I see you have all finished your dinner, and the boat is at the wharf, let us be going." In a few minutes all were seated in the boat, and it was moving rapidly over the water, the children very merry, the parents by no means disposed to check the manifestations of their mirth. They found the carriage in waiting when they landed. "You are going with us, Levis?" Violet said inquiringly, as the captain handed her in. "I should be pleased to do so, my dear, but have too many business letters calling for immediate reply," he said, lifting little Ned, and then Elsie, to a place by her side. "Lulu and Gracie, you would like to go with your mamma?" "Yes, sir, if I may," Grace answered with alacrity, but Lulu declined, saying: "I would much rather stay with you, papa, if I may." "Certainly, dear child; I shall be glad to have you," he said with a pleased look; "but I fear you will find it dull, as I shall be too busy to talk to you, or let you talk to me." "But I can be with you, and perhaps of some use waiting on you, papa." "Perhaps so," he said. "You generally contrive to make yourself useful to your father in one way or another." Then the carriage drove on, Lulu slipped her hand into his, and together they walked back to the house. "I do hope I can find something to do that will be a help to you, papa," she said, as they entered the library. "I verily believe my dear eldest daughter would like to carry all her father's burdens if she could," he said, laying his hand caressingly on her head, "but it wouldn't be good for me, my darling, to have my life made too easy." "I am sure it wouldn't hurt you, papa, and I only wish I could carry all your burdens," she replied, with an ardently affectionate look up into his face. "Isn't there something I can do now?" "Yes," he replied, glancing at the table; "here are papers, magazines, and letters, quite a pile. You may cut leaves and open envelopes for me, that will save me some time and exertion--be quite a help." "Yes, sir; I'll be glad to do it all. But, oh, papa," and a bright, eager look came into her face. "Well, daughter, what is it?" as she paused half breathless with her new idea. "Papa, couldn't I write some of the letters for you? Here is my typewriter that you so kindly let me bring along. I've learned to write pretty fast on it, you know, and wouldn't it be easier for you just to tell me the words you want said and let me put them down, than to do it all yourself with either it or your pen?" "That is a bright thought, daughter," he said, patting her cheek, and smiling down upon her. "I dare say that plan would shorten my work considerably." "Oh, I shall be so glad if it does, papa!" she exclaimed. "There is nothing in the world I'd enjoy more than finding myself a real help and comfort to you." "I have found you both many a time, daughter," he responded, taking up and opening a letter as he spoke, while she picked up a paper cutter and fell zealously to work opening envelopes, laying each one close to his hand as she had it ready. "Now, you may get your typewriter ready for work," he said presently. "Put in a sheet of this paper," taking some from a drawer in the table and laying it beside the machine, "date it, and in a moment I will tell you what to say." He had already instructed her carefully in punctuation and paragraphing: spelling also; and, with an occasional direction in regard to such matters, she did her work well. She was full of joy when at the close of the business he bestowed upon her a judicious amount of praise and said that she had proved a great help to him, shortening his labor very considerably. "I think," he concluded, "that before long my dear eldest daughter will prove a valuable amanuensis for me." "Papa, I am so glad!" she cried, her cheeks flushing and her eyes sparkling. "Oh, there is nothing else in the world that I enjoy so much as being a help and comfort to my dear, dear father!" "My precious little daughter," he responded, "words cannot express the love your father feels for you. Now there is one letter that I wish to write with my own hand, and while I am doing that you may amuse yourself in any way you like." "May I read this, papa?" she asked, taking up a magazine. "Yes," he said, and she went quietly from the room with it in her hand. She seated herself on the back veranda, read a short story, then stole softly back to the library door to see if her father had finished his letter so that she might talk to him. But some one else was there; a stranger she thought, though she did not get a view of his face. She paused on the threshold, uncertain whether her father would wish her to be present at the interview, and at that instant he spoke, apparently in reply to something his caller had said, and his words riveted her to the spot. "No," he said, in stern tones, "had I been here my daughter would never have been sent back to your school. She was most unjustly and shamefully treated by that fiery little Italian, and you, sir, upheld him in it. When I am at hand no daughter of mine shall be struck by another man, or woman either, with impunity, and Foresti may deem himself fortunate in that I was at a distance when he ventured to commit so great an outrage upon my child." Lulu waited to hear no more, but ran back to the veranda, where she danced about in a tumult of delight, clapping her hands and saying exultingly to herself, "I just knew papa wouldn't have made me go back to that horrid school and take lessons of that brute of a man. Oh, I do wish he had been here! How much it would have saved me! If my father is strict and stern sometimes, he's ever so much better and kinder than Grandpa Dinsmore. Yes, yes, indeed, he's such a dear father! I wouldn't exchange him for any other, if I could." Presently she suddenly ceased her jumping and dancing, and stood in an intently listening attitude. "Yes, he's going--that horrid professor! I'm so glad! I don't believe he'll ever trouble this house again, while papa is in it any way," she said half aloud. Then running to meet her father as he returned from seeing the professor to the door, she threw her arms round him, exclaiming in a voice quivering with delight. "Oh, you dear, dear papa, I'm so glad, so glad to know that you wouldn't have made me go back to that horrid music teacher! I felt sure at the time that you wouldn't, if you were here." He heard her with a look of astonishment not unmixed with sternness. "O papa, please don't be angry with me!" she pleaded, tears starting to her eyes; "I didn't mean to listen, but I happened to be at the library door (I was going back to see if you were done writing that letter and I might be with you again) when you told Professor Manton that you wouldn't have sent me back to Signor Foresti, nor even to his school. It made me so glad, papa, but I didn't stop to hear any more, but ran away to the veranda again; because I knew it wouldn't be right for me to listen to what wasn't intended for me to hear." He took her hand, led her into the library again, drew her to a seat upon his knee, and softly smoothing back the hair from her forehead, said in kind, fatherly tones, "I am not displeased with you, daughter. I understand that it was quite accidental, and I am sure my little girl is entirely above the meanness of intentionally listening to what is evidently not meant for her ear. And in fact, now that I think of it, I am not sorry that you know I did not, and do not now, approve of the treatment you received at that time. Yet that was the first time I had ever mentioned it to any one, and I should be sorry to have your Grandpa Dinsmore know, or suspect, how entirely I disapproved of what he thought best to do at the time. Can, and will, my little daughter promise to keep the secret? never mentioning it to any one but me?" "Yes, indeed, papa," she returned, looking up brightly into his face. "Oh, it's nice to be trusted by you, and not even threatened with punishment if I disobey!" "I am happy to think that is by no means necessary," he said, drawing her into a closer embrace. "I believe my little girl loves her father well enough to do of her own free will what she knows he would have her do." "Yes, indeed, papa," she answered earnestly; "and do you know, it seems a great pleasure to have a secret along with you. But, papa, why did you write--after I had confessed it all to you--as if you were so much displeased with me that you couldn't let me stay any longer at Ion after you had found another place to put me?" "My child, as I had put you under Grandpa Dinsmore's care, it was your duty to submit to his orders till I could be heard from in regard to the matter. You should therefore have gone back, not only to the school, but to the music teacher, when he directed you to do so; you were disobeying me in refusing, and also showing great ingratitude to the kind friends who were doing so much for you without your having the slightest claim upon them." "Papa, I am very sorry and ashamed," she murmured low and tremulously, hanging her head and blushing deeply as she spoke; "I almost want you to punish me well for it yet." "No, daughter, that account was settled long ago," he said in kindly, reassuring accents, "fully settled, and I have no desire to open it again." "But, oh, papa," she sighed, "sometimes I do feel so afraid I may get into a passion with somebody about something while we're here this winter, with all the Ion folks, that--that I believe I want you to say you will punish me very severely if I do." "My daughter," he said, "I want you to avoid sin and strive to do right, not from fear of punishment, but that you may please and honor him whose disciple you hope you are." "Oh, yes, papa, I do want to for that reason and also to please and honor you--the best and dearest father in the world!" she concluded, putting her arms round his neck and laying her cheek lovingly to his. "But you will watch me and warn me and try to keep me from yielding to my dreadful temper?" "Yes, dear child, I will, as I have promised you again and again, do all I can to help you in that way," he replied in tenderest tones. Then, as the carriage-wheels were heard on the drive without, "Ah, your mamma and our little ones have returned," he said, putting her off his knee; and taking her hand led her out to the veranda to meet and welcome them home. CHAPTER XVIII. "Had you a call from Professor Manton, Levis?" asked Violet, as they sat together on the veranda that evening. "I thought so because he passed us as we were coming home and was looking very glum." "Yes, he was here this afternoon," replied the captain. "In search of pupils, I suppose?" "Yes; and was rather disappointed to learn that I had none for him. He asked about Rosie and Walter, but I was unable to tell him positively whether they would, or would not, be sent to him; though I gave him but little encouragement, perhaps I should say none at all, to expect them." "No; I am nearly certain they will not be willing to go to him, and that mamma will not care to send them; indeed she more than hinted that she would be delighted to commit them to your care should you show yourself willing to undertake the task of instructing them. Are you willing?" "I am hardly prepared to answer that question, my dear," he replied thoughtfully. "They might not be willing to submit to the authority of a brother-in-law." "I am almost sure you would have no trouble in governing them," returned Violet. "I don't believe you would have any at all, papa," remarked Lulu, who was leaning on the arm of his chair and listening with much interest to the conversation; "neither of them is half so--so wilful and quick-tempered as I am." The captain smiled at that, put an arm about her, and drew her closer to him. "But they don't belong to me as you do," he said, touching his lips to her cheek. "You are my very own, own little daughter, you know." "Yes, indeed, and so glad to be," she returned, putting her arm round his neck and gazing into his eyes, her own shining with filial love. The younger ones were already in bed, even Gracie having felt too much fatigued with the duties and pleasures of the day to wait for evening prayers. "Yes, I think you may esteem yourself a fortunate child in that respect, Lu," said Violet. "I really believe it is the next best thing to being his wife," she added, with a pleasant little laugh. "I think it's the very best thing, Mamma Vi," returned Lulu. "Well, to go back to the original topic of discourse, Levis--or at least to the question whether you are willing to undertake the tuition of my young sister and brother," Violet went on. "I feel certain they would give you no trouble in governing them; also that your talent for teaching is such that they could not fail to greatly improve under your tuition." "But might not your grandpa feel that I was interfering with him?" queried the captain. "Oh, no, indeed! Grandpa feels that he is growing old, and has done enough of that kind of work. And you would be glad to please mamma?" "Most certainly; I could refuse her nothing--the poor, dear woman!" "Then we may consider it settled? Oh, thank you, my dear." "Well, yes; I suppose so. Are you willing to share your teacher with Rosie and Walter, daughter mine?" he asked, softly stroking Lulu's hair. "My teacher, but not my father, you dear papa," returned Lulu, patting his cheek, then holding up her face for a kiss, which he gave heartily and repeated more than once. "What do you think, Mamma Vi, of your husband having an amanuensis?" he continued, affectionately squeezing Lulu's hand, which he had taken in his. "My correspondence was disposed of to-day with most unusual and unexpected ease. I would read a letter, tell my amanuensis the reply I wished to make, and she would write it off on the typewriter while I examined the next epistle, asking few directions and making scarcely any mistakes." "Lulu did it?" Violet exclaimed in surprise "Why, Lu, I am both astonished and delighted!" "Thank you, Mamma Vi; and I am very glad that I can help my dear, kind father, who does so much for me," Lulu answered, putting her arm round his neck, and laying her cheek to his. "Oh, I couldn't possibly do half enough for him! but I hope I may be of a great deal of use to him some of these days." "You are that already, dear child," he said; "so useful and so dear that your father would not know how to do without you." "How good in you to say that, dear papa; but I am sure it would be ten times worse for me to be without you," she returned. "Oh, I'm glad I'm not a boy, to have to go away from you." "I am glad too," he responded; "glad that my children are neither all boys nor all girls. It is quite delightful, I think, to have some of each." "Yes, sir; and I think it's delightful to have both brothers and sisters when they are of as good a sort as mine are, though I've seen some I'd be sorry to have." "As I have seen some children that I should be sorry, I think, to call my own. Yet if they were mine I would probably love them dearly, and perhaps not see their faults; or rather love them in spite of their naughtiness." "Just as you do me, papa," she said, a little sadly. "Haven't you always loved me, though I've sometimes been very, very naughty indeed?" "Yes, always," he said, holding her close, as something very dear and precious. "And I believe my little girl has always loved me even when I have been quite severe in the punishment of her faults." "Yes; oh, yes, indeed, papa! because I have always felt that I deserved it; often a much more severe punishment than you inflicted; and that you didn't do it because you liked to, but because you wanted to make me good." "And happy," he added. "I think you are never happy when disobedient, wilful, or ill-tempered." "No, indeed, papa! and I'm thankful to you that you have never indulged me in those things." "And I think, with Lu, that you are one of the best of fathers, Levis," remarked Violet. "It is certainly very pleasant to be so highly esteemed by one's wife and daughter, whether deserving of it or not," he said, with a pleased little laugh; "yet I am not at all sure that such flattery is quite good for me." "I don't believe any amount of praise could ever hurt you, papa," Lulu said, with a look into his eyes of ardent love and reverence; "you do seem to me to be just perfect; never doing or saying anything wrong." "I think it must be my little girl's great love for her father that makes her so blind to his faults and failings," he replied, in low, tender tones. "A blindness certainly shared by your wife," remarked Violet lightly. "We have been married five years and I have yet to hear the first unkind word from my husband's lips." "He would be an exceedingly unreasonable man who could find fault with such a wife as mine," was his smiling rejoinder. "But to change the subject, I suppose we may look for the rest of our party about the last of next week?" "Yes, I think so." "I shall be ever so glad to see them--especially dear Grandma Elsie and Rosie and Walter; but oh, I wish the Fairview folks were coming, especially Eva," remarked Lulu, ending with a sigh of regret. "Ah, well, daughter, perhaps Evelyn may be here before the winter is over," the captain said, exchanging a slightly amused glance with Violet. "Oh, I hope so!" exclaimed Lulu; "but of course one can't expect to have everything one wants in this world." "No, certainly not," her father said; "it would be by no means good for us if we could." "Not for me, I know; but oh, I have a great, great many blessings--health and strength and such a dear kind father to love me, provide for me, teach me, and train me up in the way I should go," she concluded, with a smiling look up into his eyes. "That is what I am trying to do, at all events," he returned, holding her close, "though I sometimes fear I may not always have taken the wisest way." "Is it because you have succeeded so poorly that you fear so, papa?" she asked. "If so, don't be troubled about it, because I don't believe it's from any mistake of yours, but only that I'm so very naughty and unmanageable." "Really, now, Lu, I think your father has succeeded fairly well at the business," laughed Violet. "I doubt if anybody else would have done better." "Or half so well," said Lulu; "and I am fully resolved to try to do credit to his training." "I think you had a letter from Max to-day, Levis?" remarked Violet inquiringly, "Dear fellow, I hope he was quite well at the time of writing?" "Yes; and apparently in excellent spirits. He seems to be doing well in his studies; content with things as they are too, though evidently feeling that he would greatly enjoy being here with the rest of us." "Yes, poor, dear fellow! I wish he could make one of our party; especially at Christmas time." "So do I," said his father. "We must make it up to him with as full an account as possible of the Christmas doings here." "I wonder what they will be," said Lulu. "We will have to consider and decide that question--to some extent, at least--after mamma comes," replied Violet. "And now we must go in and have prayers; for it is near bedtime for my eldest daughter," remarked the captain, rising and taking Lulu's hand in his. The days flew by on swift wings, even to Lulu and Grace, so filled were they with duties and pleasures, and at length the time had come when Grandma Elsie and the others were expected by the evening boat. Their arrival was anticipated with great delight by every one on the estate, and all possible preparations had been made for their comfort and to show how gladly welcome they were. Everything indoors and out was in beautiful order, a feast of fat things ready in the kitchen, the families from the parsonage and Magnolia Hall were present by invitation, and as the hour drew near when the boat might be expected, all gathered at the wharf and eagerly watched for its appearance. At length their patience was rewarded; the little steamer appeared in sight far down the bayou, came puffing along past the orange orchard, and rounded to at the landing. In another moment the travelers were on shore: Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, Grandma Elsie, Rosie, Walter, and--could Lulu believe her eyes--yes, there was Evelyn! It could be no one else; and with a cry of joy the two little girls ran into each other's arms. "Oh, Eva, Eva, I'm so glad! I hadn't the least idea that you were coming too!" cried Lulu, fairly wild with delight. "Ah, papa, you must have known and kept it a secret from me to give me such a glad surprise," she exclaimed, as she caught sight of his face and noted the pleased smile with which he was regarding her. "Yes, daughter, I knew and planned, with Mamma Vi and the others, to give you this pleasant surprise," he said, bending down to bestow a paternal kiss upon the gentle, fatherless girl who had won so large a place in the heart of his own dear child. "And we were all very glad to have Eva along," Rosie said. "And, O Lu, I'm looking for very good times this coming winter here in our lovely Viamede, and with your father here I know it will be pleasanter than ever for you--pleasanter for all of us; for, Brother Levis, I hear that I am to be your pupil instead of Professor Manton's; a change which I haven't a doubt I shall enjoy extremely." "Ah, don't be too sure of that, little sister," he returned laughingly, giving a welcoming embrace to her also. "I am a very strict disciplinarian, as Lulu here can testify," laying a hand affectionately on his daughter's shoulder. "Yes, Rosie, papa is strict, but if one does exactly as he orders, he's kind as kind can be; and maybe he wouldn't be quite so stern and strict with other folks' children as he is with me--his very own, you know." But a reply from Rosie was prevented by Violet catching her in her arms, saying, "You dear child, how glad I am to have you here at last! We have all been looking forward to your coming as well as to that of dear, darling mamma, grandpa, and the others." At the same time Grandma Elsie was embracing Lulu most affectionately, saying how well she looked, and hoping that she and Grace, as well as the older people, had been enjoying Viamede. "Indeed we have, dear Grandma Elsie," replied Lulu. "Oh, it was so good and kind in you to invite us all to spend the winter in this loveliest of lovely places!" "Good to myself, dear child, quite as much as to you; for I love to have you all about me." "And I hope you are better? A great deal better?" returned Lulu, with an inquiring look into the sweet face. "Very much better, thank you, dear child. Almost my old self again," was the sweet-toned reply. Some few moments more were spent in the exchange of glad, affectionate greetings and inquiries after each other's health and welfare, then all took their way to the house; even Grandma Elsie claiming that her strength was quite equal to so short a walk, the journey on the boat having been restful rather than fatiguing. Yet it was evident to all that she was far from strong, and they joined Mr. Dinsmore in an urgent entreaty that she would retire at an early hour to her own room and bed; which she did, her daughters accompanying her to see that nothing was lacking that could in any way add to her comfort. CHAPTER XIX. A bright, beautiful day succeeded that on which the Ion family had arrived at Viamede. The younger members of their party woke early, and the sun was hardly more than an hour high when Evelyn and Rosie passed down the broad stairway into the lower hall, moving with cautious tread lest they might disturb the still sleeping older members of the household. But on reaching the veranda they were surprised to see the captain and Lulu already taking a morning promenade along the bank of the bayou. "Ah, I see there is no getting ahead of Brother Levis," laughed Rosie. "Let us run down there and join them, Eva." "With all my heart," returned Evelyn gayly, and away they went, racing down the broad gravelled walk in merry girlish fashion. "Good-morning, little ladies, I see that you are early birds as well as Lulu and myself," the captain said, with his genial smile, as they drew near. "Yes, sir," returned Rosie, catching hold of Lulu and giving her a hearty embrace; "on such a morning as this, and in such a lovely place, bed has no attractions to compare with those of out of doors." "That's exactly what papa and I think," said Lulu; "and, oh girls, I'm so glad you have come to share this lovely, lovely place with us. Eva, I haven't yet got over the glad surprise of your coming. I was just saying to papa how very kind it was in Grandma Elsie and the rest of them to prepare such an unexpected pleasure for me. Wasn't it good in them?" "Yes, indeed, good to us both!" Evelyn said, squeezing affectionately the hand Lulu had slipped into hers. "Captain," looking up smilingly into his face, "are you intending to be so very, very kind as to take me for one of your pupils?" "Most assuredly, my dear, if you wish it," he replied. "Oh, thank you, sir! thank you very much indeed, and I promise to give you as little trouble as I possibly can." "I shall consider it no trouble at all, my dear child," he returned, giving her a fatherly smile. "Indeed, I think the favor will be on your side, as doubtless Lulu will improve all the faster for your companionship in her studies. Rosie, being older than either of you, will, I fear, have to be quite alone in most of hers." "Yes, Brother Levis, and as I am to be such a lonely, forlorn creature you ought to be extremely good to me," remarked Rosie demurely. "I hope you will remember that and try to have unlimited patience with your youngest sister." "Ah! my little sister would better not try the patience of her big brother too far," returned the captain with a twinkle of fun in his eye. "I dare say; but he needn't think he can make me very much afraid of him, big as he is," laughed Rosie. "Perhaps, though, it might turn out to the advantage of Professor Manton, should my youngest sister prove quite beyond the management of her biggest and oldest brother," remarked the captain, with assumed gravity. "There!" exclaimed Rosie, "that's the worst threat you could possibly have made. I think I'll try to be at least passably good and obedient in the schoolroom. You needn't look for it in any other place, Captain Raymond," making him a deep courtesy, then dancing gayly away. "Don't you envy her that it is only in the schoolroom she must be obedient to me, whom you have to obey all the time?" asked the captain laughingly of Lulu, noticing that she was watching Rosie with a hurt, almost indignant look on her expressive features. "No, indeed, papa! I'm only too glad that I belong to you everywhere and all the time," she answered, lifting to his face eyes full of filial respect and ardent affection. "So am I," he returned, pressing tenderly the hand she had again slipped into his. "But you must not be vexed with Rosie. Could you not see that all she said just now was in sportive jest?" "I'm glad if she didn't mean it, papa; but I don't like such things said to my dear, honored father even in jest." "But you must excuse Rosie, Lu, dear," said Evelyn. "It was indeed all in jest, for I know that she feels the very highest respect for your father--her biggest brother; as we all do." Lulu's brow cleared. "Well, then, I won't mind it, papa, if you don't," she said. "And I certainly do not, daughter," he returned pleasantly. "Rosie and I are the best of friends, and I think will continue to be such." It was a gay, light-hearted party that met at the Viamede breakfast-table that morning. Even their loved invalid, Grandma Elsie, was looking wonderfully bright and well; yet, as she laughingly averred, everybody seemed determined to consider her as ill and unable to make any exertion. "I shall have to let you continue to take the rôle of mistress of the establishment, Vi," she said, with a pleasant smile, as, resigning to her daughter her accustomed seat at the head of the table, she took possession of one at the side. "Not that I am of so humble a spirit as to consider myself unfitted for the duties and responsibilities of the position, but because older and wiser people do." "I really think Vi makes as good a substitute as could well be found, mother," remarked the captain, with a proudly affectionate glance at his lovely young wife. "In which I entirely agree with you, sir," said Mr. Dinsmore. The meal was partaken of with appetite, and enlivened by cheery talk; a good deal of it in regard to pleasures and amusements attainable in that locality; riding, driving, boating, fishing; to say nothing of the pleasant rambles that could be taken on and beyond the estate. There was no lack of carriages for driving, or horses to draw them, or for those to ride who might prefer that mode of locomotion. The final decision was in favor of a drive, for Mrs. Dinsmore, Violet, her little ones, and Grace, accompanied by the rest of the party on horseback. Breakfast and family prayers over, the young girls hastened to their rooms to prepare for the little excursion, all seemingly in the gayest spirits at the pleasing prospect; none more so than merry, excitable Lulu. She and Grace were ready a little sooner than either of the other girls, and went down to the veranda to wait there for the rest. As they did so a servant passed them with the bag containing the morning mail, which he had just brought from the nearest post-office. He carried it to the library, where Mr. Dinsmore and the captain were seated, awaiting the appearance of the ladies, carriages, and horses. As if struck by a sudden thought, Lulu ran after him. She saw her father take the bag, open it, hand several letters to Mr. Dinsmore, select several others and give them to the servant (with directions to carry them up to the ladies), then lay a pretty large pile on the table, take up one, and open it. "There, those are papa's own," she said to herself, "and what a number he has!--all to be answered, too. I don't believe he'll take time to ride this morning; he's always so prompt about replying to a letter. Oh, dear, I don't want to go without him, and I just wish they hadn't come till to-morrow." She walked slowly out to the veranda again. Rosie and Evelyn had not yet made their appearance, and Grace was romping about with little Elsie and Ned. Just then a servant man came round from the stables, leading the ponies the little girls were to ride, and at sight of them Lulu seemed to take a sudden resolution. "Oh, Solon," she said, hurrying toward the man, "you can put my pony back into the stable; I'm not going to ride this morning; I've changed my mind; and if anybody asks about me, you can tell them so," and with that she ran away round the house and seated herself on the back veranda, where she had been when Professor Manton made his call upon the captain. Presently she heard the ladies and young girls come down the stairs, her father and Mr. Dinsmore come out from the library and assist the older ones into the carriage, the younger to mount their ponies; then her father's voice asking, "Where is Lulu?" and the servant's reply, "Miss Lu, she tole me, sah, to tell you she doan want fo' to ride dis heah mornin', sah"; then her father's surprised, "She did, Solon? Why, that is a sudden change on her part. I thought she was quite delighted at the prospect of going. "Violet, my dear, I find I have so many letters calling for reply this morning, that I, too, must remain at home." Some exclamations of surprise and regret from the others followed; then the sound of hoofs and wheels told that the party had set out on their little excursion, and the captain's step was heard in the hall as he returned to the library. But a thought seemed to strike him as he reached its door, and he paused, calling aloud, "Lulu! Lulu!" She ran to him at once, answering, "Here I am, papa." "Why, daughter, what is the meaning of this?" he asked. "Why did you not go with the others?" "Because I preferred to stay at home with my dear father; and I hope he isn't displeased with me for it!" she replied, looking up coaxingly, smilingly, into his face. "Displeased with you, dear child? I am only too glad to have you by my side; except that I feel sorry on your own account that you should miss the pleasant, healthful trip along with the others," he said, bestowing upon her a fond caress. "But how did you know that I was going to stay at home?" he asked, as he led her in and sat down, drawing her to a seat upon his knee. "Because I'm enough of a Yankee to be good at guessing, I suppose, papa," she answered, with a merry laugh, putting an arm round his neck and gazing into his eyes with her own full of ardent filial love. "I saw that big pile of letters," pointing to them as they lay on the table, "and I thought, 'Now, if I stay at home with papa, maybe he will let me help him as I did the other day.' So now as I have stayed, won't you be so very good as to let me, you dear, dearest papa?" "I shall be very glad of both your company and your help, darling, though I am sorry to have you miss your ride in order to give them to me." "But you needn't be sorry, papa, because I'm ever so glad. I was almost afraid you might be displeased with me for taking the liberty of staying at home without consulting you; but I don't believe you are a bit," stroking his face with her little soft white hand, then kissing him with warmth of affection. "I am so much displeased, that as a punishment you will have to write several letters on your machine at my dictation," he replied, with playful look and tone. "We will set to work at once," he added, putting her off his knee, taking the cover from her typewriter, and placing a chair before it for her to sit upon, then laying a pile of paper and envelopes within easy reach of her hand. "Ah, papa, I don't care how often you punish me in this way!" she exclaimed, with a merry laugh, as she took her seat. "Tut! tut! don't talk as if my punishment were nothing," he replied, in pretended displeasure. "You may get more of this kind some of these days than you will like." "Not while it's a help to my dear father," she returned, smiling up at him. "You find that a pleasure, do you?" he asked, with tender look and tone, laying a hand caressingly on her head and gazing fondly down into her eyes. "Yes, indeed, sir! O papa, I just long to be a real help and comfort and blessing to you; and I do hope that some day I may be." "My own dear little daughter, you are already all three to me," he said with emotion. "Truly, I think no man ever had a more lovable child, or a more grateful and appreciative one." Those words sent a thrill of exquisite delight to Lulu's heart. "Dear papa, you are so kind to tell me that!" she said. "Oh, I do want always to be all that to you!" "And it is certainly my ardent desire to be the best of fathers to my dear eldest daughter, and all my children," he responded. "But now let us set to work upon this correspondence." For the next hour and more they were very busy; then, every letter having been replied to, the captain went out to a distant part of the plantation to see how work was progressing there, taking Lulu along. Their way led them through the orange orchard, and both father and daughter found it a delightful walk. They reached the house again just in time to receive the others on their return from their little excursion, and presently after, all sat down to dinner. On leaving the table the little girls repaired to the veranda. "I'm decidedly offended with you, Lu," said Rosie, in jesting tone. "What for?" asked Lulu. "For forsaking us as you did this morning; and now the least reparation you can make is to confess why you did so. Do you not agree with me, Eva?" "Yes," replied Evelyn, "I think she ought to do so, as the only amends she can make. So, Miss Raymond, let us hear your excuse at once--if you have any." "Well, then, I suppose I must," said Lulu. "Please understand that I would have enjoyed going with you very much indeed, but I saw that papa had a good many letters to answer and I wanted to help him a great deal more than I did to take a ride. "He lets me write some on the typewriter--those, you see, that don't require a very particular answer--and he says it shortens his work very much. And," she added with a sigh, "I have given my dear father so much trouble in past days by my bad temper and wilfulness, that I feel I can never do enough to make up to him for it." "Dear Lu, I just love you for feeling and acting so," said Evelyn softly, giving Lulu's hand an affectionate squeeze as she spoke; "and I am sure your father must." "Yes, he does love me dearly, and you can't think how happy that makes me," returned Lulu, glad tears shining in her eyes. "I don't know about that, but I think we can," said Rosie, a slight tremble in her voice; for she had not forgotten altogether the dear father who had fondled and caressed her in her babyhood, but had so long since passed away to the better land. But just at that moment Violet drew near with a light, quick step. "The boat is at the landing, little girls," she said, "and we older folks want to be off. Please put on your hats, coats too,--or carry some kind of wrap,--for the captain says it may be quite cool on the water before we return." "A summons we're delighted to receive," returned Rosie, springing to her feet and hurrying toward the hall door, the others following, all of them in gay good humor. No one was missing from that boating excursion, and on their return, a little before tea time, all spoke of having had a most enjoyable afternoon. CHAPTER XX. After tea, when all were together upon the front veranda, Grandma Elsie in a reclining chair, the others grouped about her, the talk turned upon the approaching Christmas and how it should be celebrated--what gifts prepared for friends and servants. Various plans were suggested, various gifts spoken of, but nothing settled. The little girls took a deep interest in the subject, and when they separated for the night each one's thoughts were full of it; Lulu's perhaps even more so than those of any other, not of what she might receive, but what she would like to give. "Papa," she said, when he came into her room to bid her good-night, "I do so want to make some pretty things to give at Christmas time. Please, won't you let me?" and look and tone were very coaxing. "My dear little daughter," he replied, taking possession of an easy-chair and drawing her to a seat upon his knee, "it would give me much pleasure to indulge you in this, but you have lost a good deal of time from your studies of late, and I know very well that to allow you to engage in the manufacture of Christmas gifts would have the effect of taking your mind off your lessons in a way to prevent you from making much, if any, progress with them." "Then you won't let me, papa?" "No, my child. If you choose you may use your pocket-money, and some more that I will give you, to buy what you please, that will not make any work for you. Your studies must be faithfully attended to, and the greater part of your remaining time I wish you to spend in out-of-door amusements which will, I hope, both give you much pleasure and keep you in vigorous health. "I could not bear to see my dear eldest daughter growing pale and thin, or failing to improve her mind and talents so that she may in due time become a noble, useful woman, capable of doing with her might whatever work her heavenly Father may be pleased to give her." A wofully ill-used, discontented look had come over Lulu's expressive countenance as her father began what he had to say, but before he had finished it was replaced by a much sweeter one of contentment with his decision, and confiding filial love. "Papa, dear, I did at first very much want you to say yes to my petition, but now I see that you know best and am quite content to do as you have said you want me to," she returned, putting her arm about his neck and laying her cheek to his in her accustomed fashion when her heart was swelling with daughterly affection. "My dear child, your ready acquiescence in your father's decision makes you dearer than ever to him, if that be possible," he said, holding her close with many a fond caress. Meanwhile Rosie and Evelyn, occupying adjoining rooms, were chatting gaily of what they should make for one and another of those they loved. Suddenly Evelyn paused, a very thoughtful look overspreading her expressive face. "Well, what is it?" asked Rosie in a bantering tone; and Evelyn answered, "I was just thinking that all this, should we undertake it, will be apt to take our minds from our lessons, which are certainly of far greater importance." "And that Captain Raymond may veto it on that account?" asked Rosie, with a twinkle of fun in her eye. "Possibly he may; and if he does, I, for one, shall certainly obey him," replied Evelyn, speaking in a sober, earnest way that said plainly she was far from being in jest. "Well, I make no rash promises," laughed Rosie; "and I'm not very much afraid of that brother-in-law of mine, stern as he can look when it suits him." "But you will want to please your dear mother?" returned Evelyn, in a tone between assertion and inquiry. "Yes," replied Rosie, sobering down at once; "I could refuse nothing to dear mamma. I would do anything and everything in my power to add to her happiness. Oh, how glad and thankful I am that she has been spared to us!" "I, too," said Evelyn. "I think I could hardly love her better if she were really my very near relative." A moment of silence followed, presently broken by Rosie. "Well, I suppose," she said with a return to her jesting tone, "it may be our wisest plan to consult his lordship--Captain Raymond--in regard to the matter just now under discussion--whether we--his prospective pupils--may or may not engage in the work of preparing Christmas gifts for other folk." "I, at least, certainly intend doing so," replied Evelyn. "Obedience to his wishes--to say nothing of orders--it strikes me will be the very least we can do in return for his great kindness in taking the trouble to instruct us." "There, you are right!" said Rosie. "I hadn't thought of that before. It is very good in him and I shall really try to show him that I am one of the best and most tractable of pupils." "Suppose we join him and Lu to-morrow in their morning walk, as we did to-day, and then and there improve the opportunity to discuss this momentous question," suggested Evelyn laughingly. "I am strongly in favor of so doing, provided I wake in season," returned Rosie, and with that they separated for the night. They carried out their plan, had a pleasant little morning ramble and chat with the captain and Lulu, and finding that such was his wish, promised to do but little in the way of making Christmas gifts, in order that their time and attention might be the more fully occupied with their studies, which they were all to take up again on the following Monday. "And this being Friday, we have only to-day and to-morrow for play. It looks like rain, too," sighed Rosie disconsolately, glancing up at the sky as she spoke; "so we are not likely to have much out-of-door sport." "Ah, well, little sister, we must not grumble about the rain, for it is needed; and there are the verandas for you young folks to sport upon," returned the captain. "Besides, your big brother is not intending to be so hard upon you as to allow no diversion after lessons are resumed. I hope you will all have many an hour for romping, riding, driving, boating, and walking." "Pleasant chats, too, and interesting books to read; music, and games besides," remarked Evelyn. "Oh, we are not likely to suffer from lack of diversion when we have been good and industrious enough to deserve it," she added, with a smiling look at the captain. "As I have little doubt that you will be always," he returned, smiling kindly upon her. By the time breakfast and family worship were over a gentle rain was falling, and instead of seeking out-of-door amusement, the whole family gathered upon the veranda at the front of the house. Just then a pretty well-filled mail-bag made its appearance, and presently nearly everybody had one or more letters in hand. Noticing that her father had several, Lulu presently drew near him and asked, "Mayn't I help you answer those, papa?" "Thank you, dear child," he returned, smiling fondly upon her, "you may if you wish, but I have plenty of time to do the work myself this morning, and would be sorry to deprive you of the pleasure you might be taking with your mates." "I'll have time enough for that afterward, papa, and would very much rather do a little to help you--if it will be a help, instead of a trouble to you to have me use my machine in that way," she said, with a look up into his eyes that showed plainly how anxious she was to have her offer accepted. "Then you shall, my darling," he returned, and taking her hand led her into the library, seated her before her typewriter, supplied paper and envelopes, and began dictating to her as on the two former occasions. "It grieves me to rob my dear little girl of any of her holiday time," he remarked, as the first letter was completed, laying his hand caressingly on her head. "Your father loves to see you enjoying yourself." "Yes, dear papa, I know that," she replied, with a pleased loving look up into his face, "but there is nothing I enjoy more than feeling that I can be of a little help and comfort to you." "Well, it will not take us long to answer these letters--there are but few to-day--and perhaps you may enjoy your sports all the more afterward," he replied, handing her a fresh sheet of paper. "This, from our dear Max, is the only one left now," he remarked presently; "and he, I know, would rather have his reply in papa's own handwriting; but, shall I read this to you, daughter?" "Oh, I should like to hear it, papa!" was her eager response. "Please, may I sit on your knee while I listen?" "Indeed you may," he answered, drawing her to the coveted seat and putting his arm about her waist. "Maxie does write such good, interesting letters, and I'm so much obliged to you for reading this one to me, papa," she said, when he had finished. "You are very welcome, daughter; and now you may go back to your mates while I write my reply." On the veranda family letters had been read and discussed, meanwhile, and when Lulu joined the group they were again talking of the approaching Christmas and what gifts should be prepared for relatives, near and dear friends, and servants. Grandma Elsie, seated in their midst, was looking quite her old self--very bright, beautiful, and sweet. "With the housekeeping given in charge to Vi," she was saying, as Lulu drew near, "I shall have abundance of spare time and hope to prepare many gifts for----" "No," interrupted her father, "you are to do nothing of the kind; but must devote yourself to the business of gaining strength as fast as possible." She laughed pleasantly at that, saying, "My vacation has been a long one already, papa, for I have really done nothing worth speaking of since we returned home from the North." "And what of that, daughter?" he responded. "You have never been an idler, but it seems to be time now for you to begin. Let your vacation go on till next spring. That is my prescription for you." "Ah, ha, mamma!" laughed Rosie, "the captain forbids Christmas-gift making for us younger ones, and I'm mighty glad grandpa forbids it to you. 'Misery loves company,' you know." "I hope my Rosie may never be called upon to share any worse misery," was the smiling rejoinder. "Also that she will show herself as obedient to the captain as I intend to be to her kind, loving grandpa--so tenderly careful of his daughter," with a fond look up into the face of her father, standing by her side. "As he may well be, for she is a treasure worth guarding," he said, returning her look of love. "Rosie, when does the captain propose beginning his labors as tutor?" "Next Monday morning, grandpa; so we want to crowd all the fun and diversion we can into to-day and to-morrow." "Ah, we must select a schoolroom and furnish it with whatever may be necessary!" exclaimed Violet. "Yes," her mother said; "the room used for that purpose when you were a very little girl will answer nicely. Its desks were sent to the attic when no longer needed. You might order them brought down to-day, the room swept and dusted, and whatever else done that is necessary or desirable, so that it will be quite ready for occupation on Monday." "Thank you, mamma; I will have it attended to at once," Violet replied, and hastened away, Rosie running after her with a "Come girls, let us go and see the room and find out whether it has a closet for the captain to shut us up in when we misbehave." "I don't believe he'll use it if it has," laughed Lulu, rather enjoying Rosie's fun, "for he has never punished any of us--his own children--in that way." "Still there is no knowing but he may take a new departure, now, when he's going to have so distinguished a pupil as myself," pursued Rosie, dancing down the hall with the others close in her rear. They followed Violet to the room Grandma Elsie had spoken of, and found it large and airy, with windows down to the floor,--opening out upon the veranda on that side of the house,--the walls prettily papered and adorned with good pictures, handsomely framed; the floor covered with fine matting, furniture handsome, a pretty clock and vases on the mantel. On one side of that was a door to which Rosie flew and, throwing it wide open, brought to view a large closet. "There!" she exclaimed, "didn't I tell you, girls and Walter?" for he was in the company by that time, "here's the place of incarceration for those who shall dare to disobey Captain Raymond. I for one shall certainly try to behave my prettiest, for I wouldn't like to be shut up in the dark." "Well, it appears to me that you are more likely to come to it than any of the rest of us," observed Walter quietly, as he turned on his heel and walked away. "Did you ever hear the like?" cried Rosie, opening her eyes very wide in pretended astonishment. "What's all this?" asked a familiar voice at the door, and turning at the sound they saw Captain Raymond standing there, looking very grave and slightly reproving, but with a perceptible twinkle of fun in his eyes. "We were just looking at the closet you are going to use for the incarceration of the naughty ones, for this is to be your schoolroom, you see, sir," returned Rosie demurely. "And you expect to enjoy a sojourn there?" he queried, coming forward and himself taking a survey of the interior. "It strikes me it would suit better as a receptacle for school-books and the like." "So it would," she said, with a sigh of pretended relief; "and we, your pupils that are to be will venture to hope that you will see best to devote it to that use." "A hope in which you will not be disappointed, I trust," he replied, in a kindly tone, and laying a hand lightly upon her shoulder. "There girls!" she exclaimed, "you may thank me for extracting such a promise beforehand. I do really believe his honor intends to treat us well if we are reasonably well behaved." "And the rest of us are quite sure of it," added Evelyn, with a bright look up into the captain's face. "Thank you for your confidence, my dear," he returned. "I have little doubt that we will have pleasant times together in this very pleasant room." A little more time was spent in examining the room and commenting upon its beauties and conveniences; then they went back to the veranda to find that the sun had begun to peep through the clouds. So carriages were ordered and all took a drive through the beautiful woods. The afternoon was spent in boating and fishing, the evening in the veranda, where they were joined by their relatives from Magnolia Hall and the parsonage. The manner in which they would spend the approaching Christmas and New Year's Day was the principal subject of conversation, and the young folks were particularly interested in listening to the plans made or suggested, and well satisfied with the proposed arrangement that the cousins should spend the first at Viamede, all gather at Magnolia Hall for their New Year's dinner, and pass the evening of that day at the parsonage. Lulu had a talk with her father in her own room at bedtime, that made her feel very happy and entirely content with his prohibition of the making of gifts. He told her that she and Grace might each make out a list of the articles they would like to buy to present to others, and that some one, probably Mr. Embury--Cousin Millie's husband--who was intending to pay a visit of a few days to New Orleans, would kindly make the purchases for them. "Oh, that will do nicely, papa!" she exclaimed delightedly, "and Gracie and I might make out our lists to-morrow with a little help from our dear father," smiling up into his eyes. "Yes, dear child, I will gladly give you both all the assistance in my power," he replied, softly smoothing her hair, for she was--as usual at such times--sitting upon his knee; "and not with advice only," he continued, "but also by adding something to your means for carrying out your wishes." "Oh, you dear papa, you are just the kindest father that ever was made!" she cried, in an ecstasy of delight, and hugging him with all her strength. "Ah, but if you choke me to death," he said laughingly, "I can do nothing for you." "Oh, papa, please excuse me!" she exclaimed, relaxing her hold. "Did I hurt you? oh, I am very, very sorry!" "Not much; I could stand it very well," he returned, giving her a hug and kiss. "But now I must leave you to go to bed and to sleep." CHAPTER XXI. There was a decided downpour of rain the next morning, but no one minded that very much, as the necessity for staying within doors gave time and opportunity for further arrangements in regard to Christmas and the gifts to be presented. The captain kindly devoted an hour or more to helping his little girls to decide upon theirs and make out a list; Mr. Embury, and Molly and Isadore, who were intending to accompany him to the city, having kindly offered to make any purchases desired by the Viamede relatives. At the same time the others, older and younger, were similarly engaged, and there were many little private chats as they gathered in twos and threes here and there about the veranda or in the rooms. In the afternoon Violet invited the whole party to inspect the schoolroom, where some of the servants had been busy, under her direction, all the morning, giving it a thorough cleaning, draping the windows with fresh lace curtains, looped back with blue ribbons, and placing a desk for each expected pupil, and a neat table for the teacher. Every one pronounced it a model schoolroom, some of the older people adding that it made them almost wish themselves young enough to again be busy with lessons and recitations. "Where's your ferule, Brother Levis?" asked Rosie, facetiously, after a close scrutiny of the table, not omitting its drawer. "I think you have not made a thorough examination of the closet yet," was his noncommittal reply. "Oh, that's where you keep it? I say girls----" in a loud whisper, perfectly audible to everyone in the room, "let's carry it off before he has a chance to use it." "Hardly worth while, since it would be no difficult matter to replace it," remarked the captain, with assumed gravity and sternness. "Ah, then I suppose one may as well be resigned to circumstances," sighed Rosie, following the others from the room. "Papa, can I help you?" asked Lulu, seeing him seat himself at the table in the library, take out writing materials from its drawer, and dip a pen into the ink. "No, thank you, daughter," he replied. "I am going to write to Max." "Please tell him we are all ever so sorry he can't be here to spend Christmas and New Year's with us." "I will." "And he can't have the pleasure of giving any gifts I suppose, as they allow him so little pocket money!" "Dear boy! he shall not miss that pleasure entirely," said the captain. "I am going now to write to him that I will set apart a certain sum for his use in the purchase of gifts for others. That is, he may tell me what he would like to give, and I will see that the articles are bought and distributed as he wishes." "Oh, what a nice plan, papa! I am sure Maxie will be very glad." "Yes, I do it with the hope of giving pleasure to my dear boy. And besides that I shall tell him that he may again choose some benevolent object to which I will give, in his name, a thousand dollars. You too, and Gracie, shall have the same privilege." "Just as we all had last year. Oh, papa, it is so good and kind in you!" "That is the opinion of my very partial little daughter," he returned, with a smile. "But, daughter, as I have often told you, the money is the Lord's, and I am only his steward." "Yes, sir," she said, and walked thoughtfully away. By the middle of the afternoon the rain seemed to be over and a row on the bayou was enjoyed by the most of the party; all who cared to go. Music and conversation made the evening pass quickly and pleasantly, and all retired to their rooms at an early hour that they might rise refreshed for the duties and privileges of the Lord's day. It was spent, as former ones had been, attending church and the pastor's Bible class in the morning, and holding a similar service on the lawn at Viamede in the afternoon. In addressing that little congregation the captain tried to make the way of salvation very clear and plain. "It is just to come to Jesus as you are," he said; "not waiting to make yourself any better, for you never can; he alone can do that work; it is his blood that cleanses from all sin; his righteousness that is perfect, and therefore acceptable to God; while all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags, stained and defiled with sin. "Concerning him--the only begotten and well beloved Son of God--the Bible tells us, 'He is able to save them unto the uttermost that come unto God by him.' "'The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin.' "And he says, 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' "'This is the will of him that sent me, that every one who seeth the Son, and believeth on him, may have everlasting life; and I will raise him up at the last day.' "Just go to Jesus each one of you, give yourself to him and believe his word--that he will not cast you out; he will receive you and make you his own; giving you of his spirit, changing you from the poor sinner you are, by nature, into his image, his likeness." At the conclusion of that service Lulu and Grace recited their Bible verses and catechism to their father. The evening was spent in conversation and music suited to the sacredness of the day, and all retired to rest. Nine o'clock of the next morning found the girls and Walter seated in the schoolroom. Lulu and Grace busied with their tasks, the others ready and waiting to have theirs appointed by the captain. School that day was a decided success, and Rosie pretended that her fears of the new teacher were greatly allayed. Between that and Christmas-time everything moved along smoothly; studies were well attended to, sports and pastimes greatly enjoyed. The celebration of the holidays--Christmas and New Year's--also proved a great success. There were many and beautiful gifts; a handsome brooch from the captain delighted each little girl, and there were other lovely gifts too numerous to mention. The distribution was on Christmas Eve. The next day there was a grand dinner at Viamede, all the relatives present, and everybody in gayest spirits. The day was bright and beautiful, seeming but little like Christmas to those accustomed to frost and snow at that season. New Year's day was not less lovely, nor were its festivities less enjoyable, though the gifts were fewer. The holidays past, the young folks went back with zest to their studies, Rosie saying she was now convinced that Captain Raymond was an excellent teacher, and not at all inclined to tyrannize over a well-behaved pupil; for which complimentary expression of opinion he gravely thanked her. "You are very welcome, sir," she said, "and may depend upon a recommendation from me whenever it is wanted." "O Rosie, how ridiculous you are!" exclaimed Walter. But Rosie was already out of the room, the other girls following. They went out on the lawn, ran about for a while, then settled themselves under a tree and began cracking and eating nuts. Lulu, who was very fond of them, presently put one between her teeth and cracked it there. "O Lu!" exclaimed Grace, "you forget that papa forbade you to crack nuts with your teeth, for fear you might break them." "Well, I wanted to break the nut," returned Lulu, laughing, and blushing because her conscience reproached her. "I meant break your teeth," said Grace. "I'm sure you wouldn't have done it--cracked the nut with them, I mean--if you hadn't forgotten that papa forbade you to do it." "No, Gracie, I'm not so good as you think; I did not forget; I just did it because I wanted to," Lulu said with an evident effort, and blushing again. Then she sprang up and ran toward her father, who was seen at some little distance, coming from the orange orchard toward the house. "I do believe she's going to tell on herself!" exclaimed Rosie, in astonishment. "Oh, dear, I wonder what papa will do to her!" exclaimed Grace, just ready to burst into tears. "It is very noble in her to go and confess at once, when he needn't have ever known anything about it," cried Eva admiringly. They were all three watching Lulu and her father with intense interest, though too far away to hear anything that either one might say. Lulu drew near him, hanging her head shamefacedly. "Papa," she said, in a low, remorseful tone, "I have just been disobeying you." "Ah! I am sorry, very sorry, to hear it, daughter," he returned a little sadly; then, taking her hand, led her away further from the house and seated her and himself on a bench beneath a group of trees that entirely hid them from view. "Tell me the whole story, my child," he said, not unkindly, and still keeping her hand in his. "I cracked a nut with my teeth, papa," she replied, with her eyes upon the ground, her cheek hot with blushes. "You forgot that I had forbidden it?" "No, papa, I haven't even that poor excuse. I remembered all the time that you had forbidden me, but just did it because I wanted to." "Though I had given you my reason for the prohibition--that you would risk serious damage to your teeth, and probably suffer both pain and the loss of those useful members in consequence. It gives me pain to find that my dear eldest daughter cares so little for her father's wishes or commands." At that Lulu burst into tears and sobs. "Oh, I hope you'll punish me well for it, papa!" she said. "I deserve it, and I think it would do me good." "I must indeed punish you for conduct so decidedly rebellious," he replied. "I will either forbid nuts for a week, or refrain from giving you a caress for the same length of time. Which shall it be?" "O papa, I'd rather do without nuts for the rest of the winter than a whole week without a caress from you!" she exclaimed. "Very well, then," he said, bending down and touching his lips to her cheek. "I forbid the nuts, and I think I can trust my daughter to obey me by not touching one till she has her father's permission." "I feel sure I will, papa," she said; "but if I should be so very bad as to disobey you again in this, I will come to you, confess it, and take my punishment without a word of objection." "I have no doubt of it, daughter," he returned, taking her hand again and leading her back to the house. The other girls were awaiting with intense interest the reappearance of the captain and Lulu. "Here they come!" exclaimed Rosie, "and I don't believe he has punished her; there has hardly been time, and though she looks very sober--he, too--she doesn't look at all frightened; nor does he look angry, and he holds her hand in what strikes me as a very affectionate way." "Yes," said Evelyn, "I think the captain is as good and kind a father as anyone could desire; and I'm sure Lulu's opinion of him is the same." "Yes, indeed," assented Grace heartily, as she wiped the tears from her eyes, "there couldn't be a better, kinder father than ours, Lulu and I both think; but though he doesn't like to punish us, sometimes he feels that it's his duty to do it to make us good." "I don't believe you get, or need, punishment very often, Gracie," remarked Rosie; "you are as good as gold; at least so it seems to me." "I'm not perfect, Rosie; oh, no, indeed!" Gracie answered earnestly; "but papa almost never does anything more than talk in a grave, kind way to me about my faults." By this time the captain and Lulu had drawn near the house, and, letting go her hand, "You may go back to your mates now, daughter," he said in a kindly tone. "I have some matters to attend to, and if you have anything more to say to me I will hear it at another time." "Yes, sir," replied Lulu, and went slowly toward the little group under the tree, while her father passed round to the other side of the house. "He was not very much vexed with you, Lu, was he?" queried Rosie, in a kindly inquiring tone, as Lulu joined them, looking grave and a trifle sad, while traces of tears could be discerned on her cheeks and about her eyes. "Papa only seemed sorry that--that I could be so disobedient," faltered the little girl, tears starting to her eyes again; "but he always punishes disobedience,--which is just what he ought to do, I am sure,--and he has forbidden me to eat any more nuts for a week. I chose that rather than doing without a caress from him for the same length of time. So you see he was not very severe; not half so severe as I deserved that he should be." The others agreed with her that it was but a light punishment; then they began talking of something else. Nuts were a part of the dessert that day, and Lulu, sitting near her father, asked in a low aside, "Papa, mayn't I pick out some kernels for you?" "If you wish, daughter," he answered; and she performed the little service with evident pleasure. "Thank you, dear child," he said, with a loving look and smile as she handed them to him. Speaking of it to Violet that night in the privacy of their own room, "I found it hard to take and eat them without sharing with her, the dear, affectionate child!" he said, with feeling, "but I knew it gave her pleasure to do her father that little service. Ah, it is so much pleasanter to fondle and indulge one's children than to reprove or punish them! yet I am sure it is the truest kindness to train them to obedience, as the Bible directs." "Yes," returned Violet, "and I have often noticed that those parents who do follow that Bible teaching are more loved and respected by their children than the foolishly indulgent ones. And, by the way, how devotedly fond of her father Lulu is! It delights me to see it." "Me also, my dear," he returned, with a pleased little laugh. "I doubt if any man ever had better, dearer children--speaking of the whole five together--than mine. Nor can I believe that ever a father esteemed his greater treasures than I do mine." The rest of the winter passed quietly and peacefully to our friends at Viamede, the young folks making good progress with their studies, the older ones finding employment in various ways--the ladies in reading, writing letters, overseeing house and servants, and making and receiving visits; Mr. Dinsmore in much the same manner, except that he gave himself no concern about domestic affairs; while the captain found full employment in instructing his pupils and superintending work on the plantation; but with time enough to spare for participation in the diversions and recreations of the others. Grandma Elsie had entirely recovered her health, and as spring opened they began to talk of returning to their more northern homes, yet continued to tarry, looking for a visit to Viamede from the dear ones of Ion and Fairview. And here at beautiful Viamede we will leave them for the present. THE END CAMPFIRE GIRLS SERIES An attractive and popular edition of books for Girls. Printed from large, clear type on a superior quality of paper. Hard bound and stamped on back and front with attractive designs. CAMPFIRE GIRLS IN THE ALLEGHANY MOUNTAINS; or, a Christmas Success Against Odds CAMPFIRE GIRLS IN THE COUNTRY; or, The Secret Aunt Hannah Forgot CAMPFIRE GIRLS' TRIP UP THE RIVER; or, Ethel Hollister's First Lesson CAMPFIRE GIRLS' OUTING; or, Ethel Hollister's Second Summer in Camp CAMPFIRE GIRLS ON A HIKE; or, Lost in the Great North Woods CAMPFIRE GIRLS AT TWIN LAKES; or, the Quest for a Summer Vacation * * * * * FAIRY LIBRARY SERIES An attractive assortment of popular titles for both boys and girls. Printed from large clear type and printed on a superior quality of book paper. Hard bound and stamped on back and front. MOTHER GOOSE ROBINSON CRUSOE BLACK BEAUTY ALICE'S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND STORIES FROM THE BIBLE WOOD'S NATURAL HISTORY ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES ARABIAN NIGHTS ALICE THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS * * * * * _Price 25c Each, postpaid_ * * * * * M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 701-733 South Dearborn Street :: CHICAGO Famous Books in Rebound Editions HEIDI _By Johanna Spyri._ Three hundred and ninety-five pages, illustrated. Printed from new plates, handsomely bound in cloth. LITTLE LAME PRINCE _By Miss Mulock._ A popular edition of this well known story. Printed from large, clear type and attractively bound in cloth. ELSIE DINSMORE _By Martha Finley._ A beautiful edition of this popular novel. Printed on a superior quality of book paper and bound in cloth. HELEN'S BABIES _By John Habberton._ An amusing and entertaining book for everyone. Printed from new plates and attractively bound in cloth. A DOG OF FLANDERS _By Ouida._ An illustrated edition of this popular and interesting story. Printed from new plates and bound in cloth. BLACK BEAUTY _By Anna Sewell._ Beautiful edition of this popular story. An attractive book, printed from large clear type, bound in cloth. HANS BRINKER _By Mary Mapes Dodge._ This is a well-known story of life in Holland. Printed on a superior quality of paper; cloth bound. PINOCCHIO _By C. Collodi._ A beautiful illustrated edition of this popular story. Attractively printed from new plates and bound in cloth. LITTLE WOMEN _By Louisa May Alcott._ Beautiful edition of this famous story in one volume. Attractively printed and bound in cloth. ALICE IN WONDERLAND _By Lewis Carroll._ An attractive edition of this well-known story. Printed from new plates and attractively bound in cloth. _Price each 75c, postpaid_ M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 701-733 South Dearborn Street :: CHICAGO * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Hyphenation retained in "kind-hearted" as it appears once with and once without the hyphen. Page 14, "sailer" changed to "sailor" (a splendid sailor) Page 147, "honered" changed to "honored" (my dear and honored) Page 166, "child" and "in" presumed from remaining letters (child alone, or nearly so, in) Page 172, "froward" changed to "forward" (the forward mouth) Page 182, "two" changed to "too" (the distance being too great) Page 198, "tremuously" changed to "tremulously" (tremulously, just) Page 203, "Lelaand" changed to "Leland" (glance at Mrs. Leland) Page 216, paragraph break inserted between "queried Lulu." and "I very much doubt". Page 273, "beautitiful" changed to "beautiful" (very bright, beautiful) Page 253, "fatigueing" changed to "fatiguing" (rather than fatiguing) 
46540	----	[Illustration: ELSIE'S CABIN.] ELSIE'S WINTER TRIP. BY MARTHA FINLEY, AUTHOR OF "ELSIE DINSMORE," "ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD," "MILDRED KEITH," etc., etc. NEW YORK: DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, 1902. COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. _First edition published October, 1902._ ELSIE'S WINTER TRIP. CHAPTER I. "Lu, dear, can you give me an early breakfast to-morrow morning?" asked Chester, as they made their preparations for retiring that first night in their new home. "I think so," she returned, giving him an affectionate look and smile. "How early would you like to have it?" "About seven, I think. I have told our coachman, Jack, that I want the carriage at eight. He will drive me into town and then return, so that carriage and horses will be ready at a reasonably early hour for the other three owners--our brother and sister and yourself." "It was certainly very kind and thoughtful in you to give such an order," she said with a smile, "but we would much prefer to have your company in all our drives and visits." "And I should very much like to give it to you; but there is business that should have been attended to some time ago, and must not be longer delayed." "If it is, it shall not be your wife's fault," she replied. "The cook is still in the kitchen, and I will go and give my order for a seven-o'clock breakfast." "Lu, dear," Chester said, on her return, "it will not be at all necessary for you to rise in time for so early a breakfast, I can pour my own coffee and eat alone." "No, you can't have that privilege while I'm your wife;" she responded, with a saucy look and smile. "I intend to pour your coffee, and see that you have an appetizing breakfast and do justice to it." "Your presence will make it doubly enjoyable, dearest," he returned, putting an arm about her, and giving her a look of loving admiration, "but you must not be robbed of needed rest and sleep." "Thank you, my dear husband," she replied; "but I am accustomed to early rising and it agrees with me. Oh, I think I shall greatly enjoy taking early breakfast with you. Isn't it delightful to begin our married life in so lovely a home of our very own?" "It is, indeed! and we owe it to your good, kind, and most generous father." "He is that, most emphatically," responded Lucilla. "The dearest, best, and kindest father in the world." Seven o'clock the next morning found them cosily seated at a little round table in their pretty dining-room, enjoying a delicious breakfast of fresh fruits, broiled fowl, hot muffins and coffee. These, added to good health, cheerful spirits, and a fondness for each other's society, made them a happy couple. The meal was enlivened with cheerful chat. "I am sorry you have to hurry so," Lucilla said, as she filled her husband's cup for the second time. "I really think you ought to have at least a little longer holiday." "I expect to take it piecemeal, nights and mornings, in the society of my wife," returned Chester, with affectionate look and smile. "I was very glad to get this case," he added, "for if I succeed with it it will bring me in some thousands." "I shall be glad of that for your sake," said Lucilla; "but don't work too hard. You know you are not very strong; therefore you need to take good care of yourself." "Ah, my dear, be careful how you encourage me in self-indulgence," laughed Chester. "I am too much inclined that way as it is." "Are you?" she exclaimed with mirthful look and tone. "I really had not found it out, but thought you one of the foolishly industrious people who will even throw away health in order to get on rapidly with their work." "And I," laughed Chester, "took you for a woman of such discernment that you must have found out before this what a lazy, incompetent fellow you have thrown yourself away upon." "No; with all my discernment I have yet to make that discovery. I did not marry the fellow yon describe--but a bright, talented, industrious young man. And I wont have him slandered." At that moment a servant came in with the announcement that the carriage was at the door. "Ah! Jack is quite punctual, and I am just ready," said Chester, pushing back his chair, getting up and going round to his wife's side of the table. "I will now take away the slanderer of your bright, talented, industrious young man," he remarked in sportive tone; "you shall be relieved of his presence until perhaps five o'clock this afternoon." Before he had finished, Lucilla was standing by his side, her hand in his. "Oh, dear! I wish you didn't have to go," she sighed. "We have been together all the time for weeks past and now I hardly know how I can do without you." "Suppose you come along then. There is plenty of room in the carriage, and in the office, and I could find you something to read, or some work on the typewriter, if you prefer that." "Any time that I am needed there I shall be ready to go," she returned with merry look and tone; "but to-day I have matters to attend to about the house, and perhaps father and Mamma Vi may want some little assistance from me in their preparations for to-night." "Yes, I daresay. What a round of parties we are likely to have to go through as part of the penalty for venturing into the state of matrimony." "Yes," laughed Lucilla, "but I hope you think it pays." "Most assuredly. But now good-bye, dearest, for some hours--when we shall have the pleasure of meeting to atone to us for the present pain of parting." Lucilla followed him to the veranda, where they exchanged a parting caress, then watched as he entered the carriage and it drove swiftly through the grounds and out into the highway. Her eyes were still following it when a pleasant, manly voice near at hand said "Good morning Mrs. Dinsmore." She turned quickly and sprang down the steps to meet the speaker. "Father, dear father!" she cried, springing into his outstretched arms, and putting hers about his neck, "Oh, how glad I am to see you! How good in you to come! Chester has just done eating his breakfast and gone off to his business, and I haven't quite finished my meal. Wont you come in and eat with me?" "Ah, that would hardly do, daughter," was the smiling reply. "You know I am expected to take that meal with wife and children at Woodburn. But I will go in with you and we will have a chat while you finish your breakfast." "And you can take a cup of coffee and a little fruit, can't you, father?" "Yes, thank you, daughter. That would hardly interfere with the Woodburn breakfast. And shall we not take a little stroll about your grounds when we leave the breakfast-room?" "I should greatly enjoy doing so along with my dear father," she answered with a smiling look up into his face, as they took their places at the inviting-looking table. She poured his coffee, then they ate and chatted pleasantly the while about family matters and the entertainment to be given at Woodburn that evening. "How are Max and Eva this morning?" the Captain asked at length. "I don't know whether they are up yet or not," replied Lucilla. "You know, papa, they had not the same occasion for early rising that Chester and I had." "True enough and Max is fully entitled to take his ease for the present. Don't you think so?" "Yes, indeed, papa. I am very glad the dear fellow is having a good holiday after all he has gone through. Oh, I wish he had chosen some business that would allow him to stay at home with us!" "That would be pleasanter for us, but our country must have a navy and officers to command it." "Yes, sir; and so it is well that some men fancy that kind of life and employment." "And no doubt Max inherits the taste for a seafaring life from me and my forebears." "Father," said Lulu, "you will let me be your amanuensis again, will you not?" "Thank you for your willingness to serve me in that, daughter," the Captain returned pleasantly, "but you will find quite enough to do here in your own house, and both your Mamma Vi and your Sister Grace have taken up your work in that line--sometimes one and sometimes the other following my dictation upon the typewriter." "Oh, I am glad that they can and will, for your sake, father, but I hope I shall be permitted to do a little of my old work for you once in a while." "That is altogether likely," he said. "But now as we have finished eating and drinking shall we not take our stroll about the grounds?" They did so, chatting pleasantly as was their wont; then returning to the veranda they found Max and Evelyn there. Morning greetings were exchanged, then Evelyn, saying that their breakfast was just ready, invited the Captain to come in and share it. But he declined, giving the same reason as before to Lucilla's invitation. "I am going home now to breakfast with wife and children," he said, "and I hope you older ones of my flock will join us a little later." "We will all be glad to do that, father," said Max. "At least I can speak for myself and think I can for these two daughters of yours. Woodburn is to me a dear old home where some of the happiest hours of my life have been spent." "And you can't love it much better than Lu and I do," added Evelyn. "No, he can't," assented Lucilla. "Lovely as is this Sunnyside of ours, its chief attraction to me is its near neighborhood to Woodburn--the home where I have passed such happy years under my father's loving care." The bright, dark eyes she lifted to his face as she spoke were full of daughterly love and reverence. "I am very glad you can look back upon them as happy years, daughter," he said, his eyes shining with pleasure and parental affection; "and that Max is with you in that. I am glad, too, that you all appreciate this new home that I have taken so much pleasure in preparing for you." "We'd be the basest of ingrates, if we didn't, father dear!" exclaimed Lucilla. "I for one, feel that you have done, and are doing far more for me than I deserve." "Which is nothing new for our father," remarked Max with a smile and look into his father's face that spoke volumes of filial regard, respect and devotion. "And I am fortunate indeed in having children so dutiful, affectionate and appreciative," returned the Captain feelingly. He then took leave and went back to Woodburn, Lucilla accompanying him part of the way, then returning to Sunnyside to give her orders for the day. That attended to, she joined Max and Eva upon the veranda. "The carriage is coming, Lu," said Eva; "are you ready for a drive? and have you decided where you wish to go?" "Yes," was the reply, "I want to go over to Woodburn for a bit of a chat with Mamma Vi about the preparations for this evening, in which I suppose you and Max will join me; and then wouldn't you like to drive over to Fairview for a call upon Aunt Elsie?" "Yes, indeed! I think she and uncle are entitled to the first call from me, much as I want to see all the near and dear ones." "I perfectly agree with you in that, Eva," said Max. "They have filled the place of parents to you, and I for one," he added with a very loverlike smile, "am grateful to them for it." "As I am with still more reason," added Evelyn. A few moments later found them on their way to Woodburn. There was a glad welcome there followed by a few minutes' lively chat, principally in regard to the coming event of the evening--the expected gathering of invited guests, relatives, neighbours and friends to welcome the return of the newly-married couples from their bridal trip. "Is there anything I can do to help with your preparations, Mamma Vi?" asked Lucilla. "Thank you, Lu, but they are almost all made now, except what the servants will do," returned Violet, adding laughingly. "And if they were not, it would surely hardly be the correct thing to let one of our brides be at the trouble of assisting with them." "Both of them would be very glad to give their help, if it were desired or needed," said Evelyn. "We feel privileged to offer assistance, because it is our father's house," she concluded with a smiling, affectionate look at the Captain. "That is right, daughter," he said, both his tone and the expression of his countenance showing that he was pleased with her remark. "Oh, Lu, I have been making some changes in the rooms that were yours, but are mine now," said Grace. "Papa has provided some new pieces of furniture both there and in our little sitting-room and I want to show them to you, Eva and Max." She rose as she spoke, the others following her example. "Are the rest of us invited, Gracie?" asked Violet, in an amused tone. "Oh, yes, indeed!" was the gay rejoinder, "father and you, Elsie and Ned. Company that is always acceptable to me wherever I go." "And to all of us," added Lucilla. "Most especially so to one who has often sighed in vain for it," said Max. "Have you wanted us sometimes when you were far away on the sea, Brother Max?" asked Ned with a look of loving sympathy up into his brother's face. "Yes, indeed, Ned; and expect to do so again before very long." They were passing through the hall and up the stairway as they talked. "Oh, the dear old rooms look lovely, lovely!" exclaimed Lucilla, as they passed into the little sitting-room she had formerly shared with her sister Grace, glanced around it and through the open doors into the two bedrooms. "It almost makes me homesick to be living in them again." "Well, daughter, you may come back whenever you choose," her father said, with a look of mingled amusement and affection. "Why, Lu, I thought you loved that pretty new home papa has taken such pains to make ready for you and Eva and Max and Chester," exclaimed Elsie. "Yes, so I do; but this old home has the added charm of being papa's also." "Yes; but the other is so near that you can see him every day, and oftener, if you choose." "And talk to him at any moment through the telephone, if she prefers that to coming over here," said the Captain. "Oh, yes! how nice it is that our houses are all connected by telephone," exclaimed Evelyn. "Father, if I may, I think I'll go to yours and speak to Aunt Elsie now." "Certainly, daughter," he returned, promptly leading the way. "I do so like that name from you, father dear," she said softly and smiling up into his face as they reached the instrument. "And I am glad my boy Max has given me the right," he returned, bending down to kiss the ruby lips and smooth the shining hair. "Shall I ring and call for you?" he asked. "If you please." It was Mrs. Leland who answered it. "Hello, what is it?" "It is I, Aunt Elsie," returned Evelyn. "I just called to know if you were in; because if you are, we are coming over directly to make you a call." "I think I shall be by the time you can get here," was the reply in a tone of amusement. "But please don't delay, as we were about to start for Sunnyside in a few minutes." "Oh, were you! Then we will drive over at once and accompany you on the trip." "Thank you; that will be most pleasant." Eva stepped aside and Lucilla took her place. "Yes, Aunt Elsie, you will be a most welcome visitor in both divisions of Sunnyside. Please don't neglect mine." "I certainly do not intend to," was the cheerily-spoken response, "for your half of the dwelling is doubtless quite as well worth seeing as the other, and its occupants seem very near and dear." "Thank you. Good-bye now till we arrive at Fairview." "We would better start for that place presently," said Max. "We can view the beauties of this any day. Wont you go with us, Grace? There is a vacant seat in the carriage." "Yes, do; we'd be glad to have you," urged both Eva and Lucilla, the latter adding, "You have hardly yet taken a look at our new homes with us in them." "Yes, go, daughter; I think you will enjoy it," her father said in reply to a questioning glance from her beautiful blue eyes, directed to him. "Thank you all three," she said. "I will go if I may have ten minutes in which to get ready." "Fifteen, if necessary," replied Max, in sportive tone. "Even that great loss of time will be well paid for by the pleasure of your good company." "A well-turned compliment, brother mine," returned Grace, as she tripped away in search of hat and wrap; for the air was cool in driving. "Why shouldn't Elsie go too? There is plenty of room for her; and Ned can ride alongside on his pony, which I see is down yonder ready saddled and bridled," said Max, putting an arm round his little sister, as she stood by his side, and looking smilingly at her, then at Ned. "Can't they go, father and Mamma Vi?" Both parents gave a ready consent, the children were delighted with the invitation, and presently the party set out on their way to Fairview. It was a short and pleasant drive, and they were greeted with a joyous welcome on their arrival at Evelyn's old home, Mr. and Mrs. Leland and their four children meeting them on the veranda with smiles, pleasant words and caresses for Grace, Eva, Lucilla and Elsie. Then they were taken within and to the dining-room, where a delicate and appetizing lunch was awaiting them. "It is a little early for lunch," said Mrs. Leland, "but we knew you would be wanting to get back to Sunnyside soon, in order not to miss the numerous calls about to be made you by friends and connections who are all anxious to see the pretty new home and its loved occupants." "We will be glad to see them, Aunt Elsie," said Evelyn, "and to show our lovely homes; and I can assure you that no one can be more welcome there than you and uncle and these dear cousins of mine." "And please understand that Eva has expressed my sentiments as fully as her own," added Lucilla in a sprightly tone. "Mine also," said Max. "But don't any one of you feel that this meal is to be taken in haste," said Mr. Leland, hospitably, "that is very bad for digestion and we may take plenty of time, even at the risk of having some of your callers get to Sunnyside ahead of us." His advice was taken and much pleasant chat indulged in while they ate. "You and uncle, of course, expect to be at Woodburn to-night, Aunt Elsie?" said Evelyn. "Oh, yes; and expect to have you all here to-morrow night. There is to be quite a round of parties--as doubtless you know--to celebrate the great event of your and Lu's entrance into the bonds of matrimony. There will be none Saturday night, but the round will begin again Monday evening by a party at Ion given by mamma, Edward and Zoe. Tuesday evening we are all to go to the Oaks; then after that will be the Laurel's, Roselands, Beechwood, Pinegrove, Ashlands and others." "Don't forget Aunt Rosie's at Riverside, mamma," prompted Allie, her nine-year-old daughter. "No," returned her mother, "that would be quite too bad, for there is no one more ready to do honor to these dear friends of ours; especially now when they have just begun married life." "Ah, Aunt Elsie, that sounds as though you considered it something to one's credit to have left a life of single blessedness for one in the married state," laughed Lucilla. "A state which I have found so pleasant that I think no one deserves any credit for entering it," was Mrs. Leland's smiling rejoinder. "And I have noticed," said Max, "that as a rule those who have tried it once are very ready to try it again--widows and widowers seem in more haste to marry than bachelors and maids." "'Marry in haste and repent at leisure,'" quoted Grace, laughingly. "Father takes care that his children don't do the first, perhaps to secure them from the second." "And we all have great confidence in our father's wisdom; as well as his strong affection for us, his children," remarked Max. A sentiment which the others--his wife and sisters--promptly and cordially endorsed. CHAPTER II. Immediately on leaving the table, they all--entertainers and entertained--set out on the short drive to Sunnyside, where, on arriving, they found their relatives and friends from Beechwood and the Oaks waiting to offer their congratulations and wish them happiness and prosperity in their married life. Being all acquaintances and friends of so long standing, they were shown over the whole house by the happy owners, and cordial congratulations were freely bestowed. "In view of the comforts, conveniences and beauties of the establishment, I should like to see Chester and offer my congratulations on his success in winning a lovely wife, and having so delightful a home to share with her," remarked Mrs. Horace Dinsmore, as she was about leaving. "But I can't stay longer if I am to make due preparation for attending the party at Woodburn to-night," she added. "And you wouldn't miss that for something, would you?" laughed Mrs. Hugh Lilburn. "I am sure I wouldn't." "No; for I daresay we will have a delightful time. I know no better entertainers than the Captain and Vi." "Nor do I," said Mrs. Leland; "and this being so extra an occasion they will doubtless do their best." "I think they will, and I hope no invited guest will stay away or be disappointed," said Grace, with a merry look and smile. "No danger of either calamity, Gracie," said Mrs. Dinsmore. "Ah, there's our carriage at the door," and with a hasty good-bye and a cordial invitation to all present to make frequent visits at the Oaks, she and her husband and daughter departed. The Beechwood friends lingered a little longer, as did those from Fairview and Woodburn. But at length Grace said she thought it time to go home for, of course, there were some matters she ought to attend to in preparation for the evening. "Shall I send you in the carriage?" asked Lucilla. "Oh, no, thank you, sister dear; the short walk will be good for me," returned Grace gaily, "for Elsie, too, I think, and for Ned; though he, I suppose, will prefer to ride his pony." "Yes, of course I will," said Ned. "He needs to be taken home, anyway." They made their adieus and passed out on the veranda. A servant brought the pony up, and Ned was about to mount when the little steed remarked, "I think a young gentleman might feel ashamed to ride while his lady sisters must go afoot." "You do!" exclaimed Ned, drawing back with a look of mingled surprise and chagrin. "Well, they said they wanted to walk--preferred it to riding; and--and besides they couldn't both ride on your back at once." "Two do ride the same horse at once sometimes," seemed to come very distinctly from the pony's lips. "Who is making you talk, I wonder?" cried Ned, turning to look about him. "Oh, Brother Max, it was you, wasn't it?" as he caught sight of his brother and sisters standing near. "What was?" asked Max quietly. "The person making the pony talk. I almost thought for a minute it really was the pony; though, of course, ponies can't talk. And I didn't mean to be selfish. Gracie won't you ride him home? Elsie and I can walk just as well as not." "Yes, of course we can; it's a very short and very pleasant walk," returned Elsie, with prompt cheerfulness. "So Gracie dear, you ride the pony." "Thank you both," said Grace, "but I really prefer to walk, as I have had very little exercise to-day." "There, you silly little pony, see what a mistake you made!" cried Ned gleefully, as he mounted his steed. "Well, little master, didn't you make a mistake, too?" the pony seemed to ask. "Oh, Brother Max, I know it's you, so only good fun," laughed Ned. "Good-bye all. I'll get home first and tell papa and mamma you are coming, Gracie and Elsie." With the last words, he galloped down the avenue, leaving Max and his sisters standing on the veranda looking after him. "Doesn't he ride well?" exclaimed Grace, in a tone that spoke much sisterly pride and affection. The others gave a hearty assent, Max adding, "He is a dear little, bright little chap. I am decidedly proud of my only brother." "As I am of my little one; but still more so of my older one," said Lucilla. "But I must go back to my remaining guests. Good-bye, my two dear sisters. I shall expect and hope to see you both over here every day." "It is very likely you will see us here at least that often," laughed Grace, "and we will expect an honest return of each and every visit." "We'll get it, too," cried Elsie; "Lu could never stay away a whole day from papa." "It would certainly take very strong compulsion to make me do so," said Lucilla. "Good-bye again. I hope to see you both in my old home a few hours hence, and here some time to-morrow." With that she passed into the house while her sisters hastened away in the direction of Woodburn. "It will soon be time to send the carriage for Chester," said Max, accompanying her, "Suppose I give the order now." "Yes, do," she replied, "I'd like to have him here as soon as possible; and if he should not be quite ready, Jack and the carriage can be kept waiting." "Certainly. I'll go and give the order, then rejoin you and our guests in the drawing-room." As Max stepped out upon the veranda again two carriages came driving up the avenue--one bringing Mr. and Mrs. Lacey from the Laurels, the other Mr. and Mrs. Croly from Riverside. "Oh, Max, how glad I am to see you again!" exclaimed Rosie, as he assisted her to alight. "It seems an age since you went away, and you have been exposed to such perils I hope I shall have a chance to hear the story of your experiences in that fight at Manila. Such a chance as I couldn't get at any of the late parties." "Thank you, I hope we will have time and opportunity for a number of talks," he replied, releasing the hand she had put into his and turning to greet Mrs. Lacey, whom he addressed as Aunt Rose, and whose greeting was quite as cordial as her niece's had been. "You have the Fairview and Beechwood folks here now I see," remarked Mrs. Croly, glancing toward their waiting vehicles. "Yes; walk in and let us have you all together," returned Max. "We will make a small party in anticipation of the large one to be held at Woodburn some hours hence." "Yes," assented Rosie, "we are all relatives and friends, and I for one can never see too much of Sister Elsie or Cousin Ronald, to speak of only one of each family." Hearty greetings were exchanged, a short time spent in cheerful chat, then one set of visitors after another took their departure till at length Max, Evelyn and Lucilla were left alone, though looking almost momentarily for Chester's homecoming. "It has probably been a hard day with him. I fear he will be too weary for much enjoyment to-night," sighed Lucilla. "I hope not," said Max. "The meeting with so many relatives and friends will probably be restful. Ah, there's the carriage now, just coming up the driveway." It brought Chester, and he showed himself to be in excellent spirits, though somewhat weary with the labors of the day. He reported that all seemed to be going right with the business in hand, and he had little doubt that he should gain his hoped-for reward. His audience of three listened with keen interest to all he had to say. When he had finished Eva rose saying, "I must go now and attend to housekeeping matters so that Max and I may be ready in good season for our Woodburn festivities." "Stay, Eva," said Lucilla, "I have ordered an early light tea for the four of us. We wont want a very hearty meal to spoil our appetites for the refreshments to be served at Woodburn." "No, certainly not; it is very kind in you to provide for us as well as for yourselves," returned Evelyn; Max adding, "It is, indeed, sister mine." "Well, really," laughed Lucilla, "it was for my own pleasure quite as much as for yours." And tears came into the eyes gazing with sisterly affection into those of Max. "I want to entertain you while I can," she added, "for there is no knowing when Uncle Sam may be ordering you quite out of reach." "Oh, don't let us talk of that!" exclaimed Eva. "Let us banish it from our thoughts for the present." "That is good advice," said Max, his voice a trifle husky; "it's what I'm trying to do for the present; for however much a man may love the service--a little wife such as mine must be far nearer and dearer." "Yes," said Chester; "if you had only chosen the law, we might now be partners in my office, as well as in this house." "And I perhaps might ruin the business by my stupidity," returned Max, with playful look and tone. "Hark! there's the tea-bell," said Lucilla. "I invite you all out to the dining-room." After a pleasant social half hour spent at the tea-table, each couple retired to their own apartments to dress for the evening entertainment at Woodburn. "This is one of the occasions for the wearing of the wedding-gown, is it not?" Max said inquiringly to Evelyn, as they passed into her dressing-room. "Yes," she said lightly. "You will not mind seeing me in it for the second time, will you?" "I shall be very glad to. It is both beautiful and becoming," he returned, with a fond look and smile. "Ah, my Eva, I think no one ever had a sweeter bride than mine," he added, passing his arm about her and drawing her into a close embrace. "They say love is blind and it must be that which makes me look so lovely in your eyes; for my features are by no means so good and regular as those of some others--your sisters Lu and Grace, for instance," returned Evelyn, with a pleased little laugh. "Those sisters of mine are both beautiful in my eyes, but there is something--to me--still sweeter in this dear face," he answered to that, giving her a fond caress as he spoke. "And your love is so sweet to me, I am so glad to belong to you," she returned low and feelingly, laying her head on his breast while glad tears shone in her eyes. "I have only one cause for grief left," she went on presently--"that we cannot live together all the time, as Lu and Chester may; yet spite of that I would not change with her or anybody else." "I hope not, darling," he said, laughingly. "Nor would I any more than you. I think we were made for each other." "So do I; and when compelled to part for a season we will console ourselves by looking forward to the joy of the reunion." "So we will, dear one; and in the meantime we will have the pleasure of correspondence." "Yes, indeed! a letter from my husband will be a great treasure and delight to me." "Not more than will be one from my wife to me," he returned, giving her a gleeful caress. Meantime, Chester and his Lucilla were similarly engaged. Chester was very proud and fond of his bride and anxious to show her to neighbours and friends in her wedding dress; so expressed his satisfaction when he saw it laid out in readiness for the occasion. "I am glad it pleases you," said Lucilla, "and I own to liking it right well myself. Eva is going to wear hers, too. So it will seem something like a repetition of our wedding day." "Which makes it very suitable for your father's house. It was a disappointment to him, I know, not to have his daughter and son married in his own house." "Yes, I suppose so; but dear father is so unselfish that he preferred to let us have our own way, especially on Eva's account." "I know it, and mean to try to copy his example in that--seeking to please others rather than myself." "As I do; I should like to resemble him in character and conduct as much as some persons tell me I do in features and expression." "Yes; you are very like him in both," Chester said, with an affectionate and admiring look and smile; "in character and conduct also, if your admiring husband be any judge." The Sunnyside couples were the first of the guests to reach Woodburn--though, in fact, they hardly considered themselves guests, or were deemed such by the family there; it was but going home to their father's house, where they had an hour of keen enjoyment before other relatives and guests began to arrive. Everything went smoothly; the company was made up of congenial spirits, the entertainment was fine and evidently enjoyed, and when they bade good-night and scattered to their homes it was with the expectation of meeting again the next evening at Fairview. The Dinsmores of the Oaks had planned to give the second entertainment, but Mr. and Mrs. Leland claimed it as their right, because of their near relationship to Evelyn, and the fact that Fairview had been her home for so many years. They were now nearing the end of the week; this was Thursday, the Fairview party would be held on Friday evening and Saturday all preferred to spend quietly in their own homes or with the nearest and dearest. And that was the plan carried out. The Fairview party passed off as successfully as had the Woodburn one, and Saturday and Sunday brought a rest from festivities which was welcome to all. CHAPTER III. Lucilla could never stay long away from her old home in her father's house; she was there every day and often two or three times a day. "Father," she said, on that first Saturday after taking possession of the new home, "mayn't we Sunnyside folks come over here and join your Bible class to-morrow evening?" "My dear child, it is just what I would have you do," he returned, with a gratified and loving smile. "Don't forget that Woodburn is still your home--one of your homes at least--and that you are always welcome and more than welcome to join us when you will. You are my own daughter as truly as ever you were." "And just as glad to be as ever I was," she exclaimed, with a bright, loving look and smile. "And to do your bidding at all times, father dear," she added. "Provided it does not interfere with Chester's," Max, who happened to be present, suggested a little mischievously. "Hardly any danger of that, I think," remarked his father, with a slightly amused look; "Chester is a reasonable fellow, and I have no intention of interfering with his rights." "And he thinks almost as highly of my father's wisdom as I do," said Lucilla. "But not more than Max and I do," said Evelyn, giving the Captain a very filial and admiring look; "and you will take us in as members of your class, too, wont you father?" "It is just what I desire to do," was the pleased reply. "Max has always been a member when at home; and you, you know, are now his better half." Eva shook her head and with a merry, laughing look at Max, said, "Not just that, father; I should say the smaller partner in the firm." "That will do, too," smiled the Captain, "since the most costly goods are apt to be done up in the smallest packages." "Ah, Eva, my dear, you are answered," laughed Max. "What is to be the subject of to-morrow's lesson, Captain?" asked Mrs. Elsie Travilla, sitting near. "I have not decided that question yet, mother, and should be glad of a suggestion from you," he replied in a kindly, respectful tone. "I have been thinking a good deal lately of the signs of the times," she said, "and whether they do not show that we are nearing the end of this dispensation. That might perhaps be a profitable and interesting question to take up and endeavor to solve." "No doubt it would be," he replied, "and I hope you will come prepared to give us some information as to what the Scriptures say on the subject, and what are the views of Biblical scholars who have been giving it particular attention." "I will do what I can in that line, and hope you, Captain, and others will come prepared to take part in considering the subject." "Certainly a most interesting one," said Violet. "And one which must lead to great searching of the Scriptures as the only infallible source of information," added the Captain. "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, "they are the only authority on that subject. And how thankful we should be that we have them." Sabbath afternoon proved bright and clear, and brought to Woodburn quite a gathering of the relatives and friends; for all loved the Bible studies they had for years taken together. Mr. Lilburn, as the eldest, was persuaded to take the lead. "I understand," he said, "that to-day we are to take up the question whether the second coming of our Lord Jesus Christ may, or may not, be near. The Scriptures are our sole authority, and you are all invited to bring forward anything from them which may seem to you to have a bearing on the subject." Then turning to Mrs. Travilla, "Cousin Elsie," he said, "you are, probably, the one among us the most thoroughly prepared to do so; please let us hear from you." "I doubt if I am better prepared than some of the rest of you," she replied, "but I have been very much interested in the subject; particularly of late, and have searched the Bible for texts bearing upon it, some of which I will read. Here in the first chapter of Acts we read that the disciples asked, 'Lord, wilt thou at this time restore again the kingdom to Israel? And he said unto them, It is not for you to know the times or the seasons, which the Father hath put in his own power. But ye shall receive power, after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you: and ye shall be witnesses unto me both in Jerusalem and in all Judea, and in Samaria, and unto the uttermost part of the earth. And when he had spoken these things, while they beheld, He was taken up and the clouds received him out of their sight. And while they looked steadfastly toward Heaven as he went up, behold, two men stood by them in white apparel; which also said, Ye men of Gallilee, why stand ye gazing up into Heaven? This same Jesus which is taken up from you into Heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into Heaven.' And," continued Grandma Elsie, "the Apostle John gives us the same promise here in the first chapter of the Revelation," turning to the passage as she spoke, then reading it aloud, "'Behold, he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him.'" "I have heard the idea advanced that death is the coming of Christ to the dying one," remarked Chester, in a tone of inquiry. "But we are told," said Mrs. Travilla, "that 'as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the Son of Man be.' That description certainly could not apply to the death hour of any Christian, nor to the conversion of any sinner." "And his second coming is spoken of in the same way in a number of places in the different gospels," said Evelyn. "Here, in Luke, we have Christ's own words, 'Whosoever shall be ashamed of Me and of My words, of him shall the Son of Man be ashamed, when He shall come in His glory, and in His Father's, and of the holy angels.' And again in Matthew 16:27, 'For the Son of Man shall come in the glory of His Father with His angels; and then He shall reward every man according to his works.'" "The disciples wanted to know when that second coming would be," remarked Violet; "here in Matthew 24:3, we are told, 'And as He sat upon the Mount of Olives, the disciples came unto Him privately, saying, "Tell us when shall these things be and what shall be the sign of Thy coming and of the end of the world?" And Jesus answered and said unto them, "Take heed that no man deceive you."' "I shall not read the whole chapter, for I know it is familiar to you all; but in the 27th verse he says, 'For as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the Son of Man be. For wheresoever the carcass is, there will the eagles be gathered together. Immediately after the tribulation of those days shall the sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from Heaven, and the powers of the Heavens shall be shaken: And then shall appear the sign of the Son of Man in Heaven: And then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, and they shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds of Heaven with power and great glory. And He shall send His angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of Heaven to the other.'" "Many persons," remarked Grandma Elsie, "tell us it is not worth while to consider at all the question of the time when Christ will come again; quoting the text, 'But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels in Heaven, but my Father only.' But again and again our Saviour repeated his warning, 'Watch, therefore; for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.... Therefore be ye also ready; for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of Man cometh.'" "I do not quite understand this," said Grace. "Luke says, here in the 21st chapter, 20th verse--quoting the words of the Master--'And when ye shall see Jerusalem compassed with armies, then know that the desolation thereof is nigh. Then let them which are in Judea flee to the mountains; and let them which are in the midst of it depart out.' How could they depart out of the city while it was compassed with armies?" "There is a satisfactory explanation," replied her father, "in the twelfth year of Nero, Cestius Gallus, the president of Syria, came against Jerusalem with a powerful army. Josephus says of him: 'He might have assaulted and taken the city, and thereby put an end to the war; but without any just reason, and contrary to the expectation of all, he raised the siege and departed.' The historians, Epiphanius and Eusebius, tell us that immediately after the departure of the armies of Cestius Gallus, and while Vespasian was approaching with his army, all who believed in Christ left Jerusalem and fled to Pella and other places beyond the river Jordan." "Every one of them, papa?" asked Ned. "Yes; Dr. Adam Clarke says 'It is very remarkable that not a single Christian perished in the destruction of Jerusalem, though there were many there when Cestius Gallus invested the city.'" "Papa," asked Elsie, "don't you think God put it in the heart of that Cestius Gallus to go away with his troops before Vespasian got there; so that the Christians had an opportunity to escape?" "I certainly do, daughter," was the Captain's emphatic reply. "Had not the earlier prophets foretold the destruction of Jerusalem?" asked Lucilla. "Yes," said Mr. Lilburn; "even as early a one as Moses. Here in the 28th chapter of Deuteronomy he says 'The Lord shall bring a nation against thee from far, from the east of the earth, as swift as the eagle flieth; a nation whose tongue thou shalt not understand.'" "The Romans?" Elsie said, inquiringly. "Yes; their ensign was an eagle and their language the Latin, which the Jews did not understand. The prophesy of Moses continues. In the 52d verse he says, 'And he shall besiege thee in all thy gates, until thy high and fenced walls come down; wherein thou trustedst, throughout all thy land: and he shall besiege thee in all thy gates throughout thy land, which the Lord thy God hath given thee. And thou shalt eat the fruit of thine own body, the flesh of thy sons and of thy daughters, which the Lord thy God hath given thee, in the siege and in the straitness, wherewith thine enemies shall distress thee.'" "Oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed Elsie. "And did all that happen at the siege of Jerusalem?" "Yes; it lasted so long that famine was added to all the other sufferings of the besieged. So dreadful was it that mothers would snatch the food from their children in their distress, and many houses were found full of women and children who had died of starvation. Josephus tells of human flesh being eaten; particularly of a lady of rank who killed, roasted and ate her own son. And so the prophecy of Moses was fulfilled." "Oh, how dreadful, how dreadful!" sighed Elsie. "Yes," said Mr. Lilburn, "it was the fulfillment of our Saviour's prophecy as he beheld Jerusalem and wept over it, saying, 'If thou hadst known, even thou at least in this thy day, the things which belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes. For the days shall come upon thee, that thine enemies shall cast a trench about thee, and compass thee round, and keep thee in on every side, and shall lay thee even with the ground, and thy children within thee; and they shall not leave in thee one stone upon another; because thou knewest not the time of thy visitation.' That is told us in the 19th chapter of Luke. In the 21st we read, 'And they shall fall by the edge of the sword, and shall be led away captive into all nations: and Jerusalem shall be trodden down of the Gentiles, until the times of the Gentiles be fulfilled.'" "Have those times been fulfilled yet?" asked Ned. "No, not yet," replied Mr. Lilburn; "the Turks still have possession of Jerusalem, though the Jews have begun to return to Palestine and the Turkish power grows weaker. But the time of the Gentiles will not be fulfilled until the work of the Gospel is finished." "And when will that be, Cousin Ronald?" asked Ned. "I cannot say exactly," answered the old gentleman, "but the trend of events does seem to show that we are nearing that time--such a feeling of unrest all over the world, some men--comparatively a few--accumulating enormous quantities of wealth by paying their laborers a mere pittance for their work, while the cost of living goes higher and higher. This is a land of plenty, and but for the grasping selfishness of some, none need lack for abundance of the necessaries of life." "I wish nobody did lack for plenty to eat and drink, and wear," said Elsie, "and I want to do all I can to help those who haven't enough." "I hope you will, daughter," the Captain said, in a tone of pleased approval. "And now the important thing for us to consider is what is our duty, in view of the very possible nearness of Christ's second coming." "He has told us again and again to watch and be ready," said Grandma Elsie; "yet we are not to be idle, but to work while it is called to-day; to occupy till he comes; to be not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord." CHAPTER IV. For the next week or two, family parties for the honor and entertainment of the newly-married ones were frequent. Life seemed to them bright and joyous, except when they remembered that Max would probably soon be ordered away, perhaps to some distant quarter of the globe. An unwelcome anticipation not to them only, but to his father and the others at Woodburn, and in a slighter degree to all the connection. But orders had not come yet, and they still hoped they might be delayed for weeks, giving opportunity for many quiet home pleasures. Yet there were drawbacks to even those, in the fact that several of the near connection were ailing from colds caught during their round of festivities--Grandma Elsie and Chester Dinsmore being of those most seriously affected. Chester was confined to the house for several days, under the doctor's care, and it was against medical advice that he then returned to his labors at his office. Lucilla was troubled and anxious, and, as usual, went to her father for sympathy and advice. They had a chat together in the library at Woodburn. "I feel for you, daughter," Captain Raymond said, "but keep up your courage; 'all is not lost that is in danger.' I have been thinking that a southerly trip in the yacht might prove of benefit to both Grandma Elsie and Chester, and quite agreeable to the members of my family and other friends for whom we could find room." "Oh, father, that would be delightful!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "And I hope you will persuade Harold to make one of the company, for Grace's sake, and so that we will not be without a physician." "Yes, that is a part of my plan, and I have little doubt of its acceptance, Grace's companionship being a great attraction to my young brother-in-law." "'Speak of angels and you will hear the flutter of their wings,'" laughed Lucilla, as at that moment Harold appeared in the doorway. "Am I the angel, and may I fly in?" he asked, joining in the laugh. "Certainly, you are just in the nick of time to advise us in a matter of importance which we were discussing," replied the Captain, inviting him by a gesture to an easy chair near at hand, then repeating to him the substance of what he had been saying to Lucilla, finishing with a request for his opinion in regard to the plan. "I like it extremely," Harold said. "I think nothing could be better for either mother or Chester, and the sooner we make ready and start the better for both, if they will be persuaded to go; of which I have little doubt." "I am somewhat afraid Chester may refuse for business reasons," sighed Lucilla. "I think we can persuade him of the folly of that," said her father. "It would be far wiser and better to give up business for a time for the gaining of health, than to so wreck that by overtaxing strength of body and mind as to shorten his days or make himself an invalid for life." "It certainly would," said Harold, "and I hope that among us we can convince him that duty, as well as pleasure, calls him to make one of our party." "Duty to his wife as well as to himself," said Lucilla, in a lively tone; "for I should neither willingly go without him or stay behind with him." "Where are Vi, Grace and the children?" asked Harold. "I have not seen or heard anything of them since I came in." "Max and Eva have taken them driving in our fine new carriage--father's wedding gift," replied Lucilla, with a smiling glance into her father's eyes. "That is, all but Ned who rides his pony alongside." "Ah, and here they come now!" exclaimed Harold, glancing from the window, "the carriage has just turned in at the gates." And with that the three arose and hastened out to the veranda, to greet and assist them to alight. But the moment the carriage drew up before the entrance the door was thrown open and Max, then Chester, sprang out and turned to hand out the ladies--Grandma Elsie, Eva, Violet, Grace and her sister Elsie, while at the same time Ned was dismounting from his pony. Warm greetings were exchanged, and as the weather was now too cool for comfortable sitting upon the veranda the Captain led the way to the library--a favorite resort with them all. "Your call is an agreeable surprise, mother," he said to Grandma Elsie, as he drew forward an easy chair for her; "Harold had just been telling us that you were almost ill with a cold." "I have a rather bad one, but thought a drive through the bracing air, and in such pleasant company, might prove beneficial rather than otherwise," she answered in cheery tones, adding "And I knew Harold was here and could take me home in his conveyance." "Certainly, mother, and will be very glad of your good company," said Harold, while at the same time Violet exclaimed, "But why go at all to-night, mother? Why not stay here with us?" "Thank you, daughter," was the smiling reply; "that would be pleasant, but there are some things to be attended to at home." "And not being well, she would better have her doctor close at hand," remarked Harold, in playful tone. "Mother, we have been contriving a plan to help you and Chester to get the better of your colds." "Ah, what is that?" she asked, and Harold, turning to the Captain, said, "Let mother hear it from you, Brother Levis, if you please." "We are thinking of taking a southward trip in the 'Dolphin,' mother--visiting the Bermudas, Bahamas and other of the West Indies and the coast of Brazil." "Why, that would be a lovely trip!" she exclaimed. "Many thanks to you, Captain, for including me among your invited guests." "Many thanks to you, mother, if you consent to make one of our party," he returned, looking greatly pleased to find her so ready to approve of and share their plans. Eager, excited remarks and queries now followed in rapid succession from the others present--"When was the start to be made? Who besides Grandma Elsie and the Captain were to compose the party?" "All who are here now are invited and expected to go; some others of our friends also," replied the Captain, "and I hope no one will refuse." "Thanks, warm thanks," said Chester. "I should be delighted to go, but fear business will prevent." "As your physician, Ches, I strongly advise you not to let it," said Harold. "A good rest now in a warm climate may restore you to vigorous health, while if you stay at home and stick to business you are likely to either cut your life short or make yourself a confirmed invalid for the rest of it." "Do you really think so, cousin doctor?" was Chester's rejoinder in a troubled voice. "I do most emphatically," returned Harold. "You may be very thankful, cousin, that this good opportunity offers." "I am," said Chester. Then turning to the Captain. "Thank you very much, sir, for the invitation, which I accept, if my wife will go with me." "You needn't doubt that," laughed Lucilla. "There is nothing I like better than a trip on my father's yacht, with him and all my dear ones about me." "And it's just the same with all the rest of us," said Grace. "And how is it with Max and Eva?" asked the Captain. "I know of nothing more enjoyable than that--a trip on the 'Dolphin' taken in the company of one's dear ones," replied Evelyn with a loving look into the eyes of her young husband. "Just my opinion," he said, with a smile; "the only question with me is, Will Uncle Sam allow me a sufficiently long leave of absence." "Your leave of absence has nearly expired?" his father said, inquiringly. "Yes, sir; so nearly that I should hardly feel surprised to receive orders any day." "Well, I hope, instead, you may get another leave, allowing you time to make one of our party." "It would be a very great pleasure to me, sir," said Max. "But I have had so long a one already that I can hardly hope for another very soon." "Oh, Max!" exclaimed Grace, "do write at once asking to have it extended; it would double our pleasure to have you along." "Yes, Max, do," said Lucilla. "I can hardly bear the thought of going without you." Evelyn, sitting close at his side, looked her entreaties, while Violet said, "Yes, Max, do; it will double our enjoyment to have you and Eva along." Then Chester, Grandma Elsie, Harold and the children added their entreaties, expressing their desire for his company on the trip and Ned exclaimed, "Yes, Brother Max, do get leave to go along; we'll want you to make fun for us with your ventriloquism." "Is that all you want me for, Neddie boy?" laughed Max. "If so, Cousin Ronald will answer your purpose quite as well, if not better." "But two can make more fun than one; and I want you besides, because I am really fond of you--the only brother I've got." "Ah, that sounds better," said Max; "but I really can't go without Uncle Sam's permission." "Then please do ask him to give it." "Yes, do, Max," said Grace; "I really think he might give it, considering what good service you did at Manila." "It was not very much that I accomplished personally," returned Max modestly, "and the two months' rest I have had is probably quite as much as I may be supposed to have earned. Especially as it gave me the opportunity to secure my wife," he added, with a very affectionate look at Evelyn. "I wish you might be able to go with us, Max, my son," said the Captain, "for leaving ventriloquism entirely out of the account, I should be very glad to have your company. But the service, of course, has the first claim on you." "So I think, sir; and as for the ventriloquism, my little brother is so hungry for, Cousin Ronald can supply it should you take him as one of your passengers." "And that we will, if he and his wife can be persuaded to go," returned the Captain, heartily. "Oh, good, papa!" cried Ned, clapping his hands in glee, "then we'll have at least one ventriloquist, if we can't have two." "And, after all, the ventriloquism was really all you wanted me for, eh?" said Max, assuming a tone and look of chagrin. "Oh, no! no! Brother Max," cried Ned, with a look of distress. "I didn't mean that! you know you're the only brother I have and I'm really fond of you." "As I am of you, little brother, and have been ever since you were born," said Max, regarding the little fellow with an affectionate smile. "Oh, Max, I wish you hadn't gone into the navy," sighed Lucilla. "I don't," he returned, cheerfully, "though I acknowledge that it is hard parting with home and dear ones." "That is bad, as I know by experience," said their father, "but then we have the compensating joy of the many reunions." "Yes, sir; and a great joy it is," responded Max. "How soon, father, do you think of starting on your southward trip?" "Just as soon as all necessary arrangements can be made, which, I suppose, will not be more than a week from this, at farthest. I can have the yacht made ready in less time than that, and for the sake of our invalids it would be well to go as promptly as possible." "Couldn't you make use of the telephone now, to give your invitations, my dear?" queried Violet. "Why, yes; that is a wise suggestion. I will do so at once," he replied, and hastily left the room, promising to return presently with the reply from Beechwood to which he would call first. The invitation was accepted promptly and with evident pleasure, as the Captain presently reported in the library. "Now, mother, shall I give my invitation in the same way to our own friends?" he asked, turning to Grandma Elsie. "Perhaps it would be as well to send it by Harold and me," she said, "as that will delay it very little, and I can perhaps help them to perceive what a delightful trip it is likely to prove." "And then, mamma, you can give us their view by the 'phone," said Violet. "I, or some one of the family will," she said. "And now, Harold, we will go and attend to the matter at once." CHAPTER V. Captain Raymond's invitation proved scarcely less agreeable to Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore than to their younger friends and relatives, and their acceptance was telephoned to Woodburn before the Sunnyside party had left for their homes. All heard it with satisfaction, for Grandpa and Grandma Dinsmore were pleasant traveling companions. Some lively chat followed, in regard to needed preparations for the trip, and in the midst of it a servant came in with the afternoon mail. The Captain distributed it and among Max's portion was a document of official appearance. Evelyn noted it with a look of apprehension, and drew nearer to her young husband's side. "Orders, my son?" asked the Captain, when Max had opened it and glanced over the contents. "Yes, sir; I am to go immediately to Washington, upon the expiration of my leave which will be about the time the rest of you set sail in the 'Dolphin.'" The announcement seemed quite a damper upon the previous high spirits of the little company, and there were many expressions of disappointment and regret. "Well," said Chester, getting on his feet as he spoke, "I must go home now; there is a little matter in regard to one of my cases that must be attended to at once, since I am likely to leave the neighborhood so soon." "And if my husband goes, I must go, too," said Lucilla, in a lively tone, rising and taking up the wrap she had thrown off on coming into the warm room. "It is near the dinner hour; you would better stay, all of you, and dine with us," said the Captain. All thanked him, but declined, each having some special reason for wishing to go home at that particular time. "Well, come in and share a meal with us whenever you will," said the Captain. "I think you know, one and all, that you are heartily welcome." "Yes, father, we do," said Max, "and we are always glad when you care to breakfast, dine, or sup with us." "Any of us but papa?" asked Ned. "Yes, indeed; all of you from Mamma Vi down," laughed Max, giving the little fellow an affectionate clap on the shoulder as he passed him on his way out to the hall. "Yes, Ned, each one of you will always be a most welcome visitor," said Chester. "Indeed you will, you may be very sure of that," added Lucilla and Eva. "So sure are we of that, that you need not be surprised to see any of us at any time," laughed Violet. "Nor will we be surprised or grieved to see any or all of you at any time." "No, indeed! I want my daughters--and sons also--all to feel entirely at home always in their father's house," the Captain said, with his genial smile. "Thank you, father dear, and don't forget that Sunnyside is one of your homes, and we are always ever so glad to open its doors to you," said Lucilla, going to him and holding up her face for a kiss, which he gave with warmth of affection. "And not Lu's side only, but ours as well," added Evelyn, holding out her hand and looking up lovingly into his face. He took the hand, drew her closer to him and gave her a caress as affectionate as that he had just bestowed upon Lucilla. The rest of the good-byes were quickly said, and both young couples were wending their homeward way. They were all in thoughtful mood, and the short walk was taken in almost unbroken silence. Eva's heart was full at thought of the approaching separation from her young husband. How could she bear it? He seemed almost all the world to her, now that they had been for weeks such close companions, and life without his presence would be lonely and desolate indeed. She passed up the stairway to their bedroom, while he paused in the hall below to remove his overcoat and hat. Her eyes were full of tears, as she disposed of her wraps, then crossed the room to her mirror to see that dress and hair were in perfect order. "No improvement needed, my own love, my darling," Max said, coming up behind her and passing an arm about her waist. At that she turned and hid her face upon his breast. "Oh, Max, my husband, my dear, dear husband," she sobbed, "how can I live away from you? You are now more than all the world to me." "As you are to me, dear love. It is hard to part, but we will hope to meet again soon; and in the meantime let us write to each other every day. And as there is no war now you need not feel that your husband is in any special danger." "Yes, thank God for that," she said, "and that we may know that we are both in his kind care and keeping wherever we are." "And surely you will be less lonely than you were before our marriage--father claims you as his daughter, Chester and little Ned are your brothers, Lu and Grace your sisters." "Yes, oh yes; I have a great deal to be thankful for, but you are to me a greater blessing than all the world." "As you are to me, dearest," was his response, as he held her close to his heart, pressing warm kisses on cheek and brow and lip. Meanwhile, on the other side of the hall, Chester and Lucilla were chatting about the Captain's plan for a winter trip. "I think it will be just delightful, Chester," she said, "since I am to have you along. I am so glad you are going, sorry as I am that ill-health makes it necessary." "Yes, my dear," he returned with a smile, "I am fortunate, indeed, in having so loving a wife and so kind and able a father-in-law. I am truly sorry that I must leave some important business matters to which I should like to give attention promptly and in person, but I intend to put that care aside and enjoy our holiday as fully as possible. I heartily wish Max could go with us. I think it would almost double the pleasure of the trip." "As I do," responded Lucilla, with a sigh; "but it seems one can never have all one wants in this world. I doubt if it would be good for us if we could." "No, it assuredly would not. Now, my dear, I am going down to the library to look at some papers connected with one of my cases, and shall probably be busy over them until the call to dinner." The next few days were busy ones with those who were to have a part in the southern trip of the "Dolphin." Woodburn and Sunnyside were to be left in the care of Christine and Alma, with a sufficient number of servants under them to keep everything in order. Max went with the others to the yacht, spent a half hour there, then bade good-bye, went ashore and took a train for Washington. It was Eva's first parting from her husband, and she shut herself into her stateroom for a cry to relieve her pent-up feelings of grief and loneliness. But presently there was a gentle little tap at the door and Elsie Raymond's sweet voice asked, "Sister Eva, dear, don't you want to come on deck with me and see them lift the anchor and start the 'Dolphin' on her way?" "Yes, dear little sister; thank you for coming for me," replied Evelyn, opening the door. "All the rest of us were there and I thought you would like to be there, too," continued the little girl, as they passed through the saloon and on up the stairway. "Yes, little sister, it was very kind in you to think of me." "But I wasn't the only one; everybody seemed to be thinking of you and looking round for you. So I asked papa if I should come for you, and he said yes." "It was very kind in both him and you, little sister Elsie," Eva said, with a smile. "Our dear father is always kind, and I am very glad to be his daughter." "So am I," returned Elsie, with a happy little laugh. "I think he's the dearest, kindest father that ever was made." They had just reached the deck at that moment, and as they stepped upon it they caught sight of Harold and Grace standing near, looking smilingly at them, pleased with Elsie's tribute to her father, which they had accidentally overheard. "Oh, Uncle Harold, you'll take Sister Eva to a good place to see everything from, wont you?" exclaimed Elsie. "Yes, little niece, the everything you mean," he returned, laughingly. "There is room for us all. Come this way," he added, and led them to that part of the deck where the other passengers were grouped. There they were greeted with kindness and given a good place for seeing all the preparations for starting the vessel on her way to the Bermudas. She was soon moving swiftly in that direction, and, a cool breeze having sprung up, her passengers left the deck for the warmer and more comfortable saloon. "Elsie and Ned wouldn't you like your grandma to tell you something about the islands we are going to?" asked Mrs. Travilla; the two little ones being, as usual, quite near her. "Yes, indeed! grandma," both answered, in eager tones, seating themselves one on each side of her. "I heard papa say it wouldn't be a very long voyage we would take at the start, because the Bermudas were only about six hundred miles away from our coast," said Elsie. "They belong to England, don't they, grandma?" "Yes; but they were named for a Spaniard, Bermudez, who first sighted them in 1527; they are also called Somers's Isles from Sir George Somers, an Englishman, who was shipwrecked there in 1609. That was what led to their colonization from Virginia--two years later when it was itself only four years old. "Are they big islands, grandma? and are there many of them?" asked Ned. "No, there are perhaps five hundred of them, but the whole group measures only about twelve thousand acres in all. They occupy a space only about twenty miles long by six broad." "Then the group isn't worth very much, I suppose." "Yes, because its situation makes it a natural fortress which can hardly be overrated. They form a bond of union between two great divisions of British America; on each side of them is a highway between the Gulf of Mexico and the North Atlantic. There are many picturesque creeks and bays, large and deep, the water so clear as to reveal, even to its lowest depths, the many varieties of fish sporting among the coral rocks, and the beautifully variegated shells." "And it has a warm climate, hasn't it, grandma?" asked Elsie. "I think that is why we are going there." "Yes, the climate is said to be like that of Persia, with the addition of a constant sea-breeze." "I shall like that," responded the little girl with satisfaction. "But what kind of people live there, grandma?" "A good many whites and still more colored people." "Slaves, grandma?" asked Ned. "No; the islands belong to England, and years ago she abolished slavery in all her dominions." "What are the names of some of them, grandma? the islands, I mean." "The largest, which is fifteen miles long, is called Bermuda; St. George is three and a half miles long and is the military station of the colony; it commands the entrance of the only passage for large vessels. Its land-locked haven and the narrow and intricate channel leading into it are defended by strong batteries." "You have been there, haven't you, grandma?" "Yes; years ago," she said, with a sigh, thinking of the loved partner of her life who had been with her then and there. "And your Grandpa Dinsmore and I were there at the same time," remarked Grandma Dinsmore, sitting near; and she went on to give a graphic account of scenes they had witnessed there, Mr. Dinsmore presently joining in a way to make it very interesting to the children. CHAPTER VI. Grandpa Dinsmore had hardly finished relating his reminiscences of his former visits to the Bermudas when a sailor-lad came down the companionway with a message from the Captain--an invitation to any or all his passengers to come up on deck, as there was something he wished to show them. It was promptly and eagerly accepted by the young folks,--somewhat more slowly and sedately by the older ones. "What is it, papa? Have you something to show us?" queried Ned, as he gained his father's side. "Something lying yonder in the sea, my son, the like of which you have never seen before," replied the Captain, pointing to a large object in the water at some little distance. "Ah, a whale!" exclaimed Dr. Travilla, who had come up on Ned's other side. "To what genus does he belong, Captain?" "He is a bottlenose; a migratory species, confined to the North Atlantic. It ranges far northward in the summer, southward in the winter. In the early spring they may be found around Iceland and Greenland, Western Spitzbergen, in Davis Strait and probably about Novaia Zemlia." "Oh, do they like to live right in among the icebergs, papa?" asked Elsie. "No, they do not venture in among the ice itself, but frequent open bays along its margin, as in that way they are sheltered from the open sea." "The group gathered about the Captain on the deck now comprised all his cabin passengers, not one of whom failed to be interested in the whale, or to have some remark to make or question to ask. "This one seems to be alone," remarked Lucilla. "Do they usually go alone, papa?" "No; they are generally found in herds of from four to ten; and many different herds may be found in sight at the same time. The old males, however, are frequently solitary; though sometimes one of them may be seen leading a herd. These whales don't seem to be afraid of ships, swimming around them and underneath the boats till their curiosity is satisfied." "I suppose they take them--the ships--for a kind of big fish," laughed Ned. "Why is this kind of whale called bottlenosed, papa?" asked Elsie. "That name is given it because of the elevation of the upper surface of the head above the rather short beak and in front of the blow hole into a rounded abrupt prominence." "Blow hole," repeated Ned, wonderingly; "what's that, papa?" "The blow holes are their nostrils through which they blow out the water collected in them while they are down below the waves. They cannot breath under the water, but must come up frequently to take in a fresh supply of air. But first they must expel the air remaining in their lungs, before taking in a fresh supply. They send that air out with great force, so that it rises to a considerable height above the water, and as it is saturated with water-vapor at a high temperature, the contact with the cold outside air condenses the vapor which forms a column of steam or spray. Often, however, a whale begins to blow before its nostrils are quite above the surface, and then some sea-water is forced up with the column of air." They were watching the whale while they talked; for it followed the yacht with seeming curiosity. At this moment it rolled over nearly on its side, then threw its ponderous tail high into the air, so that for an instant it was perpendicular to the water, then vanished from sight beneath the waves. "Oh, dear," cried Ned, "he's gone! I wish he'd stayed longer." "Perhaps he will come back and give us the pleasure of seeing him spout," said the Captain. "Do you mean throw the water up out of its nostrils, papa?" asked Ned. "Oh, I'd like that!" "Ah, there's the call to supper," said his father, as the summons came at that moment. "You wouldn't like to miss that?" "No, sir," returned Ned, in a dubious tone. "But couldn't we let the supper wait till the whale comes up and gets done spouting?" "Perhaps some of the older people may be too hungry to wait comfortably," returned his father; "and the supper might be spoiled by waiting. But cheer up, my son; the whale is not likely to come up to the surface again before we can finish our meal and come back to witness his performance." That assurance was quite a relief to Ned's mind, so that he went very cheerfully to the table with the others, and there did full justice to the viands. No one hurried with the meal, but when they left the table it was to go upon deck again and watch for the reappearance of the whale. They had been there for but a moment when, to the delight of all, it came up, not too far away to be distinctly seen, and at once began spouting--or blowing; discharging the air from its lungs in preparation for taking in a fresh supply; the air was sent out with great force, making a sound that could be heard at quite a distance, while the water-vapor accompanying the air was so condensed as to form a column of spray. It made five or six respirations, then swam away and was soon lost to sight. Then the company returned to the cabin as the more comfortable place, the evening air being decidedly cool. Ned seated himself close to his father, and, in coaxing tones, asked for something more about whales. "Are there many kinds, papa?" he queried. "Yes, my son, a good many; more than you could remember. Would you like me to tell you about some of the more interesting ones?" "Oh, yes, indeed, papa!" was the emphatic and pleased response, and the Captain began at once. "There are the whalebone or true whales, which constitute a single family. They have no teeth, but, instead, horny plates of baleen or whalebone, which strain from the water the small animals upon which the whale feeds." "Oh, yes, I know about whalebones," said Ned. "Mamma and sisters have it in their dresses. And it comes out of the whale's mouth, does it, papa?" "Yes; it is composed of many flattened, horny plates placed crosswise on either side of the palate, and separated from one another by an open space in the middle line. They are smooth on the outer side, but the inner edge of each plate is frayed out into a kind of fringe, giving a hairy appearance to the whole of the inside of the mouth when viewed from below." "Whalebone or baleen is black, isn't it, papa?" asked Ned. "Not always; the color may vary from black to creamy white; and sometimes it is striped dark and light." "Is there much of it in one whale, papa?" "Yes, a great deal on each side of the jaw; there are more than three hundred of the plates, which, in a fine specimen, are about ten or twelve feet long and eleven inches wide at their base; and so much as a ton's weight has been taken from a large whale." "And is the baleen all they kill the whales for, papa?" "Oh, no, my son! the oil is very valuable, and there is a great deal of it in a large whale. One has been told of which yielded eighty-five barrels of oil." "Oh, my! that's a great deal," cried Ned. "What a big fellow he must have been to hold so much as that." "The whale is very valuable to the people of the polar regions," continued the Captain. "They eat the flesh, and drink the oil." "Oh, papa! drink oil!" cried little Elsie, with a shudder of disgust. "It seems very disgusting to us," he said, with a smile, "but in that very cold climate it is an absolute necessity--needful, in order to keep up the heat of the body by a bountiful supply of carbon." "Whales are so big and strong it must be very dangerous to go near them, I suppose," said Elsie, with an inquiring look at her father. "That is the case with some of the species," he said, "but not with all. The Greenland whale, for instance, is inoffensive and timorous, and will always flee from the presence of man, unless roused by the pain of a wound or the sight of its offspring in danger. In that case, it will sometimes turn fiercely upon the boat in which the harpooners are who launched the weapon, and, with its enormous tail, strike it a blow that will shatter it and drive men, ropes and oars high into the air. That Greenland whale shows great affection for both its mate and its young. When this whale is undisturbed, it usually remains at the surface of the water for ten minutes and spouts eight or nine times; then it goes down for from five to twenty minutes, then comes back to the surface to breathe again. But when harpooned, it dives to a great depth and does not come up again for half an hour. By noticing the direction of the line attached to the harpoon, the whalers judge of the spot in which it will rise and generally contrive to be so near it when it shows itself again, that they can insert another harpoon, or strike it with a lance before it can go down again." "Poor thing!" sighed little Elsie, "I don't know how men can have the heart to be so cruel to animals that are not dangerous." "It is because the oil, whalebone and so forth, are so valuable," said her father. "It sometimes happens that a stray whale blunders into the shallow waters of the Bermudas, and not being able to find the passage through which it entered, cannot get out again; so is caught like a mouse in a trap. It is soon discovered by the people, and there is a great excitement; full of delight, they quickly launch their boats filled with men armed with guns, lances and other weapons which would be of little use in the open sea, but answer their purpose in these shoal waters. "As soon as the whale feels the sharp lance in its body it dives as it would in the open sea; but the water is so shallow that it strikes its head against the rocky bed of the sea with such force that it rises to the surface again half stunned. "The hunters then take advantage of its bewildered condition to come close and use their deadly weapons till they have killed it. The fat and ivory are divided among the hunters who took part in the killing, but the flesh is given to any one who asks for it." "Is it really good to eat, papa?" asked Ned. "Those who are judges of whale flesh say there are three qualities of meat in every whale, the best resembling mutton, the second similar to pork, and the third resembling beef." "The whales are so big and strong; don't they ever fight back when men try to kill them, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes," he replied, "sometimes a large whale will become belligerent, and is then a fearful antagonist, using its immense tail and huge jaws with fearful effect. I have heard of one driving its lower jaw entirely through the plankings of a stout whaling boat, and of another that destroyed nine boats in succession. Not only boats, but even ships have been sunk by the attack of an infuriated old bull cachalot. And an American ship, the 'Essex' was destroyed by the vengeful fury of a cachalot, which accidentally struck itself against the keel. Probably it thought the ship was a rival whale; it retired to a short distance, then charged full at the vessel, striking it one side of the bows, and crushing beams and planks like straws. There were only a few men on board at the time, most of the crew being in the boats engaged in chasing whales; and when they returned to their ship they found her fast sinking, so that they had barely time to secure a scanty stock of provisions and water. Using these provisions as economically as they could, they made for the coast of Peru, but only three lived to reach there, and they were found lying senseless in their boat, which was drifting at large in the ocean." "I wonder any one is willing to go whaling when they may meet with such dreadful accidents," said Evelyn. "I suppose it must be very profitable to tempt them to take such risks," remarked Chester. "It is quite profitable," said the Captain; "a single whale often yields whalebone and blubber to the value of thirty-five hundred or four thousand dollars." "I should think that might pay very well, particularly if they took a number." "Our whale fishing is done mostly by the New Englanders, isn't it, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes," he said, "they went into it largely at a very early date; at first on their own coasts, but they were deserted by the whales before the middle of the eighteenth century; then ships were fitted out for the northern seas. But for a number of years the American whale-fishery has been declining, because of the scarcity of whales and the substitutes for whale oil and whalebone that have been found. However, New Bedford, Massachusetts, is the greatest whaling port in the world. "Now it is nearing your bedtime, my boy, and I think you have had enough about the whale and his habits for one lesson." "Yes, papa; and I thank you very much for telling it all to me," replied Ned, with a loving, grateful look up into his father's face. CHAPTER VII. Some two hours later the Captain was taking his usual evening walk upon the deck, when Lucilla and Evelyn joined him. "We feel like taking a little stroll, father, and hope you will not object to our company," remarked Evelyn, as they reached his side. "I could not, with truth, say it was unpleasant to me, daughter," he returned, with a smile, and passing a hand caressingly over her hair, as she stood close at his side. "The fact is, I am very glad of the companionship of you both." "And we are both thankful to hear you say it, I am sure," returned Lucilla, in a sprightly tone, and with a bright, loving look up into his eyes. "I'd be heart-broken if I thought my father didn't love me enough to care to have me near him." "And I should be much distressed if I had reason to believe my daughter didn't care to be near me. If Grace were as strong and healthy as you are, it would double the pleasure to have her with us. She has gone to her stateroom, I suppose." "Yes, papa, and most of the others have retired to their rooms, too. Dr. Harold and Chester are playing a game of chess, and so will hardly miss Eva and me." "Perhaps not; so we will take our promenade undisturbed by anxiety about them," laughed the Captain, offering an arm to each. It was a beautiful evening; the moon was shining in a clear sky and making a silvery pathway upon the waters. "Where do you suppose Max is now, father?" asked Evelyn, with a slight sigh. "Probably in Washington; though it is possible he may have received his orders and gone aboard his vessel." "And doubtless he is thinking of you, Eva, as you are of him," said Lucilla, speaking in low, tender tones. "No doubt of it," said their father, "for he is very fond of his sweet, young wife. As we all are, daughter dear," he added, softly patting the small, white hand resting upon his arm. "Dear father," she said, with emotion, "it is so kind in you to give me the fatherly affection I have so missed and longed for in years past." "And daughterly affection from you is an adequate return," he said pleasantly. "I expect to enjoy that in all this winter's wanderings by sea and land." "Wanderings which I am very glad to be allowed to share," she said; and then they talked of the various places they expected to visit while on this winter trip. At length Evelyn, saying it was high time for her to join Grace in the stateroom they shared together, said good-night and returned to the cabin, but Lucilla delayed her departure a little longer--it was so pleasant to have her father all to herself for a bit of private chat before retiring for the night. They paced the deck silently for a few moments, then she said: "Father, I have thought a good deal of that talk we had in our Bible lesson some time ago, about the second coming of Christ. Do you think it--his coming--is very near?" "It may be, daughter. The signs of the times seem to indicate its approach. Jesus said, 'Of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but My Father only.' He has given us signs, however, by which we may know that it is near; and judging by them we may, I think, know that it is not very far off now." "Then, papa, doesn't it seem as if we ought to be busied with religious duties all the time?" "I think whatever duties the Lord gives us in His Providence may, in some sense, be called religious duties--for me, for instance, the care of wife, children and dependents. We are to go on with household and family duties, those to the poor and needy in our neighborhood; also to take such part as we can in the work of the church at home and for foreign missions, and so forth; all this, remembering his command, 'Occupy till I come,' and endeavoring to be ready to meet him with joy when he comes." "And isn't it a very important part trying to win souls to Christ?" "It is, indeed, and 'he that winneth souls is wise.' Leading a truly Christlike life may often win them to join us in being his disciples, even though we refrain from any word of exhortation; though there are times when we should not refrain from giving that also." "As you did to me, father," she said, with a loving look up into his face. "Oh, I shall try to be a winner of souls. The Bible makes the way clear, again and again, in a very few words. You know it tells us Jesus said to Nicodemus, 'God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'" "Yes; and Peter said to Cornelius and his kinsmen and friends, after telling them of Jesus, 'To Him give all the prophets witness, that through His name whosoever believeth in Him shall receive remission of sins.' And Paul and Silas, when asked by the jailor, 'Sirs, what must I do to be saved?' replied, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' Salvation is God's free gift, without money and without price. One must believe in His divinity, His ability and willingness to save, taking salvation at His hands as a free, unmerited gift. But now, dear child," he added, taking her in his arms, with a fond caress, "it is time for you and that not very strong husband of yours to be seeking your nest for the night. 'The Lord bless thee, and keep thee; the Lord make His face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.'" he added in solemn tones, laying a hand tenderly upon her head as he spoke. "Thank you, dear father," she said, in tones half tremulous with emotion, "I do so love that blessing from your lips. And Chester and I both think I have the best father in the world." "It is pleasant to have you think that," he returned, with a smile and another caress, "but no doubt there are many fathers in the world quite as good, kind and affectionate as yours; perhaps if my daughters were less affectionate and obedient than they are, they might find their father more stern and severe. Now, good-night--and may you have peaceful sleep undisturbed by troubled dreams." CHAPTER VIII. The next morning was bright and clear, the air so much warmer than that which had been left behind on their own shores, that one and all repaired to the deck after breakfast, and preferred to remain there during the greater part of the day. Mr. Horace Dinsmore, his wife and daughter were sitting near together, the ladies occupied with some crocheting, and Mr. Dinsmore with a book in hand, which he did not seem to be reading, when Elsie and Ned Raymond, who had been gamboling about the deck, came dancing up to them with a request for "more about Bermuda." "You don't want to be surprised by the pretty things you will see there, eh?" queried their grandpa. "No, sir; we want to hear about them first and see them afterward; if it isn't troubling you too much," said Elsie, with a coaxing look up into his face. "Well, considering that you are my great-grandchildren, I think I must search my memory for something interesting on the subject. There are many picturesque creeks and bays. There are four pretty large islands--Bermuda, the largest, being fifteen miles long. The strange shapes of the islands and the number of spacious lagoons make it necessary to travel about them almost entirely in boats; which is very pleasant, as you glide along under a beautiful blue sky and through waters so clear that you can see even to their lowest depths, where the fish sport among the coral rocks, and exquisitely variegated shells abound." "Oh, I shall like that!" exclaimed Elsie. "Are the fish handsome, too, grandpa?" "Some of them are strikingly so," he replied. "One called the parrot-fish is of a green color as brilliant as that of his bird namesake. His scales are as green as the fresh grass of spring-time, and each one is bordered by a pale brown line. His tail is banded with nearly every color of the rainbow, and his fins are pink." "Is he good to eat, grandpa?" asked Ned. "No, his flesh is bitter and poisonous to man and probably to other fishes. So they let him well alone." "Well, I suppose he's glad of that," laughed Ned. "The more I hear about Bermuda, grandpa, the gladder I am that we are going there." "Yes; and you may well be thankful that you have so good and kind a father, and that he owns this fine yacht." "Yes, sir, I am that; but I'd rather be his son than anybody else's if he didn't own anything but me." "And I'm just as pleased to be his daughter," said Elsie. "And I to be his grandfather-in-law," added Mr. Dinsmore, with comically grave look and tone. "Yes, sir; Grandpa Travilla would have been his--papa's--father-in-law if he had lived, wouldn't he?" "Yes; and almost as old as I am. He was my dear, good friend, and I gave him my daughter to be his wife." "That was you, grandma, wasn't it?" asked Ned, turning to Mrs. Travilla. "Yes, dear," she said, with a smile and a sigh, "and if he had stayed with us until now you would have loved him as you do Grandpa Dinsmore." "Yes, indeed, grandma," came softly and sweetly from the lips of both children. There was a moment of subdued silence, then Grandpa Dinsmore went on. "There are many pretty creatures to be seen in the waters about Bermuda. There is a kind of fish called angels, that look very bright and pretty. They have a beautiful blue stripe along the back, and long streamers of golden yellow, and they swim very gracefully about. But they are not so good as they are pretty. They pester the other fishes by nibbling at them, and so, often, get into a quarrel, fighting with a long, sharp spine which they have on each gill-cover, making ugly wounds with it on those they are fighting. "Among the outer reefs we will, perhaps, see a speckled moray. He looks like a common eel, except that his body is dark-green flecked with bright yellow spots, which makes him quite a handsome fellow. There is a fish the Bermuda fishermen call the 'Spanish hogfish,' and when asked why they give it that name they say, 'Why, sir, you see it lazes around just like a hog, and carries the Spanish colors.'" "Spanish colors? What are they, grandpa?" queried Ned. "The fish," said Mr. Dinsmore, "is brownish red from his head to the middle of his body, and from there to the end of his tail a bright yellow; and those are the colors of the Spanish flag." "I'm glad we are going to Bermuda," remarked Elsie, with a happy little sigh, "for I'm sure there must be a great deal there worth seeing." "And your father is just the kind of man to help you to a sight of all such things," responded Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, sir," said Elsie, "papa never seems to think it too much trouble to do anything to give us pleasure." "Ah, what father would, if he had such a dear little girl and boy as mine?" queried a manly voice just behind them, while a gentle hand was laid caressingly on Elsie's head. "Oh, papa, I didn't know you were so near," she exclaimed, with a laugh and a blush. "Wont you sit down with us? Grandpa Dinsmore has been telling us very interesting things about Bermuda." "And papa can probably tell some that will be more interesting," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, as the Captain took possession of Elsie's seat and drew her to one upon his knee. That suited the little maid exactly; in her opinion no seat was more desirable than "papa's knee." "Now, papa, we're ready to hear all you know about Bermuda," said Ned, with a look of eager interest. "Perhaps you are more ready to hear than I to tell," the Captain answered, with an amused smile. "At any rate, I want, first, to hear what you have been told, lest I should waste my time and strength in repeating it." The children eagerly repeated what had been told them, the Captain added a few more facts about the beautiful things to be seen in the clear Bermuda waters--the coral reefs and the plants and animals that cover them; then the call to dinner came, and all left the deck for the dining-saloon. Almost the whole party were on deck again immediately upon leaving the table. The older ones were scattered here and there in couples or groups, but Elsie and Ned sauntered along together chatting in low tones, as if not wanting to be overheard by the older people. "Yes, I am sorry," sighed Elsie, in reply to something her brother had said; "Christmas is such a delightful time at home, and, of course, we can't expect to have one here on the yacht." "No," said Ned, brightening, "but, of course, we can give Christmas gifts to each other, if--if we get to Bermuda in time to buy things. I s'pose there must be stores there." "Surely, I should think. I'll ask mamma or papa about it." "Have you any money?" "Yes; I have two dollars I've been saving up to buy Christmas gifts. How much have you?" "Fifty cents. It isn't much, but it will buy some little things, I guess." "Yes, of course it will. But, oh, Ned, Christmas comes Monday. To-morrow is Sunday; so we couldn't do any shopping, even if we were on the land; and we may as well give it up." "Yes, but we are having a very good time here on the 'Dolphin,' aren't we, Elsie?" "Yes, indeed! and it would be really shameful for us to fret and worry over missing the usual Christmas gifts and pleasures." The two had been so absorbed in the subject they were discussing that they had not noticed an approaching step, but now a hand was laid on a shoulder of each, and their father's loved voice asked, in tender tones: "What is troubling my little son and daughter? Tell papa, and perhaps he may find a way out of the woods." "Yes, papa; they are not very thick woods," laughed Elsie. "It is only that we are sorry we can't have any Christmas times this winter, or remember anybody with gifts, because we can't go to any stores to buy anything." "Are you quite sure of all that, daughter?" he asked, with a smile, smoothing her hair caressingly as he spoke. "I thought I was, but perhaps my father knows better," she answered, with a pleased little laugh. "Well, I think a man of my age ought to know more than a little girl of yours. Don't you?" "Oh, yes, indeed! and I know my father knows many, many times more than I do. Is there any way for us to get gifts for all these dear folks on the yacht with us, or for any of them, papa?" "Yes, I remembered Christmas when we were getting ready to leave home, and provided such gifts as seemed desirable for each one of my family to give to others. I will give you each your share to-night before you go to your berths, and you can decide how you will distribute them--to whom you will give each one." "But, papa, I----" Elsie paused, blushing and confused. "Well, dear child, what is it?" asked her father, in gentle, affectionate tones. "I was thinking, papa, that they could hardly be our gifts when you bought them and with your own money, not ours." "But I give them to you, daughter, and you may keep or give them away, just as you like. That makes them your gift quite as truly as if they had been bought with your own pocket money. Does it not?" "Oh, yes, papa, so it seems to me, and I know it does since you say so," exclaimed Elsie joyously; Ned joining in with, "Oh, that's just splendid, papa! You are the best father in the world! Elsie and I both think so." "Well, it is very pleasant to have my children think so, however mistaken they may be," his father said, with a smile and an affectionate pat on the little boy's shoulder. "Well, my dears, suppose we go down at once and attend to these matters. It will be better now than later, I think, and not so likely to keep you from getting to sleep in good season to-night." The children gave an eager, joyful assent, and their father led them down to the stateroom occupied by Violet and himself, and opening a trunk there, brought to light a quantity of pretty things--ribbons, laces, jewelry, books and pictures; also cards with the names of the intended recipients to be attached to the gifts, as the young givers might see fit. That work was undertaken at once, their father helping them in their selection and attaching the cards for them. It did not take very long, and they returned to the deck in gay spirits. "For what purpose did you two children take papa down below? or was it he who took you?" asked Lucilla, laughingly. "I think it was papa who took us," said Elsie, smiling up into his face as she spoke. "Wasn't it, papa?" "Yes," he said, "and whoever asks about it may be told it was father's secret conference." "Oh," cried Lucilla, "it is a secret then, is it? I don't want to pry into other people's affairs; so I withdraw my question." "Perhaps papa intends to take his other children--you and me, Lu--down in their turn," remarked Grace, laughingly, for she was sitting near her father, and had overheard the bit of chat. "I really had not thought of doing so," said the Captain, "but it is a good idea. Come, now, both of you," he added, leading the way. "I suppose you two have not forgotten that to-morrow will be Sunday and the next day Christmas?" he said, inquiringly, as they reached the saloon. "Oh, no, papa; you know you helped us, before we left home, in selecting gifts for Mamma Vi and the children and others," said Grace. "But how are we going to keep Christmas here on the yacht?" "Pretty much as if we were at home on the land," he answered, with a smile. "There is a Christmas tree lying down in the hold. I intend having it set up here early Monday morning, and some of the early risers will perhaps trim it before the late ones are out of bed. Then it can be viewed, and the gifts distributed when all are ready to take part in the work and fun. Now, if you wish I will show you the gifts I have prepared for my family--not including yourselves," he interpolated, with a smile. "Our guests and servants here and the crew of the vessel." The offer was gladly accepted, the gifts viewed with great interest and pleasure, the girls chatting meanwhile with affectionate and respectful familiarity with their loved father. "I like your plan, father, very much indeed," said Lucilla; "and as it is easy and natural for me to wake and rise early, I should like to help with the trimming of the tree, if you are willing." "Certainly, daughter, I shall be glad to have you help--and to put the gifts intended for you on afterward," he added, with a smile. "Yes, sir; and perhaps your daughters may treat you in the same way," she returned demurely. "I suppose you would hardly blame them for following your example?" "I ought not to, since example is said to be better than precept. We will put these things away now, go back to our friends on deck, and try to forget gifts until Christmas morning." CHAPTER IX. As on former voyages on the "Dolphin," Sabbath day was kept religiously by all on board the vessel. Religious services--prayer, praise and the reading of a sermon--were held on deck, for the benefit of all, after which there was a Bible lesson led by Mr. Milburn, the subject being the birth of Jesus and the visits of the wise men from the east; also the story of Bethlehem's shepherds and their angel visitants followed by their visit to the infant Saviour. The children went to bed early that night that--as they said--Christmas might come the sooner. Then the Captain, his older daughters, Chester, and Harold, had a little chat about what should be done in the morning. The young men were urgent that their assistance should be accepted in the matter of setting up and trimming the tree; the girls also put in a petition for the privilege of helping with the work. To Lucilla their father answered, "You may, as I have said, for you are naturally an early bird, so that I think it cannot hurt you." Then turning to Grace, "I hardly think it would do for you, daughter dear; but we will let your doctor decide it," turning inquiringly to Harold. "If her doctor is to decide it, he says emphatically No," said Harold, with a very loverlike look down into the sweet face of his betrothed; "she will enjoy the rest of the day much better for taking her usual morning nap." "You and papa are very kind; almost too kind," returned Grace, between a smile and a sigh. "But I think you are a good doctor, so I will follow your advice and papa's wishes." "That is right, my darling," responded her father, "and I hope you will have your reward in feeling well through the day." "If she doesn't, she can discharge her doctor," said Lucilla in a mirthful tone. "You seem inclined to be hard upon doctors, Lu," remarked Harold, gravely; "but one of these days you may be glad of the services of even such an one as I." "Yes, that is quite possible; and even now I am right glad to have my husband under your care; and I'm free to say that if your patients don't improve, I don't think it will be fair to blame it--their failure--on the doctor." "Thank you," he said; "should you need doctoring on this trip of ours, just call upon me and I'll do the best for you that I can." "I have no doubt you would," laughed Lucilla, "but I'll do my best to keep out of your hands." "That being your intention, let me advise you to go at once to your bed," returned Harold, glancing at his watch. Then all said good-night and dispersed to their rooms. At early dawn the three gentlemen were again in the saloon overseeing the setting up of the Christmas tree, then arranging upon it a multitude of gifts from one to another of the "Dolphin's" passengers, and some token of remembrance for each one of the crew; for it was not in the kind heart of the Captain ever to forget or neglect any one in his employ. The other passengers, older and younger, except Lucilla, who was with them in time to help with the trimming of the tree, did not emerge from their staterooms until the sun was up, shining gloriously upon the sea, in which the waves were gently rising and falling. All were fond of gazing upon the sea, but this morning their first attention was given to the tree, which seemed to have grown up in a night in the saloon, where they were used to congregate mornings, evenings and stormy days. All gathered round it and viewed its treasures with appreciative remarks; then the Captain, with Chester's and Harold's assistance, distributed the gifts. Every one had several and seemed well pleased with them. The one that gave Eva the greatest pleasure had been left for her by her young husband; it was an excellent miniature likeness of himself set in gold and diamonds. She appreciated the beautiful setting, but the correct and speaking likeness was far more to her. Near the tree stood a table loaded with fruits and confections of various kinds, very tempting in appearance. Ned hailed it with an expression of pleasure, but his father bade him let the sweets alone until after he had eaten his breakfast. The words had scarcely left the Captain's lips when a voice was heard, apparently coming from the skylight overhead: "Say, Pete, d'ye see them goodies piled up on that thar table down thar? My, but they looks temptin'." "Yes," seemed to come from another voice, "wouldn't I like to git in thar and help myself? It's odd and real mean how some folks has all the good things and other folks none." "Course it is. But, oh, I'll tell you. They'll be goin' out to breakfast presently, then let's go down thar where the goodies is, and help, ourselves." "Yes, let's." Everybody in the saloon had stopped talking and seemed to be listening in surprise to the colloquy of the two stowaways--for such they apparently were--but now Ned broke the silence: "Why, how did they get on board? Must be stowaways and have been in the hold all this time. Oh, I guess they are hungry enough by this time; so no wonder they want the candies and things." "Perhaps Cousin Ronald can tell us something about them," laughed Lucilla. "Acquaintances of mine, you think, lassie?" sniffed the old gentleman. "Truly, you are most complimentary. But I have no more fancy for such trash than have you." "Ah, well, now, cousin, I really don't imagine those remarks were made by any very bad or objectionable fellows," remarked Captain Raymond, in a tone of amusement. "No," said Mr. Dinsmore, "we certainly should not be hard on them if they are poor and hungry." "Which they must be if they have been living in the hold ever since we left our native shores," laughed Violet. "Oh, now, I know, it was just Cousin Ronald, and not any real person," cried Ned, dancing about in delight. "And so I'm not a real person?" said Mr. Lilburn, in a deeply hurt tone. "Oh, Cousin Ronald, I didn't mean that," said Ned, penitently, "only that you weren't two boys, but just pretending to be." At that everybody laughed, and Mr. Lilburn said: "Very true; I never was two boys and am no longer even one. Well, I think you and all of us may feel safe in leaving the good things on the table there when we are called to breakfast, for I am sure those fellows will not meddle with them." The summons to the table had just sounded, and now was obeyed by all with cheerful alacrity. Everybody was in fine spirits, the meal an excellent one, and all partook of it with appetite, while the flow of conversation was steady, bright and mirthful. They had their morning service directly after the meal, then went upon deck and to their surprise found they were in sight of Bermuda. They were glad to see it, though the voyage had been a pleasant one to all and really beneficial to the ailing ones, for whose benefit it was undertaken more particularly than for the enjoyment of the others. Also it was hoped and expected that their sojourn in and about the islands would be still more helpful and delightful; and so indeed it proved. They tarried in that neighborhood several weeks, spending most of their time on the vessel, or in her small boats--many of the water-ways being too narrow and shallow to be traversed by the yacht, but going from place to place on the land in a way to see all that was interesting there. CHAPTER X. It was a lovely moonlight evening; the "Dolphin's" Captain and all his family and passengers were gathered together upon the deck. It had been a day of sight-seeing and wandering from place to place about the islands, and they were weary enough to fully enjoy the rest and quiet now vouchsafed them. Captain Raymond broke a momentary silence by saying: "I hope, my friends, that you can all feel that you have had a pleasant sojourn in and about these islands?" "Indeed we have," replied several voices. "I am glad to hear it," returned the Captain, heartily; "and now the question is, Shall we tarry here longer or go on our southward way to visit other places, where we will escape the rigors of winter in our more northern homes?" No one spoke for a moment; then Mr. Dinsmore said: "Let the majority decide. I am perfectly satisfied to go on or to stay here, as you, Captain, and they may wish." "And I echo my husband's sentiments and feelings," remarked Mrs. Rose Dinsmore, pleasantly. "And you, mother?" asked the Captain, turning to Mrs. Travilla. "I, too, am entirely willing to go or stay, as others may wish," she replied, in her own sweet voice. "And you, Evelyn?" asked the Captain, turning to her. "I feel that it would be delightful either to go or stay, father," she answered, with a smile and a blush. The others were quite as non-committal, but after some further chat on the subject it was decided that they would leave Bermuda the next morning, and, taking a southerly course, probably make Porto Rico their next halting place. As usual, Lucilla woke at an early hour. Evidently the vessel was still stationary, and anxious to see it start she rose and made her toilet very quietly, lest she should disturb her still sleeping husband, then left the room and stole noiselessly through the saloon up to the deck, where she found her father overseeing the lifting of the anchor. "Ah, good-morning, daughter," he said, with a smile, as she reached his side. "You are an early bird as usual," ending his sentence with a clasp of his arm about her waist and a kiss upon her lips. "Yes, papa," she laughed, "who wouldn't be an early bird to get such a token of love from such a father as mine?" "And what father wouldn't be ready and glad to bestow it upon such a daughter as mine?" he responded, repeating his loving caress. "You have enjoyed your trip thus far, daughter, have you not?" "Yes, indeed, papa. We are bound for Porto Rico now, are we not?" "Yes, I think that will be our first stopping place; though perhaps we may not land at all, but merely sail round it, viewing it from the sea." "And perhaps you may treat Cuba in the same way?" "Very possibly. I shall act in regard to both as the majority of my passengers may wish." The anchor was now up, and the vessel gliding through the water. The Captain and Lucilla paced the deck to and fro, taking a farewell look at the receding islands and talking of the pleasure they had found in visiting them, particularly in exploring the many creeks and bays, with their clear waters so full of beautiful shells and fish, so different from those to be found in their land. "I shall always look back with pleasure upon this visit to Bermuda, father," Lucilla said, with a grateful smile up into his eyes. "I am very glad you have enjoyed it, daughter," he replied; "as I think every one of our party has. And I am hoping that our wanderings further to the south may prove not less interesting and enjoyable." "Yes, sir, I hope so. I shall feel great interest in looking upon Cuba and Porto Rico--particularly the first--because of what our men did and endured there in the late war with Spain. How pleasant it was that the Porto Ricans were so ready and glad to be freed from the domination of Spain and taken into our Union." Just then Harold joined them, and with him came little Ned. Pleasant good-mornings were exchanged. Then others of their party followed, two or three at a time, till all were on deck enjoying the sweet morning air and the view of the fast-receding islands. Then came the call to breakfast, followed by the morning service of prayer and praise, and after that they returned to the deck. As usual, the children were soon beside their loved grandmother, Mrs. Elsie Travilla. "Well, dears, we have had a very good time at Bermuda, haven't we?" she said, smiling lovingly upon them. "Yes, ma'am," said Elsie. "Do you think we will have as good a time where we are going now?" "I hope so, my dear. I believe Porto Rico is to be the first land we touch at. Would you like me to tell you something of its beauties and its history?" "Yes, indeed, grandma," both children answered, in a tone of eager assent, and she began at once. "The name--Porto Rico--was given it by the Spaniards, and means 'The Gateway of Wealth.' It was discovered by Columbus in 1493. It is about half as large as New Jersey. Through its center is a range of mountains called the Luquillo. The highest peak, Yunque, can be seen from a distance of sixty-eight miles. Porto Rico is a beautiful island. The higher parts of the hills are covered by forests; immense herds of cattle are pastured on the plains. The land is fertile and they raise cotton, corn, rice and almost every kind of tropical fruit." "Are there any rivers, grandma?" asked Ned. "Nine small ones," she answered. "Are there any towns?" "Oh yes, quite a good many; large ones. Ponce, the capital, has a good many thousands of inhabitants, and some fine buildings. San Juan, too, is quite a large place; it stands on Morro Island, which forms the north side of the harbor and is separated from the mainland by a narrow creek called the Channel of San Antonio. At the entrance to San Juan's harbors is a lighthouse on Morro Point. It is one hundred and seventy-one feet above the sea, and its fixed light is visible for eighteen miles over the waters." "Oh," cried Ned, "let's watch out for it when we are coming that near." "It will be very well for you to do so," his grandma said, with a smile; then went on with her account of Porto Rico. "The island has much to recommend it; the climate is salubrious, and there are no snakes or reptiles. It has valuable minerals, too--gold, copper, lead; also coal. San Juan is lighted by both gas and electricity. "The Spaniards were very cruel to the poor Indians who inhabited Porto Rico when Columbus discovered it. It is said that in a hundred years they had killed five hundred thousand of men, women and children." "Oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed Elsie. "And they killed so, _so_ many of the poor natives in Peru and in Mexico. I don't wonder that God has let their nation grow so poor and weak." "The Porto Ricans were tired of being governed by them when we began our war with Spain to help the poor Cubans to get free," continued Grandma Elsie. "Our government and people did not know that, but thought Porto Rico should be taken from Spain, as well as Cuba. So as soon as Santiago was taken, a strong force was sent against Ponce. "The 'Wasp' was the first vessel to arrive. It had been expected that they would have to shell the city, but as the 'Wasp' steamed close to the shore a great crowd of citizens could be seen gathered there. They were not behaving like enemies, and the troops on the 'Wasp' were at a loss to understand what it meant; therefore, the gunners stood ready to fire at an instant's warning, when Ensign Rowland Curtin was sent ashore bearing a flag of truce, four men with him. "The citizens were cheering as if frantic with joy over their coming, and as soon as they landed overwhelmed them with gifts of tobacco, cigars, cigarettes, bananas, and other good things." "Oh, wasn't that nice!" exclaimed Elsie. "I think they showed their good sense in preferring to be ruled by our people rather than by the Spaniards." "As soon as the people could be calm enough to listen," continued Grandma Elsie, "Ensign Curtin announced that he had come to demand the surrender of the city and port, and asked to see the civil or military authorities. "Some of the civil officials were there, but they could not surrender the city, as that must be the act of the military powers. There was a telephone at hand, and the ensign ordered a message sent to Colonel San Martin, the commandant, telling him that if he did not come forward and surrender the city in the course of half an hour, it would be bombarded. "The garrison had been, and still were, debating among themselves what they should do, but as soon as they heard of this message they began looting the stores and shops, cramming underwear and clothing upon their backs and in their trousers, to check and hold the bullets which they were certain the Americans would send after them, as they scampered off. "Ensign Curtin went back to his vessel, and, soon after, Commander C. H. Davis, of the 'Dixie,' was rowed ashore. There a note was handed him from Colonel San Martin, asking on what terms he demanded the surrender of the city. He answered that it must be unconditional. At the request of the commandant, however, he made the terms a little different. Then the padded men of the garrison waddled out of town, leaving one hundred and fifty rifles and fourteen thousand rounds of ammunition behind. "Lieutenant Haines, commanding the marines of the 'Dixie,' landed and hoisted the Stars and Stripes over the custom-house at the port of Ponce, the onlookers cheering most heartily. After that, Lieutenant Murdoch and Surgeon Heiskell rode to the city, three miles distant, where the people fairly went wild with joy, dancing and shouting, '_Viva los Americanos. Viva Puerto Rico libre._'" "Sensible folks I think they were to be so glad to get away from Spain and into the United States," remarked Ned, with a pleased smile. "Yes, I think they were," said Grandma Elsie, "for it was gaining liberty--freedom from most oppressive tyranny." She had begun her talk to the two children alone, but now quite a group had gathered about them--Dr. Harold Travilla and Grace Raymond, Chester and Lucilla Dinsmore and Mrs. Evelyn Raymond. "I am very desirous to see Porto Rico," said Harold. "It must be a garden spot--fertile and beautiful. As we draw near it I mean to be on the lookout for El Yunque." "What's that, uncle?" asked Ned. "The highest point of land on the island, nearly four thousand feet high. The meaning of the name is the anvil." "Porto Rico being in the torrid zone, it must have a very hot climate. The weather must have been very oppressive for our troops--taking it in the height of summer," remarked Grace. "Yes," said Grandma Elsie; "but the climate is more agreeable than that of Cuba or of many places farther north, because of the land breezes that prevail, coming from both north and south." "It is a beautiful and delightful island," remarked Harold. "I have often thought I should, some day, pay it a visit." "Are we likely to land there?" asked his mother. "I do not know, mother," he answered; "but I presume the Captain will say that shall be just as his passengers wish." "Yes, I am sure father will say we may all do exactly as we please," said Lucilla; "go ashore, or stay quietly on the yacht while others go and return." "It cannot be now the delightful place to visit that it was before the hurricane of last August," remarked Chester. "No," said Grandma Elsie, "and I think I, for one, do not care to land on the island until they have had more time to recover from the fearful effects of that terrible storm." "What mischief did it do, grandma?" asked Ned; "were there houses destroyed and people killed?" "Yes; a great many," she answered, with a sigh. "I have read that in one district it was estimated that the damage done to houses and crops would reach nine hundred thousand in gold, and that in the valley of the Rio de Grande over a thousand persons disappeared, and were supposed to have been drowned by the sudden rise and overflow of the river." "And you, mother, I know gave liberally to help repair the damages," said Harold. "I was better able than many others who may have been quite as willing," she responded, "and I think I can do still more, if I find the need is still urgent." "Yes, mother dear, you seem always ready and glad to help any one who needs it," said Harold, giving her a look full of proud, loving admiration. Captain Raymond had drawn near the group just in time to hear Harold's last remark. "Quite true, Harold," he said, "but who is to be the happy recipient of mother's bounty this time?" "We were talking of the losses of the unfortunate Porto Ricans in last August's fearful storm," replied Harold. "Mother, as you know, has already given help, and expresses herself as ready to do more if it is needed." "And will do it, I know," said the Captain. "I hope, though, that my dear grandma wont give everything away and have nothing left for herself," said Elsie Raymond, with a loving look up into Grandma Elsie's face. "I should not like to have her do that either," the Captain said, with a smile. "But the Bible tells us, 'He that hath pity upon the poor, lendeth unto the Lord, and that which he hath given will he pay him again.'" "A promise that none of us need be afraid to trust," said Grandma Elsie, with a happy look and smile. "Do you think of visiting any part of the island, Captain?" "That shall be as my passengers wish," he replied; "we can consider the matter and talk it over while on our way there. My present plan is to go directly to San Juan. We may stay some hours or days there, those going ashore who wish, the others remaining on the vessel. We may make the circuit of the island, entirely or in part, keeping near enough to the land to get a pretty good view of its beauties." "Will this be your first visit to Porto Rico, Captain?" queried Chester. "No, I paid it a flying visit some years ago; and then went up the mountains to Caguas and visited the dark cave of Aguas Buenas." "Did it pay?" asked Chester. "Hardly. The outside journey, though difficult, did pay, but the darkness of the cave, the multitudes of bats flying in your face, and the danger of the guides' torches going out, leaving you unable to find your way to the opening, make the expedition anything but safe or pleasant. I shall never venture in there again or advise any friend to do so." "Are you going to take us to Cuba, too, papa?" asked Elsie. "If my passengers wish to go there." "Oh, I think they will; this one does, anyhow," laughed the little girl. "Don't you think it would be pleasanter to visit it after it has had time to recover from the war?" asked Lucilla. "Perhaps papa will bring us a second time after that?" Elsie said, with a smile up into his face. "That is quite possible," he answered, returning the smile. "Please, papa, tell us something about Cuba now, won't you?" pleaded Ned. "Very willingly, if you all care to hear it," returned the Captain, and a general assent being given, he went on: "I think much of it you will all understand better, if told you while looking upon the scenes where it occurred. However, since you wish it, I shall tell at least a part of the story now. "Doubtless, you all know that Cuba was discovered by Columbus on October 28, 1492. He said of it at one time: 'It is the most beautiful land that eyes ever beheld'; at another: 'Its waters are filled with excellent ports, its rivers are magnificent and profound'; and yet again, 'As far as the day surpasses night in brightness and splendor, it surpasses all other countries.' "He found it beautiful not only along the shore where he first landed, but in the interior also; flowers, fruits, maize and cotton in their abundance showed the fertility of the soil. And it was inhabited by a peaceful people who gave him and his men a glad welcome, imagining them to be superior beings, and little dreaming how they were to suffer at their hands. Columbus describes them as tall and straight, like the natives of North America, of tawny complexion, and gentle disposition, being easy to influence by their masters. They were a naturally indolent race, which was not strange, considering how easy it was for them to have a comfortable living with very little exertion; there were abundance of wild fruits, and corn and cotton could be raised with little exertion; abundance of fish could be easily obtained from the waters, and if they wanted meat, a little animal resembling a rat in appearance, but tasting like a rabbit, could be had for the hunting. So it would seem they lived easy, contented and peaceful lives; and why should the Spaniards think they had a right to rob and enslave them." "Why indeed," exclaimed Lucilla. "The Indians--if able to do so--would have had just as good a right to go over to Spain and enslave them." "But with the Spaniards might made right," said Chester. "But there were only a few Spaniards with Columbus and a very great many natives on these islands," remarked little Elsie, in a puzzled tone. "I wonder they didn't kill the Spaniards as soon as they began trying to make slaves of them." "At first," said her father, "they took the Spaniards to be a race of superior beings, and gladly welcomed them to their shores. It would, doubtless, have been easy for them to crush that handful of worn-out men, and no doubt they would if they could have foreseen what their conduct toward them would be; but they mistook them for friends, and treated them as such. One cazique gave them a grand reception and feasted them amid songs and their rude music. Games, dancing and singing followed, then they were conducted to separate lodges and each provided with a cotton hammock, that proved a delightful couch to pass the night upon." "And the Spaniards took all that kindness at the hands of those poor things and repaid them with the basest robbery and cruelty," exclaimed Elsie. "Yes," said her father; "they even repaid that most generous hospitality by seizing some of the youngest, strongest and most beautiful of their entertainers and carrying them to Spain, where they were paraded before the vulgar gaze of the jeering crowd, then sold into slavery. "One of their venerable caziques gave to Columbus, when he came the second time to the island, a basket of luscious fruit, saying to him, as he did so: 'Whether you are divinities or mortal men, we know not. You have come into these countries with a force, against which, were we inclined to resist, it would be folly. We are all, therefore, at your mercy; but if you are men, subject to morality, like ourselves, you cannot be unapprised that after this life there is another, wherein a very different portion is allotted to good and bad men. If, then, you expect to die, and believe, with us, that every one is to be rewarded in a future state according to his conduct in the present, you will do no hurt to those who do none to you.'" "That old chief was certainly a very wise man for a heathen," remarked Chester. "And how strange that the Spaniards could treat so shamefully such innocent and friendly people," said Evelyn. "Yes," exclaimed Lucilla, "I think we may all be thankful that there is no Spanish blood in us." "Which fact makes us the more to be blamed if we indulge in oppression and cruelty," said her father. "Papa, did that old king live long enough to see how very cruel the Spaniards were to his people?" asked Elsie. "That I cannot tell," replied the Captain, "but by the time another ten years had passed by, the natives of Cuba had learned that the love of the Spaniards for gold was too great ever to be satisfied, and that they themselves could not be safe with the Spaniards there; they were so alarmed that when Diego Columbus sent an armed force of three hundred men to begin to colonize Cuba, they resisted their landing. But they, the Indians, were only naked savages with frail spears and wooden swords, while the invading foes were old-world warriors who had been trained on many a hard-fought battlefield, armed with deadly weapons, protected by plate armor, and having bloodhounds to help in their cruel attempt to rob and subjugate the rightful owners of the soil. So they succeeded in their wicked designs; hundreds of those poor Indians were killed in cold blood, others spared to slavery worse than death. From being free men they became slaves to one of the most cruel and tyrannical races of the world. And they were not only abused there on their own island, but hundreds of them were taken to Europe and sold for slaves in the markets of Seville. That was to raise money to pay the expenses of their captors." "Why," exclaimed Ned, "the Spaniards treated them as if they were just animals, instead of people." "Papa, were they--the Indians--heathen?" asked Elsie. "They had no images or altars, no temples, but they believed in a future existence and in a god living above the blue-domed sky," replied the Captain. "But they knew nothing of Jesus and the way of salvation, and it seems the Spaniards did not tell them of Him or give them the Bible." "No," said Grandma Elsie, "Rome did not allow them the Bible for themselves." "Are there a good many wild flowers in Cuba, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes; a great many, and of every color and tint imaginable--flowers growing wild in the woods. The foliage of the trees is scarcely less beautiful, and their tops are alive with birds of gayly-colored plumage. I have been speaking of wild, uncultivated land. The scene is even more inviting where man has been at work transforming the wildwood into cultivated fields; he has fenced them off with stone walls, which have warm russet-brown tints and are covered here and there with vines and creepers bearing bright flowers. The walks and avenues are bordered with orange-trees in blossom and fruit at the same time, both looking lovely in their setting of deep green leaves. But you have seen such in Louisiana." "Yes, papa, and they are beautiful," said Elsie. "There must be a great deal worth seeing in Cuba, but I'll not care to land on it if you older people don't want to." "Well, we will leave that question to be decided in the future," the Captain said, smiling down into the bright little face. "I think I have read," said Evelyn, "that Columbus at first thought Cuba not an island but a part of the mainland?" "Yes," replied the Captain, "but the natives assured him that it was an island; on his second trip, however, in 1494, he reiterated his previous belief and called the land Juana, after Juan, the son of Ferdinand and Isabella. Afterward he changed it to Fernandina, in honor of Ferdinand; still later to Santiago, the name of the patron saint of Spain, after that to Ave Maria. But the name Cuba clung to the island and was never lost. "The Indians there were a peaceable race. They called themselves Ciboneyes. They had nine independent caciques, and, as I believe I have already told you, they believed in a supreme being and the immortality of the soul." "Really, they seem to me to have been more Christian than the Spaniards who came and robbed them of their lands and their liberty," said Evelyn. CHAPTER XI. The "Dolphin" and her passengers and crew reached Porto Rico in safety, having made the voyage without detention or mishap. The yacht lay in the harbor of San Juan for nearly a week, while its passengers made various little excursions here and there to points of interest upon the island. Then the yacht made its circuit, keeping near enough to the shore for a good view of the land, in which all were greatly interested--especially in those parts where there had been some fighting with the Spaniards in the late war. "Now, father, you are going to take us to Santiago next, are you not?" asked Lucilla, as they steamed away from the Porto Rican coast. "Yes," he replied, "I am satisfied that you all take a particular interest in that place, feeling that you would like to see the scene of the naval battle and perhaps to look from a distance upon some of the places where there was fighting on land." "It will be interesting," said little Elsie, "but, oh, how glad I am that the fighting is all over!" "As I am," said her father; "but if it wasn't, I should not think of taking my family and friends to the scene." "That was a big battle," said Ned. "I'm glad I'm going to see the place of the fight; though I'd rather see Manila and its bay, because Brother Max had a share in that fight. Uncle Harold, you came pretty near having a share in the Santiago one, didn't you?" "I was near enough to be in sight of some of it," said Harold; "though not so near as to some of the fighting on the land." "That must have been a very exciting time for you and your fellows," remarked Mr. Lilburn. "It was, indeed; there was slaughter enough on land," said Harold; "and though we were pretty confident that victory would perch upon our banners in the sea fight, we could not hope it would prove so nearly bloodless for our side." "The sea fight?" "Yes; that on the land was harder on our fellows, particularly because our unreasonable Congressmen had failed to furnish for them the smokeless powder and Mauser bullets that gave so great an advantage to the Spaniards." "Yes, indeed," said the Captain, "that absolute freedom from smoke made it impossible to tell exactly whence came those stinging darts that struck men down, and the great penetrating power of the Mauser bullet made them doubly deadly. They would cut through a palm-tree without losing anything of their force, and, in several instances, two or more men were struck down by one and the same missile." "It was very sad that that gallant young soldier, Captain Capron, was killed by that first volley," remarked Violet. "Yes," said her mother, "I remember reading the account of his death, and that he came of a family of soldiers; that his father, engaged with his battery before the Spanish lines, left it for a brief time and came over to where the body of his son lay on the rank grass, and, looking for a moment on the still features, stooped and kissed the dead face, saying, 'Well done, boy, well done.' That was all, and he went back to the battle." "Yes, mother," said Harold, in moved tones, "my heart aches yet when I think of that poor, bereaved but brave father. Ah, war is a dreadful thing, even when undertaken from the good motive which influenced our people, who felt so much sympathy for the poor, abused Cubans." "The Americans are, as a rule, kind-hearted folk," remarked Mr. Lilburn, "and I doubt if there are any troops in the world superior to them in action; not even those of my own land." "No," said the Captain, "they were brave fellows and good fighters, having seen service in our Northwest and Southwest, on the prairies, among the mountains and on the Mexican frontier, so that war was no new thing to them, and they went about it calmly even in so unaccustomed a place as a tropical forest." "Papa, that Captain Capron wasn't instantly killed by that Mauser bullet, was he?" asked Grace. "No; he was struck down early in the action and knew that his wound was mortal, but he called to a man near him to give him the rifle that lay by the side of a dead soldier; then, propped up against a tree, he fired at the enemy with it until his strength failed, when he fell forward to die." "What a brave fellow! It is dreadful to have such men killed," said Grace, her voice trembling with emotion. "Another man, Private Heffener, also fought leaning against a tree until he bled to death," said Harold. "Then there was Trooper Rowland, a cowboy from New Mexico, who was shot through the lungs early in that fight. He said nothing about it, but kept his place on the firing-line till Roosevelt noticed the blood on his shirt and sent him to the hospital. He was soon back again and seeing him Colonel Roosevelt said, 'I thought I sent you to the hospital.' 'Yes, sir; you did,' replied Rowland, 'but I didn't see that they could do much for me there, so I came back.' He stayed there until the fight ended. Then he went again to the hospital. Upon examining him the doctors decided that he must be sent back to the States, with which decision he was greatly disgusted. That night he got possession of his rifle and pack, slipped out of the hospital, made his way back to his command and stayed there." "Perhaps," said Grandma Elsie, "you have not all read Marshall's experiences then and there. It happens that I have just been re-reading an extract which has interested me greatly. Let me read it aloud that you may all have the benefit of it. It is a description of the scene in the field hospital where badly wounded men lay crowded together awaiting their turns under the surgeon's knife. Shall I read it?" There was a universal note of assent from her hearers, and she began. "There is one incident of the day which shines out in my memory above all others now, as I lie in a New York hospital, writing. It occurred at the field hospital. About a dozen of us were lying there. A continual chorus of moans rose through the tree-branches overhead. The surgeons, with hands and bared arms dripping, and clothes literally saturated, with blood, were straining every nerve to prepare the wounded for the journey down to Siboney. Behind me lay Captain McClintock, with his lower leg-bones literally ground to powder. He bore his pain as gallantly as he had led his men, and that is saying much. I think Major Brodie was also there. It was a doleful group. Amputation and death stared its members in their gloomy faces. "Suddenly, a voice started softly: 'My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing.' "Other voices took it up: 'Land where my fathers died, Land of the Pilgrims' pride----' "The quivering, quavering chorus, punctuated by groans and made spasmodic by pain, trembled up from that little group of wounded Americans in the midst of the Cuban solitude--the pluckiest, most heartfelt song that human beings ever sang. There was one voice that did not quite keep up with the others. It was so weak that I did not hear it until all the rest had finished with the line: 'Let Freedom ring.' "Then, halting, struggling, faint, it repeated slowly: 'Land--of--the--Pilgrims'--pride, Let Freedom----' "The last word was a woeful cry. One more son had died as died the fathers." There was a moment's pause when Grandma Elsie had finished reading, and there were tears in the eyes of many of her hearers. It was Harold who broke the silence. "That battle of Guasimas was a complete victory for our forces, but dearly paid for," he said; "of the nine hundred and sixty-four men engaged, sixteen were killed and fifty-two wounded; thirty-four of the wounded and eight of the killed were Rough Riders." "And a scarcity of doctors seems to have caused great suffering to our wounded men," Grandma Elsie said, with a sigh. "Yes; there were too few of us," said Harold, "and, through somebody's blundering, needed supplies were also scarce. I think our men were wonderfully patient, and it is hard to forgive those whose carelessness and inefficiency caused them so much unnecessary suffering." "Yes, it is," said his mother; "war is a dreadful thing. How the people of beleaguered Santiago suffered during the siege, and especially when they were sent out of it that they might escape the bombardment. Think of eighteen to twenty thousand having to take refuge in that little town, El Caney, foul with the effluvium from unburied mules and horses, and even human victims of the battle; houses so crowded that they could not even lie down on the floors, but had to pass their nights sitting on them; and food so scarce that one small biscuit sold for two dollars, and seven dollars was refused for a chicken." "It was dreadful, dreadful indeed!" said Mrs. Lilburn. "Yet not so bad as it would have been to let Spain continue her outrageous cruelty to the poor Cubans," said Evelyn. "No," said Lucilla, "I should be sorry, indeed, to have to render up the account that Weyler and the rest of them will in the Judgment Day." "I think he is worse than a savage," sighed Mrs. Lilburn. "I should think if he had any heart or conscience he would never be able to enjoy a morsel of food for thinking of the multitude of poor creatures--men, women and children--he has starved to death." CHAPTER XII. Our friends were favored with pleasant weather on their voyage from Porto Rico to Cuba. All were gathered upon deck when they came in sight of "The Pearl (or Queen) of the Antillies," "The Ever-faithful Isle," as the Spaniards were wont to call it, and they gazed upon it with keen interest; an interest that deepened as they drew near the scene of Schley's victory over the Spanish fleet. Captain Raymond and Dr. Harold Travilla, being the only ones of their number who had visited the locality before, explained the whereabouts of each American vessel, when, on that Sunday morning of July third, that cloud of smoke told the watchers on the American ships that the enemy was coming out. Every one in the little company had heard the battle described; therefore, a very brief account, accompanying the pointing out of the progress of different vessels during the fight, and where each of the Spanish ones came to her end, was all that was needed. While they looked and talked, the "Dolphin" moved slowly along that they might get a view of every part of the scene of action on that day of naval victory in the cause of the down-trodden and oppressed Cubans. That accomplished, they returned to the neighborhood of Santiago, and entering the narrow channel which gives entrance to its bay, passed on into and around that, gazing on the steep hills that come down to the water's edge, on Morro and the remains of earthworks and batteries. They did not care to go into the city, but steamed out into the sea again and made the circuit of the island, keeping near enough to the shore to get a pretty good view of most of the places they cared to see--traveling by day and anchoring at night. "Having completed the circuit of Cuba, where do we go next, Captain?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, as the party sat on deck in the evening of the day on which they had completed their trip around the island. "If it suits the wishes of all my passengers, we will go down to Jamaica, pay a little visit there, pass on in a southeasterly direction to Trinidad, then perhaps to Brazil," Captain Raymond said, in reply, then asked to hear what each one present thought of the plan. Every one seemed well pleased, and it was decided that they should start the next morning for Jamaica. The vessel was moving the next morning before many of her passengers were out of their berths. Elsie Raymond noticed it as soon as she woke, and hastened with her toilet that she might join her father on deck. She was always glad to be with him, and she wanted to see whatever they might pass on their way across the sea to Jamaica. The sun was shining, but it was still early when she reached the deck, where she found both her father and eldest sister. Both greeted her with smiles and caresses. "Almost as early a bird as your sister Lu," the Captain said, patting the rosy cheek and smiling down into the bright eyes looking up so lovingly into his. "Yes, papa, I want to see all I can on the way to Jamaica. Will we get there to-day?" "I think we will if the 'Dolphin' does her work according to her usual fashion. But what do you know about Jamaica, the island we are bound for?" "Not so very much, papa--only--she belongs to England, doesn't she, papa?" "Yes. Her name means 'land of wood and water,' and she lies about ninety miles to the south of Cuba." "Is she a very big island, papa?" "Nearly as large as our State of Tennessee. Crossing it from east to west is a heavily-timbered ridge called the Blue Mountains, and there are many streams of water which flow from them down to the shores. None of them is navigable, however, except the Black River, which affords a passage for small craft for thirty miles into the interior." "Shall we find a good harbor for our 'Dolphin,' father?" asked Lucilla. "Yes, indeed! Excellent harbors are everywhere to be found. The best is a deep, capacious basin in the southeast quarter of the island. It washes the most spacious and fertile of the plains between the hill country and the coast. Around this inlet and within a few miles of each other are all the towns of any considerable size--Spanish Town, Port Royal, and Kingston." "Is it a very hot place, papa?" asked the little girl. "On the coast; but much cooler up on those mountains I spoke of. The climate is said to be very healthful, and many invalids go there from our United States." "They have earthquakes there sometimes, have they not, father?" asked Lucilla. "They are not quite unheard of," he replied; "in 1692 there was one which almost overwhelmed Port Royal; but that being more than two hundred years ago, need not, I think, add much to our anxieties in visiting the island." "That's a long, long time," said Elsie, thoughtfully, "so I hope they won't have one while we are there. Is it a fertile island, papa? I hope they have plenty of good fruits." "They have fruits of both tropical and temperate climates; they have spices, vanilla and many kinds of food plants; they have sugar and coffee; they export sugar, rum, pineapples and other fruits; also cocoa, ginger, pimento and logwood and cochineal." "It does seem to be very fruitful," said Elsie. "Have they railroads and telegraphs, papa?" "Two hundred miles of railroad and seven hundred of telegraph. There are coast batteries, a volunteer force and a British garrison; and there are churches and schools." "Oh, all that seems very nice! I hope we will have as good a time there as we had at Bermuda." "I hope so, daughter," he said. "Ah, here come the rest of our little family and your Uncle Harold." Affectionate good-mornings were exchanged; then the talk ran on the subject uppermost in all their minds--Jamaica, and what its attractions were likely to be for them. "I have been thinking," said Harold, "that some spot on the central heights may prove a pleasant and beneficial place for some weeks' sojourn for all of us, the ailing ones in particular." At that moment his mother joined them and he broached the same idea to her. "If we find a pleasant and comfortable lodging place I am willing to try it," she replied, in her usual cheery tones. At that moment came the call to breakfast; speedily responded to by all the passengers. Appetites and viands were alike good and the chat was cheerful and lively. The weather was clear and warm enough to make the deck, where a gentle breeze could be felt, the most agreeable lounging-place, as well as the best, for enjoying the view of the sea and any passing vessel. As usual, the children presently found their way to their Grandma Elsie's side and asked for a story or some information concerning the island toward which they were journeying. "You know something about it, I suppose?" she said, inquiringly. "Yes, ma'am; papa was telling me this morning about the mountains and towns, and harbors, and fruits and other things that they raise," said Elsie; "but there wasn't time for him to tell everything; so won't you please tell us something of its history?" "Yes, dear; grandma is always glad to give you both pleasure and information. Jamaica was discovered by Columbus during his second voyage, in 1494. The Spaniards took possession of it in 1509." "Had they any right to, grandma?" asked Ned. "No, no more than the Indians would have had to cross the ocean to Europe and take possession of their country. And the Spaniards not only robbed the Indians of their lands but abused them so cruelly that it is said that in fifty years the native population had entirely disappeared. In 1655 the British took the island from Spain, and some years later it was ceded to England by the treaty of Madrid in 1670." "And does England own it yet, grandma?" asked Elsie. "Yes; there has been some fighting on the island--trouble between the whites and the negroes--but things are going smoothly now." "So that we may hope to have a good time there, I suppose," said Ned. "Yes, I think we may," replied his grandma. "But haven't we had a good time in all our journeying about old ocean and her islands?" To that question both children answered with a hearty, "Yes indeed, grandma." CHAPTER XIII. The next morning found the "Dolphin" lying quietly at anchor in the harbor in the inlet around which are the principal towns of the island--Spanish Town, Port Royal and Kingston. All were well enough to enjoy little excursions about the island, in carriages or cars, and some weeks were spent by them in the mountains, all finding the air there very pleasant and the invalids evidently gaining in health and strength. The change had been a rest to them all, but early in March they were glad to return to the yacht and set sail for Trinidad, which they had decided should be their next halting place. It was a pleasant morning and, as usual, old and young were gathered upon the deck, the two children near their grandmother. "Grandma," said Elsie, "I suppose you know all about Trinidad, where papa is taking us now, and if it won't trouble you to do so, I'd like very much to have you tell Ned and me about it." "I shall not feel it any trouble to do so, little granddaughter," was the smiling rejoinder, "and if you and Ned grow weary of the subject before I am through, you have only to say so and I will stop. "Trinidad is the most southerly of the West India Islands and belongs to Great Britain. It was first discovered by Columbus in 1498 and given the name of Trinidad by him, because three mountain summits were first seen from the masthead. But it was not until 1532 that a permanent settlement was made there. In 1595 its chief town, San Josede Oruha, was burned by Sir Walter Raleigh; but the island continued in Spain's possession till 1797, when it fell into the hands of the British and it was made theirs by treaty in 1802." "How large is it, grandma?" asked Ned. "About fifty miles long and from thirty to thirty-five wide. It is very near to Venezuela, separated from it by the Gulf of Paria, and the extreme points on the west coast are only the one thirteen and the other nine miles from it. The channel to the north is called the Dragon's Mouth; it is the deepest; the southern channel is shallow, owing to the deposits brought down by the Orinoco, and the gulf, too, is growing more shallow from the same cause." "Are there mountains, grandma?" asked Ned. "Yes; mountains not so high as those on some of the other Caribbean islands; they extend along the northern coast from east to west; they have forests of stately trees and along their lower edges overhanging mangroves, dipping into the sea. There is a double-peaked mountain called Tamana, and from it one can look down upon the lovely and fertile valleys and plains of the other part of the island. There are some tolerably large rivers and several good harbors." "Are there towns on it, grandma?" asked Ned. "Yes; the chief one, called Port of Spain, is one of the finest towns in the West Indies. It was first built of wood, and was burned down in 1808, but has since been rebuilt of stone found in the neighborhood. The streets are long, wide, clean, well paved and shaded with trees. "San Fernando is the name of another town, and there are, besides, two or three pretty villages. Near one of them, called La Brea, is a pitch lake composed of bituminous matter floating on fresh water." "I don't think I'd want to take a sail on it," said Elsie. "Trinidad is a warm place, isn't it, grandma?" "Yes; the climate is hot and moist; it is said to be the hottest of the West India islands." "Then I'm glad it is winter now when we are going there." "Yes; I think winter is the best season for paying a visit there," said her grandma. "I suppose we are going to one of the towns," said Ned. "Aren't we, papa?" as his father drew near. "Yes, to the capital, called Port of Spain. I was there some years ago. Shall I tell you about it?" "Oh, yes sir! please do," answered both children, and a number of the grown people drew near to listen. "It is a rather large place, having some thirty or forty thousand inhabitants. Outside of the town is a large park, where there are villas belonging to people in good circumstances. They are pleasant, comfortable-looking dwellings with porches and porticoes, gardens in front or lawns with many varieties of trees--bread-fruit, oranges, mangoes, pawpaws--making a pleasant shade and bearing delightful fruits; and there is a great abundance of flowers." "All that sounds very pleasant, Captain," said Mr. Lilburn, "but I fear there must be some unpleasant things to encounter." "Mosquitoes, for instance?" queried the Captain. "Yes, I remember Froude's description of one that he says he killed and examined through a glass. Bewick, with the inspiration of genius, had drawn his exact likeness as the devil--a long black stroke for a body, a nick for a neck, horns on the head, and a beak for a mouth, spindle arms, and longer spindle legs, two pointed wings and a tail. He goes on to say that he had been warned to be on the lookout for scorpions, centipedes, jiggers, and land crabs, which would bite him if he walked slipperless over the floor in the dark. Of those he met none; but the mosquito of Trinidad was enough by himself, being, for malice, mockery, and venom of tooth and trumpet, without a match in the world." "Dear me, papa, how can anybody live there?" exclaimed Grace. "Froude speaks of seeking safety in tobacco-smoke," replied her father, with a quizzical smile. "You might do that; or try the only other means of safety mentioned by him--hiding behind the lace curtains with which every bed is provided." "But we can't stay in bed all the time, papa," exclaimed Elsie. "No, but most of the time when you are out of bed you keep off the mosquitoes with a fan." "And if we find them quite unendurable we can sail away from Trinidad," said Violet. "Perhaps we are coming to the island at a better time of the year than Froude did, as regards the mosquito plague," remarked Grandma Elsie. "Ah, mother, I am afraid they are bad and troublesome all the year round in these warm regions," said Harold. "But we can take refuge behind nets a great deal of the time while we are in the mosquito country, and hurry home when we tire of that," remarked Violet. "Ah, that is a comfortable thought," said Mr. Lilburn. "And we are fortunate people in having such homes as ours to return to." "Yes, we can all say amen to that," said Chester, and Lucilla started the singing of "Home, Sweet Home," all the others joining in with feeling. The next morning found the "Dolphin" lying quietly in the harbor of the Port of Spain in the great shallow lake known as the Gulf of Paria, and soon after breakfast all went ashore to visit the city. They enjoyed walking about the wide, shaded streets, and park, gazing with great interest upon the strange and beautiful trees, shrubs and flowers; there were bread-fruit trees, pawpaws, mangoes and oranges, and large and beautiful flowers of many colors. Some of our friends had read Froude's account of the place and wanted to visit it. From there they went to the Botanical Gardens and were delighted with the variety of trees and plants entirely new to them. Before entering the place, the young people were warned not to taste any of the strange fruits, and Grandma Elsie and the Captain kept watch over them lest the warning should be forgotten or unheeded; though Elsie was never known to disobey father or mother, and it was a rare thing, indeed, for Ned to do so. They were much interested in all they saw, the glen full of nutmeg trees among the rest; they were from thirty to forty feet high, with leaves of brilliant green, something like the leaves of an orange, folded one over the other, and their lowest branches swept the ground. There were so many strange and beautiful trees, plants and flowers to be seen and admired that our friends spent more than an hour in those gardens. Then they hired conveyances and drove about wherever they thought the most attractive scenes were to be found. They were interested in the cabins of the negroes spread along the road on either side and overhung with trees--tamarinds, bread-fruit, orange, limes, citrons, plantains and calabash trees; out of the last named they make their cups and water-jugs. There were cocoa-bushes, too, loaded with purple or yellow pods; there were yams in the garden, cows in the paddocks also; so that it was evident that abundance of good, nourishing, appetizing food was provided them with very little exertion on their part. Captain Raymond and his party spent some weeks in Trinidad and its harbor--usually passing the night aboard the "Dolphin"--traveling about the island in cars or carriages, visiting all the interesting spots, going up into the mountains and enjoying the view from thence of the lovely, fertile valleys and plains. Then they sailed around the island and anchored again in the harbor of Port of Spain for the night and to consider and decide upon their next movement. "Shall we go up the Orinoco?" asked the Captain, addressing the company, as all sat together on the deck. There was a moment of silence, each waiting for the others to speak, then Mr. Dinsmore said: "Give us your views on the subject, Captain. Is there much to attract us there? To interest and instruct? I am really afraid that is a part of my geography in which I am rather rusty." "It is one of the great rivers of South America," said the Captain. "It rises in one of the chief mountain chains of Guiana. It is a crooked stream--flowing west-south-west, then south-west, then north-west, then north-north-east and after that in an eastward direction to its mouth. The head of uninterrupted navigation is seven hundred and seventy-seven miles from its mouth. Above that point there are cataracts. "It has a great many branches, being joined, it is said, by four hundred and thirty-six rivers and upward of two thousand streams; so it drains an area of from two hundred and fifty thousand to six hundred and fifty thousand square miles, as variously estimated. It begins to form its delta one hundred and thirty miles from its mouth, by throwing off a branch which flows northward into the Atlantic. It has several navigable mouths, and the main stream is divided by a line of islands, into two channels, each two miles wide. The river is four miles wide at Bolivar, a town more than two hundred and fifty miles from the mouth of the river, which is there three hundred and ninety feet deep." "Why, it's a grand, big river," said Chester. "Much obliged for the information, Captain. I had forgotten, if I ever knew, that it was so large, and with its many tributaries drained so large a territory." "And do you wish to visit it--or a part of it?" queried the Captain. "How is it with you, Cousins Annis and Ronald?" "I am willing--indeed, should prefer--to leave the decision to other members of our party," replied Mrs. Lilburn, and her husband expressed the same wish to let others decide the question. "What do you say, Grandma Dinsmore?" asked Violet. "I think you look as if you would rather not go." "And that is how I feel--thinking of the mosquitoes," returned the old lady, with a slight laugh. "They certainly are very objectionable," said the Captain. "I can't say that I am at all desirous to try them myself. And I doubt if they are more scarce on the Amazon than on the Orinoco. One traveler there tells us, 'At night it was quite impossible to sleep for mosquitoes; they fell upon us by myriads, and without much piping came straight to our faces as thick as raindrops in a shower. The men crowded into the cabins and tried to expel them by smoke from burnt rags, but it was of little avail, though we were half suffocated by the operation.'" "That certainly does not sound very encouraging, my dear," said Violet. "The Amazon is a grand river, I know," said Harold, "but it would not pay to visit it under so great a drawback to one's comfort; and I am very sure encountering such pests would be by no means beneficial to any one of my patients." "And this one of your patients would not be willing to encounter them, even if such were the prescription of her physician," remarked Grace, in a lively tone. "Nor would this older one," added Grandma Elsie, in playful tones. "Then we will consider the Orinoco as tabooed," said the Captain; "and I suppose we shall have to treat the Amazon in the same way, as it was at a place upon its banks that one of the writers I just quoted had his most unpleasant experience with the mosquitoes." "Well, my dear, if there is a difference of opinion and choice among us--some preferring scenery even with mosquitoes, others no scenery unless it could be had without mosquitoes--suppose we divide our forces--one set land and the other remain on board and journey on up the river." "Ah! and which set will you join, little wife?" he asked, with playful look and tone. "Whichever one my husband belongs to," she answered. "Man and wife are not to be separated." "Suppose we take a vote on the question and settle it at once," said Lucilla. "A good plan, I think," said Harold. "Yes," assented the Captain. "Cousins Annis and Ronald, please give us your wishes in regard to rivers and mosquitoes." "I admire the rivers, but not the mosquitoes, and would rather do without both than have both," laughed Annis, and her husband added, "And my sentiments on the subject coincide exactly with those of my wife." Then the question went round the circle, and it appeared that every one thought a sight of the great rivers and the scenery on their banks would be too dearly purchased by venturing in among the clouds of blood-thirsty mosquitoes. "I'm glad," exclaimed Ned; "for I'm not a bit fond of mosquitoes; especially not of having them take their meals off me. But I'd like to see those big rivers. Papa, won't you tell us something about the Amazon?" "Yes," said the Captain; "it has two other names--Maranon and Orellana. It is a very large river and has a big mouth--one hundred and fifty miles wide, and the tide enters there and goes up the stream five hundred miles. "From the wide mouth of the Amazon, where it empties into the ocean, its water can be distinguished from the other--that of the ocean--for fifty leagues. The Amazon is so large and has so many tributaries that it drains two million, five hundred square miles of country. The Amazon is the king of rivers. It rises in the western range of the Andes, and is little better than a mountain torrent till it has burst through the gorges of the eastern range of the chain, where it is overhung by peaks that tower thousands of feet above its bed. But within three hundred miles from the Pacific is a branch, Huallagais, large enough and deep enough for steamers, and a few miles farther down the Amazon is navigable for vessels drawing five feet; and it grows deeper and deeper and more and more available for large vessels as it rolls on toward the ocean. The outlet of this mighty river is a feeder of the Gulf Stream. It is only since 1867 that the navigation of the Amazon has been open, but now regular lines of steamers ply between its mouth and Yurimaguas on the Huallaga." "Are there not many and important exports sent down the Amazon?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "There are, indeed," replied the Captain, "and the fauna of the waters have proved wonderful. Agassiz found there, in five months, thirteen hundred species of fish, nearly a thousand of them new, and about twenty new genera. The Vacca marina, the largest fish inhabiting fresh waters, and the Acara, which carries its young in its mouth, when there is danger, are the denizens of the Amazon." "Oh," exclaimed Elsie, "I'd like to see that fish with its babies in its mouth." "And I should be very sorry to have to carry my children in that way--even if the relative sizes of my mouth and children made it possible," said her mother. "Brazil's a big country, isn't it, papa?" asked Ned. "Yes," said his father; "about as large as the United States would be without Alaska." "Did Columbus discover it, and the Spaniards settle it, papa?" he asked. "In the year 1500 a companion of Columbus landed at Cape Augustine, near Pernambuco, and from there sailed along the coast as far as the Orinoco," replied the Captain. "In the same year another Portuguese commander, driven to the Brazilian coast by adverse winds, landed, and taking possession in the name of his monarch named the country Terra da Vera Crux. The first permanent settlement was made by the Portuguese in 1531 on the island of St. Vincent. Many settlements were made and abandoned, because of the hostility of the natives and the lack of means, and a Huguenot colony, established on the bay of Rio de Janeiro, in 1555, was broken up by the Portuguese in 1567 when they founded the present capital, Rio de Janeiro. "But it is hardly worth while to rehearse all the history of the various attempts to take possession of Brazil--attempts made by Dutch, Portuguese and Spanish. French invasion of Portugal, in 1807, caused the royal family to flee to Brazil, and it became the royal seat of government until 1821, when Dom John VI. went back to Portugal, leaving his eldest son, Dom Pedro, as Prince Regent. "The independence of Brazil was proclaimed September 7, 1822; and on October 12th, he was crowned emperor as Dom Pedro I. He was arbitrary, and that made him so unpopular that he found it best to abdicate, which he did in 1831 in favor of his son, then only a child. That boy was crowned in 1841, at the age of fifteen, as Dom Pedro II." "Gold is to be found in Brazil, is it not, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes," he said, "that country is rich in minerals and precious stones. Gold, always accompanied with silver, is found in many of the provinces, and in Minas-Geraes is especially abundant, and in that and two other of the provinces, diamonds are found; and the opal, amethyst, emerald, ruby, sapphire, tourmaline, topaz and other precious stones are more or less common." "Petroleum also is obtained in one or two of the provinces, and there are valuable phosphate deposits on some of the islands," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, as the Captain paused, as if he had finished what he had to say in reply to Grace's question. "Papa," asked Ned, "are there lions and tigers and monkeys in the woods?" "There are dangerous wild beasts--the jaguar being the most common and formidable. And there are other wild, some of them dangerous, beasts--the tiger cat, red wolf, tapir, wild hog, Brazilian dog, or wild fox, capybara or water hog, paca, three species of deer, armadillos, sloths, ant-eaters, oppossums, coatis, water-rats, otters and porcupines. Squirrels, hares and rabbits are plentiful. There are many species of monkeys, too, and several kinds of bats--vampires among them. On the southern plains, large herds of wild horses are to be found. Indeed, Brazil can boast a long list of animals. One writer says that he found five hundred species of birds in the Amazon valley alone, about thirty distinct species of parrots and twenty varieties of humming-birds. The largest birds are the ouira, a large eagle; the rhea, or American ostrich; and the cariama. Along the coasts or in the forest are to be found frigate birds, snowy herons, toucans, ducks, wild peacocks, turkeys, geese and pigeons. Among the smaller birds are the oriole, whippoorwill and the uraponga, or bell bird." "Those would be pleasant enough to meet," said Violet, "but there are plenty of most unpleasant creatures--snakes, for instance." "Yes," assented the Captain; "there are many serpents; the most venomous are the jararaca and the rattlesnake. The boa-constrictor and anaconda grow very large, and there are at least three species of cobra noted as dangerous. There are many alligators, turtles and lizards. The rivers, lakes and coast-waters literally swarm with fish. Agassiz found nearly two thousand species, many of them such as are highly esteemed for food." "And they have big mosquitoes, too, you have told us, papa," said Elsie. "Many other bugs, too, I suppose?" "Yes; big beetles, scorpions and spiders, many kinds of bees, sand-flies and musical crickets, destructive ants, the cochineal insect and the pium, a tiny insect whose bite is poisonous and sometimes dangerous." "Please tell us about the woods, papa," said Ned. "Yes; the forests of the Amazon valley are said to be the largest in the world, having fully four hundred species of trees. In marshy places and along streams reeds, grasses and water plants grow in tangled masses, and in the forests the trees crowd each other and are draped with parasitic vines. Along the coasts mangroves, mangoes, cocoas, dwarf palms, and the Brazil-wood are noticeable. In one of the southern provinces more than forty different kinds of trees are valuable for timber. On the Amazon and its branches there are an almost innumerable variety of valuable trees; among them the itauba or stonewood, so named for its durability; the cassia, the cinnamon-tree, the banana, the lime, the myrtle, the guava, the jacaranda or rosewood, the Brazilian bread-fruit, whose large seeds are used for food, and many others too numerous to mention; among them the large and lofty cotton-tree, the tall white-trunked seringa or rubber-tree, which furnishes the gum of commerce, and the three or four hundred species of palms. One of those is called the carnaubu palm; it is probably the most valuable, for every part of it is useful, from the wax of its leaves to its edible pith. Another is the piassaba palm, whose bark is clothed with a loose fiber used for coarse textile fabrics and for brooms." "Why, papa, that's a very useful tree," was little Elsie's comment upon that bit of information. "Are there fruits and flowers in those forests, papa?" she asked. "Yes; those I have already mentioned, with figs, custard-apples and oranges. Some European fruits--olives, grapes and water-melons of fine flavor are cultivated in Brazil." "If it wasn't for the fierce wild animals and snakes, it would be a nice country to live in, I think," she said; "but taking everything into consideration I very much prefer our own country." "Ah, is that so? Who shall say that you won't change your mind after a few weeks spent in Brazil?" returned her father, with an amused look. "You wouldn't want me to, I know, papa," she returned, with a pleasant little laugh, "for I am very sure you want your children to love their own country better than any other in the world." "Yes, my child, I do," he said. Then turning to his older passengers and addressing them in general, "I think," he said, "if it is agreeable to you all, we will make a little stop at Pará, the maritime emporium of the Amazon. I presume you would all like to see that city?" All seemed pleased with the idea, and it was presently settled that that should be their next stopping-place. They all enjoyed their life upon the yacht, but an occasional halt and visit to the shore made an agreeable variety. CHAPTER XIV. Their sail about the mouth of the Amazon was very interesting to them all, and that up the Pará River to the city of the same name, not less so. They found the city evidently a busy and thriving place; its harbor, formed by a curve of the River Pará, here twenty miles wide, had at anchor in it a number of large vessels of various nationalities. The "Dolphin" anchored among them, and after a little her passengers went ashore for a drive about the city. They found the streets paved and macadamized, the houses with white walls and red-tiled roofs. There were some large and imposing buildings--a cathedral, churches and the President's palace were the principal ones. They visited the public square and beautiful botanic garden. It was not very late in the day when they returned to their yacht, but they--especially Dr. Harold's patients--were weary enough to enjoy the quiet rest to be found in their ocean home. "What a busy place it is," remarked Grandma Elsie, as they sat together upon the deck, gazing out upon the city and its harbor. "Yes," said the Captain, "Pará is the mart through which passes the whole commerce of the Amazon and its affluents." "And that must, of course, make it a place of importance," said Violet. "It was the seat of revolution in 1833," remarked her grandfather; "houses were destroyed, lives lost--a great many of them--and grass grew in streets which before that had been the center of business." "Papa," exclaimed Ned, "there's a little boat coming, and a man in it with some little animals." "Ah, yes; small monkeys, I think they are," Captain Raymond said, taking a view over the side of the vessel. Then he called to a sailor that he wanted the man allowed to come aboard with whatever he had for sale. In a few moments he was at hand carrying two little monkeys in his arms. He approached the Captain and bowing low, hat in hand, addressed him in Portuguese, first saying, "Good-evening," then going on to tell that these were fine little monkeys--tee-tees--which he had brought for sale, and he went on to talk fluently in praise of the little creatures, which were about the size of a squirrel, of a greyish-olive as to the hair of body and limbs, a rich golden hue on the latter; on the under surface of the body a whitish grey, and the tip of the tail black. "Oh, how pretty, how very pretty!" exclaimed little Elsie. "Papa, won't you buy me one?" "Yes, daughter, if you want it," returned the Captain, "for I know you will be kind to it and that it will be a safe and pretty pet for you." "And Oh, papa, I'd like to have the other one, if I may!" cried Ned, fairly dancing with delight at the thought of owning the pretty little creature. The Captain smiled and said something to the man, speaking in Portuguese, a language spoken and understood by themselves only of all on board the vessel. The man answered, saying, as the Captain afterward told the others, that he was very glad to sell both to one person, because the little fellows were brothers and would be company for each other. Then a tee-tee was handed to each of the children, the Captain gave the man some money, which seemed to please him, and he went away, while Elsie and Ned rejoiced over and exhibited their pets, fed them and gave them a comfortable sleeping-place for the night. "What lovely, engaging little things they are!" said Grandma Elsie, as the children carried them away, "the very prettiest monkeys I ever saw." "Yes," said the Captain, "they are of a very pretty and engaging genus of monkeys; we all noticed the beauty of their fur, from which they are called callithrix or 'beautiful hair.' Sometimes they are called squirrel monkeys, partly on account of their shape and size, and partly from their squirrel-like activity. They are light, graceful little creatures. I am hoping my children will have great pleasure with theirs. They are said to attach themselves very strongly to their possessors, and behave with a gentle intelligence that lifts them far above the greater part of the monkey race." "I think I have read that they are good-tempered," said Grandma Elsie. "Yes; they are said to be very amiable, anger seeming to be almost unknown to them. Did you not notice the almost infantile innocence in the expression of their countenances?" "Yes, I did," she replied; "it was very touching, and made me feel an affection for them at once." "I have read," said Evelyn, "that that is very strong when the little creatures are alarmed. That sudden tears will come into their clear hazel eyes, and that they will make a little imploring, shrinking gesture quite irresistible to kind-hearted, sympathetic people." "I was reading about the tee-tees not long ago," said Mrs. Lilburn; "and one thing I learned was that they had a curious habit of watching the lips of those who speak to them, just as if they could understand the words spoken, and that when they become quite familiar, they are fond of sitting on their friend's shoulder, and laying their tiny fingers on his lips; as if they thought in that way they might discover the mysteries of speech." "Poor little darlings! I wish they could talk," exclaimed Grace. "I daresay they would make quite as good use of the power of speech as parrots do." "Possibly even better," said her father. "They seem to be more affectionate." "Do they live in flocks in their own forests, papa?" Grace asked. "Yes," he replied, "so the traveler, Mr. Bates, tells us, and that when on the move they take flying leaps from tree to tree." "I am very glad you bought those, papa," she said. "I think they will be a pleasure and amusement to us all." "So do I," said Lucilla, "they are so pretty and graceful that I think we will all be inclined to pet them." "So I think," said her father, "they seem to me decidedly the prettiest and most interesting species of monkey I have ever met with." "And it is really pleasant to see how delighted the children are with their new pets," said Grandma Elsie. "Yes," the Captain responded, with a pleased smile, "and I have no fear that they will ill-use them." "I am sure they will be kind to them," said Violet. "They were much interested in the monkeys we saw in going about the city. I saw quite a number of various species--some pretty large, but most of them small; some at the doors or windows of houses, some in canoes on the river." "Yes, I think we all noticed them," said her mother. "Yes," said the Captain, "I saw several of the _midas ursulus_, a small monkey which I have read is often to be found here in Pará. It is, when full grown, only about nine inches long, exclusive of the tail, which is fifteen inches. It has thick black fur with a reddish brown streak down the middle of the back. It is said to be a timid little thing, but when treated kindly becomes very tame and familiar." "What do monkeys eat, papa?" asked Grace. "I have been told the little fellows are generally fed on sweet fruits, such as the banana, and that they are also fond of grasshoppers and soft-bodied spiders." "They have some very large and busy ants in this country, haven't they, father?" asked Evelyn. "Yes," replied the Captain. "Bates tells of some an inch and a quarter long and stout in proportion, marching in single file through the thickets. They, however, have nothing peculiar or attractive in their habits, though they are giants among ants. But he speaks of another and far more interesting species. It is a great scourge to the Brazilians, from its habit of despoiling the most valuable of their cultivated trees of their foliage. In some districts it is such a pest that agriculture is almost impossible. He goes on to say that in their first walks they were puzzled to account for mounds of earth of a different color from the surrounding soil; mounds, some of them very extensive, some forty yards in circumference, but not more than two feet high. But on making inquiries they learned that those mounds were the work of the saubas--the outworks and domes which overlie and protect the entrances to their vast subterranean galleries. On close examination, Bates found the earth of which they were made to consist of very minute granules heaped together with cement so as to form many rows of little ridges and turrets. And he learned that the difference in color from the earth around was because of the undersoil having been brought up from a considerable depth to form these mounds." "I should like to see the ants at work upon them," said Grace. "It is very rarely that one has the opportunity to do so," said her father. "Mr. Bates tells us that the entrances are generally closed galleries, opened only now and then when some particular work is going on. He says he succeeded in removing portions of the dome in smaller hillocks, and found that the minor entrances converged, at the depth of about two feet, to one broad, elaborately-worked gallery or mine, which was four or five inches in diameter." "Isn't it the ant that clips and carries away leaves?" asked Evelyn. "Yes, Bates speaks of that; says it has long been recorded in books on natural history, and that when employed on that work their procession looks like a multitude of animated leaves on the march. In some places he found an accumulation of such leaves, all circular pieces about the size of sixpence, lying on the pathway, no ants near it, and at some distance from the colony. 'Such heaps,' he says, 'are always found to have been removed when the place is revisited the next day. The ants mount the trees in multitudes. Each one is a working miner, places itself on the surface of a leaf, and cuts with its sharp, scissors-like jaws, and by a sharp jerk detaches the leaf piece. Sometimes they let the leaf drop to the ground, where a little heap accumulates until carried away by another relay of workers; but generally each marches off with the piece he has detached. All take the same road to their colony and the path they follow becomes, in a short time, smooth and bare, looking like the impression of a cart-wheel through the herbage.'" "I am sorry the children have missed all this interesting information," said Violet. "Never mind, my dear," said her husband, "it can be repeated to them to-morrow. I think there is a storm gathering, and that we are likely to have to stay at home here for a day or two." "Should it prove a storm of any violence we may be thankful that we are in this good, safe harbor," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "And that we have abundance of good company and good reading matter," added Grandma Elsie. "Yes," responded her father, "those are truly additional causes for thankfulness." "The little monkeys are another," laughed Lucilla. "I think we will have some fun with them; and certainly the children are delighted with their new pets." "They certainly are engaging little creatures--very different from those we are accustomed to see going about our streets with organ-grinders," said Grandma Dinsmore. The children were on deck unusually early the next morning, their pets with them. They found their father, mother, Eva and Lucilla there. The usual affectionate morning greetings were exchanged; then, smiling down upon Elsie and her pet, the Captain said, "I think you have not yet tired of your new pet, daughter?" "No, indeed, papa," was the quick, earnest rejoinder, "I'm growing fonder of him every hour. Oh, he's just the dearest little fellow!" "And so is mine," added Ned. "I think I'll name him Tee-tee; and as Elsie's is a little smaller than this, she is going to call him Tiny." "If papa approves," added Elsie. "I am well satisfied," returned their father. "You have begun your day rather earlier than usual," Captain Raymond went on, addressing the two children, "and I am well pleased that it is so, because now you can take some exercise about the deck, which may be prevented later by a storm," and he glanced up at the sky, where black clouds were gathering. "Yes, papa, we will," they answered, and set off at once upon a race round the deck, carrying their pets with them. The storm had begun when the summons to breakfast came, but the faces that gathered about the table were cheerful and bright, the talk also. All agreed that it would be no hardship to have to remain on board for some days with plenty of books and periodicals to read, the pleasant company which they were to each other, and the abundance of fruits and other dainties which the Captain always provided. When they were done eating, they repaired to the saloon, held their usual morning service, then sat about singly or in groups, talking, reading, writing, or, if a lady, busied with some fancy work. The children were much taken up with their new pets, fondling them and letting them climb about their shoulders. Cousin Ronald watched them with interest and pleasure. Elsie was standing near, her Tiny on her shoulder, gazing into her eyes with a look that seemed to say, "You are so kind to me that I love you already." Elsie stroked and patted him, saying, "You dear little pet! I love you already, and mean to take the very best care of you." "Thanks, dear little mistress. I am glad to belong to you and mean to be always the best little tee-tee that ever was seen." The words seemed to come from the tee-tee's lips, and its pretty eyes were looking right into Elsie's own. "Why, you little dear!" she said, with a pleased little laugh, stroking and patting him, then glancing round at Cousin Ronald, "How well you talk. In English, too, though I don't believe you ever heard the language before you came aboard the 'Dolphin.'" "No, we didn't, though we can speak it now as well as any other," Ned's pet seemed to say, lifting its head from his shoulder and glancing around at its brother. That brought a merry laugh from its little master. "Speak it as much as you please, Tee-tee," he said, fondling his pet, "or talk Portuguese or any other language you're acquainted with." "I'm afraid they will never be able to talk unless Cousin Ronald is in the company," said Elsie; "or Brother Max," she added, as an after-thought. "Yes, Brother Max could make them talk just as well," said Ned. "Oh, here come the letters and papers!" as a sailor came in carrying the mailbag. Its contents gave employment to every one for a time, but, after a little, Violet, having finished the perusal of her share, called the children to her and gave them an interesting account of the talk of the night before about the strange doings of South American ants. They were much interested, and asked a good many questions. When that subject was exhausted, Elsie asked to be told something about Rio de Janeiro. "There is a maritime province of that name in the south-east part of Brazil," her mother said. "I have read that in the southern part of it the scenery is very beautiful. The middle of the province is mountainous. About the city I will read you from the "New International Encyclopedia," which your father keeps on board whenever we are using the yacht." She took down the book, opened and read: "'Rio de Janeiro, generally called Rio, the capital of the Brazilian empire, and the largest and most important commercial emporium of South America, stands on a magnificent harbor, seventy-five miles west of Cape Frio. The harbor or bay of Rio de Janeiro, said, and apparently with justice, to be the most beautiful, secure, and spacious bay in the world, is land-locked, being entered from the south by a passage about a mile in width. It extends inland seventeen miles, and has an extreme breadth of about twelve miles. Of its numerous islands, the largest, Governor's Island, is six miles long. The entrance of the bay, guarded on either side by granite mountains, is deep, and is so safe that the harbor is made without the aid of pilots. On the left of the entrance rises the peak called, from its peculiar shape, Sugarloaf Mountain; and all round the bay the blue waters are girdled with mountains and lofty hills of every variety of picturesque and fantastic outline. The harbor is protected by a number of fortresses. The city stands on the west shore of the bay, about four miles from its mouth. Seven green and mound-like hills diversify its site; and the white-walled and vermillion-roofed houses cluster in the intervening valleys, and climb the eminences in long lines. From the central portion of the city, lines of houses extend four miles in three principal directions. The old town, nearest the bay, is laid out in squares; the streets cross at right angles, are narrow, and are paved and flagged; and the houses, often built of granite, are commonly two stories high. West of it is the elegantly-built new town; and the two districts are separated by the Campo de Santa Anna, an immense square or park, on different parts of which stand an extensive garrison, the town-hall, the national museum, the palace of the senate, the foreign office, a large opera house, etc. From a number of springs which rise on and around Mount Corcovado (three thousand feet high, and situated three and a half miles southwest of the city) water is conveyed to Rio de Janeiro by a splendid aqueduct, and supplies the fountains with which the numerous squares are furnished. Great municipal improvements have, within recent years, been introduced; most of the streets are now as well paved as those of the finest European capitals; the city is abundantly lighted with gas; and commodious wharfs and quays are built along the water edge. Rio de Janeiro contains several excellent hospitals and infirmaries, asylums for foundlings and female orphans, and other charitable institutions, some richly endowed; about fifty chapels and churches, generally costly and imposing structures, with rich internal decorations, and several convents and nunneries. In the College of Pedro II., founded in 1837, the various branches of a liberal education are efficiently taught by a staff of eight or nine professors; the Imperial Academy of Medicine, with a full corps of professors, is attended by upward of three hundred students; there is also a theological seminary. The national library contains one hundred thousand volumes.' "There, my dears, I think that is all that will interest you," concluded Violet, closing the book. CHAPTER XV. The storm continued for some days, during which the "Dolphin" lay quietly at anchor in the bay of Pará. It was a quiet, uneventful time for her passengers, but they enjoyed themselves well in each other's society and waited patiently for a change of weather. Finally it came; the sun shone, the waves had quieted down and a gentle breeze taken the place of the boisterous wind of the last few days. Just as the sun rose, the anchor was lifted and, to the joy of all on board, the yacht went on her way, steaming out of the harbor and then down the coast of Brazil; a long voyage, but, under the circumstances, by no means unpleasant to the "Dolphin's" passengers, so fond as they were of each other's society. At length they arrived at Rio de Janeiro. They stayed there long enough to acquaint themselves with its beauties and all that might interest a stranger. All that accomplished, they left for the north, as it was getting near the time when even the invalids might safely return to the cooler climate of that region. It was evening; the children had retired for the night, and all the older ones were together on the deck. A silence that had lasted for some moments was broken by Lucilla. "You are taking us home now, I suppose, father?" "I don't remember to have said so," replied the Captain, pleasantly, "though very likely I may do so if you all wish it." Then Violet spoke up in her quick, lively way, "Mamma, if you would give us all an invitation to visit Viamede, I think it would be just delightful to go there for a week or two; and then Chester could see his sisters and their children." "I should be glad to help him to do so; and very glad to have you all my guests at Viamede," was the reply, in Grandma Elsie's own sweet tones. Then came a chorus of thanks for her invitation; all seeming much pleased with the idea. "It will be quite a journey," remarked Lucilla, in a tone of satisfaction. "You are not weary of life on shipboard, daughter?" her father queried, with a pleased little laugh. "No, indeed, father; I am very fond of life on the 'Dolphin.' I suppose that's because of the sailor-blood in me inherited from you." "Some of which I have also," said Grace; "for I dearly love a voyage in the 'Dolphin.'" "Which some of the rest of us do without having the excuse of inherited sailor-blood," said Harold. "No; that inheritance isn't at all necessary to the enjoyment of life on the 'Dolphin,'" remarked Chester. "Indeed, it is not," said Evelyn. "I am a landsman's daughter, but life on this vessel with the dear friends always to be found on it is delightful to me." "And the rest of us can give a like testimony," said Mrs. Lilburn, and those who had not already spoken gave a hearty assent. "Up this South American coast, through the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico--it will be quite a voyage," remarked Lucilla, reflectively. "It is well, indeed, that we are all fond of life on the 'Dolphin.'" "Yes; you will have had a good deal of it by the time we get home," said her father. "To-morrow is Sunday," remarked Grandma Elsie. "I am very glad we can have services on board. I often find them quite as helpful as those I attend on shore." "Yes; I don't know why we shouldn't have services, though there is no licensed preacher among us," said the Captain. "Certainly, we may all read God's Word, talk of it to others, and address to him both prayers and praises." The next morning after breakfast all assembled upon deck, united in prayer and praise, the Captain read a sermon, and then Mr. Lilburn, by request of the others, led them in their Bible lesson. "Let us take parts of the 13th and 14th chapters of Numbers for our lesson to-day," he said, reading the passages aloud, then asked, "Can you tell me, Cousin Elsie, where the children of Israel were encamped just at that time?" "At Kadesh, in what was called the wilderness of Paran. It was at a little distance to the southwest of the southern end of the Dead Sea." "They went and searched the land, as Moses directed, and cut down and brought back with them a cluster of grapes, a very large one, it must have been, for they bare it between two upon a staff; also they brought pomegranates and figs. Do you know, Neddie, what Eshcol means?" asked Cousin Ronald. "No, sir; papa hasn't taught me that yet," replied the little boy. "It means a bunch of grapes," said Cousin Ronald, smiling kindly on the little fellow. "Grace, do you think the spies were truthful?" "They seem to have been, so far as the facts about the country they had just visited were concerned," Grace answered, then read, "And they told him, and said, 'We came unto the land whither thou sentest us, and surely it floweth with milk and honey; and this is the fruit of it. Nevertheless, the people be strong that dwell in the land, and the cities are walled, and very great; and, moreover, we saw the children of Anak there. The Amalekites dwell in the land of the south: and the Hittites, and the Jebusites, and the Amorites, dwell in the mountains: and the Canaanites dwell by the sea, and by the coast of Jordan.'" "Truly, a very discouraging report," said Mr. Lilburn; "for though they described the land as very good and desirable, they evidently considered its inhabitants too strong to be overcome." He then read, "And they brought up an evil report of the land which they had searched unto the children of Israel, saying, 'The land, through which we have gone to search it, is a land that eateth up the inhabitants thereof; and all the people that we saw in it are men of a great stature. And there we saw the giants, the sons of Anak, which come of the giants: and we were in our own sight as grasshoppers, and so we were in their sight.' And what effect had their report upon the people, Cousin Violet?" he asked. In reply, Violet read, "And all the congregation lifted up their voice, and cried; and the people wept that night. And all the children of Israel murmured against Moses and against Aaron: and the whole congregation said unto them, 'Would God that we had died in the land of Egypt! Or would God we had died in this wilderness! And wherefore hath the Lord brought us unto this land, to fall by the sword, that our wives and our children should be a prey? Were it not better for us to return into Egypt?' And they said, one to another, 'Let us make a captain, and let us return into Egypt.'" It seemed to be Mr. Dinsmore's turn, and he read, "And Joshua, the son of Nun; and Caleb, the son of Jephunneh, which were of them that searched the land, rent their clothes: And they spake unto all the company of the children of Israel, saying, 'The land, which we passed through to search it, is exceeding good land. If the Lord delight in us, then He will bring us into this land, and give it us; a land which floweth with milk and honey. Only rebel not ye against the Lord, neither fear ye the people of the land; for they are bread for us: their defense is departed from them, and the Lord is with us: fear them not.'" Then Mrs. Dinsmore read, "But all the congregation bade stone them with stones. And the glory of the Lord appeared in the tabernacle of the congregation before all the children of Israel. And the Lord said unto Moses, 'How long will this people provoke me? And how long will it be ere they believe me, for all the signs which I have showed among them? I will smite them with the pestilence, and disinherit them, and will make of thee a greater nation and mightier than they.'" "How very childish they were," remarked Violet. "Why should they wish they had died in the land of Egypt, or in the wilderness? That would have been no better than dying where they were. And it does seem strange they could not trust in God when he had given them such wonderful deliverances." "And they said, one to another, 'Let us make a captain, and let us return into Egypt,'" read Harold, adding, "It does seem as though they felt that Moses would not do anything so wicked and foolish as going back into Egypt." "And they might well feel so," said the Captain. "Moses was not the man to be discouraged by such difficulties after all the wonders God had shown him and them in Egypt and the wilderness." "That is true," said Mr. Lilburn. "But let us go on to the end of the story. We have read that the Lord threatened to smite them with the pestilence, and disinherit them, and make of Moses a greater nation and mightier than they. Chester, what did Moses say in reply?" "And Moses said unto the Lord, 'Then the Egyptians shall hear it (for Thou broughtest up this people in Thy might from among them); and they will tell it to the inhabitants of this land; for they have heard that Thou, Lord, art among this people, that Thou, Lord, art seen face to face, and that Thy cloud standeth over them, and that Thou goest before them, by daytime in the pillar of cloud, and in a pillar of fire by night. Now if Thou shalt kill all this people as one man, then the nations which have heard the fame of Thee will speak, saying, Because the Lord was not able to bring this people into the land which He sware unto them, therefore He hath slain them in the wilderness. And now, I beseech Thee, let the power of my Lord be great, according as Thou hast spoken, saying, The Lord is long-suffering, and of great mercy, forgiving iniquity and transgression, and by no means clearing the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation. Pardon, I beseech Thee, the iniquity of this people according unto the greatness of Thy mercy, and as Thou hast forgiven this people, from Egypt even until now.'" Chester paused, and Mrs. Dinsmore took up the story where he dropped it, reading from her Bible, "And the Lord said, 'I have pardoned according to thy word: but as truly as I live, all the earth shall be filled with the glory of the Lord. Because all those men which have seen My glory and My miracles, which I did in Egypt and in the wilderness, and have tempted me now these ten times, and have not hearkened to My voice. Surely they shall not see the land which I sware unto their fathers, neither shall any of them that provoked Me see it: But My servant Caleb, because he had another spirit with him, and hath followed Me fully, him will I bring into the land whereinto he went; and his seed shall possess it. (Now the Amalekites and the Canaanites dwelt in the valley). To-morrow, turn you, and get you into the wilderness by the Red Sea.'" "Papa, did all those people lose their souls?" asked Elsie. "I hope not," he replied. "If they repented and turned to the Lord, they were forgiven and reached Heaven at last. Jesus says, 'Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn of Me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'" CHAPTER XVI. "Are we going to stop at any of these South American countries, papa?" asked Elsie the next day, standing by her father's side on the deck. "I hardly think so," he replied. "It is rather too nearly time to go home." "Oh, papa, I'd like ever so much to see our other home, Viamede--grandma lets me call it one of my homes--if there is time, and it isn't too far away." "Well, daughter," her father said, with a smile, "I think there is time, and the place not too far away--the 'Dolphin' being a good-natured yacht that never complains of her long journeys." "Oh, papa, are we really going there?" cried the little girl, fairly dancing with delight. "I'll be so glad to see the Keith cousins at the cottage, and those at Magnolia Hall, and the others at Torriswood. And I'll show Tiny to them, and they'll be sure to be pleased to see him," she added, hugging her pet, which, as usual, she had in her arms. "Probably they will," said her father. "Do you think of giving him to any one of them?" "Give my little pet Tiny away? Why, papa! no indeed! I couldn't think of such a thing!" she cried, hugging her pet still closer. "I'm fond of him, papa, and I'm pretty sure he's fond of me; he seems to want to snuggle up close to me all the time." "Yes; I think he is fond of you and won't want to leave you, except for a little while now and then to run up and down the trees and round the grounds. That will be his play; and when he gets hungry he will go back to you for something to eat." Ned, with his pet in his arms, had joined them just in time to hear his father's last sentence. "Are you talking about Elsie's Tiny, papa?" he asked. "Yes, my son, and what I said will apply to your Tee-tee just as well. I think if my children are good and kind to the little fellows they will not want to run away." "I have been good to him so far," said Ned, patting and stroking his pet as he spoke, "and I mean to keep on. Papa, where are we going now? Elsie and I were talking about it a while ago, and we wondered if we were now on the way home." "Would you like to be?" asked his father. "Yes, papa; or to go somewhere else first; just as pleases you." "What would you say as to visiting Viamede?" "Oh, papa, that I'd like it ever so much!" "Well, your grandma has given us all an invitation to go there, and we are very likely to accept it. It will make us a little later in getting home than I had intended, but it will be so great a pleasure that I think we will all feel paid." "Yes, indeed!" cried Ned, dancing up and down in delight, "I think it's just splendid that we can go there. I don't know any lovelier or more delightful place to go to; do you, papa?" "And I'm as glad as you are, Ned," said Elsie. "Let's go and thank grandma. Yonder she is in her usual seat under the awning." "Yes," said their father, "you owe her thanks, and it would be well to give them at once," and they hastened to do his bidding. Grandma Elsie was seated with the other ladies of their party in that pleasant spot under the awning, where there were plenty of comfortable seats, and they were protected from sun and shower. The gentlemen were there, too. Some were reading and some--the younger ones--chatting and laughing merrily among themselves. Into this group the children came rushing, full of excitement and glee. "Oh grandma," they cried, talking both at once, "we're so glad we're going to Viamede, so much obliged to you for inviting us, because it's such a dear, beautiful place and seems to be one of our homes." "Yes, you must consider it so, my dears; because it is mine, and I consider my dear grandchildren as mine, too," was grandma's smiling, affectionate rejoinder. "As I do, mamma," said Violet, "and I am sure no children ever had a better, kinder grandmother." "No, indeed," said Elsie. "And I think Tiny and Tee-tee will enjoy being at Viamede, too, and climbing up the beautiful trees. Papa says they will, but will be glad to come back to us when they get hungry; because we feed them with such things as they like to eat." "It will be a long journey before we get to Viamede, won't it, mamma?" asked Ned. "Yes; a good many miles up this coast of South America, then through the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico to New Orleans, then through Teche Bayou to Viamede. I think it will be a long, pleasant journey. Don't you?" "Yes, mamma, it is very pleasant to be on our yacht with you and papa and grandma and so many other kind friends." Just then the Captain joined them. "How long will it take us to get to Viamede, papa?" asked Ned. "About as long as it would to cross the ocean from our country to Europe. And should storms compel us to seek refuge for a time in some harbor, it will, of course, take longer." "Will we go back to Trinidad?" "Hardly, I think; though we will probably pass in sight of the island." "And we are on the coast of Brazil now?" "Yes; and will be for a week or more." "We are trying life in the 'Dolphin' for a good while this winter," said Violet. "You are not wearying of it, I hope, my dear?" asked the Captain, giving her a rather anxious and troubled look. "Oh, no, not at all!" she replied, giving him an affectionate smile, "this winter trip has been a real enjoyment to me thus far." "As it has to all of us, I think," said her mother; and all within hearing joined in with their expressions of pleasure in all they had experienced on the sea or on the land since sailing away from their homes in the "Dolphin." "I am half afraid that you gentlemen will find your homes but dull places when you get back to them," remarked Lucilla, in a tone of feigned melancholy, sighing deeply as she spoke. "Well, for business reasons I shall be glad to get back to my office," said Chester. "So it will not be altogether a trying thing to return, even if my home is to be but dull and wearisome." "I don't believe it will be," laughed Grace. "Lu is never half so hard and disagreeable as she pretends. She has always been the nicest of sisters to me, and I have an idea that she is quite as good a wife." "So have I," said Chester. "I know I wouldn't swap wives with any man." "Nor I husbands with any woman," laughed Lucilla. "I took this man for better or for worse, but there's no worse about it." A merry laugh from little Elsie turned all eyes upon her. Tiny was curled up on her shoulder, his hazel eyes fixed inquiringly upon her face and one of his fingers gently laid upon her lips. "I think your Tiny is wanting to learn to talk," her father said. "He seems to be trying to see how you do it." "Oh, do you think he can learn, papa?" she asked, in eager tones. "I don't see why monkeys shouldn't talk as well as parrots." "I do not, either, my child; I only know that they do not." At that instant Tiny lifted his head and turned his eyes upon the Captain, and some words seemed to come rapidly and in rather an indignant tone from his lips. "I can talk and I will when I want to. My little mistress is very kind and good to me, and I'm growing very fond of her." Everybody laughed and Elsie said, "I wish it were really his talk. But I know it was Cousin Ronald who spoke." "Ah, little cousin, how much fun you miss by knowing too much," laughed Mr. Lilburn. Then Ned's Tee-tee seemed to speak. "You needn't make a fuss over my brother. I can talk quite as well as he can." "Why, so you can!" exclaimed Ned, stroking and patting him. "And I'm glad to have you talk just as much as you will." "Thank you, little master; you're very good to me," was the reply. "Now, Tiny, it is your turn," said Elsie to her pet. "I hope you think you are having a good time here on this yacht?" "Yes, indeed I do," was the reply. "But where are we going?" "To Viamede; a beautiful place in Louisiana. And you shall run about over the velvety, flower-spangled lawn, and climb the trees, if you want to, and pick some oranges and bananas for yourself, and have ever such a good time." "That's nice! Shall my brother Tee-tee have a good time with me, too?" "Yes, if you both promise not to run away and leave us." "We'd be very foolish tee-tees if we did." "So I think," laughed Elsie, affectionately stroking and patting Tiny. "Come, Tee-tee; it's your turn to talk a little," said Ned, patting and stroking his pet. "Am I going to that good place Tiny's mistress tells about, where they have fine trees to climb and oranges and bananas and other good things to eat?" Tee-tee seemed to ask. "Yes," replied Ned, "if you keep on being a good little fellow you shall go there and have a good time playing about and feasting on the fruits, nuts and other nice things." "Then I mean to be good--as good as I know how." "Cousin Ronald, you do make them talk very nicely," remarked Elsie, with satisfaction, adding, "But I do wish they could do it themselves." "I presume they would be glad if they could," said Lucilla. "Yours watches the movements of your lips, as if he wanted very much to imitate them with his." "And I believe he does," said Elsie. "It makes me feel more thankful for the gift of speech than I ever did before." "Then it has a good effect," said her father. "So they are useful little creatures, after all," said Grace, "though I had thought them only playthings." "I think Tiny is the very best plaything that ever I had," said Elsie, again stroking and patting the little fellow. "Cousin Ronald, won't you please make him talk a little more?" "Why do you want me to talk so much, little mistress?" Tiny seemed to ask. "Oh, because I like to hear you and you really mean what you seem to say. Do you like to be with us on this nice big yacht?" "Pretty well, though I'd rather be among the big trees in the woods where I was born." "I think that must be because you are not quite civilized," laughed Elsie. "I'd rather be in those woods, too," Tee-tee seemed to say. "Let's run away to the woods, Tiny, when we get a chance." "Ho, ho!" cried Ned, "if that's the way you talk you shan't have a chance." "Now, Ned, you surely wouldn't be so cruel as to keep him if he wants to go back to his native woods," said Lucilla. "How would you like to be carried off to a strange place, away from papa and mamma?" "But I ain't a monkey," said Ned. "And I don't believe he cares about his father and mother as I do about mine. Do you care very much about them, Tee-tee?" "Not so very much; and I think they've been caught or killed." The words seemed to come from Tee-tee's lips and Ned exclaimed, triumphantly: "There; he doesn't care a bit." "But it wasn't he that answered; it was Cousin Ronald." "Well, maybe Cousin Ronald knows how he feels. Don't you, Cousin Ronald?" "Ah, I must acknowledge that it is all guess-work, sonny boy," laughed the old gentleman. "Well," said Ned, reflectively, "I've heard there are some folks who are good at guessing, and I believe you are one of them, Cousin Ronald." "But I'm not a Yankee, you know, and I've heard that they are the folks who are good at guessing," laughed Cousin Ronald. "But I don't believe they do all the guessing; I think other folks must do some of it," said Ned. "Quite likely," said Cousin Ronald; "most folks like to engage in that business once in awhile." "Tee-tee," said Ned, "I wish you and Tiny would talk a little more." "What about little master?" seemed to come in quick response from Tiny's lips. "Oh, anything you please. All I want is the fun of hearing you talk," said Ned. "It wouldn't be polite for us to do all the talking," he seemed to respond; and Ned returned, "You needn't mind about the politeness of it. We folks all want to hear you talk, whatever you may say." "But I don't want to talk unless I have something to say," was Tiny's answer. "That's right, Tiny; you seem to be a sensible fellow," laughed Lucilla. "Papa, are monkeys mischievous?" asked Elsie. "They have that reputation, and certainly some have shown themselves so; therefore, you would better not put temptation in the way of Tiny or Tee-tee." "And better not trust them too far," said Violet. "I'd be sorry to have any of your clothes torn up while we are so far from home." "Oh mamma, do you think they would do that?" cried Elsie. "I don't know; but I have heard of monkeys meddling with their mistress's clothes, and perhaps Tiny doesn't know how much too large even yours would be for her--no for him." "Well, mamma, I'll try to keep things out of his way, and I hope he'll realize that a girl's garments are not suitable for a boy monkey," laughed Elsie. "Do you hear that? and will you remember?" she asked, giving him a little shake and tap which he seemed to take very unconcernedly. "And I'll try to keep my clothes out of Tee-tee's way; for I shouldn't like to make trouble for you, mamma, or to wear either holey or patched clothes," said Ned. "No," said his father; "so we will hope the little fellows will be honest enough to refrain from meddling with your clothes; at least till we get home." "And I think you will find these pretty little fellows honest, and not meddlesome," said Mr. Dinsmore. "I have read that they are most engaging little creatures, and from what I have seen of these, I think that is true; they seem to behave with gentle intelligence quite superior to that of any other monkey I ever saw; to have amiable tempers, too, and there is an innocent expression in their countenances, which is very pleasing. I do not think they have as yet had anything to frighten them here, but I have read that when alarmed, sudden tears fill their clear hazel eyes, and they make little imploring, shrinking gestures that excite the sympathy of those to whom they are appealing for protection." "Yes, grandpa, I think they do look good, enough better and pleasanter than any other monkey that ever I saw," said Ned. "Yes," said his father, "it is certainly the most engaging specimen of the monkey family that ever I came across." "Children," said Violet, "the call to dinner will come in about five minutes. So put away your pets for the present and make yourselves neat for the table." CHAPTER XVII. The "Dolphin" sped on her way, and her passengers enjoyed their voyage whether the sun shone or the decks were swept by wind and rain; for the saloon was always a comfortable place of refuge in stormy weather, and by no means an unpleasant one at any time. They were all gathered on the deck one bright, breezy morning, chatting cheerily, the children amusing themselves with their tee-tee pets. "Father," said Lucilla, "are we not nearing the Caribbean Sea?" "Yes; if all goes well we will be in it by this time to-morrow," was Captain Raymond's reply. "It is a body of water worth seeing; separated from the Gulf of Mexico by Yucatan, and from the Atlantic Ocean by the great arch of the Antilles, between Cuba and Trinidad. It forms the turning point in the vast cycle of waters known as the Gulf Stream that wheels round regularly from Southern Africa to Northern Europe. The Caribbean Sea pours its waters into the Gulf of Mexico on the west, which shoots forth on the east the Florida stream with the computed volume of three thousand Mississippis." "But, papa, where does it get so much water to pour out?" asked Elsie. "I wonder it didn't get empty long ago." "Ah, that is prevented by its taking in as well as pouring out. It gathers water from the Atlantic Ocean and the Amazon and Orinoco rivers." "Papa, why do they call it by that name--Caribbean Sea?" asked Ned. "It takes its name from the Caribs, the people who were living there when Columbus discovered the islands," said the Captain. "The Gulf Stream is very important, isn't it, papa?" asked Elsie. "The most important and best known of the great ocean currents," he replied. "It flows out of the Gulf of Mexico, between the coast of Florida on one side and the Cuba and Bahama islands and shoals on the other." "The Stream is very broad, isn't it, papa?" asked Grace. "About fifty miles in the narrowest portion, and it has a velocity of five miles an hour; pouring along like an immense torrent." "But where does it run to, papa?" asked Ned. "First in a northeasterly direction, along the American coast, the current gradually growing wider and less swift, until it reaches the island and banks of Newfoundland; then it sweeps across the Atlantic, and divides into two portions, one turning eastward toward the Azores and coast of Morocco, while the other laves the shores of the British islands and Norway, also the southern borders of Iceland and Spitsbergen, nearly as far east as Nova Zembla." "But how can they tell where it goes when it mixes in with other waters, papa?" asked Elsie. "Its waters are of a deep indigo blue, while those of the sea are light green," replied her father. "And as it pours out of the Gulf of Mexico its waters are very warm and full of fish and seaweed in great masses. Its waters are so warm that in mid-winter, off the cold coasts of America between Cape Hatteras and Newfoundland, ships beaten back from their harbors by fierce northwesters until loaded down with ice and in danger of foundering, turn their prows to the east and seek relief and comfort in the Gulf Stream." "Don't they have some difficulty in finding it, father?" asked Lucilla. "A bank of fog rising like a wall, caused by the condensation of warm vapors meeting a colder atmosphere, marks the edge of the Stream," replied the Captain. "Also the water suddenly changes from green to blue, the climate from winter to summer, and this change is so sudden that when a ship is crossing the line, a difference of thirty degrees of temperature has been marked between the bow and the stern." "Papa, I know there used to be pirates in the West Indies; was it there that Kidd committed his crimes?" "I think not," replied her father. "In his day, piracy on the high seas prevailed to an alarming extent, especially in the Indian Ocean. It was said that many of the freebooters came from America, and that they found a ready market here for their stolen goods. The King of England--then King of this country, also--wished to put an end to piracy, and instructed the governors of New York and Massachusetts to put down these abuses. "It was soon known in New York that the new governor was bent on suppressing piracy. Then some men of influence, who knew of Kidd as a successful, bold and skilful captain, who had fought against the French and performed some daring exploits, recommended him as commander of the expedition against the pirates. They said he had all the requisite qualifications--skill, courage, large and widely-extended naval experience, and thorough knowledge of the haunts of the pirates 'who prowled between the Cape of Good Hope and the Straits of Malacca.' "A private company was organized, a vessel bought, called the 'Adventure,' equipped with thirty guns, and Kidd given command. He sailed to New York, and on his way captured a French ship off the coast of Newfoundland. He sailed from the Hudson River in January, 1697, crossed the ocean and reached the coast of Madagascar, then the great rendezvous of the buccaneers." "And how soon did he begin his piracy, papa?" "I can't tell you exactly, but it soon began to be reported that he was doing so, and in November, 1698, orders were sent to all the governors of English colonies to apprehend him if he came within their jurisdiction. "In April, 1699, he arrived in the West Indies in a vessel called 'Quidah Merchant,' secured her in a lagoon on the Island of Samoa, southeast of Hayti, and then, in a sloop called 'San Antonio,' sailed for the north, up the coast into Delaware Bay, afterward to Long Island Sound, and into Oyster Bay. He was soon arrested, charged with piracy, sent to England, tried, found guilty and hung." "There were other charges, were there not, Captain?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, sir; burning houses, massacring peasantry, brutally treating prisoners, and particularly with murdering one of his men, William Moore. He had called Moore a dog, to which Moore replied, 'Yes, I am a dog, but it is you that have made me so.' At that, Kidd, in a fury of rage, struck him down with a bucket, killing him instantly. It was found impossible to prove piracy against Kidd, but he was found guilty of the murder of Moore, and on the twenty-fourth of May, 1701, he was hanged with nine of his accomplices." "Did he own that he was guilty, papa?" asked Grace. "No," replied the Captain, "he protested his innocence to the last; said he had been coerced by his men, and that Moore was mutinous when he struck him; and there are many who think his trial was high-handed and unfair." "Then I hope he didn't deserve quite all that has been said against him," said Grace. "I hope not," said her father. CHAPTER XVIII. Elsie and Ned were on deck with their pet tee-tees, which seemed to be in even more than usually playful mood, running round and round the deck and up and down the masts. Ned chased after them, trying to catch them, but failing again and again. He grew more and more excited and less careful to avoid mishap in the struggle to capture the little runaways. Elsie called after him to "let them have their fun for awhile, and then they would come back to be petted and fed," but he paid no attention to her. He called and whistled to Tee-tee, who was high up on a mast. The little fellow stood still for a time, regarding his young master as if he would say, "I'll come when I please, but you can't make me come sooner." So Ned read the look, and called up to him, "Come down this minute, you little rascal, or I'll be apt to make you sorry you didn't." That did not seem to have any effect, and Ned looked about for some one to send up after the little runaway. "Have patience, master Ned, he'll come down after a bit," said a sailor standing near. "Ah, do you see? There he comes now," and turning quickly, Ned saw his tee-tee running swiftly down the mast, then along the top of the gunwale, then down on the outside. He rushed to catch him, leaned too far over, and, with a cry of terror, felt himself falling down, down into the sea. A scream from Elsie echoed his cry. The sailor who had spoken to Ned a moment before, instantly tore off his coat and plunged in after the child, caught him as he rose to the surface, held him with his head out of water, and called for a boat which was already being launched by the other sailors. Neither the Captain nor any of his older passengers were on deck at the moment; but the cries of the children, the sailor's plunge into the water, and the hurrying of the others to launch the boat were heard in the saloon. "Something is wrong!" exclaimed the Captain, hurrying to the deck, closely followed by Violet, whose cry was, "Oh, my children! What has happened to them?" The other members of the party came hurrying after all in great excitement. "Don't be alarmed, my dear," said the Captain, soothingly, "whatever is wrong can doubtless be set right in a few moments." Then, catching sight of his little girl as he gained the deck, and seeing that she was crying bitterly, "Elsie daughter, what is it?" he asked. "Oh, papa," sobbed the child, "Neddie has fallen into the sea, and I'm afraid he's drowned!" Before her father could answer, a sailor approached and, bowing respectfully, said: "I think it will be all right, sir, in a few minutes. Master Ned fell into the water, but Tom Jones happened to be close at hand, and sprang in right after him and caught him as he came up the first time. Then he called to us to lower the boat, and you see it's in the water already, and they're starting after Master Ned and Tom--left considerable behind now by the forward movement of the yacht." "Ah, yes; I see them," returned the Captain; "the boat, too. Violet, my dear, Neddie seems to be quite safe, and we will have him on board again in a few minutes." All on the deck watched, in almost breathless suspense, the progress of the small boat through the water, saw it reach and pick up the half-drowning man and boy, and then return to the yacht. In a few moments more Ned was in his mother's arms, her tears falling on his face, as she clasped him to her bosom, kissing him over and over again with passionate fondness. "There, Vi, dear, you would better give him into my care for a little," said Harold. "He wants a good rubbing, dry garments, a dose of something hot and then a good nap." "There, go with Uncle Harold, dear," said his mother, releasing him. "And papa," said Ned, looking up at his father, entreatingly. "Yes, little son, papa will go with you," returned the Captain, in moved tones. "Oh, is my tee-tee drowned?" exclaimed the little fellow, with sudden recollection, and glancing around as he spoke. "No," said Harold; "I see him now running around the deck. He's all right." And with that the two gentlemen hurried down into the cabin, taking Ned with them. "Well, it is a very good plan to always take a doctor along when we go sailing about the world," remarked Lucilla, looking after them as they passed down the stairway. "Yes; especially when you can find one as skilful, kind and agreeable as our Doctor Harold," said Evelyn. "Thank you, my dear," said Mrs. Travilla, regarding Evelyn with a pleased smile, "he seems to me both an excellent physician and a polished gentleman; but mothers are apt to be partial judges; so I am glad to find that your opinion is much the same as mine." Grace looked gratified, and Violet said: "It seems to be the opinion of all on board." "Mine as well as the rest," added Lucilla. "Chester has improved wonderfully since we set sail on the 'Dolphin.'" "Quite true," said Chester's voice close at hand, he having just returned from a talk with the sailors who had picked up the half-drowning man and boy, "quite true; and I give credit to my doctor, Cousin Harold; for his advice at least, which I have endeavored to follow carefully. He's a fine, competent physician, if it is a relative who says it. Violet, you need have no fear that he won't bring your boy through this thing all right." "I am not at all afraid to trust him--my dear, skilful brother and physician--and I believe he will be able to bring my little son through this trouble," said Violet. "No doubt of it," returned Chester; "by to-morrow morning little Ned will be in usual health and spirits; none the worse for his sudden sea bath." "I can never be thankful enough to Tom Jones," said Violet, with emotion. "He saved the life of my darling boy; for he surely would have drowned before any one else could have got to him." "Yes," said Chester; "I think he deserves all the praise you can give him." "And something more than praise," said Violet and her mother, both speaking at once. "He is not, by any means, a rich man," added Violet, "and my husband will certainly find a way to help him into better circumstances." "Something in which I shall be glad to assist," added her mother. "Neddie is your son, but he is my dear little grandson." "And my great-grandson," added Mr. Dinsmore, joining the group. "I am truly thankful that Tom Jones was so near when he fell, and so ready to go to the rescue." "And the engineer to slacken the speed of the vessel, the other sailors to lower and man the boat and go to the rescue," said Violet. "Yes; they must all be rewarded," said her mother. "It will be a pleasure to me to give them a substantial evidence of the gratitude I feel." "That is just like you, mamma," said Violet, with emotion; "but I am sure his father is able, and will be more than willing to do all that is necessary." "Yes, indeed!" exclaimed Lucilla, "there is no more just or generous person than my father! And he is abundantly able to do all that can be desired to reward any or all who took any part in the saving of my dear little brother." "My dear girl," said Grandma Elsie, "no one who knows your father can have the least doubt of his generosity and kindness of heart; I am very sure that all the men we were speaking of will have abundant proof of it." "As we all are," said Mr. Dinsmore. "I'm sure papa will do just what is right; he always does," said little Elsie. "And oh, mamma, don't you think that he and Uncle Harold will soon get dear Neddie well of his dreadful dip in the sea?" "I do, daughter," answered Violet; "and oh, here come your papa and uncle now!" For at that moment the two gentlemen stepped upon the deck and came swiftly toward them. "Oh? how is he--my darling little son?" cried Violet, almost breathless with excitement and anxiety. "Doing as well as possible," answered her brother, in cheery tone. "He has had a good rubbing down, a hot, soothing potion, been covered up in his berth, and fallen into a sound sleep." "Yes," said the Captain, "I think he is doing as well as possible, and to-morrow will show himself no worse for his involuntary dip in the sea." "Oh, I am so glad, so thankful!" exclaimed Violet, tears of joy filling her eyes. "As I am," said his father, his voice trembling with emotion; "we have great cause for thankfulness to the Giver of All Good. I am very glad your mind is relieved, dearest. But I must go now and thank the men, whose prompt action saved us from a heavy loss and bitter sorrow." He had seated himself by Violet's side and put his arm about her, but he rose with those last words, and went forward to where a group of sailors were talking over the episode and rejoicing that it had ended so satisfactorily. They lifted their hats and saluted the Captain respectfully as he neared them. "How is the little lad, sir?" asked Jones, as he neared them. "No worse for his ducking, I hope." "Thank you, Jones. I think he will not be any the worse by to-morrow morning," replied the Captain. "He is sleeping now, which, I think, is the best thing he could do. Jones, he owes his life to you, and I can never cease to be grateful to you for your prompt action in springing instantly to his rescue when he fell into the water." "Oh, sir," stammered Jones, looking both pleased and embarrassed, "it--it wasn't a bit more than almost any other fellow would have done in my place. And I'm mighty glad I did it, for he's one o' the likeliest little chaps ever I saw!" "He is a very dear one to his father and mother, brother and sisters, and I should like to give to each of you fellows who helped in this thing, some little token of my appreciation of your kindly efforts. I will think it over and have a talk with you again, and you may consider what return I could make that would be the most agreeable and helpful to you." "About how much do you suppose that means?" asked one man of his mates, when the Captain had walked away. "Perhaps five dollars apiece," chuckled one of the others, "for the Captain is pretty generous; and likely Jones's share will be twice as much." "Nonsense! who wants to be paid for saving that cute little chap from drowning?" growled Jones. "I'd have been a coward if I'd indulged in a minute's hesitation." "I s'pose so," returned one of the others, "but you risked your life to save his, so deserve a big reward, and I hope and believe you'll get it." On leaving the group of sailors, the Captain went to the pilot-house and gave warm thanks there for the prompt slowing of the "Dolphin's" speed the instant the alarm of Ned's fall was given. "It was no more than any other man would have done in my place, Captain," replied the pilot, with a smile of gratification. "No," returned Captain Raymond, "some men would have been less prompt and the probable consequence, the loss of my little son's life, which would have been a great loss to his mother and me," he added, with emotion. "I think you are worthy of an increase of pay, Mr. Clark, and you won't object to it, I suppose?" "No, sir; seeing I have a family to support, I won't refuse your kindness, and I thank you very much for the kind offer." At that moment Violet drew near and stood at her husband's side. She spoke in tones trembling with emotion. "I have come to thank you, Clark, for the saving of my darling boy's life; for I know that but for the slowing of the engine both Jones and he might have lost their lives--sinking before help could reach them." "You are very kind to look at it in that way, Mrs. Raymond," returned Clark, in tones that spoke his appreciation of her grateful feeling, "but it was very little that I did--cost hardly any exertion and no risk. Jones is, I think, the only one deserving much, if any, credit for the rescue of the little lad." He paused a moment, then added, "But the Captain here has most generously offered me an increase of pay; for which I thank him most heartily." "Oh, my dear, I am very glad to hear that!" exclaimed Violet, addressing her husband. With the last word, her hand was slipped into his arm, and, with a parting nod to Clark, they turned and went back to the family group still gathered upon the deck under the awning. They found Elsie with Tiny on her shoulder and Tee-tee on her lap. "I must take care of them both now for awhile till Ned gets over that dreadful sea bath," she said, looking up smilingly at her parents as they drew near. "Yes, daughter, that is right," replied her father, "it was no fault of little Tee-tee that his young master fell into the sea." That evening Violet and the Captain had a quiet promenade on the deck together, in which they talked of those who had any share in the rescue of their little Ned, and what reward might be appropriate for each one. "I have heard there is a mortgage on the farm which is the home of Tom Jones and his mother," said the Captain. "I will pay that off as my gift to Tom, in recognition of his bravery and kindness in risking his own life in the effort to save that of our little son." "Do," said Violet, joyfully; "he certainly deserves it, and probably there is nothing he would like better." "He is certainly entitled to the largest reward I give," said the Captain, "though I daresay almost any of the others would have acted just as he did, if they had had the same opportunity." Ned slept well under his uncle's care that night, and the next morning appeared at the breakfast table looking much as usual, and saying, in answer to loving inquiries, that he felt as if nothing had happened to him; not a bit the worse for his bath in the sea. Nor was he disposed to blame Tee-tee for his involuntary plunge into the water; the two were evidently as fast friends as ever. After breakfast the Captain had a talk, first with Jones, then with the other men, in which each learned what his reward was to be. Jones was almost too much moved for speech when told of his, but expressed his gratitude more fully afterward, saying, "It is a blessed thing to have a home of one's own; especially when it can be shared with one's mother. Dear me, but won't she be glad!" And the others were highly pleased with the ten dollars apiece which fell to their shares. CHAPTER XIX. The yacht had now passed from the Caribbean Sea into the Gulf of Mexico and was headed for New Orleans, where they arrived safely and in due season. They did not care to visit the city--most of them having been there several times, and all wanting to spend at Viamede the few days they could spare for rest and pleasure before returning to their more northern homes. So they tarried but a few hours at the Crescent City, then pursued their way along the gulf, up the bay into Teche Bayou and beyond through lake and lakelet, past plantation and swamp, plain and forest; enjoying the scenery as of old--the beautiful velvety green lawns, shaded by their magnificent oaks and magnolias, cool shady dells carpeted with a rich growth of flowers; tall white sugar-houses and long rows of cabins for the laborers; and lordly villas peering through groves of orange trees. A pleasant surprise awaited them as they rounded at the wharf--at Viamede; a great gathering of friends and relatives--not only from the immediate neighborhood, but from that of their more northern homes--Edward Travilla and his family, Elsie Leland and hers, Rose Croly with her little one. It was a glad surprise to Violet, for her mother had not told her they had all been invited to spend the winter at Viamede, and had accepted the invitation. The cousins from Magnolia Hall, Torriswood and the cottage were all there. It seemed a joyful meeting to all; to none more so than to Chester and his sisters. It was their first meeting since his marriage, and they seemed glad to call Lucilla sister. "You must be our guest at Torriswood, Lu; you and Brother Chester," said Maud, when greetings were over, and the new arrivals were removing their hats in one of the dressing-rooms. "Thank you, Maud, of course we will spend a part--probably most of our time with you," replied Lucilla. "I expect to have a delightful time both there and here." "You shall there, if I can bring it about," laughed Maud. "I want you also, young Mrs. Raymond," she added, in playful tones, turning to Evelyn. "You will come, won't you?" "Thank you, I think I shall," was Eva's pleased reply. "You are wanted, too, Gracie," continued Maud. "And Dr. Harold is to be invited, and I hope will accept, for he is a great favorite with us ever since he saved Dick's life." "I think it entirely right that he should be," returned Grace, demurely, "and his presence will be no serious objection to me; in fact, as he is my physician, it might be very well to have him close at hand, in case I should be taken suddenly ill." "Very true," said Maud, bridling playfully, "though if he were not there, Dr. Percival might possibly prove an efficient substitute." There was a general laugh at that, and all hastened to join the rest of the company who were gathered upon the front veranda. Elsie and Ned were there with their new pets, which seemed to be attracting a good deal of attention. Elsie was sitting by her mother's side, with Tiny on her shoulder, and Ned stood near them with Tee-tee in his arms, stroking and patting him while he told how the little fellow had frightened him in his gambols about the yacht till, in trying to save him from falling into the sea, he had tumbled in himself. "Very foolish in you to risk your life for me, little master," Tee-tee seemed to say, as Ned reached that part of his story. Ned laughed, saying, "So you think, do you?" "Oh, it can talk! It can talk!" cried several of the children in astonishment and delight, while their elders turned with amused, inquiring looks to Cousin Ronald, the known ventriloquist of the family. "Yes, little master, so don't you do it ever again," seemed to come from Tee-tee's lips. "No, indeed, I think I won't," laughed Ned. "I can talk, too; quite as well as my brother can," seemed to come from Tiny's lips. "Yes, so you can, my pretty pet," laughed Elsie, giving him an approving pat. "Oh, oh! They can both talk!" exclaimed several of the children. "And speak good English, too, though they come from a land where it is not commonly spoken," laughed Chester. "But we heard English on the yacht, and we can learn fast," was Tee-tee's answering remark. "Especially when you can get Cousin Ronald to help you," laughed Ned. "There, Ned, I'm afraid you've let the cat out of the bag," laughed Lucilla. "I don't see either cat or bag," sniffed Ned, after an inquiring look around. "Your sister means that you are letting out a secret," said his father. "Oh, was I? I hope not," exclaimed the little fellow, looking rather crestfallen. "How does Cousin Ronald help him?" asked one of the little cousins. "I don't know," said Ned; "I couldn't do it." The call to the supper-table just at that moment saved Cousin Ronald the trouble of answering the inquiring looks directed at him. After the meal, all resorted again to the veranda, and the little tee-tees, having had their supper in the kitchen, were again a source of amusement, especially to the children. "Did the folks give you plenty to eat, Tee-tee?" asked Ned. "All we wanted, and very nice, too," the little fellow seemed to say in reply. "And he ate like--like a hungry bear; a great deal more than I did," Tiny seemed to say. "Well, I'm bigger than you," was Tee-tee's answering remark. "And both of you are very, very little; too little to eat much, I should think," laughed one of the children. "I've heard that they put the best goods in the smallest packages," Tee-tee seemed to say; then suddenly he sprang out of Ned's arms, jumped over the veranda railing, ran swiftly across the lawn and up an orange tree, Tiny leaving Elsie and racing after him. "Oh, dear, dear! What shall we do? Will they ever come back?" cried Elsie, tears filling her eyes as she spoke. "I think they will, daughter," said the Captain, soothingly. "Do you forget that I told you they would run up the trees? You and Ned have been so kind to them, petted them and fed them so well that they'll be glad, I think, to continue in your care, but now, like children, they want a little fun, such as they have been accustomed to in their forest life." That assurance comforted the young owners somewhat, and they chatted pleasantly with the other children until it was time for them to leave, but kept watching the tee-tees frisking about in that tree and others on the lawn, hoping they would weary of their fun and come back to them. But they had not done so when the guests took leave, nor when bedtime came, but the Captain comforted the children again with the hope that the tee-tees would finish their frolic and return the next day; which they did, to the great joy of their young master and mistress. Maud's invitation was accepted by all to whom she or Dick had given it. Magnolia Hall and the Parsonage claimed several of the others, and the rest were easily and well accommodated at Viamede. All felt themselves heartily welcome, and greatly enjoyed their sojourn of some weeks in that hospitable neighborhood and among near and dear relatives. Fortunately for Ned, his remark about Cousin Ronald helping the tee-tees with their talk, did not have the bad effect that he feared, and the older friends did not explain; so there was more fun of the same kind when the children were together and the kind old gentleman with them. As the stay of Grandma Elsie and her party was to be short, there was a constant interchange of visits between them and the relatives resident in the neighborhood, and much to the delight of the children, the little tee-tees were on constant exhibition. Sometimes they were to be seen darting here and there over the lawn, running up and down the trees or springing from one to another; but often, to the greater pleasure of the young folks, they were on the veranda, chasing each other round and round, or sitting on the shoulder of Elsie or Ned. Then if Cousin Ronald happened to be present, they seemed to be in the mood for conversation. "I like this place, Tiny, don't you?" Tee-tee seemed to ask one day, when they had just returned from a scamper over the lawn and up and down the trees. "Yes, indeed!" was the reply. "It's nicer than that vessel we came in. Let's stay here." "Oh, we can't. I heard the Captain talking about going back, and they'll certainly want to take us along." "But don't let us go. We can hide in the woods where they can't find us." "I think not," laughed Elsie; "we value you too much not to hunt you up before we go." "Dear me! I'd take good care they didn't get a chance to play that game," exclaimed one of the little cousins. "I think the best plan will be to pet them so much that they won't be willing to be left behind," said Elsie. "And that's what we'll do," said Ned. Just then there was an arrival from Torriswood and that put a stop, for the time, to the chatter of the Tee-tees. Dr. Percival and his Maud, with their guests from the north, were of the party, and all remained until near bedtime that night, when they went away with the pleasant assurance that the whole connection at that time in that neighborhood would spend the following day with them in their lovely Torriswood home, should nothing occur to prevent. Nothing did; the day was bright and beautiful, and not one of the relatives was missing from the pleasant gathering. To the joy of Elsie and Ned Raymond, not even the tee-tees were neglected in the invitation, and with some assistance from Cousin Ronald they made a good deal of fun, for at least the younger part of the company. The next day was spent by the same company at Magnolia Hall, and a few days later most of them gathered at the pretty Parsonage, where dwelt Cyril and Isadore Keith. Cyril was a much-loved and successful pastor, an excellent preacher, whose sermons were greatly enjoyed by those of the "Dolphin" party who were old enough to appreciate them. The Parsonage and its grounds made a lovely home for the pastor, his wife and the children with which Providence had blessed them, and the family party held there, the last of the series, was found by all quite as enjoyable as any that had preceded it. After that the old pastimes--rides, drives, boating and fishing excursions--were resumed, also the quiet home pleasures and rambles through the woods and fields; for they found they could not tear themselves away as quickly as they had intended when they planned to end their winter trip--leaving the return journey out of the calculation--with a short visit to Viamede. That neighborhood, with its pleasant companionship, was too delightful to be left until the increasing heat of the advancing spring should make it less comfortable and healthful for them than their more northern homes. So there let us leave them for the present. THE END. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. 
45944	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 45944-h.htm or 45944-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45944/45944-h/45944-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45944/45944-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/elsieyachtingwit00finl Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS * * * * * * A LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS. _Arranged in the order of their publication._ ELSIE DINSMORE. ELSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS. ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD. ELSIE'S WOMANHOOD. ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD. ELSIE'S CHILDREN. ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD. GRANDMOTHER ELSIE. ELSIE'S NEW RELATIONS. ELSIE AT NANTUCKET. THE TWO ELSIES. ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN. ELSIE'S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN. CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE. ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS. ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS. ELSIE'S VACATION. ELSIE AT VIAMEDE. ELSIE AT ION. * * * * * * [Illustration (frontispiece)] ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS by MARTHA FINLEY Author of "Elsie Dinsmore," "Elsie's Womanhood," "Elsie's Kith and Kin," "Elsie and the Raymonds," "The Mildred Books," "Wanted--a Pedigree," etc. New York Dodd, Mead, And Company Publishers Copyright, 1890 By Dodd, Mead, and Co. All rights reserved. PREFATORY NOTE. The Author, having received many letters from young and interested readers, has decided to acknowledge them in this way, because feeble health and much work for the publishers make it impossible to write a separate reply to each gratifying epistle. She also desires to freely acknowledge indebtedness for much information regarding Revolutionary times and incidents, to Bancroft and Lossing; and for the routine at West Point, to an article in Harper's Magazine for July, 1887, entitled "Cadet Life at West Point," by Charles King, U. S. A. M. F. CHAPTER I. The train, which for some hours had been running very fast and too noisily to admit of much conversation, suddenly slackened its speed, and Lulu turned upon her father a bright, eager look, as though some request were trembling on her tongue. "Well, daughter, what is it?" he asked, with an indulgent smile, before she had time to utter a word. "Oh, Papa!" she began in a quick, excited way, and quite as if she expected her request would be granted, "I know we're going through New York State, and I've just been thinking how much I would like to see Saratoga,--especially the battle-field where the Americans gained that splendid victory over the British in the Revolutionary War." "Ah! and would Max like it, too?" the Captain asked, with a smiling glance at his son, who, sitting directly in front of them, had turned to listen to their talk just as Lulu began her reply to their father's query. "Yes, sir; yes, indeed!" Max answered eagerly, his face growing very bright. "And you, Papa, would you enjoy it, too?" "I think I would," said the Captain, "though it would not be for the first time; but showing the places of interest to two such ardent young patriots will more than compensate for that.--And there have been changes since I was there last," he continued, musingly. "Mount McGregor, for instance, has become a spot of historic interest. We will visit it." "Oh, yes! where dear General Grant died," said Lulu. "I would like to go there." "So you shall," returned her father. "This is Friday; we shall reach Saratoga Saturday night, should no accident detain us, spend Sunday there resting, according to the commandment, then Monday and Tuesday in sight-seeing." "How nice, Papa," Lulu said with satisfaction. "I only wish Mamma Vi and Gracie could be there with us." "It would double our pleasure," he replied. "I think we must go again some time, when we can have them along." "Oh, I am glad to hear you say that, Papa! for I am quite sure I shall enjoy going twice to so interesting a place," said Lulu. "I, too," said Max. "I don't know of anything that would please me better." "I am glad to hear it, and hope there will be no disappointment to either of you," their father said. But the train was speeding on again, too fast and too noisily for comfortable conversation, and they relapsed into silence, the Captain returning to his newspaper, Max to a book which he seemed to find very interesting, while his sister amused herself with her own thoughts. Lulu was feeling very happy; she had been having so pleasant a summer out in the West with Papa and Maxie, and was enjoying the homeward journey,--or rather the trip to the sea-shore, where the rest of the family were, and where they all expected to remain till the end of the season,--the prospect of seeing Saratoga and its historical surroundings, and other places of interest,--a view of which could be had from the boat as they passed down the Hudson; for she and Max had both expressed a preference for that mode of travel, and their father had kindly consented to let them have their wish. She thought herself a very fortunate little girl, and wished with all her heart that Gracie could be there with them and share in all their pleasures. Dear Gracie! they had never been separated for so long a time before, and Lulu was in such haste for the meeting now that she could almost be willing to resign the pleasure of a visit to Saratoga that they might be together the sooner. But no, oh, no, it would never do to miss a visit there! It would defer their meeting only a day or two, and she should have all the more to tell; not to Gracie only, but to Evelyn Leland and Rosie Travilla. Ah, how enjoyable that would be! Oh, how full of pleasure life was now that Papa was with them all the time, and they had such a sweet home of their very own! With that thought she turned toward him, giving him a look of ardent affection. He was still reading, but glanced from his paper to her just in time to catch her loving look. "My darling!" he said, bending down to speak close to her ear, and accompanying the words with a smile full of fatherly affection. "I fear you must be growing very weary with this long journey," he added, putting an arm about her and drawing her closer to him. "Oh, no, not so very, Papa!" she answered brightly; "but I'll be ever so glad when we get to Saratoga. Don't you think it will be quite a rest to be out of the cars for a day or two?" "Yes; and I trust you will find them less wearisome after your three days at Saratoga." "What time shall we reach there, Papa?" asked Max. "Not long before your bed-time, I understand," replied the Captain. "Then we cannot see anything before Monday?" "You will see something of the town in walking to church day after to-morrow." "And we can start out bright and early on Monday to visit places of interest," added Lulu; "can't we, Papa?" "Yes, if you will be careful to be ready in good season. We want to see all we can in the two days of our stay." "And I don't believe we'll find Lu a hindrance, as some girls would be," said Max. "She's always prompt when anything is to be done." "I think that is quite true, Max," their father remarked, looking from one to the other with a smile that was full of paternal love and pride; "and of you as well as of your sister." "If we are, Papa, it is because you have trained us to punctuality and promptness," returned the lad, regarding his father with eyes full of admiring filial affection. "And because you have heeded the lessons I have given you," added the Captain. "My dear children, when I see that you are doing so, it gives me a glad and thankful heart." They reached Saratoga the next evening more than an hour earlier than they had expected; and as the moon was nearly full, they were, much to the delight of Max and Lulu, able to wander about the town for an hour or more after tea, enjoying the sight of the beautiful grounds and residences, and the crowds of people walking and driving along the streets, or sitting in the porches. They visited Congress Park also, drank from its springs, strolled through its porches out into the grounds, wandered along the walks, and at length entered the pavilion. Here they sat and rested for awhile; then the Captain, consulting his watch, said to his children, "It is nine o'clock, my dears; time that tired travellers were seeking their nests." He rose as he spoke, and taking Lulu's hand, led the way, Max close in the rear. "Yes, Papa, I'm tired enough to be very willing to go to bed," said Lulu; "but I hope we can come here again on Monday." "I think it altogether likely we shall be able to do so," he replied. "If we are up early enough we might run down here for a drink of the water before breakfast on Monday," said Max. "Can't we, Papa?" "Yes, all three of us," replied the Captain. "Let us see who will be ready first." They passed a quiet, restful Sabbath, very much as it would have been spent at home; then, on Monday morning, all three were up and dressed in season for a visit to some of the nearer springs before breakfast. They went to the Park together, took their drinks, returned after but a few minutes spent in the garden, breakfasted, and shortly after leaving the table were in a carriage on their way to Schuylerville. They visited the battle-ground first, then the place of surrender, with its interesting monument. "We will look at the outside first," the Captain said, as they drew near it. "It is called the finest of its kind, and stands upon the crowning height of Burgoyne's intrenched camp." "I wonder how high it is," Max said inquiringly, as they stood at some distance from the base, he with his head thrown back, his eyes fixed upon the top of the shaft. "It is said to be more than four hundred and fifty feet above the level of the river," replied his father. "Oh, I wonder if we couldn't see the battle-field from the top!" exclaimed Lulu, excitedly. "I suppose they'll let us climb up there, won't they, Papa?" "Yes, for a consideration," returned the Captain, smiling at her eager look; "but first let us finish our survey of the outside." "What kind of stone is this, sir?" asked Max, pointing to the base. "Light granite," replied his father. "And the shaft is of dark granite, rough hewn, as you will notice." "And there are gables," remarked Lulu,--"great high ones." "Yes; nearly forty feet high, and resting at their bases upon granite eagles with folded wings. Observe, too, the polished granite columns, with carved capitals, which all the cornices of doors and windows rest upon." "And the niches over the doors," said Max, still gazing upward as they walked slowly around the shaft, "one empty I see, each of the others with a statue in it. Oh, they are the generals who commanded our troops in the battle!" "Yes," said his father, "Generals Schuyler, Morgan, and Gates,--who by the way was hardly worthy of the honour, as he gave evidence of cowardice, remaining two miles away from the field of battle, all ready for a possible retreat, while Burgoyne was in the thickest of the fight. The fourth and empty one, do you not see, has the name of Arnold carved underneath it." "Oh, yes, Arnold the traitor!" exclaimed Max. "How _could_ he turn against his country? But, Papa, he did do good service in this battle and some of the earlier ones, and it's such a pity he turned traitor!" "Yes, a very great pity!" assented the Captain, heaving an involuntary sigh. "While detesting his treachery, I have always felt that he has not received deserved credit for his great services in the earlier part of the war,--the expedition to Canada, and besides smaller engagements, the terrible battle of Valcour Island, Lake Champlain, in which he was defeated only by the great superiority of the enemy in numbers of both men and vessels. Though beaten, he brought away to Ticonderoga his remaining vessels and surviving troops. His obstinate resistance so discouraged the British general, Carleton, that he retired to Montreal for the winter, which made it possible for the Northern army to spare three thousand troops to help Washington in striking his great blows at Princeton and Trenton." "And after all that, as I remember reading," said Max, "Congress treated Arnold shamefully, promoting other officers over his head who neither stood so high in rank nor had done half the service he had. I'm sure his anger at the injustice was very natural; yet he still fought bravely for his country,--didn't he, Papa?" "Yes; and all that occurred some months before this battle of Saratoga, in which he did such service. Ah, if his career had ended there and then, what a patriot he would now be considered! It is almost certain that if he had been properly reinforced by Gates, he would have inflicted a crushing defeat upon Burgoyne at, or shortly after, the battle of Freeman's farm. But Gates was very jealous of Arnold, disliking him as a warm friend of General Schuyler, and the two had a fierce quarrel between that battle and the one of Saratoga, occasioned by Gates, prompted by his jealousy, taking some of Arnold's best troops from his command. Arnold then asked and received permission to return to Philadelphia; but the other officers, perceiving that another and decisive battle was about to be fought, persuaded Arnold to remain and share in it, as they had no confidence in Gates, who was, without doubt, a coward. He showed himself such by remaining in his tent while the battle was going on, though Burgoyne was, as I have said, in the thick of it. It was a great victory that crowned our arms on the 7th of October, 1777, and was due more to Arnold's efforts than to those of any other man, though Morgan also did a great deal to win it." "Wasn't Arnold wounded in this battle, Papa?" asked Max. "Yes, severely, in the leg which had been hurt at Quebec. It was just at the close of the battle. He was carried on a litter to Albany, where he remained, disabled, till the next spring. One must ever detest treason and a traitor; yet I think it quite possible--even probable--that if Arnold had always received fair and just treatment, he would never have attempted to betray his country as he afterward did. Now we will go inside, and see what we can find of interest there." The Captain led the way as he spoke. They lingered awhile in the lower room examining with great interest the tablets and historical pictures, sculptured in bronze, _alto rilievo_, which adorned its walls. "Oh, Papa, see!" cried Lulu; "here is Mrs. Schuyler setting fire to a field of wheat to keep the British from getting it, I suppose." "Yes," her father said; "these are Revolutionary scenes." "Here is George III.," said Max, "consulting with his ministers how he shall subdue the Americans. Ha, ha! they did their best, but couldn't succeed. My countrymen of that day would be free." "As Americans always will, I hope and believe," said Lulu. "I feel sure your countrywomen will anyhow." At that her father, giving her a smile of mingled pleasure and amusement, said, "Now we will go up to the top of the shaft, and take a bird's-eye view of the surrounding country." They climbed the winding stairway to its top, and from thence had a view of not only the battle-field, but of other historic spots also lying in all directions. Max and Lulu were deeply interested, and had many questions to ask, which their father answered with unfailing patience. But, indeed, ardent patriot that he was, he keenly enjoyed making his children fully acquainted with the history of their country, and there was much connected with the surrounding scenes which it was a pleasure to relate, or remind them of, as having happened there. From the scenes of the fight and the surrender they drove on to the Marshall place, the Captain giving the order as they reseated themselves in the carriage. "The Marshall place, Papa? What about it?" asked Max and Lulu in a breath. "It is a house famous for its connection with the fighting in the neighbourhood of Saratoga," replied the Captain. "It was there the Baroness Riedesel took refuge with her children on the 10th of October, 1777, about two o'clock in the afternoon, going there with her three little girls, trying to get as far from the scene of conflict as she well could." "Oh, yes, sir!" said Max. "I remember, now, that there was a Baron Riedesel in the British army,--a Hessian officer, in command of four thousand men; wasn't he, Papa?" "Yes; and his wife seems to have been a lovely woman. She nursed poor General Frazer in his dying agonies. You may remember that he was killed by one of Morgan's men in the battle of Bemis Heights, or Saratoga, fought on the 7th,--or rather, I should say, he was mortally wounded and carried to the Taylor House, where the Baroness Riedesel had prepared a dinner for the officers, which was standing partly served upon the table. He lay there in great agony until the next morning, and then died." "Oh, yes, Papa, I remember about him!" said Lulu; "and that he was buried the same evening in the Great Redoubt, which was a part of the British intrenchments on the hills near the river." "Yes, the strongest part," said Max. "I remember reading of it, and that the Americans opened fire on the procession from the other side of the river, not understanding what it was; so that while the chaplain was reading the service at the grave, hostile shots were ploughing up the ground at his feet, and covering the party with dust." "Oh, Papa, won't you take us to see his grave?" asked Lulu. "Yes, daughter, if we have time." "Here we are, sir. This is the Marshall place," announced the driver, reining in his horses in front of a modest-looking farm-house; "and here comes a lad that'll show you round, and tell you the whole story of what happened in and about here in the time of the Revolution." The Captain quickly alighted, helped Lulu out, and Max sprang after them. The lad had already opened the gate, and lifted his hat with a bow and smile. "Good-morning!" he said. Captain Raymond returned the salutation, adding, "I would like very much to show my children those parts of your house here connected with Revolutionary memories, if--" "Oh, yes, sir; yes!" returned the boy, pleasantly. "I'll take you in and about; it's quite the thing for visitors to Saratoga to come over here on that errand." He led the way into the house as he spoke, the Captain, Max, and Lulu following. They passed through a hall, and on into the parlour, without meeting any one. "This," said the lad, "is the northeast room, where Surgeon Jones was killed by a cannon-ball; perhaps you may remember about it, sir. The doctors were at work on him, cutting off a wounded leg, when a ball came in at that northeast corner and took off his other leg in its way diagonally across the room. They gave up trying to save him, then, and left him to die in yon corner," pointing to it as he spoke. "Poor fellow!" sighed Lulu. "I can't help feeling sorry for him, though he was an enemy to my country." "No, Miss, it was a pity, and does make one feel sorry; for I suppose he really had no choice but to obey the orders of his king," returned the lad. "Well, the ball passed on, broke through the plank partition of the hall, and buried itself in the ground outside. They say eleven cannon-balls passed through the house in just a little while. For my part, I'd rather have been in a battle than keeping quiet here to be shot at." "I certainly would," said the Captain. "I, too," said Max. "I should say there was very little fun in standing such a fire with no chance to return it." "Yes; and our people would never have fired on them if they had known they were women, children, and wounded men; but you see they--the Americans--saw people gathering here, and thought the British were making the place their headquarters. So they trained their artillery on it, and opened such a fire as presently sent everybody to the cellar. Will you walk down and look at that, sir?" addressing the Captain. "If it is convenient," he returned, following with Max and Lulu as their young guide led the way. "Quite, sir," he answered; then, as they entered the cellar, "There have been some changes in the hundred years and more that have passed since that terrible time," he said. "You see there is but one partition wall now; there were two then, but one has been torn down, and the floor cemented. Otherwise the cellars are just as they were at the time of the fight; only a good deal cleaner, I suspect," he added, with a smile, "for packed as they were with women, children, and wounded officers and soldiers, there must have been a good deal of filth about, as well as bad air." "They certainly are beautifully clean, light, and sweet now, whatever they may have been on that October day of 1777," the Captain said, glancing admiringly at the rows of shining milk-pans showing a tempting display of thick yellow cream, and the great fruit-bins standing ready for the coming harvest. "Yes, sir; to me it seems a rather inviting-looking place at present," returned the lad, glancing from side to side with a smile of satisfaction; "but I've sometimes pictured it to myself as it must have looked then,--crowded, you know, with frightened women and children, and wounded officers being constantly brought in for nursing, in agonies of pain, groaning, and perhaps screaming, begging for water, which could be got only from the river, a soldier's wife bringing a small quantity at a time." "Yes, a woman could do that, of course," said Lulu; "for our soldiers would never fire on a woman,--certainly not for doing such a thing as that." "No, of course not," exclaimed Max, in a scornful tone. "American men fire on a woman doing such a thing as that? I should say not!" "No, indeed, I should hope not!" returned their young conductor, leading the way from the cellar to the upper hall, and out into the grounds. "Yonder," he said, pointing with his finger, "away to the southwest, Burgoyne's troops were stationed; the German auxiliaries, too, were resting from their fight, near Bemis Heights. Away to the west there, Morgan's famous riflemen were taking up their position along Burgoyne's front and flank, while Colonel Fellows was over yonder," turning to the east and again pointing with his finger, "bringing his batteries to bear upon the British. Just as the Baroness Riedesel in her calash with her three little girls stopped before the house, some American sharpshooters across the river levelled their muskets, and she had barely time to push her children to the bottom of the wagon and throw herself down beside them, before the bullets came whistling overhead. Neither she nor the little folks were hurt, but a soldier belonging to their party was badly wounded. The Baroness and her children spent the night there in the cellar. So did other ladies from the British army who followed her to this retreat that afternoon. They were in one of its three divisions, the wounded officers in another, and the common soldiers occupied the third." "It must have been a dreadful night to the poor Baroness and those little girls," remarked Lulu, who was listening with keenest interest. "Yes, indeed," responded the lad; "the cries and groans of the wounded, the darkness, dampness, and filth and stench of the wounds, all taken together, must have made an awful night for them all. I wonder, for my part, that the women and children weren't left at home in their own countries." "That's where they ought to have been, I think," said Lulu. "Was it that night Surgeon Jones was killed?" "No, Miss, the next day, when the Americans began firing again harder than ever." "Where were they firing from then?" Lulu asked. "The other side of the river, Miss; probably from some rising ground a little north of Batten Kil." "Well, sir, what more have you to show us?" asked the Captain, pleasantly. "A plank cut and shattered at one end, probably by the ball that killed the Surgeon. This way, if you please; here it is. And here is a rafter which you see has been partly cut in two by a shell. It was taken out of the frame of the house while they were repairing in 1868. Here are some other bits of shot and shell that have been ploughed up on the farm at different times. Ah! there are some things at the house I should have shown you." "We will not mind going back so short a distance," said the Captain, "and would be glad to see everything you have to show us." "Yes, sir; and I think you will say these things are worth looking at." He led them back into the house and exhibited, first, a gold coin with the figure and inscription of George III. on one side, the British arms and an inscription with the date 1776 on the other, then a curious old musket, with bayonet and flint lock, which was carried in the Revolutionary War by an ancestor of the family now residing there. CHAPTER II. "You may take us now to Frazer's grave," Captain Raymond said to the driver as they re-entered their carriage after a cordial good-by and liberal gift to their young guide. "Please tell us something more about Frazer, Papa, won't you?" requested Lulu. "Willingly," returned her father. "Frazer was a brave and skilful officer; made brigadier-general for America only, by Carleton, in June, 1776. He helped to drive the Americans out of Canada in that year. Burgoyne chose him to command the light brigade which formed the right wing of the British army, so that he was constantly in the advance. In the fight of October 7th he made a conspicuous figure, dressed in the full uniform of a field-officer, mounted on a splendid iron-gray gelding, and exerting himself to encourage and cheer on his men. Morgan saw how important he was to the British cause, pointed him out to his sharpshooters, and bade them cut him off. 'That gallant officer,' he said, 'is General Frazer. I admire and honour him; but it is necessary he should die, because victory for the enemy depends upon him. Take your stations in that clump of bushes, and do your duty!' They obeyed, and in five minutes Frazer fell mortally wounded, and was carried from the field by two grenadiers. Only a few moments before he was hit, the crupper of his horse was cut by a rifle-ball, and directly afterward another passed through the horse's mane, a little back of his ears. Then his _aide_ said, 'General, it is evident that you are marked out for particular aim; would it not be prudent for you to retire from this place?' 'My duty forbids me to retire from danger,' Frazer answered; and the next moment he fell. That is Lossing's account; and he goes on to say that Morgan has been censured for the order by some persons, professing to understand the rules of war, as guilty of a highly dishonourable act; also by others, who gloat over the horrid details of the slaying of thousands of humble rank-and-file men as deeds worthy of a shout for glory, and have no tears to shed for the slaughtered ones, but affect to shudder at such a cold-blooded murder of an officer on the battle-field. But, as Lossing justly remarks, the life of an officer is no dearer to himself, his wife, and children, than that of a private to his, and that the slaying of Frazer probably saved the lives of hundreds of common soldiers." "Yes, Papa," returned Max, thoughtfully; "and so I think Morgan deserves all praise for giving that order to his men. If Frazer did not want to lose his life, he should not have come here to help crush out liberty in this country." "Papa, do you think he hated the Americans?" asked Lulu. "No, I presume not; his principal motive in coming here and taking an active part in the war was probably to make a name for himself as a brave and skilful officer,--at least, so I judge from his dying exclamation, 'Oh, fatal ambition!'" "How different he was from our Washington," exclaimed Max. "He seemed to want nothing for himself, and sought only his country's good. Papa, it does seem to me that Washington was the greatest mere man history tells of." "I think so," responded the Captain; "he seems to have been so entirely free from selfishness, ambition, and pride. And yet he had enemies and detractors, even among those who wished well to the cause for which he was doing so much." "Such a burning shame!" cried Lulu, her eyes flashing. "Was Gates one of them, Papa?" "Yes; to his shame, be it said, he was. He treated Washington with much disrespect, giving him no report whatever of the victory at Saratoga. It was not until early in November that he wrote at all to the commander-in-chief, and then merely mentioned the matter incidentally. In that month Gates was made president of the new Board of War and Ordnance, and during the following winter he joined with what is known as the 'Conway cabal' in an effort to supplant Washington in the chief command of the army." "What a wretch!" exclaimed Lulu. "It would have been a very bad thing for our cause if he had succeeded,--wouldn't it, Papa?" "Without doubt," answered the Captain; "for though Gates had some very good qualities, he was far from being fit to fill the position held by Washington." "He wasn't a good Christian man, like Washington, was he, Papa?" she asked. "No, not by any means at that time, though it is said--I hope with truth--that he afterward became one. He was arrogant, untruthful, and had an overweening confidence in his own ability. Yet he had some noble traits; he emancipated his slaves, and provided for those who were unable to take care of themselves. Also, he was, it is said, a good and affectionate husband and father." "Papa, wasn't it known whose shot killed Frazer?" queried Max. "Yes; it was that of a rifleman named Timothy Murphy. He was posted in a small tree, took deliberate aim, and saw Frazer fall. Frazer, too, told some one he saw the man who shot him, and that he was in a tree. Murphy was one of Morgan's surest shots." "I should think he must always have felt badly about it, only that he knew he did it to help save his country," said Lulu. "It seemed to be necessary for the salvation of our country," replied her father; "and no doubt that thought prevented Murphy's conscience from troubling him." "Didn't the Americans at first fire on the funeral procession, Papa?" asked Lulu. "Yes; but ceased as soon as they understood the nature of the gathering, and at regular intervals the solemn boom of a single cannon was heard along the valley. It was a minute-gun, fired by the Americans in honour of their fallen foe, the gallant dead. Ah, here we are at his grave!" added the Captain, as horses and vehicle came to a standstill and the carriage-door was thrown open. They alighted and walked about the grave and its monument, pausing to read the inscription on the latter. "Though an enemy to our country, he was a gallant man, a brave and good soldier," remarked the Captain, reflectively. "Yes, Papa; and I can't help feeling sorry for him," said Lulu. "I suppose he had to obey his king's orders of course; he couldn't well help it, and probably he had no real hatred to the people of this country. It does seem hard that he had to die and be buried so far away from all he loved." "Yes," said Max; "but he had to be killed to save our country, since he would use his time and talents in trying to help reduce her to slavery. I'm sorry for him, too; but as he would put his talents to so wrong a use, there was no choice but to kill him,--isn't that so, Papa?" "I think so," replied the Captain; "but it was a great pity. Frazer was a brave officer, idolized by his own men, and respected by even his enemies." "It seems sad he should lie buried so far away from all he loved,--all his own people; and in a strange land, too. But he could hardly lie in a lovelier spot, I think," remarked Lulu; "the hills, the mountains, the beautiful river, the woods, the fields, and these tall twin pine-trees standing like sentinels beside his grave,--oh I think it is just lovely! I think he showed excellent taste in his choice of a burial-place." "Yes, nice place enough to lie in, if one could only be on top of the ground and able to see what it's like," came in hollow tones, seemingly from the grave. The Captain glanced at his son with a slightly amused smile. Lulu was startled for an instant; then, with a little laugh, as her father took her hand and led her back to the waiting carriage, "Oh, Maxie, that was almost too bad, though he was an enemy to our country!" she exclaimed. "I wouldn't have done it if I'd thought it would hurt his feelings," returned Max, in a tone of mock regret; "but I really didn't suppose he'd know or care anything about it." "Where now, sir?" asked the driver as the Captain handed Lulu to her seat. "To the Schuyler mansion," was the reply. "Oh, I'm glad we're going there!" exclaimed Lulu. "I've always liked everything I've heard about General Schuyler; and I'll be ever so glad to see the house he used to live in." "It isn't the same house that Burgoyne caroused in the night after the battle of Bemis Heights, is it, Papa?" asked Max. "No; that was burned by Burgoyne's orders a few days later," replied the Captain. "And when was this one built?" asked Lulu. "That is a disputed point," said her father. "Some say it was shortly after the surrender in 1777; others, not until soon after the peace of 1783." "Anyhow it was General Schuyler's house, and so we'll be glad to see it," she said. "Papa, is it on the exact spot where the other--the first one--was? The one Burgoyne caroused in, I mean." "They say not, quite; that it stands a little to the west of where the first one did." "But General Schuyler owned and lived in it, which makes it almost, if not quite, as well worth seeing as the first one would have been," said Max. "Yes," assented the Captain. "It was on his return from Bemis Heights that Burgoyne took possession of the mansion for his headquarters; that was on the evening of the 9th of October. His troops, who had been marching through mud, water, and rain for the last twenty-four hours, with nothing to eat, encamped unfed on the wet ground near Schuylerville, while he and his cronies feasted and enjoyed themselves as though the sufferings of the common soldiery were nothing to them." "Wasn't that the night before the day the Baroness Riedesel went to the Marshall place?" queried Max. "Yes," replied his father. "Her husband, General Riedesel, and others, urgently remonstrated against the unnecessary and imprudent delay, and counselled hasty retreat; but Burgoyne would not listen to their prudent advice. While the storm beat upon his hungry, weary soldiers lying without on the rain-soaked ground, he and his mates held high carnival within, spending the night in merry-making, drinking, and carousing." "What a foolish fellow!" said Max. "I wonder that he didn't rather spend it in slipping away from the Americans through the darkness and storm." "Or in getting ready to fight them again the next day," added Lulu. "I think there was fighting the next day,--wasn't there, Papa?" said Max. "Yes; though not a regular battle. Burgoyne was attempting a retreat, which the Americans, constantly increasing in numbers, were preventing,--destroying bridges, obstructing roads leading northward, and guarding the river to the eastward, so that the British troops could not cross it without exposure to a murderous artillery fire. At last, finding his provisions nearly exhausted, himself surrounded by more than five times his own number of troops, and all his positions commanded by his enemy's artillery, the proud British general surrendered." "And it was a great victory,--wasn't it, Papa?" asked Lulu. "It was, indeed! and God, the God of our fathers, gave it to the American people. The time was one of the great crises of history. Before that battle things looked very dark for the people of this land; and if Burgoyne had been victorious, the probability is that the struggle for liberty would have been given up for no one knows how long. Perhaps we might have been still subject to England." "And that would be dreadful!" she exclaimed with warmth,--"wouldn't it, Max?" "Yes, indeed!" he assented, his cheek flushing, and his eye kindling; "the idea of this great country being governed by that bit of an island away across the sea! I just feel sometimes as if I'd like to have helped with the fight." "In that case," returned his father, with an amused look, "you would hardly be here now; or, if you were, you would be old enough to be my grandfather." "Then I'm glad I wasn't, sir," laughed Max; "for I'd rather be your son by a great deal. Papa, wasn't it about that time the stars and stripes were first used?" "No, my son; there was at least one used before that," the Captain said with a half smile,--"at Fort Schuyler, which was attacked by St. Leger with his band of British troops, Canadians, Indians, and Tories, early in the previous August. The garrison was without a flag when the enemy appeared before it, but soon supplied themselves by their own ingenuity, tearing shirts into strips to make the white stripes and stars, joining bits of scarlet cloth for the red stripes, and using a blue cloth cloak, belonging to one of the officers, as the groundwork for the stars. Before sunset it was waving in the breeze over one of the bastions of the fort, and no doubt its makers gazed upon it with pride and pleasure." "Oh, that was nice!" exclaimed Lulu. "But I don't remember about the fighting at that fort. Did St. Leger take it, Papa?" "No; the gallant garrison held out against him till Arnold came to their relief. The story is a very interesting one; but I must reserve it for another time, as we are now nearing Schuyler's mansion." The mansion was already in sight, and in a few moments their carriage had drawn up in front of it. They were politely received, and shown a number of interesting relics. The first thing that attracted their attention was an artistic arrangement of arms on the wall fronting the great front door. "Oh, what are those?" Lulu asked in eager tones, her eyes fixed upon them in an intensely interested way. "Please, sir, may I go and look at them?" addressing the gentleman who had received them and now invited them to walk in. "Yes, certainly," he answered with a smile, and leading the way. "This," he said, touching the hilt of a sword, "was carried at the battle of Bennington by an _aide_ of General Stark. This other sword, and this musket and cartridge-box, belonged to John Strover, and were carried by him in the battles of the Revolution." "Valuable and interesting souvenirs," remarked Captain Raymond. They were shown other relics of those troublous times,--shells, grape, knee and shoe buckles, grubbing-hooks, and other things that had been picked up on the place in the years that had elapsed since the struggle for independence. But what interested Max and Lulu still more than any of these was a beautiful teacup, from which, as the gentleman told them, General Washington, while on a visit to General Schuyler, had drunk tea made from a portion of one of those cargoes of Boston harbour fame. "That cup must be very precious, sir," remarked Lulu, gazing admiringly at it. "If it were mine, money couldn't buy it from me." "No," he returned pleasantly; "and I am sure you would never have robbed us, as some vandal visitor did not long ago, of a saucer and plate belonging to the same set." "No, no, indeed!" she replied with emphasis, and looking quite aghast at the very idea. "Could anybody be so wicked as that?" "Somebody was," he said with a slight sigh; "and it has made us feel it necessary to be more careful to whom we show such things. Now let me show you the burial-place of Thomas Lovelace," he added, leading the way out into the grounds. "I don't remember to have heard his story, sir," said Max, as they all followed in the gentleman's wake; "but I would like to very much indeed. Papa, I suppose you know all about him." "I presume this gentleman can tell the story far better than I," replied the Captain, with an inquiring look at their guide. "I will do my best," he said in reply. "You know, doubtless," with a glance at Max and his sister, "what the Tories of the Revolution were. Some of them were the bitterest foes of their countrymen who were in that fearful struggle for freedom,--wicked men, who cared really for nothing but enriching themselves at the expense of others, and from covetousness became as relentless robbers and murderers of their neighbours and former friends as the very savages of the wilderness. Lovelace was one of these, and had become a terror to the inhabitants of this his native district of Saratoga. He went to Canada about the beginning of the war, and there confederated with five other men like himself to come back to this region and plunder, betray, and abduct those who were struggling for freedom from their British oppressors,--old neighbours, for whom he should have felt only pity and kindness, even if he did not see things in just the same light that they did. These miscreants had their place of rendezvous in a large swamp, about five miles from Colonel Van Vetchen's, cunningly concealing themselves there. Robberies in that neighbourhood became frequent, and several persons were carried off. General Stark, then in command of the barracks north of Fish Creek, was active and vigilant; and hearing that Lovelace and his men had robbed General Schuyler's house, and were planning to carry off Colonel Van Vetchen, frustrated their design by furnishing the Colonel with a guard. Then Captain Dunham, who commanded a company of militia in the neighbourhood, hearing of the plans and doings of the marauders, at once summoned his lieutenant, ensign, orderly, and one private to his house. They laid their plans, waited till dark, then set out for the big swamp, which was three miles distant. There they separated to reconnoitre, and two of them were lost; but the other three kept together, and at dawn came upon the hiding-place of the Tory robbers. They were up, and just drawing on their stockings. The three Americans crawled cautiously toward them till quite near, then sprang upon a log with a shout, levelled their muskets, and Dunham called out, 'Surrender, or you are all dead men!' The robbers, thinking the Americans were upon them in force, surrendered at once, coming out one at a time without their arms, and were marched off to General Stark's camp, and given up to him as prisoners. They were tried by a court-martial as spies, traitors, and robbers; and Lovelace, who was considered too dangerous to be allowed to escape, was condemned to be hanged. He complained that his sentence was unjust, and that he should be treated as a prisoner of war; but his claim was disallowed, and he was hanged here amid a violent storm of wind, rain, thunder, and lightning." "They hung him as a spy, did they, sir?" asked Max. "As a spy and murderer. He was both; and," pointing out the precise spot, "after his execution he was buried here in a standing posture." "And his bones are lying right under here are they, sir?" asked Lulu, shuddering as she glanced down at the spot the gentleman had indicated. "No," was the reply; "his bones, and even his teeth, have been carried off as relics." "Ugh! to want such things as those for relics!" Lulu exclaimed in a tone of emphatic disgust. "They are certainly not such relics as I would care to have," returned the gentleman, with a smile. Then he told the Captain he had shown them everything he had which could be called a souvenir of the Revolutionary War, and with hearty thanks they took their leave. CHAPTER III. It was dinner-time when Captain Raymond and his children reached their hotel, and at the conclusion of the meal they went immediately to the station of the Mount McGregor road. There was just time for the buying of the tickets and seating themselves comfortably in the cars before the train started. "Papa, how long will it take us to go there?" asked Lulu. "Thirty-five minutes," he answered. "It is about ten miles to the mountain; then we go up about eleven hundred feet above Saratoga Springs." "Yes, sir," said Max; "and here on this time-table it says that in some places the grade is as high as two hundred and forty-six feet to the mile." "Set that down in your memory," returned his father, with a smile. "Now look out of the windows, Max and Lulu; the country is well worth seeing." The ride seemed very short,--it was so enjoyable,--and Lulu was quite surprised when the car stopped and all the passengers hurried out. Every one went into the Drexel Cottage, which was close at hand. A man showed them about, pointing out the objects of special interest,--the bed where General Grant died, the candle he had extinguished but a few minutes before breathing his last, and so on. They spent some time in the cottage, going quietly about, looking with a sad interest at everything which had any connection with the dear departed great man, then went on up to the mountain top, where stood a large hotel. They passed it, and went on to the edge of the mountain, which overlooks the Hudson River valley. "Oh, what a lovely view!" cried Lulu, in delight. "What mountains are those, Papa?" "Those to the east," he replied, pointing in that direction as he spoke, "are the Green Mountains, those to the north are the Adirondacks, and those to the south the Catskills." "Oh, Lu, look yonder!" cried Max. "There's Schuylerville with its monument, I do believe,--isn't it, Papa?" "Yes, you are right,--the place of Burgoyne's surrender, which we visited this morning," the Captain answered. "Now suppose we go to the observatory at the top of the hotel, and take the view from there." Max and Lulu gave an eager assent to the proposal. There were a good many stairs to climb, but the view fully repaid them for the exertion. They spent some minutes in gazing upon it, then descended and wandered through the woods till the train was ready to start down the mountain. Max and Lulu were tired enough to go to bed at dark; and the next morning they took an early train to Albany, where they boarded a fine steamer, which would carry them down the Hudson River to West Point, where, to the children's great delight, their father had promised to stay a day or two, and show them all of historical interest connected with the spot. It was the first trip on the Hudson that Max or his sister had ever taken, and they enjoyed it greatly,--all the more because their father was sufficiently familiar with the scenes through which they were passing to call their attention to whatever was best worth noticing, and give all desired information in regard to it, doing so in the kindest and pleasantest manner possible. The weather was all that could be desired,--cloudy, with an occasional shower, seldom heavy enough to obscure the view to any great extent, and just cooling the air pleasantly, as Lulu remarked with much satisfaction. It was not raining when they landed at West Point, though clouds still veiled the sun. They took a carriage near the wharf, and drove to the hotel. As they alighted, some gentlemen were talking upon its porch, one of whom was in military uniform. "Raymond, this is a meeting as delightful as unexpected,--to me at least!" he exclaimed, coming hastily forward with out-stretched hand. "Keith, I don't know when I have had a pleasanter surprise!" returned Captain Raymond, taking the offered hand and shaking it heartily, while his eyes shone with pleasure. "You are not here permanently?" "No; only on a furlough. And you?" "Just for a day or two, to show my children our military academy and the points of historical interest in its vicinity," replied Captain Raymond, glancing down upon them with a smile of fatherly pride and affection. "Max and Lulu, this gentleman is Lieutenant Keith, of whom you have sometimes heard me speak, and whom your mamma calls Cousin Donald." "Your children, are they? Ah, I think I might have known them anywhere from their remarkable resemblance to you, Raymond!" Mr. Keith said, shaking hands first with Lulu, then with Max. He chatted pleasantly with them for a few minutes, while their father attended to engaging rooms and having the baggage taken up to them. When he rejoined them Keith asked, "May I have the pleasure of showing you about, Raymond?" "Thank you; no better escort could be desired," replied the Captain, heartily, "you being a valued friend just met after a long separation, and also an old resident here, thoroughly competent for the task, and thoroughly acquainted with all the points of interest." "I think I may say I am that," returned Keith, with a smile; "and it will give me the greatest pleasure to show them to you,--as great, doubtless, as you seemed to find some years ago in showing me over your man-of-war. But first, let us take a view from the porch here. Yonder," pointing in a westerly direction, "at the foot of the hills, are the dwellings of the officers and professors. In front of them you see the parade-ground: there, on the south side, are the barracks. There is the Grecian chapel, yonder the library building, with its domed turrets, and there are the mess hall and hospital." Then turning toward the west again, "That lofty summit," he said, "is Mount Independence, and the ruins that crown it are those of 'Old Fort Put.' That still loftier peak is Redoubt Hill. There, a little to the north, you see Old Cro' Nest and Butter Hill. Now, directly north, through that magnificent cleft in the hills, you can see Newburgh and its bay. Of the scenery in the east we will have a better view from the ruins of 'Old Put.'" "No doubt," said the Captain. "Shall we go up there at once?" "If you like, Raymond. I always enjoy the view; it more than pays for the climb. But," and Mr. Keith glanced somewhat doubtfully at Lulu, "shall we not take a carriage? I fear the walk may be too much for your little girl." "What do you say, Lulu?" her father asked with a smiling glance at her. "Oh, I'd rather walk, Papa!" she exclaimed. "We have been riding so much for the last week and more; and you know I'm strong and well, and dearly love to climb rocks and hills." "Very well, you shall do as you like, and have the help of Papa's hand over the hard places," he said, offering it as he spoke. She put hers into it with a glad look and smile up into his face that almost made Donald Keith envy the Captain the joys of fatherhood. They set off at once. Lulu found it a rather hard climb, or that it would have been without her father's helping hand; but the top of Mount Independence was at length reached, and the little party stood among the ruins of Fort Putnam. They stood on its ramparts recovering breath after the ascent, their faces turned toward the east, silently gazing upon the beautiful panorama spread out at their feet. It was the Captain who broke the silence. "You see that range of hills on the farther side of the river, children?" "Yes, sir," both replied with an inquiring look up into his face. "In the time of the Revolution every pinnacle was fortified, and on each a watch-fire burned," he said. "They had a battery on each, Papa?" queried Max. "Yes; but yonder, at their foot, stands something that will interest you still more,--the Beverly House, from which Arnold the traitor fled to the British ship 'Vulture,' on learning that André had been taken." "Oh, is it, sir?" exclaimed Max, in a tone of intense interest. "How I would like to visit it,--can we, Papa?" "I too; oh, very much!" said Lulu. "Please take us there,--won't you, Papa?" "I fear there will be hardly time, my dears; but I will see about it," was the indulgent reply. "You have been here before, Raymond?" Mr. Keith said inquiringly. "Yes; on my first bridal trip," the Captain answered in a low, moved tone, and sighing slightly as the words left his lips. "With our own mother, Papa?" asked Lulu, softly, looking up into his face with eyes full of love and sympathy. "Yes, daughter; and she enjoyed the view very much as you are doing now." "I'm glad; I like to think she saw it once." An affectionate pressure of the hand he held was his only reply. Then turning to his friend, "It is a grand view, Keith," he said; "and one that always stirs the patriotism in my blood, inherited from ancestors who battled for freedom in those Revolutionary days." "It is just so with myself," replied Keith; "and the view is a grand one in itself, though there were no such association,--a superb panorama! The beautiful, majestic river sweeping about the rock-bound promontory below us there, with its tented field; yonder the distant spires of Newburgh, and the bright waters of its bay, seen through that magnificent cleft in the hills," pointing with his finger as he spoke,--"ah, how often I have seen it all in imagination when out in the far West scouting over arid plains, and among desolate barren hills and mountains, where savages and wild beasts abound! At times an irrepressible longing for this very view has come over me,--a sort of homesickness, most difficult to shake off." "Such as years in the ports of foreign lands have sometimes brought upon me," observed the Captain, giving his friend a look of heartfelt sympathy. "Dear Papa, I'm so glad that is all over," Lulu said softly, leaning lovingly up against him as she spoke, and again lifting to his eyes her own so full of sympathy and affection. "Oh, it is so pleasant to have you always at home with us!" A smile and an affectionate pressure of the little soft white hand he held were his only reply. "Ah, my little girl, when Papa sees a man-of-war again, he will be likely to wish himself back in the service once more!" remarked Keith, in a sportive tone, regarding her with laughing eyes. "No, sir, I don't believe it," she returned stoutly. "Papa loves his home and wife and children too well for that; besides, he has resigned from the navy, and I don't believe they'd take him back again." "Well, Lu," said Max, "that's a pretty way to talk about Papa! Now, it's my firm conviction that they'd be only too glad to get him back." "That's right, Max; stand up for your father always," laughed Keith. "He is worthy of it; and I don't doubt the government would be ready to accept his services should he offer them." "Of course," laughed the Captain; "but I intend to give them those of my son instead," turning a look upon Max so proudly tender and appreciative that the lad's young heart bounded with joy. "Ah, is that so?" said Keith, gazing appreciatively into the lad's bright young face. "Well, I have no doubt he will do you credit. Max, my boy, never forget that you have the credit of an honourable name to sustain, and that in so doing you will make your father a proud and happy man." "That is what I want to do, sir," replied Max, modestly. Then hastily changing the subject, "Papa, is that town over there Phillipstown?" "Yes; what do you remember about it?" "That a part of our Revolutionary army was camped there in 1781. And there, over to the left, is Constitution Island,--isn't it, sir?" "Yes," answered his father; then went on to tell of the building of the fort from which the island takes its name, and its abandonment a few days after the capture by the British of Forts Clinton and Montgomery, near the lower entrance to the Highlands, in 1777. "Such a pity, after they had been to all the expense and trouble of building it!" remarked Lulu. "Yes, quite a waste," said Max; "but war's a wasteful business anyway it can be managed." "Quite true, Max," said, Mr. Keith; "and soldier though I am, I sincerely hope we may have no more of it in this land." "No, sir; but the best way to keep out of it is to show ourselves ready for self-defence. That is what Papa says." "And I entirely agree with him. Shall we go now, Raymond, and see what of interest is to be found in the buildings and about the grounds of the academy?" The Captain gave a ready assent, and they retraced their steps, he helping Lulu down the mountain as he had helped her up. Keith took them, first, to the artillery laboratory to see, as he said, some trophies and relics of the Revolution. Conducting them to the centre of the court, "Here," he remarked, "are some interesting ones," pointing, as he spoke, to several cannon lying in a heap, and encircled by some links of an enormous chain. "Oh," exclaimed Max, "is that part of the great chain that was stretched across the Hudson, down there by Constitution Island, in the time of the Revolution?" "Yes," replied Keith. "And these two brass mortars were taken from Burgoyne at Saratoga; this larger one, Wayne took from the British at Stony Point. I dare say you and your sister are acquainted with the story of that famous exploit." "Oh, yes, sir!" they both replied; and Lulu asked, "Is that the English coat-of-arms on the big cannon?" Her look directed the query to her father, and he answered, "Yes." "And what do these words below it mean, Papa,--'Aschaleh fecit, 1741'?" "Aschaleh is doubtless the name of the maker; '_fecit_' means he executed it, and 1741 gives the time when it was done." "Thank you, sir," she said. "Is there any story about that one?" pointing to another cannon quite near at hand. "Yes," he said; "by its premature discharge, in 1817, a cadet named Lowe was killed. In the cemetery is a beautiful monument to his memory." "Here are two brass field-pieces, each marked 'G. R.,'" said Max. "Do those letters stand for George Rex,--King George,--Papa?" "Yes; that was the monogram of the king." "And the cannon is fourteen years younger than those others," remarked Lulu; "for, see there, it says, 'W. Bowen fecit, 1755.'" "Oh, here's an inscription!" exclaimed Max, and read aloud, "'Taken from the British army, and presented, by order of the United States, in Congress assembled, to Major-General Green, as a monument of their high sense of the wisdom, fortitude, and military talents which distinguished his command in the Southern department, and of the eminent services which, amid complicated dangers and difficulties, he performed for his country. October 18th, 1783.' Oh, that was right!" supplemented the lad, "for I do think Green was a splendid fellow." "He was, indeed!" said the Captain; "and he has at last been given such a monument as he should have had very many years sooner." "Where is it, Papa?" asked Lulu. "In Washington. It is an equestrian statue, by Henry Kirke Brown." "Yes; and very glad I am that even that tardy act of justice has been done him,--one of the bravest and most skilful commanders of our Revolutionary War," remarked Mr. Keith. Then he added, "I think we have seen about all you will care for here, Raymond, and that you might enjoy going out upon the parade-ground now. The sun is near setting, and the battalion will form presently, and go through some interesting exercises." "Thank you!" the Captain said. "Let us, then, go at once, for I see Max and his sister are eager for the treat," he added, with a smiling glance from one brightly expectant young face to the other. CHAPTER IV. They reached the parade-ground just in time to see the battalion forming under arms, and Max and Lulu watched every movement with intense interest and delight,--the long skirmish lines firing in advance or retreat, picking off distant imaginary leaders of a pretended enemy in reply to the ringing skirmish calls of the key-bugles, deploying at the run, rallying at the reserves and around the colours. That last seemed to delight Lulu more than anything else. "Oh," she exclaimed, "isn't it lovely! Wouldn't they all fight for the dear old flag if an enemy should come and try to tear it down!" "I'm inclined to think they would," returned Mr. Keith, smiling at her enthusiasm. "Now look at the flag waving from the top of the staff yonder." The words had scarcely left his lips when there came the sudden bang of the sunset gun, and the flag quickly fluttered to the earth. Then followed the march of the cadets to their supper, and our little party turned about and went in search of theirs. On leaving the table they went out upon the hotel porch and seated themselves where the view was particularly fine, the gentlemen conversing, Max and Lulu listening, both tired enough to be quite willing to sit still. The talk, which was principally of ordnance and various matters connected with army and navy, had greater interest for the boy than for his sister, and Lulu soon laid her head on her father's shoulder, and was presently in the land of dreams. "My poor, tired, little girl!" he said, low and tenderly, softly smoothing the hair from her forehead as he spoke. At that she roused, and lifting her head, said coaxingly, "Please don't send me to bed yet, Papa! I'm wide awake now." "Are you, indeed?" he laughed. "I think those eyes look rather heavy; but you may sit up now if you will agree to sleep in the morning when Max and I will probably be going out to see the cadets begin their day. Would you like to go, Max?" "Yes, indeed, sir!" answered Max, in eager tones; "it's about five o'clock we have to start,--isn't it?" "Yes, Max. Lieutenant Keith has kindly offered to call us in season, and become our escort to the camp." "Oh, Papa, mayn't I go too?" pleaded Lulu, in the most coaxing tones. "I won't give you the least bit of trouble." "You never do, daughter, in regard to such matters; you are always prompt, and ready in good season." "Then do you say I may go, Papa?" "Yes, if you will go to bed at once, in order to secure enough sleep by five o'clock in the morning." "Oh, thank you, sir! Yes, indeed, I will," she said, hastily rising to her feet, and bidding good-night to Mr. Keith. "I too," said Max, following her example. "Good children," said their father; then noticing the longing look in Lulu's eyes, he excused himself to his friend, saying he would join him again presently, and went with them. "That is a beautiful, bright, engaging, little girl of yours, Raymond,--one that any father might be proud of," remarked Keith when the Captain had resumed the seat by his side. "She seems all that to me; but I have sometimes thought it might be the blindness of parental affection that makes the child so lovely and engaging in her father's eyes," returned the Captain, in tones that spoke much gratification. "I think, indeed I am sure, not," returned Keith. "About how old is she?" "Thirteen. Actually, she'll be a woman before I know it!" was the added exclamation in a tone of dismay. "I don't like the thought of losing my little girl even in that way." "Ah, you'll be likely to lose her in another before many years!" laughed his friend. "She'll make a lovely woman, Raymond!" "I think you are right," answered the father; "and I confess that the thought of another gaining the first place in her heart--which I know is mine now--is far from pleasant to me. Well, it cannot be for some years yet, and I shall try not to think of it. Perhaps she may never care to leave her father." "I don't believe she will if she is wise. You are a fortunate man, Raymond! Your son--the image of his father--is not less attractive than his sister, and evidently a remarkably intelligent lad. He will make his mark in the navy; and I dare say we shall have the pleasure of seeing him an admiral by the time we--you and I--are gray-headed, old veterans." "Perhaps so," returned the Captain, with a pleased smile; "but promotion is slow in the navy in these days of peace." "Quite true; and as true of the army as of the navy. But even that is to be preferred to war,--eh, Raymond?" "Most decidedly," was the emphatic reply. "You leave for home to-morrow evening, I think you said?" was Keith's next remark, made in an inquiring tone. "That is my plan at present," replied the Captain, "though I would stay a little longer rather than have the children disappointed in their hope of seeing everything about here that has any connection with the Revolution." "They seem to be ardent young patriots," said Keith. "It does one good to see their pride and delight in the flag. How their eyes shone at the sight of the rally round the colours." "Yes; and they feel an intense interest in everything that has any connection with the Revolutionary struggle. They get it in the blood; and it has been their father's earnest endeavour to cultivate in them an ardent love of country." "In which he has evidently been remarkably successful," returned Keith. "I am much mistaken if that boy does not do you great credit while in the Naval Academy, and, as I remarked a moment since, after fairly entering the service." "A kind and pleasant prediction, Keith," the Captain said, giving his friend a gratified look. "How many children have you, Raymond?" was the next question. "Only five," the Captain said, with a happy laugh,--"five treasures that should, it seems to me, make any man feel rich; also, a sweet, beautiful, young wife, who is to her husband worth far more than her weight in gold. 'Her price is above rubies.' And you, Keith,--you have not told me whether you have yet found your mate." "No, not yet. I sometimes think I never shall, but shall soon become a confirmed old bachelor," Keith replied. Then, after an instant's pause, "I wonder if Lulu's father would give her to me should I wait patiently till she is old enough to know her own mind in such matters, and then succeed in winning her heart?" "Ah, Keith, is that a serious thought or a mere idle jest?" queried the Captain, turning a surprised and not altogether pleased look upon his friend. "A sort of mixture of the two, I believe, Raymond," was the laughing reply; "but I haven't the least idea of putting any such mischief into your daughter's head,--at least, not at present. But if I ask your permission half a dozen years hence to pay my court to her, I hope it will not be refused." "Well, Keith," the Captain said, after a moment's silence, "I should be very loath to stand in the way of your happiness,--still more of that of my dear daughter; but the time is so far off that we need not discuss the question now. My little girl seems still the merest child, with no thought of the cares, pleasures, and duties of womanhood; and I wish to keep her so as long as I can. That is one reason why I rejoice in being able to educate her myself in our own home; and thus far the loves of the dear ones in it have seemed all-sufficient for her happiness. And I own to being particularly pleased with her oft-repeated assurance that she loves Papa better than she does any one else in all the wide world." "Ah, I do not wonder that she does, for her father is altogether worthy of all the love she can give him!" Keith said, with a half-sigh, thinking of the loneliness of his lot compared with that of the Captain. "Keith," the Captain said, after a moment's silence, "you tell me your furlough will not expire for some weeks yet. Can you not spend them with us at the sea-shore?" Donald demurred a little at first, saying he had made other plans; and besides, his going might interfere with his cousins' arrangements. "Not the slightest danger of that," the Captain averred; "and I am certain that one and all will be delighted to see you." "And I own to being fairly hungry for a sight of them," laughed Donald. "So, Raymond, your invitation is accepted, and on your own head be the consequences." "No objection to that; I'm delighted to have you on any terms, reasonable or otherwise," the Captain said, with his pleasant smile. Max and Lulu had an hour or more of good refreshing sleep before the two gentlemen separated for the night. Captain Raymond went very softly into Lulu's room, and stood for a moment by the bedside looking fondly down into the rosy, sleeping face, then, bending over her, kissed her tenderly on cheek and lip and brow. Her eyes opened wide and looked up into his, while a glad smile broke over her face. "You dear, good Papa, to come in and kiss me again!" she said, putting her arm round his neck and returning his caresses. "Oh, I do think I have just the very dearest, kindest, best father in the whole wide world!" "That's rather strong, isn't it?" he returned, laughing, but at the same time gathering her up in his arms for a moment's petting and fondling. Then, laying her down again, "I did not mean to wake you," he said; "and I want you now to go to sleep again as fast as you can, because, though to-morrow will, I hope, be a very enjoyable day to you and Max, it is probable you will find it quite fatiguing also." "Yes, sir; but I don't mean to think about it now, else I'd be wide awake presently, and maybe not sleep any more to-night," Lulu answered drowsily, her eyes closing while she spoke. He was turning away, when she roused sufficiently to ask another question. "Papa, will you please wake me when the time comes to get up?" "Yes, daughter," he replied. "Do not let the fear of not waking in season rob you of a moment's sleep. I think you may safely trust to your father to attend to that for you." It seemed to Lulu that but a few moments had passed when her father's voice spoke again close to her side. "Wake up now, little daughter, if you want to go with Papa and Max to see what the cadets will be doing in their camp for the next hour or so." "Oh, yes, indeed, I do!" she cried, wide awake in an instant. "Good-morning; and thank you ever so much for calling me, dear Papa!" and with the words her arms were round his neck, her kisses on his cheek. He gave her a hearty embrace in turn; and then, with a "Now, my darling, you must make haste, we have only ten minutes; but I shall bring you back to rearrange your toilet before going down to breakfast," he released her and went back to his own room. Lulu made quick work of her dressing, and when her father tapped at her door to say it was time to go, was quite ready. They found Mr. Keith waiting on the porch, exchanged a pleasant "good-morning" with him, and at once started for the camp. Max and Lulu were in gayest spirits, and were allowed to laugh and talk till the little party drew near the camp, when their father bade them be quiet, and amuse themselves for the present by looking and listening. He spoke in a kind, pleasant tone, and they obeyed at once. Down by the guard-tents they could see a dim, drowsy gleam, as of a lantern; the gas-jets along the way seemed to burn dimly, too, as the daylight grew stronger, and up about the hill-tops on the farther side of the river the sky was growing rosy and bright with the coming day. But all was so quiet, so still, where the tents were that it seemed as if everybody there must be still wrapped in slumber; and Lulu was beginning to think Mr. Keith must have called for them a little earlier than necessary, when a sudden gleam and rattle among the trees almost made her jump, so startled was she, while at the same instant a stern, boyish voice called out, "Who comes there?" and a sentry stood before them wrapped in an overcoat,--for the morning was very cool up there among the mountains,--and with the dew dripping from his cap. "Friends, with the countersign," replied Mr. Keith. "Halt, friends! Advance one with the countersign," commanded the sentry; and while the Captain and his children stood still where they were, Mr. Keith stepped up to the levelled bayonet and whispered a word or two in the ear of the young sentinel which at once caused a change in his attitude toward our party,--respectful attention taking the place of the fierce suspicion. "Advance, friends!" he said, bringing his heels together and his rifle to the carry, then stood like a statue while they passed on into the camp he guarded. Max and Lulu, remembering their father's order to them to keep quiet, said nothing, but were careful to make the very best use of their eyes. Down by the tents, on the south and east sides, they could see sentries pacing their rounds, but there was as yet no sound or movement among the occupants. Some drummer-boys were hurrying over the plain toward the camp, while a corporal and two cadets were silently crossing to the northeast corner, where stood a field-piece dripping with dew. Max motioned to Lulu to notice what they were doing, and as he did so they had reached the gun, and there was a dull thud as they rammed home their cartridge. The drummer-boys were chattering together in low tones, glancing now and again at the clock in the "Academic" tower over on the other side of the plain. Suddenly a mellow stroke began to tell the hour, but the next was drowned in the roar of the gun as it belched forth fire and smoke, while at the same instant drum and fife broke forth in the stirring strains of the reveille. Lulu almost danced with delight, looking up into her father's face with eyes shining with pleasure. His answering smile was both fond and indulgent as he took the small white hand in his with a loving clasp; but it was no time for words amid the thunder of the drums playing their march in and about the camp. Lulu could see the tent-flaps raised, drowsy heads peering out, then dozens of erect, slender lads, in white trousers and tight-fitting coatees, coming out with buckets, and hurrying away to the water-tanks and back again. Presently the drums and fifes ceased their music; there was a brief interval of silence, while the streets of the camp filled up with gray and white coated figures. Then came another rattle of the drums like a sharp, quick, imperative call. "Fall in!" ordered the sergeants; and like a flash each company sprang into two long columns. "Left face!" ordered each first sergeant, while the second sergeant, answering to his own name, was watching with eagle eye a delinquent who came hurrying on, and took his place in the ranks too late by a full half-second. "Ah," exclaimed Keith, "that poor lad will be reported as too late at reveille!" Lulu gave him a look of surprise. "Dear me," she said to herself, "if Papa was that strict with his children what ever would become of me?" But the first sergeant was calling the roll, and she listened with fresh astonishment as he rattled off the seventy or eighty names without so much as an instant's pause, using no list, and seeming to recognize each lad as he answered "Here." It took scarcely a minute; then at a single word the ranks scattered, the lads hurrying away to their tents, while the first sergeant made a brief report to the captain, who stood near, then the captain to the officer of the day. Our little party had now seated themselves where a good view of the camp might be obtained, and Max and Lulu watched with great interest what was going on there. They could see the lads pull off their gray coats, raise their tent-walls to give free circulation through them to the sweet morning air, pile up their bedding, and sweep their floors. Lulu gave her father an inquiring look, and he said, "What is it, daughter? You may talk now, if you wish." "I was just wondering if you had to do such work as that at Annapolis," she said in reply. "I did," he responded, with a smile, "and thought you had heard me speak of it." "Maybe I have," she said, with a tone and look as if trying to recall something in the past. "Oh, yes, I do remember it now! And I suppose that's the reason you have always been so particular with us about keeping our rooms nice and neat." "Partly, I believe," he returned, softly patting the hand she had laid on his knee; "but my mother was very neat and orderly, and from my earliest childhood tried to teach me to be the same." "And I think I'll find it easier because of your teachings, sir," remarked Max. "I hope so," the Captain said; "you'll find you have enough to learn, my boy, without that." "A good father is a great blessing, Max, as I have found in my own experience," said Mr. Keith. But the roll of the drums began again, now playing "Pease upon a Trencher;" again the ranks were formed, rolls called; the sergeants marched their companies to the colour line, officers took their stations; first captain ordered attention, swung the battalion into column of platoons to the left, ordered "Forward, guide right, march!" and away they went, to the stirring music of the fifes and drums, away across the plain till the main road was reached, down the shaded lane between the old "Academic" and the chapel, past the new quarters, and the grassy terrace beyond. Then each platoon wheeled in succession to the right, mounted the broad stone steps, and disappeared beneath the portals of the mess hall. Our party, who had followed at so slight a distance as to be able to keep the cadets in sight to the door of entrance, did not attempt to look in upon them at their meal, but hurried on to the hotel to give attention to their own breakfasts,--the keen morning air and the exercise of walking having bestowed upon each one an excellent appetite. Max and Lulu were very eager to "get back in time to see everything," as they expressed it, so began eating in great haste. Their father gently admonished them to be more deliberate. "You must not forget," he said, "that food must be thoroughly masticated in order to digest properly; and those who indulge in eating at such a rapid rate will be very likely soon to suffer from indigestion." "And we may as well take our time," added Mr. Keith, "for it will be an hour or more before anything of special interest will be going on among the cadets." "What do they do next, sir?" asked Max. "Morning drill, which is not very interesting, comes next; then the tents are put in order." "That must take a good while," remarked Lulu. "From three to five minutes, perhaps." "Oh!" she cried in surprise; "how can they do it so quickly? I'm sure I couldn't put my room at home in good order in less than ten minutes." "But, then, you're not a boy, you know," laughed Max. "I'm quite as smart as if I were," she returned promptly. "Isn't that so, Papa?" "I have known some boys who were not particularly bright," he answered, with an amused look. "Perhaps you might compare quite favourably with them." "Oh, Papa!" she exclaimed; "is that the best you can say about me?" "I can say that my daughter seems to me to have as much brain as my son, and of as good quality," he replied kindly, refilling her plate as he spoke; "and I very much doubt his ability to put a room in order more rapidly than she can, and at the same time equally well," he concluded. "Well, it's a sort of womanish work anyhow,--isn't it, Papa?" queried Max, giving Lulu another laughing look. "I don't see it so," replied his father. "I would be sorry to admit, or to think, that women have a monopoly of the good qualities of order and cleanliness." "I, too, sir," said Max; "and I'm quite resolved to do my father credit in that line as well as others, at the academy and elsewhere." "Are we going at once, Papa?" Lulu asked as they left the table. "No; but probably in ten or fifteen minutes. Can you wait so long as that?" he asked, with a humorous smile, and softly smoothing her hair as she stood by his side. "Oh, yes, sir!" she answered brightly. "I hope I'm not quite so impatient as I used to be; and I feel quite sure you'll not let Max or me miss anything very interesting or important." "Not if I can well help it, daughter," he said. "I want you and Max to see and hear all that I think will be instructive, or give you pleasure." A few moments later they set out; and they had just reached the grove up by the guard-tents, and seated themselves comfortably, when the drum tapped for morning parade, and the cadets were seen issuing from their tents, buttoned to the throat in faultlessly fitting uniforms, their collars, cuffs, gloves, belts, and trousers of spotless white, their rifles, and every bit of metal about them gleaming with polish. "How fine the fellows do look, Lu!" remarked Max, in an undertone. "Yes," she replied; "they couldn't be neater if they were girls." "No, I should think not," he returned, with a laugh. "Oh, see! yonder comes the band. Now we'll soon have some music." "And there come some officers," said Lulu; and as she spoke the sentry on No. 1 rattled his piece, with a shout that re-echoed from the hills, "Turn out the guard, Commandant of Cadets!" and instantly the members of the guard were seen hastily to snatch their rifles from the racks, form ranks, and present arms. "Oh, Maxie, isn't that fine!" whispered Lulu, ecstatically. "Wouldn't you like to be that officer?" "I'd ten times rather be captain of a good ship," returned Max. "I believe I'd rather be in the navy, too, if I were a boy," she said; "but I'd like the army next best." "Yes, so would I." But the drum again tapped sharply, the cadets in each street resolved themselves into two long parallel lines, elbow to elbow, and at the last tap faced suddenly outward, while the glistening rifles sprang up to "support arms;" every first sergeant called off his roll, every man as he answered to his name snapping down his piece to the "carry" and "order." That done, the sergeant faced his captain, saluting in soldierly fashion, and took his post; the captain whipped out his shining sword; the lieutenants stepped to their posts. "This is the morning inspection," Mr. Keith said in reply to an inquiring look from Max and Lulu. "Are they very particular, sir?" queried Max. "Very; should a speck of rust be found on a cadet's rifle, a single button missing from his clothing, or unfastened, a spot on his trousers, a rip or tear in his gloves, or dust on his shoes, it is likely to be noted on the company delinquency-book to-day, and published to the battalion to-morrow evening." "I wonder if they're as strict and hard on a fellow as that at Annapolis," thought Max to himself. "I mean to ask Papa about it." The inspection was soon over. "Now," said Mr. Keith, "there'll be a moment's breathing spell, then more music by the band while the cadets go through some of their exercises, which I think you will find well worth looking at." They did enjoy it extremely,--the music, the manoeuvres of the cadets under the orders now of the adjutant, and again of the officer in command. There followed a half-hour of rest, in which Mr. Keith introduced his friend, Captain Raymond, to some of the other officers, and they all had a little chat together. But as the clock struck nine the cadets were again in ranks. "What are they going to do now, Mr. Keith?" asked Lulu. "This is the hour for battery drill," was the reply. "Ah, I'm glad we're going to see that!" said Max. "I'd rather see it than anything else." "The cadets are dividing and going in different directions," said Lulu. "Some of them seem to be going down by the river." "Yes; some members of the senior class. They are going to what is called the 'sea-coast battery' at the water's edge, and presently you will hear the thunder of great guns coming from there." "Oh, can we go and look at them?" asked Lulu, excitedly. "May we, Papa?" turning to him. "I think we shall have a finer sight up here," he replied. "Am I not right, Mr. Keith?" "Yes; I think we would better remain where we are. I would like you to see what daring horsemen these youngsters are. See yonder are the seniors in riding-dress, with gauntlets and cavalry sabres. Watch how easily they mount, and how perfectly at home they are upon their steeds." With intense interest and no little excitement Max and Lulu watched and listened to all that followed,--the rapid movements of column, line, and battery, the flash of sabres, the belching of flame and smoke, accompanied by the thundering roar of the great guns, the stirring bugle blasts, the rearing of the horses when brought to a sudden halt. Even the gentlemen showed unmistakable symptoms of interest and excitement. The hour of battery drill passed very quickly. When it was over the Captain called a carriage, and he, Mr. Keith, Max, and Lulu drove from one point of interest to another, occupying in this way the time till the hour for the boat from Albany to touch at the point. They took passage on it to New York City, where they left it to board a Sound steamer,--a few hours' journey in which would take them to that part of the sea-coast of Rhode Island which had been selected as the summer resort of the family connection. CHAPTER V. Early the next morning our party landed at Newport, where they took a carriage for their sea-side home. It was early when they arrived, but they found everybody up, and ready with a joyful welcome, in both that house and the next two, occupied by the Dinsmores, Travillas, and Lelands. The delight of all the Raymonds, from the Captain down to the baby boy, was a pretty thing to see. The occupants of the other cottages were present, and rejoiced with them; and from one and all Cousin Donald received a very warm welcome. They were evidently much pleased to see him, and soon made him feel quite at home among them. They all sat down to breakfast together, almost immediately upon the arrival of the travellers, and lingered over the table in pleasant chat, talking of what had occurred to one and another during the absence of the Captain, Max, and Lulu, questioning Cousin Donald in regard to loved ones more nearly related to him than to themselves, and laying plans for his and their own entertainment during his stay among them. "I hope," remarked the Captain, "that some naval vessel will come within reach, so that we may have a chance to visit her in your company, Donald." "Thank you; I would greatly enjoy so doing," Donald answered. "I suppose a visit from such a vessel is by no means rare in these parts at this time of year." "No," the Captain replied, glancing through a window looking upon the sea, as he spoke. "Why, there is one in plain view at this moment!" he cried, starting to his feet. They all hastily left the table and gathered upon a porch which gave them a good view of the sea and the man-of-war, hardly a mile away. "My spy-glass, Max, my son," the Captain said. "Here, Papa," answered Max, putting it into his father's hand. "I knew it would be wanted." "Good boy," returned the Captain. "Ah, yes," looking through the glass, "just as I thought. It is the 'Wanita,' Captain Wade, an old friend of mine; we were boys together in the Naval Academy." His face shone with pleasure as he spoke. "We must visit her," he added, passing the glass to Donald. Max and Lulu exchanged glances of delight,--Papa was so kind and indulgent they were almost sure he would take them along if he knew they wished to go. "Not to-day, Levis? I am sure you must be too much fatigued with your long journey," Violet said, with a look into her husband's eyes that seemed to add, "I could not be content to part from you for an hour just yet." His answering look was as fond as her own. "No, dearest," he said, low and tenderly, "nor do I intend to go at all without my little wife, unless she absolutely refuses to accompany me; we will stay quietly at home to-day, if you wish, and perhaps visit the 'Wanita' to-morrow." It was a bit of private chat, the others being quite engrossed with the 'Wanita,' taking turns in gazing upon her through the glass. The next moment Lulu was by her father's side, asking in eager beseeching tones, "Papa, if you go on board that war vessel won't you take Max and me with you?" "I think it highly probable, in case you should both wish to go," he said, smiling at the look of entreaty in her face and its sudden change to one of extreme delight as she heard his reply. "Oh, Papa, thank you ever so much!" she cried, fairly dancing with delight. "There's nothing I'd like better; and I hope we can all go." "You would enjoy it, my dear?" asked the Captain, turning to his wife. "I would enjoy going anywhere with you, Levis; and your company is particularly desirable on a man-of-war," Violet answered with a happy laugh. "Thank you," he returned, with a bow and smile. "We must have them--Wade and his officers--here too. It will be a pleasure to entertain them." "Oh, Papa, how delightful!" cried Lulu, clapping her hands. "Ah, my child, let me advise you not to be too much elated," laughed her father; "they may have or receive orders to leave this port for some other before our plan can be carried out." "What plan is it?" "To what do you refer, Captain?" asked several voices; for nearly every one had now taken a look at the man-of-war, and was ready to give attention to something else. The Captain explained. "Oh, how delightful!" exclaimed Zoe. "Will it be a dinner, tea, or evening party, Captain?" "That question remains open to discussion, Sister Zoe," he returned, with a twinkle of fun in his eye. "What would you advise?" "Oh," she said laughingly, "I am not prepared to answer that question yet." Then the others joined in with proposals and suggestions, but nothing was positively decided upon just at that time. The day was spent restfully in wandering along the shore, sitting on the beach or the cottage porches, chatting and gazing out over the sea, or napping,--most of the last-named being done by the lately returned travellers. The little girls of the family, occasionally joined by Max Raymond and Walter Travilla, spent much of the day together, rather apart from their elders,--Lulu most of the time giving an account of her trip out West and weeks of sojourn in the town of Minersville, the acquaintances she had made, and all that had happened during the stay there, especially of the sad occurrence which so seriously marred the enjoyment of the last days of their visit, Max now and then taking part in the narrative. Both had a great deal to tell about West Point and Saratoga, and the places of historical interest in their vicinity. Evidently the trip to the far West and back again, with their father, had been one of keen enjoyment to both of them. So the day passed and evening drew on. The little ones were in bed, the others all gathered upon the porches enjoying the delicious sea-breeze, and the view of the rolling waves, crested with foam, and looking like molten silver where the moonbeams fell full upon them. Every one seemed gay and happy, and there was a good deal of cheerful chat, particularly on the porch of the Raymond cottage, where were Grandma Elsie, Edward Travilla, Donald Keith, the Captain, with Violet and his older children, and some of the other young persons. The sound of approaching wheels attracted their attention. A carriage drew up in front of the house, and from it alighted a gentleman in the uniform of a captain in the navy. "Wade!" exclaimed Captain Raymond, hurrying out to meet him. "My dear friend, this is very kind in you. I had hardly hoped to see you until to-morrow, and not then without hunting you up. You are as welcome as this delicious sea-breeze." "Thanks, Raymond, that's quite a compliment," laughed the other, shaking hands heartily; "but I deserve no thanks, as I came quite as much for my own satisfaction as for yours. I understand you have been here for some weeks, but I only heard of it accidentally this morning." "But it was only this morning I arrived," Captain Raymond said in a tone of amusement; then, as they had stepped into the midst of the group upon the porch, he proceeded to introduce his friend to the ladies and gentlemen composing it. There followed an hour of lively, pleasant chat, during which Captain Wade made acquaintance with not only the grown people, but the younger ones also, seeming to take a great deal of interest in them,--Max especially,--listening with attention and evident sympathy as Captain Raymond told of his son's prospect of soon becoming a naval cadet. "You have my best wishes, Max," said Captain Wade. "I hope to live to see you a naval officer as brave, talented, and as much beloved as your father was, and still is." Max's eyes sparkled, and turned upon his father with a look of deepest respect and affection as he replied, "I could ask nothing better than that, sir, I am sure." "And I could wish you nothing better than that you may prove a son worthy of such a father," returned Captain Wade. "I have known him since he was a boy of your age, and never knew him to be guilty of a mean or dishonourable act." "Thank you, sir," said Max, his cheeks flushing, and his eyes again seeking his father's face with a look of reverence and filial love; "it is very kind in you to tell me that, though it's no news to me that I'm so fortunate as to be the son of a man any boy might be proud to own as his father." "Bravo, Max!" exclaimed Mr. Keith, with a pleased laugh. "I like to hear a boy talk in that way of his father, and certainly you have a good right to do so." "No boy ever had a better right than Max has to speak well of his father," remarked Violet, lightly, but with an earnest undertone in her sweet voice, "and no one is more capable of judging of that than I, who have lived with them both for years." "And no one could speak too well of Papa," said Lulu, with impulsive warmth, "for there couldn't be a better man than he is." "I should be sorry to believe that, little daughter," he said, putting an arm round her as she stood close at his side. Then he changed the subject of conversation. A few minutes later Captain Wade took leave, giving all a cordial invitation to return his call by a visit to the "Wanita." "We had talked of giving you a call to-morrow," said Captain Raymond, "but that would be a very prompt return of your visit." "None too prompt," returned Wade. "Our time here together, Raymond, is likely to be all too short, and we would better make the most of it." "So I think," returned the person addressed; "and I hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing you here frequently." "I think he's just as nice as he can be," remarked Rosie Travilla, as the carriage drove away with Captain Wade, "and I hope he'll visit us again soon." "So do I," said Lulu, "I believe naval officers are the very nicest gentlemen in the world." "That's rather strong, isn't it?" laughed her father; "and as you have made the acquaintance of only two or three in the course of your life, I fear you are hardly a competent judge." "And what of army officers, my little lady?" asked Donald Keith, with a good-humoured laugh. "Have you nothing to say for them?" "Oh, yes, sir!" she said. "I forgot them at the moment, and I do really think they are _almost_ equal to the naval ones." "Almost!" he repeated. "Well, even that is saying a good deal for us if your father is a fair sample of those belonging to the navy." But it was growing late, and the little party soon separated for the night. Lulu was nearly ready for bed when her father came to her room to bid her good-night in the old way she liked so much. He took her in his arms with a fond caress, asking, "Does it seem pleasant to be at home--or with the home folks--again?" "Yes, indeed, Papa," she answered, putting an arm about his neck and laying her cheek to his, "but you are always a great deal more than half of home to me. Oh, I do love you so dearly!" "And I you, my own darling," her father replied, caressing her again and again. "I'd rather have you to love me, Papa, than have all the money in the world without you, or with a father that didn't care much about me," she continued. "Dear child," he said in tender tones, "I value you, and each one of my children, more than words can express. Now I must bid you good-night, for you need all the sleep you can get between this and sunrise." "Oh!" she exclaimed, "I do hope to-morrow will be clear, so we can go to see the 'Wanita;' or at least that it won't rain. Perhaps it would be all the pleasanter for a few clouds to keep the sun from being so hot on us." "No doubt," he replied; "but we must take the weather our heavenly Father sends, and be content and thankful." "Yes, sir, I'll try to do so; but I do hope it will be such that we can go." "I hope it will, daughter; but if you should have to give up the trip for the time, I hope and expect to see you do so pleasantly,--which you well may, considering that we are very likely to have other opportunities." "Well, if anything should happen to keep me at home, and I'm cross or sulky about it, I just hope you'll punish me well for my naughtiness," she said so earnestly that he could scarcely refrain from smiling. "I'm sure that in that case I should punish myself quite as much as you," he said, giving her another hug. "My dear child, if you care at all for Papa's happiness,--as I am sure you do,--try to be so good that he will never have the pain of inflicting any kind of punishment upon you." Then he bade her good-night, and left her to her rest. Lulu's head was scarcely on the pillow before she was fast asleep. When she woke, it was already broad daylight. She sprang up and ran to the window to take an observation of the weather. "Cloudy, but not raining," she said, half-aloud. "Just as I'd like to have it, if only it will keep so, and not turn to actual rain." With that she began making a rapid toilet, thinking she would like to take a little run on the beach before the summons to breakfast; but when she reached the porch below, the rain was falling pretty fast. "Oh, dear!" she sighed, "why couldn't it keep off for a few hours longer?" "What, daughter,--the rain?" asked her father's voice close at her side, while his hand was laid caressingly upon her head. "Oh, good-morning, Papa!" she returned, lifting to his a sorely disappointed face. "I didn't know you were here. Yes, sir, it is the rain I'm mourning over,--I do so want to visit that man-of-war to-day; it's really a great disappointment!" "I'm sorry you should feel it so!" he returned in a sympathizing tone; "but we won't despair yet. I think this is but a passing shower, which will make the trip all the more enjoyable by cooling the air nicely for us. However, should it prove too inclement for our contemplated little jaunt, we must try to remember that our kind and loving heavenly Father orders all these things, and to be patient and content,--more than content, thankful for whatever He sends!" "I'll try to be content and thankful, Papa; I certainly ought, when I have so many, _many_ blessings, and don't really deserve any of them," she answered, putting her hand into his, and letting him lead her back and forth along the porch, which they had to themselves for the time. "No; that is true of each one of us," he said. "Did you sleep well?" "Just as well as possible, Papa," she answered, smiling up into his face. "I didn't know anything from the time my head touched the pillow till I woke to find it broad daylight." "That is something to be very thankful for, daughter, as you will discover should sickness and pain ever give you long hours of wakefulness, such as fall to the lot of many a poor sufferer." "I hope that time will never come to either of us, Papa," she said; "but I'd rather it would come to me than to you. Oh, it was so hard to see you suffer that time you were sick here, and that other time, when Thunderer threw you!" "Ah, I shall never forget how tenderly affectionate and helpful my children were to me then," he said, with a look and smile that made her heart bound. Now others of the family began to join them. Mr. Keith came out upon the porch too, and after exchanging a good-morning with those who had preceded him, remarked that it seemed doubtful if they would be able to take their proposed trip to visit Captain Wade and his man-of-war. But by the time breakfast and family worship were over, the clouds began to scatter; and in another hour the carriages were at the door ready to convey them to the wharf, whence a boat would take them to the "Wanita." Every one did not care to go that day; the party consisted of Grandma Elsie, Edward, Zoe, Rosie Travilla, Evelyn Leland, Mr. Keith, and the Raymonds, not including the very little ones, who were left at home in the care of their nurse. It was pronounced by all a most enjoyable little excursion. The weather proved favourable, clouds obscuring the sun, but no rain falling; the officers of the "Wanita" were very polite and attentive, taking them about the vessel, and showing them everything likely to interest ladies and children. They, particularly Grandma Elsie and Violet, were charmed with the perfect neatness everywhere noticeable; the decks, the store-rooms, the magazine and shell rooms, the passages, the engine and fire rooms (into which they took a peep),--indeed, all parts of the vessel shown them,--were most beautifully neat and clean. The battery, which contained some new guns, seemed to interest Captain Raymond and Mr. Keith more than anything else, while the ladies and little girls greatly admired their brilliant polish. When they returned to the shore there was still time for a delightful drive before dinner, which they took,--the best hour for bathing coming in the afternoon. Captain Wade and his officers took dinner and tea with them the next day by invitation. A great interest in the navy had been aroused in the breasts of the young people, and they watched the officers furtively, and listened with attention to all they said that had any bearing upon that subject. Max was more and more in love with the prospect before him, and quite resolved to make the very best of his opportunities should he be so fortunate as to gain admission to the Naval Academy. His father had told him he might have this week entirely for recreation, but on the coming Monday must begin to review his studies preparatory to the examination he would be called upon to pass through at Annapolis. "I'm very willing, Papa," he replied. "I've had a long and delightful vacation already out West with you; and as I'm very anxious to pass as good an examination as possible, I want to study hard to get ready for it. And I think it's ever so kind in you to help me by hearing my lessons." "Well, my boy," the Captain said, with a pleased look, "make the most of your holidays while they last, though I do not mean that it shall be all work and no play even after this week; a couple of hours given to study each day will probably be all-sufficient." "And may I get up early and take them before breakfast when I choose, sir?" Max asked in an eager tone, that told how delightful he would esteem it to be ready to join in the pastimes of the rest of their party,--driving, boating, fishing, bathing, and strolling along the beach and through the woods. "Yes, my son, if you can manage to get enough sleep in season for that," the Captain replied in an indulgent tone. "I think I can, sir," said the boy. "I'll take an afternoon _siesta_ if I don't get enough sleep without." "That will do," said his father. "Remember health and study must be well attended to, and the more fun and frolic you can manage to get besides, the better I shall be pleased." Bent on carrying out his plan, Max went early to bed Sunday night, and was up at his books working hard for a couple of hours before breakfast. It still wanted fifteen or twenty minutes of that time when he went down to the porch with his book in his hand. His father was alone there, looking over the morning paper. "Good-morning, Papa," Max said. "I am ready to recite whenever you want to hear me." "Ah! are you, indeed?" the Captain said, taking the book; "then I shall hear this lesson at once." Max recited very creditably. His father commended him kindly, then said, "I am going in to the city directly after we have had breakfast and family worship, and shall take you with me if you would like to go." "Thank you, sir; indeed I would!" returned Max, his eyes shining, for he esteemed it one of his greatest pleasures and privileges to be permitted to go anywhere with his father. "Yes, I think you will enjoy it," the Captain said, smiling to see how pleased the boy was; "I have an errand which I shall tell to no one but Cousin Donald and you. See here," pointing to an advertisement in the paper he had been reading. "A yacht for sale!" exclaimed Max; "Oh, Papa, are you going to buy it?" "That is a question I am not prepared to answer till I have seen it, my boy," replied his father. "I shall take you and Cousin Donald, if he will go, to look at it and help me to decide whether to buy it or not." Mr. Keith joined them at that moment, and was greeted with a pleasant good-morning and shown the advertisement, the Captain telling him that if the yacht proved such as he would like to own, he meant to buy it, and if the plan was agreeable to his wife, to spend the rest of the summer on board, taking his family and friends with him, making short voyages along the coast and perhaps some distance out to sea. "Taking the opportunity to give my son some lessons in navigation," he added, with a smiling glance at Max. "Papa! I couldn't ask anything better!" exclaimed Max, hardly able to contain his delight. "I'm glad to hear it, my boy," his father said. "But now remember that our errand is a secret between us three until we return from the city." "Then you'll tell Mamma Vi and the rest, sir?" asked Max. "If I have made the purchase, yes." The call to breakfast came at that moment and was promptly obeyed. Max could hardly eat, so excited was he over the prospect of going to the city with his father on so delightful an errand, but he said not a word on the subject. The coachman had been given his order in good season, and by the time family prayers were over the carriage and horses were at the gate. "My dear," Captain Raymond said to Violet, "a business matter calls me to the city, but I hope to return in season to take my wife in bathing, or out driving, or wherever she may wish to go." "Thank you, sir," she said, smiling up into his eyes; "I'll try to be ready for either by the time you return. But is not this a sudden move? I had heard nothing of it before." "Yes, my dear; but as I am in some haste, I must defer my explanation until I get home again." "Oh, I don't ask for an explanation," she returned laughingly, as he gave her a hasty good-by kiss; "you have always been so good since my first acquaintance with you, that I am quite sure you may be trusted." "Ah! I'm much obliged for your good opinion," he answered, with a twinkle of fun in his eye, as he hastily kissed the children, then hurried with Donald and Max to the carriage. CHAPTER VI. The "Dolphin" proved a trim little craft, beautifully finished and furnished, a schooner-rigged sailing-yacht, gracefully modelled and nearly new; but her former owner had died, and the yacht was to be sold as a necessary measure for the settling of the estate. Max went into raptures over her; and the Captain was evidently pleased, though he said very little as he went about examining every part of her with keen scrutiny. "Isn't she all right, Papa?" Max at length ventured to ask. "I think she is, my son," was the prompt, pleasant-toned reply. "What is your opinion, Keith?" "It exactly coincides with yours, Raymond; and if I wanted, and could afford so expensive a luxury, I think I shouldn't hesitate to make an offer for her." "We seem to be quite agreed in our estimate of her," said Captain Raymond; "and I shall take your advice." "You are quite sure of her speed?" queried Keith. "Yes; I have seen accounts of her in the papers, showing that she is a fine sailer, as I should feel confident she would be, judging merely from her appearance. She is a beautifully modelled, well-built little craft." "Looks rather small to you after the naval vessels you were wont to command?" queried Donald Keith, with a good-humoured laugh. "Yes; but quite captivating to a lover of the sea, nevertheless, and as I see she is such to Max, and have no doubt that she will be to the rest of my family, I am about decided to make the purchase." Max drew a long breath, while his eyes sparkled with pleasure. They at once sought the agent whose business it was to attend to the sale of the vessel. It did not take long for him and the Captain to come to an agreement; and the "Dolphin" quickly changed owners. Max was enraptured, his cheeks glowing, his eyes fairly dancing with delight. He managed, with some difficulty, to keep quiet till they were in the carriage again on the way home, then burst out, "Papa, I think it's just splendid that you're the owner of such a beautiful vessel! And I hope to learn a great deal about the proper management of one while we're sailing round in her." "I shall try to teach you all I can, my boy," was his father's smiling reply; "and your pleasure in the purchase doubles my own." "Thank you, sir," said Max. "I intend to pay good heed to your instructions, and learn as much as possible, so that I may pass a good examination at Annapolis, and do my father credit." "But, Max, you might do him as much credit in the army as in the navy; and how you could resist the fascinations of West Point, I don't see," remarked Donald Keith, with a twinkle of fun in his eye. "Well, sir, I suppose it's because I am the son of a seaman; love for the sea runs in the blood,--isn't that so, Papa?" "Altogether likely," laughed the Captain. "I have been supposed to inherit it from my father, and he from his." Violet, and the other members of the family, with some of the relatives from the adjacent cottages, were all on the porch as the carriage drew up in front of the house, and its occupants alighted. "Papa! Papa!" shouted little Elsie and the baby boy, running to meet him. "Papa's darlings!" the Captain said, stooping to caress and fondle them; then, taking them in his arms, he followed Donald up the porch-steps, Max close in his rear. "Take a seat, Cousin Donald," said Violet. "We are glad to see you all back again. I have been wondering, my dear, what important business you had to keep you so long away from me and your children." "It was rather important," returned the Captain, pleasantly. "Max," with an indulgent smile into the lad's eager face, "you may have the pleasure of telling where we have been and what we have done." "Oh, thank you, sir!" cried Max, and proceeded to avail himself of the permission, going into an enthusiastic description of the beautiful "Dolphin," and winding up with the news that Papa had bought her, and expected to take their whole party--or, at least, as many of them as would like to go--coasting along the shores of all the Atlantic States of New England, and for some distance out to sea. Lulu was dancing with delight, hugging and kissing her father in a transport of joy, before Max's story came to an end. "Oh, Papa, how good,--how good and kind you are!" she exclaimed. "I don't think anything could be pleasanter than such a trip as that. It'll be the greatest fun that ever was. And you'll command the vessel yourself, won't you? I do hope so; for I am sure nobody else could do it half so well." "What a flatterer my eldest daughter can show herself to be!" he said, with a good-humoured laugh. "Yes, I do expect to take command of the dainty little craft,--a small affair, indeed, compared with a man-of-war. My dear," turning to Violet, "we have yet to hear from you on this subject. I hope you approve of your husband's purchase." "Entirely, Levis. In fact, I am quite as much delighted as Lulu seems to be," she answered, smiling up into his face. "What could be more enjoyable than sailing about in such a vessel, with a retired naval officer in command? When am I to see your 'Dolphin'?" "Yours quite as much as mine, my dear," he replied. "You have only to say the word at any time, and I will take you over to look at her." "Oh, will you?" she exclaimed. "Then suppose we all go over this afternoon, and see what she is like." "Agreed!" the Captain said; then glancing round at the eager faces, "How many of you would like to go with us?" he asked. He was answered by a prompt and unanimous acceptance of his invitation. They all wanted to see that beautiful "Dolphin;" and after a little discussion of the matter, it was decided that they would give up the bath for that day, and start for Newport harbour immediately upon leaving the dinner-table. They made a very jovial party, and were delighted with the vessel and the prospect of sailing in her under the command of one so kind and competent as her new owner. For the next few days Captain Raymond was busy with his preparations for the voyage,--engaging a crew and getting everything on board that would add to the comfort and enjoyment of his family and guests; the ladies also were occupied with theirs, which were not sufficiently great to interfere with the usual pleasures of a sojourn by the sea-side; then one bright morning saw them all on board,--a merry, happy party. "Where are we going first, Papa?" asked Lulu, when they were fairly under way. "On a little trial trip along the coast," he answered. "And then coming back to Newport?" questioned Gracie. "Possibly," he said, with a smile into the bright, eager face. "I think I know, though I'm not right sure," Max said, looking at his father with a rather mischievous twinkle in his eyes, "what Papa is thinking about." "Do you, indeed?" laughed his father. "Well, what is it?" "Well, sir, I overheard Captain Wade telling you he expected the rest of the squadron would be in soon,--in a day or two, I think he said,--and I have a notion it would be a fine sight for us all, and that my father kindly means to give it to us." "Ah, indeed! you seem to have a great deal of confidence in your father's desire to give pleasure to you all," laughed the Captain. "Well, my boy, events may perhaps show whether you are right." The three had followed their father to a portion of the deck at some little distance from the rest of the party, so that their talk was not overheard by them. "A squadron?" repeated Grace. "What is that? Oh, it's a good many ships belonging together,--isn't it, Papa?" "That will answer very well for a definition, or description," he replied. "Oh, how glad I am!" exclaimed Lulu, clapping her hands in delight. "And will they go through all their manoeuvres, Papa?" "As I am not the admiral whose orders are to be obeyed, I cannot say exactly what will be done, my child," the Captain replied. "I can only say I intend to have you in the vicinity in season to see all that may be done. Does that satisfy you?" "Oh, yes, sir! and I thank you very, very much!" she said, taking his hand in both of hers and squeezing it affectionately. "I too, Papa," said Grace. "I'm sure we'll enjoy it ever so much." "I hope so," he answered. "And now can you three keep the secret from the others, that they may have a pleasant surprise?" "If we can't, or don't, I think we ought never to be told a secret again," exclaimed Lulu, in her vehement way. "Perhaps you would not be intrusted with one very soon again," her father said; "but," he added, with a look from one to the other of mingled pride and affection, "I feel quite safe in trusting a secret to the keeping of the eldest three of my children. I am quite sure no one of you would tell anything you knew your father wished kept secret." "No, indeed, Papa!" said Max. "We would certainly deserve to be severely punished, and never trusted by you again, if we should ever so abuse your confidence." "Just what I think," said Lulu. "I too," added Grace. "And, Papa, it's so nice and kind in you to trust us!" looking up into his face with a loving smile as she spoke. "Is it?" he asked, smoothing her hair with fond, caressing hand. "Well, my pet, it is a very great pleasure to me to be able to do so." At that moment they were joined by Mr. Keith. The two gentlemen entered into conversation; the two little girls ran down into the cabin to see that the maid was making such disposition of their effects as they desired; while Max, joined by Walter Travilla, made the tour of the vessel for perhaps the fiftieth time,--for ever since the purchase, he had spent at least half of every week-day there, learning from his father and others all he could of her different parts and of her management. Walter, too, had been there again and again, spending hours at a time in climbing about with Max, who took much pleasure in handing over to him the lessons just learned by himself. The rest of the party were seated on deck enjoying the breeze and the beauties of sea and land,--for the latter was not yet out of sight, though fast receding. The weather was lovely, every one in the best of spirits, the younger ones full of fun and frolic, and the day passed most enjoyably to all. The evening was enlivened by music from a very sweet-toned piano in the cabin, by singing, conversation, promenading the deck, and gazing out over the water, watching the rise and fall of the waves, and the passing of ships and steamers. But the day had been an exciting one, especially to the children, and they were willing enough to retire at an early hour. They gathered on deck, each repeated a verse of Scripture, after which they united in singing a hymn, and Mr. Dinsmore led in prayer. Then the good-nights were said, and all the young people, with some of the older ones, retired to their pretty, cosey state-rooms and their berths. Great was the surprise of nearly everybody when, coming on deck the next morning, they discovered that they were again in Narragansett Bay. There were many exclamations and questions, "How did it happen?" "Whose mistake was it that instead of being away out at sea, we are back at our starting-point again?" These and other like queries were propounded to the owner and commander of the yacht. He pointed, with a good-humoured smile, to a number of war-vessels lying quietly at anchor at no very great distance. "The squadron is in, you see; and I thought my passengers would not like to miss the sight of its evolutions, so brought them back to view them. There will be time afterward for a pleasant little voyage along the coast, or where you will." The explanation was entirely satisfactory to every one, and there was great rejoicing among the lads and lasses. "What is it they're going to do, Papa?" asked Gracie. "I have not been let into that secret, daughter," he answered; "but we may find out after awhile by keeping a close watch upon their movements." "Oh, Papa, you can read their signals, and tell us what's coming, can't you? Won't you?" exclaimed Lulu. "Yes, my child, I can and will," he replied. "But there is the call to breakfast, and you needn't hurry through your meal; for they are not likely, for some hours yet, to begin anything you would want to see." Encouraged by that assurance, no one cared to make undue haste in eating all that appetite called for of the excellent breakfast presently set before them. But an hour later found them all on deck, young and old keeping a sharp watch on every movement of the vessels composing the squadron, several spy-glasses being constantly turned in their direction. "Ah!" exclaimed the Captain, at length, while at the same instant Max asked eagerly, "Papa, what is it they are doing there on the 'Wanita'?" "Getting ready for inspection by the Admiral," was the reply. "See, the men have donned their uniforms and are taking their places on the deck. And yonder--do you see?--the Admiral and his staff are pushing off from the flag-ship." The boatswain's whistle and the roll of a drum were now heard coming from the "Wanita." "Oh, and is that the executive officer on the bridge of the 'Wanita,' Papa?" asked Max, excitedly. "And what is he doing?" "Giving an order to the gunner, doubtless to fire a salute in honour of the Admiral." Before the words had fairly left the Captain's lips, the loud boom of the first gun burst upon the ear. "Oh, Max, wouldn't you like to be in that Admiral's place?" queried Walter Travilla; "I would." "Oh, our Maxie means to be an admiral one of these days; and I'm sure I hope he will," said Rosie. "Very good in you, Rosie," returned Max, smiling and blushing; "but I'm afraid I'll be an old man before that happens, if it ever does." "But you may comfort yourself that you can be very useful in maintaining your country's honour without waiting to be made an admiral," remarked Evelyn Leland, smiling pleasantly at Max. "Yes," he said, returning the smile, "and it _is_ a comfort. We'd any of us feel it an honour to be useful to our country." "I'd like to be," remarked Gracie, "if little girls could do anything." "Little girls are sometimes a very great blessing and comfort to their fathers," the Captain said, smiling down into her eyes while he laid his right hand tenderly on her pretty head, with its sunny curls streaming in the wind. In the mean while the firing of the salute had gone on, the Admiral and his staff had reached the deck of the "Wanita," the marines presenting arms, and-- "There, what is he going to do now, Papa?" queried Lulu,--"the Admiral, I mean." "Inspect the ship," replied her father. "What for, Papa?" asked Grace. "To see that every part of it is in perfect order." "I'm sure he will find it so," said Lulu; "for when we were there and were taken all over it, every part was as clean and neat as any lady's parlour." Captain Raymond now turned away and began talking with Mr. Keith on some subject that did not interest the children, but they continued a close watch of the "Wanita." The Admiral presently disappeared from the deck, but at length they saw him there again, talking with Captain Wade and his officers; then, in a few moments he and his staff re-embarked and returned to the flag-ship. "What's going to be done now?" asked one and another. "Watch, and you will see presently," said Captain Raymond. "If you do not wish to miss something, I advise you to keep both eyes and ears open." The advice seemed to be promptly followed. All eyes gazed intently in the direction of the "Wanita" and the flag-ship. Presently a signal was shown by the flag-ship which Captain Raymond promptly interpreted for the enlightenment of those about him,--"Abandon ship." "What does that mean, Papa?" asked Grace. "Look and see if you can't find out for yourself," he answered in a pleasant tone. The signal seemed to have caused a commotion on the deck of each vessel belonging to the squadron. Then there was a great splashing of boats into the water, and of other craft which the Captain explained were life-rafts and catamarans; while at the same time men and boys were scampering about with various articles which he said were provisions, nautical instruments, etc., such as would be needed if the ships were really abandoned out at sea. "But why would they ever do that, Papa?" Grace asked wonderingly. "I should think it would always be better to stay in their ships, wouldn't it?" "Not always, daughter. The ship might be on fire, or leaking so badly that she would be in danger of sinking." "Oh, yes, sir! I didn't think of that," she responded. "Oh, see!" said Rosie; "they've all pushed off away from their ships, and the 'Wanita's' boats are ahead of all the others." "Now what are they going to do, Papa?" asked Lulu. "I can tell that only when I see the flag-ship's next signal," he replied. "Ah, there it is, and tells them to go round the harbour under sail." The children watched with interest and delight as the order was obeyed. It was a very pretty sight, but soon came another signal from the flag-ship, which the Captain told them was one of recall; and the boats returned to their ships. CHAPTER VII. The squadron steamed out to sea, the "Dolphin" keeping most of the time within sight of the naval vessels, its passengers being anxious to see more of the evolutions of the men-of-war, and their commanding officer very willing to indulge their wish. They were out simply for pleasure, and were free to turn in any desired direction. The weather was all that could possibly be wished; and in the evening everybody was on deck except the very little ones, who were already in their nests. The vessels of the squadron were in sight, and all eyes turned frequently in their direction. "Do you think they'll do anything to-night, Papa?" asked Grace, taking possession of her father's knee, for at the moment he was sitting among the others. "Who, daughter?" he asked, smoothing her hair with caressing hand. "Oh, the Admiral and the rest of them on those war-ships. What do they do at such times when they seem to be sailing around just for pleasure?" "I rather think it is for profit too," he said. "'In time of peace prepare for war.'" "But how do they prepare for war, Papa?" "By having sham fights: going through the motions in a way to do harm to no one; firing what we call blank cartridges,--powder but no balls; getting the men so familiar with their guns that they can handle them rapidly and without making mistakes even in the dark. Ah, see! there it comes!" as at that instant a signal-light from the flag-ship shot up several hundred feet into the air, speedily followed by another and another, till the whole sky seemed bright with them; while Captain Raymond, the only one on the yacht who understood the messages, read them off to the others and called their attention to the movements of the ships in prompt obedience to the orders. "What is that they're doing, Papa?" asked Grace, presently. "Arranging themselves in different orders of battle," he replied, and proceeded to explain each movement as it was made. "It's ever so nice to see them," she said, "though I do hope they won't ever have to do any real fighting." "I hope not, indeed," her father said; "but in this wicked, quarrelsome world the only way to secure peace is to show that we are ready for self-defence in case of attack." "How beautifully and promptly every signal is obeyed!" remarked Grandma Elsie. "It is a sight worth coming a long distance to see." "Yes, Mamma," said Violet; "and I'm proud of our navy, even though it is so inferior in size to that of England." "Inferior in size, but in nothing else, I believe, Mamma Vi," said Max, speaking with some excitement. "You know we've whipped the British twice on the sea in spite of their navy being so very much larger than ours." "Yes, Maxie, I believe I'm as proud of that fact as even you can be," laughed Violet, while his father gave him a look of mingled amusement and pride. "I think," remarked Edward Travilla, "that from the beginning of our national life our navy has been one to be proud of." "In which I entirely agree with you," said the Captain. "But the exhibition seems to be over for to-night, and the hour is a late one to find our young people out of bed." "Must we go now, Papa?" Lulu asked in a coaxing tone which seemed to add, "I hope you will let us stay at least a little longer." "Yes," he said; "my little girls may say good-night now and go at once." They obeyed promptly and cheerfully, and before long the others followed their example, till Mr. Keith and the Captain had the deck to themselves. They lingered there for quite a long while, seeming to have fallen upon some very interesting topic of conversation; but it was suddenly broken in upon by the sound of the flag-ship's drum, instantly followed by those of all the other vessels of the squadron. "Ah, what is the meaning of that, Raymond?" asked Keith, gazing toward the war-ships with keen interest and excitement. "It sounds to me like a call to battle." "So it is," replied the Captain,--"a night exercise at the great guns, training the men so that they may be ready for all the surprises of a time of war." Even as he spoke his passengers came hurrying from the cabin, the ladies and young girls wrapped in dressing-gowns and shawls, hastily thrown on to conceal their night-dresses, one and another asking excitedly what was going to be done now. But even as the words left their lips the thunder of cannon burst upon their ears, drowning the Captain's voice when he would have replied. "Oh, is it war, brother Levis, _really_ war?" queried little Walter, in great excitement. "No, my boy; only a playing at war, I am thankful to be able to say. You may look and listen without fear that any one is to be killed, or even wounded, unless through carelessness." But the cannon were thundering again, ship after ship firing off whole broadsides at some imaginary foe. At length, however, it was all over, and the passengers of the "Dolphin" returned to their berths to stay there for the remainder of the night. "Why, we are anchored, are we not, Levis?" Violet asked of her husband on awakening the next morning. "Yes, my dear," he answered; "we are riding at anchor in Gardiner's Bay. I suspected that would prove the destination of the squadron, it being about the best place for naval exercises in our Northern waters; and it seems I was right. The squadron is at anchor now at no great distance from us." "And what do you suppose they will do here?" "Probably fight some sham battles on sea and land. Do you care to witness such?" "Oh, very much! I should greatly prefer witnessing a sham battle to a real one. But they won't be likely to begin it immediately, I suppose?" "No; I presume we shall have time for a hearty breakfast first," replied her husband, with a slight look of amusement. "Don't allow the prospect of witnessing a battle to spoil your appetite for your morning meal, little wife." "Oh, no," she answered, with a pleasant laugh. "I really am not now so much of a child as all that would come to." It was not long before she and nearly every other passenger had sought the deck to take a look at their surroundings. They found Gardiner's Bay a beautiful body of water bounded by islands on nearly every side, that forming its eastern shore bearing the same name. There were a large number of vessels in the bay,--several sloops, schooners, and a yacht or two beside the "Dolphin," to say nothing of the squadron of war-ships. But all were lying quietly at anchor, and our friends willingly responded to the call to breakfast. Yet no one cared to linger at the table; and when all had finished their repast they quickly repaired to the deck to watch the movements of the squadron. But for a while there seemed to be none, the vessels all riding quietly at anchor. "Dear me!" Rosie at length exclaimed, "I wish they'd begin to do something!" "I think they are going to," said Max. "See, there's a boat leaving the flag-ship; I suppose to carry a message to one of the others." "Oh, I'll go and ask Papa about it!" exclaimed Lulu. "About what, daughter?" asked the Captain's voice close at her side. "That boat that has just left the flag-ship, sir," she answered. "Do you know where it's going, and what for?" "I can only conjecture that it carries some message, probably from the Admiral to the commander of one of the other vessels." "It's pulling for the 'Wanita,'" said Max; "and see, there are other boats going about from one vessel to another." "Yes," his father said, "and see yonder are several boats filled with marines, pulling for the shore of Gardiner's Island. Evidently there is to be a sham fight." "I'm ever so glad it won't be a real one, Papa," said Grace. "It would be so dreadful to see folks killed." "It would indeed," he answered. "But you may enjoy the show as much as you can, for no one will be hurt unless by accident." "All the ships seem to be getting boats ready packed with things," remarked Lulu; "I wonder what they are." "Quite a variety," replied her father,--"great guns, baggage, arms, provisions, and boxes that doubtless contain materials and tools for repairs, compasses, and other articles too numerous to mention. There! the vessels are signalling that they are ready." "They are getting into the boats!" exclaimed Max, clapping his hands in delight; "and the other fellows that went first to the island seem to be waiting and all ready to fight them." Every one on the "Dolphin" was now watching the embarkation with interest, the children in a good deal of excitement; it was like a grand show to them. "Oh, it's a beautiful sight!" said Eva. "How bright their guns and bayonets are, with the sun shining on them! And there are the beautiful stars and stripes flying from every boat. But they are all in now,--at least I should think so; the boats look full,--and why don't they start?" "They are waiting for the Admiral's inspection and order," replied Captain Raymond. "Ah, see, there he is on the bridge of the flag-ship, with his field-glass, looking them over. And now the signal is given for them to proceed." The boats moved off at once in the direction of the island where the marines had preceded them. Captain Raymond's explanations making all their movements well understood by the young people around him, who thought they had never witnessed so fine a sight as the mimic fight that presently ensued, opened by the marines firing a volley of blank cartridges from the shore, which was immediately replied to by the approaching boats with musketry, howitzers, and Gatling guns. Soon they reached the shore and landed, the marines meanwhile pouring forth an unceasing fire from behind their breastworks. A fierce battle followed; there were charges and counter-charges, advances and retreats, men falling as if wounded or killed, and being carried off the field by the stretcher-men. That last-mentioned sight brought the tears to Gracie's blue eyes, and she asked in tremulous tones, "Are they really hurt or killed, Papa?" "No, darling," he said, pressing the small hand she had put into his, "it is all pretence, just to teach them what to do in case of actual war." "Oh, I hope that won't ever come!" she exclaimed, furtively wiping away a tear. "Do you think it will, Papa?" "Hardly," he said; "but it would be the height of folly not to prepare for such a contingency." "Hurrah!" cried Max, throwing up his cap, "our side's whipped and the other fellows are retreating!" "Which do you call our side? And do you mean it _is_ whipped, or _has_ whipped?" asked Rosie, with a laughing glance at the boy's excited face. But the Captain was speaking again, and Max was too busy listening to him to bestow any notice upon Rosie's questions. "Yes," the Captain said, "the marines are retreating; the battle is about over. Our side, as Max calls it, you see, is throwing out advance-guards, rear-guards, and flankers." "What for, brother Levis?" asked Walter. "To make sure that they have taken the island." "And what will come next, Captain?" asked Grandma Elsie, who was watching the movements of the troops with as much interest as the children. "Fortification, doubtless," he replied. "Ah, yes; they are already beginning that work. They must fortify the island in order to be able to hold it." "How, Papa?" asked Grace. "By throwing up breastworks, digging rifle-pits, planting guns, and so forth. If you watch closely, you will see what they do." The children--to say nothing of the older ones--watched closely and with keen interest all the movements of the troops until interrupted by the call to dinner. They had scarcely returned to their post of observation on the deck, having had barely time to notice the completed fortifications, the tents pitched, and the troops at their midday meal, when a tiny strip of bunting was seen fluttering at the flag-ship's main. Captain Raymond was the first to notice it. "Ah!" he said, "the fun on the island is over,--at least for the present,--for there is the Admiral's signal of recall." "I'll bet the fellows are sorry to see it!" exclaimed Max; "for I dare say they were going to have some fun there on the island they've taken." CHAPTER VIII. Things were rather quiet for the rest of the day, much to Max's disgust, though at his father's bidding he tried to forget the disappointment in study. Toward evening Captain Raymond learned something of the Admiral's plans. Two of the vessels were to take possession of a part of the bay set off as a harbour, the others to blockade the entrance. In reporting the matter to his passengers, "Now," he said, "the preparations will take them two or three days, and the question is, shall we stay to see it all, or turn about and seek entertainment elsewhere? Let us have the opinion of all the older people, beginning with Grandpa Dinsmore," looking pleasantly at the old gentleman as he spoke. "My preference would be rather for going at once," replied Mr. Dinsmore; "yet I am entirely willing to have the matter decided by your younger people. I shall be quite content to stay on if it seems desirable to the rest of the company." The vote of the ladies and gentlemen was then taken, when it appeared that the majority were in favour of immediate departure; and the children, though at first disappointed, grew quite reconciled when a little time had been spent in considering what might be seen and done in other quarters. "I think, Ned," Zoe said to her husband, "that we would better go back to our cottage, because Laurie and Lily are growing fretful,--tired of the sea, I think." "Very well, my dear, we will do so if you wish it," was the good-natured reply. "Strange as it may seem, I too am quite desirous to make our twin babies as comfortable as possible," he added, with a pleasant laugh. "I am sorry you should miss the sight of further operations here, Cousin Donald," remarked Grandma Elsie, turning to her kinsman. "Thank you, Cousin Elsie," he replied; "but though that would be an interesting sight to me, I expect to find almost if not equal enjoyment in a run out to sea or along shore with my friend Raymond in command of the vessel." "Oh, I think that'll be just splendid," exclaimed Max, "and that before we get back, Cousin Donald, you'll be ready to own up that the navy is a more desirable place to be in than the army." "Perhaps he wouldn't own up even if he thought so," remarked Rosie, with a merry look at her cousin; "I don't believe I should if I were in his place." "Possibly I might," he returned, laughingly, "but I certainly do not expect to fall quite so deeply in love with a 'life on the ocean wave,' though I hope to be always willing and anxious to serve my country wherever and whenever I may be needed. I think both army and navy always have been, and always will be, ready to defend her on land or sea." "Yes, sir, I believe that's so," said Max. "And if ever we should have another war, I hope I'll be able to help defend her." "I hope so, my boy," the Captain said, regarding the lad with an expression of fatherly pride and affection. An hour later the "Dolphin" was sailing out of the bay, all her passengers gathered on deck, taking a farewell look at the vessels belonging to the squadron, and on awaking in the morning they found themselves lying at anchor in Newport harbour. They returned to their cottages for a day or two; then the Raymonds, Grandma Elsie, with the youngest two of her children, and Donald Keith, again set sail in the "Dolphin." The weather was all that could be desired, every one well and in the best of spirits. Max was required to devote a part of each day to study, and recitation to his father, but did not grumble over that, and took great delight in the lessons in practical navigation given him daily by the Captain. "Papa," he asked one day, "what's the need of a boy going to the Naval Academy when he can learn everything he needs to know on shipboard with a father like you?" "But he can't," replied the Captain; "how to sail a ship is by no means all he needs to know to fit him to be an officer in the navy." "Why, what else is necessary, sir?" asked Max, with a look of surprise. "A number of things which you saw done at Newport and at Gardiner's Bay are quite necessary. He must know how to fight a battle, take charge of an ordnance foundry, and conduct an astronomical observatory; must have a good knowledge of history, be an able jurist and linguist, and a good historian,--besides knowing how to manage a ship in calm or storm." "Whew! what a lot of things to cram into one head!" laughed Max, with a slightly troubled look on his bright young face. "Isn't yours big enough to hold it all?" asked his father, with an amused smile. "I dare say it is, sir," replied Max, "but the difficulty is to pack it all in right. I presume the teachers will help me to do that, though." "Certainly; and if you follow their directions carefully you will have no need to fear failure." "Thank you, sir. That's very encouraging," said Max; "and I am fully determined to try my very best, Papa, if it was only not to disgrace my father." "My dear son," the Captain said, a trifle huskily, and taking the boy's hand in a warm clasp, "I don't doubt that you intend to do as you have said; but never forget that your only safety is in keeping close to Him who has said, 'In Me is thine help.'" It was Saturday evening,--the first that had found them on the broad ocean, out of sight of land. They were all on deck, enjoying the delicious evening breeze and a most brilliant sunset. "Papa," Gracie said, breaking a momentary silence, "what are we going to do about keeping the Lord's Day to-morrow? We can't go to church, you know, unless you can sail the 'Dolphin' back to land in the night." "I cannot do that, daughter," he answered; "but I can conduct a service here on the deck. How will that do, do you think?" "I don't know, Papa," she replied, with some hesitation, blushing and looking fearful of hurting his feelings; "I s'pose you couldn't preach a sermon?" "Why not?" he asked, smiling a little at her evident embarrassment. "Because you're not a minister, Papa." "Why, Gracie! Papa's as good as any minister, I'm sure," exclaimed Lulu, half reproachfully, half indignantly. "Of course he is; I didn't mean that!" returned Gracie, just ready to burst into tears; "I didn't mean he wasn't as good as anybody in this whole world,--for of course he is,--but I thought it was only ministers that preach." "But I can read a sermon, my pet," the Captain said, "or preach one if I choose; there is no law against it. And we can pray and sing hymns together; and if we put our hearts into it all, our heavenly Father will be as ready to listen to us as to other worshippers in the finest churches on the land." "That is a very comforting truth," remarked Grandma Elsie; "it is very sweet to reflect that God is as near to us out on the wide and deep sea as to any of his worshippers on the dry land." "You will hold your service in the morning, I suppose, Captain?" Mr. Keith said inquiringly. "That is what I had thought of doing, sir," was the reply. "Have you any suggestions to make?" "Only that we might have a Bible class later in the day." "Yes, sir; that was a part of my programme,--at least I had thought of teaching my own children, as is customary with me at home; but if the suggestion meets with favour, we will resolve ourselves into a Bible class, each one able to read taking part. What do you all say to the proposition?" "I highly approve," said Grandma Elsie; "I am sure the day could not be better spent than in the study of God's Holy Word." "Nor more delightfully," said Violet. "I think we would all like it, Captain," Evelyn remarked in her quiet way. "I'm sure I shall," said Lulu; "Papa always makes Bible lessons very interesting." "That's so," said Max; "I was never taught by any minister or Sunday-school teacher that made them half so interesting." "It is quite possible that your near relationship to your teacher may have made a good deal of difference, my children," the Captain said gravely, though not unkindly. "But who shall act as teacher on this occasion is a question still to be decided. I propose Grandma Elsie, as the eldest of those present, and probably the best qualified." "All in favour of that motion please say ay," added Violet, playfully. "I am sure no better teacher could be found than Mamma, though I incline to the opinion that my husband would do equally well." "Much better, I think," Grandma Elsie said; "and I would greatly prefer to be one of his pupils." "I can hardly consider myself wise enough to teach my mother," said the Captain, colouring and laughing lightly, "even though she is far too young to be own mother to a man of my age." "But you may lead a Bible class of which she forms a part, may you not?" queried Donald Keith. "I suppose that might be possible," the Captain replied, with a humourous look and smile. "I'm sure you can and will, since such is your mother's wish," Grandma Elsie said in a sportive tone, "and so we may consider that matter settled." "And Mamma's word having always been law to her children, we will consider it so," Violet said. "Shall we not, Levis?" "As good and dutiful children I suppose we must, my dear," he returned in the playful tone she particularly liked. Sunday morning dawned clear and beautiful, a delicious breeze filling the sails and wafting the vessel swiftly onward over the sparkling water. An hour or so after breakfast, captain, passengers, and crew, except the man at the helm, gathered on deck, every one in neat and appropriate dress. The ladies, gentlemen, and children sat on one side, the crew on the other, Captain Raymond standing between. A Bible and a pile of hymn-books lay on a stand before him, and Max was directed to distribute the latter. They were a part of the supplies Captain Raymond had laid in for the voyage. A melodeon also stood near the stand, and Violet, seating herself before it, led the singing with which the service opened. The Captain then offered a short prayer, read a portion of Scripture, a second hymn was sung; then he gave them a short discourse on the text, "They hated Me without a cause." With much feeling and in simple language that the youngest and most ignorant of his hearers could readily understand, he described the lovely character and beneficent life of Christ upon earth,--always about His Father's business, doing good to the souls and bodies of men,--and the bitter enmity of the scribes and Pharisees, who "hated Him without a cause." Then he went on to tell of the agony in the garden, the betrayal by Judas,--"one of the twelve,"--the mockery of a trial, the scourging and the crown of thorns, the carrying of the cross and the dreadful death upon it. "All this He bore for you and for me," he concluded in tones tremulous with emotion; "constrained by His great love for us, He died that dreadful death that we might live. And shall we not love Him in return? Shall we not give ourselves to Him, and serve Him with all our powers? It is a reasonable service, a glad service,--a service that gives rest to the soul. He says to each one of us, 'Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart; and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For My yoke is easy, and My burden is light.' "Ah, do not refuse or neglect His invitation, for the only choice is between His service and that of Satan,--that malignant spirit whose fierce desire and effort is to drag all souls down to his own depths of sin and misery; and Jesus only can save you from falling into his cruel hands. But He--the Lord of Life and Glory--invites us all to come and be saved, and 'now is the accepted time; now is the day of salvation.' Delay is most dangerous; life is very uncertain. We are sure of no time but now." He closed the Bible and sat down; and Violet, again seating herself before the melodeon, softly touched the keys and sang in sweet, low tones, but so distinctly that every word reached the farthest listener,-- "Come to Jesus, come to Jesus; Come to Jesus just now, just now; Come to Jesus, come to Jesus just now." Then, at a sign from the Captain, Mr. Keith followed with an earnest prayer; and with another hymn in which all united, the services closed. Among the crew was one young man in whom the Captain and Grandma Elsie had both come to feel a peculiar interest. He was evidently an American, and possessed of more intelligence and education than the average sailor before the mast. He had listened with close attention to the Captain's discourse, and with a troubled countenance, as Mrs. Travilla had noticed. "The Holy Spirit is striving with him, I have little doubt," she said to herself. "Ah, if I could but help him to find Jesus, and to know the sweetness of His love!" It was not long before the desired opportunity offered. The young man was at the wheel and no one near, while she paced the deck slowly and alone. Gradually she approached, and when close at his side made some pleasant remark about the vessel and the course they were steering. He responded in a polite and respectful manner. Then she spoke of the service of the morning, said she had noticed the attention he paid to the Captain's short sermon, and asked in kindest words and tones if he, like herself, was one who loved Jesus, and trusted in Him for salvation from sin and eternal death. He sighed deeply, then said with emotion, "No, madam, but--I wish I were." "But what is to hinder, my friend, since He says, 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out'?" she asked gently, feelingly. He was silent for a moment, evidently from emotion, then said, rather as if thinking aloud than addressing her, "If I only knew just how!" "He is very near, and His omniscient eye reads the heart," she said low and feelingly. "Speak to Him just as if you could see Him,--as if you were kneeling at His feet,--and He will hear. "The Bible says. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' Do you want that cleansing, my friend?" He bowed a silent assent. "Then go to Jesus for it," she said. "He, and He alone, can give it. He shed His blood for us that 'God may be just and the justifier of him that believeth in Jesus;' for 'the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.'" There was a moment's silence; then, "I'd like to be a Christian, ma'am," he said, "such as I see you and the Captain are, but--" The sentence was left unfinished; and after a moment's pause. "I should like you to be a better one than I am," she said, "but Jesus only can make you such. The work is too difficult for any human creature; but Jesus is all-powerful,--'able to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by Him, seeing He ever liveth to make intercession for them.' Is not that a precious assurance?" "It is indeed, ma'am, if--if I only knew it meant me." "You certainly will be one of those of whom it speaks if you 'come unto God by Him;' and He invites you to come: 'Come unto Me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'" "Could you tell me just how, ma'am,--as if you were pointing out the right road to a traveller, for instance?" "I will try," she said. "You must remember that He is always near,--close to us, though we cannot see Him; and you may speak to Him as readily, and with as much assurance that you will be heard, as you have been speaking to me. "He is full of love and compassion,--love so infinite, compassion so great that He was willing to endure all the agony of death upon the cross, and the far greater suffering caused by the burden of the sins of the world and the consequent hiding of His Father's face; therefore He will not cast you out, will not turn away from you, if you come in true penitence and faith. "Make confession of your sins and plead for pardon and acceptance as you would if you could see Him while kneeling at His feet; and He will grant it, will forgive all your transgressions and adopt you into His family to be His own child forever." But others of the passengers were now drawing near, and he had only time to thank her for her kindly interest in him, and promise to think of what she had been saying, before Walter and Max were at her side, calling her attention to a passing vessel. A very interesting Bible lesson filled up most of the afternoon, both adults and children taking part; and in the evening hymns were sung and conversation held such as was suited to the sacredness of the day. CHAPTER IX. A few days longer the "Dolphin" kept on her eastward course, then was headed for the shore of Massachusetts, bound for Boston, where Mr. Keith must leave her, his furlough having now nearly expired. He and his cousins would be sorry to part; but there was no help for it, as Uncle Sam's orders must be obeyed. The young folks of the party had particularly enjoyed the little trip out to sea, but expected to find a sail along the coast of the New England States quite as much to their taste, particularly as it would give them an opportunity to look upon some of the scenes of incidents in the two wars with England. They had come in sight of the coast and were all gathered upon the deck. "That is Scituate, is it not, Captain?" asked Grandma Elsie, indicating a town that had just come into view. "Yes," he replied, "and I presume you remember the story of the last war with England, connected with it?" "I do," she answered; "but I presume it would be new to some at least of these young people." Then entreaties for the story poured in upon her and the Captain from both boys and girls. "It is but a short one; and I would prefer to have the Captain tell it," Mrs. Travilla replied. "Oh, Papa, please do!" exclaimed Lulu; and he complied. "It was, as I have said, during the last war with England that the occurrence I am about to tell of took place. At that time there was a light-house in the harbour kept by a man named Reuben Bates, who had a family of grown-up sons and daughters. "He and his sons were members of a militia company of the town, and one day during the war they were all absent from home on that business, leaving the light-house in charge of the daughters, Abigail and Rebecca. "The girls, who were no doubt keeping a vigilant watch for the approach of the enemy, saw a British ship entering the harbour, and conjectured that it was the design of those on board of her to destroy the fishing-boats in the harbour and perhaps burn the town, or at least rob its inhabitants. "They must have been brave girls, for at once they began to consider what they could do to drive away the would-be invaders. "I presume Abigail exclaimed, 'Oh, if we could only make them think there were troops ready to defend the town, and so frighten them away!' And very likely Rebecca replied, 'Perhaps we can. If you can play the fife, I'll beat the drum; and if we are hidden from sight they may think there are troops ready to receive them if they come ashore, and so be afraid to land.' "So they went around behind some sand-hills and played 'Yankee Doodle' in a lively way that had exactly the desired effect. "The British ship had sent out boats filled with armed men who were pulling for the shore; but on hearing the music of the drum and fife, they evidently concluded that there might be a large force of American soldiers ready to receive them, and thinking 'discretion the better part of valour,' turned about and pulled back to their ship again without attempting to land." "Oh, wasn't that good?" exclaimed Lulu; "I think the fathers and brothers of those girls must have been proud of them." "Yes, I dare say they were," said Max. "I wonder what became of them--those girls--afterward?" said Rosie. "Of course they must have been dead and gone long before this." "No," replied the Captain, "Abigail died only recently at the advanced age of eighty-nine." "Papa, won't you stay awhile in Boston and take us to see some of the places connected with Revolutionary times,--Bunker Hill and its monument, and maybe some others?" asked Max. "I shall be pleased to do so, my son, if nothing happens to prevent," was the pleasant-toned reply. "It is my strong desire to have my children well-informed in regard to the history of their own country." "And ardent patriots too, Papa, ready to defend her to the utmost of their ability should she be attacked by any other power?" queried Max, looking smilingly up into his father's face. "Yes, my son; particularly the boys," replied the Captain, smiling in his turn at the lad's enthusiasm. "Well, there's one of your girls that I am sure would find a way to help, Papa,--nursing the wounded soldiers perhaps, or carrying despatches or something," said Lulu; "perhaps giving information of an intended attack by the enemy, as Lydia Darrah did." "I have no doubt you would do all you could, daughter, and might perhaps be of more assistance than many a man," her father answered kindly. "I'm afraid I shouldn't be brave enough to do such things as that," remarked Grace, with a look that seemed to say she felt herself quite inferior to her braver sister; "but I could pray for my country, and I know that God hears and answers prayer,--so that would be helping, wouldn't it, Papa?" "Yes, my dear child; the Bible tells us a great deal about the power of prayer; 'Call upon Me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me,' is one of its promises." "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, "a cry to God, the Ruler of the universe, for help, may accomplish more than any effort on the part of man to do for himself." "But people must help themselves too, Mamma?" Walter said, half in assertion, half inquiringly. "Yes, my son, if they can; 'Faith without works is dead,' the Apostle says. The right way is to do all we can to help ourselves, at the same time asking God's blessing upon our efforts." "As General Washington did," remarked Mr. Keith. "He was a man of both works and prayer,--a blessing to his country, and to the world; in my estimation the greatest mere man that ever lived. 'First in peace, first in war, first in the hearts of his countrymen.'" "Yes," assented Grandma Elsie, "I like the toast given by some one,--I have forgotten who it was,--'Washington: Providence left him childless that his country might call him father.' He seems to me to have been as nearly perfect as one of the sinful race of man could be!" "Yes," responded Captain Raymond; "thoroughly unselfish, just, generous, modest, self-denying and self-sacrificing, charitable to the poor, forgiving, fearless and heroic; a God-fearing man who sought nothing for himself, but was ready to do or die for his country; true to her, to his friends, to his God; a sincere and earnest Christian,--where can a more noble character be found?" "I think," said Mrs. Travilla, "he was an instrument raised up and prepared of God for the work that he did in securing to our beloved country the liberties she now enjoys." "I very much like what Lord Brougham says of him," remarked Violet. "Oh, can you repeat it, Mamma Vi?" queried Lulu, eagerly. "Yes, I think I can," returned Violet, who was blessed with an excellent memory. "'It will be the duty of the historian and sage in all ages to let no occasion pass of commemorating this illustrious man; and until time shall be no more, will a test of the progress which our race has made in wisdom and virtue be derived from the veneration paid to the immortal name of Washington!'" "I like that," said Rosie, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and enthusiasm, "and it's none the worse for having come from an Englishman." "Not a bit," assented Keith. "Mamma, was Washington commander at the battle of Bunker Hill?" asked Walter. "I ought to know; but I can't remember just now." "No, my son," she answered, "it was fought before he reached Boston,--in fact, the very day, June 17, that Congress agreed to his commission as commander-in-chief of all the Continental forces raised, or to be raised; and on the 21st he set out on horseback from Philadelphia for Boston to take command of the American army encamped there,--or rather around it, the British being in possession of the town itself. News did not fly then as it does in these days, by any means; and it was not till he arrived in New York, on the 25th, that the tidings reached him. "The next day he was in the saddle again, pushing on toward the scene of conflict. He reached Cambridge on the 2d of July, and the next day took command of the army, drawing his sword under an ancient elm." "Why, just think!" exclaimed Walter, "it took him nearly two weeks to travel from Philadelphia to Boston, while now we could do it in less than two days. No wonder it took so long to fight the British and drive them out of our country!" "I think we'd do it in less than half that time now," said Max. "We could move so much faster, besides raising a great deal bigger army; to say nothing of the navy, that I believe has done better in every one of our wars than the land forces. I remember to have read that the army Washington took command of then consisted of only seventeen thousand men, only fourteen thousand five hundred of them fit for duty; that they were without needed supplies of tents or clothing or as much as nine cartridges to a man." "Yes; it's a wonder Washington wasn't completely discouraged," remarked Evelyn. "I think he surely would have been if he had not put his trust in God and the righteousness of our country's cause." "No doubt it was that which strengthened him for the long and arduous struggle," said Mrs. Travilla. "Washington was, as I said a moment since, a man of prayer; he looked to God for help in the hour of his country's sorest need, and surely his prayers were heard and answered." "Yes, Mamma," said Rosie; "I remember reading that he would go into the woods to pray privately for his bleeding country and his suffering soldiers; that some one happened to see him alone there in prayer with the tears coursing down his cheeks. Oh, it's no wonder that with such a leader and in so righteous a cause, our arms were victorious in spite of the fearful odds against us!" "And it was God who gave us such a leader," responded her mother, "and gave him wisdom and courage for his work, and final success in carrying it on to the desired end." "Wasn't he a member of the Continental Congress before his election as commander-in-chief of the armies?" asked Rosie. "Yes," replied her mother. "So was Patrick Henry; and he, when asked whom he considered the greatest man in that body, replied, 'If you speak of eloquence, Mr. Rutledge, of South Carolina, is by far the greatest orator; but if you speak of solid information and sound judgment, Colonel Washington is unquestionably the greatest man on that floor.'" "How long did Washington stay there close to Boston, Papa?" asked Gracie. "He carried on the siege for eight months, then on the 17th of March, 1776, succeeded in driving the British away." "Then did he take possession of the town and stay there awhile?" "He stayed until April, then went to New York, reaching there on the 13th. Soon after he went to Philadelphia to confer with Congress, then back to New York. "While he was there anxiously awaiting an attack from the British, the Declaration of Independence, just passed by Congress, was sent him. The troops were quickly paraded, and the Declaration read at the head of the army. "In the orders of the day Washington said to the troops, 'The General hopes that this important event will serve as a fresh incentive to every officer and soldier to act with fidelity and courage, as knowing that the peace and safety of his country depend, under God, solely on the success of our arms.' "But I cannot tell you now the whole story of Washington's services to his country in the war for independence, to say nothing of all that he did for her afterward." "I think we will read about it after we go home to Woodburn," the Captain said. "Frederick the Great was a great admirer of Washington," remarked Mr. Keith. "He is said to have pronounced Washington's masterly movements on the Delaware the most brilliant achievements recorded in military annals. And Lossing tells us of a portrait of himself which Frederick sent to Washington accompanied by the very gratifying words, 'From the oldest general in Europe to the greatest general in the world.' As for myself, I must say that I think Washington's success, in spite of all the difficulties and discouragements he had to encounter, was something most wonderful, and was given him in answer to prayer, and because he put his trust in God and looked to Him for wisdom and for help." "He was certainly one of the most unselfish of men," remarked Violet. "What other man would have refused with scorn and indignation, as he did, the suggestion that his army would like to make him a king?" "Oh, did they want to make him king, and tell him so?" asked Gracie. "Yes; didn't you know that?" returned Lulu. "Papa, won't you tell about it?" Grace asked, turning to her father. "I will, daughter," he answered in a kindly, affectionate tone, and taking in his the hand she had laid upon his knee. "The battle of Yorktown, which practically secured the independence of our country, was fought in October, 1781, but the treaty of peace was not signed till Jan. 20, 1783; so our armies were not disbanded, and officers and soldiers were sorely tried by their pay being delayed, and feared, not without reason, that they might be disbanded without Congress making proper provision for meeting their just claims. "Some of the officers began to doubt the efficiency of the Government, and of all republican institutions, and talked among themselves as to whether it might not be better to establish a monarchy instead; and at length one of them was deputed to confer with Washington on the subject. "He did so,--it seems in writing,--and even ventured to suggest for him the title of king. "But, as you have just heard, Washington rebuked the writer severely, saying he was at a loss to conceive what part of his conduct could have given encouragement to an address that seemed to him big with the greatest mischiefs that could befall his country; that if he was not deceived in the knowledge of himself, they could not have found a person to whom their schemes were more disagreeable. "He also conjured the writer, if he had any regard for his country, concern for himself or posterity, or respect for him, to banish these thoughts from his mind, and never communicate a sentiment of such a nature from himself or any one else." "Did they give it up then, Papa?" Gracie asked. "Nothing more was ever said about making Washington king," he answered; "but the next December they sent to Congress a memorial on the subject of their pay. A resolution was adopted by that body, but such as did not satisfy the complainants. Then a meeting of officers was arranged for; and anonymous addresses, commonly known as the Newburg addresses, were sent out to rouse the army to resentment. "Washington insisted on attending the meeting, and delivered an impressive address. "He had written down what he wished to say, and after reading the first paragraph paused to put on his spectacles, saying most touchingly, as he did so, that he had grown gray in the service of his country, and now found himself growing blind. "He then went on to read a most noble paper which he had prepared for the occasion. In it he acknowledged the just claims of the army against the Government, and assured them that they would not be disregarded; then he entreated them 'to express their utmost horror and detestation of the man who wishes, under any specious pretences, to overturn the liberties of our country, and who wickedly attempts to open the floodgates of civil discord and deluge our rising empire in blood.' "Then, having finished his address, he retired from the meeting; but resolutions were at once offered by General Knox, seconded by General Putnam and adopted by the meeting, agreeing with all he had said and reciprocating his expressions of esteem and affection. They were relieved of their doubts and fears and restored to their wonted love for their country." "Oh, that was nice, Papa!" exclaimed Gracie, her cheeks flushing and her eyes shining. "How good and great our Washington was! It seems to me we would never have got free from Great Britain if we hadn't had him to help." "Yes: it does seem very doubtful," her father replied. "As Grandma Elsie has said, God seems to have raised up and prepared him for that very work." "And how soon after that was the war really over, Papa?" "The treaty of peace was signed in Paris on the 20th of January, 1783, as I remarked a moment since; but as it took a long while in those days for people and news to cross the ocean, it was not till the 17th of the following April that Washington received the proclamation of Congress for the cessation of hostilities. Then on the 19th--which, as you may remember, was the eighth anniversary of the battle of Lexington, the opening conflict of the war--the cessation was proclaimed at the head of every regiment." "What joyful news it must have been to the poor, weary soldiers!" said Violet. "I trust their hearts were full of gratitude to God, who had prospered the right in spite of the fearful odds against those who were battling for it." "Yes," returned her husband; "and no heart could have been more thankful than that of the commander-in-chief, who said in the general orders, 'The chaplains of the several brigades will render thanks to Almighty God for all His mercies, particularly for His overruling the wrath of man to His own glory, and causing the rage of war to cease among the nations.'" "What a good, good Christian man Washington was, Papa!" exclaimed Gracie. "And yet he had enemies; and there are still some among his own countrymen who are far from appreciating him,--can even speak evil of him. But even our Lord Jesus Christ had enemies and detractors--bitter and implacable foes--among his own countrymen; and 'the servant is not greater than his Lord,'" was the Captain's reply. "Yes, Papa, I remember that Washington had enemies,--Gates for one, and that infamous Conway for another," said Max. "How glad I was to read of the Continental Congress accepting the resignation he offered in a fit of anger, so that he had to leave the army for good, though he didn't want to!" "I think it was for good, Max," remarked Mr. Keith, with a slightly amused smile,--"for the good of the country, though perhaps not for his own. Conway was a man America was well rid of; and the same may be as truly said of Charles Lee. What would have become of our liberties had that infamous cabal succeeded in getting the command taken from Washington and given to any one of themselves!" CHAPTER X. Evelyn Leland was the only one of the party on the "Dolphin" who had never seen Boston; but to all the young people entering the city from the sea was a new experience, and as the vessel neared the harbour they gazed about them with great interest, while the Captain pointed out and named the forts and the islands as they came into view. "Yonder is Boston Light," he said, "two miles east of Fort Warren,--on George's Island, which I will point out presently; it is a revolving light, ninety-two feet above the level of the sea. And yonder is Spit or Bug Light; it is only thirty-five feet high, and stands upon iron pillars fixed in the rock. They show a red fixed light there which can be seen at the distance of seven miles. "Then there is Long Island Light, named from the island on which it stands. The tower is only twenty-two feet above the ground, but eighty feet above the sea. "Yonder," again pointing with his finger, "is Fort Independence (called in Revolutionary times Castle William) just at the entrance of the main channel; and opposite it is Fort Winthrop. And yonder is George's Island with its fortification,--Fort Warren." "And this was the harbour where the Boston Tea-party was held!" remarked Evelyn, in a half-musing tone. "What an exciting time that must have been! I think it was grand in the people to give up the tea they so enjoyed drinking, rather than submit to 'taxation without representation.'" "Which all women possessed of landed property do to this day," returned Rosie, mischievously. Eva laughed. "Oh, well," she said, "you know American women can influence the voters to whom they are related,--their brothers, husbands, and sons." "If they have any, and they happen to be particularly tractable," laughed Rosie. "But how about poor fatherless and brotherless single women? The men may vote as heavy taxes upon their property as they please, while they can't lift a finger to prevent it, or say a word as to what is to be done with the money taken from their purses without their consent." "Why, Rosie, are you turning into a woman's rights woman?" queried Max, laughing. "I don't know, Maxie; those ideas just happened to suggest themselves," she answered. "I'll take time to think it all out one of these days, though; and I'll not promise not to turn into an advocate of women's right to have some say about the taxing of their own property. I see no reason why a man's rights in that direction should be considered superior to a woman's." "No; nor I either," Max said. "And I'm as willing as possible that American women should have all their rights; but I shouldn't like to let ignorant women--foreign or coloured ones--vote." "Yes, that's the trouble," laughed Rosie; "I shouldn't like that either. But I can't see that it's any better to let foreign men who are too ignorant to understand much or anything about our institutions, have a vote. I must say it strikes me as exceedingly insulting to educated, intelligent ladies, who are native Americans, to refuse a vote to _them_, and at the same time give it to _such foreign-born men_, or to male natives who know nothing, can't read or write, and have no property at all." "Coloured men, for instance?" queried Max. "Yes, coloured or white; it's the education I'm concerned about, not the colour. Mamma, do not you agree with me?" "Yes, I do," Mrs. Travilla answered. "I have no desire to vote myself; but I think only native-born citizens, or those who have been twenty-one years in the country, should have a vote, and not even they unless able to read and write, capable of understanding our form of government, and possessed of some little property,--that last in order that they may appreciate more fully the burdens of taxation, and be less ready to make them heavier than need be." "Papa," asked Gracie, "where abouts were the tea ships when the folks went on board and threw the tea into the water?" "They were moored at Griffin's Wharf," he replied; "I can point it out to you directly." "What is it, Papa, Gracie's talking about? A story?" queried little Elsie. "Please, Papa, tell it to us." "I'm afraid you would hardly understand, Papa's darling," the Captain said, stroking the soft, shining, golden curls as he spoke, and smiling down into the bright, eager little face. "I think I should, Papa. Wasn't it something 'bout a tea-party?" she asked coaxingly. "Yes, Papa, please do tell the story; we'd all like to hear it over again now when we're just at the place where it happened," added Gracie. "Well, my darlings, to please you," he said; "also because I want you to be thoroughly grounded in the history of your own country. "You must remember that these States,--or rather the original thirteen, there were only so many at that time,--were then called colonies, and were ruled by England. The English Government claimed the right to tax the colonies just as they pleased. That right the people of the colonies denied. "They were not allowed to send any members to Parliament to help decide who in America should be taxed and how much; so they determined that rather than pay a tax put upon the article without their knowledge and consent, they would do without tea. "Then the English Government tried to force it on them; and these ships came into their harbour loaded with the tea, which they intended to land. "One of those tea-laden ships, called the 'Dartmouth,'--Captain Hall in command,--came to anchor yonder, near the Castle, as it was then called. It was on Sunday the 'Dartmouth' came in; and as you may suppose, the sight of her caused a great excitement in Boston. "Early on Monday morning a placard was posted all over the town. I committed it to memory when a school-boy. It said:-- "'Friends! Brethren! Countrymen! That worst of plagues, the detested tea shipped for this port by the East India Company, is now arrived in the harbor; the Hour of Destruction, or manly opposition to the Machinations of Tyranny, stares you in the face; every Friend to his Country, to himself, and to Posterity, is now called upon to meet at Faneuil Hall, at nine o'clock This Day (at which time the bells will ring), to make united and successful resistance to this last, worst, and most destructive measure of administration.' "That was the handbill; its date was November 29, 1773." "Was that the 'vite to the tea-party?" asked little Elsie. "Not to what proved to be the principal one," he answered. "In response to the call they met that day at Faneuil Hall, but the excitement was so great and brought so many people together that they adjourned to the Old South Meeting-house which was larger. "At that meeting it was resolved that the tea should not be landed, that no duty should be paid on it, and that it should be sent back in the same vessel it had come in; also they notified the owner and the commander of the vessel that to land and enter the tea was at their own peril, ordered the ship to be moored at Griffin's Wharf, and appointed a guard of twenty-five men to watch her. "At the meeting a letter was received from the consignees offering to store the tea till they could hear from England; but the people were determined not to allow it to be landed, so rejected the offer with scorn. "Then the sheriff read a proclamation from the governor ordering them to disperse; but it was received with hisses, and they went on with the business that had called them together. "They passed a resolution ordering the vessels of Captains Coffin and Bruce, which were hourly expected to arrive with their loads of tea, to be moored at Griffin's Wharf." "Did they come, Papa? and did the men watch all the ships that had tea?" asked Elsie, who was listening with a look of interest and intelligence that seemed to say she understood a great deal, if not all her father had been saying. "Yes; and about two weeks afterward another meeting was held in the Old South Church, when it was resolved that Mr. Roch must immediately apply for a clearance for his ship and send her out to sea again. But the governor had already taken measures to prevent him from doing that, ordering Admiral Montague to fit out two armed vessels and station them at the entrance to the harbour, and Colonel Leslie, who was in command of the Castle, not to allow any vessel to pass out under the guns of the fortress, unless she could show a permission signed by himself." "I should think," remarked Max, "that Mr. Roch and Captain Hall must have been quite puzzled to know how to act to suit all parties." "What happened next, Papa?" asked Gracie. "Two days later there was another meeting in the Old South,--the largest meeting that had then ever been known in Boston; for the people were greatly excited. "Several persons made addresses, but Josiah Quincy was the principal speaker. He advised the people to weigh and consider before they took measures that would bring on a trying and terrible struggle such as had never been seen in this country." "Why, Papa," exclaimed Lulu, "I thought Mr. Quincy was one of the patriots!" "So he was, my child; but he wanted the people to look before they leaped. "When he had finished his speech the question was put, 'Will you abide by your former resolutions with respect to not suffering the tea to be landed?'" "And what did they say?" asked Gracie. "That they would; the whole vast assembly speaking as with one voice." "I hope Mr. Roch was there to hear them," said Lulu. "No," said her father. "The governor was at his country-house, a few miles out of Boston, and Mr. Roch had been sent to him to ask a permit for his vessel to leave the harbour. "He returned late in the afternoon, before the meeting at the Old South had broken up, and reported to them that the governor refused a permit until a clearance should be shown him; and the collector refused that until the tea should be landed." "What a fuss about nothing!" exclaimed little Elsie, with a look of disgust. "Oh, no," her father said, stroking her hair as she leaned upon his knee; "some day when my little girl is older and wiser, she will understand that it was very far from being about nothing. "The people were very much excited. It was beginning to grow dark in the old church and somebody called for candles; but just then somebody in the gallery showed himself disguised like a Mohawk Indian, raised the Indian war-whoop, and was answered in the same fashion by some one outside the building,--for the throng a good deal more than filled the church; then another voice in the gallery shouted, 'Boston harbour a teapot to-night! Hurrah for Griffin's Wharf!' "At that there was an instant motion to adjourn, and the people crowded into the streets. "It was a clear, moonlight evening, still quite early, and the British squadron not more than a mile away; British troops were near too, but neither interfered with what was going on. "It is probable that everything had been arranged beforehand; and seeing several persons disguised as Indians going toward Griffin's Wharf, the people hurried thither. Some fifteen or twenty were so disguised, but about sixty boarded the vessels in the first place; and it is said that as many as a hundred and forty were engaged in the work before it was finished. "A man named Lendall Pitts acted as leader; and under his direction the 'Dartmouth' was boarded first, the hatches were taken up, and her cargo of one hundred and fourteen chests of tea brought on deck, where the boxes were broken open and the tea was thrown into the water. "Then the other two vessels were boarded and their cargoes of tea also thrown into the harbour." "And that's what is called the 'Boston Tea Party,'" remarked Max with satisfaction. "I'd wish I'd been there to help, only that I'd rather be here now." "That's just the way I feel about it," said Walter. "You may be thankful, my dear boys, that you live in these days," remarked Grandma Elsie, smiling kindly upon them. "War times are more interesting to tell about, but far harder to live in. Our hearts may well be filled with thankfulness to God for the success of our fathers in securing the blessings of liberty for not themselves only, but for us also. We assuredly have more to be thankful for than any other nation, and ought therefore to be better and more earnest Christians, doing all we possibly can to spread abroad through all the earth the glad news of salvation by Christ, and to help the down-trodden and oppressed to share with us the inestimable blessings of freedom,--life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, as our Declaration of Independence has it." But the "Dolphin" was fast approaching the city, and there was so much to look at and talk about, relating to the present, that for a time the past was well-nigh forgotten, except when the Captain pointed out as nearly as he could, the precise spot where the never-to-be-forgotten "tea party" had been held. When he had done so, Max broke out into a song to the tune of "Yankee Doodle," the other young folks joining in with a will on the chorus. "Once on a time old Johnny Bull flew in a raging fury, And swore that Jonathan should have no trial, sir, by jury; That no elections should be held across the briny waters; And now said he, 'I'll tax the Tea of all his sons and daughters.' Then down he sate in burly state, and blustered like a grandee, And in derision made a tune called 'Yankee Doodle Dandy.' Yankee doodle,--these are facts,--Yankee doodle dandy! My son of wax, your tea I'll tax; you--Yankee doodle dandy! "John sent the tea from o'er the sea, with heavy duties rated; But whether hyson or bohea I never heard it stated. Then Jonathan to pout began,--he laid a strong embargo,-- 'I'll drink no Tea by Jove!' so he threw overboard the cargo. Then Johnny sent a regiment, big words and looks to bandy, Whose martial band, when near the land played 'Yankee Doodle Dandy.' Yankee doodle,--keep it up,--Yankee doodle dandy! I'll poison with a tax your cup; _you_--Yankee doodle dandy! "A long war then they had, in which John was at last defeated; And 'Yankee Doodle' was the march to which his troops retreated. Cute Jonathan, to see them fly, could not restrain his laughter; 'That time,' said he, 'suits to a T. I'll sing it ever after.' Old Johnny's face, to his disgrace, was flushed with beer and brandy, E'en while he swore to sing no more this 'Yankee Doodle Dandy.' Yankee doodle,--ho, ha, he,--Yankee doodle dandy! We kept the tune, but not the tea; Yankee doodle dandy! "I've told you now the origin of this most lively ditty, Which Johnny Bull dislikes as 'dull and stupid'--what a pity! With 'Hail Columbia' it is sung, in chorus full and hearty. On land and main we breathe the strain John made for his 'tea party;' No matter how we rhyme the words, the music speaks them handy, And where's the fair can't sing the air of 'Yankee Doodle Dandy'? Yankee doodle, firm and true,--Yankee doodle dandy! Yankee doodle, doodle do, Yankee doodle dandy!" CHAPTER XI. A few days were spent in Boston, principally in visiting places of historical interest,--Christ Church on Salem Street, where as the Captain told the children, Paul Revere's signal was hung out from the steeple, in the Revolutionary War, by Captain Pulling, a Boston merchant; and the Old South Church, about which they had already heard so much. "In 1775," the Captain said, as the little group stood gazing about it in deep interest, "the British soldiers desecrated this place by using it for cavalry drill, having first torn out the galleries and covered the floor with earth. It is now no longer used as a church, but, as you see, is a historical museum. Now we will go to Faneuil Hall,--'the cradle of liberty.'" They did so; and next visited the Old State House. As the Captain told them, the Boston Massacre occurred in the street before it; and there, during the excitement in regard to the Stamp Act, the stamped clearances were burned by the mob. From the balcony the Declaration of Independence was read. Many town-meetings were held there, and many patriotic speeches made,--among them those of Otis, who foretold probable war, and urged resistance to tyranny "even unto blood" if necessary. "Who was Otis, Papa?" asked Lulu. "A Boston lawyer of that time, a patriot,--as evidenced by even the few words of his I have just quoted. He was advocate-general with a good salary at the time when the revenue officers in Boston took out search-warrants to look for smuggled goods, and called upon him to defend their cause; but he at once resigned his office and took the other side,--that of the merchants of Boston, who were protesting against the writs. They offered him a large fee, but he refused it, saying, 'In such a cause I despise all fees.'" "That case was tried in this old State House; and Otis made a grand speech of such length that it took him five hours to deliver it." "What was it all about, Papa?" asked Gracie. "It was on the question whether Americans were bound to obey laws which they had no share in making, and all the arguments in the wonderful speech answered doggedly, 'No.' "John Adams, who heard the speech, afterward said that on that day 'the child Independence was born;' and no doubt the argument assisted the popular leaders very much in furnishing them with weapons for their work." "Weapons, Papa?" Grace asked with a puzzled look. "Yes, daughter; arguments with which to show the people what the English Government was doing to take away our liberties. "Otis afterward, when Governor Bernard called upon the General Assembly of Massachusetts to rescind the resolution it had passed against the right of the English Parliament to tax the colonies without their consent,--which they boldly disregarded,--made a powerful speech in which he said, 'When Lord Hillsborough knows that we will not rescind _our_ acts, he should apply to Parliament to rescind _theirs_. _Let Britons rescind their measures, or they are lost forever!_' He went on speaking in that way for nearly an hour, till even the Sons of Liberty began to tremble lest he should go too far, and be charged with treason." "And did he fight for the country, Papa?" asked Gracie. "No, poor fellow!" replied the Captain, with a slight sigh; "before the war had fairly begun he became insane from injuries inflicted by one Robinson, a commissioner of customs, who, with several army or navy officers set upon, beat, and otherwise injured him, inflicting a sword-cut on his head from which he never recovered." "And he didn't have the pleasure of seeing his country free and separated from England?" Lulu said, half inquiringly. "No; he was killed by a stroke of lightning in 1778, which you will remember was several years before the war was over." Our little party next visited Lexington and Concord. "How far must we travel to get there, Papa?" queried Gracie, as they took their seats in the car. "Only a few miles to Lexington, and a little farther to reach Concord," he answered. "That won't seem very far by rail," remarked Max; "but it must have seemed quite a distance to the soldiers who marched there in Revolutionary times." "I find we are early," the Captain said, looking at his watch; "and as we have the car nearly to ourselves, it may be well for us to talk over what occurred in 1775 at the places we are about to visit. I think it will make the visit more interesting to you." "Oh, do tell us the whole story, Papa," requested Gracie, with a look of pleased anticipation. The others all joined in her petition, and the Captain good-naturedly complied. "Matters had been growing worse and worse between the British Government and the colonies," he said, "till a struggle seemed almost inevitable. General Gage discovered that the patriots were privately conveying arms out of Boston, that some brass cannon and field-pieces were at Salem; and on a Sunday in February, 1775, he sent some troops to seize them. "An express from Marblehead arrived at Salem while the people were in church, with the news that British troops were landing from a transport at that place, and were about to march to Salem. "The congregations were at once dismissed, and, led by Colonel Pickering, stopped the British at a drawbridge. Pickering succeeded in effecting a compromise, and the troops marched back again to Marblehead without having done the errand upon which they had been sent. "Let me see," continued the Captain, meditatively; "I think I can recall some lines by Trumbull, referring to that incident:-- "'Through Salem straight, without delay, The bold battalion took its way: Marched o'er a bridge, in open sight Of several Yankees arm'd for fight; Then, without loss of time or men, Veer'd round for Boston back again, And found so well their prospects thrive, That every soul got back alive.' "It was some two months after this that the battles of Lexington and Concord took place. On April 18, the patriots learned that the next day British troops were to visit Concord for the purpose of destroying some military stores there, and passing through Lexington seize the persons of John Hancock and Samuel Adams, who were both in that town at the house of the Rev. Jonas Clark. "Gage had tried to keep all this a profound secret, but somehow the patriots had learned what he was attempting, and were making their preparations accordingly. Warren and his friends had gone, Paul Revere and William Dawes had just rowed across the river to Charlestown, taking a message from Warren to Adams and Hancock. They were very near being captured by the guard at Charlestown, but escaped, and reached Lexington a little after midnight. "They went at once to Mr. Clark's house, but found a guard of eight minute-men placed about it to protect Adams and Hancock. "These refused to let Revere and Dawes into the house, as orders had been given not to allow the inmates to be disturbed by noise. "'Noise!' exclaimed Revere, 'you'll have noise enough before long; the regulars are coming!' "They were quickly admitted then, roused Hancock and Adams, and knowing how unlikely to escape being taken prisoners they were, should they remain in Lexington, persuaded them to retire to Woburn. "Then Revere and Dawes pushed on to Concord to give the alarm there. "By two o'clock in the morning a hundred and thirty of the Lexington militia were collected at the meeting-house upon the green. The roll was called; then, as the early morning air was very chilly, they were dismissed with orders to remain within drum-beat." "Papa, the British marched very quietly, didn't they?" asked Max. "Yes, in perfect silence; hoping and believing that none of the Americans were aware of their movements." "Ha, ha, how mistaken they were!" laughed Max. "Yes," his father said, "there were vigilant eyes upon them. As they passed through West Cambridge they were seen by Lee, Gerry, and Orne,--members of the Provincial Congress,--and as I have told you, others learned the secret also. "As the British neared Lexington their ears were greeted by the sound of bells and guns, warning them that their expedition was known." "I s'pose they didn't like that," observed Gracie, "but what did they do about it, Papa?" "Colonel Smith dispatched six companies of troops under Major Pitcairn, with orders to press on to Concord and secure the two bridges. He also sent a messenger to Boston for reinforcements. "Pitcairn hastened on toward Lexington, capturing several persons on his way. One of them--a man named Bowman--escaped, hurried into Lexington on horseback, and notified Captain Parker, commander of the minute-men, that the enemy was approaching." "And did they make a great fuss and wake up all the people, Papa?" asked Gracie. "They rang the bells, fired guns, and beat the drum, so that doubtless everybody was soon aroused. "It was between four and five in the morning. About one hundred of the militia were quickly collected on the green; but being raw troops, and uncertain how large a force was coming against them, they were in some confusion. "And indeed it was an overwhelming force they presently saw marching toward them, their scarlet uniforms gleaming out through the early morning mist. "The British halted within a few rods of the meeting-house and loaded their pieces. But the Americans stood firm and undismayed. "Their orders were not to pull a trigger till fired upon by the enemy, and for a moment there was silence and hesitation on both sides; neither Americans nor British seemed willing to become the aggressors. "But it was only for a moment; Pitcairn and other officers galloped forward, waving their swords over their heads, and followed by their troops in double-quick time. "'Disperse you villains!' they shouted, 'lay down your arms and disperse. Why don't you disperse, you rebels? Disperse!' And as the patriots did not instantly obey the command, Pitcairn wheeled his horse, waved his sword, and gave orders to press forward and surround the militia. "At that instant some random shots were fired by the British, and promptly returned by the Americans." "Oh, Papa, was anybody killed?" asked Gracie. "Not by those shots," replied her father; "but the next minute Pitcairn drew a pistol and discharged it, at the same time shouting 'Fire!' "His troops instantly obeyed that order. Four of the patriots were killed, and the rest dispersed. They were fired upon again while retreating, and several of them halted and returned the shots, then concealed themselves behind buildings and stone walls. "Eight Americans were killed, three British soldiers and Major Pitcairn's horse were wounded." "I thought you said only four Americans were shot, Papa," said Gracie, looking up inquiringly into his face. "Four by the first discharge of musketry, and as many more while trying to escape over the fences," he answered. "Did the British care for having killed those poor men?" she asked, tears of sympathy shining in her eyes. "If so they gave no evidence of it," her father replied. "They hurried on to Concord in high spirits. But the news of their approach had been communicated, and a formidable body of militia was waiting to receive them." "Oh, yes!" said Rosie, "I remember that Dawes and Revere had hurried on to warn them after doing the Lexington people the same service." "Yes," the Captain said, "but on the way they were taken prisoners by some British officers. They had stopped to tell the news to Dr. Samuel Prescott, who escaped over a wall, they being captured. Prescott made his way to Concord, reaching there about two o'clock in the morning, and gave the alarm. Then the bells were rung, and the people armed themselves, so that before daylight they were ready to receive the British." "They knew what the British were after, and made haste to conceal the stores of powder, shot, and so forth,--didn't they, Papa?" asked Max. "Yes; the whole male population and some of the women assisted in that work, and succeeded in concealing them in a safe place in the woods before the arrival of the British." "That was good," remarked Gracie. "And didn't the British get anything at all, Papa?" "Yes, a little. They knocked off the trunnions of three iron twenty-four-pound cannon, cut down a liberty-pole, set the Court House on fire, and burned a few barrels of wooden trenchers and spoons, and sixteen new carriage-wheels. Also they threw five hundred pounds of balls into a mill-pond, and broke open about sixty barrels of flour; but the people succeeded in saving a good deal of that, and Mrs. Moulton put out the fire in the Court House before much damage was done." "But was there no fighting, Papa?" Gracie asked. "There was fighting," the Captain answered. "While the British were at the mischief I have been telling you of, the American party was rapidly increasing by the coming in of minute-men from the neighbouring towns. They formed into line as fast as they came. There were nearly four hundred of them. "From the place where they were forming they could see the fire the British had started in the centre of the town, and of course the sight greatly increased their excitement. "Joseph Hosmer, the adjutant, made a stirring appeal, after a brief consultation with prominent citizens and members of the Committee of Safety, who were present, and ready to take part in repelling the British. "It was agreed to dislodge them from the North Bridge. Captain Davis saying, 'I haven't a man that's afraid to go.' "They wheeled into marching order, and joined by other companies, pushed forward to the bridge, under the command of Major John Buttrick, of Concord. "The British guard were on the west side of the river, but crossed to the east on seeing the Americans approaching, and began taking up the planks of the bridge. "Major Buttrick called to them to stop, and urged his men on to try to save the bridge. "The British formed for action as the Americans drew near, and some of the regulars fired, killing Captain Davis, Abner Hosmer, and wounding another man. "Then Buttrick shouted, 'Fire fellow soldiers! for God's sake fire!' and instantly they gave the British a full volley. "In a few minutes the British retreated, and the Americans took possession of the bridge. "Their volley had killed three British soldiers, two of whom were left on the ground. The Americans afterward buried them, and we shall find their graves only a few feet from the monument." But other passengers had entered the car, and the train was now in motion. "There, that must do for the present," the Captain said; "the story will have to be finished after we leave the train." Their first halt was at Lexington where they viewed with much interest the ground where the skirmish took place, the monument commemorating the devotion of those who fell, and everything to be found that had any connection with the events which have made the place famous in the annals of our country. Evelyn Leland gazed long at the inscription on the monument, then read aloud,-- "Sacred to the Liberty and the Rights of Mankind!!! The Freedom and Independence of America--sealed and defended with the blood of her sons--This Monument is erected by the Inhabitants of Lexington ... to the memory of their fellow citizens ... the first victims of the sword of British Tyranny and Oppression, on the morning of the ever-memorable nineteenth of April, A. D. 1775. The Die was Cast!!! The blood of these Martyrs in the Cause of God and their Country was the Cement of the Union of these States, then Colonies, and gave the Spring to the Spirit, Firmness and Resolution of their Fellow citizens. They rose as one man to revenge their Brethren's blood and at the point of the sword to assert and defend their native Rights. They nobly dared to be Free!!! The contest was long, bloody and affecting. Righteous Heaven approved the Solemn Appeal; Victory crowned their Arms, and the Peace, Liberty and Independence of the United States of America was their glorious Reward. Built in the year 1799." "You didn't read it all, Eva," said Walter; "you skipped the names." "Yes," she said, "because I didn't want to take time to read it all; though I'd be ever so unwilling to rob the poor, dear, brave fellows of any of the credit that belongs to them." CHAPTER XII. From Lexington our little party went on at once to Concord. There they saw the monument, and near it the graves of the two British soldiers of whom the Captain had spoken as having fallen in the fight. "The British entered Concord in two divisions," he said; "one by the main road, the other passing over the hill north of it. Captain Beeman, of Petersham, and other Tories had given them information in regard to the stores secreted in Concord, and Captain Parsons with six companies was sent to destroy them." "Sent where, Papa?" asked Lulu. "To the house of Colonel Barrett," replied her father. "Captain Lawrie, with three companies was stationed at the North Bridge, just here. The monument stands upon the very spot where the British stood, and on yon plain across the river is where the American militia were when the fire of the British killed Hosmer and Davis. "Colonel Smith, in the village, heard the firing, and sent a reinforcement to Lawrie's help; but seeing that the militia were increasing in numbers, they turned about and joined in the retreat. Then the party under Captain Parsons, who, you will remember, had gone to Colonel Barrett's to destroy the secreted stores, returned, and were allowed by the militia to pass the bridge unmolested." "Why didn't they attack them, Captain?" asked Eva, "weren't they strong enough?" "Yes; but war had not yet been declared, and the colonists had been enjoined to act only on the defensive and let Great Britain be the aggressor. "Besides, the militia at Concord had not yet heard of the slaughter of their brethren at Lexington. They themselves had just killed three British soldiers, to be sure, but it was purely in self-defence." "The British started back to Boston pretty soon after that, didn't they, Papa?" asked Lulu. "Yes; Colonel Smith thought it prudent, seeing how rapidly the militia were gathering, to return at once, and a little after twelve o'clock began his retreat toward Lexington, covering his main column by strong flanking guards. "As you may suppose, the people had become intensely excited by this time, and I dare say very many were burning to avenge the slaughter of their comrades. They no longer adhered to the cautious counsels given them at Concord, and secreting themselves behind barns and fences, fired upon the British troops as they passed. All along the line of march to Lexington the British were terribly galled in this way. Guns were fired with sure aim from every house, barn, and stone wall. As we noticed in coming here the road between this town and Lexington passes through a hilly country, as well calculated as possible for such work. At almost every wooded defile numbers of the British were picked off by concealed marksmen, and at Hardy's Hill there was a severe skirmish. "There was no longer any military order among the Americans, but each man fought as he deemed best. Some of them were killed by the British flankers coming suddenly upon them in their places of concealment, but their numbers were comparatively small. "Several of the British were shot near the battle-ground of the morning at Lexington, and Colonel Smith was badly wounded in the leg at Fiske's Hill, near the town." "So they didn't have a very good time on their march back to Boston," remarked Max. "No, very far from it," replied his father. "You will remember they had been marching the night before, marching and fighting pretty much all that day, and attacked every now and then by a concealed foe, who shot down one after another; they became at last so fatigued that they must have surrendered to the Americans if reinforcements had not reached them. "I have said a request for help had been sent to General Gage from Lexington early in the morning, and he had responded with about nine hundred men under Lord Percy,--three regiments of infantry and two divisions of marines. These left Boston about nine o'clock in the morning and marched toward Lexington. "As they passed through Roxbury they played 'Yankee Doodle' in derision, having before used it as a Rogue's March." "Papa," Gracie asked, "did the Roxbury people know about the fight at Lexington and Concord?" "They had heard vague rumours of a fight at Lexington, and the marching in that direction of these Boston troops confirmed their worst fears." "What an excitement the marching of those British troops must have caused all along the way as they went!" exclaimed Eva. "Yes," replied Captain Raymond, "one of their officers said, 'they [the Americans] seemed to drop from the clouds.'" "Percy's brigade met them about half a mile from Lexington. He formed a hollow square, and for its defence, planted a cannon on high ground near Monroe's tavern, and received into his enclosure the wearied troops of Smith. Some of them were so heated and worn out that they lay exhausted and panting upon the ground, their tongues hanging out of their mouths, as a dog's does when he is tired and overheated. "But Percy did not dare allow them to rest long, for the militia had gathered from all quarters, and the woods were swarming with minute-men. They were given a little refreshment, a brief rest, then hurried on their way, committing as they went deeds of ruffianism of which they had reason to be heartily ashamed; property was destroyed, houses were plundered, and several innocent persons were murdered. "Of course the Americans were filled with indignation as well as grief for the sufferings of friends and neighbours, some of them their near kindred." "Yes; oh, it was just dreadful, Papa!" exclaimed Gracie, her eyes filling with tears. "I think the British of those days were very, very cruel." "Very true," replied her father; "there were very many deeds of blood and violence, for which there was no excuse, committed by them during that war. Rawdon, Tarleton, and even Cornwallis showed themselves men of savage cruelty." "Yes," exclaimed Rosie, "I perfectly detest and abhor that brutal Tarleton! No Indian was ever more heartless and cruel than he!" "I think that is true," the Captain said. "He treated American prisoners so unfortunate as to fall into his hands, with most inhuman cruelty; also he was so vain, conceited, and untruthful that in a 'History of the Campaigns of 1780 and 1781 in the Southern Provinces of North America,' which he wrote after his return to England, he distorts events for his self-glorification to such a degree as has seldom been paralleled. Yes, take him all together he was, I think, one of the most despicable characters of the Revolution." "I have always been so glad over his defeat by Morgan at the battle of the Cowpens," said Eva, "and have always admired the reminders of it given him by some of the Southern ladies, particularly of the wound on his hand that Colonel Washington gave him in chasing him from that battle-field." "Yes, I remember," said Rosie. "The ladies were great admirers of Colonel Washington, talked a great deal about him, and at least two or three times gave that vain, boastful, cruel Tarleton a rub about that wound." "Yes," said the Captain, "those sallies of wit were expended on him by two sisters,--daughters of Colonel Montfort, of Halifax County, North Carolina. When Cornwallis was there on his way to Virginia, Colonel Washington was the subject of conversation one evening; and Tarleton, nettled doubtless by the admiration freely expressed by the ladies, began talking against him, saying that he was an illiterate fellow, hardly able to write his own name. "The remark was made in the presence of Mrs. Willie Jones, one of the sisters I have spoken of, and she replied, 'Ah, Colonel, you ought to know better, for you bear on your person proof that he knows very well _how to make his mark_.'" "I shouldn't have liked to be in his place," remarked Max. "I dare say he felt like shooting Mrs. Jones for her compliment." "That is not at all unlikely," said his father. "It is said that when her sister, Mrs. Ashe, twitted him in like manner, he showed his temper plainly. He had been talking again, sarcastically of Colonel Washington, in her presence, and finally said with a sneer, 'I would be happy to see Colonel Washington.' To which she instantly replied, 'If you had looked behind you, Colonel Tarleton, at the battle of the Cowpens, you would have enjoyed that pleasure.'" "That was just good for him!" exclaimed Lulu. "I wonder what he said to it,--if he answered her at all." "He was very angry (for no doubt the words stung him) and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword, while he regarded her with a frown," replied the Captain. "But General Leslie, his superior officer said, 'Say what you please, Mrs. Ashe; Colonel Tarleton knows better than to insult a lady in my presence.'" "Did Tarleton ever insult a lady, Papa?" asked Gracie. "I have read that he once insulted an American woman,--one who was large and strong,--and that she knocked him down upon the floor, seized him by the throat, and choked him till he was black in the face; she probably would have killed him if some one had not come to his assistance and pulled her off." "Surely he must have been proud of _that_ encounter," laughed Max. CHAPTER XIII. There were several more souvenirs of the Revolution shown the young people by Captain Raymond that morning,--among them Boston's "Liberty Tree," or rather the sculptured representation of it set within a niche on the front of a house, and exactly over the spot on which the tree stood before its destruction by the British during the siege of Boston. "It was under that tree the association calling themselves 'Sons of Liberty' used to hold their meetings," he said. "They met there in the summer of 1765 when there was a great excitement over the passage of the Stamp Act by the British Parliament, and continued to do so until the destruction of the tree by the British during the siege of Boston, 1775. It was called 'Liberty Tree' and the ground under it 'Liberty Hall.' "A newspaper of that time, the 'Essex Gazette,' of Aug. 31st, 1775, describes the destruction of the tree. It says, 'They made a furious attack upon it and after a long spell of laughing, grinning, sweating and foaming with malice diabolical they cut down the tree because it bore the name of Liberty. A soldier was killed by falling from one of its branches during the operation.'" It was dinner time when our party reached the hotel, where they had left Grandma Elsie and Violet with the little ones and their maids. The ladies had not cared to join in the morning's excursion as they wanted to do a little shopping, and had already seen Concord, Lexington, and the places of historical interest in the city itself. But Bunker Hill was to be visited that afternoon, and from that little trip neither lady asked to be excused. They all went together, starting directly after leaving the table. Every one greatly enjoyed the view from the top of the monument: it was like a vast painting, showing them the city of Boston with its harbour, where could be seen vessels from almost every part of the world, and the many towns and villages in its vicinity, each with its own story of its struggles for liberty in "the days that tried men's souls." Far in the northwest the higher peaks of New Hampshire's White Mountains were visible: on the northeast they could discern the peninsula of Nahant, while still farther in the distance was Cape Ann. The Captain gave them a brief account of the erection of the monument. "It was not till 1824 that a movement was made to that end," he said. "General La Fayette was at the time the nation's guest, and was invited to lay the corner-stone, which he did on the 17th of June, 1825, the fiftieth anniversary of the battle. "The Hon. Daniel Webster made an oration on the subject to an immense crowd which had gathered for the occasion. There were forty of the survivors of the battle present, and probably La Fayette met more of his fellow-soldiers of that war then than at any other time or place." "Was it finished in that year, Papa?" asked Lulu. "No, indeed, my child; not for seventeen years. The last stone was raised about six o'clock on the morning of the 23d of July, 1842, and with it--waving the American Flag as he went up--was Mr. Edward Carnes, Jr., of Charlestown, the roar of cannon at the same time announcing the event to the surrounding country." "But that wasn't the anniversary of the battle?" remarked Rosie, in a tone of inquiry. "No," the Captain said; "but on the next anniversary,--June 17th, 1843,--the monument was dedicated. Daniel Webster was the orator on that occasion also, addressing a vast audience composed of citizens and soldiers." "Oh, how I would have liked to hear his speech, if only he could have waited till I was in this world and old enough to understand what he was talking about!" exclaimed Rosie. A remark which called forth a good-humoured laugh from her hearers. "Now, Papa, the next thing is to tell us about the battle of Bunker Hill,--isn't it?" Lulu said with a bright, coaxing look up into his face. "I suppose so," he replied, with an indulgent smile. "But first let us look at these cannon,--the 'Hancock' and the 'Adams;' you will readily understand for whom they were named. They belonged formerly to the Ancient and Honourable Artillery Company. This one--the 'Adams'--you see is not sound; it was burst in firing a salute. You also see that they bear an inscription, which I shall read aloud for the benefit of the company:-- "Sacred to Liberty. This is one of four cannons which constituted the whole train of field-artillery possessed by the British colonies of North America at the commencement of the war, on the nineteenth of April, 1775. This cannon and its fellow, belonging to a number of citizens of Boston, were used in many engagements during the war. The other two, the property of the government of Massachusetts, were taken by the enemy. By order of the United States in Congress assembled, May nineteenth, 1788." "What strong faith in God and the righteousness of their cause they must have had, to begin a war with Great Britain with only four cannon in their possession!" remarked Grandma Elsie. "Yes," responded the Captain; "and it was by His good help that they conquered in spite of the seemingly insurmountable obstacles in their way. It was a fearful struggle, but with God and the armies of heaven on their side they could not fail. "The events of that ever-memorable 19th of April were speedily heralded over the whole land, from the scenes of their occurrence down to South Carolina and Georgia, west to the first settlers of Kentucky, and north to Montreal and Quebec. "It electrified its hearers, and with one impulse they of the colonies--soon to become States--sprang to arms. As Bancroft says, 'With one spirit they pledged themselves to each other to be ready for the extreme event.' With one heart the continent cried, 'Liberty or death!' "The Massachusetts Committee of Safety sent a circular to the several towns of that State, conjuring them to encourage enlistments by every means in their power, and send the troops forward to headquarters at Cambridge with the expedition that the urgency and importance of the affair demanded. But the people had not waited for the call. "Hearing of the slaughter of their brethren, men snatched their firelocks from the walls and rushed to the camp, often with scarcely any preparation, some of them with almost no provision, no money in their pockets, and only the clothes on their backs. They were hastening to the defence of their country and their endangered brethren. "So Boston was besieged; Prescott of Pepperell and his Middlesex minute-men kept watch over the entrance to that city. Gage was forced to fortify the town at all points, while the Americans talked of driving him and his troops into the sea. "New Hampshire sent men under the command of John Stark, a noble fellow well known as brave, fearless, and worthy of all confidence. "Israel Putnam was another, who, hearing the cry from Lexington, which reached him on the morning after the battle, while he was helping his hired men to build a stone wall on his farm, hurried thither without waiting to so much as change the check shirt he was wearing in the field; though first he roused the militia officers of the nearest towns. "He reached Cambridge by sunrise the next morning, having ridden the same horse a hundred miles in eighteen hours. He was full of courage and love for his country, and hundreds had already chosen him for their leader. "Benedict Arnold was still another who made haste to Boston to assist in the siege. By the 21st of April it was estimated that twenty thousand men were collected about that city. "The battle of Bunker Hill, you will recollect, was not fought till the 17th of June. During all the intervening time the Americans had kept the British officers and their troops besieged in Boston, and they were beginning to be much ashamed of their confinement. "The Americans had decided to throw up a breast-work across the road near Prospect Hill, and to fortify Bunker Hill as soon as a supply of powder and artillery could be obtained; but learning that Gage had planned to extend his lines north and south over Dorchester and Charlestown, and had fixed upon the eighteenth of June for so doing, they decided to anticipate his movement, and on the fifteenth of that month the Massachusetts Committee of Safety informed the Council of War that, in their opinion, Dorchester Heights should be fortified; and they recommended unanimously the establishing of a post on Bunker Hill. "The choice of an officer to conduct the enterprise fell upon William Prescott, who was colonel of a regiment; and the next evening a brigade of a thousand men was put under his command. "Soon after sunset they paraded on Cambridge Common. They were not in uniform as American troops would be in these days, nor had they such arms; for the most part they had fowling-pieces,--no bayonets to them,--and only a small supply of powder and bullets, which they carried in horns and pouches. "Four days previously a proclamation had been issued threatening all persons in arms against their sovereign with death under martial law, by the cord as rebels and traitors. That menace these men were the first to defy; and he, Prescott, was resolved 'never to be taken alive.' "Langdon, the president of Harvard College, prayed fervently with them. Then as it began to grow dark on that summer night, they marched silently and without noise across the narrow isthmus, taking with them their wagons with intrenching tools; and Prescott, calling around him his officers and Richard Gridley, an experienced engineer, consulted with them as to the spot on which they should erect their earthworks. "Bunker Hill had been proposed by the committee, but Prescott had received orders to march to Breed's Hill, and obeyed them. It was nearer Boston, and he and his companions thought it better suited than the other for annoying the British in the town and the shipping in the harbour. "So the engineer drew there, by the light of the stars, the lines of a redoubt nearly eight rods square. The bells of Boston had struck twelve before they began their work by turning the first sod, but every man of the thousand plied the pickaxe and spade in turn, and so rapidly that the parapet soon assumed form and height sufficient for defence, and Prescott said to himself, 'We shall keep our ground if some screen, however slight, can be completed before discovery.' "He set a watch to patrol the shore, and twice went down to the margin of the water, on which three British vessels lay at anchor,--the 'Lively' in the ferry between Boston and Charlestown, and a little to the eastward of her the 'Falcon,' sloop-of-war, and the 'Somerset,' a ship-of-the-line,--and listening intently he could hear the drowsy cry of the sentinels on their decks, 'All is well.'" Captain Raymond paused and looked at his watch. "It is time we were going," he said. "I will just point out to you all the localities made interesting by the events of that day, and finish my story on board the 'Dolphin,' to which we are just about to return. We may be in the way of other visitors here, but there will be quite to ourselves, and an annoyance to no one." They went back to their hotel, where the Captain left them for a little, saying he had some purchases to make for use on the voyage, but would return shortly to see them on board the yacht. He was not gone very long, and on his return the entire party--with the exception of Donald Keith who had bidden them farewell early that morning--returned with him to the "Dolphin," which presently sailed out of the harbour and pursued her way up along the New England coast. CHAPTER XIV. The evening proved a rainy one and cool for the season; but the "Dolphin's" cabin was found an agreeable resort. All gathered there, and at once there was an urgent request from the young people that the interrupted story of the battle of Bunker Hill might be resumed. "You know, Papa, we left off just where Prescott's men were digging and making a redoubt," said Lulu. "The night before the battle, wasn't it?" "Yes," he replied. "The British were greatly astonished when daylight revealed the work that had been going on during the hours of darkness; for it was done so quietly that their suspicions had not been aroused. "No shout disturbed the night Before that fearful fight; There was no boasting high, No marshalling of men Who ne'er might meet again; No cup was filled and quaffed to victory! No plumes were there, No banners fair, No trumpets breathed around; Nor the drum's startling sound Broke on the midnight air." "What nice verses, Papa!" said Gracie. "Did you make them yourself?" "No, daughter," he replied, "it was merely a quotation from John Neal, one of our own American poets. "But to go on with my story. As soon as the British discovered the redoubt our men had constructed on Breed's Hill, the captain of the 'Lively' put springs on his cables and opened a fire upon it without waiting for orders. "The noise of the cannon aroused the sleeping people of Boston, and by the time the sun was up every eminence and roof in the city swarmed with them, all gazing with astonished eyes upon the strange apparition on Breed's Hill. The 'Lively's' shots did no harm, and the Americans went on as before with their work. They were behind their intrenchments busied in strengthening them, and toiled on till pick and shovel had to be laid aside for guns to defend them with. "The firing presently ceased for a little, by order of Admiral Graves, the British naval commander-in-chief, but was soon resumed by the shipping, while a battery of six guns on Copp's Hill in the city joined in with them. "Early that morning the British general, Gage, called a council of war, and it was decided to drive the Americans out of their works, and that the attack should be made in front. "Boston was full of excitement, drums were beating, dragoons galloping about the streets, regulars and royalists marching and counter-marching, artillery trains rumbling and church-bells ringing." "Ah, how the hearts of wives and mothers, brothers and sisters, must have been torn at thought of the terrible struggle just at hand!" sighed Grandma Elsie, as the Captain paused for a moment in his narrative. "Yes," he replied, "then and still more when from the roofs, steeples, and every sort of elevation, they watched with streaming eyes the progress of the fight after it had actually begun." "Oh," exclaimed Gracie, "how glad and thankful I am that God let us live in these later days when there is no war in our dear country! "Yes, dear child, we should thank God for peace," her father responded, softly smoothing her hair and pressing his lips to her cheek for an instant as she stood by his side, her head resting lovingly on his shoulder. "The Americans worked faithfully on their intrenchments all the morning," he continued, "Prescott doing all he could to encourage them by his voice and example, even walking leisurely around upon the parapet in full view of the British officers who were still in Boston. "It is said that Gage was looking at the American works through a field-glass, and saw Prescott, who was a tall man of commanding appearance, going his rounds, and that he inquired of Counsellor Willard, a brother-in-law of Prescott, who was standing near, who it was. "'That is Colonel Prescott,' was the reply. "'Will he fight?' asked Gage. "'Yes, sir,' answered Willard, 'he is an old soldier, and will fight as long as a drop of blood remains in his veins.' "'The works must be carried immediately,' was Gage's rejoinder, and he at once proceeded to give the order for the attack. "He sent between two and three thousand picked men under the command of Generals Howe and Pigot. They crossed the water in twenty-eight barges, and landed at Morton's Point beyond the eastern foot of Breed's Hill, covered by the guns of the 'Falcon' and other vessels. There they waited for reinforcements, which were sent Howe about two o'clock. "While the troops of Howe and Pigot were waiting, they dined; but the poor Americans behind their intrenchments, at which they had been working all the morning as well as from twelve o'clock of the previous night, had little or nothing to eat or drink, and were suffering with hunger, thirst, and the extreme heat of the weather as well as fatigue, for the day was one of the hottest of the season. "Besides, the reinforcements sent to their assistance were so few and feeble that a dreadful suspicion arose in their minds that they were the victims of treachery. "Still they could not doubt the patriotism of their principal officers; and before the battle began, the arrival of their beloved Dr. Warren and General Pomeroy entirely relieved their doubts. "Dr. Warren was suffering from sickness and exhaustion; and Putnam, who was at Cambridge forwarding reinforcements and provisions to Charlestown, tried to persuade him not to take part in the coming fight. But his heart was in the cause, and he was not to be induced to give up doing all he could to help in the approaching struggle for freedom. "He mounted a horse, sped across the neck, and just as Howe gave orders to advance, entered the redoubt amid the loud cheers of the men who so loved and trusted him." "Such a lovely man, and ardent patriot as he was!" exclaimed Violet. "Oh, it makes my heart ache to think that he was killed in that battle." "It was a very great loss to the American cause," responded her husband, taking a book from a table near at hand as he spoke. "This," he said, "is Bancroft's History, which I bought this afternoon that I might have his help in going over the story of the battle of Bunker Hill and other interesting events of the Revolution. This is what he says of Joseph Warren:-- "In him were combined swiftness of thought and resolve, courage, endurance, and manners which won universal love. He opposed the British government not from interested motives nor from resentment. Guileless and intrepid, he was in truth a patriot. As the moment for the appeal to arms approached, he watched with joy the revival of the generous spirit of New England's ancestors; and wherever the peril was greatest he was present animating not by words alone, but ever by his example. "His integrity, the soundness of his judgment, his ability to write readily and well, his fervid eloquence, his exact acquaintance with American rights and the infringements of them, gave authority to his advice in private and in the provincial congress. Had he lived, the future seemed burdened with his honors; he cheerfully sacrificed all for the freedom of his country and the rights of man." "He left some children, if I remember right?" remarked Violet in a tone of inquiry, as her husband paused in his reading. "Yes, four of them," answered the Captain; "and his wife having died about two years before, they were now left orphans, in straitened circumstances. "And that reminds me of a good deed done by Gen. Benedict Arnold. He was a warm friend of Warren, and for that reason came to their relief, himself contributing five hundred dollars for their education, and obtaining from Congress the amount of a major-general's half pay, to be applied to their support from the time of their father's death until the youngest child should be of age. "But to go on with the account of the battle. Warren had been entreated not thus to expose his life. His answer was, 'It is sweet and becoming to die for one's country.' He saw all the difficulties in the way of his countrymen, and desired to give all the help in his power. "Putnam expressed himself as ready to receive his orders; but Warren declined to take the command from him, and passed on to the redoubt which seemed likely to be the chief point of attack by the enemy. "Prescott there offered the command to him, as Putnam had just done; but Warren again declined, saying, 'I come as a volunteer, to learn from a soldier of experience.' This though three days before he had been elected a provincial major-general. "After the British had landed and before the battle began, Col. John Stark arrived with his New Hampshire troops. Except Prescott he brought the largest number into the field. He was a very brave man, and so cool and collected that he marched leisurely across the isthmus, raked by the cannon of the enemy; and when one of his captains advised a quickstep, he replied, 'One fresh man in action is worth ten fatigued ones.' "There was not time for him to consult with Prescott. They fought independently,--Prescott at his redoubt, Stark and Knowlton, and Reed's regiment to protect its flank. "Months before that,--two days after the battle of Concord,--Gage had threatened to burn Charlestown in case the Americans should occupy the heights. So an order was now given to set it on fire, and it was done by shells from Copp's Hill; the houses being mostly of wood, two hundred of them were soon in flames. "The British thought to be protected in their advance by the smoke of the burning houses, but a gentle breeze, the first that had been felt that day, arose and wafted it aside, so that they were not hidden from the eyes of the Americans. "It was somewhere between two and three o'clock when the British began their approach. They were in two columns, one led by Howe, the other by Pigot, Howe no doubt expecting to get into Prescott's rear and force him to a surrender. But I will give another extract from Bancroft. "As they began to march, the battery on Copp's Hill, from which Clinton and Burgoyne were watching every movement, kept up an incessant fire, which was seconded by the 'Falcon' and the 'Lively,' the 'Somerset' and the two floating batteries; the town of Charlestown, consisting of five hundred edifices of wood, burst into a blaze; and the steeple of its only church became a pyramid of fire. All the while the masts of the British shipping and the heights of the British camp, the church towers, the house tops of a populous town, and the acclivities of the surrounding country, were crowded with spectators to watch the battle which was to take place in full sight on a conspicuous eminence." "Oh, Papa," pleaded Gracie, as he paused for an instant, "please tell it. I like that so much better than listening to reading." "Quite a compliment to me as a reader," he returned with an amused look. "No, sir, as a talker. I like to hear you tell things," she responded, with a sweet, engaging smile. "Do you, dear child? Very well, I'll try to gratify you. "When Prescott saw the red-coats moving toward his redoubt he ordered two separate detachments to flank the enemy, then went through his works encouraging his men, to whom this was an entirely new experience. 'The red-coats will never reach the redoubt,' he said, 'if you will but withhold your fire till I give the order; and be careful not to shoot over their heads.' Then he waited till the enemy had come within a few rods, when waving his sword over his head he gave the word, 'Fire!' "Every gun was instantly discharged, and nearly the whole of the front rank fell; the rest, astonished at this unexpected resistance, stood still. Then for some minutes the fire of the Americans continued, answered by the British, till at last they staggered, wavered, then fled down the hill toward their boats. "Howe had been treated to a like reception by Stark's and Knowlton's troops, cheered on by Putnam who, like Prescott, bade them reserve their fire till the best moment, when they poured in one as deadly and destructive as that which came from Prescott's redoubt." "Wasn't Prescott's order to his men to reserve their fire till they could see the whites of the British soldier's eyes?" queried Violet. "Yes, so Lossing tells us; and that he added, 'Then aim at their waistbands; and be sure to pick off the commanders, known by their handsome coats.' "His men were filled with joy when they saw the British fly, and wanted to pursue them, some even leaping the fence; but their more prudent officers restrained them, and in a few minutes they were all within their works again, and ready to receive and repulse a second attack. "Colonel Prescott praised and encouraged them while Putnam rode over to Bunker Hill to urge on reinforcement; but 'few additional troops could be brought to Breed's Hill before the second attack was made.' Before that the British were reinforced by four hundred marines from Boston, then they moved against the redoubt in the same order as at first, their artillery doing more damage to the Americans than in the first assault." "Papa," asked Gracie, "what had become of the wounded men they'd left lying on the ground?--those the Americans shot down at their first fire over the redoubt?" "They were still lying there on the ground where they had fallen, poor fellows! and the others marched over them. Ah, war is a dreadful thing, and those who forced it upon the patient, long-suffering Americans were either very thoughtless or exceeding cruel." "Yes," exclaimed Rosie, "I don't know what George III. could have been made of to be willing to cause so much suffering even to innocent defenceless women and children, just that he might play the tyrant and forcibly take from the Americans their own hard earnings to pay his way." "He was perhaps not quite so wicked as weak," replied her mother; "you know, I think, that he afterward lost his mind several times. Indeed he had done so once before this,--in 1764." "He had been wicked and cruel enough for a guilty conscience to set him crazy, I should think," remarked Max. "Please go on, again, Papa, won't you?" entreated Lulu. "I will," he said. "The British fired as they drew near, but with little effect; and the Americans, reserving their fire as before, till the foe was within five or six yards of the redoubt, then poured it on them with deadly aim, as at the first attack. It told with terrible effect; whole ranks of officers and men fell dead." "Oh, didn't they run then, Papa?" queried Gracie with a shudder of horror as she seemed to see the ground strewed with the dead and dying. "They were thrown into confusion and retreated to the shore," the Captain replied,--"retreated in great disorder. It seemed that the American fire was even more fatal than before. In telling the story afterward Prescott said, 'From the whole American line there was a continuous stream of fire.' "The British officers exposed themselves fearlessly, and urged their soldiers on with persuasions, threats, and even blows; but they could not reach the redoubt, and presently gave way, and, as I have said, retreated in great disorder. "At one time Howe was left nearly alone for a few seconds, so many of his officers had been killed or wounded; while 'the dead,' as Stark said in his account of the battle, 'lay as thick as sheep in a fold.' "Now I think my little Gracie will have to put up with some more reading," added the Captain, with a smiling glance at her; then opening his book, read aloud,-- "At intervals the artillery from the ships and batteries was playing, while the flames were rising over the town of Charlestown and laying waste the places of the graves of its fathers, and streets were falling together, and ships at the yards were crashing on the stocks, and the kindred of the Americans, from the fields, and hills and house-tops around, watched every gallant act of their defenders. 'The whole,' wrote Burgoyne, 'was a complication of horror and importance beyond anything it ever came to my lot to be witness to. It was a sight for a young soldier that the longest service may not furnish again." "If," remarked Captain Raymond, again closing the book, "it was so dreadful a sight for soldiers accustomed to the horrors of war, what must it not have been to the American farmers taking their first lesson in war? But not one of them shrank from duty. I think we may be very proud of those countrymen of ours. Prescott said to his men, 'If we drive them back once more they cannot rally again.' At that his men cheered him, and shouted. 'We are ready for the red-coats again.' "But alas! the officers now discovered that the supply of gunpowder was nearly exhausted. Prescott had sent in the morning for more, but it had not come; and there were not fifty bayonets in his party." "They were wonderfully brave to stand for a third attack under such circumstances," remarked Evelyn. "They were indeed," responded the Captain. "No one of the seven hundred men with Prescott seems to have thought of giving up the contest without another effort. Some gathered stones from the redoubt to use as missiles, those who had no bayonets resolved to club their guns and strike with them when their powder should be gone; all were determined to fight as long as a ray of hope of success could be discerned. And they did. "They waited with quiet firmness the approach of the enemy who came steadily on with fixed bayonets, while their cannon were so trained that they swept the interior of the breast-work from one end to the other, obliging the Americans to crowd within their fort. "The Americans were presently attacked on three sides, at once; and there were, as I have said, but seven hundred of them, some of whom had no more than one round of ammunition, none of them more than four. But they did not quail, and Prescott calmly gave his directions. "He bade his men wait, reserving their fire till the enemy was within twenty yards. Then they poured in a deadly volley. Every shot told. Howe was wounded in the foot, and several of his officers were killed besides the common soldiers. But they pressed on to the now nearly silent redoubt, for the American fire had slackened and begun to die away. "And now there was only a ridge of earth between the combatants, and the first of the British who reached it were assailed with a shower of stones. Then some of them scaled the parapet and were shot down in the act. One of these was Major Pitcairn, who had led the troops at Lexington. As he mounted the parapet he cried out, 'Now for the glory of the marines!' and was answered by a shot from a negro that gave him a mortal wound. His son carried him to a boat, conveyed him to Boston, and there he soon died." "Oh!" exclaimed Gracie, "I hope that brave Colonel Prescott didn't get killed, Papa!" "No; he escaped unhurt, though his coat and waistcoat were pierced and torn in several places by the bayonets of the British, which he parried with his sword. "It was now a hand-to-hand fight, British and Americans mingled together, our men walking backward and hewing their way out, dealing deadly blows with their muskets. "Fortunately the British were too much exhausted to use their bayonets with vigour; and so intermingled were they and the Americans that the use of firearms would have been dangerous to their own men as well as to ours." "Oh," sighed Rosie, "I have always been so sorry that our men didn't have plenty of gunpowder! I don't think there's a doubt that if they had been well supplied with it, they would have won a grand victory." "Yes; they did wonders considering all they had to contend with," said the Captain. "Their courage, endurance, and skill as marksmen astonished the British, and were never forgotten by them during the long war that followed. "The number engaged in the battle of Bunker Hill was small, all taken together not more than fifteen hundred of the Americans,--less than seven hundred in the redoubt,--while of the British there were, according to Gage, more than two thousand; other and accurate observers said, 'near upon three thousand.' "But in spite of the smallness of the numbers engaged, the battle was one of the severest and most determined on record. Neither side could claim a victory, but both displayed great courage and determination." "And Joseph Warren was one of the killed!" sighed Grandma Elsie, "one of the bravest, best, and most lovable of men, as those who knew him have testified. I remember reading that Mrs. John Adams said of him and his death, 'Not all the havoc and devastation they have made has wounded me like the death of Warren. We want him in the Senate; we want him in his profession; we want him in the field. We mourn for the citizen, the senator, the physician, and the warrior.' General Howe said, 'His death was worth more to the British than that of five hundred of the provincial privates.'" "And that was not an over-estimate, I think," said the Captain. "It was indeed a sad loss to the cause of the colonies when he was slain." "But there were more of the British killed than of our men,--weren't there, Papa?" asked Lulu. "Yes, very many more. By Gage's own account the number of killed and wounded in his army was at least one thousand and fifty-four. The oldest soldiers had never seen anything like it,--so many officers killed and wounded. Bancroft tells us that the battle of Quebec, which won a continent, did not cost the lives of so many officers as the battle of Bunker Hill, which gained nothing 'but a place of encampment.' "The American loss was one hundred and forty-five in killed and missing, three hundred and four wounded. No doubt the loss would have been very much greater but for the brave conduct of the men at the rail fence and the bank of the Mystic, who kept the enemy at bay while the men from the redoubt retreated. You may remember that they were Stark's men from New Hampshire and Knowlton's from Connecticut." "I hope the result of the battle encouraged the Americans as much as it discouraged the British," remarked Rosie, "and I think I have read that it did." "Yes," the Captain replied, "it did. In his general order, thanking the officers and soldiers for their gallant behaviour at Charlestown, Ward said, 'We shall finally come off victorious, and triumph over the enemies of freedom and America.'" "Did they fight any more that night, Papa?" asked Gracie. "No," he said, "though Prescott went to headquarters and offered to recover his post if he might have three fresh regiments. He did not seem to think he had done anything more than his duty, and asked for neither praise nor promotion, though others gave him unstinted praise for what he had done. "Putnam was absent from the field, engaged in trying to collect reinforcements, when the third attack was made, and the retreating party encountered him on the northern declivity of Bunker Hill. He tried to stop and turn them about,--commanded, pleaded, and used every exertion in his power to rally the scattered corps, swearing that victory should crown the American arms. 'Make a stand here; we can stop them yet!' he exclaimed. 'In God's name, fire, and give them one shot more!' "It is said that after the war was over he made a sincere confession to the church of which he was a member; but he said, 'It was almost enough to make an angel swear to see the cowards refuse to secure a victory so nearly won.'" "And couldn't he stop them, Papa?" asked Gracie. "He succeeded with some few," replied her father, "joined them to a detachment which had not reached the spot till the fighting was over, and with them took possession of Prospect Hill, where he encamped for the night." "Oh, Papa, what did they do with all those Americans and British who had been killed?" asked Gracie. "There must have been many a sad funeral," the Captain said in reply, "many a widow and fatherless child to weep over the slain. Ah, let us thank our heavenly Father for the liberty and security bought for us at so fearful a price." "Yes," responded Grandma Elsie; "and let us keep them for ourselves and our children by the eternal vigilance which is the price of liberty.'" CHAPTER XV. To the great delight of the young people on board the "Dolphin" the sun shone in a clear sky the next morning. Soon after breakfast they were all on deck, as usual in pleasant weather, enjoying the breeze, the sight of passing vessels, and a distant view of the land. The Captain and Violet sat near together with the two little ones playing about them, while Grandma Elsie, in a reclining chair, at no great distance, seemed absorbed in a book. "Mamma is reading something sad, I know by the look on her face," said Walter, hurrying toward her, the others following. "What is it you are reading, Mamma, that makes you look so sorry?" he asked, putting an arm about her neck, and giving her a kiss. "Oh, that's Bancroft's History!" "Yes," she said, "I was just looking over his account of the battles of Lexington and Concord, and some things he tells do make me sad though they happened more than a hundred years ago." "Oh, please read them to us!" pleaded several young voices, all speaking at once. "I will give you some passages," she said; "not the whole, because you have already been over that ground. It is what he tells of Isaac Davis that particularly interests me," and she began reading. "At daybreak the minute-men of Acton crowded, at the drum-beat, to the house of Isaac Davis, their captain, who 'made haste to be ready.' Just thirty years old, the father of four little ones, stately in his person, a man of few words, earnest even to solemnity, he parted from his wife, saying, 'Take good care of the children;' and while she gazed after him with resignation, he led off his company. "Between nine and ten the number of Americans on the rising ground above Concord Bridge had increased to more than four hundred. Of these there were twenty-five minute-men from Bedford, with Jonathan Wilson for their captain; others were from Westford, among them Thaxter, a preacher; others from Littleton, from Carlisle, and from Chelmsford. The Acton company came last and formed on the right. The whole was a gathering not so much of officers and soldiers as of brothers and equals, of whom every one was a man well known in his village, observed in the meeting-house on Sundays, familiar at town meetings and respected as a freeholder or a freeholder's son.... 'The Americans had as yet received only uncertain rumors of the morning's events at Lexington. At the sight of fire in the village, the impulse seized them to march into the town for its defence.' But were they not subjects of the British king? Had not the troops come out in obedience to acknowledged authorities? Was resistance practicable? Was it justifiable? By whom could it be authorized? No union had been formed, no independence proclaimed, no war declared. The husbandmen and mechanics who then stood on the hillock by Concord river were called on to act, and their action would be war or peace, submission or independence. Had they doubted they must have despaired. Prudent statesmanship would have asked for time to ponder. Wise philosophy would have lost from hesitation the glory of opening a new era on mankind. The train-bands at Concord acted and God was with them. "The American revolution grew out of the soul of the people, and was an inevitable result of a living affection for freedom, which set in motion harmonious effort as certainly as the beating of the heart sends warmth and color through the system. The rustic heroes of that hour obeyed the simplest, the highest, and the surest instincts, of which the seminal principle existed in all their countrymen. From necessity they were impelled toward independence and self-direction; this day revealed the plastic will which was to attract the elements of a nation to a centre, and by an innate force to shape its constitution. "The officers, meeting in front of their men, spoke a few words with one another, and went back to their places. Barrett, the colonel, on horseback in the rear, then gave the order to advance, but not to fire unless attacked. The calm features of Isaac Davis, of Acton, became changed; the town school-master of Concord, who was present, could never afterward find words strong enough to express how deeply his face reddened at the word of command. 'I have not a man that is afraid to go,' said Davis, looking at the men of Acton, and drawing his sword, he cried, 'March!' His company, being on the right, led the way toward the bridge, he himself at their head, and by his side Major John Buttrick, of Concord, with John Robinson, of Westford, lieutenant-colonel in Prescott's regiment, but on this day a volunteer, without command. "These three men walked together in front, followed by minute-men and militia, in double file, trailing arms. They went down the hillock, entered the byroad, came to its angle with the main road, and there turned into the causeway that led straight to the bridge. The British began to take up the planks; to prevent it, the Americans quickened their step. At this the British fired one or two shots up the river; then another, by which Luther Blanchard and Jonas Brown were wounded. A volley followed, and Isaac Davis and Abner Hosmer fell dead. Three hours before, Davis had bid his wife farewell. That afternoon he was carried home and laid in her bedroom. His countenance was pleasant in death. The bodies of two others of his company, who were slain that day, were brought to her house, and the three were followed to the village graveyard by a concourse of the neighbors from miles around. Heaven gave her length of days in the land which his self-devotion assisted to redeem. She lived to see her country reach the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific; when it was grown great in numbers, wealth, and power, the United States in Congress bethought themselves to pay honors to her husband's martyrdom, and comfort her under the double burden of sorrow and of more than ninety years." "Ninety years!" exclaimed Walter. "Oh what an old, _old_ woman she was! I think they ought to have given it to her a great deal sooner,--don't you, Mamma?" "I do, indeed," she replied. "What a dreadful time it was! The British soldiery behaved like savages or demons,--burning houses, murdering innocent unarmed people. One poor woman--a Mrs. Adams, ill in bed, with a baby only a week old--was driven out of her bed, out of her house, and had to crawl almost naked to a corn-shed with her little one in her arms, while the soldiers set fire to her house. "They shot and killed an idiot perched on a fence looking at them as they passed; and they brutally murdered two aged, helpless, unarmed old men, stabbing them, breaking their skulls and dashing out their brains." "I don't wonder the Americans shot down as many of them as they could!" exclaimed Max, in tones of hot indignation. "Men that did such things were not brave soldiers, but worse savages than the Indians. Oh, how I wish our people had had the abundance of good weapons and powder and balls that we have now! Then they'd have taught the insolent British a good lesson; they would soon have driven Gage and all his savage soldiery into the sea." "I presume they would," said Mrs. Travilla; "but poor fellows! they were very destitute of such needed supplies. This is what Bancroft says about it:-- "All the following night, the men of Massachusetts streamed in from scores of miles around, old men as well as young. They had scarce a semblance of artillery or warlike stores, no powder, nor organization, nor provisions; but there they were, thousands with brave hearts, determined to rescue the liberties of their country. "The night preceding the outrages at Lexington there were not fifty people in the whole colony that ever expected any blood would be shed in the contest; the night after, the king's governor and the king's army found themselves closely beleaguered in Boston." "Did the news fly very fast all over the country, Mamma?" asked Walter. "Very fast for those times," she replied; "you must remember that then they had neither railroads nor telegraph, but as Bancroft says, 'Heralds by swift relays transmitted the war messages from hand to hand, till village repeated it to village; the sea to the backwoods; the plains to the highlands; and it was never suffered to droop till it had been borne north and south, east and west, throughout the land.'" "But there wasn't any more fighting till the battle of Bunker Hill, was there, Mamma?" asked Walter. "Yes," she replied, "there was the taking of Ticonderoga and Crown Point early in May, by a party under the command of Ethan Allen; there were about a hundred 'Green Mountain Boys' and nearly fifty soldiers from Massachusetts besides the men of Connecticut. The thing was planned in Connecticut, and the expense borne there. "Allen marched in the night to the shore of the lake opposite to Ticonderoga. A farmer named Beman offered his son Nathan as a guide, saying that he (the lad) had been used to playing about the fort with the boys of the garrison, and knew of every secret way leading into it. "Allen accepted the offer, but there was a difficulty about getting boats in which to cross the lake. They had but few and day began to dawn. If the garrison should be aroused their expedition was likely to fail, for a great deal depended upon taking them by surprise; so Allen decided not to wait for the rear division to cross, but to make the attempt with the officers and eighty-three men who were already on that side. He drew up his men in three ranks on the shore and made them a little speech in a low tone: 'Friends and fellow-soldiers, we must this morning quit our pretensions to valour, or possess ourselves of this fortress; and inasmuch as it is a desperate attempt, I do not urge it on, contrary to will. You that will undertake voluntarily, poise your firelock.' "Instantly every firelock was poised. 'Face to the right!' he cried, putting himself at their head, Benedict Arnold close at his side, and they marched quietly and steadily up to the gate. "The sentinel there snapped his fusee at Allen, but it missed fire, and he retreated within the fort. The Americans rushed in after him, another sentinel made a thrust at one of them, but they ran upon the guard, raising the Indian war-whoop, Allen giving the sentinel a blow upon the head with his sword that made him beg for quarter. "Of course the shout of our men had roused the garrison; and they sprang from their beds, and came rushing out only to be made prisoners. "Then young Beman guided Allen to the door of the sleeping apartment of Delaplace, the commander. The loud shout of the Americans had waked him and his wife, and both sprang to the door as Allen gave three loud raps upon it with his sword and thundered out an order for the commander to appear if he wouldn't have his whole garrison sacrificed. "Delaplace threw open the door, showing himself only half dressed, in shirt and drawers, with his pretty wife standing behind him peering over his shoulder. He immediately recognized Allen, for they were old friends, and assuming an air of authority, demanded his errand. "Allen pointed to his men and said sternly, 'I order you instantly to surrender.' "'By what authority do you demand it?' asked Delaplace. "'In the name of the Great Jehovah and the Continental Congress,' thundered Allen, and raising his sword over his prisoner's head, commanded him to be silent and surrender immediately. "Delaplace saw that it was useless to refuse, so surrendered, ordered his men to parade without arms, and gave them up as prisoners. There were forty-eight of them; and they, with the women and children, were sent to Hartford as prisoners of war." "And what did our men get besides the soldiers and women and children, Mamma?" asked Walter. "Cannon, and guns of various kinds, other munitions of war, a quantity of provisions and material for boat building, and so forth, besides the fortress itself, which Bancroft says had 'cost the British nation eight millions sterling, a succession of campaigns, and many lives, yet was won in ten minutes by a few undisciplined volunteers, without the loss of life or limb.'" "Oh, that was the very best of it, I think," said Gracie. "War wouldn't be so very, very dreadful if it was all like that,--would it, Grandma Elsie?" "No dear," Mrs. Travilla replied, smiling lovingly upon the little girl, and softly smoothing her golden curls. "Was there any other fighting before the battle of Bunker Hill, Mamma?" queried Walter. "Yes," she said, "there were some encounters along this New England coast." "And Crown Point was taken too,--wasn't it, Mamma?" asked Rosie. "Ah, yes! I had forgotten that part of my story," replied her mother. "It was taken two days later than Ticonderoga, also without any bloodshed. About the same time that Ticonderoga was taken, there was a British ship called the 'Canceaux' in the harbour of Portland. The captain's name was Mowat. On the 11th of May he and two of his officers were on shore, when a party of sixty men from Georgetown seized them. "The officer who had been left in command of the vessel threatened what he would do if they were not released, and even began to bombard the town. Mowat was released at a late hour, but felt angry and revengeful, and succeeded in rousing the same sort of feeling in the admiral of the station. "A month later the people of a town called Machias seized the captain of two sloops that had come into their harbour to be freighted with lumber, and convoyed by a king's cutter called the 'Margaretta.' The lumber was for the British army at Boston, and they, the Americans, got possession of the sloops, after taking the captain, whom they seized in the 'meeting-house.' The 'Margaretta' didn't fire on the town, but slipped away down the harbour in the dark that night, and the next morning sailed out to sea. "Then forty men, under the command of Capt. Jeremiah O'Brien, pursued her in one of the captured sloops, and as she was a dull sailer, soon overtook her. An obstinate sea-fight followed; the captain of the cutter was mortally wounded, six of his men not so badly, and after an hour's fight the 'Margaretta's' flag was struck. It was the first time the British flag was struck on the ocean to Americans." "But not the last by any means!" cried Max, exultantly; "whatever may be said of our land forces, America has always shown herself superior to Great Britain on the sea. I'm very proud of the fact that though at the beginning of the last war with England we had but twenty vessels (exclusive of one hundred and twenty gun-boats), while England had ten hundred and sixty, we whipped her." "Quite true, Max," Mrs. Travilla said, smiling at the boy's ardent patriotism, "and I am as proud of the achievements of our navy as you can be; but let us give all the glory to God who helped the oppressed in their hard struggle against their unjust and cruel oppressor." "Yes, ma'am, I know," he answered; "America was most shamefully oppressed, and it was only by God's help that she succeeded in putting a stop to the dreadful treatment of her poor sailors. Just to think of the insolent way the British naval officers used to have of boarding our vessels and carrying off American-born men, who loved their own country and wanted to serve her, and forcing them even to serve against her, fairly makes my blood boil!" Max had in his excitement unconsciously raised his voice so that his words reached his father's ear. The captain looked smilingly at Violet, "My boy is an ardent patriot," he said in a pleased tone. "Should we ever have another war (which Heaven forbid!), I hope he will do his country good service." "I am sure he will if he lives to see that day," returned Violet; "but I agree with you in hoping the need of such service will never arise." "But let us always remember," Evelyn said in reply to Max, "that those cruel, unjust deeds, and the feelings that prompted them, were not those of the English people, but of their Government and the aristocracy,--I suppose because of their hatred of republicanism, their desire to keep the masses of the people down, and themselves rich and powerful." "Yes," said Rosie, "it was just pure pride and selfishness. They didn't like the doctrine of our Declaration of Independence that 'all men are created equal.'" Mrs. Travilla was turning over the leaves of her book again. "Mamma," said Walter, "haven't you something more to read to us?" "Yes," she replied, and began at once. "On the ninth (of June) the 'Falcon,' a British sloop of war, was seen from Cape Ann in chase of two schooners bound to Salem. One of these was taken; a fair wind wafted the other into Gloucester harbor. Linzee, the captain of the 'Falcon,' followed with his prize, and, after anchoring, sent his lieutenant and thirty-six men in a whale-boat and two barges to bring under his bow the schooner that had escaped. "As the barge men boarded her at her cabin windows, men from the shore fired on them, killing three and wounding the lieutenant in the thigh. Linzee sent his prize and a cutter to cannonade the town. They did little injury; while the Gloucester men, with the loss of but two, took both schooners, the barges, and every man in them, Linzee losing half his crew." "How vexed he must have been!" laughed Lulu. "Did he ever go back to take revenge, Grandma Elsie?" "No, I think not," she said, "though Gage and the British admiral planned to do so, and also to wreak vengeance on the people of Portland,--then called Falmouth,--where, as you probably remember, Mowat had been held prisoner for a few hours in May of that same year. "On the morning of the 16th of October Mowat again appeared in their harbour in command of a ship of sixteen guns, attended by three other vessels, and at half-past nine in the morning began firing upon the town. "In five minutes several houses were in a blaze; then a party of marines landed and spread the conflagration. He burned down about three fourths of the town,--a hundred and thirty dwelling-houses, the public buildings, and a church,--and shattered the rest of the houses with balls and shells. The English account makes the destruction still greater. So far north winter begins early, and it was just at the beginning of a severe one that he thus turned the poor people of that town out of house and home into the cold, in poverty and misery." "That was a Christian deed worthy of a Christian king," remarked Rosie, scornfully. "Bancroft says," continued her mother, "that the indignation of Washington was kindled by 'these savage cruelties, this new exertion of despotic barbarity.' General Green said, 'Death and destruction mark the footsteps of the enemy; fight or be slaves is the American motto.'" "And who wouldn't rather fight and die fighting, than be a slave?" cried Max, his eyes flashing. "Grandma Elsie," he said, "you haven't told us a word about the American navy. Didn't they begin one about that time?" "I think they did, Max," was her reply; "but suppose we call upon your father to tell us about it. He is doubtless better informed than I in everything relating to that branch of the service." "Papa, will you?" asked the lad, turning toward the Captain and raising his voice a little. "Will I do what, my son?" "Tell us about the doings of the navy in Revolutionary times, sir," replied Max, "as Grandma Elsie has been telling of the fights on land." "Oh, do, Papa; won't you?" pleaded Lulu, hastening to his side, the other girls and Walter following, while Max gallantly offered to move Grandma Elsie's chair nearer to his father and Violet, which she allowed him to do, thanking him with one of her rarely sweet smiles. CHAPTER XVI. The Captain, gently putting aside the two little ones who were hanging lovingly about him, saw every one seated comfortably, and near enough to hear all he might say, then resuming his own seat, began the account they had asked for of the early doings of the embryo navy of their common country. "We had no navy at all when the Revolutionary War began," he said. "Rhode Island, the smallest State in the Union, was the first of the colonies to move in the matter of building and equipping a Continental fleet. On October 3, 1775, its delegates laid before Congress the instructions they had received to do what they could to have that work begun. "They met with great opposition there; but John Adams was very strongly in its favour, and did for it all in his power. "On the 5th of October, Washington was authorized to employ two armed vessels to intercept British store-ships, bound for Quebec; on the 13th, two armed vessels, of ten and of fourteen guns, were voted; and seventeen days later, two others of thirty-six guns. That was the beginning of our navy; and it was very necessary we should have one to protect our seaport towns and destroy the English ships sent against us, also to make it more difficult and hazardous for them to bring over new levies of troops to deprive us of our liberties, and from using their vessels to destroy our merchantmen, and so put an end to our commerce. "Rhode Island had bold and skilful seamen, some of whom had had something to do with British ships before the war began,--even as early as 1772. "In that year there was a British armed schooner called the 'Gaspee,' in Narragansett Bay, sent there to enforce obnoxious British laws. "Its officers behaved in so tyrannical a manner toward the Americans of the neighbourhood that at length they felt it quite unbearable; and one dark, stormy night in June, Capt. Abraham Whipple, a veteran sailor, with some brother seamen, went down the bay in open whale-boats, set the 'Gaspee' on fire, and burned her. "The British Government of course wanted to punish them, but all engaged in the work of destruction were so true to each other that it was impossible to find out who they were; but three years later--in 1775, the year that the war began--the bay was blockaded by an English frigate, and in some way her commander learned that Whipple had been the leader of the men who destroyed the 'Gaspee.' He then wrote him a note." "You, Abraham Whipple, on the seventeenth of June 1772, burnt his Majesty's vessel the 'Gaspee,' and I will hang you to the yard-arm." "Whipple replied with a note." _To Sir James Wallace_: Sir,--Always catch a man before you hang him. Abraham Whipple. "Good!" laughed Max; "and I think he never did catch him,--did he, Papa?" "No, though he made every effort to do so, being greatly angered by the impudent reply." "But you don't blame Whipple for answering him in that way,--do you, Papa?" queried Lulu. "I can't say that I do," her father said with a slight smile. "And I think the legislature of Rhode Island did a right and wise thing in fitting out two armed vessels to drive Sir James and his frigate out of Narragansett Bay, giving the command of them, and thus the honour of firing the first gun in the naval service of the Revolution, to Captain Whipple." "Oh, that was splendid!" cried several young voices. "That gave Washington a hint," continued the Captain, "and he authorized the fitting out of several vessels as privateers, manning them with these sailor-soldiers." "What is a privateer, Papa?" asked Gracie. "A vessel belonging to some private person, or to more than one, sailing in time of war, with a license from Government to seize, plunder, and destroy the vessels of the enemy, and any goods they may carry, wherever found afloat." "And how do they differ from transports, brother Levis?" asked Rosie. "Transports are vessels used for the carrying of troops, stores, and materials of war," he answered. "Did they do their work well, Captain?" asked Evelyn. "Some did, and some did not," he answered. "The most successful was Capt. John Manly, who had been thirty years, or nearly that, on the sea. He was a skilful fisherman of Marblehead, and Washington commissioned him as captain. "He was doubtless well acquainted with the qualifications of the sailors of that part of the coast, and knew how to select a choice crew, at all events he was very successful in annoying the enemy, and soon had captured three ships as they entered Boston Harbour. One of them was laden with just such things as were badly needed by the Americans, then besieging Boston,--heavy guns, mortars, and intrenching tools. "Manly became a terror to the British, and they tried hard to catch him." "If they had, I suppose they'd have hung him," remarked Lulu, half inquiringly. "No doubt they would have been glad to do so," her father replied. "They sent out an armed schooner from Halifax to take him; but he was too wary and skilful a commander to be easily caught, and he went on roaming along the seacoast of New England, taking prize after prize from among the British ships." "What was the name of his vessel, Papa?" asked Max. "The 'Lee.' It was not long before Congress created a navy, and Manly was appointed a captain in it. He did gallant service until he was taken prisoner by Sir George Collier in the 'Rainbow.'" "Did they hang him, Papa?" asked Gracie, with a look of distress. "No; he was kept a prisoner, first on that vessel, then in Mill prison, Halifax, exchanged after a while, then again taken prisoner while in command of the 'Pomona,' held a prisoner at Barbadoes, but made his escape and took command of the privateer 'Jason.' He was afterward attacked by two privateers, ran in between them, giving both a broadside at once and making them strike their colours. "Later he was chased by a British seventy-four, and to escape capture ran his ship aground on a sand-bar; afterward he succeeded in getting her off, fired thirteen guns as a defiance, and made his escape." "Please tell us some more, brother Levis," urged Walter, as the Captain paused in his narrative; "we'd be glad to hear all the doings of our navy." "That would make a long story indeed, my boy," the Captain said with a smile; "longer than could be told in one day or two. I will try to relate some few more occurrences of particular interest; and I advise you all to consult history on the subject after we get home. The coming winter will be a good time for that. "In October, 1775, as I have already said, Congress resolved that a swift sailing-vessel, to carry ten carriage-guns and an appropriate number of swivels, should be fitted out for a cruise of three months for the purpose of intercepting British transports. They also formed a Marine Committee consisting of seven members, and ordered another vessel to be built,--the Marine Committee performing the duties now falling to the share of our Secretary of the Navy. "Later in that same year Congress ordered thirteen more vessels to be built. They were the 'Washington,' 'Randolph,' 'Warren,' 'Hancock,' 'Raleigh,' each carrying thirty-two guns; the 'Effingham,' 'Delaware,' 'Boston,' 'Virginia,' 'Providence,' 'Montgomery,' 'Congress' and 'Trumble;' some of these were armed with twenty-eight, others with twenty-four guns." "They made Abraham Whipple captain of one,--didn't they, Papa?" asked Max. "Yes; Nicholas Biddle, Dudly Saltonstall and John B. Hopkins captains of the others, and Esek Hopkins commander-in-chief. He was considered as holding about the same rank in the navy that Washington did in the army, and was styled indifferently admiral or commodore. "Among the first lieutenants appointed was John Paul Jones, who became a famous commander before the war was over,--a great naval hero. But you have all heard of him I think." "Oh, yes," said Rosie. "It was he who commanded the 'Bonhomme Richard' in that hard-fought battle with the British ship 'Serapis.'" "Yes," replied the Captain. "It was one of the most desperate conflicts on record, and resulted in victory for Jones and the 'Bonhomme Richard,' though she was so badly damaged,--'counters and quarters driven in, all her lower-deck guns dismounted, on fire in two places, and six or seven feet of water in the hold'--that she had to be abandoned, and sank the next morning. "Pearson the captain of the 'Serapis,' though defeated, had made so gallant a fight that he was knighted by the king. When Jones heard of it he said, 'He deserves it; and if I fall in with him again I'll make a lord of him.' "I think he--Pearson--was more gallant than polite or generous; for on offering his sword to Jones after his surrender he said, 'I cannot, sir, but feel much mortification at the idea of surrendering my sword to a man who has fought me with a rope round his neck.'" "Just like an Englishman!" exclaimed Max, hotly; "but what did Jones say in reply, Papa?" "He returned the sword, saying, 'You have fought gallantly, sir, and I hope your king will give you a better ship.'" "That was a gentlemanly reply," said Lulu, "and I hope Jones got the credit he deserved for his splendid victory." "Europe and America rang with his praises," said her father. "The Empress of Russia gave him the ribbon of St. Ann, the King of Denmark a pension, and the King of France a gold-mounted sword with the words engraved upon its blade, 'Louis XVI., rewarder of the valiant assertor of the freedom of the sea.' He also made him a Knight of the Order of Merit. "Nothing ever occurred afterward to dim his fame, and he is known in history as the Chevalier John Paul Jones." Just here a passing vessel attracted the attention of the captain and the others, and it was not until some hours later that the conversation in regard to the doings of the navy was resumed. CHAPTER XVII. Toward evening the young people again gathered about the captain, asking that his story of naval exploits might be continued. "I am not sure," he said pleasantly, "that to recount naval exploits is the wisest thing I can do; it stirs my blood, and revives the old love for the service." "Oh, Papa, please don't ever, ever go back to your ship and leave us!" exclaimed Gracie, tears starting to her eyes at the very thought. "I am not at all sure that I would be accepted should I offer my services again, my darling," he answered, drawing her into his arms and caressing her tenderly; "but really I have no serious thought of so doing." "Oh, I'm glad of that, you dear Papa!" she said with a sigh of relief, putting her arm about his neck and kissing him with ardent affection. "So am I," said Lulu. "I don't know what I wouldn't rather have happen than to be parted again for months and maybe years from my dear father." A loving look was his reply as he drew her to his other side and caressed her with equal tenderness. At that little Elsie came running toward them. "Me too, Papa," she said, "kiss me too, and let me sit on your knee while you tell 'bout things that happened a long while ago." "Yes, the baby girl has the best right to sit on Papa's knee when she wants to," said Lulu, good-naturedly making way for the little one. A loving look and smile from her father as he lifted the baby girl to the coveted seat and gave her the asked for caress, amply rewarded her little act of self-denial. "I cannot begin to tell you to-day all the exploits of our navy even during the first war with England," the Captain said; "you will have to read the history for yourselves, and I trust will enjoy doing so, but I shall try to relate some of the more prominent incidents in a way to entertain you." "What kind of flag did our naval vessels carry at the beginning of the Revolutionary War, Captain?" asked Evelyn. "It was not till 1777, if my memory serves me right, that our present flag was adopted by Congress." "You are quite right," the Captain said, "and up to that time each vessel of the little Continental navy carried one of her own choosing; or rather each commander was allowed to choose a device to suit himself. It is claimed for John Paul Jones that he raised with his own hands the first flag of a regular American cruiser. The vessel was Hopkins's flag-ship the 'Alfred.' It was at Philadelphia, early in 1776 the banner was raised. It had a white field, with the words 'Liberty Tree' in the centre above a representation of a pine tree; beneath were the words, 'Appeal to God.'" "Yes, sir; but didn't some one about that time raise a flag composed of thirteen stripes?" queried Eva. "Quite true," replied the Captain, "and across it a rattlesnake; underneath that, the words, 'Don't Tread On Me.' "Both Continental vessels and privateers were very successful, and by mid-summer of 1776 they had captured more than five hundred British soldiers. There was a Captain Conyngham, a brave and skilful seaman, who sailed from Dunkirk in May, 1777, in the brig 'Surprise,' under one of the commissions which Franklin carried with him to France for army and navy officers. (Those of you who have studied geography will, I suppose, remember that Dunkirk is in the north of France.) Conyngham was very successful; had in a few days captured the British packet ship 'Prince of Orange' and a brig, and returned with them to Dunkirk. The English ambassador at Paris complained very strongly, and to appease the wrath of the English, the French Government put the captain and his crew in prison." "Oh, what a shame!" cried Lulu. Her father smiled slightly at that. "They were not kept there very long," he said, "but were soon released, and Conyngham allowed to fit out another cruiser, called the 'Revenge.'" "A very suitable name," laughed Max. "Yes," assented his father, and went on with his history. "The British Government had sent two vessels to arrest Conyngham and his men as pirates, but when they reached Dunkirk he had already sailed. Had the British succeeded in taking them, they would no doubt have been hanged as pirates; for both Government and people of Great Britain were at that time much exasperated by the blows Americans were dealing their dearest interest, commerce. 'The Revenge' was doing so much injury,--making prizes of merchantmen, and so putting money into the hands of the American commissioners for public use,--that the British were at their wit's end; the people in the seaports were greatly alarmed, and insurance on cargoes went up to twenty-five per cent. Some of the British merchants sent out their goods in French vessels for greater security,--so many of them, in fact, that at one time there were forty French vessels together in the Thames taking in cargoes. "At that time British transports were engaged in carrying German troops across the Atlantic to fight the Americans. Conyngham was on the look-out for these, but did not succeed in meeting with any of them." "Such a despicable business as it was for George III to hire those fellows to fight the people here!" exclaimed Max. "I wish Conyngham had caught some of them. Papa, didn't he at one time disguise his ship and take her into an English port to refit?" "So it is said," replied the Captain; "it was for repairs, after a storm. It is said also that he obtained supplies at one time in an Irish port." "Didn't British ships take ours sometimes, Papa?" asked Grace. "Yes," he replied, "victory was not always on the side of the Americans. The fast-sailing British frigates captured many privateersmen and merchantmen, and considering their great superiority of numbers it would have been strange indeed had that not been the case. The war on the ocean was very destructive to both parties; yet the Americans were, with reason, amazed and delighted with their measure of success, astonishing in proportion to the odds against them. "During that year--1776--they had captured three hundred and forty British vessels; four had been burned, forty-five recaptured, and eighteen released. "It was in the fall of that year that Benedict Arnold commanded some stirring naval operations on Lake Champlain. In the previous spring the British had made preparations to invade the Champlain and Hudson valleys, hoping thus to effect a separation between New England and the other colonies which would naturally make it an easier task to conquer both sections. "To ward off that threatened danger the Americans holding Ticonderoga and Crown Point--both on the lake as you will remember--constructed a small squadron, the command of which was given to Arnold, who knew more about naval affairs than any other available person. Three schooners, one sloop, and five gondolas were armed and manned, and with this little squadron Arnold sailed down to the foot of the lake and made observations. "In the mean time the British had heard of what was going on, and they, too, had prepared a small squadron on the river Sorel, the outlet of the lake. Their navy consisted of twenty-four gun-boats, each armed with a field-piece or carriage-gun, and a large flat-bottomed boat called the 'Thunderer,' carrying heavy guns. "It was not till the middle of October that the fight took place. Arnold, with his flotilla, was then lying between the western shore of the lake and Valcour Island. The 'Congress' was his flag-ship. The British attacked him, and a very severe fight followed. It was brought to a conclusion only by the coming of a very dark night. The Americans had lost the 'Royal Savage' in the action; the rest of the flotilla fled up the lake, eluding the British in the darkness. "The next morning the British followed; and all that day and the following night the chase continued. Early the next morning the British succeeded in coming up with the Americans, and another battle followed. Arnold, who was on the galley 'Congress,' fought hard until his vessel was nearly a wreck, then ran her and four others into a creek and set them on fire to prevent their falling into the hands of the foe. "Those who were left of the crews escaped and made their way to Crown Point." "Arnold did do good work for his country in the early part of the war," exclaimed Rosie. "If he had been killed in that fight he would always have been considered as great a patriot as any other man of the time." "Yes," replied the Captain with an involuntary sigh, "if he had fallen then, or even some years later, his memory would have been as fondly cherished as that of almost any other soldier of the Revolution. He would have been considered one of the noblest champions of liberty. Ah, what a pity he should turn traitor and make himself the object of infamy, as lasting as the history of his native land, which he attempted to betray into the hands of her foes!" "Doubtless after years must have brought him many an hour of bitter regret," said Mrs. Travilla, echoing the Captain's sigh. "Poor fellow! I hope he repented and was forgiven of God, though his countrymen could never forgive him. He had a pious mother who tried to train him up aright, and certainly must have often prayed earnestly for her son; so I hope he may have repented and found forgiveness and salvation through the atoning blood of Christ." "I would be glad indeed to know that he had, Mamma," said Violet. "I too," added the Captain. "I think he must have been a very wretched man in the latter years of his life." "Was he treated well in England, Papa?" asked Lulu. "Not by every one," replied her father; "some of the noble-minded there showed him very plainly that they despised him for his treason. George III. introduced him to Earl Balcarras, who had been with Burgoyne at the battle of Bemis's Heights; but the earl refused his hand, and turned on his heel saying, 'I know General Arnold, and abominate traitors.'" "How Arnold must have felt that!" exclaimed Rosie. "I would not have liked to be in his shoes." "Nor I," said her mother. "The British officers thoroughly despised him, and there is an anecdote of a meeting he once had with Talleyrand which must have been trying to his feelings, if he had any sense of honour left. "It seems that Talleyrand, who was fleeing from France during the revolution there, inquired at the hotel where he was at the time, for some American who could give him letters of introduction to persons of influence here. He was told that an American gentleman was in an adjoining room. It seems it was Arnold, though no one, I suppose, knew who he was. Talleyrand sought an interview with him, and made his request for letters of introduction, when Arnold at once retreated from the room, as he did so saying with a look of pain on his face, 'I was born in America, lived there till the prime of my life, but, alas! I can call no man in America my friend.'" "I should feel sorry for him in spite of that black act of treason," Violet said, "if he had not followed it up by such infamous deeds against his countrymen, even those of them who had been his neighbours and friends in his early years. I remember Lossing tells us that while New Haven--set on fire by Arnold's band of Tories and Hessians--was burning, he stood in the belfry of a church watching the conflagration with probably the same kind of satisfaction that Nero felt in the destruction of Rome. Think of such a murderous expedition against the home and friends of his childhood and youth! the wanton destruction of a thriving town! It showed him to be a most malicious wretch, worthy of the scorn and contempt with which he was treated even by many of those who had profited by his treason." "Yes; 'the way of transgressors is hard,'" quoted her mother. CHAPTER XVIII. For some days the "Dolphin" rode at anchor in Bar Harbour, Mount Desert, while its passengers found great enjoyment in trips here and there about the island, visiting the Ovens, Otter Cliffs, Schooner Head, and other points of interest. But the time was drawing near when Max must show himself to the examiners of applicants for cadetship in Annapolis, and early one bright morning, a favourable land breeze springing up, the yacht weighed anchor and started southward. They were to touch at Newport on their way and take on board any of their party left there who might care to visit Annapolis with them. As usual all gathered upon deck shortly after breakfast, and again the young people besieged the Captain with requests for something more about the doings of Revolutionary days. "You know, Papa," said Lulu, "we've been so busy visiting all those lovely places on Mount Desert that we haven't had time for anything about the wars since you told us how Arnold fought the British on Lake Champlain." "Yes, I remember," he said. "How would you like now to hear of some of the doings and happenings of those times in and about Newport?" "Oh, please do tell of them! We'd like it ever so much," answered several young voices, and the Captain good-naturedly complied. "I will begin," he said, "with a bold and brave exploit of Major Silas Talbot, in the fall of 1778. The British had converted a strong vessel into a galley, named it the 'Pigot,' in honour of their general of that name, and anchored it in the channel between the eastern side of the island bearing the same name as the State, and the main land. It was armed with twelve eight-pounders and ten swivels, making a formidable floating battery, the object of which was to close up the channel against the French fleet which lay off Newport. "It also effectually broke up the local trade of that section; therefore its destruction was very desirable, and Major Talbot proposed to head an expedition to accomplish that, or its capture. General Sullivan thought the thing could not be done, but finally gave consent that the effort should be made. "Sixty resolute patriots were drafted for the purpose and on the 10th of October they set sail in a coasting-sloop called the 'Hawk,' armed with only three three-pounders, beside the small arms carried by the men. "They passed the British forts at Bristol Ferry and anchored within a few miles of the 'Pigot.' Major Talbot then procured a horse, rode down the east bank and reconnoitred. He saw that the 'Pigot' presented a formidable appearance, but he was not too much alarmed thereby to make the proposed attempt to capture her. "At nine o'clock that same evening he hoisted his anchor, and favoured by a fair wind, started on his perilous errand. He had with him Lieutenant Helm, of Rhode Island, with a small reinforcement. He had also a kedge-anchor, lashed to his jib-boom, with which to tear the nettings of the 'Pigot.' The darkness of the night enabled him to drift past Fogland Ferry Fort under bare poles, without being discovered; he then hoisted sail and ran partly under the stern of the 'Pigot.' "The sentinels hailed him, but no answer was returned; and they fired a volley of musketry at the 'Hawk,' which fortunately hit no one, while her kedge-anchor tore the 'Pigot's' nettings and grappled her, and so gave the Americans a free passage to her deck. They poured on it from the 'Hawk,' with loud shouts, and drove every man from the deck except the captain. He, in shirt and drawers, fought desperately till he found that resistance was useless, when he surrendered his vessel with the officers and crew. "The Americans secured the prisoners below by coiling the cables over the hatchways, weighed anchor, and started for the harbour of Stonington, which they entered the next day with their prize." "Good!" cried Max. "I'd have liked to be one of those brave fellows, and I hope Congress rewarded them for their gallant deed." "It did," said the Captain; "presented Talbot with a commission of lieutenant-colonel in the army of the United States, and complimented both him and his men." "I suppose they'd have given them some money if they'd had it to spare," remarked Lulu; "but of course they hadn't, because the country was so dreadfully poor then." "Yes," said her father, "it was poor, and Newport, Rhode Island, was suffering greatly from the long-continued occupation of the British. The people of that colony had from the first taken a bold and determined stand in opposition to the usurpations of King George and his ministers, and the oppressions of their tools in this country. "In the summer of 1769 a British armed sloop, sent there by the commissioners of customs, lay in Narragansett Bay, she was called 'Liberty,' certainly a most inappropriate name. Her errand was similar to that of the 'Gaspee' about the destruction of which I have already told you,--though that occurred some three years later. The commander of the 'Liberty,' was a Captain Reid. A schooner and brig belonging to Connecticut had been seized and brought into Newport; also the clothing and the sword of the captain, Packwood, commander of the brig, had been taken, and carried aboard the 'Liberty.' He went there to recover them, was badly maltreated, and as he left the sloop in his boat, was fired upon with a musket and a brace of pistols. "This occurrence greatly exasperated the people of Newport, who demanded of Reid that the man who had fired upon Captain Packwood should be sent ashore. "Reid again and again sent the wrong man, which of course exasperated the people, and they determined to show him that they were not to be trifled with. Accordingly, a number of them boarded the 'Liberty,' cut her cables, and set her adrift. The tide carried her down the bay and drifted her to Goat Island, where the people, after throwing her stores and ammunition into the water, scuttled her, and set her on fire. Her boats were dragged to the common, and burned there." "Was she entirely burned, Papa?" asked Gracie. "Almost, after burning for several days." "And that was nearly six years before the battle of Lexington," Evelyn remarked in a half musing tone. "How wonderfully patient and forbearing the Americans were, putting up for years with so much of British insolence and oppression!" "I think they were," responded the Captain. "Nor was it from cowardice, as they plainly showed when once war with Great Britain was fairly inaugurated. "And the little State of Rhode Island had her full share in the struggle and the suffering it brought. Let us see what Bancroft says in regard to the action of her citizens at the beginning of the conflict, immediately after the battles of Lexington and Concord," he added, taking up and opening a book lying near at hand. All waited in silence as he turned over the leaves and began to read,-- "The nearest towns of Rhode Island were in motion before the British had finished their retreat. At the instance of Hopkins and others, Wanton, the governor, though himself inclined to the royal side, called an assembly. Its members were all of one mind; and when Wanton, with several of the council, showed hesitation, they resolved, if necessary, to proceed alone. The council yielded and confirmed the unanimous vote of the assembly for raising an army of fifteen hundred men. 'The colony of Rhode Island,' wrote Bowler, the speaker, to the Massachusetts congress, 'is firm and determined; and a greater unanimity in the lower house scarce ever prevailed.' Companies of the men of Rhode Island preceded this early message." "The little State took a noble stand," remarked Violet, as her husband finished reading and closed the book. "Yes," he said, "and their consequent sufferings from British aggressions promptly began. Admiral Wallace, an inhuman wretch, that summer commanded a small British fleet lying in Newport harbour. It was he who promised to hang Abraham Whipple, but never caught him. It was discovered by the Americans that he (Wallace) was planning to carry off the livestock from the lower end of the island to supply the British army at Boston." "Going to steal them, Papa?" asked Gracie. "Yes; but the people were too quick for him. Some of them went down one dark night in September and brought off a thousand sheep and fifty head of cattle; and three hundred minute-men drove a good many more to Newport, so saving them from being taken by Wallace and his men. "Wallace was very angry, ordered the people to make contributions to supply his fleet with provisions, and to force them to do so took care to prevent them from getting their usual supplies of fuel and provisions from the mainland. "The people were much alarmed, and about half of them left the town. Shortly afterward a treaty was made by which they engaged to supply the fleet with provisions and beer, and Wallace allowed them to move about as they pleased. But soon, however, he demanded three hundred sheep of the people of Bristol, and upon their refusal to comply, bombarded their town. "He began the bombardment about eight o'clock in the evening. The rain was pouring in torrents; and the poor women and children fled through the darkness and storm, out to the open fields to escape from the flying shot and shell of the invaders." "Oh, how dreadful for the poor things!" exclaimed Gracie. "Yes, there was great suffering among them," replied her father. "The house of Governor Bradford was burned, as also were many others. Wallace played the pirate in Narragansett Bay for a month, wantonly destroying the people's property, seizing every American vessel that entered Newport harbour and sending it to Boston,--which, as you will remember, was then occupied by the British general, Gage, and his troops,--plundering and burning all the dwellings on the beautiful island of Providence, and all the buildings near the ferry at Canonicut. "He kept possession of the harbour till the spring of 1776; but in April of that year some American troops came to try to drive him away. Captain Grimes brought two row-galleys, each carrying two eighteen-pounders, from Providence. Provincial troops brought two more eighteen-pounders and planted them on shore where the British, who were anchored about a mile above Newport, could see them. "Wallace evidently thought the danger too great and immediate, for he weighed anchor, and with his whole squadron sailed out of the harbour without firing a shot." "He must have been a coward like most men who revel in such cruelty," remarked Max sagely. "Not much like the Wallace of Scotland who fought the English so bravely in early times." "I quite agree with you in that thought, Max," his father said with a slight smile. "This Wallace was the same who, later in the war, plundered and destroyed the property of the Americans on the Hudson, desolating the farms of innocent men because they preferred freedom to the tyrannical rule of the English government, and laying the town of Kingston in ashes. "Soon after he sailed out of Narragansett Bay another British vessel called the 'Glasgow,' carrying twenty-nine guns, came into the harbour and anchored near Fort Island. She had just come out of a severe fight with some American vessels, held the same day that Wallace left Newport. Probably her officers thought he was still there so that their vessel would be safe in that harbour, but they soon discovered their mistake. The Americans threw up a breast-work on Brenton's Point, placed some pieces of heavy artillery there, and the next morning opened upon her and another vessel so vigorous a fire from their battery that they soon cut their cables and went out to sea again." CHAPTER XIX. "Had the land troops of the British gone away also, Captain?" asked Evelyn. "No," he replied. "Early in May the British troops left the houses of the town and returned to their camp. It was some relief to the poor, outraged people whose dwellings had been turned into noisy barracks, their pleasant groves, beautiful shade-trees and broad forests destroyed, their property taken from them, their wives and children exposed to the profanity, low ribaldry, and insults of the ignorant and brutal soldiery; but there was by no means entire relief; they were still plundered and insulted. "Clinton had gone to New York with about one half the troops, but a far worse tyrant held command in his place, Major-General Prescott by name; he was a dastardly coward when in danger, the meanest of petty tyrants when he felt it safe to be such, narrow minded, hard hearted and covetous,--anything but a gentleman. A more unfit man for the place could hardly have been found. "When he saw persons conversing together as he walked the streets, he would shake his cane at them and call out, 'Disperse, ye rebels!' Also, he would command them to take off their hats to him, and unless his order was instantly obeyed, enforce it by a rap with his cane." "That must have been hard indeed to bear," remarked Violet. "Yes," cried Max hotly. "I'd have enjoyed knocking him down." "Probably better than the consequences of your act," laughed his father; then went on: "Prescott was passing out of town one evening, going to his country quarters, when he overtook a Quaker, who of course did not doff his hat. Prescott was on horseback; he dashed up to the Quaker, pressed him up against a stone wall, knocked off his hat, and then put him under guard. "He imprisoned many citizens of Newport without giving any reason. One was a man named William Tripp, a very respectable citizen, who had a wife and a large and interesting family, with none of whom was he allowed to hold any communication. "But Tripp's wife had contrivance enough to open a correspondence with her husband by sending him a loaf of bread with a letter baked in the inside. Whether he could find means to send a reply I do not know, but it must have been some consolation to hear from her and his children. "While Tripp was still in prison she tried to see Prescott, to beg that her husband might be set free, or she allowed a personal interview with him. She was told to come again the next day. Her application had been made to a Captain Savage, the only person through whom she might hope to gain the coveted interview with Prescott; but when she again went to him, at the appointed time, he treated her very roughly, refusing her request to see the general, and as he shut the door violently in her face, telling her with fiendish exultation that he expected her husband would be hung as a rebel in less than a week." "Truly, his was a most appropriate name," remarked Grandma Elsie. "And did they hang the poor man, Papa?" asked Gracie. "I do not know, my darling," he answered, "but I hope not. Would you all like to hear something more about his persecutor, Prescott?" "Yes, sir, yes," came promptly from several young voices. "You may be sure," the Captain went on, "that the people of Newport grew very tired of their oppressor, and devised various plans for ridding themselves of him. None of these proved successful, but at length a better one was contrived and finally carried out by Lieutenant-Colonel Barton, of Providence. Lossing speaks of it as one of the boldest and most hazardous enterprizes undertaken during the war. It was accomplished on the night of the 10th of July, 1777. "At that time Prescott was quartered at the house of a Quaker named Overing, about five miles above Newport, on the west road leading to the ferry, at the north part of the island. "Barton's plan was to cross the bay under cover of the darkness, seize Prescott, and carry him off to the American camp. But it was a very dangerous thing to attempt, because three British frigates, with their guard-boats, were lying in the bay almost in front of Overing's house. But taking with him a few chosen men, in four whale-boats, with muffled oars, Barton embarked from Warwick Point at nine o'clock, passed silently between the islands of Prudence and Patience over to Rhode Island, hearing on the way the cry of the British sentries from their guard-boats, 'All's well.' "They--the Americans--landed in Coddington's Cove, at the mouth of a small stream which passed by Overing's. Barton divided his men into several squads, and assigned to each its station and duty. Then in the strictest order and profound silence they made their way to the house, the larger portion of them passing between a British guard-house and the encampment of a company of light-horse, while the rest of the party were to reach the same point by a circuitous route, approaching it from the rear, then to secure the doors. "As Barton and his men drew near the gate they were hailed by a sentinel stationed there. He hailed them twice, and then demanded the countersign. Barton answered, 'We have no countersign to give,' then quickly asked, 'Have you seen any deserters here to-night?' "That query allayed the sentinel's suspicions, so putting him off his guard, and the next moment he found himself seized, bound, and threatened with instant death if he attempted to give the alarm. "While Barton and his party had been thus engaged the division from the rear had secured the doors, and Barton now walked boldly into the front passage and on into a room where he found Mr. Overing, seated alone, reading, the rest of the family having already retired to their beds. "Barton asked for General Prescott's room, and Overing silently pointed to the ceiling, intimating that it was directly overhead. Barton then walked quietly up the stairs, four strong white men and a powerful negro named Sisson, accompanying him. He gently tried Prescott's door, but found it locked. There was no time to be lost; the negro drew back a couple of paces, and using his head for a battering-ram, burst open the door at the first effort. "Prescott, who was in bed, thought the intruders were robbers, and springing out, seized his gold watch which hung upon the wall. But Barton, gently laying a hand on his shoulder, said, 'You are my prisoner, sir, and perfect silence is your only safety.' "Prescott asked to be allowed to dress, but Barton refused, saying there was not time; for he doubtless felt that every moment of delay was dangerous to himself and his companions, and as it was a hot July night there was no need for his prisoner to fear taking cold. He therefore threw a cloak about him, placed him and his _aide_, Major Barrington (who, hearing a noise in the general's room, had taken the alarm and leaped from a window to make his escape, but only to be captured by the Americans) between two armed men, hurried them to the shore where the boats were in waiting, and quickly carried them over the water to Warwick Point. When they reached there Prescott ventured to break the silence that had been imposed upon him by saying to Colonel Barton, 'Sir, you have made a bold push to-night.' "'We have been fortunate,' replied Barton coolly. "Prescott and Barrington were then placed in a coach which Captain Elliott had waiting there for them, and taken to Providence, arriving there about sunrise." "I wonder," remarked Lulu, "if Prescott received the harsh treatment from our men that he deserved." "No," replied her father, "I am proud to be able to say that American officers rarely, if ever, treated their prisoners with anything like the harshness and cruelty usually dealt out by the British to theirs. Prescott was kindly treated by General Spencer and his officers, and shortly after his capture was sent to Washington's headquarters at Middlebrook, on the Raritan. "But it seems that at a tavern on the way he received something better suited to his deserts. At Lebanon a Captain Alden kept a tavern, and there Prescott and his escort stopped to dine. While they were at the table Mrs. Alden brought on a dish of succotash." "What's that, Papa?" queried little Elsie, who had climbed to her favourite seat upon her father's knee. "Corn and beans boiled together," he replied; "a dish that is quite a favourite with most people in that part of the country; but was, I presume, quite new to Prescott, and he exclaimed indignantly, 'What! do you treat me with the food of hogs?' Then taking the dish from the table he strewed its contents over the floor. "Some one presently carried the news of his doings to Captain Alden, and he walked into the dining-room armed with a horse-whip and gave Prescott a severe flogging." "I think it served him right," remarked Lulu, "for his insolence, and for wasting good food that somebody else would have been glad to eat." "Prescott must surely have been very badly brought up," said Rosie, "and was anything but a gentleman. I pity the poor Newport people if he was ever restored to his command there. Was he, brother Levis? I really have quite forgotten." "Unfortunately for them, he was," replied the Captain. "He was exchanged for General Charles Lee the next April, and returned to his former command. "While he was still there the Newport people sent a committee--Timothy Folger, William Rotch and Dr. Tupper--to him to arrange some matters concerning the town. They found some difficulty in gaining an interview; and when at length Folder and the doctor succeeded in so doing, Prescott stormed so violently at the former that he was compelled to withdraw. "After the doctor had told his errand and Prescott had calmed down, he asked, 'Wasn't my treatment of Folger very uncivil?' "The doctor answered in the affirmative, and Prescott went on to say, 'I will tell you the reason; he looked so much like a Connecticut man that horse-whipped me that I could not endure his presence.'" CHAPTER XX. There was time for only a brief stay in the cottages near Newport before the "Dolphin" must sail for Annapolis, in order that Max might be there in season for the examination of applicants for cadetship in the United States Navy. He had not changed his mind, but was looking forward with delight to the life that seemed to be opening before him; for he loved the sea, and thought no profession could be more honourable than that chosen by his father, who was in his eyes the impersonation of all that was noble, good, and wise. He was not sorry that his suspense in regard to acceptance would soon be ended, though both he and the other young people of the party would have liked to visit places in the neighbourhood of Newport made memorable by the occurrence of events in the Revolutionary War; but the Captain encouraged the hope that they would all be able to do so at some future time; also said they would find at Annapolis some souvenirs of the struggle for independence quite as well worth attention as those they were for the present leaving behind. So they started upon their southward way in excellent spirits, Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore accompanying them. On the first evening of their renewed voyage the young people gathered around the Captain and begged for some account of Revolutionary occurrences in the State they were now about to visit. "I will go back a little further than that," he said pleasantly, drawing Gracie to a seat upon his knee,--"to the action of the people of Maryland upon hearing of the passage of the Stamp Act. In August, 1765, there was a meeting at Annapolis of the 'Assertors of British American privileges' held 'to show their detestation of and abhorrence to some late tremendous attacks on liberty, and their dislike to a certain late arrived officer, a _native of this province_.' "The person to whom they referred was a Mr. Hood, who had been appointed stamp-master while in England shortly before. Dr. Franklin had recommended him for the place; but the people were so angry that no one would buy goods of him, though offered at a very low price. He learned that they intended to give him a coat of tar and feathers, but escaped to New York in time to save himself from that. "As they couldn't catch him they made an effigy of him, dressed it oddly, put it in a cart, like a malefactor, with some sheets of paper before it, and paraded it through the town, the bell tolling all the while. They then took it to a hill, punished it at the whipping post and pillory, hung it on the gibbet, then set fire to a tar-barrel underneath and burned it." "Oh," gasped Gracie, "how dreadful if it had been the man himself!" "But it wasn't, Gracie dear," laughed Lulu; "and if it had been, I'm not sure it was worse than he deserved." "But I suppose they had to use the stamps for all that,--hadn't they?" asked Rosie. "The people refused to use them, and for a time all business was at an end," said the Captain, going on with his narrative. "Governor Sharpe sent back some of the stamped paper which arrived in December, informing the colonial secretary of the proceedings of the people, and said that if they got hold of any stamped paper they would be pretty sure to burn it. "On the 31st of October the 'Maryland Gazette' appeared in mourning, and said, 'The times are Dreadful, Dismal, Doleful, Dolorous and Dollarless.' On the 10th of December the editor issued 'an apparition of the late "Maryland Gazette,"' and expressed his opinion that the odious Stamp Act would never be carried into effect. "There was great rejoicing when the intelligence reached Annapolis that the Act had been repealed. There were many manifestations of mirth and festivity; but, as you all know, that rejoicing was short-lived, for the king and his ministers continued their aggressions upon the liberties of the American people. "In the autumn of 1774 the people of Annapolis were greatly excited over the Boston Port Bill, and ripe for rebellion. They also resolved that no tea should be landed on their shores; and when on Saturday, October 15, the ship 'Peggy,' Captain Stewart, arrived from London, bringing among other things, seventeen packages of tea, the citizens were summoned to a general meeting. "It was the first arrival of tea since it had become a proscribed article. It was ascertained that it was consigned to T. C. Williams & Co., of Annapolis, that they had imported it, and that Antony Stewart, proprietor of the vessel, had paid the duty on it. This the meeting looked upon as an acknowledgement of the right claimed by King and Parliament to tax the tea brought to the colonies, and it was resolved not to permit the tea to be landed. "The people of the surrounding country were summoned to a meeting in the city, to be held on the following Wednesday. Mr. Stewart published a handbill of explanation of his connection with the affair, saying that he had no intention of violating the non-importation pledges, and regretted that the article had been placed on board his ship. "But the people had been deceived on former occasions, and knew that when men got into trouble they were apt to whine and pretend innocence; therefore they were more disposed to punish than forgive Mr. Stewart, and at their Wednesday meeting resolved to destroy the vessel with its packages of tea. "But Mr. Stewart, by the advice of some of his friends, decided to destroy the vessel and the tea himself, and did so. He ran the ship aground near Windmill Point and set her on fire. That satisfied the people and the crowd dispersed. "A historian of the time says, 'the destruction of tea at Boston has acquired renown as an act of unexampled daring, but the tea burning of Annapolis, which occurred the ensuing fall, far surpassed it in the apparent deliberation, and utter carelessness of concealment, attending the bold measures which led to its accomplishment.'" "Did the Americans hold any other such 'tea parties,' Papa?" asked Lulu with a humorous look. "Yes," he said; "in New York and New Jersey; but I will reserve the stories of those doings for another time, and go on now with what occurred in Maryland,--principally at Annapolis,--in the times now under consideration. "There was a small tea-burning at Elizabethtown--now called Hagerstown,--the Committee of Vigilance obliging a man named John Parks to go with his hat off and a lighted torch in his hand and set fire to a chest of tea in his possession. The committee also recommended entire non-intercourse with Parks; but that did not seem sufficient to the people, and they added to it the breaking of his doors and windows. It is said too, that tar and feathers were freely used in various places. "Maryland was not ready quite so soon as some of the other colonies to declare herself free and independent; but Charles Carroll, William Paca, Samuel Chase, and others, called county conventions, and used their influence to persuade their fellow-citizens of the wisdom and necessity of such a course, and on the 28th of June, the Maryland Convention empowered their delegates to concur with the other colonies in a declaration of independence. "As you all know, that declaration was drawn up and signed by Congress shortly afterward, and the men whose names I have mentioned were all among the signers." "Was there any fighting in or about Annapolis, Papa?" asked Lulu. "No," he said, "but it was frequently the scene of military displays." "I'd have liked that a great deal better if I had been there," remarked Gracie. "But won't you please tell us about them, Papa?" "I will," he answered, smiling upon her and softly smoothing her hair. "Washington passed through Annapolis on his way northward after the battle of Yorktown, which, as you will all remember, virtually ended our struggle for independence, though there was still fighting going on in different parts of the country. Business was suspended in Annapolis when Washington was known to be coming, and the people crowded streets and windows to gain a sight of the chief as he passed. A public address was made him, and everything done to show their appreciation, respect, and esteem. "Again he was there when, the war at an end, he resigned his commission as commander-in-chief of the American forces. "'The State House at Annapolis, now venerated because of the associations which cluster around it, was filled with the brave, the fair, and the patriotic of Maryland, to witness the sublime spectacle of that beloved chief resigning his military power wielded with such mighty energy and glorious results for eight long years into the hands of the civil authority which gave it,' says Lossing." "But why did Washington go to Maryland to do that, Papa?" asked Gracie. "Because the Continental Congress was then in session there," replied her father. "It was a most interesting scene which then took place in the Senate Chamber of the Capitol. The time was noon of the 23d of December, 1783. Beside the congressmen there were present the governor, council and legislature of Maryland, general officers, and the representative of France. Places were assigned to all these, while spectators filled the galleries and crowded the floor. "Bancroft tells, us that 'rising with dignity, Washington spoke of the rectitude of the common cause; the support of Congress; of his country-men; of Providence; and he commended the interests of our dearest country to the care of Almighty God. Then saying that he had finished the work assigned him to do, he bade an affectionate farewell to the august body under whose orders he had so long acted, resigned with satisfaction the commission which he had accepted with diffidence, and took leave of public life. His emotion was so great that, as he advanced and delivered up his commission, he seemed unable to have uttered more.' "Washington still stood while the president of Congress, turning pale from emotion, made a short address in reply, only a sentence or two of which I will quote:"-- "Having taught a lesson useful to those who inflict and those who feel oppression, with the blessings of your fellow-citizens you retire from the great field of action; but the glory of your virtues will continue to animate remotest ages. We join you in commending the interests of our dearest country to the protection of Almighty God, beseeching him to dispose the hearts and minds of its citizens to improve the opportunity afforded them of becoming a happy and respectable nation." "Which I think we have become," added Max, with satisfaction, as his father paused in his narrative. "By God's blessing upon the work of our pious forefathers," added the Captain, with a look of mingled gratitude and pride in the land of his birth. "I think we must all visit the State House when in Annapolis," remarked Grandma Elsie, who sat near and had been listening with almost as keen interest as that shown by the younger ones. "Certainly we must," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Some of us have been there before, but a second visit will not prove uninteresting, especially along with the young folks, to whom it will be quite new," and he glanced smilingly around upon the bright, eager faces. His suggestion was followed by expressions of pleasure in the prospect. Then the Captain was besieged with entreaties that he would go on with his account of things of historical interest to be found in Annapolis. "There is the little gallery in which Mrs. Washington and other ladies stood to witness the scene I have tried to describe," he continued. "It is said to be unchanged, as are also the doors, windows, cornices, and other architectural belongings. I confess it sent a thrill through me when I first saw them all, to think they were the very same which echoed the voice of the Father of his Country on that memorable occasion. "Also the very spot where Mifflin, the president, and Thomson, the secretary, of Congress sat when the treaty of peace with Great Britain was ratified, can be pointed out to the interested observer, which I certainly was." "It is a fine building," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, "much admired for its style of architecture and the beauty of its situation." "It is indeed," assented the Captain. "It is built of brick, has a fine dome, surmounted by two smaller ones, with a cupola of wood. As it stands upon an elevation in the centre of the city, there is a magnificent prospect from its dome. One sees the city and harbour, while far away to the southeast stretches Chesapeake Bay, with Kent Island and the eastern shore looming up in the distance." "I remember two incidents which I have heard were connected with the building of that State House," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore. "One is, that when the corner-stone was laid by Governor Eden, just as he struck it with a mallet a severe clap of thunder burst over the city out of a clear sky; the other, that the man who executed the stucco-work of the dome, fell from the scaffold and was killed just as he had completed his centre-piece." "Yes," the Captain said, "I have heard those incidents were traditional, but am not able to vouch for their truth." "Is there not a portrait of Washington there?" asked Violet. "Yes," replied her husband, "in the House of Delegates; it is a full-length likeness, and he is attended by La Fayette and Colonel Tilghman, the Continental army passing in review. It was painted by Peale as commemorative of the surrender at Yorktown, having been ordered by the Assembly of Maryland. "There are also full-length portraits of Carroll, Stone, Paca, and Chase on the walls of the Senate Chamber. The first two were painted by Sully, the other two by Bordley,--both native artists. There is also a full-length portrait of William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, in Roman costume. Peale painted that also, and presented it to Maryland, his native State, in 1794. The work was done in England, and is of a high order. "The only other portrait I recollect as being there is one of John Eager Howard, who, you doubtless remember, was one of the heroes of the Revolution." Favourable winds and weather enabled the "Dolphin" to reach her destination a day or two earlier than the Captain had expected, so giving our party a little more time for sight-seeing than they had hoped for. They made good use of it, going about and visiting all the places of interest. Almost the first that received their attention was the State House, with its mementos of the Revolutionary days, of which the Captain had been telling them. They lingered long over the portraits and in the Senate Chamber, where the Father of his Country had resigned his commission as commander-in-chief of the Continental armies. They ascended to the cupola also, and gazed with delight upon the beautiful landscape spread out at their feet,--Max manifesting great interest in the vessels lying in the harbour, particularly the practice-ship "Constellation" and the school-ship "Santee," and scarcely less in the monitor "Passaic" and the steam-sloop "Wyoming," swinging at their anchorage in the river. "Papa, can I visit them?" he asked. "Yes, my boy, I hope to take you to see them all," was the pleasant-toned reply. "I intend that you and all the party shall see everything that is worth their attention." "That's very kind of you, Captain," remarked Evelyn in a lively tone. "I for one am very desirous to see the Naval Academy, its grounds and the drills,--one at least. I so enjoyed seeing those on Gardiner's Island." "You shall," replied the Captain, with his pleasant smile. "It will give me pleasure to take any of you who wish to go." "I think that will be all of us," remarked Violet, with a bright and happy glance up into her husband's face. They were descending the stairs as they talked, and presently had all passed out into the State House grounds. There they met a gentleman in undress naval uniform who, coming forward with a look of extreme pleasure, warmly grasped the hand of Captain Raymond, calling him by name, and saying, "I do not know when I have had so agreeable a surprise." The Captain returned the salutation as warmly as it was given, then introduced the rest of his party, telling them that this friend of his was commander-commandant of cadets. At that Max's eyes opened very wide and fixed themselves upon the gentleman with as eager interest as if he had been a king. Captain Raymond noted it with a look of mingled amusement and pride in the lad. "This is my son Max, sir, a candidate for cadetship," he said, laying a hand affectionately upon Max's shoulder, "and I see he is much interested in this his first sight of one who will, he hopes, soon be his commander." "Ah! a son of yours, Raymond? But I might have guessed it from his striking likeness to his father," the commandant said in a pleased and interested tone, grasping the boy's hand warmly as he spoke. "I have little doubt that he will pass," he added with a smile, "for he should inherit a good mind, and he looks bright and intelligent,--his father's son mentally as well as physically." Max coloured with pleasure. "It is exactly what I want to be, sir," he said,--"as like my father as possible." And his eyes sought that father's face with a look of love and reverence that was pleasant to see. The Captain met it with a smile of fatherly affection. "One's children are apt to be partial judges," he said; then changing the subject of conversation, he stated the desire of those under his escort to see the Naval Academy and the Naval vessels lying at anchor in the harbour. The commandant, saying he had some hours at his disposal, undertook to be their escort; and thus they saw everything under the most favourable auspices. The drill of the artillery battalion seemed to Max and Lulu very similar to that they had witnessed at West Point, but was scarcely the less exciting and interesting. They watched it all with sparkling eyes and eager, animated looks, Max hoping soon to take part in it, and not at all regretting his choice of a profession. He was not a bashful lad, though by no means conceited or forward, and his father had assured him that if he retained his self-possession, not giving way to nervousness or fright, he was fully competent to pass. The boy had unbounded confidence in his father's word, which helped him to so fully retain his self-possession that he found little or no difficulty in answering every question put to him,--for the Captain had been very careful to drill him perfectly, making him thorough in all the branches required,--and passed most successfully. He was also pronounced by the examining physician physically sound and of robust constitution. He was accepted, took the oath of allegiance, and felt himself several inches taller than before. Captain Raymond attended to all the business matters, saw the room and room-mate selected for his son, and did all that could be done to secure the boy's comfort and welfare. The parting from Mamma Vi, his sisters, and baby brother was quite hard for the lad's affectionate heart, but he managed to go through it almost without shedding tears, though one or two would come when Gracie clung weeping about his neck; but the last, the final farewell to his father, was hardest of all. In vain he reminded himself that it was not a final separation, that he might hope for long visits at home at some future time, that letters would pass frequently between them, and a visit be paid him now and then by that dearly loved, honoured, and revered parent; just now he could only remember that the daily, hourly intercourse he had found so delightful was over, probably forever in this world. The Captain read it all in his boy's speaking countenance, and deeply sympathized with his son; indeed his own heart was heavy over the thought that this, his first-born and well-beloved child was now to pass from under his protecting care and try the world for himself. He felt that he must bestow upon him a few more words of loving, fatherly counsel. They were leaving together the hotel where the remainder of their party were domiciled for the present. "Max, my son," he said kindly, looking at his watch as he spoke, "we have still more than an hour to spend as we like before you must be at the Academy. Shall we spend it on board the yacht?" "Yes, sir, if you can spare the time to me," answered the lad, making a great effort to speak brightly and cheerfully. "Then we will go there," the Captain said, giving his son an affectionate look and smile. "I can find no better use for the next hour than devoting it to a little talk with my first-born, on whom I have built so many hopes." A few minutes later they were sitting side by side in the "Dolphin's" cabin, no human creature near to see or overhear what might pass between them. For a little while there was silence, each busy with his own thoughts. It was Max who ended it at last. "Papa," he said brokenly, his hand creeping into his father's, "you--you have been such a good, _good_ father to me; and--and I want to be a credit and comfort to you. I"-- But there he broke down completely, and the next moment--neither ever knew exactly how it came about--he was sobbing in his father's arms. "I--I wish I'd been a better boy, Papa," he went on, "it 'most breaks my heart to think now of the pain and trouble I've given you at times." "My boy, my dear, dear boy," the Captain said in moved tones, pressing the lad to his heart, "you have been a great joy and comfort to me for years past, and words would fail me to tell how dear you are to your father's heart. It seems scarcely longer ago than yesterday that I first held my dear boy in my arms, and prayed God that if his life was spared he might grow up into a good, useful, Christian man, a blessing to his parents, to the church, and to the world. Oh, my boy, never be afraid or ashamed to own yourself one who fears God and tries to keep his commandments, who loves Jesus, trusts in Him for salvation from sin and death, and tries to honour Him in all his words and ways. Strive to keep very near to the Master, Max, and to honour Him in all things. Never be ashamed to own yourself His disciple, His servant, and Him as your Lord and King. Remember His words, 'Whosoever therefore shall be ashamed of me and of my words, in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him shall also the Son of man be ashamed when He cometh in the glory of His Father with the holy angels.' Doubtless it will at times bring the ridicule of your companions upon you, but he is only a coward who can not bear that when undeserved; and what is it compared to Christ's sufferings on the cross for you?" "Oh, Papa, nothing, nothing at all compared to what Jesus bore for me! He will give me strength to be faithful in confessing Him before men, and your prayers will help me, too." "Yes, my boy, and you may be sure that you will be ever on your father's heart, which will be often going up in prayer to God for a blessing on his absent son. It is to me a joyful thought that He is the hearer and answerer of prayer, and will be ever near my son, to keep him in the hour of trial and temptation, though I may know nothing of his danger or distress. "Let us kneel down now and ask Him to be your guard and guide through all life's journey, to help you to be His faithful servant in all things, and to bring you safe to heaven at last." They knelt side by side, and in a few well chosen words the Captain commended his beloved son to the care, the guardianship, and the guidance of the God of his fathers, asking that he might be a faithful follower of Jesus through all life's journey, and afterward spend an eternity of bliss in that happy land where sin and sorrow and partings are never known. A hearty embrace followed, some few more words of fatherly counsel and advice, then they left the vessel, wended their way to the Naval Academy and parted for the time, the Captain comforting the heart of the more than half homesick lad with the promise of a visit from him at no very distant day and frequent letters in the mean time. The "Dolphin" was to sail northward again that evening; and as Max watched his father out of sight it required a mighty effort to keep back the tears from his eyes at the thought that he should behold that noble form and dearly loved face no more for months or--"Oh, who could say that some accident might not rob him forever of his best and dearest earthly friend?" But he struggled with himself, turned resolutely about, and entered into lively chat with some of his new comrades, all the while the cheering thought in his heart that nothing could separate him from the presence and loving care of his heavenly Father; also that he surely would be permitted, before many months had passed, to see again the dear earthly one he so loved and honoured. And in the meanwhile he was resolved to do everything in his power to win that father's approbation, and make him proud and happy in his first-born son. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation errors were corrected. 
46010	----	ELSIE'S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS BY MARTHA FINLEY [Illustration] NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY Publishers Copyright, 1895, BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY. _All rights reserved._ CHAPTER I. After her return from the trip across the lake with the bridal party, the _Dolphin_ lay at anchor near the White City for a week or more; there were so many interesting and beautiful exhibits at the Fair still unseen by them that Captain Raymond, his family, and guests scarce knew how to tear themselves away. At the breakfast table on the morning after their arrival, they, as usual, considered together the question where the day should be spent. It was soon evident that they were not all of one mind, some preferring a visit to one building, some to another. "I should like nothing better than to spend some hours in the Art Palace, examining paintings and statuary," said Violet, "and I have an idea that mamma would enjoy doing the same," looking enquiringly at her mother as she finished her sentence. "In which you are quite right," responded Grandma Elsie. "There is nothing I enjoy more than pictures and statuary such as may be found there." "And I am sure your father and I can echo that sentiment," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore, with a smiling glance at her husband. "Very true, my dear," he said. "Then that is where we shall go," said the captain. "That includes your four children, I suppose, papa?" remarked Lucilla, half enquiringly, half in assertion. "Unless one or more of them should prefer to remain at home--here on the yacht," he replied. "How about that, Neddie, my boy?" "Oh, papa, I don't want to stay here! Please let me go with you and mamma," exclaimed the little fellow, with a look of mingled alarm and entreaty. "You certainly shall, if you want to, my son," returned his father. "I am happy to say that my little boy has been very good and given no unnecessary trouble in visiting the Fair thus far. And I can say the same of my little Elsie and her older sisters also," he added, with an affectionate look from one to another. "Thank you, papa," said Lucilla and Grace, the latter adding, "I think it would be strange indeed should we ever intentionally and willingly give trouble to such a father as ours." "I don't intend ever to do that," said little Elsie earnestly, and with a loving upward look into her father's face. "I am glad to hear it, dear child," he returned, with an appreciative smile. "I, too," said her mother. "Well, we will make quite a party, even if all the rest choose to go elsewhere." The Art Palace was a very beautiful building of brick and steel; its style of architecture Ionic of the most classic and refined type. It was very large: 320 feet wide by 500 feet in length, with an eastern and western annex, a grand nave and transept 160 feet wide and 70 feet high intersecting it, and that surmounted by a dome very high and wide, and having upon its apex a winged figure of Victory. From this dome the central section was flooded with light, and here was a grand collection of sculpture and paintings, in which every civilized nation was represented, the number of pieces shown being nearly twenty-five thousand. It was the largest art exhibition ever made in the history of the world. It was not strange, therefore, that though our friends had been in the building more than once before, they still found an abundance of fine works of art which were well worth attentive study, and as entirely new to them as though they had been but just placed there. Little Elsie was particularly attracted, and her curiosity was excited by an oil painting among the French exhibits of Joan of Arc listening to the voices. "Is there a story to it?" she asked of her grandma, who stood nearest to her at the moment. "Yes, dear; and if you want to hear it, I shall tell it to you when we go back to the _Dolphin_," was the kindly rejoinder, and the child, knowing that Grandma Elsie's promises were sure to be kept, said no more at the moment, but waited patiently until the appointed time. As usual, she and Neddie were ready for a rest sooner than the older people, and were taken back to the yacht by their father, Grandma Elsie and Grace accompanying them, saying that they, too, were weary enough to enjoy sitting down with the little folks for an hour or so. "Oh, I'm glad grandma's going too!" cried Ned, and Elsie added, with a joyous look, "So am I, grandma, but I'm very sorry you are tired." "Do not let that trouble you, dearest," returned Mrs. Travilla, with a loving smile. "You know if I were not tired I should miss the enjoyment of resting." "And there is enjoyment in that," remarked the captain; "yet I regret, mother, that your strength is not sufficient to enable you to see and enjoy all the beautiful sights here, which we may never again have an opportunity to behold." "Well, captain, one cannot have everything in this world," returned Grandma Elsie, with a contented little laugh, "and it is a real enjoyment to me to sit on the deck of the _Dolphin_ with my dear little grandchildren about me, and entertain them with such stories as will both interest and instruct them." "Oh, are you going to tell us the story of that picture I asked you about, grandma?" queried little Elsie, with a look of delight. "What picture was that?" asked her father, who had not heard what passed between the lady and the child while gazing together upon Maillart's painting. Mrs. Travilla explained, adding, "I suppose you have no objection to my redeeming my promise?" "Oh, no! not at all; it is a historical story, and I do not see that it can do them any harm to hear it, sadly as it ends." They had reached the yacht while talking, and presently were on board and comfortably seated underneath the awning on the deck. Then the captain left them, and Grandma Elsie, noting the look of eager expectancy on little Elsie's face, at once began the coveted tale. "The story I am about to tell you," she said, "is of things done and suffered more than four hundred years ago. At that time there was war between the English and French. The King of England, not satisfied with his own dominions, wanted France also and claimed it because his mother was the daughter of a former French king; so he sent an army across the Channel into France to force the French to take him for their king, instead of their own monarch." "Didn't the French people want to have the English king to be theirs too, grandma?" asked Elsie. "No, indeed! and so a long, long war followed, and a great many of both the French and English were killed. "At that time there was a young peasant girl named Joan, a modest, industrious, pious girl, who loved her country and was distressed over the dreadful war going on in it. She longed to help to drive the English away; but it did not seem as if she--a girl of fifteen, who could neither read nor write, though she could sew and spin and work out in the fields and gardens--could do anything to help to rid her dear land of the invaders. But she thought a great deal about it and at length imagined that she heard heavenly voices calling to her to go and fight for her king." "And that was the picture that we saw to-day, grandma?" asked Elsie. "But it wasn't really true?" "No, dear; probably Joan of Arc, as she is called, really imagined she heard them, and the painter has imagined how they might have looked." "Then it isn't real," remarked the little girl, in a tone of disappointment. "No, not what the picture represents; but the story of what poor Joan of Arc, or the Maid of Orleans, as she is often called, thought and did is true. When she told her story of the voices speaking to her no one believed it; they thought she was crazy. But she was not discouraged. She went to her king, or rather the dauphin, for he had not been crowned, and told her story to him and his council--that God had revealed to her that the French troops would succeed in driving the enemy away from the city of Orleans, which they were besieging at that time. "The dauphin listened, believed what she told him, and gave her leave to dress herself in male attire and go with the troops, riding on a white palfrey and bearing a sword and a white banner. The soldiers believed in her, and in consequence were filled with such courage and enthusiasm that they fought very bravely and soon succeeded in driving the English away from Orleans. "This success so delighted the French, and so raised their hope of ridding France of her enemies, that they won victory after victory, driving the English out of one province after another, and even out of Paris itself, so that the English hated and dreaded poor Joan. "She conducted the dauphin to Rheims, where he was crowned, and she wept for joy as she saluted him as king. Then she wanted to go home, thinking her work was done; but King Charles begged her to stay with the army, and to please him she did. But she began to have fearful forebodings because she no longer heard the voices. Yet she remained with the French army and was present at a good many battles, till at length she was taken prisoner by the Burgundians and sold to the English for a large sum by the Burgundian officer." "Oh, grandma! and did the English hurt her for fighting for her own dear country?" "I cannot say certainly," replied Mrs. Travilla; "accounts differ, some saying that she was put to death as a heretic and sorceress; others that some five or six years later she arrived at Metz, was at once recognized by her two brothers, and afterward married." "Oh, I hope that is the true end of the story!" exclaimed Elsie. "It would be so dreadful to have her put to death for helping to save her dear country." "So it would," said Grace; "but in those early times such dreadful, dreadful deeds used to be done. I often feel thankful that I did not live in those days." "Yes," said Mrs. Travilla, "we may well be full of gratitude and love to God our Heavenly Father that our lot has been cast in these better times and in our dear land." "And that we have our dear, kind grandma to love," said Neddie, nestling closer to her, "and our papa and mamma. Some little children haven't any." "No, I had no mother when I was your age, Ned," sighed Grandma Elsie, "and I cannot tell you how much I used to long for her when Aunt Chloe would tell me how sweet and lovely she had been, and how sorry she was to leave her baby." "Her baby? was that you, grandma?" he asked, with a wondering look up into her face. "Yes," she replied, with a smile, and stroking his hair caressingly. "But you had a papa? grandpa is your papa, isn't he? I hear you call him that sometimes." "Yes, he is; my dear father and your mamma's grandfather, which makes him yours too." "Mine, too," said little Elsie, in a tone of satisfaction. "Oh, see! here comes the boat with Evelyn and Uncle Walter in it!" "You are early to-night as well as ourselves," remarked Grace, as they stepped upon the deck and drew near the little group already gathered there. "Yes," returned Evelyn, "I was tired, and Walter kindly brought me home. The yacht seems like a home to me nowadays," she added, with a light laugh. "Yes," said Grace; "I am sure papa likes to have us all feel that it is a home to us at present." "And a very good and comfortable one it is," remarked Walter, handing Evelyn to a seat, then taking one himself opposite her and near his mother's side. "Where have you two been? and what have you seen that is worth telling about?" asked Grace. "Visiting buildings," returned Walter; "Brazil, Turkey, Hayti, Sweden, and lastly Venezuela." "And what did you see there?" "In Venezuela's exhibit? Christopher Columbus and General Bolivar--that is, their effigies--specimens of birds, animals, minerals, preserves, spices, coffee, vegetables, fine needlework, some manufactured goods, and--most interesting of all, we thought--the flag carried by Pizarro in his conquest of Peru." "Pizarro? who was he? and what did he do, Uncle Wal?" asked little Elsie. "He was a very, very bad man and did some very, very wicked deeds," replied Walter. "Did he kill people?" "Yes, that he did; and got killed himself at last. The Bible says, 'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed,' and there have been a great many examples of it in the history of the world." "Does God say that, Uncle Walter?" asked Neddie. "Yes; God said it to Noah, shortly after he and his family came out of the ark." "When the flood was over?" "Yes." "Please tell us about that flag and the bad man that carried it," urged little Elsie, and Walter complied. "Pizarro was a Spaniard," he began, "a very courageous, but covetous and cruel man; very ignorant, too; he could neither read nor write. He was a swineherd in his youth, but gave up that occupation and came over to America to seek a fortune in this new world. He crossed the Isthmus of Panama with Balboa and discovered the Pacific Ocean. While there he heard rumors of a country farther south, where gold and silver were said to be as abundant as iron in Spain, and he was seized with a great desire to go there and help himself to as much as possible. So he and another fellow named Almagro, and Luque, a priest, put their money together and fitted out a small expedition, of which Pizarro took command. "They did not go very far that time, but afterward tried it again, first making an agreement that all they got of lands, treasures, and other things, vassals included, should be divided equally between them. "They set sail in two ships. They really reached Peru, and when Pizarro went back to Panama he carried with him many beautiful and valuable ornaments of gold and silver which the kind-hearted natives had given him, also specimens of cloth made of wool and having a silky appearance and brilliant color, and some llamas, or alpacas." "They had certainly treated him very kindly," remarked Grace, as Walter paused for a moment in his narrative. "Yes; and what a mean wretch he must have been to want to rob them of everything--even to life, liberty, and happiness. He was determined to do that as soon as possible; so determined that, not being able to find enough volunteers in Panama, he went all the way back to Spain (a far greater undertaking then than it would be now), told the story of his discoveries before the king, Charles V., and his ministers; describing the wealth of the countries and showing the goods and ornaments he had brought from them. "Then they gave him--what was not theirs to give--permission to conquer Peru, and the titles of governor and captain-general of that country. He on his part agreed to raise a certain number of troops, and to send to the King of Spain one-fifth of all the treasures he should obtain. He then returned to Panama and soon set sail for Peru again." "With a great many soldiers, Uncle Wal?" queried little Ned. "No; with what in these days would be considered a very small army; only 180 soldiers, of whom 27 were cavalry." "Cavalry?" repeated Ned, in a tone of enquiry. "Yes, soldiers on horseback. The Peruvians, having never before seen a horse, took each mounted man and the steed he rode to be but one animal, and were much afraid of them. The firearms, too, inspired great terror, as they knew nothing of gunpowder and its uses. "At that time there was war among the natives of Peru and Quito. Huano Capac, the former Inca of Peru, had died some years previous, leaving Peru to his son Huascar, and Quito, which he had conquered shortly before, to another son--half-brother to Huascar. The two had quarrelled and had been fighting each other for about two years, and just before the arrival of the Spaniards Atahualpa had defeated his brother Huascar, taken him prisoner, and confined him in a strong fortress." "Perhaps," remarked Evelyn, "if they had not been so busy fighting each other they might have discovered the approach of Pizarro, their common enemy, in season to prevent the mischief he was prepared to do them." "Very possibly," returned Walter. "As it was, the Spaniards drew near Atahualpa's victorious camp, where they found fifty thousand men assembled. Pizarro had at the most only two hundred; a mere handful in comparison with the numbers of the Peruvians, but by a most daring and diabolical stratagem he got possession of the unsuspecting Inca. "Atahualpa came to visit him in a friendly spirit. A priest began explaining to him the Christian, or rather the papal religion; told him that the Pope had power over all the kingdoms of the earth and that he had presented Peru to the King of Spain; also that they had come to take possession in the name of that king. "Naturally that made Atahualpa very angry; so angry that he indignantly interrupted the priest, saying that the Pope--whoever he was--must be a crazy fool to talk of giving away countries which did not belong to him. Then he asked on what authority such claims were made. "The priest pointed to a Bible. Atahualpa dashed it angrily to the ground, and the fields began to fill with Indians. Then Pizarro waved a white scarf--the signal he had agreed upon with his men--and his artillery poured sudden death into the terrified masses of Indians, while the Spanish cavalry rode them down in a furious, merciless way. The ranks of the poor, unarmed Peruvians were thrown into confusion; their foes were butchering them without mercy; they could do little to save themselves; they used every effort to defend and save the sacred Inca, but in vain; and after hours of that fiendish murdering of the poor, defenceless creatures, the Spaniards got full possession of him. "At first they pretended to be very kind to him, especially when he offered, as his ransom, to fill the room in which he stood with gold as high as he could reach. "Huascar, in his prison, heard of this and offered a still larger ransom for himself, and to prevent it Atahualpa had him secretly murdered. "Soon after that the gold for Atahualpa's ransom began to pour in, and when there was as much as he had promised he demanded his freedom. But Pizarro refused to let him go--though he took the gold--accusing him of plotting against him; and after much base treachery the Spaniards held a mock trial and condemned Atahualpa to be burned. But when they led him out to the stake he consented to be baptized, and for that they were so very merciful as to strangle before burning him." "Oh, Uncle Walter, what cruel, cruel men!" exclaimed little Elsie. "They were, indeed," sighed her grandma. "The Bible tells us 'the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.' Pizarro and his band were very, very wicked men. They had no more right to the country of the Peruvians than the Peruvians would have had to theirs, had they crossed the ocean to Spain and seized upon it for their own. 'All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword,' our Saviour said, and how true it proved in the case of these men of whom we have been talking! Atahualpa caused his brother Huascar to be killed; Pizarro, Almagro, and the others killed Atahualpa; Pizarro afterward killed Almagro; and later on Pizarro was himself slain by Almagro's son Diego." CHAPTER II. Ned had begun to nod, and Elsie's eyes drooped as if she too were in need of a nap; perceiving which Grandma Elsie bade their nurse take them to their berth. A light breeze had sprung up, and it was very pleasant on deck in the shade of the awning; while, resting upon couches or in easy chairs, they talked in a quiet way of the various interesting exhibits to which they had given their attention since leaving the yacht that morning. "We visited the Illinois Building," said Evelyn, "and were very much interested in the wonderful grain picture there. It is an ideal prairie farm--with farmhouse, barn, stock-sheds, all made of corn-husks as well as the picket fence surrounding it; there are stock and poultry in the barnyard; there is a windmill too, and there are fields and cattle." "Yes," said Walter, as Eva paused in her account, "and the perspective showed fields of grass and grain, pasture too, and sky effects--all made of natural grains, grasses, leaves, and berries indigenous to Illinois." "Oh, I think I must get papa to take us to see it!" exclaimed Grace. "There is a curtain that partly covers the picture," continued Walter; "it is made of the same materials and caught up by a rope with tassels made of yellow corn. "We visited the Idaho Building too," he went on, "and I think you should all see it. It is really picturesque--a log-house on a foundation of lava and basaltic rock. The timbers we were told are from young cedar trees, stuffed and stained to produce the effect of age; then it has fine upper and lower balconies shaded by a projecting roof upheld by brackets of logs. I heard people remarking that it was the handsomest log-house ever built, and certainly I never saw any other nearly so handsome." "Ah, here comes the boat again with the rest of our folks!" exclaimed Grace, and springing to his feet, Walter hastened to the side of the vessel to assist the ladies in getting on board. "Well, Lu, have you had a good time since I left you?" asked Grace, in a lively tone, as her sister drew near. "Yes; yes, indeed!" returned Lucilla; "we have seen and enjoyed a great deal, and I wouldn't have missed it on any account, though we are all very tired, I think. I am, I know," she concluded, dropping into a seat by Grace's side. "As we all are," said Violet. "I am glad, mamma, that you came back to the yacht when you did." "Yes, I thought it wiser not to allow myself to become very weary before taking rest; and we have had a pleasant, quiet time here together," returned Grandma Elsie, looking up with an affectionate smile into the face of her father, who had just drawn near and was standing by her side, regarding her with a slightly anxious look. "I am glad you were so prudent," he said, "for you have not been over strong since that illness that made us all so anxious." "No; and we all feel that we must be very careful of our dear mother," remarked the captain, who had just joined the little group. "Of Gracie also," he added, smiling down into her face and laying a caressing hand for a moment on her head. "Are you feeling very tired, daughter?" "Not so very much now, papa," she answered brightly; "we have been resting nicely here, talking over the sights and historical stories connected with them." Then, turning to her sister, "Tell us where you have been and what you have seen since we left the party, Lu," she requested. "Ah, I am afraid I cannot begin to tell all," returned Lucilla, in a lively tone and with a pleased little laugh, "for 'their name is legion'; the loveliest pictures and statuary in the Fine Arts Building, and a great variety of curious and interesting things in Machinery Hall. We went up to the gallery there and took a ride in the travelling crane. It is like an elevated railroad, is moved by electricity, and runs the whole length of the building, twenty or thirty feet above the floor. We stepped in at one end and sat down upon chairs ranged along the front edge, and it was really entertaining to watch the crowds of people moving along the floors below, and to get at last a glance at the exhibits." "Exhibits!" echoed Grace. "Of what kind? Oh, machines, of course! But I should hardly expect them to be very interesting." "Machines for making ice cream and candy would interest you, wouldn't they?" asked Lulu. "Perhaps the hot baths, too; though I suppose you wouldn't care much about printing-presses, rock-drills, sewing-machines, washing-machines, looms, and the like. I own I didn't care over much for them myself. But in the restful, cooling, breezy ride, with nothing to do but watch the goings on of other people, and a glance now and then at something interesting as we glided past it, I did find a good deal of enjoyment. Ah," drawing out her pretty little watch and glancing at its face, "I must excuse myself now and go to my stateroom; for I see it is nearly meal time, and my hair and dress certainly need some attention;" and with that she left them. Mr. Dinsmore and the captain, wishing to look at some exhibits in which the ladies took but little interest, went ashore again early in the evening; leaving Mrs. Dinsmore, Mrs. Travilla, and the younger ones occupying the comfortable seats on the _Dolphin's_ deck, and enjoying the cool evening breeze and the somewhat distant view of the beauties of the brilliantly illuminated White City, as well as that of the starry heavens above them. Violet had gone down to the cabin with her children to see them safely in bed, and for some minutes no one left in the little group behind had spoken. But presently Grace broke the silence. "I have just been thinking what a wonderful change has come over this part of our country since the war of 1812. I remember that history tells us there was only a fort and a trading post here then, where now this great city stands, and that it was destroyed. Grandma Elsie, don't you want to tell us the whole story?" she concluded in a coaxing tone. "I am willing, if you all wish it," was the sweet-toned reply, immediately followed by an eager assent from everyone present. "Well, then, my dears," she said, "to begin at the beginning--this spot, we are told, was first visited by a white man in 1674. He was a French Jesuit called Father Marquette. He built a cabin there and planted a missionary station. Eleven years afterward his cabin was replaced by a fort. I do not know how long that fort stood, but Lossing tells us that in 1796 a mulatto from St. Domingo found his way to that far-off wilderness, and that the Indians said of him 'the first white man who settled here was a negro.' He did not stay very long, however, and the improvements he had made fell into the hands of the next comer, who was a native of Quebec named John Kinzie. "He was an enterprising trader with the Indians, and for twenty years the only white man in northern Illinois except a few American soldiers. It was in 1804 that he made Chicago his home, and on the Fourth of July of that year a fort our government had been building there was formally dedicated and called Fort Dearborn, in honor of the then Secretary of War. It stood on a slight elevation on the south bank of the Chicago River, about half a mile from its mouth, and directly opposite, on the north bank, stood Mr. Kinzie's dwelling. It was a modest mansion begun by Jean Baptiste, and enlarged by Mr. Kinzie. He had some Lombardy poplars planted in front within an enclosed yard, and at the back a fine garden and growing orchard. "There he had lived in peace and prosperity, esteemed and confided in by the surrounding Indians, for eight years, when in June of 1812 war was declared by our government with Great Britain. Of course you all know and remember what were the causes of that second struggle with our mother country?" "Indeed we do, mother," exclaimed Walter. "She interfered with our commerce, capturing every American vessel bound to, or returning from a port where her commerce was not favored; and worse still, was continually seizing our sailors and forcing them into her service; depriving us of our God-given rights and making slaves of freemen. If ever a war was justifiable on one side that one was on ours. Is it not so?" "I think it is, my son," replied Grandma Elsie, smiling slightly at the lad's heat. "Was Fort Dearborn strong and well built, mamma?" queried Rosie. "Yes; it was strongly picketed, had a block-house at each of two angles on the southern side, on the north side a sally-port and covered way that led down to the river for the double purpose of obtaining water during a siege and of having a way of escape should that be desirable at any time--and was strongly picketed. "The fort was built by Major Whistler, his soldiers dragging all the timber to the spot because they had no oxen. Some material was furnished from Fort Wayne, but so economically was the work done that the fortress did not cost the government fifty dollars. "But to return to my story--the garrison there at the time of the declaration of war consisted of fifty-four men. The only other residents of the post at that time were the wives of Captain Heald and Lieutenant Helm, the second in command, those of some of the soldiers, a few Canadians with their wives and children, and Mr. Kinzie and his family. "They were all on the most friendly terms with the principal tribes of Indians in that neighborhood--the Pottawatomies and Winnebagoes, yet they could not win them from their attachment for the British, who yearly made them large presents as bribes to secure their alliance. Portions of their tribes had been engaged in the battle of Tippecanoe, fought the previous autumn, and since that some of the leading chiefs had seemed sullen, and suspicions of intended hostility on their part at times troubled the minds of the officers of the fort. "One day in the spring of 1812 two Indians of the Calumet band were at the fort, and seeing Mrs. Helm and Mrs. Heald playing at battledore, one of them, named Nan-non-gee, turned to the interpreter with the remark, 'The white chiefs' wives are amusing themselves very much; it will not be long before they will be living in our cornfields.'" "Oh!" cried Grace, "I should think that ought to have been enough to warn the officers of the fort to make every preparation to repel an assault by the Indians." "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, "but Heald seems to have been strangely blind and deaf to every kind of warning. "On the evening of the 7th of April, 1812, Mr. Kinzie sat by his fireside playing his violin, his children dancing to the music, when their mother, who had been attending a sick neighbor, a Mrs. Burns, living half a mile above the fort, came rushing wildly in crying out: 'The Indians! the Indians!' 'What? where?' exclaimed her husband. 'Up at Lee's, killing and scalping!' she gasped in reply, and went on to tell that the alarm had been given by a boy, the son of Mr. Lee, and a discharged soldier who had been working for them. They had shouted the dreadful tidings across the river to the Burns family, as they ran down the farther side, Mr. Lee's place being between two and three miles farther up the stream. "Not a moment was to be lost. Mr. Kinzie hurried his family into two pirogues moored in front of his house, and hastened with them across the river and into the fort. The alarm had reached there also, and a scow with Ensign Ronan and six men started at once up the river to rescue the Burns family. Also a cannon was fired to give notice of danger to a party of soldiers who were out fishing. Mrs. Burns and her family, including an infant not yet a day old, were taken safely to the fort." "I hope those soldiers got back safely too," said Grace. "Yes; they were two miles above Lee's; it was already dark when they returned, and in passing his house they came upon the bodies of murdered and scalped persons, which were the next day recovered and buried near the fort. It was afterward learned that the scalping party were Winnebagoes from Rock River, who had come with the intention of killing every white person outside of the fort, but were frightened away by the sound of the cannon before they had finished their fiendish work; so fled back to their homes. "In those days an agency house stood upon the esplanade, about twenty rods west from the fort, and in it all the whites not belonging to the garrison now took refuge. It was an old-fashioned log-house, with a passage through the centre, and piazzas in front and rear extending the whole length of the building. These were planked up, port-holes cut in the barricades and sentinels were posted there every night. "Hostile Indians hovered around the post for some time, helping themselves to whatever they could lay their hands upon, but at length disappeared, and for a while there was no further alarm. "On the 7th of August, toward evening, a friendly Pottawatomie chief, named Win-ne-meg, or the Catfish, came to Chicago from Fort Wayne as the bearer of a despatch from General Hull to Captain Heald. In that despatch Hull told of the declaration of war with England, the invasion of Canada, and the loss of Mackinack. It also ordered Captain Heald to evacuate Fort Dearborn, if practicable; and if he did so to distribute all the United States property there among the Indians in the neighborhood." "Including guns, powder, and balls with which to kill the whites!" said Lucilla. "I think I should have concluded from such an order that Hull must be either a traitor or an idiot." "His idea," said Grandma Elsie, "seems to have been to make a peace-offering to the savages to induce them to refrain from joining the British, then menacing Detroit. "Win-ne-meg, who had some knowledge of the contents of the missive he brought, begged Mr. Kinzie, with whom he was intimate, to advise Captain Heald not to evacuate the fort, assuring him it would prove a difficult and dangerous movement; for the Indians had already received information from Tecumseh of the disasters to the American arms and the withdrawal of Hull's army from Canada, and were growing insolent and restless. The fort was well supplied with ammunition and provisions sufficient to last for six months; by the end of that time relief might be sent, and why not hold out till then? But if Heald was resolved to evacuate, it had better be done at once, before the Indians should be informed of the order, and so be prepared to make an attack. "Win-ne-meg's advice in that case was to leave the stores as they were, allowing them to make distribution for themselves; for while they were engaged in that business the white people might make their way in safety to Fort Wayne. "Mr. Kinzie perceived that this was wise advice, as did the officers of the fort, with the exception of Heald, who would not listen to it, but expressed himself as resolved to yield strict obedience to Hull's orders as to evacuation and the distribution of the public property. "The next morning Hull's order was read to the troops, and Heald took the whole responsibility of carrying it out. His officers expected to be summoned to a council, but they were not. Toward evening they called upon the commander and remonstrated with him. They said that the march must necessarily be slow on account of the women, children, and infirm persons, therefore, under the circumstances, exceedingly perilous. They reminded him that Hull's order left it to his discretion to go or to stay; adding that they thought it much wiser to strengthen the fort, defy the savages, and endure a siege until help could reach them. "But Heald replied that he should expect the censure of the government if he remained, for special orders had been issued by the War Department that no post should be surrendered without battle having been given by the assailed; and his force was entirely too small to hazard an engagement with the Indians. He added that he had full confidence in the professions of friendship of many chiefs about him, and he would call them together, make the required distribution, then take up his march for Fort Wayne." "And did the other officers submit to him then, Grandma Elsie?" asked Grace. "Yes; my dear, he was in authority, and I presume they were too loyal to oppose him. But being determined to abandon the fort, he should have done so at once; for delay was certainly increasing the danger, the Indians becoming more unruly every hour; yet he procrastinated and did not call them together for the final arrangements for two or three days. "At last that was done and they met near the fort on the afternoon of the 12th, when Heald held a farewell council with them. He invited his officers to join him in that, but they refused. In some way they had been informed that treachery was intended on the part of the Indians, that they had planned to murder them and then destroy those who were in the fort. Therefore they remained inside the pickets and opened a port-hole of one of the block-houses so that the Indians could see a cannon pointing directly toward their group, thus protecting Captain Heald. It had the desired effect; no effort was made by the savages to carry out their treacherous design, they professed friendship, and accepted Heald's offers to distribute among them the goods in the public store--blankets, calicoes, broadcloths, paints, and other things such as Indians fancy." "Beads among them, I presume," remarked Rosie. "Very likely," said her mother, "as they have always been a favorite ornament with the Indians. The distribution of those goods, the arms and ammunition and such of the provisions as would not be needed by the garrison, was to take place next day; then the whites were to leave the fort and set out upon their journey through the wilderness, the Pottawatomies engaging to furnish them with an escort, on condition of being liberally rewarded on their arrival at Fort Wayne." "Oh, but I should have been afraid to trust them!" exclaimed Grace, shuddering at the very thought of the risk. "Mr. Kinzie, who knew the Indians so well, was of your opinion," said Grandma Elsie, "and earnestly remonstrated with Captain Heald; telling him they were not to be trusted in the face of such temptations. Especially he urged him not to put arms and ammunition in their hands, as that would fearfully increase their ability to carry on the murderous raids which had become so frequent and caused so great terror in the frontier settlements. "He succeeded in convincing Heald that he had been very foolish in making that promise, and he resolved to violate his treaty so far as the arms and ammunition were concerned. That very evening something occurred that certainly ought to have opened Heald's eyes and led him to shut the gates of the fort and defend it to the last extremity. Black Partridge, a chief who had thus far always been friendly to the whites, and who was a man of great influence too, came to Heald in a quiet way and said, 'Father, I come to deliver to you the medal I wear. It was given me by the Americans, and I have long worn it in token of our mutual friendship. But our young men are resolved to imbrue their hands in the blood of the white people. I cannot restrain them, and I will not wear a token of peace while I am compelled to act as an enemy.'" "And did Heald actually disregard such a warning as that?" exclaimed Evelyn Leland. "I really do not see how it could have been made plainer that the purpose was to attack and murder all in the fort as soon as they were fairly in their power." "Nor do I," said Grandma Elsie; "yet Heald seems to have paid no more attention to it than to the previous warnings. "The next morning, August 13, was bright and cool. The Indians came in great numbers to receive their promised presents. Only the goods in the store were distributed that day, and in the evening Black Partridge said to Mr. Griffith, the interpreter, 'Linden birds have been singing in my ears to-day; be careful on the march you are going to take.' This was repeated to Captain Heald, but solemn warning as it evidently was, he paid no more attention to it than he had to previous ones. He seems to have been perfectly infatuated, and how he could ever forgive himself in after years I cannot see. He went steadily on in the execution of his plans, of which, as I have told you, all the other officers, Mr. Kinzie, and friendly Indian chiefs disapproved. That night he had all the guns but such as his party could make use of in their journey--gunscrews, flint, shot, and everything belonging to the use of firearms--thrown into the well. This was done at midnight, when the sentinels were posted and the Indians in their camp; at least, they were supposed to be, but the night was dark, Indians can move noiselessly, and some whose suspicions had been aroused crept to the spot and made themselves acquainted with what was going on. Liquor and powder, too, were poured into the well, and a good deal of alcohol, belonging to Mr. Kinzie, into the river; also a portion of the powder and liquor of the fort was thrown into a canal that came up from the river far under the covered way. But the water of the river was sluggish, and so great a quantity of liquor had been thrown into it that in the morning it was like strong grog; and powder could be seen floating on the surface." "And of course the Indians, who loved liquor, were angry when they saw how it had been wasted, instead of given to them," remarked Grace. "Yes; their complaints and threats were loud, and now the little garrison had no choice but to brave the danger of exposing themselves to their vengeance, for it was no longer possible to hold the fort, and they must set out upon their perilous journey. Ah! if Heald had but been less obstinately bent upon having his own way--more willing to listen to the advice and remonstrances of his officers, Kinzie, who understood the Indians so well, and the warning of the friendly chiefs, much suffering might have been averted and valuable lives saved. "Mrs. Heald had an uncle, the brave Captain William Wells, who had passed most of his life among the Miami Indians and been made one of their chiefs. He had heard at Fort Wayne of Hull's order to evacuate Fort Dearborn, and knowing of the hostility of the Pottawatomies, had made a rapid march across the country with a party of his Miamis to reinforce Heald and help him to hold and defend the fort. But he arrived just too late; the means of defence had already been destroyed, and there was no choice but to attempt the perilous march through the wilderness. "Nine o'clock of the 15th was the hour set for the evacuation, and it was already evident that the Indians intended to massacre the whites--men, women, and children. Nor could they entertain any hope of being able to defend themselves, so overwhelming was the number of their savage foes, 500 warriors against 54 soldiers, 12 civilians, and 3 or 4 women." "But there were the Miamis with Wells, mamma," remarked Rosie. "Who proved of no assistance," returned Grandma Elsie. "Lossing tells us that when, at nine o'clock, the gates were thrown open, and the march began, it was like a funeral procession. The band struck up the Dead March in 'Saul.' Captain Wells, with his friendly Miamis, took the lead, his face blackened with gunpowder in token of his impending fate. His niece, Mrs. Heald, with her husband, came next, while the others, I presume, followed in the order of their rank." "Were the Kinzies with them?" asked Grace. "Mr. Kinzie was, hoping by his personal influence to be able to soften, if not avert their impending fate. His family had left in a boat, in charge of a friendly Indian who was to take them to his other trading station, where Niles, Mich., now stands. Poor Mrs. Kinzie! having a daughter among the seemingly doomed ones, how terribly anxious and distressed she must have been!" added Grandma Elsie in tones tremulous with feeling. A moment of silence followed, then she went on with her narrative. CHAPTER III. "The procession, escorted by the five hundred Pottawatomies, moved slowly along the lake shore in a southerly direction till they had reached the Sand Hills between the prairie and the beach. There the Indians filed to the right, so that the hills were between them and the white people. "Wells and his mounted Miamis, who were in the advance, came suddenly dashing back, their leader shouting, 'They are about to attack us: form instantly!' "The words had scarcely left his lips when a storm of bullets came from the Sand Hills. The Pottawatomies, both treacherous and cowardly, had made of those hills a covert from which to attack the little band of whites. "The troops were hastily brought into line, charged up the hill, and one of their number, a white-haired man of seventy, fell dead from his horse, the first victim of the perfidy of the Indians hounded on by the inhuman Proctor, a worse savage than they. "The Miamis proved cowardly and fled at the first onset. Their chief rode up to the Pottawatomies, charged them with perfidy, and brandishing his tomahawk told them he would be the first to lead Americans to punish them; then, wheeling his horse, he dashed away over the prairie, following his fleeing companions. "Both men and women among the whites fought bravely for their lives; they could not hope to save them, but they would sell them to the savage foe as dearly as possible. It was a short, desperate, bloody conflict. Lossing tells us that Captain Wells displayed the greatest coolness and gallantry. At the beginning of the fight he was close beside his niece, Mrs. Heald. "'We have not the slightest chance for life,' he said to her. 'We must part to meet no more in this world; God bless you!' and with that he dashed forward into the midst of the fight. Seeing a young warrior, painted like a demon, climb into a wagon in which were twelve children, and scalp them all, he forgot his own danger, and burning to avenge the dreadful deed, cried out, 'If butchering women and children is their game, I'll kill too!' at the same time dashing toward the Indian camp where they had left their squaws and papooses. "Instantly swift-footed young warriors were in hot pursuit, firing upon him as they ran, while he, lying close to his horse's neck, occasionally turned and fired upon them. He had got almost beyond the range of their rifles when a shot killed his horse and wounded him severely in the leg. "Yelling like fiends the young savages rushed forward to make him prisoner, intending, as he well knew, not to kill him at once, but to reserve him for a lingering and painful death by slow torture. Two Indian friends of his--Win-ne-meg and Wau-ban-see--tried to save him, but in vain; and he, knowing well for what fate he would be reserved if taken alive, taunted his pursuers with the most insulting epithets, to provoke them to kill him instantly. "He succeeded at last by calling one of them, Per-so-tum by name, a squaw, which so enraged him that he despatched Wells at once with a tomahawk, jumped upon his body, tore out his heart, and ate a portion of it with savage delight." "Oh, how awful!" cried Grace, shuddering with horror. "How his niece must have felt when she saw it!" "Very possibly she did not see it," said Grandma Elsie, "so busy as she must have been in defending herself. She was an expert with the rifle and as an equestrienne, defended herself bravely, and received severe wounds; but, though faint and bleeding, managed to keep the saddle. An Indian raised his tomahawk over her and she looked him full in the face, saying, with a melancholy smile, 'Surely you would not kill a squaw!' At that his arm fell, but he took the horse by the bridle and led it toward the camp with her still in the saddle. It was a fine animal, and the Indians had been firing at her in order to get possession of it, till she had received seven bullets in her person. Her captor had spared her for the moment, but as he drew near the camp, his covetousness so overcame his better impulses that he took her bonnet from her head and was about to scalp her when Mrs. Kinzie, sitting in her boat, whence she had heard the sounds of the conflict but could not see the combatants, caught sight of them and cried out to one of her husband's clerks who was standing on the beach, 'Run, run, Chandonnai! That is Mrs. Heald. He is going to kill her. Take that mule and offer it as a ransom.' "Chandonnai made haste to obey the order, offered the mule and two bottles of whisky in addition, and as the three amounted to more value than Proctor's offered bounty for a scalp, he succeeded, and Mrs. Heald was placed in the boat and there hidden from the eyes of other scalp-hunters." "I think you were right, Grandma Elsie, in calling that Proctor a worse savage than those Indians! bribing them as he did to murder men, women, and children!" exclaimed Lucilla, her eyes flashing with indignation. "Is it quite certain that he did?" asked Grace. "Quite," replied Grandma Elsie. "Lossing tells us that Proctor had offered a liberal sum for scalps, and that in consequence nearly all the wounded men were killed, their scalps carried to him at Malden, and such a bounty paid for them as is given for the destruction of so many wolves. In a footnote Lossing gives an extract from Niles' _Weekly Register_ of April 3, 1813, in which it is stated that Mrs. Helm had arrived in Buffalo, and in the narrative she gave of her sufferings at and after the massacre at Chicago said, 'Colonel Proctor, the British commander at Malden, bought the scalps of our murdered garrison at Chicago,' and thanks to her noble spirit, she boldly charged him with the infamy in his own house." "Did he deny it?" asked Evelyn. "We are not told that he did; but no doubt he was angered, for he afterward treated both her and her husband with great cruelty, causing them to be arrested and sent across the wilderness from Detroit to Niagara frontier, in the dead of a Canadian winter. The writer also stated that Mrs. Heald had learned from the tribe with whom she was a prisoner, and who were the perpetrators of those murders, that they intended to remain true, but received orders from the British to cut off our garrison whom they were to escort. "In our wars with England many British officers have shown themselves extremely cruel,--not a whit behind the savages in that respect,--but it would be very wrong to judge of the whole nation by their conduct; for there were in the mother country many who felt kindly toward America and the Americans. And I think," she added, with her own sweet smile, "that there are many more now." "It seems Mrs. Helm too escaped with her life," said Walter; "but she was wounded, I presume, mother, since you just spoke of her sufferings both at and after the massacre." "Yes, a stalwart young Indian attempted to scalp her; she sprang to one side, and the blow from his tomahawk fell on her shoulder instead of her head; at the same instant she seized him around the neck and attempted to take his scalping-knife, which hung in a sheath on his breast. Before the struggle was ended another Indian seized her, dragged her to the margin of the lake, plunged her in, and to her astonishment held her there in a way to enable her to breathe; so that she did not drown. Presently she discovered that he was the friendly Black Partridge, and that he was engaged in saving instead of trying to destroy her life. "The wife of a soldier named Corbord fought desperately, suffering herself to be cut to pieces rather than surrender; believing that, if taken prisoner, she would be reserved for torture. The wife of Sergeant Holt was another brave woman. At the beginning of the engagement her husband was badly wounded in the neck, and taking his sword she fought like an Amazon. She rode a fine, spirited horse, which the Indians coveted, and several of them attacked her with the butts of their guns, trying to dismount her, but she used her sword with such skill that she foiled them; then suddenly wheeling her horse, she dashed over the prairie, a number of them in hot pursuit and shouting, 'The brave woman! the brave woman! don't hurt her!'" "Did they overtake her?" asked Grace. "Yes, at length; when a powerful savage seized her by the neck and dragged her backward to the ground while several others engaged her in front." "Oh, I hope they didn't kill her!" exclaimed Grace. "No," replied Mrs. Travilla; "she was afterward ransomed. But to go on with my story. Presently the firing ceased; the little band of whites who had escaped death succeeded in breaking through the ranks of the assassins--who gave way in front--and rallied on the flank, and gained a slight eminence on the prairie near a grove called the Oak Woods. The Indians gathered upon the Sand Hills and gave signs of a willingness to parley. Two-thirds of the whites had been killed or wounded; only 28 strong men remained to cope with the fury of nearly 500 savages--they had lost but 15 in the conflict. To prolong the contest would be little better than madness. Captain Heald, accompanied only by a half-breed boy in Mr. Kinzie's service, went forward and met Black-Bird on the open prairie to arrange terms of surrender. "It was agreed that all the whites who had survived the conflict should become prisoners of war, to be exchanged as soon as practicable. With this understanding captors and captives all started for the Indian camp near the fort. On arriving there another terrible scene ensued. The Indians did not consider the wounded to be included in the terms of surrender, and immediately proceeded to kill and scalp nearly all of them." "To gain the bounty offered by that--human, or inhuman fiend Proctor!" exclaimed Walter. "I wonder how he viewed that transaction when he came to die." "I am sure that in the sight of God he was a wholesale murderer," said Rosie; "a murderer not of men only, but of innocent women and children also." "Yes," said her mother, "there were twelve children killed, besides Captain Wells, Surgeon Van Voorhees, Ensign Ronan, and twenty-six private soldiers. "Toward evening the family of Mr. Kinzie were permitted to return to their own home, where they found the friendly Black Partridge waiting for them. Mrs. Helm, the daughter of Mrs. Kinzie, you will remember was his prisoner. He placed her in the house of a Frenchman named Ouilmette. But the Kinzies and all the prisoners were in great danger from a freshly arrived band of Pottawatomies from the Wabash, who were thirsting for blood and plunder. They thoroughly searched Mr. Kinzie's house for victims; but some friendly Indians arrived just in time to prevent the carrying out of their bloodthirsty intentions. These were led by a half-breed chief called Billy Caldwell. Black Partridge told him of the evident purpose of the Wabash Indians, who had blackened their faces and were sitting sullenly in Mr. Kinzie's parlor, no doubt intending presently to start out and engage in the savage work they had planned. Billy went in and said in a careless way, as he took off his accoutrements: 'How now, my friends! A good-day to you! I was told there were enemies here, but I am glad to find only friends. Why have you blackened your faces? Is it that you are mourning for your friends lost in battle? Or is it that you are fasting? If so, ask our friend here (indicating Mr. Kinzie) and he will give you to eat. He is the Indians' friend, and never yet refused them what they had need of.' "Hearing all this the Wabash Indians were ashamed to own what their intention had been, and so the threatened massacre did not take place. The prisoners were divided among the captors and finally reunited or restored to their friends and families." "But they must have had a great deal to endure before that happy consummation," sighed Evelyn. "Oh, I think we can never be thankful enough that we live in these better times!" "So do I," said Grace. "How very dreadful it must be to fall into the hands of savages and meet with a death so awful and sudden! I wish I knew that they were all Christians and ready for heaven." "I can echo that wish," said Grandma Elsie, in tones full of sadness; "but I very much fear that they were not. Some we may hope were, but it is said, on what seems good authority, that Mrs. Helm, in telling of that terrible scene near the Sand Hills, spoke of the terror of Dr. Van Voorhees. He had been wounded badly, and his horse shot under him, when he asked her, 'Do you think they will take our lives?' and then spoke of offering a large ransom for his. She advised him not to think of that, but of inevitable death. 'Oh, I cannot die! I am not fit to die!' he exclaimed. 'If I had only a short time to prepare for it--death is awful!'" "'Look at that man! at least he dies like a soldier,' she said, pointing to Ensign Ronan. 'Yes,' gasped the doctor, 'but he has no terror of the future--he is an unbeliever.' "Just then Mrs. Helm's struggle with the young Indian who attempted to tomahawk her began, and directly afterward she saw the dead body of Van Voorhees." "Oh, poor, poor fellow!" exclaimed Grace, tears starting to her eyes. "One would think that, in such circumstances as theirs had been for months, every man and woman would have been careful to make sure work for eternity." "Yes, but Satan is ever tempting men to delay, and perhaps more souls are, in Christian lands, lost through procrastination than from any other cause," sighed Grandma Elsie. "'Now is the accepted time; now is the day of salvation.'" There was a moment of silence, broken by Evelyn. "I remember when I was a very little girl, papa used to talk to me about being a Christian, and that once I answered him, 'I would, papa, if I only knew how,' and he said, 'It is very simple, daughter; just to believe in the Lord Jesus, take him for your Saviour, and give yourself to him--soul and body, time, talents, influence--all that you have or ever shall have, to be his forever, trusting in him with all your heart, sure that he meant all that he said in speaking to Nicodemus--'God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' And that other, 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' Those two texts seem to me to make the way very simple and plain." "They do indeed," said Grandma Elsie, "and anyone who has the Bible and will study it faithfully, with earnest prayer to God for help to understand and obey its teachings, can hardly fail to find the way." CHAPTER IV. The greater part of the next day was spent by our friends in a farewell visit to the Fair; but the sun had not yet set when again they all gathered upon the _Dolphin's_ deck, and she weighed anchor and proceeded on her course up the lake. "What a wonderful city it is to be so young!" remarked Mr. Dinsmore when they reached Chicago. "Yes, sir," said Rosie. "Mamma was giving us a little sketch of its early history, last evening; and we found it very interesting; but I can't say that the events here, or anywhere else, for that matter, of the war of 1812-14 have increased my love for the British. Think of them hiring the Indians to kill men, women, and children, paying just the bounty for them that they would for so many wolf-scalps!" "Yes, it was barbarous indeed; but do not forget that even in the days of the Revolution there were Britons who viewed such doings with horror. In 1777 there was a debate in the English Parliament concerning the employment of Indians against the American colonists, when a member of the House of Lords spoke in approval of it, saying it was right to use the means given them by God and Nature. 'God and Nature!' repeated the Earl of Chatham in scornful tones. 'Those abominable principles and this most abominable avowal of them demand most decisive indignation. I call upon that right reverend bench (pointing to the bishops), those holy ministers of the Gospel and pious pastors of the Church--I conjure them to join in the holy work, and to vindicate the religion of their God.' That showed that he (Chatham) was strongly opposed to such barbarity, but his appeal to the bishops was vain. Every man of them voted for the employment of the savages in a war against their brethren, who were fighting for their freedom after years of patient endurance of oppression--years of patient but unsuccessful effort to gain it by peaceful means." "Yes, I have always admired William Pitt!" said Rosie. "But did any of the British people disapprove of the employment of the Indians in the war of 1812, grandpa?" "I presume a great many did, though I do not just now remember any historical mention of the fact," replied Mr. Dinsmore, "except among those whose business interests were sure or likely to suffer," he added musingly. "Those Sand Hills from behind which the Pottawatomies fired upon the whites are quite gone now, are they not, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes," replied Captain Raymond, "the city now covers the entire theatre of the events of that dreadful day. It has been a rapid and wonderful transformation." "Don't you think, papa, it might have been saved--I mean Fort Dearborn--if Captain Heald had not been so obstinately determined to do as he thought best, regardless of the opinions of his officers and Mr. Kinzie, and the warnings of friendly Indians?" asked Grace. "I do, indeed," was the emphatic reply. "And that Mackinack, which fell into the hands of the British about a month earlier, might have been saved to our country but for the criminal neglect of the then Secretary of War. Hancks, who was in command, did not know, had not heard of the declaration of war, though he might have been informed of it nearly a week earlier than the news reached the British commander of Fort St. Joseph, who led the attack, and by reason of the ignorance of the garrison and its commander of the true state of affairs came upon them so unexpectedly that they had no opportunity to defend the fortress." "Oh, tell us the story of it, papa, please!" pleaded little Elsie, and drawing her to a seat upon his knee, he complied at once. "The fort was built in the first place by the French," he said, "and taken from them by the English when they conquered Canada. The Indians were not pleased with the change and said to the English, 'You have conquered the French, but you have not conquered us.' Perhaps you may remember what I told you some weeks ago about the attack of the Indians upon the people in the fort. The Indians were playing ball outside the walls of the fortress, and, pretending to be very friendly, invited the garrison to view the game. It was a gay and exciting scene, and the unsuspicious members of the garrison were looking on with interest, forgetting to be on their guard against treachery, when a ball went up in a lofty curve and fell near the pickets of the fort. "It was a preconcerted signal; the warriors instantly rushed toward the fort, armed with hatchets which their squaws had concealed under their blankets, and the whites being taken by surprise, a dreadful massacre followed. "The following year the fort was again garrisoned by the English, the Indians fleeing at their approach. After the Revolutionary War--in 1796--the island with its fort came into possession of the United States, the western military posts being surrendered to the Americans by the British, and in 1812 the fortress, then called Fort Holmes, was garrisoned by fifty-seven men under the command of Lieutenant Hancks of the United States Artillery. As a defence of the fur-traders and the scattered settlements of the Northwest, it was a very important post. You doubtless remember that it stands on a bluff overlooking the harbor." "It is a beautiful place in the summer," remarked Grace, "but must be dreary enough through the long winters." "It is," said her father, "yet by no means so dreary now as it was in those days, surrounded by hordes of savages ever ready to raise the hatchet in the pay of those who seemed to be the stronger party. "Lieutenant Hancks and his garrison knew that in the event of war they must be prepared to defend themselves, but as you have just been told, they were left in uncertainty for nearly a week after the news should have reached them. There had been rumors of expected hostilities brought by traders, but the first intimation that there had been an actual declaration of war was given by the arrival of the English Captain Roberts, on the morning of the 17th of July, with his garrison of British regulars--46, including 4 officers--260 Canadian militia, and 715 Indians--Ottawas, Chippewas, Sioux, Winnebagoes. "They came in boats, bateaux, canoes, convoyed by the brig _Caledonia_, which belonged to the Northwest Fur Company and was laden with provisions and stores. "On the morning of the day before, the Indian interpreter had told Hancks he had reliable information that the Indians were assembling in large numbers at St. Joseph and were about to attack Fort Holmes. "Hancks had no sooner heard that than he summoned the American gentlemen on the island to a conference on the matter, at which it was decided to send a messenger to St. Joseph to learn, if possible, the temper of the commandant, and to watch the movements of the Indians. "Captain Darman was the man chosen, and he set off upon his errand about sunset that same evening." "All by himself, papa, when it was just getting dark, too?" asked Elsie. "How could he see to row his boat?" "A full moon shone in the sky, daughter, and lighted him on his way," replied the captain. "But he had gone only fifteen miles when he met the boats carrying the British and Indians, and was taken prisoner by them." "And did they kill him and scalp him, papa?" "No; they let him go on condition that he would return to the island in advance of them, call the people together to the west side of it to receive the protection of a British guard for themselves and their property, and not give Lieutenant Hancks any information of the approach of the enemy. Also he was to warn the people that if any of them carried the news to the fort there would be a general massacre. Darman was landed at dawn, and did exactly as he had promised." "Oh, papa! and didn't anybody warn the poor fellows in the fort?" "Yes; a Dr. Day, braver than any of the rest, hurried to the fort and gave the alarm while the others were fleeing from the village to escape from the bloodthirsty savages. But it was too late; the enemy had already landed and taken one of their two heavy guns to the top of the hill at the back of the fort, placing it so as to command the American works at their weakest point. By nine o'clock Roberts had possession of the heights, and hideously painted savages were swarming everywhere. "At half-past eleven the Americans were summoned to surrender the fortress to the forces of his 'Britannic Majesty.' Hancks then held a consultation with his officers and the American gentlemen in the fort, and all agreeing in the opinion that it would be impossible to defend it against such overwhelming numbers--over a thousand, while the garrison could boast but fifty-seven men rank and file--he decided that it was expedient to surrender. "Honorable terms were granted and at noon the American colors were taken down and those of Great Britain substituted in their stead. The prisoners were all paroled, and those who desired to leave the island were sent in a British vessel to Detroit." "I should hardly have supposed any American would want to stay here under British rule," remarked Grace. "An order was presently issued that all upon the island who would not take the oath of allegiance to the British government must leave there within a month," said Captain Raymond. "And they didn't let the Indians kill anybody, papa?" asked Elsie. "No," replied her father, "but it is altogether likely that if there had been any resistance many, if not all, would have fallen victims to the bloodthirsty savages, for one of the British, who had command of 280 of the Indians, said in a letter to Colonel Claus at Fort George, 'It was a fortunate circumstance that the fort surrendered without firing a single gun, for had they done so, I firmly believe not a soul would have been saved.'" "The capture of Mackinaw was a great loss to our country, was it not, father?" asked Lucilla. "Yes, it was indeed," responded the captain, "a loss to the fur-trade of the West and a terrible calamity to the people of Detroit and other Western pioneers. It gave the enemy command of the upper lakes with all the advantages connected with it, and exposed Detroit to fearful raids by the hostile Indians." "And all that dreadful state of affairs was the result of the unpardonable negligence of the Secretary of War!" she exclaimed. "Really, I don't see how he could ever forgive himself." "No, nor do I," said Rosie, "especially when afterward Detroit too fell into the hands of the British; for its fall was a great assistance to the British cause." "Yes," said Walter, "in more ways than one; for they got arms, ammunition, and stores; also it was months before another invading army of Americans could be raised and furnished with arms and other necessaries; and in the meantime the British made their preparations for further attacks upon us. They got valuable stores at Mackinaw, too; among them seven hundred packages of costly furs. By the way, Brother Levis, was there not an attempt made by our troops, later on in the war, to repossess Mackinaw?" "Yes; Mackinaw was the key to the traffic in furs of the Northwest; therefore the Americans were determined to recapture it, and the British fully as determined to keep possession of it; for which purpose they sent there a considerable body of troops consisting of regulars, Canadian militia, and seamen. They took with them twenty-four bateaux loaded with ordnance, and found on the island a large body of Indians waiting to join them as allies. That was in April, 1814, and about the same time Commander Arthur St. Clair with a little squadron consisting of the _Caledonia_, _St. Lawrence_, _Niagara_, _Tigress_, and _Scorpion_, started on a land and naval expedition to the upper lakes. The land force, under the command of Lieutenant-colonel Croghan, the gallant defender of Fort Stephenson, was attacked by the British and Indians August 1, 1813." "Oh, yes, I remember!" exclaimed Walter. "What splendid work he did there, though he was but twenty-one years old!" "The expedition left Detroit early in July," continued the captain. "I will not go into the whole story of its action at present; sufficient to say they arrived at Mackinaw on the 26th of July. They soon learned that the enemy was very strong in position and numbers, and it was a question between St. Clair and Croghan whether it would be wise to make an immediate attack. The guns of the vessels could not damage the works because they were so elevated, and they could not carry the place by storm. "Finally it was decided that Croghan should land on the western side of the island, under cover of the guns of the vessels, and try to attack the works in the rear. He did so on the 4th of August, landing without much molestation, but was presently met by the garrison, who were strongly supported by the Indians in the thickets; also a storm of shot and shell was poured upon them from a battery of guns. There was a sharp fight and Croghan was compelled to fall back and return to the ship; 1 officer and 12 privates had been killed, 52 wounded, and 2 others were missing. "The attempt to recover Mackinaw at that time had to be given up, and most of the little squadron sailed for Detroit. The _Scorpion_ and the _Tigress_ were left behind to blockade the only route by which provisions and other supplies could reach Mackinaw. The two vessels cruised about for some time till the garrison was threatened with starvation or surrender in order to avert it; but early in September they were both captured by British and Indians sent out from the fort. They came in five boats and surprised the _Tigress_ first, when the _Scorpion_ was said to be fifteen miles away. She was at anchor near the shore, it was about nine o'clock in the evening, intensely dark, and the enemy was within fifty yards of the vessel when discovered. "The Americans made a gallant defence, but were overpowered by numbers, there being but thirty of them beside the officers, and about one hundred of the assailants. Lieutenant Bulger, the British commander of the expedition, said in his report of the affair that the defence of the vessel did credit to her officers, who were all severely wounded. They and the crew were all sent prisoners of war to Mackinaw, while Bulger and his men remained on board the _Tigress_. They kept her position unchanged and her pennant flying, and when, on the 5th, the _Scorpion_ was seen approaching, Bulger ordered his men to hide. "All this deceived the men on the _Scorpion_; they thought the _Tigress_ was still in the hands of their comrades, and when within two miles anchored for the night. At dawn the next morning the British ran the _Tigress_ down alongside of her, the concealed soldiers ran out from their hiding-places, rushed on board the _Scorpion_, and in a few minutes the British flag was floating over her." "And the British were very jubilant over the capture, as I remember reading," remarked Violet. "And not very truthful in their report of it," added Walter. "Lossing says Adjutant-General Baynes actually reported in a general order that the vessels had crews of 300 each; only exaggerating 570 in stating the aggregate of the crews of the two schooners." But just here the talk was interrupted by the not unwelcome summons to their evening meal. CHAPTER V. As they left the table and gathered upon deck on the evening of the next day, the captain announced that they were nearing Mackinaw. "I am glad of that, papa," said Grace; "for we shall have a lovely view of it by moonlight." "Are we going to stop there, sir?" asked Walter. "Not unless someone particularly desires it," returned the captain; "but we will pass slowly and quite near, so that we may all have a good view of it. Ah! it can be seen in the distance now," he added, pointing it out. "And though the sun has set the moon will, as Gracie says, give us a lovely view of it," remarked Violet. "Yes, she is nearly full," said the captain, glancing skyward, "which will help us to a more vivid conception of how things looked to Darman when he set out for Fort St. Joseph, on the 16th of July, 1812." "I'm glad of that," said Lucilla. "I want to be able to imagine just how things looked at that time." "Yes," said Grace, "but it is far more delightful to know that no war is going on now, and we are in no danger from either civilized or savage foes." "It is indeed!" responded her father. "Peace is a great blessing; war a dreadful scourge." "It is an Indian name the island bears, is it not, captain?" asked Evelyn. "Yes; and the meaning is the Great Turtle, alluding to its shape. Notice that as we approach, and see if you do not think the name appropriate." "To the tongue of which of the Indian tribes does the name belong, sir?" asked Walter. "The Algonquin." "The harbor is considered a fine one, is it not?" "Yes; it is semicircular, 1 mile long; the strait is 40 miles long and 4 miles wide; the island 7 miles in circumference. Now we are near enough for a good view." "What makes it look so white, papa?" queried little Elsie. "It is limestone rock, my child," replied her father. "See the village down near the water and the fort on higher ground--the white cliffs half covered with green foliage--beyond it the ruins of old Fort Holmes." "The one the British took in that war you told about, papa?" "The very same," he said. "I believe you were not by when I pointed it out to the others on our former visit to the island." "No, sir; I think Neddie and I were asleep in our berths." "Yes, so you were," said her mother. "Ah, my dear," to her husband, "what a lovely sight it is by this witching light!" "Yes," he said. "I think we will visit it again one of these days, when we can spend more time in viewing the various interesting places--such as the Arch Rock, a natural bridge almost as picturesque as the famous one in Virginia, the Rabbit's Peak, Giant's Causeway, and the Lover's Leap. We are passing that last now; and I want you all to notice a projecting crag at the other end of the island, called Robinson's Folly. These are all famous places, and each has its legendary story." They steamed slowly past, greatly enjoying the moonlight view of the island; then, as it faded from sight, the speed of the vessel was increased, and before the older ones had retired they had entered Lake Huron. The pleasant weather continued, and most of them spent the greater part of the following day upon the deck. "We will reach Detroit early this evening, I suppose, Brother Levis?" said Rosie, in a tone of enquiry. "Should nothing happen to prevent," was the pleasant-toned reply. "And now I wonder if my pupils can tell us most of the history of that city?" "Beginning with the war of 1812, I suppose, as we have already gone over the story of the doings of Pontiac?" "Yes; but first I shall give you a few facts concerning its settlement, growth, and so forth: "It is by far the oldest city in the western part of our country, and older than either Philadelphia or Baltimore on the seaboard. It was founded by the French in 1670, as an outpost for the prosecution of the fur-trade; and as late as 1840 it still had less than 10,000 inhabitants. It is on the west side of Detroit River, about 7 miles from Lake St. Clair and 18 from Lake Erie. Can you tell me the meaning of the name Detroit, Elsie, daughter?" "No, papa, you never taught me that," replied the little girl. "It is the French for strait," he said. "The strait or river connecting Lakes St. Clair and Erie gave the name to the city." "At the time we are talking of--when General Hull was marching toward the place--Detroit had only 160 houses and a population of about 800, most of them of French descent. It was a very small place considering its age, for it was a trading-post as early as 1620, and established as a settlement as early as 1701, when a Jesuit missionary came there with one hundred men. So it was a very old town though so small; but seven years before there had been a fire that destroyed all the houses but one." "But there was a fort, was there not, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes," replied the captain; "on a hill back of the town, about 250 yards from the river; built by the English after their conquest of Canada more than 100 years ago. It covered about 2 acres of ground, was quadrangular in shape, with bastions and barracks. It had embankments nearly 20 feet high, a deep, dry ditch, and was surrounded by a double row of pickets. "The town too was surrounded by strong pickets 14 feet high, with loopholes to shoot through. Those pickets had been erected as defences against the Indians, and were still in good condition. There were in them four strong gates on different streets." "Then the British couldn't get in to harm the folks, could they, papa?" asked Elsie. "They would be able to, when they had finished the fortifications they had begun to build on the opposite side of the river," replied the captain; "so General Hull decided that it would be best to cross at once and drive them away. "It was not easy to find boats enough to take his twenty-two hundred men across, but by great exertion he succeeded in getting enough to carry four hundred at a time, but should the British see them crossing they would in all probability attack that small number before the others could cross to take part in the fight. So Hull resorted to strategy. Toward the evening of the 11th all the boats were sent down the river in full view of the British, while at the same time Colonel M'Arthur with his regiment marched away in the same direction. The British were deceived and made ready to dispute their passage. But after dark troops and boats returned up the river past Detroit to Bloody Bridge, a mile and a half above the town, and made arrangements to cross the river there, which they did." "Why was it called by that dreadful name--Bloody Bridge, papa?" asked Elsie. "Because the Indians in Pontiac's time attacked and killed so many--fifty-nine--of the English there. Do you not remember my telling you about it?" "Oh, yes, sir, when we went to Mackinaw before!" exclaimed the little girl. "At dawn the regular troops and the Ohio volunteers crossed over to the Canadian side, and there hoisted the American flag," continued the captain. "But I shall not now go into all the details of the marching and fighting that followed--how Hull changed his orders and restrained his brave, patriotic officers and men from attacks upon the enemy which they were eager to make, until they were almost convinced that he was either a traitor or a coward. "He was doubtless too old for the command which had been given him. He had done good service in the Revolutionary War, and no doubt was really a patriot still, but he lacked energy, vigilance, and decision, and was too slow to take advantage of the necessities and mistakes of the foe; though he might have done much better but for the remissness of the Secretary of War and General Dearborn. His mistakes and dilatoriness bore very hard upon the brave fellows under him, who were burning with patriotic zeal for the discomfiture of the foe, and he perceived that, though they obeyed orders, there was a mutinous spirit among them that could scarcely be restrained. Therefore he called a council of field-officers, and by their advice it was agreed to march immediately upon Malden. "Orders were at once issued for all the needful preparations and received with universal joy by the little army of men longing to defend their country. "But before these were completed, or the long summer day was quite over, there came another order from the commanding general; an order for the army to recross the river to Detroit--abandoning Canada and its people to the vengeance of the British; leaving unprotected its inhabitants, who, trusting Hull's promised protection, had refused to take up arms for defence against the Americans. That order was in consequence of news which had reached Hull that a considerable force of British regulars, militia, and Indians were coming to attack the little army in the rear." "Did our soldiers like to go back without fighting the British first, papa?" asked Elsie. "No, my child, not at all; but they were obedient soldiers, and did as they were ordered by their commander, though sullenly, feeling themselves humiliated by being compelled to act like cowards. During that night and the next morning they crossed the deep, dark river and encamped on the rolling plain back of Fort Detroit. "Not quite all of them, however. Major Denny, with 130 convalescents, and a corps of artillerists, under Lieutenant Anderson, were left behind in a strong house that had been stockaded and called Fort Gowris. Denny was ordered to defend the post to the last extremity, so long as attacked with only musketry, but to leave it if powerful artillery should be brought against it. "Hull and his army were in need of supplies, which he knew were being sent him under the command of Captain Brush, who had come as far as the River Raisin, but was detained there by the knowledge that a party of Indians under Tecumseh, with perhaps some British regulars, had crossed the Detroit from Malden and were lying near the mouth of the Huron River, twenty-five miles below Detroit, for the purpose of seizing the men, cattle, provisions, and mail that Captain Brush had in charge. "Brush had asked Hull to send him an escort. Hull at first flatly refused; but, after much persuasion on the part of his officers, despatched Major Van Horn with a detachment of two hundred men to join Brush and help convoy the cattle, provisions, and mail. The major obeyed promptly, but was not successful; being surprised by the Indians, who lay in ambush and attacked him by the way. The Americans fought gallantly, but lost seventeen killed and several wounded. "When the news reached the fort Hull was greatly disconcerted. His officers urged him to send a larger force to the aid of Brush--as many as five hundred; but he refused. 'I can spare only one hundred,' he said. "That, as the officers knew, would not be enough; so, though indignant and alarmed for the safety of Brush and the needed stores he was bringing, they had to give up the hope of helping him for the present. "But Hull perceived that his troops were angry and felt mutinous, and it was then he called his officers together, and after consulting them gave the orders for preparations to march upon Malden; but, as we have seen, before they could be carried out he changed his mind and ordered the army to cross the river to Detroit. He now felt the need of securing the supplies under Brush and ordered Colonel Miller to take six hundred men, go to that officer's assistance, and escort him to Detroit. Before starting upon their perilous expedition the troops paraded on the north side of Jefferson Avenue, and there Colonel Miller addressed them as they stood in marching order. 'Soldiers,' he said, 'we are going to meet the enemy, and to beat them. The reverse of the 5th (that was Van Horn's) must be repaired. The blood of our brethren, spilled by the savages, must be avenged. I will lead you. You shall not disgrace yourselves or me. Every man who shall leave the ranks or fall back without orders will be instantly put to death. I charge the officers to execute this order.' "Then turning to the veteran Fourth Regiment of regulars, he said, 'My brave soldiers, you will add another victory to that of Tippecanoe--another laurel to that gained upon the Wabash last fall. If there is now any man in the ranks of the detachment who fears to meet the enemy, let him fall out and stay behind.' "He paused, and a loud huzza went up from the entire corps, and 'I'll not stay! I'll not stay!' came from every lip. "Miller led them to the River Rouge that night, and they bivouacked on its southern shore, having crossed it in two scows. Early the next morning they took up their march again, Major Thompson Maxwell, with his spies, leading the way; next a vanguard of forty men under Captain Snelling of the Fourth Regulars, while the infantry marched in two columns, about two hundred yards apart, the cavalry keeping the road in the centre in double file. The artillery followed, with flank guards of riflemen at suitable distances. Marching in that order a line of battle could be formed almost instantly, but it was slow and toilsome work to move the cannon over the marshy ground along which their road lay. "It was Sunday morning, the weather sultry, the sky overcast with clouds, not a leaf stirring on the trees; in the distance they could see a few fleet Indians hurrying along; but nothing of much consequence occurred until some time in the afternoon, when they were nearing the Indian village of Maguaga, fourteen miles below Detroit. But there a man named White, who had joined them as a new recruit, hurrying on ahead of the rest, was shot from his horse near the cabin of an Indian chief called Walk-in-the-Water, by some Indians concealed behind it, and before the vanguard could reach the spot he was scalped. "There were oak woods near Maguaga, which Captain Snelling and his regulars reached between three and four o'clock in the afternoon. In the meantime the flying savages the Americans had seen that morning, and who were the scouts of Major Muir, the commander of the Forty-first British regiment, had carried to him, in his camp at Brownstown, the news that the Americans, strong in numbers, were advancing upon them. There were in that camp 100 regulars, a good many Canadian militiamen, and between 200 and 300 Indians. Lossing mentions 4 chiefs of note among those--Tecumseh, Walk-in-the-Water, Split-log, and Lame-Hand. "These troops had been sent over from Fort Maiden by Proctor to repeat their doings of the 5th--when Van Horn was defeated--cut off communication between Detroit and Captain Brush at the Raisin, and get possession of the stores he was bringing. "As soon as Muir and Tecumseh heard the news brought by the spies they broke up their camp, hurried on to Maguaga, and formed an ambush in the Oak Woods, where the trees and bushes were thick enough to conceal them. There they watched for the coming of the Americans and were joined by a fresh detachment of troops sent by General Brock. "Snelling and his soldiers had just entered the clearing when there came first a single shot, then the terrific yells of the scores of savages, followed by a terrible volley from the whole British line." "Oh, papa! then did our soldiers turn round and run back to the others?" asked little Elsie. "No, my child, they stood their ground and returned the fire like the brave men and patriots they were. Colonel Miller heard the sounds and he and his men started on the double quick, came up, and formed in battle order, and as they did so he waved his sword high over his head, crying in his clear, loud voice, 'Charge, boys! charge!' His order was instantly, gallantly, and effectually obeyed, Lossing tells us, while at the same time a six-pounder poured in a storm of grapeshot that harmed the foe not a little. "At the same time the Michigan and Ohio volunteers charged a body of Indians at the left of the British and near the river, driving them back, and causing them to flee; and the whites in the ranks of the enemy, mistaking them for helpers of the Americans, fired upon them also, and the Indians returned it. So that our foes were helping us by fighting among themselves, and the mistake created such confusion in the British ranks that they wavered, broke, and fled, leaving Tecumseh and his Indians to bear the brunt of the fight. "Muir rallied his men, in a good position, but the sound of firing in the woods on their left alarmed them again, so that they ran away, got in their boats, and fled across the river to Malden with all possible expedition. "After a little more fighting the Indians too broke, and Miller ordered Sloan to pursue them. But he seemed to hesitate, and Snelling rushing up to him gave him a peremptory order to dismount, sprang into the saddle himself, and dashed away at the head of his troops, his red hair streaming in the wind, for he had lost his hat in the course of the fight. He pursued the flying foe for more than two miles; then Lieutenant-colonel Miller, realizing the danger of an ambuscade, and that night was approaching, and the wounded needed attention, ordered a suspension of the chase." "Ah, that was a victory!" exclaimed Walter; "one that ought to have encouraged Hull to defend Detroit; it seems it didn't, though." "Were there many killed in that battle, papa?" asked Grace. "Of the Americans 18 were killed and 57 wounded," replied the captain. "The British, according to their account, lost 24 of their regulars, only 1 of whom was killed. They failed to mention how many of the militia and Indians, but our troops found 40 of the Indians dead on the field; how many of the militia, if any, I do not know. "Miller was anxious to follow up his advantage, to press on to the assistance of Captain Brush and the getting of his stores to Detroit; so sent a messenger to Hull to carry the news of his successful fight with the enemy and ask for a supply of provisions. "In response Hull sent Colonel M'Arthur with 100 men and 600 rations, ordering him to go down the river in boats to the relief of Miller and his men. M'Arthur, who seems to have been always ready and prompt, set out a little past two in the morning, in nine boats, and in the darkness and rain passed the British vessels _Queen Charlotte_ and _Hunter_, and reached his destination in safety. "Then the wounded were at once carried to the boats to be taken to Detroit. But it was now daylight, and it was found impossible to pass the British vessels. Fortunately M'Arthur had foreseen that difficulty, and ordered wagons sent down, and now leaving the boats he had the wounded carried through the woods to the road, placed in the wagons, and so taken the rest of the way to their destination." "But what did he do with the boats, papa?" asked Elsie. "The British took them," replied her father. "Colonel Cass had gone down and tried to secure them, but the enemy had already got possession. "Miller had been thrown from his horse during the fight, and was too much injured to press on immediately to the River Raisin. He sent a messenger to Hull, and Cass met him on his way. He knew that time was precious, that Proctor would be likely to send a larger force to prevent our men from reaching Brush, and attack him himself. Therefore Cass wanted to take Miller's place and hurry on with the detachment to Brush's assistance, so he sent a laconic despatch to General Hull: 'Sir, Colonel Miller is sick; may I relieve him?--L. CASS.' No reply came, and he returned to Detroit, meeting on the way an express taking positive orders to Miller for him and his troops to return to headquarters. "Miller and his men were only twenty-two miles from the Raisin, and were sorely disappointed by this order, but obeyed it, leaving their camp at noon on the day after the battle, and going slowly back to Detroit." "Oh, I do think that was too bad!" exclaimed Lucilla. "I don't think I could have obeyed such a man as Hull." "It would have been even worse than rendering obedience to Captain Raymond has sometimes proved, eh?" her father said, with a humorous look and smile. "Oh, ten thousand times, papa, dear!" she answered earnestly. "Haven't you found out that for years it has been--almost always just a pleasure to me to obey you?" "It is long since I have felt at all doubtful of that, daughter," he returned, in tender tones. CHAPTER VI. For a moment Captain Raymond seemed lost in thought. It was a question from his daughter Elsie that caused him to resume the thread of his narrative. "Papa," she asked, "had the British got their guns all ready to fire at the Americans when Colonel Miller and his men got back to Detroit? and did they begin at once?" "No; the British were still busy with their preparations, with which General Hull did not seem disposed to interfere; and it was hard indeed for his brave, patriotic officers to obey his orders to refrain from doing so. They began to think he was either a traitor or an imbecile, and by no means fit to have the command. They consulted together, and concluded that salvation for the little army could be secured only by depriving him of the command and giving it to another. Miller was asked to take it, but declined and proposed M'Arthur, who was the senior officer of the volunteers and one of the most vigilant, active, and energetic men in the service. "But when it came to carrying out their plans they hesitated to take so bold a step. Relief might come soon from Ohio, Governor Meigs accompany it in person, and then the honor could be properly tendered him. Colonel Cass acted promptly upon that suggestion, writing to the governor a very strong and urgent appeal for help to be forwarded with all haste; telling him that the army was in a very critical situation 'from causes not fit to be put on paper'; that Maiden might easily have been reduced, but the golden opportunity had been allowed to pass unimproved. He asked for, at least, two thousand men, and that the governor would accompany them. "But before this letter had been shown to the other officers the British were collecting in force at Sandwich, and Cass added a postscript. 'Since the other side of this letter was written, new circumstances have arisen. The British force is opposite, and our situation had nearly reached its crisis. Believe all the bearer will tell you. Believe it, however it may astonish you, as much as if told by one of us. Even a c---- is talked of by e----. The bearer will supply the vacancy. On you we depend.' The first blank meant a capitulation, the second commanding general." "But why didn't he say what he meant, papa?" asked Elsie. "Because there was danger of the letter falling into the hands of the wrong person. It was signed by Cass, Finley, M'Arthur, Taylor, and Colonel Elijah Brush, of the Michigan militia." "Was Major Denny still on the Canadian side, captain?" asked Evelyn. "No; he had evacuated Fort Gowris and crossed the river to Detroit. On his doing so the British under Captain Dixon of the Royal Engineers immediately took possession and planted a battery so as to command Detroit. The American artillery begged leave from Hull to open upon them from the fort with twenty-four pounders, but were forbidden, and the enemy was allowed to go on unmolested with his preparations to fire upon Detroit." "Well!" exclaimed Lucilla, "I'm sure that looked as if he was in league with his country's foes; unless he had lost his reason." "Yes," said her father, "yet I do not doubt his patriotism or his intention to do what he deemed best under the circumstances; but he was timid, and as I have said before, did not receive the help and encouragement he had a right to expect from the Secretary of War or General Dearborn, who failed to inform him of the armistice, which would have enabled him to wait for the arrival of needed provisions and reinforcements. And he was too honest himself to suspect the deceptions the British practised upon him--dressing raw militiamen in uniform and mixing them in with their regulars, sending a letter to be intercepted by him, threatening a descent of five thousand Indians from Mackinaw. But I think he owed it to the officers under him to consult with them; which he did not do." "Had the British got Captain Brush with the soldiers and provisions, papa?" asked Elsie. "No, he was still in the same place, waiting for reinforcements to enable him to reach Detroit; and on the 14th Hull sent him word that he could not spare a large enough detachment to escort him, and that he might either stay where he was till further orders, or take a roundabout course to avoid the enemy. But after the men had gone with the letter Hull again changed his mind and sent M'Arthur and Cass with 350 men to escort Brush, who was supposed to be not more than 12 miles away. "They took a circuitous route, got entangled in a swamp, and could not go on. They were without provisions, tired and hungry, and were just preparing to bivouac for the night--for the evening twilight was fading away--when a courier came with an order from Hull for them to return immediately to Detroit. They obeyed and arrived there about ten o'clock the next morning. "At a little past noon of that day General Brock sent two of his officers with a flag to bear a summons to General Hull for the unconditional surrender of the post. 'The force at my disposal,' he said, 'authorizes me to require of you the surrender of Detroit. It is far from my inclination to join in a war of extermination, but you must be aware that the numerous body of Indians who have attached themselves to my troops will be beyond my control the moment the contest commences.'" "And Hull meekly surrendered without any more ado?" said Lucilla, in a tone between assertion and enquiry. "No, not yet," replied her father. "Poor man! really patriotic and proud, he no doubt felt sorely tried and humiliated at the very thought of surrender to his country's foes; at the same time, being ignorant of the armistice and not knowing when succor would arrive, having only a thousand men in fighting condition, his force wasting with disease, disappointment, and death, it seemed to him very uncertain whether he could keep the foe at bay till help would come; but his troops were eager to measure strength with the enemy, and confident in their ability to do so successfully. "So difficult did Hull find it to decide what was the best and wisest course of conduct that he kept the flag waiting two hours; but at last he said to Brock's messengers that he had no other reply to make than that he was ready to meet any force at his disposal, and any consequence that might result. "His own troops were greatly pleased when they learned what his answer to Brock had been. They watched the return of the flag, and when it reached the Canadian shore the bearers were startled by a loud huzza from the American fort and camp. Our brave soldiers believed and rejoiced in the thought that the time for action had come, or was near at hand; they were confident of victory, and at once set about the most active preparations for the fight. "Jesup, serving as adjutant-general to Hull, rode down to Spring Wells to reconnoitre the enemy at Sandwich. He saw that the British vessel, _Queen Charlotte_, had taken such a position that she could cover the landing of the enemy there with her guns. He thought a battery might be used to drive her away, so selecting a suitable spot for it, he hastened back to Detroit, told Hull what he proposed to do, and asked him to send down a twenty-pounder. "Hull refused and Jesup rode back to the spot he wished to defend, to find Snelling there with a few men and a six-pounder, occupying the very place he had selected. By the way, it is said that Snelling was to have been married that evening to a daughter of Colonel Thomas Hunt, and that when about to leave the fort for Spring Wells, he asked of Hull, 'If I drive the redcoats back, may I return and be married?' and that General Hull consented, and the marriage took place that same evening. "When Detroit was surrendered Snelling refused to raise the white flag, and when marched as a prisoner through the streets of Montreal, being ordered by a British officer to take off his cap to Nelson's monument, he refused and kept it on in spite of the efforts of the soldiers to enforce the order, and finally General Brock ordered them to respect the scruples of a brave man." "I respect and like Brock for that," said Walter. "He was a far better, braver, nobler man than Proctor." "He was indeed!" assented the captain. "Cruelty and cowardice usually go hand in hand, and they were both prominent traits in Proctor's character. But to return. Both Snelling and Jesup, perceiving that the greater part of the British force was at Sandwich, hastened back to Hull, and, reporting that fact to him, Jesup asked for 150 men to go over and spike the enemy's guns opposite Detroit. Hull said he could not spare so many. 'Give me one hundred, then,' entreated Jesup. 'Only one hundred,' added Snelling imploringly. Hull only replied that he would consider it, and then took refuge in the fort; for at four o'clock the British battery, whose guns Snelling and Jesup had proposed to spike, began firing shot and shell upon the fort, the town, and the camp. Then all the troops except Finley's regiment, which was stationed three hundred yards northwest of the fort, were ordered within the walls, crowding it far too much for comfort." The captain paused, and Grandma Elsie remarked that she remembered reading of some interesting occurrences given by Lossing in notes to his history of the attack upon Detroit and its fort. "One was that during the evening a large shell fell upon the roof of a private dwelling, two stories high, and coming down through the roof and upper floor, fell upon the table around which the family were sitting, then through to the cellar, and they had just time to fly from the house when the shell exploded, tearing it to pieces." "That was a very narrow escape for them," remarked Violet. "Please tell us some more, grandma," begged Neddie, and Grandma Elsie kindly continued. "There was a battery commanded by a brave soldier--Lieutenant Daliba," she said. "He stood on the ramparts during the cannonade, and when he saw the smoke or flash of the enemy's cannon he would call out to his men, 'Down!' and they would drop behind the parapet until the ball had struck. "Near the battery was a large pear-tree which was somewhat in the way, and Colonel Mack, of the Michigan militia, ordered a young volunteer named John Miller to cut it down. He made haste to obey, seizing an axe and falling vigorously to work; but when he had cut about halfway through the trunk one of the enemy's balls struck it and nearly finished the work. The young man turned coolly toward the British and called out, 'Send us another, John Bull; you can cut faster than I can.'" "Was the British soldier that fired it named John Bull?" queried Neddie. "Why, that's what we call Englishmen, don't you know?" said his sister Elsie. "And we are all Brother Jonathans. Aren't we, papa?" "That's what they call us," returned her father, with a smile, "and though not a very euphonious name, I, for one, prefer it to John Bull." "So do I," she said. "But Jonathan's a boy's name," objected Ned sturdily. "Men and boys can be Jonathans, but women and girls can't." "Well, I don't want to be," said Elsie. "It isn't a pretty name; but John Bull's worse. Grandma, haven't you another little story to tell us?" "One more, which I found in Lossing's book," replied Grandma Elsie pleasantly. "He says it is related that while cannonading was going on, the shot striking thick and fast around the fort, a negro was seen on its roof. He stood near a chimney, watching the firing of the British on the other side of the river, and whenever he saw the smoke of a cannon would spring behind the chimney till the shot had struck, then peep out again. "At length one struck the top of the chimney just over his head, tore it to pieces, and covered him with brick and mortar. He jumped aside, shaking himself free, as well as he might, from the dust and rubbish, and exclaiming: 'What de debble you doin' up dar?' then hastened away to find a safer spot." "Wasn't that a bad, swearing word, grandma?" queried Ned. "It was not a nice word," she answered. "I should be sorry indeed to hear it used by my sons or grandsons." "My papa never says such words, nor Maxie, nor any of my relations, and I don't mean ever, ever to say them," said the little fellow, looking up into his father's face. "No, my son, I trust you never shall," returned the captain gravely, laying a hand affectionately on the child's head. "Please tell the rest, papa," pleaded little Elsie, and her father resumed the thread of his narrative. "The British kept up their bombardment until near midnight, our men returning it with great spirit and disabling two of the enemy's guns. About twilight someone proposed that as the fort did not command the river, a strong battery should be placed near the margin of the river and used in destroying the foe when they attempted to land. A suitable place for the purpose was chosen, but Hull utterly refused to allow the plan to be carried out; and in the early twilight of the next morning--a beautiful Sunday morning--they were allowed to cross without the least attempt being made to hinder them. "Six hundred Indians, commanded by two British colonels and Tecumseh, had crossed the night before and taken position in the woods to attack the Americans in flank and rear should they attempt to hinder the landing of the British regulars and militia, 770 strong with 5 pieces of light artillery. "They all breakfasted, then moved upon the fort--the whites in a single column, their left flank covered by the Indians, a mile and a half distant in the woods; their right resting on the Detroit River, defended by the _Queen Charlotte_. "Colonel Miller, with the Fourth Regiment, was now in the fort; the Ohio volunteers with part of the Michigan militia were posted behind the town palisades, to annoy the enemy's whole left flank. The rest of the militia were stationed in the upper part of the town to keep back the Indians, who had joined the British in order to be permitted to plunder and kill the American whites. "Our men were waiting, watching the cautiously approaching foe, eager to fire upon them the moment they were in the best position to receive the most destructive onslaught--for wives, children, and feeble aged ones were in danger of becoming victims to their inhuman thirst for blood and plunder, and that foe had reached a point within five hundred yards of their line when there came a peremptory command from General Hull for them to retreat within the fort. "The soldiers were very angry but obeyed, while the enemy drew nearer and prepared to storm the fort. The shot were coming thick and fast now from the Canadian shore. A ball came bounding over the wall of the fort and struck a group standing before one of the officer's quarters, killing two officers and a surgeon and badly wounding another. The next moment two other soldiers on the inside of the fort and two on the outside were killed. "There were women and children in the house where the officers were killed, among them General Hull's daughter and her children. Some of the women were bespattered with the blood of the slain, and almost paralyzed with fear; some were carried senseless to the bomb-proof vault for safety. "The general saw the effect of the ball from a distance, and did not know whether his own child was killed or not. "Just then an officer of the Michigan militia in the town came to ask if they alone were to defend it, as he had seen the approach of the enemy without a gun being fired from the fort or the twenty-four pounders outside; also to inform Hull that the Indians were at the tan-yard, close upon the town. Hull did not answer his queries, but stepped into a room in the barracks, hastily wrote a note, and handing it to his son, Captain Hull, directed him to display a white flag immediately from the walls of the fort, where it might be seen by the British Captain Dixon, over the river. "The order was promptly obeyed. The flag was a tablecloth. By order of General Hull it was waved from one of the bastions by Captain Burton, of the Fourth Regiment. "The firing soon ceased, and in a few minutes Captain Hull was seen leaving the fort with a flag of truce. At the same time a boat was despatched across the river to Captain Dixon, commander of the battery on the Canada shore. "General Hull was acting without consultation with any of his officers, and no one knew what were his intentions, but the sight of the white flag upon the walls awakened painful suspicions, and presently the arrival of two British officers, Colonel M'Donell and Major Glegg, made it evident that the garrison was betrayed. "Hull had acted entirely on his own responsibility, consulting no one, and this quick surrender, without a single shot having been fired upon the enemy, or an effort made to stay his course, was almost as unexpected and unwelcome to the brave, patriotic men under him as a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. So angry and indignant were they that for a moment nothing but reverence for gray hairs and veneration for a soldier of the Revolution, who had served his country well in that war, saved him from personal violence at their hands; it is said that many of them shed tears of mortification and disappointment. "The terms of capitulation were soon settled, and Hull issued a general order to his troops, stating that with pain and anxiety he announced to the Northwest Army that a sense of duty had compelled him to agree to articles of capitulation which he then enumerated. "You will remember that he had sent Colonels M'Arthur and Cass toward the River Raisin, then ordered them back; they were coming, but had not yet arrived; he sent a messenger to meet them, with a note to M'Arthur informing him of the surrender, and that he and his command were included in it, as prisoners of war. They had drawn near enough to Detroit to see the white flags that had silenced the British cannon, reaching there thoroughly exhausted with marching and hunger--for Hull had sent them off without provisions and failed to keep his promise to send some after them; so that for forty-eight hours they had nothing to eat but some green pumpkins and potatoes they had found in the fields. As they went and came they had been observing the enemy, taking note of his numbers and movements, and concluded that they might easily capture him by falling upon his rear while the army at Detroit attacked him in front. But what did the silence mean? The armies were within half cannon shot of each other, but there was no firing; both seemed silent as the grave, from where these listeners stood. Had there been any evidence of fighting, M'Arthur would have fallen upon the rear of the foe, without waiting for orders. "But Hull's courier was seen approaching, and in a few moments more these patriots heard the almost unbearable tidings that Hull had given them up to the foe without an effort at self-defence. "M'Arthur tried to communicate with Hull, but failed. He sent Hull's note to Captain Brush, with a message from himself, 'By the within letter you will see that the army under General Hull has been surrendered. By the articles you will see that provision has been made for your command; you will, therefore, I hope, return to Ohio with us.' "Lossing tells us in a note that Captain Elliott, the son of Colonel Elliott, with a Frenchman and Wyandot Indian, arrived at Brush's camp on the Raisin, bearing a flag of truce, a copy of the capitulation at Detroit, and authority to receive the surrender of Brush and his men. "A lieutenant, the officer of the day, blindfolded Elliott and led him to the block-house. Brush, when informed of Elliott's arrival and on what errand, doubting his authority, had him arrested and placed in confinement. On reading M'Arthur's letter, however, he learned his mistake; but instead of releasing Elliott at once and complying with Hull's order, he hastily packed up the public property at the Raisin, and with his whole command and his cattle, started for Ohio, leaving orders that Elliott should be kept in confinement until the next day. Elliott was very angry, and sent for Tecumseh to pursue Brush; but it was too late." "Did M'Arthur do that way too, papa?" asked little Elsie. "No; when on the evening of the 17th Colonel Elliott came with authority from Brock to receive tokens of the submission of M'Arthur's detachment, the dark eyes of that officer flashed with indignation, then filled with tears of mortification; he thrust his sword into the ground and broke it to pieces, then tore his epaulets from his shoulders. But having in that way relieved his feelings, he became calm and dignified, while in the dim twilight, Cass and their whole detachment were marched into the fort and stacked their arms." "Oh, how hard it must have been for M'Arthur, and all of them, indeed!" exclaimed Lucilla. "Were they shut up in jail, papa?" asked Elsie. "The volunteers and militia with some of the regular officers, not of high rank, were paroled and allowed to go home," replied her father. "Those belonging to Michigan were discharged right there, the Ohioans sent in a vessel to Cleveland, and there relieved from British control. General Hull and the regulars were held as prisoners of war and sent to Montreal." "But that wasn't the worst for poor General Hull, was it, papa?" said Grace. "The blame he got from the whole country, and being tried for cowardice, condemned to be shot, and all the rest of it, I should think, must have been far worse. Do you think he was really a coward and so very much to blame, papa?" "No," replied her father; "he was perhaps weak, but neither wicked nor cowardly; he was very cautious, prudent, and anxious to save the women, children, and aged men in the fort from falling into the hands of the bloodthirsty, tomahawking, scalping savages. Had he known of the armistice and that provisions and ammunition were coming, and had Dearborn and the Secretary of War done their duty, the result might have been very different. As it was, he was made the scapegoat for all." "Poor man! I feel sorry for him," sighed Grace. "As I do," said her father. "I have no doubt he did what he believed to be his duty as a humane and Christian man. In parting at Detroit with one of his aids he said to him, 'God bless you, my young friend! You return to your family without a stain; as for myself, I have sacrificed a reputation dearer to me than life, but I have saved the inhabitants of Detroit, and my heart approves the act.' In his despatch to the Secretary of War he generously said, 'I well know the responsibility of the measure, and take the whole of it on myself.' And after alluding to M'Arthur, Finley, Miller, and Cass in commendatory terms, he adds, 'If aught has taken place during the campaign which is honorable to the army, these officers are entitled to a large share of it. If the last act should be disapproved, no part of the censure belongs to them.'" "That was noble and generous!" exclaimed Evelyn, with warmth, "and it was shameful, shameful that all the blame was put upon him when Dearborn and the Government were really so very much more deserving of it." "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, in her own sweet, gentle tones, "and he bore it in such a patient, Christian spirit; confident that his countrymen would some day understand and do him justice. I have read that on his deathbed he was asked whether he still believed he had done right in surrendering Detroit, and he answered that he did and was thankful he had been enabled to do it." "I suppose," said Evelyn, "it was a great mistake, but he acted as he deemed best for others and that at a great sacrifice of himself; so I think he was a noble, generous man, worthy of all honor, and I am very glad he was not made to suffer death, though I am not sure that what he had to bear was not worse." "Yes," exclaimed Walter, "and how I despise those mean fellows who put all the blame on him when they themselves deserved a great deal more of it than he!" "How long did the British keep possession of Detroit, papa?" asked Grace. "Until Perry's victory on Lake Erie restored it to the Americans." "Oh, that was a grand victory!" exclaimed Lucilla, with enthusiasm. "Yes; the navy did well in that war," the captain said, with a smile and a sparkle in his eye. "I have always felt a patriotic pride in the achievements of Perry, McDonough, and Isaac Hull. The first two were earnest Christian men and gave all the glory to God. I do not know, but hope the gallant Hull was a Christian also." CHAPTER VII. The _Dolphin_ reached Detroit that evening, did not stop, but slowly passed the city, which extends six or seven miles along the river, then on down the stream, the captain pointing out historical scenes, now on this side now on that. They were already on Lake Erie before the older ones retired for the night, passed Put-In-Bay and discussed with interest Perry's victory of September 10, 1813, though, as all were familiar with the details of the famous contest and triumph for the little American navy, the story was not repeated. "How many islands are there in the group, papa?" Grace asked, as they neared them; "and to which State do they belong?" "There are ten," he said, "and they are a part of Ottawa township, Ohio. The group takes its name from the largest one, which contains about two thousand acres. You can see there is a beautiful bay on this north side: that is Put-In-Bay--it is what gives the name to the island and is celebrated as the place where Captain Perry with his little United States fleet on Lake Erie, in the last war with Great Britain, of which we have been talking so much in the last few days, waited for the coming of her fleet, and whence he sailed out to meet and conquer it. "It required great address and vigilance to make his little squadron ready and get it into the lake, but spite of illness, head winds, and being narrowly watched by the foe, he got safely out upon the lake just as the British squadron hove in sight." "Perry had difficulty in getting his vessels over the bar, had he not, sir?" asked Walter. "Yes; it was done by the use of camels; a very difficult operation." "Camels, papa?" exclaimed Grace, with a puzzled look. "Yes, daughter; not the camels of the desert, however," returned the captain, giving her a slightly amused smile. "Nautical camels are hollow cases of wood, made in two halves, so as to embrace the keel and lay hold of the hull of a ship on both sides. Those cases are first filled with water and sunk, in order to be fixed on. The water is then pumped out, and while that is being done the vessel gradually rises; and that process is continued till at length it passes over the shoal." "Perry must certainly have been a very persevering and energetic man," remarked Mrs. Travilla. "He certainly was all that and more," returned the captain; "a brave, patriotic, Christian man. It has been truly said that the courage with which the _Lawrence_ was defended has been hardly, if ever, surpassed; and that his real claim to fame rests less on his actual victory than on the pluck, energy, and readiness to adapt himself to circumstances, which he showed in the preparation of the two brigs and getting them and the other vessels out in the lake, collecting sailors, etc. But it is singular that the American public have always made so much more of his victory over an inferior force, than of McDonough's on Lake Champlain, which was won against decided odds in vessels, men, and metal." "Oh, papa!" cried Lucilla, in a slightly reproachful tone, "you are really the last person I should have expected to try to belittle Perry's hard-won victory." "My child, I am not doing that," returned her father in gentle, reproving accents. "I would not have Perry's fame lessened, but McDonough's increased." "Excuse me, papa dear, I might have known that," she responded penitently. "What is the name of that little island lying at the mouth of the bay, captain?" queried Evelyn. "Gibraltar," he replied; "it is picturesque and rocky, and on it stands the monument commemorating the victory and its heroes." "I should like to visit the island one of these days," said Grace. "I hope to give you that pleasure at some future time," her father said; "but now it is growing so late in the season that we must hasten on our way if we would make even a flying visit to other and more interesting and important points. The islands are worth visiting; the scenery is lovely, and there is excellent boating, also fishing, in the clear, shallow waters of the bay and lake." "All that sounds quite appetizing," said Violet. "I think we might be able to pass some days or weeks there very delightfully when not hurried for time." "There are a great many fine grapes raised here, are there not?" asked Evelyn. "Yes; grape growing and wine making are the principal industries; the climate and soil being better suited to them than is any other in the Union; or rather, I should say, on the Atlantic slope. Another item of interest is a cave of considerable dimensions." "Papa," asked Grace, "how long did that battle of Lake Erie last?" "Three hours and a quarter. It was a sanguinary fight, ending in a splendid victory for Perry, who was about twenty-seven years old, and had never before borne part in a naval engagement." "Yes, it was sanguinary; the carnage was terrible," said Mr. Dinsmore. "What harrowing scenes there must have been!" "Some comical ones, too," remarked Walter, with a chuckle. "I have read somewhere that Perry's first lieutenant, Yarnall, came to him during the fight and told him that all the officers of the first division were either killed or wounded. I don't know that he mentioned himself among them, but it was very evident that he had been hurt, for his face was covered with blood from a wound in his forehead, his nose dreadfully swollen by a blow from a splinter, and there was another wound in his neck." "He must have been a brave and persevering fellow to go on fighting with all those hurts," said Grace. "But what was it he wanted of Perry?" "More men to help with his part of the fight; and Perry let him have them. But soon he came back on the same errand, and that time Perry had to refuse. 'You must make out by yourself; I have no more to furnish you,' he said. And now he could not help smiling at Yarnall's appearance, for in addition to his swelled nose and the blood on his face he was covered with cattails from the hammock mattresses that had been struck and torn by the enemy's balls; they were sticking all over his face and gave him much the aspect of a great owl. When he went below after the fight was over, even the wounded men had to laugh at his comical and hideous appearance." "I remember reading of the narrow escape that fell to the lot of the second lieutenant," said Rosie, when Walter had finished his little anecdote, "he was standing close beside Perry, fighting his division, when a grape-shot struck him in the breast, and he fell. Perry lifted him up, and as there was no wound to be seen, told him to rally, for he could not be hurt. He was only stunned into momentary unconsciousness, and when able to speak, said, pulling out the shot, which had lodged in his waistcoat, 'No, sir! I'm not hurt, but this is my shot.'" "Yes," said Captain Raymond, "more than one man was shot and killed while speaking to Perry. One was the captain of the gun whose tackle had been shot away. Perry stepped nearer to him to see what was the matter. 'I can fire, sir,' the sailor said, and was in the very act of doing so when a twenty-four-pound shot struck him, passed through his body, and he fell dead at Perry's feet." "But Perry escaped unwounded, though freely exposing himself to danger when necessary for the performance of duty," remarked Grandma Elsie. "I have read that he said that he believed his wife's prayers had saved him; I have no doubt that his mother's helped him, for I have read that she was a Christian woman, and had brought him up in the fear of the Lord. His young brother too--only twelve years old--escaped wonderfully, shots passing through his clothes and hat, a hammock torn from its fastenings by a ball knocking him down, and yet no wound being made." "Lieutenant John Brooks, a handsome young fellow, was another officer shot while speaking to Perry," said Captain Raymond, "struck in the thigh by a cannon ball that drove him some distance. It was a terribly painful wound, so that he shrieked with agony, and besought Perry to shoot him dead. Perry ordered him carried below, and while that was being done a mulatto boy, his servant, rolled on the deck, crying out that his master was killed. He had been acting as powder boy, and being ordered to return to his duty did so with the tears rolling down his cheeks all the time at the thought of his master's suffering!" There was a moment of silence, broken by Grace. "Oh, what a dreadful thing war is!" she sighed. "I hope we will never have another. I think nothing could be worse." "How about submission to despotism, Gracie?" asked Walter. "What sort of condition would this country be in now had not our ancestors waged those two wars with Great Britain?" "Oh, yes! they were right on the side of America, dreadful as they were," she acknowledged, "the choice being between fighting for freedom or enduring unbearable oppression." "That is true," he said; "better death than slavery; and had we tamely submitted, instead of resisting as we did, we could never have become the strong, free people that we are." "And we may well, even yet, thank God for Perry's victory," said the captain; "it led to the immediate evacuation of Detroit and the release of the whole of Michigan Territory from British sway, with all the horrors of Indian atrocities, murder, scalping, and fire. Also it wiped away the disgrace of Hull's ignominious surrender of Detroit, strengthened the hands of the Government, and gave great encouragement to General Harrison and his brave and patriotic soldiers; indeed, to all who were fighting for our country on both land and sea. Harrison had completed his arrangements for invading Canada, and Perry's vessels were used in carrying his army there. That is, the _Niagara_ and the lighter vessels of both squadrons. "One of the measures Harrison had taken for raising the needed complement of troops had been a call upon Governor Shelby of Kentucky, for fifteen hundred men, accompanied by the generous offer to yield the chief command to him, Shelby to be the guiding head and Harrison himself the hand. "Shelby was one of those who had battled for his country in the days of the Revolution; one of the leaders of the militia who defeated the banded Tories under Major Ferguson on King's Mountain, South Carolina, on the 7th of October, 1781. His valor was conspicuous on that occasion, and he had since been familiarly styled Old King's Mountain." "A very old man in 1813, I suppose," said Grace. "Sixty-three," replied her father. "In these days we would hardly consider a man of that age extremely old, though certainly not young. Young enough, however, for Harrison's invitation to rouse his martial spirit to such an extent that he resolved to lead, instead of sending his men against the enemies of his country. He called for mounted volunteers to assemble at Newport, opposite Cincinnati, at the close of July, promising to meet them there in person, lead them to the field of battle, and share with them the dangers and honors of the campaign. "That call seemed to electrify the people of Kentucky. Young men and veterans vied with each other in enthusiasm, exchanging urgent calls to rally to the defence of their country, for Old King's Mountain would certainly lead them to victory. Twice the required number of men flocked to his standard, and, including Colonel R. M. Johnson's troop, he led 3500 in the direction of Lake Erie. "On the 12th of September he reached Upper Sandusky, from there he pushed forward with his staff, and on the way heard the glad tidings of Perry's victory. He despatched a courier with the news to Major-General Henry, whom he had left in command of his troops, bidding him hasten forward with them. "They, and the whole country as well, were greatly inspirited, filled with joy and exultation by the glad tidings; for that victory relieved the whole region of the most gloomy forebodings of evil, leading, as it did, to the destruction of the Indian confederacy, which, in conjunction with the British military power, had been the cause of so much awful suffering and loss to men, women, and children suffering by fire, sword, tomahawk, and scalping knife, and removing the stigma of the surrender of Detroit. "That victory was one of the most important events of the war, opening the way for Harrison's army to penetrate into Canada and to our repossession of the territory of Michigan. Also removing all doubts of the ability of the Americans to maintain the mastery of the great lakes. "A poet of the time concluded an epic with these lines: "'And though Britons may brag of their ruling the ocean, And that sort of thing, by the Lord I've a notion-- I'll bet all I'm worth, who takes it?--who takes? Though they're lords of the sea, we'll be lords of the lakes.' "Well, to go on with my story, by the 16th the whole army of the Northwest, except the troops garrisoning Fort Meigs and minor posts, were on the borders of Lake Erie. Shelby arrived there on the 14th, only a few minutes before a part of Perry's squadron came in, bringing three hundred British prisoners. A few days later they were marched to Chillicothe and Franklinton, escorted by a guard of Kentucky militia. "And now Harrison made preparations to embark his army. Colonel Johnson was directed to remain at Fort Meigs with his mounted regiment till the expedition should sail, then march toward Detroit, keeping as nearly as possible abreast of the army on the transports, and General M'Arthur, at that time in command of Fort Meigs, was directed to embark artillery, provisions, and stores from that post, and march the regulars there, with Clay's Kentuckians, to the Portage. "It was on a delightful day, the 20th of September, that the army embarked. On the 24th they rendezvoused on Put-in-Bay Island, and the next day were on the Middle Sisters, five thousand men encamping on its six or seven acres." "A good many horses besides, I presume," remarked Walter. "No," said the captain, "the Kentuckians left their horses on the peninsula and were acting as infantry. "On that day General Harrison and Perry sailed in the _Ariel_ to reconnoitre the enemy at Malden. They were entirely successful, and returned at sunset. An order was issued that evening, giving directions for the embarking of the troop, stating the place and manner of landing, the order of march, the attack upon the enemy, and other particulars. "The order, signed by General E. P. Gaines, exhorted his brave troops to remember that they were the sons of sires whose fame was immortal; that they were to fight for the rights of their insulted country, while their opponents would combat for the unjust pretensions of a master. 'Kentuckians,' he said, 'remember the River Raisin, but remember it only while victory is suspended. The revenge of a soldier cannot be satisfied upon a fallen enemy.' "It was on a lovely autumnal day, September 27, that the expedition finally set sail, in sixteen armed vessels and almost one hundred boats. They were all in motion at nine o'clock, going northward toward the hostile shore, and then Harrison's stirring address was read to the men on each vessel. At its conclusion there went up a hearty shout for 'Harrison and victory'; then all moved on silently into the Detroit River. Lossing tells us the spectacle was beautiful and sublime. "The landing place selected by Harrison and Perry was Hartley's Point, opposite the lower end of Bois Blanc Island, and three or four miles below Maiden. A low, sandy beach stretched out in front of high sand drifts, behind which the enemy were supposed to be lying in wait, and our troops landed in battle order--Kentucky volunteers on the right, regulars on the left, Ball's Legion and the friendly Indians in the centre. "But no enemy was there. The cowardly Proctor, in spite of the indignant remonstrances of Tecumseh, had fled northward with his army and all he could take with him; leaving Fort Maiden, the storehouses, and navy buildings smoking ruins. Beside that, he had seized all the horses of the people of the neighborhood to help him in his flight." "The poor people! poor, abused creatures!" exclaimed Grace, adding, "and probably they were much frightened lest the Americans should treat them still worse." "If so, their fears were soon relieved," replied her father; "for as our troops drew near the town, Governor Shelby in advance, they were met by a troop of modest, well-dressed women, who came to implore mercy and protection. The kind-hearted general soon calmed their fears. "The army moved on and entered Malden with the band playing 'Yankee Doodle.' They learned that the enemy's rear guard had not been gone an hour, and Colonel Ball at once sent an officer and twenty men of his cavalry after them to prevent the destruction of a bridge over the Tarontee. They were just in time to save it, driving the incendiaries off with a single volley. "The next morning Harrison crossed it with all his army, excepting a regiment of riflemen left at Amherstburg. At two o'clock on the 29th they entered Sandwich, and the American flotilla reached Detroit, which, you will remember, is opposite, on the western side of the river of the same name. The next day Colonel Johnson and his mounted regiment arrived there." "Were not the British still in possession of Detroit, papa?" asked Lucilla. "No; M'Arthur, with seven hundred effective men, had crossed over shortly before and retaken the town, driving off a body of Indians who were hovering about it. Also General Harrison had, to the great joy of the inhabitants, declared Proctor's proclamation of martial law null and void, and the civil government of Michigan restored. "On Johnson's arrival he received an order from Harrison to cross the river at once with his troops, as he (Harrison) was resolved to push on after the enemy as rapidly as possible. There were two roads, either of which might be taken in the pursuit--by land in the rear of the British, or by Lake Erie to Long Point, and thence across the country. Harrison called a council of his general officers to consider the question, and it was decided to take the land route. "It was said that Proctor was encamped near Chatham on the Thames; so that was the place for which the whole army of the Americans, except M'Arthur's brigade, left at Detroit, and Ball's and Cass', left at Sandwich, marched on the morning of October 2. "Two days before that Perry had learned that some small vessels carrying the artillery and baggage of the British had gone up Lake St. Clair toward the Thames. He sent some of his vessels in pursuit, followed them in the _Ariel_, accompanied by the _Caledonia_, and on the day that Harrison left Sandwich the whole of the little squadron appeared off the mouth of the Thames with the provisions, baggage, and ammunition wagons of the American army." "Had he taken the enemy's vessels?" asked Evelyn. "No," replied the captain; "they had too much the start of his, and escaped up the Thames. It is said that when the army reached the mouth of that river an eagle was seen hovering above it; and that Harrison remarked to those about him that it was a presage of success, and Perry, who had landed and was with the general, added the information that an eagle was seen hovering over his little squadron on the morning of the 10th of September." "The day when he fought his naval battle," remarked Grace. "Don't you suppose, papa, this eagle may have been the very same?" "I think it quite likely," was the reply. "And it reminds me of the young gamecock that flew upon a gun-slide on the _Saratoga_, McDonough's flagship, early in the naval battle of Plattsburg, clapped his wings and crowed so lustily and defiantly," said Walter. "And me of 'Old Abe,' the eagle present in so many battles of the Civil War," said his sister Rose. "But please go on with your story of the battle of the Thames." "To go back to the morning of October 2, when Harrison and his troops left Sandwich," continued the captain. "We are told that they pushed on rapidly for 20 miles along the border of the lake, there came upon 7 British deserters who told the general that Proctor, with 700 white men and 1200 Indians was encamped at Dolsen's farm, about 15 miles from the mouth of the Thames, on its northern bank, and 56 miles from Detroit by water. This news roused the Americans to still greater exertions, and when they halted for a night's rest they had marched 25 miles from Sandwich, their starting point. "The pursuit was renewed the next morning at dawn, and near the mouth of the Thames Johnson captured a lieutenant and eleven privates, who had just begun to destroy a bridge over a small stream emptying into that river. That made it evident to the Americans that Proctor had heard they were in pursuit of him and they hastened on, hoping to overtake, fight, and defeat him. That night they encamped on Drake's farm, four miles below Dolsen's. "As the troops moved on, Perry's vessels had passed up the river to cover their movements when they should cross the Thames or its tributaries; but here there was a change in the character of the banks; below the river flowed on between prairies, its channel broad, its current sluggish, but here the country became hilly, the stream narrow and rapid, the banks high and wooded, affording convenient places for Indian ambuscades, from whence shots could be fired down upon the passing vessels below. So it was thought better not to take them any higher up the stream than Dolsen's, and Perry landed and offered his services to Harrison as volunteer aid; so joining the army in the exciting pursuit of the foe. "The cowardly Proctor--much to the disgust of Tecumseh--fled up the Thames 28½ miles from Dolsen's to Chatham, where an impassable stream called M'Gregor's Creek empties into that river. On reaching the spot he said to Tecumseh, 'Here we will defeat Harrison or lay our bones.' "Tecumseh was pleased with both the speech and the spot, and remarked that when he looked at these streams he would be reminded of the Tippecanoe and the Wabash. "Two bridges--one at the mouth of the creek and the other at a mill a mile above, had been partially destroyed, and at each was a party of Indians ready to dispute the passage of the Americans should they attempt to cross or to make repairs; but Major Wood, with two six-pounder cannon, and Colonel Johnson with his horsemen, soon sent them flying after Proctor." "Was anybody hurt in either fight, papa?" asked Grace. "Yes; 2 men of Johnson's party were killed, and 6 or 7 wounded. The Indians had a large number wounded and 13 killed. It was here that the chief Walk-in-the-Water with 60 warriors came to Harrison and offered to join his army conditionally. But Harrison had no time to attend to him, so told him if he left Tecumseh, he must keep out of the way of the American army." "Did he do it, papa?" asked Elsie. "Yes, he went back to the Detroit River." "And did the Americans go on chasing the British, papa?" "Yes, and the British retreating, destroying all they could on the way, firing houses and vessels containing military and naval stores as they went, the Americans following, putting out the fires and saving houses, vessels, stores as far as possible. "But they did not catch up to the British that night; they encamped and Harrison set a double guard; which was well, for at midnight Proctor and Tecumseh reconnoitred the camp, but did not venture to attack it. "At dawn the Americans were again in motion, the mounted regiments in front, led by General Harrison and his staff, the Kentucky volunteers under General Shelby following. It was not long before they had captured two of the enemy's gunboats and several bateaux with army supplies and ammunition, and some prisoners. "It was only nine o'clock when they reached a place where the river was fordable by horses. Harrison decided to cross there and each of the mounted men took an infantryman on his horse behind him; others crossed in the bateaux, and by noon the whole American army was on the north side of the river." "I should think they must have been tired," said little Elsie. "Didn't they stop to rest a while, papa?" "No, indeed," replied her father, stroking her hair and smiling down into the interested little face upturned to his, "they were much too eager to catch and defeat their country's foes. They hastened on as rapidly as possible, passing on their way many evidences of the rapidity of Proctor's retreat. "It was two o'clock and they were eight miles from the crossing place when they came upon smouldering embers that showed where the enemy's rear guard had been but a short time before. By that they knew they were not far behind the foe, and Colonel Johnson dashed forward to learn their exact whereabouts. "It was not long before he had captured a British wagoner who told him that Proctor had halted only three hundred yards farther on. Johnson, with Major James Suggett and his spies, moved cautiously on, and found the British drawn up in battle order, waiting for the coming of the Americans. "He, Johnson, learned enough about their position to enable General Harrison and a council of officers, held on horseback, to decide upon the best order for the attack. The American army now consisted of a little more than 3000 men--120 regulars of the 27th Regiment, 5 brigades of Kentucky volunteers under Governor Shelby, and Colonel Johnson's regiment of mounted infantry. "The foe had made choice of a good place to make a stand. On one side was the Thames River, with high and precipitous bank, on the other a marsh running almost parallel with the river. Between the two, about three hundred yards from the river, was a narrow swamp with a strip of solid ground between it and the large marsh. Almost the whole space between the river and the marsh was covered with forest trees--oaks, beeches, and sugar maples, with very little undergrowth. "The British regulars were formed in two lines between the river and the small swamp; their artillery planted in the road near the bank of the stream. The Indians were posted between the two swamps, those commanded by Tecumseh in person on the isthmus or narrowest point. "At first Harrison arranged for the horsemen to fall back and let the infantry make the first attack, which would begin the battle; next the cavalry were to charge the British. But when all the preparations were completed Major Wood, who had been reconnoitring the enemy's position, informed Harrison that the British were drawn up in open order, and, though contrary to all precedent, the general immediately decided to change his plan of attack. Instead of having the infantry fall upon the British front he ordered Johnson to charge their line with his mounted troops. "In explaining his motive for the change, in a report rendered afterward to the Secretary of War, he said: 'The American backwoods men ride better in the woods than any other people. A musket or rifle is no impediment, they being accustomed to carrying them on horseback from their earliest youth. I was persuaded, too, that the enemy would be quite unprepared for the shock, and that they could not resist it.' "The event speedily proved the wisdom of the decision. The general's orders were promptly obeyed, then a bugle sounded, and the Americans moved coolly forward, neither hesitating nor with undue haste, among huge trees, over fallen timber, and through the undergrowth, those impediments in their path compelling them to move slowly. "While they were still at some distance from the front line of the British regulars the latter opened upon them with a severe fire, which caused some confusion at the head of the column, the horses of some of them taking fright; and before order was restored there came second volley. Then with a tremendous shout the American cavalry boldly dashed upon the British line and broke it, scattering it in all directions. Then the second line, thirty paces in the rear, was treated in the same way, and the horsemen wheeled right and left, pouring a destructive fire upon the rear of the confused and broken columns, so increasing their panic that they threw down their arms and surrendered as fast as they could. "Lossing tells us that in less than five minutes after the first shot was fired the whole British force, more than eight hundred strong, were totally vanquished, and most of them made prisoners; only about fifty men and a single officer escaping." "Ah, that was a victory to be proud of!" cried Lulu. "And what became of the brave Proctor, papa?" "He fled from the field as fast as his horses would carry him, taking with him his personal staff, a few dragoons, and some mounted Indians. In the words of the old song "'When Proctor saw lost was the day, He fled La Tranche's plain: A carriage bore the chief away, Who ne'er returned again.' "He was hotly pursued by a part of Johnson's corps under Major Payne." "I think I remember, though, that they did not succeed in catching him," remarked Rosie. "No," said the captain; "ten of them continued the pursuit until dark, but could not overtake him." "Ah, it seems he was better at running away than at fighting," said Walter; "but if I remember right, he had to abandon his fine carriage." "He did so; left the road and escaped by some bypath," replied Captain Raymond. "So rapid and masterly was his retreat that within twenty-four hours he was sixty-five miles distant from his starting point--the battle ground." "And the American officers and men got nothing for their long chase, papa?" Grace said enquiringly. "A trifle more," returned the captain, with a slightly amused look: "Major Wood captured Proctor's carriage, sword, and valuable papers. There were some beautifully written letters from Proctor's wife, in which she addresses him as 'Dear Henry.'" "'Dear Henry,' indeed!" cried Lucilla scornfully. "I could never love such a coward. Nor--nor such a cruel wretch--delighting in seeing men, women, and children tortured by the savages, if he didn't take part in it with his own hands. But you haven't finished the story of the battle, papa." "No, not quite. General Henry, with his advancing columns, was hardly in sight of the combatants before that part of the battle was over; but at the same time that one bugle sounded for that attack another was heard on the left. Colonel Johnson and his troops moved against the Indians almost at the same instant that the first battalion--under his brother James and Major Payne--attacked the British regulars. He had divided his force and led them--the second battalion--across the little swamp to attack the Indian left. They were in front of Shelby, with a company of infantry. Harrison had taken a position on the extreme right, near the bank of the river, where he could observe and direct all the movements, and with him were Adjutant-General Butler, Commodore Perry, and General Cass. "Tecumseh's savages reserved their fire till the Americans were within a few paces of them, then hurled upon them a deadly shower of bullets, wounding General Johnson very severely, and prostrating more than half his vanguard of forlorn hope. On this part of the field the undergrowth and the branches of the trees were too thick to allow mounted men to do much service with their rifles, therefore Johnson ordered them to dismount and fight on foot at close quarters. They obeyed, and there were many hand to hand fights, the Kentuckians as they fought raising now and again the fearful cry, 'Remember the River Raisin.'" "What did they mean by that, papa?" asked Elsie. "I will explain that at another time," he replied. "You may ask for the story to-morrow. And now, to go on with this--for a while it seemed doubtful which side would win; but General Shelby, perceiving it, ordered the regiment of Lieutenant-Colonel Donaldson to the support of Johnson, and General King to press forward to the front with his brigade. "The Indians had already recoiled from the shock of the Kentucky riflemen, and now they fled; they were pursued and a scattering running fight ended the battle. Proctor was running away as fast as he could, like some hunted wild animal, and his savage allies scattered themselves through the forest behind the larger swamp." "Tecumseh with the rest, papa?" asked Elsie. "No, my child, Tecumseh was lying dead on the field of battle. But for his loss it is likely the Indians would have continued the struggle for some time longer." "Who killed him, papa?" she asked. "No one can say certainly," replied her father, "though probably it was Johnson. Tradition and history tell us that Tecumseh had wounded Colonel Johnson with a rifle bullet, and was springing forward to tomahawk him, when Johnson drew a pistol from his belt and shot him through the heart. It is said that Johnson himself never either affirmed or denied that his was the hand which slew Tecumseh. Probably he did not really know whether the Indian he had killed was the great chieftain or some other. However, it is certain that he, Tecumseh, was slain in that battle,--as it seems he had predicted that he would be,--and it is a question of little importance whose hand sped the bullet or struck the blow that ended his career." There was a moment of silence, broken by Grandma Elsie's soft voice: "'The moment was fearful: a mightier foe Had ne'er swung his battle axe o'er him; But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him. He fought in defence of his kindred and king With spirit most loving and loyal, And long shall the Indian warrior sing The deeds of Tecumseh the royal.' "I presume you are right, captain, in thinking," she added, "that even Johnson himself did not know whether the Indian he had shot was Tecumseh, but as you have just said, the question is of no historical importance. We do know, however, that Johnson behaved most gallantly in the battle of the Thames and was sorely wounded in the hip, thigh, and hand; the last from the Indian whom he shot. He was disabled and said to his friend, Dr. Theobald, one of his staff, fighting near him, 'I am severely wounded: where shall I go?' Theobald, saying, 'Follow me,' led him across the smaller swamp to the road and the stand of Governor Shelby's surgeon-general. Johnson was faint from the loss of blood, and his horse, it would seem, was still more sorely wounded, for as his master was lifted from his back he fell dead." "Oh, did the man die too, grandma?" asked little Elsie, with a look of eager interest and concern. "No, dear; they gave him water, dressed his wounds, and carried him on board a vessel they had taken from the British. Captain Champlin, the commander of the _Scorpion_, was there on it; he took the colonel down the river in that vessel to his own, lying at Dolsen's, and from there, in her, to Detroit." "Papa, did he get well and go back and fight some more?" asked Ned. "No, my son; he went into Congress and served his country well there. But now it is high time for you and Elsie to go to your berths. Bid us all good-night; to-morrow you may ask as many questions as you please, and papa will answer them to the best of his ability." CHAPTER VIII. The wind had risen while Captain Raymond was talking, and now began to blow briskly, bringing with it an occasional dash of rain; a state of affairs that presently sent the whole party into the cabin, and a little later they had all retired to their staterooms but the captain and his two older daughters, who lingered a few moments for the bit of chat with their dearly loved father of which they were so fond. "Do you think we are going to have a hard storm, papa?" Grace asked a little anxiously, as she came to him to say good-night. "I hope not," he said, "do not be anxious; remember, 'the Lord hath his way in the whirlwind and in the storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet. He rebuketh the sea and maketh it dry.' Remember, too, that 'the Lord is good, a stronghold in the day of trouble; and He knoweth them that trust in Him.'" "Oh, yes! Thank you for reminding me of those sweet words, father, dear," she returned with a sigh of relief, and laying her cheek affectionately against his as he put an arm about her and held her close for a moment. "I will trust and not be afraid." "That is right, daughter," he said; "no real evil can befall us while trusting in Him." "But, papa, Christians do have great and real distresses sometimes," she returned, with an enquiring and slightly troubled look up into his face. "Yes, daughter, 'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.' But 'like as a father pitieth his children so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him;' and He will sustain them under all the troubles that He sends. Remember that His promise is, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'" "Such a sweet, precious promise, papa!" she said. "I will just put my dear ones and myself in His care, trust in Him, and not lie awake, dreading shipwreck." "That is what I would have you do, my darling," he returned. "Do not forget those sweet words of Holy Writ: 'The Lord knoweth them that trust in Him,' nor the promise that He will never leave or forsake them. Put yourself into His care and go to sleep untroubled by doubts and fears. Good-night," he concluded, as he kissed her tenderly and let her go. "And how is it with my dear eldest daughter?" he asked, turning to Lucilla, who stood near awaiting her turn. "I am not naturally so timid as Gracie, you know, papa," she answered, smiling up into his face as he passed an arm about her and drew her close to his side, while with the other hand he smoothed her hair caressingly, "and I do believe that God will take care of us all through the instrumentality of my own dear father, who knows so well how to manage a vessel in calm or storm. But you do not think there is much if any danger, do you, papa?" she asked, gazing searchingly into his face, "for you are not looking at all anxious." "There is a pretty stiff breeze," he said, "and Erie is a stormy lake, owing to the shallowness of its waters, and the consequent liability to a heavy ground swell which renders its navigation particularly difficult and dangerous; but I have passed over it a number of times and do not feel any great amount of anxiety in regard to our safety--if I attend properly to my duty as commander of the _Dolphin_," he concluded, with his pleasant smile. "I must return to the deck, now; so good-night, daughter dear. May you sleep sweetly and peacefully, trusting in the care of your earthly father, and still more in that of your heavenly one." "Oh, just one minute more, papa," she said entreatingly, as he released her. "I--I want to say that I am afraid that I was--almost, if not quite, a little disrespectful to you once or twice to-day." "Ah! Well, darling, if you have been, it is entirely forgiven; so go to your bed in peace. I must hurry on deck and cannot wait to talk with you further now." With the concluding words he hastened away, while she looked after him with eyes full of filial love, then as he disappeared she made her way as quickly as the rolling of the vessel would allow, across the saloon and joined her sister in their stateroom. There were tears in Grace's sweet blue eyes as she lifted them to her sister's face. "What, crying, Gracie darling?" Lulu asked, with concern. "Yes; to think of poor papa out on deck in the wind and rain, while we are so comfortable in here," answered Grace with a sob, pulling out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes. "Oh, I almost wish I were a big, strong sailor, and knew all about managing a vessel, so that I could take his place and have him to his berth to rest and sleep." "I'm sure I wish I could," sighed Lulu. "He should never have an ache or pain of any kind if I might bear them for him; never be anything but the happiest man in the world if----" but she paused suddenly, while a vivid blush suffused her face. "I have no right to talk so," she added in a remorseful tone, "I, who so often fail to be the perfectly respectful and cheerfully obedient daughter that I ought." "I really think you judge yourself very hardly, Lu," remarked Grace, with a surprised glance into her sister's face. "You are always perfectly obedient and very affectionate toward our dear father, seeming to take great delight in doing everything you can to please him and add to his comfort; I really do not think he has a child who loves him better or does more for his comfort; no, not even I, who esteem him the very best and dearest father in the world," she concluded, with a look and smile that said more than her words. "Oh, thank you, Gracie! I do love him dearly, dearly; but as you know I am shamefully quick-tempered and wilful and sometimes look vexed at a reproof or prohibition, then the next minute could beat myself well for it." "Lu, you never, never are in a passion nowadays!" exclaimed Grace. "I own you do look vexed sometimes for a minute or two, but then it's all over and you are just as sweet and pleasant as anyone could wish. Oh, you are just the dearest, dearest girl! Ah, you needn't shake your head and look so dolorous," she added, in a playful tone, putting her arms about Lucilla and kissing her with ardent affection. "Ah, yes, you are all so dear and loving, so ready to excuse my faults," Lulu said, returning the embrace with interest. "No one more so than our dear father, though I well know I have given him more pain and trouble than any other of his children, if not than all put together. Gracie, let us kneel down together and ask God to take care of papa and all of us, and that if it is His will the storm may soon so abate that our dear father can go to his berth and get a good night's rest." Grace was more than willing, and they spent some minutes in earnest supplication. In that act of prayer Grace cast all her care upon the Lord, and scarcely had she more than laid her head upon her pillow before she fell asleep; but Lucilla lay for hours listening to the howling of the wind, the sound of the waves dashing against the sides of the vessel, her father's voice occasionally giving an order through the speaking trumpet, and the hurried and heavy tread of the sailors as they hastened to obey. It seemed a worse storm than any she had ever been in upon the water, and almost her every breath was a prayer for the safety of the yacht with all its living freight--especially her dearly loved father, now exposed to the fury of the wind, waves, and rain--that they might pass through it in safety. But at last she fell into a deep sleep, and for some hours heard and felt nothing of the storm. Yet it was not over when she awoke; she could still hear the howling of the wind, the rush of the waters, and feel the rolling and pitching of the vessel. But it was daylight, and slipping from her berth with care not to rouse her still sleeping sister, she knelt for a moment of heart-felt thanks to her heavenly Father, that thus far they had weathered the storm, and fervent supplication that the vessel might outride it in safety to the end. Rising from her knees she made a hasty toilet, then, anxious to learn of her father's welfare, stole from the room, and holding on by the furniture, crossed the saloon, then with some difficulty climbed the cabin stairway and reached the windswept deck. One glance showed her her father standing at a little distance, giving some direction to a sailor. He did not see her. There was a momentary lull in the wind, and taking advantage of it she started on a run toward him. But just at that moment came another and fierce gust that took her off her feet and swept her toward the side of the vessel. In another instant she would have been in the water, had her father not turned suddenly and caught her in his arms barely in time to save her from that fate. He held her fast with one arm while he grasped the railing with the other hand, and held on till the gale again moderated for a moment. Then he carried her back to the cabin. They were alone there, for the others were still in their staterooms. He strained her to his breast in silence, and she felt a tear fall on her head. "Thank God, my darling, precious child is safe in my arms!" he said at last, speaking scarcely above a whisper, pressing his lips again and again to her forehead, her cheek, her mouth. "And my own dear father saved me," she said in quivering tones, her arms about his neck, her face half hidden on his breast. "It was a narrow escape, my child," he sighed, repeating his caresses, "a very narrow escape; and what would I have done had I lost my dear eldest daughter? You must not try it again; don't venture on deck again until I give you permission." "I will not, papa," she returned. "But oh, haven't you been up all night? can't you take some rest now?" "Not yet; perhaps after a little. There, there, do not look so distressed," smoothing her hair caressingly as he spoke. "You must remember I am an old sailor and used to such vigils. I had a cup of coffee and a biscuit a while ago which quite refreshed me." "But can't you go to your berth now and take some hours of rest and sleep, papa, dear?" she asked entreatingly, her eyes gazing lovingly into his. "Surely someone among your men must be fit to take charge of the yacht for a while." "Not just yet, daughter; perhaps before long I can do so. I must leave you now and go back to my duties; and do you go to your stateroom and thank your heavenly Father for your escape from a watery grave." With that he released her and hurried away up the cabin stairs, she following him with looks of yearning affection till he disappeared from view, then hastening to obey his parting injunction. Her heart was full of love and gratitude to God for her spared life, and that thus far they had escaped shipwreck, and even as she gave thanks it seemed to her that there was a lull in the storm--the wind almost ceasing to blow and the vessel rocking much less. "Oh, Gracie," she said, as she rose from her knees and perceived that her sister's eyes were open, "I do think--I do hope that the worst of the storm is over." "Do you?" cried Grace joyously, hastily throwing back the covering and stepping out upon the floor. "Oh, how glad I am! How good God has been to us all! But where is papa? Has he been up all night?" "Yes," replied Lulu, "and oh, Gracie, if it hadn't been for him I would be at the bottom of the lake now," she added, with tears of gratitude filling her eyes. "Why, Lu!" exclaimed Grace in astonishment, "you surely did not venture up on the deck in this storm?" "I did, and was nearly blown into the lake, but papa caught me, held me fast for a minute, then carried me down into the cabin." "Oh, Lu! Lu! I hope you will never venture so again! I'd be broken-hearted, and so would papa, and indeed, all the rest, if we lost you in that way. What could I ever do without my dear, big sister?" she concluded, putting her arms about Lucilla and holding her fast in a most loving embrace. "Oh, but it is nice that you love me so, Gracie, dear," Lulu returned. "It was very foolish in me to venture on deck in such a gale, but papa did not scold me at all; just held me fast, petting and caressing me as if I were one of his greatest treasures." "Of course," said Grace. "But didn't he forbid you to try going on deck again before the wind dies down?" "Yes," acknowledged Lulu. "Oh, I wish he could stay below too. I want him to go to his berth and sleep off his fatigue. He must be very tired after his long night's vigil. But it is nearly breakfast time, and we should be making ourselves neat to appear at the table, looking as papa would have us." An hour later all had gathered about the table, the captain at the head of it as usual, and looking cheerful and pleasant-tempered as was his wont, though somewhat weary and worn. He reported the storm nearly over, no serious damage done the vessel, nor much time lost. He hoped to be in the Welland Canal before night, and that they would find themselves on Lake Ontario when they woke in the morning. "And can you not go to your berth for some hours' rest and sleep when you have finished your breakfast, my dear?" queried Violet, with a loving, anxious look into his face. "Probably; after a short visit to the deck to see that all is going right there. Excuse me, my dear," he added, pushing away his plate and rising to his feet as he spoke. "I must return to my duties at once, but would have everyone else finish the meal at leisure," and with the last word he hurried away. "My dear papa looks so tired, mamma," remarked little Elsie in regretful tones, "what has he been doing?" "Staying up all night to take care of us," replied Violet, the tears shining in her eyes. "Don't you think we ought to love dear papa and do all we can to make him happy?" "Yes, indeed, mamma!" answered the little girl earnestly. "Oh, I hope he can get a good sleep soon so that he will feel rested and well. I was going to ask him to tell me about what happened at the River Raisin. You know our soldiers, in that fight with the British and Indians that he told us about yesterday, called out over and over again, 'Remember the River Raisin,' and papa said he would tell me what it meant if I would ask him to-day. But I can wait till to-morrow," she added, with a sigh of resignation. "How would it do for grandma to take your papa's place and tell you the story?" asked Grandma Elsie, in cheerful tones, and with a loving, smiling look at the little girl. "Oh, nicely, grandma! I don't know but you could do it as well as papa could," answered the child eagerly. "Ah, dearie, it is a very sad story, and I think I shall have to make it short," sighed Mrs. Travilla; "the details would but harrow up your feelings unnecessarily." "Bad doings of the British and Indians, grandma?" queried the little girl. "Yes; it was that, indeed!" said Mr. Dinsmore; "the latter part of the tragedy a terrible slaughter of defenceless prisoners--tortured, scalped, tomahawked, slain in various ways with the utmost cruelty; many of them burned alive in the houses where they lay wounded, unable to move. It was a fearful slaughter which Proctor, far from trying to prevent, rewarded with praise and the purchase of the scalps." "Oh, wasn't he a very, very bad man, grandpa?" exclaimed little Elsie. "More of a devil than a man, I should say," exclaimed Walter. "I remember reading an extract from a letter written a few days later, from Fort Maiden, by a Kentuckian to his mother, in which he says, 'Never, dear mother, should I live a thousand years can I forget the frightful sight of this morning, when hideously painted Indians came into the fort, some of them carrying half a dozen scalps of my countrymen fastened upon sticks and yet covered with blood, and were congratulated by Colonel Proctor for their bravery." "But all the British officers were not so cruel, Walter, my dear," said his mother. "I remember the story of the letter to which you refer, and that the writer went on to say that he heard two British officers talking of that scene together; that one of them, whose name, he had been told, was Lieutenant-Colonel St. George, remarked to the other that Proctor was a disgrace to the British army, that such encouragement to devils was a blot upon the British character." "Oh, please, grandma," cried little Elsie in distress, "I don't want to hear any more of that story." "No, dear, it is far from being a pleasant one, nor is it worth while to harrow up your feelings with it," returned Mrs. Travilla. "I will try to find some pleasanter one for you and Neddie boy to help you pass the time agreeably while the storm prevents us from enjoying ourselves upon the deck." With that all rose and left the table to gather in the saloon for morning worship, which, in the captain's absence, was conducted by Mr. Dinsmore. But the storm was abating so that in another half hour Captain Raymond felt it safe to leave the deck and retire to his stateroom for much needed rest and sleep, and the others could sit comfortably in the saloon, the ladies with their fancy work, while Grandma Elsie entertained the little folks with stories suited to their tender years. Walter, too, was one of the listeners for a time, then with his grandfather ventured upon deck to take an observation of the weather and their surroundings. When they returned it was with the cheering report that the storm had evidently spent its fury, the wind had nearly died down, the rain ceased to fall, and the sun was struggling through the clouds. "Oh, then we can go up on deck, can't we, grandpa?" cried Neddie, in eager tones. "After a little, sonny," returned his grandpa, sitting down and drawing the young pleader to his knee. "When my papa wakes up?" queried Neddie, in a slightly disappointed tone. "Yes, indeed, Ned," said Lucilla, "for though I am so much older than you, papa forbade me to go up there without his permission." "Why did he, Lu?" asked Elsie in a tone of surprise; "and haven't you been up there at all this morning?" "Yes, I was, before papa had forbidden me--and would have been blown into the lake if he hadn't caught me in his arms and held me fast." "Oh, Lu, tell us all about it!" cried Ned, while the others who had not heard the story expressed their surprise in various ways and asked question upon question. "There's hardly anything more to tell," replied Lucilla. "I know papa is always on deck early in the morning, and as I wake early too, I have a habit of running up there to exchange morning greetings with him. That was what I went for this time, not at all realizing how hard the wind was blowing, but I had scarcely set foot on the deck when it took my skirts and sent me across toward the spot where papa stood holding on to the railing with one hand, his speaking trumpet in the other. He dropped that in an instant and threw his arm round me." As she spoke she shuddered at the thought of her narrow escape from a watery grave, and her voice trembled with emotion. Controlling it with an effort, "You see," she concluded, "that I owe my life to my dear father, and--and I love him even better than ever, though I thought before that I loved him as much as was possible." At that Violet dropped her work, went quickly to Lucilla's side, and bending down over her, kissed her with warmth of affection. "Oh, I am so glad--so thankful that he was able to do it," she said in trembling tones and with tears in her eyes. "Dear Lu, it would have broken our hearts to lose you in that sudden, dreadful way." "As it would mine to lose you, dear Mamma Vi," returned Lucilla with emotion, putting her arms about Violet's neck and returning her caresses with interest, "for you are so very good, kind, and loving that I have grown very fond of you. And I know it would break papa's heart to lose you, even more than to lose me or all of his children." "Oh, I hope he may never be so tried! for I know he loves us all very dearly, as we do him," said Violet. "I don't know what any of us could do without him." CHAPTER IX. The sun was just peeping above the horizon, the yacht moving swiftly and steadily onward as Lucilla stepped from the companion-way upon the deck, the next morning, having obtained permission the night before to do so in case the quiet movements of the vessel made it certain she would run no such risk as she had the previous day. Her father was pacing the deck, and so near that he took her hand the moment she appeared. "My early bird, as usual! Good-morning, daughter mine," he said in tender tones as he bent down and bestowed upon her the caress she never failed to receive from him when first they met at the beginning of a new day. "Good-morning, dear, dear papa, yesterday's saver of my life," she returned, in moved tones, putting her arms about his neck and pressing her lips to his again and again. "Oh, father, surely I belong to you more than ever now!" "You are my very own, one of my chief treasures," he said, in response to that. "God bless my darling and have her ever in His kind care and keeping!" He clasped her hand tenderly in his as he spoke, and for a while they paced the deck together. "Oh, where are we, papa?" she asked, gazing from side to side in eager curiosity. "This wide expanse of water cannot be the Welland Canal?" "No, we passed through that in the night, and are now in Lake Ontario." "Oh, I am glad we are so far on our journey," she said, "and the water is so quiet that it seems a very suitable place in which to spend this sweet Sabbath day." "I think so, if only we try to spend it aright." "I do intend to," she responded. "And we shall have our usual service in the morning; we younger ones a Bible lesson with papa in the afternoon, won't we?" "I think so," he said. "I certainly expect to give my own children a Bible lesson, and we will not shut out any who may choose to take a part in it. That would be very selfish, would it not?" "Yes, sir! yes, indeed! I think so, for you always make a Bible lesson very interesting as well as instructive." "I am glad my daughter finds it so," he said, smiling down upon her. They moved silently back and forth for a few minutes, Lucilla apparently in deep thought, her father watching with keen and loving interest the changeful expression of her features. "What is it, daughter? Of what are you thinking?" he asked at length. "About the narrow escape of yesterday, papa," she answered, lifting to his a face full of solemn awe. "I was asking myself, as I have many times since my narrow escape of yesterday morning, Was I ready for heaven? Would I have gone there if I had been drowned without time to think and prepare to meet my Judge? Oh, father, can anyone be saved without time to think and repent of every wrong thought and feeling, and asking God's forgiveness for it? And how would it be possible to do all that while struggling for your life?" "Daughter," he said in tender tones, "are you not forgetting these sweet words of Holy Writ: 'He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life?' Take notice, it is not shall have, but _hath_. It is not only the sins already committed which God forgives for Jesus' sake when He adopts us for His own, but those also which in His omniscience He sees that we will be guilty of before the work of sanctification is finished. If we are truly His, they are all forgiven in advance. He says: 'I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand. My Father which gave them me is greater than all; and no man is able to pluck them out of my Father's hand. I and my Father are one.' In another place he says, 'Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that heareth my word and believeth on Him that sent me _hath_ everlasting life and shall not come into condemnation; but _is passed from death unto life_.' The one important question is, are we really His? Have we accepted His offered salvation and given ourselves entirely to Him? If that be so we have no cause for anxiety or fear; for the Lord knoweth them that are His, and will never suffer any real evil to befall them. Death will be but going home to Him, and that with all the sin taken away and we made perfect in holiness, no want of conformity to His holy will left in us." "Yes, papa, but----" "But what, daughter?" "Oh, if I should be mistaken in thinking that I really belong to Him! Papa, how can I know it?" "Have you any doubt that you are mine?" "No, indeed, papa, not the slightest." "But how do you know it?" "Because you have told me so again and again; and besides, I have only to look in the glass to see that I have your features, that I resemble you about as much in looks as a young girl can resemble a----" "Middle-aged man," he added, finishing the sentence for her as she paused with an earnest, loving look up into his face. "And the Bible tells us," he continued, "that 'Whom He did foreknow He also did predestinate to be conformed to the image of His Son.' If we are really His, we will, in a greater or less degree, resemble Him and will be changed into the same image from glory to glory." "Do you see anything of His image in me, papa?" she asked anxiously, humbly. "I am glad, very glad to be able to say that I think I do, daughter," he replied joyously, tenderly. "For years past I have watched you very closely, constantly praying God to bless my efforts to train you up in the way you should go, and bring you to Him, and I am very happy to say that for a long while now I have seen that you were striving earnestly to overcome your faults and live as a true disciple of Christ. And had you been snatched from me in that sudden way, while the loss of my dear child would have been terrible to me, I should not have mourned as those without hope; but should now be looking forward to a happy meeting with you in that blessed land where sin and sorrow and death are unknown." "Thank you, dear papa, oh, thank you very much!" she said, with emotion. "If I am a Christian it is because you have taken almost infinite pains to make me such, to point me to Christ and lead the way; the way that you made plainer to me than anyone else ever did." "Give all the glory and praise to God, my darling," he responded, in moved tones. "It has been my daily, earnest prayer, that He would give me wisdom for the work of bringing my children to Him and bless my efforts, and I think my petition has been granted. When you see a work laid to your hands for which you feel incompetent, ask help from on high, remembering and pleading His gracious promise--'If any of you lack wisdom let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him. But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering.' Never forget that last clause. God knows the heart, and it will be useless for us to plead with Him a promise which we do not really believe." "Yes, papa; surely that would be insulting to even a human creature. Oh, pray for me, that I may have strong faith and never, never doubt one word of God's promises, or threats either, and that I may be always ready for whatever He sends. Oh, I can never thank Him enough for giving me such a good, kind, praying, Christian father!" "And I have great reason for gratitude for the dear children he has bestowed upon me," her father responded, pressing the hand he held, "and for the hope that we will spend a blessed eternity together in that land where sin and sorrow are unknown." "Yes, papa, what a delightful thought that is! and yet I cannot help feeling glad to stay a little longer here in this world. Oh, this is such a lovely morning and the view is as new to me as it is enchanting, for, as you know, in going to Chicago we passed over this part of the route in the night, so that I saw nothing of the scenery." "Well, I think you may enjoy it to the full to-day," he returned, "and that some time in the afternoon you will get a sight of the Thousand Islands; though, by the way, counting all, big and little, there are fifteen hundred or more." "Then we won't stop at all of them?" "Hardly," he answered with a smile. "They fill the river for twenty-seven miles along its course. Most of them are mere rocky islets, covered generally with stunted hemlocks and cedar trees down to the water's edge. Some are square miles in extent and others only a few yards." "And how wide is the river where they are, papa?" "It varies from two to nine miles in width. Canoes and small boats may pass safely among all the islands, and there is a deep channel for steamboats and large vessels which, having a rocky bottom, never varies in depth or position." "Do they belong to our country or to Canada, papa? I ought to know, but, if I ever did, I have forgotten." "The boundary line, which was determined in 1818, passes among them. Grindstone, Carleton, and Wells are the names of the largest of those belonging to the United States, and Grand and Howe of those belonging to Canada." "And there are a good many stories connected with them, are there not, papa?" "Yes; perhaps one of these days we will hunt them up; for I know that my children--to say nothing of older people--are fond of stories." "Especially when told by our father, who is sure to make them interesting," she said, with an upward glance into his face that spoke volumes of love and admiration. "Ah, such, it seems, is the opinion of my partial eldest daughter, who can see nothing in her father but what is good and admirable." "A weakness equally shared by his wife," remarked a clear, sweet voice in their rear. They turned quickly at the sound, the captain exclaiming, as he let go his daughter's hand, put an arm about Violet, bent down and kissed her tenderly, "This is a most agreeable surprise, my dearest, for I left you, at least, so I thought, fast asleep. I moved as quietly as I could, not wishing to disturb your slumbers." "As you always do move on such occasions, my best and dearest of husbands," she responded, returning his caresses. "You made no noise, but somehow I happened to wake just as you closed the door, and thinking I would secure for myself the rare treat of an early walk with my--better half, I left my berth promptly and began my toilet. So here I am, to spoil Lu's private morning interview with the almost idolized father she considers her peculiar property at this hour of the day." "Ah!" he returned laughingly, "I put it the other way. She is my property, yet hardly more so than my lovely young wife." "Yes; you and I belong to each other, and Lu can say the same to you," laughed Violet. "Can't you, Lu?" "So I think, Mamma Vi," returned Lucilla, "and though probably you are nearer and dearer to him than I, you cannot say as I can, that you have his blood in your veins and have belonged to him ever since you were born." "No," acknowledged Violet, "but I can say I belong to him of choice, you only of necessity." "Oh, that doesn't matter!" laughed Lucilla; "since if I had the privilege of choosing, I should be all the same his very, very own. That is, if he would have me," she added, with a look of ardent affection up into her father's face, and laying her hand upon his shoulder. "There is no question about that, dear child," he said, putting his arm round her waist again. "Since the day I first heard of your birth there has not been one in which I have not thanked God for this good gift of His to me," he concluded, with a fond caress. "So you see you have no need to be jealous even of me, Lu," Violet said, with pleased look and smile. "No, I am not, Mamma Vi, not in the least; for I would far rather be papa's daughter than his wife. But, I suppose, you would rather have him to yourself for a while now, so I will go down----" "No, no, Lu dear, stay here with us," interrupted Violet, while the captain drew his daughter a little closer, saying, "Stay where you are. Cannot I have and enjoy you both at once?" "Oh, I'm glad enough to be allowed to stay, if you both want me," exclaimed Lucilla, with a pleased little laugh. "But I thought I had had my turn and was afraid I'd be in the way now." "When I find you in the way I shall not hesitate to give you an order to go below," her father said, with a look of amusement. Then, taking her hand in his and giving the other arm to Violet, he resumed the interrupted promenade of the deck till they were joined by the children and older members of the family party. Then came the summons to the breakfast table. All were in excellent spirits, greatly enjoying the pleasant change from yesterday's storm to the lovely weather of to-day. Most of the day was spent upon the deck holding the Sabbath services usual with them there, then in reading and conversation suited to the sacred time, or in gazing out over the waters, watching the passing vessels, and as they steamed from the lake into the St. Lawrence River and pursued their way among the islands there, gazing upon them with interest and curiosity. "Are we going to stop at any of them, papa?" asked Grace. "I think not," he replied. "We are in some haste to reach Montreal, as we hope to find letters there from the home folks." "Yes," said Grandma Elsie, "I am hoping to hear from my boys--Harold and Herbert--that they have arrived safely at home; also for some news from all the other dear ones in that vicinity." "And we hope it will be all good news," added Captain Raymond cheerily. "And we will send despatches and letters to some of them, that all may be apprised of our safety thus far," added his wife. "Yes, indeed," said Violet. "By the way, I wonder where our bride and groom are by this time? I wish we might come across them and persuade them to travel in the _Dolphin_ again. We would only have to crowd a little as before, to make room for them." "And none of us would object to that, I think," remarked Rose. "I, for one, am decidedly of the opinion that it would pay," said Lucilla. "Don't you think so, father?" "Yes; I have always found their society enjoyable," Captain Raymond replied to that. "And I hope they have found ours agreeable enough to need but little urging to accept our invitation." "Perhaps we may come upon them in Montreal," remarked Grace. "Papa, is it not the largest city of Lower Canada?" "Yes; the largest in British America." "Where is it, papa?" asked little Elsie. "On the left bank of this--the St. Lawrence River, 200 miles below Lake Ontario; 160 above Quebec, which will be our next stopping place." "Will we get there to-day, papa?" asked Elsie. "No," he replied. "To-day is nearly gone, daughter. See, the sun is setting, and you and Neddie will be going presently to your beds, to have a good night's sleep, I hope, and be ready to enjoy to-morrow's visit to Montreal." CHAPTER X. The drip, drip of rain was the first sound that greeted Lucilla's ears on awaking the next morning. She started up in her berth and listened. The _Dolphin_ was not moving. "Oh, we must be anchored at Montreal, and it's raining," she said to herself. "There will not be much sight-seeing for us to-day, I'm afraid. Dear, dear! I hope we won't have to hurry away without seeing anything. Though in that case, perhaps papa will bring us here again next year." She did not linger long over her toilet, and was soon with her father on the deck. "Oh, papa!" she exclaimed, after the usual morning greetings had been exchanged, "aren't you sorry it has turned out a rainy day?" "A bright one would seem pleasanter to us, as we had planned to do some sight-seeing," he replied, "but let us remember who sends the changes of the weather, that He knows what is best for us, and that we may safely trust in His knowledge, power, and love for us?" "Yes, papa, that is how I ought to feel about it, and I will try to," she said, a sweet smile replacing the slight frown that had marred the beauty of her face for the moment. "I think," he went on presently, "that it is not going to be a lasting rain. Probably showery for some hours, which we can spend with advantage in a short review of the history of Montreal, and considering what parts of it are most worthy of our attention; for we cannot take time to visit every locality." "Oh, what a nice idea, papa! It quite comforts me!" she cried, looking up into his face with a bright, glad smile, "I do think I have just the very best, kindest, wisest father----" "There, there! that will do!" he said, stopping her flow of words with a kiss full upon her lips. "I am afraid my eldest daughter is a decided flatterer." "Oh, papa, the truth isn't flattery, is it?" she asked with a roguish look up into his eyes. "Ah! but silly young things, like my daughter Lucilla, oftentimes have vivid imaginations. But to change the subject, Montreal, you know, is historic ground." "Yes, sir; I remember that the first white man who visited it was Jacques Quartier or Cartier, a French navigator. And didn't he discover the Gulf and River St. Lawrence? and give them those names?" "Yes; and named the place here Mount Royal--in honor of his king, Francis I. The city is built upon an island thirty miles long and twelve wide, and upon the site of a noted Indian village called Hochelaga. Cartier's visit was paid in 1535. In 1640 a white settlement was gathered there. The Indians, friendly at first, afterward became jealous, then hostile. The whites at first defended their town with a stockade and slight bastions, but later with a strong wall of masonry fifteen feet high, with battlements and six gates." "What an old, old town it is!" exclaimed Lucilla. "Did it become a large city very quickly, papa?" "No; its growth was gradual, but when in the middle of the last century hostilities were begun between the French and English colonies, Montreal was an important frontier town. It was threatened by the English under Amherst in 1759, and in the autumn of the next year passed out of the possession of the French into that of the English." "And they have kept it ever since?" "Yes; though our people invaded it in 1775, after the capture of Forts St. John and Chambly." "Oh, yes, sir! under Montgomery and Arnold, wasn't it?" "The first attack was under Ethan Allen, and was made a month earlier than the taking of those forts," replied the captain. "Montgomery had sent him to arouse the people in favor of the rebellion, as our cause was then styled by our foes. Allen was active and brave, and soon had gathered 250 Canadians to his standard. He wrote, Lossing tells us, to Montgomery, that within three days he would join him, with at least 500 armed Canadians, in laying siege to St. John's. "He was marching up the east side of the St. Lawrence when he fell in with Major Brown, at the head of an advanced party of Americans and Canadians, and Brown proposed that they should make a joint attack upon Montreal; telling Allen it was weak and defenceless. Allen agreed and they made their arrangements. Allen was to get canoes and cross the river below the city with his troops, while Brown was to cross above with 200 men, and they were to attack the city simultaneously. "But for some unexplained reason Brown failed to keep his part of the agreement, and Allen's party made the attack alone. "It was at night, a rough, windy night, that they, 80 Canadians and 30 Americans, crossed the river, and they had so few canoes that three crossings were necessary to carry the whole party over. That was safely accomplished by daylight, at which time Allen expected to hear Brown's signal, telling him that he too had crossed with his men. But the signal was waited for in vain. He did not come at all. "Allen would have retreated if the boats could have carried all over at once; as it was, he placed guards on the roads to prevent people from carrying the news of his presence into the city. But in spite of that precaution the inhabitants somehow became aware of it, and soon troops were seen issuing from the gates. They consisted of a force of 40 British regulars, 200 Canadians, and a few Indians. "Two to one of the Americans, if not more!" exclaimed Lucilla. "Yes," said her father, "but so brave were our men that they fought for an hour and three-quarters before they would surrender. At last, however, they all deserted but 28, 7 of whom were wounded, and Allen agreed to surrender upon being promised honorable terms." "The prisoners were marched to Montreal and well treated until General Prescott got them in his custody, when he behaved toward them in the most brutal manner. Learning that Allen was the man who captured Ticonderoga, he flew into a rage, threatened him with a halter, and ordered him to be bound hand and foot in irons and placed on board the war schooner _Gaspee_. A bar of iron eight feet long was attached to his fetters, his fellow-prisoners were fastened together in pairs with handcuffs, and all were thrust into the lowest part of the ship, where they were allowed neither bed nor seat." "Oh, papa! what a monster of cruelty that Prescott must have been!" exclaimed Lucilla. "Was he not the same Prescott who had command of the British troops in Rhode Island some two years later?" "The very same; a most unfit man for such a position as he held then and there. A cowardly wretch, a petty tyrant, with a callous heart, a narrow mind, and utterly destitute of benevolence or charity." "But what became of Allen finally, papa? If I ever knew, I have forgotten." "He was kept for five weeks in that deplorable condition, at Montreal, on board the _Gaspee_; then the vessel was sent down to Quebec, and he was put on board of another vessel, where he was treated humanely. He was sent to England to be tried for treason, and landed at Falmouth, where his grotesque garb attracted a great deal of attention. He was afterward sent to Halifax, Nova Scotia, and thence to New York, where, in May 1778, he was exchanged for Colonel Campbell." "There is not nearly so much to be seen here as in Quebec, is there, papa?" she asked. "No," he replied, "and we will not stay very long here, but will spend more of our time there." "Oh, papa, didn't General Montgomery come to Montreal some time after the events you have been telling of?" "Yes; after the fall of St. John's. Carleton knew the place was weak, and at once retreated on board of one of a number of small vessels lying in the river, as did General Prescott, several officers, and 120 private soldiers. But Montgomery, as soon as he was aware that they were trying to flee, sent Colonel Baston with continental troops, cannon, and armed gondolas to the mouth of the Sorel, where they were posted so advantageously that the British fleet could not pass, so were compelled to surrender. But Carleton escaped, in a boat with muffled oars, past the American post to Three Rivers, from which place he soon reached Quebec in safety." "What a pity! I wish the Americans had been more watchful!" exclaimed Lucilla. "They were watchful in their guard boats," replied her father, "but a dark night and secret way were in Carleton's favor. They secured Prescott, who certainly richly deserved to be made prisoner and treated far worse than he was, but that was by no means the loss to the British that the taking of Carleton would have been, for Prescott's conduct on many occasions made him a disgrace to their army. But we have had a long talk, and there is the call to breakfast." In spite of the drip and splash of the rain outside the faces that surrounded the breakfast table were bright and cheery. "There will be no going ashore to-day, I presume," remarked Grandma Elsie, when the blessing had been asked, and the filling of plates and coffee cups had begun. "I do not despair of it, mother," returned the captain, in cheerful tones. "It does not seem to me like a settled rain. I think it will clear by noon, and that then we can go about the city and its environs in carriages." "Yes," said Mr. Dinsmore, "though our own are beyond reach at present, it is altogether likely the city, in the persons of some of its inhabitants, supplies vehicles for those willing to pay for their use." "No doubt of it," said the captain. "Where is Walter, mamma?" queried Violet, noticing that the boy's seat was unoccupied. "I do not know. I fear he has overslept himself," replied her mother. "No, mother," said the captain; "he was early on deck and begged permission of me to go into the city in quest of our mail. Ah, here he comes," as a blithe boyish voice was heard at the head of the companion-way. In another moment the lad entered, looking rosy and exultant. "Mail for us all, not to speak of telegrams," he said, in lively tones, emptying his pockets as he spoke, and handing letters and papers to one and another. "Mamma, your share is a large one, as it ought to be; the telegram, from my brothers, I presume, to announce their safe arrival at home; it is the one at the top of the pile, as you may see," handing her a number of missives. "Yes; and most satisfactory," she said, with a smile and a sigh of relief, as she opened and read it at a glance. "'Just arrived safely. Hear that all the relatives are well.' Ah, what cause for gratitude to the Giver of all good!" she exclaimed low and feelingly. "There have been so many accidents, yet we and our dear ones have escaped them all." "It is indeed a cause for gratitude," responded her father. "We will trust in Him and not be afraid; for wherever we go we are under His kind care and protection." "A most comforting and cheering thought," said the captain. Grandma Elsie was opening a letter post-marked Newport, R. I. "Ah, this is from our dear Molly!" she said. "She dates 'Paradise Valley.' Where is that?" "It is on the island of Rhode Island, a few miles out from the City of Newport," replied the captain. "Ah, yes; so she tells me," responded Mrs. Travilla, her eyes still upon the letter. "They have taken a furnished house for some months, there is another within a few yards of it, now empty, and they want us all to come there, help fill the two, and have a pleasant time for a few days, or weeks, enjoying the lovely scenery, the sea breeze, and each other's society. What do you all say to the proposition?" "I think we might spend a short time as pleasantly there as anywhere else," said Mr. Dinsmore. "As I do," said his wife. "I only wish I could be of the party," sighed Walter, assuming a very depressed expression of countenance; "but my college duties will claim my attention before that." "For which you may be very thankful, laddie," said his sister Rose. "Remember it is not every boy--or young man--who attains to the blessing of a college education, without having to earn it by hard work." "I expect and intend to do hard work," returned Walter, stirring his coffee, for he had seated himself and was beginning a hearty breakfast. "On which side is your vote to be cast, Violet, my dear?" asked the captain in his pleasant tones, turning inquiringly to his young wife. "I think a brief visit there, on our homeward route, might be very enjoyable," she replied; "but if my husband prefers to go directly home I shall be entirely content." "Thank you, my dear. I do not see any need of excessive haste in returning home, and it shall be just as you say, whether we accept Cousin Molly's invitation or decline it." "Then suppose we leave it to Lu and Gracie to say what shall be done, so far as our immediate family is concerned." "Very well," he said. "Speak freely, daughters, in regard to your preferences for accepting this invitation or going directly home after visiting Quebec." "I shall be perfectly satisfied with my father's decision," said Lucilla, with a smiling look up into his face. "I have no doubt the little visit to Paradise Valley would prove very enjoyable, yet home is to me the sweetest place on earth, and we have been away from it a good many weeks already." Captain Raymond looked not ill pleased with her reply, but turned inquiringly to Grace. "I can echo my sister's sentiments, father dear," she said, with her own sweet smile; "keep me with you and I shall be content and happy wherever that may be." The captain's answering smile seemed to say he thought no other man had daughters quite equal to his, but turning to Evelyn he asked what were her wishes in regard to the matter. "I have no doubt a visit to Paradise Valley would be very enjoyable, captain," she replied, with a smile, "that is, if the place is at all suggestive of the name, but like your daughters, I shall be perfectly contented whether we stop there for a time or go on directly home." "There!" exclaimed Rosie, "were ever such accommodating girls seen before? Now, Brother Levis, when I am asked that question I shall give a different reply, if only to furnish a trifle of the spice of variety." "Consider it asked then, my dear young sister," he returned, with assumed gravity, but a twinkle of fun in his eye. "I do, and my answer is, that I am decidedly in favor of accepting Cousin Molly's invitation. I have a great desire to see Paradise, since the thing may be so easily accomplished, and nobody seems to have any objection to going there." "Then we will consider the question decided in the affirmative," said the captain, "and make our arrangements accordingly." "Not allowing among them an avoidance of Quebec, I trust," said Walter; "for I own that I very much want to see that old city." "Set your mind at rest on that point, my boy," said the captain pleasantly; "I hardly think there is one of us who would willingly miss that visit." "I am glad to hear you say that, captain," said Evelyn, "for I, for one, am looking forward to our visit there with a great deal of interest." The little ones now asked to be excused, and went away to their plays, but the others sat about the table reading their letters--now and then a few sentences aloud, for the benefit of the company--until Walter had finished his meal, when they all gathered in the saloon for their regular morning service of prayer, Bible reading, and sacred song. When that duty had been duly attended to, the gentlemen and some of the ladies went upon deck for a time. Rain was still falling, but less heavily than in the earlier hours, and Captain Raymond and Mr. Dinsmore decided to pay a visit to the city, promising to return in an hour or two, bringing vehicles for a drive, in case the weather should so improve that a little excursion might be taken with safety and pleasure. Mrs. Travilla, Violet, and the young girls and Walter stood upon the deck, watching their departure. "I hope they may enjoy themselves, but I shouldn't like to walk out in this drizzle," sighed Grace. Then in a lower, livelier tone, "Mamma, are you not proud of your husband? I think he is very handsome, even in that unbecoming waterproof coat." "And I am decidedly of the opinion that everything becomes him," returned Violet, with a low, pleased laugh. "Well, mamma and you girls, how shall we pass the morning? It really seems to me that the saloon is more inviting and comfortable at present than the deck." The others agreed with her, and all went below, where they found the two little ones begging Grandma Rose for a story to while away the time. "Ah," she said, "here comes your Grandma Elsie, who is far better than I am at that business. "Oh, yes!" cried little Elsie. "Grandma, won't you please tell us now about things that have happened at Montreal and Quebec?" "Yes, dear; I promised you, and there will be no better time than this for the telling of the story," Mrs. Travilla answered pleasantly, as she seated herself and took up her fancy work, while the children drew their chairs to her side, each young face full of eager expectancy. CHAPTER XI. Grandma Elsie took a moment to collect her thoughts, then gave the little ones very much the same story of the settlement and after-history of Montreal that Lucilla had heard from their father earlier in the day. From that she went on to give a similar account of Quebec. "The city," she said, "is built upon a steep promontory, where two rivers, the St. Lawrence, on which we now are, and the St. Charles meet. There was formerly an Indian village there called Stadacona. Jacques Cartier, the same person I have been telling you about as the first white man who visited this spot where Montreal now stands, discovered that Indian village in the same year. But the city of Quebec was not founded until 1608; and not by Cartier, but by another man named Champlain, who on the third day of July of that year raised over it a white flag. Soon afterward rude cottages were built, a few acres of ground cleared, and one or two gardens were planted." "Is that all of it there is now, grandma?" asked Elsie. "Oh, no, my child! there is a city with a very strong fortress; there are colleges and churches; there is a building yard for vessels, where thirty or forty are built every year. Quebec has a very fine harbor, where many vessels can ride at anchor at the same time, and I have read that from fourteen hundred to two thousand come in every year from the ocean." "Just to ride there, grandma?" asked Neddie, with grave earnestness. Then he wondered why grandma smiled at his query and everybody else laughed. "No, sonnie," Mrs. Travilla replied, "but to trade. They bring goods to the people--silk, cotton, woolen; salt too, coal, and hardware. And they carry away what the folks in Canada have to sell, which is mostly timber." "Did you say French folks live there, grandma?" asked Elsie. "Yes; it was built by the French in the first place, but taken from them by the English in 1759." "That was before our Revolution, wasn't it, grandma?" "Yes; about sixteen years earlier." "Please tell about it, grandma." Grandma kindly complied. "There was war at that time between England and France," she said, "and, for that reason, war between the English and French colonies of America. The French built a strong fortress on the island of Cape Breton, which is at the mouth of this, the St. Lawrence River; they began also to build forts along the lakes and the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers. Fleets and armies came over from Europe, and the English and French colonists, on this side of the ocean, formed armies and engaged Indians to help them fight each other. The English attacked the French fortress of Louisburgh on Cape Breton Island, and took it. Then Wolfe, who was in command, put his troops on board of vessels, and went on up the river as far as the island of Orleans, a few miles below Quebec. There they built batteries for guns, intending to fire upon Quebec, where was the French general, Montcalm, with an army of 13,000 men; some of them regulars, the rest Canadians and Indians. "But I will not go into all the particulars, as you two little ones could hardly understand them well enough to be much interested." "Oh, yes, grandma, please go on," exclaimed Elsie. "The English were unsuccessful at first, if I remember right, mamma?" remarked Rosie inquiringly. "Yes," replied her mother. "It was nearly night when their divisions joined, and the grenadiers were so impatient that they charged madly upon the works of the French before the other troops had time to form and be ready to sustain them. As a natural consequence they were driven back to the beach with severe loss, where they sought shelter behind a redoubt abandoned by the French. "A storm was brewing, and the French kept up a galling fire, until it burst upon their foes with great fury. The tide from the ocean came roaring up against the current of the river with unusual strength, and the British were obliged to retreat to their camp across the Montmorency, to avoid being caught in the raging waters and drowned. They had lost 180 killed and 650 wounded. "Wolfe, who was not a strong, healthy man, was so distressed over the calamity that he became really ill. Of course he was much fatigued, and that, joined to distress of mind, brought on a fever and other illness that nearly cost him his life. It was almost a month before he was able to resume command. "When sufficiently recovered to write a letter, he sent an almost despairing one to Pitt, but at its close said he would do his best. Then he and Admiral Saunders contrived their plan for scaling the Heights of Abraham, and so getting possession of the elevated plateau at the back of the city, where the fortifications were weakest, the French engineers having trusted for their defence to the precipices and the river below. "Montcalm and his men saw that the English camp was broken up, and that the troops were conveyed across to Point Levi, then some distance up the river, by a part of their fleet, while the rest of it remained behind to feign an attack upon the intrenchment at Beauport. Montcalm, though he saw these movements, was at a loss to understand them; so he remained in his camp, while another officer was stationed a little above the Plains of Abraham, to watch that part of the English fleet that had sailed up the river. "At night the troops were all embarked in flat boats and proceeded up the river with the tide. The French saw them, and marched up the shore to prevent them from landing. Toward daylight the boats moved cautiously down the river, with muffled oars, passing the French without being perceived, and the troops landed safely in a cove below. They were all on shore by daylight. "Then the light infantry scrambled up the precipice and dispersed a French guard stationed there, while the rest of the army climbed up a winding and steep ravine. Then another division landed, and before sunrise five thousand British troops were drawn up in battle array on the Plains of Abraham, three hundred feet above the St. Lawrence." "How surprised the French must have been!" exclaimed Lucilla. "Yes," said Mrs. Travilla, "the first intimation Montcalm had of their intentions was the sight of the English army drawn up there, on what he had doubtless deemed those inaccessible heights. He at once perceived that this exposed his garrison and the city to imminent danger, and immediately marched his whole army across the St. Charles to attack the enemy. "It was about ten o'clock when he got his troops there and into battle line. He had two field-pieces, while the English had but one; only a light six-pounder which some sailors had dragged up the ravine about eight o'clock that morning. "At that time the plains had no fences or inclosures, and extended to the walls of the city on the St. Louis side, their surface being dotted over with bushes which furnished places of concealment for the French and Indian marksmen. I will not attempt to describe the relative positions of the two armies, which you little ones would hardly understand. I will only say that Wolfe placed himself on the right, at the head of a regiment of grenadiers who were burning to avenge their defeat at the Montmorency, and Montcalm was on the left of the French, at the head of his regiments. "Wolfe ordered his men to load their pieces with two bullets each and reserve their fire until the French should be within forty yards of them, an order which every man was careful to obey. "The English fired several rounds, then charged furiously with their bayonets. Wolfe was urging them on, when some Canadians singled him out and fired, slightly wounding him in the wrist. He wound his handkerchief about it and still went on, cheering his men, but quickly received another wound in the groin; then another struck him in the breast, and he fell to the ground mortally wounded. But he seemed hardly to think of himself, only of his troops and gaining the victory. 'Support me; let not my brave soldiers see me drop,' he said to an officer near him. 'The day is ours--keep it.' Then they carried him to the rear while his troops were still charging. The officer on whose shoulder he was leaning cried out, 'They run, they run!' At that the light came back into the dim eyes of the dying hero and he asked, 'Who run?' 'The enemy, sir; they give way everywhere,' replied the officer. 'What! do they run already?' asked the feeble, dying voice. 'Go to Colonel Preston and tell him to march Webb's regiment immediately to the bridge over the St. Charles, and cut off the fugitives' retreat. Now, God be praised, I die happy!' He spoke no more, but died, with his sorrowing companions about him, just in the moment of victory. Montcalm too was mortally wounded in that battle, and died the next morning about five o'clock." "What a pity!" exclaimed little Ned. "What makes men fight so, grandma?" "If there were no sin there would be no fighting," Grandma Elsie replied. "There is none in heaven; there all is peace and joy and love." "Is it bad men that fight, grandma?" "Not quite always; sometimes a good man has to fight to protect his wife and children, or other helpless ones, from being injured by a bad man. If a bad man were trying to hurt your mamma, or one of your sisters, it would be right for your papa to prevent him, even if he had to hurt him a great deal in doing so." "Oh, yes; and when I grow big I won't let anybody hurt my dear mamma or sisters. I'll help papa drive 'em away if they try to." "Please, grandma, tell some more," entreated Elsie. "Yes, dear," said grandma. "The British have kept Quebec ever since they took it that time, and there was no more fighting there till our Revolutionary war began some sixteen years later: the 19th of April, 1775. In the fall of that year troops were sent to Canada; some under Ethan Allen, as you have already learned, some under Montgomery, and others commanded by Arnold. "They, poor fellows, had dreadful times pushing their way through the wilderness, often suffering for lack of sufficient food and raiment, braving storms and bitter cold. I cannot tell you the whole sad story now, but you can read it when you are older. Arnold and his men reached Quebec first, but were not strong enough to attack it, and the garrison would not come out and fight them on the plains. Then Arnold, inspecting his arms, found that most of his cartridges were spoiled, therefore he retreated to a place twenty miles distant. There, on the 1st of December, he was joined by Montgomery and his troops; but very few of them were fit for fighting, many being sick; also a good many had deserted, so that the force was small indeed--only about nine hundred men." "What's desert, grandma, to run away without leave?" asked Neddie. "Yes," she replied; "and they generally shoot a soldier for it." "I think I won't be a soldier when I get big," said the little fellow reflectively; "'cause I might get scared and run away and the other fellows might catch me and shoot me; and then papa and mamma would feel very sorry; wouldn't they, grandma?" "Yes, indeed! and so would a good many other folks, grandma for one," she replied, dropping her work to put an arm about him, stroking his hair with the other hand, patting his rosy cheek, and kissing him again and again. "But we hope our little boy will make a good and brave man, like his father, and never play the coward by running away from dangerous duty." "Maxie, my big brother, wouldn't, grandma." "No, I feel very sure Max would fight for the right and his dear native land." "So do I," said Lucilla. "Max is very much like our father in both looks and character; though papa says Max has a better temper than his. I never saw papa show a bad temper, but he says he has one and that that's where I get mine." "Now, Lu, don't talk in that way about yourself," said Grace. "I've hardly seen you show any temper at all for years past. If you got it from papa, you got the power of controlling it too, from him, I think." At that moment Walter came hurrying down from the deck, whither he had gone shortly before, his face full of joyous excitement. "Folks," he cried, "do you know that it is clearing off? The sun is out and the clouds are retreating rapidly before it. Surely the change will bring grandpa and the captain back in haste, after the rest of us. So I think we should better be making our preparations as fast as possible." "Why, my dear young brother," laughed Rosie, "one would imagine our lives or fortunes, one or both, depended on our seeing the sights of Montreal to-day." "Very well, my wise sister, you can stay behind, if you wish," laughed the lad; "but I'm bound to make one of the exploring party. And there! they have come, for I hear Brother Levis' voice on deck." The words had scarcely left his lips when Captain Raymond's quick, manly step was heard coming down the companion-way; then his pleasant voice, saying, "Everybody who wants to see Montreal to-day must make haste to don hat and coat or shawl, for the air will be quite cool in driving." "Oh, have you brought a carriage for us, papa?" asked little Elsie. "Yes," he replied; "we have three of what they call _calèches_ out here on the wharf. They are pleasant vehicles to ride in, and the three will hold us all very comfortably. We will not want to stop anywhere for dinner," he continued turning to Violet, "so I have ordered a lunch put up for each _calèche_." "My dear, you think of everything," she said, with an admiring affectionate look up into his face. "We will be ready in ten minutes; we need no preparations but what you have advised." CHAPTER XII. The sun had already set when our friends returned to the _Dolphin_. They had greatly enjoyed their drive and the views of the places of interest visited, but were weary enough to be glad to find themselves again seated upon the deck of their floating home. The little ones were given a simple meal and sent to their berths, then the elder people sat down to a more substantial one, over which they chatted and laughed, discussing with much enjoyment the sights of the day and the historical events with which they were connected. Then they talked of Quebec and upon what parts of it they should bestow most attention, as they could tarry there for but a short time. "Of course we must visit the Heights of Abraham, whatever else we neglect," remarked Rosie. "Yes," said Walter, "and Palace Gate, Cape Diamond, and the citadel that crowns it. I should like to see it, not only for the historical associations, but also because it is said to be the most impregnable fortress on the continent of America." "And I, for the beautiful view it commands of what is called the most magnificent scenery on this continent, if not in the world," added Violet. "It must be very large," remarked Lucilla, "for I remember reading that, with its ravelins, it covers about forty acres. We will go to see it, papa, will we not?" "I think so; it would hardly do to visit Quebec and neglect so important a place." "It was under Cape Diamond that Montgomery fell, if I remember right," remarked Evelyn Leland. "Yes," replied the captain; "on the 31st of December, 1775. At two o'clock on that morning his troops paraded in three divisions; a part at Holland House under the direct command of Montgomery. That division, with Montgomery at the head, passed down from the Plains of Abraham to Wolf's Cove, then along the margin of the river under Cape Diamond. It was a dark, stormy morning, the snow falling fast and a fierce wind piling it in heaps--frightful drifts. Through that darkness and storm Montgomery led his men to the narrowest point under the cape, where, on the top of the precipice, the enemy had planted a battery of three-pounders. The post was in charge of a Canadian with thirty-eight militiamen, besides nine British seamen under the master of a transport, to work the guns. These men were awake and on the watch, perfectly silent; each artilleryman with a lighted match in his hand. Probably from their silence Montgomery thought they were asleep. But they were waiting and listening. "Barnsfare could see faintly through the dim light and drifting snow, the movements of the Americans, and when they drew near, and Montgomery called out to his troops, 'Men of New York, you will not fear to follow where your general leads: March on!' rushing, as he spoke, over heaps of snow and ice to charge the battery. Barnsfare heard, gave his men the word, and they sent a discharge of grape-shot, sweeping down the American ranks with terrible effect. "Montgomery, his aid, Major M'Phunn, Captain Cheesman, and several privates were killed, and the rest, appalled at the disaster and the death of their brave commander, fled back to Wolf's Cove." "How dreadful!" sighed Grace. "Montgomery's death alone was a great loss to our country, was it not, papa?" "It was indeed! throughout the whole country his death was felt to be a great calamity, and even in England, upon the floor of Parliament, his praises were sounded by Burke, Chatham, and Barre." "Was he buried there--in Canada?" she asked. "Yes; within the wall that surrounded a powder magazine, near the ramparts on St. Louis Street. There his body remained for forty-two years, when it was removed to New York and reinterred near the monument erected to his memory by the United States. "While all this was going on at Cape Diamond, Arnold and his division were passing along the St. Charles. The snow was worse drifted there than on the St. Lawrence; but he and his men pressed on till they reached a narrow street, where, under a high jutting rock, the enemy had a two-gun picketed battery well manned. Like Montgomery he headed his men, leading Lamb's artillery to the attack, and while doing so received a very bad wound in the knee. He had to be carried to the general hospital, and there heard the sad news of Montgomery's death. "Morgan now took command of Arnold's division, and for more than an hour the Americans withstood the storm of musket balls and grape-shot at the first barrier, and finally carried it, the deadly aim of the riflemen causing great consternation among the ranks of the British and Canadians. Then they rushed on to the second, where they fought fiercely for three hours, many being killed on both sides. "Our men finally captured the barrier, and were preparing to rush into the town, when Carleton sent a large detachment from his garrison, through Palace Gate, to attack them in the rear. He and his men had heard of the death of Montgomery and the retreat of his detachment, which inspired them with renewed courage. The Palace Gate was thrown open suddenly and the troops rushed out, surprising Captain Dearborn and some provincials stationed there, and they were taken prisoners. "Morgan heard of that disaster and of the death of Montgomery while he and his men were pressing on vigorously into the town; also that the enemy was advancing on his rear. He saw that further efforts were useless, as he was surrounded by the foe on all sides, and he and his men surrendered themselves prisoners of war." "The whole American army was not taken, if I remember right, papa?" said Grace interrogatively. "No," replied her father, "the rest of the division retreated to their camp, leaving behind a field-piece and some mortars. Colonel Arnold took command of what was left of the patriot army and was promoted to the rank of brigadier-general. He did not feel safe so near the city, so retired about three miles from it and intrenched himself as well as circumstances would permit. He remained there until the 1st of April, but accomplished nothing of any consequence. General Thomas, who was appointed to succeed Montgomery, arrived early in May; but the British received large reinforcements and our men were driven out of Canada." "Perhaps it was just as well," remarked Lucilla, in a tone of indifference, "our country is large enough, and I, for one, don't covet Canada." "I think there are very few Americans, if any, who do," returned her father with a slightly amused smile. "Our country is large enough, and while we like the Canadians as friends and neighbors, we have no wish to change their political relations, or to rob England of her colonies." "I think you are quite correct about that matter, captain," said Mr. Dinsmore. "I have yet to hear from any one of our people an expression of a desire to see Canada, or any part of British America, incorporated into our Union. We have a great country and are fully satisfied with its size." "'Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty,'" quoted Walter, "and we need to be careful to exercise that, don't we, grandpa?" "Certainly we do," was the reply, "toward foes within and foes without; and that especially by diffusing knowledge and teaching Gospel truth." With that they withdrew from the table and gathered upon the deck. The yacht was moving down the river, but through the gathering gloom little could be seen of it or its shores, and wearied with the day's jaunt, all presently retired to their staterooms. CHAPTER XIII. When the _Dolphin's_ passengers awoke the next morning they found she had reached Quebec and was lying quietly at the wharf there. Anxious to view all places of historic interest in and about the city and to be again on their eastward way, they set out as promptly as they conveniently could after leaving the breakfast table. There were so many points of interest, and at some they tarried so long, that the sun had set and shadows were already creeping over land and water as they regained the _Dolphin's_ deck. Ned was fast asleep in his father's arms, little Elsie hardly able to keep her eyes open, and they were taken at once to their stateroom by their parents, the others hurrying to theirs to make due preparation for a suitable appearance at the supper table. The saloon through which they passed was but dimly lighted as yet, and no one noticed a lady and gentleman sitting side by side in a far corner where the shadows were deepest. As the last stateroom door closed upon its occupants, the gentleman leaned down over the lady, saying in a tone scarcely above a whisper, "Ah ha, ah ha, um h'm! they are all safe in their rooms for the present, and now let us go upon deck while we may unperceived. Raymond will be sure to be up there presently, if none o' the rest." The lady returned a silent assent, both rose, crossed the room noiselessly, ascended the cabin stairway, and in another minute were seated side by side in the shadow of the pilot house, the man at the wheel greeting them with a quiet smile of amusement. "They didn't see you, sir?" he asked in an undertone. "No. And you kept our counsel?" "An easy thing to do under the circumstances, as the captain asked no question, but passed quickly on down into the cabin. But I think, sir, you'd best let him know you're here pretty soon, or the yacht may be starting with you and the lady on it, and you haven't any baggage aboard." "That's true; but the captain shall know of our presence and give us time to land before he weighs anchor." "And here he comes now, sir," as at that moment Captain Raymond's step and voice were heard near the companion-way. "There, do you hear, sir? he's giving the order to weigh anchor and proceed down the river." "Hallo, there, cap'in! jest you wait a bit, sir. There's a couple o' stowaways aboard and I'd advise ye to get rid o' them afore ye start," called a voice that seemed to come from some part of the vessel in the captain's rear. He turned quickly, asking, "And you are one of them?" "Well, sir, that's neither here nor there," returned the voice; "but if I was in your place, I'd put 'em off afore starting." "But perhaps the poor fellows need some help," returned the captain. "Tell them to show themselves and I'll not be hard upon them." "Well, now," exclaimed the invisible speaker, "I must say you're a good, kind-hearted sort o' man, spite o' owning this grand yacht and a lot o' money, so I'll call 'em. Halloo, here, mates, don't be afeard to show yerselves and I reckon ye'll git some grub if nuthin' else." "Wait a little till this matter is settled," Captain Raymond said, reversing his order about the anchor, then asked, "Have any strangers been allowed to board the yacht during my absence?" addressing his query to the man at the helm. "Well, no, sir; not to say strangers," answered the man, hesitatingly and with a slight laugh. "Ah! some old friends, though; just as I suspected," and with the words Captain Raymond glanced searchingly about, then with a quick step drew near the hiding place of the stowaways. "Ah, cousins, I see my guess was not wide of the mark," he said, with his good-humored laugh and giving a hand to each. "You are as welcome as sunlight in the morning and shall have all the 'grub' you can stow away. But why not send for your baggage and go on home with us? You have seen all the sights of Quebec, have you not?" "About all, captain," replied Mr. Lilburn, "and we thank you heartily for your very kind invitation. But though travel on the _Dolphin_, especially in such good company, is most delightful, we would crowd you too much, I fear." "Yes," said Annis, "and it would be very selfish to give ourselves so much pleasure at the cost of such inconvenience to our kind friends--our dear relatives. But seeing the _Dolphin_ lying here, we felt that we could not deny ourselves the great pleasure of a peep at you all." "The voyage is not likely to be a long one, or the crowding worth mentioning," returned Captain Raymond in his most cordial tone; "and the slight inconvenience will be paid for over and over again by the pleasure of your company." "It is most kind in you to say so, captain," said Annis, with a pleased look, "but are you quite sure the others would be equally willing to endure the inconvenience?" "I haven't a doubt of it," he replied emphatically, "and I know of nothing that could happen just now that would afford our dear mother more pleasure; for I have often heard her speak of you as her very dear friend and cousin, and I know she has missed you sadly since you left us for your bridal trip. If you have seen all you care to of the city, do let me send at once for your baggage and give her and the rest the pleasant surprise of finding you presently at the supper table." "Thank you very much," she said, smiling up into his pleasant face; "you don't know how tempting your kind offer is. We have seen all we care to of this interesting old city and were intending to leave it to-night; but----" "Ah, my dear cousin, just omit the objections," interrupted Captain Raymond laughingly, "give me the address and let me send at once for your trunks. Excuse my rudeness in not waiting to hear all you could say against my plan, but it is growing late and I can hear it all afterward if you care to have me do so. Ah, here comes mother and my wife now," he added, as the two stepped upon the deck at that moment. Then moving quickly toward them, "I have something to show you, mother and Vi," he said; "a couple of uncommonly interesting stowaways, about the disposal of whom I should like to have your advice." "Stowaways?" repeated Violet, in accents of surprise. "Do they think we are about to cross the ocean?" "Suppose you come and have a little talk with them," said her husband, leading the way toward the intruders, the ladies following close in his rear. "Oh, Cousins Annis and Ronald! How delightful!" both exclaimed at sight of the intruders, Vi adding in gleeful tones, "We'll stow you away safely and keep you as long as possible." Then, as Annis began repeating her objection on the score of the inevitable crowding, "Oh, that will only be fun," she said. "I am not urging you out of politeness, but because I really want your and Cousin Ronald's pleasant company, and know that all the rest will be delighted to have it." "Certainly they will," added Grandma Elsie. "And you surely cannot be so unkind, Annis dear, as to refuse us that pleasure." "Ah, Annis, my bonny bride, with such assurances we need not hesitate," laughed Mr. Lilburn. "Let us accept the kind invitation and do our best to add to the pleasure of our generous-hearted entertainers." "You can hardly refuse to follow such good advice coming from such a source, Annis," said Violet, while Captain Raymond again inquired of Mr. Lilburn where he should send for the trunks. The requested information was given, a messenger at once despatched for the luggage, and, as the summons to the supper table came at the same moment, all the company upon the deck at once descended the companion-way and met the remainder of the family party at the table. The bride and groom had no reason to complain of their reception, for everyone seemed delighted to see them. Fatigue was forgotten in the enjoyment of each other's society, the toothsome viands and the interest of comparing notes as to their experiences--all they had seen, heard, and done--since the parting of a few days before, when the bride and groom left the _Dolphin_ for the railroad train at Michigan City. The luggage had arrived and the vessel was in motion down the river some time before they left the table. "You will hardly make another stop in this part of Her Majesty's dominions, captain, but go directly home, I presume?" remarked Mr. Lilburn inquiringly, at a pause in the conversation. "Yes and no," returned Captain Raymond in playful tones, "I hardly expect to stop again until we reach Narragansett Bay; but there we expect to visit Newport, and Paradise Valley, a few miles out of it, on the same island. We have some cousins summering there now, who are most urgent with us to come and take temporary possession of a vacant cottage very near the one occupied by them; and we have decided to do so, should nothing interfere. And now, I hope you and Cousin Annis will decide to go there with us, and afterward return home with us in the _Dolphin_." As soon as the captain had ceased speaking, Mrs. Travilla and Violet, the young people also, joined their urgent solicitations to his, and as Annis seemed much pleased with the idea, and Mr. Lilburn himself had really no objection, it was presently decided that they would accept the invitation. They now left the table and gathered upon the deck for a time; but as there was no moon that night little could be seen of the country through which they were passing, and all being somewhat weary with the exertions of the day, they presently held their regular evening service of prayer, praise, and reading of the Scriptures, then bade an affectionate good-night and retired to rest. CHAPTER XIV. Our friends had a delightful voyage through the Gulf of St. Lawrence, down the coasts of New Brunswick, Maine, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island as far as Newport on Narragansett Bay. They left the yacht lying in the harbor there for the present, and taking hired carriages drove out to the cottages of which their cousin, Mrs. Embury, had written, where they found her and Mr. Embury, with their children, also Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Keith, forming a large and interesting family party, and filling one of the cottages; but the other was still vacant, and large enough to accommodate very conveniently the entire party from the _Dolphin_. Their welcome was of the warmest. They found their new temporary abode comfortably, though not elegantly, furnished, open and well aired; for, though their friends had been uncertain of the exact time of their arrival, they had expected them daily and made ready, as far as possible, for their comfort and enjoyment. "Ah, if we had only known just when you would get here, your supper should have been ready," said Isadore, when greetings had been exchanged and the excitement of the arrival had calmed down somewhat. "But I will have it on the table as soon as possible. I am housekeeper this week. Molly and I take the position week about, each trying to outdo the other in catering for the united family." "Oh, thank you! but we had supper on the yacht just before leaving her," said Violet. "Besides, we consider ourselves at home and do not expect or wish to be treated as company." "And we have brought a supply of provisions of various kinds, which we hope you may be willing to share with us," said the captain. "That was very kind and thoughtful in you, cousin captain," returned Isadore with a pleased look, "and I hardly think any of us will feel inclined to reject your dainties; though we have fared very well indeed since coming here." "Please accept my thanks also, and those of our husbands and children," said Molly. "Aunt Rose and Cousin Elsie, please sit down here with the gentlemen and let us younger ones attend to the unpacking and arranging of the contents of your trunks. If you will trust us, I can assure you we shall enjoy doing it. At least I am sure I shall." "That is a kind offer, Molly," said Mrs. Travilla, "but we have done nothing to-day to tire us and I, for one, am not in the least fatigued; so ought not to indulge my love of ease at your expense." "Your love of ease, Cousin Elsie!" laughed Molly. "I never discovered that you had any." "No; but she has a daughter who is both able and willing to attend to the duty in question," said Rosie Travilla. "So sit you down, mother dear, and enjoy this pleasant company, while we younger folks unpack and find places for your goods and chattels." "Yes, do, mother," said Captain Raymond, bringing forward an easy chair for her. "Can't you trust me to oversee and assist these younger folks? If not we will seat you in state in some spot convenient for you to do that part in person." "Thanks, captain," she returned with a smile of amusement "as commanding and giving directions has been your business for so many years, I think you may be trusted to attend to the matter even without my added supervision." "Yes, come along, sir," said Rosie, leading the way, "but please to remember that you and we girls are not in the schoolroom." "I shall endeavor to keep that fact in mind, my sage young sister," he said in return. "But it won't make any difference in your authority over your own daughters, I am happy to know, papa," Lucilla said, with a loving, smiling look up into his face. "No; they are mine and under my orders always and under all circumstances," he returned; "and I think would not have it other wise if they might." "Indeed we would not," said Grace, who, as usual, was near her father and sister. "May I help, papa?" "Well, Gracie, I think you are not really needed, and would enjoy yourself better out yonder on the porches or on the grass with your little brother and sister and the others, telling them stories, singing them little songs or playing games with them." "Yes; do try that, Gracie, and I shall be much obliged," Violet said, joining them at the moment. "I have just left them with the promise to ask it of you." Grace acquiesced, went back at once, and for the next half hour devoted herself to the amusement of the children, to their great satisfaction and enjoyment. "And you, Madam Raymond, would do well to go back to the society of your older friends and exercise your many gifts for their entertainment," remarked the captain, speaking in playful tones to his young wife, as Grace disappeared. "No, my dear, I prefer to exercise them for yours, if you will permit it," she returned. "Ah, you fear to trust me to do the work without the supervision of my capable young wife?" he returned laughingly. "Possibly it may be done a trifle better, or, at least, more to my mind, with that," she retorted, with becoming gravity. "At all events, I shall know better where to look for what I want, so that, in the end, I shall save myself trouble." "Ah, then, I will make no further objection, but freely acknowledge that the work will be twice as enjoyable if done under my young wife's supervision." "Thank you, sir," laughed Violet; "How glad I am now that I insisted on coming to share it. As our stay is likely to be so short, I think, do not you, it will be best to unpack only such things as we are pretty sure to want while here?" "Very well, my dear; as concerns that matter, you have only to give your orders and see them carried out; while I do likewise in regard to another; namely, that all the manual labor is to be left to other hands than yours." "Oh, Captain Raymond, how you do spoil me!" laughed Violet. "Who shall say that you won't be sorry for it one of these days, and wish you had encouraged me to be industrious and energetic." "I am willing to take the risk," he said, placing a chair for her. "No, I am not ready to sit down yet," she said. "We must first settle who are to be the occupants of each room; and Cousin Annis and Ronald should have the first choice." "Decidedly they must have of the best; yet, I think it may be the better plan for us to choose for them, or they will not take the best. There are three comfortable rooms on this first floor. Shall we not assign their use to your mother, grandparents, and the Lilburn cousins?" "By all means," returned Violet. "Then Rosie will share with mamma, Evelyn and our two girls take one of the third story rooms, you and I and our little ones another, and Walter the remaining one. He, you know, must leave us in a few days for college. Oh, the house will accommodate us all very nicely!" "So I think," he returned, leading the way to the third story; "and now I insist on your having the first choice of the rooms on this floor." Violet hesitated, glancing inquiringly at Evelyn and Lucilla, who had followed them up the stairway. "Yes, Cousin Vi, that is only right, and what we would prefer to have you do," said Evelyn. "I see hardly any choice; they all look pleasant," added Lucilla, "and if there is a difference, of course, we would all prefer that you and papa should have the best." Violet still seemed to hesitate, and Walter, who had come up in the rear of the others, said, "I see I'll have to decide this knotty question. My big brother, the captain, being the largest, oldest, best, and most distinguished of this party, besides having a better half and two children to share with him, should be assigned the largest room; the three young ladies should take the next in size, and I--'lone and lorn' bachelor of sixteen--will occupy the smallest, which is quite large enough and good enough for me. So there the knotty question is solved." "Many thanks for your wise decision, my dear young bachelor brother," laughed Violet. "And now, if you and your big brother will see to the bringing up of the trunks, I think we will soon make an end of unpacking and arranging their contents, and be ready to join the pleasant company on the porches." "Yes, I think we need not do much of that work to-night," said her husband; "it is now almost time to get our little ones to bed, and to-morrow will give us another and better opportunity." With that he and Walter hastened down the stairway, and not many minutes later all were ready to rejoin the friends and relatives sitting at ease on the porches below. Most of the evening was passed in conversation, for they found a great deal to hear and to tell of the scenes they had visited, and occurrences in the family connection since last they had been together. They had been talking of Viamede, Mrs. Travilla asking some questions of Mr. Cyril Keith about the condition of things there, of which he was able to render a very favorable report, in which Mr. Lilburn, among others, seemed to be much interested. "You visited Viamede some time ago, I remember, sir?" remarked Cyril, turning to him. "Yes; some few years ago, and found it a lovely place--a sort of earthly paradise," returned the old gentleman, adding, with a look of amusement, "I am pleased to perceive that you have not forgotten me entirely, though we were not, at that time, related by marriage as we are now. I have no objection in the world to being called uncle, even by a man of your age, seeing you are own nephew to my bonny young wife." Annis laughed, saying with a mirthful look, "Hardly young to anyone but yourself, my dear; only a trifle younger than my dear friend and cousin Elsie, who is grandmother to quite a number of fine children." "But still almost youthful in appearance, auntie, dear," said Cyril, giving Mrs. Travilla a look of heart-felt affection. Then turning to Mr. Lilburn, "I shall avail myself in the future of the privilege you have accorded me, Uncle Ronald," he said. "It is a pleasant name to speak, and a dear old gentleman who gives me the privilege of so addressing him." "Couldn't you give us all the same privilege, sir?" asked Mr. Embury. "My wife is own cousin to your new niece, Mrs. Isadore Keith--I think, too, that she is the bright, attractive sort of woman anybody might be proud to claim kin with--and we would all feel just so about claiming it with you. Besides that, Uncle Ronald is a good, agreeable, handy name to use and to hear." "Ah ha! ah ha! um h'm! so I think myself; also that this is a handy company to own as nieces and nephews. But what say you, Annis, my bonny bride?" turning to her, with a look that spoke proud ownership. "That I am entirely willing you should be uncle and I aunt to the whole crowd of good people here, if they desire it," Annis answered, with a look of amusement. "It will not make us really any older in feeling or appearance. And I am quite accustomed to having nieces and nephews not very many years younger than myself." "And have not found it a nearly unendurable trial, I hope, Aunt Annis?" Cyril said inquiringly. "No; quite the contrary," she answered. "But, to change the subject; there is a good deal that is interesting to be seen about here, is there not?" "Yes, indeed! This is Middletown; it was formerly a part of Newport, and known in those times as 'ye woods.' It has an area of twelve and a half square miles. There are five schoolhouses, three churches, and a town hall." "Why, I thought it was country!" exclaimed Rosie. "As we drove along I noticed little groups of houses here and there, but there seemed to be farms, orchards, and fields; also a good many rocky-looking hills; some that didn't seem to be cultivated at all." "Yet, there is so much beauty that it seems to me worthy of its name--Paradise Valley," remarked her mother. "I think so," said Cyril, "and I expect to enjoy taking you all to its various places of interest--Purgatory Rocks, Sachuest and Easton's Beaches, Hanging Rocks, and the site of the former residence of Bishop Berkeley." "Who was he?" asked Grace. "A clergyman, born in Ireland, educated in England; a learned man and author of a number of books; a good Christian man too; one of whose projects was the founding of a college in the Bermudas for the training of ministers to supply churches and teach Christianity to the savages of America. The English government was to supply the means, but failed to do so, and Berkeley came on here to Newport in January, 1729, bought a farm, built a small house upon it, and there lived and studied, preaching occasionally, while waiting for the performance of the promise of the English government. He waited about three years; then, convinced that the promise would never be kept, went back to England." "And he left the income of his property here to be used in educating students of Yale College, did he not?" asked Violet. "Yes; gave books too--a valuable collection donated by himself and friends--and most of the volumes are still there. He had a share in the formation of Redwood Library here in Newport, also. He was both a very good and very distinguished man." "Did he name this Paradise Valley?" asked Grace. "No, I have been told it was named by Mr. Isaac Barker, who owned a large part, if not all of it, in Revolutionary days. By the way, his descendants still live here, one of them in the very house owned and occupied by him at that time." "Oh, yes," said Molly; "we must take you to see that house, so interesting because a relic of the Revolution, and the dear old lady who is now its mistress. I know you will be much interested in her, Cousin Elsie, and all she can tell of events here in this valley during that war." "I shall be glad to call to see her, if you are quite sure she will not deem it an intrusion," replied Mrs. Travilla. "No, I am sure she will not; she is very kind and hospitable, and seems to really enjoy telling the story of those times to one who shows a deep interest in it." "As we all would do," said Mr. Dinsmore, glancing at his watch as he spoke. "But it is growing late now. Shall we not have our evening worship together and then retire to rest? Cousin Cyril, as you are a minister, the rest only laymen, suppose you lead our devotions." CHAPTER XV. As they expected to make their stay upon the island but short, and wished to see every interesting spot, all were up and about early the next morning. Naturally the history of the State, and particularly of the island upon which they were, was the principal topic of conversation at the breakfast table. Walter began it. "If my memory serves me right, it was somewhere about here that General Nathaniel Greene had his quarters in 1778." "Yes," replied Captain Raymond, "on a farm owned by Colonel Richard K. Randolph." "Why, I thought Greene's fighting was done in other parts of the country!" said Rosie. "Most of it was," replied the captain, "but being a Rhode Island man he desired to take a part in the attack on the British, who had possession of Newport at that time. But I think you all know the story--the failure of the French troops to take the part expected of them, and to do the damage to the British vessels coming in from New York which they essayed to do; then the great storm which damaged the vessels, both of the French and English; and, soon after, the sailing of the French for Boston, leaving the Americans to meet the British alone. "Then the battle was fought on Quaker Hill, after which, though not defeated, the Americans, hearing of the approach of Howe with large reinforcements for the British, retreated from the island to the mainland, in good order and without the loss of a man." "Did the British go away too, papa?" asked Elsie. "Not till the fall of the next year," he replied. "They had done a vast amount of mischief, and desolated the island; they had cut down the groves of forest trees and many of the orchards, for fuel and military purposes; they had torn up the meadows, destroyed gardens and ruined farms. So hard had they made life upon the island that many, it is said more than half the people, had left the island; wharves were deserted, commerce was destroyed, and trade abandoned. In December of 1778, the last winter that they were there, there was a fearful storm--a heavy fall of snow and cold so intense that many of the Hessians perished, frozen to death. Accounts say that more than fifty people, mostly soldiers, lost their lives on that fearful night, and it was long known as the Hessian storm. The poor fellows suffered very much that winter, for, after a little, rations were cut down to one-half of bread, made of rice and oatmeal mixed, the other half of rice. And fuel was so scarce that they must have suffered much from the cold; to supply it old houses were destroyed, old wharves torn to pieces. Old empty houses were used as barracks, and troops were quartered upon the people still living in others. The State-house was used as a hospital and some of the churches were turned into riding-schools. "General Prescott had his quarters in the Bannister House, and it is said that his spacious sidewalk in front was made of stepstones taken from private houses, and the whole of the south flight of steps from those belonging to the State-house." "I don't see in what respect he was any better than a thief and a robber!" cried Lucilla indignantly. "No, nor do I," said her father; "but we must remember that some of the British officers were a very different kind of men and would not have at all approved of his doings. Prescott, as we all know, was a great coward, and cowardice and cruelty are apt to go together." "Our Washington was very, very brave and never at all cruel," remarked little Elsie. "Papa, was he ever here?" "He was in Newport more than once. His last visit was paid while he was President of these United States in August, 1790. He was escorted to the Brenton House, the principal hotel of the place; a dinner was given him in the representative chamber of the State-house, at which thirteen regular toasts were drunk, Washington giving one--'The town of Newport.' He left before the rest of the company, and then Judge Marchant gave the toast, 'The man we love.'" "Oh, I like that!" said the little girl, her eyes sparkling. "I think everybody must love Washington--everybody but the British." "And even some of the British have admired him very much," said her father, smiling at her enthusiasm. "And given him high praise," added Walter. "I for one am proud of being his countryman." All had now finished their breakfast, and leaving the table they repaired to the adjoining cottage, exchanged greetings with its occupants, then together they held their morning service, after which they arranged their plans for the day. "As this is Saturday and I leave for Princeton on Tuesday next, I have only to-day and Monday for looking about and seeing places of interest in this neighborhood," remarked Walter. "How and where do you want to go?" asked Mr. Embury. "Down to the beaches, to all the places connected with the doings of Bishop Berkeley and the Revolution, all about Paradise Valley, and--to look at Purgatory; but not to get into it," replied the lad, concluding with a slight laugh. "Do you want company or prefer to go alone?" was the next query, to which Walter replied, "I can go alone, I suppose, but I should prefer good company if it is to be had." "Would mine answer that description?" "Yes, indeed, sir! but, I daresay, you have seen all the places already and perhaps might be only bored by being asked to repeat your visit." "Quite a mistake, my young friend; they are worth looking at time and again." "I should think so," remarked the captain. "Suppose we make up a party of such of our members as would enjoy a pretty long stroll, go down through this valley to the beach yonder, visit Purgatory Rocks and as many other of the places of interest as we may feel inclined to see to-day and have time and strength to visit." "I approve of your plan," said Molly. "I was thinking it would be best to defer our intended visit to that dear old lady in the Revolutionary house till Monday, as Saturday is apt to be a busy one with housekeepers." "Yes," said Mrs. Dinsmore, "I think it will be quite enough to venture an intrusion upon her at the most convenient time for her that we can select." "A real favor for her to permit it at any time," added Grandma Elsie. They were gathered on the porch. Captain Raymond now rose and looking down toward the water said, "Ah, yonder is the _Dolphin_; according to my order of yesterday she has been brought here to afford a sail along the coast of the island to any who may desire it." "Oh, how good and kind in you, captain!" exclaimed Mrs. Keith. "I for one should be delighted to go." "All can sail who wish," said the captain. "The _Dolphin_ has day accommodations for even a larger company than this, and of course we shall return long before night." As he concluded, he looked at Mrs. Dinsmore as if expecting her to speak first, and as she was the eldest lady in the company she did so, saying: "I for one have been so long on the water that I feel a strong inclination to stroll down to the beach; though I have no doubt that the sail will be very enjoyable." "How would it do to take the stroll to the nearest point to where the yacht is lying, and then continue your walk, or go aboard the vessel, as you feel inclined?" asked the captain. "Oh, nicely! I think," she returned; "especially if some of the others would like to join me in so doing." "I should," "And I," "And I," cried several voices, one of them being Grandma Elsie's, and another Violet's; while at the same time nearly every one of the children was asking permission to go along. "Yes, yes! let them all go," said the captain. "A walk to the beach down yonder will not be too long for any one of them, I think, and when we get there each one of our party can decide whether to continue the stroll or board the yacht." CHAPTER XVI. "I think we will have to divide our forces," said Mr. Embury, when, after preliminary preparations and arrangements, all were ready to set out for the beach and the yacht, "for there are so many of us that we will astonish the natives and they will probably be asking the meaning and object of the procession." "Well, my dear, what of what?" queried his wife gayly. "It will give them an interesting subject of inquiry and conversation." "Very well, my Molly; if you like to be talked about, I have no further objection to make," was his cheerful response. "There are a good many of us," remarked the captain, glancing about, "actually two dozen, counting all--big and little, old and young." "And a very respectable-looking crowd it is," remarked Violet. "I'm not in the least ashamed of anyone in it. Yet it might be well to break up into several smaller parties, by the way of guarding against alarming our good neighbors, or making all the grown up ones keep to the slow pace of the very little folks. Ah, I see Evelyn, Rosie and Walter, Lu and Grace, are already on the wing." "Yes," said the captain; "they have just started in response to a motion from me to move on. They will reach the beach probably some minutes ahead of us, but can be trusted not to get into any danger or mischief." "Surely," laughed Violet. "Mamma, shall you and I walk together?" "While I follow with the children," added the captain. "I see your grandpa and his wife are moving on ahead of us." "Cousin Ronald should go next with his bonny bride, while we of this cottage bring up the rear with our children," said Molly. "Putting a small space between to avoid being mistaken for a procession," added Mrs. Keith. "Bound for Purgatory; but none of us to get inside, I trust," said Mr. Embury. "I hope the young folks won't attempt to climb up those rocks till we older ones get there to look after them." "No, I think we'll find them on the beach," said the captain. "I bade mine wait there for me, and I can say--for mine, at least, that they love their father well enough to follow his directions carefully." "That is very true," said Grandma Elsie; "and equally true with regard to the care with which my Rosie and Walter conform to mine." "And no wonder, mamma and Levis," said Violet, "for you are both so reasonable in your commands and prohibitions, so kind and affectionate, that it would take a very hard-hearted and stubborn nature to rebel against your authority." "Ah ha! ah ha! um h'm! that's exactly my opinion," said Mr. Lilburn, looking round upon them with a smile. "I have noticed many times, with sincere admiration, the admirable manner in which the children of these families are trained. I only wish I'd been favored with such examples before I went at the business myself." "I see no reason why you should, Cousin Ronald," returned the captain, "for the only one of your offspring with whom I am acquainted, seems to me to be all a father could ask or wish." "Ah ha! um h'm! I'll no deny that my Hugh is as fine a lad as could be found in a day's travel; and Malcolm not a whit behind him; but neither will I deny that the credit belongs more to the native goodness o' the lads than to their father's training." It was a fine breezy morning, with a delicious coolness in the air, and all keenly enjoyed the walk to the beach. They spent a few moments there, then climbed the rocks and passed along the summit till they reached the deep fissure called Purgatory. There the children, carefully guarded by their parents, lest a false step should precipitate them into the deep chasm, were allowed to gaze into its depths for a moment, then led away and seated on a rock to rest. Most of the older ones lingered a little longer, watching the movement of the water at the bottom, and speculating about the depth and width of the chasm, and what would be the dire consequence of a fall into it. "I wouldn't advise you to try it, my young friends," said Mr. Embury. "It must be fully fifty feet down to the water, and if you reached the bottom alive you wouldn't remain so many minutes." "No, I suppose not," said Walter, reflectively; "but the fissure is not very wide and I think I could jump across." "Oh, Walter, don't think of such a thing!" exclaimed Rosie, stepping back suddenly, at the same time catching him by the arm and pulling him away. "Why, Rosie, do you think I could be such a goose as to attempt anything so foolhardy as that, when nothing was to be gained by it?" he exclaimed, in a tone between vexation and amusement. "No, I don't," she said, drawing a long breath, "but the very thought of it frightens me." "To run such a risk without any good object in view--such, for instance, as the saving of the life of someone else--would be a very wicked thing, I think," said Mr. Keith. "I entirely agree with you," said Captain Raymond, "no one has a right to rush uncalled into the presence of his Maker. "Oh, I shouldn't think anybody would ever want to try jumping across here!" exclaimed Grace. "I wonder if anyone ever did." "It is said that the thing was done once under peculiar circumstances," replied Mr. Embury. "The story is that a young and pretty girl, who had many admirers, suitors for her hand, came here with one of them and dared him to jump across the chasm, saying that if he did so successfully, she would marry him; otherwise she would not; whereupon he attempted the dangerous feat and was successful. But his love for his cruel charmer was gone; he turned toward her, lifted his hat, bade her farewell, walked away and left her never to return." "Which served her just right," exclaimed Lucilla emphatically. "She couldn't have loved him. Why, I wouldn't let an entire stranger do so dangerous a thing, if I could hinder him. Unless it might be somebody who was here to fight against my country," she added as an afterthought, and with a little laugh. "You would have let Prescott do it, I suppose--Prescott, the Revolutionary tyrant--had you been with him here and he had shown an inclination to try his skill in that line," said Walter. "I think I shouldn't have made any very strong objection; for certainly many of my countrymen would have been far better off with him down there at the bottom of the fissure, than where he was--and had no business to be. Do you remember the story of the Tory lady at a ball in Philadelphia, while the British were in possession there, who, when the British general, Sir Henry Clinton, ordered the band to play, 'Britons, Strike Home,' said, 'You should say, "Britons, go home"'?" "Yes, that was pretty good," laughed Walter. "The ladies had at least one advantage over the men in those days, they could give the invaders many a home thrust with their tongues without much danger of personal violence or imprisonment, in return for it." "That reminds me of a little anecdote of something that occurred in Charleston, South Carolina, when they were in possession there," said Grandma Elsie. "One of the British officers had taken a great fancy to a beautiful American girl, but she would have nothing to do with him; which, of course, made him very angry. One day they met in the street. A big negro was near at hand and the British officer said to him, so that the lady could hear, 'Go and kiss that lady, and I'll give you a guinea.' "'Yes,' said she, 'come and kiss me. I'd a thousand times rather be kissed by you than by him.'" "So he didn't make much by that," laughed Mr. Embury. "I wonder if the darkey did kiss her," said Grace. "I'm glad I wasn't in her place, if she had to let either him or the British officer do it." "And you would rather be living now, wouldn't you, daughter?" said her father, giving her a loving look. "And belong to you, papa? Yes, indeed!" she replied. "How very straight these openings in the rocks are!" remarked Walter. "They look as if they had been cut with a knife." "Yes, it is very strange," said Rosie. Then perceiving that the others had turned away and were going toward the spot where the little ones were, they followed. "There is a fine prospect here on both land and water," remarked Mr. Embury. "Do you see that hanging rock over yonder--not close to the water. That, they say, is where Bishop Berkeley used to preach. I visited it the other day, and found it so hard a place to climb to that I should think his congregations must have been small; unless they stood in the valley below; which would make his pulpit very high above them." "Where is the house he lived in?" asked Rosie. "At some distance, I believe. I have not seen it yet." "Now," said Captain Raymond, "will any or all of you take a sail in the _Dolphin_? You can all see her lying out yonder and the row-boat will soon carry us to her. There is plenty of room for everyone here, a warm welcome if they choose to go aboard, and a more delightful day for a sail around the island could hardly be found." All accepted the invitation with alacrity, descending the rocks to the beach at once, and were soon aboard. They found it a very delightful trip. The captain, having been frequently in those waters, was able to point out every interesting object, name all the islands, and call attention to the still visible ruins of fortifications on Gold, Goat, Rose, Contour, and Canonicut islands. That last, he told them, was the Dumplings Fort, or Fort Canonicut; and directly opposite was the Castle Hill of the Revolution, now Fort Adams, three and a quarter miles below Newport. In calling attention to it, Captain Raymond remarked, "That is, as regards strength, the third fortress in the United States. It is Newport's defence against foreign foes." "I am glad she has such a defence," said Mr. Embury. "But may she never suffer again from a foreign foe as she did in Revolutionary days. Perhaps you all remember that her population in 1774, the year before that war began, was eleven thousand, and in 1782 it was reduced to only about six thousand, and private property to the value of $624,000 in silver money had been destroyed." "Yes," said the captain, "there had been great and wanton destruction by the ruthless invaders, in both town and country. The island of Rhode Island had been so celebrated for its beauty and salubrity, before that war, that it was the chosen resort of the rich and philosophical from nearly every part of the civilized world; but war had sadly changed it before the British left, after three years of occupancy, in which they had pillaged and destroyed more like savages than civilized men; though after Prescott was superseded by Sir Robert Pigot as commander of the British forces on the island, the people were much relieved. They were treated with respect, and plunder ceased. General Pigot was a gentleman and no marauder." CHAPTER XVII. The sun was setting as the _Dolphin_ discharged her complement of passengers, and they walked up the valley to their temporary abodes. They had had their evening meal upon the yacht, and the little ones were ready and glad to be taken at once to their beds, the older to sit in restful quiet upon the porches, enjoying the evening breeze, a cheerful chat over all they had seen and learned in their delightful little excursion around the island, and in laying plans for others of the same kind, and for walks and drives here and there, till every interesting spot in the neighborhood should have received from them due attention. Also in making arrangements for attending the public service of the sanctuary on the approaching Lord's day; the captain having already planned for the _Dolphin's_ crew to do the same, taking turns so that the vessel would not be left at any time entirely unguarded. When all these questions had been discussed and settled, though it was still early, they held their accustomed evening family service, and retired to rest, that they might hope to awake in good season refreshed and ready to engage with enjoyment in the sacred duties of the holy day. It dawned a lovely autumn day, a cool refreshing breeze coming in from the bay, making the walk through the lovely valley to the open churches a pleasure as well as duty. The services over, they returned home, and after partaking of a simple dinner, gathered upon the largest of the porches, and each one old enough to read, with Bible in hand, they spent an hour in the study of its sacred pages. The subject engaging their attention was the way of salvation; Mr. Keith, who was the leader, called for texts showing the one true way, and they were given by one and another as they found them in God's word. "'If thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. For with the heart, man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth, confession is made unto salvation,'" repeated the captain, adding the comment, "Let us notice that the belief which is unto salvation is evidenced by holy living; belief that is not unto righteousness is not a true and living faith. The devils believe and tremble, but theirs is not a saving faith, for they do not love and trust in Jesus. It is the faith which worketh by love that saves." "Yes," said Mr. Dinsmore; "it is not enough to have no doubt of the truth of the Gospel--the good news of salvation through Jesus Christ--but we must give ourselves to him, love him and rejoice in his love to us." "And oh, what a blessing that all may have that faith who will come to Jesus for it," remarked Mr. Embury; "every one, old and young. 'Look unto me and be ye saved all ye ends of the earth.'" "Yes," added Mr. Keith, "there are many good and desirable things to which some of us can never attain, but salvation by faith is within the reach of all who will come to Jesus for it. He says,'Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.'" It was Mrs. Dinsmore's turn and she repeated: "'Without faith it is impossible to please him; for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.'" "'Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life,'" repeated Mrs. Keith. Then Mrs. Embury: "'Now the just shall live by faith: but if any man draw back, my soul shall have no pleasure in him. But we are not of them that draw back unto perdition; but of them that believe to the saving of the soul.'" "And those who believe in Jesus are not to hide their faith, as that of which they are ashamed," said Grandma Elsie; "we are to confess with the mouth, letting it be known that we believe in Christ and take him for our Saviour. His own word is, 'Whosoever shall confess me before men, him shall the Son of man also confess before the angels of God.'" It was Evelyn's turn. "In Habakkuk ii. 4," she said, "I read, 'The just shall live by faith.' Again in Romans i. 17, 'The just shall live by faith.' Galatians iii. 11: 'But that no man is justified by the law in the sight of God, it is evident: for, The just shall live by faith.' And here,"--again turning over the leaves of her Bible,--"Hebrews x. 38, 'Now the just shall live by faith: but if any man draw back, my soul shall have no pleasure in him.'" She paused, and Lucilla repeated the next verse, "'But we are not of them who draw back unto perdition; but of them that believe to the saving of the soul.'" Now it was Rosie's turn. "I will read a few verses from the third chapter of Romans," she said, and proceeded to do so. "'Even the righteousness of God which is by faith of Jesus Christ unto all, and upon all them that believe; for there is no difference: for all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God; being justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus.'" She ceased and Grace, who had turned to the same passage, went on with the reading, "'Whom God hath set forth to be a propitiation, through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of God: To declare, I say, at this time his righteousness: that he might be just, and the justifier of him which believeth in Jesus.'" She ceased, and Walter went on: "'Where is boasting then? It is excluded. By what law? Of works? Nay; but by the law of faith. Therefore we conclude, that a man is justified by faith without the deeds of the law.'" "'Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ,'" repeated Annis, in low, feeling tones. Then her husband took it up: "'What shall we say then? That the Gentiles, which followed not after righteousness, have attained to righteousness, even the righteousness which is of faith. But Israel, which followed after righteousness, hath not attained to the law of righteousness. Wherefore? Because they sought it not by faith, but as it were by the works of the law. For they stumbled at that stumbling stone; as it is written, Behold I lay in Sion a stumbling stone and rock of offence: and whosoever believeth on him shall not be ashamed.'" Walter then spoke again and his was the closing text. "'Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit you like men, be strong.'" "Let us not forget," said Mr. Keith, "that we are to confess Christ, owning ourselves as his disciples, under his authority, and ready to submit to it in all things. Let us not forget that his own word is, 'If any man will be my disciple, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me.' His cross, let us remember; not one of our own devising, or one laid upon us by some earthly power without the Master's word. He alone is Lord of the conscience and the Bible is his word, revealing to us his will. Also his own command to each one of us is, 'Search the Scriptures; for in them ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of me.' We must never be afraid or ashamed to let it be known at any time, or in any company or place, that we are disciples of Christ, to whom the love of our hearts and the obedience of our lives are due." A moment of silence followed the closing of Mr. Keith's remarks; a silence presently broken by Mrs. Travilla's sweet voice beginning the hymn: "Jesus! and shall it ever be A mortal man ashamed of Thee?" The others joined in, filling the air with sweet melody. Prayers and other hymns followed till the hour set apart for the service had more than passed away. CHAPTER XVIII. The next morning proved bright and fair, as lovely a day as one could desire; no cloud in the sky save the light fleecy ones that are not the presage of a storm. Our friends in the cottages gathered about their breakfast tables in rare good spirits, in spite of the fact that Walter was to leave them that day, by the evening boat, for his first experience of life away from home and mother. The lad appeared in high spirits, partly real but partly only assumed, to hide the sinking of heart that at times oppressed him at the thought of so long a separation from her who had been almost all the world to him from babyhood till now, when he began to consider himself on the very verge of manhood. She saw it if no one else did, and her tender mother heart ached for her "baby boy." For herself too, that she must do without him and his loving caresses, for months, and know that he was exposed to many a trial and temptation from which mother love could not shield him. But oh, there was comfort in the thought that her best Friend was his also, and would still be as near as ever to both mother and son; still to them, as to all His children, the Hearer and Answerer of prayer. "Well, what is to be done to-day?" asked Rosie, when the meal had fairly begun. "I propose a visit to 'Tonomy Hill' for one thing," said Captain Raymond, addressing his remark to the company in general. "Where is that, and what particular claim has it upon our attention?" queried Mr. Dinsmore in return. "It is about a mile and a half north of Newport," replied the captain. "Tonomy is an abbreviation of Miantonomoh, the name of a Narragansett sachem whose seat it was in early times. It is a rocky eminence and the commanding site of a small fort or redoubt during the Revolutionary war. It is said to be the highest land upon the island except Quaker Hill, which you will remember we saw toward the northern end as we sailed round on Saturday." "Ah, yes! where the battle was fought between the British and our forces under Greene and Sullivan." "Is there anything to be seen there--on Tonomy Hill--but the ruin of the little fortification?" asked Rosie. "Yes," replied the captain. "The hill is 270 feet above the bay, and from it we may obtain a fine view on all sides. On the south and west the city and harbor of Newport, and many islands in the harbor with the remains of fortifications--Canonicut, with its ruined fort, for one. Ah, I am forgetting that you saw all from the _Dolphin_ the other day! Still we could not from there take in the whole view at once as we may from the hill top. "Looking oceanward beyond the city, we can see Fort Adams; and, with a spy-glass, the dim outline of Block Island; beyond it in the Atlantic, perhaps, if your eyes are good, a faint view, a little more to the eastward, of the nearest shore of Martha's Vineyard; also of some of the islands in Buzzard's Bay. "On the east can be seen Warren and Bristol, and the top of Mount Hope, the throne of King Philip. To the north there will be a good view of Narragansett Bay and the towns along its shores." "Indeed, captain, you make it seem very well worth while to go there," observed Mrs. Dinsmore. "I think that when we get there and look about and around, upon all that is to be seen, you will be still better convinced of it," returned the captain. "In addition to what I have already mentioned we can look upon a large part of the cultivated fields of this island, and find them rich in natural productions as well as in historical associations." "Oh, let us go by all means!" exclaimed Violet. "Perhaps our little folks might not care for it, or might find the climb up the hill too fatiguing, but they can be left in the yacht or carriage, whichever the trip is made in." "Oh, mamma!" exclaimed little Elsie, "I should very much rather go up that hill with the rest of you, if you will only let me!" "Well, dear, I should like to let you do as you prefer, but, of course, it must be just as your papa says," replied Violet, smiling down affectionately into the eager, pleading little face. "And papa says you may go if you wish to," said the captain, in his kind, pleasant tones. "Me too, papa?" asked Ned eagerly. "Yes, you too, if you wish to, son," replied his father. "I think even my baby boy will enjoy the drive, the climb up the hill, and the lovely view from its top." "We are going to drive, are we, papa?" queried Lucilla. "Yes; I have ordered carriages from Newport to be here by nine o'clock; so that all who wish can drive. But should anyone prefer the yacht it is at their service. Also, it will be welcome to any who desire a sail afterward." After a little more talk, first among themselves, then along with the occupants of the other cottage, it was decided that all would take the drive to Tonomy Hill and see the view; then some would drive elsewhere, others would board the yacht and have a sail. The engaged vehicles were already at hand, and in a few minutes the entire company of adults and children were on the way to Tonomy Hill. All, old and young, greatly enjoyed the drive, and the captain was plied with questions about this object and that. The windmills particularly interested little Elsie and Ned. Their father explained what they were, and why there were so many of them, that they were made necessary by the absence of streams sufficiently strong to turn water-wheels, and, of one standing at the junction of the main road and the lane leading to the Hill, he remarked: "That is an old, old one, built years before the Revolutionary War. At the time of the war it and the dwelling-house near by were owned by a man named Hubbard. He was one of the many Americans whom Prescott turned out of their houses, to take shelter in barns and other miserable abiding places, while his soldiers took possession of their comfortable homes." "What a shame!" exclaimed Ned. "Papa, I'm glad we don't have those bad fellows here now." "So am I," replied his father. "We ought to thank God every day for making us so free, and giving us this dear land of our own. I hope my boy will always remember to do so." Reaching the top of the hill, they found the view from it all that the captain had said. Calling attention to it, now on this side, now on that, he named the different towns and other objects worthy of particular attention. Mount Hope was one, and again he spoke of it as the former home of King Philip. "Papa," said Elsie, "who was he? I thought we never had any king in our country." "The Indians used to have them, and he was king of one of their tribes," was the reply. "Is there a story about him, papa?" she asked. "Yes. Would you like to hear it?" "Oh, yes, sir! yes, indeed! you know I always like stories." "Yes; even if they are rather sad; as this one is. But if you wish, I will tell you a little about it now; perhaps more at another time." "Oh, tell it all, if you please, Brother Levis," said Rosie. "I don't believe any one of us would object to hearing it." Several of the others joined in the request, and the captain, ever ready to oblige, began at once. "His original name was Metacomet, but he is frequently spoken of as King Philip and also as Pometacom. His father was Massasoit, whose dominions extended from this Narragansett Bay to Massachusetts. Massasoit took two of his sons, Metacomet and Wamsutta, to Plymouth and asked that English names might be given them. His request was granted, one being called Philip and the other Alexander. "Upon the death of the father, Alexander became chief in his stead, but soon died suddenly, of poison, it was supposed, and Philip became chief or king in his stead. He was a bright, enterprising man; sagacious, brave, and generous. He soon perceived that his people were being robbed by the whites, who took possession of the best lands, and killed off the game and the fish upon which the Indians had been used to subsist. "Philip's tribe was known as the Wampanoags, or Pokanokets, and their principal village was there upon Mount Hope. They, and other tribes as well, felt that they had been greatly injured by the whites, and planned an offensive alliance against them. "Philip began his war preparations by sending the women and children of the tribe away from Mount Hope to the Narragansetts for protection. Then he warned some of the whites with whom he was friendly of the coming storm, that they might seek places of safety, and, when they were gone, bade his followers swear eternal hostility to the whites. "A dreadful war followed, beginning on the 24th of June, 1675, and lasting for more than a year. The whites suffered a great deal, but the Indians still more. Particularly the Narragansetts, who were treated with great cruelty because they had given shelter to the Wampanoags and their families. "They had a fort on an elevation of three or four acres surrounded by a swamp, studded with brambles and thick underbrush. There were three thousand Indians in it--mostly women and children. The whites surprised them, burned their palisades and straw-covered wigwams, and the poor creatures were burned, suffocated, butchered, frozen, or drowned. Six hundred warriors and a thousand women and children were killed, and all the winter provision of the tribe destroyed. Their chief, Canonchet, escaped then, but was captured and killed the next summer. "It was on the 12th of the next August that a renegade Indian guided a large party of white men to the camp of the Wampanoags. The Indians were asleep, King Philip among them. After the first shot or two he woke, sprang to his feet, gun in hand, and tried to escape, but, as he stumbled and fell in the mire, was shot dead by a treacherous Indian. His death ended the war." "Poor fellow!" sighed Grace. "He was certainly treated with great injustice and cruelty. I don't see how the whites could be so blind to the fact that the Indians had the best right to this country, and that it was wicked to rob them of their lands." "Self-interest is apt to have a very blinding influence," said her father. "And I am afraid we must acknowledge that the whites were the first aggressors, in their grasping seizure of so much of the land of which the Indians were the original and rightful possessors." All having now looked their fill, they returned to their carriages and drove to other points of interest, one of them Whitehall, the old residence of Bishop Berkeley. It was a place that all cared to see, especially a room in it formerly occupied by the dean, where was a fireplace, ornamented with Dutch tiles, placed there by the dean himself. "Oh, how old they must be!" exclaimed Grace. "Yes, not much, if at all, under two hundred years old," said Walter. "It sometimes seems odd how much longer things may last than people." "In this world, you mean," said his grandfather; "but do not forget that man is immortal, and must live somewhere to all eternity." "And Bishop Berkeley is no doubt spending his eternity in a far lovelier paradise than that with which he was familiar in this world," remarked Mrs. Travilla. "Yes, indeed! 'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,'" quoted Evelyn softly, thinking of the dear father who had left her for the better land years ago. CHAPTER XIX. Dinner was ready to be put upon the table when the party reached again their temporary home, and their long drive had given each one an appetite that made the meal most enjoyable. They rested upon the porches for a short time after leaving the table, then set out for a walk to the beach, Walter at his mother's side, Violet, the captain, and their two little ones near at hand. These were at some distance in the rear of the young girls, who had started for the beach a few minutes earlier. "Mother," said Walter, "I should like very much to see that dear old lady Cousin Molly talks about; also the old Revolutionary house she lives in. Do you think we might call there without seeming to intrude?" "Really I do not know," replied Mrs. Travilla. "If Molly were only here she could judge better than I." "Perhaps she is there," suggested Walter. "I noticed that she started a little ahead of the girls." "So she did," said Violet, overhearing their talk, "and I think she is probably there now, for she was telling me last evening that she felt anxious that you, Walter, should see her dear old lady before leaving to-night. Ah! and yonder they both are at the gate of the house now." "Then I would suggest that you three hasten on, leaving me to follow more slowly with the children. It would hardly do to overwhelm the old lady with so large a company at once," said the captain, and they promptly carried out his suggestion. Mrs. Barker and Molly were standing by the front gate chatting as they came up. "Ah, here they are, Mrs. Barker!" said Molly; "my cousins, Mrs. Travilla, her daughter, Mrs. Raymond, and her son Walter. He is the lad I was telling you of, who starts for college to-night, and was very desirous to see you and your revolutionary house before going." "And to hear all you can tell me about its experiences in those days, Mrs. Barker, if you will be so kind," added Walter, with a polite bow and his most insinuating smile. "I shall be happy to tell and show all I can to you and your mother and sister," replied the old lady, leading the way toward the house, her guests following. She took them over the greater part of it, telling them what rooms had been occupied by the Hessians, and what by the family while the unwelcome intruders were there. They were much interested in all she told them, and admired her housekeeping, everything being in beautiful order. She told them the Mr. Barker of those days was a true patriot, in fact, a spy working for the American cause, and when their call was finished and they were taking their departure, she went with them to the gate, and pointing out a ledge of rock on the farther side of the valley, beyond the cottages they were occupying, told them that in revolutionary times that was a part of the large tract of land owned by Isaac Barker; that, in those days, instead of the stone wall now running along its edge overlooking the water, there was a rail fence; and that Isaac Barker was in the habit of signalling the patriot troops encamped on an island opposite, whenever there was an important item of news for them, and that he did so by alterations in the fence, made under his supervision by the unsuspecting Hessians. "Oh, that was good!" cried Walter; "but did the British never catch him at it?" "No, never," she replied. "If they had, his life would not have been worth much." "You must think a great deal of this old house," said Walter, turning and looking it over with admiring eyes. "If it were mine I wouldn't give it for any of the grand palaces built in these later days." "Nor would I," she said. "Come and see it again; it and me; if you care to do so." "Thank you; I should enjoy doing so, but I leave to-night for college." "Ah? I am glad for you; for a good education is worth more than money or almost any other earthly thing." "So I think, because it will enable me, or anyone who has it, to be more useful in the world." "That is a right feeling," she said; then turning to the ladies gave them a warm invitation to call again any day, as they passed on their way to the beach. "Thank you, Mrs. Barker," said Grandma Elsie. "It is quite likely we may do so, for we have greatly enjoyed our chat with you." "And will be glad to have you return our call, if you can conveniently do so, while we linger in your neighborhood," added Violet. Arrived at the beach, Violet joined her husband and the young folks there, but her mother and Walter passed on up the cliff, the lad saying laughingly that he wanted another peep into Purgatory before leaving the neighborhood; but, as his mother well understood, a bit of private chat with her was the chief object he had in view. They took a peep into the chasm, then wandered away a little and sat down side by side upon a ledge of rock. Looking at him with her own loving smile, she laid her hand in his. He clasped it tightly, while unbidden tears sprang to his eyes. "Mother," he said low and tremulously, "my own dear mother! You are almost all the world to me. I think no other fellow had so dear and sweet a mother as mine. I don't know how I shall ever stand it to pass weeks and months without a sight of your dear face." "Ah, you will soon learn to do without me," she said, between a sigh and a smile. "But I do not believe my dear baby boy will ever cease to love his mother, or to try to make her happy by a faithful attendance to all his duties. But oh, above all, try to please and honor the God of your fathers whose servant you profess to be. Begin every day with an earnest supplication for strength to perform every duty and resist every temptation." "It is my fixed purpose to do so, mother dear, and I know you will be ever helping me with your prayers," he answered earnestly. "Oh, what a blessing it is to have a praying, Christian mother! And I know that you will write to me often, and that your dear letters will be a great help to me in my efforts to resist temptation and keep in the strait and narrow path." "I hope so," she said; "also that my dear youngest son will never learn to conceal things from his mother, but will write me freely of all that concerns him, never doubting my love or my interest in it all, for his dear sake." "Doubt your dear love, mother? No, never for one moment! Oh, it will be hard to part from you to-day, even though I hope to see you again before you go home!" "Yes, I expect to give you a call at the college, to see that my dear son is made as comfortable as possible, and to take a view of his room and all his surroundings, that I may be able to picture him in my mind's eye at his studies, recitations, and sports." "Just as I can see my loved mother in every room of the dear home at Ion, or the other one at Viamede, should you go there at any time without me," he returned, making a determined effort to speak lightly. "It seems a little hard to start off without you, mother; but as Cousin Cyril has kindly promised to go with me, I shall do very well, especially with the knowledge that I am to see you again in a few days." "Yes," she said, "and you will like those New Jersey relatives of his, who are more distantly related to us, when you become acquainted with them, as I hope you will at some not very distant day." "The uncle he is expecting to visit there is a brother of Cousin Annis, is he not?" asked Walter. "Yes." "Then I should think she and her husband, Cousin Ronald, would go with Cousin Cyril." "I think they will follow a few days hence, when we start for home," she answered. Just at that moment they were startled by a wild shriek, as of one in great peril or affright, instantly followed by a sound as of a heavy body plunging into the water. Both started to their feet, Walter exclaiming, "Oh, mother! someone must have fallen into that dreadful deep chasm they call Purgatory! Oh, what can we do?" "Nothing," she answered, with a laugh that sounded slightly hysterical. "See! Cousin Ronald and several of the others have come up the hill unnoticed by us." "Oh! I think it was rather too bad for him to startle you so, mamma dear!" exclaimed Walter. "Yes, I must acknowledge that it was," returned Mr. Lilburn, who had now drawn near enough to overhear the remark. "Pardon me, Cousin Elsie; I really did not intend to give you such a fright; for I deemed it likely you would know at once that it was I and none other." "As I probably should, had I been aware of your vicinity," she returned, in a pleasant tone; "but my boy and I were so engrossed with our talk that we did not perceive your approach. I think Walter and I must now go back to the cottage and see to the packing of his trunk." "Cannot I do that, mamma?" queried Violet. "Thank you, daughter, I have no doubt you could, but I have a fancy for the job myself," was the pleasant-toned reply. "Besides, your place is with your husband and little ones, who, I think, would find it agreeable and beneficial to remain here on the beach for another hour or so." "I haven't unpacked much since we came here, mother," remarked Walter, as they walked away together, "so that it will not be a long job to get my things in my trunk, but I am glad you came away so early with me, as it gives us time and opportunity for another private chat." "Yes, my dear boy, that was my principal object in proposing this early return, but I hope for many another pleasant chat with my dear youngest son in the years to come," his mother responded cheerfully. "I haven't seen quite all the places in and about Newport or Middletown that I should take an interest in examining," remarked Walter. "But I presume I may hope to come again some day?" "Oh, yes; possibly a good many times in the course of a few years; though there are many other places in our great, beautiful country that are quite as well worth visiting, and far better worth seeing than some noted resorts in Europe. I want my sons and daughters to appreciate their own country," she went on, her sweet face lighting with enthusiasm, "with all that is beautiful and valuable in it, as well as its free institutions--religious, civil, and political." "I think I do, mamma," he said, with a smile. "You have brought up all your children to admire and love their own land, believing it the best and greatest country in all the wide world." "Yes, and yet, alas! there is a vast deal of wickedness in it," she sighed; "wickedness, error, superstition, and vice, which we should make it our life work to try to root out." "As I truly intend to, mamma. But are not most of the ignorant and vicious those who have come in from foreign lands?" "A very great many--a very large majority no doubt are," she answered; "and yet there are many ignorant and vicious ones who are native born; not a few of them being the children of natives. Some of the Tories of revolutionary times were even worse than savages. 'The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked,' applies to the whole of Adam's fallen race, and each one of us needs to pray, 'Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.'" "I feel that I do, mother, but you have always seemed to me so perfect that it is difficult to realize that it can be so with you," said the lad, turning upon her eyes filled with ardent love and admiration. "That is doubtless because your eyes are blinded by filial love, my dear boy," she returned, with her sweet and loving smile. They presently reached the house, and Walter set about his packing, under his mother's supervision, which made the work seem but a pleasant pastime. It did not take long and, seated together in one of the porches, they had time before the return of the others for a confidential chat, such as Walter dearly loved to have with his mother. Then came the call to supper, and the meal was scarcely over when the hack was announced as at the door; there were hasty leave-takings, his mother's the last for Walter. She strained him to her heart with some whispered words of love, while he embraced her with ardent affection, and in a moment more he was in the hack, with Mr. Keith by his side, and they were driving rapidly away toward the city to take the night train for New York. CHAPTER XX. The shades of evening had begun to fall. A cool breeze made the brightly lighted parlor more attractive than the porches, and there the older ones gathered, while the mothers saw their weary little ones to bed. The gentlemen had their newspapers, Mrs. Dinsmore and Mrs. Travilla their fancy work, while the four young girls, in a group by themselves, chatted and laughed together, discussing the sights and scenes through which they had passed that day, and the bits of history connected with them. The captain presently threw aside his paper, and taking a vacant seat on the sofa beside his daughter Grace, asked in tender tones, as he passed an arm about her and drew her close, if she felt very weary from the day's exertions. "Not so very, papa dear," she answered, laying her head on his shoulder and smiling up into the eyes bent so lovingly upon her. "I think I never had a better time. Have we been to all the places of interest now?" "Not quite all," he replied; "there are a few others to which we may take pleasant little jaunts in the week or so we expect to tarry here." "Vaucluse for one, I should say," remarked Mr. Embury, laying aside his paper and joining in the talk. "Where is that?" asked Mrs. Dinsmore. "Over on the shore of the eastern bay, and about six miles out from Newport. It is a noted country seat, at present unoccupied except in small part by a caretaker and his wife. It has a very neglected look, but is still well worth seeing, I have been told. But here comes my Molly with a manuscript in her hand. Something to read to us, I suppose. Is it, my dear?" "Yes," she said, with a smile; "provided you all wish to hear it. A story of the ship _Palatine_ from Holland, which struck on Sandy Point of this island early in the last century. I have used the facts as far as they could be obtained, and drawn upon my imagination for the rest. If all would like to hear it, I shall be glad to have your opinions and criticisms before offering it for publication." "Suppose you put it to vote, my dear," suggested her husband. "We are all here now except the little folks, who have gone to their beds," he added, glancing at Isadore and Violet, who had come into the room just in time to hear Molly's last sentence. "I shall be glad to hear it, Molly. I always have enjoyed such of your productions as have come under my notice," said Violet, in a lively tone, as she took the seat her husband had hastened to offer. "And I can echo those sentiments," added Isadore lightly, taking possession of an easy chair gallantly drawn forward for her by her Uncle Dinsmore. Thus encouraged, Mrs. Embury began at once. "Story of the ship _Palatine_," she read. "Some time in the early years of the last century, a ship named the _Palatine_ left Holland for America, bearing a large number of emigrants, whose destination was the then colony of Pennsylvania, where they intended to buy land and settle; and for that reason they were carrying with them all their earthly possessions--clothing, furniture, and money; of which some had a good deal, others only a little. "Among the wealthier ones was Herr Adolphus Follen, with his wife Margaret, his daughters Katrina and Gretchen, and his son Karl. Also they had with them an elderly woman, Lisa Kuntz, who had lived with the Follens ever since their marriage, and acted as nurse to each of their children in turn. She had no near kin, and being much attached to the family in which she had made her home for so many years, had decided to accompany them to the new world in spite of her fears of Indians and wild animals. "As the good ship _Palatine_ sailed slowly out of port, all these, with many of their fellow-passengers, stood upon her deck gazing sadly, and not a few with flowing tears, upon the fast-receding shores of their native land. Ah, how much bitterer would have been their grief, could they have foreseen the sufferings that fateful voyage held in store for them! Though they little suspected it at the time, they had fallen into the hands of men so full of the love of money, so ready to do the most dastardly deeds in order to secure it, that they were no better than the worst of cut-throats and murderers. "The emigrants had not brought a store of provisions for the voyage, because, according to the agreement, these were to be purchased of the captain and his officers. But scarcely had they cleared the coast and stood well out to sea when they were struck with astonishment and dismay at the enormous sums asked for the merest necessaries of life: 20 guilders for a cup of water, 50 rix dollars for a ship's biscuit." "Astounding rascality!" exclaimed Mr. Embury, as his wife paused for an instant in her reading. "Why, how much are those coins worth in our money?" she asked. "I really do not know exactly." "A guilder," he replied, "equals 40 cents of our money; so that 20 guilders would be $8. Think of that as the price of a cup of water! probably not the coolest or cleanest either. Then the 50 rix dollars for a ship biscuit would equal $18.25. Think of such a conspiracy as that on the part of a ship's officers to rob defenceless passengers!" "Why, it was just dreadful!" she exclaimed. "Those officers were no better than pirates." "Not a whit! In fact, they were pirates. But go on, my dear; let us have the rest of your story." Mrs. Embury resumed her reading. "'What shall we, what can we do,' asked Frau Follen of her husband. 'I fear there will be no money left for buying land when we reach America.' "'Alas! I fear not, indeed!' he returned; 'and should anything happen to delay the vessel we may be reduced to great extremity even before reaching the shores of America. Ah, would we had been satisfied to remain in the fatherland!' he groaned in anguish of spirit. "'Ah, father,' said Gretchen, the eldest daughter, 'let not your heart fail you yet. Help may yet come from some unexpected quarter, and if not--if we die for lack of food--we may hope to awake from the sleep of death in the better land, to suffer and die no more. Let us trust in God and not be afraid.' "'You are right, my daughter,' he returned with emotion. 'But oh, God grant I may not be called to see my wife and children suffer and die for lack of food!' "A young man standing near, one with whom they were slightly acquainted, here joined in the conversation. "'It is dreadful, dreadful!' he exclaimed, but speaking in a subdued tone for fear of being overheard by their inhuman oppressors, 'the way these mercenary wretches are robbing the helpless poor whom they have entrapped into their net. Every fellow of them deserves the headsman's axe, and I hope will reach it at last. Think of the exorbitant sums they are asking for the barest necessaries of life! Nor do I believe they will ever carry us to our destination, lest complaint be made of them and they be brought to condign punishment by the authorities of the land.' "'But, what then do you think they will do, Herr Ernesti?' asked Frau Follen, gasping with fear and horror, as she spoke. "'I cannot tell,' he answered. 'Mayhap land us on some desert island, and leave us there to struggle as we can for life. But, thank God, they cannot take us to any spot where He does not rule and reign, or where His ear will be deaf to the cries of His perishing ones. So, my friends, let us not give up to utter despair. "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?"' "'Yes, yes; what consolation in knowing that!' cried Gretchen, tears of mingled joy and sorrow streaming down her face. 'Father, mother, sister, and brother, we are all His and He will care for us in His own time and way.' "But who shall describe the scenes that followed through weeks of deepest distress and agony, as fathers and mothers, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters saw their dear ones perishing with famine, while they themselves were goaded almost to madness by the pangs of hunger added to their bitter grief? "But they were entirely in the power of their inhuman torturers, who never relaxed in their demands until they had wrenched from their wretched victims every stiver in their possession. "That accomplished, and no food remaining--unless a very, very scanty store--they, officers and sailors, deserted the vessel, going off in the boats, leaving their helpless victims to their fate, for not one of them had either the needed knowledge or strength for the management of the ship; and so she drifted aimlessly hither and thither at the mercy of the winds and waves, carrying her fearful cargo of dead and dying whither they knew not. "To the survivors that voyage seemed like one long, dreadful dream, full of horrors and keenest anguish of body and mind. Of the many emigrants who, filled with the hope of reaching a land of freedom and plenty, had crowded the vessel at the beginning of the voyage, but seventeen feeble, emaciated, almost dying creatures were left when, one cold winter morning, about Christmas time, the now dismasted hulk of the good ship _Palatine_ drifted into Narragansett Bay and struck on Sandy Point, Rhode Island. "It was Sunday morning, but the good people of the island seeing the wreck, and knowing there might be in her some living soul in distress, hastened on board, where they found the poor, perishing creatures, and at once carried them all ashore save one woman--Lisa Kuntz, the nurse of the Follens, who obstinately refused to leave the vessel. She was seated upon the deck with her belongings about her, and there she was determined to stay. But she was not safe there, as the islanders well knew; for the dismasted hulk could not be secured against drifting away, and as the tide arose around it they, as a last resort, set it on fire, thinking the lone woman would certainly be frightened, and prefer coming ashore to remaining upon the burning ship. But she would not, and as the tide rose the blazing hulk drifted away, carrying her with it." "Oh, how dreadful!" sighed several of Molly's hearers. "Wasn't it?" she responded. "I suppose the sufferings of the poor creature must have made her insane." "But the sixteen who were brought ashore, did they live?" asked Lucilla; and in reply Mrs. Embury resumed her reading. "The sixteen who had been carried ashore were treated with the greatest kindness by the islanders, all their wants carefully attended to; but for nearly all of them help had come too late, and all but three soon died. Of the Follen family Gretchen alone remained, a lonely, almost heart-broken creature, having seen father, mother, brother, and sister laid in the grave soon after landing upon the island. But Herr Hubert Ernesti remained. He had been beside her all these dreadful weeks and months, had sympathized in all her griefs, all her sufferings of mind and body, and each had learned to look upon the other as the nearest and dearest of all earthly beings; so that when, beside the newly filled grave that held the last of her family, he asked her to give herself to him that they might meet all coming trials and share all joys together, she did not say him nay, or withdraw the hand he had taken in his and held in a clasp so loving and tender. "It was from them the islanders learned the sad story of the terrible scenes and sufferings on board the _Palatine_; an experience poor Gretchen could never recall without tears. "Hubert and she remained upon that hospitable island for some years, then left it for their original destination, where, we will hope, they lived out the remainder of their lives in peace and happiness." "And that is the end of your sad little story, is it?" asked Rosie, as her cousin paused in the reading. "Of the story of those two," said Molly; "but I have something more to read, if no one is tired of listening." No one seemed to be, and she resumed: "Ever since the burning _Palatine_ drifted away that night a strange light has been seen at intervals along this coast whence she departed on that last voyage. Many have seen it, and the superstitious and ignorant have looked upon it as the phantom of the burning ship _Palatine_, ever drifting upon the open sea, always burning but never consumed; seen only at long intervals, as she drifts off the western coast. "A well-known physician of Block Island, having had two opportunities of seeing it, says, 'This curious irradiation rises from the ocean near the northern point of the island; looks like a blaze of fire; either touches the water or hovers over it. It bears no more resemblance to the _ignis fatuus_ than to the aurora borealis. Sometimes it is small, resembling the light through a distant window; at others expanding to the height of a ship with all her canvas spread; the streams, somewhat blended together at the bottom, separate and distinct at the top, the middle one rising higher than the others. It is very variable--sometimes almost disappearing, then shining out anew. It changes about every three minutes; does not always return to the same place, but is sometimes seen shining at a considerable distance from the place of disappearance. It seems to have no certain line of direction. The flame, when most expanded, waves like a torch; is sometimes stationary, at others progressive. It is seen at all seasons of the year and, for the most part, in calm weather which precedes an easterly or southerly storm. It has, however, been noticed in a severe northwesterly gale and when no storm followed immediately. Its stay is sometimes short, at others all night, and it has been known to appear several nights in succession.' "'This light,' says another person, 'is often seen blazing at six or seven miles distance, and strangers suppose it to be a vessel on fire. The blaze emits luminous rays. A gentleman whose house is situated near the sea tells me that he has known it to illuminate considerably the walls of his room through the window; but that happens only when the light is within a half mile of the shore.'" "But where did you learn all this, Molly?" asked her husband, as she paused to turn a leaf in her manuscript. "From Mr. Baylor's 'History of Newport County,' lent me by my kind friend, Mrs. Barker, of the old revolutionary house," Mrs. Embury answered, then continued her reading. "Says Mr. Joseph P. Hazard of Narragansett Pier: 'I first saw it three miles off the coast. I suspected nothing but ordinary sails until I noticed the light, upon reappearing, was apparently stationary for a few moments, when it suddenly started toward the coast, and, immediately expanding, became much less bright, assuming somewhat the form of a long, narrow jib, sometimes two of them, as if each on a different mast. I saw neither spar nor hull, but noticed that the speed was very great, certainly not less than fifteen knots, and they surged and pitched as though madly rushing upon raging billows.'" "Superstition, every bit of it!" remarked Mr. Dinsmore, as Mrs. Embury folded her manuscript and laid it aside. "Why this any more than the _ignis fatuus_?" queried Mr. Embury, in a tone that seemed a mixture of jest and earnestness. "Neither has as yet been altogether satisfactorily accounted for. The latter having puzzled philosophers from the time of Aristotle." "True," said Mr. Dinsmore, "there are various theories advanced in regard to that. All we know certainly is that it is a luminous appearance frequently seen in marshy places, churchyards, and over stagnant pools." "Has it ever been seen in this country, grandpa?" asked Grace. "I think not," he replied, "but it is not unfrequent in the lowlands of Scotland, the south and northwest of England, or the northern parts of Germany. The time of year for its appearance is from the middle of autumn till the beginning of November." "I think I have read that the people of the districts where it was frequently seen used to be superstitious about it in olden times; and that they called it Will-o'-the-wisp, and Jack-a-lantern." "Yes; and believed it to be due to the agency of evil spirits who were trying to lure travellers to their destruction. And unfortunately it was sometimes mistaken by unwary travellers for a light, and in trying to reach it, thinking it shone from some human habitation where they might find shelter and a night's lodging, they would follow it and so get into, and sink in, the marsh, thus losing their lives." "Is it not about time we were seeking our night's lodgings?" asked Mrs. Dinsmore pleasantly, as her husband concluded his sentence. "See, the clock is on the stroke of nine, which is a late enough hour for most of us now, when we are moving about so much during the day. Surely it is for Gracie, whose eyes, I notice, begin to droop." "I think you are right, my dear," replied her husband. Then he requested Mr. Lilburn to lead their family worship. CHAPTER XXI. A few days longer our friends lingered in their pleasant cottages on the beautiful island, loath to leave it, with any one of its many interesting localities unexplored. They walked, rode, drove, and sailed about the bay, visiting now one island, and now another. Captain Raymond's acquaintance with naval and military officers, and his high reputation among them making it easy for them to gain access to vessels, forts, and fortifications. Goat Island interested them as the place where the English ship _Liberty_ was destroyed before the Revolution. They saw the noble stone pier, hundreds of feet long, visited the torpedo station, and the captain pointed out to the others the curving point on which, more than a century ago, very many pirates had been hanged. They visited the city too, and looked with interest upon the old houses that had stood here in and before Revolutionary times; among them Redwood Library, and old Trinity Church, in which Bishop Berkeley had often preached. The young people were much interested too, in the old stone mill--that singular relic of the past about which there has been so much speculation--and, when visiting the island cemetery, in the plain obelisk marking the last resting place of Commodore Perry, the hero of the battle of Lake Erie. Many of these things the captain and his family had seen on former visits to Newport, yet they enjoyed seeing them again in company with those of the party to whom they were entirely new. But holidays must come to an end, and at length all felt so great a drawing toward their distant homes that a proposal to return to them was made by Mrs. Dinsmore, and hailed with delight by all the others. The needed preparations were speedily made, and early one morning they set sail in the yacht, which before night had landed all but the captain's immediate family and Evelyn Leland in New York, where they took a train for Philadelphia. Mr. Cyril Keith was to meet his wife and family there, and they, with the Emburys, were to hasten on to their homes in Louisiana, pausing on the route for only a short visit to the neighborhood of the old home of Isadore and Molly, and the relatives there. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore had planned a short visit to their relatives in and near Philadelphia; and his daughter Elsie, with her daughter Rosie, one to her son Walter at Princeton; while Mr. and Mrs. Lilburn were to do likewise by her brother, Donald Keith and his family, Annis feeling very happy in the thought of seeing them all, and showing them the dear, kindly old gentleman to whom she had given her heart and hand. Having landed these passengers, the yacht changed her course, and sailed on down the Atlantic coast. The little ones were in their berths, the others all on deck. "Now, if I were not here, you would be just a family party," remarked Evelyn, breaking a momentary silence. "I think we are as it is," said the captain. "As you are a pupil of mine, will you not let me count you as one of my family?" "Indeed, sir; I should be only too glad to have you do so," she answered, in a sprightly tone; "but I doubt if Lu would be willing to share her choicest treasure--her father's love--with me." "Why, yes, I should, Eva! because he wouldn't love me any the less for loving you also," said Lulu. "Oh, then you may adopt me just as soon as you like, captain," laughed Evelyn. "Now, I think I have a right to some say in this matter," said Violet, in a light, jesting tone. "I object to becoming mother to a girl of your age and attainments, but am perfectly willing to have you for a sister." "Very well, my dear, that settles it," said the captain. "You and I, Eva, will consider ourselves brother and sister." "Ah, I like that," said Grace; "though I am not sure that I shall consider Eva my aunt. Papa, are we going directly home now?" "Do you not see that we are hurrying onward in that direction?" he asked in reply. A sudden thought seemed to strike Grace. "Oh, is Max in Annapolis now?" she asked. "Yes," her father answered, with a joyous smile, "and I want to see my boy so badly that I have decided to call there for a few hours before going home; unless some of you strongly object," he added, in a jesting tone. "Of course we do, papa," laughed Lucilla. "How can you suppose that any of us would be willing to see Max?" "Very well, anyone who is averse to seeing him will have the privilege of shutting herself into her stateroom while he is on board, and indeed, during the whole visit to Annapolis," replied the captain. "And I well know Lu will not be one of them," laughed Violet. They had a speedy and pleasant voyage, a delightful little visit with Max, after that a joyful return home, followed a few weeks later by the coming of the Dinsmores, Travillas, and Lilburns, for whom some pleasant family parties were held, after which all settled down for the winter's duties and pleasures. The captain continued to act as tutor to Evelyn and his daughters, but Rosie had forsaken the schoolroom, Walter was no longer there, and for a time it seemed a trifle lonely to the remaining ones. They soon, however, became accustomed to the state of affairs, and so deeply interested in their studies that the hours devoted to them passed very swiftly and pleasantly. They also resumed their labors for the poor and ignorant of the neighborhood, making clothing for them, and teaching the women and girls to sew for themselves and their families, at the same time cultivating their minds and hearts to some extent, by taking turns in reading aloud to them simple and instructive tales of value for this life and the next. It was Grandma Elsie who selected the reading matter and took the care and oversight of all the charitable work of her young friends--directing, encouraging, and urging them on, by both precept and example. How dearly they loved her! It might be truly said of her, as of the virtuous woman described in the last chapter of Proverbs: "She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness." THE END A LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS AND OTHER POPULAR BOOKS BY MARTHA FINLEY ELSIE DINSMORE. ELSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS. ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD. ELSIE'S WOMANHOOD. ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD. ELSIE'S CHILDREN. ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD. GRANDMOTHER ELSIE. ELSIE'S NEW RELATIONS. ELSIE AT NANTUCKET. THE TWO ELSIES. ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN. ELSIE'S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN. CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE. ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS. ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS. ELSIE'S VACATION. ELSIE AT VIAMEDE. ELSIE AT ION. ELSIE AT THE WORLD'S FAIR. ELSIE'S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS. ELSIE AT HOME. ELSIE ON THE HUDSON. ELSIE IN THE SOUTH. ELSIE'S YOUNG FOLKS. ELSIE'S WINTER TRIP. ELSIE AND HER LOVED ONES. MILDRED KEITH. MILDRED AT ROSELANDS. MILDRED'S MARRIED LIFE. MILDRED AND ELSIE. MILDRED AT HOME. MILDRED'S BOYS AND GIRLS. MILDRED'S NEW DAUGHTER. CASELLA. SIGNING THE CONTRACT AND WHAT IT COST. THE TRAGEDY OF WILD RIVER VALLEY. OUR FRED. AN OLD-FASHIONED BOY. WANTED, A PEDIGREE. THE THORN IN THE NEST. * * * * * TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES Minor punctuation errors repaired. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ The list of Martha Finley's books has been moved from the front of the book to the end. p82 Cass added a postcript. replaced with Cass added a postscript. p105 "All that sounds quite appetizing," said Voilet. replaced with "All that sounds quite appetizing," said Violet. p117 the provisions, baggage, and amumnition wagons replaced with the provisions, baggage, and ammunition wagons p119 Perry landed and offered his serivces to Harrison replaced with Perry landed and offered his services to Harrison p120 from Dolson's to Chatham replaced with from Dolsen's to Chatham p163 replacing the sight frown replaced with replacing the slight frown p265 I shall be glad to heard it, Molly. replaced with I shall be glad to hear it, Molly. 
38353	----	http://www.archive.org/details/elsieswidowhoods00finl ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD A Sequel to "Elsie's Children" by MARTHA FINLEY "Alone she wanders where with HIM she trod, No arm to stay her, but she leans on God." --O. W. HOLMES New York Dodd, Mead and Company Publishers Copyright, 1880, by Dodd, Mead & Company. PREFACE. It was not in my heart to give to my favorite child, Elsie, the sorrows of Widowhood. But the public made the title and demanded the book; and the public, I am told, is autocratic. So what could I do but write the story and try to show how the love of Christ in the heart can make life happy even under sore bereavement? The apostle says, "I am filled with comfort, I am exceeding joyful in all our tribulation;" and since trouble, trial and affliction are the lot of all in this world of sin and sorrow, what greater kindness could I do you, dear reader, than to show you where to go for relief and consolation? That this little book may teach the sweet lesson to many a tried and burdened soul, is the earnest prayer of your friend, THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I 7 CHAPTER II 18 CHAPTER III 28 CHAPTER IV 38 CHAPTER V 47 CHAPTER VI 59 CHAPTER VII 68 CHAPTER VIII 80 CHAPTER IX 91 CHAPTER X 101 CHAPTER XI 114 CHAPTER XII 127 CHAPTER XIII 140 CHAPTER XIV 151 CHAPTER XV 165 CHAPTER XVI 178 CHAPTER XVII 194 CHAPTER XVIII 207 CHAPTER XIX 220 CHAPTER XX 236 CHAPTER XXI 247 CHAPTER XXII 263 CHAPTER XXIII 279 CHAPTER XXIV 296 CHAPTER XXV 323 ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD. CHAPTER I. "All love is sweet, Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever." --_Shelley._ "Come in, Vi, darling," said Mrs. Travilla's sweet voice, "we will be glad to have you with us." Violet, finding the door of her mother's dressing-room ajar, had stepped in, then drawn hastily back, fearing to intrude upon what seemed a private interview between her and her namesake daughter; Elsie being seated on a cushion at her mamma's feet, her face half hidden on her lap, while mamma's soft white hand gently caressed her hair and cheek. "I feared my presence might not be quite desirable just now, mamma," Violet said gayly, coming forward as she spoke. "But what is the matter?" she asked in alarm, perceiving that tears were trembling in the soft brown eyes that were lifted to hers. "Dear mamma, are you ill? or is Elsie? is anything wrong with her?" "She shall answer for herself," the mother said with a sort of tremulous gayety of tone and manner. "Come, bonny lassie, lift your head and tell your sister of the calamity that has befallen you." There was a whispered word or two of reply, and Elsie rose hastily and glided from the room. "Mamma, is she sick?" asked Violet, surprised and troubled. "No, dear child. It is--the old story:" and the mother sighed involuntarily. "We cannot keep her always; some one wants to take her from us." "Some one! oh who, mamma? who would dare? But you and papa will never allow it?" "Ah, my child, we cannot refuse; and I understand now, as I never did before, why my father looked so sad when yours asked him for his daughter." Light flashed upon Violet. "Ah mamma, is that it? and who--but I think I know. It is Lester Leland, is it not?" Her mother's smile told her that her conjecture was correct. Violet sighed as she took the seat just vacated by her sister, folded her arms on her mother's lap, and looked up with loving eyes into her face. "Dear mamma, I am so sorry for you! for papa too, and for myself. What shall I do without my sister? How can you and papa do without her? How _can_ she? I'm sure no one in the world can ever be so dear to _me_ as my own precious father and mother. And I wish--I wish Lester Leland had never seen her." "No, darling, we should not wish that. These things must be; God in his infinite wisdom and goodness has so ordered it. I am sad at the thought of parting with my dear child, yet how could I be so selfish as to wish her to miss the great happiness that I have found in the love of husband and children?" Violet answered with a doubtful "Yes, mamma, but--" "Well, dear?" her mother asked with a smile, after waiting in vain for the conclusion of the sentence. "I am sure there is not another man in all the world like papa; not one half so dear and good and kind and lovable." "Ah, you may change your mind about that some day. It is precisely what I used to think and say of my dear father, before I quite learned the worth of yours." "Ah, yes, I forgot grandpa! he is--almost as nice and dear as papa. But there can't be another one, I'm very, every sure of that. Lester Leland is not half so nice. Oh I don't see how Elsie _can_!" "How Elsie can what?" asked her father, coming in at that moment, and regarding her with a half quizzical look and smile. "Leave you and mamma for somebody else, you dear, dear, dearest father!" returned Vi, springing up and running to him to put her arms about his neck and half smother him with kisses. "Then we may hope to keep you for a good while yet?" he said interrogatively, holding her close and returning her caresses in most tender fatherly fashion, the mother watching them with beaming eyes. "Yes, indeed; till you grow quite, quite tired of me, papa." "And that will never be, my pet. Ah, little wife, how rich we are in our children! Yet not rich enough to part with one without a pang of regret. But we will not trouble about that yet, since the evil day is not very near." "Oh isn't it?" cried Violet joyously. "No; Lester goes to Italy in a few weeks, and it will be one, two, or maybe three years before he returns to claim his bride." "Ah, then it is not time to begin to fret about it yet!" cried Vi, gleefully, smiles chasing away the clouds from her brow. At her age a year seems a long while in anticipation. "No, daughter, nor ever will be," her father responded with gentle gravity. "I hope my little girl will never allow herself to indulge in so useless and sinful a thing as fretting over either what can or what cannot be helped." "Ah, you don't mean to let me fret at all, I see, you dear, wise old papa," she returned with a merry laugh. "Now I must find Elsie and pass the lesson over to her. For I shrewdly suspect she's fretting over Lester's expected departure." "Away with you then!" was the laughing rejoinder, and she went dancing and singing from the room. "The dear, merry, light-hearted child," her father said, looking after her. "Would that I could keep her always thus." "Would you if you could, my husband?" Mrs. Travilla asked with a tender smile, a look of loving reverence, as he sat down by her side. "No, sweet wife, I would not," he answered emphatically; "for, as Rutherford says, 'grace groweth best in winter;' and the Master says, 'As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten.'" "Yes; and 'we must through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of God.' Ah, we could never choose for our precious children exemption from such trials and afflictions as He may see necessary to fit them for an eternity of joy and bliss at His right hand!" "No; nor for ourselves, nor for each other, my darling. But how well it is that the choice is not for us! How could I ever choose a single pang for you, beloved? vein of my heart, my life, my light, my joy!" "Or I for you, my dear, dear husband!" she whispered, as he drew her head to a resting place upon his breast and pressed a long kiss of ardent affection on her pure white brow. "Ah, Edward, I sometimes fear that I lean on you too much, love you too dearly! What could I ever do without you--husband, friend, counsellor, guide--everything in one?" Violet went very softly into her sister's dressing-room and stood for several minutes watching her with a mixture of curiosity, interest and amusement, before Elsie became aware of her presence. She sat with her elbow on the window seat, her cheek in her hand, eyes fixed on some distant point in the landscape, but evidently with thoughts intent upon something quite foreign to it; for the color came and went on the soft cheeks with every breath, and conscious smiles played about the full red lips. At last turning her head and catching her young sister's eye, she crimsoned to the very forehead. "O Elsie, don't mind me!" Violet said, springing to her side and putting her arms around her. "Are you so very happy? You look so, and I am glad for you; but--but I can't understand it." "What, Vi?" Elsie asked, half hiding her blushing face on her sister's shoulder. "How you can love anybody better than our own dear, darling, precious papa and mamma." "Yes, I--I don't wonder, Vi," blushing more deeply than before, "but they are not angry--dear, dear mamma and papa--it seems to me I never loved them half so dearly before--and they say it is quite natural and right." "Then it must be, of course; but--I wish it was somebody else's sister and not mine. I can't feel as if a stranger has as much right to my own sister as I have; and I don't know how to do without you. O Elsie, can't you be content to live on always in just the way we have ever since we were little bits of things?" Elsie answered with an ardent embrace and a murmured "Darling Vi, don't be vexed with me. I'm sure you wouldn't if you knew how dearly, dearly I love you." "Well, I do suppose you can't help it!" sighed Violet, returning the embrace. "Can't help loving you? No, indeed; who could?" Elsie returned laughingly. "You wouldn't wish it, surely? You value my affection?" "Oh you dear old goose!" laughed Violet; "but that was a wilful misunderstanding. None so stupid as those that won't comprehend. Now I'll run away and leave you to your pleasant thoughts. May I tell Molly?" "Yes," Elsie answered with some hesitation, "she'll have to know soon. Mamma thinks it should not be kept secret, though it must be so long before--" "Ah, that reminds me that I was to pass over to you the lesson papa just gave me--that fretting is never wise or right. I leave you to make the application," and she ran gayly away. So joyous of heart, so full of youthful life and animation was she that she seldom moved with sedateness and sobriety in the privacy of home, but went tripping and dancing from room to room, often filling the house with birdlike warblings or silvery laughter. Molly Percival sat in her own cheery, pleasant room, pen in hand and surrounded by books and papers over which she seemed very intent, though now and then she lifted her head and sent a sweeping glance through the open window, drinking in with delight the beauties of a panorama of hill and dale, sparkling river, cultivated field and wild woodland, to which the shifting lights and shadows, as now and again a fleecy, wind-swept cloud partially obscured the brightness of the sun, lent the charm of endless variety. Molly's face was bright with intelligence and good humor. She enjoyed her work and her increasing success. And she had still another happiness in the change that had come over her mother. Still feeble in intellect, Enna Johnson had become as remarkable for gentleness and docility as she had formerly been for pride, arrogance and self-will. She had grown very fond of Molly, too, very proud of her attainments and her growing fame, and asked no greater privilege than to sit in the room with her, watching her at her work, and ever ready to wait upon and do her errands. And so she, too, had her home at Ion, made always welcome by its large-hearted, generous master and mistress. "Busy, as usual, I see," remarked Violet, as she came tripping in. "Molly, you are the veriest bee, and richly deserve to have your hive full of the finest honey. I'm the bearer of a bit of news very interesting to Elsie and me, in fact I suppose I might say to all the family. Have you time to hear it?" "Yes, indeed, and to thank you for your kindness in bringing it," Molly answered, laying down her pen and leaning back in a restful attitude. "But sit down first, won't you?" "Thank you, no; it's time to dress for dinner. I must just state the fact and run away," said Violet, pulling out a tiny gold watch set with brilliants. "It is that Elsie and Lester Leland are engaged." "And your father and mother approve?" asked Molly in some surprise. "Yes, of course; Elsie would never think of engaging herself to anybody without their approval. But why should they be expected to object?" "I don't know, only--he's poor, and most wealthy people would consider that a very great objection." Violet laughed lightly. "What an odd idea! If there is wealth on one side, there's the less need of it on the other, I should think. And he is intelligent, sensible, talented, amiable and good; rather handsome too." "And so you are pleased, Vi?" "Yes, no, I don't know," and the bright face clouded slightly. "I wish--but if people must marry, he'll do as well as another to rob me of my sister, I suppose." She tripped away, and Molly, dropping her head upon her folded arms on the table, sighed profoundly. Some one touched her on the shoulder, and her mother's voice asked, "What's the matter, Molly? You don't envy her that poor artist fellow, do you? You needn't: there'll be a better one coming along for you one of these days." "No, no; not for me! not for me!" gasped the girl. "I've nothing to do with love or marriage, except to picture them for others. It's like mixing delicious draughts for other lips, while I--I may not taste them--may not have a single drop to cool my parched tongue, or quench my burning thirst." At the moment life seemed to stretch out before her as a dreary waste, unbrightened by a single flower--a long, toilsome road to be trod in loneliness and pain. Her heart uttered the old plaint: "They seem to have everything and I nothing." Then her cheek burned with shame, and penitent tears filled her eyes, as better thoughts came crowding into her mind. Had she not a better than an earthly love to cheer, comfort, and sustain her on her way?--a love that would never fail, a Friend who would never leave nor forsake her; whose sympathy was perfect; who was always touched with the feeling of her infirmities, and into whose ear she could ever whisper her every sorrow, perplexity, anxiety, certain of help; for His love and power were infinite. And the minor blessings of her lot were innumerable: the love of kindred and friends, and the ability to do good and give pleasure by the exercise of her God-given talents, not the least. CHAPTER II. "Marriage is a matter of more worth Than to be dealt in by attorneyship." --_Shakespeare._ Lester Leland would sail in a few weeks for Europe. He was going to Italy to study the great masters, and with the determination to spare no effort to so perfect himself in his art that his fame as the first of American sculptors should constitute a prize worthy to lay at the feet of his peerless Elsie. Their engagement was presently made known to all the connection, and with no pledge or request of secrecy, her parents deeming such a course wisest and kindest to all parties. Elsie had many suitors, and it was but just to them to let it be understood that her selection was made. The communication was by note to each family, which note contained also an invitation to a family dinner at Ion, given in honor of the newly affianced pair. Of course the matter called forth more or less of discussion in each household, every one feeling privileged to express an opinion in regard to the suitableness of the proposed match. It created some surprise at the Oaks, but as Lester was liked and his genius admired by them all, there were no unfavorable comments. At Ashlands the news was received in much the same way, Herbert remarking, "Well, as it isn't Vi, I don't care a pin." Everybody at Fairview was delighted. At Pinegrove it was pronounced "an odd affair," but just like the Travillas; in choosing their friends and associates they never seemed to look upon wealth as a recommendation, or the want of it as an objection. It was at breakfast-time that the note of invitation, addressed to old Mr. Dinsmore, reached Roselands. He glanced over it, then read it aloud. "My great-granddaughter engaged to be married!" he remarked, as he laid it down. "I may well feel myself an aged patriarch! Though 'few and evil have the days of the years of my life been,'" he added, low and musingly, ending with a heavy sigh. "No such thing, father!" said Mrs. Conly, in a quick, impatient tone. "I'm not going to hear you talk so about yourself; you who have been always an honorable, upright, polished gentleman." "But what a wretched mésalliance is this!" she commented, with covert delight, taking up the note and glancing over its contents. "A poor artist, destitute of fame and money alike, to mate with an heiress to hundreds of thousands! Why, poor as I and my children are, I should have rejected overtures from him for one of my girls with scorn and indignation." "Which would have been a decided mistake, I think, mother," remarked Calhoun, respectfully. "Leland is a fine fellow, of good family, and very talented. He'll make his mark some day, and you may live to take pride in saying that the wife of the famous sculptor Leland is a niece of yours." "A half grandniece," she corrected, bridling. "But I shall be an ancient dame indeed before that comes to pass." "I have found him a very gentlemanly and intelligent fellow," remarked Arthur; "and as for money, Elsie is likely to have enough for both." "So she is," said the grandfather. "And he is thoroughly good, and will make a kind and appreciative husband," added Isadore. Virginia looked scornful and contemptuous. "He's too goody-goody for me," she said, "but just like the Travillas in that, so will fit in exactly, I presume. Well, if people like to make fools of themselves, I don't see that we need be unhappy about it. We'll accept the invitation, of course, mamma?" turning to her mother; "and the next question is, what shall we wear?" "We must make handsome dinner toilets, of course," was the reply; "for, though none but relatives and connections are to be present, it will be a large company." "Yes, and I've no fancy for being outshone by anybody, and Aunt Rose is sure to be very elegantly attired; Cousin Rose Lacey and Cousin Horace's wife no less so. Talk of my fondness for dress! It's small compared to theirs." "It is principally the doing of the husbands," said Isadore. "Both--or I might say all three, for Uncle Horace is no exception--are very fond of seeing their wives well dressed." "An excellent trait in a gentleman--the determination that his nearest female relatives shall make a good appearance," remarked Mrs. Conly, significantly, glancing from father to sons. "But the ability to bring it about is not always commensurate with the desire, mother," said Isadore. "Thank you, Isa," said Calhoun, following her from the room, for she had risen from the table with her last words; "my mother does not seem to comprehend the difference between our circumstances and those of some of our relatives, and I am sure has no idea of the pain her words sometimes give to grandpa, Art, and myself." "No, Cal, or she could never be so cruel," Isa answered, laying her hand affectionately on his arm and looking lovingly into his eyes. "I know that my brothers deny themselves many an innocent gratification for the sake of their mother and sisters: and Cal, I do appreciate it." "I know you do, Isa. Now tell me what you will want for this--" "Nothing," she interrupted, with an arch smile up into his face. "Do you suspect me of praising your generosity for a purpose? I have everything I want for the occasion, I do assure you. But, Cal, what do you suppose Uncle Horace will think of Elsie's choice?" "He will not object on the score of Leland's lack of wealth, unless I am greatly mistaken. But here he comes to speak for himself," he added, as a horseman was seen coming up the avenue at a brisk canter. They were standing in the hall, but now stepped out upon the veranda to greet Mr. Dinsmore as he alighted, giving his horse in charge to a young negro who came eagerly forward to do the service, quite sure that he would be suitably rewarded. It was the lad's firm conviction that "Massa Horace" possessed an inexhaustible supply of small coin, some of which was very apt to be transferred to the pockets of those who waited upon him. Greetings were exchanged and Mr. Dinsmore said, "I am on my way to Ion. Suppose you order your pony, Isa, and ride over with me. They will be glad to see you. I want a few moments chat with my father, and that will give you time to don your hat and habit." Isadore was nothing loath, and within half an hour they were on their way. "You have heard the news?" her uncle remarked inquiringly. "Of Elsie's engagement? Yes, sir. You were discussing it with grandpa and mamma, were you not?" "Yes," and he smiled slightly. "You don't think as she does about it, uncle?" "No, I am fully satisfied; that the young man is well-bred, good, amiable, honest, intelligent, educated, talented and industrious seems to me quite sufficient. My only objection is that the engagement seems likely to be a long one. And yet that has the advantage of leaving the dear child longer in her father's house." "Of which I for one am very glad," said Isa. "What a sweet girl she is, uncle!" "Yes; she strongly resembles her mother in person and character; has always seemed to me a sort of second edition of her." They found the Travillas, old and young, all out on the veranda enjoying a family chat before scattering to their various employments for the day. Grandpa, though seldom a day passed without a visit from him to Ion, was welcomed with all the effusion and delight that might reasonably have been expected if he had not been seen for a month. His daughter's eyes shone with filial love and pleasure as they exchanged their accustomed affectionate greeting, and, as he took possession of the comfortable arm-chair Mr. Travilla hastened to offer, his grandchildren clustered about him, the little ones climbing his knees with the freedom and fearlessness of those who doubted neither their right nor their welcome. But in the meantime Isadore was not forgotten or overlooked. She too was quite at home at Ion and always made to feel that her visits were esteemed a pleasure. There was a slight timidity of manner, a sweet half shyness about the younger Elsie this morning that was very charming. Her eyes drooped under her grandfather's questioning look and smile and the color came and went on her fair cheek. He said nothing to her, however, until the younger ones had been summoned away to their studies, then turned to her with the remark, "I must congratulate Lester Leland when next I see him. Well, my dear child, I trust you have not made a hasty choice?" "I think not, grandpa; we have known each other quite intimately for several years," she answered, casting down her eyes and blushing deeply. "You do not disapprove?" "I have no right to object if your parents are satisfied," he said. "But there, do not look uncomfortable; I really think Lester a fine fellow, and am quite willing to number him among my grandchildren." She gave him a bright, grateful look; then she and Isa stole away together for a little girlish confidence, leaving the older people to a more business-like discussion of the matter. On every subject of grave importance Mr. Dinsmore was taken into the counsels of his daughter and her husband. His approval on this occasion, though they had scarcely doubted it, was gratifying to both. There were no declinations of the invitation to the family dinner-party, and at the appointed time the whole connection gathered at Ion--a large and goodly troop--the adults in drawing-room and parlors, the little ones in the nursery. There was the Roselands branch, consisting of the old grandfather, with his daughter, Mrs. Conly, and her numerous progeny. From the Oaks came Mr. Horace Dinsmore, Sr., and Mr. Horace Dinsmore, Jr., with their wives and a bright, beautiful, rollicking year-old boy, whom the proud young father styled Horace III.; also Molly's half brother and sister, Bob and Betty Johnson, to whom their uncle and aunt still gave a home and parental care and affection. All the Howards, of Pinegrove, were there too--three generations, two of the sons bringing wives and little ones with them. The Carringtons, of Ashlands, were also present; for, though not actually related to the Travillas, the old and close friendship, and the fact that they were of Mrs. Rose Dinsmore's near kindred, seemed to place them on the footing of relationship. But we are forgetting Mrs. Travilla's sister Rose. She was now Mrs. Lacey, of the Laurels--a handsome place some four miles from Ion--and mother of a fine son, whom she and her husband brought with them to the family gathering and exhibited to the assembled company with no little joy and pride. It remains only to mention Lester Leland and his relatives of Fairview, who were all there, received and treated as honored guests by their entertainers, with urbane politeness by all the others, except Mrs. Conly and Virginia, who saw fit to appear almost oblivious of their existence. They, however, took a sensible view of the situation, and were quite indifferent as to the opinions and behavior toward them of the two haughty women. No one else seemed to notice it; all was apparent harmony and good will, and Lester felt himself welcomed into the family with at least a show of cordiality from the most of the relatives of his betrothed. She behaved very sweetly, conducting herself with a half shy, modest grace that disarmed even Aunt Conly's criticism. A few happy weeks followed, weeks rosy and blissful with love's young dream, then Lester tore himself away and left his Elsie mourning; for half the brightness and bloom of life seemed to have gone with him. Father and mother were very patient with her, very tender and sympathizing, very solicitous to amuse and entertain and help her to renew her old zest for simple home pleasures and employments, the old enjoyment of their love and that of her brothers and sisters. Ah! in after days she recalled it all--especially the gentle, tender persuasiveness of her father's looks and tones, the caressing touch of his hand, the loving expression of his eye--with a strange mixture of gladness and bitter sorrow, an unavailing, remorseful regret that she had not responded more readily and heartily to these manifestations of his strong fatherly affection. There came a time when a caress from him was coveted far more than those of her absent lover. CHAPTER III. "Faith is exceedingly charitable and believeth no evil of God." --_Rutherford._ Delicious September days had come; the air was soft and balmy; a mellow haze filled the woods, just beginning to show the touch of the Frost King's fingers. The children could not content themselves within doors, and the wisely indulgent mother had given them a holiday and spent the morning with them on the banks of the lakelet and floating over its bright surface in their pretty pleasure-boat. Returned to the house, she was now resting in her boudoir, lying back in a large easy chair with a book in her hand. Suddenly it dropped into her lap, she started up erect in her chair and seemed to listen intently. Was that her husband's step coming slowly along the hall? It was like and yet unlike it, lacking the firm, elastic tread. The door opened and she sprang to her feet. "Edward! you are ill!" for there was a deathly pallor on his face. "Do not be alarmed, little wife; it is nothing--a strange pain, a sudden faintness," he said, trying to smile, but tottered and would have fallen had she not hastened to give him the support of her arm. She helped him to a couch, placed a pillow beneath his head, rang for assistance, brought him a glass of cold water, cologne and smelling-salts from her dressing-table; doing all with a deft quickness free from flurry, though her heart almost stood still with a terrible fear and dread. What meant this sudden seizure, this anguish so great that it had bowed in a moment the strength of a strong man? She had never known him to be seriously ill before. He had seemed in usual health when he left her for his accustomed round over the plantation only a few hours ago, and now he was nearly helpless with suffering. Servants were instantly despatched in different directions: one to Roselands to summon Dr. Arthur Conly, another to the Oaks for her father, to whom she instinctively turned in every time of trouble, and who was ever ready to obey the call. Both arrived speedily, to find Mr. Travilla in an agony of pain, bearing it without a murmur, almost without a moan or groan, but with cold beads of perspiration standing on his brow; Elsie beside him, calm, quiet, alert to anticipate every wish, but pale as a marble statue and with a look of anguish in her beautiful eyes. It was so hard to stand by and see the suffering endured by him who was dearer than her own life. She watched Arthur's face as he examined and questioned his patient, and saw it grow white to the very lips. Was her husband's doom then sealed? But Arthur drew her and Mr. Dinsmore aside. "The case is a bad one, but not hopeless," he said. "I am unwilling to take the responsibility alone, but must call in Dr. Barton and also send to the city for the best advice to be had there." "We have great confidence in your skill, Arthur," Elsie said, "but let nothing be left undone. God alone can heal, but he works by means." "And in the multitude of counsellors there is safety," added Mr. Dinsmore. "Dear daughter, 'be strong and of a good courage;' there shall no evil befall you, for your heavenly Father knows, and will do what is best." "Yes, papa, I know, I believe it," she answered with emotion. "Ah, pray for me, that strength may be given me according to my day: and to him, my dear, dear husband; no murmuring thoughts arise in either of our hearts." The news had flown through the house that its master and head had been stricken down with sudden, severe illness. Great were the consternation and distress among both children and servants, so beloved was he, so strange a thing did it seem for him to be ill, for he had seldom had a day's sickness in all the years that they had known him. Elsie, Edward and Violet hastened to the door of the sick-room, begging that they might be admitted, that they might share in the work of nursing the dear invalid. Their mamma came to them, her sweet face very pale but calm. "No, darlings," she said in her gentle, tender tones, "it will not do to have so many in the room while your dear father is suffering so much. Your grandpa, mammy and I must be his only nurses for the present; though after a time your services may be needed." "O mamma, it is very hard to have to stay away from him," sobbed Violet. "I know it, dearest," her mother said, "and my heart aches for you and all my darlings; but I am sure you all love your dear father too well not to willingly sacrifice your own feelings when to indulge them might injure him or increase his pain." "O mamma, yes, yes indeed!" they all cried. "Well then, dears, go away now; look after the younger ones and the servants--I trust them all to your care; and when the doctors say it will do, you shall see and speak to your father, and do anything for him that you can." So with a loving, motherly caress bestowed upon each, she dismissed them to the duties she had pointed out, and returned to her station beside her husband's couch. Mr. Dinsmore, Arthur Conly, and Aunt Chloe were gathered about it engaged in efforts to relieve the torturing pain. His features were convulsed with it, but his eyes wandered restlessly around the room as if in search of something. As Elsie drew near they fixed themselves upon her face, and his was lighted up with a faint smile. "Darling, precious little wife," he murmured, drawing her down to him till their lips met in a long loving kiss, "don't leave me for a moment. Nothing helps me to bear this agony like the sight of your sweet face." "Ah, beloved, if I might bear it for you!" she sighed, her eyes filling with tears, while her soft white hand was laid tenderly upon his brow. "No, no!" he said, "that were far worse, far worse!" Her tears were falling fast. "Ah, do not be so distressed; it is not unendurable," he hastened to say with a loving, tender look and an effort to smile in the midst of his agony. "And He, He is with me; the Lord my Saviour! 'I know that my Redeemer liveth,' and the sense of His love is very sweet, never so sweet before." "Thank God that it is so! Ah, He is faithful to his promises!" she said. Then kneeling by his side she repeated one sweet and precious promise after another, the blessed words and loved tones seeming to have a greater power to soothe and relieve than anything else. The other physicians arrived, examined, consulted, used such remedies as were known to them; everything was done that science and human skill could do, but without avail; they could give temporary relief by the use of opiates and anæsthetics, but were powerless to remove the disease which was fast hurrying its victim to the grave. Both Mr. Travilla and Elsie desired to know the truth, and it was not concealed from them. On Mr. Dinsmore devolved the sad task of imparting it. It was in the afternoon of the second day. The doctors had held a final consultation and communicated their verdict to him. Moved to his very heart's core at the thought of parting with his lifelong bosom friend, and more for the far sorer bereavement awaiting his almost idolized child, he waited a little to recover his composure, then entered the sick-room and drew silently near the bed. Elsie sat close at her husband's side, one hand clasped in his, while with the other she gently fanned him or wiped the death damp from his brow. Did she know it was that? Her face was colorless, but quite calm. Mr. Travilla was at that moment entirely conscious, and his eyes were gazing full into hers with an expression of unutterable love and the tenderest compassion. At length they turned from her face for an instant and were uplifted to that of her father, as he stood close beside her, regarding them both with features working with emotion. The dying man understood its cause. "Is it so, Dinsmore?" he said feebly, but with perfect composure. "Elsie, little wife," and he drew her to him, both tone and gesture full of exceeding tenderness. "O love, darling, precious one, must we part? I go to the glory and bliss of heaven, but you--" His voice broke. Her heart seemed riven in twain; but she must comfort him. One bursting sob as she hid her face upon his breast, one silent agonized cry to Heaven for help, and lifting her head, she gave him a long look of love, then laid her cheek to his, put her arm about his neck. "My darling, my dear, dear husband," she said in her sweetest tones, "do not fear for me, or for our children. The Lord, even Jesus, will be our keeper. Do not let the thought of us disturb you now, or damp the glad anticipation of the wondrous glory and bliss to which you go. Soon you will be with Him, 'forever with the Lord.' And how glad our darling Lily will be to see her beloved father; dear mother to recover her son; and what a little, little while it will seem till we all shall join you there, never, never to part again." "And neither she, my dear daughter, nor her children, shall want for a father's love and care while I live, my dear friend," said Mr. Dinsmore, his voice tremulous with emotion. "I know it, I know it, and God be thanked that I leave them in such good and loving hands," Mr. Travilla answered, looking gratefully at his friend. "You trusted your darling child to me," he went on low and feebly and with frequent pauses for breath, "and I give her back to you. Oh she has been a dear, dear wife to me!" he exclaimed, softly stroking her hair. "God bless you, my darling! God bless you for your faithful, unselfish love! You have been the sunshine of my heart and home." "And you, my beloved, oh what a husband you have been to me!" she sobbed, covering his face with kisses; "never one unkind or impatient word, or look, or tone, nothing but the tenderest love and care have I had from you since the hour we gave ourselves to each other. And I thought, oh I thought we had many more years to live and love together! But God's will be done!" "Yes," he said, "His will be done with me and mine. Darling, he will never leave nor forsake you; and though I am almost done with time, we shall have all the ages of eternity to live and love together." Silent caresses were all that passed between them for some moments; then Mr. Dinsmore inquired if his friend had any directions to give about his affairs. "No," he said, "all that was attended to long since. Elsie knows where to find all my papers, and understands everything in regard to the property and my business matters as well as I do. "And my peace is made with God," he continued after a pause, speaking in a sweetly solemn tone. "His presence is with me. I feel the everlasting arms underneath and around me. All my hope and trust are in the blood and righteousness of Christ, my crucified and risen Saviour. All is peace. I am a sinner saved by grace. "Let me see my children and give them a father's blessing, and I shall have nothing more to do but fall asleep in Jesus." Elsie and Vi were together in a room across the hall from that in which their father lay, sitting clasped in each other's arms, waiting, hoping for the promised summons to go to him when he should be sufficiently relieved to bear their presence. Ah, there was in each young heart an unspoken fear that he would never rise from that couch of pain, for they had seemed to read his doom in the grave, anxious faces of grandfather and physicians; but oh it was too terrible a fear for either to put into words even to her own consciousness! How could life go on without the father who had thus far constituted so large a part of it to them! A shuffling step drew near, and Aunt Chloe appeared before them, her face swollen with weeping, her eyes filled with tears. "You's to come now, chillens." "Oh is papa better?" they cried, starting up in eager haste to obey the summons. The old nurse shook her head, tears bursting forth afresh. "He's mos' dar, chillens, mos' dar, whar dey don' hab no mo' pain, no mo' sickness, no mo' dyin'. I see de glory shinin' in his face; he's mos' dar." Then as their sobs and tears burst forth, "Oh my mistis, my bressed young mistis," she cried, throwing her apron over her head, "yo' ole mammy'd die to keep massa here for yo' sake. But de Lord's will mus' be done, an' He neber makes no mistakes." CHAPTER IV. "Death is another life." --_Bailey._ "Oh Elsie, Elsie, what shall we do! But it can't, it can't be true!" sobbed Violet, clinging to her sister in a heart-breaking paroxysm of grief. "Oh it will kill mamma, and we shall lose her too!" "No, no, honey, not so," said Aunt Chloe; "my bressed young missus will lib for yo' sake, for her chillens' sake. An' you ain't gwine to lose massa: he's only gwine home a little while 'fore de rest." "Dear Vi, we must try to be composed for both their sakes," whispered Elsie, scarcely able to speak for weeping. "Dear bressed Lord help dem, help dese po' chillens," ejaculated Aunt Chloe. "Come, chillens, we's losin' precious time." They wiped away their tears, checked their sobs by a determined effort, and hand in hand followed her to the sick-room. Perfect ease had taken the place of the agonizing pain which for many hours had racked Mr. Travilla's frame, but it was the relief afforded not by returning health, but by approaching dissolution; death's seal was on his brow; even his children could read it as they gathered, weeping, about his bed. He had a few words of fatherly counsel, of tender, loving farewell for each--Elsie, Violet, Edward:--to the last saying, "My son, I commit your mother to your tender care. You have almost reached man's estate; take your father's place, and let her lean on your young, vigorous arm; yet fail not in filial reverence and obedience; be ever ready to yield to her wise, gentle guidance." "I will, father, I will," returned the lad in a choking voice. "And may not I too, and Herbert, papa?" sobbed Harold. "Yes, dear son, and all of you, love and cherish mamma and try to fill my place to her. And love and obey your kind grandpa as you have always loved and obeyed me." One after another had received a last caress, a special parting word, till it had come to the turn of the youngest darling of all--little four-year-old Walter. They lifted him on to the bed, and creeping close to his father, he softly stroked the dying face, and kissing the lips, the cheeks, the brow, cooed in sweet baby accents, "Me so glad to see my dear papa. Papa doin' det well now. Isn't you, papa?" "Yes, papa's dear pet; I'm going where sickness and pain can never come. My little boy must love the dear Saviour and trust in him, and then one day he shall follow me to that blessed land. Ah, little son, you are too young to remember your father. He will soon be forgotten!" "No, no, dearest," said his weeping wife, "not so; your pictured face and our constant mention of you shall keep you in remembrance even with him." "Thanks, dearest," he said, turning a loving gaze on her, "it is a pleasant thought that my name will not be a forgotten sound among the dear ones left behind. We shall meet again, beloved wife, meet again beyond the river. I shall be waiting for you on the farther shore. I am passing through the waters, but He is with me, He who hath washed me from my sins in His own blood. And you, dearest wife--does He sustain you in this hour?" "Yes," she said, "His grace is sufficient for me. Dear, dear husband, do not fear to leave me to his care." Tears were coursing down her white cheeks, but the low, sweet tones of her voice were calm and even. She was resolutely putting aside all thought of self and the sore bereavement that awaited her and her children, that she might smooth his passage to the tomb; she would not that he should be disturbed by one anxious thought of them. He forgot none of his household. Molly and her mother were brought in for a gentle, loving farewell word; then each of the servants. He lingered still for some hours, but his wife never left him for an instant; her hand was clasped in his when the messenger came; his last look of love was for her, his last whisper, "Precious little wife, eternity is ours!" Friends carried him to his quiet resting place beside the little daughter who had preceded him to the better land, and widow and children returned without him to the home hitherto made so bright and happy by his loved presence. Elsie, leaning on her father's arm, slowly ascended the steps of the veranda, but on the threshold drew back with a shudder and a low, gasping sob. Her father drew her to his breast. "My darling, do not go in. Come with me to the Oaks; let me take you all there for a time." "No, dear papa; 'twould be but putting off the evil day--the trial that must be borne sooner or later," she said in trembling, tearful tones. "But--if you will stay with me--" "Surely, dearest, as long as you will. I could not leave you now, my poor stricken one! Let me assist you to your room. You are completely worn out, and must take some rest." "My poor children--" she faltered. "For their sakes you must take care of yourself," he said. "Your mamma is here. She and I will take charge of everything until you are able to resume your duties as mother and mistress." He led her to her apartments, made her lie down on a couch, darkened the room, and sitting down beside her, took her hand in his. "Papa, papa!" she cried, starting up in a sudden burst of grief, "take me in your arms, take me in your arms and hold me close as you used to do, as he has done every day that he lived since you gave me to him!" "My poor darling, my poor darling!" he said, straining her to his breast, "God comfort you! May He be the strength of your heart and your portion forever! Remember that Jesus still lives, and that your beloved one is with Him, rejoicing with joy unspeakable and full of glory." "Yes, yes, but oh, the learning to live without him!" she moaned. "How can I! how can I!" "'When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned, neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour,'" he repeated in low, moved tones. "'Behold I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.' Dear daughter, my heart bleeds for you, and yet I know that He who has sent this sorrow loves you far better than I do, and He means it for good. 'Faith is the better of the free air and of the sharp winter storm in its face. Grace withereth without adversity.'" "Yes, yes," she whispered, clinging to him. "Go on, dear papa, you bring me comfort." "What so comforting as the love of Christ!" he went on; "the assurance that 'in all our afflictions He is afflicted!' My darling, 'the weightiest end of the cross of Christ, which is laid upon you, lieth upon your strong Saviour!'" "And He will never let me sink," she said. "Oh what love is His! and how unworthy am I!" Never very strong, Elsie was, as her father plainly perceived, greatly exhausted by the combined influence of the fatigue of nursing, overwhelming sorrow and the constraint she had put upon herself to control its manifestations while her husband lived. She must have rest from every care and responsibility, must be shielded from all annoyance, and as far as possible from every fresh reminder of her loss. For several days he watched over her with unceasing care and solicitude, doing all in his power to soothe, to comfort and console, allowing only short interviews with Rose and the children, and keeping every one else away except her old mammy. Never had father and daughter seemed nearer and dearer to each other than in these sorrowful days. To lay her weary head upon his breast while his arms folded her close to his heart, gave some relief--more than could anything else--to the unutterable longing to feel the clasp of those other arms whose loving embrace she could never know again on earth. But her nature was too unselfish and affectionate to allow of long indulgence in this life of inactivity and nursing of her grief. She could not resist the anxious, pleading looks of her children. She, their only remaining parent, must now devote herself to them even more entirely than had been her wont. Grandma Rose was kind as kind could be, but mamma's place could be filled by no one but herself. "Dear papa," she said when three days had passed, "I am rested now, and you must please let me go back to my duties. My dear little ones need me; the older ones too. I cannot deprive them of their mother any longer." "Would it not be well to give yourself one more day of rest?" he asked, gazing sadly at the wan cheeks and the mournful eyes that looked so unnaturally large. "I do not think you are strong enough yet for anything like exertion." "I think the sweet work of comforting and caring for my darlings--his children as well as mine," she said with a tremble in her voice, "will do me good." "It is partly for their sakes that I want you to take care of yourself," he said, putting his arm about her, while her head dropped on his shoulder. "Would it not have been _his_ wish? were you not always his first care?" She gave a silent assent, the tears coursing down her cheeks. "And he gave you back to me, making you doubly mine--my own darling, precious child! and your life, health and happiness must be my special charge," he said, caressing her with exceeding tenderness. "My happiness? Then, papa, you will not try to keep me from my darlings. My dear, dear father, do not think I am ungrateful for your loving care. Ah, it is very sweet and restful to lean upon you and feel the strong tender clasp of your arm! but I must rouse myself and become a prop for others to lean upon." "Yes, to some extent--when you are quite rested. But you must bear no burdens, dear daughter, that your father can bear for you." She looked her gratitude out of tear-dimmed eyes. "God has been very good to me, in sparing me, my father," she said. "And my children, my seven darlings--all good and loving. How rich I ought to feel! how rich I do feel, though so sorely bereaved." The tears burst forth afresh. "You will let me go to them?" she said when she could speak again. "To-morrow, if you will try to rest and gain strength to-day. I am quite sure it is what he would have wished--that you should rest a little longer. The children can come to you for an hour or two to-day." She yielded for that time, and the next day he withdrew his opposition and himself led her down to the breakfast parlour, where all were gathered to partake of the morning meal. CHAPTER V. "Weep not for him that dieth, For he hath ceased from tears." --_Mrs. Norton._ There was much unselfish love for their mamma and for each other displayed by the young Travillas in those sad days immediately following the death of their dearly loved father. Every heart ached sorely with its own burden of grief--excepting that of little Walter, who was too young to understand or realize his loss, yet was most solicitous to assuage that of the brothers and sisters, but especially to comfort and help "poor, dear, dear mamma." They were filled with alarm as they saw their grandfather almost carry her to her room, then close the door upon them. "Oh," cried Violet, clinging to her older sister, and giving way to a burst of terrified weeping, "I knew it would be so! mamma will die too. Oh mamma, mamma!" "Dear child, no!" said Rose, laying a caressing hand on the young weeper's arm; "do not be alarmed; your dear mother is worn out with grief and nursing--she has scarcely slept for several days and nights--but is not ill otherwise, and I trust that rest and the consolations of God will still restore her to her wonted health and cheerfulness." "O grandma," sobbed Elsie, "do you think mamma can ever be cheerful and happy again? I am sure she can never forget papa." "No, she will never forget him, never cease to miss the delight of his companionship; but she can learn to be happy in the thought of his eternal blessedness and the sure reunion that awaits them when God shall call her home; and in the love of Jesus and of her dear children." Rose had thrown one arm about Elsie's waist, the other round Violet, and drawn them to a seat, while Edward and the younger children grouped themselves about her, Rose and Walter leaning on her lap. They all loved her, and now hung upon her words, finding comfort in them, though listening with many tears and sobs. She went on to speak at length of the glory and bliss of heaven, of the joy of being with Christ and free from sin; done with sorrow and sighing, pain and sickness and death; of the delight with which their sister Lily, their Grandmother Travilla, and other dear ones gone before, must have welcomed the coming of their father; and of the glad greeting he would give to each of them when they too should reach the gate of the Celestial City. "Yes, grandma, papa told us all to come," said little Rosie. "I know he did, dear child; and do you know the way?" "Yes, grandma, Jesus said, 'I am the way.' He died to save sinners, and He will save all who love Him and trust in Him alone, not thinking anything they can do is going to help to save them." "Save them from what, darling?" "From their sins, grandma, and from going to live with Satan and his wicked angels, and wicked people that die and go there." "Yes, that is all so, and oh what love it was that led the dear Saviour to suffer and die upon the cross that we might live! Dear children, it was His death that bought eternal life for your beloved father and has purchased it for us all if we will but take it as His free, unmerited gift." "But, grandma," sobbed Harold, "why didn't He let our dear papa stay with us a little longer? Oh I don't know how we can ever, ever live without him!" This called forth a fresh burst of grief from all, even little Walter crying piteously, "I want my papa! I want my own dear papa!" Rose lifted him to her lap and caressed him tenderly, her tears falling fast. "Dear children," she said, as the storm of grief subsided a little, "we must not be selfish in our sorrow; we must try to rejoice that your beloved father is far, far happier than he could ever be here. I think the dear Saviour took him home because He loved him so much that He could no longer spare him out of heaven. And He, Jesus, will be your Father now even more than He was before: 'A father of the fatherless and a judge of the widows is God in his holy habitation.'" "I'm very glad the Bible tells us that," remarked Herbert, checking his sobs. "I have heard and read the words often, but they never seemed half so sweet before." "No," said Harold, putting an arm about him (the two were very strongly attached and almost inseparable); "and we have grandpa too: papa said he would be a father to us." "And he will, dear children," said Rose. "I do not think he could love you much more than he does if he were really your own father, as he is your dear mamma's." "And I am to try to fill papa's place," said Edward, with a strong but vain effort to steady his voice. "I am far from competent, I know, but I shall try to do my very best." "And God will help you if you ask Him," said Rose; "help you to be a great comfort and assistance to your mother and younger brothers and sisters." "Ah, if we might only go to mamma!" sighed Violet, when she and Elsie had withdrawn to the privacy of their own apartment. "Do you think we might venture now?" "Not yet awhile, I think--I hope she is resting; and grandpa will let us know when it will not disturb her to see us." "O Elsie, can we ever be happy again?" cried Violet, throwing herself into her sister's arms. "Where, where shall we go for comfort?" "To Jesus and His word, dear Vi. Let us kneel down together and ask Him to bless us all and help us to say with our hearts 'Thy will be done,' all of us children and our dear precious mamma." "Oh we can't pray for papa any more!" cried Vi, in an agony of grief. "No, dear Vi, but he no longer needs our prayers. He is so close to the Master, so happy in being forever with Him, that nothing could add to his bliss." Violet hushed her sobs, and with their arms about each other they knelt, while in low, pleading tones Elsie poured out their grief and their petitions into the ear of the ever compassionate, loving Saviour. Fortunately for them in this hour of sore affliction, they were no strangers to prayer or to the Scriptures, and knew where to turn to find the many sweet and precious promises suited to their needs. Some time was given to this, and then Elsie, mindful of the duty and privilege of filling to the best of her ability her mother's place to the little ones, went in search of them. The tea hour brought them all together again--all the children--but father and mother were missing. Oh this gathering about the table was almost the hardest thing of all! It had been wont to be a time of glad, free, cheerful, often mirthful intercourse between parents and children; no rude and noisy hilarity, but the most enjoyable social converse and interchange of thought and feeling, in which the young people, while showing the most perfect respect and deference to their parents, and unselfish consideration for each other, were yet under no galling constraint, but might ask questions and give free expression to their opinions, if they wished; and were indeed encouraged to do so. But what a change had a few days brought! There was an empty chair that would never again be filled by him to whom one and all had looked up with the tenderest filial love and reverence. All eyes turned toward it, then were suffused with tears, while one and another vainly strove to suppress the bursting sobs. They could not sit down to the table. They drew close together in a little weeping group. The grandparents came in, and Mr. Dinsmore, trying to gather them all in his arms, caressed them in turn, saying in broken, tender tones, "My dear children, my poor dear children! I will be a father to you. I cannot supply his place, but will do so as nearly as I can. You know, my darlings, my sweet Elsie's children, that I have a father's love for you." "Yes, grandpa, we know it," "Dear grandpa, we're glad we have you left to us," sobbed one and another. "And mamma, dear, precious mamma! O grandpa, is she sick?" "Not exactly sick, my darlings," he said, "but very much worn out. We must let her rest." "Can't we see her? can't we go to her?" "Not now, not to-night, I think. I left her sleeping, and hope she will not wake for some hours." At that the little ones seemed nearly heartbroken. "How could they go to their beds without seeing mamma?" But Elsie comforted them. She would help mammy to put them to bed; and oh it was the best of news that dear mamma was sleeping! because if she did not she would soon be quite ill. Molly Percival, because of her crippled condition, making locomotion so difficult, seldom joined the family at table, but took her meals in her own room, a servant waiting upon her and her mother, who, in her new devotion to poor Molly, preferred to eat with her. The appointments of their table were quite as dainty as those of the other, the fare never less luxurious. A very tempting repast was spread before them to-night, but Molly could not eat for weeping. Her mother, tasting one dish after another with evident enjoyment, at length thought fit to expostulate with her. "Molly, why do you cry so? I do wish you would stop it and eat your supper." "I'm not hungry, mother." "That's only because you're fretting so; and what's the use? Mr. Travilla's better off; and besides he was nothing to you." "Nothing to me! O mother! he was so good, so kind to me, to Dick, to everybody about him. He treated me like a daughter, and I loved him as well as if he had been my own father. He did not forget you or me when he was dying, mother." "No; and it was good of him. Still, crying doesn't do any good; and you'll get weak and sick if you don't eat." Molly's only answer was a burst of grief. "Oh poor, poor Cousin Elsie! her heart must be quite broken, for she idolized her husband. And the girls and all of them; how they did love their father!" The servant came in with a plate of hot cakes, and a slender girlish figure presently stole softly after, without knocking, for the door stood open, and to the side of Molly's chair. It was Violet, looking, oh so sad and sweet, so fair and spiritual in her deep mourning dress. In an instant she and Molly were locked in each other's arms, mingling their sobs and tears together. "I'm afraid we have seemed to neglect you, Molly dear," Violet said when she could speak, "but--" "No, no, you have _never_ done that!" cried Molly, weeping afresh. "And how could I expect you to think of me at such a time! O Vi, Vi!" "Mamma cannot come up, for she is not--not able to leave her room, and--and O Molly, I'm afraid she's going to be sick!" Molly tried to comfort and reassure her. "Aunt Rose was in for a while this afternoon," she said, "and she thinks it is not really sickness, only that she needs rest and--and comfort. And, Vi, the Lord will comfort her. Don't you remember those sweet words in Isaiah?--'As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you; and ye shall be comforted.'" Violet had come up to see Molly, lest the poor afflicted cousin should feel neglected, while Elsie was engaged with the little ones--taking mamma's place in seeing them to bed with a little loving talk on some profitable theme. To-night it was the glory and bliss of heaven; leaving in their young minds, instead of gloomy and dreadful thoughts of death and the cold, dark grave, bright visions of angelic choirs, of white robes and palms of victory, of golden crowns and harps, of the river of the water of life, and the beautiful trees on its banks bearing twelve manner of fruits; of papa with sweet Lily by his side, both casting their crowns at Jesus' feet and singing with glad voices, "Worthy is the Lamb that was slain." Leaving them at length to their slumbers, she joined Violet and Molly for a few moments; then Edward came to say that their mother was awake and grandpa had given permission for them to go to her and just bid her good-night, if they could be quite composed. They thought they could; they would try very earnestly. She was in her dressing-room, reclining in an easy chair, looking, oh so wan and sorrowful. She embraced each in turn, holding them to her heart with a whispered word or two of tender mother love. "God bless you, my dear, dear children! He will be a father to the fatherless and never leave nor forsake you." Violet dared not trust herself to speak. Elsie only murmured, "Dear, dearest mamma!" and Edward, "Darling, precious mother, don't grieve too sorely." "The consolations of God are not small! my dear son," was all she said in reply, and they withdrew softly and silently as they had come. The next morning and each following day they were all allowed a few moments with her, until four days had passed. On the fifth, as we have said, she came down to the breakfast room leaning on her father's arm. As they neared the door she paused, trembling like a leaf, and turning to him a white, anguished face. He knew what it meant. She had not been in that room, had not taken her place at that table, since the morning of the day on which her husband was taken ill. He was with her then, in apparently perfect health; now--the places which had known him on earth would know him no more forever. Her head dropped on her father's shoulder, a low moan escaping her pale lips. "Dear child," he said, drawing her closer to him, and tenderly kissing her brow, "think how perfectly happy, how blest he is. You would not call him back?" "Oh no, no!" came from the quivering lips. "'The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak!'" "Lean on your strong Saviour," he said, "and His grace will be sufficient for you." She sent up a silent petition, then lifting her head, "I can bear it now--He will help me," she said, and suffered him to lead her in. Her children gathered about her with a joy that was as a cordial to her fainting spirit; their love was very sweet. But how her heart yearned over them because they were fatherless; all the more so that she found her father's love so precious and sustaining in this time of sorrow and bereavement. He led her to her accustomed seat, bent over her with a whispered word of love and encouragement, then took the one opposite--once her husband's, now his no more. Perhaps it was not quite so hard as to have seen it empty, but it cost a heroic effort to restrain a burst of anguish. CHAPTER VI. "Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fall He shall not blind his soul with clay." --_Tennyson._ Life at Ion moved on in its accustomed quiet course, Mr. Travilla's removal seeming, to outsiders, to have made very little change except that Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore now took up their abode there for the greater part of the time, leaving the younger Horace and his wife in charge at the Oaks. An arrangement for which Elsie was very thankful, for her father's presence and his love were as balm to her wounded spirit. Her strongest support in this, as in every trial of her life, was in her almighty Saviour; on Him she leaned every hour with a simple childlike faith and confidence in His unerring wisdom and infinite love; but it was very sweet to lean somewhat upon the strength and wisdom of the earthly father also, and to feel that the shield of his care and protection was interposed between her and the cold world. Both his and Rose's companionship had ever been delightful to her, and were now a great solace and pleasure. She gave no indulgence to a spirit of repining because her chief earthly treasure had been taken from her for the remainder of her life in this world, but was filled with gratitude for those blessings that were left, ever deeming God's goodness to her far beyond her deserts. And her own sorrow was often half forgotten in tender compassion for her fatherless children. For their sakes, as well as because such was her Christian duty, she strove after a constant abiding cheerfulness; and not without success. But it was not sought in forgetfulness of the dear one gone. They talked freely and tenderly of him, his looks, his words, his ways; his present happiness and the joy of the coming reunion with him. He was not dead to them, but living in the blessed land where death could never enter, a land that grew more real and attractive because he was there. Elsie found great comfort in her children--dear as her own offspring, and dearer still because they were his also. They were very good and obedient, loving her so devotedly that the very thought of grieving her was pain. Her unselfish love seemed to call forth its counterpart in them: they vied with each other in earnest efforts to make up to her the loss of their father's love and ever watchful tender care. They were very fond of their grandfather too, and always yielded a ready obedience to his commands or directions. He never had shown to them the sternness that had been one of the trials of their mother's youthful days, but was patient and gentle, as well as firm and decided. Mr. Travilla's example as a father had not been wasted on him. He was wont to say "he had three reasons for loving them--that they were the children of his friend, Elsie's children, and his own grandchildren." It was very evident that they were very dear to him, and they loved him dearly in return. Mr. Travilla had left no debts, no entanglements in his affairs; his will was short, plainly expressed, and its conditions such as there was no difficulty in carrying out. Elsie and her father were joint executors, and were associated in the guardianship of the children also. The estate was left to her during her natural life, to Edward after her death. Hitherto the education of all the sons and daughters had been carried on at home, but now Edward was to go to college. It had been his father's decision, and his wishes and opinions were sacred; so neither the lad nor any one else raised an objection, though all felt the prospect of parting sorely just at this time. There had been some talk of sending Harold and Herbert away also to a preparatory school; but to save them and their mother the pain of separation, Mr. Dinsmore offered to prepare them to enter college. Elsie was in fact herself competent to the task, but gladly accepted her father's offered assistance; desiring to increase as much as possible his good influence over her boys, hoping that so they would learn to emulate all that was admirable in his character. They were of course leading a very quiet and retired life at Ion; but with her household cares and the superintendence of the education of her younger children to attend to in addition to other and less pressing duties, Elsie was in no danger of finding time hanging heavy on her hands. One of the numerous demands upon her maternal responsibility and affection was found in the call to cheer, comfort and console her namesake daughter under the trial of separation from her betrothed, delay in hearing from him, and a morbid remorse on account of having, as she expressed it, "troubled poor, dear papa by grieving and fretting over Lester's departure." "Dear child," the mother said, "he sympathized with but did not blame you, and would not have you blame yourself so severely now and embitter your life with unavailing regrets. He loved you very, very dearly, and has often said to me, 'Elsie has been nothing but a blessing to us since the hour of her birth.'" "O mamma, how sweet! Thank you for telling me," exclaimed the daughter, tears of mingled joy and sorrow filling her eyes. "He said it once to me, when I was quite a little girl--at the time grandpa--your grandpa--and Aunt Enna were hurt, and you went to Roselands to nurse her, leaving me at home to try to fill your place. Oh I shall never forget how dear and kind he was when he came home from taking you there! how he took me in his arms and kissed me and said those very words. Mamma, I cannot recall one cross word ever spoken by him to me, or to any one." "No, daughter, nor can I; he was most kind, patient, forbearing, loving, as husband, father, master--in all the relations of life. What a privilege to have been his cherished wife for so many years!" The sweet voice was very tremulous, and unbidden tears stole over the fair cheeks that had not quite recovered their bloom; for scarce a month had passed since the angel of death had come between her beloved and herself. "Dear mamma, you made him very happy," whispered Elsie, clasping her close with loving caresses. "Yes, we were as happy together, I believe, as it is possible for any to be in this world of sin and sorrow. I bless God that he was spared to me so long, and for the blessedness that now is his, and the sure hope that this separation is but for a season." "Mamma, it is that sweet hope that keeps you from sinking." "Yes, dearest, that and the sweet love and sympathy of Jesus. My father's and my dear children's love does greatly help me also. Ah how great is the goodness of my heavenly Father in sparing me all these! And keeping me from poverty too; how many a poor widow has the added pang of seeing her children suffering sore privations or scattered among strangers, because she lacks the ability to provide them with food and clothing." "Mamma, how dreadful!" cried Elsie. "I had never thought of that. How thankful we ought to be that we do not have to be separated from you or from each other. To be sure Edward is going away for a time," she added, with a sigh and a tear, "but it is not to toil for a livelihood or endure privations." "No, but to avail himself of opportunities for mental culture for which we should be grateful as still another of the many blessings God has given us. He will be exposed to temptations such as would never assail him at home: but these he must meet, and if he does so looking to God for strength, he will overcome and be all the stronger for the conflict. And we, daughter, must follow him constantly with our prayers. Thank God that we can do that!" To Edward himself she spoke in the same strain in a last private talk had with him the night before he went away. "I know that you have a very strong will of your own, my dear boy," she added, "and are not easily led; and because I believe it to be your earnest desire and purpose to walk in the way of God's commands, that is a comfort to me." "You are right in regard to both, mother," he said with emotion: "and oh I could sooner cut off my right hand than do aught to grieve you, and dishonor the memory of--of my sainted father!" "I believe it, my son, but do not trust in your own strength. 'Be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might.'" "Yes, mother, I know, I feel that otherwise I shall fail; but 'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.' Mother," he added, turning over the leaves of his Bible (they had been reading together), "in storing my memory with the teachings of this blessed book, you have given me the best possible preparation for meeting the temptations and snares of life." "Yes," she said, "'Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path;' 'Thy testimonies also are my delight and my counsellors.' Let them ever be yours, my son; in doubt and perplexity go ever to them for direction--not forgetting prayer for the teachings of the Holy Spirit--and you cannot go far astray. Make the Bible your rule of faith and practice, bring everything to the test of Scripture. 'To the law and to the testimony; if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them.'" "Mother," he said, "I think I have a pretty clear idea of some of the temptations of college life: doubtless there are always a good many idle, profane, drinking, dissolute fellows among the students, but it does not seem possible that I shall ever find pleasure in the society of such." "I hope not indeed!" she answered with emphasis. "It would be a sore grief to me. But I hardly fear it; I believe my boy is a Christian and loves purity: loves study too for its own sake. What I most fear for you is that the pride of intellect may lead you to listen to the arguments of sceptics and to examine their works. My son, if you should, you will probably regret it to your dying day. It can do you nothing but harm. If you fill your mind with such things your spiritual foes will take advantage of it to harass you with doubts and fears. 'Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.' He who would rob you of your faith in God and His holy word is your greatest enemy. Study the evidences of Christianity and be ever ready to give a reason for the hope that is in you." "Mother," he said, taking her hand in his, "I will heed your counsels, but it seems to me that having seen Christianity so beautifully exemplified in your life and my father's, I can never doubt its truth and power." Then after a pause in which tears of mingled joy and sorrow fell freely from her eyes, "Dear mother, you have given me a very liberal allowance. Can you spare it? I do not know, I have never known the amount of your income." "I can spare it perfectly well, my son," she answered, with a tender smile, pleased at this proof of his thoughtful love. "It is the sum your father thought best to give you--for we had consulted together about all these matters. I do not wish you to feel stinted, but at the same time would have you avoid waste and extravagance, remembering that they are inconsistent with our Saviour's teachings, and that money is one of the talents for whose use or abuse we must render an account at the last." CHAPTER VII. "But O! for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still." --_Tennyson._ It was a chill November day, a day of lowering clouds, wind, rain, sleet and snow. Arthur Conly coming into the drawing-room at Ion and finding its mistress there alone, remarked as he shook hands with her, "The beginning of winter, Cousin Elsie! It is setting in early. It froze hard last night, and the wind to-day is cutting." "Yes," she said, "even papa and my two big, hardy boys found a short walk quite sufficient to satisfy them to-day. But you poor doctors can seldom consult your own comfort in regard to facing wind and storm. Take this easy chair beside the fire." "Thank you, no; I shall find it quite warm enough on the sofa beside you. I am glad to have found you alone, for I want to have a little semi-confidential chat." She gave him an inquiring look. "I am a little uneasy about grandpa," he went on: "he seems feeble and has a troublesome cough, and I think should have a warmer climate through the coming winter. I think too, cousin, that such a change would be by no means hurtful to you or your children," he continued, regarding her with a grave, professional air: "you are a trifle thin and pale, and need something to rouse and stimulate you." "What is it you wish, Arthur?" she asked, with a slight tremble in her voice. "I should be glad if you would go to Viamede for the winter and take our grandfather with you." He paused for an answer. Her face was turned toward a window looking out upon the grounds; her eyes rested with mournful gaze upon a low mound of earth within a little enclosure not many rods away. Arthur read her thoughts, and laying a gentle hand on hers, said in low compassionate tones: "He is not there, cousin, and his spirit will be as near you in your Lily's birthplace, and your own, as here. Is not that home also full of pleasant memories of him?" She gave a silent assent. "And you can take all your other dear ones with you." "Except Edward." "Yes, but in his case it will only involve a little delay in receiving letters. Your father and Aunt Rose I am certain will go with you. And our old grandpa--" "Is a dear old grandpa, and must not suffer anything I can save him from," she interrupted. "Yes, Arthur, I will go, if--if my father approves and will accompany us, of which I have no doubt." He thanked her warmly. "It may be the saving of grandpa's life," he said. "He is getting very old, Arthur." "Yes, past eighty, but with care he may live to be a hundred; he has a naturally vigorous constitution. And how he mellows with age, Elsie! He has become a very lovely Christian, as humble and simple-hearted as a little child." "Yes," she said turning toward him eyes filled with glad tears, "and he has become very dear to me. I think he loves us all--especially papa--and that we shall have a happy winter together." "I don't doubt it; in fact, I quite envy you the prospect." "Oh could you not go with us to stay at least a few weeks? We should all be so very glad to have you." "Quite impossible," he said, shaking his head rather ruefully. "I'm greatly obliged, and should be delighted to accept your invitation, but it isn't often a busy doctor can venture to take such a holiday." "I'm very sorry. But you think there is no doubt that grandpa will be willing to go?" "He'll not hesitate a moment if he hears Uncle Horace is to go. He clings to him now more than to any other earthly creature." "Papa is in the library; shall we join him and hear what he thinks of your plan?" said Elsie, rising. "By all means," returned Arthur, and they did so. Mr. Dinsmore highly approved, as did Rose also on being called in to the conference. "How soon do you think of starting?" she asked, looking at Elsie, then at her husband. "Papa should decide that," Elsie answered, a slight tremble in her voice, thinking of the absent one to whom that question should have been referred were his dear presence still with them. She caught a look of tenderest love and sympathy from her father. How well he understood her! How ever thoughtful of her feelings he was! "I think the decision should rest with you, daughter," he said; "though I suppose the sooner the better." "Yes," said Arthur; "for grandpa especially." "I presume no great amount of preparation will be needful, since it is but a change from one home to another," suggested Rose. "No," said Elsie, "and I think a week will suffice for mine. Papa, can business matters be arranged in that time?" "Oh yes! so we will say this day week." The door had opened very quietly a few moments before, admitting little Rose and Walter, and stealing softly to their mother's side they were now leaning on her lap, looking from one to another of their elders and listening with some curiosity to their conversation. "What is it, mamma?" asked Rosie. "We are talking of going to Viamede, dear." "Oh that will be nice!" "But we tan't doe wis-out papa," prattled Walter; "tan we, mamma? I wish my dear papa tum back quick." Rosie saw the pain in mamma's dear face, the tears in her eyes as she pressed a silent kiss on the brow of the innocent questioner, and with ready, loving tact she seized the little fellow's hand, and, drawing him away, "Come, Walter," she said, "let us go and tell the rest about it." They ran away together, and Arthur rose to take leave. "Am I imposing upon your unselfish kindness of heart, my dear cousin?" he asked in an undertone, taking Elsie's hand in his; "is it too great a sacrifice of your own feelings and inclinations?" She answered with a text, as was not unusual with her, "'Even Christ pleased not himself.'" Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore were conversing apart at the moment. "Perhaps," returned Arthur musingly, "we might make some other arrangement; grandpa might be willing to go without--" "No, no," she interrupted, "I could not think of giving him the pain of separation from papa, nor could I bear that myself. But do not trouble about me; there will be much pleasure mingled with the pain--pleasure in ministering to the comfort and happiness of the dear old grandpa, and in seeing Viamede and the old servants. I have always loved both the place and them." Her father had caught a part of her words. "Separation from me?" he said, turning toward her, "who talks of that? It shall not be with my consent." "No, papa, nor with mine, for either grandpa or myself," she said with a look of affection and a slight smile. "Arthur, will you carry a message from me to Isa?" "With pleasure." "Then tell her I should be very glad to have her spend the winter at Viamede with us, if she feels that she would enjoy the trip and the quiet life we shall lead there. There will, of course, be no gayeties to tempt a young girl." "Thank you," he said, his eyes shining; "I have not the slightest doubt that she will be delighted to accept the invitation. And, now I think of it, Aunt Enna and Molly will of course find a home with us at Roselands while you are away." "No, no, they will go with us," returned Elsie quickly, "unless indeed they prefer to be left behind." Arthur suggested that they would be a great charge, especially upon the journey, but the objection was promptly overruled by Mr. Dinsmore, Rose and Elsie. Molly must go, they all said; she would be sure to enjoy the change greatly: and the poor child had so few pleasures; and the same was true of Enna also: she had never seen Viamede, and could not fail to be delighted with its loveliness; nor would it do to part her from Molly, who was now her chief happiness. "I trust they will appreciate your kindness; Molly will, I am sure," Arthur said as he went away. As the door closed on him, Elsie glided to the window and stood in a pensive attitude gazing out upon that lowly mound, only faintly discernible now in the gathering darkness, for night was closing in early by reason of the heavy clouds that obscured the sky. A yearning importunate cry was going up from her almost breaking heart. "My husband, oh my husband, how can I live without you! Oh to hear once more the sound of your voice, to feel once again the clasp of your arm, the touch of your hand!" A sense of utter loneliness was upon her. But in another moment she felt herself enfolded in a strong yet tender embrace, a gentle caressing hand smoothing her hair. "My darling, my precious one, my own beloved child!" murmured her father's voice in its most endearing accents, as he drew her head to a resting place on his breast. She let it lie there, her tears falling fast. "I fear this going away is to be too great a trial to you," he said. "No, papa, but I am very weak. Forgive my selfish indulgence of my sorrow." "My darling, I can sympathize in it, at least to some extent. I remember even yet the anguish of the first months of my mourning for your mother." "Papa, I feel that my wound can never heal; it is too deep; deep as the roots of my love for him, that had been striking farther and farther into the soil with every one of the many days and years that we lived and loved together." "I fear it may be so," he answered with tenderest compassion; "yet time will dull the edge of your sorrow; you will learn to dwell less upon the pain of the separation, and more upon his present happiness and the bliss of the reunion that will be drawing nearer and nearer with each revolving day. Dear one, this aching pain will not last forever; as Rutherford says, 'Sorrow and the saints are not married together; or suppose it were so, Heaven would make a divorce.'" "They are very sweet words," she murmured, "and sweeter still is the assurance given us in the Scriptures that 'our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.'" "Yes," said Rose, coming to her other side and speaking in low, tender tones, "dear Elsie, let those words comfort you; and these others also, 'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.' But for that and similar texts I should wonder much that trial of any kind was ever permitted to come nigh one who has been a loving disciple of Jesus since her very early years." "Was it that I loved my husband too well?" Elsie queried in tremulous tones. "I do not think I made an idol of him; for inexpressibly dear as he was, the Master was dearer still." "If that be so you did not love him--your husband--too well," her father answered. "I hear my children's voices; I must not let them see their mother giving way to grief like this," she said, lifting her head and wiping away her tears. They came in--the whole six--preceded by a servant bearing lights. There was a subdued eagerness about the younger ones, as they hastened to their mother asking, "Mamma, is it really so--that we are going to Viamede?" "Yes, dears, I believe it is quite settled. Grandpa approves, and I hope you are all pleased." "Oh yes, yes!" "If you are, mamma," the older girls said, noticing with affectionate concern the traces of tears on her face; "if not, we prefer to stay here." "Thank you, my darlings," she answered, smiling affectionately upon them; "for several reasons I shall be glad to go, the principal being that our poor old grandfather needs the warm climate he will find there; and of course we could not think of letting him go alone." "Oh no!" they said; "he could not do without grandpa, and neither could we." "And neither could grandpa do without his eldest daughter, or her children," added Mr. Dinsmore playfully, sitting down and taking Walter upon one knee, Rosie upon the other. "So we will all go together, and I trust will have a happy time in that lovely land of fruits and flowers." They had not seen it for several years, not since Walter was a babe and Rosie so young that she remembered but little about it. Both were delighted with the prospect before them, and plied their grandpa with many eager questions, while their mother looked on with growing cheerfulness, resolutely putting aside her grief that she might not mar their pleasure. The other four had gathered about her, Vi on a cushion at her feet, Elsie seated close on one side, Herbert standing on the other, and Harold at the back of her chair, leaning fondly over her, now touching his lips to her cheek, now softly smoothing her shining hair. "Dear mamma, how beautiful you are!" he whispered. "You might as well say it out loud," remarked Herbert, overhearing the words, "because everybody knows it and nobody would want to contradict you." "We are very apt to think those beautiful whom we love," their mother said with a pleased smile, "and the love of my children is very sweet to me." "Yes, mamma, but you _are_ beautiful," insisted Harold; "it isn't only my love that makes you look so to me, though I do love you dearly--dearly." "Mamma knows we all do," said Violet; "we should be monsters of ingratitude if we did not." "As I should be if I were not filled with thankfulness to God that he has blessed me with such dutiful and affectionate children," added the mother. "Mamma, how soon will we go to Viamede?" asked Violet; and that question being answered, another quickly followed. "We will not leave Molly behind?" "No, certainly not; nor Aunt Enna, if they will kindly consent to go with us." "Consent, mamma! I'm sure they cannot help being delighted to go. May I run and tell them?" "Yes, my child; I know you always enjoy being the bearer of pleasant news." Molly heard it with great pleasure and gratitude to her cousin; Enna with even childish delight. Neither had a thought of declining. Isadore Conly, also, was very much pleased, and sure she should vastly enjoy the winter with her relations, spite of many an envious prognostication to the contrary on the part of her mother and Virginia. They would not go on any account, they averred, and were glad they had been overlooked in the invitation--mean as it was in Elsie not to include them--for life at Viamede could not fail to be a very dull affair for that winter at least. But Elsie, of course, heard none of these unkind remarks, and seeing the happiness she was conferring not only upon more distant relations but upon her children also, who showed increasing pleasure in the thought of the expected visit to their lovely southern home as the time drew near, she felt fully repaid for the sacrifice of feeling she was making. CHAPTER VIII. "'Tis easier for the generous to forgive Than for offence to ask it." --_Thomson._ The only noteworthy incident of the journey of our friends took place at New Orleans, where they halted for a few days of rest to all, and sight-seeing on the part of the young people. Mr. Horace Dinsmore, who had some business matters to attend to in connection with Elsie's property in the city, was hurrying back to his hotel one afternoon, when a beggar accosted him, asking for a little help, holding out a very forlorn hat to receive it. There seemed something familiar in the voice, and Mr. Dinsmore stopped and looked earnestly at its owner. A seamed, scarred face, thin, cadaverous, framed in with unkempt hair and scraggy beard--an attenuated form clothed in rags--these were what met his view, surely for the first time, for there was nothing familiar about either. No, not for the first time; for, with a start of recognition and a muttered curse, the mendicant dropped his hat, then stooped, hastily snatched it from the ground, and rushed away down an alley. "Ah, I know you now!" cried Mr. Dinsmore, giving instant pursuit. He could not be mistaken in the peculiarly maimed hand stretched out to regain the hat. Its owner fled as if for his life, but, weak from disease and famine, could not distance his pursuer. At last, finding the latter close at his heels, he stopped and faced him, leaning, panting and trembling, against a wall. "George Boyd, is it you? reduced to such a condition as this!" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore, eying him searchingly. "You've mistaken your man, sir," panted the fugitive. "My name's Brown--Sam Brown at your service." "Then why did you run away from me?" coolly inquired the gentleman. "No, I cannot mistake that hand," pointing to the maimed member. "And you'd like to hang me, I suppose," returned the other bitterly. "But I don't believe you could do it here. Beside, what's the use? I'll not cumber the ground much longer, can't you see that? Travilla himself," he added, with a fierce oath, "can hardly wish me anything worse than I've come to. I'm literally starving--can hardly get enough food to keep soul and body together from one day to another." "Then come with me and I will feed you," Mr. Dinsmore said, his whole soul moved with pity for the miserable wretch. "Yonder is a restaurant; let us go there, and I will pay for all you can eat." "You don't mean it?" cried Boyd in incredulous surprise. "I do; every word of it. Will you come?" "A strange question to ask a starving man. Of course I will; only too gladly." They crossed the street, entered the eating-house, and Mr. Dinsmore ordered a substantial meal set before Boyd. He devoured it with wolfish voracity, his entertainer watching him for a moment, then turning away in pained disgust. Time after time plate and cup were filled and emptied, but at last he declared his appetite fully satisfied. Mr. Dinsmore paid the reckoning, and they passed out into the street together. "Well, sir," said Boyd, "I'm a thousand times obliged. Shall be more so if you will accommodate me with a small loan--or gift if you like, for I haven't a cent in the world." "How much do you think you deserve at my hands?" asked Mr. Dinsmore somewhat severely, for the request seemed to him a bold one under the circumstances. "I leave that to your generosity, sir," was the cool reply. "Which you expect to be great enough to allow you to escape the justice that should have been meted out to you years ago?" "I've never harmed a hair of your head nor of any one belonging to you; though I owe a heavy scare to both you and Travilla," was the insolent rejoinder. "No, your imprisonment was the due reward of your lawless and cruel deeds." "Whatever I may have done," retorted the wretch with savage ferocity, "it was nothing compared to the injury inflicted upon me. I suffered inconceivable torture. Look at me and judge if I do not speak the truth; look at these fearful scars, these almost blinded eyes." He finished with a torrent of oaths and curses directed at Travilla. "Stop!" said Mr. Dinsmore authoritatively, "you are speaking against the sainted dead, and he entirely innocent of the cause of your sufferings." "What! is he dead? When? where? how did he die?" "At Ion, scarce two months ago, calmly, peacefully, trusting with undoubting faith in the atoning blood of Christ." Boyd stood leaning against the outer wall of the restaurant; he was evidently very weak; he seemed awe-struck, and did not speak again for a moment; then, "I did not know it," he said in a subdued tone. "So he's gone! And his wife? She was very fond of him." "She was indeed. She is in this city with her family, on her way to Viamede." "I'm sorry for her; never had any grudge against her," said Boyd. "And my aunt?" "Is still living and in good health, but beginning to feel the infirmities of age. She has long mourned for you as worse than dead. You look ill able to stand; let me help you to your home." "Home? I have none." There was a mixture of scorn and despair in the tones. "But you must have some lodging place?" "Yes, sometimes it is a door-step, sometimes a pile of rotten straw in a filthy cellar. On second thoughts, Dinsmore, I rather wish you'd have me arrested and lodged in jail," he added with a bitter laugh. "I'd at least have a bed to lay my weary limbs upon, and something to eat. And before the trial was over I'd be beyond the reach of any heavier penalty." "Of human law," added Mr. Dinsmore significantly, "but do not forget that after death comes the judgment. No, Boyd; I feel no resentment toward you, and since your future career in this world is evidently very short, I do not feel called upon to deliver you up to human justice. Also, for your aunt's sake especially, I am inclined to give you some assistance. I will therefore give you the means to pay for a decent lodging to-night, and to-morrow will see what further can be done, if you will let me know where to find you." Time and place were fixed upon, money enough to pay for bed and breakfast was given to Boyd, and they parted company, Mr. Dinsmore hastening on his way to his hotel--the very best the city afforded--with a light, free step, while Boyd slowly dragged himself to a very humble lodging in a narrow, dirty street near at hand. Mr. Dinsmore found his whole party gathered in their private parlor and anxiously awaiting his coming. As he entered there was a general exclamation of relief and pleasure on the part of the ladies and his father, and a joyous shout from Rosie and Walter as each hastened to claim a seat upon his knee. "My dears, grandpa is tired," said their mother. "Not too tired for this," he said, caressing them with all a father's fondness. "Are you not late, my dear?" asked his wife; "we were beginning to feel a trifle anxious about you." "Rather, I believe. I will explain the cause at another time," he said pleasantly. Tea was brought in, family worship followed the meal, and shortly after that Elsie retired with her little ones to see them to bed; the others drew round the table, each with book or work, Harold pushing Molly's chair up near the light; and Mr. Dinsmore, seating himself beside his wife, on a distant sofa, gave her in subdued tones an account of his interview with Boyd. "Poor wretch!" she sighed, "what can we do for him? It is too dreadful to think of his dying as he has lived." "It is, indeed! We will consult with Elsie as to what can be done." "The very mention of his name must be a pain to her; can she not be spared it?" "I will consider that question. You know I would not willingly pain her," he said, with a tenderly affectionate glance at his daughter as she re-entered the room; then rising he paced the floor, as was his habit when engaged in deep or perplexing thought. Elsie watched him a little anxiously, but without remark until all the others had retired, leaving her alone with him and Rose. Then going to him where he sat, in a large easy chair beside the table, looking over the evening paper, "Papa," she said, laying her hand affectionately on his arm, "I fear you are finding my affairs troublesome." "No, my dear child, not at all," he answered, throwing down the paper and drawing her to a seat upon his knee. "It seems quite like old, old times," she said with a smile, gazing lovingly into his eyes, then stealing an arm about his neck and laying her cheek to his. "Yes," he said, fondling her; "why should I not have you here as I used to twenty odd years ago? You are no larger or heavier nor I a whit less strong and vigorous than we were then." "How thankful I am for that last," she returned, softly stroking his face, "and it is very pleasant occasionally to imagine myself your own little girl again. But something is giving you anxiety, my dear father. Is it anything in which I can assist you?" "Yes; but I fear I can hardly explain without calling up painful memories." He felt her start slightly, and a low-breathed sigh met his ear. "Still say on, dear papa," she whispered tremulously. "Can you bear it?" he asked; "not for me, but for another--an enemy." "Yes, the Lord will give me strength. Of whom do you speak?" "George Boyd." "The would-be murderer of my husband!" she exclaimed, with a start and shiver, while the tears coursed freely down her cheeks. "I thought him long since dead." "No, I met him this evening, but so worn and altered by disease and famine, so seamed and scarred by Aunt Dicey's scalding shower, that I recognized him only by the mutilated right hand. Elsie, the man is reduced to the lowest depths of poverty and shame, and evidently very near his end." "Papa, what would you have me do?" she asked in quivering tones. "Could you bear to have him removed to Viamede? could you endure his presence there for the few weeks he has yet to live?" She seemed to have a short struggle with herself, then the answer came in low, agitated tones. "Yes, if neither my children nor I need look upon him or hold any communication with him." "That would not be at all necessary," her father answered, holding her close to his heart. "And indeed I could not consent to it myself. He is a loathsome creature both morally and physically; yet for his aunt's sake, and still more for His sake who bids us 'Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you,' I shall gladly do all in my power for the wretched prodigal. And who can tell but there may yet be mercy in store for him? God's mercy and power are infinite, and He has 'no pleasure in the death of him that dieth,' but would rather that he turn from his evil way and live." There was a little pause, then Elsie asked if her father had arranged any plans in regard to Boyd's removal. "Yes," he said, "subject of course to your approval. I have thought it would be well to send him on at once and let him be settled in his quarters before the arrival of our own party. You must decide what room he is to occupy." She named one situated in a wing of the mansion, and quite distant from the apartments which would be used by the family. "What more, papa?" she asked. "He must have an attendant--a nurse. And shall we not write to his aunt, inviting her to come and be with him while he lives? remain through the winter with us, if she can find it convenient and agreeable to do so?" "Yes, oh yes! poor dear Mrs. Carrington; it will be but a melancholy pleasure to her. But I think if any one can do him good it will be she. I will write at once." "Not to-night; it is too late; you are looking weary, and I want you to go at once to bed. To-morrow morning will be time enough for the letter." "What, sending me to bed, papa!" she said with a slightly amused smile. "I must be indeed your little girl again. Well, I will obey as I used to in the olden time, for I still believe you know what is best for me. So good-night, my dear, dear father!" "Good-night, my darling," he responded, caressing her with all the old, fatherly tenderness. "May God bless and keep you and your dear children." CHAPTER IX. "She led me first to God; Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew." --_Pierpont._ Elsie's letter to Mrs. Carrington was despatched by the first morning mail, and directly after breakfast Mr. Dinsmore went in search of Boyd. Hardened as the man was, he showed some sense of gratitude toward the new-made widow of his intended victim, when informed of her kind intentions toward himself; some remorse for his attempt to injure him whom she had so dearly loved. "It is really a great deal more than I had the least right to expect even for my aunt's sake," he said. "Why, sir, it will be like getting out of hell into heaven!" "It is not for Mrs. Carrington's sake alone, or principally--strong as is the tie of friendship between them," replied Mr. Dinsmore, "but rather for the sake of the Master she loves and serves, and who bids His followers return good for evil." "Cant!" sneered Boyd to himself: then aloud, "Well, sir, I wish it were in my power to make some suitable return to Mrs. Travilla; but that can never be, and unfortunately I cannot even undo the past." "No; and that is a thought which might well deter us from evil deeds. Now the next thing is to provide you with a bath, decent clothing, and suitable attendant, and get you and him aboard the boat, which leaves a few hours hence." All this was done and Mr. Dinsmore returned to his daughter with a satisfactory report to that effect. Their party remained a few days longer in the Crescent City, then embarked for Viamede, where they arrived in due season, having met with no accident or detention by the way. As on former occasions, they were joyfully welcomed by the old servants; but many tears mingled with the rejoicings, for Mr. Travilla had been greatly beloved by all, and they wept for both their own loss and that of their "dear bressed Missus," as they were wont to call her whom his death had widowed. She was much overcome at the first, memory vividly recalling former arrivals when he--her dearest earthly friend--was by her side, giving her the support of his loved presence and sharing her happiness. Her thoughts dwelt particularly upon the glad days of their honeymoon; and she seemed to see herself again a loved, loving, cherished bride, now wandering with him through the beautiful orange groves or over the velvety, flower-bespangled lawn, now seated by his side in the veranda, the parlor, the library, or on some rustic seat under the grand old trees, his arm encircling her waist, his eyes looking tenderly into hers; or it might be gliding over the waters of the lakelet or galloping or driving through the woods, everywhere and always the greatest delight of each the love and companionship of the other. Ah, how often she now caught herself listening for the sound of his voice, his step, waiting, longing to feel the touch of his hand! Could she ever cease to do so?--ever lose that weary homesickness of heart that at times seemed almost more than mortal strength could endure? But she had more than mortal strength to sustain her; the everlasting arms were underneath and around her, the love that can never die, never change, was her unfailing support and consolation. She indulged in no spirit of repining, no nursing of her grief, but gave herself with cheerful earnestness to every good work: the careful, prayerful instruction and training of her children as her first duty; then kindly attentions to her old grandfather, to parents and guests; after that the care of house servants, field hands, and the outside poor of the vicinity, neglecting neither their bodies nor their souls; also helping the cause of Christ in both her own and foreign lands, with untiring efforts, earnest, believing prayer, and liberal gifts, striving to be a faithful steward of the ample means God had committed to her trust, and rejoicing in the ability to relieve the wants of His people, and to assist in spreading abroad the glad news of salvation through faith in Christ. There was no gayety at Viamede that winter, but the atmosphere of the house was eminently cheerful, its walls often echoing to the blithe voices and merry laughter of the children; never checked or reproved by mamma; the days gliding peacefully by, in a varied round of useful and pleasant employment and delightful recreation that left no room for _ennui_--riding, driving, walking, boating for all, and healthful play for the children. Lester Leland had been heard from, was well, and wrote in so hopeful a strain that the heart of his affianced grew light and joyous. She was almost ashamed to find she could be so happy without the dear father so lately removed. Her mother reassured her on that point: it was right for her to be as happy as she could; it was what her papa would have highly approved and wished; and then in being so and allowing it to be perceived by those around her, she would add to their enjoyment. "We are told to 'rejoice in the Lord always,'" concluded the mother, "and a Christian's heart should never be the abode of gloom and sadness." "Dear mamma, what an unfailing comfort and blessing you are to me and to all your children," cried the young girl. "Oh, I do thank God every day for my mother's dear love, my mother's wise counsels!" It was very true, and to mamma each one of the six--or we might say seven, for Edward did the same by letter--carried every trouble, great or small, every doubt, fear, and perplexity. No two of them were exactly alike in disposition--each required a little different management from the others--but attentively studying each character and asking wisdom from above, the mother succeeded wonderfully well in guiding and controlling them. In this her father assisted her, and she was most careful and decided in upholding his authority, never in any emergency opposing hers to it. "Mamma," said Harold, coming to her one day in her dressing-room, "Herbie is in trouble with grandpa." "I am very sorry," she said with a look of concern, "but if so it must be by his own fault; your grandpa's commands are never unreasonable." "No, I suppose not, mamma," Harold returned doubtfully, "but Herbie is having a very hard time over his Latin lesson, and says he can't learn it: it is too difficult. Mamma," with some hesitation, "if you would speak to grandpa perhaps he would let him off this once." "Do you think that would be a good plan?" she asked with a slight smile. "Herbert's great fault is lack of perseverance; he is too easily discouraged, too ready to give up and say 'I can't.' Do you think it would be really kind to indulge him in doing so?" "Perhaps not, mamma; but I feel very sorry to see him in such distress. Grandpa has forbidden him to leave the school-room or to have anything to eat but bread and milk till he can recite his lesson quite perfectly. And we had planned to go fishing this afternoon, if you should give permission, mamma." "My son," she said with an affectionate look into the earnest face of the pleader, "I am glad to see your sympathy and love for your brother, but I think your grandpa loves him quite as well and knows far better what is for his good, and I cannot interfere between them; my children must all be as obedient and submissive to my father as they are to me." "Yes, mamma, I know, and indeed we never disobey him. How could we when papa bade us not? and made him our guardian, too?" Mrs. Travilla sat thinking for a moment after Harold had gone, then rose and went to the school-room. Herbert sat there alone, idly drumming on his desk, the open book pushed aside. His face was flushed and wore a very disconsolate and slightly sullen expression. He looked up as his mother came in, but dropped his eyes instantly, blushing and ashamed. "Mamma," he stammered, "I--I can't learn this lesson, it's so very hard, and I'm so tired of being cooped up here. Mayn't I go out and have a good run before I try any more?" "If your grandpa gives permission; not otherwise." "But he won't; and it's a hateful old lesson! and I _can't_ learn it!" he cried with angry impatience. "My boy, you are grieving your mother very much," she said, sitting down beside him and laying her cool hand on his heated brow. "O mamma, I didn't mean to do that!" he cried, throwing his arms about her neck. "I do love you dearly, dearly." "I believe it, my son," she said, returning his caress, "but I want you to prove it by being obedient to your kind grandpa as well as to me, and by trying to conquer your faults." "Mamma, I haven't been naughty--only I can't learn such hard lessons as grandpa gives." "My son, I know you do not mean to be untruthful, but to say that you cannot learn your lesson is really not the truth; the difficulty is not so much in the ability as in the will. And are you not indulging a naughty temper?" "Mamma," he said, hanging his head, "you don't know how hard Latin is." "Why, what do you mean, my son?" she asked in surprise; "you certainly know that I have studied Latin." "Yes, mamma, but wasn't it easier for you to learn than it is for me?" "I think not," she said with a smile, "though I believe I had more real love for study and was less easily conquered by difficulties; and yet--shall I tell you a little secret?" "Oh yes, ma'am, please do!" he answered, turning a bright, interested face to hers. "Well, I disliked Latin at first, and did not want to study it. I should have coaxed very hard to be excused from doing so, but that I dared not, because my papa had strictly forbidden me to coax or tease after he had given his decision; and he had said Latin was to be one of my studies. There was one day, though, that I cried over my lesson and insisted that I could not learn it." "And what did grandpa do to you?" he asked with great interest. "Treated me just as he does you--told me I _must_ learn it, and that I could not dine with him and mamma or leave my room until I knew it. And, my boy, I see now that he was wise and kind, and I have often been thankful since that he was so firm and decided with me." "But did you learn it?" "Yes; nor did it take me long when once I gave my mind to it with determination. That is exactly what you need to do. The great fault of your disposition is lack of energy and perseverance, a fault grandpa and I must help you to conquer, or you will never be of much use in the world." "But, mamma, it seems to me I shall not need to do much when I'm a man," he remarked a little shamefacedly; "haven't you a great deal of money to give us all?" "It may be all gone before you are grown up," she said gravely. "I shall be glad to lose it if its possession is to be the ruin of my sons. But I do not intend to let any of you live in idleness, for that would be a sin, because our talents must be improved to the utmost and used in God's service, whether we have much or little money or none at all. Therefore each of my boys must study a profession or learn some handicraft by which he can earn his own living or make money to use in doing good. "Now I am going to leave you," she added, rising, "and if you do not want to give me a sad heart you will set to work at that lesson with a will, and soon have it ready to recite to your grandpa." "Mamma, I will, to please you," he returned, drawing the book toward him. "Do it to please God, your kind heavenly Father, even more than to make me happy," she answered, laying her hand caressingly on his head. "Mamma, what is the text that says it will please Him?" he asked, looking up inquiringly, for it had always been a habit with her to enforce her teachings with a passage of Scripture. "There are a great many that teach it more or less directly," she said; "we are to be diligent in business, to improve our talents and use them in God's service; children are to obey their parents; and both your grandpa and I have directed you to learn that lesson." "Mamma, I will do my very best," he said cheerfully, and she saw as she left the room that he was really trying to redeem the promise. An hour later he came to her with a very bright face, to say that grandpa had pronounced his recitation quite perfect and released him from confinement. Her pleased look, her smile, her kiss were a sweet reward and a strong incentive to continuance in well-doing. CHAPTER X. "To the law and to the testimony: if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them." --_Isaiah_ 8:20. Some years before this Elsie had built a little church on the plantation, entirely at her own expense, for the use of her dependents and of her own family when sojourning at Viamede. The membership was composed principally of blacks. A few miles distant was another small church of the same denomination, attended by the better class of whites; planters and their families. To these two congregations conjointly Mr. Mason had ministered for a long while, preaching to the one in the morning, to the other in the afternoon of each Sabbath. He had, however, been called to another field of labor, a few weeks previous to the arrival of our friends, leaving the two congregations pastorless, and the pretty cottage built for him at Viamede without a tenant. Still they were not entirely without the preaching of the word, now one and now another coming to supply the pulpits for a Sunday or two. At present they were filled by a young minister who came as a candidate, and whose services had been engaged for several weeks. Elsie and her family were paying no visits now in this time of mourning, but nothing but sickness, or a very severe storm, ever kept them from church. They attended both services, and in the evening the older ones gathered about the table in the library with their Bibles, and, with Cruden's Concordance and other helps at hand, spent an hour or more in the study of the word. "Mamma," said little Rosie, one Sunday as they were walking slowly homeward from the nearer church, "why don't we have a minister that believes the Bible?" "My child, don't you think Mr. Jones believes it?" "No, mamma," most emphatically, "because he contradicts it; he said there's only one devil, and my Bible says Jesus cast out devils--seven out of Mary Magdalen, and ever so many out of one man, besides other ones out of other folks." "And last Sunday, when he was preaching about Jonah, he said it was a wicked and foolish practice to cast lots," remarked Harold, "while the Bible tells us that the Lord commanded the Israelites to divide their land by lot, and that the apostles cast lots to choose a successor to Judas." "Yes," said Violet, "and when Achan had sinned, didn't they cast lots to find out who it was that troubled Israel?" "And to choose a king in the days of the prophet Samuel," added their older sister. "How strange that any one should say it was a foolish and wicked practice!" "I don't think his mother can have brought him up on the Bible as ours does us," remarked Herbert. "Mamma, which are we to believe," asked Rosie, "the minister or the Bible?" "Bring everything to the test of scripture," answered the mother's gentle voice. "'To the law and the testimony: if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them.' I want you to have great respect for the ministry, yet never to receive any man's teachings when you find them opposed to those of God's holy word." When the Bibles were brought out that evening, Isa proposed that they should take up the question of the correctness of that assertion of Mr. Jones which had led Rosie to doubt his belief in the inspiration of the Scriptures. "Yes, let us do so," said her uncle. "It is an interesting subject." "Yes, I think it is," said Molly; "but do you consider it a question of any importance, uncle?" "I do; no Bible truth can be unimportant. 'All scripture is by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness: that the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works.' And if we have spiritual foes we surely need to know it, that we may be on our guard against them." "And we have not been left without warning against them," observed old Mr. Dinsmore. "'Put on the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.' How absurd the idea that principalities and powers can mean but one creature!" "David prays, 'Lead me in a plain path because of mine enemies'; and again, 'Lead me, O Lord, in thy righteousness because of mine enemies, make thy way straight before my face,'" said Mrs. Travilla. "It seems evident to me that it was spiritual foes he meant; that he feared to be left a prey to their temptations, their deceit, the snares and traps they would set for his soul." "Undoubtedly," returned her father. "On any other supposition some of the psalms would seem to be very bloodthirsty and unchristian." "I rather took Mr. Jones to task about it as we came out of church," said old Mr. Dinsmore, "and he maintained that he was in the right on the ground that the name devil comes from the Greek Diabolos, which is applied only to the prince of the devils." "And what of that?" said his son; "the Hebrew name, Satan, has the very same signification--an adversary, an accuser, calumniator or slanderer--and Christ called the devils he had just cast out, Satan: 'How can Satan cast out Satan? If Satan rise up against himself, and be divided, he cannot stand.' If they are so like him, so entirely one with him, as to be called himself--and that by Him who has all knowledge and who is the Truth--I cannot see that there is any occasion to deny them the name of devil, or anything to be gained by doing so; while on the other hand there is danger of positive harm, as it seems to throw doubt and discredit upon our English translation." "A very serious responsibility to assume, since the vast majority of the people must depend upon it," remarked Mrs. Travilla. "I think any one who makes the assertion we are discussing should give a very full explanation and strong warning against the lesser evil spirits we call devils. 'If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do?'" "Yes," said her father, "and I have very strong faith in the learning, wisdom and piety of the translators." "Is Satan a real person? and were the devils whom Christ and his disciples cast out, real persons?" asked Isadore. "I have heard people talk of Satan as if he were an imaginary creature, a myth; and of the others, with which persons were possessed in those days, as probably nothing more than bad tempers." "'To the law and to the testimony,'" replied her uncle, opening his Bible. "We will consider your questions in the order in which they were asked. 'Is Satan a real person?' There can be no difficulty in proving it to any one who believes the Bible to be the inspired word of God; the difficulty is rather in selecting from the multitude of texts that teach it." Some time was now spent in searching out, with the help of Bible Text Book and Concordance, a very long list of texts bearing on the question--giving the titles, the character and the doings of Satan; showing that he sinned against God, was cast out of heaven; down to hell; that he was the author of the fall; that he perverts scripture; opposes God's work; hinders the Gospel; works lying wonders; that he tempted Christ; is a liar and the father of lies; is a murderer; yet appears as an angel of light. "Here," said Mr. Dinsmore, "is a summing-up of what he is, by Cruden, who was without question a thorough Bible scholar; and remember, as I read it, that the description applies not to Satan alone, but also to those wicked spirits under him. 'He is surprisingly subtile; his strength is superior to ours, his malice is deadly; his activity and diligence are equal to his malice; and he has a mighty number of principalities and powers under his command!'" "Yes," said old Mr. Dinsmore, meditatively, "'the rulers of the darkness of this world,' the word is plural: it seems there must be several orders of them, composing a mighty host." "I find both my queries already fully answered," said Isa. "Nevertheless, let us look a little farther into that second question," her uncle answered. "I will give the references as before, while the rest of you turn to and read them." When this had been done, "Now," said he, "let us sum up the evidence as to their personality, character, works, and right to the name of devil." "As to the first they sinned: hell is prepared for them: they believe and tremble: they spoke: knew Christ and testified to his divinity, 'Jesus, thou son of God.' 'I know thee who thou art, the Holy One of God.' Wicked tempers could not do any of these things. As to the second, their character, they are called in the Bible 'unclean spirits,' foul spirits; and since Christ called them Satan himself, the description of his character, as I have before remarked, is a faithful description of theirs also. This last proves also their right to the title of devil. The scripture--Christ himself--calls them the devil's angels, his messengers; for that is the meaning of angel, they do Satan's behests, go on his errands and help him in the work of destroying souls and tempting and tormenting those whom they cannot destroy.--Well, Vi, what is it?" For she had given him a perplexed, troubled look. "There is just one difficulty that I see, grandpa. Here in Jude we are told, 'And the Angels which kept not their first estate, but left their own habitation, he hath reserved in everlasting chains under darkness unto the judgment of the great day.' The apostle Peter says the same thing. My difficulty is to reconcile this statement with the other teaching--that they are going about the world on their wicked, cruel errands." "To the law and to the testimony," repeated Mr. Dinsmore. "Since the infallible word of God makes both statements, we must believe both, whether we can reconcile them or not; but I doubt not we shall be able to do so if we diligently search the word with prayer for the teachings of the Holy Spirit." He then offered a short, fervent petition to that end; after which they resumed their investigation. "Let us remember," he said, "that the same word often has many significations, and that hell may be a state or condition rather than a place--I mean that the word may be sometimes used in that sense: so with chains and with darkness." "We use the expression, 'the chains of habit,'" suggested his daughter; "a spirit could not be bound with a material chain; but in Proverbs we are told, 'His own iniquities shall take the wicked himself, and he shall be holden with the cords of his sins.' Think of the awful wickedness and utter despair of those lost spirits--no space for repentance, no hope or possibility of salvation--and I think we have chains on them of fearful weight and strength." "The cords of sin are the consequences of crimes and bad habits. Sin never goes unpunished, and the bad habits contracted are, as it were, indissoluble bands from which it is impossible to get free," read Mr. Dinsmore from the Concordance, adding, "and to those lost spirits it is _utterly_ impossible; yes, here in their wicked tempers, malignant desires and utter despair, we have, I think, the chains that bind them." "But the darkness, grandpa?" queried Harold. "We are coming to that. Cruden tells us here that darkness sometimes signifies great distress, perplexity and calamity; as in Isa. 8:22, Joel 2:2. Sometimes sin or impurity, 1 John 1:5. The devil have all these; how great is their sin, how great must be their distress and anguish in the sure prospect of eternal destruction from the presence of God, eternal torment! dense and fearful must it be beyond the power of words to express! They are darkness, for our Saviour calls the exercise of Satan's power 'the power of darkness.' 'This is your hour and the power of darkness.' By the gates of hell, Matt. 16:18, is meant the power and policy of the devil and his instruments. It would seem that they carry their chains, their darkness, their hell with them wherever they go. And now for the application, the lesson we should learn from all this: what do you think it is, Harold?" "That we should be constantly on our guard against the wiles of these adversaries, is it not, sir?" "Yes, and ever looking to the captain of our salvation for strength and wisdom to do so effectually." "Putting on the whole armor of God," added old Mr. Dinsmore; "the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, the sword of the spirit which is the word of God. What else, Herbert?" "The breast-plate of righteousness, sir; and the loins are to be girt about with truth, the feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace." "There is yet another lesson," said Mrs. Travilla, her face all aglow with holy joy and love, "how it should quicken our zeal for the Master, our gratitude, our joy and love, when we think of his salvation offered to us as his free gift the purchase of his own blood, when he might justly have left us in the same awful state of horror and despair that is the portion of the angels that sinned. And how should we cling to him who alone is able to keep us from falling into the traps and snares they are constantly spreading for our unwary feet. Ah, my dear children, there is no safety but in keeping close to Christ!" "But there we are safe," added her father: "'he is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him.' He says of his sheep, 'I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.' He saves his people from sin, from hell and destruction." "Can't we find some texts about the good angels?" asked little Rosie, who had been permitted to sit up beyond her usual bedtime to share in the Bible lesson. "Yes," said her grandpa, "we may be thankful for them, because they are kind and good and loving, taking delight in our salvation and in ministering to God's people, as they did to the Master when on earth. Which of you can name some instances given in the Bible?" "One fed Elijah when he fled from wicked Jezebel," answered Rosie, promptly. "They carried Lazarus to heaven," said Herbert. "And stopped the lions' mouths when they would have eaten Daniel," added Harold. The others went on, "One comforted Paul when he was in danger of shipwreck." "One delivered Peter from prison." "Now who can quote a promise or assurance that we, if the true children of God, shall have help or protection from them?" "'He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone!'" repeated the younger Elsie, and her mother added in low, sweet tones, full of joy and thankfulness, "'The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.' Is it not a sweet assurance?" she exclaimed: "he is not a transient visitor, but encamps as intending to remain; and not upon one side alone, leaving the others exposed to the enemy, but round about. Blessed are they who have the Lord of hosts for their Keeper!" They united in a song of praise, old Mr. Dinsmore led in prayer, then with an exchange of affectionate good-nights they separated. "Mamma," said the younger Elsie, lingering for a little in her mother's boudoir, "to-night's study of the word has done me good. I want to live nearer to Jesus, to love him more, to serve him better." "I too," said Violet. "I want to give him the service of my whole heart and life, time, talents, money, everything!" "It rejoices my heart to hear it, my darlings," the mother answered, folding them in her arms, while glad tears shone in her eyes; "it is what I desire above all things for you, for all my dear ones, and for myself." CHAPTER XI. "'Tis not the whole of life to live, Nor all of death to die." --_Montgomery._ Mrs. Carrington obeyed with all speed the call to come to the aid of her unworthy nephew, and her arrival was not delayed many days after that of their kind entertainers. She received a cordial welcome; but since that first day the ladies and children of the family had seen very little of her, for Boyd had taken to his bed, and she devoted herself to him. The gentlemen frequently spent a little time in his room, induced thereto by motives of kindness, but the others never approached it. Elsie looked upon him as the would-be murderer of her husband, and could scarcely think of him without a shudder. She was willing, even anxious to give him every comfort that money could buy, and that every effort should be made by her father and others to lead him to repentance and faith in Christ to the saving of his soul; but she shrank from seeing him, though she made kind inquiries, sent messages, and offered many sincere and fervent prayers on his behalf. Strolling about the grounds one afternoon with her little ones, she saw her father coming towards her. Something in the expression of his countenance as he drew rapidly nearer startled her with a vague fear. "What is it, papa?" she asked tremulously. "Take my arm," he said, offering it. "I have something to say to you. Rosie, do you and Walter go to your mammy." The children obeyed, while he and their mother turned into another path. Elsie's heart was beating very fast. "Papa, is--is anything wrong with--" "With any of your loved ones? No, daughter: they are all safe and well so far as I know. But I have a message for you--a request which it will not be easy or pleasant for you to grant, or to refuse. Boyd is drawing very near his end, and with a mind full of horror and despair. He says there is no hope, no mercy for him--nothing but the blackness of darkness forever." Elsie's eyes overflowed. "Poor, poor fellow! Papa, can nothing be done for him?" "Could you bear to go to him?" he asked tenderly. "Forgive me, dear child, for paining you with such a suggestion; but the poor wretch thinks he could die easier if he heard you say that you forgive him." There was a shudder, a moment's struggle with herself; then she said, very low and sadly, "Yes, papa, I will go at once. How selfish I have been in staying away so long. But--O Edward! my husband, my husband!" He soothed her very tenderly for a moment, then asked gently, "Would he not have bidden you go?" "Oh, yes, yes: he would have forgiven, he did forgive him with all his great, generous heart. And, God helping me, so will I. I am ready to go." "Lost, lost, lost! no hope, no help, the blackness of darkness forever!" were the words, uttered in piercing tones, full of anguish and despair, that greeted Elsie's ears as her father softly opened the door of Boyd's room and led her in. At those sounds, at the sight that met her view--the wretched man with the seal of death on his haggard, emaciated face, seamed and scarred beyond all recognition, tossing restlessly from side to side, while he rent the air with his cries--she turned so sick and faint that she staggered, and but for the support of her father's arm would have fallen to the floor. "Call up all your courage, my dear child," he whispered, leaning over her, "look to the Lord for strength, and who shall say you may not he able to do the poor dying wretch some good?" She struggled determinately with her faintness, and they drew near the bed. Boyd started up at sight of her, thrusting the maimed hand under the bedclothes, and holding out the other with a ghastly smile. "You're an angel, Mrs. Travilla!" he gasped, "an angel of mercy to a miserable wretch whom you've a good right to hate." "No," she said, taking the hand in a kindly grasp, "I have no right to hate you, or any one--I whose sins against my Lord are far, far greater than yours against me or mine. I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven. May God forgive you also." "No, no, it is too late, too late for that!" he groaned. "I have sinned against light and knowledge. He has called and I refused many, many times; and now the door is shut." "It is your adversary the devil who tells you that," she said, tears streaming from her eyes; "he would destroy your soul: but the words of Jesus are, 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out?' 'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.'" "Ah, but he also says, 'Because I have called and ye refused; I have stretched out my hand, and no man regarded; but ye have set at naught all my counsel, and would none of my reproof; I also will laugh at your calamity; I will mock when your fear cometh; when your fear cometh as desolation, and your destruction cometh as a whirlwind; when distress and anguish cometh upon you. Then shall they call upon me, but I will not answer.' Oh it's all true, every word of it!" he cried, with a look of horror and despair that none who saw it could ever forget, "I feel it in my inmost soul. There was a time when mercy's door was open to me, but it's shut now, shut forever." "O George, George!" sobbed his aunt, "the invitation is without limit--'whosoever will;' if you have a will to come, it cannot be that it is even now too late." "But those words--those dreadful words," he said, turning eagerly toward her, "Then shall they call upon me, but I will not answer.'" "Are addressed to those who desire deliverance, not from sin itself, but only from its punishment," said Mr. Dinsmore. "If you have any desire to be saved from your sins, to be cleansed from their pollution, to be made holy, it is not too late--the 'whosoever will' is for you." He shook his head sadly. "I don't know, I don't know, a death-bed is a poor place to analyze one's feelings. Oh! warn men everywhere not to put it off, not to put it off! Tell them it is running a fearful risk." "We will, we will," said his aunt; "but, O George, think of yourself: 'cry to Jesus, he is able to save to the uttermost,' and he has no pleasure in the death of any soul; he would have you turn now and live: oh cry to him for mercy!" "Too late, too late!" he muttered faintly, "the door is shut." They knelt about his bed and poured out fervent prayers for him; they repeated promise after promise, invitations and assurances from the word, of God's willingness to save. At last, "I'm going, going!" he gasped. "Oh God be merciful to me a sinner!" And with the last word the spirit took its flight. Mrs. Carrington sank, half fainting, into Elsie's arms, and Mr. Dinsmore and the doctor bore her from the room. It was Elsie's sad task to try to comfort and console where there was little to build hope upon: she could but dwell upon God's great mercy, his willingness to save, and the possibility that that last dying cry came from a truly penitent heart. "I must try to believe it, else my heart would break!" cried the old lady. "O Elsie, my heart has bled for you, but your sorrow is not like unto my sorrow! You can rest in the sure and certain hope of a blissful reunion, you know that your beloved is rejoicing before the throne; while I--alas, alas! I know not where my poor boy is. And I am tortured with the fear that some of his blood may be found in my skirts--that I did not guide and instruct, warn and entreat him as I might; that my prayers were not frequent and fervent enough, my example all that it should have been." "My dear friend, 'who is sufficient for these things?'" Elsie answered, weeping; "who has not reason for such self reproach? I think not you more than the rest of us." "Ah!" sighed the old lady, "I wish that were so: had I but been to him, and to my own children, the mother you are to yours, my conscience would not now trouble me as it does." Mrs. Travilla had caused a room to be fitted up as a studio for her older daughters, and here they were spending their afternoon--Vi painting, Elsie modelling and thinking, the while, of her absent lover, perchance busy in his studio with hammer and chisel. "The sun is setting," exclaimed Violet at length, throwing down her brush. "What can have become of mamma that she has not been in to watch our progress?" "I hope she has been taking a drive," Elsie answered, ceasing work also. "Come, let us go and dress for tea, Vi; it is high time." They hastened to do so, and had scarcely completed their toilet when Harold rapped and asked if mamma were there. "No? Where can she have gone?" he said. "Herbie and I came in from fishing a little while ago, and we have hunted for her almost everywhere." "Except in the nursery," suggested Herbert. "Let's go and see if she's there." "The carriage is driving up," said Vi, glancing through the window; "probably mamma is in it," and all four hurried down to the front veranda eager to meet and welcome her. Their old grandfather alighted, handed out Grandma Rose, Aunt Enna, Isa, and then, with the help of one of the servant men, Molly. The carriage door closed. Mamma was not there. Indeed their grandma and Isa were asking for her as they came up the steps. And childish voices were now heard in their rear making the same inquiry--Rosie and Walter coming from the nursery in search of the mother they never willingly lost sight of for an hour. "Why, what can have become of mamma? Rosie, when did you see her last?" asked Harold. "Out on the lawn. She was walking with us, and grandpa came and took her away." "Where to?" "I don't know," answered the child, bursting into tears. "There, there, don't cry; dear mamma's sure to be safe along with grandpa," Harold said, putting his arms around his little sister. "And here he comes to tell us about her," he added joyously, as Mr. Dinsmore was seen coming down the hall. They crowded about him, the same question on every tongue. "She is with Mrs. Carrington," he said, patting the heads of the weeping Rosie and Walter. "Don't cry, my children. She may not be able to join us at tea, but you shall see her before you go to your beds." Then to the older ones, speaking in a subdued tone, "Boyd is gone, and his aunt is much overcome." "Gone, Horace!" exclaimed his wife, looking shocked and awe-struck: "how did he die? was there any ground for hope?" "Very little," he sighed, "that is the saddest part of it. The body will be sent away to-night," he added, in answer to a question from his father; "he is to be buried with the rest of his family. Mrs. Carrington will not go with it, will probably remain here through the winter." All felt it a relief that the burial was not to be near at hand, or the corpse to remain many hours in the house--"a wicked man's corpse," as Harold said with a shudder, but all were saddened and horror-struck at the thought that he had gone leaving so little reason for hope of his salvation. They gathered at the supper-table a very quiet, solemn company; few words were spoken; the little ones missed their mother and were glad to get away to the nursery, where she presently came to them, looking sad and with traces of recent tears about her eyes. But she smiled very sweetly upon them, kissed them tenderly, and sitting down, took Walter on her lap and put an arm round Rosie as she stood by her side. They were curious to know about Mr. Boyd, asking if he had gone to heaven where dear papa and Lily were. "I do not know, my darlings," she answered, the tears coming into her eyes again; "he is there if he repented of his sins against God, and trusted in Jesus." Then she talked to them, as often before, of the dear Saviour--the great love wherewith he loves his people, and the many mansions he is preparing for them. She spoke to them, too, of God's hatred of sin, and the need of watchfulness and prayer. "The devil hates us, my darlings," she said; "he goes about like a roaring lion, seeking to kill our souls; but Jesus loves us, he is stronger than Satan, and if we keep close to him we are safe." Having seen them safe in bed, she went to her dressing-room, to find the other four there waiting for her. They gathered about her with glad, loving looks and words, each eager to anticipate her wishes and to be the first to wait upon her. "My dear children," she said, smiling through glistening tears, "your love is very sweet to me!" "And what do you think yours is to us, mamma?" exclaimed Violet, kneeling at her mother's feet and clasping her arms about her waist, while she lifted to hers a face glowing with ardent affection and admiration. "Just the same, I hope and believe;" and with the words the mother's hand passed caressingly over the golden curls. "Mamma, you have been crying very much," remarked Harold sorrowfully. "I wish--" "Well, my son?" as he paused, leaving his sentence unfinished. "I wish I could make you so happy that you would never want to shed a tear." "When I get to heaven, my dear boy, it will be so with me. 'God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.' And that is where your dear papa is now. Oh how glad we ought to be for him!" she said with mingled smiles and tears. "'Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord:' but oh, it is not so, my children, with those who have not chosen him for their portion! 'for to them is reserved the blackness of darkness for ever.'" There was a slight solemn pause, all thinking of the wretched man who had passed away from earth that afternoon. "Mamma," asked Harold at last, speaking in a subdued tone, "do you think it is so with Mr. Boyd?" "My son," she said gently, "that is a question we are not called upon to decide; we can only leave him in the hands of God, in full confidence that the Judge of all the earth will do right." "Mamma, would you like to tell us about it?" asked Herbert. "It is a painful subject," she sighed, "but--yes, I will tell you, that it may be a warning to you all your lives." They listened with awe-struck faces, and with tears of pity, as she went on to give a graphic picture of that death scene so different from the one they had witnessed a few short months ago. "Oh my children," she said, "live not for time, but for eternity! remembering that this life is but a preparation for another and endless existence. 'Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness.' 'Count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus our Lord.' Choose his service now while youth and health are yours, and when death comes you will have nothing to fear. 'The wicked is driven away in his wickedness: but the righteous hath hope in his death.' 'Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. For he that soweth to his flesh, shall of the flesh reap corruption: but he that soweth to the Spirit, shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting.'" "Yes, mamma," Elsie said in a half-whisper, the tears stealing down her cheeks, "surely we have seen it fulfilled in these last few months. Our beloved father sowed to the Spirit, and what a joyous reaping is his! How calmly and sweetly he fell asleep in Jesus." "Yes," the mother said, mingling her tears with theirs--for all were weeping now--yet with a light shining in her eyes, "I am full of joy and thankfulness to-night in the midst of my grief. Oh how should we love and rejoice in this dear Saviour, who through his own death has given eternal life to him and to us; and to as many as God has given him--to all that will come to him for it." CHAPTER XII. "If any man speak, let him speak as the oracles of God." --_1 Peter_, 4:11. "Mamma, can we--Elsie and I--have a little private talk with you?" asked Violet as they left the dinner-table the next Sunday. "Certainly, daughter, if it be suited to the sacredness of the day." "Quite so, mamma," answered Elsie: "it is, at least in part, a question of conscience." "Then we shall want our Bibles to help us decide it. Let us take them and go out upon the lawn, to the inviting shade of yonder group of magnolias." "Do you intend to be so selfish as to monopolize your mother's society?" asked her father playfully. "Just for a little while, grandpa," Vi answered with coaxing look and tone. "Please, all of you, let us two have mamma quite to ourselves for a few minutes." "Well, daughters, what is it?" Mrs. Travilla asked, as she seated herself under the trees with one on each side. "Mamma," Elsie began, "you saw a young lady talking with us after church? She is Miss Miriam Pettit. She says she and several other young girls belonging to the church used to hold a weekly prayer-meeting in Mrs. Mason's parlor. It is the most central place they can find, and she will be very glad, very much obliged, if you will let them use it still. She has understood that nearly all the furniture of the cottage belongs to you and is still there." "Yes, that is so; and they are very welcome to the use of any of the rooms. But that is not all you and Vi had to say?" "Oh no, mamma! she wants us to join them and take part in the meetings--I mean not only to sing and read, but also to lead in prayer." "Well, my dears, I should be glad to have you do so; and you surely cannot doubt that it would be right?" "No, mamma," Violet said in her sprightly way, "but we should like to have you tell us--at least I should--that it would not be wrong to refuse." "My child, do you not believe in prayer as both a duty and a privilege? social and public as well as private prayer?" "O mamma, yes! but is it not enough for me to pray at home in my closet, and to unite silently with the prayers offered by ministers and others in public?" "Are we not told to pray without ceasing?" "Oh yes, mamma! and I did not mean to omit silent, ejaculatory prayer; but is it my duty to lead the devotions of others?" "Our Saviour gave a precious assurance to those who unite in presenting their petitions at a throne of grace. 'Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.' Some one must lead--there ought always to be several to do so--and why should you be excused more than another?" "Elsie is willing, mamma, and Miss Pettit too." "I am glad to hear it," the mother said, with an affectionate look at her eldest daughter. "I know it will be something of a trial to Elsie, and doubtless it is to Miss Pettit too--it is to almost every one: but what a light cross to bear for Jesus compared to that he bore for us--or those borne by the martyrs of old; or even by the missionaries who leave home and dear ones to go far away to teach the heathen! I had hoped my Vi was ready to follow her Master wherever his providence called her: that she would not keep back any part of the price, but give him all." "Oh yes, yes, mamma!" she cried, the tears starting to her eyes, "I want to be altogether his. I have given him all, and don't want to keep back anything. I will try to do this if you think he calls me to it; though it seems almost impossible." "My child, he will help you if you ask him; will give his Holy Spirit to teach you how to pray and what to pray for. Try to get your mind and heart full of your own and others' needs, to forget their presence and remember his: then words will come, and you will find that in trying to do the Master's work and will, you have brought down a rich blessing upon your own soul. And why should we feel it a trial to speak aloud to our Father in the presence of others of his children, or of those who are not?" "I don't know, mamma; it does seem very strange that we should." "I should like to attend your meetings, but hardly suppose I should be welcome," Mrs. Travilla said with a smile. "To us, mamma," both answered, "but perhaps not to the others. Miss Pettit said there were to be none but young girls." "Isa is invited, I presume?" "Yes, mamma, and says she will attend; but can't promise anything more. I think she will, though, if you will talk to her as you have to us," Violet added, as they rose to return to the veranda, where the rest of the family still lingered. And she was not mistaken. Isa was too true and earnest a Christian, too full of love for the Master and zeal for the upbuilding of his cause and kingdom, to refuse to do anything that she saw would tend to that, however much it might cost her to attempt it. "Well, cricket," Mr. Dinsmore said, giving Violet a pet name he had bestowed upon her when she was a very little girl, "come sit on my knee and tell me if we are all to be kept in the dark in regard to the object of this secret conference with mamma?" "Oh, grandpa," she said, taking the offered seat, and giving him a hug and kiss, "gentlemen have no curiosity, you know. Still, now it's settled, we don't care if you do hear all about it." Both he and his wife highly approved, and the latter, seeing an interested yet regretful look on poor Molly's face, asked, "Why should we not have, in addition, a female prayer-meeting of our own? We have more than twice the number necessary to claim the promise." The suggestion was received with favor by all the ladies present, time and place were fixed upon, and then, that they might be the better prepared to engage in this new effort to serve the Master, they agreed to take the subject of prayer for that evening's Bible study. But once entered upon, they found it so interesting, comprehensive and profitable a theme that they devoted several evenings to it. The children as well as their elders were continually finding discrepancies between the teachings of the Bible and those of Mr. Jones, and Elsie was not a little relieved to learn that the time for which his services had been engaged had now nearly expired. She hoped there was no danger that he would be requested to remain. One day as she was leaving the quarter, where she had been visiting the sick, Uncle Ben, now very old and feeble, accosted her respectfully. "Missus, I'se be bery thankful to hab a little conversation wid you when it suits yo' convenience to talk to dis chile." "What is it, Uncle Ben?" she asked. "May I walk 'longside ob de Missus up to de house?" he returned. "Certainly, Uncle Ben, if you feel strong enough to do so." "Tank you, Missus; do dese ole limbs good to stretch 'em 'bout dat much. It's 'bout Massa Jones I'se want to converse wid you, Missus. I hear dey's talkin' 'bout invitin' him to stay, and I want to ascertain if you intends to put him ober dis church." "I, Uncle Ben!" she exclaimed, "I put a minister over your church? I have no right and certainly no wish to do any such thing. It is for the members to choose whom they will have." "But you pays de money and provides de house for him, Missus." "That is true; but it does not give me the right to say who he shall be. Only if you should choose one whose teachings I could not approve--one who was not careful to teach according to God's word--I should feel that I could not take the responsibility of supporting him." "I'se glad of dat, Missus," he said with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes; "'cause I'se want de Bible truff and nuffin else. And young Massa Jones, he preach bery nice sometimes, but sometimes it 'pears like he disremembers what's in de bressed book, and contradicts it wid some of his own notions." "Then you don't wish him to stay?" "No, Missus, dat I don't! hopin' you won't be displeased wid me for sayin' it." "Not at all, Uncle Ben: I find the very same objection to him that you do." On reaching the house she bade the old man a kindly good-bye, and directed him to go to the kitchen and tell the cook, from her, to give him a good dinner, with plenty of hot, strong coffee. Rosie and Walter were on the back veranda looking out for mamma. "Oh we're so glad you've tum home, mamma!" cried Walter, running to meet her and claim a kiss. "Yes, mamma, it seemed so long to wait," said Rosie, "and now there is a strange gentleman in the drawing-room, waiting to see you. He's been here a good while, and both grandpas are out." "Then I must go to him at once. But I think he is not likely to detain me long away from you, darlings," the mother said. She found the gentleman--a handsome man of middle age--looking not at all annoyed or impatient, but seemingly well entertained by Isa and Violet, who were there, chatting sociably together over some pretty fancy work, when he was shown in by the servant. They withdrew after Isa had introduced Mrs. Travilla and Mr. Embury. The former thought it a little singular when she learned that her caller's errand was the same with that of Uncle Ben, _i.e._, to talk about Mr. Jones and the propriety of asking him to take permanent charge of the two churches: yet with this difference--that he was personally not unfavorable to the idea. "I like him very well, though he is not by any means Mr. Mason's equal as a preacher," he said, "and I think our little congregation can be induced to give him a call; but we are too few to support him unless by continuing the union with this church, so that the small salary we can give will still be supplemented by the very generous one you pay, and the use of the cottage you built for Mr. Mason. I am taking for granted, my dear Madame, that you intend to go on doing for your retainers here as you have hitherto." "I do," she said, "in case they choose a minister whose teachings accord with those of the inspired word. I cannot be responsible for any other." "And do those of Mr. Jones not come up to the standard?" "I regret to have to say that they do not; his preaching is far from satisfactory to me; he makes nothing of the work of the Spirit, or the danger of grieving Him away forever; nothing of the danger of self-deception; instructing those who are in doubt about the genuineness of their conversion that they must not be discouraged, instead of advising them to go to Christ now and be saved, just as any other sinner must. I fear his teaching may lead some to be content with a false hope. Then he often speaks in a half hesitating way, which shows doubt and uncertainty, on his part, of truths which are taught most plainly and forcibly in scripture. In a word, his preaching leaves the impression upon me that he has no very thorough acquaintance with the Bible, and no very strong confidence in the infallibility of its teachings. Indeed so glaring are his contradictions of scripture, that even my young children have noticed them more than once or twice." "Really, Mrs. Travilla, you make out a strong case against him," remarked her interlocutor, after a moment's thoughtful silence, "and upon reflection I believe a true one. I am surprised at myself that I have listened with so little realization of the important defects in his system of theology. I was not ardently in favor of calling him before; now I am decidedly opposed to it." He was about to take leave, but, the two Mr. Dinsmores coming in at that moment, resumed his seat, and the subject was reopened. They soon learned that they were all of substantially the same opinion in regard to it. In the course of the conversation some account was given Mr. Embury of the Sunday evening Bible study at Viamede. He seemed much interested, and at length asked if he might be permitted to join them occasionally. "My boys are away at school," he said, "my two little girls go early to bed, and my evenings are often lonely--since my dear Mary left me, now two years ago," he added with a sigh. "May I come, Mrs. Travilla?" "Yes," she said, reading approval in the eyes of her father and grandfather, while her own tender heart sympathized with the bereaved husband, though at the same time her sensitive nature shrank from the invasion of their family circle by a stranger. He read it all in her speaking countenance, but could not deny himself the anticipated pleasure of making the acquaintance of so lovely a family group--to say nothing of the intellectual or spiritual profit to be expected from sharing in their searching of the scriptures. Mr. Embury was a man of liberal education and much general information--one who read and thought a good deal and talked well. The conversation turned upon literature, and Mr. Dinsmore presently carried him off to the library to show him some valuable books recently purchased by himself and his daughter. They were still there when the tea-bell rang, and being hospitably urged to remain and partake of the meal with the family, Mr. Embury accepted the invitation with unfeigned pleasure. All were present even down to little Walter, and not excepting poor Molly. Her apartments at Viamede being on the same floor with dining-room, library and parlors, she joined the family gatherings almost as frequently as any one else--indeed whenever she preferred the society of her relatives to the seclusion of her own room. Mr. Embury had occasionally seen her at church. Her bright, intellectual face and crippled condition had excited his interest and curiosity, and in one way and another he had learned her story. Truth to tell, one thing that had brought him to Viamede was the desire to make her acquaintance--though Molly and the rest were far from suspecting it at the time. He had no definite motive for seeking to know her, except that his large, generous heart was drawn out in pity for her physical infirmity, and filled with admiration of her cheerfulness under it, and the energy and determination she had shown in carving out a career for herself, and steadily pursuing it spite of difficulties and discouragements that would have daunted many a weaker spirit. She had less of purely physical beauty than any other lady present, her mother excepted, yet there was something in her face that would have attracted attention anywhere; and her conversational powers were enviable, as Mr. Embury discovered in the course of the evening, for so delightful did he find the society of these new friends, both ladies and gentlemen, that he lingered among them until nearly ten o'clock, quite oblivious of the flight of time until reminded of it by the striking of the clock. "Really, Mrs. Travilla," he said, rising to take leave, "I owe you an apology for this lengthened visit, which has somehow taken the place of my intended call; but I must beg you to lay the blame where it should fall, on the very great attractiveness of your family circle." "The apology is quite out of proportion to the offence, sir," she returned, with a kindly smile; "so we grant you pardon, and shall not refuse it for a repetition of the misdeed." "I wish," he said, glancing round from one to another, "that you would all make me a return in kind. I will not say that Magnolia Hall is equal to Viamede, but it is called a fine place, and I can assure you of at least a hearty welcome to its hospitalities." CHAPTER XIII. "I preached as never sure to preach again, And as a dying man to dying men." --_Richard Baxter._ There was a stranger in the pulpit the next Sunday morning; one whose countenance, though youthful, by its intellectuality, its earnest thoughtfulness, and a nameless something that told of communion with God and a strong sense of the solemn responsibility of thus standing as an ambassador for Christ to expound his word and will to sinful, dying men, gave promise of a discourse that should send empty away no attentive hearer hungering and thirsting for the bread and the water of life. Nor was the promise unfulfilled. Taking as his text the Master's own words, "They hated me without a cause," he dwelt first upon the utter helplessness, hopelessness and wretchedness of that estate of sin and misery into which all mankind were plunged by Adam's fall; then upon God's offered mercy through a Redeemer, even his only begotten and well-beloved Son; upon the wondrous love of Christ "in offering himself a sacrifice to satisfy divine justice and reconcile us to God," as shown first in what he resigned--the joy and bliss of heaven, "the glory which he had with the Father before the world was"--secondly in his birth and life on earth, of which he gave a rapid but vivid sketch from the manger to the cross--showing the meekness, patience, gentleness, benevolence, self-denial, humility and resignation of Jesus--how true, guileless, innocent, loving and compassionate he was; describing the miracles he wrought--every one an act of kindness to some poor sufferer from bereavement, accident, disease, or Satan's power; then the closing scenes of that wondrous life--the agony in the garden, the cruel mockery of a trial, the scourging, the crucifixion, the expiring agonies upon the cross. He paused; the audience almost held their breath for the next words, the silent tears were stealing down many a cheek. Leaning over the pulpit with outstretched hand, with features working with emotion, "I have set before you," he said in tones thrilling with pathos, "this Jesus in his life and in his death. He lived not for himself, but for you; he died not for his own sins, but for yours and mine: he offers you this salvation as a free gift purchased with his own blood. Yea, risen again, and ever at the right hand of God, he maketh intercession for you. If you hate him, is it not without a cause?" The preacher had wholly forgotten himself in his subject; nor did self intrude into the prayer that followed the sermon. Truly he seemed to stand in the immediate presence of Him who died on Calvary and rose again, as he poured out his confessions of sins, his gratitude for redeeming love, his earnest petitions for perishing souls, blindly, wickedly hating without a cause this matchless, this loving, compassionate Saviour. And for Christ's own people, that their faith might be strengthened, their love increased, that they might be very zealous for the Master, abounding in gifts and prayers and labors for the upbuilding of his cause and kingdom. "The very man we should have here, if he can be induced to come," Mr. Dinsmore said in a quiet aside to his daughter as the congregation began to disperse, going out silently or conversing in subdued tones; for the earnest, solemn discourse had made a deep impression. "Yes, papa. Oh, I should rejoice to hear such preaching every Sabbath!" was Elsie's answer. "And I," Mr. Embury said, overhearing her remark. "But Mr. Keith gave us expressly to understand that he did not come as a candidate; he is here for his health or recreation, being worn out with study and pastoral work, as I understand." "Keith?" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore. "I thought there was something familiar in his face. Elsie, I think he must belong to our Keiths." "We must find out, papa," she said. "Oh, I shall be glad if he does!" "Shall I bring him up and introduce him?" Mr. Embury asked. "Ah, here he is!" as, turning about, he perceived the young minister close at hand. "Dinsmore! Travilla! those are family names with us!" the latter said, with an earnest, interested look from one to the other as the introductions were made. "As Keith is with us," Mr. Dinsmore answered, grasping his hand. "I opine that I am speaking to a grandson of my cousin Marcia Keith and her husband, Stuart Keith, of Pleasant Plains, Indiana?" "Yes, sir; I am the son of Cyril, their second son, and bear the same name. And you, sir, are the Cousin Horace of whom I have so often heard my grandmother and Aunt Mildred speak?" "The same." "And Mrs. Travilla is Cousin Elsie?" turning to her with a look of great interest and pleasure mingled with admiration; but which quickly changed to one of intense, sorrowful sympathy as he noticed her widow's weeds. He had often heard of the strong attachment between herself and husband, and this was the first intimation he had had of her bereavement. She read his look and gave him her hand silently, her heart too full for speech. "You will go home with us, of course," said Mr. Dinsmore, after introducing his wife and the other ladies of the family. "And stay as long as you possibly can," added Elsie, finding her voice. "Papa and I shall have a great many questions to ask about our cousins." "I shall be most happy to accept your kind invitation, if Mr. Embury will excuse me from a prior engagement to dine and lodge with him," replied Mr. Keith, turning with a smile to the proprietor of Magnolia Hall, who was still standing near in a waiting attitude. "I am loath to do so," he said, pleasantly, "but relatives have the first claim. I will waive mine for the present, in your favor, Mrs. Travilla, if you will indemnify me by permission to call frequently at Viamede while Mr. Keith stays; and afterward, if you don't find me a bore. I might as well make large demands while I am about it." "Being in a gracious mood, I grant them, large as they are," she responded, in the same playful tone that he had used. "Come whenever it suits your convenience and pleasure, Mr. February." "Viamede!" said Mr. Keith, meditatively, as they drove homeward. "I remember hearing Aunt Mildred talk of a visit she paid there many years ago, when she was quite a young girl, and you, Cousin Elsie, were a mere baby." "Yes," said old Mr. Dinsmore. "It was I who brought her. Horace was away in Europe at the time, and the death of Cameron, Elsie's guardian, made it necessary for me to come on and attend to matters. Mildred was visiting us at Roselands that winter, and I was very glad to secure her as travelling companion. Do you remember anything about it, Elsie?" "Not very much, grandpa," she said: "a little of Cousin Mildred's kindness and affection; something of the pain of parting from my dear home and the old servants. But I have a very vivid recollection of a visit paid to Pleasant Plains with papa," and she turned to him with a deeply affectionate look, "shortly before his marriage. I then saw Aunt Marcia, as both she and papa bade me call her, and Cousin Mildred and all the others, not forgetting Uncle Stewart. We had a delightful visit, had we not, papa?" "Yes, I remember we enjoyed it greatly." "I was just then very happy in the prospect of a new mamma," Elsie went on, with a smiling glance at her loved stepmother, "and papa was so very good as to allow me to tell of my happiness to the cousins. Your father was quite a tall lad at that time, Cousin Cyril, and very kind to his little cousin, who considered him a very fine young gentleman." "He is an elderly man now," remarked his son. "You have seen Aunt Mildred and some others of the family since then?" "Yes, several times; she and a good many of the others were with us at different times during the Centennial. But why did you not let us know of your coming, Cousin Cyril? why not come directly to us?" "It was a sudden move on my part," he said, "and indeed I was not aware that I was coming into the neighborhood of Viamede, or that you were there. But I am delighted that it is so--that I have the opportunity to become acquainted with you and to see the place, which Aunt Mildred described as a paradise upon earth." "We think it almost that, but you shall judge for yourself," she said, with a pleased smile. "Beautiful! enchanting! the half had not been told me!" he exclaimed in delight, as, a few moments later, he stood upon the veranda gazing out over the emerald velvet of the lawn, bespangled with its many hued and lovely flowers, and dotted here and there with giant oaks, graceful magnolias, and clusters of orange trees laden with their delicate, sweet-scented blossoms and golden fruit, to the lakelet whose waters glittered in the sunlight, and the fields, the groves and hills beyond. "Ah, if earthly scenes are so lovely, what must heaven be!" he added, turning to Elsie a face full of joyful anticipation. "Yes," she responded in low, moved tones, "how great is their blessedness who walk the streets of the Celestial City! How their eyes must feast upon its beauties! And yet--ah, methinks it must be long ere they can see them, for gazing upon the lovely face of Him whose blood has purchased their right to enter there." "Even so," he said. "Oh, for one glimpse of His face! Dear cousin," and he took her hand in his, "let the thought of the 'exceeding and eternal weight of glory' your loved one is now enjoying, and which you will one day share with him, comfort you in your loneliness and sorrow." "It does, it does!" she said tremulously, "that and the sweet sense of His abiding love, and presence who can never die and never change. I am far from unhappy, Cousin Cyril. I have found truth in those beautiful words, 'Then sorrow touched by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray, As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day.'" They had been comparatively alone for the moment, no one near enough to overhear the low-toned talk between them. The young minister was greatly pleased with Viamede--the more so the more he saw of it--and with his new-found relatives, the more and better he became acquainted with them; while they found him all his earnest, scriptural preaching had led them to expect. His religion was not a mask, or a garment to be worn only in the pulpit or on the Sabbath, but permeated his whole life and conversation; as was the case with most if not all of those with whom he now sojourned; and like them, he was a happy Christian; content with the allotments of God's providence, walking joyously in the light of his countenance, making it the one purpose and effort of his life to live to God's glory and bring others to share in the blessed service. He was strongly urged to spend the Winter at Viamede as his cousin's guest, and preacher to the two churches. He took a day or two to consider the matter, then, to the great satisfaction of all concerned, consented to remain, thanking his cousins warmly for their kindness in giving him so sweet a home; for they made him feel that he was entirely one of themselves, always welcome in their midst, yet at perfect liberty to withdraw into the seclusion of his own apartments whenever duty or inclination called him to do so. The well-stocked library supplied him with all needed books, there were servants to wait upon him, horses at his disposal, in short, nothing wanting for purposes of work or of recreation. Again and again he said to himself, or in his letters to those in the home he had left, that "the lines had fallen to him in pleasant places." In the meantime Elsie found the truth as expounded by him from Sabbath to Sabbath, and in the week-day evening service and the family worship, most comforting and sustaining; while his intelligent, agreeable conversation and cheerful companionship were most enjoyable at other times. "Cousin Cyril" soon became a great favorite with those who claimed the right to call him so, and very much liked and looked up to by Isadore, Molly, and the rest to whom he was simply Mr. Keith. In common with all others who knew them, he admired his young cousins, Elsie and Violet, extremely, and found their society delightful. Molly's sad affliction called forth, from the first, his deepest commiseration; her brave endurance of it, her uniform cheerfulness under it, his strong admiration and respect. Yet he presently discovered that Isadore Conly had stronger attractions for him than any other woman he had ever met. It was not her beauty alone, her refinement, her many accomplishments, but principally her noble qualities of mind and heart, gradually opening themselves to his view as day after day they met in the unrestrained familiar intercourse of the home circle, or walked or rode out together, sometimes in the company of others, sometimes alone. Mr. Embury made good use of the permission Mrs. Travilla had granted him, and occasionally forestalling Cyril's attentions, led the latter to look upon him as a rival. Molly watched it all, and though now one and now the other devoted an hour to her, sitting by her side in the house doing his best to entertain her with conversation, or pushing her wheeled chair about the walks in the beautiful grounds, or taking her out for a drive, thought both were in pursuit of Isa. It was their pleasure to wait upon Isa, Elsie and Vi, while pity and benevolence alone led them to bestow some time and effort upon herself--a poor cripple whom no one could really enjoy taking about. She had but a modest opinion of her own attractions, and would have been surprised to learn how greatly she was really admired by both gentlemen, for her good sense, her talent, energy and perseverance in her chosen line of work, and her constant cheerfulness; how brilliant and entertaining they often found her talk, pronouncing it "bright, sparkling, witty;" how attractive her intellectual countenance, and her bright, dark, expressive eyes. CHAPTER XIV. "Something the heart must have to cherish, Must love and joy, and sorrow learn; Something with passion clasp or perish, And in itself to ashes burn." --_Longfellow._ "Molly, how you do work! a great deal too hard, I am sure," said the younger Elsie, coming into her cousin's room, to find her at her writing desk, pen in hand, as usual, an unfinished manuscript before her, and books and papers scattered about. Molly looked up with a forced smile: she was not in mirthful mood. "It is because I am so slow that I must keep at it or I get nothing done." "Well, there's no need," said Elsie, "and really, Molly dear, I do believe you would gain time by resting more and oftener than you do. Who can work fast and well when brain and body are both weary? I have come to ask if you will take a drive with our two grandpas, grandma and Mrs. Carrington?" "Thank you kindly, but I can't spare the time to-day." "But don't you think you ought? Your health is of more importance than that manuscript. I am sure, Molly, you need the rest. I have noticed that you are growing thin and pale of late, and look tired almost all the time." "I was out for an hour this morning." "An hour! and the weather is so delightful, everything out of doors looking so lovely, that the rest of us find it next to impossible to content ourselves within doors for an hour. Some of us are going to play croquet. If you will not drive, won't you let one of the servants wheel you out there--near enough to enable you to watch the game?" "Please don't think me ungracious," Molly answered, coloring, "but I really should prefer to stay here and work." "I think Aunt Enna is going with us, and you will be left quite alone, unless you will let me stay, or send a servant to sit with you," Elsie suggested. But Molly insisted that she would rather be alone. "And you know," she added, pointing to a silver hand bell on the table before her, "I can ring if I need anything." So Elsie went rather sadly away, more than half suspecting that Molly was grieving over her inability to move about as others did, and take part in the active sports they found so enjoyable and healthful. And indeed she had hardly closed the door between them when the tears began to roll down Molly's cheeks. She wiped them away and tried to go on with her work; but they came faster and faster, till throwing down her pen she hid her face in her hands, and burst into passionate weeping, sobs shaking her whole frame. A longing so intense had come over her to leave that chair, to walk, to run, to leap and dance, as she had delighted to do in the old days before that terrible fall. She wanted to wander over the velvety lawn beneath her windows, to pluck for herself the many-hued, sweet-scented flowers, growing here and there in the grass. Kind hands were always ready to gather and bring them to her, but it was not like walking about among them, stooping down and plucking them with her own fingers. Oh to feel her feet under her and wander at her own sweet will about the beautiful grounds, over the hills and through the woods! Oh to feel that she was a fit mate for some one who might some day love and cherish her as Mr. Travilla had loved and cherished her whom he so fondly called his "little wife!" She pitied her cousin for her sad bereavement; her heart had often, often bled for her because of her loss; but ah! it were "better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." Never to love, never to be loved, that was the hardest part of it all. There was Dick, to be sure, the dear fellow! how she did love him! and she believed he loved her almost as well; but the time would come when another would have the first place in his heart; perhaps it had already come. Her mother's affection was something, but it was the love of a stronger nature than her own that she craved, a staff to lean upon, a guiding, protecting love, a support such as is the strong, stately oak to the delicate, clinging vine. There were times when she keenly enjoyed her independence, perfect liberty to control her own actions and choose her own work; her ability to earn a livelihood for herself; but at this moment all that was as nothing. Usually she was submissive under her affliction; now her heart rebelled fiercely against it. She called it a hard and cruel fate, to which she could not, would not be resigned. She was frightened at herself as she felt that she was so rebellious, and that she was envying the happiness of the cousins who had for years treated her with unvarying kindness; that her lot seemed the harder by contrast with theirs. And yet how well she knew that theirs was not perfect happiness--that the death of the husband and father had been a sore trial to them all. Through the open window she saw the handsome, easy-rolling family carriage drive away and disappear among the trees on the farther side of the lawn; then the croquet party setting out for the scene of their proposed game, which was at some little distance from the mansion, though within the grounds. She noticed that Isa and Mr. Keith walked first--very close together, and looking very like a pair of lovers, she thought--then Mr. Embury with Violet's graceful, girlish figure by his side, she walking with a free, springing step that once poor Molly might have emulated, as she called to mind with a bitter groan and an almost frantic effort to rise from her chair. Ah, what was it that so sharpened the sting brought by the thought of her own impotence, as she saw Vi's bright, beautiful face uplifted to that of her companion? A sudden glimpse into her own heart sent a crimson tide all over the poor girl's face. "O Molly Percival, what a fool you are!" she exclaimed half aloud, then burst into hysterical weeping; but calming herself almost instantly. "No, I will not, will _not_ be so weak!" she said, turning resolutely from the window. "I have been happy in my work, happy and content, and so will I be again. No foolish impossible dreams for you, Molly Percival! no dog in the manger feelings either; you shall not indulge them." But the thread of thought was broken and lost, and she tried in vain to recover it; a distant hum of blithe voices came now and again to her ear with disturbing influence. She could not rise and go away from it. Again the pen was laid aside, and lying back in her chair with her head against its cushions, she closed her eyes with a weary sigh, a tear trickling slowly down her cheek. "I cannot work," she murmured. "Ah, if I could only stop thinking these miserable, wicked thoughts!" Mrs. Travilla, returning from a visit to the quarter, stopped a moment to watch the croquet players. "Where is Molly?" she asked of her eldest daughter; "did she go with your grandpa and the others?" "No, mamma, she is in her room, hard at work as usual, poor thing!" "She is altogether too devoted to her work; she ought to be out enjoying this delicious weather. Surely you did not neglect to invite her to join you here, Elsie?" "No, mamma, I did my best to persuade her. I can hardly bear to think she is shut up there alone, while all the rest of us are having so pleasant an afternoon." "It is too bad," Mr. Embury remarked, "and I was strongly tempted to venture into her sanctum and try my powers of persuasion; but refrained lest I should but disturb the flow of thought and get myself into disgrace without accomplishing my end. Have you the courage to attempt the thing, Mrs. Travilla?" "I think I must try," she answered, with a smile, as she turned away in the direction of the house. She found Molly at work, busied over a translation for which she had laid aside the unfinished story interrupted by the younger Elsie's visit. She welcomed her cousin with a smile, but not a very bright or mirthful one, and traces of tears about her eyes were very evident. "My dear child," Elsie said, in tones as tender and compassionate as she would have used to one of her own darlings, and laying her hand affectionately on the young girl's shoulder, "I do not like to see you so hard at work while every one else is out enjoying this delightful weather. How can you resist the call of all the bloom and beauty you can see from your window there?" "It is attractive, cousin," Molly answered; "I could not resist it if--if I could run about as others do," she added, with a tremble in her voice. "My poor, poor child!" Elsie said with emotion, bending down to press a kiss on the girl's forehead. Molly threw her arms about her, and burst into tears and sobs. "Oh it is so hard, so hard! so cruel that I must sit here a helpless cripple all my days! How can I bear it, for years and years, it may be!" "Dear child, 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' Let us live one day at a time, leaving the future with our heavenly Father, trusting in His promise that as our day our strength shall be. Rutherford says, 'These many days I have had no morrow at all.' If it were so with all of us, how the burdens would be lightened! for a very large part of them is apprehension for the future. Is it not?" "Yes, and I am ashamed of my weakness and cowardice." "Dear child, I have often admired your strength and courage under a trial I fear I should not bear half so well." Molly lifted to her cousin's a face full of wonder, surprise and gratitude; then it clouded again and tears trembled in her eyes and in her voice, as she said, "But, Cousin Elsie, you must let me work; it is my life, my happiness; the only kind I can ever hope for, ever have. Others may busy themselves with household cares, may fill their hearts with the sweet loves of kind husbands and dear little children; but these things are not for me. O cousin, forgive me!" she cried, as she saw the pained look in Elsie's face. "I did not mean--I did not intend--" "To remind me of the past," Elsie whispered, struggling with her tears. "It is full of sweet memories, that I would not be without for anything. Oh true indeed is it that 'Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all." "O Cousin Elsie, your faith and patience are beautiful!" cried Molly, impulsively. "You never murmur at your cross, you are satisfied with all God sends. I wish it were so with me, but--O cousin, cousin, my very worst trouble is that I am afraid I am not a Christian! that I have been deceiving myself all these years!" she ended with a burst of bitter weeping. "Molly dear," Elsie said, folding her in her arms and striving to soothe her with caresses, "you surprise me very much, for I have long seen the lovely fruit of the Spirit in your life and conversation. Do you not love Jesus and trust in him alone for salvation?" "I thought I did, and oh I cannot bear to think of not belonging to him! it breaks my heart!" "Then why should you think so?" "Because I find so much of evil in myself. If you knew the rebellious thoughts and feelings I have had this very day you would not think me a Christian. I have hated myself because of them." "You have struggled to cast them out, you have not encouraged or loved them. Is that what they do who have no love to Christ? no desire after conformity to his will? It is the child of God who hates sin and struggles against it. But it is not necessary to decide whether you have or have not been mistaken in your past experience, since you may come to Jesus now just as if you had never come before: give yourself to him and accept his offered salvation without stopping to ask whether it is for the first or the ten thousandth time. Oh that is always my comfort when assailed by doubts and fears! 'Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.' Jesus says, to-day and every day, 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.'" Glad tears glistened in Molly's eyes. "And he will pardon my iniquity though it is so great," she murmured, with trembling lip and half averted face: "he will forgive all my transgressions and my sins, cleanse me from them and love me freely." "Yes, dear child, he will. And now put away your work for the rest of this day and come out into the pure, sweet air. If we weary our poor, weak bodies too much, Satan is but too ready to take advantage of our physical condition to assault us with temptations, doubts and fears." "I will do as you think best, cousin," was the submissive reply. Elsie at once summoned a servant, and in a few moments Molly's chair was rolling along the gravelled walks, underneath the grand old trees, a gentle breeze from the lakelet, laden with the scent of magnolias and orange blossoms, gathered in its passage across the lawn, softly fanning her cheek, her cousin walking by her side and entertaining her with pleasant chat. Rosie and Walter came running to meet them. They were glad to see Molly out: they filled her lap with flowers and her ears with their sweet innocent prattle, her heart growing lighter as she listened and drank in beside all the sweet sights and scents and sounds of nature in her most bountiful mood. They made a partial circuit of the grounds that at last brought them to the croquet players, who, one and all, greeted Molly's arrival with expressions of satisfaction or delight. Each brought an offering of bud or blossom, the loveliest and sweetest of flowers were scattered so profusely on every hand. Mr. Embury's was a half blown rose, and Elsie, furtively watching her charge, noted the quick blush with which it was received, the care with which it was stealthily treasured afterward. A suspicion stirred in her breast, a fear that made her heart tremble and ache for the poor girl. Mr. Embury spent the evening at Viamede. Molly was in the parlor with the rest, and the greater part of the time he was close at her side. Both talked more than usual, often addressing each other, and seemed to outdo themselves in sparkling wit and brilliant repartee. Molly's cheeks glowed and her eyes shone: she had never been so handsome or fascinating before, and Mr. Embury hung upon her words. Elsie's heart sank as she saw it all. "My poor child!" she sighed to herself. "I must warn him that her affections are not to be trifled with. He may think her sad affliction is her shield--raising a barrier that she herself must know to be impassable--but when was heart controlled by reason?" The next morning Enna, putting her head in at the door of the dressing-room where her niece was busy with her little ones, said: "Elsie, I wish you'd come and speak a word to Molly. She'll hear reason from you, maybe, though she thinks I haven't sense enough to give her any advice." "What is it?" Elsie asked, obeying the summons at once, leaving Rosie and Walter in Aunt Chloe's charge. "Just come to her room, won't you?" Enna said, leading the way. "I don't see what possesses the child to act so. He's handsome and rich and everything a reasonable woman could ask. I want you to--But there! he's gone, and it's too late!" Elsie following her glance through a window they were passing, saw Mr. Embury's carriage driving away. "Did he ask Molly to go with him?" she inquired. "Yes, and she wouldn't do it; though I did all I could to make her. Come and speak to her though, so she'll know better next time." Molly sat in an attitude of dejection, her face hidden in her hands, and did not seem conscious of their entrance until Elsie's hand was softly laid on her shoulder, while the pitying voice asked, "What is the matter, Molly dear?" Then the bowed head was lifted, and Elsie saw that her eyes were full of tears, her cheeks wet with them. "Oh, Cousin Elsie," she sobbed, "don't ask me to go with him. I must not. I must try to keep away from him. Oh, why did we ever meet? Shall I ever be rid of this weary pain in my heart?" "Yes, dear child, it will pass away in time," her cousin whispered, putting kind arms about her. "He must stay away, and you will learn to be happy again in your work, and, better still, in the one love that can never fail you in this world or the next." "He is a good man, don't blame him," murmured the poor girl, hiding her blushing face on her cousin's shoulder. "I will try not; but such selfish thoughtlessness is almost unpardonable. He must not come here any more." "No, no: don't tell him that! don't let him suspect that I--care whether he does or not. And he enjoys it so much, he is so lonely in his own house." "Do not fear that I will betray you, poor, dear, unselfish child," Elsie said; "but I must protect you somehow. And, Molly dear, though I believe married life is the happiest, where there is deep, true love, founded on respect and perfect confidence, I am quite sure that it is possible for a woman to be very happy though she live single all her days. There is my dear old Aunt Wealthy, for example; she must be now nearly ninety. I have known her for more than twenty years, and always as one of the cheeriest and happiest people I ever saw." "Did she ever meet any one she cared for?" Molly asked, still hiding her face. "Yes: she had a sore disappointment in her young days, as she told me herself; but the wound healed in time." Enna had seated herself in a low rocking-chair by a window, and with hands folded in her lap was keenly eying her daughter and niece. "What are you two saying to each other?" she demanded. "You talk so low I can only catch a word now and then; but I don't believe, Elsie, that you are coaxing Molly to behave as I want her to." "Poor mother!" sighed Molly; "she can't understand it." CHAPTER XV. "Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence." --_Byron._ Finding her own thoughts full of Molly and her troubles to the exclusion of everything else, Elsie presently dismissed her little ones to their play, spent a few moments in consulting her best Friend, then went in search of her father. She would not betray Molly even to him, but it would be safe, helpful, comforting to confide her own doubts, fears and anxieties. She found him in the library, and alone. He was standing before a window with his back toward her as she entered, and did not seem to hear her light footsteps till she was close at his side; then turning hastily, he caught her in his arms, strained her to his breast, and kissed her again and again with passionate fondness. "What is it, papa?" she asked in surprise, looking up into his face and seeing it full of emotion that seemed a strange blending of pain and pleasure. "My darling, my darling!" he said in low, tremulous tones, holding her close, and repeating his caresses, "how shall I ever make up to you for the sorrows of your infancy? the culpable, heartless neglect with which your father treated you then? I see I surprise you by referring to it now, but I have been talking with one of the old servants who retains a vivid remembrance of your babyhood here, and your heart-rending grief when forced away from your home and almost all you had learned to love. Such a picture of it has she given me that I fairly long to go back to that time and take my baby girl to my heart and comfort her." "Dear papa, I hardly remember it now," she said, laying her head down on his breast; "and oh I have the sweetest memories of years and years of the tenderest fatherly love and care!--love and care that surround me still and form one of my best and dearest earthly blessings. If the Lord will, may we long be spared to each other, my dear, dear father!" His response was a fervent "Amen," and sitting down upon a sofa, he drew her to a seat by his side. "I have come to you for help and advice in a new difficulty, papa," she said. "I fear I have made a sad mistake in allowing Mr. Embury's visits here; and yet--I cannot exclude from my house gentlemen visitors of unexceptionable character." "No; and he appears to be all that, and more--a sincere, earnest Christian. But what is it that you regret or fear? Elsie is engaged, Violet very young, and for Isa--supposing there were any such prospect--it would be a most suitable match." "But Molly?" "Molly!" he exclaimed with a start. "Poor child! she could never think of marriage!" "No, papa, but hearts don't reason and love comes unbidden." "And you think she cares for him?" "It would not be strange if she should; he is a very agreeable man, and--Did you notice them last night? I thought his actions decidedly loverlike, and there was something in her face that made me tremble for the poor child's future peace of mind." "Poor child!" he echoed; "poor, poor child! I am glad you called my attention to it. I must give Embury a hint: he cannot, of course, be thinking what he is about: for I am sure he is not the heartless wretch he would be if he could wreck her happiness intentionally." "Thank you, dear papa. You will know exactly how to do it without the least compromise of the dear girl's womanly pride and delicacy of feeling, or offending or hurting him. "You spoke just now of Isa," she went on presently. "I should be glad if she and Mr. Embury fancied each other; such a match would be very pleasing to Aunt Louise on account of his wealth and social position, little as she would like his piety, but--" "Well, daughter?" "Have you noticed how constantly Cyril seeks her companionship? how naturally the others leave those two to pair off together? They sit and read or chat together by the hour out yonder under the trees; scarce a day passes without its long, lonely ramble or ride. He talks to her of his work too, in which his whole heart is engaged; listens attentively to all she says--turning in the most interested way to her for an opinion, no matter what subject is broached; listens with delight to her music too, and sometimes reads his sermons to her for the benefit of her criticism, or consults her in regard to his choice of a text." Mr. Dinsmore's countenance expressed extreme satisfaction. "I am glad of it," he said; "they seem made for each other." "But Aunt Louise, papa?" "Will not fancy a poor clergyman for a son-in-law, yet will consider even that better than not seeing her daughter married at all. And if the two most intimately concerned are happy and content, what matter for the rest?" "Oh papa!" Elsie returned with a smile that had something of old-time archness in it, "have not your opinions in regard to the rights of parents and the duties of children changed somewhat since my early girlhood?" "Circumstances alter cases," he answered with a playful caress. "I should never have objected to so wise a choice as Isa's--always supposing that she has made the one we are talking of." "And you will not mind if Aunt Louise blames you? or me?" "I shall take all the blame and not mind it in the least." Yes, Cyril Keith and Isadore Conly were made for each other, and had become conscious of the fact, though no word of love had yet been spoken. To him she was the sweetest and loveliest of her sex, in whom he found a stronger union of beauty, grace, accomplishments, sound sense and earnest piety than in any other young lady of his acquaintance; while to her he was the impersonation of all that was truly noble, manly and Christian. They were dreaming love's young dream, and found intense enjoyment each in the other's society, especially amid all the loveliness of nature that surrounded them. Cyril's was a whole-hearted consecration to his divine Master and that loved Master's work, but this human love interfered not in any way with that, for it is of God's appointment. "'And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.' 'Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.'" "How like you that is, papa dear," Elsie said; "but it would be easier to me to bear blame myself than to have it heaped upon you. I suppose, though, that it would be useless to attempt any interference with the course of true love?" "Yes; we will simply let them alone." Mr. Dinsmore rode over to Magnolia Hall that afternoon to seek an interview with its owner; but learned that he was not at home, and might not be for a day or two. No one knew just when he would return. So the only course now left seemed to be to wait till he should call again at Viamede. He had been an almost daily visitor of late, and often sent some token of remembrance by a servant--fruit, flowers, game or fish, or it might be a book from his library which was not found in theirs. But now one, two, three days passed and nothing was seen or heard of him. Sad, wearisome days they were to Molly: mental labor was next to impossible; she could not even read with any enjoyment; her heart was heavy with grief and unsatisfied longing, intensified by her mother's constant reiteration, "You've offended him, and he'll never come again; you've thrown away the best chance a girl ever had; and you'll never see another like it." Then it was unusually long since she had heard from Dick; and she had waited for news from a manuscript which had cost her months of hard work, and on which great expectations were based, till her heart was sick with hope deferred. It was on the morning of the fourth day that Molly, having persuaded her mother to go for a walk with her grandfather and Mrs. Carrington, summoned a servant and desired to be taken out into the grounds. She sat motionless in her chair gazing in mournful silence on all the luxuriant beauty that surrounded her, while the man wheeled her up one walk and down another. At length, "That will do, Joe," she said; "you may stop the chair under that magnolia yonder, and leave me there for an hour." "I'se 'fraid you git tired, Miss Molly, and nobody roun' for to wait on you," he remarked when he had placed her in the desired spot. "No; I have the bell here, and it can be heard at the house. I have a book, too, to amuse myself with: and the gardener yonder is within sight. You need not fear to leave me." He walked away and she opened her book. But she scarcely looked at it. Her thoughts were busying themselves with something else, and her eyes were full of tears. A quick, manly step on the gravel walk behind her startled her and sent a vivid color over face and neck. "Good morning, Miss Percival; I am fortunate indeed in finding you here alone," a voice said, close at her side. "Good morning, Mr. Embury," she returned, with a vain effort to steady her tones, and without looking up. He took possession of a rustic seat close to which her chair was standing. "Molly, my dear Miss Molly," he said, in some agitation, "I fear I have unwittingly offended." "No, no, no!" she answered, bursting into tears in spite of herself. "There, what a baby I am!" dashing them angrily away. "I wish you wouldn't come here and set me to crying." "Let me tell you something, let me ask you one question; and then if you bid me, I will go away and never come near you again," he said, taking her hand and holding it fast. "Molly, I love you. I want you to be my wife. Will you?" "Oh you don't mean it! you can't mean it! no man in his senses would want to marry me--a poor helpless cripple!" she cried, trying to pull the hand away, "and it's a cruel, cruel jest! Oh how can you!" and covering her face with the free hand, she sobbed as if her heart would break. "Don't, don't, dear Molly," he entreated. "I am not jesting, nor am I rushing into this thing hastily or thoughtlessly. Your very helplessness draws me to you and makes you doubly dear. I want to take care of you, my poor child. I want to make up your loss to you as far as my love and sympathy can; to make your life bright and happy in spite of your terrible trial." "You are the noblest, most unselfish man I ever heard of," she said, wiping away her tears to give him a look of amazement and admiration; "but I cannot be so selfish as to take all when I can give nothing in return." "Do you call yourself--with your sweet face, cheery disposition, brilliant talents, and conversational powers that render you the most entertaining and charming of companions--nothing? I think you a greater prize than half the women who have the free use of all their limbs." "You are very kind to say it." "No, I am not, for it is the simple, unvarnished truth. Molly, if you can love me, I should rather have you than any other woman on earth. How your presence would brighten my home! I give all indeed! you will be worth more to me than all I have to give in return. O Molly, have you no love to bestow upon poor me?" She had ceased the struggle to free her hand from the strong yet tender clasp in which it was held, but her face was averted and tears were falling fast. His words had sent a thrill of exquisite joy to her heart, but instantly it changed to bitter sorrow. "You cannot have counted the cost," she said. "I am poor; I have nothing at all but the pittance I earn by my pen. And think: I can never walk by your side: I cannot go about your house and see that your comfort is not neglected, or your substance wasted. I cannot nurse you in sickness or wait upon you in health as another woman might. Oh cannot you see that I have nothing to give you in return for all you--in your wonderful generosity--are offering to me?" "Your love, dear girl, and the blessed privilege of taking care of you, are all I ask, all I want--can you not give me these?" "Oh, why do you tempt me so?" she cried. "Tempt you? would it be a sin to love me? to give yourself to me when I want you so much, so very much?" "It seems to me it would be taking advantage of the most unheard-of generosity. What woman's heart could stand out against it?" "Ah, then you do love me!" he exclaimed, in accents of joy, and lifting her hand to his lips. "You will be mine? my own dear wife? a sweet mother to my darlings. I have brought them with me, that their beauty and sweetness, their pretty innocent ways, may plead my cause with you, for I know that you love little children." He was gone before she could reply, and the next moment was at her side again, bearing in his arms two lovely little creatures of three and five. "These are my babies," he said, sitting down with one upon each knee. "Corinna," to the eldest, "don't you want this sweet lady to come and live with us and be your dear mamma?" The child took a long, searching look into Molly's face before she answered; then, with a bright, glad smile breaking like sunlight over her own, "Yes, papa, I _do_!" she said, emphatically. "Won't you come, pretty lady? Madie and I will be good children, and love you ever so much." And she held up her rosebud mouth for a kiss. Molly gave it very heartily. "Me, too--you mustn't fordet to tiss Madie," the little one said. Molly motioned the father to set the child in her lap, and, putting an arm about Corinna, petted and fondled them both for a little, the mother instinct stirring strongly within her the while. "There, that will do, my pets; we must not tire the dear lady," Mr. Embury said presently, lifting his youngest and setting her on her feet beside her sister. "Go back now to your mammy. See, yonder she is, waiting for you." "What darlings they are," Molly said, following them with wistful, longing eyes. "Yes. Ah, can your heart resist their appeal?" "How could I, chained to my chair, do a mother's part by them?" she asked mournfully, and with a heavy sigh. "Their physical needs are well attended to," he said, again taking her hand, while his eyes sought hers with wistful, pleading tenderness; "it is motherly counsels, sympathy, love they want. Is it not in your power to give them all these? I would throw no burdens on you, love; I only aim to show you that the giving need not necessarily be all on my side, the receiving all on yours." "How kind, how noble you are," she said, in moved tones. "But your relatives? your other children? how would they feel to see you joined for life to a--" "Don't say it," he interrupted, in tones of tenderest compassion. "My boys will be drawn to you by your helplessness, while they will be very proud of your talents and your sweetness. I have no other near relatives but two brothers, who have no right to concern themselves in the matter, nor will be likely to care to do so. But, O, dearest girl, what shall I, what can I say to convince you that you are my heart's desire? that I want you, your love, your dear companionship, more than tongue can tell? Will you refuse them to me?" She answered only with a look, but it said all he wished. "Bless you, darling!" he whispered, putting his arm about her, while her head dropped upon his shoulder, "you have made me very happy." Molly was silent, was weeping, but for very gladness; her heart sang for joy; not that a beautiful home, wealth, and all the luxury and ease it could purchase, would now be hers, but that she was loved by one so noble and generous, so altogether worthy of her highest respect, her warmest affection, the devotion of her whole life, which she inwardly vowed should be his. She would strive to be to him such a wife as Elsie had been to her husband, such a mother to his children as her sweet cousin was to hers. CHAPTER XVI. "I saw her, and I loved her-- I sought her, and I won." "Across the threshold led, And every tear kiss'd off as soon as shed, His house she enters, there to be a light Shining within, when all without is night; A guardian angel, o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasure, and his cares dividing." --_Roger._ "You declined a drive with me the last time I asked you," Mr. Embury remarked, breaking a momentary silence that had fallen between them, "but will you not be more gracious to-day? My carriage is near at hand, and I have a great desire to take you for an airing--you and the babies." Blushing deeply, Molly said, "Yes, if you wish it, and will bring me back before I am missed." "I shall take good care of you, as who would not of his own?" he said, bending down to look into her face with a proud, fond smile; "yes, you are mine now, dearest, and I shall never resign my claim. Ah," as he lifted his head again, "here comes your uncle, and I fancy he eyes me with distrust. Mr. Dinsmore," and he stepped forward with outstretched hand, "how do you do, sir? What do you say to receiving me into the family? I trust you will not object, for this dear girl intends to give me the right to call you uncle." Mr. Dinsmore grasped the hand, looking in silent astonishment from one to the other. He read the story of their love in both faces--Molly's downcast and blushing, yet happy; Mr. Embury's overflowing with unfeigned delight. "I assure you, sir," he went on, "I am fully aware that she is a prize any man might be proud to win. Your niece is no ordinary woman: her gifts and graces are many and great." "She is all that you have said, and even more," her uncle returned, finding his voice. "And yet--you are quite sure that this is not a sudden impulse for which you may some day be sorry?" He had stepped to Molly's other side and taken her hand in his, in a protecting, fatherly way. "It would wreck her happiness," he added, in moved tones, "and that is very dear to me." "It cannot be dearer to you, sir, than it is to me," the lover answered; "and rest assured your fears are groundless. It is no sudden impulse on my part, but deliberate action taken after weeks of careful and prayerful consideration. You seem to stand in the place of a father to her; will you give her to me?" "Mr. Embury, you are the noblest of men, and must forgive me that I had some suspicion that you were thoughtlessly trifling with the child's affections. I see you have won her heart, and may you be very happy together." Mr. Dinsmore was turning away, but Mr. Embury stopped him. "Let me thank you, sir," he said, again holding out his hand. "We are going for a little drive," he added, "and please let no one be anxious about Miss Percival. I am responsible for her safe return." Molly's chair rolled on with rapid, steady movement to the entrance to the grounds, where Mr. Embury's carriage stood; then she felt herself carefully, tenderly lifted from one to the other and comfortably established on a softly cushioned seat. How like a delightful dream it all seemed--the swift, pleasant motion through the pure, sweet, fragrant air; beautiful scenery on every hand; the prattle of infant voices and the whispers of love in her ear. Should she not awake presently to its unreality? awake to find herself still the lonely, unloved woman she was in her own esteem but an hour ago, and who by reason of her sad infirmity could look forward to nothing else through life? They turned in at an open gateway, and Molly, suddenly rousing herself, said, in surprise, "We are entering some one's private grounds, are we not?" "Yes," was the quiet reply, "but there is no objection. The owner and I are on the most intimate terms. I admire the place very much, and want you to see it, so we will drive all around the grounds." And he gave the order to the coachman. Molly looked and admired. "Charming! almost if not quite equal to Viamede." His eyes shone. "Your taste agrees with mine," he said. "Look this way. We have a good view of the house from here. What do you think of it?" "That it is just suited to its surroundings, and must be a delightful residence." "So it is; and I want to show you the inside too. There's no objection," as he read hesitation and disapproval in her face; "the master and mistress are not there, and--in fact I have charge of the place just now, and am quite at liberty to show it to strangers." The next moment they drew up before the front entrance. Mr. Embury hastily alighted and lifted out the little ones, saying in a low tone something which Molly did not hear as he set them down. They ran in at the open door, and turning to her again he took her in his strong arms and bore her into a lordly entrance hall; then on through, one spacious, elegantly furnished room after another--parlors, library, dining and drawing-rooms--moving slowly that she might have time so gaze and admire, and now and then setting her down for a few moments in an easy chair or on a luxurious sofa, usually before a rare painting or some other beautiful work of art which he thought she would particularly enjoy. The children had disappeared, and they were quite alone. He had reserved a charming boudoir for the last. Open doors gave tempting glimpses of dressing and bedrooms beyond. "These," he said, placing her in a delightfully easy, velvet cushioned chair, and standing by her side, "are the apartments of the mistress of the mansion, as you have doubtless already conjectured. What do you think of them?" "That they are very beautiful, very luxurious. And oh what a lovely view from yonder window!" "And from this, is it not?" he said, stepping aside and turning her chair a little that she might see, through a vista of grand old trees, the lagoon beyond sparkling in the sunlight. "Oh that is finer still!" she cried. "I should think one might almost be content to live a close prisoner here." "Then I may hope my dear wife will not be unhappy here? will not regret leaving the beauties of Viamede and the charming society there for this place and the companionship of its owner? Molly, dearest, this is Magnolia Hall; you are its mistress, and these are your own rooms," he said, kneeling by her side to fold her to his heart with tenderest caresses. "It is too much, oh you are too good to me!" she sobbed, as her head dropped upon his shoulder. On leaving Mr. Embury and Molly, Mr. Dinsmore hastened to join his wife and daughter, who were sitting together on the lawn. The interview between the lovers having taken place in a part of the grounds not visible from where they sat, they had seen nothing of it. "You look like the bearer of glad tidings, my dear," Rose remarked, glancing inquiringly at her husband as he seated himself at her side. "And so I am, wife," he answered joyously. "Elsie, you may spare yourself any further regrets because of your kindness to Mr. Embury. He is a noble, generous-hearted fellow, and very much in love with our poor, dear Molly. They are engaged." "Engaged?" echoed both ladies simultaneously, as much surprised and pleased as he had hoped to see them. "Yes," he said, and went on to repeat what had passed between himself and the newly-affianced pair. "Dear Molly," Elsie said with tears trembling in her eyes, "I trust there are many very happy days in store for her. And how pleased Aunt Enna will be, she was so desirous to bring about the match." "Molly herself should have the pleasure of telling her." "Yes, indeed, papa." "There is something else," Mr. Dinsmore said. "At Mr. Embury's suggestion I wrote to Dick two or three weeks ago, telling him that there was a good opening for a physician here, and asking if he would not like to come and settle if pleased with the country. His answer came this morning, and he will be with us in a few days." "How glad I am!" was Elsie's exclamation. "Molly's cup of happiness will be full to overflowing." Rose, too, was rejoiced; but she had heard before of the invitation to Dick, and was less surprised at this news than Elsie was. The ladies had their work, Mr. Dinsmore the morning paper, and the three were still sitting there when Mr. Embury's carriage returned. Molly's face was radiant with happiness; Mr. Embury's also; and the faces of the friends who gathered about them in the library, whither he carried her, seemed to reflect the glad light in theirs. Everybody was rejoiced at Molly's good fortune, and pleased to receive Mr. Embury into the family, for they all respected and liked him. Enna's delight on hearing the news was unbounded; she half smothered her daughter with kisses, and exclaimed over and over again, "I knew he wanted you! And didn't I tell you there'd be somebody better worth having than Elsie's lover coming after you some day? And I'm as glad as can be that my girl's going to be married the first of all--before Louise's girls, or Elsie's either!" "I can't see that that makes the least difference, mother," Molly said, laughing for very gladness. "But oh what a good and kind man he is! and what a lovely home we are to have! for, mother, he says you are to live with us always if you like." "Now that is nice!" Enna said, much gratified. "And is it as pretty as Viamede?" "It is almost if not quite as beautiful as Viamede, though not quite so large; both house and grounds are, I believe, a little smaller." "How soon are you going to be married?" "I don't know just when, mother; the day has not been set." "I hope it will be soon, just as soon as we can get you ready." This was a little private chat in Molly's room after Mr. Embury had gone away. She had asked to have her chair wheeled in there, and to be left alone with her mother while she told her the news of her engagement. "I must consult with uncle and aunt and Cousin Elsie about that," she said in answer to her mother's last remark. "Will you please open the door now and ask them to come in? I don't care if the rest come too." "Well, Molly, when, where, and by whom is the knot to be tied?" asked Mr. Dinsmore playfully, as he stood by her side looking down with a kindly smile at her blushing, happy face. "O uncle, so many questions at once!" "Well, one at a time then: When?" "That foolishly impatient man wanted me to say to-night," she answered, laughing, "and when I told him how absurd an idea that was, he insisted that a week was quite long enough for him to go on living alone." "A week!" exclaimed her aunt. "You surely did not consent to that?" "No," Aunt Rose, "but I believe I half consented to try to make my preparations in two weeks. I doubt if we can quite settle that question now." "There must be time allowed for furnishing you with a handsome trousseau, my dear child," Elsie said, "but possibly it can be accomplished in a fortnight. As to the next question--where?--you surely will let it be here, in my house?" "Gladly, cousin, if pleasing to you," Molly answered with a grateful, loving look. "And Mr. Keith shall officiate, if he will. Of course it must be a very quiet affair; I should prefer that under any circumstances." "You will invite Dick, will you not?" her uncle asked with a twinkle in his eye. "Dick! oh the dear fellow! I ought to have him. I wonder if I could persuade him to leave his practice long enough to come. Two weeks would give him time to get here if I write at once." "No need," her uncle replied. "Providence permitting, he will be here in less than half that time." Then the whole story came out in answer to Molly's look of astonished inquiry, and her cup of happiness was indeed full to overflowing. "Where did you drive, Molly?" asked Isa. "But I suppose you hardly know; you could see nothing but--your companion?" "Ah, Isa, do you judge of me by yourself?" queried Molly gleefully. "By the way, though, I had three companions. But _don't_ I know where I went?" Then smiling, laughing, blushing, rosy and happy as they had never seen her before, she described the darling baby girls and the beautiful home. But the sweet words of love that had been as music to her ear were too sacred for any other. She had quite a large and certainly very attentive and interested audience, the whole family having gathered in the room. Enna and the young girls were especially delighted with the tale she had to tell. "It's just like a story--the very nicest kind of a story!" cried Vi, clapping her hands in an ecstasy of delight when Molly came to that part of her narrative where she learned that she herself was to be the mistress of the lordly mansion she had entered as a stranger visitor, with all its wealth of luxury and beauty. The next two or three weeks were full of pleasant bustle and excitement, preparations for the wedding being pushed forward with all possible dispatch, Mr. Embury pleading his loneliness and that he wanted Molly's relatives and friends to see her fairly settled in her new home before they left Viamede for the North. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, with Enna, Isa, the younger Elsie and Violet, took a trip to New Orleans and spent several days in shopping there, laying in great store of rich, costly and beautiful things for Molly's adornment. Mr. Embury, too, paid a flying visit to the city, which resulted in an elegant set of jewels for his bride and some new articles of furniture for her apartments. Dick arrived at about the expected time and was joyfully welcomed. His surprise and delight in view of Molly's prospects were quite sufficient to satisfy her, and so greatly was he pleased with the country that in a few days he announced his purpose to remain. Cyril had received a unanimous call from the two churches, and after mature deliberation accepted it, upon which Elsie doubled the salary she had formerly paid, and told him playfully and in private that if he would get a wife whom she could approve she would repair, enlarge, and refurnish the cottage. "You are extremely kind and generous cousin," he stammered, coloring deeply, "and I--I would be only too glad to follow out your suggestion." "Well," she returned in the same playful tone, "what is there to hinder?" "The only woman I could fancy, could love, is so beautiful, fascinating, accomplished, so altogether attractive in every way, that--I fear she could hardly be expected to content herself with a poor minister." "I cannot say how that is," Elsie answered with a smile, "but judging by myself I should think she would give her hand wherever her heart has gone; and if I were a man I should not despair until I had asked and been refused. And, Cyril, though not rich in this world's goods, I consider you a fit match for the highest--you who are a son of the King." "That sonship is more to me than all the world has to give," he said, looking at her with glistening eyes, "but to others it may seem of little worth." "Not to any one who is of the right spirit to be truly an helpmeet to you. I think I know where your affections are set, my dear cousin, and that by her the true riches are esteemed as by you and me." He thanked her warmly by word and look for her kind sympathy and encouragement, and there the interview ended. But that night, when Elsie was about retiring, Isa came to her, all smiles, tears and blushes, to tell the story of love given and returned. She and Cyril had spent the evening wandering about the grounds alone together in the moonlight, and he had wooed and won his heart's choice. "Dear Isa, I am very, very glad for you and for Cyril," Elsie whispered, clasping her cousin close, and kissing again and again the blushing cheek. "I cannot wish anything better for you than that you may be as happy in your wedded life as my dear husband and I were." "Nor could I ask a better wish," Isa returned with emotion; "but ah! I fear I can never be the perfect wife you were! And, cousin, I can hardly hope for mamma's approval of my choice." "Do not trouble about that now; I think we shall find means to win her consent." "I think grandpa and uncle are sure to approve." "Yes; and they will be powerful advocates with Aunt Louise; so I think you need not hesitate to be as happy as you can," Elsie answered with a smile. "Do you wish the matter kept secret?" "Mr. Keith is with grandpa and uncle now," Isa said, blushing, "and I don't care how soon Aunt Rose and the girls and Dick know it; but if you please, the rest may wait until mamma is heard from." Molly was delighted, though not greatly astonished, when Isa told her the next morning. "How nice that we shall be near neighbors," she exclaimed. "I wish you would just decide to make it a double wedding." "Thank you," laughed Isa; "do you forget that it is now just one week from your appointed day? or do you think my trousseau could be gotten up in a week, though it takes three for yours?" "I really didn't stop to think," Molly acknowledged with a happy laugh; "but, Isa, you are so beautiful that you need no finery to add to your attractions, while my plainness requires a good deal." "Molly," Isa said, standing before her and gazing fixedly and admiringly into the glad, blooming face, "I think you have neglected your mirror of late or you wouldn't talk so." A great surprise came to Molly on the morning of her wedding day. Her cousin Elsie gave her ten thousand dollars, and Mr. Embury settled fifty thousand upon her, beside presenting her with the jewels he had purchased--a set of diamonds and pearls. Also she received many handsome presents from uncle, aunt, brother and cousins, and from Mr. Embury's children. He had sent for his two boys, fine manly fellows of ten and twelve, to be present at the marriage, which was to take place in the evening, and had brought them that morning for a short call upon his chosen bride. She and they seemed mutually pleased, and Molly, who had been somewhat apprehensive lest they should dislike the match, felt as if the last stone were removed from her path. She gratified Mr. Embury greatly by a request that the baby girls and all the servants from Magnolia Hall might be present, and that he would let Louis, his eldest son, stand up with them as third groomsman, Dick and Harold Travilla being first and second. Isa, the younger Elsie and Violet were the bridesmaids, all wearing white for the occasion. It was a very quiet wedding indeed, no one at all present but the members of the two families, servants included--these last grouping themselves about the open door into the hall. Molly sat in her chair looking very sweet and pretty in white silk, point lace, and abundance of orange blossoms freshly gathered from the trees on the lawn. The bridesmaids looked very lovely also; groom and groomsmen handsome and happy. Mr. Keith made the ceremony short but solemn and impressive. The usual greetings and congratulations followed; Elsie's to the bride a whispered hope, accompanied with tears and smiles, that every year might find herself and husband nearer and dearer to each other. An elegant banquet succeeded, and shortly after the happy bridegroom bore his new-made wife away to her future home. CHAPTER XVII. "But happy they! the happiest of their kind! Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. . . . . . for naught but love Can answer love, and render bliss secure." --_Thomson's Seasons._ As no invitations to the wedding were to be sent to relatives at a distance, it was thought quite as well not to inform them of Molly's engagement until after the marriage had taken place; beside, as the preparations were so hurried, no one had much time for correspondence. Isadore Conly did not once during the three weeks write to Roselands, excusing herself on the double plea that her last letter remained unanswered, and that she was particularly busy about the trousseau. She found little time to spare from that which was not taken up in walking or riding with Cyril. He proposed writing to her mother immediately after declaring his love; but she begged him to delay a little till her grandfather and uncle should have time to consider how to bring their influence to bear upon Mrs. Conly in the way most likely to win her approval of his suit. The day after the wedding saw a number of letters directed to Roselands, dropped into the Viamede mail-bag, and a few days later they reached their destination. The family--consisting of Mrs. Conly, Calhoun, Arthur, Virginia, Walter (who was at home for a few days on a furlough, being now a lieutenant in the U. S. Army), and several younger ones--were at breakfast when Pomp came in with the mail-bag. Calhoun opened it and distributed the contents. "Letters from Viamede at last," he remarked; "three for you, mother, from grandpa, uncle and--somebody else; one for Walter (Dick's handwriting! I didn't know he was there) and one for Virginia." "From Isa," Virginia said as she glanced at the superscription; then tearing open the envelope, and glancing down the first page, "Molly is married! to a rich planter, too! Will wonders never cease!" A simultaneous exclamation of surprise from all present. "Nonsense, Isa's hoaxing you," said Walter, stirring his coffee. "Here, let me see the letter." "No. Open your own." "That's not in Isa's line," remarked Arthur, "but really it is very astonishing news. What does Dick say, Wal? He went down there to attend the wedding, I presume?" "No; didn't know a word about it till he got there," Walter said, giving a hasty perusal to the not very lengthy epistle; "went to settle; good opening for a doctor; splendid country, everything lovely, likes brother-in-law immensely, is overjoyed at Molly's good luck, says she's as happy as a queen." "Which may mean much or little," remarked Conly. His mother cleared her throat emphatically, and all eyes turned to her. She held an open letter in her hand, and her face looked flushed and angry. "Isa, too, it seems, has lost her heart," she said in a bitter, sarcastic tone; "and with her usual good sense, has bestowed it upon a poor clergyman. Doubtless he has heard of her Aunt Delaford's intentions--Elsie perhaps has given him the hint, he being a relative of hers--and thinks he is securing a fortune. But if Isa throws herself away in such fashion, Sister Delaford may change her mind." Calhoun and Arthur both repelled with warmth the insinuation against Elsie; the latter adding that he thought Isa's personal charms were quite sufficient of themselves to captivate a man who was not in pursuit of wealth. "And Isa," remarked Calhoun, "is so unworldly that wealth would be a matter of small consideration to her where her heart was concerned." "A fact that should make her friends the more careful how they encourage her in taking a poor man," said the mother; "but my father and brother are both strongly in favor of this adventurer's suit." "Adventurer, mother! I thought you said he was a clergyman!" "Well, Calhoun, I don't see any contradiction there. But his name is Keith, and that explains it all, for my father was always very partial to those relatives of his first wife. Horace, too, of course." "But as Isa is a good deal more nearly related to them, they are very fond of her, and, men not easily deceived or taken in, I think we may safely trust to their judgment. You won't oppose what they so highly approve, mother?" "I don't know; must take time to think it over. Do you and Arthur come with me to the library," she said, rising with the letter in her hand. "I see you have both finished your breakfast." They rose instantly, and followed her from the room, Walter looking after them and muttering discontentedly, "I think mother might take me into her counsels, too." "You are too young and foolish," said Virginia. "The first objection doesn't lie against you, though the second may," he retorted. "You'd better look to your laurels. Isa and Molly are both well ahead of you." "What of that?" she said, reddening with vexation. "Isa's two years older than I, and taking a poor minister whom I wouldn't look at." "Sour grapes," suggested her brother, teasingly. "And Molly's not a year older than you, and has married rich." "A second-hand husband!" sneered Virginia; at which Walter laughed uproariously. "O Virgie, Virgie, those grapes are terribly sour!" he said. "But do let us hear what Isa has to say about it." "I haven't finished the letter; but there, take it; what do I care about her fine dresses and presents, and the splendors of Magnolia Hall?" "Well," he cried presently, "Cousin Elsie did the thing handsomely! and he's a splendid fellow, if he is second-hand. No wonder Dick's pleased. I only wish my sisters might all do as well." In the library Calhoun was saying, as he laid down his uncle's letter, which he had just read aloud, "Cousin Elsie is certainly the most generous of women! Mother, you could not have read this when you uttered that insinuation against her a few moments since?" Mrs. Conly colored violently under her son's searching gaze. "Twenty-five thousand is a mere trifle to her," she said, bridling, "and you perceive she promises Isa that dower in the event of her marrying that poor relation of her own." "It is extremely generous, nevertheless!" exclaimed both her sons in a breath. "And I do not think it by any means a bad match for Isa," Arthur went on--"a good man, of fine talent, receiving a very comfortable salary, a lovely home rent free, very little expense except for clothing, seeing they are--as uncle says--to have all the fruit, vegetables, nearly their whole living, in fact, from the Viamede fields and orchards; use of carriages and horses too, whenever they like." "No, it isn't so bad," their mother acknowledged, "and if she gets her Aunt Delaford's money, she will really be very far from poor. But I dislike the thought of having her, with her beauty and talents, buried, as one may say, in that out-of-the-way corner of the world." "But she chooses for herself, and ought to be the best judge of what is for her own happiness," Calhoun said. "So you will consent, mother?" "Oh yes, yes, of course! But I'll take no blame from your Aunt Delaford; nor from Isa either, if ever she sees cause to repent." So a letter was sent that made glad the hearts of the lovers, spite of some ungraciousness of tone. Isa's letter, giving, as it did, a minute description of the trousseau, the wedding, Magnolia Hall, Mr. Embury and his children, and telling of the generous settlements upon the bride made by him and her cousin Elsie, was read and re-read by Mrs. Conly and Virginia with great interest, which was yet not altogether pleasurable. They were glad that Molly had now a good home of her own, and particularly that her mother was to share it--a home so far away from Roselands that Enna was not likely to trouble them any more, for her feebleness of intellect made her something of a mortification to them of late years--yet the good fortune of the poor crippled niece and cousin was too great, too strongly in contrast with their own rather straitened circumstances, not to arouse some feelings of envy and jealousy in persons of their haughty and overbearing disposition. "Dear me, I wonder why some people have all the good fortune and others none!" exclaimed Virginia angrily. "I should say fifty thousand was quite enough for Molly--especially in addition to the rich husband and loads of handsome presents--and that ten thousand would have been much better bestowed upon you or me, mamma." "You've only to get married, sis, and probably she'll do the same handsome thing by you," remarked Walter, who happened to be within hearing. "Not she! I never had the good fortune to be one of her favorites." "Well, Isa can't say that, for she's certainly doing the handsome thing by her." "What?" "So mother hasn't told you? She's promised that the day Isa marries her cousin, Cyril Keith, she'll hand over twenty-five thousand dollars to them." "That was to get mamma's consent. Mamma, I wouldn't be bought if I were you," Virginia said scornfully. "You wouldn't?" laughed Walter. "I tell you you'd sell yourself to-day to any man worth half a million, or even something less." "Walter, you are perfectly insulting," cried Virginia, her eyes flashing and her cheek flushing hotly. "I wish your furlough ended to-day." "Thank you, my very affectionate sister," he said, bowing low as he stood before her. "Why don't you wish I'd get shot in the next fight with the Indians? Well, I'll tell you what it is," he went on presently, "if I were one of Cousin Elsie's children--Ed, for instance--I'd enter a pretty strong protest against these wholesale acts of benevolence toward poor relations." "She can afford it," said his mother loftily, "and I must say I should have a much higher appreciation of her generosity if she had given Isa the money without any conditions attached." "But Isa wouldn't, or I greatly mistake." "Do you mean to say you think there has been a conspiracy between them?" demanded his mother, growing very red and angry. "No, no, mother, nothing of the kind! but Cousin Elsie is a woman of keen observation, delicate tact and great discernment; and she had Isa's happiness much at heart." "Really," she sneered, "I have but just made the delightful discovery that I have a Solomon among my sons!" "I think it was mean not to invite us to the wedding," said Virginia. "No; that was right enough," corrected her mother; "being in deep mourning for her husband, she could not, of course, give Molly anything but the quietest sort of wedding." "Well, Isa will come home to be married?" "Of course; and I shall insist upon time to have everything done properly and without any one being hurried to death." Immediately upon the reception of Mrs. Conly's letter giving consent to the match between her daughter and Cyril Keith, the work of adding to, repairing and improving the cottage destined to be the future home of the young couple was begun. It was a matter of great interest, not to Cyril and Isa alone, but to the whole family of Dinsmores and Travillas; and their departure from Viamede was delayed some weeks that Elsie and her father and grandfather might oversee and direct the workmen. It was going to be a really commodious and beautiful residence when completed. Elsie determined that it should be prettily furnished, too, and found great pleasure in planning for the comfort and enjoyment of these cousins. And Molly's happiness was a constant delight to her. There was daily intercourse between Viamede and Magnolia Hall, Mr. Embury driving Molly over almost every day to see her relatives, and Dick bringing his mother, usually on horseback. Dick was making his home with his sister for the present, at Mr. Embury's urgent request, and was showing himself a good and affectionate son to Enna. The visits were returned, too, even Elsie going over frequently for a short call, because she saw that Molly very keenly enjoyed being in a position to extend hospitality to all her friends, and especially herself, as one to whom she had long been indebted for a happy home. "Oh, cousin," Molly said to her one day when they were alone together in her beautiful boudoir, "I am so happy! my husband is so kind, so affectionate! I cannot understand how it is that he is so fond and even proud of me--helpless cripple that I am. But I have learned to be thankful even for that," she added, tears springing to her eyes, "because he says it was that that first drew his attention to me; and, strangely enough, his pity soon turned to admiration and love. Oh he has such a big, generous heart!" "He has indeed!" Elsie said. "But, Molly dear, you underrate yourself. I do not wonder that he admires and is proud of your brave, cheerful courage under your hard trial, and of your talents and the name you are making for yourself as both a translator and original writer; I hope you will not give up your work entirely now that there is no pecuniary necessity for it, for I think it is bringing a blessing to yourself and to others." "No, oh no; I shall not give it up while I can believe it is doing something for the Master's cause. Louis does not wish me to while I enjoy it, and I find he is just the critic I need to help me to improve. I had a letter from Virgie yesterday," she went on with a happy laugh, "congratulating me on being no longer compelled to work, yet pitying me because I am a stepmother." "That does not trouble you?" Elsie said, inquiringly. "Oh no! The boys, Louis and Fred, are so much like their father--seeming to love me all the better for my helplessness (by the way, Louis, my husband, says it is a positive delight to him to take me in his arms and lift me about)--and the baby girls are as lovely and dear as they can be. I wouldn't for anything part with one of the whole four." "Dear child!" Elsie said, embracing her with full heart and eyes, "I am so glad, so happy for you that it is so! And how your mother and brother seem to enjoy your good fortunes!" "Yes; Dick is such a dear fellow! and mother--really it is just a pleasure to see how she delights in it all. And I think she couldn't be fonder of the children if she were their own grandmother." "How glad, how thankful I am that we came to Viamede this winter," Elsie said, after a moment's silent musing; "grandpa has so entirely recovered his health in consequence, a favorable opening has been found for Dick, and four other people are made happy in mutual love who might, perhaps, never have met otherwise--all this, beside dear Mrs. Carrington having the melancholy pleasure of nursing her poor nephew through his last illness. How true is the promise, 'In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.'" "You take a very unselfish delight in other people's happiness, cousin," Molly remarked. "And Isa is very happy." "Yes, and Cyril too," Elsie answered with a smile. "I sometimes think my Elsie half envies them--thinking of Lester so far away. But her turn will come too, I trust, poor, dear child!" May was well advanced, the weather already very warm in the Teche country when at last our friends set out upon their return to their more northern homes. Everything there was looking very lovely on their arrival. Friends, kindred and servants rejoiced over their return, all in good health. Elsie and her children took up again the old, quiet life at Ion, missing Molly not a little, and feeling afresh, for a time, the absence of one far nearer and dearer. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore spent some weeks with their other children, then again made their home at Ion, at Elsie's urgent solicitation. In the loneliness of her widowhood she knew not how to do without her father. In order to secure her cousin Elsie's presence at her wedding, Isa insisted upon a very quiet one, only relatives and very intimate friends to be invited to witness the ceremony; but to please her mother and Virginia, there was afterward a brilliant reception. The marriage took place the last of June, and the next two months were spent principally among Cyril's relatives at the North. CHAPTER XVIII. "The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free!" --_Proctor._ The summer vacation brought Edward Travilla home just in time for his cousin Isa's wedding. He had grown so manly and so like his father in appearance that at sight of him his mother was much overcome. His first, his warmest, tenderest greeting was for her. He held her to his heart, his own too full for speech, while she wept upon his shoulder. But only for a moment; lifting her head, she gazed long and searchingly into his face, then, with a sigh of relief, "Thank God," she whispered, "that I can believe my boy has come back to me as pure and innocent as he went!" "I hope so, mother; your love, your teachings and my father's have been my safeguard in many an hour of temptation," he answered with emotion. "Did you not seek help from above, my son?" she asked gently. "Yes, mother; you had taught me to do so, and I knew that you, too, were daily seeking it for me." "Yes, my dear boy; I think there was scarce a waking hour in which I did not ask a blessing on my absent son." The mother dried her tears; grandparents, brothers and sisters drew near and embraced the lad, servants shook him by the hand, and Ion was filled with rejoicing as never before since the removal of its master and head. Tongues ran nimbly as they sat about the tea-table and on the veranda afterward; so much had happened to the young collegian, so many changes had taken place in the family connection since he went away, that there was a great deal to tell and to hear on both sides. The voices were blithe, and there was many a silvery peal of laughter mingled with the pleasant, cheery talk. Isa's and Molly's matches were discussed in a most kindly way, for Edward was quite curious to hear all about them and the preparations for the approaching wedding. Cyril had arrived earlier in the day, was taking tea at Roselands, but would pass the night at Ion, which Edward was glad to hear, as he wished to make his acquaintance. A summer at the sea-shore had been decided upon some weeks ago, and Edward, to his great gratification, had been empowered to select a cottage for the family to occupy during the season, his Aunt Adelaide and her husband assisting him with their advice. He announced with much satisfaction that he had secured one that he thought would accommodate them well--several guests in addition, if mamma cared to invite any of her friends--and please every one. "It is large, convenient, well--even handsomely furnished--and but a few yards from the shore," he said. "The country is pretty about there, too--pleasant walks and drives through green lanes, fields and woods." "But where is it, Edward?" asked Violet. "Not far from Long Branch; and there are some half-dozen other sea-side places within easy driving distance." There were exclamations of delight and impatience to be there from the younger ones, while the mother covered up with a smile and a few words of commendation to Edward the pain in her heart at the thought that her best beloved would not be with his wife and children beside the sea this summer, as in former years. Her father and Rose were thinking of that, too, with deep sympathy for her. In a moment the same thought presented itself to Edward and Violet, and they drew closer to their mother with loving, caressing looks and words. But memories of Lester, and their walks and talks together when last she was at the sea-shore, were filling the mind of the younger Elsie with emotions, half of pleasure, half of pain. When should they meet again? Then the sudden silence that had fallen upon the group about her mother, and a glance at that loved mother's face, reminded her also of the father who would return no more, and whose companionship had been so dear a delight to her and to them all. It was Rosie who broke the silence at length; "Mamma, can we not go pretty soon?" "Yes, daughter, in about a week." The journey was made without accident, the cottage and its vicinity found to be all that Edward had represented. They had brought some of their own servants with them, and had nothing to do with hotel or boarding-house life. Elsie had always loved the quiet and seclusion of home, and clung to it now, more than ever; yet for her children's sake she would not shut out society entirely; both Edward and his sisters were free to invite their young friends to partake of the hospitalities of their mother's house, but without noise or revelry, for which indeed, they themselves had no heart. For a while the society of his mother and sisters was quite sufficient for Edward and his for them--they were all so strongly attached to each other and he had been so long away from home that it was very delightful to be together once more. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore were at that time visiting relatives in Philadelphia and its vicinity, and his grandfather's absence gave Edward the long coveted opportunity to try how nearly he could fill his father's place as his mother's earthly prop. It was a dear delight to have her lean upon his arm, rely upon his strength, consult him about business or family matters. He was very proud and fond of his lovely sisters; prouder and fonder still of his sweet and beautiful mother. He quite longed to show her to all his college friends, yet would not for the world have her grief intruded upon by them with their thoughtless gayety. During these weeks that they were entirely alone she gave herself up wholly to her children, seeking to secure to them the greatest possible amount of innocent enjoyment. No tasks were set, there was no attempt at regular employment, and almost the whole day was spent in the open air; together they sported in the surf, strolled on the beach, or sat in the sand revelling in the delicious sea breeze and the sight of the ever restless, ever changing, beautiful ocean, with its rolling, tumbling, dashing waves. They were there early in the morning, sometimes in season to watch the sun rise out of the water; and often again when the silvery moonlight lent its witchery to the scene. But there came a day when the rain poured down so continuously and heavily that they were glad to take refuge from it in the house. They gathered in a room overlooking the sea, the ladies with their fancy work, Rosie with her doll, while Harold and Herbert helped little Walter to build block houses, and Edward read aloud a story selected by the mother, as entertaining and at the same time pure and wholesome. She was careful in choosing their mental food; she would no sooner have suffered her children's minds to be poisoned than their bodies. As Edward closed the book upon the completion of the story, "Mamma," said the younger Elsie, "do you quite approve of all the teachings the author has given there? or perhaps I should rather say the sentiments she has expressed." "Not quite, but what is it you do not approve?" the mother answered with an affectionate and pleased look at the earnest face of the questioner. "I am glad to see that you are not ready to be carried about with every wind of doctrine." "It is her comment upon her heroine's effort to escape from her trouble by asking help from God. She speaks as if, had the girl been older and wiser, she would have known that God had the welfare and happiness of other people to consult as well as hers, and couldn't be expected to sacrifice them for her sake." "Well, daughter?" "It seems to me to show a very low estimate of God's power and wisdom. Since he is infinite in both, can he not so order events as to secure the best good to all his creatures?" "Yes, my child, I am sure he can, and we need never fear that he is not able and willing to help his people in every time of trouble. 'The name of the Lord is a strong tower: the righteous runneth into it, and is safe.' 'The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles.' He does not always answer just as we desire, it is true, but often in a better way, for we, in our folly and short-sightedness, sometimes ask what would prove in the end a curse instead of a blessing." "Mamma, how happy we should be if we had perfect faith and trust," said Violet. "Yes; if we fully believed the inspired assurance, 'We know that all things work together for good to them that love God,' we should not fret or grieve over losses, crosses or disappointments. Strive after such faith, my children, and pray constantly for it, for it is the gift of God." There was a little pause, broken only by Walter's prattle, the plash of the rain and the murmur of the sea. Edward seemed in deep thought. Taking a low seat at his mother's knee, "Mamma," he said, "I want to have a talk with you, and perhaps this is as good a time as any." "Well, my dear boy, what is it?" "Do you think, mamma, that I ought to go into the ministry?" "My son," she said, looking at him in some surprise, "that is not a question to be decided in a moment, or without asking God's guidance." "You would be willing, mother?" "More than willing--glad and thankful--if I saw reason to believe that you were called of God to that work. To be truly an ambassador of Christ is, in my esteem, to stand higher than any of earth's potentates, yet if your talents do not lie in that direction I would not have you there. It is every man's duty to serve God to the utmost of his ability, but all are not called to the ministry; some can do far better service in other walks of life, and I should prefer to have a son of mine a good carpenter, mason or shoemaker, rather than a poor preacher." "You do not mean poor in purse, mamma?" queried Harold, joining the little group. "No; a poor sermonizer--one lacking the requisite talents, diligence or piety to proclaim God's truth with faithfulness and power." "How can one tell to what work he is called, mamma?" Edward asked, with an anxious, perplexed look. "By watching the leadings of God's providence and by earnest prayer for his direction. Also I think if a lad has a decided bias for any one profession or employment it is a pretty sure indication that that is what he is called to; for we can almost always do best what we most enjoy doing." "Then I think I should study medicine," said Harold, "for I should very greatly prefer that to anything else. And don't you think, mamma, that a doctor may do really as much good as a minister?" "Quite as much if he be a devoted, earnest Christian, ready to do good as he has opportunity: therefore I entirely approve your choice." "Thank you, mamma. So I consider it quite settled," Harold returned with a look of great satisfaction. "Now, Ed and Herbie, what will you be?" "As Herbert never likes to be separated from you, I presume he too will choose medicine," the mother remarked, with a smiling glance at her third son, as he too came and stood at her side. "I don't know, mamma; it seems to me doctors have a dreadfully hard life." "Ah! I fancy a life of elegant leisure would suit you best, my laddie," laughed his eldest brother. But the mother's look was grave and a little anxious. Herbert saw it. "Don't be troubled about me, mamma dear," he said, putting his arms round her neck and gazing lovingly into her eyes. "I do mean to fight against my natural laziness. But do you think I ought to choose so very hard a life as Harold means to?" "Not if you have talent for something useful which would better suit your inclinations. Can you think of any such thing?" "Couldn't I be a lawyer?" "You could never rise to eminence in that profession without a great deal of hard work." "An author then?" "The same answer will fit again," his mother returned with a slight smile. "Has not your Cousin Molly worked very hard for a number of years?" Herbert drew a long, deep sigh, then brightening, "I might be a publisher," he said. "I don't suppose they work very hard, and they can have all the new books to read." "Oh, Herbie," said Violet, "think of the great number of letters they must have to write, and manuscripts to read, beside many other things." "No, my boy, you cannot do or be anything worth while without work, and a good deal of it," said his mother. "So I hope you will make it your earnest, constant prayer that you may have grace to overcome your besetting sin of indolence, and to 'be not slothful in business; fervent in spirit; serving the Lord'. The Bible bids us, 'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might. Whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men.'" "Edward, you have not told us yet what you wish to be," said his sister Elsie. "My inclination," he answered in grave, earnest tones, "is to take my father's place in every way possible, first in the care of my darling, precious mother," taking her hand and lifting it to his lips, "after that in cultivating the Ion plantation and making myself a good, upright, useful church-member and citizen." "A worthy ambition, my boy," the mother said with emotion; "my strong desire is that you may follow as closely as possible in the footsteps of your honored father. I never knew a better man, in the pulpit or out of it. His was a truly Christian manhood, and, like his Master, he went about doing good." "Then, mother, with your approval my choice is made; and with your permission I shall spend some time in an agricultural college, after finishing the course where I am." "You shall do as you wish; you shall have every advantage I can give you. My other boys also, if they will improve them." "Your girls, too, mamma?" asked Rosie. "Yes, indeed," mamma answered, bestowing a smile and a kiss upon the young questioner. At that moment the tea-bell summoned them to their evening meal. Edward took his father's seat at the table, his father's place in asking a blessing upon the food. As they left the table they perceived that the rain had ceased; the clouds had broken away from the setting sun, and its red light streamed over the dark waters like a pathway of fire. They were all gathered on the porch, watching, as usual, the changing beauty of the sea and the clouds, when a young man, in the undress uniform of a lieutenant in the army, opened their gate, and came with a brisk, manly step up the walk leading to the house. As he drew near, he lifted his military cap, bowed low to the ladies, then, stepping upon the porch, handed a card to Mrs. Travilla. "Donald Keith," she read aloud, and holding out her hand with a sweet, welcoming smile, "How do you do, cousin?" she said; "I am very glad to see you. But to which branch do you belong?" "I am a younger brother of the Reverend Cyril Keith, lately married to a Miss Conly," the young officer answered, as he took the offered hand. "He wrote me of your great kindness to him, and when I learned, a few hours since, who were the occupants of this cottage, I felt that I must come and thank you. I hope I do not intrude, cousin?" "No, indeed; we are always ready to welcome relatives. Now let me introduce these other cousins--my boys and girls." The young man spent the whole evening in the company of these new-found relatives, and went away highly delighted with them all. He had several weeks' furlough, was staying at a hotel near by, and promised himself great enjoyment in the society of the dwellers in the cottage. And they were pleased with him. "He seems a very nice, clever fellow, mother," Edward remarked. "Yes," she said, "he has very agreeable manners and talks well; and knowing that he comes of a godly race, I hope we shall find him in all respects a suitable companion for you and your sisters. I am glad of his coming for your sakes, for I fear you may have felt the want of young society." "Oh, no, mamma," they all protested, "we could not have enjoyed ourselves better. It has been so nice to have you quite to ourselves." CHAPTER XIX. "A mother is a mother still, The holiest thing alive." --_Coleridge._ The next morning's mail brought a letter from Mr. Dinsmore, announcing his speedy coming with his wife, father, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Allison, and several of their children. "There's an end to our good times!" sighed Violet. "Shall you be so very sorry to see your grandpa?" her mother asked with a slight smile, knowing that her father was dearly loved by all her children, and by none more than by Violet herself. "Oh no, mamma; nor grandma, nor any of them," was the quick reply; "only it was so nice to have you so entirely to ourselves." "Haven't you enjoyed it too, mamma?" asked several voices, while every face turned eagerly and inquiringly to hers. "Yes, indeed, my darlings," she said; "and yet so dearly do I love my father that my heart bounds at the very thought that he will be with me again in a few hours." "Then, mamma, we are all glad for you," Elsie said: Violet adding, "and for ourselves, too; for it is nice to have grandpa and grandma with us; and Aunt Adelaide also; she is always so kind." "Very different from Aunt Louise," remarked Edward. "Who would ever think they were sisters! Isa and Virginia are quite as unlike, too, though they are sisters. I hope Aunt Louise and her old-maid daughter won't visit us this summer!" "Edward!" his mother said in a tone of reproof. "Excuse me, mother," he said; "but if I dislike them, it is because they have always treated you so badly." "They have never done me any injury, my son," she answered, with gentle gravity, "and I would not have you feel unkindly toward them; much less am I willing to hear you speak of them as you did just now. Virginia is not an old maid, and if she were I should be sorry to have you apply that epithet to her." "She is several years older than I am, mother," he said, blushing. "About three; and you are only a boy." Edward felt this as the most cutting rebuke his gentle mother had ever administered to him, for he had begun to think of himself as a man, old enough and strong enough to be his mother's stay and support, and a guide to his younger brothers and sisters. But sensible that he had deserved the reproof, he bore it in silence; yet could not rest until seizing an opportunity to speak to her without being overheard by others, "Dear mamma," he whispered, looking beseechingly into her eyes, "will you not forgive my thoughtless, uncharitable speech of this morning?" "Certainly, my dear boy," she answered with one of her sweetest smiles, "and I trust you will try to cultivate more kindly feelings toward your grandpa's sister and niece, for his sake, and because it is a Christian duty." Mr. Dinsmore and his party arrived that afternoon, and the next day were followed by Mrs. Conly and Virginia. "We thought we would give you a surprise," was the greeting of the former: "the heat and threats of yellow fever drove us North. I scattered the younger children about among other relatives, leaving several at your house, Adelaide, then came on here with Virgie, knowing that Elsie would of course have room enough for us two." "We will find room for you, Aunt Louise," Elsie said with pleasant cordiality, and trying hard to feel rejoiced at their coming. A very difficult task, as they never were at the slightest pains to make themselves agreeable, and the house was already comfortably filled. Edward waited only to shake hands hastily with his aunt and cousin, then slipped away for a solitary stroll on the beach while he should fight down his feelings of disgust and irritation at this unwelcome and unwarrantable invasion of his mother's dwelling. He had asked that morning if he might invite his college chum, Charlie Perrine, to spend a week or two with him, and had received a prompt and kind permission to do so. It seemed hard enough to have to entertain, instead, these relatives, between whom and himself there had always been a cordial dislike; for from early childhood he had perceived and strongly resented the envy, jealousy and ill-will indulged in by them toward his mother. He paced hurriedly to and fro for some minutes, striving, with but indifferent success, to recover his equanimity, then stood still, gazing out to sea, half inclined to wish himself on board an outward-bound vessel in the offing. Presently a hand took quiet possession of his arm, and turning his head he found his mother standing by his side. "I am grieved to see my boy's face so clouded," she said in her sweet and gentle tones. "Then, mother, it shall not be so any longer," he answered, resolutely forcing a smile. "I have been really trying to feel good-natured, but it is not easy under the circumstances. Not to me, I mean. I wish I had inherited your sweet disposition." "Ah, you can judge only from outside appearances," she said with a sigh and a smile; "no one knows what a battle his neighbor may be fighting in his own heart, while outwardly calm and serene. I know you are disappointed because you fear you must give up inviting your friend for the present, but that will not be necessary, my dear boy. We can still manage to make room for him by a little crowding which will hurt no one. My room is so large that I can easily take Walter and all your sisters in with me, and if necessary we will pitch a tent for the servants." "Or for Charlie and me, mother," he exclaimed in delight; "we should not mind it in the least; indeed it would be good fun to live so for a while." At this moment they were joined by Elsie and Violet, both full of sympathy for Edward, and anxious to consult mamma as to the possibility of still making room for the comfortable accommodation of his friend. They listened with delight to her proposed arrangement: it would be a great pleasure to them to share her room, if it would not inconvenience her, and she assured them it would not. "I was afraid," said Elsie, "that Aunt Adelaide might hurry away to make room for the others, but now I hope she will not, for we all enjoy having her with us." "No," Mrs. Travilla said, "we will keep her as long as we can. Ah, here come my father and grandfather. I think we shall astonish them with the news of the arrival." "Cousin Donald is with them too," remarked Elsie. "Mamma, I think Virginia will be rather pleased to see so fine looking a gentleman haunting the house." "Her sister's brother-in-law," said Vi. "Perhaps she will claim him as more nearly related to her than to us." The young man had found favor with both Mr. Dinsmores, and the three were just returning from a pretty long tramp together which had caused them to miss seeing the arrival of Mrs. and Miss Conly. The news seemed to give more surprise than pleasure. "It was very thoughtless in Louise," the old gentleman said with some vexation, "but it is just like her. I think we must find rooms for them at one of the hotels, Elsie; for I don't see how your house is to accommodate us all." "I do, grandpa," was her smiling rejoinder, "so make yourself perfectly easy on that score." "I hope our excursion is not to be interfered with, cousin?" Donald said inquiringly: for arrangements had been made for a long drive that afternoon, taking in several of the neighboring sea-side resorts, and as his three lady cousins had promised to be of the party, he was loath to give it up. "No," she said, "Aunt Adelaide and Aunt Louise will doubtless be well pleased to be left alone together for a few hours, after a separation of several years." "Besides, both my aunt and cousin will need a long nap to refresh them after the fatigue of their journey," remarked Edward. The young people exchanged congratulatory glances. They were all eager for the drive. It was just the day for it, they had all decided--the roads in excellent condition after the late rain, a delicious sea-breeze blowing, and light fleecy clouds tempering the heat of the July sun. They set off directly after an early dinner--all the Dinsmores and Travillas, Mr. Allison and his children and Mr. Keith--in two covered carriages, and well provided with waterproofs for protection against a possible shower. They were a pleasant, congenial party, the older people cheerful and companionable, the children full of life and spirits. They had visited Seagirt, Spring Lake and Asbury Park, and were passing through Ocean Beach, when Edward, catching sight of a young couple sauntering leisurely along on the sidewalk, uttered an exclamation, "Why, there's Charlie Perrine!" then calling to the driver to stop, he sprang out and hurried toward them. "His college chum--and how glad they are to meet," Violet said as the two were seen shaking hands in the most cordial manner. Then Perrine introduced Edward to his companion, and the lad's sisters noticed that his face lighted up with pleased surprise as he grasped her hand. "Why, I know her!" cried Donald. "Excuse me one moment, ladies;" and he too sprang out and hastened to join the little group on the sidewalk. He and the lady met like very intimate friends, greeting each other as "Donald" and "Mary:" then he led her to the side of the carriage and introduced her. "My cousin Mary Keith, Uncle Donald's daughter; our cousins, Miss Elsie and Miss Violet Travilla." The girls shook hands and exchanged glances of mutual interest and admiration. Mary had a very bright, pleasant face, dark eyes and hair, plenty of color, lady-like manners, and a stylish figure well set off by inexpensive but tasteful attire. The other carriage, containing the older people, had now come up and halted beside the first. There were more introductions, then Mary was persuaded to take Edward's place in the carriage with her young cousins, and drive with them to the Colorado House, where she was staying, while he and his friend followed on foot. Here the whole party alighted, seated themselves on the porch and chatted together for a half hour. "How long do you stay here, Cousin Mary?" Mrs. Travilla asked. "Another week, Cousin Elsie; I have engaged my room for that length of time: and I wish you would let one of your girls stay with me, or both if they will, though I'm afraid that would crowd them. I should be so glad if you would. I want to become acquainted with them: and besides I have just lost my roommate, and don't like to be left alone." After a little consultation between the elders of the party, it was decided that Violet should accept the invitation, her mother promising to send her a trunk in the morning, and Mary agreeing to return the visit later in the season, when her cousin's cottage would have parted with some of its present occupants. Edward, too, would remain and room with Charlie Perrine, on the same floor with the girls, so that Violet would feel that she had a protector. "I hope it will be a pleasant change for you, dear child," the mother whispered in parting from Violet, "and if you grow tired of it, you know you can come home at any time. And Edward," she added, turning to him, "I trust your sister to your care, particularly in bathing: don't let her go in without you, and don't either of you venture far out or into any dangerous spot." "We will be very careful, mamma," they both replied, "so do not feel in the least uneasy." "I shall owe you a grudge for this." Donald was saying in a rueful aside to Mary. "Why, you needn't," she returned; "you can come too, if you wish, unless you object to my society." "That wouldn't mend matters," he answered, with a glance at the younger Elsie. "Nonsense! I've found out already that she's engaged. Didn't you know it?" "Not I. Well, it takes a woman to find out the secrets of her sex!" "Then you own that a woman can keep a secret?" was her laughing rejoinder. "But do tell me," in a still lower tone, "has cousin lost her husband lately?" "Within a year, and they were devotedly attached." "Oh poor thing! But isn't she sweet?" "Yes, indeed! it didn't take even me long to find that out." The carriages rolled away amid much waving of handkerchiefs by the travellers and the little party left behind; then Mary carried Violet off to her room for a long talk before it should be time to dress for tea, while the lads strolled away together along the beach, their tongues quite as busy as the other two: for there were various college matters to discuss, beside plans for fishing, boating, riding, and driving. And Edward must sound his mother's praises and learn whether Charlie did not think her the very loveliest woman he ever saw. "Yes," Charlie said with a sigh, "you are a lucky fellow, Ned. I hardly remember my mother--was only five years old when she died." "Then I pity you with all my heart!" Edward exclaimed; "for there's nothing like a mother to love you and stand by you through thick and thin." He turned his head away to hide the tears that sprang unbidden to his eyes, for along with his pity for his friend came a sudden recollection of that dreadful event in his childhood when by an act of disobedience he had come very near killing his dearly loved father. Ah, he should never forget his agony of terror and remorse, his fear that his mother could never love him again, or the tenderness with which she had embraced him, assuring him of her forgiveness and continued affection. Meantime Donald was speaking in glowing terms of Cousin Mary. "One of the best girls in the world," he pronounced her--"so kind-hearted, so helpful and industrious. Uncle's circumstances are moderate," he said; "Aunt's health has been delicate for years, and Mary, as the eldest of eight or nine children, has had her hands full. I am very glad she is taking a rest now, for she needs it. A maiden sister of her mother's is filling her place for a few weeks, she told me: else she could not have been spared from home." "You make me glad that I left Violet with her," Mrs. Travilla said, with a look of pleased content. Edward and his chum returned from their walk, made themselves neat, and were waiting on the piazza before the open door, as Mary and Violet came down at the call to tea. The dining-room was furnished with small tables each accommodating eight persons. Our four young friends found seats together. The other four places at their table were occupied by two couples--a tall, gaunt, sour-visaged elderly man in green spectacles, and his meek little wife, and a small, thin, invalid old gentleman, who wore a look of patient resignation, and his wife, taller than himself by half a head. A fine head of beautiful grey hair was the only attractive thing about her, her features were coarse and her countenance was fretful. She occupied herself in filling and emptying her plate with astonishing rapidity, and paid little or no attention to her husband, who was so crippled by rheumatism as to be almost helpless, having entirely lost the use of one hand, and so nearly that of his lower limbs that he could not walk without assistance. He had a nurse, a young German, who was with him constantly day and night, helped him about and waited upon him, but in a very awkward fashion. The man's clumsiness was, however, borne with patience by the sufferer, and did not seem to trouble the wife. She eyed Violet curiously between her immense mouthfuls, and whispered to her husband, loud enough for the child to hear, "Isn't that a pretty girl, William? such a handsome complexion! I reckon she paints." The sudden crimsoning of Vi's cheek contradicted that suspicion instantly, and the woman corrected herself. "No, she don't, I see. I wonder who she is?" "Hush, hush, Maria!" whispered her husband, "don't you see she hears you?" and he gave the young girl such a fatherly look, gentle and tender, that quick tears sprang to her eyes: it was so strong a reminder of one whose look of parental love she should never meet again on earth. People at other tables were noticing her too, remarking upon her beauty and grace, and asking each other who she was. "We'll soon find out, mamma; don't you see she is with Miss Keith? and she will be sure to introduce her to us," said a nice looking girl about Vi's age, addressing a sweet faced lady by whose side she sat. They all met in the parlor shortly afterward, and Vi, Mrs. Perkins, her daughter Susie, and her son Fred, a lad of nineteen or twenty, were formally presented to each other. "I don't want to get into a crowd; I don't care to make acquaintances," Vi had said, half tearfully. Mary understood and respected the feeling, but answered, "Yes, dear cousin, I know: but do let me introduce Mrs. Perkins and her children. She is so sweet and lovely, a real Christian lady; and her son and daughter are very nice. We have been together a great deal, and I feel as if they were old friends." Vi did not wonder at it after talking a little with Mrs. Perkins, who had made room for her on the sofa by her side; her thought was, "She is a little like mamma; not quite so sweet nor half so beautiful; though she is very pretty." Several other ladies had come in by this time, the invalid gentleman's wife among the rest. "Mrs. Moses," Vi heard some one call her. "How do you do, Miss?" she said, drawing forward an arm chair and seating herself directly in front of Violet. "You're a new-comer, ain't you?" "I came this afternoon," Vi answered, and turned to Mrs. Perkins with a remark about the changing beauty of the sea and clouds; for they were near an open window that gave them a view of old ocean. "Where are you from?" asked Mrs. Moses. "The South, Madame." "Ah! I should hardly have suspected it: you've such a lovely complexion, and how beautiful your hair is! like spun gold." The German servant-man appeared in the doorway. "Mrs. Moshes, Herr wants to see you." "Yes, I hear." Turning to Vi again, "Well, you must have had a long, tiresome journey; and I suppose you didn't come all alone?" Vi let the inquiry pass unnoticed, but the woman went on, "I've never been South, but I'd like to go; perhaps I shall next winter. It might help William's rheumatism." "Your husband wants you, Mrs. Moses," remarked Mary Keith. "Oh yes; he's always wanting me. I'll go presently." "Cousin," said Mary, "shall we take a stroll on the beach?" Violet caught at the suggestion with alacrity, and they went at once, the rest of their party, and Mrs. Perkins and hers, accompanying them. "That poor man!" sighed Mary. "I thought if we all left her, perhaps she would go to him." "Isn't it strange?" said Susie, "he seems to love her dearly, and she to care nothing about him. And he is so nice and good and patient, and she so disagreeable." "A very poor sort of wife, I think," pursued Mary. "She will not even sleep on the same floor with him, for fear of being disturbed when pain keeps him awake. Day and night he is left to the care of that awkward, blundering German. But there! I ought to be ashamed of myself for talking about an absent neighbor." "I don't think you are doing any harm, Cousin Mary," said Charlie, "for we can all see how utterly selfish the woman is." "What! are you two cousins?" asked Edward in surprise. "First cousins, sir," returned Charlie, laughing, "sisters' children. Can't you and I claim kin, seeing she's cousin to both of us?" A sudden dash of rain prevented Edward's reply, and sent them all scurrying into the house. CHAPTER XX. "A little more than kin and a little less than kind." --_Shakespeare._ Our little party had scarcely seated themselves in the parlor, where a number of the guests of the house were already gathered, when the invalid gentleman was assisted in by his servant and took possession of an easy chair which Mrs. Perkins hastened to offer him. He thanked her courteously as he sank back in it with a slight sigh as of one in pain. Violet, close at his side, regarded him with pitying eyes. "I fear you suffer a great deal, sir," she said, low and feelingly, when Mary, her next neighbor, had introduced them. "Yes, a good deal, but less than when I came." "Then the sea air is doing you good, I hope." "I'm thankful to say I think it is. There's an increase of pain to-night, but that is always to be expected in rainy weather." "You are very patient, Mr. Moses," Mary remarked. "And why shouldn't I be patient?" he returned; "didn't Christ suffer far more than I do?" "And he comforts you in the midst of it all, does he not?" asked Mrs. Perkins. "He does, indeed, ma'am." "I have always found him faithful to his promises," she said. "And I," remarked another lady sitting near; "strength has always been given me according to my day, in the past, and I am glad to leave the future with him." "Humph! it's plain to be seen that you two don't know what trouble is," put in Mrs. Moses, glancing fretfully at her crippled spouse; whereat the poor man burst into tears. Vi's tender heart ached for him, and the countenances of all within hearing of the remark expressed sincere pity and sympathy. A child began drumming on the piano, and Mr. Moses sent a helpless, half despairing glance in that direction that spoke of tortured nerves. Vi saw it, and, as he turned to her with, "Don't you play and sing, my dear? You look like it, and I should be much gratified to hear you," she rose and went at once to the instrument, thinking of nothing but trying to bring help and comfort to the poor sufferer. "Will you let me play a little?" she said to the child, with look and tone of winning sweetness, and the piano-stool was promptly vacated. Seating herself, she touched a few chords, and instantly a hush fell upon the room. She played a short prelude; then, in a voice full, rich and sweet, sang-- "'O Jesus! Friend unfailing, How dear art thou to me! And cares or fears assailing, I find my rest in thee! Why should my feet grow weary Of this my pilgrim way; Rough though the path and dreary It ends in perfect day. "'Naught, naught I count as treasure, Compared, O Christ, with thee; Thy sorrow without measure Earned peace and joy for me. I love to own, Lord Jesus, Thy claims o'er me and mine, Bought with thy blood most precious, Whose can I be but thine! "'For every tribulation, For every sore distress. In Christ I've full salvation, Sure help and quiet rest. No fear of foes prevailing, I triumph, Lord, in thee. O Jesus, Friend unfailing! How dear art thou to me!'"* * I know not who is the author of these beautiful lines. Edward had made his way to her side as soon as he perceived her purpose. "You have left out half," he whispered, leaning over her, "and the words are all so sweet." "Yes, I know, but I feared it was too long." There were murmurs of admiration as he led her back to her seat. "How well she plays! such an exquisite touch!" "What a sweet voice! highly cultivated, and every word distinct." "Yes, and what a beauty she is!" Some of these remarks reached Violet's ears and deepened the color on her cheek, but she forgot them all in the delight of having given pleasure to the invalid. He thanked her with tears in his eyes. "The words are very sweet and comforting," he said. "Are they your own?" "Oh no, sir!" she answered. "I do not know whose they are, but I have found comfort in them, and hoped that you might also." Edward and Mary were conversing in low, earnest tones. "I am delighted!" Mary said. "With what?" "Words, music, voice, everything." "The music is her own, composed expressly for the words, which she found in a religious newspaper." "Indeed! she is a genius then! the tune is lovely." "Yes, she is thought to have a decided genius for both music and painting; I must show you some of her pictures when you pay us that promised visit." Mr. Moses presently found himself in too much pain to remain where he was, and summoning his servant, retired to his own room. His wife, paying no regard to a wistful, longing look he gave her as he moved painfully away, remained where she was and entertained the other ladies with an account of the family pedigree. "We are lineal descendants of Moses, the Hebrew Lawgiver," she announced. "But don't suppose we are Jews, for we are not at all." "Belong to the lost ten tribes, I suppose," remarked Charles Perrine dryly. The morning's sun shone brightly in a clear sky, and on leaving the breakfast table our little party went down to the beach and sat in the sand, watching the incoming tide, before which they were now and then obliged to retreat, sometimes in scrambling haste that gave occasion for much mirth and laughter. Mrs. Moses came down presently and joined them, an uninvited and not over-welcome companion, but of course the beach was as free to her as to them. "How is your husband this morning?" inquired Mrs. Perkins. "Oh about as usual." "I do believe it would do him good to sit here awhile with us, sunning himself." "Too damp." "No; the dampness here is from the salt water, and will harm nobody." "Where is he?" asked Fred, getting on his feet. "On the porch yonder," the wife answered, in a tone of indifference. "Come, boys, let's go and bring him!" said Fred, and at the word the other two rose with alacrity, and all three hurried to the house. They found the poor old gentleman sitting alone, save for the presence of the uncouth servant standing in silence at the back of his chair, and watching with wistful, longing eyes the merry groups moving hither and thither, to and fro, between the houses and the ocean, some going down to bathe, others coming dripping from the water, some sporting among the waves, and others still, like our own party, sunning themselves on the beach. "We have come to ask you to join us, sir," Fred said in respectful but hearty tones. "Won't you let us help you down to the beach? the ladies are anxious to have you there." The poor man's face lighted up with pleased surprise, then clouded slightly. "I should like to go indeed," he said, "if I could do so without troubling others; but that is impossible." "We should not feel it any trouble, sir." the lads returned, "but a pleasure rather, if you will let us help you there." "I ought not to ask it of you: Jacob here can give me an arm." "No," said Edward, "let Jacob take this opportunity for a bath, and we will fill his place in waiting upon you." The invalid yielded, and found himself moved with far more ease and comfort than he had believed possible. The ladies--his wife, perhaps, excepted, greeted him with smiles and pleasant words of welcome. They had arranged a couch with their waterproofs and shawls, far enough from the water's edge to be secure from the waves, and here the lads laid him down with gentle carefulness. Mrs. Perkins seated herself at his head and shaded his face from the sun with her umbrella, while the others grouped themselves about, near enough to carry on a somewhat disjointed conversation in spite of the noise of the waters. "I think a sunbath will really be good for you, Mr. Moses," said Miss Keith. "It's worth trying anyhow," he answered, with a patient smile. "And it's a real treat to do so in such pleasant company. But don't any of you lose your bath for me. I've seen a number go in, and I suppose this is about the best time." "Just as the ladies say," was the gallant rejoinder of the young men. "I do not care to bathe to-day," Violet said with decision. "The rest of you may go, and I will stay and take are of Mr. Moses." "Well, I'll go then. He'll not be wanting anything." said his wife. "Ain't the rest of you coming, ladies and gentlemen?" After some discussion, all went but Mrs. Perkins and Violet, and they were left alone with the invalid. Vi had conceived a great pity for him, great disgust for the selfish, unsympathizing wife. "How different from mamma!" she said to herself. "She never would have wearied of waiting upon papa if he had been so afflicted; she would have wanted to be beside him, comforting him every moment. And how sweetly it would have been done." "Little lady," the old man said, with a longing look into the sweet girlish face, "will you sing me that song again? It was the most delightful, consoling thing I've heard for many a day." "Yes, indeed, sir; I would do anything in my power to help you to forget your pain," she said, coloring with pleasure. She sang the whole of the one he had asked for, then perceiving how greatly he enjoyed it, several others of like character. He listened intently, sometimes with tears in his eyes, and thanking her warmly again and again. Finding that the old gentleman felt brighter and more free from pain during the rest of the day, and thought he had received benefit from his visit to the beach, the lads helped him there again the next day. They set him down, then wandered away, leaving him in the care of the same group of ladies who had gathered round him the day before. Each one was anxious to do something for his relief or entertainment, and he seemed both pleased with their society and grateful for their attentions. Mrs. Perkins suggested that the lame hand might be benefited by burying it in the sand while he sat there. "No harm in trying it, anyhow," he said. "Just turn me round a little, Maria, if you please." His wife complied promptly with the request, but in a way which the other ladies thought rough and unfeeling, seizing him by the collar of his coat and jerking him round to the desired position. But he made no complaint. "I think it does ease the pain," he said after a little. "I'm only sorry I can't try it every day for a while." "What is there to hinder?" asked Mrs. Perkins. "Why, we're going to-morrow," replied Mrs. Moses, shortly. "Oh, why not stay longer? You have been here but a week, and Mr. Moses has improved quite a good deal in that time." "Well, he can stay as long as he chooses, but I'm going to New York to-morrow to visit my sister." The ladies urged her to stay for her poor husband's sake, but she was not to be persuaded, and he was unwilling to remain without her. "Take some sand with you, then, to bury his hand in, won't you?" said Mrs. Perkins. "I haven't anything to carry it in," was the ungracious reply. "Those newspapers." "I want to read them." "Well, if we find something to put it in, and get it all ready for you, will you take it in your trunk?" "Yes, I'll do that." "I have a good sized paper box which will answer the purpose, I think," said Mary Keith. "I'll get it." She hastened to the house, returned again in a few moments with the box, and they proceeded to fill it, sifting the sand carefully through their fingers to remove every pebble. "You are taking a great deal of trouble for me, ladies," the old gentleman remarked. "No trouble at all, sir," said Mary; "it's a real pleasure to do anything we can for you: especially remembering the Master's words, 'Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me.'" CHAPTER XXI. "How happy they Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives, Steal to look down where nought but ocean strives." --_Byron._ Violet was alone, lying on the bed, resting after her bath, not asleep, but thinking dreamily of home and mother. "Only one more day and my week here will be up," she was saying to herself. "I've had a delightful time, but oh I want to see mamma and the rest!" Just then the door opened and Mary came in with a face all smiles. "O Vi, I'm so glad!" she exclaimed, seating herself on the side of the bed. "What about, cousin?" Violet asked, rousing herself, and with a keen look of interest. "I have just had the offer of a furnished cottage for two or three weeks--to keep house in, you understand--and I can invite several friends to stay with me, and it won't cost half so much as boarding here, beside being great fun," Mary answered, talking very fast in her excitement and delight. "Charlie will stay with me, I think, and I hope you and Edward will, and I have two girl friends at home whom I shall invite. One is an invalid, and needs the change, oh so badly; but though they are not exactly poor people, not the kind one would dare offer charity to, her father couldn't afford to give her even a week at any of these hotels or boarding-houses: and she did look so wistful and sad when I bade her good-bye. 'I can hardly help envying you, Mary,' she said, 'though I am ever so glad you are going. But I have such a longing to get away from home for a while--to go somewhere, anywhere, for a change. I'm so weak and miserable, and it seems to me that if I could only go away I should get well. I haven't been outside of this town for years.'" Violet's eyes filled with tears. "Poor thing!" she said. "I have always travelled about so much, and enjoyed it greatly. I wonder why it is I have so many more pleasures and blessings than other people." "I hope they may never be fewer," Mary said, caressing her. "But isn't it nice that now I can give poor Amy Fletcher--for that is her name--two or three weeks here at the sea-shore?" "Yes, indeed! But you haven't told me how it happens." In reply to this Mary went on to say that a married friend who had rented the cottage she had spoken of for the year, now found that he must take his family away for a short time, mountain air being recommended for his wife, who was in poor health, and as it would cost no more to have the cottage occupied in their absence than to leave it empty, he had offered her the use of it rent free. "He saw father and mother last week," she added in conclusion, "and talked it over with them, and they have written me to accept his offer by all means, and stay as long at the shore as I can." "But you are to visit us, you know." "Yes, afterward, if that will do. I don't intend to miss that pleasure if I can help it," Mary answered gleefully. "Now about my other friend, Ella Neff. She is not an invalid, but she teaches for her support, and I know such a change would do her a world of good. She wanted to come with me, but couldn't afford it; yet I'm sure she can in this way: for beside the difference of board there will not be the same necessity for fine dress." "I should never have thought of that," said Vi. "No, of course not, you fortunate little lassie; you have never known anything about the pinchings of poverty--or the pleasures of economy," she added merrily, "for I do assure you there is often real enjoyment in finding how nicely you can contrive to make one dollar do the work of two--or 'auld claes look amaist as weel's the new.' But oh, don't you think it will be fun to keep house, do our own cooking and all?" "Yes," Violet said; "yes, indeed." "And you'll stay, won't you? Don't you think you'd enjoy it?" "Oh, ever so much! but I don't believe I can wait any longer than till to-morrow to see mamma. Besides, I don't know whether she would approve." "Well, if you should spend a day at home and get her consent to come back; how would that do?" Vi thought that plan might answer, if Edward were willing to make one of the party at the cottage. "We must consult the lads at once," said Mary. "Let me help you dress, and we'll go in search of them." Vi sprang up, and with her cousin's assistance made a rapid toilet. They found Edward and Charlie in the summer-house, just across the road, waiting for the call to dinner. Fortunately no one was within hearing, and Mary quickly unfolded her plan. It was heard with delight. "Splendid! Capital! Of course we'll be glad to accept your invitation," they said: Edward, however, putting in the provision, "If mamma sees no objection." "Or grandpa," added Violet. "All the same," said Edward; "mamma never approves of anything that he does not." "Where is the cottage? Can we look at it?" asked Charles. "Yes; the family left this morning, and I have the key," Mary answered. "We could take possession to-night if we chose; but I must lay in some provisions first." "Let's walk up (or down, whichever it is) after dinner and look at it." "Yes, Charlie, if Edward and Vi are agreed. It is up, on this street, about two blocks from here." "Directly in front of the ocean? That's all right." "Or the ocean directly in front of it," Mary returned laughingly. "All the same; don't be too critical, Miss Keith," said Charlie. They did not linger long over dinner or dessert, but made haste to the cottage, eager to see what accommodations it afforded. It was small, the rooms few in number, and mere boxes compared to those Edward and Violet had been accustomed to at Ion and Viamede; and very much more contracted than those of the cottage their mother was occupying, yet all four were quite satisfied to take up their residence in it for a season. "Four bedrooms," remarked Mary reflectively: "two will do for the lads and two for the lasses. Parlor and dining-room are not very spacious, but will hold us all when necessary; I don't suppose we'll spend much of the daytime within doors. By the way, I think we must add Don Keith to our party--if he'll come." The boys said "By all means," and Vi raised no objection. "When do you expect Ella and Amy?" asked Charles, who was well acquainted with both. "I telegraphed to mother at once to invite them, and shall expect to see them about day after to-morrow." "What sort of provisions do you propose to lay in, Miss Keith?" inquired Charlie. "I am personally interested in that." "I do not doubt that in the least, Mr. Perrine," she answered demurely. "I intend to buy some of the best flour and groceries that I can find." "Flour? can't you buy bread here?" "Yes, but perhaps I may choose to exhibit my skill in its manufacture; also in that of cake and pastry." "Ah! Well, no objection to that except that we don't want you shut up in the kitchen when the rest of us are off pleasuring. What about other supplies?" "I see you have some idea of what is necessary in housekeeping, Charlie, and I'll give you a good recommendation to--the first nice girl who asks me if you'll make a good husband," Mary returned, looking at her cousin with laughing eyes. "Am I to have an answer to my question, Miss Keith?" he inquired with dignity. "Yes, when I see fit to give it. The Marstons were, of course, served with butter, eggs, milk and cream, fish, flesh, and fowl, and Mr. Marston told me he had spoken to the persons thus serving him and his to do likewise by me and mine: does this explanation relieve your mind, Mr. Perrine?" "Entirely. I am satisfied that we are not invited to share starving rations, which I am morally certain would give me the dyspepsia." "I think we are very fortunate," Mary remarked, resuming her ordinary tone; "they have left us bedding, table and kitchen furniture, and we have nothing whatever to provide except our food, drink and clothing." "I shall order a carriage for an early hour to-morrow morning," said Edward, "and drive over to see my mother. Vi will, of course, go along, and I wish, Cousin Mary, that you and Charlie would go too." "Thank you very much," Mary said. "I should enjoy it extremely, but there are some few arrangements to be made here. The girls may come to-morrow evening, and I must be here and ready to receive them." Then Charlie decided that he must stay and take care of Mary; so it was finally arranged that Edward and Violet should go alone, and the former attend to the ordering of the groceries, and anything else he could think of that was desirable and did not require to be fresh. When the carriage containing Edward and Violet drove up to their mother's door, nearly all the family and their guests were out upon the beach. There was instantly a glad shout from Harold, Herbert and Walter, "There they are!" and they, their sisters and grandfather started at once for the house, while Mrs. Dinsmore and Mrs. Travilla, who were within, hastened to the door. Mrs. Conly and Virginia, slowly sauntering along within sight of the cottage, looked after those who were hurrying towards it, with smiles of contempt. "Such a hugging and kissing as there will be now!" sneered Virginia; "they will make as much fuss as if they hadn't seen each other for five years." "Yes," returned her mother, "and I don't wish to be a spectator of the sickening scene. Thank fortune I'm not of the overly affectionate kind." "Mamma, mamma!" cried Violet, springing into the dear arms so joyfully opened to receive her, "oh, I am so glad, so glad to see you again!" "Not more glad than mamma is, darling," Elsie said, clasping her close with tender caresses. "And you've come home a day sooner than you were expected! how good in you!" the younger Elsie exclaimed, taking her turn. "Yes, but not to stay; that is, I mean if mamma consents to--" But the sentence remained unfinished for awhile, there were so many claiming a hug and kiss from both herself and Edward; indeed I am afraid Virginia was so far correct in her prediction that there was as much embracing and rejoicing, perhaps even more, than there would have been in the Conly family in receiving a brother and sister who had been absent for years. But when all that had been attended to, and the pleasant little excitement began to subside, it did not take many minutes for mamma and grandpa and grandma to learn all about the proposed essay in housekeeping on the part of the young folks. "What! does my Vi want to leave her mother again so soon?" Mrs. Travilla said with half reproachful tenderness, putting an arm about the slender, girlish waist, and pressing another kiss on the softly rounded, blooming cheek. "No, mamma dearest," Vi said, blushing and laying her head down on her mother's shoulder, "but the house here is as full as ever, isn't it?" "Yes, but that makes no difference; there is plenty of room." "Well, mamma, I don't like to be away from you, or any of the dear ones, but I do think it would be great fun for a little while. Don't you? wouldn't you have liked it when you were my age?" "Yes, I daresay I should, and I see no great objection, if you and Edward wish to try it. What do you say, papa?" "That I think their mother is the right person to decide the question, and that I do not suppose they can come to any harm," Mr. Dinsmore answered, with a kindly look and smile directed to Edward and Violet. "I doubt if I should have allowed you to do such a thing at Vi's age, Elsie," he added, "but I believe I grow more indulgent with advancing years--perhaps more foolish." "No, papa, I cannot think that," she said, lifting her soft eyes to his with a world of filial tenderness and reverence in their brown depths; "I lean very much upon the wisdom of your decisions. Well, dears, since grandpa does not disapprove, you have my full consent to do as you please in this matter." They thanked her warmly. "Cousin Mary would be delighted if Elsie would come too," said Violet, looking wishfully at her sister, "and so would I. I don't suppose, mamma, you could spare us both at once, but if Elsie would like to go, I will stay, and not feel it the least bit of a hardship either," she added, turning to her mother with a bright, affectionate smile. "I should be lonely with both my older daughters away," the mother said, "but I will not be selfish in my love. Elsie may go, too, if she wishes." "Dear, kind mamma, selfishness is no part of your nature," her namesake daughter responded promptly, "but Elsie has not the slightest desire to go. Yet I thank my sweet sister all the same for her very kind and unselfish offer," she added, giving Violet a look of strong affection. "But what is grandpa to do without his merry little cricket?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, drawing Vi down upon his knee. "For how long is it? one, two, or three weeks?" "I don't know, grandpa; perhaps I shall grow tired and homesick, and want to come back directly." "Well, no one will be sorry to see you, come when you may." "You will always be joyfully welcomed," added mamma; "nor Edward less so. Now let us consider what you will need, and how best to provide it. I claim the privilege of furnishing all the groceries and everything else for the larder that need not be procured upon the spot." "Oh, thank you, mamma!" said Edward; "but I knew you would." Violet asked and obtained permission to sleep with her mother that night, and all day long was scarcely absent from her side. Evidently the child had a divided heart, and was at times more than half inclined to stay at home. But Edward urged that he would not half enjoy himself without her, that she had promised to go if mamma did not withhold consent, and that Mary would be sadly disappointed if she failed to return with him. Donald Keith, too, who was still there, and had accepted Mary's invitation, added his persuasions. "He was sure they would have a very pleasant time, and if she grew homesick she could drive home any day in a couple of hours; he would be glad to bring her over himself if she would let him, or she could come in less time by the cars." Then her mother came to her help. "I think it will be best for you to go, dear, even if you should stay but a day or two," she said. "And if your grandpa likes, he and I will drive over with you, and see your snug little cottage, and whether there is anything we can do to add to the comfort or enjoyment of those who are to occupy it for a season." "A very good idea, daughter," Mr. Dinsmore said, and Vi's rather troubled face grew bright. "Oh how nice, mamma!" she exclaimed. "I will go without any more foolish hesitation, although I do not think Edward is quite correct in saying I promised." "Foolish enough!" sneered Virginia, who prided herself on her audacity in making disagreeable remarks. "I should be very much ashamed of myself if I were half the mother baby you are." "And I," remarked Mr. Dinsmore severely, irritated out of all patience by the pained look in Vi's face, "should be more ashamed of my sweet little granddaughter if she were as heartless and ready to wound the feelings of others as a certain niece of mine seems to be." "Will you come to my house-warming, Mrs. Perkins, you and Fred and Susie?" asked Mary Keith as they left the breakfast-table of the Colorado House the next morning. "I expect my cousins the Travillas about dinner-time, and the morning train may bring the other guests. I mean to be all ready for them at any rate. The dinner is to be prepared with my own hands, and though it will be on a small scale compared with those served here, you shall at least have a hearty welcome." "Thank you, we would be delighted, but are already engaged for the picnic," Mrs. Perkins said. So they parted with mutual good wishes, each hoping the other would have an enjoyable day. Charles and Mary made themselves busy in seeing to the removal to the cottage of their own and cousin's luggage, making some purchases at the provision stores, and some rearrangements of furniture; then about the dinner, Mary pressing Charlie into her service as sheller of peas, husker of corn, and beater of eggs. They had a very merry time over their work, though Charlie protested vigorously against being set at such menial tasks, and declared that "Ed" should be made to do a fair share of them in future. Mary sent him to the train to meet the girls, while she stayed behind to watch over the dinner. He had scarcely gone when a carriage drew up at the door, and Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, Mrs. Travilla, Edward and Violet, and Donald Keith alighted therefrom and came trooping in, most of them laden with parcels, while the driver brought up the rear, carrying a large hamper that seemed to be well filled and heavy. Mary's first emotion on seeing the arrival was delight, the second a sudden fear that her dinner would not suffice for so many. But that fear was relieved at sight of the hamper and a whisper from Vi, who headed the procession, that it contained such store of provision as would obviate the necessity of much cooking for several days to come. "Oh how good and kind in your mother!" Mary exclaimed in a like low tone, then hastened to welcome her guests with unmixed pleasure. "O Cousin Elsie, how nice in you to come and to bring Edward and Violet! You are going to let them stay, I am sure, and I am so glad. So glad to see you, too, Cousin Rose and Cousin Horace: it seems as if I ought to call you aunt and uncle, though." "Then suppose you do," Mr. Dinsmore said, shaking hands with her, and kissing her rosy cheek. "You have my permission." "I shall, then, and thank you," she returned in her bright merry tones. "O Don," turning to Mr. Keith with outstretched hands, "so here you are! that's a good boy." "Yes, and so good a boy must not be put off with less than others get," he said, following Mr. Dinsmore's example. "Well, as you are only a cousin it doesn't matter," she remarked indifferently. "Please all make yourselves at home. Oh there's the stage stopping at the gate! the girls have come!" and she flew out to welcome them. The little parlor was quite inconveniently crowded, but that afforded subject for mirth, as Mary introduced her friends and bustled about trying to find seats for them all. "We shall have to take dinner in relays or else set a table in here, besides the one in the dining-room," she said, laughing. "Let Amy and me go to our room and dress while your first set eat, and give us our dinner afterwards," suggested Ella Neff. "Yes, I should much prefer it," Miss Fletcher said, "for we are really too dusty and dirty to sit down to your table now." "And I shall act as waiter to the first table and eat with these ladies at the second," said Charlie. "Very well, I can manage to seat the rest," Mary said; and so it was arranged. The dinner proved very nice and very abundant with the help of the contents of the hamper. Mary's cooking received many praises, in which Charlie claimed a share, because, as he said, he had assisted largely. CHAPTER XXII. "O spirits gay, and kindly heart! Precious the blessings ye impart!" --_Joanna Baillie._ "Well, cricket, are we to carry you back with us?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, with a smiling look at Violet. "If so, 'tis time to be tying on your hat, for the carriage is at the door." "No, grandpa, I am going to stay," she answered, holding up her face for a parting kiss. "I am well satisfied with your decision, dear child," her mother said when bidding her good-bye, as they and Edward stood alone together for a moment on the little porch. "I think these young people are all safe associates for you and your brother," turning to him and taking a hand of each, "and that you will enjoy yourselves very much with them. But, my darlings, never forget in the midst of your mirth and gayety--or in trouble, if that should come--that God's eye is upon you, and that you have a Christian character to maintain before men. Let me give you a parting text, 'Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.' And yet another for your joy and comfort, 'The Lord God is a sun and shields the Lord will give grace and glory: no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly.'" "Was there ever such another dear, good mother as ours?" Violet said to her brother, as together they watched the carriage out of sight. "I wish there were thousands like her," he answered. "Ever since I can remember it has been plain to me that what she most desired for all her children was that they might be real, true, earnest Christians. Vi, if we are not all that, we can never lay the blame at our mother's door." "Nor papa's either," Violet said with a sigh and a tear to his memory, "for he was just as careful as she is to train us up for God and heaven." "Yes," Edward assented with emotion. "O Vi, if I could but be the man he was!" They went into the house. In the little parlor Amy Fletcher reclined on a sofa gazing out through the open door upon the sea. "I have had my first sight of old ocean to-day," she said, glancing up at them as they came in, "and oh how beautiful it is! how delicious this breeze coming from it! it surely must bring health and strength to any one who is not very ill indeed!" "I hope it will to you," Violet said, sitting down by her side. "I hope so," she returned with a cheerful look and smile, "for the doctors tell me I have no organic disease, and that nothing is more likely to build me up than sea air and sea-bathing." Amy was small and fragile in appearance, but not painfully thin; she had large dark grey eyes, brown hair, a sweet patient expression, a clear complexion, and though usually rather too pale and quiet, when excited or greatly interested the color would come and go on her cheek, her eyes shine, and her whole face light up in a way that made her decidedly pretty. She was weary now with her journey and a visit to the beach, though she had only walked to a summer house near by and sat there while the rest strolled about. Merry sounds of jest and laughter were coming from the kitchen. "The girls are washing the dishes," Amy said with a smile, "and the lads helping or hindering, I don't know which." "The dinner dishes?" asked Violet. "Yes, Mary set them aside for the time, that she might enjoy the company of your friends while they stayed." "Do you think I could be of any assistance out there?" queried Edward, with gravity. "I have an idea that the place is quite full now," Amy said, with a merry glance up into his face. "I wish there was room for us all, for they seem to be having a great deal of sport. Just hark how they are laughing! Well, our turn will come. Don't you think we are going to have a jolly time here?" The door opened and the two young men came in. "You don't know what you've missed, Ed," said Charlie helping himself to a chair near Amy's couch; "housework's jolly good fun." "When you don't have too much of it," remarked Amy. "And do it in pleasant company," added Donald. "And under a capable and kind instructress," supplemented Mary, speaking from the kitchen. "What are your terms for tuition, Miss Keith?" inquired Edward, as she and Ella Neff joined the circle in the parlor. "Beginners get their board, which is sometimes more than they earn." "Is that all?" said Donald. "Then I think I shall retire from the service." "I advise you to do no such thing," said Ella, "the knowledge you gain may prove invaluable in some future emergency: some time when you find yourself out on the plains or buried in the forests of the Far West, with no gentle, loving woman at hand to prepare your meals." "In that case there would doubtless be an ungentle and obedient orderly to do so," rejoined Donald with gravity. "Well, women are often lectured by newspaper writers and others on the paramount duty of making themselves acquainted with the culinary art, as well as everything else pertaining to housewifery, in order that they may be fully capable of directing the labors of their servants, and I see no reason why the rule shouldn't hold good for men," remarked Ella. "There, sir, you're cornered, Donald!" laughed Charlie. "Now that we are all here together, suppose we make such arrangements as are necessary to constitute ourselves a tolerably orderly household," said Mary. "I understood that you were commanding officer, and the rest of us had nothing to do but obey orders," said Donald. "Quite a mistake. This is not an army, but a democracy, in which the majority rules. All important questions, therefore--" "Such as the bill of fare for dinner," suggested Charlie. "Excuse the hint, ma'am." "Are to be put to vote," Mary went on, not deigning to notice the interruption. "Mr. Keith, I propose that you, as the eldest of the party, take the chair." "Which?" he asked with serious air. "That large, easy one, which each of us is politely leaving for somebody else." Donald promptly took possession. "Is the meeting ready for business?" he asked. "Ready!" responded Charles and Edward. "Somebody make a motion, then." "I move that Miss Mary Keith be elected housekeeper extraordinary and cook plenipotentiary," said Ella. "I second the motion," said Edward. "You have all heard the motion, and to save useless repetition I put it to vote. All in favor--" A simultaneous "Aye!" from all present, Mary excepted. "Who are to be my assistants?" she asked. "All of us, I suppose," said Charles. "No, not Amy: she's the invalid, and must be taken care of by the heartiest and strongest, which is probably your humble servant, ladies and gentlemen." "Doubtful that!" said Edward, with a downward glance at his own stout limbs. "I think we should all help in that and with the housework," remarked Vi modestly. "Cousin Mary, I can make beds, sweep and dust very nicely, mamma says. It was her wish that I should learn, and I did." "So can I," said Ella, "and we'll undertake that part of the work together, if you like, Miss--" "Call me Violet or Vi." "Yes," said Charlie. "I move that everybody be called by the Christian name--or some abbreviation thereof--as a saving of trouble, and showing a friendly disposition toward each other." "Agreed," said Donald, "but let it be understood that there's no objection to the prefix of cousin." "At what hours shall we take our meals?" asked Mary. "Make a motion," said Donald. "Breakfast at eight, dinner at one, tea at six; will these hours suit all? If not, let us have objections." "Speak now, or forever hold your peace," said Charlie. "They suit me well enough if the rule be not too rigidly enforced, so as to interfere with pleasuring." "I didn't mean they should do that," said Mary; "they are only to be a general guide." "And if anybody happens to indulge in an extra morning nap, what's to be the penalty?" "A cold and lonely breakfast, I suppose. Perhaps to wash his own dishes besides." "All in favor of the hours named for meals please signify it by saying aye," said Donald. "Aye!" from every tongue. "Anything else, Miss Keith?" he asked. "Just one thing more," she answered, speaking with a sudden seriousness, and in a low, almost tremulous tone that sobered them all instantly. She went on with an effort. "We all profess to be Christians: shall we live together, even for the short space of two or three weeks, like heathen or mere worldings?" A moment's silence, then Donald said with quiet gravity, "Surely not, Mary." "We will not partake of the food God provides for our nourishment and enjoyment without asking his blessing upon it, or begin or end the day without prayer and praise, will we?" she asked. "Oh no!" came softly from the lips of Amy and Violet, and was echoed by the other voices. "Then which of you, my three cousins, Don, Edward, and Charlie, will take the lead in these acts of worship?" A longer silence than before; then Vi turned a wistful, pleading look upon her brother. There was no mistaking its meaning; and his mother's parting words were ringing in his ears. "If no one else is willing," he said, "I will do it." "Thank you, Edward," said Charlie, rising and grasping his hand; "but it would be too selfish to leave you to do it alone; so I will take my turn." "I too," said Donald. "It should never be said of a soldier that he refused to stand by his colors." "Or of a follower of Christ that he was shamed of his Master's service," added Edward. So it was arranged that they should take turns, day about, according to their age. "Five o'clock--just an hour to tea-time," Charlie said, consulting his watch: "what shall we do with it? Amy, do you feel equal to a stroll on the beach, with the support of my arm?" "Thank you, it would be very nice, but I am tired enough to think it still nicer just to lie here and look at the sea," she said. "I shall not mind being left alone, though; so, please, all the rest of you go. And to-morrow I shall be able to join you, I hope." "Ah no, we won't leave you here all alone," said several voices. "No," said Mary, "for I am going to stay with her. I am weary enough just now to prefer resting in this easy chair to a ramble on the beach or anywhere else; and beside, I want a chat with Amy." "Secrets to tell, eh?" said Charlie, picking up his hat. "Good-bye, then. Don't forget to speak well of the absent." "Oh I am so glad to be alone with you for a little while, Mary," Amy said, when the others had all gone. "I want to thank you for your kindness in asking me to come here; such a blessed relief as it was! for it seemed to me the very monotony of my life was killing me." "The thanks hardly belong to me," Mary said, between a smile and a tear, as she leaned over Amy, gently smoothing back the hair from her forehead. "I think they should be given first to our heavenly Father, and second to Mr. Marston." "Yes, and third to you, Mary. I used to wonder over that text in Isaiah--'He that believeth shall not make haste.' I didn't know what it meant, but I believe I do now." "Well, dear, what is your explanation?" "I think it means he that is strong in faith will patiently and calmly wait God's time for the fulfilment of his promises, and for relief from trouble and trial. Oh if I could but do it always!" "And I," sighed Mary; "but oh how often I am guilty of making haste for myself or for others--my dear ones especially. There is poor mother so often sick, and it is so hard to see her suffer, when she is so good, too, so patient and cheerful and resigned." "Yes, I know that must be far harder than suffering yourself." "Amy," Mary said after a pause, "you must not forget that it is a very great pleasure to me to have you here, and that if you and the others had refused to come and stay with me I could not have accepted Mr. Marston's offer." "It is very generous in you to set it in that light," Amy answered, with a grateful look and smile. They found so much to talk about that time flew very fast, and they were greatly surprised on seeing Ella and Violet coming up the path from the gate to the house. "Surely it is not six yet!" Mary exclaimed. "No, only half-past five," Vi said, taking out her watch; "but you are tired, and Ella and I want you to let us get the tea." "Good girls!" returned Mary gayly. "I feel quite rested now, but you may help if you like. I'm not going to cook much, though--only to make tea and stew a few oysters." Tea and the clearing up after it well over, they all gathered on the porch, where they had the full benefit of the breeze and could get a glimpse of the sea by the light of the stars, and listen to its ceaseless murmur, while amusing themselves with cheerful chat and in making arrangements for various pleasure excursions about the vicinity. It was unanimously decided to reserve the long walks until Amy should grow stronger, in order that she might share the enjoyment. In the meanwhile they would fill up the time with bathing, lounging, short strolls, driving, and boating. They finished the evening with the singing of hymns, a chapter of the Bible read aloud by Donald, and a short, earnest prayer, well suited to their needs, offered by him. The next day their plans were interfered with by a constant, steady rainfall, but no one fretted or looked dull. Most of them took their bath in spite of it, and there were books and games with which to while away the time within doors. The second day was bright and clear. Amy felt herself already so greatly improved that she was eager for a proposed boating excursion on Shark River. Breakfast was prepared, eaten, and cleared away in good season. Mary was an excellent manager, working rapidly and well herself and skilfully directing the labors of others. They took the stage down to the river, hired a boat large enough to carry the whole party, spent a couple of hours in rowing back and forth, up and down, then returned home as they had come, reaching there in season for their bath and the preparation of a good though not very elaborate dinner, Mary pressing Ella and the lads into her service, while Amy and Violet were ordered to lie down and rest after their bath. "What's the programme for this afternoon?" asked Charlie, finishing his dessert and pushing his plate aside. "Dish-washing, a long lounge on beds and couches, then tea and a second chapter of cleansing of utensils, followed by an evening stroll on the beach," answered Mary. "And what for to-morrow?" queried Donald. "Ah, that reminds me," said Edward, "that Mrs. Perkins told me she expects her husband by the evening train, and wants us to join them to-morrow in getting up a fishing party. The plan is to drive over to Manasquan, hire a boat there and go out on the ocean. What do you all say about it?" The young men were highly in favor of the trip; Amy would see how she felt in the morning; Violet demurred, lest there might be danger in going upon the ocean, and "because she could not see any pleasure in catching fish; it seemed so cruel." "But you eat them," reasoned her brother. "Yes, I know, and I suppose it is very inconsistent to object to catching them, but I do. I could not enjoy seeing them suffer." "You can go with us without feeling obliged to share in that, can you not?" asked Donald. "Needn't even go out in the boat unless you choose," put in Charlie. "We'll find a shady spot under the trees near the shore where you can sit and watch us." Violet thought that plan would do very well; she could take a book along, and the time would not seem tedious. "But Mary has not spoken," said Donald, turning to her. "I see no objection to your going, any or all of you," she answered brightly, "but I must be excused." "But why?" they all asked in various tones of disappointment and inquiry. "Because to-morrow is Saturday, and the cook and housekeeper must make ready for the Sabbath rest by doing two days' work in one." "Can't we manage that somehow?" asked Donald. Mary shook her head. "No; but I shan't mind it at all. Go and enjoy yourselves, my children, and leave me to attend to my duties at home." "The rest can go if they choose, but if you stay at home, cousin, I shall stay with you," announced Violet with decision. They rose from the table. "Mary," said Charlie, "let the dishes stand a bit. I'm going to the post-office," and seizing his hat he disappeared, followed by the laughter of the others. "Quick, now, lads and lasses, let's have them all out of the way before he gets back," said Ella, beginning to clear the table in hot haste. The heat of the sun was too great to allow of very fast walking, and Charlie was gone a full half hour; when he returned he found them all sitting at their ease in the parlor. "I think we'll leave those dishes till the cool of the evening, Mary," he said, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "No, I can't consent to that--not on ordinary occasions," she answered demurely. "Then back to the post-office goes this letter!" he cried threateningly, holding aloft one with her address upon it. "Silly boy, the dishes are done without your help; give it to me!" she cried, springing up and catching it out of his hand. "A fortunate day; nobody neglected by Uncle Sam's messengers," he said, pulling several more from his pocket and distributing them. The tongues were silent for a moment; then Vi uttered a joyous exclamation. "O Mary, you needn't stay at home to-morrow! mamma says she will send a hamper by the evening train to-morrow, with provision to last us over Sunday, so that you need not be troubled with Saturday cooking." Everybody was glad, everybody thankful. "But to-morrow's dinner," said Mary, presently; "shall we get back in time for me to cook it?" "I don't know," said Edward; "but there are hotels where we can dine, and I invite you all to be my guests at whichever one the party may select. Now, Cousin Mary," as he read hesitation in her face, "I shall be hurt if anybody refuses my invitation." So no one ventured an objection. The day proved auspicious. Amy was unusually well, everybody else in good health and spirits, no excuse for staying at home: so all went and spent the entire day, taking an early start and not returning till late in the afternoon. CHAPTER XXIII. "_Macbeth._ If we should fail-- "_Lady M._ We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking place, And we'll not fail." --_Shakespeare._ Sunday morning came and our young friends met at the breakfast table, not in their usual jesting, mirthful mood, but with cheerful gravity of demeanor, suited to the sacredness of the day. "There is no preaching, no sort of religious service within our reach to-day," Edward remarked. "Then shall we not have one of our own?" asked Mary. "I have a book of sermons: one might be read aloud; then we can have three prayers and as many hymns as we please; we all sing." "And we might have a Bible reading also," suggested Ella. "And suppose we take up the International Sunday-school Lesson and study it." All these propositions were received with favor and eventually carried out. They did not think it wrong to stroll quietly along the shore, or to sit there watching the play of the billows, and thus they ended their afternoon. The evening was pleasantly spent in serious talk and the singing of hymns on the front porch, where they could feel the breeze and see the foam-crested waves by the light of a young moon. They retired early, feeling that they had had an enjoyable, restful day, and rose betimes, full of life and vigor--except Amy; and even she felt equal to a longer stroll than she had yet taken. The days flew by on swift wings, each bringing its duties and enjoyments with it, and so pleasant was the gay, free life they led that at times they half regretted that it must come to an end. Yet there were other times when some, if not all of them, anticipated, with real satisfaction, the return to the more serious business of life. There was a very frequent exchange of visits between their party and the one to which Edward and Violet more properly belonged; sometimes by way of the cars, at others by riding or driving; so that Violet was never many days without sight and speech of her mother and some of the other dear ones at home; and that reconciled her to a longer absence from it. At length the younger Elsie was persuaded to come and spend a few days with Mary and her party, the mother consenting to spare both daughters for that length of time. The sweet girl's presence added much to the enjoyment of all, especially her sister, for their mutual attachment had always been very strong. One day there was a large fishing party, composed principally of guests from other houses, which both Elsie and Violet declined to attend; but Vi, fired with a laudable ambition to emulate her cousin Mary's skill in the culinary art, volunteered to get dinner, and have it ready by the time the others returned. Each one of them offered to stay and assist, but she would not hear of it; laughingly asserting that "she wanted all the honor and glory, and wouldn't have anybody with her but Elsie, who knew nothing about cooking, but would keep her from being 'lone and lorn,' and perhaps help a little in those things which were so easy that even the lads could do them," she concluded, with a merry glance from one to the other. Edward was not there, some errand having taken him home by the morning train. "Can you stand that insinuation, Donald?" asked Charlie. "I vote that you and I stay at home to-morrow and get dinner, just to prove our skill in that line." "Agreed," said Donald; "but what's to be done with the lasses in the meantime? We can't let them go off pleasuring alone." "Oh, Edward can take care of them all for once; he's to be back by dinner-time to-day, you know, so will be on hand here to-morrow." "Thank you," said Ella, laughing, and with a mock courtesy, "but we are entirely capable of taking care of ourselves, as perhaps we may prove to you one of these days. But here's the carriage at the gate. Come, Amy, I'll help you in. Let us show these lords of creation that they are of not quite so great importance as they are pleased to imagine." She ran gayly out, Amy following a little more slowly, with a regretful good-bye to the two who were to remain at home. The lads hurried after, in season to forestall Ella in assisting Amy into the vehicle, which the former had hastily entered unaided, before they could reach it. Mary lingered behind a moment to say to Elsie and Violet that she did not in the least care to go, indeed would prefer to stay with them. "No, no, cousin Mary," they both said, "we would not have you miss the sport, or deprive the rest of the pleasure of your society." "Besides," added Violet, with a merry look and smile, "if you were here I know very well I should miss the opportunity to distinguish myself as a capable and accomplished cook. So away with you, fair lady! See, the lads are waiting to hand you into the carriage." "Good-bye then, but don't attempt an elaborate dinner," Mary returned, as she hastened away. The sisters stood on the little porch watching the departure till the carriage was out of sight. Just then a boy carrying a large basket opened the gate and came in. "That's right, you are just in good time," was Vi's greeting. "Please carry them into the kitchen. Have you brought all I ordered?" "Yes'm; potatoes, corn, beans, tomats, cabbage, lettuce, and young beets. All right fresh and nice." Violet paid him and he left. "There, I shall have a sufficient variety of vegetables," she remarked, viewing her purchase with satisfaction. "O Vi," sighed Elsie, with a look of apprehension, "do you in the least know what you are about?" "Why of course, you dear old goosie! haven't I watched Cousin Mary's cooking operations for over two weeks? Oh I assure you I'm going to have a fine dinner! There's a chicken all ready for the oven--cousin showed me how to make the stuffing and all that. I've engaged fresh fish and oysters--they'll be coming in directly. I shall make an oyster pie and broil the fish. I mean to make a boiled pudding and sauce for dessert, and have bought nuts, raisins and almonds, oranges, bananas and candies besides, and engaged ice cream and cake." "Your bill of fare sounds very good, but what if you should fail in the cooking?" "Oh, no such word as fail for me!" laughed Vi. "I've screwed my courage to the sticking place, and don't intend to fail. Now we must don our big aprons and to work; you'll help me with the vegetables, I know." "Willingly, if you'll show me how." Violet felt very wise and important as she gave her older sister the requested instruction, then went bustling about making her pudding and pastry: for she decided to add tarts to her bill of fare, and the oyster pie must have a very nice crust. But as she proceeded with her preparations she discovered that her knowledge was deficient in regard to many of the details of the business in hand; she did not know exactly how much time to allow for the cooking of each dish--how long it would take the chicken to roast, pie and tarts to bake, pudding and vegetables to boil. She grew anxious and nervous in her perplexity; there was no one to give her the needed information, the cookery books did not supply it, and in sheer desperation she filled her oven, her pots and kettles as fast as possible, saying to Elsie it would surely be better to have food a little overdone than not sufficiently cooked. It proved an unfortunate decision, especially as the fishing party were an hour later in returning than had been expected. Poor Violet was too much mortified to eat when she discovered that there was no sweetness left in the corn, that her potatoes were water-soaked, her oysters tough as leather, the chicken scorched and very much overdone, the fish burnt almost to a cinder, and--oh worst of all! cooked with the scales on. She had forgotten they had any. Her friends all comforted her, however, taking the blame on themselves. "If they had not been so late, things would not have been so overdone; it was their fault. And the lettuce, the cold-slaw, and bread and butter were all very nice. The tarts too." But as soon as she tasted them Violet knew she had forgotten the salt in her crust and that it was tough compared to her Cousin Mary's. And then the pudding! oh why did it turn out so heavy? Ah, she had made it with sour milk and put in no soda. "Oh what shall I do?" she said despairingly to Mary, who was helping her to dish it up. "There's hardly anything fit to eat, and I know you are all very hungry." "Indeed, dear little coz, there is a great deal that's fit to eat," Mary said, glancing toward he table on which the last course was set out--except the ice cream, which had not yet been taken out of the freezer. "Yes, those are nice, but the substantial of the meal--just what are most needed--are all spoiled. Oh what's that?" with a sudden change of tone as a man bearing a large hamper appeared at the open door; "something from mamma, I do believe." "Yes," said Edward, stepping in after the man as the latter set the hamper down; "and as it's more than an hour past dinner time, I suppose it's very well I didn't come empty handed." "O Ned, Ned, you dear, good fellow!" cried Violet, springing to his side and throwing her arms around his neck. "Yes, you may well say that!" he returned, laughing, as he gave her a kiss, then put her aside and stooped to open the basket, "for I told mother what you were attempting to-day, and she said 'The poor, dear child! she will surely fail, so I'll send some provisions with you when you go.' And here they are, all of the best, of course, for mamma never does anything by halves," he added, beginning to hand out the viands--a pair of cold roast fowls, a boiled tongue, pickles, jellies, pies and cakes in variety,--Mary and Vi receiving them with exclamations of satisfaction, delight and thankfulness which quickly brought the others upon the scene, just as the bearer of the hamper, who had gone out on setting it down, re-entered with a basket of of beautiful, luscious looking peaches and grapes. "Hello!" exclaimed Charlie, in high glee, "what's all this? a second dinner?" "Yes," returned Violet, "my dear, good mother's atonement for her conceited daughter's failure." "No, no, we don't call it a failure, nor the cook conceited," cried a chorus of voices; "some things are very nice, and others were spoiled by our fault in coming home so late." "Well, please come back to the table and we'll begin again," said Violet, carrying the fowls into the dining-room, Mary following with the tongue, Elsie and Ella with other edibles. "Please, some of you, help me carry away dinner number one, to make room for dinner number two," said Vi, replacing the dish containing her unfortunate chicken with the one on which she had put the new arrivals. Upon that everybody seized one or more of the dishes and hurried back to the kitchen; and so with a great rushing to and fro and amid much laughter and many merry jests they respread the board. Violet's spirits and appetite had returned, and she joined the others in making a hearty meal. The next morning was cloudy and cool for the season. All agreed it was just the day for a long stroll inland, and shortly after breakfast they set out in a body--Mary, Ella and Edward leading the van, Donald and Edward's two sisters coming next, Charlie and Amy bringing up the rear. There seemed to be a tacit understanding that those two were always to be together and no remark was ever made about it, but Charlie always quietly took possession of the fragile little lady, just as if he had entered into bonds to be her care-taker and entertainer, accommodating his pace to hers, which was so much slower than that most natural to the others that they often unintentionally left her far behind. They presently met Mrs. Perkins, Fred and Susie, who were also starting out for a walk, and the two parties joined their forces. They passed through the village, and sat down for a little while on some rustic benches under the trees on the river bank, to rest and enjoy the pleasing prospect. The village lay behind them; before, green slopes dotted here and there with trees standing singly or in groups; then the sparkling river, to the left, beyond the bridge, widening into a lake-like expanse, to the right pouring its waters into the great ocean, on whose broad bosom many ships, steamers and smaller craft could be seen, some near, others far away in the distance. The surface of the river too was enlivened by a number of small sail-boats slowly moving before the wind, and skiffs that darted hither and thither. On the further bank the scene was diversified by woods and fields, with here and there a farm-house, then the sandy beach bordering the wide blue sea. "Are you quite tired out, Amy?" Charlie asked after a little. "Oh no, I'm quite rested," she answered gayly, "and feel able to walk a good deal farther. I am really surprised to find how strong and well I am." "The sea-shore's the place for you evidently," he said; then as she sprang up nimbly to join the others as they rose and moved on again, "But I don't know that it would be best to keep you here too long; you might grow so strong as to feel capable of dispensing with any help from other folks." "Which would be very delightful indeed," she returned with an arch look and smile as she accepted his offered arm. They hastened on after the rest of their party, over a bridge and along the roadside for some distance, then they all struck into a narrow footpath on the farther side of the fence, the young men letting down the bars to give the ladies easy ingress, and followed that through a bit of woods, crossing a little stream by a broken bridge, where again the lads had the pleasure of giving assistance to their companions of the weaker sex; then across some cornfields; making a circuit that brought them back to the river. The path now ran along its bank, and still pursuing it they came at length to a little inlet where was neither bridge nor boat. There they stopped and held a consultation. No one wanted to go back by the way they had come, it was too long and roundabout; if they could but cross this inlet they could soon reach one of the life-saving stations on the other side, and there probably find some one who would carry them across the river in a boat, when a short walk along the beach would take them to their temporary homes. "The water is not deep, I think," said Donald. "I propose that we lads strip off boots and stockings, wade through and carry the ladies over. I will wade across first and try its depth." He did so, spite of some protests from the more timid of the ladies, and found it hardly knee-deep. All then agreed to his proposition. "Edward and I will make a chair by clasping hands," he said gayly, "and Fred and Charlie can do likewise if they will, and we will divide the honor of carrying the ladies over dryshod." Donald had a purpose in selecting Edward as his companion and helper in the undertaking; feeling pretty certain that Elsie and Violet would choose to be carried by their brother, which they did. "I see through you, young man," Charlie said to Donald in a laughing aside while making ready for the trip, "but I don't care very much, if you leave Miss Fletcher for me." "All right," returned Donald, "I intended to, for I see which way the wind blows. She's light too, my lad, and will be the better suited to your strength." "Strength, man! I'm as able to lift and carry as Lieutenant Keith, if I'm not greatly mistaken," Charlie said with pretended wrath, "and to prove it I speak for the carrying of Mrs. Perkins and Miss Neff, who must be a trifle heavier than any of the other ladies." "All right; but fortunately there isn't one in the party heavy enough to be any great burden to either of us." So amid a good deal of mirth and laughter and some timidity and shrinking on the part of the younger girls, the short journey was made, and that without mishap or loss. Then a short, though toilsome walk through the soft yielding sand brought them to the life-saving station, a small two-story frame building standing high on the sandy beach, the restless billows of old ocean tossing and tumbling not many rods away. They were courteously treated by the brave fellows who make this their abode during eight months of the year, were shown the room on the lower floor where they cook and eat, the two above where they sleep, and also all the apparatus for saving the shipwrecked and any others who may be in danger of drowning within reach of their aid. Our friends were all greatly interested in looking at these things--the colored lamps and flags for signalling, the life-boat, the breeches-buoy and the life-car--this last especially: it was of metal, shaped like a row-boat, but covered in over the top, except a square opening large enough to admit one passenger at a time, and having a sliding door, the closing of which, after the passengers are in, makes the car completely water-tight. "How many will it hold?" asked Edward. "Six or seven grown folks, if they are not very large sized." "Oh, I should think they would smother!" cried Violet. "It is only about three or four minutes they'd have to stay in it," said the exhibitor. Then he showed them the thick, strong rope or hawser on which it runs, and the mortar by means of which they send a line to the distressed vessel with a tally-board attached on which are printed directions--English on one side, French on the other--for the proper securing of the hawser to the wreck. "The other end is made fast on shore, I suppose?" said Amy inquiringly. "Yes, Miss." "And when they have made their end fast and got into the car--" "Then we pull 'em ashore." "Not a particularly pleasant ride to take, I imagine," remarked Donald. "Not so very sir; she's apt to be tossed about pretty roughly by the big waves; turn over several times, liker than not." "Yes, I suppose so." "Oh," cried Amy, with a shudder, "I think I'd almost rather drown." "No, Miss," said the man, "I guess you'd find even that better'n drowning." Having fully satisfied their curiosity, our friends inquired if there was anybody about there who would take them across the river. "Yes, sir, I'll row you across, half of you at a time," answered the man, addressing Donald, who had acted as spokesman for the party. "All of you at once would be too big a load for the boat." It was but a short walk to the river, a few minutes' row across it, and soon they were all on the farther side and walking along the beach toward home. "Dinner time!" exclaimed Ella, looking at her watch. "What's to be done about it?" Her question seemed to be addressed to Mary. "Don't ask me," was the demure reply. "It's none of my concern to-day. Didn't you hear the agreement between Charlie and Don yesterday?" "There! Mr. Charles Perrine, see the scrape you have got yourself and me into!" exclaimed Donald with a perplexed and rueful look. "What in the world are we to do!" cried Charlie, stopping short with his hand upon the gate and turning so as to face the others. "Get in out of the sun for the first thing," replied his cousin. "Yes, yes, of course!" and he stepped back and held the gate open for the ladies to pass in. "We are all hungry as bears, I suppose," he said when they were fairly in the house. "Come, Mary, be good and tell us what to do. Shall we go to one of the hotels?" "No, make the fire, set the table, and grind some coffee," she answered, laughing. "I foresaw that I'd have to come to the rescue, and am prepared. We'll have coffee, stewed oysters, cold fowl left from yesterday, plenty of good bread, rolls and butter, fruits and cake, and it won't take many minutes to get it ready." "Mary, you're a jewel!" Charlie returned, catching her about the waist and kissing her on both cheeks. "Begone, you impertinent fellow!" she said laughingly as she released herself and pushed him away. "Even a cousin shouldn't take such liberties." CHAPTER XXIV. "O pilot! 'tis a fearful night, There's danger on the deep." --_Bayly._ Elsie had gone home, and in a few days our little party would break up entirely, Ella and Amy return to their homes, Mary, Donald and Charlie go with Edward and Violet to their mother's cottage to spend some time as Mrs. Travilla's guests. The Allisons had gone, and there was now abundance of room, though the Conlys, mother and daughter, still lingered, loath to leave the delightful sea breezes. The quiet life led under her cousin Elsie's roof was not much to Virginia's taste, but nothing better had offered as yet. Breakfast was over, the morning tasks the girls had set themselves were all done, and the whole four came trooping out upon the porch where the three lads were standing apparently very intent upon some object out at sea. Edward was looking through a spy-glass, which he handed to Donald just as the girls joined them, saying, "See if you can make out the name." "Not quite, but she is certainly a yacht," was Donald's reply, after a moment's steady gaze at one of the many vessels within sight; for they had counted more than forty of various sorts and sizes, some outward bound, others coming in. The one which so excited their interest was drawing nearer. "Let me look," said Mary. "I have the reputation of being very far-sighted." Donald handed her the glass and pointed out the vessel. She sighted it, and in another moment said, "Yes, I can read the name--'The Curlew.'" "Ah, ha!" cried Edward in a very pleased tone, "I was correct; it is Will Tallis's yacht." "And really it looks as if he meant to call at Ocean Beach," added Charlie. "Must have heard, Ned, that you and I are here." "Doubtless," laughed Edward. "Will Tallis?" repeated Violet inquiringly. "Is he a friend of yours, Edward?" "Why, yes; have you never heard me speak of him? He's a splendid fellow, one whom I should very willingly introduce to my mother and sisters." "And has a yacht of his own?" "Yes; he's very rich, and delights in being on the sea. Inherits the taste, I suppose; his father was a sea-captain. He told us--Charlie and me--that he meant to go yachting this season, and wished he could persuade us to go with him." "And I, for one, should like nothing better," said Charlie. "Why, Ned, he is coming ashore! See, they have dropped anchor and are putting off from the yacht in a boat! Yes, here they come, pulling straight for this beach. Where's my hat? Let's run down, boys, and meet them as they land!" cried the lad, greatly excited. Amy had found his hat and silently handed it to him. Edward and Donald seized theirs, and all three rushed to the beach. "Come, girls," said Ella, "let us go too; why should we miss the fun, if there is to be any?" They put on their hats, took their sun-umbrellas, and started. They however went only as far as to the sidewalk in front of the Colorado House--so many people were thronging the beach to witness the landing, which was now evidently to take place just below there, and our modest, refined young ladies did not like to be in a crowd. Mrs. Perkins and Susie joined them. Fred was away; had gone over to New York, expecting to return by the evening train. "Not much to be seen by us but the waves and the crowd," remarked Ella, a little impatiently. "Nor much to be heard but the murmur of their voices." "They must have landed, I think," Mrs. Perkins said. "Yes, here they come; our lads, I mean, and a stranger with them. A very nice looking fellow he is, too." The four young men drew near, and Edward introduced "My friend, Mr. Tallis," to the ladies. He was very gentlemanly in appearance, and had a pleasant, open countenance, a cordial, hearty manner as he shook hands with the matronly married lady and lifted his hat to the younger ones. "I am happy to make your acquaintance, ladies," he said, with a genial smile and an admiring glance at Violet, "and have come to ask the pleasure of your company on board my yacht. I am bound for Boston and the coasts of New Hampshire and Maine--a short sea-voyage which I trust you will find enjoyable if I can but persuade you to try it." Mrs. Perkins declined, with thanks, for herself and Susie. Violet did likewise. The other three hesitated, but finally yielded to the persuasions of the lads. "O Edward, you will not go, surely?" whispered Violet, drawing her brother aside. "And why not?" he returned with some impatience. "Because you haven't mamma's consent, or grandpa's either." "No, but that's only because they are not here to give it. I'm sure there's nothing objectionable. Will's the very sort of fellow they would approve, the vessel is new and strong, and the captain and crew understand their business." "But a storm might come up." "Why, Vi, how silly! there's no appearance of a storm, and we are not intending to go far out to sea. Besides, you might just as well bring that objection to any trip by sea." "Yes; but if you had mamma's consent it would be different." "I don't see that. I'd ask it, of course, if I could--and be sure to get it, too, I think--but there isn't time; they don't want to lose this favorable wind and fine weather, and will be off again within an hour. Come, make up your mind to go with us: I want you along, for I think it will be a delightful little voyage." "Thank you, brother, but I don't wish to go, and couldn't enjoy it if I went without mamma's knowledge and consent: and I do wish you would not go." "Vi, I never knew you so absurd and unreasonable! But if you will not go along, perhaps I ought to stay to take care of you. I had not thought of that before. Mother left you in my charge, but I am sure she would not want me to lose this pleasure, and it strikes me as a trifle selfish in you to make it necessary for me to do so." "I don't want you to stay on my account," she said, tears springing to her eyes, "and I don't think you need. I can go home this afternoon by the cars. Probably mamma would not mind my taking so short a ride alone." "I don't know: but I should enjoy the voyage far more with you along." "What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Perkins, overhearing a part of the talk. "I will take charge of your sister, Mr. Travilla, if she prefers to stay behind." "Thank you," Edward responded with brightening countenance. "But--Vi, you will not care to bathe while we are gone?" "No, Ned, I shall not go in without you, as mamma desired me not." "And you are willing for me to go?" "Not quite; I wish you wouldn't; only don't stay to take care of me." Edward looked a good deal vexed and annoyed. "Mrs. Perkins," he said, turning to her, "if Fred were here, would you object to his going?" "No, not at all. I should leave him to follow his own inclination. But," as Edward turned triumphantly to Violet, "I am not meaning to encourage you to go, if your sister thinks your mother might object: all mothers do not see alike, you know." "Well," he said, "I imagine I am as competent a judge of that as Violet is. I feel well-nigh certain that she would bid me go and enjoy myself. She's not one of the fussy kind of mothers who are afraid to let their children stir out of their sight." "Then you will go?" said Mr. Tallis. "Yes," Edward answered, resolutely avoiding Violet's pleading looks. "I wish we could persuade your sister," Mr. Tallis said, turning to her. "Are you timid about venturing on the sea, Miss Travilla?" "Not particularly," she said, coloring slightly. "Then do come with us! the more the merrier, you know, and I should be so happy. I do not feel quite comfortable to carry off all the rest of your party and leave you alone." The girls joined their entreaties to his, but Violet was firm in her resolution to remain on shore. Then Mary offered to stay with her, but as Violet felt convinced that it would involve a sacrifice on her cousin's part, she would not consent. They now all hastened back to the cottage to make such preparations as might be needful. It was not much to any of them, as they expected to return the next day or the one following. "Edward, can I be of any assistance to you?" Violet asked, going to the door of his room. "Yes, if you like to pack this valise. Maybe you would do it better than I. I'm alone, so come in." Violet accepted the invitation, and did the little service quite to his satisfaction. "You are a nice, handy girl, if I do say it that shouldn't," he remarked laughingly. "But what's the matter?" as he saw that her eyes were full of tears. "O Edward, don't go away vexed with me!" she exclaimed, putting an arm around his neck. "Suppose a storm should come up, and--and we should never see each other again." The last words came with an irrepressible burst of tears and sobs. The loving young heart was sore from recent bereavement, and ready to fear for all its dear ones. "Come, don't fret about possibilities," he said, kindly. "I'm not vexed now, and you must forgive me for calling you selfish." "You don't think I am?" "No, indeed! but just the darlingest little sister ever a fellow had. I shouldn't like--if anything should happen--to have you remember that as one of the last things I had said to you. No, I was the selfish one. Now good-bye, and don't worry about me," he said, holding her close, and kissing her several times; "you know, Vi dear, that we are under the same protecting care on sea and on land." "Yes," she whispered, but with some hesitation, and drawing a deep sigh. "Ah!" he said, "you doubt whether I shall be taken care of because I'm going without permission. Are you not forgetting that we have always been trained to think and decide for ourselves in all cases where it is right and proper for us to do so? And why should I need permission to go on the sea in a yacht any more than in a fishing-boat? Can you answer me that?" he concluded, half laughingly. "No," she said, with a slight smile, "and I daresay you are in the right about it." "Then you won't change your mind ('tis a woman's privilege, you know) and go along? It's not yet too late." "No, thank you; I do not care to claim all the woman's privileges yet," she answered with playful look and tone. "Hello, Ned! 'most ready?" shouted Charlie from below. "Time's about up." They went down at once. The other girls were on the porch quite ready to start, Donald standing with them. Mrs. Perkins and Susie could be descried down on the beach waiting to see them off; Mr. Tallis too, chatting with the ladies. The young men gathered up the ladies' satchels and their own. Charlie offered his arm to Amy, but she declined it with a laughing assurance that she was now strong enough to walk without support. "Miss Neff," he sighed, turning to Ella, "I've lost my situation: will you?" "And you and the rest of us will, maybe, lose something else if we don't hurry," she answered lightly. "'Time and tide wait for no man,' so let us make haste before they fail us." These three were very merry, the other three sober almost to absolute quietness as they made their way to the waiting boat. Edward kissed his sister again as he was about to step into it, and she clung to his neck for a moment whispering, "Ah, I shall pray that you may come back safely!" "Don't borrow trouble, you dear little goose," he said, as he let her go. At the last moment it appeared that Donald was not going. There were various exclamations of surprise and disappointment from the voyagers when his purpose to remain behind became apparent, "They had understood he was going--why did he change his mind?" "Well," he said, with a quiet smile, "a man is not bound to give all his reasons, but the fact is Mrs. Perkins has held out strong inducements to me to stay where I am." "And he couldn't be in better company, could he?" was her laughing addition. Violet was as much taken by surprise as the others, but in her secret heart not at all sorry--"It would be so much less lonely with Cousin Donald there." They stood on the beach, waving their handkerchiefs to their departing friends until the latter had reached the deck of the yacht. Nor did they cease to watch the vessel so long as the smallest portion of it was visible, as it faded quite out of sight. Violet felt a strong inclination to indulge in a hearty cry, but putting a determined restraint upon herself, chatted cheerfully instead. Yet her friends perceived her depression and exerted themselves for her entertainment. "It seems to me," Donald said, with a glance at Violet, but addressing Mrs. Perkins, as they went into a summer house near by and sat down, "that this little lady has less of inquisitiveness than most people--(I will not say most of her sex, for I think my own is by no means deficient in the characteristic)--or she would have made some inquiry in regard to the strong inducements I spoke of." "What were they?" Violet asked. "You have roused my sleeping curiosity." "Mrs. Perkins has kindly offered to come to the cottage and help us with our housekeeping while the rest of the lads and lassies are away, and to bring Miss Susie and her brother with her." Vi's face lighted up with pleasure. "It is very kind," she said. "Now I shall not mind the absence of the others half so much as I had expected. I like my little room at the cottage, and do not fancy living in a crowd as I must anywhere else." "Then you will not go home?" Donald said, inquiringly. "No; upon second thought I have decided against that plan, because if I did go I must tell mamma how it happened, and then if a storm should come up she would be tortured with useless anxiety about my brother." "You are very thoughtful of your mother." "As any one would be who had such a mother as ours, Cousin Donald." "She is certainly very lovely and lovable," he said. "Now about our meals, cousin. Do you object to taking them in a crowd? at one of the public houses here?" "No; I think it the least of two evils," she answered, with a smile, "for I own to being somewhat tired of the fun of housework and cooking." "Then we will settle upon that plan," Mrs. Perkins said; "sleep and live at the cottage, breakfast, dine and sup elsewhere." Mrs. Perkins was a very good talker, full of general information, anecdote and entertaining reminiscences, a delightful companion even to one as young as Violet. Time passed swiftly to them all. Life at the cottage, because it took them out of the crowd, was more enjoyable than that at the hotels, which were all very full at this season, and as a consequence, very noisy. The cottage seemed very peaceful and quiet by contrast. Indeed it was far quieter now than it had been at any time in the past two or three weeks, and Violet, who was beginning to weary of so much sport and mirthfulness, really found the change agreeable. By the middle of the afternoon of the next day they began to watch for the reappearance of the Curlew; but night closed in again without the sight. There was a very fresh and stormy breeze from the north-east when they went to bed. In the morning it blew almost a gale, and as Violet's eyes turned seaward her face wore a very anxious expression. "No sign of the Curlew yet," she sighed, as she stood at the parlor window gazing out upon the wind-tossed billows, plunging, leaping, roaring, foaming as if in furious passion. "No; and we may well thank God that we do not," said Donald's voice close at her side, "for the wind is just in the quarter to drive them ashore: I hope they are giving the land a wide berth." She looked up into his face with frightened eyes. "Do not be alarmed," he said; "let us not anticipate evil. They may be safe in port somewhere; and at all events we know who rules the winds and waves." "Yes," she murmured, in low tremulous tones, "the stormy wind fulfils His word: and no real evil shall befall any of His children." There was a moment of silence; then, "It is about breakfast time now," he said, "but you will not venture out in this gale, surely? Shall I not have your meal sent in to you?" "Thank you, but I prefer to make the effort to go," she said; "I want to get a nearer view of the sea." The others felt the same desire, and presently they all started out together. The ladies found it as much as they could do to keep their feet even with the assistance of their stronger companions, and the great, wind-driven waves sometimes swept across the sidewalk. It was clearly dangerous, if not impossible, to approach nearer to the surging waters. The gale was increasing every moment, the sky had grown black with clouds and distant mutterings of thunder, and an occasional lightning flash gave warning that the worst was yet to come. Evidently it would be no day for outdoor exercise or amusement. Regaining the cottage with difficulty, after eating their breakfast they brought out books, games and fancy work, resolved to make the best of circumstances. Yet anxious as they were for the fate of their friends, the voyagers in the yacht, they did little but gaze out upon the sea, looking for the Curlew, but glad that neither she nor any other vessel was in sight. The Curlew's cabin was comfortably, even luxuriously furnished, her larder well supplied with all the delicacies of the season. Favored with beautiful weather and propitious winds, our friends found their first day out from Ocean Beach most enjoyable. They passed the greater part of their time on deck, now promenading, now reclining in extension chairs, chatting, laughing, singing to the accompaniment of flute and violin; the one played by Edward, the other by Charlie. The yacht was a swift sailer, her motion easy, and until the afternoon of the second day they were scarcely troubled with sea-sickness. Most of the time they kept within sight of land, touching at Boston, Portsmouth, and several other of the New England seaports, and continuing on their course until the wind changed, when they turned, with the purpose of going directly back to Ocean Beach. For some hours all went well, a stiff breeze carrying them rapidly in the desired direction; but it grew stronger and shifted to a dangerous quarter, while the rough and unsteady motion of the vessel made all the passengers so sea-sick that they began to heartily wish themselves safe on land. The ladies grew frightened, but the captain assured them there was as yet little cause for alarm. He had shortened sail and put out to sea, fearing the dangers of the coast. But the wind increased constantly until by night it was blowing a gale, and though every stitch of canvas had been taken in and furled, they were being driven landward. All night long the seamen fought against the storm, striving to keep out to sea, but conscious that their efforts were nearly futile. There was little sleep that night for passengers or crew. Morning broke amid a heavy storm of rain, accompanied by thunder and lightning, while the wind seemed to have redoubled its fury, blowing directly toward the shore. The girls, conscious that they were in peril of shipwreck, had gone to their berths without undressing. Amy had been very sick all night, and the other two, who stood it better, had done their best to wait upon her, though it was little that could be done for her relief, and the pitching and rolling of the vessel frequently threw them with violence against each other or the furniture. "It is morning," said Ella at length; "see, it grows light in spite of the storm; and I hear voices in the saloon. Shall I open the door?" "Yes," said Mary, "let us learn the worst, and try to be prepared for it." The three young men were in the saloon, and the girls joined them, Amy looking like the ghost of herself. Charlie, who had stationed himself near her door, instantly gave her the support of his arm, putting it about her waist, while he held fast to the furniture with the other hand, and her head dropped on his shoulder. With death staring them in the face they did not care for the eyes of their companions in peril: who, indeed, were too full of the danger and solemnity of their own position to pay any attention to the matter. "O darling," Charlie said hoarsely, "if I could only put you safe on shore!" "Never mind," she answered, looking lovingly into his eyes, "if we die, we shall die together; and O Charlie, as we both trust in Jesus, it will only be going home together to be 'forever with the Lord,' never, never to part again!" "Yes, there's comfort in that," he said; "and if you are to go, I'm glad I'm here to go with you. But life is sweet, Amy, and we will not give up hope yet." Mary and Edward had clasped hands, each gazing silently into the sad and anxious face of the other. She was thinking of her invalid mother, her father, brothers and sisters, and how they would miss her loving ministrations. He too thought of his tender mother so lately widowed, her sorrow over the loss of her first-born son; and of other dear ones, especially Violet, away from all the rest, the only one conscious of his danger. He was glad now that she had refused to come with them, but he knew the terrible anxiety she must feel, the almost heart-breaking sorrow his loss and the sight of their mother's grief would be to her. "Mr. Tallis, I know we must be in great danger," Ella said, as he took her hand to help her to a seat. "Is there any hope at all?" "Oh surely, Miss Neff!" he replied; "we will not give up hope yet, though we are indeed in fearful peril. The greatest danger is that we shall be driven ashore; but we are still some distance off the coast, and the wind may change or lull sufficiently for an anchor to hold when we are in water shallow enough for trying that expedient. And even should we be wrecked, there will be still a chance for us in the good offices of the members of the life-saving service." "Ah, yes," she said, a gleam of hope shining in her eyes, "the brave fellows will not leave us to perish if they can help us." "And we will put our trust in God," added Mary. What a day it was to them all, the storm raging throughout the whole of it with unabated fury, and their hope of escape from the dangers of the deep growing less and less. The patrolmen were out, and toward sundown one of them descried the masts of a vessel far away in the distance. It was seen by others also, for all day long many glasses had been, at frequent intervals, sweeping the whole field of vision seaward. The news spread like wildfire, creating a great excitement among the multitude of people gathered in the hotels and boarding-houses, as well as among the dwellers by the sea, not excepting the brave surfmen whose aid was likely to be in speedy requisition. Hundreds of pairs of eyes watched the vessel battling with the storm, yet spite of every effort sweeping nearer and nearer the dreadful breakers. She seemed doomed to destruction, but darkness fell while yet she was too far away for recognition. Violet and her companions had gazed upon her with fast beating hearts from the time of her appearance until they could no longer catch the faintest outline of her figure in the gathering gloom. Donald had nearly satisfied himself of her identity, but would not for any consideration have had Violet know that he believed her to be the Curlew. Even without that confirmation of her fears, the anxiety of the poor child was such that it was painful to witness. It was indeed the Curlew, and about the time she was descried by those on land the captain remarked aside to her owner, "The Jersey shore is in sight, Mr. Tallis, and nothing short of a miracle can save us from wreck, for we are driving right on to it in spite of all that can be done. The Curlew is doomed, she has dragged her anchor, and will be in the breakers before many hours." "It will be a heavy loss to me, captain," was the reply, "but if all our lives are saved I shall not grumble; shall on the contrary be filled with thankfulness." "Well, sir, we'll hope for the best," was the cheerful rejoinder. Soon all on board knew the full extent of the danger, and our young friends gave themselves to solemn preparation for eternity; also, in view of the possibility of some being saved while others were lost, made an exchange of parting messages to absent loved ones. It was again a sleepless night to them; sleepless to our Ocean Beach friends at the cottage also, and to many others whose hearts were filled with sympathy for those in the doomed vessel. About midnight the report of a signal gun of distress sent all rushing to the beach. She had struck, not a quarter of a mile from the shore; and as the clouds broke away the dark outline of her hull could be distinctly discerned among the foam-tipped breakers. The rain had ceased, and there was a slight lull in the tempest of wind, so that it was possible to stand on the beach; but so furious still was the action of the waves that the patrolman, having instantly answered the gun by burning his signal-light, and now rushing in among his mates, reported that the surf-boat could not be used. So the mortar-car was ordered out. There was not an instant's delay. Gallantly the men bent to their work, dragged the car toilsomely over the low sand-hills to a spot directly opposite the wreck, and by the light of a lantern placed it and every part of the apparatus--the shot-line box, hauling lines and hawser for running, with the breeches-buoy attached--in position, put the tackles in place ready for hauling, and with pick and spade dug a trench for the sand anchor. Each man having his particular part of the work assigned him, and knowing exactly what he was to do and how to do it, and all acting simultaneously, the whole thing was accomplished in a short space of time after reaching the desired spot. An anxious, excited crowd was looking on. Apart from the throng and a little higher up the beach were our friends, Fred in charge of his mother and Susie, Donald with Violet under his protection. She had begged so hard to come, "because it might be the Curlew, so how could she stay away?" that he had no heart to resist her entreaties. And he felt that she would be safe in his care, while Mrs. Perkins' presence made it perfectly proper. All being in readiness the gun was fired, and the shot flew through the rigging of the ill-fated vessel. Edward, now standing on her deck, understood just what was to be done, and no time was lost. With a glad shout, heard by those on shore, the line was seized by the sailors and rapidly hauled in. Ere long the hawser was stretched straight and taut between the beach and the wreck--the shore end being raised several feet in the air by the erection of a wooden crotch--and the breeches-buoy was ready to be drawn to and fro upon it. "Will you try it first, sir?" the captain of the Curlew said to Mr. Tallis. "No, I should be the last man to leave the wreck." "Go, go, Will!" cried Edward imperatively; "go and tell them to send the life-car, for there are ladies to be saved." "Yes, go sir; don't waste precious time in disputing," cried the captain; and thus urged the young man went. He reached the shore in safety, was welcomed with a glad shout, and instantly the word circulated among the crowd, "The owner of the Curlew. It is she." Violet had nearly fallen fainting to the ground, but Donald, supporting her with his arm said in her ear, "Courage, my brave lassie! and they shall all be saved." "Take care of my mother and sister for a moment, Keith!" exclaimed Fred, and plunging into the crowd he quickly made his way to the side of the rescued man. "This way, if you please," he said, touching him on the shoulder; "a lady, Miss Travilla, would be glad to speak to you." "Oh, yes! I know!" and all dripping and panting as he was, but having already delivered his message, and seen the men on the way for the safety-car, he went to her. "It is Mr. Tallis," Fred said; "Miss Travilla, my mother and sister, and Mr. Keith," for it was too dark for a distinct view of each other's faces. "My brother?" faltered Violet, holding out her hand. "Is uninjured thus far, my dear young lady, and I trust will be with you in a few minutes. The vessel must, I presume, go to pieces finally, but will undoubtedly hold together long enough for all on board to be brought safely to shore." Men from among the crowd had volunteered to assist in bringing the car, and while awaiting its coming the breeches-buoy travelled back and forth, bringing the sailors; for neither Edward nor Charlie would leave the ladies, and the captain insisted that he should be the last man to be rescued. From the hour of their early morning meeting in the saloon the Curlew's passengers were almost constantly together, a very sober, solemn, and nearly silent company. Mary, in speaking of it afterward, said she felt as if she were attending her own funeral and listening to the sighs and sobs of her bereaved friends. "And yet," she added with a bright, glad smile, "it was not all sadness and gloom; for the consolations of God were not small with me, and the thought of soon being with Christ in glory was at times very sweet." When the vessel struck, Charlie started up with a sharp cry, "We are lost!" Then all immediately fell on their knees while Edward poured out a fervent prayer, that they might be saved from a watery grave, if such were the will of God, if not, prepared for death and a glorious immortality; adding a final petition for the dear ones who would grieve for their loss. Just as they rose from their knees the signal gun was fired. Then the captain came down the companionway and looking in upon them, said. "Don't despair ladies and gentlemen; things are not quite so bad as they might be; we have grounded very near the shore and a life-saving station, and my signal gun was immediately replied to by the patrolman with his red signal light. So we may feel assured that prompt and efficient help is near at hand." Hope revived in their breasts, as they listened; then Will Tallis and Edward ventured upon deck, leaving the girls in Charlie's charge. The warning lights on shore gave to the anxious watchers on the deck an inkling of what was being done for their relief, and when the shot was fired from the mortar and came whizzing through the rigging, Edward cried out in delight. "The line, the line! Now we shall be helped ashore!" As the vessel was now without motion, save a shiver as now and again a great wave struck her, the girls were pretty comfortable and in no immediate danger, and as they urged it, Charlie, too, at length ventured upon deck. He soon returned with an encouraging report, the better understood by the girls because of their late visit to the life-saving station. "The sailors were hauling in the line," he said, and soon the work of transporting them all to land would begin. Amy shuddered at the thought of a ride in the life-car, yet, as the surfman had predicted, felt that even that would be far preferable to drowning. The next report brought them was of Mr. Tallis's safe landing, and the next that the life-car waited for them. Edward, the captain, and two sailors helped Mary and Ella across the wind-swept deck and into the car, Charlie and another sailor following with Amy. They put her in after the other two and Charlie stepped in next, calling to Edward to come also. "No," was the quiet reply. "I go by the breeches-buoy." The sliding door was hastily shut, and Amy gasped for breath as she felt the car gliding swiftly along the hawser, while the great waves dashed over it, rocking it from side to side. Charlie's arm was round her, holding her close, but she grew deathly sick and fainted quite away. The minutes seemed hours, but at last they heard, above the thunder of the breaking waves, a great shout, and at the same instant felt the car grate upon the sand. The door was pushed open, Charlie, the nearest to it, stepped out, drew Amy after him, apparently more dead than alive, and leaving it to others to assist Mary and Ella, bore her in his arms, in almost frantic haste, to the nearest house. Mary was in Vi's arms almost before she knew that she had actually reached shore; Vi kissing her with tears and sobs, and crying, "Edward, Edward, where is he?" "Coming," Mary said, "the brave, generous fellow would see us all safe first." It was not long now till Violet's anxiety was fully relieved and her heart sending up glad thanksgivings as she found herself clasped to her brother's breast, all dripping wet though he was. And great was the joy of the young owner of the Curlew when he learned that though she was a total wreck, not a single soul had been lost in her. CHAPTER XXV. "Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,--not dead, but gone before,-- He gathers round him." --_Rogers._ The morning was but dull and dreary, for though the storm had spent itself, the sky was obscured with clouds and the sea still wrought tempestuously; but its sullen roar may, perchance, have been as favorable to the prolonged slumbers of our worn-out friends, whom the tempest had robbed of so many hours of their accustomed sleep, as the lack of brightness in the sky and atmosphere. However that may have been, most of them, retiring about dawn of day, slept on till noon, or near it. In Mrs. Travilla's cottage the family gathered round the breakfast table at the usual hour. The meal was nearly concluded when a servant brought in the morning paper and handed it to Mr. Dinsmore. "I fear that brings news of many disasters caused by the storm, especially on the Atlantic seaboard," remarked his daughter as he took it up. "Altogether likely," was his rejoinder. Then as he ran his eye down the long list of casualties, "Why, what is this?" he exclaimed, and went on to read aloud. "Went ashore last night at Ocean Beach, the Curlew, a pleasure yacht belonging to W. V. Tallis; Captain Collins. She is a total wreck, but no lives were lost, passengers and crew being taken off by the men of Life-Saving Station No. --. List of passengers, Mr. W. V. Tallis, Mr. Edward Travilla, Mr. Charles Perrine, Miss Mary Keith, Miss Amy Fletcher, and Miss Ella Neff." There was a moment of astonished silence, then "Violet!" gasped the mother, turning deathly pale. "She was evidently not on board," Mr. Dinsmore hastened to reply, "or else her name was carelessly omitted in the list, for it says distinctly, 'No lives were lost.'" "I hope you are right, Horace," Mrs. Conly remarked, "but if she were my child I shouldn't have any peace till I knew all about it." "There isn't the least probability that if a life had been lost the reporter would have failed to say so," returned Mr. Dinsmore with some severity of tone. "Of course you are in the right, Horace, you always are," she said, bridling. "Well," remarked Virginia, "I'm astonished, I must own, that such pattern good children should go off on such an expedition without so much as saying by your leave to either mother or guardian." "I have just said that I am morally certain Violet did not go," said Mr. Dinsmore. "And I do not blame Edward that he did," added the mother in her sweet, gentle tones; "he is old enough now to decide such matters for himself in the absence of his natural guardians. Also he knows me well enough to judge pretty correctly whether I would approve or not, and I should not have objected had I been there." "Shall we drive over and see about the children?" asked her father. "Yes, papa, if you please, and let us start as soon as the necessary arrangements can be made." Violet had scarcely completed her morning toilet, though it was a little past noon, when glancing from the window she saw a carriage at the gate and her grandfather in the act of assisting her mother to alight from it. With a low, joyous exclamation, she flew to meet and welcome them. "Mamma, mamma! I am so glad, so glad you have come!" "My darling, my darling! Thank God that I have you safe in my arms!" the mother said, holding her close with kisses and tears. "What is this I hear of danger and shipwreck?" "It is a long story, mamma; but we are all safe. Edward, Charlie, and the girls are still sleeping, I believe, for they were worn out with anxiety and the loss of two nights' rest." "And you, dear child?" "Was not with them, but of course slept but little last night--indeed not at all until after daybreak, when they were all safe on shore--and have only just risen." "Then we will hear the story after you have breakfasted," her grandfather said. They did not get the whole of it, however, until Edward joined them, an hour or two later. It was to them a deeply interesting and thrilling account that he gave. He had also much to say in Violet's praise, but was relieved and gratified to learn that neither mother nor grandfather blamed him for the course he had taken. He brought in his friend Tallis and introduced him, and was glad to see that the impression on both sides was favorable. Edward had already urged Tallis to pay him a visit, and Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie repeated the invitation. But the young man declined it for the present, on the plea that the loss of his vessel made it necessary for him to give his attention to some pressing business matters. Elsie proposed taking her son and daughter home with her, and they were nothing loath. She would have had all the rest of the young party come at once to her cottage and remain as long as they found it agreeable to do so, but all declined with thanks however, except Donald, Mary and Charlie, who promised to come in a few days. Amy was not quite able to travel; they would stay with her until she was sufficiently recruited to undertake the journey to her own home. Charlie would see her and Ella safely there, and follow Mary to the cottage home of the Travillas. Before leaving Ocean Beach, Elsie and her father visited the life-saving station, and the latter insisted upon bestowing a generous reward upon each of the brave surfmen. Also he contributed largely to the making good their losses to the poor shipwrecked sailors. Most joyously was the return of Edward and Violet welcomed by grandmother, brothers and sisters. Edward was the hero of the hour, especially with Harold and Herbert, who in fact quite envied him his adventure now that it was safely over. Violet found home and its beloved occupants dearer and more delightful than ever. The presence there of her aunt and cousin seemed the only drawback upon her felicity; yet that occasionally proved a serious one to both herself and "Cousin Donald," with whom Virginia was determined to get up a flirtation. He did not admire her and would not fall in with her plans, perceiving which she turned against him, became his bitter foe, and made him and Violet both uncomfortable by sly hints that he was seeking her; and that simply because she was an heiress. Old Mr. Dinsmore had gone to visit his daughter Adeline and most sincerely did Violet wish that "Aunt Louise" and Virginia would follow. Mrs. Travilla was, as we have said, living a very retired life, not mingling in general society at all, but an old friend of her husband and father, who had been a frequent and welcome guest at the Oaks and Ion, had taken up his temporary residence at a hotel near by, and now and then joined their party on the beach or dropped in at the cottage for a friendly chat with Mr. Dinsmore. Sometimes Mrs. Travilla was present and took part in the conversation; once or twice it had happened that they had been alone together for a few moments. She neither avoided intercourse with the gentleman nor sought it; though he was a widower and much admired by many of her sex. Perhaps Mrs. Conly and Virginia were the only persons who had any sinister thoughts in connection with the matter; but they, after the manner of the human race, judged others by themselves. One day Violet accidentally overheard a little talk between them that struck her first with indignation and astonishment, then with grief and dismay. "What brings Mr. Ford here, do you suppose, mamma?" inquired Virginia, in a sneering tone. "What a question, Virginia, for a girl of your sense!" replied her mother, "he's courting Elsie, of course. Isn't she a rich and beautiful widow? I had almost added young, for she really looks hardly older than her eldest daughter." "Well, do you think he'll succeed?" "Yes, I do; sooner or later. He is certainly a very attractive man, and she can't be expected to live single all the rest of her days. But what a foolish will that was of Travilla's--leaving everything in her hands!" "Why, mamma?" "Because Ford may get it all into his possession and make way with it by some rash speculation. Men often do those things." Violet was alone in a little summer-house in the garden, back of the cottage, with a book. She had been very intent upon it until roused by the sound of the voices of her aunt and cousin, who had been pacing up and down the walk and now paused for an instant close to her, though a thick growth of vines hid her from sight. They moved on with Mrs. Conly's last word, and the young girl sprang to her feet, her cheeks aflame, her eyes glittering, her small hand clenched till the nails sank into the soft flesh. "How dare they talk so of mamma! and papa too, dear, dear papa!" she exclaimed half aloud; then her anger and grief found vent in a burst of bitter weeping as she cast herself down upon the seat from which she had risen, and bowed her head upon her hands. The storm of feeling was so violent that she did not hear a light, approaching footstep, did not know that any one was near until she felt herself taken into loving arms that clasped her close, while her mamma's sweet voice asked in tenderest tones, "my poor darling, what can have caused you such distress?" "Mamma, mamma, don't ask me! please don't ask me!" she cried, hiding her blushing, tearful face on her mother's bosom. "Has my dear Vi then secrets from her mother?" Elsie asked in tones of half reproachful tenderness. "Only because it would distress you to know, dearest mamma. Oh I could not bear to hurt you so!" sobbed the poor girl. "Still tell me, dearest" urged the mother. "Nothing could hurt me so sorely as the loss of my child's confidence." "Then mamma, I will; but oh don't think that I believe one word of it all." Then with a little hesitation. "I think mamma, that I am not doing wrong to tell you, though the words were not meant for my ear?" "I think not, my dear child, since it seems it is something that concerns both you and me." The short colloquy had burnt itself into Violet's brain and she repeated it verbatim. It caused her loved listener a sharper pang than she knew or supposed. Elsie was deeply hurt and for a moment her indignation waxed hot against her ungrateful, heartless relations. Then her heart sent up a strong cry for help to forgive even as she would be forgiven. But she must comfort Vi, and how vividly at this moment did memory recall a little scene in her own early childhood when she was in like sore distress from a similar fear, roused in very nearly the same manner; and her father comforted her. "Vi, darling," she said in quivering tones, and with a tender caress, "it is altogether a mistake. And you need never fear anything of the kind. Your beloved father is no more dead to me than though he were but in the next room. His place is not now--can never be, vacant in either my home or my heart. We are separated for time by 'the stream--the narrow stream of death,' but when I, too, have crossed it, we shall be together, never to part again." THE END. A LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS AND OTHER POPULAR BOOKS BY MARTHA FINLEY _ELSIE DINSMORE._ _ELSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS._ _ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD._ _ELSIE'S WOMANHOOD._ _ELSIE'S MOTHERHOOD._ _ELSIE'S CHILDREN._ _ELSIE'S WIDOWHOOD._ _GRANDMOTHER ELSIE._ _ELSIE'S NEW RELATIONS._ _ELSIE AT NANTUCKET._ _THE TWO ELSIES._ _ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN._ _ELSIE'S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN._ _CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE._ _ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS._ _ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS._ _ELSIE'S VACATION._ _ELSIE AT VIAMEDE._ _ELSIE AT ION._ _ELSIE AT THE WORLD'S FAIR._ _ELSIE'S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS._ _ELSIE AT HOME._ _ELSIE ON THE HUDSON._ _ELSIE IN THE SOUTH._ _ELSIE'S YOUNG FOLKS._ _ELSIE'S WINTER TRIP._ _ELSIE AND HER LOVED ONES._ _MILDRED KEITH._ _MILDRED AT ROSELANDS._ _MILDRED'S MARRIED LIFE._ _MILDRED AND ELSIE._ _MILDRED AT HOME._ _MILDRED'S BOYS AND GIRLS._ _MILDRED'S NEW DAUGHTER._ _CASELLA._ _SIGNING THE CONTRACT AND WHAT IT COST._ _THE TRAGEDY OF WILD RIVER VALLEY._ _OUR FRED._ _AN OLD-FASHIONED BOY._ _WANTED, A PEDIGREE._ _THE THORN IN THE NEST._ * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Punctuation has been made consistent. Spelling, grammar and hyphenation have been retained as they appear in the original publication except as follows: Page 9 here can't be another one, I'm very, evry _changed to_ there can't be another one, I'm very, very Page 11 so useful and sinful a thing _changed to_ so useless and sinful a thing Page 15 generous master and mistresss _changed to_ generous master and mistress Page 55 so fair and spirituel _changed to_ so fair and spiritual Page 98 pared not, because my papa _changed to_ dared not, because my papa Page 102 Crudens' Concordance and other _changed to_ Cruden's Concordance and other Page 144 strong attachment beween herself _changed to_ strong attachment between herself Page 150 countanence, and her bright _changed to_ countenance, and her bright Page 213 of the Lord is as trong _changed to_ of the Lord is a strong Page 214 embassador of Christ is _changed to_ ambassador of Christ is Page 233 gentlemen's wife among the rest _changed to_ gentleman's wife among the rest Page 234 aint you _changed to_ ain't you Page 244 enefit from his visit _changed to_ benefit from his visit Page 264 al together they watched _changed to_ as together they watched Page 284 Your bill of fair sounds _changed to_ Your bill of fare sounds Page 285 which had not yet been freezer _changed to_ which had not yet been taken out of the freezer Page 286 and as its more ... suppose its very _changed to_ and as it's more ... suppose it's very 
6440	----	ELSIE DINSMORE BY MARTHA FINLEY CHAPTER FIRST "I never saw an eye so bright, And yet so soft as hers; It sometimes swam in liquid light, And sometimes swam in tears; It seemed a beauty set apart For softness and for sighs." --MRS. WELBY. The school-room at Roselands was a very pleasant apartment; the ceiling, it is true, was somewhat lower than in the more modern portion of the building, for the wing in which it was situated dated back to the old-fashioned days prior to the Revolution, while the larger part of the mansion had not stood more than twenty or thirty years; but the effect was relieved by windows reaching from floor to ceiling, and opening on a veranda which overlooked a lovely flower-garden, beyond which were fields and woods and hills. The view from the veranda was very beautiful, and the room itself looked most inviting, with its neat matting, its windows draped with snow-white muslin, its comfortable chairs, and pretty rosewood desks. Within this pleasant apartment sat Miss Day with her pupils, six in number. She was giving a lesson to Enna, the youngest, the spoiled darling of the family, the pet and plaything of both father and mother. It was always a trying task to both teacher and scholar, for Enna was very wilful, and her teacher's patience by no means inexhaustible. "There!" exclaimed Miss Day, shutting the book and giving it an impatient toss on to the desk; "go, for I might as well try to teach old Bruno. I presume he would learn about as fast." And Enna walked away with a pout on her pretty face, muttering that she would "tell mamma." "Young ladies and gentlemen," said Miss Day, looking at her watch, "I shall leave you to your studies for an hour; at the end of which time I shall return to hear your recitations, when those who have attended properly to their duties will be permitted to ride out with me to visit the fair." "Oh! that will be jolly!" exclaimed Arthur, a bright-eyed, mischief-loving boy of ten. "Hush!" said Miss Day sternly; "let me hear no more such exclamations; and remember that you will not go unless your lessons are thoroughly learned. Louise and Lora," addressing two young girls of the respective ages of twelve and fourteen, "that French exercise must be perfect, and your English lessons as well. Elsie," to a little girl of eight, sitting alone at a desk near one of the windows, and bending over a slate with an appearance of great industry, "every figure of that example must be correct, your geography lesson recited perfectly, and a page in your copybook written without a blot." "Yes, ma'am," said the child meekly, raising a pair of large soft eyes of the darkest hazel for an instant to her teacher's face, and then dropping them again upon her slate. "And see that none of you leave the room until I return," continued the governess. "Walter, if you miss one word of that spelling, you will have to stay at home and learn it over." "Unless mamma interferes, as she will be pretty sure to do," muttered Arthur, as the door closed on Miss Day, and her retreating footsteps were heard passing down the hall. For about ten minutes after her departure, all was quiet in the school-room, each seemingly completely absorbed in study. But at the end of that time Arthur sprang up, and flinging his book across the room, exclaimed, "There! I know my lesson; and if I didn't, I shouldn't study another bit for old Day, or Night either." "Do be quiet, Arthur," said his sister Louise; "I can't study in such a racket." Arthur stole on tiptoe across the room, and coming up behind Elsie, tickled the back of her neck with a feather. She started, saying in a pleading tone, "Please, Arthur, don't." "It pleases me to do," he said, repeating the experiment. Elsie changed her position, saying in the same gentle, persuasive tone, "O Arthur! _please_ let me alone, or I never shall be able to do this example." "What! all this time on one example! you ought to be ashamed. Why, I could have done it half a dozen times over." "I have been over and over it," replied the little girl in a tone of despondency, "and still there are two figures that will not come right." "How do you know they are not right, little puss?" shaking her curls as he spoke. "Oh! please, Arthur, don't pull my hair. I have the answer--that's the way I know." "Well, then, why don't you just set the figures down. I would." "Oh! no, indeed; that would not be honest." "Pooh! nonsense! nobody would be the wiser, nor the poorer." "No, but it would be just like telling a lie. But I can never get it right while you are bothering me so," said Elsie, laying her slate aside in despair. Then taking out her geography, she began studying most diligently. But Arthur continued his persecutions--tickling her, pulling her hair, twitching the book out of her hand, and talking almost incessantly, making remarks, and asking questions; till at last Elsie said, as if just ready to cry, "Indeed, Arthur, if you don't let me alone, I shall never be able to get my lessons." "Go away then; take your book out on the veranda, and learn your lessons there," said Louise. "I'll call you when Miss Day comes." "Oh! no, Louise, I cannot do that, because it would be disobedience," replied Elsie, taking out her writing materials. Arthur stood over her criticising every letter she made, and finally jogged her elbow in such a way as to cause her to drop all the ink in her pen upon the paper, making quite a large blot. "Oh!" cried the little girl, bursting into tears, "now I shall lose my ride, for Miss Day will not let me go; and I was so anxious to see all those beautiful flowers." Arthur, who was really not very vicious, felt some compunction when he saw the mischief he had done. "Never mind, Elsie," said he. "I can fix it yet. Just let me tear out this page, and you can begin again on the next, and I'll not bother you. I'll make these two figures come right too," he added, taking up her slate. "Thank you, Arthur," said the little girl, smiling through her tears; "you are very kind, but it would not be honest to do either, and I had rather stay at home than be deceitful." "Very well, miss," said he, tossing his head, and walking away, "since you won't let me help you, it is all your own fault if you have to stay at home." "Elsie," exclaimed Louise, "I have no patience with you! such ridiculous scruples as you are always raising. I shall not pity you one bit, if you are obliged to stay at home." Elsie made no reply, but, brushing away a tear, bent over her writing, taking great pains with every letter, though saying sadly to herself all the time, "It's of no use, for that great ugly blot will spoil it all." She finished her page, and, excepting the unfortunate blot, it all looked very neat indeed, showing plainly that it had been written with great care. She then took up her slate and patiently went over and over every figure of the troublesome example, trying to discover where her mistake had been. But much time had been lost through Arthur's teasing, and her mind was so disturbed by the accident to her writing that she tried in vain to fix it upon the business in hand; and before the two troublesome figures had been made right, the hour was past and Miss Day returned. "Oh!" thought Elsie, "if she will only hear the others first, I may be able to get this and the geography ready yet; and perhaps, if Arthur will be generous enough to tell her about the blot, she may excuse me for it." But it was a vain hope. Miss Day had no sooner seated herself at her desk, than she called, "Elsie, come here and say that lesson; and bring your copybook and slate, that I may examine your work." Elsie tremblingly obeyed. The lesson, though a difficult one, was very tolerably recited; for Elsie, knowing Arthur's propensity for teasing, had studied it in her own room before school hours. But Miss Day handed back the book with a frown, saying, "I told you the recitation must be perfect, and it was not." She was always more severe with Elsie than with any other of her pupils. The reason the reader will probably be able to divine ere long. "There are two incorrect figures in this example," said she, laying down the slate, after glancing over its contents. Then taking up the copy-book, she exclaimed, "Careless, disobedient child! did I not caution you to be careful not to blot your book! There will be no ride for you this morning. You have failed in everything. Go to your seat. Make that example right, and do the next; learn your geography lesson over, and write another page in your copy-book; and, mind, if there is a blot on it, you will get no dinner." Weeping and sobbing, Elsie took up her books and obeyed. During this scene Arthur stood at his desk pretending to study, but glancing every now and then at Elsie, with a conscience evidently ill at ease. She cast an imploring glance at him, as she returned to her seat; but he turned away his head, muttering, "It's all her own fault, for she wouldn't let me help her." As he looked up again, he caught his sister Lora's eyes fixed on him with an expression of scorn and contempt. He colored violently, and dropped his eyes upon his book. "Miss Day," said Lora, indignantly, "I see Arthur does not mean to speak, and as I cannot bear to see such injustice, I must tell you that it is all his fault that Elsie has failed in her lessons; for she tried her very best, but he teased her incessantly, and also jogged her elbow and made her spill the ink on her book; and to her credit she was too honorable to tear out the leaf from her copy-book, or to let him make her example right; both which he very generously proposed doing after causing all the mischief." "Is this so, Arthur?" asked Miss Day, angrily. The boy hung his head, but made no reply. "Very well, then," said Miss Day, "you too must stay at home." "Surely," said Lora, in surprise, "you will not keep Elsie, since I have shown you that she was not to blame." "Miss Lora," replied her teacher, haughtily, "I wish you to understand that I am not to be dictated to by my pupils." Lora bit her lip, but said nothing, and Miss Day went on hearing the lessons without further remark. In the meantime the little Elsie sat at her desk, striving to conquer the feelings of anger and indignation that were swelling in her breast; for Elsie, though she possessed much of "the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit," was not yet perfect, and often had a fierce contest with her naturally quick temper. Yet it was seldom, very seldom that word or tone or look betrayed the existence of such feelings; and it was a common remark in the family that Elsie had no spirit. The recitations were scarcely finished when the door opened and a lady entered dressed for a ride. "Not through yet, Miss Day?" she asked. "Yes, madam, we are just done," replied the teacher, closing the French grammar and handing it to Louise. "Well, I hope your pupils have all done their duty this morning, and are ready to accompany us to the fair," said Mrs. Dinsmore. "But what is the matter with Elsie?" "She has failed in all her exercises, and therefore has been told that she must remain at home," replied Miss Day with heightened color and in a tone of anger; "and as Miss Lora tells me that Master Arthur was partly the cause, I have forbidden him also to accompany us." "Excuse me, Miss Day, for correcting you," said Lora, a little indignantly; "but I did not say _partly,_ for I am sure it was _entirely_ his fault." "Hush, hush, Lora," said her mother, a little impatiently; "how can you be sure of any such thing; Miss Day, I must beg of you to excuse Arthur this once, for I have quite set my heart on taking him along. He is fond of mischief, I know, but he is only a child, and you must not be too hard upon him." "Very well, madam," replied the governess stiffly, "you have of course the best right to control your own children." Mrs. Dinsmore turned to leave the room. "Mamma," asked Lora, "is not Elsie to be allowed to go too?" "Elsie is not my child, and I have nothing to say about it. Miss Day, who knows all the circumstances, is much better able than I to judge whether or no she is deserving of punishment," replied Mrs. Dinsmore, sailing out of the room. "You will let her go, Miss Day?" said Lora, inquiringly. "Miss Lora," replied Miss Day, angrily, "I have already told you I was not to be dictated to. I have said Elsie must remain at home, and I shall not break my word." "Such injustice!" muttered Lora, turning away. "Lora," said Louise, impatiently, "why need you concern yourself with Elsie's affairs? for my part, I have no pity for her, so full as she is of nonsensical scruples." Miss Day crossed the room to where Elsie was sitting leaning her head upon the desk, struggling hard to keep down the feelings of anger and indignation aroused by the unjust treatment she had received. "Did I not order you to learn that lesson over?" said the governess, "and why are you sitting here idling?" Elsie dared not speak lest her anger should show itself in words; so merely raised her head, and hastily brushing away her tears, opened the book. But Miss Day, who was irritated by Mrs. Dinsmore's interference, and also by the consciousness that she was acting unjustly, seemed determined to vent her displeasure upon her innocent victim. "Why do you not speak?" she exclaimed, seizing Elsie by the arm and shaking her violently. "Answer me this instant. Why have you been idling all the morning?" "I have _not_," replied the child hastily, stung to the quick by her unjust violence. "I have tried hard to do my duty, and you are punishing me when I don't deserve it at all." "How dare you? there! take that for your impertinence," said Miss Day, giving her a box on the ear. Elsie was about to make a still more angry reply; but she restrained herself, and turning to her book, tried to study, though the hot, blinding tears came so thick and fast that she could not see a letter. "De carriage am waiting, ladies, an' missus in a hurry," said a servant, opening the door; and Miss Day hastily quitted the room, followed by Louise and Lora; and Elsie was left alone. She laid down the geography, and opening her desk, took out a small pocket Bible, which bore the marks of frequent use. She turned over the leaves as though seeking for some particular passage; at length she found it, and wiping away the blinding tears, she read these words in a low, murmuring tone: "For this is thankworthy, if a man for conscience toward God endure grief, suffering wrongfully. For what glory is it if, when ye be buffeted for your faults, ye shall take it patiently? but if when ye do well, and suffer for it, ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with God. For even hereunto were ye called; because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example that ye should follow His steps." "Oh! I have not done it. I did not take it patiently. I am afraid I am not following in His steps," she cried, bursting into an agony of tears and sobs. "My dear little girl, what is the matter?" asked a kind voice, and a soft hand was gently laid on her shoulder. The child looked up hastily. "O Miss Allison!" she said, "is it you? I thought I was quite alone." "And so you were, my dear, until this moment" replied the lady, drawing up a chair, and sitting down close beside her. "I was on the veranda, and hearing sobs, came in to see if I could be of any assistance. You look very much distressed; will you not tell me the cause of your sorrow?" Elsie answered only by a fresh burst of tears. "They have all gone to the fair and left you at home alone; perhaps to learn a lesson you have failed in reciting?" said the lady, inquiringly. "Yes, ma'am," said the child; "but that is not the worst;" and her tears fell faster, as she laid the little Bible on the desk, and pointed with her finger to the words she had been reading. "Oh!" she sobbed, "I--I did not do it; I did not bear it patiently. I was treated unjustly, and punished when I was not to blame, and I grew angry. Oh! I'm afraid I shall never be like Jesus! never, never." The child's distress seemed very great, and Miss Allison was extremely surprised. She was a visitor who had been in the house only a few days, and, herself a devoted Christian, had been greatly pained by the utter disregard of the family in which she was sojourning for the teachings of God's word. Rose Allison was from the North, and Mr. Dinsmore, the proprietor of Roselands, was an old friend of her father, to whom he had been paying a visit, and finding Rose in delicate health, he had prevailed upon her parents to allow her to spend the winter months with his family in the more congenial clime of their Southern home. "My poor child," she said, passing her arm around the little one's waist, "my poor little Elsie! that is your name, is it not?" "Yes, ma'am; Elsie Dinsmore," replied the little girl. "Well, Elsie, let me read you another verse from this blessed book. Here it is: 'The blood of Jesus Christ his Son, cleanseth us from _all_ sin.' And here again: 'If any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father Jesus Christ the righteous.' Dear Elsie, 'if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.'" "Yes, ma'am," said the child; "I have asked Him to forgive me, and I know He has; but I am so sorry, oh! _so_ sorry that I have grieved and displeased Him; for, O Miss Allison! I _do_ love Jesus, and want to be like Him always." "Yes, dear child, we must grieve for our sins when we remember that they helped to slay the Lord. But I am very, very glad to learn that you love Jesus, and are striving to do His will. I love Him too, and we will love one another; for you know He says, 'By this shall men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another,'" said Miss Allison, stroking the little girl's hair, and kissing her tenderly. "Will you love me? Oh! how glad I am," exclaimed the child joyfully; "I have nobody to love me but poor old mammy." "And who is mammy?" asked the lady. "My dear old nurse, who has always taken care of me. Have you not seen her, ma'am?" "Perhaps I may. I have seen a number of nice old colored women about here since I came. But, Elsie, will you tell me who taught you about Jesus, and how long you have loved Him?" "Ever since I can remember," replied the little girl earnestly; "and it was dear old mammy who first told me how He suffered and died on the cross for us." Her eyes filled with tears and her voice quivered with emotion. "She used to talk to me about it just as soon as I could understand anything," she continued; "and then she would tell me that my own dear mamma loved Jesus, and had gone to be with Him in heaven; and how, when she was dying, she put me--a little, wee baby, I was then not quite a week old--into her arms, and said, 'Mammy, take my dear little baby and love her, and take care of her just as you did of me; and O mammy! be sure that you teach her to love God.' Would you like to see my mamma, Miss Allison?" And as she spoke she drew from her bosom a miniature set in gold and diamonds, which she wore suspended by a gold chain around her neck, and put it in Rose's hand. It was the likeness of a young and blooming girl, not more than fifteen or sixteen years of age. She was very beautiful, with a sweet, gentle, winning countenance, the same soft hazel eyes and golden brown curls that the little Elsie possessed; the same regular features, pure complexion, and sweet smile. Miss Allison gazed at it a moment in silent admiration; then turning from it to the child with a puzzled expression, she said, "But, Elsie, I do not understand; are you not sister to Enna and the rest, and is not Mrs. Dinsmore own mother to them all?" "Yes, ma'am, to all of them, but not to me nor my papa. Their brother Horace is my papa, and so they are all my aunts and uncles." "Indeed," said the lady, musingly; "I thought you looked very unlike the rest. And your papa is away, is he not, Elsie?" "Yes, ma'am; he is in Europe. He has been away almost ever since I was born, and I have never seen him. Oh! how I do wish he would come home! how I long to see him! Do you think he would love me, Miss Allison? Do you think he would take me on his knee and pet me, as grandpa does Enna?" "I should think he would, dear; I don't know how he could help loving his own dear little girl," said the lady, again kissing the little rosy cheek. "But now," she added, rising, "I must go away and let you learn your lesson." Then taking up the little Bible, and turning over the leaves, she asked, "Would you like to come to my room sometimes in the mornings and evenings, and read this book with me, Elsie?" "Oh! yes, ma'am, dearly!" exclaimed the child, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Come then this evening, if you like; and now goodbye for the present." And pressing another kiss on the child's cheek, she left her and went back to her own room, where she found her friend Adelaide Dinsmore, a young lady near her own age, and the eldest daughter of the family. Adelaide was seated on a sofa, busily employed with some fancy work. "You see I am making myself quite at home," she said, looking up as Rose entered. "I cannot imagine where you have been all this time." "Can you not? In the school-room, talking with little Elsie. Do you know, Adelaide, I thought she was your sister; but she tells me not." "No, she is Horace's child. I supposed you knew; but if you do not, I may just as well tell you the whole story. Horace was a very wild boy, petted and spoiled, and always used to having his own way; and when he was about seventeen--quite a forward youth he was too--he must needs go to New Orleans to spend some months with a schoolmate; and there he met, and fell desperately in love with, a very beautiful girl a year or two younger than himself, an orphan and very wealthy. Fearing that objections would be made on the score of their youth, etc., etc., he persuaded her to consent to a private marriage, and they had been man and wife for some months before either her friends or his suspected it. "Well, when it came at last to papa's ears, he was very angry, both on account of their extreme youth, and because, as Elsie Grayson's father had made all his money by trade, he did not consider her quite my brother's equal; so he called Horace home and sent him North to college. Then he studied law, and since that he has been traveling in foreign lands. But to return to his wife; it seems that her guardian was quite as much opposed to the match as papa; and the poor girl was made to believe that she should never see her husband again. All their letters were intercepted, and finally she was told that he was dead; so, as Aunt Chloe says, 'she grew thin and pale, and weak and melancholy,' and while the little Elsie was yet not quite a week old, she died. We never saw her; she died in her guardian's house, and there the little Elsie stayed in charge of Aunt Chloe, who was an old servant in the family, and had nursed her mother before her, and of the housekeeper, Mrs. Murray, a pious old Scotch woman, until about four years ago, when her guardian's death broke up the family, and then they came to us. Horace never comes home, and does not seem to care for his child, for he never mentions her in his letters, except when it is necessary in the way of business." "She is a dear little thing," said Rose. "I am sure he could not help loving her, if he could only see her." "Oh! yes, she is well enough, and I often feel sorry for the lonely little thing, but the truth is, I believe we are a little jealous of her; she is so extremely beautiful, and heiress to such an immense fortune. Mamma often frets, and says that one of these days she will quite eclipse her younger daughters." "But then," said Rose, "she is almost as near; her own grand-daughter." "No, she is not so very near," replied Adelaide, "for Horace is not mamma's son. He was seven or eight years old when she married papa, and I think she was never particularly fond of him." "Ah! yes," thought Rose, "that explains it. Poor little Elsie! No wonder you pine for your father's love, and grieve over the loss of the mother you never knew!" "She is an odd child," said Adelaide; "I don't understand her; she is so meek and patient she will fairly let you trample upon her. It provokes papa. He says she is no Dinsmore, or she would know how to stand up for her own rights; and yet she has a temper, I know, for once in a great while it shows itself for an instant--only an instant, though, and at very long intervals--and then she grieves over it for days, as though she had committed some great crime; while the rest of us think nothing of getting angry half a dozen times in a day. And then she is forever poring over that little Bible of hers; what she sees so attractive in it I'm sure I cannot tell, for I must say I find it the dullest of dull books." "Do you," said Rose; "how strange! I had rather give up all other books than that one. 'Thy testimonies have I taken as a heritage forever, for they are the rejoicing of my heart,' 'How sweet are thy words unto my taste! Yea, sweeter than honey to my mouth.'" "Do you _really_ love it so, Rose?" asked Adelaide, lifting her eyes to her friend's face with an expression of astonishment; "do tell me why?" "For its exceeding great and precious promises Adelaide; for its holy teachings; for its offers of peace and pardon and eternal life. I am a sinner, Adelaide, lost, ruined, helpless, hopeless, and the Bible brings me the glad news of salvation offered as a free, unmerited gift; it tells me that Jesus died to save sinners--just such sinners as I. I find that I have a heart deceitful above all things and desperately wicked, and the blessed Bible tells me how that heart can be renewed, and where I can obtain that holiness without which no man shall see the Lord. I find myself utterly unable to keep God's holy law, and it tells me of One who has kept it for me. I find that I deserve the wrath and curse of a justly offended God, and it tells me of Him who was made a curse for me. I find that all my righteousnesses are as filthy rags, and it offers me the beautiful, spotless robe of Christ's perfect righteousness. Yes, it tells me that God can be just, and the justifier of him who believes in Jesus." Rose spoke these words with deep emotion, then suddenly clasping her hands and raising her eyes, she exclaimed, "'Thanks be unto God for His unspeakable gift!'" For a moment there was silence. Then Adelaide spoke: "Rose," said she, "you talk as if you were a great sinner; but I don't believe it; it is only your humility that makes you think so. Why, what have you ever done? Had you been a thief, a murderer, or guilty of any other great crime, I could see the propriety of your using such language with regard to yourself; but for a refined, intelligent, amiable young lady, excuse me for saying it, dear Rose, but such language seems to me simply absurd." "Man looketh upon the outward appearance, but the Lord pondereth the heart," said Rose, gently. "No, dear Adelaide, you are mistaken; for I can truly say 'mine iniquities have gone over my head as a cloud, and my transgressions as a thick cloud.' Every duty has been stained with sin, every motive impure, every thought unholy. From my earliest existence, God has required the undivided love of my whole heart, soul, strength, and mind; and so far from yielding it, I live at enmity with Him, and rebellion against His government, until within the last two years. For seventeen years He has showered blessings upon me, giving me life, health, strength, friends, and all that was necessary for happiness; and for fifteen of those years I returned Him nothing but ingratitude and rebellion. For fifteen years I rejected His offers of pardon and reconciliation, turned my back upon the Saviour of sinners, and resisted all the strivings of God's Holy Spirit, and will you say that I am not a great sinner?" Her voice quivered, and her eyes were full of tears. "Dear Rose," said Adelaide, putting her arm around her friend and kissing her cheek affectionately, "don't think of these things; religion is too gloomy for one so young as you." "Gloomy, dear Adelaide!" replied Rose, returning the embrace; "I never knew what true happiness was until I found Jesus. My sins often make me sad, but religion, never. "'Oft I walk beneath the cloud, Dark as midnight's gloomy shroud; But when fear is at the height, Jesus comes, and all is light.'" CHAPTER SECOND "Thy injuries would teach patience to blaspheme, Yet still thou art a dove." --BEAUMONT'S _Double Marriage._ "When forced to part from those we love, Though sure to meet to-morrow; We yet a kind of anguish prove And feel a touch of sorrow. But oh! what words can paint the fears When from these friends we sever, Perhaps to part for months--for years-- Perhaps to part forever." --ANON. When Miss Allison had gone, and Elsie found herself once more quite alone, she rose from her chair, and kneeling down with the open Bible before her, she poured out her story of sins and sorrows, in simple, child-like words, into the ears of the dear Saviour whom she loved so well; confessing that when she had done well and suffered for it, she had not taken it patiently, and earnestly pleading that she might be made like unto the meek and lowly Jesus. Low sobs burst from her burdened heart, and the tears of penitence fell upon the pages of the holy book. But when she rose from her knees, her load of sin and sorrow was all gone, and her heart made light and happy with a sweet sense of peace and pardon. Once again, as often before, the little Elsie was made to experience the blessedness of "the man whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered." She now set to work diligently at her studies, and ere the party returned was quite prepared to meet Miss Day, having attended faithfully to all she had required of her. The lesson was recited without the smallest mistake, every figure of the examples worked out correctly, and the page of the copy-book neatly and carefully written. Miss Day had been in a very captious mood all day, and seemed really provoked that Elsie had not given her the smallest excuse for fault-finding. Handing the book back to her, she said, very coldly, "I see you can do your duties well enough when you choose." Elsie felt keenly the injustice of the remark, and longed to say that she had tried quite as earnestly in the morning; but she resolutely crushed down the indignant feeling, and calling to mind the rash words that had cost her so many repentant tears, she replied meekly, "I am sorry I did not succeed better this morning, Miss Day, though I did really try; and I am still more sorry for the saucy answer I gave you; and I ask your pardon for it." "You _ought_ to be sorry," replied Miss Day, severely, "and I hope you are; for it was a very impertinent speech indeed, and deserving of a much more severe punishment than you received. Now go, and never let me hear anything of the kind from you again." Poor little Elsie's eyes filled with tears at these ungracious words, accompanied by a still more ungracious manner; but she turned away without a word, and placing her books and slate carefully in her desk, left the room. Rose Allison was sitting alone in her room that evening, thinking of her far-distant home, when hearing a gentle rap at her door, she rose and opened it to find Elsie standing there with her little Bible in her hand. "Come in, darling," she said, stooping to give the little one a kiss; "I am very glad to see you." "I may stay with you for half an hour, Miss Allison, if you like," said the child, seating herself on the low ottoman pointed out by Rose, "and then mammy is coming to put me to bed." "It will be a very pleasant half-hour to both of us, I hope," replied Rose, opening her Bible. They read a chapter together--Rose now and then pausing to make a few explanations--and then kneeling down, she offered up a prayer for the teachings of the Spirit, and for God's blessing on themselves and all their dear ones. "Dear little Elsie," she said, folding the child in her arms, when they had risen from their knees, "how I love you already, and how very glad I am to find that there is one in this house beside myself who loves Jesus, and loves to study His word, and to call upon His name." "Yes, dear Miss Allison; and there is _more_ than one, for mammy loves Him, too, very dearly," replied the little girl, earnestly. "Does she, darling? Then I must love her, too, for I cannot help loving all who love my Saviour." Then Rose sat down, and drawing the little girl to a seat on her knee, they talked sweetly together of the race they were running, and the prize they hoped to obtain at the end of it; of the battle they were fighting, and the invisible foes with whom they were called to struggle--the armor that had been provided, and of Him who had promised to be the Captain of their salvation, and to bring them off more than conquerors. They were pilgrims in the same straight and narrow way, and it was very pleasant thus to walk a little while together. "Then they that feared the Lord spake often one to another; and the Lord hearkened and heard it; and a book of remembrance was written before Him for them that feared the Lord, and that thought upon His name. And they shall be mine, saith the Lord of hosts, in that day when I make up my jewels; and I will spare them, as a man spareth his own son that serveth him." "That is mammy coming for me," said Elsie, as a low knock was heard at the door. "Come in," said Rose, and the door opened, and a very nice colored woman of middle age, looking beautifully neat in her snow-white apron and turban, entered with a low courtesy, asking, "Is my little missus ready for bed now?" "Yes," said Elsie, jumping off Rose's lap; "but come here, mammy; I want to introduce you to Miss Allison." "How do you do, Aunt Chloe? I am very glad to know you, since Elsie tells me you are a servant of the same blessed Master whom I love and try to serve," said Rose, putting her small white hand cordially into Chloe's dusky one. "'Deed I hope I is, missus," replied Chloe, pressing it fervently in both of hers. "I's only a poor old black sinner, but de good Lord Jesus, He loves me jes de same as if I was white, an' I love Him an' all His chillen with all my heart." "Yes, Aunt Chloe," said Rose, "He is our peace, and hath made both one, and hath broken down the middle wall of partition between us; so that we are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellow-citizens with the saints and of the household of God; and are built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner-stone." "Yes, missus, dat's it for sure; ole Chloe knows dat's in de Bible; an' if we be built on dat bressed corner-stone, we's safe ebery one; I'se heard it many's de time, an' it fills dis ole heart with joy an' peace in believing," she exclaimed, raising her tearful eyes and clasping her hands. "But good night, missus; I must put my chile to bed," she added, taking Elsie's hand. "Good-night, Aunt Chloe; come in again," said Rose. "And good-night to you, too, dear little Elsie," folding the little girl again in her arms. "Ain't dat a bressed young lady, darlin'!" exclaimed Chloe, earnestly, as she began the business of preparing her young charge for bed. "O mammy, I love her so much! she's so good and kind," replied the child, "and she loves Jesus, and loves to talk about Him." "She reminds me of your dear mamma, Miss Elsie, but she's not so handsome," replied the nurse, with a tear in her eye; "ole Chloe tinks dere's nebber any lady so beautiful as her dear young missus was." Elsie drew out the miniature and kissed it, murmuring, "Dear, darling mamma," then put it back in her bosom again, for she always wore it day and night. She was standing in her white night-dress, the tiny white feet just peeping from under it, while Chloe brushed back her curls and put on her night-cap. "Dere now, darlin', you's ready for bed," she exclaimed, giving the child a hug and a kiss. "No, mammy, not quite," replied the little girl, and gliding away to the side of the bed, she knelt down and offered up her evening prayer. Then, coming back to the toilet table, she opened her little Bible, saying, "Now, mammy, I will read you a chapter while you are getting ready for bed." The room was large and airy, and Aunt Chloe, who was never willing to leave her nursling, but watched over her night and day with the most devoted affection, slept in a cot bed in one corner. "Tank you, my dear young missus, you's berry good," she said, beginning the preparations for the night by taking off her turban and replacing it by a thick night-cap. When the chapter was finished Elsie got into bed, saying, "Now, mammy, you may put out the light as soon as you please; and be sure to call me early in the morning, for I have a lesson to learn before breakfast." "That I will, darlin'," replied the old woman, spreading the cover carefully over her. "Good-night, my pet, your ole mammy hopes her chile will have pleasant dreams." Rose Allison was an early riser, and as the breakfast hour at Roselands was eight o'clock, she always had an hour or two for reading before it was time to join the family circle. She had asked Elsie to come to her at half-past seven, and punctually at the hour the little girl's gentle rap was heard at her door. "Come in," said Rose, and Elsie entered, looking as bright and fresh and rosy as the morning. She had her little Bible under her arm, and a bouquet of fresh flowers in her hand. "Good-morning, dear Miss Allison," she said, dropping a graceful courtesy as she presented it. "I have come to read, and I have just been out to gather these for you, because I know you love flowers." "Thank you, darling, they are very lovely," said Rose, accepting the gift and bestowing a caress upon the giver. "You are quite punctual," she added, "and now we can have our half-hour together before breakfast." The time was spent profitably and pleasantly, and passed so quickly that both were surprised when the breakfast bell rang. Miss Allison spent the whole fall and winter at Roselands; and it was very seldom during all that time that she and Elsie failed to have their morning and evening reading and prayer together. Rose was often made to wonder at the depth of the little girl's piety and the knowledge of divine things she possessed. But Elsie had had the best of teaching. Chloe, though entirely uneducated, was a simple-minded, earnest Christian, and with a heart full of love to Jesus, had, as we have seen, early endeavored to lead the little one to Him, and Mrs. Murray--the housekeeper whom Adelaide had mentioned, and who had assisted Chloe in the care of the child from the time of her birth until a few months before Rose's coming, when she had suddenly been summoned home to Scotland--had proved a very faithful friend. She was an intelligent woman and devotedly pious, and had carefully instructed this lonely little one, for whom she felt almost a parent's affection, and her efforts to bring her to a saving knowledge of Christ had been signally owned and blessed of God; and in answer to her earnest prayers, the Holy Spirit had vouchsafed His teachings, without which all human instruction must ever be in vain. And young as Elsie was, she had already a very lovely and well-developed Christian character. Though not a remarkably precocious child in other respects, she seemed to have very clear and correct views on almost every subject connected with her duty to God and her neighbor; was very truthful both in word and deed, very strict in her observance of the Sabbath--though the rest of the family were by no means particular in that respect--very diligent in her studies, respectful to superiors, and kind to inferiors and equals; and she was gentle, sweet-tempered, patient, and forgiving to a remarkable degree. Rose became strongly attached to her, and the little girl fully returned her affection. Elsie was very sensitive and affectionate, and felt keenly the want of sympathy and love, for which, at the time of Rose's coming, she had no one to look to but poor old Chloe, who loved her with all her heart. It is true, Adelaide sometimes treated her almost affectionately, and Lora, who had a very strong sense of justice, occasionally interfered and took her part when she was very unjustly accused, but no one seemed really to care for her, and she often felt sad and lonely. Mr. Dinsmore, though her own grandfather, treated her with entire neglect, seemed to have not the slightest affection for her, and usually spoke of her as "old Crayson's grandchild." Mrs. Dinsmore really disliked her, because she looked upon her as the child of a stepson for whom she had never felt any affection, and also as the future rival of her own children; while the governess and the younger members of the family, following the example of their elders, treated her with neglect, and occasionally even with abuse. Miss Day, knowing that she was in no danger of incurring the displeasure of her superiors by so doing, vented upon her all the spite she dared not show to her other pupils; and continually she was made to give up her toys and pleasures to Enna, and even sometimes to Arthur and Walter. It often cost her a struggle, and had she possessed less of the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, her life had been wretched indeed. But in spite of all her trials and vexations, little Elsie was the happiest person in the family; for she had in her heart that peace which the world can neither give nor take away; that joy which the Saviour gives to His own, and no man taketh from them. She constantly carried all her sorrows and troubles to Him, and the coldness and neglect of others seemed but to drive her nearer to that Heavenly Friend, until she felt that while possessed of His love, she could not be unhappy, though treated with scorn and abuse by all the world. "The good are better made by ill, As odors crushed are sweeter still;" And even so it seemed to be with little Elsie; her trials seemed to have only the effect of purifying and making more lovely her naturally amiable character. Elsie talked much and thought more of her absent and unknown father, and longed with an intensity of desire for his return home. It was her dream, by day and by night, that he had come, that he had taken her to his heart, calling her "his own darling child, his precious little Elsie;" for such were the loving epithets she often heard lavished upon Enna, and which she longed to hear addressed to herself. But from month to month, and year to year, that longed-for return had been delayed until the little heart had grown sick with hope deferred, and was often weary with its almost hopeless waiting. But to return. "Elsie," said Adelaide, as Miss Allison and the little girl entered the breakfast-room on the morning after Elsie's disappointment, "the fair is not over yet, and Miss Allison and I are going to ride out there this afternoon; so, if you are a good girl in school, you may go with us." "Oh! thank you, dear Aunt Adelaide," exclaimed the little girl, clapping her hands with delight; "how kind you are! and I shall be so glad." Miss Day frowned, and looked as if she wanted to reprove her for her noisy demonstrations of delight, but, standing somewhat in awe of Adelaide, said nothing. But Elsie suddenly relapsed into silence, for at that moment Mrs. Dinsmore entered the room, and it was seldom that she could utter a word in her presence without being reproved and told that "children should be seen and not heard," though her own were allowed to talk as much as they pleased. Miss Day seemed cross, Mrs. Dinsmore was moody and taciturn, complaining of headache, and Mr. Dinsmore occupied with the morning paper; and so the meal passed off in almost unbroken silence. Elsie was glad when it was over, and hastening to the school-room, she began her tasks without waiting for the arrival of the regular hour for study. She had the room entirely to herself, and had been busily engaged for half an hour in working out her examples, when the opening of the door caused her to look up, and, to her dismay, Arthur entered. He did not, however, as she feared, begin his customary course of teasing and tormenting, but seated himself at his desk, leaning his head upon his hand in an attitude of dejection. Elsie wondered what ailed him, his conduct was so unusual, and she could not help every now and then sending an inquiring glance toward him, and at length she asked, "What is the matter, Arthur?" "Nothing much," said he, gruffly, turning his back to her. Thus repulsed, she said no more, but gave her undivided attention to her employment; and so diligent was she, that Miss Day had no excuse whatever for fault-finding this morning. Her tasks were all completed within the required time, and she enjoyed her promised ride with her aunt and Miss Allison, and her visit to the fair, very much indeed. It was still early when they returned; and finding that she had nearly an hour to dispose of before tea-time, Elsie thought she would finish a drawing which she had left in her desk in the school-room. While searching for it and her pencil, she heard Lora's and Arthur's voices on the veranda. She did not notice what they were saying, until her own name struck her ear. "Elsie is the only person," Lora was saying, "who can, and probably will, help you; for she has plenty of money, and she is so kind and generous; but, if I were you, I should be ashamed to ask her, after the way you acted toward her." "I wish I hadn't teased her so yesterday," replied Arthur, disconsolately, "but it's such fun, I can't help it sometimes." "Well, I know I wouldn't ask a favor of anybody I had treated so," said Lora, walking away. Elsie sat still a few moments, working at her drawing and wondering all the time what it was Arthur wanted, and thinking how glad she would be of an opportunity of returning him good for evil. She did not like, though, to seek his confidence, but presently hearing him heave a deep sigh, she rose and went out on the veranda. He was leaning on the railing in an attitude of dejection, his head bent down and his eyes fixed on the floor. She went up to him, and laying her hand softly on his shoulder, said, in the sweet, gentle tones natural to her. "What ails you, Arthur? Can I do anything for you? I will be very glad if I can." "No--yes--" he answered hesitatingly; "I wouldn't like to ask you after--after--" "Oh! never mind," said Elsie, quickly; "I do not care anything about that now. I had the ride to-day, and that was better still, because I went with Aunt Adelaide and Miss Allison. Tell me what you want." Thus encouraged, Arthur replied, "I saw a beautiful little ship yesterday when I was in the city; it was only five dollars, and I've set my heart on having it, but my pocket money's all gone, and papa won't give me a cent until next month's allowance is due; and by that time the ship will be gone, for it's such a beauty somebody'll be sure to buy it." "Won't your mamma buy it for you?" asked Elsie. "No, she says she hasn't the money to spare just now. You know it's near the end of the month, and they've all spent their allowances except Louise, and she says she'll not lend her money to such a spendthrift as I am." Elsie drew out her purse, and seemed just about to put it into his hand; but, apparently changing her mind, she hesitated a moment, and then returning it to her pocket, said, with a half smile, "I don't know, Arthur; five dollars is a good deal for a little girl like me to lay out at once. I must think about it a little." "I don't ask you to _give_ it," he replied scornfully; "I'll pay it back in two weeks." "Well, I will see by to-morrow morning," she said, darting away, while he sent an angry glance after her, muttering the word "stingy" between his teeth. Elsie ran down to the kitchen, asking of one and another of the servants as she passed, "Where's Pompey?" The last time she put the question to Phoebe, the cook, but was answered by Pompey himself. "Here am Pomp, Miss Elsie; what does little missy want wid dis chile?" "Are you going to the city to-night, Pompey?" "Yes, Miss Elsie, I'se got some arrants to do for missus an' de family in ginral, an' I ben gwine start in 'bout ten minutes. Little missy wants sumpin', eh?" Elsie motioned to him to come close to her, and then putting her purse into his hands, she told him in a whisper of Arthur's wish, and directed him to purchase the coveted toy, and bring it to her, if possible, without letting any one else know anything about it. "And keep half a dollar for yourself, Pompey, to pay you for your trouble," she added in conclusion. "Tank you, little missy," he replied, with a broad grin of satisfaction; "dat be berry good pay, and Pomp am de man to do dis business up for you 'bout right." The tea-bell rang, and Elsie hastened away to answer the summons. She looked across the table at Arthur with a pleasant smile on her countenance, but he averted his eyes with an angry scowl; and with a slight sigh she turned away her head, and did not look at him again during the meal. Pompey executed his commission faithfully; and when Elsie returned to her own room after her evening hour with Miss Rose, Chloe pointed out the little ship standing on the mantel. "Oh! it's a little beauty," cried Elsie, clapping her hands and dancing up and down with delight; "how Arthur will be pleased! Now, mammy, can you take it to the school-room, and put it on Master Arthur's desk, without anybody seeing you?" "Ole Chloe'll try, darlin," she said, taking it in her hands. "Oh! wait one moment," exclaimed Elsie, and taking a card, she wrote on it, "A present to Arthur, from his niece Elsie." Then laying it on the deck of the little vessel. "There, mammy," she said, "I think that will do; but please look out first to see whether any one is in the hall." "Coast all clear, darlin'," replied Chloe, after a careful survey; "all de chillens am in bed before dis time, I spec." And taking a candle in one hand and the little ship in the other, she started for the school-room. She soon returned with a broad grin of satisfaction on her black face, saying, "All right, darlin', I put him on Massa Arthur's desk, an' nobody de wiser." So Elsie went to bed very happy in the thought of the pleasure Arthur would have in receiving her present. She was hurrying down to the breakfast-room the next morning, a little in advance of Miss Rose, who had stopped to speak to Adelaide, when Arthur came running up behind her, having just come in by a side door from the garden, and seizing her round the waist, he said, "Thank you, Elsie; you're a real good girl! She sails beautifully. I've been trying her on the pond. But it mustn't be a _present;_ you must let me pay you back when I get my allowance." "Oh! no, Arthur, that would spoil it all," she answered quickly; "you are entirely welcome, and you know my allowance is so large that half the time I have more money than I know how to spend." "I should like to see the time that would be the case with me," said he, laughing. Then in a lower tone, "Elsie, I'm sorry I teased you so. I'll not do it again soon." Elsie answered him with a grateful look, as she stepped past him and quietly took her place at the table. Arthur kept his word, and for many weeks entirely refrained from teasing Elsie, and while freed from that annoyance she was always able to have her tasks thoroughly prepared; and though her governess was often unreasonable and exacting, and there was scarcely a day in which she was not called upon to yield her own wishes or pleasures, or in some way to inconvenience herself to please Walter or Enna, or occasionally the older members of the family, yet it was an unusually happy winter to her, for Rose Allison's love and uniform kindness shed sunshine on her path. She had learned to yield readily to others, and when fretted or saddened by unjust or unkind treatment, a few moments alone with her precious Bible and her loved Saviour made all right again, and she would come from those sweet communings looking as serenely happy as if she had never known an annoyance. She was a wonder to all the family. Her grandfather would sometimes look at her as, without a frown or a pout, she would give up her own wishes to Enna, and shaking his head, say, "She's no Dinsmore, or she would know how to stand up for her own rights better than that. _I_ don't like such tame-spirited people. She's not Horace's child; it never was an easy matter to impose upon or conquer him. He was a boy of spirit." "What a strange child Elsie is?" Adelaide remarked to her friend one day. "I am often surprised to see how sweetly she gives up to all of us; really she has a lovely temper. I quite envy her; it was always hard for me to give up my own way." "I do not believe it was easy for her at first," said Rose. "I think her sweet disposition is the fruit of a work of grace in her heart. It is the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which God alone can bestow." "I wish I had it, then," said Adelaide, sighing. "You have only to go to the right source to obtain it, dear Adelaide," replied her friend, gently. "And yet," said Adelaide, "I must say I sometimes think that, as papa says, there is something mean-spirited and cowardly in always giving up to other people." "It would indeed be cowardly and wrong to give up _principle_," replied Rose, "but surely it is noble and generous to give up our own wishes to another, where no principle is involved." "Certainly, you are right," said Adelaide, musingly. "And now I recollect that, readily as Elsie gives up her own wishes to others on ordinary occasions, I have never known her to sacrifice principle; but, on the contrary, she has several times made mamma excessively angry by refusing to romp and play with Enna on the Sabbath, or to deceive papa when questioned with regard to some of Arthur's misdeeds; yet she has often borne the blame of his faults, when she might have escaped by telling of him. Elsie is certainly very different from any of the rest of us, and if it is piety that makes her what she is, I think piety is a very lovely thing." Elsie's mornings were spent in the school-room; in the afternoon she walked, or rode out, sometimes in company with her young uncles and aunts, and sometimes alone, a negro boy following at a respectful distance, as a protector. In the evening there was almost always company in the parlor, and she found it pleasanter to sit beside the bright wood-fire in her own room, with her fond old nurse for a companion, than to stay there, or with the younger ones in the sitting-room or nursery. If she had no lesson to learn, she usually read aloud to Chloe, as she sat knitting by the fire, and the Bible was the book generally preferred by both; and then when she grew weary of reading, she would often take a stool, and sitting down close to Chloe, put her head in her lap, saying, "Now, mammy, tell me about mamma." And then for the hundredth time or more the old woman would go over the story of the life and death of her "dear young missus," as she always called her; telling of her beauty, her goodness, and of her sorrows and sufferings during the last year of her short life. It was a story which never lost its charm for Elsie; a story which the one never wearied of telling, nor the other of hearing. Elsie would sit listening, with her mother's miniature in her hand, gazing at it with tearful eyes, then press it to her lips, murmuring, "My own mamma; poor, dear mamma." And when Chloe had finished that story she would usually say, "Now, mammy, tell me all about papa." But upon this subject Chloe had very little information to give. She knew him only as a gay, handsome young stranger, whom she had seen occasionally during a few months, and who had stolen all the sunshine from her beloved young mistress' life, and left her to die alone; yet she did not blame him when speaking to his child, for the young wife had told her that he had not forsaken her of his own free choice; and though she could not quite banish from her own mind the idea that he had not been altogether innocent in the matter, she breathed no hint of it to Elsie; for Chloe was a sensible woman, and knew that to lead the little one to think ill of her only remaining parent would but tend to make her unhappy. Sometimes Elsie would ask very earnestly, "Do you thing papa loves Jesus, mammy?" And Chloe would reply with a doubtful shake of the head, "Dunno, darlin'; but ole Chloe prays for him ebery day." "And so do I," Elsie would answer; "dear, dear papa, how I wish he would come home!" And so the winter glided away, and spring came, and Miss Allison must soon return home. It was now the last day of March, and her departure had been fixed for the second of April. For a number of weeks Elsie had been engaged, during all her spare moments, in knitting a purse for Rose, wishing to give her something which was the work of her own hands, knowing that as such it would be more prized by her friend than a costlier gift. She had just returned from her afternoon ride, and taking out her work she sat down to finish it. She was in her own room, with no companion but Chloe, who sat beside her knitting as usual. Elsie worked on silently for some time, then suddenly holding up her purse, she exclaimed, "See, mammy, it is all done but putting on the tassel! Isn't it pretty? and won't dear Miss Allison be pleased with it?" It really was very pretty indeed, of crimson and gold, and beautifully knit, and Chloe, looking at it with admiring eyes, said, "I spec she will, darlin'. I tink it's berry handsome." At this moment Enna opened the door and came in. Elsie hastily attempted to conceal the purse by thrusting it into her pocket, but it was too late, for Enna had seen it, and running toward her, cried out, "Now, Elsie, just give that to me!" "No, Enna," replied Elsie, mildly, "I cannot let you have it, because it is for Miss Rose." "I will have it," exclaimed the child, resolutely, "and if you don't give it to me at once I shall just go and tell mamma." "I will let you take it in your hand a few moments to look at it, if you will be careful not to soil it, Enna," said Elsie, in the same gentle tone; "and if you wish, I will get some more silk and beads, and make you one just like it; but I cannot give you this, because I would not have time to make another for Miss Rose." "No, I shall just have that one; and I shall have it to keep," said Enna, attempting to snatch it out of Elsie's hand. But Elsie held it up out of her reach, and after trying several times in vain to get it, Enna left the room, crying and screaming with passion. Chloe locked the door, saying, "Great pity, darlin', we forgot to do dat 'fore Miss Enna came. I'se 'fraid she gwine bring missus for make you gib um up." Elsie sat down to her work again, but she was very pale, and her little hands trembled with agitation, and her soft eyes were full of tears. Chloe's fears were but too well founded; for the next moment hasty steps were heard in the passage, and the handle of the door was laid hold of with no very gentle grasp; and then, as it refused to yield to her touch, Mrs. Dinsmore's voice was heard in an angry tone giving the command, "Open this door instantly." Chloe looked at her young mistress. "You will have to," said Elsie, tearfully, slipping her work into her pocket again, and lifting up her heart in prayer for patience and meekness, for she well knew she would have need of both. Mrs. Dinsmore entered, leading the sobbing Enna by the hand; her face was flushed with passion, and addressing Elsie in tones of violent anger, she asked, "What is the meaning of all this, you good-for-nothing hussy? Why are you always tormenting this poor child? Where is that paltry trifle that all this fuss is about? let me see it this instant." Elsie drew the purse from her pocket, saying in tearful, trembling tones, "It is a purse I was making for Miss Rose, ma'am; and I offered to make another just like it for Enna; but I cannot give her this one, because there would not be time to make another before Miss Rose goes away." "You _can_ not give it to her, indeed! You _will_ not, you mean; but I say you _shall;_ and I'll see if I'm not mistress in my own house. Give it to the child this instant; I'll not have her crying her eyes out that you may be humored in all your whims. There are plenty of handsomer ones to be had in the city, and if you are too mean to make her a present of it, I'll buy you another to-morrow." "But that would not be my work, and this is," replied Elsie, still retaining the purse, loath to let it go. "Nonsense! what difference will that make to Miss Rose?" said Mrs. Dinsmore; and snatching it out of her hand, she gave it to Enna, saying, "There, my pet, you shall have it. Elsie is a naughty, mean, stingy girl, but she shan't plague you while your mamma's about." Enna cast a look of triumph at Elsie, and ran off with her prize, followed by her mother, while poor Elsie hid her face in Chloe's lap and cried bitterly. It required all Chloe's religion to keep down her anger and indignation at this unjust and cruel treatment of her darling, and for a few moments she allowed her to sob and cry without a word, only soothing her with mute caresses, not daring to trust her voice, lest her anger should find vent in words. But at length, when her feelings had grown somewhat calmer, she said soothingly, "Nebber mind it, my poor darlin' chile. Just go to de city and buy de prettiest purse you can find, for Miss Rose." But Elsie shook her head sadly. "I wanted it to be my own work," she sobbed, "and now there is no time." "Oh! I'll tell you what, my pet," exclaimed Chloe suddenly, "dere's de purse you was aknittin' for your papa, an' dey wouldn't send it for you; you can get dat done for de lady, and knit another for your papa, 'fore he comes home." Elsie raised her head with a look of relief, but her face clouded again, as she replied, "But it is not quite done, and I haven't the beads to finish it with, and Miss Rose goes day after to-morrow." "Nebber mind dat, darlin'," said Chloe, jumping up; "Pomp he been gwine to de city dis berry afternoon, an' we'll tell him to buy de beads, an' den you can get de purse finished 'fore to-morrow night, an' de lady don't go till de next day, an' so it gwine all come right yet." "Oh! yes, that will do; dear old mammy, I'm so glad you thought of it," said Elsie, joyfully. And rising, she went to her bureau, and unlocking a drawer, took from it a bead purse of blue and gold, quite as handsome as the one of which she had been so ruthlessly despoiled, and rolling it up in a piece of paper, she handed it to Chloe, saying: "There, mammy, please give it to Pomp, and tell him to match the beads and the silk exactly." Chloe hastened in search of Pomp, but when she found him, he insisted that he should not have time to attend to Miss Elsie's commission and do his other errands; and Chloe, knowing that he, in common with all the other servants, was very fond of the little girl, felt satisfied that it was not merely an excuse, therefore did not urge her request. She stood a moment in great perplexity, then suddenly exclaimed, "I'll go myself. Miss Elsie will spare me, an' I'll go right long wid you, Pomp." Chloe was entirely Elsie's servant, having no other business than to wait upon her and take care of her clothing and her room; and the little girl, of course, readily gave her permission to accompany Pomp and do the errand. But it was quite late ere Chloe returned, and the little girl spent the evening alone in her own room. She was sadly disappointed that she could not even have her hour with Miss Rose, who was detained in the parlor with company whom she could not leave, and so the evening seemed very long and wore away very slowly. But at last Chloe came, and in answer to her eager inquiries displayed her purchases with great satisfaction, saying, "Yes, darlin', I'se got de berry t'ings you wanted." "Oh! yes," said Elsie, examining them with delight; "they are just right; and now I can finish it in a couple of hours." "Time to get ready for bed now, ain't it, pet?" asked Chloe; but before the little girl had time to answer, a servant knocked at the door, and handed in a note for her. It was from Miss Allison, and, hastily tearing it open, she read: "DEAR ELSIE--I am very sorry that we cannot have our reading together this evening; but be sure, darling, to come to me early in the morning; it will be our last opportunity, for, dear child, I have another disappointment for you. I had not expected to leave before day after to-morrow, but I have learned this evening that the vessel sails a day sooner than I had supposed, and therefore I shall be obliged to start on my journey to-morrow. "Your friend, ROSE." Elsie dropped the note on the floor and burst into tears. "What de matter, darlin'?" asked Chloe, anxiously. "Oh! Miss Rose, dear, _dear_ Miss Rose is going tomorrow," she sobbed. Then hastily drying her eyes, she said: "But I have no time for crying. I must sit up and finish the purse to-night, because there will not be time to-morrow." It was long past her usual hour for retiring when at last her task, or rather her labor of love, was completed. Yet she was up betimes, and at the usual hour her gentle rap was heard at Miss Allison's door. Rose clasped her in her arms and kissed her tenderly. "O Miss Rose! _dear, dear_ Miss Rose, what shall I do without you?" sobbed the little girl. "I shall have nobody to love me now but mammy." "You have another and a better friend, dear Elsie, who has said, 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee,'" whispered Rose, with another tender caress. "Yes," said Elsie, wiping away her tears; "and He is your Friend, too; and don't you think, Miss Rose, He will bring us together again some day?" "I hope so indeed, darling. We must keep very close to Him, dear Elsie; we must often commune with Him in secret; often study His word, and try always to do His will. Ah! dear child, if we can only have the assurance that that dear Friend is with us--that we have His presence and His love, we shall be supremely happy, though separated from all earthly friends. I know, dear little one, that you have peculiar trials, and that you often feel the want of sympathy and love; but you may always find them in Jesus. And now we will have our reading and prayer as usual." She took the little girl in her lap, and opening the Bible, read aloud the fourteenth chapter of John, a part of that touching farewell of our Saviour to His sorrowing disciples; and then they knelt to pray. Elsie was only a listener, for her little heart was too full to allow her to be anything more. "My poor darling!" Rose said, again taking her in her arms, "we will hope to meet again before very long. Who knows but your papa may come home, and some day bring you to see me. It seems not unlikely, as he is so fond of traveling." Elsie looked up, smiling through her tears, "Oh! how delightful that would be," she said. "But it seems as though my papa would never come," she added, with a deep-drawn sigh. "Well, darling, we can hope," Rose answered cheerfully. "And, dear child, though we must be separated in body for a time, we can still meet in spirit at the mercy-seat. Shall we not do so at this hour every morning?" Elsie gave a joyful assent. "And I shall write to you, darling," Rose said; "I will write on my journey, if I can, so that you will get the letter in a week from the time I leave; and then you must write to me; will you?" "If you won't care for the mistakes, Miss Rose. But you know I am a very little girl, and I wouldn't like to let Miss Day read my letter to you, to correct it. But I shall be so very glad to get yours. I never had a letter in my life." "I sha'n't care for mistakes at all, dear, and no one shall see your letters but myself," said Rose, kissing her. "I should be as sorry as you to have Miss Day look at them." Elsie drew out the purse and put it in her friend's hand, saying: "It is all my own work, dear Miss Rose; I thought you would value it more for that." "And indeed I shall, darling," replied Rose, with tears of pleasure in her eyes. "It is beautiful in itself, but I shall value it ten times more because it is your gift, and the work of your own dear little hands." But the breakfast-bell now summoned them to join the rest of the family, and, in a few moments after they left the table, the carriage which was to take Rose to the city was at the door. Rose had endeared herself to all, old and young, and they were loath to part with her. One after another bade her an affectionate farewell. Elsie was the last. Rose pressed her tenderly to her bosom, and kissed her again and again, saying, in a voice half choked with grief, "God bless and keep you, my poor little darling; my dear, dear little Elsie!" Elsie could not speak; and the moment the carriage had rolled away with her friend, she went to her own room, and locking herself in, cried long and bitterly. She had learned to love Rose very dearly, and to lean upon her very much; and now the parting from her, with no certainty of ever meeting her again in this world, was the severest trial the poor child had ever known. CHAPTER THIRD "The morning blush was lighted up by hope-- The hope of meeting him." --Miss LANDON. "Unkindness, do thy office; poor heart, break." A week had now passed away since Miss Allison's departure, and Elsie, to whom it had been a sad and lonely one, was beginning to look eagerly for her first letter. "It is just a week to-day since Rose left," remarked Adelaide at the breakfast table, "and I think we ought to hear from her soon. She promised to write on her journey. Ah! here comes Pomp with the letters now," she added, as the servant man entered the room bearing in his hand the bag in which he always brought the letters of the family from the office in the neighboring city, whither he was sent every morning. "Pomp, you are late this morning," said Mrs. Dinsmore. "Yes, missus," replied the negro, scratching his head, "de horses am berry lazy; spec dey's got de spring fever." "Do make haste, papa, and see if there is not one from Rose," said Adelaide coaxingly, as her father took the bag, and very deliberately adjusted his spectacles before opening it. "Have patience, young lady," said he. "Yes, here is a letter for you, and one for Elsie," tossing them across the table as he spoke. Elsie eagerly seized hers and ran away to her own room to read it. It was a feast to her, this first letter, and from such a dear friend, too. It gave her almost as much pleasure for the moment as Miss Rose's presence could have afforded. She had just finished its perusal and was beginning it again, when she heard Adelaide's voice calling her by name, and the next moment she entered the room, saying: "Well, Elsie, I suppose you have read your letter; and now I have another piece of news for you. Can you guess what it is?" she asked, looking at her with a strange smile. "Oh! no, Aunt Adelaide; please tell me. Is dear Miss Rose coming back?" "O! nonsense; what a guess!" said Adelaide. "No, stranger than that. My brother Horace--your papa--has actually sailed for America, and is coming directly home." Elsie sprang up, her cheeks flushed, and her little heart beating wildly. "O Aunt Adelaide!" she cried, "is it really true? is he coming? and will he be here soon?" "He has really started at last; but how soon he will be here I don't know," replied her aunt, turning to leave the room. "I have told you all I know about it." Elsie clasped her hands together, and sank down upon a sofa, Miss Rose's letter, prized so highly a moment before, lying unheeded at her feet; for her thoughts were far away, following that unknown parent as he crossed the ocean; trying to imagine how he would look, how he would speak, what would be his feelings toward her. "Oh!" she asked, with a beating heart, "_will_ he _love_ me? My own papa! will he let me love him? will he take me in his arms and call me his own darling child?" But who could answer the anxious inquiry? She must just wait until the slow wheels of time should bring the much longed-for, yet sometimes half-dreaded arrival. Elsie's lessons were but indifferently recited that morning, and Miss Day frowned, and said in a tone of severity that it did not agree with her to receive letters; and that, unless she wished her papa to be much displeased with her on his expected arrival, she must do a great deal better than that. She had touched the right chord then; for Elsie, intensely anxious to please that unknown father, and, if possible, gain his approbation and affection, gave her whole mind to her studies with such a determined purpose that the governess could find no more cause for complaint. But while the child is looking forward to the expected meeting with such longing affection for him, how is it with the father? Horace Dinsmore was, like his father, an upright, moral man, who paid an outward respect to the forms of religion, but cared nothing for the vital power of godliness; trusted entirely to his morality, and looked upon Christians as hypocrites and deceivers. He had been told that his little Elsie was one of these, and, though he would not have acknowledged it even to himself, it had prejudiced him against her. Then, too, in common with all the Dinsmores, he had a great deal of family pride; and, though old Mr. Grayson had been a man of sterling worth, intelligent, honest, and pious, and had died very wealthy, yet because he was known to have begun life as a poor boy, the whole family were accustomed to speak as though Horace had stooped very much in marrying his heiress. And Horace himself had come to look upon his early marriage as a piece of boyish folly, of which he was rather ashamed; and so constantly had Mr. Dinsmore spoken in his letters of Elsie as "old Grayson's grandchild," that he had got into the habit of looking upon her as a kind of disgrace to him; especially as she had always been described to him as a disagreeable, troublesome child. He had loved his wife with all the warmth of his passionate nature, and had mourned bitterly over her untimely death; but years of study, travel and worldly pleasures had almost banished her image from his mind, and he seldom thought of her except in connection with the child for whom he felt a secret dislike. Scarcely anything but the expected arrival was now spoken or thought of at Roselands, and Elsie was not the only one to whom old Time seemed to move with an unusually laggard pace. But at length a letter came telling them that they might look upon it as being but one day in advance of its writer; and now all was bustle and preparation. "O mammy, mammy!" exclaimed Elsie, jumping up and down, and clapping her hands for joy, as she came in from her afternoon ride, "just think! papa, dear papa, will be here to-morrow morning." She seemed wild with delight; but suddenly sobered down, and a look of care stole over the little face, as the torturing question recurred to her mind, "_Will he love me?_" She stood quite still, with her eyes fixed thoughtfully, and almost sadly, upon the floor, while Chloe took off her riding dress and cap and smoothed her hair. As she finished arranging her dress she clasped the little form in her arms, and pressed a fond kiss on the fair brow, thinking to herself that was the sweetest and loveliest little face she had ever looked upon. Just at that moment an unusual bustle was heard in the house. Elsie started, changed color, and stood listening with a throbbing heart. Presently little feet were heard running rapidly down the hall, and Walter, throwing open the door, called out, "Elsie, he's come!" and catching her hand, hurried her along to the parlor door. "Stop, stop, Walter," she gasped as they reached it; and she leaned against the wall, her heart throbbing so wildly she could scarcely breathe. "What is the matter?" said he, "are you ill? come along;" and pushing the door open, he rushed in, dragging her after him. So over-wrought were the child's feelings that she nearly fainted; everything in the room seemed to be turning round, and for an instant she scarcely knew where she was. But a strange voice asked, "And who is this?" and looking up as her grandfather pronounced her name, she saw a stranger standing before her--very handsome, and very youthful-looking, in spite of a heavy dark beard and mustache--who exclaimed hastily, "What! this great girl _my_ child? really it is enough to make a man feel old." Then, taking her hand, he stooped and coldly kissed her lips. She was trembling violently, and the very depth of her feelings kept her silent and still; her hand lay still in his, cold and clammy. He held it an instant, at the same time gazing searchingly into her face; then dropped it, saying in a tone of displeasure, "I am not an ogre, that you need be so afraid of me; but there, you may go; I will not keep you in terror any longer." She rushed away to her own room, and there, throwing herself upon the bed, wept long and wildly. It was the disappointment of a lifelong hope. Since her earliest recollection she had looked and longed for this hour; and it seemed as though the little heart would break with its weight of bitter anguish. She was all alone, for Chloe had gone down to the kitchen to talk over the arrival, not doubting that her darling was supremely happy in the possession of her long looked-for parent. And so the little girl lay there with her crushed and bleeding heart, sobbing, mourning, weeping as though she would weep her very life away, without an earthly friend to speak one word of comfort. "O papa, papa!" she sobbed, "my own papa, you do not love me; me, your own little girl. Oh! my heart will break. O mamma, mamma! if I could only go to you; for there is no one here to love me, and I am so lonely, oh! _so_ lonely and desolate." And thus Chloe found her, when she came in an hour later, weeping and sobbing out such broken exclamations of grief and anguish. She was much surprised, but comprehending at once how her child was suffering, she raised her up in her strong arms, and laying the little head lovingly against her bosom, she smoothed the tangled hair, kissed the tear-swollen eyes, and bathed the throbbing temples, saying, "My precious pet, my darlin' chile, your ole mammy loves you better dan life; an' did my darlin' forget de almighty Friend dat says, _I_ have loved thee with an everlasting love,' an' 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee'? He sticks closer dan a brudder, precious chile, and says,'though a woman forget her sucking child, He will not forget _His_ chillen.' Mothers love dere chillens better dan fathers, darlin', and so you see Jesus' love is better dan all other love; and I _knows_ you hes got dat." "O mammy! ask Him to take me to Himself, and to mamma--for oh! I am very lonely, and I want to die!" "Hush, hush, darlin'; old Chloe nebber could ask dat; dis ole heart would break for sure. Yous all de world to your old mammy, darlin'; and you know we must all wait de Lord's time." "Then ask Him to help me to be patient," she said, in a weary tone. "And O mammy!" she added, with a burst of bitter tears, "ask Him to make my father love me." "I will, darlin', I will," sobbed Chloe, pressing the little form closer to her heart; "an' don't you go for to be discouraged right away; for I'se sure Massa Horace must love you, fore long." The tea-bell rang, and the family gathered about the table; but one chair remained unoccupied. "Where is Miss Elsie?" asked Adelaide of one of the servants. "Dunno, missus," was the reply. "Well, then, go and see," said Adelaide; "perhaps she did not hear the bell." The servant returned in a moment, saying that Miss Elsie had a bad headache and did not want any supper. Mr. Horace Dinsmore paused in the conversation he was carrying on with his father, to listen to the servant's announcement. "I hope she is not a sickly child," said he, addressing Adelaide; "is she subject to such attacks?" "Not very," replied his sister dryly, for she had seen the meeting, and felt really sorry for Elsie's evident disappointment; "I imagine crying has brought this on." He colored violently, and said in a tone of great displeasure, "Truly, the return of a parent _is_ a cause for grief; yet I hardly expected my presence to be quite so distressing to my only child. I had no idea that she had already learned to dislike me so thoroughly." "She doesn't," said Adelaide, "she has been looking and longing for your return ever since I have known her." "Then she has certainly been disappointed in me; her grief is not at all complimentary, explain it as you will." Adelaide made no reply, for she saw that he was determined to put an unfavorable construction upon Elsie's conduct, and feared that any defence she could offer would only increase his displeasure. It was a weary, aching head the little girl laid upon her pillow that night, and the little heart was sad and sore; yet she was not altogether comfortless, for she had turned in her sorrow to Him who has said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not," and she had the sweet assurance of _His_ love and favor. It was with a trembling heart, hoping yet fearing, longing and yet dreading to see her father, that Elsie descended to the breakfast-room the next morning. She glanced timidly around, but he was not there. "Where is papa, Aunt Adelaide?" she asked. "He is not coming down to breakfast, as he feels quite fatigued with his journey," replied her aunt; "so you will not see him this morning, and perhaps not at all to-day, for there will be a good deal of company here this afternoon and evening." Elsie sighed, and looked sadly disappointed. She found it very difficult to attend to her lessons that morning, and every time the door opened she started and looked up, half hoping it might be her papa. But he did not come; and when the dinner hour arrived, the children were told that they were to dine in the nursery, on account of the large number of guests to be entertained in the dining-room. The company remained until bedtime; she was not called down to the parlor; and so saw nothing of her father that day. But the next morning Chloe told her the children were to breakfast with the family, as all the visitors had left excepting one or two gentlemen. So Elsie went down to the breakfast-room, where, to her surprise, she found her papa sitting alone, reading the morning paper. He looked up as she entered. "Good-morning, papa," she said, in half-trembling tones. He started a little--for it was the first time he had ever been addressed by that title, and it sounded strange to his ears--gave her a glance of mingled curiosity and interest, half held out his hand, but drawing it back again, simply said, "Good-morning, Elsie," and returned to his paper. Elsie stood irresolutely in the middle of the floor, wanting, yet not daring to go to him. But just at that instant the door opened, and Enna, looking rosy and happy, came running in, and rushing up to her brother, climbed upon his knee, and put her arms around his neck, saying, "Good-morning, brother Horace. I want a kiss." "You shall have it, little pet," said he, throwing down his paper. Then, kissing her several times and hugging her in his arms, he said, "_You_ are not afraid of me, are you? nor sorry that I have come home?" "No, indeed," said Enna. He glanced at Elsie as she stood looking at them, her large soft eyes full of tears. She could not help feeling that Enna had her place, and was receiving the caresses that should have been lavished upon herself. "Jealous," thought her father; "I cannot bear jealous people;" and he gave her a look of displeasure that cut her to the heart, and she turned quickly away and left the room to hide the tears she could no longer keep back. "I am envious," she thought, "jealous of Enna. Oh! how wicked!" And she prayed silently, "Dear Saviour, help me! take away these sinful feelings." Young as she was, she was learning to have some control over her feelings, and in a few moments she had so far recovered her composure as to be able to return to the breakfast-room and take her place at the table, where the rest were already seated, her sweet little face sad indeed and bearing the traces of tears, but quite calm and peaceful. Her father took no further notice of her, and she did not dare trust herself to look at him. The servants filled her plate, and she ate in silence, feeling it a great relief that all were too busily engaged in talking and eating to pay any attention to her. She scarcely raised her eyes from her plate, and did not know how often a strange gentleman, who sat nearly opposite, fixed his upon her. As she left the room at the conclusion of the meal, he asked, while following her with his eyes, "Is that one of your sisters, Dinsmore?" "No," said he, coloring slightly; "she is my daughter." "Ah, indeed!" said his friend. "I remember to have heard that you had a child, but had forgotten it. Well, you have no reason to be ashamed of her; she is lovely, perfectly lovely! has the sweetest little face I ever saw." "Will you ride, Travilla?" asked Mr. Dinsmore hastily, as though anxious to change the subject. "I don't care if I do," was the reply, and they went out together. Some hours later in the day Elsie was at the piano in the music-room practising, when a sudden feeling that some one was in the room caused her to turn and look behind her. Mr. Travilla was standing there. "Excuse me," said he, bowing politely, "but I heard the sound of the instrument, and, being very fond of music, I ventured to walk in." Elsie was very modest, and rather timid, too, but also very polite; so she said, "No excuse is necessary; but will you not take a seat, sir? though I fear my music will not afford you any pleasure, for you know I am only a little girl, and cannot play very well yet." "Thank you," said he, taking a seat by her side. "And now will you do me the favor to repeat the song I heard you singing a few moments since?" Elsie immediately complied, though her cheeks burned, and her voice trembled at first from embarrassment; but it grew stronger as she proceeded and in the last verse was quite steady and full. She had a very fine voice for a child of her age; its sweetness was remarkable both in singing and speaking; and she had also a good deal of musical talent, which had been well cultivated, for she had had good teachers, and had practised with great patience and perseverance. Her music was simple, as suited her years, but her performance of it was very good indeed. Mr. Travilla thanked her very heartily, and complimented her singing; then asked for another and another song, another and another piece, chatting with her about each, until they grew quite familiar, and Elsie lost all feeling of embarrassment. "Elsie, I think, is your name, is it not?" he asked after a little. "Yes, sir," said she, "Elsie Dinsmore." "And you are the daughter of my friend, Mr. Horace Dinsmore?" "Yes, sir." "Your papa has been absent a long time, and I suppose you must have quite forgotten him." "No, sir, not _forgotten_, for I never had seen him." "Indeed!" said he, in a tone of surprise; "then, since he is an entire stranger to you, I suppose you cannot have much affection for him?" Elsie raised her large, dark eyes to his face, with an expression of astonishment. "Not love papa, my own dear papa, who has no child but me? Oh! sir, how could you think that?" "Ah! I see I was mistaken," said he, smiling; "I thought you could hardly care for him at all; but do you think that he loves you?" Elsie dropped her face into her hands, and burst into an agony of tears. The young gentleman looked extremely vexed with himself. "My poor little girl, my poor, dear little girl," he said, stroking her hair, "forgive me. I am very, _very_ sorry for my thoughtless question. Do be comforted, my poor child, for whether your papa loves you now or not, I am quite sure he soon will." Elsie now dried her tears, rose and closed the instrument. He assisted her, and then asked if she would not take a little walk with him in the garden. She complied, and, feeling really very sorry for the wound he had so thoughtlessly inflicted, as well as interested in his little companion, he exerted all his powers to entertain her--talked with her about the plants and flowers, described those he had seen in foreign lands, and related incidents of travel, usually choosing those in which her father had borne a part, because he perceived that they were doubly interesting to her. Elsie, having been thrown very much upon her own resources for amusement, and having a natural love for books, and constant access to her grandfather's well-stocked library, had read many more, and with much more thought, than most children of her age, so that Mr. Travilla found her a not uninteresting companion, and was often surprised at the intelligence shown by her questions and replies. When the dinner-bell rang he led her in, and seated her by himself, and never was any lady more carefully waited upon than little Elsie at this meal. Two or three other gentlemen guests were present, giving their attention to the older ladies of the company, and thus Mr. Travilla seemed to feel quite at liberty to devote himself entirely to her, attending to all her wants, talking with her, and making her talk. Elsie now and then stole a glance at Mrs. Dinsmore, fearing her displeasure; but to her great relief, the lady seemed too much occupied to notice her. Once she looked timidly at her father, and her eyes met his. He was looking at her with an expression half curious, half amused. She was at a loss to understand the look, but, satisfied that there was no displeasure in it, her heart grew light, and her cheeks flushed with happiness. "Really, Dinsmore," said Mr. Travilla, as they stood together near one of the windows of the drawing-room soon after dinner, "your little girl is remarkably intelligent, as well as remarkably pretty; and I have discovered that she has quite a good deal of musical talent." "Indeed! I think it is quite a pity that she does not belong to you, Travilla, instead of me, since you seem to appreciate her so much more highly," replied the father, laughing. "I wish she did," said his friend. "But, seriously, Dinsmore, you ought to love that child, for she certainly loves you devotedly." He looked surprised. "How do you know?" he asked. "It was evident enough from what I saw and heard this morning. Dinsmore, she would value a caress from you more than the richest jewel." "Doubtful," replied Horace, hastily quitting the room, for Elsie had come out on to the portico in her riding suit, and Jim, her usual attendant, was bringing up her horse. "Are you going to ride, Elsie?" asked her father, coming up to her. "Yes, papa," she said, raising her eyes to his face. He lifted her in his arms and placed her on the horse, saying to the servant as he did so, "Now, Jim, you must take good care of my little girl." Tears of happiness rose in Elsie's eyes as she turned her horse's head and rode down the avenue. "He called me _his_ little girl," she murmured to herself, "and bade Jim take good care of me. Oh! he _will_ love me soon, as good, kind Mr. Travilla said he would." Her father was still standing on the portico, looking after her. "How well she sits her horse!" remarked Travilla, who had stepped out and stood close by his side. "Yes, I think she does," was the reply, in an absent tone. He was thinking of a time, some eight or nine years before, when he had assisted another Elsie to mount her horse, and had ridden for hours at her side. All the afternoon memories of the past came crowding thickly on his mind, and an emotion of tenderness began to spring up in his heart toward the child of her who had once been so dear to him; and as he saw the little girl ride up to the house on her return, he again went out, and lifting her from her horse, asked kindly, "Had you a pleasant ride, my dear?" "Oh! yes, papa, very pleasant," she said, looking up at him with a face beaming with delight. He stooped and kissed her, saying, "I think I shall ride with you one of these days; should you like it?" "Oh! so very, _very_ much, papa," she answered, eagerly. He smiled at her earnestness, and she hastened away to her room to change her dress and tell Chloe of her happiness. Alas! it was but a transient gleam of sunshine that darted across her path, to be lost again almost instantly behind the gathering clouds. More company came, so that the drawing-room was quite full in the evening; and, though Elsie was there, her father seemed too much occupied with the guests to give her even a glance. She sat alone and unnoticed in a corner, her eyes following him wherever he moved, and her ear strained to catch every tone of his voice; until Mr. Travilla, disengaging himself from a group of ladies and gentlemen on the opposite side of the room, came up to her, and taking her by the hand, led her to a pleasant-looking elderly lady, who sat at a centre-table examining some choice engravings which Mr. Dinsmore had brought with him from Europe. "Mother," said Mr. Travilla, "This is my little friend Elsie." "Ah!" said she, giving the little girl a kiss, "I am glad to see you, my dear." Mr. Travilla set a chair for her close to his mother and then sat down on her other side, and taking up the engravings one after another, he explained them to her in a most entertaining manner, generally having some anecdote to tell in connection with each. Elsie was so much amused and delighted with what he was saying that she at last quite forgot her father, and did not notice where he was. Suddenly Mr. Travilla laid down the engraving he had in his hand, saying: "Come, Miss Elsie, I want my mother to hear you play and sing; will you not do me the favor to repeat that song I admired so much this morning?" "Oh! Mr. Travilla!" exclaimed the little girl, blushing and trembling, "I could not play or sing before so many people. Please excuse me." "Elsie," said her father's voice just at her side, "go _immediately,_ and do as the gentleman requests." His tone was very stern, and as she lifted her eyes to his face, she saw that his look was still more so; and tremblingly and tearfully she rose to obey. "Stay," said Mr. Travilla kindly, pitying her distress, "I withdraw my request." "But I do _not_ withdraw my command," said her father in the same stern tone; "go at once, Elsie, and do as I bid you." She obeyed instantly, struggling hard to overcome her emotion. Mr. Travilla, scolding himself inwardly all the time for having brought her into such trouble, selected her music, and placing it before her as she took her seat at the instrument, whispered encouragingly, "Now, Miss Elsie, only have confidence in yourself; that is all that is necessary to your success." But Elsie was not only embarrassed, but her heart was well-nigh broken by her father's sternness, and the tears _would_ fill her eyes so that she could see neither notes nor words. She attempted to play the prelude, but blundered sadly, her embarrassment increasing every moment. "Never mind," said Mr. Travilla, "never mind the prelude, but just begin the song." She made the attempt, but fairly broke down, and burst into tears before she had got through the first verse. Her father had come up behind her, and was standing there, looking much mortified. "Elsie," he said, leaning down and speaking in a low, stern tone, close to her ear, "I am ashamed of you; go to your room and to your bed immediately." With a heart almost bursting with grief and mortification she obeyed him, and her pillow was wet with many bitter tears ere the weary eyes closed in slumber. When she came down the next morning she learned to her great grief that Mr. Travilla and his mother had returned to their own home; she was very sorry she had not been permitted to say good-bye to her friend, and for several days she felt very sad and lonely, for all her father's coldness of manner had returned, and he scarcely ever spoke to her; while the younger members of the family ridiculed her for her failure in attempting to play for company; and Miss Day, who seemed unusually cross and exacting, often taunted her with it also. These were sad, dark days for the little girl; she tried most earnestly to attend to all her duties, but so depressed were her spirits, so troubled was her mind, that she failed repeatedly in her lessons, and so was in continual disgrace with Miss Day, who threatened more than once to tell her papa. It was a threat which Elsie dreaded extremely to have put in execution, and Miss Day, seeing that it distressed her, used it the more frequently, and thus kept the poor child in constant terror. How to gain her father's love was the constant subject of her thoughts, and she tried in many ways to win his affection. She always yielded a ready and cheerful obedience to his commands, and strove to anticipate and fulfil all his wishes. But he seldom noticed her, unless to give a command or administer a rebuke, while he lavished many a caress upon his little sister, Enna. Often Elsie would watch him fondling her, until, unable any longer to control her feelings, she would rush away to her own room to weep and mourn in secret, and pray that her father might some day learn to love her. She never complained even to poor old Aunt Chloe, but the anxious nurse watched all these things with the jealous eye of affection; she saw that her child--as she delighted to call her--was very unhappy, and was growing pale and melancholy; and her heart ached for her, and many were the tears she shed in secret over the sorrows of her nursling. "Don't 'pear so sorrowful, darlin'," she sometimes said to her; "try to be merry, like Miss Enna, and run and jump on Massa Horace's knee, and den I tink he will like you better." "O mammy! I _can't_," Elsie would say; "I don't dare to do it." And Chloe would sigh and shake her head sorrowfully. CHAPTER FOURTH "With more capacity for love than earth Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth." --BYRON. "What are our hopes? Like garlands, on afflictions's forehead worn, Kissed in the morning, and at evening torn." --DAVENPORT'S _King John and Matilda._ Such had been the state of affairs for about a week, when one morning Elsie and her father met at the breakfast-room door. "Good morning, papa," she said timidly. "Good morning, Elsie," he replied in an unusually pleasant tone. Then, taking her by the hand, he led her in and seated her beside himself at the table. Elsie's cheek glowed and her eyes sparkled with pleasure. There were several guests present, and she waited patiently while they and the older members of the family were being helped. At length it was her turn. "Elsie, will you have some meat?" asked her grandfather. "No," said her father, answering for her; "once a day is as often as a child of her age ought to eat meat; she may have it at dinner, but never for breakfast or tea." The elder Mr. Dinsmore laughed, saying, "Really, Horace, I had no idea you were so notionate. I always allowed you to eat whatever you pleased, and I never saw that it hurt you. But, of course, you must manage your own child in your own way." "If you please, papa, I had rather have some of those hot cakes," said Elsie, timidly, as her father laid a slice of bread upon her plate. "No," said he decidedly; "I don't approve of hot bread for children; you must eat the cold." Then to a servant who was setting down a cup of coffee beside the little girl's plate, "Take that away, Pomp, and bring Miss Elsie a tumbler of milk. Or would you prefer water, Elsie?" "Milk, if you please, papa," she replied with a little sigh; for she was extremely fond of coffee, and it was something of a trial to give it up. Her father put a spoonful of stewed fruit upon her plate, and as Pompey set down a tumbler of rich milk beside it, said, "Now you have your breakfast before you, Elsie. Children in England are not allowed to eat butter until they are ten or eleven years of age, and I think it an excellent plan, to make them grow up rosy and healthy. I have neglected my little girl too long, but I intend to begin to take good care of her now," he added, with a smile, and laying his hand for an instant upon her head. The slight caress and the few kind words were quite enough to reconcile Elsie to the rather meagre fare, and she ate it with a happy heart. But the meagre fare became a constant thing, while the caresses and kind words were not; and though she submitted without a murmur, she could not help sometimes looking with longing eyes at the coffee and hot buttered rolls, of which she was very fond. But she tried to be contented, saying to herself, "Papa knows best, and I ought to be satisfied with whatever he gives me." "Isn't it delightful to have your papa at home, Elsie?" Mr. Dinsmore one morning overheard Arthur saying to his little girl in a mocking tone. "It's very pleasant to live on bread and water, isn't it, eh?" "I _don't_ live on bread and water," Elsie replied, a little indignantly. "Papa always allows me to have as much good, rich milk, and cream, and fruit as I want, or I can have eggs, or cheese, or honey, or anything else, except meat and hot cakes, and butter, and coffee; and who wouldn't rather do without such things all their lives than not have a papa to love them? And besides, you know, Arthur, that I can have all the meat I want at dinner." "Pooh! that's nothing; and _I_ wouldn't give much for all the love _you_ get from him," said Arthur, scornfully. There was something like a sob from Elsie; and as her father rose and went to the window, he just caught a glimpse of her white dress disappearing down the garden walk. "What do you mean, sir, by teasing Elsie in that manner?" he exclaimed angrily to Arthur, who still stood where the little girl had left him, leaning against one of the pillars of the portico. "I only wanted to have a little fun," returned the boy doggedly. "Well, sir, I don't approve of such fun, and you will please to let the child alone in future," replied his brother as he returned to his newspaper again. But somehow the paper had lost its interest. He seemed constantly to hear that little sob, and to see a little face all wet with tears of wounded feeling. Just then the school-bell rang, and suddenly throwing down his paper, he took a card from his pocket, wrote a few words upon it, and calling a servant, said, "Take this to Miss Day." Elsie was seated at her desk, beginning her morning's work, when the servant entered and handed the card to the governess. Miss Day glanced at it and said: "Elsie, your father wants you. You may go." Elsie rose in some trepidation and left the room, wondering what her papa could want with her. "Where is papa, Fanny?" she asked of the servant. "In de drawin'-room, Miss Elsie," was the reply; and she hastened to seek him there. He held out his hand as she entered, saying with a smile, "Come here, daughter." It was the first time he had called her that, and it sent a thrill of joy to her heart. She sprang to his side, and, taking her hand in one of his, and laying the other gently on her head, and bending it back a little, he looked keenly into her face. It was bright enough now, yet the traces of tears were very evident. "You have been crying," he said, in a slightly reproving tone. "I am afraid you do a great deal more of that than is good for you. It is a very babyish habit, and you must try to break yourself of it." The little face flushed painfully, and the eyes filled again. "There," he said, stroking her hair, "don't begin it again. I am going to drive over to Ion, where your friend Mr. Travilla lives, to spend the day; would my little daughter like to go with me?" "Oh! so _very_ much, papa!" she answered eagerly. "There are no little folks there," he said smiling, "nobody to see but Mr. Travilla and his mother. But I see you want to go; so run and ask Aunt Chloe to get you ready. Tell her I want you nicely dressed, and the carriage will be at the door in half an hour." Elsie bounded away to do his bidding, her face radiant with happiness; and at the specified time came down again, looking so very lovely that her father gazed at her with proud delight, and could not refrain from giving her a kiss as he lifted her up to place her in the carriage. Then, seating himself beside her, he took her hand in his; and, closing the door with the other, bade the coachman drive on. "I suppose you have never been to Ion, Elsie?" he said, inquiringly. "No, sir; but I have heard Aunt Adelaide say she thought it a very pretty place," replied the little girl. "So it is--almost as pretty as Roselands," said her father. "Travilla and I have known each other from boyhood, and I spent many a happy day at Ion, and we had many a boyish frolic together, before I ever thought of you." He smiled, and patted her cheek as he spoke. Elsie's eyes sparkled. "O papa!" she said eagerly; "won't you tell me about those times? It seems so strange that you were ever a little boy and I was nowhere." He laughed. Then said, musingly, "It seems but a very little while to me, Elsie, since I was no older than you are now." He heaved a sigh, and relapsed into silence. Elsie wished very much that he would grant her request, but did not dare to disturb him by speaking a word; and they rode on quietly for some time, until a squirrel darting up a tree caught her eye, and she uttered an exclamation. "O papa! did you see that squirrel? look at him now, perched up on that branch. There, we have passed the tree, and now he is out of sight." This reminded Mr. Dinsmore of a day he had spent in those woods hunting squirrels, when quite a boy, and he gave Elsie an animated account of it. One of the incidents of the day had been the accidental discharge of the fowling-piece of one of his young companions, close at Horace Dinsmore's side, missing him by but a hair's breadth. "I felt faint and sick when I knew how near I had been to death," he said, as he finished his narrative. Elsie had been listening with breathless interest. "Dear papa," she murmured, laying her little cheek against his hand, "how good God was to spare your life! If you had been killed I could never have had you for my papa." "Perhaps you might have had a much better one, Elsie," he said gravely. "Oh! no, papa, I wouldn't want any other," she replied earnestly, pressing his hand to her lips. "Ah! here we are," exclaimed her father, as at that instant the carriage turned into a broad avenue, up which they drove quite rapidly, and the next moment they had stopped, the coachman had thrown open the carriage door, and Mr. Dinsmore, springing out, lifted his little girl in his arms and set her down on the steps of the veranda. "Ah! Dinsmore, how do you do? Glad to see you, and my little friend Elsie, too. Why this is really kind," cried Mr. Travilla, in his cheerful, hearty way, as, hurrying out to welcome them, he shook Mr. Dinsmore cordially by the hand, and kissed Elsie's cheek. "Walk in, walk in," he continued, leading the way into the house, "my mother will be delighted to see you both; Miss Elsie especially, for she seems to have taken a very great fancy to her." If Mrs. Travilla's greeting was less boisterous, it certainly was not lacking in cordiality, and she made Elsie feel at home at once; taking off her bonnet, smoothing her hair, and kissing her affectionately. The gentlemen soon went out together, and Elsie spent the morning in Mrs. Travilla's room, chatting with her and assisting her with some coarse garments she was making for her servants. Mrs. Travilla was an earnest Christian, and the lady and the little girl were not long in discovering the tie which existed between them. Mrs. Travilla, being also a woman of great discernment, and having known Horace Dinsmore nearly all his life, had conceived a very correct idea of the trials and difficulties of Elsie's situation, and without alluding to them at all, gave her some most excellent advice, which the little girl received very thankfully. They were still chatting together when Mr. Travilla came in, saying, "Come, Elsie, I want to take you out to see my garden, hot-house, etc. We will just have time before dinner. Will you go along, mother?" "No; I have some little matters to attend to before dinner, and will leave you to do the honors," replied the lady; and taking the little girl's hand he led her out. "Where is papa?" asked Elsie. "Oh! he's in the library, looking over some new books," replied Mr. Travilla. "He always cared more for books than anything else. But what do you think of my flowers?" "Oh! they are lovely! What a variety you have! what a splendid cape-jessamine that is, and there is a variety of cactus I never saw before! Oh! you have a great many more, and handsomer, I think, than we have at Roselands," exclaimed Elsie, as she passed admiringly from one to another. Mr. Travilla was much pleased with the admiration she expressed, for he was very fond of his flowers, and took great pride in showing them. But they were soon called in to dinner, where Elsie was seated by her father. "I hope this little girl has not given you any trouble, Mrs. Travilla," said he, looking gravely at her. "Oh! no," the lady hastened to say, "I have enjoyed her company very much indeed, and hope you will bring her to see me again very soon." After dinner, as the day was very warm, they adjourned to the veranda, which was the coolest place to be found; it being on the shady side of the house, and also protected by thick trees, underneath which a beautiful fountain was playing. But the conversation was upon some subject which did not interest Elsie, and she presently stole away to the library, and seating herself in a corner of the sofa, was soon lost to everything around her in the intense interest with which she was reading a book she had taken from the table. "Ah! that is what you are about, Miss Elsie! a bookworm, just like your father, I see. I had been wondering what had become of you for the last two hours," exclaimed Mr. Travilla's pleasant voice; and sitting down beside her, he took the book from her hand, and putting it behind him, said, "Put it away now; you will have time enough to finish it, and I want you to talk to me." "Oh! please let me have it," she pleaded. "I shall not have much time, for papa will soon be calling me to go home." "No, no, he is not to take you away; I have made a bargain with him to let me keep you," said Mr. Travilla, very gravely. "We both think that there are children enough at Roselands without you; and so your papa has given you to me; and you are to be _my_ little girl, and call _me_ papa in future." Elsie gazed earnestly in his face for an instant, saying in a half-frightened tone, "You are only joking, Mr. Travilla." "Not a bit of it," said he; "can't you see that I'm in earnest?" His tone and look were both so serious that for an instant Elsie believed he meant all that he was saying, and springing to her feet with a little cry of alarm, she hastily withdrew her hand which he had taken, and rushing out to the veranda, where her father still sat conversing with Mrs. Travilla, she flung herself into his arms, and clinging to him, hid her face on his breast, sobbing, "O papa, _dear_ papa! _don't_ give me away; please don't--I will be so good--I will do everything you bid me--I--" "Why, Elsie, what does all this mean!" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore in great surprise and perplexity; while Mr. Travilla stood in the doorway looking half amused, half sorry for what he had done. "O papa!" sobbed the little girl, still clinging to him as though fearing she should be torn from his arms, "Mr. Travilla says you have given me to him. O papa! _don't_ give me away." "Pooh! nonsense, Elsie! I am ashamed of you! how can you be so very silly as to believe for one moment anything so perfectly absurd as that I should think of giving you away? Why, I would as soon think of parting with my eyes." Elsie raised her head and gazed searchingly into his face; then with a deep-drawn sigh of relief, dropped it again, saying, "Oh! I am _so_ glad." "Really, Miss Elsie," said Travilla, coming up and patting her on the shoulder, "I can't say that I feel much complimented; and, indeed, I don't see why you need have been so very much distressed at the prospect before you; for I must say I have vanity enough to imagine that I should make the better--or at least the more indulgent--father of the two. Come, now, wouldn't you be willing to try me for a month, if your papa will give consent?" Elsie shook her head. "I will let you have your own way in everything," urged Travilla, coaxingly; "and I know that is more than he does." "I don't want my own way, Mr. Travilla; I know it wouldn't always be a good way," replied Elsie, decidedly. Her father laughed and passed his hand caressingly over her curls. "I thought you liked me, little Elsie," said Travilla, in a tone of disappointment. "So I do, Mr. Travilla; I like you very much," she replied. "Well, don't you think I would make a good father?" "I am sure you would be very kind, and that I should love you very much; but not so much as I love my own papa; because, you know, you are _not_ my papa, and never can be, even if he _should_ give me to you." Mr. Dinsmore laughed heartily, saying, "I think you may as well give it up, Travilla; it seems I'll have to keep her whether or no, for she clings to me like a leech." "Well, Elsie, you will at least come to the piano and play a little for me, will you not?" asked Travilla, smiling. But Elsie still clung to her father, seeming loath to leave him, until he said, in his grave, decided way, "Go, Elsie; go at once, and do as you are requested." Then she rose instantly to obey. Travilla looked somewhat vexed. "I wish," he afterward remarked to his mother, "that Dinsmore was not quite so ready to second my requests with his commands. I want Elsie's compliance to be voluntary; else I think it worth very little." Elsie played and sang until they were called to tea; after which she sat quietly by her father's side, listening to the conversation of her elders until the carriage was announced. "Well, my daughter," said Mr. Dinsmore, when they were fairly upon their way to Roselands, "have you had a pleasant day?" "Oh! _very pleasant_, papa, excepting--" She paused, looking a little embarrassed. "Well, excepting what?" he asked, smiling down at her. "Excepting when Mr. Travilla frightened me so, papa," she replied, moving closer to his side, blushing and casting down her eyes. "And you do love your own papa best, and don't want to exchange him for another?" he said, inquiringly, as he passed his arm affectionately around her waist. "Oh! no, dear papa, not for anybody else in all the world," she said earnestly. He made no reply in words, but, looking highly gratified, bent down and kissed her cheek. He did not speak again during their ride, but when the carriage stopped he lifted her out, and setting her gently down, bade her a kind good-night, saying it was time for mammy to put her to bed. She ran lightly up-stairs, and springing into her nurse's arms, exclaimed, "O mammy, mammy! what a pleasant, _pleasant_ day I have had! Papa has been so kind, and so were Mr. Travilla and his mother." "I'se _berry_ glad, darlin', an' I hope you gwine hab many more such days," replied Chloe, embracing her fondly and then proceeding to take off her bonnet and prepare her for bed, while Elsie gave her a minute account of all the occurrences of the day, not omitting the fright Mr. Travilla had given her, and how happily her fears had been relieved. "You look berry happy, my darlin' pet," said Chloe, clasping her nursling again in her arms when her task was finished. "Yes, mammy, I am happy, oh! _so_ happy, because I do believe that papa is beginning to love me a little, and I hope that perhaps, after a while, he will love me very much." The tears gathered in her eyes as she spoke. The next afternoon, as Elsie was returning from her walk, she met her father. "Elsie," said he, in a reproving tone, "I have forbidden you to walk out alone; are you disobeying me?" "No, papa," she replied meekly, raising her eyes to his face, "I was not alone until about five minutes ago, when Aunt Adelaide and Louise left me. They said it did not matter, as I was so near home; and they were going to make a call, and did not want me along." "Very well," he said, taking hold of her hand and making her walk by his side. "How far have you been?" "We went down the river bank to the big spring, papa. I believe it is a little more than a mile that way; but when we came home, we made it shorter by coming across some of the fields and through the meadow." "Through the meadow?" said Mr. Dinsmore; "don't you go there again, Elsie, unless I give you express permission." "Why, papa?" she asked, looking up at him in some surprise. "Because I forbid it," he replied sternly; "that is quite enough for you to know; all you have to do is to obey, and you need never ask me why, when I give you an order." Elsie's eyes filled, and a big tear rolled quickly down her cheek. "I did not mean to be naughty, papa," she said, struggling to keep down a sob, "and I will try never to ask why again." "There is another thing," said he. "You cry quite too easily; it is entirely too babyish for a girl of your age; you must quit it." "I will try, papa," said the little girl, wiping her eyes, and making a great effort to control her feelings. They had entered the avenue while this conversation was going on, and were now drawing near the house; and just at this moment a little girl about Elsie's age came running to meet them, exclaiming, "O Elsie! I'm glad you've come at last. We've been here a whole hour--mamma, and Herbert, and I--and I've been looking for you all this time." "How do you do, Miss Lucy Carrington? I see you can talk as fast as ever," said Mr. Dinsmore, laughing, and holding out his hand. Lucy took it, saying with a little pout, "To be sure, Mr. Dinsmore, it isn't more than two or three weeks since you were at our house, and I wouldn't forget how to talk in that time." Then, looking at Elsie, she went on, "We've come to stay a week; won't we have a fine time?" and, catching her friend round the waist, she gave her a hearty squeeze. "I hope so," said Elsie, returning the embrace. "I am glad you have come." "Is your papa here, Miss Lucy?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, sir; but he's going home again to-night, and then he'll come back for us next week." "I must go in and speak to him," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Elsie, do you entertain Lucy." "Yes, sir, I will," said Elsie. "Come with me to my room, won't you, Lucy?" "Yes; but won't you speak to mamma first? and Herbert, too; you are such a favorite with both of them; and they still are in the dressing-room, for mamma is not very well, and was quite fatigued with her ride." Lucy led the way to her mamma's room, as she spoke, Elsie following. "Ah! Elsie dear, how do you do? I'm delighted to see you," said Mrs. Carrington, rising from the sofa as they entered. Then, drawing the little girl closer to her, she passed her arm affectionately around her waist, and kissed her several times. "I suppose you are very happy now that your papa has come home at last?" she said, looking searchingly into Elsie's face. "I remember you used to be looking forward so to his return; constantly talking of it and longing for it." Poor Elsie, conscious that her father's presence had not brought with it the happiness she had anticipated, and yet unwilling either to acknowledge that fact or tell an untruth, was at a loss what to say. But she was relieved from the necessity of replying by Herbert, Lucy's twin brother, a pale, sickly-looking boy, who had for several years been a sufferer from hip complaint. "O Elsie!" he exclaimed, catching hold of her hand and squeezing it between both of his, "I'm ever so glad to see you again." "Yes," said Mrs. Carrington, "Herbert always says nobody can tell him such beautiful stories as Elsie; and nobody but his mother and his old mammy was half so kind to run and wait on him when he was laid on his back for so many weeks. He missed you very much when we went home, and often wished he was at Roselands again." "How is your hip now, Herbert?" asked Elsie, looking pityingly at the boy's pale face. "Oh! a great deal better, thank you. I can take quite long walks sometimes now, though I still limp, and cannot run and leap like other boys." They chatted a few moments longer, and then Elsie went to her room to have her hat taken off, and her hair made smooth before the tea-bell should ring. The two little girls were seated together at the table, Elsie's papa being on her other side. "How nice these muffins are! Don't you like them, Elsie?" asked Lucy, as she helped herself to a third or fourth. "Yes, very much," said Elsie, cheerfully. "Then what are you eating that cold bread for? and you haven't got any butter, either. Pompey, why don't hand Miss Elsie the butter?" "No, Lucy, I mustn't have it. Papa does not allow me to eat hot cakes or butter," said Elsie, in the same cheerful tone in which she had spoken before. Lucy opened her eyes very wide, and drew in her breath. "Well," she exclaimed, "I guess if _my_ papa should try that on me, I'd make such a fuss he'd _have_ to let me eat just whatever I wanted." "Elsie knows better than to do that," said Mr. Dinsmore, who had overheard the conversation; "she would only get sent away from the table and punished for her naughtiness." "I wouldn't do it anyhow, papa," said Elsie, raising her eyes beseechingly to his face. "No, daughter, I don't believe you would," he replied in an unusually kind tone, and Elsie's face flushed with pleasure. Several days passed away very pleasantly, Lucy sharing Elsie's studies in the mornings, while Herbert remained with his mamma; and then in the afternoon all walking or riding out together, unless the weather was too warm, when they spent the afternoon playing in the veranda, on the shady side of the house, and took their ride or walk after the sun was down. Arthur and Walter paid but little attention to Herbert, as his lameness prevented him from sharing in the active sports which they preferred; for they had never been taught to yield their wishes to others, and were consequently extremely selfish and overbearing; but Elsie was very kind, and did all in her power to interest and amuse him. One afternoon they all walked out together, attended by Jim; but Arthur and Walter, unwilling to accommodate their pace to Herbert's slow movements, were soon far in advance, Jim following close at their heels. "They're quite out of sight," said Herbert presently, "and I'm very tired. Let's sit down on this bank, girls; I want to try my new bow, and you may run and pick up my arrows for me." "Thank you, sir," said Lucy, laughing; "Elsie may do it if she likes, but as for me, _I_ mean to take a nap; this nice, soft grass will make an elegant couch;" and throwing herself down, she soon was, or pretended to be, in a sound slumber; while Herbert, seating himself with his back against a tree, amused himself with shooting his arrows here and there, Elsie running for them and bringing them to him, until she was quite heated and out of breath. "Now I must rest a little, Herbert," she said at length, sitting down beside him. "Shall I tell you a story?" "Oh! yes, do; I like your stories, and I don't mind leaving off shooting till you're done," said he, laying down his bow. Elsie's story lasted about ten minutes, and when she had finished, Herbert took up his bow again, saying, "I guess you're rested now, Elsie," and sent an arrow over into the meadow. "There! just see how far I sent that! do run and bring it to me, Elsie!" he cried, "and let me see if I can't hit that tree next time; I've but just missed it." "I'm tired, Herbert; but I'll run and bring it to you this once," replied Elsie, forgetting entirely her father's prohibition; "but then you must try to wait until Jim comes back before you shoot any more." So saying, she darted away, and came back in a moment with the arrow in her hand. But a sudden recollection had come over her just as she left the meadow, and throwing down the arrow at the boy's feet, she exclaimed in an agitated tone, "O Herbert! I must go home just as quickly as I can; I had forgotten--oh! how _could_ I forget! oh! what will papa say!" "Why, what's the matter?" asked Herbert in alarm. "Never mind," said Elsie, sobbing. "There are the boys coming; they will take care of you, and I must go home. Good-bye." And she ran quickly up the road, Herbert following her retreating form with wondering eyes. Elsie sped onward, crying bitterly as she went. "Where is papa!" she inquired of a servant whom she met in the avenue. "Dunno, Miss Elsie, but I reckon Massa Horace am in de house, kase his horse am in de stable." Elsie hardly waited for the answer, but hurrying into the house, went from room to room, looking and asking in vain for her father. He was not in the drawing-room, or the library, or his own apartments. She had just come out of this, and meeting a chamber-maid in the hall, she exclaimed, "O Fanny! where _is_ papa? can't you tell me? for I must see him." "Here I am, Elsie; what do you want with me?" called out her father's voice from the veranda, where she had neglected to look. "What do you want?" he repeated, as his little girl appeared before him with her flushed and tearful face. Elsie moved slowly toward him, with a timid air and downcast eyes. "I wanted to tell you something, papa," she said in a low, tremulous tone. "Well, I am listening," said he, taking hold of her hand and drawing her to his side. "What is it? are you sick or hurt?" "No, papa, not either; but--but, O papa! I have been a very naughty girl," she exclaimed, bursting into tears, and sobbing violently. "I disobeyed you, papa. I--I have been in the meadow." "Is it possible! Would you _dare_ to do so when I so positively forbade it only the other day?" he said in his sternest tone, while a dark frown gathered on his brow. "Elsie, I shall have to punish you." "I did not intend to disobey you, papa," she sobbed; "I quite forgot that you had forbidden me to go there." "That is no excuse, no excuse at all," said he severely; "You must _remember_ my commands; and if your memory is so poor I shall find means to strengthen it." He paused a moment, still looking sternly at the little, trembling, sobbing girl at his side; then asked, "What were you doing in the meadow? tell me the whole story, that I may understand just how severely I ought to punish you." Elsie gave him all the particulars; and when, upon questioning her closely, he perceived how entirely voluntary her confession had been, his tone and manner became less stern, and he said quite mildly, "Well, Elsie, I shall not be very severe with you this time, as you seem to be very penitent, and have made so full and frank a confession; but beware how you disobey me again, for you will not escape so easily another time; and remember I will not take forgetfulness as any excuse. Go now to Aunt Chloe, and tell her from me that she is to put you immediately to bed." "It is only the middle of the afternoon, papa," said Elsie, deprecatingly. "If it were much _earlier_, Elsie, it would make no difference; you must go at once to your bed, and stay there until to-morrow morning." "What will Lucy and Herbert think when they come in and can't find me, papa?" she said, weeping afresh. "You should have thought of that before you disobeyed me," he answered very gravely. "If you are hungry," he added, "you may ask Chloe to get you a slice of bread or a cracker for your supper, but you can have nothing else." Elsie lingered, looking timidly up into his face as though wanting to say something, but afraid to venture. "Speak, Elsie, if you have anything more to say," he said encouragingly. "Dear papa, I am _so_ sorry I have been so naughty," she murmured, leaning her head against the arm of his chair, while the tears rolled fast down her cheeks; "won't you please forgive me, papa? it seems to me I can't go to sleep to-night if you are angry with me." He seemed quite touched by her penitence. "Yes, Elsie," he said, "I do forgive you. I am not at all angry with you now, and you may go to sleep in peace. Good night, my little daughter," and he bent down and pressed his lips to her brow. Elsie held up her face for another, and he kissed her lips. "Good night, dear papa," she said, "I hope I shall never be such a naughty girl again." And she went to her room, made almost happy by that kiss of forgiveness. Elsie was up quite early the next morning and had learned all her lessons before breakfast. As she came down the stairs she saw, through the open door, her papa standing with some of the men-servants, apparently gazing at some object lying on the ground. She ran out and stood on the steps of the portico, looking at them and wondering what they were doing. Presently her father turned round, and seeing her, held out his hand, calling, "Come here, Elsie." She sprang quickly down the steps, and running to him, put her hand in his, saying, "Good morning, papa." "Good morning, daughter," said he, "I have something to show you." And leading her forward a few paces, he pointed to a large rattlesnake lying there. "O papa!" she cried, starting back and clinging to him. "It will not hurt you _now_" he said; "it is dead; the men killed it this morning _in the meadow_. Do you see _now_ why I forbade you to go there?" "O papa!" she murmured, in a low tone of deep feeling, laying her cheek affectionately against his hand, "I might have lost my life by my disobedience. How good God was to take care of me! Oh! I hope I shall never be so naughty again." "I hope not," said he gravely, but not unkindly; "and I hope that you will always, after this, believe that your father has some good reason for his commands, even although he may not choose to explain it to you." "Yes, papa, I think I will," she answered, humbly. The breakfast-bell had rung, and he now led her in and seated her at the table. Lucy Carrington looked curiously at her, and soon took an opportunity to whisper, "Where were you last night, Elsie? I couldn't find you, and your papa wouldn't say what had become of you, though I am quite sure he knew." "I'll tell you after breakfast," replied Elsie, blushing deeply. Lucy waited rather impatiently until all had risen from the table, and then, putting her arm round Elsie's waist, she drew her out on to the veranda, saying, "now, Elsie, tell me; you know you promised." "I was in bed," replied Elsie, dropping her eyes, while the color mounted to her very hair. "In bed! before five o'clock!" exclaimed Lucy in a tone of astonishment. "Why, what was that for?" "Papa sent me," replied Elsie, with an effort. "I had been naughty, and disobeyed him." "Why, how strange! Do tell me what you had done!" exclaimed Lucy, with a face full of curiosity. "Papa had forbidden me to go into the meadow, I forgot all about it, and ran in there to get Herbert's arrow for him," replied Elsie, looking very much ashamed. "Was _that all?_ why _my_ papa wouldn't have punished me for that," said Lucy. "He might have scolded me a little if I had done it on purpose, but if I had told him I had forgotten, he would only have said, 'You must remember better next time.'" "Papa says that forgetfulness is no excuse; that I am to remember his commands, and if I forget, he will have to punish me, to make me remember better next time," said Elsie. "He must be very strict indeed; I'm glad he is not _my_ papa," replied Lucy, in a tone of great satisfaction. "Come, little girls, make haste and get ready; we are to start in half an hour," said Adelaide Dinsmore, calling to them from the hall door. The whole family, old and young, including visitors, were on that day to go on a picnic up the river, taking their dinner along, and spending the day in the woods. They had been planning this excursion for several days, and the children especially had been looking forward to it with a great deal of pleasure. "Am I to go, Aunt Adelaide? did papa say so?" asked Elsie anxiously, as she and Lucy hastened to obey the summons. "I presume you are to go of course, Elsie; we have been discussing the matter for the last three days, always taking it for granted that you were to make one of the party, and he has never said you should not," replied Adelaide, good-naturedly; "so make haste, or you will be too late. But here comes your papa now." she added, as the library door opened, and Mr. Dinsmore stepped out into the hall where they were standing. "Horace, Elsie is to go of course?" "I do not see the _of course_, Adelaide," said he dryly. "No; Elsie is _not_ to go; she must stay at home and attend to her lessons as usual." A look of keen disappointment came over Elsie's face, but she turned away without a word and went upstairs; while Lucy, casting a look of wrathful indignation at Mr. Dinsmore, ran after her, and following her into her room, she put her arm round her neck, saying, "Never mind, Elsie; it's too bad, and I wouldn't bear it. I'd go in spite of him." "No, no, Lucy, I must obey my father; God says so; and besides, I couldn't do that if I wanted to, for papa is stronger than I am, and would punish me severely if I were to attempt such a thing," replied Elsie hastily, brushing away a tear that _would_ come into her eye. "Then I'd coax him," said Lucy. "Come, I'll go with you, and we will both try." "No," replied Elsie, with a hopeless shake of the head, "I have found out already that my papa never breaks his word; and nothing could induce him to let me go, now that he has once said I should not. But you will have to leave me, Lucy, or you will be too late." "Good-bye, then," said Lucy, turning to go; "but I think it is a great shame, and I shan't half enjoy myself without you." "Well now, Horace, I think you might let the child go," was Adelaide's somewhat indignant rejoinder to her brother, as the two little girls disappeared; "I can't conceive what reason you can have for keeping her at home, and she looks so terribly disappointed. Indeed, Horace, I am sometimes half inclined to think you take pleasure in thwarting that child." "You had better call me a tyrant at once, Adelaide," said he angrily, and turning very red; "but I must beg to be permitted to manage my own child in my own way; and I cannot see that I am under any obligation to give my reasons either to you or to any one else." "Well, if you did not intend to let her go, I think you might have said so at first, and not left the poor child to build her hopes upon it, only to be disappointed. I must say I think it was cruel." "Until this morning, Adelaide," he replied, "I did intend to let her go, for I expected to go myself; but I find I shall not be able to do so, as I must meet a gentleman on business; and as I know that accidents frequently occur to such pleasure parties, I don't feel willing to let Elsie go, unless I could be there myself to take care of her. Whether you believe it or not, it is really regard for my child's safety, and _not_ cruelty, that leads me to refuse her this gratification." "You are full of notions about that child, Horace," said Adelaide, a little impatiently. "I'm sure some of the rest of us could take care of her." "No; in case of accident you would all have enough to do to take care of yourselves, and I shall not think of trusting Elsie in the company, since I cannot be there myself," he answered decidedly; and Adelaide, seeing he was not to be moved from his determination, gave up the attempt, and left the room to prepare for her ride. It was a great disappointment to Elsie, and for a few moments her heart rose up in rebellion against her father. She tried to put away the feeling, but it would come back; for she could not imagine any reason for his refusal to let her go, excepting the disobedience of the day before, and it seemed hard and unjust to punish her twice for the same fault, especially as he would have known nothing about it but for her own frank and voluntary confession. It was a great pity she had not heard the reasons he gave her Aunt Adelaide, for then she would have been quite submissive and content. It is indeed true that she ought to have been as it was; but our little Elsie, though sincerely desirous to do right, was not yet perfect, and had already strangely forgotten the lesson of the morning. She watched from the veranda the departure of the pleasure-seekers, all apparently in the gayest spirits. She was surprised to see that her father was not with them, and it half reconciled her to staying at home, although she hardly expected to see much of him; but there was something pleasant in the thought that he wanted her at home because he was to be there himself; it looked as though he really had some affection for her, and even a selfish love was better than none. I do not mean that these were Elsie's thoughts; no, she never would have dreamed of calling her father selfish; but the undefined feeling was there, as she watched him hand the ladies into the carriage, and then turn and reenter the house as they drove off. But Miss Day's bell rang, and Elsie gathered up her books and hastened to the school-room. Her patience and endurance were sorely tried that morning, for Miss Day was in an exceedingly bad humor, being greatly mortified and also highly indignant that she had not been invited to make one of the picnic party; and Elsie had never found her more unreasonable and difficult to please; and her incessant fault-finding and scolding were almost more than the little girl could bear in addition to her own sad disappointment. But at last the morning, which had seldom seemed so long, was over, and Elsie dismissed from the school-room for the day. At dinner, instead of the usual large party, there were only her father and the gentleman with whom he was transacting business, Miss Day, and herself. The gentleman was not one of those who care to notice children, but continued to discuss business and politics with Mr. Dinsmore, without seeming to be in the least aware of the presence of the little girl, who sat in perfect silence, eating whatever her father saw fit to put upon her plate; and Elsie was very glad indeed when at length Miss Day rose to leave the table, and her papa told her she might go too. He called her back though, before she had gone across the room, to say that he had intended to ride with her that afternoon, but found he should not be able to do so, and she must take Jim for a protector, as he did not wish her either to miss her ride or to go entirely alone. He spoke very kindly; Elsie thought with remorse of the rebellious feelings of the morning, and, had she been alone with her father, would certainly have confessed them, expressing her sorrow and asking forgiveness; but she could not do so before a third person, more especially a stranger; and merely saying, "Yes, papa, I will," she turned away and left the room. Jim was bringing up her horse as she passed the open door; and she hastened up-stairs to prepare for her ride. "O mammy!" she suddenly exclaimed, as Chloe was trying on her hat, "is Pomp going to the city to-day?" "Yes, darlin', he gwine start directly," said Chloe, arranging her nursling's curls to better advantage, and finishing her work with a fond caress. "Oh! then, mammy, take some money out of my purse, and tell him to buy me a pound of the very nicest candy he can find," said the little girl, eagerly. "I haven't had any for a long time, and I feel hungry for it to-day. What they had bought for the picnic looked so good, but you know I didn't get any of it." The picnic party returned just before tea-time, and Lucy Carrington rushed into Elsie's room eager to tell her what a delightful day they had had. She gave a very glowing account of their sports and entertainment, interrupting herself every now and then to lament over Elsie's absence, assuring her again and again that it had been the only drawback upon her own pleasure, and that she thought that Elsie's papa was very unkind indeed to refuse her permission to go. As Elsie listened the morning's feelings of vexation and disappointment returned in full force; and though she said nothing, she allowed her friend to accuse her father of cruelty and injustice without offering any remonstrance. In the midst of their talk the tea-bell rang, and they hurried down to take their places at the table, where Lucy went on with her narrative, though in a rather subdued tone, Elsie now and then asking a question, until Mr. Dinsmore turned to his daughter, saying, in his stern way, "Be quiet, Elsie; you are talking entirely too much for a child of your age; don't let me hear you speak again until you have left the table." Elsie's face flushed, and her eyes fell, under the rebuke; and during the rest of the meal not a sound escaped her lips. "Come, Elsie, let us go into the garden and finish our talk," said Lucy, putting her arm affectionately around her friend's waist as they left the table; "your papa can't hear us there, and we'll have a good time." "Papa only stopped us because we were talking too much at the table," said Elsie, apologetically; "I'm sure he is willing you should tell me all about what a nice time you all had. But, Lucy," she added, lowering her voice, "please don't say again that you think papa was unkind to keep me at home to-day. I'm sure he knows best, and I ought not to have listened to a word of that kind about him." "O! well, never mind, I won't talk so any more," said Lucy, good-naturedly, as they skipped down the walk together; "but I do think he's cross, and I wish you were my sister, that you might have my kind, good papa for yours too," she added, drawing her arm more closely about her friend's waist. "Thank you, Lucy," said Elsie, with a little sigh, "I would like to be your sister, but indeed I would not like to give up my own dear papa, for I love him, oh! _so_ much." "Why, how funny, when he's so cross to you!" exclaimed Lucy, laughing. Elsie put her hand over her friend's mouth, and Lucy pushed it away, saying, "Excuse me; I forgot; but I'll try not to say it again." While the little girls were enjoying their talk in the garden, a servant with a small bundle in her hand came out on the veranda, where Mr. Horace Dinsmore was sitting smoking a cigar, and, casting an inquiring glance around, asked if he knew where Miss Elsie was? "What do you want with her?" he asked. "Only to give her dis bundle, massa, dat Pomp jus brought from de city." "Give it to me," he said, extending his hand to receive it. A few moments afterward Elsie and her friend returned to the house, and meeting Pomp, she asked him if he had brought her candy. He replied that he had got some that was very nice indeed, and he thought that Fanny had carried it to her; and seeing Fanny near, he called to her to know what she had done with it. "Why, Pomp, Massa Horace he told me to give it to him," said the girl. Elsie turned away with a very disappointed look. "You'll go and ask him for it, won't you?" asked Lucy, who was anxious to enjoy a share of the candy as well as to see Elsie gratified. "No," said Elsie, sighing, "I had rather do without it." Lucy coaxed for a little while, but finding it impossible to persuade Elsie to approach her father on the subject, finally volunteered to do the errand herself. Elsie readily consented, and Lucy, trembling a little in spite of her boast that she was not afraid of him, walked out on to the veranda where Mr. Dinsmore was still sitting, and putting on an air of great confidence, said: "Mr. Dinsmore, will you please to give me Elsie's candy? she wants it." "Did Elsie send you?" he asked in a cold, grave tone. "Yes, sir," replied Lucy, somewhat frightened. "Then, if you please, Miss Lucy, you may tell Elsie to come directly to me." Lucy ran back to her friend, and Elsie received the message in some trepidation, but as no choice was now left her, she went immediately to her father. "Did you want me, papa?" she asked timidly. "Yes, Elsie; I wish to know why you send another person to me for what you want, instead of coming yourself. It displeases me very much, and you may rest assured that you will never get anything that you ask for in that way." Elsie hung her head in silence. "Are you going to answer me?" he asked, in his severe tone. "Why did you send Lucy instead of coming yourself?" "I was afraid, papa," she whispered, almost under her breath. "Afraid! afraid of what?" he asked, with increasing displeasure. "Of you, papa," she replied, in a tone so low that he could scarcely catch the words, although he bent down his ear to receive her reply. "If I were a drunken brute, in the habit of knocking you about, beating and abusing you, there might be some reason for your fear, Elsie," he said, coloring with anger; "but, as it is, I see no excuse for it at all and I am both hurt and displeased by it." "I am very sorry, papa; I won't do so again," she said, tremblingly. There was a moment's pause, and then she asked in a timid hesitating way, "Papa, may I have my candy, if you please?" "No, you may not," he said decidedly; "and understand and remember that I positively forbid you either to buy or eat anything of the kind again without my express permission." Elsie's eyes filled, and she had a hard struggle to keep down a rising sob as she turned away and went slowly back to the place where she had left her friend. "Have you got it?" asked Lucy, eagerly. Elsie shook her head. "What a shame!" exclaimed Lucy, indignantly. "He's just as cross as he can be. He's a tyrant, so he is! just a hateful old tyrant, and I wouldn't care a cent for him, if I were you, Elsie. I'm glad he is not my father, so I am." "I'm afraid he doesn't love me much," sighed Elsie in low, tearful tones, "for he hardly ever lets me have anything, or go anywhere that I want to." "Well, never mind, _I'll_ send and buy a good lot tomorrow, and we'll have a regular feast," said Lucy, soothingly, as she passed her arm around her friend's waist and drew her down to a seat on the portico step. "Thank you, Lucy; you can buy for yourself if you like, but not for me, for papa has forbidden me to eat anything of the sort." "Oh! of course we'll not let him know anything about it," said Lucy. But Elsie shook her head sadly, saying with a little sigh, "No, Lucy, you are very kind, but I cannot disobey papa, even if he should never know it, because that would be disobeying God, and He would know it." "Dear me, how particular you are!" exclaimed Lucy a little pettishly. "Elsie," said Mr. Dinsmore, speaking from the door, "what are you doing there? Did I not forbid you to be out in the evening air?" "I did not know you meant the doorstep, papa. I thought I was only not to go down into the garden," replied the little girl, rising to go in. "I see you intend to make as near an approach to disobedience as you dare," said her father. "Go immediately to your room, and tell mammy to put you to bed." Elsie silently obeyed, and Lucy, casting an indignant glance at Mr. Dinsmore, was about to follow her, when he said, "I wish her to go alone, if you please, Miss Lucy;" and with a frown and a pout the little girl walked into the drawing-room and seated herself on the sofa beside her mamma. Mr. Dinsmore walked out on to the portico, and stood there watching the moon which was just rising over the treetops. "Horace," said Arthur, emerging from the shadow of a tree near by and approaching his brother, "Elsie thinks you're a tyrant. She says you never let her have anything, or go anywhere, and you're always punishing her. She and Lucy have had a fine time out here talking over your bad treatment of her, and planning to have some candy in spite of you." "Arthur, I do not believe that Elsie would deliberately plan to disobey me; and whatever faults she may have, I am very sure she is above the meanness of telling tales," replied Mr. Dinsmore, in a tone of severity, as he turned and went into the house, while Arthur, looking sadly crestfallen, crept away out of sight. When Elsie reached her room, she found that Chloe was not there; for, not expecting that her services would be required at so early an hour, she had gone down to the kitchen to have a little chat with her fellow-servants. Elsie rang for her, and then walking to the window, stood looking down into the garden in an attitude of thoughtfulness and dejection. She was mentally taking a review of the manner in which she had spent the day, as was her custom before retiring. The retrospect had seldom been so painful to the little girl. She had a very tender conscience, and it told her now that she had more than once during the day indulged in wrong feelings toward her father; that she had also allowed another to speak disrespectfully of him, giving by her silence a tacit approval of the sentiments uttered, and, more than that, had spoken complainingly of him herself. "Oh!" she murmured half aloud as she covered her face with her hands, and the tears trickled through her fingers, "how soon I have forgotten the lesson papa taught me this morning, and my promise to trust him without knowing his reasons. I don't deserve that he should love me or be kind and indulgent, when I am so rebellious." "What's de matter, darlin'?" asked Chloe's voice in pitiful tones, as she took her nursling in her arms and laid her little head against her bosom, passing her hand caressingly over the soft bright curls; "your ole mammy can't bear to see her pet cryin' like dat." "O mammy, mammy! I've been such a wicked girl to-day! Oh! I'm afraid I shall never be good, never be like Jesus. I'm afraid He is angry with me, for I have disobeyed Him to-day," sobbed the child. "Darlin'," said Chloe, earnestly, "didn't you read to your ole mammy dis very morning dese bressed words: 'If any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous,' an' de other: 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.' Go to de dear, bressed Lord Jesus, darlin', an' ax Him to forgive you, an' I _knows_ He will." "Yes, He will," replied the little girl, raising her head and dashing away her tears, "He will forgive my sins, and take away my wicked heart, and give me right thoughts and feelings. How glad I am you remembered those sweet texts, you dear old mammy," she added, twining her arms lovingly around her nurse's neck. And then she delivered her papa's message, and Chloe began at once to prepare her for bed. Elsie's tears had ceased to flow, but they were still trembling in her eyes, and the little face wore a very sad and troubled expression as she stood patiently passive in her nurse's hands. Chloe had soon finished her labors, and then the little girl opened her Bible, and, as usual, read a few verses aloud, though her voice trembled, and once or twice a tear fell on the page; then closing the book she stole away to the side of the bed and knelt down. She was a good while on her knees, and several times, as the sound of a low sob fell upon Chloe's ear, she sighed and murmured to herself: "Poor, darlin'! dear, bressed lamb, your ole mammy don't like to hear dat." Then as the child rose from her kneeling posture she went to her, and taking her in her arms, folded her in a fond embrace, calling her by the most tender and endearing epithets, and telling her that her old mammy loved her better than life--better than anything in the wide world. Elsie flung her arms around her nurse's neck, and laid her head upon her bosom, saying, "Yes, my dear old mammy, I know you love me, and I love you, too. But put me in bed now, or papa will be displeased." "What makes you so onrestless, darlin'?" asked Chloe, half an hour afterward; "can't you go to sleep no how?" "O mammy! if I could only see papa just for one moment to tell him something. Do you think he would come to me?" sighed the little girl. "Please, mammy, go down and see if he is busy. Don't say a word if he is; but if not, ask him to come to me for just one minute." Chloe left the room immediately, but returned the next moment, saying, "I jes looked into de parlor, darlin', an' Mass Horace he mighty busy playin' chess wid Miss Lucy's mamma, an' I didn't say nuffin' to him. Jes you go sleep, my pet, an' tell Mass Horace all 'bout it in de mornin'." Elsie sighed deeply, and turning over on her pillow, cried herself to sleep. Chloe was just putting the finishing touches to the little girl's dress the next morning, when Lucy Carrington rapped at the door. "Good morning, Elsie," she said; "I was in a hurry to come to you, because it is my last day, you know. Wasn't it too bad of your father to send you off to bed so early last night?" "No, Lucy, papa has a right to send me to bed whenever he pleases; and besides, I was naughty and deserved to be punished; and it was not much more than half an hour earlier than my usual bedtime." "You naughty!" exclaimed Lucy, opening her eyes very wide. "Mamma often says she wishes I was half as good." Elsie sighed, but made no answer. Her thoughts seemed far away. She was thinking of what she had been so anxious, the night before, to say to her father, and trying to gain courage to do it this morning. "If I could only get close to him when nobody was by, and he would look and speak kindly to me, I could do it then," she murmured to herself. "Come, Aunt Chloe, aren't you done? I want to have a run in the garden before breakfast," said Lucy, somewhat impatiently, as Chloe tied and untied Elsie's sash several times. "Well, Miss Lucy, I'se done now," she answered, passing her hand once more over her nursling's curls: "but Mass Horace he mighty pertickler 'bout Miss Elsie." "Yes," said Elsie, "papa wants me always to look very nice and neat; and when I go down in the morning he just gives me one glance from head to foot, and if anything is wrong he is sure to see it and send me back immediately to have it made right. Now, mammy, please give me my hat and let us go." "You's got plenty ob time, chillens; de bell won't go for to ring dis hour," remarked the old nurse, tying on Elsie's hat. "My chile looks sweet an' fresh as a moss rosebud dis mornin'," she added, talking to herself, as she watched the two little girls tripping down-stairs hand in hand. They skipped up and down the avenue several times, and ran all round the garden before it was time to go in. Then Elsie went up to Chloe to have her hair made smooth again. She was just descending for the second time to the hall, where she had left Lucy, when they saw a carriage drive up to the front door. "There's papa!" cried Lucy, joyfully, as it stopped and a gentleman sprang out and came up the steps into the portico; and in an instant she was in his arms, receiving such kisses and caresses as Elsie had vainly longed for all her life. Lucy had several brothers, but was an only daughter, and a very great pet, especially with her father. Elsie watched them with a wistful look and a strange aching at her heart. But presently Mr. Carrington set Lucy down and turning to her, gave her a shake of the hand, and then a kiss, saying, "How do you do this morning, my dear? I'm afraid you are hardly glad to see me, as I come to take Lucy away, for I suppose you have been having fine times together." "Yes, sir, indeed we have; and I hope you will let her come again." "Oh! yes, certainly; but the visits must not be all on one side. I shall talk to your papa about it, and perhaps persuade him to let us take you along this afternoon to spend a week at Ashlands." "Oh! how delightful!" cried Lucy, clapping her hands. "Elsie, do you think he will let you go?" "I don't know, I'm afraid not," replied the little girl doubtfully. "You must coax him, as I do my papa," said Lucy. But at this Elsie only shook her head, and just then the breakfast-bell rang. Mr. Dinsmore was already in the breakfast-room, and Elsie, going up to him, said, "Good morning, papa." "Good morning, Elsie," he replied, but his tone was so cold that even if no one else had been by, she could not have said another word. He had not intended to be influenced by the information Arthur had so maliciously given him the night before; yet unconsciously he was, and his manner to his little daughter was many degrees colder than it had been for some time. After breakfast Lucy reminded Elsie of a promise she had made to show her some beautiful shells which her father had collected in his travels, and Elsie led the way to the cabinet, a small room opening into the library, and filled with curiosities. They had gone in alone, but were soon followed by Arthur, Walter and Enna. Almost everything in the room belonged to Mr. Horace Dinsmore; and Elsie, knowing that many of the articles were rare and costly, and that he was very careful of them, begged Enna and the boys to go out, lest they should accidentally do some mischief. "I won't," replied Arthur. "I've just as good a right to be here as you." As he spoke he gave her a push, which almost knocked her over, and in catching at a table to save herself from falling, she threw down a beautiful vase of rare old china, which Mr. Dinsmore prized very highly. It fell with a loud crash, and lay scattered in fragments at their feet. "There, see what you've done!" exclaimed Arthur, as the little group stood aghast at the mischief. It happened that Mr. Dinsmore was just then in the library, and the noise soon brought him upon the scene of action. "Who did this?" he asked, in a wrathful tone, looking from one to the other. "Elsie," said Arthur; "she threw it down and broke it." "Troublesome, careless child! I would not have taken a hundred dollars for that vase," he exclaimed. "Go to your room! go this instant, and stay there until I send for you; and remember, if you ever come in here again without permission I shall punish you." He opened the door as he spoke, and Elsie flew across the hall, up the stairs, and into her own room, without once pausing or looking back. "Now go out, every one of you, and don't come in here again; this is no place for children," said Mr. Dinsmore, turning the others into the hall, and shutting and locking the door upon them. "You ought to be ashamed, Arthur Dinsmore," exclaimed Lucy indignantly; "it was all your own fault, and Elsie was not to blame at all, and you know it." "I didn't touch the old vase, and I'm not going to take the blame of it, either, I can tell you, miss," replied Arthur, moving off, followed by Walter and Enna, while Lucy walked to the other end of the hall, and stood looking out of the window, debating in her own mind whether she had sufficient courage to face Mr. Dinsmore, and make him understand where the blame of the accident ought to lie. At length she seemed to have solved the question; for turning about and moving noiselessly down the passage to the library door, she gave a timid little rap, which was immediately answered by Mr. Dinsmore's voice saying, "Come in." Lucy opened the door and walked in, closing it after her. Mr. Dinsmore sat at a table writing, and he looked up with an expression of mingled surprise and impatience. "What do you want, Miss Lucy?" he said, "speak quickly, for I am very busy." "I just wanted to tell you, sir," replied Lucy, speaking up quite boldly, "that Elsie was not at all to blame about the vase; for it was Arthur who pushed her and made her fall against the table, and that was the way the vase came to fall and break." "What made him push her?" he asked. "Just because Elsie asked him, and Walter, and Enna to go out, for fear they might do some mischief." Mr. Dinsmore's pen was suspended over the paper for a moment, while he sat thinking with a somewhat clouded brow; but presently turning to the little girl, he said quite pleasantly, "Very well, Miss Lucy, I am much obliged to you for your information, for I should be very sorry to punish Elsie unjustly. And now will you do me the favor to go to her and tell her that her papa says she need not stay in her room any longer?" "Yes, sir, I will," replied Lucy, her face sparkling with delight as she hurried off with great alacrity to do his bidding. She found Elsie in her room crying violently, and throwing her arms around her neck she delivered Mr. Dinsmore's message, concluding with, "So now, Elsie, you see you needn't cry, nor feel sorry any more; but just dry your eyes and let us go down into the garden and have a good time." Elsie was very thankful to Lucy, and very glad that her papa now knew that she was not to blame; but she was still sorry for his loss, and his words had wounded her too deeply to be immediately forgotten; indeed it was some time before the sore spot they had made in her heart was entirely healed. But she tried to forget it all and enter heartily into the sports proposed by Lucy. The Carringtons were not to leave until the afternoon, and the little girls spent nearly the whole morning in the garden, coming into the drawing-room a few moments before the dinner-bell rang. Mrs. Carrington sat on a sofa engaged with some fancy work, while Herbert, who had not felt well enough to join the other children, had stretched himself out beside her, putting his head in her lap. Mr. Carrington and Mr. Horace Dinsmore were conversing near by. Lucy ran up to her papa and seated herself upon his knee with her arm around his neck; while Elsie stopped a moment to speak to Herbert, and then timidly approaching her father, with her eyes upon the floor, said in a low, half-frightened tone, that reached no ear but his, "I am very sorry about the vase, papa." He took her hand, and drawing her close to him, pushed back the hair from her forehead with his other hand, and bending down to her, said almost in a whisper, "Never mind, daughter, we will forget all about it. I am sorry I spoke so harshly to you, since Lucy tells me you were not so much to blame." Elsie's face flushed with pleasure, and she looked up gratefully; but before she had time to reply, Mrs. Carrington said, "Elsie, we want to take you home with us to spend a week; will you go?" "I should like to, very much, indeed, ma'am, if papa will let me," replied the little girl, looking wistfully up into his face. "Well, Mr. Dinsmore, what do you say? I hope you can have no objection," said Mrs. Carrington, looking inquiringly at him; while her husband added, "Oh! yes, Dinsmore, you must let her go by all means; you can certainly spare her for a week, and it need be no interruption to her lessons, as she can share with Lucy in the instructions of our governess, who is really a superior teacher." Mr. Dinsmore was looking very grave, and Elsie knew from the expression of his countenance what his answer would be, before he spoke. He had noticed the indignant glance Lucy had once or twice bestowed upon him, and remembering Arthur's report of the conversation between the two little girls the night before, had decided in his own mind that the less Elsie saw of Lucy the better. "I thank you both for your kind attention to my little girl," he replied courteously, "but while fully appreciating your kindness in extending the invitation, I must beg leave to decline it, as I am satisfied that home is the best place for her at present." "Ah! no, I suppose we ought hardly to have expected you to spare her so soon after your return," said Mrs. Carrington; "but, really, I am very sorry to be refused, for Elsie is such a good child that I am always delighted to have Lucy and Herbert with her." "Perhaps you think better of her than she deserves, Mrs. Carrington. I find that Elsie is sometimes naughty and in need of correction, as well as other children, and therefore, I think it best to keep her as much as possible under my own eye," replied Mr. Dinsmore, looking very gravely at his little daughter as he spoke. Elsie's face flushed painfully, and she had hard work to keep from bursting into tears. It was a great relief to her that just at that moment the dinner-bell rang, and there was a general movement in the direction of the dining-room. Her look was touchingly humble as her father led her in and seated her at the table. She was thinking, "Papa says I am naughty sometimes, but oh! how _very_ naughty he would think me if he knew all the wicked feelings I had yesterday." As soon as they had risen from the table, Mrs. Carrington bade Lucy go up to her maid to have her bonnet put on, as the carriage was already at the door. Elsie would have gone with her, but her father had taken her hand again, and he held it fast. She looked up inquiringly into his face. "Stay here," he said. "Lucy will be down again in a moment." And Elsie stood quietly at his side until Lucy returned. But even then her father did not relinquish his hold of her hand, and all the talking the little girls could do must be done close at his side. Yet, as he was engaged in earnest conversation with Mr. Carrington, and did not seem to be listening to them, Lucy ventured to whisper to Elsie, "I think it's real mean of him; he might let you go." "No," replied Elsie, in the same low tone, "I'm sure papa knows best; and besides, I _have_ been naughty, and don't deserve to go, though I should like to, dearly." "Well, good-bye," said Lucy, giving her a kiss. It was not until Mr. Carrington's carriage was fairly on its way down the avenue, that Mr. Dinsmore dropped his little girl's hand; and then he said, "I want you in the library, Elsie; come to me in half an hour." "Yes, papa, I will," she replied, looking a little frightened. "You need not be afraid," he said, in a tone of displeasure; "I am not going to hurt you." Elsie blushed and hung her head, but made no reply, and he turned away and left her. She could not help wondering what he wanted with her, and though she tried not to feel afraid, it was impossible to keep from trembling a little as she knocked at the library door. Her father's voice said, "Come in," and entering, she found him alone, seated at a table covered with papers and writing materials, while beside the account book in which he was writing lay a pile of money, in bank notes, and gold and silver. "Here, Elsie," he said, laying down his pen, "I want to give you your month's allowance. Your grandfather has paid it to you heretofore, but of course, now that I am at home, I attend to everything that concerns you. You have been receiving eight dollars--I shall give you ten," and he counted out the money and laid it before her as he spoke; "but I shall require a strict account of all that you spend. I want you to learn to keep accounts, for if you live, you will some day have a great deal of money to take care of; and here is a blank book that I have prepared, so that you can do so very easily. Every time that you lay out or give away any money, you must set it down here as soon as you come home; be particular about that, lest you should forget something, because you must bring your book to me at the end of every month, and let me see how much you have spent, and what is the balance in hand; and if you are not able to make it come out square, and tell me what you have done with every penny, you will lose either the whole or a part of your allowance for the next month, according to the extent of your delinquency. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir." "Very well. Let me see now how much you can remember of your last month's expenditures. Take the book and set down everything you can think of." Elsie had a good memory, and was able to remember how she had spent almost every cent during the time specified; and she set down one item after another, and then added up the column without any mistake. "That was very well done," said her father approvingly. And then running over the items half aloud, "Candy, half a dollar; remember, Elsie, there is to be no more money disposed of in that way; not as a matter of economy, by any means, but because I consider is very injurious. I am very anxious that you should grow up strong and healthy. I would not for anything have you a miserable dyspeptic." Then suddenly closing the book and handing it to her, he said, inquiringly, "You were very anxious to go to Ashlands?" "I would have liked to go, papa, if you had been willing," she replied meekly. "I am afraid Lucy is not a suitable companion for you, Elsie. I think she puts bad notions into your head," he said very gravely. Elsie flushed and trembled, and was just opening her lips to make her confession, when the door opened and her grandfather entered. She could not speak before him, and so remained silent. "Does she not sometimes say naughty things to you?" asked her father, speaking so low that her grandfather could not have heard. "Yes, sir," replied the little girl, almost under her breath. "I thought so," said he, "and therefore I shall keep you apart as entirely as possible; and I hope there will be no murmuring on your part." "No, papa, you know best," she answered, very humbly. Then, putting the money into her hands, he dismissed her. When she had gone out he sat for a moment in deep thought. Elsie's list of articles bought with her last month's allowance consisted almost entirely of gifts for others, generally the servants. There were some beads and sewing-silk for making a purse, and a few drawing materials; but with the exception of the candy, she had bought nothing else for herself. This was what her father was thinking of. "She is a dear, unselfish, generous little thing," he said to himself. "However, I may be mistaken; I must not allow myself to judge from only one month. She seems submissive, too,"--he had overheard what passed between her and Lucy at parting--"but perhaps that was for effect; she probably suspected I could hear her--and she thinks me a tyrant, and obeys from fear, not love." This thought drove away all the tender feeling that had been creeping into his heart; and when he next met his little daughter, his manner was as cold and distant as ever, and Elsie found it impossible to approach him with sufficient freedom to tell him what was in her heart. CHAPTER FIFTH "Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice Triumphs." --LONGFELLOW'S _Evangeline_. "How disappointment tracks The steps of hope!" --MISS LANDON. One afternoon, the next week after the Carringtons had left, the younger members of the family, Arthur, Elsie, Walter and Enna, were setting out to take a walk, when Elsie, seeing a gold chain depending from the pocket of Arthur's jacket, exclaimed: "O Arthur! how _could_ you take grandpa's watch? _Do_ put it away, for you will be almost sure to injure it." "Hold your tongue, Elsie; I'll do as I please," was the polite rejoinder. "But, Arthur, you _know_ that grandpa would never let you take it. I have often heard him say that it was very valuable, for it was seldom that so good a one could be had at any price; and I know that he paid a great deal for it." "Well, if he prizes it so, he needn't have left it lying on his table, and so I'll just teach him a lesson; it's about time he learnt to be careful." "O Arthur! do put it away," pleaded Elsie, "if anything should happen to it, what will grandpa say? I know he will be very angry, and ask us all who did it; and you know I cannot tell a lie, and if he asks me if it was you, I cannot say no." "Yes, I'll trust you for telling tales," replied Arthur, sneeringly; "but if you do, I'll pay you for it." He ran down the avenue as he spoke, Walter and Enna following, and Elsie slowly bringing up the rear, looking the picture of distress, for she knew not what to do, seeing that Arthur would not listen to her remonstrances, and, as often happened, all the older members of the family were out, and thus there was no authority that could be appealed to in time to prevent the mischief which she had every reason to fear would be done. Once she thought of turning back, that she might escape the necessity of being a witness in the case; but, remembering that her father told her she must walk with the others that afternoon, and also that, as she had already seen the watch in Arthur's possession, her testimony would be sufficient to convict him even if she saw no more, she gave up the idea, and hurried on, with the faint hope that she might be able to induce Arthur to refrain from indulging in such sports as would be likely to endanger the watch; or else to give it into her charge. At any other time she would have trembled at the thought of touching it; but now she felt so sure it would be safer with her than with him, that she would gladly have taken the responsibility. The walk was far from being a pleasure that afternoon; the boys ran so fast that it quite put her out of breath to keep up with them; and then every little while Arthur would cut some caper that made her tremble for the watch; answering her entreaties that he would either give it into her care or walk along quietly, with sneers and taunts, and declarations of his determination to do just exactly as he pleased, and not be ruled by her. But at length, while he was in the act of climbing a tree, the watch dropped from his pocket and fell to the ground, striking with considerable force. Elsie uttered a scream, and Arthur, now thoroughly frightened himself, jumped down and picked it up. The crystal was broken, the back dented, and how much the works were injured they could not tell; but it had ceased to run. "O Arthur! see what you've done!" exclaimed Walter. "What will papa say?" said Enna; while Elsie stood pale and trembling, not speaking a word. "You hush!" exclaimed Arthur fiercely. "I'll tell you what, if any of you dare to tell of me, I'll make you sorry for it to the last day of your life. Do you hear?" The question was addressed to Elsie in a tone of defiance. "Arthur," said she, "grandpa will know that _somebody_ did it, and surely you would not wish an innocent person to be punished for _your_ fault." "I don't care _who_ gets punished, so that papa does not find out that I did it," said he furiously; "and if you dare to tell of me, I'll pay you for it." "I shall say nothing, unless it becomes necessary to save the innocent, or I am forced to speak; but in that case I shall tell the truth," replied Elsie, firmly. Arthur doubled up his fist, and made a plunge at her as if he meant to knock her down; but Elsie sprang behind the tree, and then ran so fleetly toward the house that he was not able to overtake her until his passion had had time to cool. When they reached the house, Arthur replaced the watch on his father's table, whence he had taken it, and then they all awaited his return with what courage they might. "I say, Wally," said Arthur, drawing his little brother aside and speaking in a low tone, having first sent a cautious glance around to assure himself that no one else was within hearing; "I say, what would you give me for that new riding whip of mine?" "O Arthur! anything I've got," exclaimed the little boy eagerly. "But you wouldn't give it up, I know, and you're only trying to tease me." "No, indeed, Wal; I mean to _give_ it to you if you'll only be a good fellow and do as I tell you." "What?" he asked, with intense interest. "Tell papa that Jim broke the watch." "But he _didn't_" replied the child, opening his eyes wide with astonishment. "Well, what of that, you little goose?" exclaimed Arthur impatiently; "papa doesn't know that." "But Jim will get punished," said Walter, "and I don't want to tell such a big story either." "Very well, sir, then you'll not get the whip; and, besides, if you don't do as I wish, I'm certain you'll see a ghost one of these nights; for there's one comes to see me sometimes, and I'll send him right off to you." "Oh! _don't_, Arthur, don't; I'd die of fright," cried the little boy, who was very timid, glancing nervously around, as if he expected the ghost to appear immediately. "I tell you I will, though, if you don't do as I say; he'll come this very night and carry you off, and never bring you back." "O Arthur! don't let him come, and I'll say anything you want me to," cried the little fellow in great terror. "That's a good boy; I knew you would," said Arthur, smiling triumphantly. And turning away from Walter, he next sought out Enna, and tried his threats and persuasions upon her with even better success. Elsie had gone directly to her own room, where she sat trembling every time a footstep approached her door, lest it should be a messenger from her grandfather. No one came, however, and at last the tea-bell rang, and on going down she found to her relief that her grandfather and his wife had not yet returned. "You look pale, Elsie," said her father, giving her a scrutinizing glance as she took her seat by his side. "Are you well?" "Yes, papa, quite well," she replied. He looked at her again a little anxiously, but said no more; and as soon as the meal was concluded, Elsie hastened away to her own room again. It was still early in the evening when Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore returned--for once, bringing no company with them; and he had not been many minutes in the house ere he took up his watch, and of course instantly discovered the injury it had sustained. His suspicions at once fell upon Arthur, whose character for mischief was well established; and burning with rage, watch in hand, he repaired to the drawing-room, which he entered, asking, in tones tremulous with passion, "Where is Arthur! Young rascal! this is some of _his_ work," he added, holding up the injured article. "My dear, how can you say so? have you any proof?" asked his wife, deprecatingly adding in her softest tones, "my poor boy seems to get the blame of everything that goes wrong." "He gets no more than he deserves," replied her husband angrily. "Arthur! Arthur, I say, where are you?" "He is in the garden, sir, I think. I saw him walking in the shrubbery a moment since," said Mr. Horace Dinsmore. The father instantly despatched a servant to bring him in; sending a second in search of the overseer; while a third was ordered to assemble all the house-servants. "I will sift this matter to the bottom, and child or servant, the guilty one shall suffer for it," exclaimed the old gentleman, pacing angrily up and down the room. "Arthur," said he sternly, as the boy made his appearance, looking somewhat pale and alarmed, "how dared you meddle with my watch?" "I didn't, sir; I never touched it," he replied boldly, yet avoiding his father's eye as he uttered the deliberate falsehood. "There, my dear, I told you so," exclaimed his mother, triumphantly. "I don't believe you," said his father; "and if you are guilty, as I strongly suspect, you had better confess it at once, before I find it out in some other way." "I didn't do it, sir. It was Jim, and I can prove it by Walter and Enna; we all saw it fall from his pocket when he was up in a tree; and he cried like anything when he found it was broken, and said he didn't mean to do it any harm; he was only going to wear it a little while, and then put it back all safe; but now master would be dreadfully angry, and have him flogged." "That I will, if it is true," exclaimed the old gentleman, passionately; "he shall be well whipped and sent out to work on the plantation. I'll keep no such meddlers about my house." He looked at Enna. "What do you know of this?" he asked. "It is true, papa, I saw him do it," she replied, with a slight blush, and sending an uneasy glance around the room. "Did you see it, too, Walter?" asked his father. "Yes, sir," replied the little fellow, in a low, reluctant tone; "but please, papa, don't punish him. I'm sure he didn't mean to break it." "Hold your tongue! he _shall_ be punished as he deserves," cried the old gentleman, furiously. "Here, sir," turning to the overseer, and pointing to Jim, "take the fellow out, and give him such a flogging as he will remember." Elsie was sitting in her own room, trying to learn a lesson for the next day, but finding great difficulty in fixing her thoughts upon it, when she was startled by the sudden entrance of Aunt Chloe, who, with her apron to her eyes, was sobbing violently. "O mammy, mammy! what's the matter? has anything happened to you?" inquired the little girl, in a tone of great alarm, starting to her feet, and dropping her book in her haste and fright. "Why," sobbed Chloe, "Jim, he's been an' gone an' broke ole master's watch, an' he's gwine be whipped, an' old Aunt Phoebe she's cryin' fit to break her ole heart 'bout her boy, kase--" Elsie waited to hear no more, but darting out into the hall, and encountering her father on his way to his room, she rushed up to him, pale and agitated, and seizing his hand, looked up eagerly into his face, exclaiming with a burst of tears and sobs, "O papa, papa! don't, oh! _don't_ let them whip poor Jim." Mr. Dinsmore's countenance was very grave, almost distressed. "I am sorry it is necessary, daughter," he said, "but Jim has done very wrong, and deserves his punishment, and I cannot interfere." "Oh! no, papa, he did not, _indeed_ he did not break the watch. I _know_ he didn't, for I was by and saw it all." "Is it _possible?_" said he, in a tone of surprise; "then tell me who did do it. It could not have been you, Elsie?" and he looked searchingly into her face. "Oh! no, papa, I would never have dared to touch it. But please don't make me tell tales; but I know it wasn't Jim. Oh! _do_ stop them quickly, before they begin to whip him." "Aunt Chloe," said Mr. Dinsmore, "go down to my father, and tell him it is my request that the punishment should be delayed a few moments until I come down." Then taking Elsie's hand, he led her into her room again, and seating himself, drew her to his side, saying, with grave decision, "Now, my daughter, if you want to save Jim, it will be necessary for you to tell _all_ you know about this affair." "I don't like to tell tales, papa," pleaded the little girl; "I think it so very mean. Is it not enough for me to tell that I know Jim didn't do it?" "No, Elsie; I have already said that it is _quite necessary_ for you to tell _all you know_." "O papa! don't make me; I don't like to do it," she urged, with tears in her eyes. "I should be very much ashamed of you, and quite unwilling to own you as my child, if under any other circumstances you were willing to tell tales," he replied, in a tone of kindness that quite surprised Elsie, who always trembled at the very thought of opposing the slightest resistance to his will; "but," he added, firmly, "it is the only way to save Jim; if you do not now make a full disclosure of all you know, he will be severely whipped and sent away to work on the plantation, which will distress his poor old mother exceedingly. Elsie, I think you would be doing very wickedly to allow an innocent person to suffer when you can prevent it; and besides, I will add the weight of my authority, and say you _must do it at once_; and you well know, my daughter, that there can be no question as to the duty of obedience to your father." He paused, gazing earnestly down into the little tearful, downcast, blushing face at his side. "Have I not said enough to convince you of your duty?" he asked. "Yes, papa; I will tell you all about it," she answered in a tremulous tone. Her story was told with evident reluctance, but in a simple, straightforward manner, that attested its truthfulness. Mr. Dinsmore listened in silence, but with an expression of indignation on his handsome features; and the moment she had finished he rose, and again taking her hand, led her from the room, saying, as he did so: "You must repeat this story to your grandfather." "O papa! must I? Won't you tell him? please don't make me do it," she pleaded tremblingly, and hanging back. "My daughter, you _must_," he replied, so sternly that she dared not make any further resistance, but quietly submitted to be led into her grandfather's presence. He was still in the drawing-room, walking about in a disturbed and angry manner, and now and then casting a suspicious glance upon Arthur, who sat pale and trembling in a corner, looking the picture of guilt and misery; for he had heard Chloe deliver his brother's message, and feared that exposure awaited him. Walter had stolen away to cry over Jim's punishment, and wish that he had had the courage to tell the truth at first; but saying to himself that it was too late now, his father wouldn't believe him, and he would make it up to Jim somehow, even if it took all his pocket-money for a month. None of the other members of the family had left the room, and all wore an anxious, expectant look, as Mr. Dinsmore entered, leading Elsie by the hand. "I have brought you another witness, sir," he said, "for it seems Elsie was present when the mischief was done." "Ah!" exclaimed the old gentlemen; "then I may hope to get at the truth. Elsie, who broke my watch?" "It was not Jim, grandpa, indeed, _indeed_, it was not; but oh! _please_ don't make me say who it was," replied the little girl, beseechingly. "Elsie!" exclaimed her father, in a tone of stern reproof. "O papa! how can I?" she sobbed, trembling and clinging to his hand as she caught a threatening look from Arthur. "Come, come, child, you must tell us all you know about it," said her grandfather, "or else I can't let Jim off." Mr. Dinsmore was looking down at his little girl, and, following the direction of her glance, perceived the cause of her terror. "Don't be afraid to speak out and tell all you know, daughter, for I will protect you," he said, pressing the little trembling hand in his, and at the same time giving Arthur a meaning look. "Yes, yes, speak out, child; speak out at once; no one shall hurt you for telling the truth," exclaimed her grandfather, impatiently. "I will, grandpa," she said, trembling and weeping; "but please don't be very angry with Arthur; if you will forgive him this time, I think he will never meddle any more; and I am quite sure he did not mean to break it." "So it _was you_, after all, you young rascal! I knew it from the first!" cried the old gentleman, striding across the room, seizing the boy by the shoulder and shaking him roughly. "But go on, Elsie, let us have the whole story," he added, turning to her again, but still keeping his hold upon Arthur. "You young dog!" he added, when she had finished. "Yes, I'll forgive you when you've had a good, sound flogging, and a week's solitary confinement on bread and water, but not before." So saying, he was about to lead him from the room, when Elsie suddenly sprang forward, and with clasped hands, and flushed, eager face, she pleaded earnestly, beseechingly, "O grandpa! don't whip him, don't punish him! He will never be so naughty again. Will you, Arthur? Let _me pay_ for the watch, grandpa, and don't punish him. I would so like to do it." "It isn't the moneyed value of the watch I care for, child," replied the old gentleman, contemptuously; "and besides, where would you get so much money?" "I am rich, grandpa, am I not? Didn't my mamma leave me a great deal of money?" asked the little girl, casting down her eyes and blushing painfully. "No, Elsie," said her father, very gently, as he took her hand and led her back to the side of his chair again, "you have nothing but what I choose to give you, until you come of age, which will not be for a great many years yet." "But you _will_ give me the money to pay for the watch papa, _won't_ you?" she asked, pleadingly. "No, I certainly shall not, for I think Arthur should be left to suffer the penalty of his own misdeeds," he replied in a very decided tone; "and, besides," he added, "your grandfather has already told you that it is not the pecuniary loss he cares for." "No; but I will teach this young rascal to let my property alone," said the elder gentleman with almost fierce determination, as he tightened his grasp upon the boy's arm and dragged him from the room. Arthur cast a look of hatred and defiance at Elsie as he went out, that made her grow pale with fear and tremble so that she could scarcely stand. Her father saw both the look and its effect, and drawing the little trembler closer to him, he put his arm around her, and stroking her hair, said in a low, soothing tone: "Don't be frightened, daughter; I will protect you." She answered him with a grateful look and a long sigh of relief, and he was just about to take her on his knee when visitors were announced, and, changing his mind, he dismissed her to her room, and she saw no more of him that evening. "Oh! if they only _hadn't_ come just now," thought the sorely disappointed child, as she went out with slow, reluctant steps. "I'm sure they wouldn't, if they had only known. I'm sure, quite sure papa was going to take me on his knee, and they prevented him. Oh! will be ever think of doing it again! Dear, dear papa, if you could only know how I long to sit there!" But Mrs. Dinsmore, who had hastily retired on the exit of Arthur and his father from the drawing-room, was now sailing majestically down the hall, on her return thither; and Elsie, catching sight of her, and being naturally anxious to avoid a meeting just then, at once quickened her pace very considerably, almost running up the stairs to her own room, where she found old Aunt Phoebe, Jim's mother, waiting to speak with her. The poor old creature was overflowing with gratitude, and her fervent outpouring of thanks and blessings almost made Elsie forget her disappointment for the time. Then Jim came to the door, asking to see Miss Elsie, and poured out his thanks amid many sobs and tears; for the poor fellow had been terribly frightened--indeed, so astounded by the unexpected charge, that he had not had a word to say in his own defence, beyond an earnest and reiterated assertion of his entire innocence; to which, however, his angry master had paid no attention. But at length Phoebe remembered that she had some baking to do, and calling on Jim to come right along and split up some dry wood to heat her oven, she went down to the kitchen followed by her son, and Elsie was left alone with her nurse. Chloe sat silently knitting, and the little girl, with her head leaning upon her hand and her eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the floor, was rehearsing again and again in her own mind all that had just passed between her papa and herself; dwelling with lingering delight upon everything approaching to a caress, every kind word, every soothing tone of his voice; and then picturing to herself all that he might have done and said if those unwelcome visitors had not come in and put an end to the interview; and half hoping that he would send for her when they had gone, she watched the clock and listened intently for every sound. But her bedtime came and she dared not stay up any longer; for his orders had been peremptory that she should always retire precisely at that hour, unless she had his express permission to remain up longer. She lay awake for some time, thinking of his unwonted kindness, and indulging fond hopes for the future, then fell asleep to dream that she was on her father's knee, and felt his arms folded lovingly about her, and his kisses warm upon her cheek. Her heart beat quickly as she entered the breakfast-room the next morning. The family were just taking their places at the table, and her half-eager, half-timid "Good morning, papa," was answered by a grave, absent "Good morning, Elsie," and turning to his father and entering into a conversation with him on some business matter, he took no further notice of his little daughter, excepting to see that her plate was well supplied with such articles of food as he allowed her to eat. Elsie was sadly disappointed, and lingered about the room in the vain hope of obtaining a smile or caress; but presently her father went out, saying to the elder Mr. Dinsmore that he was going to ride over to Ion, and would probably not return before night; then, with a sigh, the little girl went back to her own room to prepare her morning lessons. Elsie was now happily free from Arthur's persecutions for a time; for even after his release, he was too much afraid of his brother openly to offer her any very serious annoyance, though he plotted revenge in secret; yet the little girl's situation was far from comfortable, and her patience often severely tried, for Mrs. Dinsmore was excessively angry with her on Arthur's account, and whenever her father was not present, treated her in the most unkind manner; and from the same cause the rest of the family, with the exception of her grandpa and Aunt Adelaide, were unusually cold and distant; while her father, although careful to see that all her wants were attended to, seldom took any further notice of her; unless to reprove her for some childish fault which, however trifling, never escaped his eye. "You seem," said Adelaide to him one day, as he sent Elsie from the room for some very slight fault, "to expect that child to be a great deal more perfect than any grown person I ever saw, and to understand all about the rules of etiquette." "If you please, Adelaide," said he haughtily, "I should like to be allowed to manage my own child as I see proper, without any interference from others." "Excuse me," replied his sister; "I had no intention of interfering; but really, Horace, I do think you have no idea how eagle-eyed you are for faults in her, nor how _very_ stern is the tone in which you always reprove her. I have known Elsie a great deal longer than you have, and I feel very certain that a gentle reproof would do her quite as much good, and not wound her half so much." "Enough, Adelaide!" exclaimed her brother, impatiently. "If I were ten years _younger_ than yourself, instead of that much older, there might be some propriety in your advising and directing me thus; as it is, I must say I consider it simply impertinent." And he left the room with an angry stride, while Adelaide looked after him with the thought, "I am glad you have no authority over me." All that Adelaide had said was true; yet Elsie never complained, never blamed her father, even in her heart; but, in her deep humility, thought it was all because she was "so very naughty or careless;" and she was continually making resolutions to be "oh! _so_ careful always to do just right, and please dear papa, so that some day he might learn to love her." But, alas! that hope was daily growing fainter and fainter; his cold and distant manner to her and his often repeated reproofs had so increased her natural timidity and sensitiveness that she was now very constrained in her approaches to him, and seldom ventured to move or speak in his presence; and he would not see that this timidity and embarrassment were the natural results of his treatment, but attributed it all to want of affection. He saw that she feared him, and to that feeling alone he gave credit for her uniform obedience to his commands, while he had no conception of the intense, but now almost despairing love for him that burned in that little heart, and made the young life one longing, earnest desire and effort to gain his affection. CHAPTER SIXTH "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me." --_Psalm_ xxiii. 4. "'Tis but the cruel artifice of fate, Thus to refine and vary on our woes, To raise us from despair and give us hopes, Only to plunge us in the gulf again, And make us doubly wretched." --TRAP's _Abramuh_. It was Sabbath morning, and Elsie, ready dressed for church, stood in the portico waiting for her father to come down and lift her into the carriage, in which Adelaide, Louisa, and Enna were already seated. The coachman was in his seat, and the horses, a pair of young and fiery steeds purchased by Mr. Dinsmore only a few days before, were impatiently stamping and tossing their heads, requiring quite an exertion of strength to hold them in. "I don't exactly like the actions of those horses, Ajax," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, as he came out putting on his gloves; "I did not intend to have them put in harness to-day. Why did you not give us the old bays?" "Kase, Marster Horace, ole Kate she's got a lame foot, an' ole marster he says dese youngsters is got to be used some time or nuther, an' I reckoned I mout jis as well use 'em to-day." "Do you feel quite sure of being able to hold them in?" asked his master, glancing uneasily first at the horses and then at Elsie. "Ki! marster, dis here chile ben able to hold in a'most anything," exclaimed the negro, exhibiting a double row of dazzlingly white teeth; "an' besides, I'se drove dese here hosses twice 'fore now, an' dey went splendid. Hold 'em in! Yes, sah, easy as nuffin." "Elsie," said her father, still looking a little uneasy, in spite of Ajax's boasting, "I think it would be just as well for you to stay at home." Elsie made no reply in words, but her answering look spoke such intense disappointment, such earnest entreaty, that, saying, "Ah! well, I suppose there is no real danger; and since you seem so anxious to go, I will not compel you to stay at home," he lifted her into the carriage, and seating himself beside her, ordered the coachman to drive on as carefully as he could. "Elsie, change seats with me," said Enna; "I want to sit beside Brother Horace." "No," replied Mr. Dinsmore, laying his hand on his little daughter's shoulder, "Elsie's place is by me, and she shall sit nowhere else." "Do you think we are in any danger of being run away with?" asked Adelaide, a little anxiously as she observed him glancing once or twice out of the window, and was at the same time sensible that their motion was unusually rapid. "The horses are young and fiery, but Ajax is an excellent driver," he replied, evasively; adding, "You may be sure that if I had thought the danger very great I would have left Elsie at home." They reached the church without accident, but on their return the horses took fright while going down a hill, and rushed along at a furious rate, which threatened every instant to upset the carriage. Elsie thought they were going very fast, but did not know that there was real danger until her father suddenly lifted her from her seat, and placing her between his knees, held her tightly, as though he feared she would be snatched from his grasp. Elsie looked up into his face. It was deadly pale, and his eyes were fixed upon her with an expression of anguish. "Dear papa," she whispered, "God will take care of us." "I would give all I am worth to have you safe at home," he answered hoarsely, pressing her closer and closer to him. O! even in that moment of fearful peril, when death seemed just at hand, those words, and the affectionate clasp of her father's arm, sent a thrill of intense joy to the love-famished heart of the little girl. But destruction seemed inevitable. Lora was leaning back, half fainting with terror; Adelaide scarcely less alarmed, while Enna clung to her, sobbing most bitterly. Elsie alone preserved a cheerful serenity. She had built her house upon the rock, and knew that it would stand. Her destiny was in her Heavenly Father's hands, and she was content to leave it there. Even death had no terrors to the simple, unquestioning faith of the little child who had put her trust in Jesus. But they were not to perish thus; for at that moment a powerful negro, who was walking along the road, hearing an unusual sound, turned about, caught sight of the vehicle coming toward him at such a rapid rate, and instantly comprehending the peril of the travellers, planted himself in the middle of the road, and, at the risk of life and limb, caught the horses by the bridle--the sudden and unexpected check throwing them upon their haunches, and bringing the carriage to an instant stand-still. "Thank God, we are saved! That fellow shall be well rewarded for his brave deed," exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore, throwing open the carriage door. Then, leaping to the ground, he lifted Elsie out, set her down, and gave his hand to his sisters one after the other. They were almost at the entrance of the avenue, and all preferred to walk the short distance to the house rather than again trust themselves to the horses. Mr. Dinsmore lingered a moment to speak to the man who had done them such good service, and to give some directions to the coachman; and then, taking the hand of his little girl, who had been waiting for him, he walked slowly on, neither of them speaking a word until they reached the house, when he stooped and kissed her cheek, asking very kindly if she had recovered from her fright. "Yes, papa," she answered, in a quiet tone, "I knew that God would take care of us. Oh! wasn't He good to keep us all from being killed?" "Yes," he said, very gravely. "Go now and let mammy get you ready for dinner." As Elsie was sitting alone in her room that afternoon she was surprised by a visit from Lora; it being very seldom that the elder girls cared to enter her apartment. Lora looked a little pale, and more grave and thoughtful than Elsie had ever seen her. For a while she sat in silence, then suddenly burst out, "Oh, Elsie! I can't help thinking all the time, what if we had been killed! where would we all be now? where would _I_ have been? I believe _you_ would have gone straight to heaven, Elsie; but _I_--oh! I should have been with the rich man the minister read about this morning, lifting up my eyes in torment." And Lora covered her face with her hands and shuddered. Presently she went on again. "I was terribly frightened, and so were the rest--all but you, Elsie; tell me, _do_--what kept _you_ from being afraid?" "I was thinking," said Elsie gently, turning over the leaves of her little Bible as she spoke, "of this sweet verse: 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me;' and oh, Lora! it made me so happy to think that Jesus was there with me, and that if I were killed, I should only fall asleep, to wake up again in His arms; then how could I be afraid?" "Ah! I would give anything to feel as you do," said Lora, sighing. "But tell me, Elsie, did you not feel afraid for the rest of us? I'm sure you must know that _we_ are not Christians; we don't even pretend to be." Elsie blushed and looked down. "It all passed so quickly, you know, Lora, almost in a moment," she said, "so that I only had time to think of papa and myself; and I have prayed so much for him that I felt quite sure God would spare him until he should be prepared to die. It was very selfish, I know," she added with deep humility; "but it was only for a moment, and I can't tell you how thankful I was for _all_ our spared lives." "Don't look so--as if you had done something very wicked, Elsie," replied Lora, sighing again. "I'm sure we have given you little enough reason to care whatever becomes of us; but oh! Elsie, if you can only tell me how to be a Christian, I mean now to try very hard; indeed, I am determined never to rest until I am one." "Oh, Lora, how glad I am!" cried Elsie, joyfully, "for I know that if you are really in earnest, you will succeed; for no one ever yet failed who tried aright. Jesus said, '_Every one_ that asketh, receiveth; and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh, it _shall_ be opened.' Is not _that_ encouraging? And listen to what God says here in _this_ verse: 'Ye shall seek me and _find_ me, when ye shall search for me with _all your heart_.' So you see, dear Lora, if you will only seek the Lord with your _whole heart_, you may be _sure_, _quite_ sure of finding Him." "Yes," said Lora, "but you have not answered my question; _how_ am I to seek? that is, what means am I to use to get rid of my sins, and get a new heart? how make myself pleasing in the sight of God? what must I _do_ to be saved?" "That is the very question the jailer put to Paul, and he answered, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved,'" replied Elsie, quickly turning to the chapter and pointing out the text with her finger, that Lora might see that she had quoted it correctly. "And in answer to your other question, 'How shall I get rid of my sins?' see here: 'In that day there shall be a fountain opened to the house of David and to the inhabitants of Jerusalem for sin and for uncleanliness.' That is in Zechariah; then John tells us what that fountain is when he says, 'The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin;' and again, 'Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood.'" "Yes, Elsie, but what must I _do_?" asked Lora, eagerly. "Do, Lora? only _believe_" replied Elsie, in the same earnest tone. "Jesus has done and suffered all that is necessary; and now we have nothing at all to do but go to Him and be washed in that fountain; believe Him when He says, 'I _give_ unto them eternal life;' just accept the gift, and trust and love Him; that is the whole of it, and it is so simple that even such a little girl as I can understand it." "But surely, Elsie, I _can_, I _must do something_." "Yes, God tells us to repent; and He says, 'Give me thine heart;' you can do that; you can love Jesus; at least He will enable you to, if you ask Him, and He will teach you to be sorry for your sins; the Bible says, 'He is exalted to give repentance and remission of sins;' and if you ask Him He will give them to you. It is true we cannot do anything good of ourselves; without the help of the Holy Spirit we can do nothing right, because we are so very wicked; but then we can always get that help if we ask for it. Jesus said, 'Your Heavenly Father is more willing to give His Holy Spirit to them that ask Him, than parents are to give good gifts unto their children. Oh, Lora! don't be afraid to ask for it; don't be afraid to come to Jesus, for He says, 'Him that cometh unto Me, I will in nowise cast out;' and He is such a precious Saviour, so kind and loving. But remember that you must come very humbly; feeling that you are a great sinner, and not worthy to be heard, and only hoping to be forgiven, because Jesus died. The Bible says, 'God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble.'" Lora lingered the greater part of the afternoon in Elsie's room, asking her questions, or listening to her while she read the Scriptures, or repeated some beautiful hymn, or spoke in her sweet, childish way, of her own peace and joy in believing in Jesus. But at last Lora went to her own room, and Elsie had another quiet half-hour to herself before the tea-bell again called the family together. Elsie answered the summons with a light heart--a heart that thrilled with a new and strange sense of happiness as she remembered her father's evident anxiety for her safety during their perilous ride, recalling each word and look, and feeling again, in imagination, the clasp of his arm about her waist. "Ah! surely papa does love me," she murmured to herself over and over again; and when he met her at the table with a kind smile, and laying his hand caressingly on her head, asked in an affectionate tone, "How does my little daughter do this evening?" her cheeks flushed, and her eyes grew bright with happiness, and she longed to throw her arms around his neck, and tell him how very, very much she loved him. But that was quite impossible at the table, and before all the family; so she merely raised her glad eyes to his face and answered, "I am very well, thank you, papa." But, after all, this occurrence produced but little change in Elsie's condition; her father treated her a little more affectionately for a day or two, and then gradually returned to his ordinary stern, cold manner; indeed, before the week was out, she was again in sad disgrace. She was walking alone in the garden one afternoon, when her attention was attracted by a slight fluttering noise which seemed to proceed from an arbor near by, and on hastily turning in to ascertain the cause, she found a tiny and beautiful humming-bird confined under a glass vase; in its struggles to escape it was fluttering and beating against the walls of its prison, thus producing the sound the little girl had heard in passing. Elsie was very tender-hearted, and could never see any living creature in distress without feeling a strong desire to relieve its sufferings. She knew that Arthur was in the habit of torturing every little insect and bird that came in his way, and had often drawn his persecutions upon herself by interfering in behalf of the poor victim; and now the thought instantly flashed upon her that _this_ was some of his work, and that he would return ere long to carry out his cruel purposes. Then at once arose the desire to release the little prisoner and save it further suffering, and without waiting to reflect a moment she raised the glass, and the bird was gone. Then she began to think with a little tremor, how angry Arthur would be; but it was too late to think of that now, and, after all, she did not stand in very great dread of the consequences, especially as she felt nearly sure of her father's approval of what she had done, having several times heard him reprove Arthur for his cruel practices. Not caring to meet Arthur then, however, she hastily retreated to the house, where she seated herself in the veranda with a book. It was a very warm afternoon, and that, being on the east side of the house and well protected by trees, shrubbery, and vines, was as cool a spot as could be found on the place. Arthur, Walter and Enna sat on the floor playing jack-stones--a favorite game with them--and Louise was stretched full length on a settee, buried in the latest novel. "Hush!" she said, as Walter gave a sudden shout at a successful toss Enna had just made; "can't you be quiet? Mamma is taking her afternoon nap, and you will disturb her; and, besides, I cannot read in such a noise." Elsie wondered why Arthur did not go to see after his bird, but soon forgot all about it in the interest with which she was poring over the story of the "Swiss Family Robinson." The jack-stone players were just finishing their game when they were all startled by the sudden appearance of Mr. Horace Dinsmore upon the scene, asking in a tone of great wrath who had been down in the garden and liberated the humming-bird he had been at such pains to catch, because it was one of a rare species, and he was anxious to add it to his collection of curiosities. Elsie was terribly frightened, and would have been glad at that moment to sink through the floor; she dropped her book in her lap, and clasping her hands over her beating heart, grew pale and red by turns, while she seemed choking with the vain effort to speak and acknowledge herself the culprit, as conscience told her she ought. But her father was not looking at her; his eye was fixed on Arthur. "I presume it was you, sir," he said very angrily, "and if so, you may prepare yourself for either a flogging or a return to your prison, for one or the other I am determined you shall have." "I didn't _do_ it, any such thing," replied the boy, fiercely. "Of course you will deny it," said his brother, "but we all know that your word is good for nothing." "Papa," said a trembling little voice, "Arthur did not do it; it was I." "You," exclaimed her father, in a tone of mingled anger and astonishment, as he turned his flashing eye upon her, "_you_, Elsie! can it be _possible_ that this is _your_ doing?" Elsie's book fell on the floor, and, covering her face with both hands, she burst into sobs and tears. "Come here to me this instant," he said, seating himself on the settee, from which Louise had risen on his entrance. "Come here and tell me what you mean by meddling with my affairs in this way." "Please, papa, _please_ don't be so very angry with me," sobbed the little girl, as she rose and came forward in obedience to his command; "I didn't know it was your bird, and I didn't mean to be naughty." "No, you _never mean_ to be naughty, according to your own account," he said; "your badness is all accident; but nevertheless, I find you a very troublesome, mischievous child; it was only the other day you broke a valuable vase" (he forgot in his anger how little she had really been to blame for that), "and now you have caused me the loss of a rare specimen which I had spent a great deal of time and effort in procuring. Really, Elsie, I am sorely tempted to administer a very severe punishment." Elsie caught at the arm of the settee for support. "Tell me what you did it for; was it pure love of mischief?" asked her father, sternly, taking hold of her arm and holding her up by it. "No, papa," she answered almost under her breath. "I was sorry for the little bird. I thought Arthur had put it there to torture it, and so I let it go. I did not mean to do wrong, papa, indeed I did not," and the tears fell faster and faster. "Indeed," said he, "you had no business to meddle with it, let who would have put it there. Which hand did it?" "This one, papa," sobbed the child, indicating her right hand. He took it in his and held it a moment, while the little girl stood tremblingly awaiting what was to come next. He looked at the downcast, tearful face, the bosom heaving with sobs, and then at the little trembling hand he held, so soft, and white, and tender, and the sternness of his countenance relaxed somewhat; it seemed next to impossible to inflict pain upon anything so tender and helpless; and for a moment he was half inclined to kiss and forgive her. But no, he had been very much irritated at his loss, and the remembrance of it again aroused his anger, and well-nigh extinguished the little spark of love and compassion that had burned for a moment in his heart. She should be punished, though he would not inflict physical pain. "See, Elsie," laughed Louise, maliciously, "he is feeling in his pocket for his knife. I suspect he intends to cut your hand off." Elsie started, and the tearful eyes were raised to her father's face with a look half of terrified entreaty, half of confidence that such _could not_ be his intention. "Hush, Louise!" exclaimed her brother, sternly; "you _know_ you are not speaking truly, and that I would as soon think of cutting off my own hand as my child's. You should never speak anything but truth, especially to children." "I think it is well enough to frighten them a little sometimes, and I thought that was what you were going to do," replied Louise, looking somewhat mortified at the rebuke. "No," said her brother, "that is a very bad plan, and one which I shall never adopt. Elsie will learn in time, if she does not know it now, that I never utter a threat which I do not intend to carry out, and never break my word." He had drawn a handkerchief from his pocket while speaking. "I shall tie this hand up, Elsie," he said, proceeding to do so; "those who do not use their hands aright must be deprived of the use of them. There! let me see if that will keep it out of mischief. I shall tie you up hand and foot before long, if you continue such mischievous pranks. Now go to your room, and stay there until tea-time." Elsie felt deeply, bitterly disgraced and humiliated as she turned to obey; and it needed not Arthur's triumphant chuckle nor the smirk of satisfaction on Enna's face to add to the keen suffering of her wounded spirit; this slight punishment was more to her than a severe chastisement would have been to many another child; for the very knowledge of her father's displeasure was enough at any time to cause great pain to her sensitive spirit and gentle, loving heart. Walter, who was far more tender-hearted than either his brother or sister, felt touched by the sight of her distress, and ran after her to say, "Never mind, Elsie; I am ever so sorry for you, and I don't think you were the least bit naughty." She thanked him with a grateful look, and a faint attempt to smile through her tears; then hurried on to her room, where she seated herself in a chair by the window, and laying her arms upon the sill, rested her head upon them, and while the bitter tears fell fast from her eyes she murmured half aloud, "Oh! why am I always so naughty? always doing something to displease my dear papa? how I wish I could be good, and make him love me! I am afraid he never will if I vex him so often." Then an earnest, importunate prayer for help to do right, and wisdom to understand how to gain her father's love, went up from the almost despairing little heart to Him whose ear is ever open unto the cry of His suffering children. And thus between weeping, mourning, and praying, an hour passed slowly away, and the tea-bell rang. Elsie started up, but sat down again, feeling that she would much rather do without her supper than show her tear-swollen eyes and tied-up hand at the table. But she was not to be left to her choice in the matter, for presently there came a messenger bringing a peremptory command from her father "to come down _immediately_ to her supper." "Did you not hear the bell?" he asked, in his sternest tone, as she tremblingly took her seat at his side. "Yes, sir," she answered, in a low, tremulous tone. "Very well, then; remember that you are always to come down the moment the bell rings, unless you are directed otherwise, or are sick; and the next time you are so late, I shall send you away without your meal." "I don't want any supper, papa," she said, humbly. "Hush," he replied, severely; "I will have no pouting or sulking; you must just eat your supper and behave yourself. Stop this crying at once," he added, in an undertone, as he spread some preserves on a piece of bread and laid it on her plate, "or I shall take you away from the table, and if I do, you will be very sorry." He watched her a moment while she made a violent effort to choke back her tears. "What is your hand tied up for, Elsie?" asked her grandfather; "have you been hurt?" Elsie's face flushed painfully, but she made no reply. "You must speak when you are spoken to," said her father; "answer your grandfather's question at once." "Papa tied it up, because I was naughty," replied the little girl, vainly striving to suppress a sob. Her father made a movement as if about to lead her from the table. "O papa! _don't_" she cried, in terror; "I will be good." "Let me have no more crying, then," said he; "this is shameful behavior for a girl eight years old; it would be bad enough in a child of Enna's age." He took out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "Now," said he, "begin to eat your supper at once, and don't let me have to reprove you again." Elsie tried to obey, but it seemed very difficult, indeed almost impossible, while she knew that her father was watching her closely, and _felt_ that everybody else was looking at her and thinking, "What a naughty little girl you are!" "Oh!" thought the poor child, "if papa would only quit looking at me, and the rest would forget all about me and eat their suppers, maybe I could keep from crying." Then she sent up a silent prayer for help, struggling hard to keep back the tears and sobs that were almost suffocating her, and taking up her slice of bread, tried to eat. She was very thankful to her Aunt Adelaide for addressing a question to her papa just at that moment, thus taking his attention from her, and then adroitly setting them all to talking until the little girl had had time to recover her composure, at least in a measure. "May I go to my room now, papa?" asked the timid little voice as they rose from the table. "No," he said, taking her hand and leading her out to the veranda, where he settled himself in an easy-chair and lighted a cigar. "Bring me that book that lies yonder on the settee," he commanded. She brought it. "Now," said he, "bring that stool and set yourself down here close at my knee, and let me see if I can keep you out of mischief for an hour or two." "May I get a book to read, papa?" she asked timidly. "No," said he shortly. "You may just do what I bid you, and nothing more nor less." She sat down as he directed, with her face turned toward him, and tried to amuse herself with her own thoughts, and watching the expression of his countenance as he read on and on, turning leaf after leaf, too much interested in his book to take any further notice of her. "How handsome my papa is!" thought the little girl, gazing with affectionate admiration into his face. And then she sighed, and tears trembled in her eyes again. She admired her father, and loved him, "oh! _so_ dearly," as she often whispered to herself; but would she ever meet with anything like a return of her fond affection? There was an aching void in her heart which nothing else could fill; must it always be thus? was her craving for affection never to be satisfied? "O, papa! my own papa, will you never love me?" mourned the sad little heart. "Ah! if I could only be good always, perhaps he would; but I am so often naughty;--whenever he begins to be kind I am sure to do something to vex him, and then it is all over. Oh! I _wish_ I _could_ be good! I will try very, _very_ hard. Ah! if I might climb on his knee now, and lay my head on his breast, and put my arms round his neck, and tell him how sorry I am that I have been naughty, and made him lose his bird; and how much--oh! _how_ much I love him! But I know I never could tell him _that_--I don't know how to express it; no _words could_, I am sure. And if he would forgive me, and kiss me, and call me his dear little daughter. Oh! will he _ever_ call me _that?_ Or if I, might only stand beside him and lay my head on his shoulder, and he would put his arm around me, it would make me _so_ happy." An exclamation from Enna caused Elsie to turn her head, and suddenly springing to her feet, she exclaimed in an eager, excited way, "Papa, there is a carriage coming up the avenue--it must be visitors; please, _please_, papa, let me go to my room." "Why?" he asked coolly, looking up from his book, "why do you wish to go?" "Because I don't want to see them, papa," she said, hanging her head and blushing deeply; "I don't want them to see me." "You are not usually afraid of visitors," he replied in the same cool tone. "But they will see that my hand is tied up, and they will ask what is the matter. O papa! do, _please_ do let me go quickly, before they get here," she pleaded in an agony of shame and haste. "No," said he, "I shall not let you go, if it were only to punish you for getting off the seat where I bade you stay, without permission. You will have to learn that I am to be obeyed at all times, and under all circumstances. Sit down, and don't dare to move again until I give you leave." Elsie sat down without another word, but two bitter, scalding tears rolled quickly down her burning cheeks. "You needn't cry, Elsie," said her father; "it is only an old gentleman who comes to see your grandfather on business, and who, as he never notices children, will not be at all likely to ask any questions. I hope you will learn some day, Elsie, to save your tears until there is really some occasion for them." The old gentleman had alighted while Mr. Dinsmore was speaking; Elsie saw that he was alone, and the relief was so great that for once she scarcely heeded her father's rebuke. Another half-hour passed, and Mr. Dinsmore still sat reading, taking no notice of Elsie, who, afraid to speak or move, was growing very weary and sleepy. She longed to lay her head on her father's knee, but dared not venture to take such a liberty; but at length she was so completely overpowered by sleep as to do so unconsciously. The sound of his voice pronouncing her name aroused her. "You are tired and sleepy," said he; "if you would like to go to bed you may do so." "Thank you, papa," she replied, rising to her feet. "Well," he said, seeing her hesitate, "speak, if you have anything to say." "I am very sorry I was naughty, papa. Will you please forgive me?" The words were spoken very low, and almost with a sob. "Will you try not to meddle in future, and not to cry at the table, or pout and sulk when you are punished?" he asked in a cold, grave tone. "Yes, sir, I will try to be a good girl always," said the humble little voice. "Then I will forgive you," he replied, taking the handkerchief off her hand. Still Elsie lingered. She felt as if she could not go without some little token of forgiveness and love, some slight caress. He looked at her with an impatient "Well?" Then, in answer to her mute request, "No," he said, "I will not kiss you to-night; you have been entirely too naughty. Go to your room at once." Aunt Chloe was absolutely frightened by the violence of her child's grief, as she rushed into the room and flung herself into her arms weeping and sobbing most vehemently. "What's de matter, darlin'?" she asked in great alarm. "O mammy, mammy!" sobbed the child, "papa wouldn't kiss me! he said I was too naughty. O mammy! will he ever love me now?" CHAPTER SEVENTH "The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on." --SHAKESPEARE, _Richard III_. "A blossom full of promise is life's joy, That never comes to fruit. Hope, for a time, Suns the young flow'ret in its gladsome light, And it looks flourishing--a little while-- 'Tis pass'd, we know not whither, but 'tis gone." --MISS LANDON. It was Miss Day's custom to present to the parents of her pupils a monthly report of their conduct and recitations. The regular time for this had occurred once since Mr. Horace Dinsmore's return, when she, of course, handed Elsie's to him. It was very satisfactory, for Elsie was a most diligent scholar, carrying her religious principles into that as well as everything else; and disposed as Miss Day was to find fault with her, she could seldom see any excuse for so doing, in either her conduct or recitations. Mr. Dinsmore glanced over the report and handed it back, saying, "It is all very good; very satisfactory indeed. I am glad to see that she is industrious and well behaved, for I wish her to grow up an intelligent and amiable woman." Elsie, who was standing near, heard the words, and they sent a glow of pleasure to her cheeks. She looked up eagerly; but her father turned and walked away without taking any notice of her, and the glow of happiness faded, and the soft eyes filled with tears of wounded feeling. It was now time for a second report; but alas! the past month had been a most unfortunate one for the little girl; the weather was very warm, and she had felt languid and weak, and so much were her thoughts occupied with the longing desire to gain her father's love, so depressed were her spirits by her constant failure to do so, that she often found it impossible to give her mind to her lessons. Arthur, too, during much of the time before and since the week of his imprisonment, had been more than usually annoying, shaking her chair and jogging her elbow so frequently when she was writing, that her copy-book presented by no means so good an appearance as usual; and never had Miss Day made out so poor a report for her. She carried it with much secret satisfaction to the little girl's father, and entered a long complaint of the child's idleness and inattention. "Send her to me," he said, angrily. "She will find me in my own room." Miss Day had left Elsie in the school-room putting her desk in order after the day's work, and she found her still there on her return. "Elsie," said she, with a malicious smile, "your father wishes to see you immediately. He is in his room." The child turned red and pale by turns, and trembled so violently that for a moment she was quite unable to move; for she guessed from Miss Day's countenance what was probably in store for her. "I advise you to go at once," said that lady, "for no doubt the longer you wait the worse it will be for you." At the same moment Mr. Dinsmore's voice was heard calling in a stern, angry tone, "Elsie!" Making a violent effort to control her feelings, she started up and hastened to obey. The door of his room stood open, and she walked in, asking in a trembling voice, "Did you call me, papa?" "Yes," said he, "I did. Come here to me." He was sitting with the copy-book and report in his hand, and there was much severity in both tone and look as he addressed her. She obeyed instantly, but trembling violently, and with a face pale as death, and eyes filled with tears. She lifted them pleadingly to his face; and, touched by her evident terror and distress, he said in a tone somewhat less stern, "Can you tell me, Elsie, how it happens that your teacher brings me so bad a report of your conduct and lessons during the past month? She says you have been very idle; and the report tells the same story; and this copy-book presents a shameful appearance." The child answered only by tears and sobs. They seemed to irritate him. "Elsie," he said, sternly, "when I ask a question, I require an answer, and that instantly." "O papa!" she answered, pleadingly, "I couldn't study. I'm very sorry--I'll try to do better--only don't be very angry with me, dear papa." "I am angry with you; very angry, indeed," said he in the same severe tone, "and very strongly inclined to punish you. You _couldn't_ study, eh? What reason can you assign, pray? Were you not well?" "I don't know, sir," sobbed the little girl. "You don't _know_? Very well, then, I think you could not be very ill without knowing it, and so you seem to have no excuse at all to offer? However, I will not inflict any punishment upon you _this_ time, as you seem to be really sorry, and have promised to do better; but beware how you let me see such a report as this, or hear such complaints of idleness again, unless you wish to be _severely punished_; and I warn you that unless your next copy-book presents a better appearance than this, I certainly shall punish you. "There are a number of pages here that look quite well," he continued, turning over the leaves; "that shows what you _can_ do, if you choose; now there is an old saying, 'A bird that _can_ sing, and _won't_ sing, must be _made_ to sing.' Hush!" as Elsie seemed about to speak; "not a word. You may go now." And throwing himself back in his easy-chair, he took up a newspaper and began to read. Yet Elsie lingered; her heart so yearned for one word or look of sympathy and love; she so longed to throw herself into his arms and tell him how dearly, how _very_ dearly she loved him; she did so hunger and thirst for one fond caress--ah! how could she go away without it now, when for the very first time she found herself alone with him in his own room, where she had never ventured before, but where she had often been in her brightest dreams. And so she lingered, trembling, hoping, fearing; but presently he looked up with a cold "Why do you stand there? I gave you permission to go; go at once." And with a sinking heart she turned away and sought the solitude of her own room, there to weep, and mourn, and pray that she might one day possess the love she so pined for, and bitterly to reproach herself for having by the failures of the past month put it farther from her. And soon a thought came to her which added greatly to her distress. If Arthur continued his persecutions, how could she make the next copy-book more presentable? and in case it were not, her father had said positively that he would punish her; and oh! how could she bear punishment from him, when a word or look of displeasure almost broke her heart? Miss Day seldom remained in the school-room during the whole of the writing hour, and sometimes the older girls were also absent, so that Arthur had ample opportunity to indulge his mischievous propensities; for Elsie was above the meanness of telling tales, and had she not been, Arthur was so great a favorite with his mother that she would have brought a great deal of trouble upon herself by so doing. She therefore saw no escape from the dreaded punishment, unless she could persuade the perverse boy to cease his annoyances; and of that there was little hope. But she carried her trouble to her Heavenly Father, and asked Him to help her. She was still on her knees, pouring out her sobs and prayers, when some one knocked at the door. She rose and opened it to find her Aunt Adelaide standing there. "Elsie," she said, "I am writing to Miss Rose; have you any word to send? You may write a little note, if you choose, and I will enclose it in my letter. But what is the matter, child?" she suddenly exclaimed, kindly taking the little girl's hand in hers. With many tears and sobs Elsie told her the whole story, not omitting her papa's threat, and her fear that she could not, on account of Arthur's persecutions, avoid incurring the punishment. Adelaide's sympathies were enlisted, and she drew the sobbing child to her side, saying, as she pressed a kiss on her cheek, "Never mind, Elsie, I will take my book or needle-work to the school-room every day, and sit there during the writing hour. But why don't you tell your papa about it?" "Because I don't like to tell tales, Aunt Adelaide, and it would make your mamma so angry with me; and besides, I can't tell papa anything." "Ah, I understand! and no wonder; he is strangely stern to the poor child. I mean to give him a good talking to," murmured Adelaide, more as if thinking aloud than talking to Elsie. Then, kissing the little girl again, she rose hastily and left the room, with the intention of seeking her brother; but he had gone out; and when he returned he brought several gentlemen with him, and she had no opportunity until the desire to interfere in the matter had passed from her mind. "And it shall come to pass, that before they call, I will answer, and while they are yet speaking, I will hear." The promise had been fulfilled to Elsie, and help had been sent her in her trouble. When her Aunt Adelaide left her, Elsie--first carefully locking the door to guard against a surprise visit from Enna--went to her bureau, and unlocking a drawer, took out a purse she was knitting for her father, to replace the one she had given to Miss Allison. She had commenced it before his return, and having spent upon it nearly every spare moment since, when she could feel secure from intrusion, she now had it nearly completed. Ah! many a silent tear had fallen as she worked, and many a sigh over disappointed hopes had been woven into its bright meshes of gold and blue. But now she had been much comforted and encouraged by her aunt's sympathy and kind promise of assistance, and, though there were still traces of tears upon it, the little face looked quite bright and cheerful again as she settled herself in her little sewing chair, and began her work. The small white fingers moved right briskly, the bright shining needles glancing in and out, while the thoughts, quite as busy, ran on something in this fashion: "Ah! I am so sorry I have done so badly the past month; no wonder papa was vexed with me. I don't believe I ever had such a bad report before. What has come over me? It seems as if I _can't_ study, and must have a holiday. I wonder if it is all laziness? I'm afraid it is, and that I ought to be punished. I wish I could shake it off, and feel industrious as I used to. I will try _very_ hard to do better this month, and perhaps I can. It is only one month, and then June will be over, and Miss Day is going North to spend July and August, and maybe September, and so we shall have a long holiday. Surely I can stand it one month more; it will soon be over, though it does seem a long time, and besides, this month we are not to study so many hours, because it is so warm; and there's to be no school on Saturdays; none to-morrow, so that I can finish this. Ah! I wonder if papa will be pleased?" and she sighed deeply. "I'm afraid it will be a long, long time before he will be pleased with me again. I have displeased him twice this week--first about the bird, and now this bad report, and that shameful copy-book. But oh! I will try _so_ hard next month, and dear Aunt Adelaide will keep Arthur from troubling me, and I'm determined my copy-book shall look neat, and not have a single blot in it. "I wonder how I shall spend the vacation? Last summer I had such a delightful visit at Ashlands; and then they were here all the rest of the time. It was then poor Herbert had such a dreadful time with his hip. Ah! how thankful I ought to be that I am not lame, and have always been so healthy. But I'm afraid papa won't let me go there this summer, nor ask them to visit me, because he said he thought Lucy was not a suitable companion for me. I _was_ very naughty when she was here, and I've been naughty a great many times since. Oh! dear, shall I never, never learn to be good? It seems to me I am naughty now much oftener than I used to be before papa came home. I'm afraid he will soon begin to punish me severely, as he threatened to-day. I wonder what he means?" A crimson tide suddenly swept over the fair face and neck, and dropping her work, she covered her face with her hands. "Oh! he couldn't, _couldn't_ mean that! how could I ever bear it! and yet if it would make me really good, I think I wouldn't mind the pain--but the shame and disgrace! oh! it would break my heart. I could never hold up my head again! Oh! _can_ he mean that? But I must just try to be so very good that I will never deserve punishment, and then it will make no difference to me what he means." And with this consolatory reflection she took up her work again. "Mammy, is papa in his room?" asked Elsie, the next afternoon, as she put the finishing touches to her work. "No, darlin', Marster Horace he rode out wid de strange gentlemen more than an hour ago." Elsie laid her needles away in her work-basket, and opening her writing-desk, selected a bit of note-paper, on which she wrote in her very best hand, "A present for my dear papa, from his little daughter Elsie!" This she carefully pinned to the purse, and then carried it to her papa's room, intending to leave it on his toilet-table. Fearing that he might possibly have returned, she knocked gently at the door, but receiving no answer, opened it, and went in; but she had not gone more than half way across the room when she heard his voice behind her, asking, in a tone of mingled surprise and displeasure, "What are you doing here in my room, in my absence, Elsie?" She started, and turned round, pale and trembling, and lifting her eyes pleadingly to his face, silently placed the purse in his hand. He looked first at it, and then at her. "I made it for you, dear papa," she said, in a low, tremulous tone; "do please take it." "It is really very pretty," he said, examining it; "is it possible it is your work? I had no idea you had so much taste and skill. Thank you, daughter; I shall take it, and use it with a great deal of pleasure." He took her hand as he spoke, and sitting down, lifted her to his knee, saying, "Elsie, my child, why do you always seem so afraid of me? I don't like it." With a sudden impulse she threw her arms round his neck, and pressed her lips to his cheek; then dropping her head on his breast, she sobbed: "O papa! _dear_ papa, I _do love_ you so _very_ dearly! will you not love me? O papa! love me a _little_. I know I've been naughty very often, but I will _try_ to be good." Then for the first time he folded her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, saying, in a moved tone, "I _do_ love you, my darling, my own little daughter." Oh! the words were sweeter to Elsie's ear than the most delicious music! her joy was too great for words, for anything but tears. "Why do you cry so, my darling?" he asked, soothingly, stroking her hair, and kissing her again and again. "O papa! because I am so happy, so _very_ happy," she sobbed. "Do you indeed care so very much for my love?" he asked; "then, my daughter, you must not tremble and turn pale whenever I speak to you, as though I were a cruel tyrant." "O papa! I cannot help it, when you look and speak so sternly. I love you so dearly I cannot bear to have you angry with me; but I am not afraid of you now." "That is right," he said, caressing her again. "But there is the tea-bell," he added, setting her down. "Go into the dressing-room there, and bathe your eyes, and then come to me." She hastened to do his bidding, and then taking her hand he led her down and seated her in her usual place by his side. There were visitors, and all his conversation was addressed to them and the older members of the family, but he now and then bestowed a kind look upon his little girl, and attended carefully to all her wants; and Elsie was very happy. Everything now went on very pleasantly with our little friend for some days; she did not see a great deal of her father, as he was frequently away from home for a day or two, and, when he returned, generally brought a number of visitors with him; but whenever he did notice her it was very kindly, and she was gradually overcoming her fear of him, and constantly hoping that the time would soon come when he would have more leisure to bestow upon her. She was happy now, and with a mind at ease, was able to learn her lessons well; and as her Aunt Adelaide faithfully kept her promise, and thus freed her from Arthur's annoyances, she was enabled to do justice to her writing. She took great pains, her copy-book showed a marked improvement in her penmanship, and its pages had not yet been defaced by a single blot, so that she was looking forward with pleasing anticipations to the time when her report should again be presented to her father. But, alas! one unfortunate morning it happened that Miss Day was in a very bad humor indeed--peevish, fretful, irritable, and unreasonable to the last degree; and, as usual, Elsie was the principal sufferer from her ill-humor. She found fault with everything the little girl did; scolded her, shook her, refused to explain the manner of working out a very difficult example, or to permit her to apply to any one else for assistance, and then punished her because it was done wrong; and when the child could no longer keep back her tears, called her a baby for crying, and a dunce for not understanding her arithmetic better. All this Elsie bore meekly and patiently, not answering a word; but her meekness seemed only to provoke the governess the more; and finally, when Elsie came to recite her last lesson, she took pains to put her questions in the most perplexing form, and scarcely allowing the child an instant to begin her reply, answered them herself; then, throwing down the book, scolded her vehemently for her bad lesson, and marked it in her report as a complete failure. Poor Elsie could bear no more, but bursting into tears and sobs, said: "Miss Day, I _did_ know my lesson, every word of it, if you had asked the questions as usual, or had given me time to answer." "_I_ say that you did _not_ know it; that it was a complete failure," replied Miss Day, angrily; "and you shall just sit down and learn it, every word, over." "I _do_ know it, if you will hear me right," said Elsie, indignantly, "and it is very unjust in you to mark it a failure." "Impudence!" exclaimed Miss Day, furiously; "how _dare_ you contradict me? I shall take you to your father." And seizing her by the arm, she dragged her across the room, and opening the door, pushed her into the passage. "Oh! don't, Miss Day," pleaded the little girl, turning toward her, pale and tearful, "don't tell papa." "I will! so just walk along with you," was the angry rejoinder, as she pushed her before her to Mr. Dinsmore's door. It stood open, and he sat at his desk, writing. "What is the matter?" he asked, looking up as they appeared before the door. "Elsie has been very impertinent, sir," said Miss Day; "she not only accused me of injustice, but contradicted me flatly." "Is it _possible!_" said he, frowning angrily. "Come here to me, Elsie, and tell me, is it _true_ that you contradicted your teacher?" "Yes, papa," sobbed the child. "Very well, then, I shall certainly punish you, for I will never allow anything of the kind." As he spoke he picked up a small ruler that lay before him, at the same time taking Elsie's hand as though he meant to use it on her. "O papa!" she cried, in a tone of agonized entreaty. But he laid it down again, saying: "No, I shall punish you by depriving you of your play this afternoon, and giving you only bread and water for your dinner. Sit down there," he added, pointing to a stool. Then, with a wave of his hand to the governess, "I think she will not be guilty of the like again, Miss Day." The governess left the room, and Elsie sat down on her stool, crying and sobbing violently, while her father went on with his writing. "Elsie," he said, presently, "cease that noise; I have had quite enough of it." She struggled to suppress her sobs, but it was almost impossible, and she felt it a great relief when a moment later the dinner-bell rang, and her father left the room. In a few moments a servant came in, carrying on a small waiter a tumbler of water, and a plate with a slice of bread on it. "Dis am _drefful_ poor fare, Miss Elsie," he said, setting it down beside her, "but Massa Horace he say it all you can hab; but if you say so, dis chile tell ole Phoebe to send up somethin' better fore Massa Horace gits through his dinner." "Oh! no, thank you, Pompey; you're very kind, but I would not disobey or deceive papa," replied the little girl, earnestly; "and I am not at all hungry." He lingered a moment, seeming loath to leave her to dine upon such fare. "You had better go now, Pompey," she said gently; "I am afraid you will be wanted." He turned and left the room, muttering something about "disagreeable, good-for-nothing Miss Day!" Elsie felt no disposition to eat; and when her father returned, half an hour afterward, the bread and water were still untouched. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked in a stern, angry tone; "why have you not eaten what I sent you?" "I am not hungry, papa," she said humbly. "Don't tell me that," he replied, "it is nothing but stubbornness; and I shall not allow you to show such a temper. Take up that bread this moment and eat it. You shall eat every crumb of the bread and drink every drop of the water." She obeyed him instantly, breaking off a bit of bread and putting it in her mouth, while he stood watching her with an air of stern, cold determination; but when she attempted to swallow, it seemed utterly impossible. "I cannot, papa," she said, "it chokes me." "You _must_," he replied; "I am going to be obeyed. Take a drink of water, and that will wash it down." It was a hard task, but seeing that there was no escape, she struggled to obey, and at length every crumb of bread and drop of water had disappeared. "Now, Elsie," said her father, in a tone of great severity, "never _dare_ to show me such a temper as this again; you will not escape so easily next time; remember I am to be obeyed _always_; and when I send you anything to eat, _you are to eat it_." It had not been temper at all, and his unjust severity almost broke her heart; but she could not say one word in her own defence. He looked at her a moment as she sat there trembling and weeping; then saying, "I forbid you to leave this room without my permission; don't venture to disobey me, Elsie; sit where you are until I return," he turned to go. "Papa," she asked, pleadingly, "may I have my books, to learn my lessons for to-morrow." "Certainly," he said; "I will send a servant with them." "And my Bible too, please, papa." "Yes, yes," he answered impatiently, as he went out and shut the door. Jim was just bringing up Elsie's horse, as Mr. Dinsmore passed through the hall, and he stepped out to order it back to the stable, saying that Miss Elsie was not going to ride. "What is the trouble with Elsie?" asked his sister Adelaide, as he returned to the drawing-room and seated himself beside her. "She has been impertinent to her governess, and I have confined her to my room for the rest of the day," he replied, rather shortly. "Are you _sure_, Horace, that Elsie was so much to blame?" asked his sister, speaking in a tone too low to reach any ear but his. "I am certain, from what Lora tells me, that Miss Day is often cruelly unjust to her; more so than to any other of her pupils." He looked at her with a good deal of surprise. "Are you not mistaken?" he asked. "No! it is a positive fact that she does at times _really abuse_ her." "Indeed! I shall certainly not allow _that_" he said, coloring with anger. "But in this instance, Adelaide," he added thoughtfully, "I think you must be mistaken, for Elsie _acknowledged_ that she had been impertinent. I did not condemn her unheard, stern and severe as you think me." "If she _was_, Horace, believe me it must have been only after great provocation, and her acknowledgment of it is no proof at all, to my mind; for Elsie is so humble, she would think she _must_ have been guilty of impertinence if Miss Day accused her of it." "Surely not, Adelaide; she is by no means wanting in sense," he replied, in a tone of incredulity, not unmixed with annoyance. Then he sat thinking a moment, half inclined to go to his child and inquire more particularly into the circumstances, but soon relinquished the idea, saying to himself, "No; if she does not choose to be frank with me, and say what she can in her own defence, she _deserves_ to suffer; and besides, she showed such stubbornness about eating that bread." He was very proud, and did not like to acknowledge even to _himself_ that he had punished his child unjustly--much less to _her_; and it was not until near tea-time that he returned to his room, entering so softly that Elsie did not hear him. She was sitting just where he had left her, bending over her Bible, an expression of sadness and deep humility on the sweet little face, so young and fair and innocent. She did not seem aware of his presence until he was close beside her, when, looking up with a start, she said in a voice full of tears, "Dear papa, I am very sorry for all my naughtiness; will you please forgive me?" "Yes," he said, "certainly I will, if you are really sorry;" and stooping, he kissed her coldly, saying, "Now go to your room, and let Chloe dress you for tea." She rose at once, gathered up her books, and went out. The little heart was very sad; for her father's manner was so cold she feared he would never love her again. And she was particularly distressed by the bad mark given her for recitation that day, because she knew the time was now drawing very near when her report must be handed in to her papa; and the delight with which she had hitherto looked forward to receiving his well-merited approbation, was now changed to fear, and dread of his displeasure; yet she knew she had not deserved the bad mark, and again and again she determined that she would tell her father all about it; but his manner had now become so cold and stern that she could not summon up courage to do so, but put it off from day to day, until it was too late. CHAPTER EIGHTH. "He that pursues an act that is attended With doubtful issues, for the means, had need Of policy and force to make it speed." --T. NABB's _Unfortunate Mother._ "Joy never feasts so high, As when the first course is of misery." --SUCKLING's _Aglaura._ It was Friday, and the next morning was the when the reports were to be presented. School had closed, and all but Elsie had already left the room; but she was carefully arranging the books, writing and drawing materials, etc., in her desk, for she was very neat and orderly in her habits. When she had quite finished her work she took up her report-book, and glanced over it. As her eye rested for an instant upon the one bad mark, she sighed a little, and murmured to herself, "I am _so_ sorry; I wish papa knew how little I really deserved it. I don't know why I never can get the courage to tell him." Then, laying it aside, she opened her copy-book and turned over the leaves with unalloyed pleasure, for not one of its pages was defaced by a single blot, and from beginning to end it gave evidence of painstaking carefulness and decided improvement. "Ah! surely _this_ will please dear papa!" she exclaimed, half aloud. "How good Aunt Adelaide was to sit here with me!" Then, putting it carefully in its place, she closed and locked the desk, and carrying the key to her room, laid it on the mantel, where she was in the habit of keeping it. Now it so happened that afternoon that Arthur, who had made himself sick by over-indulgence in sweetmeats, and had in consequence been lounging about the house doing nothing for the last day or two, remained at home while all the rest of the family were out, walking, riding, or visiting. He was not usually very fond of reading, but while lying on the lounge in the nursery, very much in want of some amusement, it suddenly occurred to him that he would like to look at a book he had seen Elsie reading that morning. To be sure the book belonged to her, and she was not there to be consulted as to her willingness to lend it; but that made no difference to Arthur, who had very little respect for the rights of property, excepting where his own were concerned. Elsie, he knew, was out, and Chloe in the kitchen; so, feeling certain there would be no one to interfere with him, he went directly to the little girl's room to look for the book. He soon found it lying on the mantel; but the desk-key lay right beside it, and as he caught sight of that he gave a half scream of delight, for he guessed at once to what lock it belonged, and felt that he now could accomplish the revenge he had plotted ever since the affair of the watch. He put out his hand to take it, but drew it back again, and stood for a moment balancing in his mind the chances of detection. He could deface Elsie's copy-book, but Adelaide could testify to the little girl's carefulness and the neatness of her work up to that very day, for she had been in the school-room that morning during the writing hour. But then Adelaide had just left home to pay a visit to a friend living at some distance, and would not return for several weeks, so there was little danger from that quarter. Miss Day, to be sure, knew the appearance of Elsie's book quite as well, but there was still less danger of her interference, and he was pretty certain no one else knew. So he decided to run the risk, and laying down the book he took the key, went to the door, looked carefully up and down the hall to make sure of not being seen by any of the servants, and having satisfied himself on that point, hurried to the school-room, unlocked Elsie's desk, took out her copy-book, and dipping a pen in the ink, proceeded deliberately to blot nearly every page in it; on some he made a large blot, on others a small one, and on some two or three; and also scribbled between the lines and on the margin, so as completely to deface poor Elsie's work. But to do Arthur justice, though he knew his brother would be pretty sure to be very angry with Elsie, he did not know of the threatened punishment. He stopped once or twice as he thought he heard a footstep, and shut down the lid until it had passed, when he raised it again and went on with his wicked work. It did not take long, however, and he soon replaced the copy-book in the precise spot in which he had found it, wiped the pen, and put it carefully back in its place, relocked the desk, hurried back to Elsie's room, put the key just where he had found it, and taking the book, returned to the nursery without having met any one. He threw himself down on a couch and tried to read, but in vain; he could not fix his attention upon the page--could think of nothing but the mischief he had done, and its probable consequences; and now, when it was too late, he more than half repented; yet as to confessing and thus saving Elsie from unmerited blame, he did not for a single moment entertain the thought. But at length it suddenly occurred to him that if it became known that he had been into Elsie's room to get the book he might be suspected; and he started up with the intention of replacing it. But he found that it was too late; she had already returned, for he heard her voice in the hall; so he lay down again, and kept the book until she came in search of it. He looked very guilty as the little girl came in, but not seeming to notice it, she merely said, "I am looking for my book. I thought perhaps some one might have brought it in here. Oh! _you_ have it, Arthur! well, keep it, if you wish; I can read it just as well another time." "Here, take it," said he roughly, pushing it toward her; "I don't want it; 'tisn't a bit pretty." "I think it is very interesting, and you are quite welcome to read it if you wish," she answered mildly; "but if you don't care to, I will take it." "Young ladies and gentlemen," said the governess, as they were about closing their exercises the next morning, "this is the regular day for the reports, and they are all made out. Miss Elsie, here is yours; bring your copy-book, and carry both to your papa." Elsie obeyed, not without some trembling, yet hoping, as there was but _one_ bad mark in the report and the copy-book showed such evident marks of care and painstaking, her papa would not be very seriously displeased. It being the last day of the term, the exercises of the morning had varied somewhat from the usual routine, and the writing hour had been entirely omitted; thus it happened that Elsie had not opened her copy-book, and was in consequence still in ignorance of its sadly altered appearance. She found her father in his room. He took the report first from her hand, and glancing over it, said with a slight frown, "I see you have one _very_ bad mark for recitation; but as there is only one, and the others are remarkably good, I will excuse it." Then taking the copy-book and opening it, much to Elsie's surprise and alarm he gave her a glance of great displeasure, turned rapidly over the leaves, then laying it down, said in his sternest tones, "I see I shall have to keep my promise, Elsie." "What, papa?" she asked, turning pale with terror. "_What!_" said he! "do you ask me what? Did I not tell you _positively_ that I would _punish_ you if your copy-book this month did not present a better appearance than it did last?" "O papa! does it not? I tried so very hard; and there are no blots in it." "No blots?" said he; "what do you call these?" and he turned over the leaves again, holding the book so that she could see them, and showing that almost every one was blotted in several places. Elsie gazed at them in unfeigned astonishment; then looking up into his face, she said earnestly but fearfully, "Papa, I did not do it." "Who did, then?" he asked. "Indeed, papa, I do not know," she replied. "I must inquire into this business," he said, rising, "and if it is not your fault you shall not be punished; but if I find you have been telling me a falsehood, Elsie, I shall punish you much more severely than if you had not denied your fault." And taking her by the hand as he spoke, he led her back to the school-room. "Miss Day," said he, showing the book, "Elsie says these blots are not her work; can you tell me whose they are?" "Miss Elsie _generally_ tells the truth, sir," replied Miss Day, sarcastically, "but I must say that in this instance I think she has failed, as her desk has a good lock, and she herself keeps the key." "Elsie," he asked, turning to her, "is this so?" "Yes, papa." "And have you ever left your desk unlocked, or the key lying about?" "No, papa. I am quite certain I have not," she answered unhesitatingly, though her voice trembled, and she grey very pale. "Very well, then, _I_ am quite certain you have told me a falsehood, since it is evident this _must_ have been your work. Elsie, I can forgive anything but falsehood, but that I _never will_ forgive. Come with me. I shall teach you to speak the truth to _me_ at least, if to no one else," and taking her hand again, he led, or rather dragged, her from the room, for he was terribly angry, his face fairly pale with passion. Lora came in while he was speaking and, certain that _Elsie_ would never be caught in a falsehood, her eye quickly sought Arthur's desk. He was sitting there with a very guilty countenance. She hastily crossed the room, and speaking in a low tone, said, "Arthur, _you_ have had a hand in this business I very well know; now confess it quickly, or Horace will half kill Elsie." "You don't know anything about it," said he doggedly. "Yes, I do," she answered; "and if you do not speak out at once, _I_ shall save Elsie, and find means to prove your guilt afterwards; so you had much better confess." "Go away," he exclaimed angrily, "I have nothing to confess." Seeing it was useless to try to move him, Lora turned away and hurried to Horace's room, which, in her haste, she entered without knocking, he having fortunately neglected to fasten the door. She was just in time; he had a small riding whip in his hand, and Elsie stood beside him pale as death, too much frightened even to cry, and trembling so that she could scarcely stand. He turned an angry glance on his sister as she entered; but taking no notice of it, she exclaimed eagerly, "Horace, don't punish Elsie, for I am certain she is innocent." He laid down the whip asking, "_How_ do you know it? what _proof_ have you? I shall be very glad to be convinced," he added, his countenance relaxing somewhat in its stern and angry expression. "In the first place," replied his sister, "there is Elsie's established character for truthfulness--in all the time she has been with us, we have ever found her perfectly truthful in word and deed. And then, Horace, what motive could she have had for spoiling her book, knowing as she did that certain punishment would follow? Besides, I am sure Arthur is at the bottom of this, for though he will not acknowledge, he does not deny it. Ah! yes, and now I recollect, I saw and examined Elsie's book only yesterday, and it was then quite free from blots." A great change had come over her brother's countenance while she was speaking. "Thank you, Lora," he said, cordially, as soon as she had done, "you have quite convinced me, and saved me from punishing Elsie as unjustly as severely. That last assurance I consider quite sufficient of itself to establish her innocence." Lora turned and went out feeling very happy, and as she closed the door, Elsie's papa took her in his arms, saying in loving, tender tones, "My poor little daughter! my own darling child! I have been cruelly unjust to you, have I not?" "Dear papa, you thought I deserved it," she said, with a burst of tears and sobs, throwing her arms around his neck, and laying her head on his breast. "Do you love me, Elsie, dearest?" he asked, folding her closer to his heart. "Ah! so very, _very_ much! better than all the world beside. O papa! if you would only love me." The last word was almost a sob. "I do, my darling, my own precious child," he said, caressing her again and again. "I do love my little girl, although I may at times seem cold and stern; and I am more thankful than words can express that I have been saved from punishing her unjustly. I could never forgive myself if I had done it. I would rather have lost half I am worth; ah! I fear it would have turned all her love for me into hatred; and justly, too." "No, papa, oh! no, _no; nothing_ could ever do that!" and the little arms were clasped closer and closer about his neck, and the tears again fell like rain, as she timidly pressed her quivering lips to his cheek. "There, there daughter! don't cry any more; we will try to forget all about it, and talk of something else," he said soothingly. "Elsie, dear, your Aunt Adelaide thinks perhaps you were not so very much to blame the other day; and now I want you to tell me all the circumstances; for though I should be very sorry to encourage you to find fault with your teacher, I am by no means willing to have you abused." "Please, papa, don't ask me," she begged. "Aunt Lora was there, and she will tell you about it." "No, Elsie," he said, very decidedly; "I want the story from _you_; and remember, I want _every word_ that passed between you and Miss Day, as far as you can possibly recall it." Seeing that he was determined, Elsie obeyed him, though with evident reluctance, and striving to put Miss Day's conduct in as favorable a light as consistent with truth, while she by no means extenuated her own; yet her father listened with feelings of strong indignation. "Elsie," he said when she had done, "if I had known all this at the time, I should not have punished you at all. Why did you not tell me, my daughter, how you have been ill treated and provoked?" "O papa! I could not; you know you did not ask me." "I did ask you if it was true that you contradicted her, did I not?" "Yes, papa, and it was true." "You ought to have told me the whole story though; but I see how it was--I frightened you by my sternness. Well, daughter," he added, kissing her tenderly, "I shall endeavor to be less stern in future, and you must try to be less timid and more at your ease with me." "I will, papa," she replied meekly; "but indeed I cannot help feeling frightened when you are angry with me." Mr. Dinsmore sat there a long time with his little daughter on his knee, caressing her more tenderly than ever before; and Elsie was very happy, and talked more freely to him than she had ever done, telling him of her joys and her sorrows; how dearly she had loved Miss Allison--what happy hours they had spent together in studying the Bible and in prayer--how grieved she was when her friend went away--and how intensely she enjoyed the little letter now and then received from her; and he listened to it all, apparently both pleased and interested, encouraging her to go on by an occasional question or a word of assent or approval. "What is this, Elsie?" he asked, taking hold of the chain she always wore around her neck, and drawing the miniature from her bosom. But as he touched the spring the case flew open, revealing the sweet, girlish face, it needed not Elsie's low murmured "Mamma" to tell him who that lovely lady was. He gazed upon it with emotion, carried back in memory to the time when for a few short months she had been his own most cherished treasure. Then, looking from it to his child, he murmured, "Yes, she is very like--the same features, the same expression, complexion, hair and all--will be the very counterpart of her if she lives." "Dear papa, am I like mamma?" asked Elsie, who had caught a part of his words. "Yes, darling, very much indeed, and I hope you will grow more so." "You loved mamma?" she said inquiringly. "Dearly, _very_ dearly." "O papa! _tell_ me about her! _do_, dear papa," she pleaded eagerly. "I have not much to tell," he said, sighing. "I knew her only for a few short months ere we were torn asunder, never to meet again on earth." "But we may hope to meet her in heaven, dear papa," said Elsie softly, "for she loved Jesus, and if we love Him we shall go there too when we die. Do you love Jesus, papa?" she timidly inquired, for she had seen him do a number of things which she knew to be wrong--such as riding out for pleasure on the Sabbath, reading secular newspapers, and engaging in worldly conversation--and she greatly feared he did not. But instead of answering her question, he asked, "Do you, Elsie?" "Oh! yes, sir; very _very_ much; even better than I love you, my own dear papa." "How do you know?" he asked, looking keenly into her face. "Just as I know that I love you, papa, or any one else," she replied, lifting her eyes to his face in evident surprise at the strangeness of the question. "Ah, papa," she added in her own sweet, simple way, "I do so love to talk of Jesus; to tell Him all my troubles, and ask Him to forgive my sins and make me holy; and then it is so sweet to know that He loves me, and will _always_ love me, even if no one else does." He kissed her very gravely, and set her down, saying, "Go now, my daughter, and prepare for dinner; it is almost time for the bell." "You are not displeased, papa?" she inquired, looking up anxiously into his face. "No, darling, not at all," he replied, stroking her hair. "Shall I ride with my little girl this afternoon?" "Oh papa! do you really mean it? I shall be so glad!" she exclaimed joyfully. "Very well, then," he said, "it is settled. But go now; there is the bell. No, stay!" he added quickly, as she turned to obey; "think a moment and tell me where you put the key of your desk yesterday, for it must have been then the mischief was done. Had you it with you when you rode out?" Suddenly Elsie's face flushed, and she exclaimed Eagerly, "Ah! I remember now! I left it on the mantelpiece, papa, and--" But here she paused, as if sorry she had said so much. "And what?" he asked. "I think I had better not say it, papa! I'm afraid I _ought_ not, for I don't really _know_ anything, and it seems so wrong to suspect people." "You need not express any suspicions," said her father; "I do not wish you to do so; but I must insist upon having all the facts you can furnish me with. Was Aunt Chloe in your room all the time you were away?" "No, sir; she told me she went down to the kitchen directly after I left, and did not come up again until after I returned." "Very well; do you know whether any one else entered the room during your absence?" "I do not _know_, papa, but I _think_ Arthur must have been in, because when I came home I found him reading a book which I had left lying on the mantel-piece," she answered in a low, reluctant tone. "Ah, ha! that is just it! I see it all now," he exclaimed, with a satisfied nod. "There, that will do, Elsie; go now and make haste down to your dinner." But Elsie lingered, and, in answer to a look of kind inquiry from her father, said coaxingly, "Please, papa, don't be very angry with him. I think he did not know how much I cared about my book." "You are very forgiving, Elsie; but go, child, I shall not abuse him," Mr. Dinsmore answered, with an imperative gesture, and the little girl hurried from the room. It happened that just at this time the elder Mr. Dinsmore and his wife were paying a visit to some friends in the city, and thus Elsie's papa had been left head of the house for the time. Arthur, knowing this to be the state of affairs, and that though his father was expected to return that evening, his mother would be absent for some days, was beginning to be a good deal fearful of the consequences of his misconduct, and not without reason, for his brother's wrath was now fully aroused, and he was determined that the boy should not on this occasion escape the penalty of his misdeeds. Arthur was already in the dining-room when Mr. Dinsmore came down. "Arthur," said he, "I wish you to step into the library a moment; I have something to say to you." "I don't want to hear it," muttered the boy, with a dogged look, and standing perfectly still. "I dare say not, sir; but that makes no difference," replied his brother. "Walk into the library at once." Arthur returned a scowl of defiance, muttering almost under his breath, "I'll do as I please about that;" but cowed by his brother's determined look and manner, he slowly and reluctantly obeyed. "Now, sir," said Mr. Dinsmore, when he had him fairly in the room, and had closed the door behind them, "I wish to know how you came to meddle with Elsie's copy-book." "I didn't," was the angry rejoinder. "Take care, sir; I know all about it," said Mr. Dinsmore, in a warning tone; "it is useless for you to deny it. Yesterday, while Elsie was out and Aunt Chloe in the kitchen, you went to her room, took the key of her desk from the mantel-piece where she had left it, went to the school-room and did the mischief, hoping to get her into trouble thereby, and then relocking the desk and returning the key to its proper place, thought you had escaped detection; and I was very near giving my poor, innocent little girl the whipping you so richly deserve." Arthur looked up in astonishment. "Who told you?" he asked; "nobody saw me;" then, catching himself, said hastily, "I tell you I didn't do it. I don't know anything about it." "Will you dare to tell me such a falsehood as that again?" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore, angrily, taking him by the collar and shaking him roughly. "Let me alone now," whined the culprit. "I want my dinner, I say." "You'll get no dinner to-day, I can tell you," replied his brother. "I am going to lock you into your bedroom, and keep you there until your father comes home; and then if _he_ doesn't give you the flogging you deserve, _I_ will; for I intend you shall have your deserts for once in your life. I know that all this is in revenge for Elsie's forced testimony in the affair of the watch, and I gave you fair warning then that I would see to it that any attempt to abuse my child should receive its just reward." He took the boy by the arm as he spoke, to lead him from the room. At first Arthur seemed disposed to resist; but soon, seeing how useless it was to contend against such odds, he resigned himself to his fate, saying sullenly, "You wouldn't treat me this way if mamma was at home." "She is not, however, as it happens, though I can tell you that even _she_ could not save you now," replied his brother, as he opened the bedroom door, and pushing him in, locked it upon him, and put the key in his pocket. Mr. Horace Dinsmore had almost unbounded influence over his father, who was very proud of him; the old gentleman also utterly despised everything mean and underhanded, and upon being made acquainted by Horace with Arthur's misdemeanors he inflicted upon him as severe a punishment as any one could have desired. CHAPTER NINTH "Keep the Sabbath day to sanctify it, as the Lord thy God hath commanded thee." --_Deut._ v. 12. "She is mine own; And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold." --SHAKESPEARE, _Two Gentlemen of Verona._ And now happy days had come to the little Elsie. Her father treated her with the tenderest affection, and kept her with him almost constantly, seeming scarcely willing to have her out of his sight for an hour. He took her with him wherever he went in his rides and walks and visits to the neighboring planters. She was much admired for her beauty and sweetness of disposition, much caressed and flattered, but, through it all, lost none of her native modesty, but was ever the same meek, gentle little girl. She felt grateful for all the kindness she received, and liked to visit with her papa; but her happiest days were spent at home on those rare occasions when they were free from visitors, and she could sit for hours on his knee, or by his side, talking or reading to him, or working at her embroidery, or knitting and listening while he read. He helped her with all her studies, taught her something of botany and geology in their walks, helped her to see and correct the faults of her drawings, sang with her when she played, bought her quantities of new music, and engaged the best masters to instruct her--in short, took a lively interest in all her pursuits and pleasures, gave her every indulgence, and lavished upon her the tenderest caresses. He was very proud of her beauty, her sweetness, her intelligence, and talent; and nothing pleased him better than to hear them spoken of by others in terms of praise. And Elsie was very happy; the soft eyes grew bright with happiness, and the little face lost its pensive expression, and became as round, rosy and merry as Enna's. Miss Day went North, expecting to be absent several months, and Elsie's papa took her traveling, spending some time at different watering-places. It was her first journey since she had been old enough to care for such things, and she enjoyed it exceedingly. They left home in July, and did not return until September, so that the little girl had time to rest and recruit, both mentally and physically, and was ready to begin her studies again with zeal and energy; yet it was so pleasant to be her papa's constant companion, and she had so enjoyed her freedom from the restraints of the school-room, that she was not at all sorry to learn, on their arrival at Roselands, that the governess would still be absent for some weeks. "How bright and happy the child looks!" was Adelaide's remark on the day of their return, as, from the opposite side of the room, she watched the speaking countenance of the little girl, who was giving Enna and the boys an animated description of her journey. "Yes," said Lora, "and how entirely she seems to have overcome her fear of her father!" for at that instant Elsie suddenly left the little group, and running to him, leaned confidingly on his knee, while apparently urging some request, which he answered with a smile and a nod of acquiescence; when she left the room, and presently returned carrying a richly bound book of engravings. Yes, Elsie had lost her fear of her father, and could now talk to him, and tell him her feelings and wishes, as freely as ever Enna did; and no wonder, for in all these weeks he had never given her one harsh word or look; but indeed he had had no occasion to do so, for she was always docile and obedient. It was Sabbath afternoon--the first Sabbath after their return--and Elsie was in her own room alone with the books she loved best--her Bible, hymnbook, and "Pilgrim's Progress." She had spent a very happy hour in self-examination, reading and prayer, and was singing to herself in a low tone her favorite hymn, "I lay my sins on Jesus," while turning over the leaves of her Bible to find the story of Elijah, which she had promised to read to Chloe that afternoon, when a child's footsteps were heard coming down the hall, the handle of the door was turned hastily, and then, as it refused to yield, Enna's voice called out in a fretful, imperious tone, "Open this door, Elsie Dinsmore. I want in, I say." Elsie sighed, as she thought, "There is an end to my nice afternoon," but she rose at once, and quickly crossing the room, opened the door, asking pleasantly, "What do you want, Enna?" "I _told_ you I wanted to come _in_," replied Enna, saucily, "and now you've got to tell me a story to amuse me; mamma says so, because you know I've got a cold, and she won't let me go out." "Well, Enna," said Elsie, patiently, "I am going to read a very beautiful story to mammy, and you are quite welcome to sit here and listen." "I sha'n't have it read! I said you were to _tell_ it. I don't like to hear reading," replied Enna in her imperious way, at the same time taking quiet possession of Elsie's little rosewood rocking-chair--a late present from her papa, and highly prized by the little girl on that account--and beginning to scratch with her thumb nail upon the arm. "Oh! don't scratch my pretty new chair, Enna!" Elsie entreated; "it is papa's present, and I wouldn't have it spoiled for a great deal." "I will; who cares for your old chair?" was the reply in a scornful tone, as she gave another and harder dig with her nail. "You're a little old maid--so particular with all your things--that's what mamma says you are. Now tell me that story." "I will tell you a story if you will stop scratching my chair, Enna," said Elsie, almost with tears in her eyes, "I will tell you about Elijah on Mount Carmel or Beishazzar's feast, or the children in the fiery furnace, or----" "I sha'n't hear any of those! I don't want any of your old Bible stories," interrupted Enna, insolently, "You must tell me that pretty fairy tale Herbert Carrington is so fond of." "No, Enna; I cannot tell you that _to-day_," replied Elsie, speaking gently, but very firmly. "I say you _shall!_" screamed Enna, springing to her feet. "I'll just go and tell mamma, and she'll make you do it." "Stay, Enna," said Elsie, catching her hand to detain her; "I will tell you any story I know that is suitable for the Sabbath; but I cannot tell the fairy tale to-day, because you know it would be wrong. I will tell it to you to-morrow, though, if you will wait." "You're a _bad_ girl, and I'll just tell mamma of you," exclaimed Enna, passionately, jerking her hand away and darting from the room. "Oh! if papa was only at home," sighed Elsie, sinking into her rocking-chair, pale and trembling; but she knew that he had gone out riding, and would probably not return for some time; he had invited her to accompany him, but she had begged to be allowed to stay at home, and he had let her have her wish. As she feared, she was immediately summoned to Mrs. Dinsmore's presence. "Elsie," said that lady, severely, "are you not ashamed of yourself, to refuse Enna such a small favor especially when the poor child is not well. I must say you are the most selfish, disobliging child I ever saw." "I offered to tell her a Bible story, or anything suitable for the Sabbath day," replied Elsie, meekly, "but I cannot tell the fairy tale, because it would be wrong." "Nonsense! there's no harm at all in telling fairy tales to-day, any more than any other day; that is just an excuse, Elsie," said Mrs. Dinsmore, angrily. "I don't want her old Bible stories. I won't have them. I want that pretty fairy tale," sobbed Enna passionately; "_make_ her tell it, mamma." "Come, come, what is all this fuss about?" asked the elder Mr. Dinsmore, coming in from an adjoining room. "Nothing," said his wife, "except that Enna is not well enough to go out, and wants a fairy story to pass away the time, which Elsie alone is acquainted with, but is too lazy or too self-willed to relate." He turned angrily to his little granddaughter. "Ah! indeed, is that it? Well, there is an old saying. 'A bird that _can_ sing, and _won't_ sing, must be _made_ to sing.'" Elsie was opening her lips to speak, but Mrs. Dinsmore bade her be silent, and then went on. "She pretends it is all on account of conscientious scruples. 'It isn't fit for the Sabbath,' she says. Now _I_ say it is a great piece of impertinence for a child of her years to set up her opinion against yours and mine; and I know very well it is nothing but an excuse, because she doesn't choose to be obliging." "Of _course_ it is; nothing in the _world_ but an excuse," responded Mr. Dinsmore, hotly. Elsie's face flushed, and she answered a little indignantly, "No, grandpa, indeed it is _not_ merely an excuse, but--" "Do you _dare_ to contradict me, you impertinent little hussy?" cried the old gentleman, interrupting her in the middle of her sentence; and catching her by the arm, he shook her violently; then picking her up and setting her down hard upon a chair, he said, "Now, miss, sit you there until your father comes home, then we will see what _he_ thinks of such impertinence; and if he doesn't give you the complete whipping you deserve, I miss my guess." "Please, grandpa, I--" "Hold your tongue! don't dare to speak another word until your father comes home," said he, threateningly. "If you don't choose to say what you're wanted to, you shall not talk at all." Then, going to the door, he called a servant and bade him tell "Mr. Horace," as soon as he returned, that he wished to see him. For the next half-hour--and a very long one it seemed to her--Elsie sat there wishing for, and yet dreading her father's coming. Would he inflict upon her the punishment which her grandfather evidently wished her to receive, without pausing to inquire into the merits of the case? or would he listen patiently to _her_ story? And even if he did, might he not still think her deserving of punishment? She could not answer these questions to her own satisfaction. A few months ago she would have been certain of a very severe chastisement, and even now she trembled with fear; for though she knew beyond a doubt that he loved her dearly, she knew also that he was a strict and severe disciplinarian, and never excused her faults. At last her ear caught the sound of his step in the hall, and her heart beat fast and faster as it drew nearer, until he entered, and addressing his father, asked, "Did you wish to see me, sir?" "Yes, Horace, I want you to attend to this girl," replied the old gentleman, with a motion of the head toward Elsie. "She has been very impertinent to me." "What! _Elsie_ impertinent! is it possible? I certainly expected better things of her." His tone expressed great surprise, and turning to his little daughter, he regarded her with a grave, sad look that brought the tears to her eyes; dearly as she loved him, it seemed almost harder to bear than the old expression of stern severity. "It is hard to believe," he said, "that my little Elsie would be guilty of such conduct; but if she has been, of course she must be punished, for I cannot allow anything of the kind. Go. Elsie, to my dressing-room and remain there until I come to you." "Papa--" she began, bursting into tears. "Hush!" he said, with something of the old sternness; "not a word; but obey me instantly." Then, as Elsie went sobbing from the room, he seated himself, and turning to his father, said, "Now, sir, if you please, I should like to hear the whole story; precisely what Elsie has done and said, and what was the provocation; for _that_ must also be taken into the account, in order that I may be able to do her justice." "If you do her _justice_, you will whip her well," remarked his father in a tone of asperity. Horace colored violently, for nothing aroused his ire sooner than any interference between him and his child; but controlling himself, he replied quite calmly, "If I find her deserving of punishment, I will not spare her; but I should be sorry indeed to punish her unjustly. Will you be so good as to tell me what she has done?" Mr. Dinsmore referred him to his wife for the commencement of the trouble, and she made out as bad a case against Elsie as possible; but even then there seemed to her father to be very little to condemn; and when Mrs. Dinsmore was obliged to acknowledge that it was Elsie's refusal to humor Enna in her desire for a particular story which Elsie thought it not best to relate on the Sabbath, he bit his lip with vexation, and told her in a haughty tone, that though he did not approve of Elsie's strict notions regarding such matters, yet he wished her to understand that _his_ daughter was not to be made a slave to Enna's whims. If she _chose_ to tell her a story, or to do anything else for her amusement, he had no objection, but she was never to be _forced_ to do it against her inclination, and Enna must understand that it was done as a favor, and not at all as her right. "You are right enough there, Horace," remarked his father, "but that does not excuse Elsie for her impertinence to me. In the first place, I must say I agree with my wife in thinking it quite a piece of impertinence for a child of her years to set up her opinion against mine; and besides, she contradicted me flatly." He then went on to repeat what he had said, and Elsie's denial of the charge, using her exact words, but quite a different tone, and suppressing the fact that he had interrupted her before she had finished her sentence. Elsie's tone, though slightly indignant, had still been respectful, but from her grandfather's rehearsal of the scene her father received the impression that she had been exceedingly saucy, and he left the room with the intention of giving her almost as severe a punishment as her grandfather would have prescribed. On the way up to his room, however, his anger had a little time to cool, and it occurred to him that it would be no more than just to hear _her_ side of the story ere he condemned her. Elsie was seated on a couch at the far side of the room, and as he entered she turned on him a tearful, pleading look, that went straight to his heart. His face was grave and sad, but there was very little sternness in it, as he sat down and took her in his arms. For a moment he held her without speaking, while she lifted her eyes timidly to his face. Then he said, as he gently stroked the hair back from her forehead, "I am very sorry, _very sorry indeed_, to hear so bad an account of my little daughter. I am afraid I shall have to punish her, and I don't like to do it." She answered not a word, but burst into tears, and hiding her face on his breast, sobbed aloud. "I will not condemn you unheard, Elsie," he said after a moment's pause; "tell me how you came to be so impertinent to your grandfather." "I did not mean to be saucy, papa, indeed I did not," she sobbed. "Stop crying then, daughter," he said kindly, "and tell me all about it. I know there was some trouble between you and Enna, and I want you to tell me all that occurred, and every word spoken by either of you, as well as all that passed between Mrs. Dinsmore, your grandfather, and yourself. I am very glad that I can trust my little girl to speak the truth. I am quite sure she would not tell a falsehood even to save herself from punishment," he added tenderly. "Thank you, dear papa, for saying that," said Elsie, raising her head and almost smiling through her tears. "I will _try_ to tell it just as it happened." She then told her story simply and truthfully, repeating, as he bade her, every word that had passed between Enna and herself, and between her and her grandparents. Her words to her grandfather sounded very different, repeated in her quiet, respectful tones; and when she added that if he would have allowed her, she was going on to explain that it was not any unwillingness to oblige Enna, but the fear of doing wrong, that led her to refuse her request, her father thought that after all she deserved very little blame. "Do you think I was very saucy, papa?" she asked anxiously, when she had finished her story. "So much depends upon the tone, Elsie," he said, "that I can hardly tell; if you used the same tone in speaking to your grandpa that you did in repeating your words to me just now, I don't think it was _very_ impertinent; though the words themselves were not as respectful as they ought to have been. You must always treat my father quite as respectfully as you do me; and I think with him, too, that there is something quite impertinent in a little girl like you setting up her opinion against that of her elders. You must never try it with me, my daughter." Elsie hung down her head in silence for a moment, then asked in a tremulous tone, "Are you going to punish me, papa?" "Yes," he said, "but first I am going to take you down-stairs and make you beg your grandfather's pardon. I see you don't want to do it," he added, looking keenly into her face, "but you _must_, and I hope I shall not be obliged to _enforce_ obedience to my commands." "I will do whatever you bid me, papa," she sobbed, "but I did not mean to be saucy. Please, papa, tell me what to say." "You must say, Grandpa, I did not intend to be impertinent to you, and I am very sorry for whatever may have seemed saucy in my words or tones; will you please to forgive me, and I will try always to be perfectly respectful in future. You can say all that with truth, I think?" "Yes, papa, I _am_ sorry, and I _do_ intend to be respectful to grandpa always," she answered, brushing away her tears, and putting her hand in his. He then led her into her grandfather's presence, saying: "Elsie has come to beg your pardon, sir." "That is as it should be," replied the old gentleman, glancing triumphantly at his wife; "I told her you would not uphold her in any such impertinence." "No," said his son, with some displeasure in his tone; "I will neither uphold her in wrongdoing, nor suffer her to be imposed upon. Speak, my daughter, and say what I bade you." Elsie sobbed out the required words. "Yes, I must forgive you, of course," replied her grandfather, coldly, "but I hope your father is not going to let you off without proper punishment." "I will attend to that; I certainly intend to punish her _as she deserves_" said his son, laying a marked emphasis upon the concluding words of his sentence. Elsie wholly misunderstood him, and so trembled with fear as he led her from the room, that she could scarcely walk; seeing which, he took her in his arms and carried her up-stairs, she sobbing on his shoulder. He did not speak until he had locked the door, carried her across the room, and seated himself upon the couch again, with her upon his knee. Then he said, in a soothing tone, as he wiped away her tears and kissed her kindly, "You need not tremble so, my daughter; I am not going to be severe with you." She looked up in glad surprise. "I said I would punish you as you _deserve_," he said, with a smile, "and I intend to keep you shut up here with me until bed-time, I shall not allow you to go down-stairs to tea, and besides, I am going to give you a long lesson to learn, which I shall require you to recite to me quite perfectly before you can go to bed." Elsie grew frightened again at the mention of the lesson, for she feared it might be something which she could not conscientiously study on the Sabbath; but all her fear and trouble vanished as she saw her father take up a Bible that lay on the table, and turn over the leaves as though selecting a passage. Presently he put it into her hands, and pointing to the thirteenth and fourteenth chapters of John's Gospel, bade her carry the book to a low seat by the window, and sit there until she had learned them perfectly. "O papa! what a nice lesson!" she exclaimed, looking up delightedly into his face; "but it won't be any punishment, because I love these chapters dearly, and have read them so often that I almost know every word already." "Hush, hush!" he said, pretending to be very stern; "don't tell me that my punishments are _no_ punishments, I don't allow you to talk so; just take the book and learn what I bid you; and if you know those two already, you may learn the next." Elsie laughed, kissed his hand, and tripped away to her window, while he threw himself down on the couch and took up a newspaper, more as a screen to his face, however, than for the purpose of reading; for he lay there closely watching his little daughter, as she sat in the rich glow of the sunset, with her sweet, grave little face bending over the holy book. "The darling!" he murmured to himself; "she is lovely as an angel, and she is _mine_, mine only, mine own precious one; and loves me with her whole soul. Ah! how can I ever find it in my heart to be stern to her? Ah! if _I_ were but _half_ as good and pure as she is, I should be a better man than I am." And he heaved a deep sigh. Half an hour had passed, and still Elsie bent over her book. The tea-bell rang, and Mr. Dinsmore started up, and crossing the room, bent down and stroked her hair. "Do you know it, darling?" he asked. "Almost, papa," and she looked up into his face with a bright, sweet smile, full of affection. With a sudden impulse he caught her in his arms, and kissing her again and again, said with emotion, "Elsie, my darling, I love you _too_ well; I could never bear to lose you." "You must love Jesus better, my own precious papa," she replied, clasping her little arms around his neck, and returning his caresses. He held her a moment, and then putting her down, said, "I shall send you up some supper, and I want you to eat it; don't behave as you did about the bread and water once, a good while ago." "Will it be bread and water this time, papa?" she asked, with a smile. "You will see," he said, laughingly, and quitted the room. Elsie turned to her book again, but in a few moments was interrupted by the entrance of a servant carrying on a silver waiter a plate of hot, buttered muffins, a cup of jelly, another of hot coffee, and a piece of broiled chicken. Elsie was all astonishment. "Why, Pomp," she asked, "did papa send it?" "Yes, Miss Elsie, 'deed he did," replied the servant, with a grin of satisfaction, as he set down his burden. "I reckon you been berry nice gal dis day; or else Marster Horace tink you little bit sick." "Papa is very good; and I am much obliged to you too, Pomp," said the little girl, laying aside her book, and seating herself before the waiter. "Jes ring de bell, Miss Elsie, ef you want more, and dis chile fotch 'em up; Marster Horace say so hisself." And the grinning negro bowed himself out, chuckling with delight, for Elsie had always been a great favorite with him. "Dear papa," Elsie said, when he came in again and smilingly asked if she had eaten her prison fare, "what a good supper you sent me! But I thought you didn't allow me such things!" "Don't you know," said he playfully, laying his hand upon her head, "that I am absolute monarch of this small kingdom, and you are not to question my doings or decrees?" Then in a more serious tone, "No, daughter, I do not allow it as a regular thing, because I do not think it for your good; but for once, I thought it would not hurt you. I know you are not one to presume upon favors, and I wanted to indulge you a little, because I fear my little girl has been made to suffer perhaps more than she quite deserved this afternoon." His voice had a very tender tone as he uttered the concluding words, and stooping, he pressed his lips to her forehead. "Don't think, though," he added the next moment, "that I am excusing you for impertinence, not at all; but it was what you have had to suffer from Enna's insolence. I shall put a stop to that, for I will not have it." "I don't mind it much, papa," said Elsie gently, "I am quite used to it, for Enna has always treated me so." "And why did _I_ never hear of it before?" he asked, half angrily. "It is abominable! not to be endured!" he exclaimed, "and I shall see that Miss Enna is made to understand that _my_ daughter is fully her equal in every respect, and always to be treated as such." He paused; but, Elsie, half frightened at his vehemence, made no reply; and he went on: "I have no doubt your grandfather and his wife would have been better pleased had I forced you to yield to Enna's whim; but I had no idea of such a thing; you shall use your own pleasure whenever she is concerned; but: if _I_ had bidden you to tell her that story it would have been a very different matter; you need never set up your will, or your opinion of right and wrong, against mine, Elsie, for I shall not allow it. I don't altogether like some of those strict notions you have got into your head, and I give you fair warning, that should they ever come into collision with _my_ wishes and commands, they will have to be given up. But don't look so alarmed, daughter; I hope it may never happen; and we will say no more about it to-night," he added, kindly, for she had grown very pale and trembled visibly. "O papa, dear papa! don't ever bid me do anything wrong; it would break my heart," she said, laying her head on his shoulder as he sat down and drew her to his side. "I never intend to bid you do wrong, but, on the contrary, wish you always to do right. But then, daughter, _I_ must be the judge of what is wrong or right for you; you must remember that you are only a very little girl, and not yet capable of judging for yourself, and all you have to do is to obey your father without murmuring or hesitation, and then there will be no trouble." His tone, though mild, and not unkind, was very firm and decided, and Elsie's heart sank; she seemed to feel herself in the shadow of some great trouble laid up in store for her in the future. But she strove, and ere long with success, to banish the foreboding of evil which oppressed her, and give herself up to the enjoyment of present blessings. Her father loved her dearly--she knew that--and he was not _now_ requiring her to do aught against her conscience, and perhaps he never might; he had said so himself, and God could incline his heart to respect her scruples; or if, in His infinite wisdom, He saw that the dreaded trial was needed, He would give her strength to bear it; for had He not promised, "As thy day, so shall thy strength be"? Her father's arm was around her, and she had been standing silently, with her face hidden on his shoulder, while these thoughts were passing through her mind, and the little heart going up in prayer to God for him and for herself. "What is my little girl thinking of?" he asked presently. "A good many things, papa," she said, raising her face, now quite peaceful and happy again. "I was thinking of what you had just been saying to me, and that I am so glad I know that you love me dearly; and I was asking God to help us both to do His will, and that I might always be able to do what you bid me, without disobeying Him," she added simply; and then asked, "May I say my lesson now, papa? I think I know it quite perfectly." "Yes," he said, in an absent way; "bring me the book." Elsie brought it, and putting it into his hands, drew up a stool and sat down at his feet, resting her arm on his knee, and looking up into his face; then in her sweet, low voice, she repeated slowly and feelingly, with true and beautiful emphasis, the chapters he had given her to learn; that most touching description of the Last Supper, and our Saviour's farewell address to His sorrowing disciples. "Ah! papa, is it not beautiful?" she exclaimed, laying her head upon his knee, while the tears trembled in her eyes. "Is not that a sweet verse, 'Having loved His own which were in the world, He loved them unto the end'? It seems so strange that He could be so thoughtful for them, so kind and loving, when all the time He knew what a dreadful death He was just going to die; and knew besides that they were all going to run away and leave Him alone with His cruel enemies. Oh! it is so sweet to know that Jesus is so loving, and that He loves me, and will always love me, even to the end, _forever_." "How do you know that, Elsie?" he asked. "I know that He loves me, papa, because I love Him, and He has said, 'I love them that love me;' and I know that He will love me always, because He has said, 'I have loved thee with an _everlasting_ love,' and in another place, 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.'" "But do you think you are good enough, daughter, for Jesus to love you?" "Ah! papa, I know I am not at all good. I have a very wicked heart, and often my thoughts and feelings are all wrong, and Jesus knows all about it, but it does not keep Him from loving me, for you know it was _sinners_ He died to save. Ah! papa, how _good_ and _kind_ He was! Who could help loving Him? I used to feel _so_ lonely and sad sometimes, papa, that I think my heart would have broken quite, and I should have died, if I had not had Jesus to love me." "When were you so sad and lonely, darling?" he asked in a moved tone, as he laid his hand gently on her head, and stroked her hair caressingly. "Sometimes when you were away, papa, and I had never seen you; but then I used to think of you, and my heart would long and _ache_ so to see you, and hear you call me daughter, and to lay my head against your breast and feel your arms folding me close to your heart, as you do so often now." She paused a moment, and struggled hard to keep down the rising sobs, as she added, "But when you came, papa, and I saw you did not love me, oh! papa, that was the worst. I thought I could never, _never_ bear it. I thought my heart would break, and I wanted to die and go to Jesus, and to mamma." The little frame shook with sobs. "My poor darling! my poor little pet!" he said, taking her in his arms again, and caressing her with the greatest tenderness, "it was very hard, very cruel. I don't know how I could steel my heart so against my own little child; but I had been very much prejudiced, and led to suppose that you looked upon me with fear and dislike, as a hated tyrant." Elsie lifted her eyes to his face with a look of extreme surprise. "O papa!" she exclaimed, "how _could_ you think that? I have always loved you, ever since I can remember." When Elsie went to her room that evening she thought very seriously of all that had occurred during the afternoon, and all that her papa had said to her; and to her usual petitions was added a very fervent one that he might never bid her break any command of God; or if he did, that she might have strength given her according to her day. A shadow had fallen on her pathway, faint, but perceptible; a light, fleecy cloud obscured the brightness of her sun; yet it was not for some weeks that even the most distant mutterings of the coming storm could be heard. CHAPTER TENTH "If thou turn away thy foot from the Sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day, and call the Sabbath a Delight, the Holy of the Lord, Honorable, and shalt honor him, not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words." --_Isaiah_ Iviii. 13. "Whether it be right in the sight of God to hearken unto you, more than unto God, judge ye." --_Acts_ iv. 19. Quite a number of guests had dined at Roselands. They were nearly all gentlemen, and were now collected in the drawing-room, laughing, jesting, talking politics, and conversing with each other and the ladies upon various worldly topics, apparently quite forgetful that it was the Lord's day, which He has commanded to be kept holy in thought and word, as well as deed. "May I ask what you are in search of, Mr. Eversham?" inquired Adelaide, as she noticed one of the guests glance around the room with a rather disappointed air. "Yes, Miss Adelaide; I was looking for little Miss Elsie. Travilla has given me so very glowing an account of her precocious musical talent, that I have conceived a great desire to hear her play and sing." "Do you hear that, Horace?" asked Adelaide, turning to her brother. "Yes, and I shall be most happy to gratify you, Eversham," replied the young father, with a proud smile. He crossed the room to summon a servant, but as he placed his hand upon the bell-rope, Mrs. Dinsmore arrested his movement. "Stay, Horace," she said; "you had better not send for her." "May I be permitted to ask _why_, madam?" he inquired in a tone of mingled surprise and annoyance. "Because she will not sing," answered the lady, coolly. "Pardon me, madam, but I think she will, if _I bid_ her to do it," he said with flashing eyes. "No, she will not," persisted Mrs. Dinsmore, in the same cold, quiet tone; "she will tell you she is wiser than her father, and that it would be a sin to obey him in this. Believe me, she will most assuredly defy your authority; so you had better take my advice and let her alone--thus sparing yourself the mortification of exhibiting before your guests your inability to govern your child." Mr. Dinsmore bit his lip with vexation. "Thank you," he said, haughtily, "but I prefer convincing you that that inability lies wholly in your own imagination; and I am quite at a loss to understand upon what you found your opinion, as Elsie has never yet made the very slightest resistance to my authority." He had given the bell-rope a vigorous pull while speaking, and a servant now appearing in answer to the summons, he sent him with a message to Elsie, requiring her presence in the drawing-room. Then turning away from his step-mother, who looked after him with a gleam of triumph in her eye, he joined the group of gentlemen already gathered about the piano, where Adelaide had just taken her seat and begun a brilliant overture. Yet, outwardly calm and self-satisfied as his demeanor may have been, Horace Dinsmore was even now regretting the step he had just taken; for remembering Elsie's conscientious scruples regarding the observance of the Sabbath--which he had for the moment forgotten--he foresaw that there would be a struggle, probably a severe one; and though, having always found her docile and yielding, he felt no doubt of the final result, he would willingly have avoided the contest, could he have done so without a sacrifice of pride; but, as he said to himself, with a slight sigh, he had now gone too far to retreat; and then he had all along felt that this struggle must come _some_ time, and perhaps it was as well now as at any other. Elsie was alone in her own room, spending the Sabbath afternoon in her usual manner, when the servant came to say that her papa wished to see her in the drawing-room. The little girl was a good deal alarmed at the summons, for the thought instantly flashed upon her, "He is going to bid me play and sing, or do something else which it is not right to do on the Sabbath day." But remembering that he never had done so, she hoped he might not now; yet ere she obeyed the call she knelt down for a moment, and prayed earnestly for strength to do right, however difficult it might be. "Come here, daughter," her father said as she entered the room. He spoke in his usual pleasant, affectionate tone, yet Elsie started, trembled, and turned pale; for catching sight of the group at the piano, and her Aunt Adelaide just vacating the music-stool, she at once perceived what was in store for her. "Here, Elsie," said her father, selecting a song which she had learned during their absence, and sang remarkably well, "I wish you to sing this for my friends; they are anxious to hear it." "Will not to-morrow do, papa?" she asked in a low, tremulous tone. Mrs. Dinsmore, who had drawn near to listen, now looked at Horace with a meaning smile, which he affected not to see. "Certainly not, Elsie," he said; "we want it now. You know it quite well enough without any more practice." "I did not want to wait for _that_ reason, papa," she replied in the same low, trembling tones, "but you know this is the holy Sabbath day." "Well, my daughter, and what of that? _I_ consider this song perfectly proper to be sung to-day, and that ought to satisfy you that you will not be doing wrong to sing it; remember what I said to you some weeks ago; and now sit down and sing it at once, without any more ado." "O papa! I _cannot_ sing it to-day; _please_ let me wait until to-morrow." "Elsie," he said in his sternest tones, "sit down to the piano instantly, and do as I bid you, and let me hear no more of this nonsense." She sat down, but raising her pleading eyes, brimful of tears to his face, she repeated her refusal. "Dear papa, I _cannot_ sing it to-day. I _cannot_ break the Sabbath." "Elsie, you _must_ sing it," said he, placing the music before her. "I have told you that it will not be breaking the Sabbath, and that is sufficient; you must let me judge for you in these matters." "Let her wait until to-morrow, Dinsmore; tomorrow will suit us quite as well," urged several of the gentlemen, while Adelaide good-naturedly said, "Let me play it, Horace; I have no such scruples, and presume I can do it nearly as well as Elsie." "No," he replied, "when I give my child a command, it is to be obeyed; I have _said_ she should play it, and play it she _must_; she is not to suppose that she may set up her opinion of right and wrong against mine." Elsie sat with her little hands folded in her lap, the tears streaming from her downcast eyes over her pale cheeks. She was trembling, but though there was no stubbornness in her countenance, the expression meek and humble, she made no movement toward obeying her father's order. There was a moment of silent waiting; then he said in his severest tone, "Elsie, you shall sit there till you obey me, though it should be until to-morrow morning." "Yes, papa," she replied in a scarcely audible voice, and they all turned away and left her. "You see now that you had better have taken my advice, Horace," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore, in a triumphant aside; "I knew very well how it would end." "Excuse me," said he, "but it has _not_ ended; and ere it does, I think she will learn that she has a stronger will than her own to deal with." Elsie's position was a most uncomfortable one; her seat high and uneasy, and seeming to grow more and more so as the weary moments passed slowly away. No one came near her or seemed to notice her, yet she could hear them conversing in other parts of the room, and knew that they were sometimes looking at her, and, timid and bashful as she was, it seemed hard to bear. Then, too, her little heart was very sad as she thought of her father's displeasure, and feared that he would withdraw from her the affection which had been for the last few months the very sunshine of her life. Besides all this, the excitement of her feelings, and the close and sultry air--for it was a very warm day--had brought on a nervous headache. She leaned forward and rested her head against the instrument, feeling in momentary danger of falling from her seat. Thus two long hours had passed when Mr. Travilla came to her side, and said in a compassionate tone, "I am really very sorry for you, my little friend; but I advise you to submit to your papa. I see you are getting very weary sitting there, and I warn you not to hope to conquer him. I have known him for years, and a more determined person I never saw. Had you not better sing the song? it will not take five minutes, and then your trouble will be all over." Elsie raised her head, and answered gently, "Thank you for your sympathy, Mr. Travilla, you are very kind; but I could not do it, because Jesus says, 'He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me;' and I cannot disobey Him, even to please my own dear papa." "But, Miss Elsie, why do you think it would be disobeying Him? Is there any verse in the Bible which says you must not sing songs on Sunday?" "Mr. Travilla, it says the Sabbath is to be kept holy unto the Lord; that we are not to think our own thoughts, nor speak our own words, nor do our own actions; but all the day must be spent in studying God's word, or worshipping and praising Him; and there is no praise in that song; not one word about God or heaven." "That is very true, Elsie, but still it is such a _very little_ thing, that I cannot think there would be much harm in it, or that God would be very angry with you for doing it." "O Mr. Travilla!" she said, looking up at him in great surprise, "surely you know that there is no such thing as a _little sin_; and don't you remember about the man who picked up sticks on the Sabbath day?" "No; what was it?" "God commanded that he should be stoned to death, and it was done. Would you not have thought _that_ a very little thing, Mr. Travilla?" "Yes, I believe I should," said he, turning away with a very grave face. "Dinsmore," he said, going up to his friend; "I am sure that child is conscientious; had you not better give up to her in this instance?" "_Never_, Travilla," he answered, with stern decision. "This is the first time she has rebelled against my authority, and if I let her conquer now, she will think she is always to have her own way. No; cost what it may, I _must_ subdue her; she will have to learn that my will is law." "Right, Horace," said the elder Mr. Dinsmore, approvingly, "let her understand from the first that you are to be master; it is always the best plan." "Excuse me, Dinsmore," said Travilla; "but I must say that I think a parent has no right to coerce a child into doing violence to its conscience." "Nonsense!" replied his friend, a little angrily. "Elsie is entirely too young to set up her opinion against mine; she must allow me to judge for her in these matters for some years to come." Eversham, who had been casting uneasy glances at Elsie all the afternoon, now drawing his chair near to Adelaide, said to her in an undertone, "Miss Adelaide, I am deeply sorry for the mischief I have unwittingly caused, and if you can tell me how to repair it you will lay me under lasting obligations." Adelaide shook her head. "There is no moving Horace when he has once set his foot down," she said; "and as to Elsie, I doubt whether any power on earth can make her do what she considers wrong." "Poor little thing!" said Eversham, sighing; "where in the world did she get such odd notions?" "Partly from a pious Scotch woman, who had a good deal to do with her in her infancy, and partly from studying the Bible, I believe. She is always at it." "Indeed!" and he relapsed into thoughtful silence. Another hour passed slowly away, and then the tea-bell rang. "Elsie," asked her father, coming to her side, "are you ready to obey me now? if so, we will wait a moment to hear the song, and then you can go to your tea with us." "Dear papa, I cannot break the Sabbath," she replied, in a low, gentle tone, without lifting her head. "Very well then, I cannot break my word; you must sit there until you will submit; and until then you must fast. You are not only making yourself miserable by your disobedience and obstinacy, Elsie, but are mortifying and grieving _me_ very much," he added in a subdued tone, that sent a sharp pang to the loving little heart, and caused some very bitter tears to fall, as he turned away and left her. The evening passed wearily away to the little girl; the drawing-room was but dimly lighted, for the company had all deserted it to wander about the grounds, or sit in the portico enjoying the moonlight and the pleasant evening breeze, and the air indoors seemed insupportably close and sultry. At times Elsie could scarcely breathe, and she longed intensely to get out into the open air; every moment her seat grew more uncomfortable and the pain in her head more severe: her thoughts began to wander, she forgot where she was, everything became confused, and at length she lost all consciousness. Several gentlemen, among whom were Mr. Horace Dinsmore and Mr. Travilla, were conversing together on the portico, when they were suddenly startled by a sound as of something falling. Travilla, who was nearest the door, rushed into the drawing-room, followed by the others. "A light! quick, quick, a light!" he cried, raising Elsie's insensible form in his arms; "the child has fainted." One of the others, instantly snatching a lamp from a distant table, brought it near, and the increased light showed Elsie's little face, ghastly as that of a corpse, while a stream of blood was flowing from a wound in the temple, made by striking against some sharp corner of the furniture as she fell. She was a pitiable sight indeed, with her fair face, her curls, and her white dress all dabbled in blood. "Dinsmore, you're a brute!" exclaimed Travilla indignantly, as he placed her gently on a sofa. Horace made no reply, but, with a face almost as pale as her own, bent over his little daughter in speechless alarm, while one of the guests, who happened to be a physician, hastily dressed the wound, and then applied restoratives. It was some time ere consciousness returned, and the father trembled with the agonizing fear that the gentle spirit had taken its flight. But at length the soft eyes unclosed, and gazing with a troubled look into his face, bent so anxiously over her, she asked, "Dear papa, are you angry with me?" "No, darling," he replied in tones made tremulous with emotion, "not at all." "What was it?" she asked in a bewildered way; "what did I do? what has happened?" "Never mind, daughter," he said, "you have been ill; but you are better now, so don't think any more about it." "She had better be put to bed at once," said the physician. "There is blood on my dress," cried Elsie, in a startled tone; "where did it come from?" "You fell and hurt your head," replied her father, raising her gently in his arms; "but don't talk any more now." "Oh! I remember," she moaned, an expression of keen distress coming over her face; "papa--" "Hush! hush! not a word more; we will let the past go," he said, kissing her lips. "I shall carry you to your room now, and see you put to bed." He held her on his knee, her head resting on his shoulder, while Chloe prepared her for rest. "Are you hungry, daughter?" he asked. "No, papa; I only want to go to sleep." "There, Aunt Chloe, that will do," he said, as the old nurse tied on the child's night-cap; and raising her again in his arms, he carried her to the bed and was about to place her on it. "Oh papa! my prayers first, you know," she cried eagerly. "Never mind them to-night," said he, "you are not able." "Please let me, dear papa," she pleaded; "I cannot go to sleep without." Yielding to her entreaties, he placed her on her knees, and stood beside her, listening to her murmured petitions, in which he more than once heard his own name coupled with a request that he might be made to love Jesus. When she had finished, he again raised her in his arms, kissed her tenderly several times, and then laid her carefully on the bed, saying, as he did so, "Why did you ask, Elsie, that I might love Jesus?" "Because, papa, I do so want you to love Him; it would make you so happy; and besides, you cannot go to heaven without it; the Bible says so." "Does it? and what makes you think I don't love Him?" "Dear papa, please don't be angry," she pleaded, tearfully, "but you know Jesus says, 'He that keepeth my commandments, he it is that loveth me.'" He stooped over her. "Good night, daughter," he said. "Dear, _dear_ papa," she cried, throwing her arm round his neck, and drawing down his face close to hers, "I do love you so very, _very_ much!" "Better than anybody else?" he asked "No, papa, I love Jesus best; you next." He kissed her again, and with a half sigh turned away and left the room. He was not entirely pleased; not quite willing that she should love even her Saviour better than himself. Elsie was very weary, and was soon asleep. She waked the next morning feeling nearly as well as usual, and after she had had her bath and been dressed by Chloe's careful hands, the curls being arranged to conceal the plaster that covered the wound on her temple, there was nothing in her appearance, except a slight paleness, to remind her friends of the last night's accident. She was sitting reading her morning chapter when her father came in, and taking a seat by her side, lifted her to his knee, saying, as he caressed her tenderly, "My little daughter is looking pretty well this morning; how does she feel?" "Quite well, thank you, papa," she replied, looking up into his face with a sweet, loving smile. He raised the curls to look at the wounded temple; then, as he dropped them again, he said, with a shudder, "Elsie, do you know that you were very near being killed last night?" "No, papa, was I?" she asked with an awe-struck countenance. "Yes, the doctor says if that wound had been made half an inch nearer your eye--I should have been childless." His voice trembled almost too much for utterance as he finished his sentence, and he strained her to his heart with a deep sigh of thankfulness for her escape. Elsie was very quiet for some moments, and the little face was almost sad in its deep thoughtfulness. "What are you thinking of, darling?" he asked. She raised her eyes to his face and he saw that they were brimful of tears. "O papa!" she said, dropping her head on his breast while the bright drops fell like rain down her cheeks, "would you have been so very sorry?" "Sorry, darling! do you not know that you are more precious to me than all my wealth, all my friends and relatives put together? Yes, I would rather part with everything else than lose this one little girl," he said, kissing her again and again. "Dear, _dear_ papa! how glad I am that you love me so much!" she replied; and then relapsed into silence. He watched her changing countenance for some time, then asked, "What is it, darling?" "I was just thinking," she said, "whether I was ready to go to heaven, and I believe I was; for I know that I love Jesus; and then I was thinking how glad mamma would have been to see me; don't you think she would, papa?" "I can't spare you to her yet," he replied with emotion, "and I think she loves me too well to wish it." As Miss Day had not yet returned, Elsie's time was still pretty much at her own disposal, excepting when her papa gave her something to do; so, after breakfast, finding that he was engaged with some one in the library, she took her Bible, and seeking out a shady retreat in the garden, sat down to read. The Bible was ever the book of books to her, and this morning the solemn, tender feelings naturally caused by the discovery of her recent narrow escape from sudden death made it even more than usually touching and beautiful in her eyes. She had been alone in the arbor for some time, when, hearing a step at her side, she looked up, showing a face all wet with tears. It was Mr. Travilla who stood beside her. "In tears, little Elsie! Pray, what may the book be that effects you so?" he asked, sitting down by her side and taking it from her hand. "The Bible, I declare!" he exclaimed in surprise. "What can there be in it that you find so affecting?" "O Mr. Travilla!" said the little girl, "does it not make your heart ache to read how the Jews abused our dear, dear Saviour? and then to think that it was all because of our sins," she sobbed. He looked half distressed, half puzzled; it seemed a new idea to him. "Really, my little Elsie," he said, "you are quite original in your ideas, I suppose I _ought_ to feel unhappy about these things, but indeed the truth is, I have never thought much about them." "Then you don't love Jesus," she answered, mournfully. "Ah! Mr. Travilla, how sorry I am." "Why, Elsie, what difference can it make to you whether I love Him or not?" "Because, Mr. Travilla, the Bible says, 'If any man love not the Lord Jesus Christ, let him be anathema, maranatha,' accursed from God. Oh! sir, think how dreadful! You cannot be _saved_ unless you love Jesus, and believe on Him. 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' That is what God says in his word." She spoke with deep solemnity, the tears trembling in her eyes. He was touched, but for a while sat perfectly silent. Then he said, with an effort to speak lightly. "Ah, well, my little friend, I certainly intend to repent and believe before I die, but there is time enough yet." "Mr. Travilla," she said, laying her hand on his arm and looking earnestly into his face, "how do you know that there is time enough yet? _don't_ put it off, I beg of you." She paused a moment; then asked, "Do you know, Mr. Travilla, how near I came to being killed last night?" He nodded. "Well, suppose I had been killed, and had not loved Jesus; where would I be now?" He put his arm round her, and giving her a kiss, said, "I don't think you would have been in any very bad place, Elsie; a sweet, amiable little girl, who has never harmed any one, would surely not fare very badly in another world." She shook her head very gravely. "Ah! Mr. Travilla, you forget the anathema, maranatha; if I had not loved Jesus, and had my sins washed away in His blood, I could not have been saved." Just at this moment a servant came to tell Elsie that her papa wanted her in the drawing-room, and Mr. Travilla, taking her hand, led her into the house. They found the company again grouped about the piano, listening to Adelaide's music. Elsie went directly to her father and stood by his side, putting her hand in his with a gesture of confiding affection. He smiled down at her, and kept fast hold of it until his sister had risen from the instrument, when putting Elsie in her place, he said, "Now, my daughter, let us have that song." "Yes, papa," she replied, beginning the prelude at once, "I will do my very best." And so she did. The song was both well played and well sung, and her father looked proud and happy as the gentlemen expressed their pleasure and asked for another and another. Thus the clouds which had so suddenly obscured little Elsie's sky, seemed to have vanished as speedily as they had arisen. Her father again treated her with all his wonted affection, and there even seemed to be a depth of tenderness in his love which it had not known before, for he could not forget how nearly he had lost her. CHAPTER ELEVENTH "In that hour Jesus rejoiced in spirit, and said, I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes; even so, Father; for so it seemed good in thy sight." --_Luke_ x. 21. Says the Apostle Paul, "I say the truth in Christ, I lie not, my conscience also bearing me witness in the Holy Ghost, that I have great heaviness and continual sorrow in my heart, for I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ, for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh.... Brethren, my heart's desire and prayer to God for Israel is, that they might be saved." And such, dear reader, is, in greater or less degree, the feeling of every renewed heart; loving Jesus, it would fain have others love Him too; it desires the salvation of all; but for that of its own dear ones it longs and labors and prays; it is like Jacob wrestling with the angel, when he said, "I will not let thee go except thou bless me." And thus it was with Elsie. She knew now that her father was not a Christian; that he had no real love for Jesus, none of the true fear of God before his eyes. She saw that if he permitted her to read to him from God's word, as he sometimes did, it was not that he felt any pleasure in listening, but only to please her; she had no reason to suppose he ever prayed, and though he went regularly to church, it was because he considered it proper and respectable to do so, and not that he cared to worship God, or to learn His will. This conviction, which had gradually dawned upon Elsie, until now it amounted to certainty, caused her great grief; she shed many tears over it in secret, and very many and very earnest were the prayers she offered up for her dear father's conversion. She was sitting on his knee one evening in the drawing-room, while he and several other gentlemen were conversing on the subject of religion. They were discussing the question whether or no a change of heart were necessary to salvation. The general opinion seemed to be that it was not, and Elsie listened with pain while her father expressed his decided conviction that all who led an honest, upright, moral life, and attended to the outward observances of religion, were quite safe. "He could see no necessity for a change of heart; he did not believe in the doctrine of total depravity, not he; no indeed, he thought the world much better than many people would have us believe." Elsie fixed her eyes on his face with a very mournful gaze while he was speaking, but he was busy with his argument and did not notice her. But one of the guests was just expressing his approval of Mr. Dinsmore's sentiments, when catching sight of Elsie's face, he stopped, remarking, "Your little girl looks as if she had something to say on the subject; what is it, my dear?" Elsie blushed, hesitated, and looked at her father. "Yes, speak, my daughter, if you have anything to say," he said encouragingly. Elsie lifted her eyes timidly to the gentleman's face as she replied, "I was just thinking, sir, of what our Saviour said to Nicodemus: 'Verily, verily I say unto thee, except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.' 'Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again.'" She repeated these words of inspiration with a deep, earnest solemnity that seemed to impress every hearer. For a moment there was a deep hush in the room. Then the gentleman asked, "Well, my little lady, and what is meant by being born again?" "O sir!" she replied, "surely you know that it means to have the image of God, lost in Adam's fall, restored to us; it means what David asked for when he prayed, 'Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.'" "Where did you learn all this?" he asked, looking at her with mingled surprise and admiration. "In the Bible, sir," she modestly replied. "You seem to have read it to some purpose," said he; "and now since you consider that change so necessary, can you tell me how it is to be brought about?" "God's Holy Spirit, alone, can change a sinner's heart, sir." "And how am I to secure His aid?" he asked. Elsie answered with a text: "God is more willing to give His Holy Spirit to them that ask Him, than parents are to give good gifts unto their children." He paused a moment; then asked, "Have you obtained this new heart, Miss Elsie?" "I hope I have, sir," she replied, the sweet little face all suffused with blushes, and the soft, downcast eyes filling with tears. "Why do you think so?" he asked again, "I think there is a text that says you must be able always to give a reason for the hope that is in you, or something to that effect, is there not?" "Yes, sir: 'Be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you, with meekness and fear.'" Then raising her eyes to his face with a touching mixture of deep humility and holy boldness, she continued, "And this, sir is my answer: Jesus says, 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out;' and I believe Him. I did go to Him, and He did not cast me out, but forgave my sins, and taught me to love Him and desire to serve Him all my life." This conversation between the gentleman and the little girl had drawn the attention of all present; and now Mrs. Dinsmore, who had more than once shown signs of impatience, said, "Well, Elsie, I think you have now talked quite enough for a child of your age." Then, pulling out her watch, "It is high time for little folks to be in bed." Elsie, blushing deeply, would have retired immediately, but her father held her fast, saying, as he gave his stepmother an angry glance, "You need not go, Elsie, unless you choose; I am quite capable of judging when it is time to send you to bed." "I would rather go, if you please, papa," whispered Elsie, who had a great dread of Mrs. Dinsmore's anger. "Very well, then, you may do as you like," he replied, giving her a good-night kiss. And with a graceful good-night to the company, the little girl left the room. Her questioner followed her with an admiring glance, then turning to her father, exclaimed warmly, "She is a _remarkably_ intelligent child, Dinsmore! one that any father might be proud of. I was astonished at her answers." "Yes," remarked Travilla, "a text has been running in my head ever since you commenced your conversation; something about these things being hid from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto babes. And," he added, "I am sure if ever I saw one who possessed that new nature of which she spoke, it is she herself. Has she any faults, Dinsmore?" "Very few, _I_ think; though she would tell you a different story," replied her father with a gratified smile. The next morning Elsie was sitting reading her Bible, when she suddenly felt a hand laid on her head, and her father's voice said, "Good morning, little daughter." "Ah! papa, is that you?" she asked, raising her head to give him a smile of joyful welcome. "I did not know you were there." "Ah! I have been watching you for several minutes," he said; "always poring over the same book, Elsie; do you never tire of it?" "No, indeed, papa; it is always new, and I do love it so; it is so very sweet. May I read a little to you?" she added coaxingly. "Yes, I love to listen to anything read by my darling," he said, sitting down and taking her on his knee. She opened at the third chapter of John's Gospel and read it through. At the sixteenth verse, "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life," she paused, and asked, "Was not that a wonderful gift, papa? and wonderful love that prompted it?" "Yes," he said, absently stroking her hair. She finished the chapter, and closing the book, laid her head on his breast, asking, "Dear papa, don't you believe the Bible?" "Certainly, daughter; I am not an infidel," he replied in a careless tone. "Well, then, papa," she continued, half hesitatingly, "does not this chapter teach very plainly that we must love Jesus, and have new hearts, if we want to go to heaven?" "Yes," he said, "I dare say it does." Then taking the book from her, he laid it aside, and giving her a kiss, said, "I was much pleased with your intelligent answers to Mr. Lee, last evening." Elsie sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. It was not what she wanted. "What an odd child you are!" he said, laughing. "You really look as though I had been scolding, instead of praising you." She dropped her head on his breast, and burst into tears and sobs. "Why, Elsie, my own darling, what ails you?" he asked in great surprise. "O papa!" she sobbed, "I want you to love Jesus." "Oh! is _that_ all?" he said. And setting her on her feet, he took her by the hand and led her out into the garden, where they met Mr. Travilla and another gentleman, who immediately entered into conversation with Mr. Dinsmore, while Elsie wandered about amongst the flowers and shrubs, gathering a nosegay for her Aunt Adelaide. CHAPTER TWELFTH "She had waited for their coming, She had kiss'd them o'er and o'er-- And they were so fondly treasured For the words of love they bore, Words that whispered in the silence, She had listened till his tone Seemed to linger in the echo 'Darling, thou art all mine own!'" --MRS. J. C. NEAL. "Pray, what weighty matter is troubling your young brain, birdie?" asked Adelaide, laughingly laying her hand on Elsie's shoulder. "Judging from the exceeding gravity of your countenance, one might imagine that the affairs of the nation had been committed to your care." "O auntie! can't you help me? won't you?" answered the little girl, looking up coaxingly into the bright, cheerful face bent over her. "Help you in what? reading with your book upside down, eh?" asked Adelaide, pointing with a quizzical look at the volume of fairy tales in her little niece's lap. "Oh!" cried Elsie, coloring and laughing in her turn, "I was not reading, and did not know that my book was wrong side up. But, Aunt Adelaide, you know Christmas is coming soon, and I want to give papa something, and I am quite puzzled about it. I thought of slippers, but he has a very handsome pair, and besides there would hardly be time to work them, as I have so many lessons; a purse won't do either, because I have given him one already, and I would like it to be something worth more than either slippers or purse. But you are so much wiser than I, can't you help me think?" "So _this_ is what has kept you so quiet and demure all day that I have scarcely once heard you laugh or sing; quite an unusual state of things of late," and Adelaide playfully pinched the round, rosy cheek. "Ahem! let me put on my thinking cap," assuming an air of comic gravity. "Ah! yes, I have it! your miniature, little one, of course; what could please him better?" "Oh! yes," cried Elsie, clapping her hands, "that will do nicely; why didn't I think of it? Thank you, auntie. But then," she added, her countenance falling, "how can I get it taken without his knowledge? you know the surprise is half the fun." "Never mind, my dear, I'll find a way to manage that," replied Adelaide, confidently; "so just run away with you now, and see how much money you can scrape together to spend on it." "It won't take long to count it," Elsie said with a merry laugh. "But here is papa just coming in at the door; I hope he won't suspect what we have been talking about," and she bounded away to meet him and claim the kiss he never refused her now. Once Adelaide would not have been surprised at Elsie's quietness. Patient and sweet tempered the little girl had always been, but more especially after her father's return from Europe--very quiet and timid, seeming to shrink from observation, with a constant dread of incurring reproof or punishment; but the last few happy months, during which her father had continued to lavish upon her every proof of the tenderest affection, had wrought a great change in her; her manner had lost its timidity, she moved about the house with a light and joyous step, and it was no unusual thing to hear her merry, silvery laugh ring out, or her sweet voice carolling like some wild bird of the wood--the natural outgushings of her joy and thankfulness; for the little heart that had so long been famishing for love, that had often grown so weary and sick in its hungering and thirsting for it, was now fully satisfied, and revelled in its new-found happiness. "I have got it all arranged nicely, Elsie," Adelaide said, coming into the room with a very pleased face as the little girl was preparing for bed that evening. "Your papa is going away in a day or two to attend to some business matters connected with your property, and will be absent at least two weeks; so, unless he should take it into his head to carry you along, we can easily manage about the picture." Elsie looked up with a countenance of blank dismay. "Why," said Adelaide, laughing, "I thought you'd be delighted with my news, and instead of that, you look as if I had read you your death-warrant." "O Aunt Adelaide! two whole weeks without seeing papa! just think how long." "Pooh! nonsense, child! it will be gone before you know it. But now tell me, how much money have you?" "I have saved my allowance for two months; that makes twenty dollars, you know, auntie, and I have a little change besides; do you think it will be enough?" "Hardly, I'm afraid; but I can lend you some, if necessary." "Thank you, auntie," Elsie answered gratefully, "you are very kind; but I couldn't take it, because papa has told me expressly that I must never borrow money, nor run into debt in any way." "Dear me!" exclaimed Adelaide, a little impatiently; "Horace certainly is the most absurdly strict person I ever met with. But never mind, I think we can manage it somehow," she added, in a livelier tone, as she stooped to kiss her little niece good-night. Elsie's gentle rap was heard very early at her papa's door the next morning. He opened it immediately, and springing into his arms, she asked, almost tearfully, "Are you going away, papa?" "Yes, darling," he said, caressing her fondly. "I must leave home for a few weeks; and though I at first thought of taking you with me, upon further consideration I have decided that it will be better to leave you here; yet, if you desire it very much, my pet, I will take you along. Shall I?" "You know I would always rather be with you than anywhere else, papa," she answered, laying her head on his shoulder; "but you know best, and I am quite willing to do whatever you say." "That is right, daughter; my little Elsie is a good, obedient child," he said, pressing her closer to him. "When are you going papa?" she asked, her voice trembling a little. "To-morrow, directly after dinner, daughter." "So soon," she sighed. "The sooner I leave you the sooner I shall return, you know, darling," he said, patting her cheek, and smiling kindly on her. "Yes, papa; but two weeks seems such a long, long time." He smiled. "At your age I suppose it does, but when you are as old as I am, you will think it very short. But to make it pass more quickly, you may write me a little letter every day, and I will send you one just as often." "Oh! thank you, papa; that will be so pleasant," she answered, with a brightening countenance. "I do so love to get letters, and I would rather have one from you than from anybody else." "Ah? then I think you ought to be willing to spare me for two weeks. I have been thinking my little girl might perhaps be glad of a little extra pocket-money for buying Christmas gifts," he said, taking out his purse. "Would you?" "Yes, papa; oh! _very_ much, indeed." He laughed at her eager tone, and putting a fifty-dollar note into her hand, asked, "Will that be enough?" Elsie's eyes opened wide with astonishment. "I never before had half so much as this," she exclaimed. "May I spend it _all_, papa?" "Provided you don't throw it away," he answered gravely; "but don't forget that I require a strict account of all your expenditure." "Must I tell you _every_ thing I buy?" she asked, her countenance falling considerably. "Yes, my child, you must; not until after Christmas, however, if you would rather not." "I will not mind it so much then," she answered, looking quite relieved; "but indeed, papa, it is a great deal of trouble." "Ah! my little girl must not be lazy," he said, shaking his head gravely. This was Elsie's first parting from her father since they had learned to know and love each other; and when the time came to say good-by, she clung to him, and seemed so loath to let him go, that he quite repented of his determination to leave her at home. "O papa, papa! I cannot bear to have you go, and leave me behind," she sobbed. "I feel as if you were never coming back." "Why, my own darling," he said, kissing her again and again, "why do you talk so? I shall certainly be at home again in a fortnight; but if I had thought you would feel so badly, I would have made arrangements to take you with me. It is too late now, however, and you must let me go, dearest. Be a good girl while I am gone, and when I return I will bring you some handsome presents." So saying, he embraced her once more, then putting her gently from him, sprang into the carriage and was driven rapidly away. Elsie stood watching until it was out of sight, and then ran away to her own room to put her arms round her nurse's neck and hide her tears on her bosom. "Dere, dere, darlin'! dat will do now. Massa Horace he be back 'fore long, and ole Chloe don' like for to see her chile 'stressin' herself so," and the large, dusky hand was passed lovingly over the bright curls, and tenderly wiped away the falling tears. "But, O mammy! I'm afraid he will never come back. I'm afraid the steamboat boiler will burst, or the cars will run off the track, or----" "Hush, hush, darlin'! dat's wicked; you must jes' trust de Lord to take care of Massa Horace; He's jes' as able to do it one place as in tudder; an ef you an' your ole mammy keep prayin' for Massa, I'se _sure_ he'll come back safe, kase don't you remember what de good book says, 'If any two of you agree----'" "Oh! yes, dear mammy, thank you for remembering it," exclaimed the little girl, lifting her head and smiling through her tears. "I won't cry any more now, but will just try to keep thinking how glad I will be when papa comes home again." "A very sensible resolution, my dear," said Adelaide, putting her head in at the door; "so come, dry your eyes, and let mammy put on your bonnet and cloak as fast as possible, for I have begged a holiday for you, and am going to carry you off to the city to do some shopping, et cetera." "Ah! I think I know what that et cetera means, auntie, don't I?" laughed Elsie, as she hastened to obey. "Dear me! how very wise some people are," said her aunt, smiling and nodding good-naturedly. "But make haste, my dear, for the carriage is at the door." When Elsie laid her head upon her pillow that night she acknowledged to herself, that in spite of her father's absence--and she had, at times, missed him sadly--the day had been a very short and pleasant one to her, owing to her Aunt Adelaide's thoughtful kindness in taking her out into new scenes, and giving agreeable occupation to her thoughts. She rose at her usual early hour the next morning, and though feeling lonely, comforted herself with the hope of receiving the promised letter; and her face was full of eager expectation, as her grandfather, in his usual leisurely manner, opened the bag and distributed its contents. "Two letters for Elsie!" he said, in a tone of surprise, just as she was beginning to despair of her turn coming at all. "Ah; one is from Horace, I see; and the other from Miss Allison, no doubt." Elsie could hardly restrain her eagerness while he held them in his hand, examining and commenting upon the address, postmark, etc. But at length he tossed them to her, remarking, "There! if you are done your breakfast, you had better run away and read them." "Oh! thank you, grandpa," she said, gladly availing herself of his permission. "Elsie is fortunate to-day," observed Lora looking after her. "I wonder which she will read first." "Her father's, of course," replied Adelaide. "He is more to her than all the rest of the world put together." "A matter of small concern to the rest of the world, I opine," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore, dryly. "Perhaps so, mamma," said Adelaide, quietly; "yet I think there are _some_ who prize Elsie's affection." Yes, Adelaide was right. Miss Rose's letter was neglected and almost forgotten, while Elsie read and reread her papa's with the greatest delight. It gave an amusing account of the day's journey; but what constituted its chief charm for the little girl was that it was filled with expressions of the tenderest affection for her. Then came the pleasant task of answering, which occupied almost all her spare time, for letter-writing was still, to her, a rather new and difficult business, Miss Allison having hitherto been her only correspondent. And this was a pleasure which was renewed every day, for her papa faithfully kept his promise, each morning bringing her a letter, until at length one came announcing the speedy return of the writer. Elsie was almost wild with delight. "Aunt Adelaide," she cried, running to her to communicate the glad tidings, "papa says he will be here this very afternoon." "Well, my dear, as we have already attended to all the business that needed to be kept secret from him, I am very glad to hear it, especially for _your_ sake," replied Adelaide, looking up for a moment from the book she was reading, and then returning to it again, while her little niece danced out of the room, with her papa's letter still in her hand, and a face beaming with happiness. She met Mrs. Dinsmore in the hall. "Why are you skipping about in that mad fashion, Elsie?" she asked, severely; "I believe you will never learn to move and act like a lady." "I will try, madam, indeed," Elsie answered, subsiding into a slow and steady gait which would not have disgraced a woman of any age; "but I was so glad that papa is coming home to-day, that I could not help skipping." "Indeed!" and with a scornful toss of the head, Mrs. Dinsmore sailed past her and entered the drawing-room. Elsie had once, on her first arrival at Roselands, addressed Mrs. Dinsmore, in the innocence of her heart, as "grandma," but that lady's horrified look, and indignant repudiation of the ancient title, had made a deep impression on the little girl's memory, and effectually prevented any repetition of the offence. As the hour drew near when her father might reasonably be expected, Elsie took her station at one of the drawing-room windows overlooking the avenue, and the moment the carriage appeared in sight, she ran out and stood waiting for him on the steps of the portico. Mr. Dinsmore put out his head as they drove up the avenue, and the first object that caught his eye was the fairy-like form of his little daughter, in her blue merino dress, and the golden brown curls waving in the wind. He sprang out and caught her in his arms the instant the carriage stopped. "My darling, darling child," he cried, kissing her over and over again, and pressing her fondly to his heart, "how glad I am to have you in my arms again!" "Papa, papa, my own dear, dear papa!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck, "I'm _so_ happy, now that you have come home safe and well." "Are you, darling? but I must not keep you out in this wind, for it is quite chilly." He set her down, and leaving the servant to attend lo his baggage, led her into the hall. "Will you come into the drawing-room, papa?" she said; "there is a bright, warm fire there." "Is there not one in my dressing-room?" he asked. "Yes, papa, a very good one." "Then we will go there. I dare say the rest of the family are in no great hurry to see me, and I want my little girl to myself for half an hour," he said, leading the way up-stairs as he spoke. They found, as Elsie had reported, a very bright fire in the dressing-room. A large easy chair was drawn up near it, and a handsome dressing-gown and slippers were placed ready for use; all the work of Elsie's loving little hands. He saw it all at a glance, and with a pleased smile, stooped and kissed her again, saying, "My dear little daughter is very thoughtful for her papa's comfort." Then exchanging his warm out-door apparel and heavy boots for the dressing-gown and slippers, he seated himself in the chair and took her on his knee. "Well, daughter," he said, passing his hand caressingly over her curls, "papa has brought you a present; will you have it now, or shall it be kept for Christmas?" "Keep it for Christmas, papa," she answered gayly. "Christmas is almost here, and besides, I don't want to look at anything but you to-night." "Very well, look at me as much as you like," was his laughing rejoinder. "And now tell me, have you been a good girl in my absence?" "As good as I ever am, I believe, papa. I tried very hard; but you can ask Miss Day." "No, I am entirely satisfied with your report, for I know my little daughter is quite truthful." Elsie colored with pleasure, then calling to mind the time when he had for a moment suspected her of falsehood, she heaved a deep sigh, dropping her head upon his breast. He seemed to understand her thoughts, for, pressing his lips to her forehead, he said gently and kindly, "I think I shall never again doubt my little daughter's truth." She looked up with a grateful smile. "Miss Day has gone away to stay until after New Year's day, papa," she said, "and so our holidays have begun." "Ah! I am very well satisfied," said he. "I think you have earned a holiday, and I hope you will enjoy it. But I don't know that I shall let _you_ play _all_ the time," he added with a smile; "I have some notion of giving you a lesson now and then, myself." "Dear papa, how pleasant!" she exclaimed delightedly; "I do so love to say lessons to you." "Well, then, we will spend an hour together every morning. But are you not to have some company?" "Oh! yes, papa, quite a house full," she said with a slight sigh. "The Percys, and the Howards, and all the Carringtons, and some others too, I believe." "Why do you sigh, daughter?" he asked; "do you not expect to enjoy their company?" "Yes, sir, I hope so," she answered, rather dubiously; "but when there are so many, and they stay so long, they are apt to disagree, and that, you know, is not pleasant. I am sure I shall enjoy the hour with you better than anything else; it is so sweet to be quite alone with my own darling papa," and the little arm stole softly round his neck again, and the rosy lips touched his cheek. "Well, when are the little plagues coming?" he asked, returning her caress. "Some of them to-morrow, papa; no, Monday--to-morrow is Sabbath day." "Shall I bring in de trunks now, massa?" asked Mr. Dinsmore's servant, putting his head in at the door. "Yes, John, certainly." "Why, you brought back a new one, papa, didn't you?" asked Elsie, as John carried in one she was sure she had never seen before, and in obedience to a motion of her father's hand, set it down quite near them. "Yes, my dear, it is yours. There, John, unlock it," tossing him the key. "And now, daughter, get down and see what you can find in it worth having." Elsie needed no second bidding, but in an instant was on her knees beside the trunk, eager to examine its contents. "Take the lid off the band-box first, and see what is there," said her father. "O papa, how _very_ pretty!" she cried, as she lifted out a beautiful little velvet hat adorned with a couple of ostrich feathers. "I am very glad it pleases you, my darling," he said, putting it on her head, and gazing at her with proud delight in her rare beauty. "There! it fits exactly, and is very becoming." Then taking it off, he returned it to the box, and bade her look further. "I am reserving the present for Christmas," he said, in answer to her inquiring look. Elsie turned to the trunk again. "Dear papa, how good you are to me!" she said, looking up at him almost with tears of pleasure in her eyes, as she lifted out, one after another, a number of costly toys, which she examined with exclamations of delight, and then several handsome dresses, some of the finest, softest merino, and others of thick rich silk, all ready made in fashionable style, and doing credit to his taste and judgment; and lastly a beautiful velvet pelisse, trimmed with costly fur, just the thing to wear with her pretty new hat. He laughed and patted her cheek. "We must have these dresses tried on," he said, "at least one of them; for as they were all cut by the same pattern--one of your old dresses which I took with me--I presume they will all fit alike. There, take this one to mammy, and tell her to put it on you, and then come back to me." "Oh! I wondered how you could get them the right size, papa," Elsie answered, as she skipped gayly out of the room. She was back again in a very few moments, arrayed in the pretty silk he had selected. "Ah! it seems to be a perfect fit," said he, turning her round and round, with a very gratified look. "Mammy must dress you to-morrow in one of these new frocks, and your pretty hat and pelisse." Elsie looked troubled. "Well, what is it?" he asked. "I am afraid I shall be thinking of them in church, papa, if I wear them then for the first time." "Pooh! nonsense! what harm if you do? This squeamishness, Elsie, is the one thing about you that displeases me very much. But there! don't look so distressed, my pet. I dare say you will get over it by-and-by, and be all I wish; indeed I sometimes think you have improved a little already, in that respect." Oh! what a pang these words sent to her heart! was it indeed true that she was losing her tenderness of conscience? that she was becoming less afraid of displeasing and dishonoring her Saviour than in former days? The very thought was anguish. Her head drooped upon her bosom, and the small white hands were clasped convulsively together, while a bitter, repenting cry, a silent earnest prayer for pardon and help went up to Him whose ear is ever open to the cry of His children. Her father looked at her in astonishment. "What is it, darling?" he asked, drawing her tenderly toward him, and pushing back the curls from her face; "why do you look so pained? what did I say that could have hurt you so? I did not mean to be harsh and severe, for it was a very trifling fault." She hid her face on his shoulder and burst into an agony of tears. "It was not that, papa, but--but----" "But what, my darling? don't be afraid to tell me," he answered, soothingly. "O papa! I--I am afraid I don't--love Jesus--as much as I did," she faltered out between her sobs. "Ah! _that_ is it, eh? Well, well, you needn't cry any more. _I_ think you are a very good little girl, though rather a silly one, I am afraid, and quite too morbidly conscientious." He took her on his knee as he spoke, wiped away her tears, and then began talking in a lively strain of something else. Elsie listened, and answered him cheerfully, but all the evening he noticed that whenever she was quiet, an unusual expression of sadness would steal over her face. "What a strange child she is!" he said to himself, as he sat musing over the fire, after sending her to bed. "I cannot understand her; it is very odd how often I wound, when I intend to please her." As for Elsie, she scarcely thought of her new finery, so troubled was her tender conscience, so pained her little heart to think that she had been wandering from her dear Saviour. But Elsie had learned that "if any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous," and to Him she went with her sin and sorrow; she applied anew to the pardoning, peace-speaking blood of Christ--that "blood of sprinkling that speaketh better things than that of Abel;" and thus the sting of conscience was taken away and her peace restored, and she was soon resting quietly on her pillow, for, "so He giveth His beloved sleep." Even her father's keen, searching glance, when she came to him in the morning, could discover no trace of sadness in her face; very quiet and sober it was, but entirely peaceful and happy, and so it remained all through the day. Her new clothes did not trouble her; she was hardly conscious of wearing them, and quite able to give her usual solemn and fixed attention to the services of the sanctuary. "Where are you going, daughter?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, as Elsie gently withdrew her hand from his on leaving the dining-room. "To my room, papa," she replied. "Come with me," he said; "I want you." "What do you want me for, papa?" she asked, as he sat down and took her on his knee. "What for? why to keep, to love, and to look at," he said laughing. "I have been away from my little girl so long, that now I want her close by my side, or on my knee, all the time. Do you not like to be with me?" "_Dearly_ well, my own darling papa," she answered, flinging her little arms around his neck, and laying her head on his breast. He fondled her, and chatted with her for some time, then, still keeping her on his knee, took up a book and began to read. Elsie saw with pain that it was a novel and longed to beg him to put it away, and spend the precious hours of the holy Sabbath in the study of God's word, or some of the lesser helps to Zion's pilgrims which the saints of our own or other ages have prepared. But she knew that it would be quite out of place for a little child like her to attempt to counsel or reprove her father; and that, tenderly as he loved and cherished her, he would never for one moment allow her to forget their relative positions. At length she ventured to ask softly, "Papa, may I go to my own room now?" "What for?" he asked; "are you tired of my company?" "No, sir, _oh! no;_ but I want--" she hesitated and hung her head for an instant, while the rich color mounted to cheek and brow; then raising it again, she said fearlessly, "I always want to spend a little while with my best Friend on Sabbath afternoon, papa." He looked puzzled, and also somewhat displeased. "I don't understand you, Elsie," he said; "you surely can have no better friend than your own father; and can it be _possible_ that you love any one else better than you love me?" Again the little arms were round his neck, and hugging him close and closer, she whispered, "It was Jesus I meant, papa; you know He loves me even better than you do, and I must love Him best of all; but there is no one else that I love half so much as I love you, my own dear, dear precious father." "Well, you may go; but only for a little while, mind," he answered, giving her a kiss, and setting her down. "Nay," he added hastily, "stay as long as you like; if you feel it a punishment to be kept here with me, I would rather do without you." "Oh! no, no, papa," she said beseechingly, and with tears in her eyes; "I do so love to be with you. Please don't be angry; please let me come back soon." "No, darling, I am not angry," he answered, smoothing her hair and smiling kindly on her; "come back just when you like, and the sooner the better." Elsie did not stay away very long; in less than an hour she returned, bringing her Bible and "Pilgrim's Progress" with her. Her father welcomed her with a smile, and then turned to his novel again, while she drew a stool to his side, and, sitting down, leaned her head against his knee, and read until the short winter day began to close in, and Mr. Dinsmore, whose hand had been every now and then laid caressingly upon her curls, said, "Put away your book now, daughter; it is growing too dark for you to read without straining your eyes." "Please, papa, let me finish the paragraph first; may I?" she asked. "No; you must always obey the instant I speak to you." Elsie rose at once, and without another word laid her books upon the table; then coming back, claimed her accustomed place upon his knee, with her head resting on his shoulder. He put his arm around her, and they sat silently thus for some moments. At length Elsie asked, "Papa, did you ever read 'Pilgrim's Progress!'" "Yes; a good while ago, when I was quite a boy." "And you did not like it, papa?" "Yes, very much, though I have nearly forgotten the story now. Do _you_ like it?" "Very much, indeed, papa; I think it comes next to the Bible." "Next to the Bible, eh? well, I believe you are the only little girl of my acquaintance who thinks _that_ the most beautiful and interesting book in the world. But, let me see, what is this 'Pilgrim's Progress' about? some foolish story of a man with a great load on his back; is it not?" "Foolish! papa; oh! I am sure you don't mean it; you couldn't think it foolish. Ah! I know by your smile that you are only saying it to tease me. It is a beautiful story, papa, about Christian: how he lived in the City of Destruction, and had a great burden on his back, which he tried in every way to get rid of, but all in vain, until he came to the Cross; but then it seemed suddenly to loosen of itself, and dropped from his back, and rolled away, and fell into the sepulchre, where it could not be seen any more." "Well, and is not _that_ a foolish story? can you see any sense or meaning in it?" he asked, with a slight smile, and a keen glance into the eager little face upturned to his. "Ah! papa, I know what it means," she answered, in a half-sorrowful tone. "Christian, with the load on his back, is a person who has been convinced of sin by God's Holy Spirit, and feels his sins a heavy burden--too heavy for him to bear; and then he tries to get rid of them by leaving off his wicked ways, and by doing good deeds; but he soon finds he can't get rid of his load that way, for it only grows heavier and heavier, until at last he gives up trying to save himself, and just goes to the cross of Jesus Christ; and the moment he looks to Jesus and trusts in Him, his load of sin is all gone." Mr. Dinsmore was surprised; as indeed he had often been at Elsie's knowledge of spiritual things. "Who told you all that?" he asked. "I read it in the Bible, papa; and besides, I know, because I have felt it." He did not speak again for some moments; and then he said very gravely, "I am afraid you read too many of those dull books. I don't want you to read things that fill you with sad and gloomy thoughts, and make you unhappy. I want my little girl to be merry and happy as the day is long." "Please don't forbid me to read them, papa," she pleaded with a look of apprehension, "for indeed they don't make me unhappy, and I love them so dearly." "You need not be alarmed. I shall not do so unless I see that they do affect your spirits," he answered in a reassuring tone, and she thanked him with her own bright, sweet smile. She was silent for a moment, then asked suddenly, "Papa, may I say some verses to you?" "Some time," he said, "but not now, for there is the tea-bell;" and taking her hand, he led her down to the dining-room. They went to the drawing-room after tea, but did not stay long. There were no visitors, and it was very dull and quiet there, no one seeming inclined for conversation. Old Mr. Dinsmore sat nodding in his chair, Louise was drumming on the piano, and the rest were reading or sitting listlessly, saying nothing, and Elsie and her papa soon slipped away to their old seat by his dressing-room fire. "Sing something for me, my pet, some of those little hymns I often hear you singing to yourself," he said, as he took her on his knee; and Elsie gladly obeyed. Some of the pieces she sang alone, but in others which were familiar to him, her father joined his deep bass notes to her sweet treble, at which she was greatly delighted. Then they read several chapters of the Bible together, and thus the evening passed so quickly and pleasantly that she was very much surprised when her papa, taking out his watch, told her it was her bed-time. "O papa! it has been such a nice, _nice_ evening!" she said, as she bade him good-night; "so like the dear old times I used to have with Miss Rose, only--" She paused and colored deeply. "Only what, darling?" he asked, drawing her caressingly to him. "Only, papa, if you would pray with me, like she did," she whispered, winding her arms about his neck, and hiding her face on his shoulder. "That I cannot do, my pet, I have never learned how; and so I fear you will have to do all the praying for yourself and me too," he said, with a vain effort to speak lightly, for both heart and conscience were touched. The only reply was a tightening of the clasp of the little arms about his neck, and a half-suppressed sob; then two trembling lips touched his, a warm tear fell on his cheek, and she turned away and ran quickly from the room. Oh! how earnest and importunate were Elsie's pleadings at a throne of grace that night, that her "dear, _dear_ papa might soon be taught to love Jesus, and how to pray to Him." Tears fell fast while she prayed, but she rose from her knees feeling a joyful assurance that her petitions had been heard, and would be granted in God's own good time. She had hardly laid her head upon her pillow, when her father came in, and saying, "I have come to sit beside my little girl till she falls asleep," placed himself in a chair close by her side, taking her hand in his and holding it, as she loved so to have him do. "I am _so_ glad you have come, papa," she said, her whole face lighting up with pleased surprise. "Are you?" he answered with a smile. "I'm afraid I am spoiling you; but I can't help it to-night. I think you forget your wish to repeat some verses to me?" "Oh! yes, papa!" she said, "but may I say them now?" He nodded assent, and she went on. "They are some Miss Rose sent me in one of her letters. She cut them out of a newspaper, she said, and sent them to me because she liked them so much; and I too think they are very sweet. The piece is headed: "'THE PILGRIM'S WANTS.' "'I want a sweet sense of Thy pardoning love, That my manifold sins are forgiven; That Christ, as my Advocate, pleadeth above, That my name is recorded in heaven. "'I want every moment to feel That thy Spirit resides in my heart-- That his power is present to cleanse and to heal, And newness of life to impart. "'I want--oh! I want to attain Some likeness, my Saviour, to thee! That longed for resemblance once more to regain, Thy comeliness put upon me. "'I want to be marked for thine own-- Thy seal on my forehead to wear; To receive that new name on the mystic white stone Which none but thyself can declare. "'I want so in thee to abide As to bring forth some fruit to thy praise; The branch which thou prunest, though feeble and dried, May languish, but never decays. "'I want thine own hand to unbind Each tie to terrestrial things, Too tenderly cherished, too closely entwined, Where my heart so tenaciously clings. "'I want, by my aspect serene, My actions and words, to declare That my treasure is placed in a country unseen, That my heart's best affections are there. "'I want as a trav'ller to haste Straight onward, nor pause on my way; Nor forethought in anxious contrivance to waste On the tent only pitched for a day. "'I want--and this sums up my prayer-- To glorify thee till I die; Then calmly to yield up my soul to thy care, And breathe out in faith my last sigh.'" [Footnote: These beautiful words are not mine, nor do I know either the name of the author or where they were originally published.] He was silent for a moment after she had repeated the last verse, then laying his hand softly on her head, and looking searchingly into her eyes, he asked, "And does my little one really wish all that those words express?" "Yes, papa, for myself and for you too," she answered. "O papa! I do want to be all that Jesus would have me! just like Him; so like Him that everybody who knows me will see the likeness and know that I belong to Him." "Nay, you belong to me," he said, leaning over her and patting her cheek. "Hush! not a syllable from your lips. I will have no gainsaying of my words," he added, with a mixture of authority and playfulness, as she seemed about to reply. "Now shut your eyes and go to sleep; I will have no more talking to-night." She obeyed at once; the white lids gently closed over the sweet eyes, the long, dark lashes rested quietly on the fair, round cheek, and soon her soft regular breathing told that she had passed into the land of dreams. Her father sat, still holding the little hand, and still gazing tenderly upon the sweet young face, till, something in its expression reminding him of words she had just repeated, "I want to be marked for thine own-- Thy seal on my forehead to wear," he laid it gently down, rose, and bent over her with a troubled look. "Ah, my darling, _that_ prayer is granted already!" he murmured; "for, ah me! you seem almost too good and pure for earth. But oh, God forbid that you should be taken from me to that place where I can see that your heart is even now. How desolate should I be!" and he turned away with a shiver and a heavy sigh, and hastily quitted the room. CHAPTER THIRTEENTH "An angel face! its sunny wealth of hair, In radiant ripples bathed the graceful throat And dimpled shoulders." --MRS. OSGOOD. The cold gray light of a winter morning was stealing in through the half-closed blinds as Elsie awoke, and started up in bed, with the thought that this was the day on which several of her young guests were expected, and that her papa had promised her a walk with him before breakfast, if she were ready in time. Aunt Chloe had already risen, and a bright fire was blazing and crackling on the hearth, which she was carefully sweeping up. "Good morning, mammy," said the little girl. "Are you ready to dress me now?" "What, you 'wake, darlin'?" cried the fond old creature, turning quickly round at the sound of her nursling's voice. "Better lie still, honey, till de room gets warm." "I'll wait a little while, mammy," Elsie said, lying down again, "but I must get up soon; for I wouldn't miss my walk with papa for a great deal. Please throw the shutters wide open, and let the daylight in. I'm so glad it has come." "Why, my bressed lamb, you didn't lie awake lookin' for de mornin', did you? You ain't sick, nor sufferin' any way?" exclaimed Chloe, in a tone of mingled concern and inquiry, as she hastily set down her broom, and came toward the bed, with a look of loving anxiety on her dark face. "Oh, no, mammy! I slept nicely, and feel as well as can be," replied the little girl; "but I am glad to see this new day, because I hope it is going to be a very happy one. Carry Howard, and a good many of my little friends are coming, you know, and I think we will have a very pleasant time together." "Your ole mammy hopes you will, darlin'," replied Chloe, heartily; "an' I'se glad 'nough to see you lookin' so bright an' well; but jes you lie still till it gets warm here. I'll open de shutters, an' fotch some more wood for de fire, an' clar up de room, an' by dat time I reckon you can get up." Elsie waited patiently till Chloe pronounced the room warm enough, then sprang up with an eager haste, asking to be dressed as quickly as possible, that she might go to her papa. "Don't you go for to worry yourself, darlin'; dere's plenty ob time," said Chloe, beginning her work with all speed, however; "de mistress had ordered de breakfast at nine, dese holiday times, to let de ladies an' gen'lemen take a mornin' nap if dey likes it." "Oh, yes, mammy! and that reminds me that papa said I must eat a cracker or something before I take my walk, because he thinks it isn't good for people to exercise much on an entirely empty stomach," said Elsie. "Will you get me one when you have done my curls?" "Yes, honey, dere's a paper full in de drawer yonder," replied Chloe, "an' I reckon you better eat two or three, or you'll be mighty hungry 'fore you gits your breakfast." It still wanted a few minutes of eight o'clock when Elsie's gentle rap was heard at her papa's dressing-room door. He opened it, and stooping to give her a good-morning kiss, said, with a pleased smile, "How bright and well my darling looks! Had you a good night's rest?" "Oh, yes, papa! I never waked once till it began to be light," she replied; "and now I'm all ready for our walk." "In good season, too," he said. "Well, we will start presently; but take off your hat and come and sit on my knee a little while first; breakfast will be late this morning, and we need not hurry. Did you get something to eat?" he asked, as he seated himself by the fire and drew her to his side. "Yes, papa, I ate a cracker, and I think I will not get very hungry before nine o'clock; and I'm very glad we have so much time for our walk," she replied, as she took her place on his knee. "Shall we not start soon?" "Presently," he said, stroking her hair; "but it will not hurt you to get well warmed first, for it is a sharp morning." "You are very careful of me, dear papa," she said, laying her head on his breast, "and oh! it is so nice to have a papa to love me and take care of me." "And it is so nice to have a dear little daughter to love and to take care of," he answered, pressing her closer to him. The house was still very quiet, no one seeming to be astir but the servants, as Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie went down the stairs and passed out through the hall. "O papa! it is going to be such a nice day, and I feel so happy!" Elsie gayly exclaimed, as they started down the avenue. "Do you, daughter?" he said, regarding her with an expression of intense yearning affection; "I wish I could make you always as gay and happy as you are at this moment. But alas! it cannot be, my darling," he added with a sigh. "I know that, papa," she said with sudden gravity, "'for man that is born of woman is of few days, and full of trouble,' the Bible says; but I don't feel frightened at that, because it tells me, besides, that Jesus loves me, _oh, so dearly!_ and will never leave nor forsake me; and that He has all power in heaven and in earth, and will _never_ let anything happen to me but what shall do me good. O papa, it is such a _happy_ thing to have the dear Lord Jesus for your friend!" "It is strange how everything seems to lead your thoughts to Him," he said, giving her a wondering look. "Yes, papa, it is because I love Him so," she answered, simply; and the father sighed as the thought arose, "Better than she loves me, even as she told me herself. Ah! I would I could be _all_--_everything_ to her, as she is fast becoming to me. I cannot feel satisfied, and yet I believe few daughters love their fathers as well as she loves me;" and fondly pressing the little hand he held, he looked down upon her with beaming eyes. She raised hers to his face with an expression of confiding affection; and, as though she had read his thoughts: "Yes, papa," she said, "I love _you_ dearly, dearly, too; better than all the world besides." Breakfast--always a plentiful and inviting meal at Roselands--was already upon the table when they returned, and they brought to it appetites sufficiently keen to make it very enjoyable. Elsie spent the first hour after breakfast at the piano, practising, and the second in her papa's dressing-room, studying and reciting to him; then they took a long ride on horseback, and when they returned she found that quite a number of the expected guests had already arrived. Among them was Caroline Howard, a favorite friend of Elsie's; a pretty, sweet-tempered little girl, about a year older than herself. Caroline had been away paying a long visit to some friends in the North, and so the two little girls had not met for nearly a year, and of course they had a great deal to say to each other. They chatted a few moments in the drawing-room, and then Elsie carried her friend off with her to her own room, that they might go on with their talk while she was getting dressed for dinner. Caroline had much to tell of her Northern relatives, and of all she had seen and heard, and Elsie of her new-found parent, and her happiness in being so loved and cared for; and so the little tongues ran very fast, neither of them feeling Chloe's presence any restraint. But she soon completed her task, and went out, leaving the two sitting on the sofa together, laughing and talking merrily while awaiting the summons to dinner, which they were to take that day along with their elders. "How pretty your hair is, Elsie," said Caroline, winding the glossy ringlets around her finger. "I wish you'd give me one of these curls. I want to get a bracelet made for mamma, and she thinks so much of you, and your hair is such a lovely color, that I am sure she would be delighted with one made of it." "A Christmas gift is it to be?" asked Elsie; "but how will you get it done in time? for you know day after to-morrow is Christmas." "Yes, I know; but if I could get into the city this afternoon, I think I might get them to promise it by to-morrow night." "Well, you shall have the curl, at any rate, if you will just take the scissors and help yourself, and poor mammy will have the fewer to curl the next time," Elsie answered, laughingly. "But mind," she added, as Caroline prepared to avail herself of the permission, "that you take it where it will not be missed." "Of course I will; I don't want to spoil your beauty, though you are so much prettier than I," was Caroline's laughing rejoinder. "There," she cried, holding up the severed ringlet, "isn't it a beauty? but don't look scared, it will never be missed among so many; I don't even miss it myself, although I know it is gone." "Well," Elsie said, shaking back her curls, "suppose we go down to the drawing-room now, and I will ask papa to take us to the city this afternoon; or, if he is too busy to go himself, to let Pomp or Ajax drive us in." "I think it would be better fun to go alone, Elsie--don't you?" asked Caroline, with some hesitation; adding quickly: "Don't be vexed, but I must confess I am more than half afraid of your father." "Oh! you wouldn't be, Carry, if you knew him," Elsie answered, in her eager way; "I was a little myself, at first, but now I love him so dearly, I never want to go anywhere without him." They found Mr. Dinsmore in the drawing-room, where most of the guests and the older members of the family were assembled. He was conversing with a strange gentleman, and his little girl stood quietly at his side, patiently waiting until he should be ready to give her his attention. She had to wait some moments, for the gentlemen were discussing some political question, and were too much engaged to notice her. But at length her father put his arm around her, and with a kind smile asked, "What is it, daughter?" "Carry and I want to go to the city, this afternoon; won't you take us, papa?" "I wish I could, my dear, but I have an engagement, which makes it quite impossible." "Ah, I'm so sorry! but then, papa, we may have one of the carriages, and Pomp or Ajax to drive us, may we not?" "No, daughter; I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am afraid you are too young to be trusted on such an expedition with only a servant. You must wait until to-morrow, when I can take you myself." "But, papa, we want to go to-day. Oh! please do say yes; we want to go so very much, and I'm sure we could do very nicely by ourselves." Her arm was around his neck, and both tone and look were very coaxing. "My little daughter forgets that when papa says no, she is never to ask again." Elsie blushed and hung her head. His manner was quite too grave and decided for her to venture another word. "What is the matter? what does Elsie want?" asked Adelaide, who was standing near, and had overheard enough to have some idea of the trouble. Mr. Dinsmore explained, and Adelaide at once offered to take charge of the little girls, saying that she intended shopping a little in the city herself that very afternoon. "Thank you," said her brother, looking very much pleased; "that obviates the difficulty entirely. Elsie, you may go, if Mrs. Howard gives Caroline permission." "Thank you, dear papa, thank you so very much," she answered gratefully, and then ran away to tell Carry of her success, and secure Mrs. Howard's permission, which was easily obtained. Elsie had intended buying some little present for each of the house-servants, and had taken a great deal of pleasure in making out a list of such articles as she thought would be suitable; but, on examining her purse, she found to her dismay that she had already spent so much on the miniature, and various gifts intended for other members of the family, that there was very little left; and it was with a very sober, almost sorrowful face, that she came down to take her place in the carriage; it brightened instantly, though, as she caught sight of her father waiting to see her off. "All ready, my darling?" he said, holding out his hand; "I think you will have a pleasant ride." "Ah! yes, if you were only going too, papa," she answered regretfully. "Quite impossible, my pet; but here is something to help you in your shopping; use it wisely;" and he put a twenty-dollar gold piece in her hand. "Oh, thank you, papa! how good and kind you are to me!" she exclaimed, her whole face lighting up with pleasure; "now I can buy some things I wanted to get for mammy and the rest. But how could you know I wanted more money?" He only smiled, lifted her up in his arms, and kissed her fondly; then, placing her in the carriage, said to the coachman, "Drive carefully, Ajax; you are carrying my greatest treasure." "Nebber fear, marster; dese ole horses nebber tink ob running away," replied the negro, with a bow and a grin, as he touched his horses with the whip, and drove off. It was growing quite dark when the carriage again drove up the avenue; and Mr. Horace Dinsmore, who was beginning to feel a little anxious, came out to receive them, and ask what had detained them so long. "Long!" said Adelaide, in a tone of surprise, "you gentlemen really have no idea what an undertaking it is to shop. Why, I thought we got through in a wonderfully short time." "O papa, I have bought such quantities of nice things," cried Elsie, springing into his arms. "Such as tobacco pipes, red flannel, et cetera," remarked Adelaide, laughing. "Indeed, Miss Adelaide!" exclaimed Carry, somewhat indignantly, "you forget the----" But Elsie's little hand was suddenly placed over her mouth, and Carry laughed pleasantly, saying, "Ah! I forgot, I mustn't tell." "Papa, papa," cried Elsie, catching hold of his hand, "do come with me to my room, and let me show you my purchases." "I will, darling," he answered, pinching her cheek, "Here, Bill"--to a servant--"carry these bundles to Miss Elsie's room." Then, picking her up, he tossed her over his shoulder, and carried her up-stairs as easily as though she had been a baby, she clinging to him and laughing merrily. "Why, papa, how strong you are," she said, as he set her down. "I believe you can carry me as easily as I can my doll." "To be sure; you are my doll," said he, "and a very light burden for a man of my size and strength. But here come the bundles! what a number! no wonder you were late in getting home." "Oh! yes, papa see! I want to show you!" and catching up one of them, she hastily tore it open, displaying a very gay handkerchief. "This is a turban for Aunt Phillis; and this is a pound of tobacco for old Uncle Jack, and a nice pipe, too. Look, mammy! won't he be pleased? And here's some flannel for poor old Aunt Dinah, who has the rheumatism; and that--oh! no, no, mammy! don't you open that! It's a nice shawl for her, papa," she whispered in his ear. "Ah!" he said, smiling; "and which is my present? You had better point it out, lest I should stumble upon it and learn the secret too soon." "There is none here for you, sir," she replied, looking up into his face with an arch smile. "I would give you the bundle you carried up-stairs, just now, but I'm afraid you would say that was not mine to give, because it belongs to you already." "Indeed it does, and I feel richer in that possession than all the gold of California could make me," he said, pressing her to his heart. She looked surpassingly lovely at that moment, her cheeks burning, and her eyes sparkling with excitement; the dark, fur-trimmed pelisse, and the velvet hat and plumes, setting off to advantage the whiteness of her pure complexion and the glossy ringlets falling in rich masses on her shoulders. "My own papa! I'm so glad I do belong to you," she said, throwing her arms around his neck, and laying her cheek to his for an instant. Then springing away, she added: "But I must show you the rest of the things; there are a good many more." And she went on opening bundle after bundle, displaying their contents, and telling him for whom she intended them, until at last they had all been examined, and then she said, a little wearily, "Now, mammy, please put them all away until to-morrow. But first take off my things and get me ready to go downstairs." "No, daughter," Mr. Dinsmore said in a gentle but firm tone; "you are not ready to have them put away until the price of each has been set down in your book." "Oh! papa," she pleaded, "won't to-morrow do? I'm tired now, and isn't it almost tea-time?" "No; never put off till to-morrow what may as well be done to-day. There is nearly an hour yet before tea, and I do not think it need fatigue you much." Elsie's face clouded, and the slightest approach to a pout might have been perceived. "I hope my little girl is not going to be naughty," he said, very gravely. Her face brightened in an instant. "No, papa," she answered cheerfully, "I will be good, and do whatever you bid me." "That is my own darling," said he, "and I will help you, and it will not take long." He opened her writing-desk as he spoke, and took out her account-book. "Oh! papa," she cried in a startled tone, springing forward and taking hold of his hand, "please, please don't look! you know you said I need not show you until after Christmas." "No, I will not," he replied, smiling at her eagerness; "you shall put down the items in the book, while I write the labels, and Aunt Chloe pins them on. Will that do?" "Oh! that's a nice plan, papa," she said gayly, as she threw off her hat and pelisse, and seating herself before the desk, took out her pen and ink. Chloe put the hat and pelisse carefully away, brought a comb and brush, and smoothed her nursling's hair, and then began her share of the business on hand. Half an hour's work finished it all, and Elsie wiped her pen, and laid it away, saying joyously, "Oh! I'm so glad it is all done." "Papa knew best, after all, did he not?" asked her father, drawing her to him, and patting her cheek. "Yes, papa," she said softly; "you always know best, and I am very sorry I was naughty." He answered with a kiss, and, taking her hand, led her down to the drawing-room. After tea the young people adjourned to the nursery, where they amused themselves with a variety of innocent games. Quite early in the evening, and greatly to Elsie's delight, her father joined them; and, though some of the young strangers were at first rather shy of him, they soon found that he could enter heartily into their sports, and before the time came to separate for the night, he had made himself very popular with nearly all. Time flew fast, and Elsie was very much surprised when the clock struck eight. Half-past was her bedtime; and, as she now and then glanced up at the dial-plate, she thought the hands had never moved so fast. As it struck the half hour she drew near her father's side. "Papa," she asked, "is the clock right?" "Yes, my dear, it is," he replied, comparing it with his watch. "And must I go to bed now?" she asked, half hoping for permission to stay up a little longer. "Yes, daughter; keep to rules." Elsie looked disappointed, and several little voices urged, "Oh, do let her stay up another hour, or at least till nine o'clock." "No; I cannot often allow a departure from rules," he said kindly, but firmly; "and to-morrow night Elsie will find it harder to go to bed in season than to-night. Bid your little friends good-night, my dear, and go at once." Elsie obeyed, readily and cheerfully. "You, too, papa," she said, coming to him last. "No, darling," he answered, laying his hand caressingly on her head, and smiling approvingly on her; "I will come for my good-night kiss before you are asleep." Elsie looked very glad, and went away feeling herself the happiest little girl in the land, in spite of the annoyance of being forced to leave the merry group in the nursery. She was just ready for bed when her papa came in, and, taking her in his arms, folded her to his heart, saying, "My own darling! my good, obedient little daughter!" "Dear papa, I love you so much!" she replied, twining her arms around his neck, "I love you all the better for never letting me have my own way, but always making me obey and keep to rules." "I don't doubt it, daughter," he said, "for I have often noticed that spoiled, petted children, usually have very little love for their parents, or indeed for any one but themselves. But I must put you in your bed, or you will be in danger of taking cold." He laid her down, tucked the clothes snugly about her, and pressing one more kiss on the round, rosy cheek, left her to her slumbers. CHAPTER FOURTEENTH "You play the spaniel, And think with wagging of your tongue to win me." --SHAKESPEARE's _Henry Eighth_. "These delights, if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live." --MILTON's _L'Allegro_. The young party at Roselands had now grown so large--several additions having been made to it on Monday afternoon and evening--that a separate table was ordered to be spread for them in the nursery, where they took their meals together; Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper, taking the head of the table, for the double purpose of keeping them in order, and seeing that their wants were well supplied. Elsie came in to breakfast, from a brisk walk with her papa, looking fresh and rosy, and bright as the morning; quite different from some of the little guests, who had been up far beyond their usual hours the night before, and, having just left their beds, had come down pale and languid in looks, and in some instances showing peevish and fretful tempers, very trying to the patience of their attendants. "O Elsie!" exclaimed Carry Howard, as the little girl took her place at the table, "we were all so sorry that you had to leave us so soon last night; we had lots of fun after you left. I think your papa might have let you stay up a little longer; but he has promised that tonight--as we are to have the Christmas-tree, and ever so much will be going on--you shall stay up till half-past nine, if you like. Aren't you glad? I'm sure I am." "Yes, papa is very kind, and I know I feel much better for going to bed early last night," said Elsie, cheerfully. "Yes, indeed," remarked Mrs. Brown, "late hours and rich food are very bad for little folks, and I notice that Miss Elsie has grown a deal stronger and healthier-looking since her papa came home; he takes such good care of her." "Indeed he does," said Elsie heartily, thanking Mrs. Brown with one of her sweetest smiles. "What are we going to do to-day, Elsie?" asked Caroline. "Whatever you all prefer," said Elsie. "If you like I will practice that duet with you the first hour after breakfast, or do anything else you wish; but the second hour I must spend with papa, and after that I have nothing to do but entertain my company all day." "Do you do lessons in holidays?" asked Mary Leslie, a merry, fun-loving child, about Elsie's own age, who considered lessons an intolerable bore, and had some vague idea that they must have been invented for the sole purpose of tormenting children. Her blue eyes opened wide with astonishment when Elsie quietly replied that her papa had kindly arranged to give her an hour every morning, because he knew it would be so much pleasanter for her than spending the whole day in play. Elsie did keenly enjoy that quiet hour spent in studying and reciting to her father, sitting on a low stool at his feet, or perhaps oftener on his knee, with his arm around her waist. She had an eager and growing thirst for knowledge, and was an apt scholar, whom any one with the least love for the profession might have delighted in teaching; and Mr. Dinsmore, a thorough scholar himself, and loving knowledge for its own sake--loving also his little pupil with all a father's fond, yearning affection--delighted in his task. When Elsie left her father she found that the Carringtons had just arrived. She and Lucy had not seen each other since the week the latter had spent at Roselands early in the summer, and both felt pleased to meet. Mrs. Carrington gave Elsie a warm embrace, remarking that she had grown, and was looking extremely well; better than she had ever seen her. But no one was more delighted to meet Elsie than Herbert, and she was very glad to learn that his health was gradually improving. He was not, however, at all strong, even yet, and his mother thought it best for him to lie down and rest a little after his ride. She promised to sit by him, and the two little girls went in search of the rest of the young folks. Several of the older boys had gone out walking or riding, but the younger ones, and all the little girls, were gathered in a little back parlor, where, by Adelaide's care and forethought, a variety of story-books, toys, and games, had been provided for their amusement. Elsie's entrance was hailed with delight, for she was a general favorite. "Oh! Elsie, can't you tell us what to play?" cried Mary Leslie; "I'm so tired," and she yawned wearily. "Here are some dissected maps, Mary," replied Elsie, opening a drawer; "would you not like them?" "No, indeed, thank you; they are too much like lessons." "Here are blocks; will you build houses?" "Oh! I am too big for that; they are very nice for little children." "Will you play jack-stones? here are some smooth pebbles." "Yes, if you and Carry, and Lucy, will play with me." "Agreed!" said the others, "let's have a game." So, Elsie having first set the little ones to building block-houses, supplied Harry Carrington--an older brother of Lucy's--with a book, and two younger boys with dissected maps to arrange, the four girls sat down in a circle on the carpet and began their game. For a few moments all went on smoothly; but soon angry and complaining words were heard coming from the corner where the house-building was going on. Elsie left her game to try to make peace. "What is the matter, Flora, dear?" she asked soothingly of a little curly-headed girl, who was sobbing, and wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. "Enna took my blocks," sobbed the child. "Oh! Enna, won't you give them back?" said Elsie, coaxingly; "you know Flora is a visitor, and we must be very polite to her." "No, I won't," returned Enna, flatly; "she's got enough now." "No, I haven't; I can't build a house with those," Flora said, with another sob. Elsie stood a moment looking much perplexed; then, with a brightening face, exclaimed in her cheerful, pleasant way, "Well, never mind, Flora, dear, I will get you my doll. Will not that do quite as well?"--"Oh! yes, I'd rather have the doll, Elsie," the little weeper answered eagerly, smiling through her tears. Elsie ran out of the room and was back again almost in a moment, with the doll in her arms. "There, dear little Flora," she said, laying it gently on the child's lap, "please be careful of it for I have had it a long while, and prize it very much, because my guardian gave it to me when I was a very little girl, and he is dead now." "I won't break it, Elsie, indeed I won't," replied Flora, confidently; and Elsie sat down to her game again. A few moments afterward Mr. Horace Dinsmore passed through the room. "Elsie," he said, as he caught sight of his little daughter, "go up to my dressing-room." There was evidently displeasure and reproof in his tone, and, entirely unconscious of wrongdoing, Elsie looked up in surprise, asking, "Why, papa?" "Because _I bid_ you," he replied; and she silently obeyed, wondering greatly what she had done to displease her father. Mr. Dinsmore passed out of one door while Elsie left by the other. The three little girls looked inquiringly into each other's faces. "What is the matter? what has Elsie done?" asked Carry in a whisper. "I don't know; nothing I guess," replied Lucy, indignantly. "I do believe he's just the crossest man alive! When I was here last summer he was all the time scolding and punishing poor Elsie for just nothing at all." "I think he must be very strict," said Carry; "but Elsie seems to love him very much." "Strict! I guess he is!" exclaimed Mary; "why, only think, girls, he makes her do her lessons in the holidays!" "I suspect she did not know her lesson, and has to learn it over," said Carry, shaking her head wisely; and that was the conclusion they all came to. In the meantime, Elsie sat down alone in her banishment, and tried to think what she could have done to deserve it. It was some time before she could form any idea of its cause; but at length it suddenly came to her recollection that once, several months before this, her father had found her sitting on the carpet, and had bade her get up immediately and sit on a chair or stool, saying, "Never let me see you sitting on the floor, Elsie, when there are plenty of seats at hand. I consider it a very unladylike and slovenly trick." She covered her face with her hands, and sat thus for some moments, feeling very sorry for her forgetfulness and disobedience; very penitent on account of it; and then, kneeling down, she asked forgiveness of God. A full hour she had been there alone, and the time had seemed very long, when at last the door opened and her father came in. Elsie rose and came forward to meet him with the air of one who had offended and knew she was in disgrace; but putting one of her little hands in his, she looked up pleadingly into his face, asking, in a slightly tremulous tone, "Dear papa, are you angry with me?" "I am always displeased when you disobey me, Elsie," he replied, very gravely, laying his other hand on her head. "I am very sorry I was naughty, papa," she said, humbly, and casting down her eyes, "but I had quite forgotten that you had told me not to sit on the floor, and I could not think for a good while what it was that I had done wrong." "Is _that_ an excuse for disobedience, Elsie?" he asked in a tone of grave displeasure. "No, sir; I did not mean it so, and I am very, very sorry; dear papa, please forgive me, and I will try never to forget again." "I think you disobeyed in another matter," he said. "Yes, sir, I know it was very naughty to ask why, but I think I will remember not to do it again. Dear papa, won't you forgive me?" He sat down and took her on his knee. "Yes, daughter, I will," he said, in his usual kind, affectionate tone; "I am always ready to forgive my little girl when I see that she is sorry for a fault." She held up her face for a kiss, which he gave. "I wish I could always be good, papa," she said, "but I am naughty so often." "No," said he, "I think you have been a very good girl for quite a long time. If you were as naughty as Arthur and Enna, I don't know what I should do with you; whip you every day, I suspect, until I made a better girl of you. Now you may go down to your mates; but _remember_, you are not to play jack-stones again." It was now lunch-time, and Elsie found the children in the nursery engaged in eating. Flora turned to her as she entered. "Please, Elsie, don't be cross," she said coaxingly: "I am real sorry your doll's broken, but it wasn't my fault Enna would try to snatch it, and that made it fall and break its head." Poor Elsie! this was quite a trial, and she could scarcely keep back the tears as, following Flora's glance, she saw her valued doll lying on the window-seat with its head broken entirely off. She said not a word, but, hastily crossing the room, took it up and gazed mournfully at it. Kind Mrs. Brown, who had just finished helping her young charge all round, followed her to the window, "Never mind, dear," she said in her pleasant, cheery tone, patting Elsie's cheek and smoothing her hair "I've got some excellent glue, and I think I can stick it on again and make it almost as good as ever. So come, sit down and eat your lunch, and don't fret any more." "Thank you, ma'am, you are very kind," Elsie said, trying to smile, as the kind-hearted old lady led her to the table and filled her plate with fruit and cakes. "These cakes are very simple, not at all rich, my dear, but quite what your papa would approve of," she said, seeing the little girl look doubtfully at them. "Doesn't your papa let you eat anything good, Elsie?" asked Mary Leslie across the table. "He must be cross." "No, indeed, he is not, Mary, and he lets me eat everything that he thinks is good for me," Elsie answered with some warmth. She was seated between Caroline Howard and Lucy Carrington. "What _did_ your papa send you away for, Elsie?" whispered the latter. "Please don't ask me, Lucy," replied the little girl, blushing deeply. "Papa always has a good reason for what he does, and he is just the dearest, kindest, and best father that ever anybody had." Elsie spoke in an eager, excited, almost angry manner, quite unusual with her, while the hot tears came into her eyes, for she knew very well what was Lucy's opinion of her father, and more than half suspected that she had been making some unkind remark about him to the others, and she was eager to remove any unfavorable impression they might have received. "I am sure he must love you very dearly, Elsie," remarked Caroline, soothingly; "no one could help seeing that just by the way he looks at you." Elsie answered her with a pleased and grateful look; and then changed the subject by proposing that they should all take a walk as soon as they had finished eating, as the day was fine, and there would be plenty of time before dinner. The motion was carried without a dissenting voice, and in a few moments they all set out, a very merry party, full of fun and frolic. They had a very pleasant time, and returned barely in season to be dressed for dinner. They dined by themselves in the nursery, but were afterward taken down to the drawing-room. Here Elsie found herself immediately seized upon by a young lady, dressed in very gay and fashionable style, whom she did not remember ever to have seen before, but who insisted on seating the little girl on the sofa by her side, and keeping her there a long while, loading her with caresses and flattery. "My dear child," she said, "what lovely hair you have! so fine, and soft, and glossy; such a beautiful color, too, and curls so _splendidly! Natural_ ringlets, I'm sure, are they not?" "Yes, ma'am," Elsie answered, simply, wishing from the bottom of her heart that the lady would release her, and talk to some one else. But the lady had no such intention. "You are a very sweet little girl, I am sure, and I shall love you dearly," she said, kissing her several times. "Ah! I would give _anything_ if I had such a clear fair complexion and such rosy cheeks. That makes you blush. Well, I like to see it; blushes are very becoming. Oh! you needn't pretend you don't know you're handsome; you're a perfect little beauty. Do tell me, where did you get such splendid eyes! But I needn't ask, for I have only to look at your father to see where they came from. Mr. Dinsmore"--to Elsie's papa, who just then came toward them--"you ought to be very proud of this child; she is the very image of yourself, and a perfect little beauty, too." "Miss Stevens is pleased to flatter me," he said, bowing low; "but flattery is not good for either grown-up children or younger ones, and I must beg leave to decline the compliment, as I cannot see that Elsie bears the slightest resemblance to me or any of my family. She is very like her mother, though," he added, with a half sigh and a tender, loving glance at his little girl, "and that is just what I would have her. But I am forgetting my errand, Miss Stevens; I came to ask if you will ride this afternoon, as we are getting up a small party." "Yes, thank you, I should like it dearly, it is such a lovely day. But how soon do you start?" "As soon as the ladies can be ready. The horses will be at the door in a very few moments." "Ah! then I must go and prepare," she said, rising and sailing out of the room. Mr. Dinsmore took the seat she had vacated, and, passing his arm round his little girl, said to her in an undertone, "My little daughter must not be so foolish as to believe that people mean all they say to her; for some persons talk in a very thoughtless way, and, without perhaps intending to be exactly untruthful, say a great deal that they really do not mean. And I should be sorry, indeed, to see my little girl so spoiled by all this silly flattery as to grow up conceited and vain." She looked at him with her own sweet innocent smile, free from the slightest touch of vanity. "No, papa," she said, "I do not mind, when people say such things, because I know the Bible says, 'Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain;' and in another place, 'He that flattereth his neighbor spreadeth a net for his feet.' So I will try to keep away from that lady; shall I not, papa?" "Whenever you can do so without rudeness, daughter;" and he moved away, thinking to himself, "How strangely the teachings of that book seem to preserve my child from every evil influence." A sigh escaped him. There was lurking within his breast a vague consciousness that her father needed such a safeguard, but had it not. Lucy, who was standing at the window, turned quickly round. "Come, girls," she said, "let us run out and see them off; they're bringing up the horses. And see, there's Miss Adelaide in her riding-dress and cap; how pretty she looks! And there's that Miss Stevens coming out now; hateful thing! I can't bear her! Come, Elsie and Carry!" And she ran out, Caroline and Elsie following. Elsie, however, went no further than the hall, where she stood still at the foot of the stairs. "Come, Elsie," called the other two from the portico, "come out here." "No," replied the little girl, "I cannot come without something round me. Papa says it is too cold for me to be out in the wind to-day with my neck and arms bare." "Pooh! nonsense!" said Lucy, "'tain't a bit cold; _do_ come now." "No, Lucy, I must obey my father," Elsie answered in a very pleasant but no less decided tone. Some one caught her round the waist and lifted her up. "Oh! papa," she exclaimed, "I did not know you were there! I wish I was going too; I don't like to have _you_ go without me." "I wish you were, my pet; I always love to have you with me; but you know it wouldn't do; you have your little guests to entertain. Good-by, darling. Don't go out in the cold." He kissed her, as he always did now, when leaving her even for an hour or two, and set her down. The little girls watched until the last of the party had disappeared down the avenue, and then ran gayly up-stairs to Elsie's room, where they busied themselves until tea-time in various little preparations for the evening, such as dressing dolls, and tying up bundles of confectionery, etc., to be hung upon the Christmas-tree. The children had all noticed that the doors of a parlor opening into the drawing-room had been closed since morning to all but a favored few, who passed in and out, with an air of mystery and importance, and generally laden with some odd-looking bundle when going in, which they invariably left behind on coming out again, and many a whispered consultation had been held as to what was probably going on in there. Elsie and Carry seemed to be in the secret, but only smiled and shook their heads wisely when questioned. But at length tea being over, and all, both old and young, assembled as if by common consent in the drawing-room, it began to be whispered about that their curiosity was now on the point of being gratified. All were immediately on the _qui vive_, and every face brightened with mirth and expectation; and when, a moment after, the doors were thrown open, there was a universal burst of applause. A large Christmas-tree had been set up at the further end of the room, and, with its myriad of lighted tapers, and its load of toys and bonbons, interspersed with many a richer and more costly gift, made quite a display. "Beautiful! beautiful!" cried the children, clapping their hands and dancing about with delight, while their elders, perhaps equally pleased, expressed their admiration after a more staid and sober fashion. When they thought their handiwork had been sufficiently admired, Mrs. Dinsmore and Adelaide approached the tree and began the pleasant task of distributing the gifts. Everything was labelled, and each, as his or her name was called out, stepped forward to receive the present. No one had been forgotten; each had something, and almost every one had several pretty presents. Mary Leslie and little Flora Arnott were made perfectly happy with wax dolls that could open and shut their eyes; Caroline Howard received a gold chain from her mamma, and a pretty pin from Elsie; Lucy, a set of coral ornaments, besides several smaller presents; and others were equally fortunate. All was mirth and hilarity; only one clouded face to be seen, and that belonged to Enna, who was pouting in a corner because Mary Leslie's doll was a little larger than hers. Elsie had already received a pretty bracelet from her Aunt Adelaide, a needle-case from Lora, and several little gifts from her young guests, and was just beginning to wonder what had become of her papa's promised present, when she heard her name again, and Adelaide, turning to her with a pleased look, slipped a most beautiful diamond ring on her finger. "From your papa," she said. "Go and thank him: it is well worth it." Elsie sought him out where he stood alone in a corner, an amused spectator of the merry scene. "See, papa," she said, holding up her hand. "I think it very beautiful; thank you, dear papa, thank you very much." "Does it please you, my darling?" he asked, stooping to press a kiss on the little upturned face, so bright and happy. "Yes, papa, I think it is lovely! the very prettiest ring I ever saw." "Yet I think there is something else you would have liked better; is there not?" he asked, looking searchingly into her face. "Dear papa, I like it _very_ much; I would rather have it than anything else on the tree." "Still you have not answered my question," he said, with a smile, as he sat down and drew her to his side, adding in a playful tone, "Come, I am not going to put up with any evasion; tell me truly if you would have preferred something else, and if so, what it is." Elsie blushed and looked down; then raising her eyes, and seeing with what a tender, loving glance he was regarding her, she took courage to say, "Yes papa, there is _one_ thing I would have liked better, and that is your miniature." To her surprise he looked highly pleased at her reply, and giving her another kiss, said, "Well, darling, some day you shall have it." "Mr. Horace Dinsmore," called Adelaide, taking some small, glittering object from the tree. "Another present for me?" he asked, as Walter came running with it. He had already received several, from his father and sisters, but none had seemed to give him half the pleasure that this did when he saw that it was labelled, "From his little daughter." It was only a gold pencil. The miniature--with which the artist had succeeded so well that nothing could have been prettier except the original herself--she had reserved to be given in another way. "Do you like it, papa?" she asked, her face glowing with delight to see how pleased he was. "Yes, darling, very much; and I shall always think of my little girl when I use it." "Keep it in your pocket, and use it every day, won't you, papa?" "Yes, my pet, I will; but I thought you said you had no present for me?" "Oh! no, no, papa; I said there was none for you amongst those bundles. I had bought this, but had given it to Aunt Adelaide to take care of, for fear you might happen to see it." "Ah! that was it, eh?" and he laughed and stroked her hair. "Here, Elsie, here is your bundle of candy," said Walter, running up to them again. "Everybody has one, and that is yours, Adelaide says." He put it in her hand, and ran away again. Elsie looked up in her father's face inquiringly. "No, darling," he said, taking the paper from her hand and examining its contents, "not to-night; to-morrow, after breakfast, you may eat the cream-candy and the rock, but none of the others; they are colored, and very unwholesome." "Won't _you_ eat some, papa?" she asked with winning sweetness. "No, dearest," he said; "for though I, too, am fond of sweet things, I will not eat them while I refuse them to you." "Do, papa," she urged, "it would give me pleasure to see you enjoying it." "No, darling, _I_ will wait until to-morrow, too." "Then please keep it for me until to-morrow, papa, will you?" "Yes," he said, putting it in his pocket; and then, as the gifts had all been distributed, and the little folks were in high glee, a variety of sports were commenced by them, in which some of their elders also took a part; and thus the hours sped away so rapidly that Elsie was very much surprised when her father called her to go to bed. "Is it half-past nine already, papa?" she asked. "It is ten, my dear child, and high time you were in bed," he said, smiling at her look of astonishment. "I hope you have enjoyed yourself." "Oh! _so_ much, papa. Good-night, and thank you for letting me stay up so long." CHAPTER FIFTEENTH "Ask me not why I should love her;-- Look upon those soulful eyes! Look while mirth or feeling move her, And see there how sweetly rise Thoughts gay and gentle from a breast Which is of innocence the nest-- Which, though each joy were from it shred, By truth would still be tenanted!" --HOFFMAN'S _Poems_. It was yet dark when Elsie awoke, but, hearing the clock strike five, she knew it was morning. She lay still a little while, and then, slipping softly out of bed, put her feet into her slippers, threw her warm dressing-gown around her, and feeling for a little package she had left on her toilet-table, she secured it and stole noiselessly from the room. All was darkness and silence in the house, but she had no thought of fear; and, gliding gently down the hall to her papa's door, she turned the handle very cautiously, when, to her great delight, she found it had been left unfastened, and yielded readily to her touch. She entered as quietly as a little mouse, listened a moment until satisfied from his breathing that her father was still sound asleep, then, stepping softly across the room, she laid her package down where he could not fail to see it as soon as daylight came and his eyes were opened. This accomplished, she stole back again as noiselessly as she had come. "Who dat?" demanded Chloe, starting up in bed as Elsie reentered her own apartment. "It is only I; did I frighten you, mammy?" answered the little girl with a merry laugh. "Ki? chile, dat _you?_ what you doin' runnin' 'bout de house all in de dark, cold night?" "It isn't night, mammy; I heard it strike five some time ago." "Well, den, dis chile gwine get right up an' make de fire. But jes you creep back into de bed, darlin', 'fore you cotch your death ob cold." "I will, mammy," Elsie said, doing as she was desired; "but please dress me as soon as the room is warm enough, won't you?" "Yes, darlin', kase ob course I knows you want to be up early o' Christmas mornin'. Ki! Miss Elsie, dat's a beautiful shawl you gave your ole mammy. I sha'n't feel de cold at all dis winter." "I hope not, mammy; and were Aunt Phillis, and Uncle Jack, and all the rest pleased with their presents?" "I reckon dey was, darlin', mos' ready to go off de handle, 'tirely." Chloe had soon built up her fire and coaxed it into a bright blaze, and in a few moments more she pronounced the room sufficiently warm for her nursling to get up and be dressed. Elsie was impatient to go to her father; but, even after she had been carefully dressed and all her morning duties attended to, it was still so early that Chloe advised her to wait a little longer, assuring her that it was only a very short time since John had gone in to make his master's fire and supply him with hot water for shaving. So the little girl sat down and tried to drown her impatience in the pages of a new book--one of her Christmas presents. But Chloe presently stole softly behind her chair, and, holding up high above her head some glittering object attached to a pretty gold chain, let it gradually descend until it rested upon the open book. Elsie started and jumped up with an exclamation of surprise. "Wonder if you knows dat gen'leman, darlin'?" laughed Chloe. "Oh! it is papa," cried the little girl, catching it in her hand, "my own dear, darling papa! oh! how good of him to give it to me!" and she danced about the room in her delight. "It is just himself, so exactly like him! _Isn't_ it a good likeness, mammy?" she asked, drawing near the light to examine it more closely. "Dear, dear, _darling_ papa!" and she kissed it again and again. Then gently drawing her mother's miniature from her bosom, she laid them side by side. "My papa and mamma; are they not beautiful, mammy? both of them?" she asked, raising her swimming eyes to the dusky face leaning over her, and gazing with such mournful fondness at the sweet girlish countenance, so life-like and beautiful, yet calling up thoughts of sorrow and bereavement. "My darling young missus!" murmured the old nurse, "my own precious chile dat dese arms hab carried so many years, dis ole heart like to break when-eber I tinks ob you, an' 'members how your bright young face done gone away foreber." The big tears were rolling fast down the sable cheeks, and dropping like rain on Elsie's curls, while the broad bosom heaved with sobs. "But your ole mammy's been good to your little chile dat you lef' behind, darlin','deed she has," she went on. "Yes, mammy, indeed, indeed you have," Elsie said, twining her arms lovingly around her. "But don't let us cry any more, for we know that dear mamma is very happy in heaven, and does not wish us to grieve for her now. I shall not show you the picture any more if it makes you cry like that," she added half playfully. "Not always, chile," Chloe said, wiping away her tears, "but jes dis here mornin'--Christmas mornin', when she was always so bright and merry. It seems only yesterday she went dancin' about jes like you." "Yes, mammy dear, but she is with the angels now--my sweet, pretty mamma!" Elsie whispered softly, with another tender, loving look at the picture ere she returned it to its accustomed resting-place in her bosom. "And now I must go to papa," she said more cheerfully, "for it is almost breakfast time." "Is my darling satisfied _now?_" he asked, as she ran into his arms and was folded in a close embrace. "Yes, papa, indeed I am; thank you a thousand times; it is all I wanted." "And you have given me the most acceptable present you could have found. It is a most excellent likeness, and I am delighted with it." "I am so glad, papa, but it was Aunt Adelaide who thought of it." "Ah! that was very kind of her. But how does my little girl feel this morning, after all her dissipation?" "Oh! very well, thank you, papa." "You will not want to say any lesson to-day, I suppose?" "Oh! yes, if you please, papa, and it does not give you too much trouble," she said. "It is the very pleasantest hour in the day, except--" "Well, except what? Ah, yes, I understand. Well, my pet, it shall be as you wish; but come to me directly after breakfast, as I am going out early." Elsie had had her hour with her father, but, though he had left her and gone out, she still lingered in his dressing-room, looking over the next day's lesson. At length, however, she closed the book and left the room, intending to seek her young guests, who were in the lower part of the house. Miss Stevens' door was open as she passed, and that lady called to her, "Elsie, dear, you sweet little creature, come here, and see what I have for you." Elsie obeyed, though rather reluctantly, and Miss Stevens bidding her sit down, went to a drawer, and took out a large paper of mixed candy, all of the best and most expensive kinds, which she put into the little girl's hands with one of her sweetest smiles. It was a strong temptation to a child who had a great fondness for such things, but Elsie had prayed from her heart that morning for strength to resist temptation, and it was given her. "Thank you, ma'am, you are very kind," she said gratefully, "but I cannot take it, because papa does not approve of my eating such things. He gave me a little this morning, but said I must not have any more for a long time." "Now, that is quite too bad," exclaimed Miss Stevens, "but at least take one or two, child; that much couldn't possibly hurt you, and your papa need never know." Elsie gave her a look of grieved surprise. "Oh! could you think I would do that?" she said. "But _God_ would know, Miss Stevens; and I should know it myself, and how could I ever look my papa in the face again after deceiving him so?" "Really, my dear, you are making a very serious matter of a mere trifle," laughed the lady; "why, I have deceived my father more than fifty times, and never thought it any harm. But here is something I am sure you can take, and indeed you must, for I bought both it and the candy expressly for you." She replaced the candy in the drawer as she spoke, and took from another a splendidly-bound book which she laid in Elsie's lap, saying, with a triumphant air, "There, my dear, what do you think of that? is it not handsome?" Elsie's eyes sparkled; books were her greatest treasures; but feeling an instinctive repugnance to taking a gift from one whom she could neither respect nor love, she made an effort to decline it, though at the same time thanking the lady warmly for her kind intentions. But Miss Stevens would hear of no refusal, and fairly forced it upon her acceptance, declaring that, as she had bought it expressly for her, she should feel extremely hurt if she did not take it. "Then I will, Miss Stevens," said the little girl, "and I am sure you are very kind. I love books and pictures, too, and these are lovely engravings," she added turning over the leaves with undisguised pleasure. "Yes, and the stories are right pretty, too," remarked Miss Stevens. "Yes, ma'am, they look as if they were, and I should like dearly to read them." "Well, dear, just sit down and read; there's nothing to hinder. I'm sure your little friends can do without you for an hour or two. Or, if you prefer it, take the book and enjoy it with them; it is your own, you know, to use as you like." "Thank you, ma'am; but, though I can look at the pictures, I must not read the stories until I have asked papa, because he does not allow me to read anything now without first showing it to him." "Dear me! how very strict he is!" exclaimed Miss Stevens. "I wonder," she thought to herself, "if he would expect to domineer over his wife in that style?" Elsie was slowly turning over the leaves of the book, enjoying the pictures very much, studying them intently, but resolutely refraining from even glancing over the printed pages. But at length she closed it, and, looking out of the window, said, with a slight sigh, "Oh! I wish papa would come; but I'm afraid he won't for a long while, and I do so want to read these stories." "Suppose you let me read one to you," suggested Miss Stevens; "that would not be _your_ reading it, you know." Elsie looked shocked at the proposal. "Oh! no, ma'am, thank you, I know you mean to be kind; but I could not do it; it would be so very wrong; quite the same, I am sure, as if I read it with my own eyes," she answered hurriedly; and then, fearing to be tempted further, she excused herself and went in search of her young companions. She found them in the drawing-room. "Wasn't it too provoking, Elsie, that those people didn't send home my bracelet last night?" exclaimed Caroline Howard. "I have just been telling Lucy about it. I think that it was such a shame for them to disappoint me, for I wanted to have it on the tree." "I am sorry you were disappointed, Carry, but perhaps it will come to-day," Elsie answered in a sympathizing tone. And then she showed the new book, which she still held in her hand. They spent some time in examining it, talking about and admiring the pictures, and then went out for a walk. "Has papa come in yet, mammy?" was Elsie's first question on returning. "Yes, darlin', I tink he's in the drawin'-room dis berry minute," Chloe answered, as she took off the little girl's hat, and carefully smoothed her hair. "There, there! mammy, won't that do now? I'm in a little bit of a hurry," Elsie said with a merry little laugh, as she slipped playfully from under her nurse's hand, and ran down-stairs. But she was doomed to disappointment for the present, for her papa was seated on the sofa, beside Miss Stevens, talking to her; and so she must wait a little longer. At last, however, he rose, went to the other side of the room, and stood a moment looking out of the window. Then Elsie hastened to take her book from a table, where she had laid it, and going up to him, said, "Papa!" He turned round instantly, asking in a pleasant tone, "Well, daughter, what is it?" She put the book into his hand, saying eagerly, "It is a Christmas gift from Miss Stevens, papa; will you let me read it?" He did not answer immediately, but turned over the leaves, glancing rapidly over page after page, but not too rapidly to be able to form a pretty correct idea of the contents. "No, daughter," he said, handing it back to her, "you must content yourself with looking at the pictures; they are by far the best part; the stories are very unsuitable for a little girl of your age, and would, indeed, be unprofitable reading for any one." She looked a little disappointed. "I am glad I can _trust_ my little daughter, and feel certain that she will not disobey me," he said, smiling kindly on her, and patting her cheek. She answered him with a bright, happy look, full of confiding affection, laid the book away without a murmur, and left the room--her father's eyes following her with a fond, loving glance. Miss Stevens, who had watched them both closely during this little scene, bit her lips with vexation at the result of her manoeuvre. She had come to Roselands with the fixed determination to lay siege to Mr. Horace Dinsmore's heart, and flattering and petting his little daughter was one of her modes of attack; but his decided disapproval of her present, she perceived, did not augur well for the success of her schemes. She was by no means in despair, however, for she had great confidence in the power of her own personal attractions, being really tolerably pretty, and considering herself a great beauty, as well as very highly accomplished. As Elsie ran out into the hall, she found herself suddenly caught in Mr. Travilla's arms. "'A merry Christmas and a happy New Year!' little Elsie," he said, kissing her on both cheeks. "Now I have caught you figuratively and literally, my little lady, so what are you going to give me, eh?" "Indeed, sir, I think you've helped yourself to the only thing I have to give at present," she answered with a merry silvery laugh. "Nay, _give_ me one, little lady," said he, "one such hug and kiss as I dare say your father gets half-a-dozen times in a day." She gave it very heartily. "Ah! I wish you were ten years older," he said as he set her down. "If I had been, you wouldn't have got the kiss," she replied, smiling archly. "Now, it's my turn," he said, taking something from his pocket. "I expected you'd catch _me_, and so thought it best to come prepared." He took her hand, as he spoke, and placed a beautiful little gold thimble on her finger. "There, that's to encourage you in industry." "Thank you, sir; oh! it's a little beauty! I must run and show it to papa. But I must not forget my politeness," she added, hastily throwing open the drawing-room door. "Come in, Mr. Travilla." She waited quietly until the usual greetings were exchanged, then went up to her father and showed her new gift. He quite entered into her pleasure, and remarked, with a glance at Miss Stevens, "that her friends were very kind." The lady's hopes rose. He was then pleased with her attention to his child, even though he did not altogether approve her choice of a gift. There was a large party to dinner that day, and the children came down to the dessert. Miss Stevens, who had contrived to be seated next to Mr. Dinsmore, made an effort, on the entrance of the juveniles, to have Elsie placed on her other side; but Mr. Travilla was too quick for her, and had his young favorite on his knee before she could gain her attention. The lady was disappointed, and Elsie herself only half satisfied; but the two gentlemen, who thoroughly understood Miss Stevens and saw through all her manoeuvres, exchanged glances of amusement and satisfaction. After dinner Mr. Travilla invited Elsie, Carry, Lucy, and Mary, to take a ride in his carriage, which invitation was joyfully accepted by all--Mr. Dinsmore giving a ready consent to Elsie's request to be permitted to go. They had a very merry time, for Mr. Travilla quite laid himself out for their entertainment, and no one knew better than he how to amuse ladies of their age. It was nearly dark when they returned, and Elsie went at once to her room to be dressed for the evening. But she found it unoccupied--Aunt Chloe, as it afterward appeared, having gone down to the quarter to carry some of the little girl's gifts to one or two who were too old and feeble to come up to the house to receive them. Elsie rang the bell, waited a little, and then, feeling impatient to be dressed, ran down to the kitchen to see what had become of her nurse. A very animated discussion was going on there, just at that moment, between the cook and two or three of her sable companions, and the first words that reached the child's ears, as she stood on the threshold, were, "I tell you, you ole darkie, you dunno nuffin' 'bout it! Massa Horace gwine marry _dat_ bit ob paint an' finery! no such ting! Massa's got more sense." The words were spoken in a most scornful tone, and Elsie, into whose childish mind the possibility of her father's marrying again had never entered, stood spellbound with astonishment. But the conversation went on, the speakers quite unconscious of her vicinity. It was Pompey's voice that replied. "Ef Marse Horace don't like her, what for they been gwine ridin' ebery afternoon? will you tell me dat, darkies? an' don't dis niggah see him sit beside her mornin', noon, an' night, laughin' an' talkin' at de table an' in de parlor? an' don't she keep a kissin' little Miss Elsie, an' callin' her pretty critter, sweet critter, an' de like?" "_She_ ma to our sweet little Miss Elsie! Bah! I tell you, Pomp, Marse Horace got more sense," returned the cook, indignantly. "Aunt Chloe don't b'lieve no such stuff," put in another voice; "she says Marse Horace _couldn't_ put such trash in her sweet young mistis's place." "Aunt Chloe's a berry fine woman, no doubt," observed Pomp disdainfully, "but I reckon Marse Horace ain't gwine to infide his matermonical intentions to her; and I consider it quite consequential on Marster's being young and handsome that he will take another wife." The next speaker said something about his having lived a good while without, and though Miss Stevens _was_ setting her cap, maybe he wouldn't be caught. But Elsie only gathered the sense of it, hardly heard the words, and, bounding away like a frightened deer to her own room, her little heart beating wildly with a confused sense of suffering, she threw herself on the bed. She shed no tears, but there was, oh! such a weight on her heart, such a terrible though vague sense of the instability of all earthly happiness. There Chloe found her, and wondered much what ailed her darling, what made her so silent, and yet so restless, and caused such a deep flush on her cheek. She feared she was feverish, her little hand was so hot and dry; but Elsie insisted that she was quite well, and so Chloe tried to think it was only fatigue. She would fain have persuaded the little girl to lie still upon her bed and rest, and let her tea be brought to her there; but Elsie answered that she would much rather be dressed, and join her young companions in the nursery. They, too, wondered what ailed her, she was so very quiet and ate almost nothing at all. They asked if she was sick. She only shook her head. "Was she tired, then?" "Yes, she believed she was," and she leaned her head wearily on her hand. But, indeed, most of the party seemed dull; they had gone through such a round of pleasure and excitement, for the last two or three days, that now a reaction was beginning, and they wanted rest, especially the very little ones, who all retired quite early, when Elsie and her mates joined their parents in the drawing-room. Elsie looked eagerly around for her father, the moment she entered the room. He was beside Miss Stevens, who was at the piano, performing a very difficult piece of music. He was leaning over her, turning the leaves, and apparently listening with a great deal of pleasure, for she was really a fine musician. Elsie felt sick at heart at the sight--although a few hours before it would have given her no concern--and found it very difficult to listen to and answer the remarks Mrs. Carrington was making to her about her Christmas presents, and the nice ride they had had that afternoon. Mr. Travilla was watching her; he had noticed, as soon as she came in, the sad and troubled look which had come over her face, and, following the glance of her eyes, he guessed at the cause. He knew there was no danger of the trial that she feared, and would have been glad to tell her so; but he felt that it was too delicate a subject for him to venture on; it might seem too much like meddling in Mr. Dinsmore's affairs. But he did the next best thing--got the four little girls into a corner, and tried to entertain them with stories and charades. Elsie seemed interested for a time, but every now and then her eyes would wander to the other side of the room, where her father still stood listening to Miss Stevens' music. At length Mr. Travilla was called away to give his opinion about some tableaux the young ladies were arranging; and Elsie, knowing it was her usual time for retiring, and not caring to avail herself of her father's permission to stay up until nine o'clock, stole quietly away to her room unobserved by any one, and feeling as if Miss Stevens had already robbed her of her father. She wiped away a few quiet tears, as she went, and was very silent and sad, while her mammy was preparing her for bed. She hardly knew how to do without her good-night kiss, but feeling as she did, it had seemed quite impossible to ask for it while Miss Stevens was so near him. When she knelt down to pray, she became painfully conscious that a feeling of positive dislike to that lady had been creeping into her heart, and she asked earnestly to be enabled to put it away. But she prayed, also, that she might be spared the trial that she feared, if God's will were so; and she thought surely it was because she had found out that Miss Stevens was not good, not truthful, or sincere. "Perhaps dear papa will come to say good-night before I am asleep," she murmured to herself as, calmed and soothed by thus casting her burden on the Lord, she laid her head upon her pillow. He, however, had become interested in the subject of the tableaux, and did not miss his little girl until the sound of the clock striking ten reminded him of her, and he looked around expecting to see her still in the room; but, not seeing her, he asked Lucy Carrington where she was. "Oh!" said Lucy, "she's been gone these two hours, I should think! I guess she must have gone to bed." "Strange that she did not come to bid me goodnight," he exclaimed in a low tone, more as if thinking aloud than speaking to Lucy. He hastily left the room. Mr. Travilla followed. "Dinsmore," said he. Mr. Dinsmore stopped, and Travilla, drawing him to one side, said in an undertone, "I think my little friend is in trouble to-night." "Ah!" he exclaimed, with a startled look, "what can it be? I did not hear of any accident--she has not been hurt? is not sick? tell me, Travilla, quickly, if anything ails my child." "Nothing, nothing, Dinsmore, only you know servants will talk, and children have ears, and eyes, too, sometimes, and I saw her watching you to-night with a very sad expression." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore, growing very red and looking extremely vexed; "I wouldn't have had such thoughts put into the child's head for any money. Are you sure of it, Travilla?" "I am sure she was watching you very closely tonight, and looking very miserable." "Poor darling!" murmured the father. "Thank you, Travilla," shaking his friend heartily by the hand. "Good-night; I shall not be down again if you will be so good as to excuse me to the others." And he went up the stairs almost at a bound, and the next moment was standing beside his sleeping child, looking anxiously down at the little flushed cheeks and tear-swollen eyes, for, disappointed that he did not come to bid her good-night, she had cried herself to sleep. "Poor darling!" he murmured again, as he stooped over her and kissed away a tear that still trembled on her eyelash. He longed to tell her that all her fears were groundless, that none other could ever fill her place in his heart, but he did not like to wake her, and so, pressing another light kiss on her cheek, he left her to dream on unconscious of his visit. 
9963	----	ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD A SEQUEL TO "ELSIE DINSMORE" AND "ELSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS" BY MARTHA FINLEY 1872 "Oh! time of promise, hope, and innocence, Of trust, and love, and happy ignorance! Whose every dream is heaven, in whose fair joy Experience yet has thrown no black alloy." --THOUGHTS OF A RECLUSE PREFACE Some years have now elapsed since my little heroine "ELSIE DINSMORE" made her début into the great world. She was sent out with many an anxious thought regarding the reception that might await her there. But she was kindly welcomed, and such has been the favor shown her ever since that Publishers and Author have felt encouraged to prepare a new volume in which will be found the story of those years that have carried Elsie on from childhood to womanhood--the years in which her character was developing, and mind and body were growing and strengthening for the real work and battle of life. May my readers who have admired and loved her as a child find her still more charming in her fresh young girlhood; may she prove to all a pleasant companion and friend; and to those of them now treading the same portion of life's pathway a useful example also, particularly in her filial love and obedience. M.F. CHAPTER I. It is a busy, talking world. --ROWE. "I think I shall enjoy the fortnight we are to spend here, papa; it seems such a very pleasant place," Elsie remarked, in a tone of great satisfaction. "I am glad you are pleased with it, daughter," returned Mr. Dinsmore, opening the morning paper, which John had just brought up. They--Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie, Rose and Edward Allison--were occupying very comfortable quarters in a large hotel at one of our fashionable watering-places. A bedroom for each, and a private parlor for the joint use of the party, had been secured in advance, and late the night before they had arrived and taken possession. It was now early in the morning, Elsie and her papa were in his room, which was in the second story and opened upon a veranda, shaded by tall trees, and overlooking a large grassy yard at the side of the building. Beyond were green fields, woods, and hills. "Papa," said Elsie, gazing longingly upon them, as she stood by the open window, "can't we take a walk?" "When Miss Rose is ready to go with us." "May I run to her door and ask if she is?--and if she isn't, may I wait for her out here on the veranda?" "Yes." She skipped away, but was back again almost immediately. "Papa, what do you think? It's just too bad!" "What is too bad, daughter? I think I never before saw so cross a look on my little girl's face," he said, peering at her over the top of his newspaper. "Come here, and tell me what it is all about." She obeyed, hanging her head and blushing. "I think I have some reason to be cross, papa," she said; "I thought we were going to have such a delightful time here, and now it is all spoiled. You could never guess who has the rooms just opposite ours; on the other side of the hall." "Miss Stevens?" "Why, papa; did you know she was here?" "I knew she was in the house, because I saw her name in the hotel book last night when I went to register ours." "And it just spoils all our pleasure." "I hope not, daughter. I think she will hardly annoy you when you are close at my side; and that is pretty much all the time, isn't it?" "Yes, papa, and I'll stick closer than ever to you if that will make her let me alone," she cried, with a merry laugh, putting her arm round his neck and kissing him two or three times. "Ah, now I have my own little girl again," he said, drawing her to his knee and returning her caresses with interest: "But there, I hear Miss Rose's step in the hall. Run to mammy and have your hat put on." Miss Stevens' presence proved scarcely less annoying to Elsie than the child had anticipated. She tried to keep out of the lady's way, but it was quite impossible. She could scarcely step out on the veranda, go into the parlor, or take a turn in the garden by herself, but in a moment Miss Stevens was at her side fawning upon and flattering her--telling her how sweet and pretty and amiable she was, how dearly she loved her, and how much she thought of her papa too: he was so handsome and so good; everybody admired him and thought him such a fine-looking gentleman, so polished in his manners, so agreeable and entertaining in conversation. Then she would press all sorts of dainties upon the little girl in such a way that it was next to impossible to decline them, and occasionally even went so far as to suggest improvements, or rather alterations, in her dress, which she said was entirely too plain. "You ought to have more flounces on your skirts, my dear," she remarked one day. "Skirt flounced to the waist are so very pretty and dressy, and you would look sweetly in them, but I notice you don't wear them at all. Do ask your papa to let you get a new dress and have it made so; I am sure he would consent, for any one can see that he is very fond of you. He doesn't think of it; we can't expect gentlemen to notice such little matters; you ought to have a mamma to attend to such things for you. Ah! if you were my child, I would dress you sweetly, you dear little thing!" "Thank you, ma'am, I daresay you mean to be very kind," replied Elsie, trying not to look annoyed, "but I don't want a mamma, since my own dear mother has gone to heaven; papa is enough for me, and I like the way he dresses me. He always buys my dresses himself and says how they are to be made. The dressmaker wanted to put more flounces on, but papa didn't want them and neither did I. He says he doesn't like to see little girls loaded with finery, and that my clothes shall be of the best material and nicely made, but neat and simple." "Oh, yes; I know your dress is not cheap; I didn't mean that at all: it is quite expensive enough, and some of your white dresses are beautifully worked; but I would like a little more ornament. You wear so little jewelry, and your father could afford to cover you with it if he chose. A pair of gold bracelets, like mine for instance, would be very pretty, and look charming on your lovely white arms: those pearl ones you wear sometimes are very handsome--any one could tell that they are the real thing--but you ought to have gold ones too, with clasps set with diamonds. Couldn't you persuade your papa to buy some for you?" "Indeed, Miss Stevens, I don't want them! I don't want anything but what papa chooses to buy for me of his own accord. Ah! there is Miss Rose looking for me, I must go," and the little girl, glad of an excuse to get away, ran joyfully to her friend who had come to the veranda, where she and Miss Stevens had been standing, to tell her that they were going out to walk, and her papa wished to take her along. Elsie went in to get her hat, and Miss Stevens came towards Rose, saying, "I think I heard you say you were going to walk; and I believe, if you don't forbid me, I shall do myself the pleasure of accompanying you. I have just been waiting for pleasant company. I will be ready in one moment." And before Rose could recover from her astonishment sufficiently to reply she had disappeared through the hall door. Elsie was out again in a moment, just as the gentlemen had joined Rose, who excited their surprise and disgust by a repetition of Miss Stevens' speech to her. Mr. Dinsmore looked excessively annoyed, and Edward "pshawed, and wished her at the bottom of the sea." "No, brother," said Rose, smiling, "you don't wish any such thing; on the contrary, you would be the very first to fly to the rescue if you saw her in danger of drowning." But before there was time for anything more to be said Miss Stevens had returned, and walking straight up to Mr. Dinsmore, she put her arm through his, saying with a little laugh, and what was meant for a very arch expression, "You see I don't stand upon ceremony with old friends, Mr. Dinsmore. It isn't my way." "No, Miss Stevens, I think it never was," he replied, offering the other arm to Rose. She was going to decline it on the plea that the path was too narrow for three, but something in his look made her change her mind and accept; and they moved on, while Elsie, almost ready to cry with vexation, fell behind with Edward Allison for an escort. Edward tried to entertain his young companion, but was too much provoked at the turn things had taken to make himself very agreeable to any one; and altogether it was quite an uncomfortable walk: no one seeming to enjoy it but Miss Stevens, who laughed and talked incessantly; addressing nearly all her conversation to Mr. Dinsmore, he answering her with studied politeness, but nothing more. Miss Stevens had, from the first, conceived a great antipathy to Rose, whom she considered a dangerous rival, and generally avoided, excepting when Mr. Dinsmore was with her; but she always interrupted a tête-à-tête between them when it was in her power to do so without being guilty of very great rudeness. This, and the covert sneers with which she often addressed Miss Allison had not escaped Mr. Dinsmore's notice, and it frequently cost him quite an effort to treat Miss Stevens with the respectful politeness which he considered due to her sex and to the daughter of his father's old friend. "Was it not too provoking, papa?" exclaimed Elsie, as she followed him into his room on their return from their walk. "What, my dear?" "Why, papa, I thought we were going to have such a nice time, and she just spoiled it all." "She? who, daughter?" "Why, papa, surely you know I mean Miss Stevens!" "Then why did you not mention her name, instead of speaking of her as she? That does not sound respectful in a child of your age, and I wish my little girl always to be respectful to those older than herself. I thought I heard you the other day mention some gentleman's name without the prefix of Mr., and I intended to reprove you for it at the time. Don't do it again." "No, sir, I won't," Elsie answered with a blush. "But, papa," she added the next moment, "Miss Stevens does that constantly." "That makes no difference, my daughter," he said gravely. "Miss Stevens is the very last person I would have you take for your model; the less you resemble her in dress, manners, or anything else, the better. If you wish to copy any one let it be Miss Allison, for she is a perfect lady in every respect." Elsie looked very much pleased. "Yes, indeed, papa," she said, "I should be glad if I could be just like Miss Rose, she is always kind and gentle to everybody; even the servants, whom Miss Stevens orders about so crossly." "Elsie!" "What, papa?" she asked, blushing again, for his tone was reproving. "Come here and sit on my knee; I want to talk to you. I am afraid my little daughter is growing censorious," he said, with a very grave look as he drew her to his side. "You forget that we ought not to speak of other people's faults." "I will try not to do it any more, papa," she replied, the tears springing to her eyes; "but you don't know how very annoying Miss Stevens is. I have been near telling her several times that I did wish she would let me alone." "No, daughter, don't do that. You must behave in a lady-like manner whether she does or not. We must expect annoyances in this world, my child; and must try to bear them with patience, remembering that God sends the little trials as well as the great, and that He has commanded us to 'let patience have her perfect work.' I fear it is a lack of the spirit of forgiveness that makes it so difficult for us to bear these trifling vexations with equanimity. And you must remember too, dear, that the Bible bids us be courteous, and teaches us to treat others as we ourselves would wish to be treated." "I think you always remember the command to be courteous, papa," she said, looking affectionately into his face. "I was wondering all the time how you could be so very polite to Miss Stevens; for I was quite sure you would rather not have had her along. And then, what right had she to take your arm without being asked?" and Elsie's face flushed with indignation. Her father laughed a little. "And thus deprive my little girl of her rights," he said, softly kissing the glowing cheek. "Ah! I doubt if you would have been angry had it been Miss Rose," he added, a little mischievously. "Oh, papa, you know Miss Rose would never have done such a thing!" exclaimed the little girl warmly. "Ah! well, dear," he said in a soothing tone; "we won't talk any more about it. I acknowledge that I do not find Miss Stevens the most agreeable company in the world, but I must treat her politely, and show her a little attention sometimes; both because she is a lady and because her father once saved my father's life; for which I owe a debt of gratitude to him and his children." "Did he, papa? I am sure it was very good of him, and I will try to like Miss Stevens for that. But won't you tell me about it?" "It was when they were both quite young men," said Mr. Dinsmore, "before either of them was married: they were skating together and your grandfather broke through the ice, and would have been drowned, but for the courage and presence of mind of Mr. Stevens, who saved him only by very great exertion, and at the risk of his own life." A few days after this, Elsie was playing on the veranda, with several other little girls. "Do you think you shall like your new mamma, Elsie?" asked one of them in a careless tone, as she tied on an apron she had just been making for her doll, and turned it around to see how it fitted. "My new mamma!" exclaimed Elsie, with unfeigned astonishment, dropping the scissors with which she had been cutting paper dolls for some of the little ones. "What can you mean, Annie? I am not going to have any new mamma." "Yes, indeed, but you are though," asserted Annie positively; "for I heard my mother say so only yesterday; and it must be so, for she Miss Stevens told it herself." "Miss Stevens! and what does she know about it? what has she to do with my papa's affairs?" asked Elsie indignantly, the color rushing over face, neck, and arms. "Well, I should think she might know, when she is going to marry him," returned the other, with a laugh. "She isn't! it's false! my"--but Elsie checked herself and shut her teeth hard to keep down the emotion that was swelling in her breast. "It's true, you may depend upon it," replied Annie; "everybody in the house knows it, and they are all talking about what a splendid match Miss Stevens is going to make; and mamma was wondering if you knew it, and how you would like her; and papa said he thought Mr. Dinsmore wouldn't think much of her if he knew how she flirted and danced until he came, and now pretends not to approve of balls, just because he doesn't." Elsie made no reply, but dropping scissors, paper, and everything, sprang up and ran swiftly along the veranda, through the hall, upstairs, and without pausing to take breath, rushed into her father's room, where he sat quietly reading. "Why, Elsie, daughter, what is the matter?" he asked in a tone of surprise and concern, as he caught sight of her flushed and agitated face. "Oh, papa, it's that hateful Miss Stevens; I can't bear her!" she cried, throwing herself upon his breast, and bursting into a fit of passionate weeping. Mr. Dinsmore said nothing for a moment; but thinking tears would prove the best relief to her overwrought feelings, contented himself with simply stroking her hair in a soothing way, and once or twice pressing his lips gently to her forehead. "You feel better now, dearest, do you not?" he asked presently, as she raised her head to wipe away her tears. "Yes, papa." "Now tell me what it was all about." "Miss Stevens does say such hateful things, papa!" He laid his finger upon her lips. "Don't use that word again. It does not sound at all like my usually gentle sweet-tempered little girl." "I won't, papa," she murmured, blushing and hanging her head. Then hiding her face on his breast, she lay there for several minutes perfectly silent and still. "What is my little girl thinking of?" he asked at length. "How everybody talks about you, papa; last evening I was out on the veranda, and I heard John and Miss Stevens' maid, Phillis, talking together. It was moonlight, you know, papa," she went on, turning her face toward him again: "and they were out under the trees and John had his arm round her, and he was kissing her, and telling her how pretty she was; and then they began talking about Miss Stevens and you, and John told Phillis that he reckoned you were going to marry her--" "Who? Phillis?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, looking excessively amused. "Oh, papa; no; you know I mean Miss Stevens," Elsie answered in a tone of annoyance. "Well, dear, and what of it all?" he asked, soothingly. "I don't think the silly nonsense of the servants need trouble you. John is a sad fellow, I know; he courts all the pretty colored girls wherever he goes. I shall have to read him a serious lecture on the subject. But it is very kind of you to be so concerned for Phillis." "Oh, papa, don't!" she said, turning away her face. "Please don't tease me so. You know I don't care for Phillis or John; but that isn't all." And then she repeated what had passed between Annie and herself. He looked a good deal provoked as she went on with her story; then very grave indeed. He was quite silent for a moment after she had done. Then drawing her closer to him, he said tenderly, "My poor little girl, I am sorry you should be so annoyed; but you know it is not true, daughter, and why need you care what other people think and say?" "I don't like them to talk so, papa! I can't bear to have them say such things about you!" she exclaimed indignantly. He was silent again for a little; then said kindly, "I think I had better take you away from these troublesome talkers. What do you say to going home?" "Oh, yes, papa, do take me home," she answered eagerly. "I wish we were there now. I think it is the pleasantest place in the world and it seems such a long, long while since we came away. Let us start to-morrow, papa; can't we?" "But you know you will have to leave Miss Rose." "Ah! I forgot that," she said a little sadly; but brightening again, she asked: "Couldn't you invite her to go home with us and spend the winter? Ah! papa, do! it would be so pleasant to have her." "No, my dear, it wouldn't do," he replied with a grave shake of the head. "Why, papa?" she asked with a look of keen disappointment. "You are too young to understand why," he said in the same grave tone, and then relapsed into silence; sitting there for some time stroking her hair in an absent way, with his eyes on the carpet. At last he said, "Elsie!" in a soft, low tone that quite made the little girl start and look up into his face; for she, too, had been in a deep reverie. "What, papa?" she asked, and she wondered to see how the color had spread over his face, and how bright his eyes looked. "I have been thinking," he said, in a half hesitating way, "that though it would not do to invite Miss Rose to spend the winter with us, it might do very nicely to ask her to come and live at the Oaks." Elsie looked at him for a moment with a bewildered expression; then suddenly comprehending, her face lighted up. "Would you like it, dearest?" he asked; "or would you prefer to go on living just as we have been, you and I together? I would consult your happiness before my own, for it lies very near my heart, my precious one. I can never forgive myself for all I have made you suffer, and when you were restored to me almost from the grave, I made a vow to do all in my power to make your future life bright and happy." His tones were full of deep feeling, and as he spoke he drew her closer and closer to him and kissed her tenderly again and again. "Speak, daughter, and tell me what you wish," he said, as she still remained silent. At last she spoke, and he bent down to catch the words. "Dear papa," she whispered, "would it make you happy? and do you think mamma knows, and that she would like it?" "Your mamma loves us both too well not to be pleased with anything that would add to our happiness," he replied gently. "Dear papa, you won't be angry if I ask another question?'"' "No, darling; ask as many as you wish." "Then, papa, will I have to call her mamma? and do you think my own mamma would like it?" "If Miss Allison consents to take a mother's place to you, I am sure your own mamma, if she could speak to you, would tell you she deserved to have the title; and it would hurt us both very much if you refused to give it. Indeed, my daughter, I cannot ask her to come to us unless you will promise to do so, and to love and obey, her just as you do me. Will you?" "I will try to obey her, papa; and I shall love her very dearly, for I do already; but I can not love anybody quite so well as I love you, my own dear, dear father!" she said, throwing her arms around his neck. He returned her caress, saying tenderly, "That is all I can ask, dearest; I must reserve the first place in your heart for myself." "Do you think she will come, papa?" she asked anxiously. "I don't know, daughter; I have not asked her yet. But shall I tell her that it will add to your happiness if she will be your mamma?" "Yes, sir; and that I will call her mamma, and obey her and love her dearly. Oh, papa, ask her very soon, won't you?" "Perhaps; but don't set your heart too much on it, for she may not be quite so willing to take such a troublesome charge as Miss Stevens seems to be," he said, returning to his playful tone. Elsie looked troubled and anxious. "I hope she will, papa," she said; "I think she might be very glad to come and live with you; and in such a beautiful home, too." "Ah! but everyone does not appreciate my society as highly as you do," he replied, laughing and pinching her cheek; "and besides, you forget about the troublesome little girl. I have heard ladies say they would not marry a man who had a child." "But Miss Rose loves me, papa; I am sure she does," she said, flushing, and the tears starting to her eyes. "Yes, darling, I know she does," he answered soothingly. "I am only afraid she loves you better than she does me." A large party of equestrians were setting out from the hotel that evening soon after tea, and Elsie, in company with several other little girls, went out upon the veranda to watch them mount and ride away. She was absent but a few moments from the parlor, where she had left her father, but when she returned to it he was not there. Miss Rose, too, was gone, she found upon further search, and though she had not much difficulty in conjecturing why she had thus, for the first time, been left behind, she could not help feeling rather lonely and desolate. She felt no disposition to renew the afternoon's conversation with Annie Hart, so she went quietly upstairs to their private parlor and sat down to amuse herself with a book until Chloe came in from eating her supper. Then the little girl brought a stool, and seating herself in the old posture with her head in her nurse's lap, she drew her mother's miniature from her bosom, and fixing her eyes lovingly upon it, said, as she had done hundreds of times before: "Now, mammy, please tell me about my dear, dear mamma." The soft eyes were full of tears; for with all her joy at the thought of Rose, mingled a strange sad feeling that she was getting farther away from that dear, precious, unknown mother, whose image had been, since her earliest recollection, enshrined in her very heart of hearts. CHAPTER II O lady! there be many things That seem right fair above; But sure not one among them all Is half so sweet as love;-- Let us not pay our vows alone, But join two altars into one. --O. W. HOLMES Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart, and the hand, all thy own to the last. --MOORE. Mr. Horace Dinsmore was quite remarkable for his conversational powers, and Rose, who had always heretofore found him a most entertaining companion, wondered greatly at his silence on this particular evening. She waited in vain for him to start some topic of conversation, but as he did not seem disposed to do so, she at length made the attempt herself, and tried one subject after another. Finding, however, that she was answered only in monosyllables, she too grew silent and embarrassed, and heartily wished for the relief of Elsie's presence. She had proposed summoning the child to accompany them as usual, but Mr. Dinsmore replied that she had already had sufficient exercise, and he would prefer having her remain at home. They had walked some distance, and coming to a rustic seat where they had often rested, they sat down. The moon was shining softly down upon them, and all nature seemed hushed and still. For some moments neither of them spoke, but at length Mr. Dinsmore broke the silence. "Miss Allison," he said, in his deep, rich tones, "I would like to tell you a story, if you will do me the favor to listen." It would have been quite impossible for Rose to tell why her heart beat so fast at this very commonplace remark, but so it was; and she could scarcely steady her voice to reply, "I always find your stories interesting, Mr. Dinsmore." He began at once. "Somewhere between ten and eleven years ago, a wild, reckless boy of seventeen, very much spoiled by the indulgence of a fond, doting father, who loved and petted him as the only son of his departed mother, was spending a few months in one of our large Southern cities, where he met, and soon fell desperately in love with, a beautiful orphan heiress, some two years his junior. "The boy was of too ardent a temperament, and too madly in love, to brook for a moment the thought of waiting until parents and guardians should consider them of suitable age to marry, in addition to which he had good reason to fear that his father, with whom family pride was a ruling passion, would entirely refuse his consent upon learning that the father of the young lady had begun life as a poor, uneducated boy, and worked his way up to wealth and position by dint of hard labor and incessant application to business. "The boy, it is true, was almost as proud himself, but it was not until the arrows of the boy-god had entered into his heart too deeply to be extracted, that he learned the story of his charmer's antecedents. Yet I doubt if the result would have been different had he been abundantly forewarned; for oh, Miss Rose, if ever an angel walked the earth in human form it was she!--so gentle, so good, so beautiful!" He heaved a deep sigh, paused a moment, and then went on: "Well, Miss Rose, as you have probably surmised, they were privately married. If that sweet girl had a fault, it was that she was too yielding to those she loved, and she did love her young husband with all the warmth of her young guileless heart; for she had neither parents nor kinsfolk, and he was the one object around which her affections might cling. They were all the world to each other, and for a few short months they were very happy. "But it could not last; the marriage was discovered--her guardian and the young man's father were both furious, and they were torn asunder; she carried away to a distant plantation, and he sent North to attend college. "They were well-nigh distracted, but cherished the hope that when they should reach their majority and come into possession of their property, which was now unfortunately entirely in the hands of their guardians, they would be reunited. "But--it is the old story--their letters were intercepted, and the first news the young husband received of his wife was that she had died a few days after giving birth to a little daughter." Again Mr. Dinsmore paused, then continued: "It was a terrible stroke! For months, reason seemed almost ready to desert her throne; but time does wonders, and in the course of years it did much to heal his wounds. You would perhaps suppose that he would at once--or at least as soon as he was his own master--have sought out his child, and lavished upon it the wealth of his affections: but no; he had conceived almost an aversion to it; for he looked upon it as the cause--innocent, it is true--but still the cause of his wife's death. He did not know till long years afterwards that her heart was broken by the false story of his desertion and subsequent death. Her guardian was a hard, cruel man, though faithful in his care of her property. "With him the child remained until she was about four years old when a change was made necessary by his death, and she, with her faithful nurse, was received into her paternal grandfather's family until her father, who had then gone abroad, should return. But my story is growing very long, and you will be weary of listening. I will try to be as brief as possible. "The little girl, under the care of her nurse and the faithful instructions of a pious old Scotchwoman--who had come over with the child's maternal grandparents, and followed the fortunes of the daughter and granddaughter, always living as housekeeper in the families where they resided--had grown to be a sweet, engaging child, inheriting her mother's beauty and gentleness. She had also her mother's craving for affection, and was constantly looking and longing for the return of her unknown father, which was delayed from time to time until she was nearly eight years of age. "At last he came; but ah, what a bitter disappointment awaited the poor child! His mind had been poisoned against her, and instead of the love and tenderness she had a right to expect, he met her with coldness--almost with aversion. Poor little one! she was nearly heartbroken, and for a time scarcely dared venture into her father's presence. She was gentle, submissive, and patient; he cold, haughty, and stern. But she would love him, in spite of his sternness, and at length she succeeded in winning her way to his affections, and he learned to love her with passionate tenderness. "Still her troubles were not over. She was sincerely pious, and conscientiously strict in many things which her father deemed of little importance; especially was this the case in regard to the observance of the Sabbath. He was a man of iron will, and she, though perfectly submissive in other respects, had the firmness of a martyr in resisting any interference with her conscience. "Well, their wills came in collision. He required her to do what she considered a violation of God's law, although he could see no harm in it, and therefore considered her stubborn and disobedient. He was firm, but so was she. He tried persuasions, threats, punishments--all without effect. He banished her from his arms, from the family circle, deprived her of amusements, denied her to visitors, broke off her correspondence with a valued friend, sent away her nurse; and finding all these acts of severity ineffectual, he at length left her, telling her he would return only when she submitted; and even refusing her a parting caress, which she pleaded for with heart-breaking entreaties." Mr. Dinsmore's voice trembled with emotion, but recovering himself, he went on: "Don't think, Miss Allison, that all this time the father's heart was not bleeding; it was, at every pore; but he was determined to conquer, and mistook the child's motives and the source of her strength to resist his will. "He had bought a beautiful estate; he caused the house to be handsomely fitted up and furnished, especially lavishing trouble and expense upon a suite of rooms for his little girl, and when all was completed, he wrote to her, bidding her go and see the lovely home he had prepared for her reception as soon as she would submit,--and presenting, as the only alternative, banishment to a boarding-school or convent until her education was finished. This was the one drop which made the cup overflow. The poor suffering child was prostrated by a brain fever which brought her to the very gates of death. Then the father's eyes were opened; he saw his folly and his sin, and repented in sackcloth and ashes; and God, in His great mercy, was pleased to spare him the terrible crushing blow which seemed to have already fallen;--for at one time they told him his child was dead. Oh, never, never can he forget the unutterable anguish of that moment!" Mr. Dinsmore paused, unable to proceed. Rose had been weeping for some time. She well knew to whose story she was listening, and her gentle, loving heart was filled with pity for both him and for his child. "I have but little more to tell," he resumed; "the child has at length entirely recovered her health; she is dearer to her father's heart than words can express, and is very happy in the knowledge that it is so, and that henceforward he will strive to assist her to walk in the narrow way, instead of endeavoring to lead her from it. "Their home has been a very happy one; but it lacks one thing--the wife and mother's place is vacant; she who filled it once is gone--never to return!--but there is a sweet, gentle lady who has won the hearts of both father and daughter, and whom they would fain persuade to fill the void in their affections and their home. "Miss Rose, dare I hope that you would venture to trust your happiness in the hands of a man who has proved himself capable of such cruelty?" Rose did not speak, and he seemed to read in her silence and her averted face a rejection of his suit. "Ah, you cannot love or trust me!" he exclaimed bitterly. "I was indeed a fool to hope it. Forgive me for troubling you; forgive my presumption in imagining for a moment that I might be able to win you. But oh, Rose, could you but guess how I love you--better than aught else upon earth save my precious child! and even as I love her better than life. I said that our home had been a happy one, but to me it can be so no longer if you refuse to share it with me!" She turned her blushing face towards him for a single instant, and timidly placed her hand in his. The touch sent a thrill through her whole frame. "And you will dare trust me?" he said in a low tone of intense joy. "Oh, Rose! I have not deserved such happiness as this! I am not worthy of one so pure and good. But I will do all that man can do to make your life bright and happy." "Ah, Mr. Dinsmore! I am very unfit for the place you have asked me to fill," she murmured. "I am not old enough, or wise enough to be a mother to your little girl." "I know you are young, dear Rose, but you are far from foolish," he said tenderly, "and my little girl is quite prepared to yield you a daughter's love and obedience; but I do not think she will be a care or trouble to you; I do not intend that she shall, but expect to take all that upon myself. Indeed, Rose, dearest, you shall never know any care or trouble that I can save you from. No words can tell how dear you are to me, and were it in my power I would shield you from every annoyance, and give you every joy that the human heart can know. I have loved you from the first day we met!--ah, I loved you even before that, for all your love and kindness to my darling child; but I scarcely dared hope that you could return my affection, or feel willing to trust your happiness to the keeping of one who had shown himself such a monster of cruelty in his treatment of his little gentle daughter. Are you not afraid of me, Rose?" His arm was around her waist, and he was bending over her, gazing down into her face, and eagerly awaiting her answer. Presently it came, in calm, gentle tones; "No, Horace; 'perfect love casteth out fear,' and I cannot judge you hardly for what may have been only a mistaken sense of duty, and has been so bitterly repented." "Heaven bless you, dearest, for these words," he answered with emotion, "they have made me the happiest of men." Horace Dinsmore wore upon his little finger a splendid diamond ring, which had attracted a good deal of attention, especially among the ladies; who admired it extremely, and of which Miss Stevens had hoped to be one day the happy and envied possessor. Taking Rose's small white hand in his again, he placed it upon her slender finger. "This seals our compact, and makes you mine forever," he said, pressing the hand to his lips. "With the consent of my parents," murmured Rose, a soft blush mantling her cheek. Elsie was still in her papa's private parlor, for though it was long past her usual hour for retiring, she had not yet done so; her father having left a message with Chloe to the effect that she might, if she chose, stay up until his return. Chloe had dropped asleep in her chair, and the little girl was trying to while away the time with a book. But she did not seem much interested in it, for every now and then she laid it down to run to the door and listen. Then sighing to herself, "They are not coming yet," she would go back and take it up again. But at last she started from her seat with an exclamation of delight that awoke Chloe; for this time there could be no doubt; she had heard his well-known step upon the stairs. She moved quickly towards the door--stopped--hesitated, and stood still to the middle of the room. But the door opened, and her father entered with Miss Rose upon his arm. One look at his radiant countenance, and Rose's blushing, happy face told the whole glad story. He held out his hand with a beaming smile, and Elsie sprang towards him. "My darling," he said, stooping to give her a kiss, "I have brought you a mother." Then taking Rose's hand, and placing one of Elsie's in it, while he held the other in a close, loving grasp, he added: "Rose, she is your daughter also. I give you a share in my choicest treasure." Rose threw her arm around the little girl and kissed her tenderly, whispering: "Will you love me, Elsie, dearest? you know how dearly I love you." "Indeed I will; I do love you very much, and I am very glad, dear, darling Miss Rose," Elsie replied, returning her caress. Mr. Dinsmore was watching them with a heart swelling with joy and gratitude. He led Rose to a sofa, and seating himself by her side, drew Elsie in between his knees, and put an arm round each. "My two treasures," he said, looking affectionately from one to the other. "Rose, I feel myself the richest man in the Union." Rose smiled, and Elsie laid her head on her father's shoulder with a happy sigh. They sat a few moments thus, when Rose made a movement to go, remarking that it must be growing late. She felt a secret desire to be safe within the shelter of her own room before the return of the riding party should expose her to Miss Stevens' prying curiosity. "It is not quite ten yet," said Mr. Dinsmore, looking at his watch. "Late enough though, is it not?" she answered with a smile. "I think I must go. Good-night, dear little Elsie." She rose, and Mr. Dinsmore, gently drawing her hand within his arm, led her to her room, bidding her good-night at the door, and adding a whispered request that she would wait for him to conduct her down to the breakfast room in the morning. "Must I go to bed now, papa?" asked Elsie, as he returned to the parlor again. "Not yet," he said; "I want you." And, sitting down, he took her in his arms. "My darling, my dear little daughter!" he said; "were you very lonely this evening?" "No, papa; not very, though I missed you and Miss Rose." He was gazing down into her face; something in its expression seemed to strike him, and he suddenly turned her towards the light, and looking keenly at her, said, "You have been crying; what was the matter?" Elsie's face flushed crimson, and the tears started to her eyes again. "Dear papa, don't be angry with me," she pleaded. "I couldn't help it; indeed I could not." "I am not angry, darling; only pained that my little girl is not so happy as I expected. I hoped that your joy would be unclouded to-night, as mine has been; but will you not tell your father what troubles you, dearest?" "I was looking at this, papa," she said, drawing her mother's miniature from her bosom, and putting it into his hand; "and mammy was telling me all about my own mamma again; and, papa, you know I love Miss Rose, and I am very glad she is coming to us, but it seems as if--as if--" She burst into a flood of tears, and hiding her face on his breast, sobbed out, "Oh, papa, I can't help feeling as though mamma--my own dear mamma--is farther away from us now; as if she is going to be forgotten." There were tears in his eyes, too; but gently raising her head, he pushed back the curls from her forehead, and kissing her tenderly, said, in low, soothing tones, "No, darling; it is only a feeling, and will soon pass away. Your own dear mother--my early love--can never be forgotten by either of us. Nor would Rose wish it. There is room in my heart for both of them, and I do not love the memory of Elsie less because I have given a place in it to Rose." There was a momentary silence; then she looked up, asking timidly, "You are not vexed with me, papa?" "No, dearest; not at all; and I am very glad you have told me your feelings so freely," he said, folding her closer and closer to his heart. "I hope you will always come to me with your sorrows, and you need never fear that you will not find sympathy, and help too, as far as it is in my power to give it. Elsie, do you know that you are very like your mother?--the resemblance grows stronger every day; and it would be quite impossible for me to forget her with this living image always before me." "Am I like her, papa? I am so glad!" exclaimed the little girl eagerly, her face lighting up with a joyous smile. It seemed as though Mr. Dinsmore could hardly bear to part with his child that night; he held her a long time in his arms, but at last, with another tender caress, and a fervent blessing, he bade her good-night and sent her away. CHAPTER III. She twin'd--and her mother's gaze brought back Each hue of her childhood's faded track. Oh! hush the song, and let her tears Flow to the dream of her early years! Holy and pure are the drops that fall When the young bride goes from her father's hall; She goes unto love yet untried and new-- She parts from love which hath still been true. --MRS. HEMANS' POEMS. "How did it happen that Mr. Dinsmore was not of your party last night, Miss Stevens?" inquired one of the lady boarders the next morning at the breakfast-table. "He had been riding all the morning with his little girl, and I presume was too much fatigued to go again in the evening," Miss Stevens coolly replied, as she broke an egg into her cup, and proceeded very deliberately to season it. "It seems he was not too much fatigued to walk," returned the other, a little maliciously; "or to take a lady upon his arm." Miss Stevens started, and looked up hastily. "I would advise you to be on your guard, and play your cards well, or that quiet Miss Allison may prove a serious rival," the lady continued. "He certainly pays her a good deal of attention." "It is easy to account for that," remarked Miss Stevens, with a scornful toss of the head; "he is very fond of his little girl, and takes her out walking or riding every day, and this Miss Allison--who is, I presume, a kind of governess--indeed, it is evident that she is, from the care she takes of the child--goes along as a matter of course; but if you think Horace Dinsmore would look at a governess, you are greatly mistaken, for he is as proud as Lucifer, as well as the rest of his family, though he does set up to be so very pious!" "Excuse me, madam," observed a gentleman sitting near, "but you must be laboring under a misapprehension. I am well acquainted with the Allison family, and can assure you that the father is one of the wealthiest merchants in Philadelphia." At this moment Mr. Dinsmore entered with Rose upon his arm, and leading Elsie with the other hand. They drew near the table; he handed Miss Allison to a seat and took his place beside her. A slight murmur of surprise ran round the table, and all eyes were turned upon Rose, who, feeling uncomfortably conscious of the fact, cast down her own in modest embarrassment, while Elsie, with a face all smiles and dimples, sent a triumphant glance across the table at Annie Hart, who was whispering to her mother, "See, mamma, she has Mr. Dinsmore's ring!" That lady immediately called Miss Stevens' attention to it, which was quite unnecessary, as she was already burning with rage at the sight. "They walked out alone last evening, and that ring explains what they were about," said Mrs. Hart, in an undertone. "I am really sorry for you, Miss Stevens; for your prize has certainly slipped through your fingers." "I am much obliged to you," she replied, with a toss of her head; "but there are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught." The next moment she rose and left the table, Mrs. Hart following her into the public parlor, and continuing the conversation by remarking, "I would sue him for breach of promise if I were you, Miss Stevens. I understood you were engaged to him." "I never said so; so what right had you to suppose it?" returned Miss Stevens snappishly. And upon reflecting a moment, Mrs. Hart could not remember that she had ever said so in plain terms, although she had hinted it many times--talking a great deal of Mr. Dinsmore's splendid establishment, and frequently speaking of the changes she thought would be desirable in Elsie's dress, just as though she expected some day to have it under her control. Then, too, she had always treated Mr. Dinsmore with so much familiarity that it was perfectly natural strangers should suppose they were engaged, even though he never reciprocated it; for that might be only because he was naturally reserved and undemonstrative; as indeed Miss Stevens frequently averred, seeming to regret it very deeply. Presently she burst out, "I don't know why people are always so ready to talk! I don't care for Horace Dinsmore, and never did! There was never anything serious between us, though I must say he has paid me marked attentions, and given me every reason to suppose he meant something by them. I never gave him any encouragement, however; and so he has been taken in by that artful creature. I thought he had more sense, and could see through her manoeuvers--coaxing and petting up the child to curry favor with the father! I thank my stars that I am above such mean tricks! I presume she thinks, now, she is making a splendid match; but if she doesn't repent of her bargain before she has been married a year, I miss my guess! She'll never have her own way--not a bit of it--I can tell her that. Everybody that knows him will tell you that he is high-tempered and tyrannical, and as obstinate as a mule." "The grapes are very sour, I think," whispered Mrs. Hart to her next neighbor, who nodded and laughed. "There is Elsie out on the veranda, now," said Annie. "I mean to go and ask her what Miss Allison had her father's ring for; may I, mamma?" "Yes; go, child, if you want to; I should like to hear what she will say; though, of course, everybody understands that there must be an engagement." "Well, Elsie, what made you run away in such a hurry yesterday?" asked Annie, running up to our little friend. "Did you ask your papa about the new mamma?" "I told him what you said, Annie, and it wasn't true," Elsie answered, with a glad look of joy. "I am going to have a new mother though, and papa said I might tell you; but it is Miss Allison instead of Miss Stevens, and I am very glad, because I love her dearly." "Is she your governess?" "No, indeed! what made you ask?" "Miss Stevens said so," replied Annie, laughing and running away. And just then Elsie's papa called her, and bade her go upstairs and have her hat put on, as they were going out to walk. Edward Allison had been talking with his sister in her room, and they came down together to the veranda, where Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie were waiting for them. Edward was looking very proud and happy, but Rose's face was half hidden by her veil. She took Mr. Dinsmore's offered arm and Elsie asked, "Aren't you going with us, Mr. Edward?" "Not this time," he answered, smiling. "I have an engagement to play a game of chess with one of the ladies in the parlor yonder." "Then I shall have papa's other hand," she said, taking possession of it. She was very merry and talkative, but neither of her companions seemed much disposed to answer her remarks. They were following the same path they had taken the night before, and the thoughts of both were very busy with the past and the future. At length they reached the rustic seat where they had sat while Mr. Dinsmore told his story, and he inquired of Rose if she would like to stop and rest. She assented, recognizing the place with a smile and a blush, and they sat down. "Papa," said Elsie, "I am not tired, mayn't I run on to the top of that hill yonder?" "Yes, if you will not go out of sight or hearing, so that I can see that you are safe, and within call when I want you," he replied, and she bounded away. Rose was sitting thoughtfully, with her eyes upon the ground, while those of her companion were following the graceful figure of his little girl, as she tripped lightly along the road. "Mr. Dinsmore," Rose began. "I beg pardon, but were you speaking to me?" he asked, turning to her with a half smile. "Certainly," she replied, smiling in return; "there is no one else here." "Well then, Rose, dear, please to remember that I don't answer to that name from your lips, at least not when we are alone. I am not Mr. Dinsmore to you, unless you mean to be Miss Allison to me," he added, taking her hand and gazing tenderly into her blushing face. "Oh! no, no; I would not have you call me that!" "Well then, dear Rose, I want you to call me Horace. I would almost as soon think of being Mr. Dinsmore to Elsie, as to you. And now, what were you going to say to me?" "Only that I wish to set out on my homeward way to-night, with Edward. I think it would be best, more especially as mamma has written complaining of our long absence, and urging a speedy return." "Of course your mother's wishes are the first to be consulted, until you have given me a prior right," he said, in a playful tone; "and so I suppose Elsie and I will be obliged to continue our journey by ourselves. But when may I claim you for my own indeed? Let it be as soon as possible, dearest, for I feel that I ought to return to my home ere long, and I am not willing to do so without my wife." "I must have a few weeks to prepare; you know a lady's wardrobe cannot be got ready in a day. What would you say to six weeks? I am afraid mamma would think it entirely too short." "Six weeks, dear Rose? why that would bring us to the middle of November. Surely a month will be long enough to keep me waiting for my happiness, and give the dressmakers sufficient time for their work. Let us say one month from to-day." Rose raised one objection after another, but he overruled them all and pleaded his cause so earnestly that he gained his point at last, and the wedding was fixed for that day month, provided the consent of her parents, to so sudden a parting with their daughter, could be obtained. While Rose was at home making her preparations, Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter were visiting the great lakes, and travelling through Canada. He heard frequently from her, and there were always a few lines to Elsie, which her father allowed her to answer in a little note enclosed in his; and sometimes he read her a little of his own, or of Miss Rose's letter, which she always considered a very great treat. New York City was their last halting place on their route, and there they spent nearly two weeks in shopping and sight-seeing. Mr. Dinsmore purchased an elegant set of furniture for his wife's boudoir, and sent it on to his home, with his orders to Mrs. Murray concerning its arrangement. To this he added a splendid set of diamonds as his wedding gift to his bride, while Elsie selected a pair of very costly bracelets as hers. They arrived in Philadelphia on Tuesday afternoon, the next morning being the time appointed for the wedding. Mr. Dinsmore himself went to his hotel, but sent Elsie and her nurse to Mr. Allison's, as he had been urgently requested to do, the family being now in occupation of their town residence. Elsie found the whole house in a bustle of preparation. Sophy met her at the door and carried her off at once to her own room, eager to display what she called "her wedding dress." She was quite satisfied with the admiration Elsie expressed. "But I suppose you bought ever so many new dresses, and lots of other pretty things, in New York?" she said inquiringly. "Yes; papa and I together. And don't you think, Sophy, he let me help him choose some of his clothes, and he says he thinks I have very good taste in ladies' and gentlemen's dress too." "That was right kind of him, but isn't it odd, and real nice too, that he and Rose are going to get married? I was so surprised. Do you like it, Elsie? and shall you call her mamma?" "Oh, yes, of course. I should be quite wretched if papa were going to marry any one else; but I love Miss Rose dearly, and I am very glad she is coming to us. I think it is very good of her, and papa thinks so too." "Yes," replied Sophy honestly, "and so do I; for I am sure I shouldn't like to leave papa and mamma and go away off there to live, though I do like you very much, Elsie, and your papa too. Only think! he is going to be my brother; and then won't you be some sort of relation too? I guess I'll be your aunt, won't I?" "I don't know; I haven't thought about it," said Elsie; while at the same instant Harold put his head in at the half-open door, saying, "Of course you will; and I'll be her uncle." The little girls were quite startled at first, but seeing who it was, Elsie ran towards him, holding out her hand. "How do you do, Harold?" she said; "I am glad to see you." He had his satchel of books on his arm. "Thank you, how are you? I am rejoiced to see you looking so well, but, as for me, I am quite sick--of lessons," he replied in a melancholy tone, and putting on a comically doleful expression. Elsie laughed and shook her head. "I thought you ware a good boy and quite fond of your books." "Commonly, I believe I am, but not in these wedding times. It's quite too bad of your father, Elsie, to be carrying off Rose, when he won't let us have you. But never mind, I'll be even with him some of these days;" and he gave her a meaning look. "Come in Harold, and put your books down," said Sophy; "you can afford to spend a few minutes talking to Elsie, can't you?" "I think I will!" he replied, accepting her invitation. They chatted for some time, and then Adelaide came in. Elsie had heard that she was coming on to be first bridesmaid. "Elsie, dear, how glad I am to see you! and how well and happy you are looking!" she exclaimed, folding her little niece in her arms, and kissing her fondly. "But come," she added, taking her by the hand and leading her into the next room, "Miss Rose came in from her shopping only a few minutes ago, and she wants to see you." Rose was standing by the toilet-table, gazing intently, with a blush and a smile, at something she held in her hand. She laid it down as they came in, and embracing the little girl affectionately, said how very glad she was to see her. Then, turning to the table again, she took up what she had been looking at--which proved to be a miniature of Mr. Dinsmore--and handed it to Adelaide, saying, "Is it not excellent? and so kind and thoughtful of him to give it to me." "It is indeed a most perfect likeness," Adelaide replied. "Horace is very thoughtful about these little matters. I hope he will make you very happy, dear Rose. I cannot tell you how glad I was when I heard you were to be my sister." "You have seemed like a sister to me ever since the winter I spent with you," said Rose. And then she began questioning Elsie about her journey asking if she were not fatigued, and would not like to lie down and rest a little before tea. "No thank you," Elsie said; "you know it is only a short trip from New York, and I am not at all tired." Just then the tea-bell rang, and Rose laughed and said it was well Elsie had not accepted her invitation. On going down to tea they found Mr. Dinsmore and Mr. Travilla there. Elsie was delighted to meet her old friend, and it was evident that he had already made himself a favorite with all the children, from Harold down to little May. The wedding was a really brilliant affair. The bride and her attendants were beautifully dressed and, as every one remarked, looked very charming. At an early hour in the morning carriages were in waiting to convey the bridal party and the family to the church where the ceremony was to be performed. When it was over they returned to the house, where an elegant breakfast was provided for a large number of guests; after which there was a grand reception for several hours. Then, when the last guest had departed, Rose retired to her own room, appearing shortly afterwards at the family dinner-table in her pretty travelling dress, looking very sweet and engaging, but sober and thoughtful, as were also her father and brothers; while Mrs. Allison's eyes were constantly filling with tears at the thought of losing her daughter. There was very little eating done, and the conversation flagged several times in spite of the efforts of the gentlemen to keep it up. At length all rose from the table, and gathered in the parlor for a few moments. Then came the parting, and they were gone; and Mrs. Allison, feeling almost as if she had buried her daughter, tried to forget her loss by setting herself vigorously to work overseeing the business of putting her house in order. Rose's feelings were mingled. She wept for a time, but the soothing tenderness of her husband's manner, and Elsie's winning caresses, soon restored her to herself, and smiles chased away the tears. They had a very pleasant journey, without accident or detention, and arrived in due time at their own home, where they were welcomed with every demonstration of delight. Rose was charmed with the Oaks, thought it even more lovely than either Roselands or Elingrove, and Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie intensely enjoyed her pleasure and admiration. Then came a round of parties, which Elsie thought extremely tiresome, as she could have no share in them, and was thus deprived of the company of her papa and mamma almost every evening for several weeks. But at last that too was over, and they settled down into a quiet, home life, that suited them all much better, for neither Mr. Dinsmore nor Rose was very fond of gayety. And now Elsie resumed her studies regularly, reciting as before to her father; while Rose undertook to instruct her in the more feminine branches of housekeeping and needlework, and a master came from the city several times a week to give her lessons in music and drawing. She had been so long without regular employment that she found it very difficult at first to give her mind to her studies, as she had done in former days; but her father, though kind and considerate, was very firm with her, and she soon fell into the traces and worked as diligently as ever. Elsie did not find that her father's marriage brought any uncomfortable change to her. There was no lessening of his love or care; she saw as much of him as before, had full possession of her seat upon his knee, and was caressed and fondled quite as often and as tenderly as ever. And added to all this were Rose's love and sweet companionship, which were ever grateful to the little girl, whether they were alone or with her father. Elsie loved her new mamma dearly and was as respectful and obedient to her as to her father, though Rose never assumed any authority; which, however, was entirely unnecessary, as a wish or request from her was sure to be attended to as if it had been a command. And Rose was very happy in her new home. Mr. Dinsmore's family were pleased with the match and treated her most kindly, while he was always affectionate, thoughtful, and attentive; not less devoted as a husband than as a father. They were well suited in taste and disposition; seldom had the slightest disagreement on any subject, and neither had ever cause to regret the step they had taken, for each day they lived together seemed but to increase their love for each other, and for their little daughter, as Mr. Dinsmore delighted to call her, always giving Rose a share in the ownership. CHAPTER IV. Of all the joys that brighten suffering earth What joy is welcomed like a new-born child? --MRS. NORTON. "Massa wants you for to come right along to him in de study, darlin', jis as soon as your ole mammy kin get you dressed," said Chloe, one morning to her nursling. "What for, mammy?" Elsie asked curiously, for she noticed an odd expression on her nurse's face. "Massa didn't tell me nuffin 'bout what he wanted, an' I spects you'll have to az hisself," replied Chloe evasively. Elsie's curiosity was excited, and she hastened to the study as soon as possible. Her father laid down his paper as she entered, and held out his hand with a smile as he bade her good-morning, and it struck her that there was an odd twinkle in his eye also, while she was certain that she could not be mistaken in the unusually joyous expression of his countenance. "Good-morning, papa. But where is mamma?" she asked, glancing about the room in search of her. "She is not up yet, but do you sit down here in your little rocking chair. I have something for you." He left the room as he spoke, returning again in a moment, carrying what Elsie thought was a strange-looking bundle. "There! hold out your arms," he said; and placing it in them, he gently raised one corner of the blanket, displaying to her astonished view a tiny little face. "A baby! Oh, the dear little thing!" she exclaimed in tones of rapturous delight. Then looking up into his face, "Did you say I might have it, papa? whose baby is it?" "Ours; your mamma's and my son, and your brother," he answered, gazing down with intense pleasure at her bright, happy face, sparkling all over with delight. "My little brother! my darling little brother," she murmured looking down at it again, and venturing to press her lips gently to its soft velvet cheek. "Oh, papa, I am so glad, so glad! I have so wanted a little brother or sister. Is not God very good to give him to us, papa?" And happy, grateful tears were trembling in the soft eyes as she raised them to his face again. "Yes," he said, bending down and kissing first her cheek, and then the babe's, "I feel that God has indeed been very good to me in bestowing upon me two such treasures as these." "What is his name, papa?" she asked. "He has none yet, my dear." "Then, papa, do let him be named Horace, for you; won't you if mamma is willing? And then I hope he will grow up to be just like you; as handsome and as good." "I should like him to be a great deal better, daughter," he answered with a grave smile; "and about the name--I don't know yet; I should prefer some other, but your mamma seems to want that, and I suppose she has the best right to name him; but we will see about it." "Better give little marster to me now, Miss Elsie," remarked his nurse, stepping up, "I reckon your little arms begin to feel tired." And taking the babe she carried him from the room. Nothing could have better pleased Mr. Dinsmore than Elsie's joyous welcome to her little brother; though it was scarcely more than he had expected. "My own darling child; my dear, dear little daughter," he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her again and again. "Elsie, dearest, you are very precious to your father's heart." "Yes, papa, I know it," she replied, twining her arms about his neck, and laying her cheek to his; "I know you love me dearly, and it makes me so very happy." "May I go in to see mamma?" she asked presently. "No, darling, not yet; she is not able to see you; but she sends her love, and hopes she may be well enough to receive a visit from you to-morrow." "Poor mamma! I am sorry she is ill," she said sorrowfully; "but I will try to keep everything very quiet that she may not be disturbed." That evening, after tea, Elsie was told that she would be allowed to speak to her mamma for a moment if she chose, and she gladly availed herself of the privilege. "Dear Elsie," Rose whispered, drawing Her down to kiss her cheek, "I am so glad you are pleased with your little brother." "Oh, mamma, he is such a dear little fellow!" Elsie answered eagerly; "and now, if you will only get well we will be happier than ever." Rose smiled and said she hoped soon to be quite well again, and then Mr. Dinsmore led Elsie from the room. Rose was soon about again and in the enjoyment of her usual health and strength. Elsie's delight knew no bounds the first time her mamma was able to leave her room, and take her place at the table with her father and herself. She doted on her little brother, and, if allowed, would have had him in her arms more than half the time; but he was a plump little fellow, and soon grew so large and heavy that her father forbade her carrying him lest she should injure herself; but she would romp and play with him by the hour while he was in the nurse's arms, or seated on the bed; and when any of her little friends called, she could not be satisfied to let them go away without seeing the baby. The first time Mr. Travilla called, after little Horace's arrival, she exhibited her treasure to him with a great deal of pride, asking if he did not envy her papa. "Yes," he said, looking admiringly at her, and then turning away with a half sigh. A few minutes afterwards he caught hold of her, set her on his knee, and giving her a kiss, said, "I wish you were ten years older, Elsie, or I ten years younger." "Why, Mr. Travilla?" she asked rather wonderingly. "Oh, because we would then be nearer of an age, and maybe you would like me better." "No, I wouldn't, not a bit," she said, putting her arm round his neck, "for I like you now just as well as I could like any gentleman but papa." The elder Mr. Dinsmore was very proud of his little grandson and made a great pet of him, coming to the Oaks much more frequently after his birth than before. Once he spoke of him as his first grandchild. "You forget Elsie, father," said Horace, putting his arm round his little girl, who happened to be standing by his side, and giving her a tender, loving look. He greatly feared that the marked difference his father made between the two would wound Elsie's sensitive spirit, and perhaps even arouse a feeling of jealousy towards her little brother; therefore, when his father was present, he was even more than usually affectionate in his manner towards her, if that were possible. But Elsie had no feeling of the kind; she had long ceased to expect any manifestation of affection from her grandfather towards herself, but was very glad indeed that he could love her dear little brother. "Ah, yes! to be sure, I did forget Elsie," replied the old gentleman carelessly; "she is the first grandchild of course; but this fellow is the first grandson, and quite proud of him I am. He is a pretty boy, and is going to be the very image of his father." "I hope he will, father," said Rose, looking proudly at her husband. And then she added, with an affectionate glance at Elsie: "If he is only as good and obedient as his sister, I shall be quite satisfied with him. We could not ask a better child than our dear little daughter, nor love one more than we do her; she is a great comfort and blessing to us both." The color mounted to Elsie's cheek, and her eyes beamed with pleasure. Mr. Dinsmore, too, looked very much gratified, and the old gentleman could not fail to perceive that the difference he made between the children was quite distasteful to both parents. CHAPTER V. A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded. --BYRON. Elsie was nearly twelve when her little brother was born. During the next three years she led a life of quiet happiness, unmarked by any striking event. There were no changes in the little family at the Oaks but such as time must bring to all. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore perhaps looked a trifle older than when they married, Elsie was budding into womanhood as fair and sweet a flower as ever was seen, and the baby had grown into a healthy romping boy. At Roselands, on the contrary, there had been many and important changes. Louise and Lora were both married; the former to a resident of another State, who had taken her to his distant home; the latter to Edward Howard, an older brother of Elsie's friend Carrie. They had not left the neighborhood, but were residing with his parents. For the last two or three years Arthur Dinsmore had spent his vacations at home; he was doing so now, having just completed his freshman year at Princeton. On his return Walter was to accompany him and begin his college career. Miss Day left soon after Lora's marriage and no effort had been made to fill her place, Adelaide having undertaken to act as governess to Enna, now the only remaining occupant of the school-room. Taking advantage of an unusually cool breezy afternoon, Elsie rode over to Tinegrove, Mr. Howard's plantation--to make a call. She found the family at home and was urged to stay to tea; but declined, saying she could not without permission, and had not asked it. "You will at least take off your hat," said Carrie. "No, thank you," Elsie answered, "it is not worth while, as I must go so soon. If you will excuse me, I can talk quite as well with it on." They had not met for several weeks and found a good deal to say to each other. At length Elsie drew out her watch. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "I have overstayed my time! I had no idea it was so late--you have been so entertaining; but I must go now." And she rose hastily to take leave. "Nonsense!" said her Aunt Lora in whose boudoir they were sitting, "there is no such great hurry, I am sure. You'll get home long before dark." "Yes, and might just as well stay another five or ten minutes. I wish you would; for I have ever so much to say to you," urged Carrie. "It would be very pleasant, thank you, but indeed I must not. See how the shadows are lengthening, and papa does not at all like to have me out after sunset unless he is with me." "He always was overcareful of you, erring on the right side, I suppose, if that be an allowable expression," laughed Lora, as she and Carrie followed Elsie to the door to see her mount her horse. The adieus were quickly spoken and the young girl, just touching the whip to the sleek side of her pony, set off at a gallop, closely followed by her faithful attendant Jim. Several miles of rather a lonely road lay between them and home, and no time was to be lost, if they would reach the Oaks while the sun was still above the horizon. They were hardly more than half a mile from the entrance to the grounds, when Elsie caught sight of a well-known form slowly moving down the road a few paces ahead of them. It was Arthur, and she soon perceived that it was his intention to intercept her; he stopped, turning his face toward her, sprang forward as she came up, and seized her bridle. "Stay a moment, Elsie," he said, "I want to speak to you." "Then come on to the Oaks, and let us talk there; please do, for I am in a hurry." "No, I prefer to say my say where I am. I'll not detain you long. You keep out of earshot, Jim. I want to borrow a little money, Elsie; a trifle of fifty dollars or so. Can you accommodate me?" "Not without papa's knowledge, Arthur. So I hope you do not wish to conceal the matter from him." "I do. I see no reason why he should know all my private affairs. Can't you raise that much without applying to him? Isn't your allowance very large now?" "Fifty dollars a month, Arthur, but subject to the same conditions as of old. I must account to papa for every cent." "Haven't you more than that in hand now?" "Yes, but what do you want it for?" "That's neither your business nor his; let me have it for two weeks, I'll pay it back then, and in the meantime he need know nothing about it." "I cannot; I never have any concealments from papa, and I must give in my account in less than a week." "Nonsense! You are and always were the most disobliging creature alive!" returned Arthur with an oath. "Oh, Arthur, how can you say such wicked words," she said, recoiling from him with a shudder. "And you quite misjudge me. I would be glad to do anything for you that is right. If you will let me tell papa your wish, and he gives consent, you shall have the money at once. Now please let me go. The sun has set and I shall be so late that papa will be anxious and much displeased." "Who cares if he is!" he answered roughly, still retaining his hold upon her bridle, and compelling her to listen while he continued to urge his request; enforcing it with arguments and threats. They were alike vain, she steadfastly refused to grant it except on the conditions she had named, and which he determinately rejected--and insisted being left free to pursue her homeward way. He grew furious, and at length with a shocking oath released her bridle, but at the same instant struck her pony a severe blow upon his haunches, with a stout stick he held in his hand. The terrified animal, smarting with the pain, started aside, reared and plunged in a way that would have unseated a less skilful rider, and had nearly thrown Elsie from the saddle: then darted off at the top of its speed; but fortunately turned in at the gate held open by Jim, who had ridden on ahead and dismounted for that purpose. "Whoa, you Glossy! whoa dere!" he cried, springing to the head of the excited animal, and catching its bridle in his powerful grasp. "Just lead her for a little, Jim," said Elsie "There, there! my poor pretty Glossy, be quiet now. It was too cruel to serve you so; but it shan't happen again if your mistress can help it," she added in a voice tremulous with sympathy and indignation, patting and stroking her pony caressingly as she spoke. Jim obeyed, walking on at a brisk pace, leading Glossy with his right hand, and keeping the bridle of the other horse over his left arm. "I'll walk the rest of the way, Jim," said Elsie presently, "just stop her and let me get down. There," springing lightly to the ground, "you may lead them both to the stable now." She hurried forward along the broad, gravelled winding carriage road that led to the house. The next turn brought her face to face with her father. "What, Elsie! alone and on foot at this late hour?" he said in a tone of mingled surprise and reproof. "I have been riding, papa, and only a moment since dismounted and let Jim lead the horses down the other road to the stables." "Ah, but how did you come to be so late?" he asked, drawing her hand within his arm and leading her onward. "I have been to Tinegrove, sir, and Aunt Lora, Carrie, and I found so much to say to each other, that the time slipped away before I knew it." "It must not happen again, Elsie." "I do not mean it shall, papa, and I am very sorry." "Then I excuse you this once, daughter; it is not often you give me occasion to reprove you." "Thank you, papa," she said with a grateful, loving look. "Did you come out in search of me?" "Yes, your mamma and I had begun to grow anxious lest some accident had befallen you. Our little daughter is such a precious treasure that we must needs watch over her very carefully," he added in a tone that was half playful, half tender, while he pressed the little gloved hand in his, and his eyes rested upon the sweet fair face with an expression of proud fatherly affection. Her answering look was full of filial reverence and love. "Dear papa, it is so nice to be so loved and cared for; so sweet to hear such words from your lips. I do believe I'm the very happiest girl in the land." She had already almost forgotten Arthur and his rudeness and brutality. "And I the happiest father," he said with a pleased smile. "Ah, here comes mamma to meet as with little Horace." The child ran forward with a glad shout to meet his sister, Rose met her with loving words and a fond caress; one might have thought from their joyous welcome, that she was returning after an absence of weeks or months instead of hours. Letting go her father's arm as they stepped upon the piazza Elsie began a romping play with her little brother, but at a gentle reminder from her mamma that the tea bell would soon ring, ran away to her own apartments to have her riding habit changed for something more suitable for the drawing room. Chloe was in waiting and her skilful hands made rapid work, putting the last touches to her nursling's dress just as the summons to the supper table was given. Mr. Dinsmore was quite as fastidious as in former days in regard to the neatness and tastefulness of Elsie's attire. "Will I do, papa?" she asked, presenting herself before him, looking very sweet and fair in a simple white dress with blue sash and ribbons. "Yes," he said with a satisfied smile, "I see nothing amiss with dress, hair, or face." "Nor do I," said Rose, leading the way to the supper room, "Aunt Chloe is an accomplished tirewoman. But come, let us sit down to our meal and have it over." On their return to the drawing room they, found Mr. Travilla comfortably ensconced in an easy chair, reading the evening paper. He was an almost daily visitor at the Oaks, and seldom came without some little gift for one or both of his friend's children. It was for Elsie to-night. When the usual greetings had been exchanged, he turned to her, saying, "I have brought you a treat. Can you guess what it is?" "A book!" "Ah, there must be something of the Yankee about you," he answered, laughing. "Yes, it is a book in two volumes; just published and a most delightful, charming story," he went on, drawing them from his pockets, and handing them to her as he spoke. "Oh, thank you, sir!" she cried with eager gratitude, "I'm so glad, if--if only papa will allow me to read it. May I, papa?" "I can tell better when I have examined it, my child," Mr. Dinsmore answered, taking one of the volumes from her hands and looking at the title on the back. "'The Wide, Wide World!' What sort of a book is it, Travilla?" "A very good sort. I think. Just glance through it or read a few pages, and I'm pretty sure it will be sufficient to satisfy you of, not only its harmlessness, but that its perusal would be a benefit to almost any one." Mr. Dinsmore did so, Elsie standing beside him, her hand upon his arm, and her eyes on his face--anxiously watching its changes of expression as he read. They grew more and more satisfactory; the book was evidently approving itself to his taste and judgment, and presently he returned it to her, saying, with a kind fatherly smile, "Yes, my child, you may read it. I have no doubt it deserves all the praise Mr. Travilla has given it." "Oh, thank you, papa, I'm very glad," she answered joyously, "I am just hungry for a nice story." And seating herself near the light, she was soon lost to everything about her in the deep interest with which she was following Ellen Montgomery through her troubles and trials. She was loath to lay the book aside when at the usual hour--a quarter before nine--the bell rang for prayers. She hardly heeded the summons till her papa laid his hand on her shoulder, saying, "Come, daughter, you must not be left behind." She started up then, hastily closing the book, and followed the others to the dining room, where the servants were already assembled to take part in the family devotions. Mr. Travilla went away immediately after and now it was Elsie's bed-time. Her father reminded her of it as, on coming back from seeing his friend to the door, he found her again poring over the book. "Oh, papa, it is so interesting! could you let me finish this chapter?" she asked with a very entreating look up into his face as he stood at her side. "I suppose I could if I should make a great effort," he answered laughingly. "Yes, you may, for once, but don't expect always to be allowed to do so." "No, sir, oh, no. Thank you, sir." "Well, have you come to a good stopping-place?" he asked, as she presently closed the book and put it aside with a slight sigh. "No, sir, it is just as bad a one as the other. Papa, I wish I was grown up enough to read another hour before going to bed." "I don't," he said, drawing her to a seat upon his knee, and passing his arm about her waist, "I'm not ready to part with my little girl yet." "Wouldn't a fine young lady daughter be just as good or better?" she asked, giving him a hug. "No, not now, some of these days I may think so." "But mayn't I stay up and read till ten to-night?" He shook his head. "Till half-past nine, then?" "No, not even a till quarter past. Ah, it is that now," he added, consulting his watch. "You must say good-night and go. Early hours and plenty of sleep for my little girl, that she may grow up to healthful, vigorous womanhood, capable of enjoying life and being very useful in the church and the world." He kissed her with grave tenderness as he spoke. "Good-night then, you dear father," she said, returning the caress. "I know you would indulge me if you thought it for my good." "Indeed I would, pet. Would it help to reconcile you to the denial of your wish to know that I shall be reading the book, and probably enjoying it as much as you would?" "Ah yes, indeed, papa! it is a real pleasure to resign it to you," she answered with a look of delight. "It's just the nicest story! at least as far as I've read. Read it aloud to mamma, won't you?" "Yes, if she wishes to hear it. Now away with you to your room and your bed." Only waiting to bid her mamma an affectionate good-night, Elsie obeyed, leaving the room with a light step, and a cheerful, happy face. "Dear unselfish child!" her father said, looking after her. "She is that indeed," said Rose. "How happy, shall I be if Horace grows up to be as good and lovable." Elsie was a fearless horsewoman, accustomed to the saddle from her very early years. Thus Arthur's wanton attack upon her pony had failed to give her nerves the severe shock it might have caused to those of most young girls of her age. Her feeling was more of excitement, and of indignation at the uncalled-for cruelty to a dumb animal, especially her own pet horse, than of fright at the danger to herself. But she well knew that the latter was what her father would think of first, and that he would be very angry with Arthur; therefore she had tried, and successfully, to control herself and suppress all signs of agitation on meeting him upon her return. She felt glad now as the affair recurred to her recollection while preparing for the night's rest, that she had been able to do so. For a moment she questioned with herself whether she was quite right to have this concealment from her father, but quickly decided that she was. Had the wrong-doing been her own--that would have made it altogether another matter. She was shocked at Arthur's wickedness, troubled and anxious about his future, but freely forgave his crime against her pony and herself, and mingled with her nightly petitions an earnest prayer for his conversion, and his welfare temporal and spiritual. CHAPTER VI. O love! thou sternly dost thy power maintain, And wilt not bear a rival in thy reign. --DRYDEN. It was the middle of the forenoon, and Elsie in her own pretty little sitting room was busied with her books; so deep in study indeed, that she never noticed a slight girlish figure as it glided in at the glass doors opening upon the lawn, to-day set wide to admit the air coming fresh and cool with a faint odor of the far-off sea, pleasantly mingling with that of the flowers in the garden, on the other side of the house. "Buried alive in her books! Dear me! what a perfect paragon of industry you are," cried the intruder in a lively tone. "I wish you would imbue me with some of your love of study." "Why, Lucy Carrington! how did you get here?" and Elsie pushed her books away, rose hastily and greeted her friend with an affectionate embrace. "How? I came in through yonder door, miss; after riding my pony from Ashlands to the front entrance of this mansion," replied Lucy, courtesying low in mock reverence. "I hope your ladyship will excuse the liberty I have taken in venturing uninvited into your sanctum." "Provided your repentance is deep and sincere," returned Elsie in the same jesting tone. "Certainly, I solemnly pledge myself never to do it again till the next time." "Sit down, won't you?" and Elsie pushed forward a low rocking chair. "It's so pleasant to see you. But if I had thought about it at all I should have supposed you were at home, and as busy over books and lessons as I." "No; my respected governess, Miss Warren, not feeling very well, has taken a week's holiday, and left me to do the same. Fancy my afflicted state at the thought of laying aside my beloved books for seven or eight whole days." "You poor creature! how I pity you," said Elsie, laughing; "suppose you stay here and share the instructions of my tutor; I have no doubt I could persuade him to receive you as a pupil." "Horrors! I'm much obliged, very much, but I should die of fright the first time I had to recite. There, I declare I'm growing poetical, talking in rhyme all the time." "Let mammy take your hat and scarf," said Elsie. "You'll stay and spend the day with me, won't you?" "Thank you, no; I came to carry you off to Ashlands to spend a week. Will you come?" "I should like to, dearly well, if papa gives permission." "Well, run and ask him." "I can't; unfortunately he is out, and not expected to return till tea-time." "Oh, pshaw! how provoking! But can't your mamma give permission just as well?" "If it were only for a day she might, but I know she would say the question of a longer visit must be referred to papa." "Dear me! I wouldn't be you for something. Why, I never ask leave of anybody when I want to pay a visit anywhere in the neighborhood. I tell mamma I'm going, and that's all-sufficient. I don't see how you stand being ordered about and controlled so." "If you'll believe me," said Elsie, laughing a gay, sweet, silvery laugh, "I really enjoy being controlled by papa. It saves me a deal of trouble and responsibility in the way of deciding for myself; and then I love him so dearly that I almost always feel it my greatest pleasure to do whatever pleases him." "And he always was so strict with you." "Yes, he is strict; but oh, so kind." "But that's just because you're so good; he'd have an awful time ruling me. I'd be in a chronic state of disgrace and punishment; and he obliged to be so constantly improving me and frowning sternly upon my delinquencies that he'd never be able to don a smile of approval or slip in a word of praise edgewise." "Indeed you're not half so bad as you pretend," said Elsie, laughing again; "nor I half so good as you seem determined to believe me." "No, I've no doubt that you're an arch hypocrite, and we shall find out one of these days that you are really worse than any of the rest of us. But now I must finish my errand and go, for I know you're longing to be at those books. Do you get a ferruling every time you miss a word?--and enjoy the pain because it pleases papa to inflict it?" "Oh, Lucy, how can you be so ridiculous?" and a quick, vivid blush mounted to Elsie's very hair. "I beg your pardon, Elsie, dear, I had no business to say such a thing," cried Lucy, springing up to throw her arms round her friend and kiss her warmly; "but of course it was nothing but the merest nonsense. I know well enough your papa never does anything of the kind." "No; if my lessons are not well prepared they have to be learned over again, that is all; and if I see that papa is displeased with me, I assure you it is punishment enough." "Do you think he'll let you accept my invitation?" "I don't know, indeed, Lucy. I think he will hardly like to have me give up my studies for that length of time, and in fact I hardly like to do so myself." "Oh, you must come. You can practise on my piano every day for an hour or two, if you like. We'll learn some duets. And you can bring your sketch-book and carry it along when we walk or ride, as we shall every day. And we might read some improving books together,--you and Herbert, and I. He is worse again, poor fellow! so that some days he hardly leaves his couch even to limp across the room, and it's partly to cheer him up that we want you to come. There's nothing puts him into better spirits than a sight of your face." "You don't expect other company?" "No, except on our birthday; but then we're going to have a little party, just of our own set,--we boys and girls that have grown up--or are growing up--together, as one may say. Oh, yes, I want to have Carrie Howard, Mary Leslie, and Enna stay a day or two after the party. Now coax your papa hard, for we must have you," she added, rising to go. "That would be a sure way to make him say no," said Elsie, smiling; "he never allows me to coax or tease; at least, not after he has once answered my request." "Then don't think of it. Good-bye. No, don't waste time in coming to see me off, but go back to your books like a good child. I mean to have a little chat with your mamma before I go." Elsie returned to her lessons with redoubled energy. She was longing to become more intimately acquainted with Ellen Montgomery, but resolutely denied herself even so much as a peep at the pages of the fascinating story-book until her allotted tasks should be faithfully performed. These, with her regular daily exercise in the open air, filled up the morning; there was a half hour before, and another after dinner, which she could call her own; then two hours for needlework, music, and drawing, and she was free to employ herself as she would till bed-time. That was very apt to be in reading, and if the weather was fine she usually carried her book to an arbor at some distance from the house. It was reached by a long shaded walk that led to it from the lawn, on which the glass doors of her pretty boudoir opened. It was a cool, breezy, quiet spot, on a terraced hillside, commanding a lovely view of vale, river, and woodland, and from being so constantly frequented by our heroine, had come to be called by her name,--"Elsie's Arbor." Arthur, well acquainted with these tastes and habits, sought, and found her here on the afternoon of this day--found her so deeply absorbed in Miss Warner's sweet story that she was not aware of his approach--so full of sympathy for little Ellen that her tears were dropping upon the page as she read. "What, crying, eh?" he said with a sneer, as he seated himself by her side, and rudely pulled one of her curls, very much as he had been used to do years ago. "Well, I needn't be surprised, for you always were the greatest baby I ever saw." "Please let my hair alone, Arthur; you are not very polite in either speech or action," she answered, brushing away her tears and moving a little farther from him. "It's not worth while to waste politeness on you. What's that you're reading?" "A new book Mr. Travilla gave me." "Has no name, eh?" "Yes, 'Wide, Wide World.'" "Some namby-pamby girl's story, I s'pose, since you're allowed to read it; or are you doing it on the sly?" "No, I never do such things, and hope I never shall; papa gave me permission." "Oh; ah! then I haven't got you in my power: wish I had." "Why?" "Because I might turn it to good account. I know you are as afraid as death of Horace." "No, I am not!" dried Elsie indignantly, rich color rushing all over her fair face and neck; "for I know that he loves me dearly and if I had been disobeying or deceiving him I would far sooner throw myself on his mercy than on yours." "You would, eh? How mad you are; your face is as red as a beet. A pretty sort of Christian you are, aren't you?" "I am not perfect, Arthur; but you mustn't judge of religion by me." "I shall, though. Don't you wish I'd go away?" he added teasingly, again snatching at her curls. But she eluded his grasp, and rising, stood before him with an air of gentle dignity. "Yes," she said, "since you ask me, I'll own that I do. I don't know why it is that, though your manners are polished when you choose to make them so, you are always rude and ungentlemanly to me when you find me alone. So I shall be very glad if you'll just go away and leave me to solitude and the enjoyment of my book." "I'll do so when I get ready; not a minute sooner. But you can get rid of me just as soon as you like. I see you take. Yes, I want that money I asked you for yesterday, and I am bound to have it." "Arthur, my answer must be just the same that it was then; I can give you no other." "You're the meanest girl alive! To my certain knowledge you are worth at least a million and a half, and yet you refuse to lend me the pitiful sum of fifty dollars." "Arthur, you know I have no choice in the matter. Papa has forbidden me to lend you money without his knowledge and consent, and I cannot disobey him." "When did he forbid you?" "A long while ago; and though he has said nothing about it lately, he has told me again and again that his commands are always binding until he revokes them." "Fifteen years old, and not allowed to do as you please even with your pocket money!" he said contemptuously. "Do you expect to be in leading-strings all your life?" "I shall of course have control of my own money matters on coming of age; but I expect to obey my father as long as we both live," she answered, with gentle but firm decision. "Do you have to show your balance in hand when you give in your account?" "No; do you suppose papa cannot trust my word?" she answered, somewhat indignantly. "Then you could manage it just as easily as not. There's no occasion for him to know whether your balance in hand is at that moment in your possession or mine; as I told you before, I only want to borrow it for two weeks. Come, let me have it. If you don't, the day will come when you'll wish you had." She repeated her refusal; he grew very angry and abusive, and at length went so far as to strike her. A quick step sounded on the gravel walk, a strong grasp was laid on Arthur's arm, he felt himself suddenly jerked aside and flung upon his knees, while a perfect rain of stinging, smarting blows descended rapidly upon his back and shoulders. "There, you unmitigated scoundrel, you mean, miserable caitiff; lay your hand upon her again if you dare!" cried Mr. Travilla, finishing the castigation by applying the toe of his boot to Arthur's nether parts with a force that sent him reeling some distance down the walk, to fall with a heavy thud upon the ground. The lad rose, white with rage, and shook his fist at his antagonist. "I'll strike her when I please," he said with an oath, "and not be called to account by you for it either; she's my niece, and nothing to you." "I'll defend her nevertheless, and see to it that you come to grief if you attempt to harm her in any way whatever. Did he hurt you much, my child?" And Mr. Travilla's tone changed to one of tender concern as he turned and addressed Elsie, who had sunk pale and trembling upon the rustic seat where Arthur had found her. "No, sir, but I fear you have hurt him a good deal, in your kind zeal for my defence," she answered, looking after Arthur, as he limped away down the path. "I have broken my cane, that is the worst of it," said her protector coolly, looking regretfully down at the fragment he still held in his hand. "You must have struck very hard, and oh, Mr. Travilla, what if he should take it into his head to challenge you?" and Elsie turned pale with terror. "Never fear; he is too arrant a coward for that; he knows I am a good shot, and that, as the challenged party, I would have the right to the choice of weapons." "But you wouldn't fight, Mr. Travilla? you do not approve of duelling?" "So, no indeed, Elsie; both the laws of God and of the land are against it, and I could not engage in it either as a good citizen or a Christian." "Oh, I am so glad of that, and that you came to my rescue; for I was really growing frightened, Arthur seemed in such a fury with me." "What was it about?" Elsie explained, then asked how he had happened to come to her aid. "I had learned from the servants that your father and mother were both out, so came here in search of you," he said. "As I drew near I saw that Arthur was with you, and not wishing to overhear your talk, I waited at a little distance up there on the bank, watching you through the trees. I perceived at once that he was in a towering passion, and fearing he would ill-treat you in some way, I held myself in readiness to come to your rescue; and when I saw him strike you, such a fury suddenly came over me that I could not possibly refrain from thrashing him for it." "Mr. Travilla, you will not tell papa?" she said entreatingly. "My child, I am inclined to think he ought to hear of it." "Oh, why need he? It would make him very angry with Arthur." "Which Arthur richly deserves. I think your father should know, in order that he may take measures for your protection. Still, if you promise not to ride or walk out alone until Arthur has left the neighborhood, it shall be as you wish. But you must try to recover your composure, or your papa will be sure to ask the cause of your agitation. You are trembling very much, and the color has quite forsaken your cheeks." "I'll try," She said, making a great effort to control herself, "and I give you the promise." "This is a very pleasant place to sit with book or work," he remarked, "but I would advise you not even to come here alone again till Arthur has gone." "Thank you, sir, I think I shall follow your advice. It will be only a few weeks now till he and Walter both go North to college." "I see you have your book with you," he said, taking it up from the seat where it lay. "How do you like it?" "Oh, so much! How I pity poor Ellen for having such a father, so different from my dear papa; and because she had to be separated from her mamma, whom she loved so dearly. I can't read about her troubles without crying, Mr. Travilla." "Shall I tell you a secret," he said, smiling; "I shed some tears over it myself." Then he went on talking with her about the different characters of the story, thus helping her to recover her composure by turning her thoughts from herself and Arthur. When, half an hour later, a servant came to summon her to the house, with the announcement that her father had returned and was ready to hear her recitations, all signs of agitation had disappeared; she had ceased to tremble, and her fair face was as sweet, bright, and rosy as its wont. She rose instantly on hearing the summons. "You'll excuse me, I know, Mr. Travilla. But will you not go in with me? We are always glad to have you with us. I have no need to tell you that, I am sure." "Thank you," he said, "but I must return to Ion now. I shall walk to the house with you though, if you will permit me," he added, thinking that Arthur might be still lurking somewhere within the grounds. She answered gayly that she would be very glad of his company. She had lost none of her old liking for her father's friend, and was wont to treat him with the easy and affectionate familiarity she might have used had he been her uncle. They continued their talk till they had reached the lawn at the side of the house on which her apartments were; then he turned to bid her good-bye. "I'm much obliged!" she said, taking his offered hand, and looking up brightly into his face. "Welcome, fair lady; but am I to be dismissed without any reward for my poor services?" "I have none to offer, sir knight, but you may help yourself if you choose," she said, laughing and blushing, for she knew very well what he meant. He stooped and snatched a kiss from her ruby lips, then walked away sighing softly to himself, "Ah, little Elsie, if I were but ten years younger!" She tripped across the lawn, and entering the open door of her boudoir, found herself in her father's arms. He had witnessed the little scene just enacted between Mr. Travilla and herself, had noticed something in his friend's look and manner that had never struck him before. He folded his child close to his heart for an instant then held her off a little, gazing fondly into her face. "You are mine; you belong to me; no other earthly creature has the least shadow of a right or title in you; do you know that?" "Yes, papa, and rejoice to know it," she murmured, putting her arms about his neck and laying her head against his breast. "Ah!" he said, sighing, "you will not always be able to say that, I fear. One of these days you will--" He broke off abruptly, without finishing his sentence. She looked up inquiringly into his face. He answered her look with a smile and a tender caress. "I had better not put the nonsense into your head: it will get there soon enough without my help. Come now, let us have the lessons. I expect to find them well prepared, as usual." "I hope so, papa," she answered, bringing her books and seating herself on a stool at his feet, he having taken possession of an easy-chair. The recitations seemed a source of keen enjoyment to both; the one loving to impart, and the other to receive, knowledge. Mr. Dinsmore gave the deserved meed of warm praise for the faithful preparation of each allotted task, prescribed those for the coming day, and the books were laid aside. "Come here, daughter," he said, as she closed her desk upon them, "I have something to say to you." "What is it, papa?" she asked, seating herself upon his knee. "How very grave you look." But there was not a touch of the old fear in her face or voice, as there had been none in his of the old sternness. "Yes, for I am about to speak of a serious matter," he answered, gently smoothing back the clustering curls from her fair brow, while he looked earnestly into the soft brown eyes. "You have not been lending money to Arthur, Elsie?" The abrupt, unexpected question startled her, and a crimson tide rushed over her face and neck; but she returned her father's gaze steadily: "No, papa; how could you think I would disobey so?" "I did not, darling, and yet I felt that I must ask the question and repeat my warning, my command to you--never to do so without my knowledge and consent. Your grandfather and I are much troubled about the boy." "I am so sorry, papa; I hope he has not been doing anything very bad." "He seems to have sufficient cunning to hide many of his evil deeds," Mr. Dinsmore said, with a sigh; "yet enough has come to light to convince us that he is very likely to become a shame and disgrace to his family. We know that he is profane, and to some extent, at least, intemperate and a gambler. A sad, sad beginning for a boy of seventeen. And to furnish him with money, Elsie, would be only to assist him in his downward course." "Yes, papa, I see that. Poor grandpa, I'm so sorry for him! But, papa, God can change Arthur's heart, and make him all we could wish." "Yes, daughter, and we will agree together to ask Him to do this great work, so impossible to any human power; shall we not?" "Yes, papa." They were silent a moment; then she turned to him again, told of Lucy Carrington's call and its object, and asked if she might accept the invitation. He considered a moment. "Yes," he said kindly, "you may if you wish. You quite deserve a holiday, and I think perhaps would really be the better of a week's rest from study. Go and enjoy yourself as much as you can, my darling." "Thank you, you dearest, kindest, and best of papas," she said, giving him a hug and kiss. "But I think you look a little bit sorry. You would rather I should stay at home, if I could content myself to do so, and it would be a strange thing if I could not." "No, my pet, I shall miss you, I know; the house always seems lonely without you; but I can spare you for a week, and would rather have you go, because I think the change will do you good. Besides, I am willing to lend my treasure for a few days to our friends at Ashlands. I would gladly do more than that, if I could, for that poor suffering Herbert." CHAPTER VII. How many pleasant faces shed their light on every side. --TUPPER. "Remember it is for only one week; you must be back again next Wednesday by ten o'clock; I can't spare you an hour longer," Mr. Dinsmore said, as the next morning, shortly after breakfast, he assisted his daughter to mount her pony. "Ten o'clock at night, papa?" asked Elsie in a gay, jesting tone, as she settled herself in the saddle, and took a little gold-mounted riding whip from his hand. "No, ten A.M., precisely." "But what if it should be storming, sir?" "Then come as soon as the storm is over." "Yes, sir; and may I come sooner if I get homesick?" "Just as soon as you please. Now, good-bye, my darling. Don't go into any danger. I know I need not remind you to do nothing your father would disapprove." "I hope not, papa," she said, with a loving look into the eyes that were gazing so fondly upon her. Then kissing her hand to him and her mamma and little Horace, who stood on the veranda to see her off, she turned her horse's head and cantered merrily away, taking the road to Ashlands on passing out at the gate. It was a bright, breezy morning, and her heart felt so light and gay that a snatch of glad song rose to her lips. She warbled a few bird-like notes, then fell to humming softly to herself. At a little distance down the road a light wagon was rumbling along, driven by one of the man-servants from the Oaks, and carrying Aunt Chloe and her young mistress' trunks. "Come, Jim," said Elsie, glancing over her shoulder at her attendant satellite, "we must pass them. Glossy and I are in haste to-day. Ah, mammy, are you enjoying your ride?" she called to her old nurse as she cantered swiftly by. "Yes, dat I is, honey!" returned the old woman. Then sending a loving, admiring look after the retreating form so full of symmetry and grace, "My bressed chile!" she murmured, "you's beautiful as de mornin', your ole mammy tinks, an' sweet as de finest rose in de garden; bright an' happy as de day am long, too." "De beautifullest in all de country, an' de finest," chimed in her charioteer. The young people at Ashlands were all out on the veranda enjoying the fresh morning air--Herbert lying on a lounge with a book in his hand; Harry and Lucy seated on opposite sides of a small round table and deep in a game of chess; two little fellows of six and eight--John and Archie by name--were spinning a top. "There she is! I had almost given her up; for I didn't believe that old father of hers would let her come," cried Lucy, catching sight of Glossy and her rider just entering the avenue; and she sprang up in such haste as to upset half the men upon the board. "Hollo! see what you've done!" exclaimed Harry. "Why, it's Elsie, sure enough!" and he hastily followed in the wake of his sister, who had already flown to meet and welcome her friend; while Herbert started up to a sitting posture, and looked enviously after them. "Archie, John," he called, "one of you please be good enough to hand me my crutch and cane. Dear me, what a thing it is to be a cripple!" "I'll get 'em, Herbie, this minute! Don't you try to step without 'em," said Archie, jumping up to hand them. But Elsie had already alighted from her horse with Harry's assistance, and shaken hands with him, returned Lucy's rapturous embrace as warmly as it was given, and stepped upon the veranda with her before Herbert was fairly upon his feet. As she caught sight of him she hurried forward, her sweet face full of tender pity. "Oh, don't try to come to meet me, Herbert," she said, holding out her little gloved hand; "I know your poor limb is worse than usual, and you, must not exert yourself for an old friend like me." "Ah," he said, taking the offered hand, and looking at its owner with a glad light in his eyes, "How like you that is, Elsie! You always were more thoughtful of others than any one else I ever knew. Yes, my limb is pretty bad just now; but the doctor thinks he'll conquer the disease yet; at least so far as to relieve me of the pain I suffer." "I hope so, indeed. How patiently you have borne it all these long years," she answered with earnest sympathy of tone and look. "So he has; he deserves the greatest amount of credit for it," said Lucy, as John and Archie in turn claimed Elsie's attention for a moment. "But come now, let me take you to mamma and grandma, and then to your own room. Aunt Chloe and your luggage will be along presently, I suppose." "Yes, they are coming up the avenue now." Lucy led the way to a large pleasant, airy apartment in one of the wings of the building, where they found Mrs. Carrington busily occupied in cutting out garments for her servants, her parents Mr. and Mrs. Norris with her, the one reading a newspaper, the other knitting. All three gave the young guest a very warm welcome. She was evidently a great favorite with the whole family. These greetings and the usual mutual inquiries in regard to the health of friends and relatives having been exchanged, Elsie was next carried off by Lucy to the room prepared for her special use during her stay at Ashlands. It also was large, airy, and cheerful, on the second floor--opening upon a veranda on one side, on the other into a similar apartment occupied by Lucy herself. Pine India matting, furniture of some kind of yellow grained wood, snowy counterpanes, curtains and toilet covers gave them both an air of coolness and simple elegance, while vases of fresh flowers upon the mantels shed around a slight but delicious perfume. Of course the two girls were full of lively, innocent chat. In the midst of it Elsie exclaimed, "Oh, Lucy! I have just the loveliest book you ever read! a present from Mr. Travilla the other day, and I've brought it along. Papa had begun it, but he is so kind he insisted I should bring it with me; and so I did." "Oh, I'm glad! we haven't had anything new in the story-book line for some time. Have you read it yourself?" "Partly; but it is worth reading several times; and I thought we would enjoy it all together--one reading aloud." "Oh, 'tis just the thing! I'm going to help mamma to-day with the sewing, and a nice book read aloud will make it quite enjoyable. We'll have you for reader, Elsie, if you are agreed." "Suppose we take turns sewing and reading? I'd like to help your mamma, too." "Thank you; well, we'll see. Herbert's a good reader, and I daresay will be glad to take his turn at it too. Ah, here comes your baggage and Aunt Chloe following it. Here, Bob and Jack," to the two stalwart black fellows who were carrying the trunk, "set it in this corner. How d'ye do, Aunt Chloe?" "Berry well, tank you, missy," replied the old nurse, dropping a courtesy. "I'se berry glad to see you lookin' so bright dis here mornin'." "Thank you. Now make yourself at home and take good care of your young mistress." "Dat I will, missy; best I knows how. Trus' dis chile for dat." Elsie's riding habit was quickly exchanged for a house dress, her hair made smooth and shining as its wont, and securing her book she returned with Lucy to the lower veranda, where they found Herbert still extended upon his sofa. His face brightened at sight of Elsie. He had laid aside his book, and was at work with his knife upon a bit of soft pine wood. He whiled away many a tedious hour by fashioning in this manner little boxes, whistles, sets of baby-house furniture, etc., etc., for one and another of his small friends. Books, magazines, and newspapers filled up the larger portion of his time, but could not occupy it all, for, as he said, he must digest his mental food, and he liked to have employment for his fingers while doing so. "Please be good enough to sit where I can look at you without too great an effort, won't you?" he said, smiling up into Elsie's face. "Yes, if that will afford you any pleasure," she answered lightly, as Lucy beckoned to a colored girl, who stepped forward and placed a low rocking chair at the side of the couch. "There, that is just right. I can have a full view of your face by merely raising my eyes," Herbert said with satisfaction, as Elsie seated herself in it. "What, you have brought a book?" "Yes," and while Elsie went on to repeat the substance of what she had told Lucy, the latter slipped away to her mamma's room to make arrangements about the work, and ask if they would not all like to come and listen to the reading. "Is it the kind of book to interest an old body like me?" asked Mrs. Norris. "I don't know, grandma; but Elsie says Mr. Travilla and her papa were both delighted with it. Mr. Dinsmore, though, had not read the whole of it." "Suppose we go and try it for a while then," said Mr. Morris, laying down his paper. "If our little Elsie is to be the reader, I for one am pretty sure to enjoy listening, her voice is so sweet-toned and her enunciation so clear and distinct." "That's you, grandpa!" cried Lucy, clapping her hands in applause. "Yes, you'd better all come, Elsie is to be the reader at the start; she says she does not mind beginning the story over again." Mrs. Carrington began gathering up her work, laying the garments already cut out in a large basket, which was then carried by her maid to the veranda. In a few moments Elsie had quite an audience gathered about her, ere long a deeply interested one; scissors or needle had now and again to be dropped to wipe away a falling tear, and the voice of the reader needed steadying more than once or twice. Then Herbert took his turn at the book, Elsie hers with the needle, Mrs. Carrington half reluctantly yielding to her urgent request to be allowed to assist them. So the morning, and much of the afternoon also, passed most pleasantly, and not unprofitably either. A walk toward sundown, and afterward a delightful moonlight ride with Harry Carrington and Winthrop Lansing, the son of a neighboring planter, finished the day, and Elsie retired to her own room at her usual early hour. Lucy followed and kept her chatting quite a while, for which Elsie's tender conscience reproached her somewhat; yet she was not long in falling asleep after her head had once touched her pillow. The next day was passed in a similar manner, still more time being given to the reading, as they were able to begin it earlier: yet the book was not finished; but on the morning of the next day, which was Friday, Lucy proposed that, if the plan was agreeable to Elsie, they should spend an hour or two in a new amusement; which was no other than going into the dominions of Aunt Viney, the cook, and assisting in beating eggs and making cake. Elsie was charmed with the idea, and it was immediately carried out, to the great astonishment of Chloe, Aunt Viney, and all her sable tribe. "Sho, Miss Lucy! what fo' you go for to fotch de company right yere into dis yere ole dirty kitchen?" cried Aunt Viney, dropping a hasty courtesy to Elsie, then hurrying hither and thither in the vain effort to set everything to rights in a moment of time. "Clar out o' yere, you, Han an' Scip," she cried, addressing two small urchins of dusky hue and driving them before her as she spoke, "dere aint no room yere fo' you, an' kitchens aint no place for darkies o' your size or sect. I'll fling de dishcloth at yo' brack faces ef yo' comes in agin fo' you sent for. I 'clare Miss Elsie, an' Miss Lucy, dose dirty niggahs make sich a muss in yere, dere aint a char fit for you to set down in," she continued, hastily cleaning two, and wiping them with her apron. "I'se glad to see you, ladies, but ef I'd knowed you was a-comin' dis kitchen shu'd had a cleanin' up fo' shuah." "You see, Aunt Viney, you ought to keep it in order, and then you would be ready for visitors whenever they happened to come," said Lucy laughingly. "Why, you're really quite out of breath with whisking about so fast. We've come to help you." The fat old negress, still panting from her unwonted exertions, straightened herself, pushed back her turban, and gazed in round-eyed wonder upon her young mistress. "What! Missy help ole Aunt Viney wid dose lily-white hands? Oh, go 'long! you's jokin' dis time fo' shuah." "No indeed; we want the fun of helping to make some of the cake for to-morrow. You know we want ever so many kinds to celebrate our two birthdays." "Two birthdays, Miss Lucy? yo's and Massa Herbert's? Yes, dat's it; I don't disremember de day, but I do disremember de age." "Sixteen; and now we're going to have a nice party to celebrate the day, and you must see that the refreshments are got up in your very best style." "So I will, Miss Lucy, an' no 'casion for you and Miss Elsie to trouble yo' young heads 'bout de makin' ob de cakes an' jellies an' custards an' sich. Ole Aunt Viney can 'tend to it all." "But we want the fun of it," persisted Lucy; "we want to try our hands at beating eggs, rolling sugar, sifting flour, etc., etc. I've got a grand new receipt book here, and we'll read out the recipes to you, and measure and weigh the materials, and you can do the mixing and baking." "Yes, missy, you' lily hands no' hab strength to stir, an' de fire spoil yo' buful 'plexions for shuah." "I've brought mamma's keys," said Lucy; "come along with us to the store-room, Aunt Viney, and I'll deal out the sugar, spices, and whatever else you want." "Yes, Miss Lucy; but 'deed I don't need no help. You's berry kind, but ole Viney kin do it all, an' she'll have eberything fus'-rate fo' de young gemmen an' ladies." "But that isn't the thing, auntie; you don't seem to understand. Miss Elsie and I want the fun, and to learn to cook, too. Who knows but we may some day have to do our own work?" "Bress de Lord, Miss Lucy, how you talk, honey!" cried the old negress, rolling up her eyes in horror at the thought. "Take care; Miss Elsie will think you very wicked if you use such exclamations as that." "Dat wrong, you t'ink, missy?" asked Aunt Viney, turning to the young visitor, who had gone with them to the store-room, and was assisting Lucy in the work of measuring and weighing the needed articles. "I think it is," she answered gently; "we should be very careful not to use the sacred name lightly. To do so is to break the third commandment." "Den, missy, dis ole gal won't neber do it no more." Chloe had been an excellent cook in her young days, and had not forgotten or lost her former skill in the preparation of toothsome dainties. She, too, came with offers of assistance, and the four were soon deep in the mysteries of pastry, sweetmeats, and confections. Novelty gave it an especial charm to the young ladies, and they grew very merry and talkative, while their ignorance of the business in hand, the odd mistakes they fell into in consequence, and the comical questions they asked, gave much secret amusement to the two old servants. "What's this pound cake to be mixed up in, Aunt Viney?" asked Lucy. "In dis yere tin pan, missy." "Is it clean?" "Yes, missy, it's clean; but maybe 'taint suffishently clean, I'll wash it agin." "How many kinds of cake shall we make?" asked Elsie. "Every kind that Chloe and Aunt Viney can think of and know how to make well. Let me see--delicate cake, gold, silver and clove, fruitcake, sponge, and what else?" "Mammy makes delicious jumbles." "Will you make us some, Aunt Chloe?" Chloe signified her readiness to do whatever was desired, and began at once to collect her implements. "Got a rollin' pin, Aunt Viney?" she asked. "Yes, to be shuah, a revoltin' roller, de very bes' kind. No, Miss Elsie, don' mix de eggs dat way, you spile 'em ef you mix de yaller all up wid de whites. An' Miss Lucy, butter an' sugar mus' be worked up togedder fus', till de butter resolve de sugah, 'fore we puts de udder gredinents in." "Ah, I see we have a good deal to learn before we can hope to rival you as cooks, Aunt Viney," laughed Lucy. "I spec' so, missy; you throw all de gredinents in togedder, an' tumble your flouah in all at once, an' you nebber get your cake nice an light." They had nearly reached the end of their labors when sounds as of scuffling, mingled with loud boyish laughter, and cries of "That's it, Scip, hit him again! Pitch into him, Han, and pay him off well for it!" drew them all in haste to the window and door. The two little darkies who had been ejected from the kitchen, were tussling in the yard, while their young masters, John and Archie, looked on, shaking with laughter, and clapping their hands in noisy glee. "What's all this racket about?" asked Grandpa Norris, coming out upon the veranda, newspaper in hand, Herbert limping along by his side. "The old feud between Roman and Carthaginian, sir," replied John. "Why, what do you mean, child?" "Hannah Ball waging a war on Skipio, you know, sir." "History repeating itself, eh?" laughed Herbert. "Ah, that's an old joke, Archie," said his grandfather. "And you're too big a rogue to set them at such work. Han and Scip, stop that at once." CHAPTER VIII. "All your attempts Shall fall on me like brittle shafts on armor." Lucy came into Elsie's room early the next morning to show her birthday gifts, of which she had received one or more from every member of her family. They consisted of articles of jewelry, toilet ornaments, and handsomely-bound books. They learned on meeting Herbert at breakfast that he had fared quite as well as his sister. Elsie slipped a valuable ring on Lucy's finger and laid a gold pencil-case beside Herbert's plate. "Oh, charming! a thousand thanks, mon ami!" cried Lucy, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Thank you, I shall value it most highly; especially for the giver's sake," said Herbert, examining his with a pleased look, then turning to her with a blush and joyous smile, "I am so much better this morning that I am going out for a drive. Won't you and Lucy give me the added pleasure of your company?" "Thank you, I can answer for myself that I'll be very happy to do so." "I, too," said Lucy. "It's a lovely morning for a ride. We'll make up a party and go, but we must be home again in good season; for Carrie and Enna promised to come to dinner. So I'm glad we finished the book yesterday, though we were all so sorry to part from little Ellen." They turned out quite a strong party; Herbert and the ladies filling up the family carriage, while Harry on horseback, and John and Archie each mounted upon a pony, accompanied it, now riding alongside, now speeding on ahead, or perchance dropping behind for a time as suited their fancy. They travelled some miles, and alighting in a beautiful grove, partook of a delicate lunch they had brought with them. Then, while Herbert rested upon the grass the others wandered hither and thither until it was time to return. They reached home just in season to receive their expected guests. Carrie Howard was growing up very pretty and graceful; womanly in her ways, yet quite unassuming in manner, frank and sweet in disposition, she was a general favorite with old and young, and could already boast of several suitors for her hand. Enna Dinsmore, now in her fourteenth year, though by some considered even prettier, was far less pleasing--pert, forward, and conceited as she had been in her early childhood; she was tall for her age, and with her perfect self-possession and grown-up air and manner, might be easily mistaken for seventeen. She had already more worldly wisdom than her sweet, fair niece would ever be able to attain, and was, in her own estimation at least, a very stylish and fashionable young lady. She assumed very superior airs toward Elsie when her brother Horace was not by, reproving, exhorting, or directing her; and was very proud of being usually taken by strangers for the elder of the two. Some day she would not think that a feather in her cap. Elsie had lost none of the childlike simplicity of five years ago; it still showed itself in the sweet, gentle countenance, the quiet graceful carriage, equally removed from forwardness on the one hand, and timid self-consciousness on the other. She did not consider herself a personage of importance, yet was not troubled by her supposed insignificance; in fact seldom thought of self at all, so engaged was she in adding to the happiness of others. The four girls were gathered in Lucy's room. She had been showing her birthday presents to Carrie and Enna. "How do you like this style of arranging the hair, girls?" asked the latter, standing before a mirror, smoothing and patting, and pulling out her puffs and braids. "It's the newest thing out. Isabel Carleton just brought it from New York. I saw her with hers dressed so, and sent Delia over to learn how." Delia was Miss Enna's maid, and had been brought along to Ashlands that she might dress her young lady's hair in this new style for the party. "It's pretty," said Lucy. "I think I'll have Minerva dress mine so for to-night, and see how it becomes me." "Delia can show her how," said Enna. "Don't you like it, Carrie?" "Pretty well, but if you'll excuse me for saying so, it strikes me as rather grown up for a young lady of thirteen," answered Carrie in a good-naturedly bantering tone. Enna colored and looked vexed. "I'm nearly fourteen," she replied with a slight toss of the head; "and I overheard Mrs. Carleton saying to mamma the other day, that with my height and finished manners I might pass anywhere for seventeen." "Perhaps so; of course, knowing your age, I can't judge so well how it would strike a stranger." "I see you have gone back to the old childish way of arranging your hair. What's that for?" asked Enna, turning to Elsie; "I should think it was about time you were beginning to be a little womanly in something." "Yes, but not in dress or the arrangement of my hair. So papa says, and of course I know he is right." "He would not let you have it up in a comb?" "No," Elsie answered with a quiet smile. "Why do you smile? Did he say anything funny when you showed yourself that day?" "Oh, Elsie, have you tried putting up your hair?" asked Carrie; while Lucy exclaimed, "Try it again to-night, Elsie, I should like to see how you would look." "Yes," said Elsie, answering Carrie's query first. "Enna persuaded me one day to have mammy do it up in young-lady fashion. I liked it right well for a change, and that was just what mamma said when I went into the drawing-room and showed myself to her. But when papa came in, he looked at me with a comical sort of surprise in his face, and said. 'Come here; what have you been doing to yourself?' I went to him and he pulled out my comb, and ordered me off to mammy to have my hair arranged again in the usual way, saying, 'I'm not going to have you aping the woman already; don't alter the style of wearing your hair again, till I give you permission.' "And you walked off as meek as Moses, and did his bidding," said Enna sarcastically. "No man shall ever rule me so. If papa should undertake to give me such an order, I'd just inform him that my hair was my own, and I should arrange it as suited my own fancy." "I think you are making yourself out worse than you really are, Enna," said Elsie gravely. "I am sure you could never say anything so extremely impertinent as that to grandpa." "Impertinent! Well, if you believe it necessary to be so very respectful, consistency should lead you to refrain from reproving your aunt." "I did not exactly mean to reprove you, Enna, and you are younger than I." "Nobody would think it," remarked Enna superciliously and with a second toss of her head, as she turned from the glass; "you are so extremely childish in every way, while, as mamma says, I grow more womanly in appearance and manner every day." "Elsie's manners are quite perfect, I think," said Carrie; "and her hair is so beautiful, I don't believe any other style of arrangement could improve its appearance in the least." "But it's so childish, so absurdly childish! just that great mass of ringlets hanging about her neck and shoulders. Come, Elsie, I want you to have it dressed in this new style for to-night." "No, Enna, I am perfectly satisfied to wear it in this childish fashion; and if I were not, still I could not disobey papa." Enna turned away with a contemptuous sniff, and Lucy proposed that they should go down to the drawing-room, and try some new music she had just received, until it should be time to dress for the evening. Herbert lay on a sofa listening to their playing. "Lucy," he said in one of the pauses, "what amusements are we to have to-night?--anything beside the harp, piano, and conversation?" "Dancing, of course. Cad's fiddle will provide as good music as any one need care for, and this room is large enough for all who will be here. Our party is not to be very large, you know." "And Elsie, for one, is too pious to dance," sneered Enna. Elsie colored, but remained silent. "Oh! I did not think of that!" cried Lucy. "Elsie, do you really think it is a sinful amusement?" "I think it wrong to go to balls; at least that it would be wrong for me, a professed Christian, Lucy." "But this will not be a ball, and we'll have nothing but quiet country dances, or something of that sort, no waltzing or anything at all objectionable. What harm can there be in jumping about in that way more than in another?" "None that I know of," answered Elsie, smiling. "And I certainly shall not object to others doing as they like, provided I am not asked to take part in it." "But why not take part, if it is not wrong?" asked Harry, coming in from the veranda. "Why, don't you know she never does anything without asking the permission of papa?" queried Enna tauntingly. "But where's the use of consulting her wishes in the matter, or urging her to take part in the wicked amusement?--she'll have to go to bed at nine o'clock, like any other well-trained child, and we'll have time enough for our dancing after that." "Oh, Elsie, must you?--must you really leave us at that early hour? Why, that's entirely too bad!" cried the others in excited chorus. "I shall stay up till ten," answered Elsie quietly, while a deep flush suffused her cheek. "That is better, but we shall not know how to spare you even that soon," said Harry. "Couldn't you make it eleven?--that would not be so very late just for once." "No, for she can't break her rules, or disobey orders. If she did, papa would be sure to find it out and punish her when she gets home." "For shame, Enna! that's quite too bad!" cried Carrie and Lucy in a breath. Elsie's color deepened, and there was a flash of anger and scorn in her eyes as she turned for an instant upon Enna. Then she replied firmly, though with a slight tremble of indignation in her tones: "I am not ashamed to own that I do find it both a duty and a pleasure to obey my father, whether he be present or absent. I have confidence, too, in both his wisdom and his love for me. He thinks early hours of great importance, especially to those who are young and growing, and therefore he made it a rule that I shall retire to my room and begin my preparations for bed by nine o'clock. But he gave me leave to stay up an hour later to-night, and I intend to do so." "I think you are a very good girl, and feel just right about it," said Carrie. "I wish he had said eleven, I think he might this once," remarked Lucy. "Why, don't you remember he let you stay up till ten Christmas Eve that time we all spent the holidays at Roselands, which was five years ago?" "Yes," said Elsie, "but this is Saturday night, and as to-morrow is the Sabbath, I should not feel it to be right to stay up later, even if I had permission." "Why not? it isn't Sunday till twelve," said Herbert. "No, but I should be apt to oversleep myself, and be dull and drowsy in church next morning." "Quite a saint!" muttered Enna, shrugging her shoulders and marching off to the other side of the room. "Suppose we go and select some flowers for our hair," said Lucy, looking at her watch. "'Twill be tea-time presently, and we'll want to dress directly after." "You always were such a dear good girl," whispered Carrie Howard, putting her arm about Elsie's waist as they left the room. Enna was quite gorgeous that evening, in a bright-colored silk, trimmed with multitudinous flounces and many yards of ribbon and gimp. The young damsel had a decidedly gay taste, and glanced somewhat contemptuously at Elsie's dress of simple white, albeit 'twas of the finest India muslin and trimmed with costly lace. She wore her pearl necklace and bracelets, a broad sash of rich white ribbon; no other ornaments save a half-blown moss rosebud at her bosom, and another amid the glossy ringlets of her hair, their green leaves the only bit of color about her. "You look like a bride," said Herbert, gazing admiringly upon her. "Do I?" she answered smiling, as she turned and tripped lightly away; for Lucy was calling to her from the next room. Herbert's eyes followed her with a wistful, longing look in them, and he sighed sadly to himself as she disappeared from his view. Most of the guests came early; among them, Walter and Arthur Dinsmore; Elsie had not seen the latter since his encounter with Mr. Travilla. He gave her a sullen nod on entering the room, but took no further notice of her. Chit-chat, promenading and the music of the piano and harp were the order of the evening for a time; then games were proposed, and "Consequences," "How do you like it?" and "Genteel lady, always genteel," afforded much amusement. Herbert could join in these, and did with much spirit. But dancing was a favorite pastime with the young people of the neighborhood, and the clock had hardly struck nine when Cadmus and his fiddle were summoned to their aid, chairs and tables were put out of the way, and sets began to form. Elsie was in great request; the young gentlemen flocked about her, with urgent entreaties that she would join in the amusement, each claiming the honor of her hand in one or more sets, but she steadily declined. A glad smile lighted up Herbert's countenance, as he saw one and another turn and walk away with a look of chagrin and disappointment. "Since my misfortune compels me to act the part of a wallflower, I am selfish enough, I own, to rejoice in your decision to be one also," he said gleefully. "Will you take a seat with me on this sofa? I presume your conscience does not forbid you to watch the dancers?" "No, not at all," she answered, accepting his invitation. Elsie's eyes followed with eager interest the swiftly moving forms, but Herbert's were often turned admiringly upon her. At length he asked if she did not find the room rather warm and close, and proposed that they should go out upon the veranda. She gave a willing assent and they passed quietly out and sat down side by side on a rustic seat. The full moon shone upon them from a beautiful blue sky, while a refreshing breeze, fragrant with the odor of flowers and pines, gently fanned their cheeks and played among the rich masses of Elsie's hair. They found a good deal to talk about; they always did, for they were kindred spirits. Their chat was now grave, now gay--generally the latter; for Cad's music was inspiriting; but whatever the theme of their discourse, Herbert's eyes were constantly seeking the face of his companion. "How beautiful you are, Elsie!" he exclaimed at length, in a tone of such earnest sincerity that it made her laugh, the words seemed to rush spontaneously from his lips. "You are always lovely, but to-night especially so." "It's the moonlight, Herbert; there's a sort of witchery about it, that lends beauty to many an object which can boast none of itself." "Ah, but broad daylight never robs you of yours; you always wear it wherever you are, and however dressed. You look like a bride to-night; I wish you were, and that I were the groom." Elsie laughed again, this time more merrily than before. "Ah, what nonsense we are talking--we two children," she said. Then starting to her feet as the clock struck ten--"There, it is my bed-time, and I must bid you good-night, pleasant dreams, and a happy awaking." "Oh, don't go yet!" he cried, but she was already gone, the skirt of her white dress just disappearing through the open hall door. She encountered Mrs. Carrington at the foot of the stairs. "My dear child, you are not leaving us already?" she cried. "Yes, madam; the clock has struck ten." "Why, you are a second Cinderella." "I hope not," replied Elsie, laughing. "See, my dress has not changed in the least, but is quite as fresh and nice as ever." "Ah, true enough! there the resemblance fails entirely. But, my dear child, the refreshments are just coming in, and you must have your share. I had ordered them an hour earlier, but the servants were slow and dilatory, and then the dancing began. Come, can you not wait long enough to partake with us? Surely, ten o'clock is not late." "No, madam; not for another night of the week, but to-morrow's the Sabbath, you know, and if I should stay up late to-night I would be likely to find myself unfitted for its duties. Besides, papa bade me retire at this hour; and he does not approve of my eating at night; he thinks it is apt to cause dyspepsia." "Ah, that is too bad! Well, I shall see that something is set away for you, and hope you will enjoy it to-morrow. Good-night, dear; I must hurry away now to see the rest of my guests, and will not detain you longer," she added, drawing the fair girl toward her and kissing her affectionately, then hastening away to the supper-room. Elsie tripped up the stairs and entered her room. A lamp burned low on the toilet table, she went to it, turned up the wick, and as she did so a slight noise on the veranda without startled her. The windows reached to the floor and were wide open. "Who's there?" she asked. "I," was answered, in a rough, surly tone, and Arthur stepped in. "Is it you?" she asked in surprise and indignation. "Why do you come here? it is not fit you should, especially at this hour." "It is not fit you should set yourself up to reprove and instruct your uncle, I've come for that money you are going to lend me." "I am not going to lend you any money." "Give it then; that will be all the better for my pocket. "I have none to give you either, Arthur; papa has positively forbidden me to supply you with money." "How much have you here?" "That is a question you have no right to ask." "Well, I know you are never without a pretty good supply of the needful, and I'm needy. So hand it over without any more ado; otherwise I shall be very apt to help myself." "No, you will not," she said, with dignity. "If you attempt to rob me, I shall call for assistance." "And disgrace the family by giving the tattlers a precious bit of scandal to retail in regard to us." "If you care for the family credit you will go away at once and leave me in peace." "I will, eh? I'll go when I get what I came for, and not before." Elsie moved toward the bell rope, but anticipating her intention, he stepped before it, saying with a jeering laugh, "No, you don't!" "Arthur," she said, drawing herself up, and speaking with great firmness and dignity, "leave this room; I wish to be alone." "Hoity-toity, Miss Dinsmore! do you suppose I'm to be ordered about by you? No, indeed! And I've an old score to pay off. One of these days I'll be revenged on you and old Travilla, too; nobody shall insult and abuse me with impunity. Now hand over that cash!" "Leave this room!" she repeated. "None of your ---- impudence!" he cried fiercely, catching her by the arm with a grasp that wrung from her a low, half-smothered cry of pain. But footsteps and voices were heard on the stairs, and he hastily withdrew by the window through which he had entered. Elsie pulled up her sleeve and looked at her arm. Each finger of Arthur's hand had left its mark. "Oh, how angry papa would be!" she murmured to herself, hastily drawing down her sleeve again as the door opened and Chloe came in, followed by another servant bearing a small silver waiter loaded with dainties. "Missus tole me fetch 'em up with her compliments, an' hopes de young lady'll try to eat some," she said, setting it down on a table. "Mrs. Carrington is very kind. Please return her my thanks, Minerva," said Elsie, making a strong effort to steady her voice. The girl, taken up with the excitement of what was going on downstairs, failed to notice the slight tremble in its tones. But not so with Chloe. As the other hurried from the room, she took her nursling in her arms, and gazing into the sweet face with earnest, loving scrutiny; asked, "What de matter, darlin'? what hab resturbed you so, honey?" "You mustn't leave me alone, to-night, mammy," Elsie whispered, clinging to her, and half hiding her face on her breast. "Don't go out of the room at all, unless it is to step on the veranda." Chloe was much surprised, for Elsie had never been cowardly. "'Deed I won't, darling" she answered, caressing the shining hair, and softly rounded cheek. "But what my bressed chile 'fraid of?" "Mr. Arthur, mammy," Elsie answered scarcely above her breath. "He was in here a moment since, and if I were alone again he might come back." "An' what Marse Arthur doin' yer dis time ob night, I like ter know?--what he want frightenin' my chile like dis?" "Money, mammy, and papa has forbidden me to let him have any, because he makes a bad use of it." Elsie knew to whom she spoke. Chloe was no ordinary servant, and could be trusted. "Dear, dear, it's drefful that Marse Arthur takes to dem bad ways! But don't go for to fret, honey; we'll 'gree together to ask de Lord to turn him to de right." "Yes, mammy, you must help me to pray for him. But now I must get ready for bed; I have stayed up longer than papa said I might." "Won't you take some of de 'freshments fust, honey?" Elsie shook her head. "Eat what you want of them, mammy. I know I am better without." CHAPTER IX. There's not a look, a word of thine My soul hath e'er forgot; Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine, Nor given thy locks one graceful twine, Which I remember not. --MOORE. The clock on the stairway was just striking nine, as some one tapped lightly on the door of Elsie's room, leading into the hall. Chloe rose and opened it. "Dat you, Scip?" "Yes, Aunt Chloe; de missis say breakop's is ready, an' will Miss Dinsmore please for to come if she's ready. We don't ring de bell fear wakin' up de odder young ladies an' gemmen." Elsie had been up and dressed for the last hour, which she had spent in reading her Bible; a book not less dear and beautiful in her esteem now than it was in the days of her childhood. She rose and followed Scip to the dining-room, where she found the older members of the family already assembled, and about to sit down to the table. "Ah, my dear, good-morning," said Mrs. Carrington; "I was sure you would be up and dressed: but the others were so late getting to bed that I mean they shall be allowed to sleep as long as they will. Ah! and here comes Herbert, too. We have quite a party after all." "I should think you would need a long nap this morning more than any one else," Elsie said, addressing Herbert. "No," he answered, coloring. "I took advantage of my semi-invalidism, and retired very shortly after you left us." "You must not think it is usual for us to be quite so late on Sunday morning, Elsie," observed Mr. Carrington as he sent her her plate, "though I'm afraid we are hardly as early risers, even on ordinary occasions, as you are at the Oaks. I don't think it's a good plan to have Saturday-night parties," he added, looking across the table at his wife. "No," she said lightly; "but we must blame it all on the birthday, for coming when it did. And though we are late, we shall still be in time to get to church. Elsie, will you go with us?" "In the carriage with mother and me?" added Herbert. Elsie, had she consulted her own inclination merely, would have greatly preferred to ride her pony, but seeing the eager look in Herbert's eyes, she answered smilingly that she should accept the invitation with pleasure, if there was a seat in the carriage which no one else cared to occupy. "There will be plenty of room, my dear," said Mr. Carrington; "father and mother always go by themselves, driving an ancient mare we call old Bess, who is so very quiet and slow that no one else can bear to ride behind her; and the boys and I either walk or ride our horses." It was time to set out almost immediately upon leaving the table. They had a quiet drive through beautiful pine woods, heard an excellent gospel sermon, and returned by another and equally beautiful route. Elsie's mind was full of the truth to which she had been listening, and she had very little to say. Mrs. Carrington and Herbert, too, were unusually silent; the latter feeling it enjoyment enough just to sit by Elsie's side. He had known and loved her from their very early childhood; with a love that had grown and strengthened year by year. "You seem much fatigued, Herbert," his mother said to him, as a servant assisted him from the carriage, and up the steps of the veranda. "I am almost sorry you went." "Oh, no, mother, I'm not at all sorry," he answered cheerfully; "I shall have to spend the rest of the day on my couch, but that sermon was enough to repay me for the exertion it cost me to go to hear it." Then he added in an undertone to Elsie, who stood near, looking at him with pitying eyes, "I shan't mind having to lie still if you will give me your company for even a part of the time." "Certainly you shall have it, if it will be any comfort to you," she answered, with her own sweet smile. "You must not be too exacting towards Elsie, my son," said his mother, shaking up his pillows for him, and settling him comfortably on them; "she is always so ready to sacrifice herself for others that she would not, I fear, refuse such a request, however much it might cost her to grant it. And no doubt she will want to be with the other girls." "Yes, it was just like my selfishness to ask it, Elsie, and never think how distasteful it might be to you. I take it all back," he said, blushing, but with a wistful look in his eyes that she could never have withstood, had she wished to do so. "It's too late for that, since I have already accepted," she said with an arch look as she turned away. "But don't worry yourself about me; I shall follow my own inclination in regard to the length of my visit, making it very short if I find your society irksome or disagreeable." The other girls were promenading on the upper veranda in full dinner dress. Carrie hailed Elsie in a lively tone. "So you've been to church, like a good Christian, leaving us three lazy sinners taking our ease at home. We took our breakfasts in bed, and have only just finished our toilets." "Well, and why shouldn't we?" said Enna; "we don't profess to be saints." "No, I just said we were sinners. But don't think too ill of us, Elsie, it was so late--or rather early--well on into the small hours--when we retired, that a long morning nap became a necessity." "I don't pretend to judge you, Carrie," Elsie answered gently, "it is not for me to do so; and I acknowledge that though I retired much earlier than you, I slept a full hour past my usual time for rising." "You'll surely have to do penance for that," sneered Enna. "No, she shan't," said Lucy, putting her arm around her friend's slender waist. "Come, promenade with me till the dinner-bell rings, the exercise will do you good." The lively chat of the girls seemed to our heroine so unsuited to the sacredness of the day that she rejoiced in the excuse Herbert's invitation gave her for withdrawing herself from their society for the greater part of the afternoon. She found him alone, lying on his sofa, apparently asleep; but at the sound of her light footstep he opened his eyes and looked up with a joyous smile. "I'm so glad to see you! how good of you to come!" he cried delightedly. "It's abominably selfish of me, though. Don't let me keep you from having a good time with the rest." "The Sabbath is hardly the day for what people usually mean by a good time, is it?" she said, taking possession of a low rocking-chair that stood by the side of his couch. "No, but it is the day of days for real good, happy times; everything is so quiet and still that it is easier than on other days to lift one's thoughts to God and Heaven. Oh, Elsie, I owe you a great debt of gratitude, that I can never repay." "For what, Herbert?" "Ah, don't you know it was you who first taught me the sweetness of carrying all my trials and troubles to Jesus? Years ago, when we were very little children, you told me what comfort and happiness you found in so doing, and begged me to try it for myself." "And you did?" "Yes, and have continued to do so ever since." "And that is what enables you to be so patient and uncomplaining." "If I am. But ah! you don't know the dreadfully rebellious feelings that sometimes will take possession of me, especially when, after the disease has seemed almost eradicated from my system, it suddenly returns to make me as helpless and full of pain as ever. Nobody knows how hard it is to endure it; how weary I grow of life; how unendurably heavy my burden seems." "Yes, He knows," she murmured softly. "In all their afflictions He was afflicted; and the angel of His presence saved them." "Yes, He is touched with the feeling of our infirmities. Oh, how sweet and comforting it is!" They were silent for a moment; then turning to her, he asked, "Are you ever afraid that your troubles and cares are too trifling for His notice? that you will weary and disgust Him with your continual coming?" "I asked papa about that once, and I shall never forget the tender, loving look he gave me as he said: 'Daughter, do I ever seem to feel that anything which affects your comfort or happiness one way or the other, is too trifling to interest and concern me?' 'Oh, no, no, papa,' I said; 'you have often told me you would be glad to know that I had not a thought or feeling concealed from you; and you always seem to like to have me come to you with every little thing that makes me either glad or sorry.' 'I am, my darling,' he answered, 'just because you are so very near and dear to me; and what does the Bible tell us? "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him!"'" "Yes," said Herbert, musingly. "Then that text somewhere in Isaiah about His love being greater than a mother's for her little helpless babe." "And what Jesus said: 'Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and not one of them shall fall to the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.' And then the command: 'In everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.' Papa reminded me, too, of God's infinite wisdom and power, of the great worlds, countless in number, that He keeps in motion--the sun and planets of many solar systems besides our own--and then the myriads upon myriads of tiny insects that crowd earth, air, and water; God's care and providence ever over them all. Oh, one does not know how to take it in! one cannot realize the half of it. God does not know the distinctions that we do between great and small, and it costs Him no effort to attend at one and the same time, to all His creatures and all their affairs." "No, that is true. Oh, how great and how good He is! and how sweet to know of His goodness and love; to feel that he hears and answers prayer! I would not give that up for perfect health and vigor, and all the wealth of the world beside." "I think I would give up everything else first; and oh, I am so glad for you, Herbert," she said softly. Then they opened their Bibles and read several chapters together, verse about, pausing now and then to compare notes, as to their understanding of the exact meaning of some particular passage, or to look out a reference, or consult a commentary. "I'm excessively tired of the house; do let's take a walk," said Enna, as they stood or sat about the veranda after tea. "Do you second the motion, Miss Howard?" asked Harry. "Yes," she said, rising and taking his offered arm. "Elsie, you'll go too?" "Oh, there's no use in asking her!" cried Enna. "She is much too good to do anything pleasant on Sunday." "Indeed! I was not aware of that." And Harry shrugged his shoulders, and threw a comical look at Elsie. "What is your objection to pleasant things, Miss Dinsmore? To be quite consistent you should object to yourself." Elsie smiled. "Enna must excuse me for saying that she makes a slight mistake; for while it is true my conscience would not permit me to go pleasuring on the Sabbath, yet it does not object to many things that I find very pleasant." "Such as saying your prayers, reading the Bible, and going to church?" "Yes. Enna; those are real pleasures to me." "But to come to the point, will you walk with us?" asked Lucy. "Thank you, no; not to-night. But please don't mind me. I have no right, and don't presume to decide such questions for anyone but myself." "Then, if you'll excuse us, we'll leave mamma and Herbert to entertain you for a short time." The short time proved to be two hours or more, and long before the return of the little party, Mrs. Carrington went into the house, leaving the two on the veranda alone. They sang hymns together for a while, then fell to silent musing. Herbert was the first to speak. He still lay upon his sofa; Elsie sitting near, her face at that moment upturned to the sky, where the full moon was shining, and looking wondrous sweet and fair in the soft silvery light. Her thoughts seemed far away, and she started and turned quickly toward him as he softly breathed her name. "Oh, Elsie, this has been such a happy day to me! What joy, what bliss, if we could be always together!" "If you were only my brother! I wish you were, Herbert." "No, no, I do not; for I would be something much nearer and dearer. Oh, Elsie, if you only would!" he went on, speaking very fast and excitedly. "You thought I was joking last night, but I was not, I was in earnest; never more so in my life. Oh, do you think you could like me, Elsie?" "Why, yes, Herbert; I do, and always have ever since we first became acquainted." "No, I didn't mean like, I meant love. Elsie, could you love me--love me well enough to marry me?" "Why, Herbert; what an idea!" she stammered, her face flushing visibly in the moonlight. "You don't know how you surprise me; surely we are both too young to be thinking of such things. Papa says I am not even to consider myself a young lady for three or four years yet. I'm nothing but a child. And you, Herbert, are not much older." "Six months; but that's quite enough difference. And your father needn't object on the score of our youth. You are as old now as I've been told your mother was when he married her, and another year will make me as old as he was. And your Aunts Louisa and Lora were both engaged before they were sixteen. It's not at all uncommon for girls in this part of the country to marry before they are that old. But I know I'm not half good enough for you, Elsie. A king might be proud to win you for his bride, and I'm only a poor, good-for-nothing cripple, not worth anybody's acceptance." And he turned away his face, with something that sounded very like a sob. Elsie's kind heart was touched. "No, Herbert, you must not talk so. You are a dear, good, noble fellow, worthy of any lady in the land," she said, half playfully, half tenderly and laying her little soft white hand over his mouth. He caught it in his and pressed it passionately to his lips, there holding it fast. "Oh, Elsie, if it were only mine to keep!" he cried, "I'd be the happiest fellow in the world." She looked at his pale, thin face, worn with suffering, into his eyes so full of passionate entreaty; thought what a dear lovable fellow he had always been, and forgot herself entirely--forgot everything but the desire to relieve and comfort him, and make him happy. "Only tell me that you care for me, darling, and that you are willing some day to belong to me! only give me a little hope; I shall die if you don't!" "I do care for you, Herbert; I would do anything in my power to make you happy." "Then I may call you my own! Oh, darling, God bless you for your goodness!" But the clock was striking nine, and with the sound, a sudden recollection came to Elsie. "It is my bed-time, and--and, Herbert, it will all have to be just as papa says. I belong to him, and cannot give myself away without his permission. Good-night." She hastily withdrew the hand he still held, and was gone ere he had time to reply. "What had she done--something of which papa would highly disapprove? Would he be very much vexed with her?" Elsie asked herself half-tremblingly, as she sat passively under her old mammy's hands; for her father's displeasure was the one thing she dreaded above all others. She was just ready for bed when a light tap on the door was followed by the entrance of Mrs. Carrington. "I wish to see your young mistress alone for a few moments, Aunt Chloe," she said, and the faithful creature went from the room at once. Mrs. Carrington threw her arms around Elsie, folded her in close, loving embrace, and kissed her fondly again and again, "My dear child, how happy you have made me!" she whispered at last. "Herbert has told me all. Dear boy, he could not keep such good news from his mother. I know of nothing that could have brought me deeper joy and thankfulness, for I have always had a mother's love for you." Elsie felt bewildered, almost stunned. "I--I'm afraid you--he has misunderstood me; it--it must be as papa says," she stammered; "I cannot decide it for myself, I have no right." "Certainly, my dear, that is all very right, very proper; parents should always be consulted in these matters. But your papa loves you too well to raise any objection when he sees that your heart is interested. And Herbert is worthy of you, though his mother says it; he is a noble, true-hearted fellow, well-educated, handsome, talented, polished in manners, indeed all that anybody could ask, if he were but well; and we do not despair of seeing him eventually quite restored to health. But I am keeping you up, and I know that your papa is very strict and particular about your observance of his rules; so good-night." And, with another caress, she left her. Thought was very busy in Elsie's brain as she laid her head upon her pillow. It was delightful to have given such joy and happiness to Herbert and his mother. Lucy, too, she felt sure would be very glad to learn that they were to be sisters. But her own papa, how would he feel--what would he say? Only the other day he had reminded her how entirely she belonged to him--that no other had the slightest claim upon her, and as he spoke, the clasp of his arms seemed to say that he would defy the whole world to take her from him. No, he would never give her up; and somehow she was not at all miserable at the thought; but on the contrary it sent a thrill of joy to her heart; it was so sweet to be so loved and cherished by him, "her own dear, dear papa!" But then another thing came to her remembrance; his pity for poor suffering Herbert; his expressed willingness to do anything he could to make him happy--and again she doubted whether he would accept or reject the boy's suit for her hand. Carrie and Enna were to leave at an early hour on Monday morning. They came into Elsie's room for a parting chat while waiting for the ringing of the breakfast bell; so the three went down together to answer its summons, and thus she was spared the necessity of entering the dining room alone--an ordeal she had really dreaded; a strange and painful shyness toward the whole family at Ashlands having suddenly come over her. She managed to conceal it pretty well, but carefully avoided meeting Herbert's eye, or those of his parents. The girls left directly on the conclusion of the meal, and having seen them off, Elsie slipped away to her own room. But Lucy followed her almost immediately, fairly wild with delight at the news Herbert had just been giving her. "Oh, you darling!" she cried, hugging her friend with all her might. "I never was so glad in all my life! To think that I'm to have you for a sister! I could just eat you up!" "I hope you won't," said Elsie, laughing and blushing, as she returned the embrace as heartily as it was given. "But we must not be too sure; I'm not at all certain of papa's consent." "No, I just expect he'll object to Herbie on account of his lameness, and his ill health. I don't think we ought to blame him if he does either." And Lucy suddenly sobered down to more than her ordinary gravity. "Ah, I forgot," she said, a moment after; "Herbert begs that you will come down and let him talk with you a little if you are not particularly engaged." Elsie answering that she had nothing to do, her time was quite at his disposal, the two tripped downstairs, each with an arm about the other's waist, as they had done so often in the days of their childhood. They found Herbert on the veranda, not lying down, but seated on his sofa. "You are better this morning?" Elsie said with a glad look up into his face, as he rose, leaning on his crutch, and gave her the other hand. "Yes, thank you, much better. Joy has proved so great a cordial that I begin to hope it may work a complete cure." He drew her to a seat by his side, and Lucy considerately went away and left them alone. "You have not changed your mind, Elsie?" His tone was low and half tremulous in its eagerness. "No, Herbert; but it all rests with papa, you know." "I hardly dare ask him for you, it seems like such presumption in a--a cripple like me." "Don't say that, Herbert. Would you love me less if I should become lame or ill?" "No, no, never! but I couldn't bear to have any such calamity come upon you. I can hardly bear that you should have a lame husband. The thought of it makes my trial harder to bear than ever." "It is God's will, and we must not fight against it," she said softly. They conversed for some time longer. He was very anxious to gain Mr. Dinsmore's consent to their engagement, yet shrank from asking it, fearing an indignant refusal; most of all, he dreaded a personal interview; and, but ill able to take the ride to the Oaks, it was finally decided between them that he should make his application by letter, doing so at once. A servant was summoned to bring him his writing materials, and Elsie left him to his trying task, while she and Lucy and Harry mounted their horses and were away for a brisk, delightful ride through the woods and over the hills. "It's gone, Elsie," Herbert whispered, when she came down dressed for dinner. "I wrote it twice; it didn't suit me then, but my strength was quite exhausted, so it had to go. I hope the answer will come soon, but oh, I shall be almost afraid to open it." "Don't feel so; papa is very good and kind. He pities you so much, too," and she repeated what he had said about being willing to do anything he could for him. Herbert's face grew bright with hope as he listened. "And do you think he'll answer at once?" he asked. "Yes, papa is always very prompt and decided; never keeps one long in suspense." Mr. Carrington met our heroine at the dinner-table with such a bright, glad smile, and treated her in so kind and fatherly a manner that she felt sure he knew all, and was much pleased with the prospect before them. But she was afraid Harry did not like it--did not want her for a sister. He was usually very gay and talkative, full of fun and frolic. He had been so during their ride, but now his manner seemed strangely altered; he was moody and taciturn, almost cross. CHAPTER X. Keen are the pangs Of hapless love and passion unapproved. --SMOLLETT'S "REGICIDE" Hardly anything could have been more distasteful to Horace Dinsmore than the state of affairs revealed to him by Herbert Carrington's note. He was greatly vexed, not at the lad's manner of preferring his request, but that it should have been made at all. He was not ready, yet to listen to such a proposal coming from any person, however eligible, much less from one so sadly afflicted as poor Herbert. He sought his wife's presence with the missive in his hand. "What is the matter, my dear?" she asked; "I have seldom seen you so disturbed." "The most absurd nonsense! the most ridiculously provoking affair! Herbert Carrington asking me to give him my daughter! I don't wonder at your astonished look, Rose; a couple of silly children. I should have given either of them credit for more sense." "It has certainly taken me very much by surprise," said Rose, smiling. "I cannot realize that Elsie is grown up enough to be beginning with such things; yet you know she has passed her fifteenth birthday, and that half the girls about here become engaged before they are sixteen." "But Elsie shall not. I'll have no nonsense of the kind for years to come. She shall not marry a day before she is twenty-one, I had nearly said twenty-five; and I don't think I'll allow it before then." Rose laughed. "My dear, do you know what my age was when you married me?" "Twenty-one, you told me." "Don't you think my father ought then to have kept us waiting four years longer?" "No," he answered, stooping to stroke her hair, and snatch a kiss from her rich red lips. She looked up smilingly into his face. "Ah, consistency is a jewel! and pray how old were you when you married the first time? and what was then the age of Elsie's mother?" "Your arguments are not unanswerable, Mrs. Dinsmore. Your father could spare you, having several other daughters; I have but one, and can't spare her. Elsie's mother was not older when I married her, it is true, than Elsie is now, but was much more mature, and had neither the happy home nor the doting father her daughter has. And as for myself, though much too young to marry, I was a year older than this Herbert Carrington; and I was in sound and vigorous health, while he, poor fellow, is sadly crippled, and likely always to be an invalid, and very unlikely to live to so much as see his majority. Do you think I ought for a moment to contemplate allowing Elsie to sacrifice herself to him?" "It would seem a terrible sacrifice; and yet after all it will depend very much upon the state of her own feelings." "If she were five or six years older, I should say yes to that; but girls of her age are not fit to choose a companion for life; taste and judgment are not matured, and the man who pleases them now may be utterly repugnant to them in after years. Is not that so?" "Yes; and I think your decision is wise and kind. Still, I am sorry for the poor boy, and hope you will deal very gently and kindly with him." "I shall certainly try to do so. I pity him, and cannot blame him for fancying my lovely daughter--I really don't see how he or any young fellow can help it, but he can't have her, and of course I must tell him so. I must see Elsie first however, and have already sent her a note ordering her home immediately." "Come into my room for a little, dear," Mrs. Norris whispered to Elsie as they rose from the dinner table. "Herbert must not expect to monopolize all your time." It turned out that all the old lady wanted was an opportunity to express her delight in the prospect of some day claiming Elsie as her granddaughter, and to pet and fondle her a little. Mr. Norris did his share of that also, and when at length they let her go she encountered Mr. Carrington in the hall, and had to submit to some thing more of the same sort from him. "We are all heartily rejoiced, little Elsie," he said, "all of us who know the secret; it is to be kept from the children, of course, till your father's consent has made all certain. But there is Lucy looking for you; Herbert has sent her, I daresay. No doubt he grudges every moment that you are out of his sight." That was true, and his glad look, as she took her accustomed place by the side of his couch, was pleasant to see. But he was not selfish in his happiness, and seemed well satisfied to share Elsie's society with his sister. The three were making very merry together, when a servant from the Oaks was seen riding leisurely up the avenue. He had some small white object in his hand which he began waving about his head the moment he saw that he had attracted their attention. "It's a letter!" exclaimed Lucy. "Han, Scip," to the two little blacks who, as usual, were tumbling over each other on the grass near by, "run, one of you and get it, quick now!" "What--who--Miss Lucy?" they cried, jumping up. "Yonder; don't you see Mr. Dinsmore's man with a letter? Run and get it, quick!" "Yes'm!" and both scampered off in the direction of the horseman, who, suddenly urging on his steed, was now rapidly nearing the house. "Hollo! dar now, you ole Jim!" shouted Scip, making a dash at the horse, "who dat lettah fur? You gub um to me." A contemptuous sniff was the only answer, and dashing by them, Jim drew rein close to the veranda. "Massa he send dis for you, Miss Elsie," he said, holding out the letter to her. She sprang forward, took it from his hand and hastily tore open the envelope, the rich color coming and going in her cheek. A glance was sufficient, and turning her flushed face to the anxious, expectant Herbert: "Papa has sent for me to return home immediately," she said; "I must go." "Oh, Elsie, must you indeed? and is there no word for me--none at all?" "Yes, he says you shall hear from him to-day or to-morrow." She had gone close to him and was speaking in a low tone that the servants might not hear. Herbert took both her hands in his. "Oh, I am so sorry! You were to have stayed two days longer. I fear this sudden recall does not argue well for me. Is he angry, do you think?" "I don't know, I can't tell. The note is simply an order for me to come home at once and the message to you that I have given; nothing more at all. Jim is to see me safely to the Oaks." Then turning to the messenger, "Go and saddle Glossy, and bring her round at once, Jim," she said. "Yes, Miss Elsie, hab her roun' in less dan no time." "Go with Jim to the stables, Han," said Herbert, sighing as he spoke. "Elsie, I can't bear to have you leave us so suddenly," cried Lucy; "it does seem too bad of your father, after giving you permission to stay a whole week, to go and dock off two days." "But papa has a right, and I can't complain. I've nothing to do but obey. I'll go up and have my riding-habit put on, while Glossy is being saddled." "Miss Elsie," said Jim, leisurely dismounting, "massa say de wagon be here in 'bout an hour for de trunk, an' Aunt Chloe mus' hab 'em ready by dat time; herself too." "Very well, she shall do so," and with another whispered word to Herbert, Elsie went into the house, Lucy going with her. "Why, my dear, this is very sudden, is it not?" exclaimed Mrs. Carrington, meeting her young guest as she came down dressed for her ride. "I thought you were to stay a week, and hoped you were enjoying your visit as much as we were." "Thank you, dear Mrs. Carrington; I have had a delightful time, but papa has sent for me." "And like a good child, you obey at once." "My father's daughter would never dare to do otherwise," replied Elsie, smiling; "though I hope I should not, if I did dare." "You'll come again soon--often, till I can get strength to go to you?" Herbert said entreatingly, as he held her hand in parting. "And we'll correspond, won't we? I should like to write and receive a note every day when we do not meet." "I don't know; I can promise nothing till I have asked permission of papa." "But if he allows it?" "If he allows it, yes; good-bye." Dearly as Elsie loved her father, she more than half dreaded the meeting with him now; so entirely uncertain was she how he would feel in regard to this matter. He was on the veranda, watching for her. Lifting her from her horse, he led her into his study. Then putting an arm about her waist, his other hand under her chin so that her blushing, downcast face was fully exposed to his gaze, "What does all this mean?" he asked. "Look up into my face and tell me if it is really true that you want me to give you away? if it is possible that you love that boy better than your father?" She lifted her eyes as he bade her, but dropped them again instantly; then as he finished his sentence, "Oh, no, no, papa! not half so well; how could you think it?" she cried, throwing her arms about his neck, and hiding her face on his breast. "Ah, is that so?" he said, with a low, gleeful laugh, as he held her close to his heart. "But he says you accepted him on condition that papa would give consent, that you owned you cared for him." "And so I do, papa; I've always loved him as if he were my brother; and I'm so sorry for all he suffers, that I would do anything I could to make him happy." "Even to sacrificing yourself? It is well indeed for you that you have a father to take care of you." "Are you going to say 'No' to him, papa?" she asked, looking up half beseechingly. "Indeed I am." "Ah, papa, he said it would kill him if you did." "I don't believe it; people don't die so easily. And I have several reasons for my refusal, each one of which would be quite sufficient of itself. But you just acknowledged to me that you don't love him at all as you ought. Why, my child, when you meet the right person you will find that your love for him is far greater than what you feel for me." "Papa, I don't think that could be possible," she said, clinging closer to him than before. "But you'll be convinced when the time comes, though I hope that will not be for many a long year yet. Then Herbert's ill health and lameness are two insuperable objections. Lastly, you are both entirely too young to be thinking of such matters." "He didn't mean to ask you to give me to him now, papa; not for a year or two at the very least." "But I won't have you engaging yourself while you are such a mere child. I don't approve of long engagements, or intend to let you marry for six or seven years to come. So you may as well dismiss all thoughts on the subject; and if any other boy or man attempts to talk to you as Herbert has, just tell him that your father utterly forbids you to listen to anything of the kind. What! crying! I hope these are not rebellious tears?" "No, papa; please don't be angry. It is only that I feel so sorry for poor Herbert; he suffers so, and is so patient and good." "I am sorry for him too, but it cannot be helped. I must take care of you first, and not allow anything which I think will interfere with your happiness or well being." "Papa, he wants to correspond with me." "I shall not allow it." "May we see each other often?" "No; not at all for some time. He must get over this foolish fancy first, it cannot be anything more; and there is great danger that he will not unless you are kept entirely apart." Elsie sighed softly, but said not a word. There was no appeal from her father's decisions, no argument or entreaty allowed after they were once announced. Little feet were heard running down the hall; then there was the sound of a tiny fist thumping on the door, and the voice of little Horace calling, "Elsie, Elsie, tum out! me wants to see you!" "There, you may go now," her father said, releasing her with a kiss, "and leave me to write that note. Well, what is it?" for she lingered, looking up wistfully into his face. "Dear papa, be kind to him for my sake," she murmured softly, putting her arm about his neck again. "He is such a sufferer, so patient and good, and it quite makes my heart ache to think how grievously your refusal will pain him." "My own sweet child! always unselfish, always concerned for the happiness of others," thought the father as he looked down into the pleading face; but he only stroked her hair, and kissed her more tenderly than before, saying, "I shall try to be as kind as circumstances will allow, daughter. You shall read the letter when it is done, and if you think it is not kind enough it shall not be sent." She thanked him with a very grateful look, then hurried away, for the tiny fists were redoubling their blows upon the door, while the baby voice called more and more clamorously for "sister Elsie." She stooped to hug and kiss the little fellow, then was led off in triumph to "mamma," whose greeting, though less noisy, was quite as joyous and affectionate. "Oh, how nice it is to get home!" cried Elsie, and wondered within herself how she had been contented to stay away so long. She had hardly finished giving Rose an animated account of her visit, including a minute description of the birthday party, when her father's voice summoned her to the study again. "Does it satisfy you?" he asked when she had read the note. "Yes, papa; I think it is as kind as a refusal could possibly be made." "Then I shall send it at once. And now this settles the matter, and I bid you put the whole affair out of your mind as completely as possible, Elsie." "I shall try, papa," she answered in a submissive and even cheerful tone. That note, kindly worded though it was, caused great distress to Herbert Carrington. He passed an almost sleepless night, and the next morning, finding himself quite unable to rise from his couch, he sent an urgent entreaty that Mr. Dinsmore would call at Ashlands at his earliest convenience. His request was granted at once, and the lad pleaded with all the eloquence of which he was master for a more favorable reception of his suit. Had he been as well acquainted with Horace Dinsmore's character as Elsie was, he would have known the utter uselessness of such a proceeding. He received a patient hearing, then a firm, though kind denial. Elsie was entirely too young to be allowed even to think of love or matrimony, her father said; he was extremely sorry the subject had been broached to her; it must not be again for years. He would not permit any engagement, correspondence, or, for the present at least, any exchange of visits; because he wished the matter to be dropped entirely, and, if possible, forgotten. Nor would he hold out the slightest hope for the future; answering Herbert's petition for that by a gentle hint that one in his ill health should be content to remain single. "Yes, you are right, Mr. Dinsmore, and I don't blame you for refusing to give me your lovely daughter; I'm entirely unworthy of such a treasure," said the poor boy in a broken voice. "Not in character, my dear boy," said Mr. Dinsmore, almost tenderly; "in that you are all I could ask or desire, and it is all that you are responsible for. And now while she is such a mere child, I should reject any other suitor for her hand, quite as decidedly as I do you." "You don't blame me for loving her?" "No; oh, no!" "I can't help it. I've loved her ever since I first saw her, and that was before I was five years old." "Well, I don't object to a brotherly affection, and when you can tone it down to that, shall not forbid occasional intercourse. And now, with the best wishes for your health and happiness, I must bid you good-bye." "Good-bye, sir; and thank you for your kindness in coming," the boy answered with a quivering lip. Then, turning to his mother, as Mr. Dinsmore left the room, "I shall never get over it," he said. "I shall not live long, and I don't want to; life without her isn't worth having." Her heart ached for him, but she answered cheerily: "Why, my dear child, don't be so despondent; I think you may take hope and courage from some things that Mr. Dinsmore said. It is quite in your favor that he will not allow Elsie to receive proposals from any one at present, for who knows but, by the time he considers her old enough, you may be well and strong." Mrs. Carrington's words had a very different effect from what she intended. The next time Herbert saw his physician, he insisted so strongly on knowing exactly what he might look forward to that there was no evading the demand; and on learning that he was hopelessly crippled for life, he sank into a state of utter despondency, and from that moment grew rapidly worse, failing visibly day by day. Elsie, dutifully abstaining from holding any communication with Ashlands, and giving all her thoughts as far as possible to home duties and pleasures knew nothing of it till one day Enna came in, asking, "Have you heard the news?" "No," said Elsie, pausing in a game of romps with her little brother; "what is it?" "It! You should rather say they. There's more than one item of importance." And Enna straightened herself and smoothed out her dress with a very consequential air. "In the first place Arthur has been found out in his evil courses; he's been betting and gambling till he's got himself over head and ears in debt. Papa was so angry, I almost thought he would kill him. But he seemed to cool down after he'd paid off the debts; and Arthur is, or pretends to be, very penitent, promises never to do the like again, and so he's got forgiven, and he and Walter are to start for college early next week. They've both gone to the city to-day with papa. Arthur seems to be mad at you; he says that you could have saved him from being found out, but didn't choose to, and some day he'll have his revenge. Now, what was it you did, or didn't do?" "He wanted money, and I refused to lend it because papa had forbidden me." "You're good at minding, and always were," was Enna's sneering comment. "No, I'll take that back; I forgot that time when you nearly died rather than mind." An indignant flush suffused Elsie's fair face for an instant; but the sneer was borne in utter silence. Rose entered the room at that moment, and, having returned her greeting, Enna proceeded to give another important bit of news. "Herbert Carrington is very ill; not confined to his bed, but failing very fast. The doctors advised them to take him from home; because they said they thought he had something on his mind, and taking him into new scenes might help him to forget it. They think he's not likely to live long anyhow, but that is the last hope. His mother and Lucy started North with him this morning." Elsie suddenly dropped the ball she was tossing for Horace and ran out of the room. "Why, what did she do that for?" asked Enna, in a tone of surprise, turning to Rose for an explanation. "Is she in love with him, do you suppose?" "No, I know she is not; but I think she has a strong sisterly regard for him, and I am sorry the news of his increased illness was told her so abruptly." "Such a baby, as she always was," muttered Enna, "crying her eyes out about the least little thing." "If she lacks sufficient control over her feelings it is almost the only fault she has," replied Rose warmly. "And I think, Enna, you are hardly capable of appreciating her delicately sensitive nature, and warm, loving heart, else you would not wound her as you do. She certainly controls her temper well, and puts up with more from you than I should." "Pray, what do you mean, Mrs. Dinsmore? what have I done to your pet?" asked the young lady angrily. "She is older than you, yet you treat her as if she were much younger. Your manner toward her is often very contemptuous, and I have frequently heard you sneer at her principles and taunt her with her willing subjection to her father's strict rule; for which she deserves nothing but the highest praise." "Nobody could ever rule me the way Horace does her!" cried Enna, with a toss of her head. "And as to her being older than I am, I'm sure no one would think it; she is so absurdly childish in her way; not half so mature as I, mamma says." "I'm glad and thankful that she is not," answered Rose, with spirit; "her sweet childish simplicity and perfect naturalness are very charming in these days, when they are so rarely found in a girl who has entered her teens." Little Horace, standing by the window, uttered a joyous shout, "Oh, papa tumin'!" and rushed from the room to return the next moment clinging to his father's hand, announcing as they came in together, "Here papa is; me found him!" Mr. Dinsmore shook hands with his sister, addressed a remark to his wife, then, glancing about the room, asked, "Where is Elsie?" "She left us a moment since, but did not say where she was going," said Rose. "I presume you'll find her crying in her boudoir or dressing room," added Enna. "Crying! Why, what is wrong with her?" "Nothing that I know of, except that I told her of Herbert Carrington's being so much worse that they've taken him North as a last hope." "Is that so?" and Mr. Dinsmore looked much concerned. "Yes, there can be no doubt about it, for I heard it from Harry himself this morning." Mr. Dinsmore rose, and, putting his little son gently aside, left the room. Elsie was not in her own apartments; he passed through the whole suite, looking for her; then, going on into the grounds, found her at last in her favorite arbor. She was crying bitterly, but at the sound of his step checked her sobs, and hastily wiped away her tears. She thought he would reprove her for indulging her grief, but instead he took her in his arms and soothed her tenderly. "Oh, papa," she sobbed, "I feel as if I had done it--as if I had killed him." "Darling, he is not past hope; he may recover, and in any event not the slightest blame belongs to you. I have taken the whole responsibility upon my shoulders." She gave him a somewhat relieved and very grateful look, and he went on: "And even if I had allowed you to decide the matter for yourself, you would have done what was your duty in refusing to promise to belong to one whom you love less than you love your father." Some months later there came news of Herbert's death. Elsie's grief was deep and lasting. She sorrowed as she might have done for the loss of a very dear brother; while added to that was a half-remorseful feeling which reason could not control or entirely relieve; and it was long ere she was quite her own bright, gladsome sunny self again. CHAPTER XI. The bloom of opening flowers' unsullied beauty-- Softness and sweetest innocence she wears, And looks like nature in the world's first spring. --ROWE'S "TAMERLANE." "What a very peculiar hand, papa; so stiff and cramped and old-fashioned," Elsie remarked, as her father laid down a letter he had just been reading. "Yes. Did you ever hear me speak of Aunt Wealthy Stanhope?" His glance seemed to direct the question to Rose, who answered, with a look of surprise and curiosity, "No, sir. Who is she?" "A half-sister of my own mother. She was the daughter of my maternal grandfather by his first wife, my mother was the child of the second, and there were some five or ten years between them. Aunt Wealthy never married, would never live with any of her relatives, but has always kept up a cosey little establishment of her own." "Do you know her, papa?" asked Elsie, who was listening with eager interest. "I can hardly say that I do. I saw her once, nearly eighteen years ago, about the time you were born--but I was not capable of appreciating her then; indeed, was so unhappy and irritable as to be hardly in a condition to either make or receive favorable impressions. I now believe her to be a truly good and noble little woman, though decidedly an oddity in some respects. Then I called her a fidgety, fussy old maid." "And your letter is from her?" Rose said inquiringly. "Yes; she wants me to pay her a visit, taking Elsie with me, and leaving her there for the summer." "There, papa! where?" "Lansdale, Ohio. Should you like to go?" "Yes, I think I should like to go, papa, if you take me; but whether I should like to stay all summer I could hardly tell till I get there." "You may read the letter," he said, handing it to her. "It sounds as though it might be very pleasant, papa," she said, as she laid it down after an attentive perusal. It spoke of Lansdale as a pretty, healthful village, surrounded by beautiful scenery, and boasting of some excellent society: of two lively young girls, living in the next house to her own, who would be charming companions for Elsie, etc. "Your remark that your aunt was an oddity in some respects has excited my curiosity," said Rose. "Ah! and I am to understand that you would like me to gratify it, eh?" returned her husband, smiling. "Her dress and the arrangement of her hair are in a style peculiarly her own (unless she has become more fashionable since I saw her, which is not likely); and she has an odd way of transposing her sentences and the names of those she addresses or introduces, or calling them by some other name suggested by some association with the real one. Miss Bell, for instance, she would probably call Miss Ring; Mr. Foot, Mr. Shoe, and so on." "Does she do so intentionally, papa?" Elsie asked. "No, not at all; her mistakes are quite innocently made, and are therefore very amusing." Mrs. Horace Dinsmore's parents had been urging her to visit them, and after some further consideration it was decided that the whole family should go North for the summer, Mr. Dinsmore see his wife and little son safe at her father's, then take Elsie on to visit his aunt; the length of the visit to be determined after their arrival. * * * * * It was a lovely morning early in May; the air was vocal with the songs of birds and redolent with the breath of flowers all bathed in dew; delicate wreaths of snowy vapor rose slowly from the rippling surface of the river that threaded its way through the valley, and folded themselves about the richly-wooded hill-sides, behind which bright streaks of golden light were shooting upward, fair heralds of the coming of the king of day. On the outskirts of the pretty village of Lansdale, and in the midst of a well-kept garden and lawn, stood a tasteful dwelling, of Gothic architecture. Roses, honeysuckle, and Virginia creeper clambered over its walls, twined themselves about the pillars of its porticos and porches, or hung in graceful festoons from its many gables; the garden was gay with sweet spring flowers; the trees, the grass on the lawn, and the hedge that separated it from the road, all were liveried in that vivid green so refreshing to the eye. "Phillis! Simon!" called a sweet-toned voice from the foot of the back staircase; "are you up? It's high time; nearly five o'clock now, and the train's due at six." "Coming, ma'am. I'll have time to do up all my chores and git to the depot 'fore de train; you neber fear," replied a colored lad of fifteen or sixteen, hurrying down as he spoke. A matronly woman, belonging to the same race, followed close in his rear. "You're smart dis mornin', missis," she said, speaking from the middle of the stairway. "I didn't 'spect you'd git ahead o' me, and de sun hardly showin' his face 'bove de hill-tops yit." "I woke early, Phillis, as I always do when something's going to happen that I expect. Simon make haste to feed and water your horses and be sure you have old Joan in the carriage and at the gate by a quarter before six." "Am I to drive her to the depot, ma'am?" "No, Miss Lottie Prince will do that, and you are to take the one-horse wagon for the trunks. Did you go to Mr. Laugh's and engage it, as I told you yesterday?" "I went to Mr. Grinn's and disengaged de one-horse wagon, ma'am; yes'm." "Very well. Now come into the sitting room and I'll show you the likenesses of the lady and gentleman, and the old colored woman they're going to bring with them," replied the mistress, leading the way into an apartment that, spite of its plain, old-fashioned furniture, wore a very attractive appearance, it was so exquisitely neat; and the windows, reaching to the floor, opened upon one side into conservatory and garden, on the other upon a porch that ran the whole length of the front of the house. Taking a photograph album from a side-table, she showed the three pictures to Simon, who pronounced the gentleman very handsome, the lady the prettiest he ever saw, and was sure he should recognise both them and their servant. "Now, Phillis, we'll have to bestir ourselves," said Miss Stanhope, returning to the kitchen. "Do you think you can get breakfast in less than an hour? such a breakfast as we should have this morning--one fit for a king." "Yes, Miss Wealthy; but you don't want it that soon, do you? Folks is apt to like to wash and dress 'fore breakfast." "Ah, yes! sure enough. Well, we'll give them half an hour." A few moments later, as Miss Stanhope was busy with broom and duster in the front part of the house, a young girl opened the gate, tripped gayly up the gravel walk that led from it across the lawn, and stepped upon the porch. She was a brunette with a very rich color in her dark cheek, raven hair, and sparkling, roguish black eyes. She wore a suit of plain brown linen, with snowy cuffs and collar, and a little straw hat. "Good-morning, Aunt Wealthy!" she cried, in a lively tone, "You see I'm in good time." "Yes, Lottie, and looking as neat as a pin, too. It's very kind in you, because of course I want to be here to receive them as they come, to offer to introduce yourself and drive down to the depot for them." "Of course I'm wonderfully clever, considering that I don't at all enjoy a drive in this sweet morning air, and aint in a bit of a hurry to see your beautiful young heiress and her papa. Net wonders at my audacity in venturing to face them alone; but I tell her I'm too staunch a republican to quail before any amount of wealth or consequence, and if Mr. and Miss Dinsmore see fit to turn up their aristocratic noses at me, why--I'll just return the compliment." "I hope they're not of that sort, Lottie; but if they are, you will serve them right." "She does not look like it," observed the young girl, taking the album from the table and gazing earnestly upon Elsie's lovely countenance. "What a sweet, gentle, lovable face it is! I'm sure I shall dote on her; and if I can only persuade her to return my penchant, won't we have grand good times while she's here? But there's Simon with old Joan and the carriage. He'll hunt them up for me at the depot; won't he, Aunt Wealthy?" "Yes, I told him to." * * * * * The shrill whistle of the locomotive echoed and re-echoed among the hills. "Lansdale!" shouted the conductor, throwing open the car door. "So we are at our destination at last, and I am very glad for your sake, daughter, for you are looking weary," said Mr. Dinsmore, drawing Elsie's shawl more closely about her shoulders. "Oh, I'm not so very tired, papa," she answered, with a loving look and smile, "not more so than you are, I presume. Oh, see! papa, what a pretty girl in that carriage there!" "Yes, yes! Come to meet some friend, doubtless. Come, the train has stopped; keep close to me," he said. "Aunt Chloe, see that you have all the parcels." "Dis de gentleman and lady from de South, what Miss Stanhope's 'spectin'?" asked a colored lad, stepping up to our little party as they alighted. "Yes." "Dis way den, sah, if you please, sah. Here's de carriage. De lady will drive you up to de house, and I'll take your luggage in de little wagon." "Very well; here are the checks. You will bring it up at once?" "Yes, sah, have it dar soon as yourself, sah. Dis cullad person better ride wid me and de trunks." They were nearing the carriage and the pretty girl Elsie had noticed from the car window. "Good-morning! Mr. and Miss Dinsmore, I presume?" she said with a bow and smile. "Will you get in? Let me give you a hand, Miss Dinsmore. I am Lottie King, a distant relative and near neighbor of your aunt, Miss Stanhope." "And have kindly driven down for us. We are much obliged, Miss King," Mr. Dinsmore answered, as he followed his daughter into the vehicle. "Shall I not relieve you of the reins?" "Oh, no, thank you; I'm used to driving, and fond of it. And, besides, you don't know the way." "True. How is my aunt?" "Quite well. She has been looking forward with great delight to this visit, as have my sister Nettie and I also," Lottie answered, with a backward glance of admiring curiosity at Elsie. "I hope you will be pleased with Lansdale, Miss Dinsmore; sufficiently so to decide to stay all summer." "Thank you; I think it is looking lovely this morning. Does my aunt live far from the depot?" "Not very; about a quarter of a mile." "Oh, what a pretty place, and what a quaint-looking little old lady on its porch!" Elsie presently cried out. "See, papa!" "Yes, that's Aunt Wealthy, and doesn't she make a picture standing there under the vines in her odd dress?" said Miss King, driving up to the gate. "She's the very oddest, and the very dearest and sweetest little old lady in the world." Elsie listened and looked again; this time with eager interest and curiosity. Certainly, Aunt Wealthy was no slave to fashion. The tyrannical dame at that time prescribed gaiter boots, a plain pointed waist and straight skirt, worn very long and full. Miss Stanhope wore a full waist made with a yoke and belt, a gored skirt, extremely scant, and so short as to afford a very distinct view of a well-turned ankle and small, shapely foot encased in snowy stocking and low-heeled black kid slipper. The material of her dress was chintz--white ground with a tiny brown figure--finished at the neck with a wide white ruffle; she had black silk mitts on her hands, and her hair, which was very gray was worn in a little knot almost on the top of her head, and one thick, short curl, held in place by a puff-comb, on each side of her face. At sight of the carriage and its occupants, she came hurrying down the gravel walk, meeting them as they entered the gate. She took Mr. Dinsmore's hand, saying, "I am glad to see you, nephew Horace," and held up her face for a kiss. Then turning to Elsie, gave her a very warm embrace. "So, dear, you've come to see your old auntie? That's right. Come into the house." Elsie was charmed with her and with all she saw; all without was so fresh and bright, everything within so exquisitely neat and clean. The furniture of the whole house was very plain and old-fashioned, but Miss Stanhope never thought of apologizing for what to her wore the double charm of ownership, and of association with the happy days of childhood and youth, and loved ones gone. Nor did her guests deem anything of the kind called for in the very least; house and mistress seemed well suited the one to the other: and Elsie thought it not unpleasant to exchange, for a time, the luxurious furnishing of her home apartments for the simple adornments of the one assigned her here. The snowy drapery of its bed and toilet-table, its wide-open casements giving glimpses of garden, lawn, and shrubbery, and the beautiful hills beyond, looked very inviting. There were vases of fresh flowers too, on mantel and bureau, and green vines peeping in at the windows. It seemed a haven of rest after the long, fatiguing journey. "The child is sweet and fair to look upon, Horace, but I see nothing of you or my sister in her face," observed Miss Stanhope, as her nephew entered the breakfast-room, preceding his daughter by a moment or two. "Whom does she resemble?" "Elsie is almost the exact counterpart of her own mother, Aunt Wealthy, and looks like no one else," he answered, with a glance of proud fatherly affection at the young creature as she entered and took her place at the table. "Now my daughter," he said, at the conclusion of the meal, "you must go and lie down until near dinner-time, if possible." "Yes, that is excellent advice," said Miss Stanhope. "I see, and I'm glad, she's worth taking care of, as you are sensible, Horace. You shall be called in season, dear. So take a good nap." Elsie obeyed, retired to her room, slept several hours, and woke feeling greatly refreshed. Chloe was in waiting to dress her for dinner. "Had you a nap too, my poor old mammy?" asked her young mistress. "Yes, darlin'. I've been lying on that coach, and feel good as ever now. Hark! what dat?" "It sounds like a dog in distress," said Elsie, as they both ran to the window and looked out. A fat poodle had nearly forced his plump body between the palings of the front gate in the effort to get into the street, and sticking fast, was yelping in distress. As they looked Miss Stanhope ran quickly down the path, seized him by the tail, and jerked him back, he uttering a louder yelp than before. "There, Albert," she said, stroking and patting him, "I don't like to hurt you, but how was I to get you out, or in? You must be taught that you're to stay at home, sir. Thomas! Thomas! come home, Thomas!" she called; and a large cat came running from the opposite side of the street. "So those are Aunt Wealthy's pets. What an odd name for a cat," said Elsie, laughing. "Yes, Miss Elsie, dey's pets, sure nuff: Phillis says Miss Wealthy's mighty good t'em." "There, she is coming in with them, and, mammy, we must make haste. I'm afraid it's near dinner-time," said Elsie, turning away from the window. Her toilet was just completed when there was a slight tap on the door, and her father's voice asked if she was ready to go down. "Yes, papa," she answered, hurrying to him as Chloe opened the door. "Ah, you are looking something like yourself again," he said, with a pleasant smile, as he drew her hand within his arm, and led her down the stairs. "You have had a good sleep?" "A delicious rest. I must have slept at least four hours. And you, papa?" "I took a nap of about the same length, and feel ready for almost anything in the shape of dinner, etc. And there is the bell." Miss Stanhope cast many an admiring glance at nephew and niece during the progress of the meal. "I'm thinking, Horace," she said at length, "that it's a great shame I've been left so many years a stranger to you both." "I'm afraid it is, Aunt Wealthy; but the great distance that lies between our homes must be taken as some excuse. We would have been glad to see you at the Oaks, but you never came to visit us." "Ah, it was much easier for you to come here," she replied, shaking her head. "I've been an old woman these many years. Come," she added, rising from the table, "come into the parlor, children, and let me show you the olden relics of time I have there--things that I value very highly, because they've been in the family for generations." They followed her--Elsie unable to forbear a smile at hearing her father and herself coupled together as "children"--and looked with keen interest upon some half dozen old family portraits, an ancient cabinet of curiosities, a few musty, time-worn volumes, a carpet that had been very expensive in its day, but was now somewhat faded and worn, and tables, sofas, and chairs of solid mahogany; each of the last-named covered with a heavily-embroidered silken cushion. "That sampler," said Aunt Wealthy, pointing to a large one with a wonderful landscape worked upon it, that, framed and glazed, hung between two of the windows, "is a specimen of my paternal grandmother's handiwork; these chair-cushions, too, she embroidered and filled with her own feathers, so that I value them more than their weight in gold." "My great-grandmother kept a few geese, I presume," Mr. Dinsmore remarked aside to Elsie with a quiet smile. Having finished their inspection of the parlor and its curiosities, they seated themselves upon the front porch, where trees and vines gave a pleasant shade. Miss Stanhope had her knitting, Mr. Dinsmore the morning paper, while Elsie sat with her pretty white hands lying idly in her lap, doing nothing but enjoy the beautiful prospect and a quiet chat with the sweet-voiced old lady. The talk between them was quite brisk for a time, but gradually it slackened, till at length they had been silent for several minutes, and Elsie, glancing at her aunt, saw her nodding over her work. "Ah, you must excuse me, dear," the old lady said apologetically, waking with a start; "I'm not very well, and, deary, I woke unusually early this morning, and have been stirring about ever since." "Can't you afford yourself a little nap, auntie?" Elsie asked in return. "You mustn't make company of me; and, besides, I have a book that I can amuse myself with." "You would be quite alone, child, for I see your father has gone in." "I shall not mind that at all, auntie. Do go and lie down for at least a little while." "Well, then, dear, I will just lie down on the sofa in the sitting room, and you must call me if any one comes." "Aunt Wealthy couldn't have meant for a child like that, unless she comes on some important errand," thought Elsie, as, a few moments later, a little girl came slowly across the lawn and stepped upon the porch. The child looked clean and decent, in a neat calico dress and gingham sun-bonnet. At sight of Elsie she stood still, and, gazing with open-mouthed curiosity, asked, "Be you the rich young lady that was coming to see Miss Wealthy from 'way down south?" "I have come from the South to see Miss Stanhope. What do you wish?" "Nothin', I just come over 'cause I wanted to." "Will you take a seat?" "Yes," taking possession of the low rocking chair Miss Stanhope had vacated. "What's your name?" inquired Elsie. "Lenwilla Ellawea Schilling," returned the child, straightening herself up with an air of importance; "mother made it herself." "I should think so," replied Elsie, with a sparkle of fun in her eye. "And your mother is Mrs. Schilling, is she?" "Yes, and pap, he's dead, and my brother's named Corbinus." "What do they call you for short?" "Willy, and him Binus." "Where do you live?" "Over yonder," nodding her head towards the opposite side of the street. "Mother's comin' over to see you some time. I guess I'll be going now." And away she went. "What did that child want?" asked Miss Stanhope, coming out just in time to see the little maiden pass through the gate. "Nothing but to look at and question me, I believe." Elsie answered, with an amused smile. "Ah! she generally comes to borrow some little thing or other. They're the sort of folks that always have something they're out of. Mrs. Sixpence is a very odd sixpence indeed." "I think the little girl said her last name was Schilling." "Ah, yes, so it is: but I'm always forgetting their exact commercial value," and Aunt Wealthy laughed softly. "In fact, I've a very good forgetting of my own, and am more apt to get names wrong than right." "Mrs. Schilling must have an odd taste for names," said Elsie. "Yes, she's a manufacturer of them; and very proud of her success in that line." Miss Stanhope was a great lover of flowers, very proud of hers, cultivated principally by her own hands. After tea she invited her nephew and niece to a stroll through her garden, while she exhibited her pets with a very excusable pride in their variety, beauty, and fragrance. As they passed into the house again, Phillis was feeding the chickens in the back yard. "You have quite a flock of poultry, aunt," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "Yes, I like to see them running about, and the eggs you lay yourself are so much better than any you can buy, and the chickens, too, have quite another taste. Phillis, what's the matter with that speckled hen?" "Dunno, mistis; she's been crippled dat way all dis week." "Well, well, I dare say it's the boys; one of them must have thrown a stone and hit her between her hind legs; they're great plagues. Poor thing! There, Albert, don't you dare to meddle with the fowls! Come away, Thomas. That cat and dog are nearly as bad and troublesome to the boys as the poultry." Puss and the poodle followed their mistress into the house, where Albert lay down at her feet, while Thomas sprang into her lap, where he stood purring and rubbing his head against her arm. "You seem to have a good many pets, auntie," Elsie remarked. "Yes, I am fond of them. A childless old woman must have something to love. I've another that I'm fonder of than any of these though--my grand-nephew, Harry Duncan. He's away at school now; but I hope to show him to you one of these days." "I should like to see him. Is he a relative of ours?" Elsie asked, turning to her father. "No, he belongs to the other side of the house." "How soft and fine this cat's fur is, aunt; he's quite handsome," remarked Elsie, venturing to stroke Thomas very gently. "Yes, I raised him, and his mother before him. My sister Beulah was first husband's child of Harry's grandmother twice married, and my mother. Yes, I think a great deal of him, but was near losing him last winter. A fellow in our town--he's two years old now--wanted a buffalo robe for his sleigh, and undertook to make it out of cat-skins. He advertised that he'd give ten cents for every cat-skin the boys would bring him. You know the old saying that you can't have more of a cat than its skin, and hardly anybody's was safe after that; they went about catching all they could lay hands on, even borrowing people's pets and killing them." Elsie turned to her father with a very perplexed look, puzzled to understand who it was that had married twice, and whether her aunt had stated Harry's age or that of the cat. But at that instant steps and voices were heard upon the porch, and the door-bell rang. "It's Lottie and her father," said Miss Stanhope, pushing Thomas from her lap. "Come in, friends, and don't stand for ceremony." For both doors stood wide open. "Good-evening," said the young lady, coming forward, leaning upon the arm of a middle-aged gentleman. "Mr. Dinsmore, I have brought my father, Dr. King, to see you." The gentlemen shook hands, the doctor observing, "I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Dinsmore. I brought my daughter along to introduce me, lest our good Aunt Wealthy here, in her want of appreciation of nobility and birth, should, as she sometimes does, give me a rank lower than my true one, making me to appear only a Prince, while I am really a King." A general laugh followed this sally, Miss Stanhope insisting that that was a mistake she did not often make now. Then Elsie was introduced, and, all being seated again, Dr. King turned to his hostess with the laughing remark, "Well, Aunt Wealthy, by way of amends, I'll own up that my wife says that you're the better doctor of the two. That bran has done her a world of good." "Bran?" said Mr. Dinsmore inquiringly. "Yes, sir; Mrs. King was suffering from indigestion; Miss Stanhope advised her to try eating a tablespoonful or so of dry bran after her meals, and it has had an excellent effect." "My father learnt it from an old sea-captain," said Miss Stanhope; "and it has helped a great many I've recommended it to. Some prefer to mix it with a little cream, or take a little water with it but the best plan's to take it dry if you can." CHAPTER XII. When to mischief mortals bend their will, How soon they find fit instruments of ill. --POPE'S "RAPE OF THE LOCK." "What, Art, are you going out?" "Yes." "Do you know it's after ten?" "Yes, you just mind your own business, Wal; learn your lessons, and go off to bed like a good boy when you get through. I'm old enough to take care of myself." "Dear me! I'm awfully afraid he's gone back to his evil courses, as father says," muttered Walter Dinsmore to himself, as the door closed upon his reckless elder brother. "I wonder what I ought to do about it," he continued, leaning his head upon his hand, with a worried, irresolute look; "ought I to report to the governor? No, I shan't, there then; I don't know anything, and I never will be a sneak or a tell-tale." And he drew the light nearer, returned to his book with redoubled diligence for some ten or fifteen minutes more; then, pushing it hastily aside, with a sigh of relief, started up, threw off his clothes, blew out the light, and tumbled into bed. Meanwhile Arthur had stolen noiselessly from the college, and pursued his way into the heart of the town. On turning a corner he came suddenly upon another young man who seemed to have been waiting for him; simply remarking, "You're late to-night, Dinsmore," he faced about in the same direction, and the two walked on together. "Of course; but how can a fellow help it when he's obliged to watch his opportunity till the Argus eyes are closed in sleep, or supposed to be so?" grumbled Arthur. "True enough, old boy; but cheer up, your day of emancipation must come some time or other," remarked his companion, clapping him familiarly; on the shoulder. "Of age soon, aren't you?" "In about a year. But what good does that do me? I'm not so fortunate as my older brother--shall have nothing of my own till one or other of my respected parents sees fit to kick the bucket, and leave me a pile; a thing which at present neither of them seems to have any notion of doing." "You forget your chances at the faro-table." "My chances! You win everything from me, Jackson. I'm a lame duck now, and if my luck doesn't soon begin to turn, I'll--do something desperate, I believe." The lad's tone was bitter, his look reckless and half despairing. "Pooh, don't be a spooney! We all have our ups and downs, and you must take your turn at both, like the rest." They had ascended a flight of steps, and Jackson rang the bell as he spoke. It was answered instantly by a colored waiter, who with, a silent bow stepped back and held the door open for their entrance. They passed in and presently found themselves in a large, well-lighted, and handsomely-furnished room, where tables were set out with the choicest viands, rich wine, and trays of fine cigars. They seated themselves, ate and drank their fill, then, each lighting a cigar, proceeded to a saloon, on the story above, where a number of men were engaged in playing cards--gambling, as was evident from the piles of gold, silver, and bank-notes lying here and there upon the tables about which they sat. Here also costly furniture, bright light, and rich wines lent their attractions to the scene. Arthur took possession of a velvet-cushioned chair on one side of an elegant marble-topped table, his companion placing himself in another directly opposite. Here, seated in the full blaze of the gas-light, each face was brought out into strong relief. Both were young, both handsome; Jackson, who was Arthur's senior by five or six years, remarkably so; yet his smile was sardonic, and there was often a sinister expression in his keen black eye as its glance fell upon his victim, for such Arthur Dinsmore was--no match for his cunning and unscrupulous antagonist, who was a gambler by profession. Arthur's pretended reformation had lasted scarcely longer than until he was again exposed to temptation, and his face, as seen in that brilliant light, wore unmistakable signs of indulgence in debauchery and vice. He played in a wild, reckless way, dealing out his cards with a trembling hand, while his cheek burned and his eye flashed. At first Jackson allowed him to win, and filled with a mad delight at the idea that "his luck had turned," the boy doubled and trebled his stakes. Jackson chuckled inwardly, the game went on, and at length Arthur found all his gains suddenly swept away and himself many thousands of dollars in debt. A ghastly pallor overspread his face, he threw himself back in his chair with a groan, then starting up with a bitter laugh, "Well, I see only one way out of this," he said. "A word in your ear, Tom; come along with me. I've lost and you won enough for one night; haven't we, eh?" "Well, yes; I'm satisfied if you are." And the two hurried into the now dark and silent street, for it was long past midnight, and sober and respectable people generally had retired to their beds. "Where are you going?" asked Jackson. "Anywhere you like that we can talk without danger of being overheard." "This way then, down this street. You see 'tis absolutely silent and deserted." They walked on, talking in an undertone. "You'd like your money as soon as you can get it?" said Arthur. "Of course; in fact I must have it before very long, for I'm hard pushed now." "Suppose I could put you in the way of marrying a fortune, would you hold me quit of all your claims against me?" "H'm, that would depend upon the success of the scheme." "And that upon your own coolness and skill. I think I've heard you spoken of as a woman-killer?" "Ha, ha! Yes, I flatter myself that I have won some reputation in that line, and that not a few of the dear creatures have been very fond of me. It's really most too bad to break their soft little hearts; but then a man can't marry 'em all; unless he turns Mormon." Arthur's lips curled with scorn and contempt, and he half turned away in disgust and aversion; but remembering that he was in the power of this man, whom, too late, alas! he was discovering to be an unscrupulous villain, he checked himself, and answered in his usual tone, "No, certainly not; and so you have never yet run your neck into the matrimonial noose?" "No, not I, and don't fancy doing so either, yet I own that a fortune would be a strong temptation. But, I say, lad, if it's a great chance, why do you hand it over to me? Why not try for it yourself? It's not your sister, surely?" "No, indeed; you're not precisely the sort of brother-in-law I should choose," returned the boy, with a bitter, mocking laugh. "But stay, don't be insulted"--for his companion had drawn himself up with an air of offended pride--"the lady in question is but a step farther from me; she is my brother's daughter." "Eh! you don't say? A mere child, then, I presume." "Eighteen, handsome as a picture, as the saying is, and only too sweet-tempered for my taste." "And rich you say? that is her father's wealthy, eh?" "Yes, he's one of the richest men in our county, but she has a fortune in her own right, over a million at the very lowest computation." "Whew! You expect me to swallow that?" "It's true, true as preaching. You wonder that I should be so willing to help you to get her. Well, I owe her a grudge, I see no other way to get out of your clutches, and I shall put you in the way of making her acquaintance only on condition that if you succeed we share the spoils." "Agreed. Now for the modus operandi. You tell me her whereabouts and provide me with a letter of introduction, eh?" "No; on the contrary, you are carefully to conceal the fact that you have the slightest knowledge of me. The introduction must come from quite another quarter. Listen, and I'll communicate the facts and unfold my plan. It has been running in my head for weeks, ever since I heard that the girl was to spend the summer in the North with nobody but an old maiden aunt, half-cracked at that, to keep guard over her; but I couldn't quite make up my mind to it till to-night, for you must see, Tom," he added with a forced laugh, "that it can't be exactly delightful to my family pride to think of bringing such a dissipated fellow as you into the connection." "Better look at home, lad. But you are right; one such scamp is, or ought to be, all-sufficient for one family." Arthur said, "Certainly," but winced at the insinuation nevertheless. It was not a pleasant reflection that his vices had brought him down to a level with this man who lived by his wits--or perhaps more correctly speaking, his rascalities--of whose antecedents he knew nothing and whom, with his haughty Southern pride, he thoroughly despised. But scorn and loathe him as he might in his secret soul, it was necessary that he should be conciliated, because it was now in his power to bring open disgrace and ruin upon his victim. So Arthur went on to explain matters and, with Jackson's assistance, to concoct a plan of getting Elsie and her fortune into their hands. As he had said, the idea had been in his mind for weeks, yet it was not until that day that he could see clearly how to carry it out. Also, his family pride had stood in the way until the excitement of semi-intoxication and his heavy losses had enabled him to put it aside for the time. To-morrow he would more than half regret the step he was taking, but now he plunged recklessly into the thing with small regard for consequences to himself or others. "Can you imitate the chirography of others?" he asked. "Perfectly, if I do say it that shouldn't." "Then we can manage it. My brother Walter has kept up a correspondence with this niece ever since he left home. In a letter received yesterday she mentions that her father was about leaving her for the rest of the summer. Also that Miss Stanhope, the old aunt she's staying with, was formerly very intimate with Mrs. Waters of this city. "It just flashed on me at once that a letter of introduction from her would be the very thing to put you at once on a footing of intimacy in Miss Stanhope's house; and that if you were good at imitating handwriting we might manage it by means of a note of invitation which I received from Mrs. Waters some time ago, and which, as good luck would have it, I threw into my table drawer instead of destroying." "But who knows that it was written by the lady herself?" "I do, for I heard Bob Waters say so." "Good! have you the note about you?" "Yes, here it is." And Arthur drew it from his pocket. "Let's cross over to that lamp-post." They did so, and Jackson held the note up to the light for a moment, scanning it attentively. "Ah, ha! the very thing! no trouble at all about that," he said, pocketing it with a chuckle of delight, "But," and a slight frown contracted his brows, "what if the old lady should take it into her head to open a correspondence on the subject with her old friend?" "I've thought of that too, but fortunately for our scheme Mrs. Waters sails for Europe to-morrow; and by the way that should be mentioned in the letter of introduction." "Yes, so it should. Come to my room at the Merchants' House to-morrow night, and you shall find it ready for your inspection. I suppose the sooner the ball's set in motion the better?" he added as they moved slowly on down the street. "Yes, for there's no knowing how long it may take you to storm the citadel of her ladyship's heart, or how soon her father may come to the conclusion that he can't do without her, and go and carry her off home. And I tell you, Tom, you'd stand no chance with him, or with her if he were there. He'd see through you in five minutes." "H'm! What sort is she?" "The very pious!" sneered Arthur, "and you're bound to take your cue from that or you'll make no headway with her at all." "A hard rôle for me, Dinsmore. I know nothing of cant." "You'll have to learn it then; let her once suspect your true character--a drinking, gambling, fortune-hunting roué--and she'll turn from you with the same fear and loathing that she would feel for a venomous reptile." "Ha, ha! you're in a complimentary mood to-night, Dinsmore. Well, well, such a fortune as you speak of is worth some sacrifice and effort, and I think I may venture the character of a perfectly moral and upright man with a high respect for religion. The rest I can learn by degrees from her; and come to think of it, it mightn't be a bad idea to let her imagine she'd converted me." "Capital! The very thing, Tom! But good-night. I must be off now to the college. I'll come to your room to-morrow night and we'll finish the arrangement of all preliminaries." More than a fortnight had passed since the arrival of Miss Stanhope's guests. It had been a season of relaxation and keen enjoyment to them, to her, and to Dr. King's family, who had joined them in many a pleasant little excursion to points of interest in the vicinity, and several sociable family picnics among the surrounding hills and woods. A warm friendship had already sprung up between the three young girls, and had done much toward reconciling Elsie to the idea of spending the summer there away from her father. She had finally consented to do so, yet as the time drew near her heart almost failed her. In all these years since they went to live together at the Oaks, they had never been far apart--except once or twice for a few days when he had gone to New Orleans to attend to business connected with the care of her property; and only on a very few occasions, when she paid a little visit in their own neighborhood, had they been separated for more than a day. She could not keep back her tears as she hung about his neck on parting. "Ah, papa, how can I do without you for weeks and months?" she sighed. "Or I without you, my darling?" he responded, straining her to his breast. "I don't know how I shall be able to stand it. You need not be surprised to see me again at any time, returning to claim my treasure; and in the meanwhile we will write to each other every day. I shall want to know all you are doing, thinking, and feeling. You must tell me of all your pursuits and pleasures; your new acquaintances, too, if you form any. In that you must be guided by the advice of Aunt Wealthy, together with your father's known wishes. I am sure I can trust my daughter to obey those in my absence as carefully as in my presence." "I think you may, papa. I shall try to do nothing that you would disapprove, and to attend faithfully to all your wishes." Mr. Dinsmore left by the morning train, directly after breakfast. It was a bright, clear day, and Miss Stanhope, anxious to help Elsie to recover her spirits, proposed a little shopping expedition into the village. "You have not seen our stores yet," she said, "and I think we'd better go now before the sun gets any hotter. Should you like it, my dear?" "Thank you, yes, auntie. I will go and get ready at once." Elsie could hardly forbear smiling at the quaint little figure that met her in the porch a few moments later, and trotted with quick, short steps by her side across the lawn and up and down the village streets. The white muslin dress with its short and scanty skirt, an embroidered scarf of the same material, the close, old-fashioned leg-horn bonnet, trimmed with one broad strip of white mantua ribbon, put straight down over the top and tied under the chin, and the black mitts and morocco slippers of the same hue, formed a tout ensemble which, though odd, was not unpleasant to look upon. In one hand the little lady carried a very large parasol, in the other a gayly-colored silk reticule of corresponding size, this last not by a ribbon or string, but with its hem gathered up in her hand. All in singular contrast to Elsie with her slight, graceful form, fully a head taller, and her simple yet elegant costume. But the niece no more thought of feeling ashamed of her aunt, than her aunt of her. They entered a store, and the smiling merchant asked, "What can I do for you to-day, ladies?" "I will look at shirting muslin, if you please, Mr. Under," replied Miss Stanhope, laying parasol and reticule upon the counter. "Over, if you please, Miss Stanhope," he answered with an amused look. "Just step this way, and I'll show you a piece that I think will suit." "I beg your pardon, I'm always making mistakes in names," she said, doing as requested. "Anything else to-day, ladies?" he asked when the muslin had been selected. "I have quite a lot of remnants of dress goods, Miss Stanhope. Would you like to look at them?" "Yes," she answered almost eagerly, and he quickly spread them on the counter before her. She selected quite a number, Elsie wondering what she wanted with them. "I'll send the package at once," said Mr. Over, as they left the store. They entered another where Miss Stanhope's first inquiry was for remnants, and the same thing was repeated till, as she assured Elsie, they had visited every dry-goods store in the place. "Pretty nice ones, too, some of them are; don't you think so, dear?" "Yes, auntie; but do you know you have strongly excited my curiosity?" "Ah! how so?" "Why, I cannot imagine what you can want with all those remnants. I'm sure hardly one of them could be made into a dress for yourself or for Phillis, and you have no little folks to provide for." "But other folks have, child, and I shall use some of the smallest for patchwork." "Dere's a lady in de parlor, Miss Stanhope," said Chloe, meeting them at the gate; "kind of lady," she added with a very broad smile, "come to call on you, ma'am, and Miss Elsie too." "We'll just go in without keeping her waiting to take off our bonnets," said Aunt Wealthy, leading the way. They found a rather gaudily-dressed, and not very refined-looking woman, who rose and came forward to meet them with a boisterous manner, evidently assumed to cover a slight feeling of embarrassment. "Oh, I'm quite ashamed, Aunt Wealthy, to have been so long in calling to see your friends; you really must excuse me; it's not been for want of a strong disinclination, I do assure you: but you see I've been away a-nursing of a sick sister." "Certainly, Mrs. Sixpence." "Excuse me, Schilling." "Oh no, not at all, it's my mistake. Elsie, Mrs. Schilling. My niece, Miss Dinsmore. Sit down, do. I'm sorry you got here before we were through our shopping." "I'm afraid it's rather an early call," began Mrs. Schilling, her rubicund countenance growing redder than ever, "but--" "Oh, aunt did not mean that," interposed Elsie, with gentle kindliness. "She was only regretting that you had been kept waiting." "Certainly," said Miss Stanhope. "You know I'm a sad hand at talking, always getting the horse before the cart, as they say. But tell me about your sister. I hope she has recovered. What ailed her?" "She had inflammation of the tonsils; she's better now though; the tonsils is all gone, and I think she'll get along. She's weak yet; but that's all. There's been a good bit of sickness out there in that neighborhood, through the winter and spring; there were several cases of scarlet fever, and one of small-pox. That one died, and what do you think, Aunt Wealthy; they had a reg'lar big funeral, took the corpse into the church, and asked everybody around to come to it." "I think it was really wicked, and that if I'd been the congregation, every one of me would have staid away." "So would I. There now, I'm bound to tell you something that happened while I was at father's. My sister had a little girl going on two years old, and one day the little thing took up a flat iron, and let it fall on her toe, and mashed it so we were really afraid 'twould have to be took off. We wrapped it up in some kind o' salve mother keeps for hurts, and she kept crying and screamin' with pain, and we couldn't peacify her nohow at all, till a lady that was visiting next door come in and said we'd better give her a few drops of laud'num. So we did, and would you believe it? it went right straight down into her toe, and she stopped cryin', and pretty soon dropped asleep. I thought it was the curiosest thing I ever heard of." "It was a wise prescription, no doubt," returned Miss Stanhope, with a quiet smile. "Oh, Aunt Wealthy, won't you tell me how you make that Farmer's fruit-cake?" asked the visitor, suddenly changing the subject. "Miss Dinsmore, it's the nicest thing you ever eat. You'd be sure it had raisins or currants in it." "Certainly, Mrs. Schilling. You must soak three cups of dried apples in warm water over night, drain off the water through a sieve, chop the apples slightly, them simmer them for two hours in three cups of molasses. After that add two eggs, one cup of sugar, one cup of sweet milk or water, three-fourths of a cup of butter or lard, one-half teaspoonful of soda, flour to make a pretty stiff batter, cinnamon, cloves, and other spices to suit your taste." "Oh, yes! but I'm afraid I'll hardly be able to remember all that." "I'll write the receipt and send it over to you," said Elsie. Mrs. Schilling returned her thanks, sat a little longer, conversing in the same lucid style, then rose and took leave, urging the ladies to call soon, and run in sociably as often as they could. She was hardly out of the door before Aunt Wealthy was beating up her crushed chair-cushions to that state of perfect roundness and smoothness in which her heart delighted. It amused Elsie, who had noticed that such was her invariable custom after receiving a call in her parlor. Lottie King and Mrs. Schilling passed each other on the porch, the one coming in as the other went out. Kind Aunt Wealthy, intent on preventing Elsie from grieving over the emptiness of her father's accustomed seat at the table, had invited her young friend to dinner. The hour of the meal had, however, not yet arrived, and the two girls repaired to Elsie's room to spend the intervening time. Lottie, in her benevolent desire to be so entertaining to Elsie that her absent father should not be too sorely missed, seized upon the first topic of conversation which presented itself and rattled on in a very lively manner. "So you have begun to make acquaintance with our peculiar currency, mon ami! An odd sixpence as Aunt Wealthy calls her. Two of them I should say, since it takes two sixpences to make a shilling." "I don't know; I'm inclined to think Aunt Wealthy's arithmetic has the right of it, since she was never more than a shilling, and has lost her better half," returned Elsie, laughing. "Better half, indeed! fie on you, Miss Dinsmore! have you so little regard for the honor of your sex as to own that the man is ever that? But I must tell you of the time when she sustained the aforesaid loss; and let me observe, sustained is really the proper--very properest of words to express my meaning, for it was very far from crushing her. While her husband was lying a corpse, mother went over with a pie, thinking it might be acceptable, as people are not apt to feel like cooking at such a time. She did not want to disturb the new-made widow in the midst of her grief, and did not ask for her; but Mrs. Schilling came to the door. 'Oh, I'm so much obliged to you for bringing that pie!' she said. 'It was so good of you. I hadn't any appetite to eat while he was sick, but now that he's dead, I feel as if I could eat something. You and your girls must come over and spend a day with me some time soon. He's left me full and plenty, and you needn't be afraid to take a meal's victuals off me'!" "How odd! I don't think she could be quite broken-hearted." "No, and she has apparently forgotten him, and bestowed her affections upon another; a widower named Wert. Mr. Was, Aunt Wealthy usually calls him. They both attend our church, and everybody notices how impossible it seems to be for her to keep her eyes off him; and you can never be five minutes in her company without hearing his name. Didn't she talk of him to-day?" "Oh, yes, she spoke of Mr. Wert visiting some sick man, to talk and pray with him, and rejoiced that the man did not die till he gave evidence that he was repaired." "Yes, that sounds like her," laughed Lottie. "She's always getting the wrong word. I told you she never could keep her eyes off Mr. Wert. Well, the other day--three or four weeks ago--coming from church he was behind her; she kept looking back at him, and presently came bump up against a post. She made an outcry, of course everybody laughed, and she hurried off with a very red face. That put an idea into my head, and--" Lottie paused, laughing and blushing-- "I'm half ashamed to tell you, but I believe I will--Nettie and I wrote a letter in a sort of manly hand, signed his initials, and put it into an iron pot that she keeps standing near her back door. The letter requested that she would put her answer in the same place, and she did. Oh, it was rich! such a rapture of delight; and such spelling and such grammar as were used to express it! It was such fun that we went on, and there have been half a dozen letters on each side. I daresay she is wondering why the proposal doesn't come. Ah, Elsie, I see you don't approve; you are as grave as a judge." "I would prefer not to express an opinion; so please don't ask me." "But you don't think it was quite right, now do you?" "Since you have asked a direct question, Lottie, dear," Elsie answered, with some hesitation, "I'll own that it does not seem to me quite according to the golden rule." "No," Lottie said, after a moment's pause, in which she sat with downcast eyes, and cheeks crimsoning with mortification. "I'm ashamed of myself, and I hope I shall never again allow my love of fun to carry me so far from what is true and kind. "And so Aunt Wealthy took you out shopping, and secured the benefit of your taste and judgment in the choice of her remnants?" she exclaimed, with a sudden change to a lively, mirthful tone. "How do you know that she bought remnants?" asked Elsie, in surprise. "Oh, she always does; that's a particular hobby of the dear old body's; two or three times in a season she goes around to all the stores, and buys up the most of their stock; they save the best of them for her, and always know what she's after the moment she shows her pleasant face. She gives them away, generally, to the minister's wife, telling her the largest are to be made into dresses for her little girls; and the poor lady is often in great tribulation, not knowing how to get the dresses out of such small patterns, and afraid to put them to any other use, lest Miss Stanhope should feel hurt or offended. By the way, what do you think of Aunt Wealthy's own dress?" "That it is very quaint and odd, but suits her as no other would." "I'm so glad! It's just what we all think, but before you came we were much afraid you would use your influence to induce her to adopt a more fashionable attire." CHAPTER XIII. Bear fair presence, though your heart be tainted; Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint. --SHAKESPEARE'S "COMEDY OF ERRORS." "It's a very handsome present, child, very; and your old auntie will be reminded of you every time she uses it, or looks at it." "Both beautiful and useful, like the giver," remarked Lottie. "It" was a sewing-machine, Elsie's gift to Aunt Wealthy, forwarded from Cincinnati, by Mr. Dinsmore; the handsomest and the best to be found in the city; so Elsie had requested that it should be, and so he had written that it was. "I am glad you like it, auntie, and you too, Lottie," was all she said in response to their praises, but her eyes sparkled with pleasure at the old lady's evident delight. "It" had arrived half an hour before, on this the second morning after Mr. Dinsmore's departure, and now stood in front of one of the windows of Aunt Wealthy's bedroom--a delightfully shady, airy apartment on the ground floor, back of the parlor, and with window and door opening out upon a part of the lawn where the trees were thickest and a tiny fountain sent up its showers of spray. Miss Stanhope stood at a table, cutting out shirts. Lottie was experimenting on the machine with a bit of muslin, and Elsie sat near by with her father's letter in her hand, her soft dark eyes now glancing over it for perhaps the twentieth time, now at the face of one or the other of her companions, as Lottie rattled on in her usual gay, flighty style, and Aunt Wealthy answered her sometimes with a straightforward sentence, and again with one so topsy-turvy that her listeners could not forbear a smile. "For whom are you making shirts, aunt?" asked Elsie. "For my boy Harry. He writes that his last set are going wonderfully fast; so I must send up another to make." "You must let us help you, Lottie and I; we have agreed that it will be good fun for us." "Thank you, dearie, but I didn't suppose plain sewing was among your accomplishments." "Mamma says I am quite a good needle-woman," Elsie replied with a smile and a blush, "and if I am not it is no fault of hers. She took great pains to teach me. I cut out a shirt for papa once, and made every stitch of it myself." "And she can run the machine too," said Lottie, "though her papa won't let her do so for more than half an hour at a time, lest she should hurt herself." "He's very careful of her, and no wonder," Aunt Wealthy responded, with a loving look at the sweet, fair face. "You may help me a little, now and then, children, when it just suits your humor, but I want you to have all the rides and walks, the reading and recreation of every sort that you can enjoy." "Here comes Lenwilla Ellawea Schilling," said Lottie, glancing from the window. "What do you want, Willy?" asked Miss Stanhope, as the child appeared in the doorway with a teacup in her hand. "Mother wants a little light'ning to raise her bread." "Yeast? Oh, yes, just go round to Phillis, and she'll give you some." The door-bell rang. "It's a gentleman," said the child, "I seen him a-coming in at the gate." Chloe answered the bell and entered the room the next moment with a letter, which she handed to Miss Stanhope. The old lady adjusted her spectacles and broke the seal. "Ah, a letter of introduction, and from my old friend and schoolmate Anna Waters; wishes me to treat the young man with all the courtesy and kindness I would show to her own son, for she esteems him most highly, etc., etc. Aunt Chloe, what have you done with him?" "Showed him into de parlor, mistis, and leff him a-sittin' dar." "What's his name, auntie?" asked Lottie, as the old lady refolded the letter and took off her glasses. "Bromly Egerton; quite romantic, isn't it? Excuse me for a few minutes, dears; I must go and see what he wants." Aunt Wealthy found a well-dressed, handsome young man seated on one of her softly-cushioned chairs. He rose and came forward to meet her with courtly ease and grace. "Miss Stanhope, I presume?" "You are right, Mr. Ledgerfield. Pray be seated, sir." "Thank you, madam, but let me first help you to a seat. Excuse the correction, but Egerton is my name." "Ah, yes! For the sake of my friend, Mrs. Waters, I welcome you to Lansdale. Do you expect to make some stay in our town?" "Well, madam, I hardly had such expectation before arriving here, but I find it so pretty a place that I begin to think I can scarcely do better. My health has been somewhat impaired by very strict and close attention to business; and my physician has ordered entire relaxation for a time, and fresh country air. Can you recommend a boarding-place in town? Some quiet, private hotel where drinking and things of that kind would not be going on. I'm not used to it, and should find it very disgusting." "I'm glad to hear such sentiments, young man; they do you honor. I daresay Mrs. Sixpence,--no, Mrs. Schilling,--just opposite here, would take you in. She told me some weeks ago that she would be glad to have one or two gentlemen boarders." "Thank you, the location would suit me well; and you think she could give me comfortable accommodations?" "I do; she has pleasant rooms and is a good cook." "A widow?" "Yes, not very young, and has two children. But they are old enough not to be annoying to a boarder." "What sort of woman is she?" "A good manager, neat, industrious, honest, and obliging. Very suitable for a landlady, if you are not looking in the person of your hostess for an intellectual companion." "Oh, not at all, Miss Stanhope, unless--unless you could find it in your benevolent heart to take me in yourself;" and his smile was very insinuating. "In that case I should have the luxury of intellectual companionship superadded to the other advantages of which you have spoken." The old lady smiled, but shook her head quite decidedly. "I have lived so long in the perfect house that I should not know how to give it up. I have come to think men a care and a trouble that I cannot take upon me in my old age." "Excuse me, my dear madam, for the unwarrantable liberty I took in asking it," he said in an apologetic tone, and with a slightly embarrassed air. "I beg ten thousand pardons." "That is a great many," she answered with a smile, "but you may consider them all granted. I hope you left my friend Mrs. Waters well? I must answer her letter directly." "Ah, then you are not aware that she is already on her way to Europe?" "No, is she indeed?" "Yes, she sailed the day after that letter was written; which accounts for the date not being a very recent one. You see I did not leave immediately on receiving it from her." She was beginning to wish that he would go, but he lingered for some time, vainly hoping for a glimpse of Elsie. On finally taking his leave, he asked her to point out Mrs. Schilling's house, and she noticed that he went directly there. "Really, auntie, we began to think that your visitor must intend to spend the day," cried Lottie, as Miss Stanhope returned to her room and her interrupted employment. "Ah? Well it was not my urging that kept him; I was very near telling him that he was making me waste a good deal of time" replied the old lady; then seeing that Lottie was curious on the subject, she kindly went on to tell all that she had learned in regard to the stranger and his intentions. Elsie was amusing herself with Thomas, trying to cajole him to return to the frolicsomeness of his long-forgotten kittenhood, and did not seem to hear or heed. What interest for her had this stranger, or his doings? "Young and handsome, you say, Aunt Wealthy? and going to stay in Lansdale all summer? Would you advise me to set my cap for him?" "No, Lottie; not I." "You were not smitten with the gentleman, eh?" "Not enough to spare him to you anyhow, but he may improve upon acquaintance." "I don't approve of marrying, though, do you, auntie? Your practice certainly seems to speak disapproval." "Perhaps every one does not have the opportunity, my dear," answered the old lady, with a quiet smile. "Oh, but you must have had plenty of them. Isn't that so? and why did you never accept?" Elsie dropped the string she had been waving before the eyes of the cat, and looked up with eager interest. "Yes, I had offers, and one of them I accepted," replied Aunt Wealthy, with a slight sigh, while a shade of sadness stole over her usually happy face, "but my friends interfered and the match was broken off. Don't follow my example, children, but marry if the right one comes along." "Surely you don't mean if our parents refuse their consent, auntie?" Elsie's tone spoke both surprise and disapproval. "No, no, child! It is to those who keep the fifth commandment God promises long life and prosperity." "And love makes it so easy and pleasant to keep it," murmured Elsie, softly, and with a sweet, glad smile on her lips and in her eyes, thinking of her absent father, and almost unconsciously thinking aloud. "Ah, child, it can sometimes make it very hard," said Miss Stanhope, with another little sigh, and shaking her head rather sadly. "Elsie, you must have had lots of lovers before this, I am sure!" exclaimed Lottie, stopping her machine, and facing suddenly round upon her friend. "No girl as rich and beautiful as you are could have lived eighteen years without such an experience." Elsie only smiled and blushed. "Come now, am I not right?" persisted Lottie. "I do assure you that I have actually lived to this mature age quite heart-whole," laughed Elsie. "If I have an idol, it is papa, and I don't believe anybody can ever succeed in displacing him." "You have quite misunderstood me, wilfully or innocently--I asked of your worshippers, not of your idols. Haven't you had offers?" "Several; money has strong attractions for most men, papa tells me." "May the Lord preserve you from the sad fate of a woman married for her money, dear child!" ejaculated Aunt Wealthy, with a glance of anxious affection at her lovely niece. "I'm sometimes tempted to think a large amount of it altogether a curse and an affliction." "It is a great responsibility, auntie," replied Elsie, with a look of gravity beyond her years. Then after a moment's pause, her expression changing to one of gayety and joy, "Now, if you and Lottie will excuse me for a little, I'll run up to my room, and answer papa's letter," she said, rising to her feet. "After which I shall be ready to make myself useful in the capacity of seamstress. Au revoir." And she tripped away with a light, free step, every movement as graceful as those of a young gazelle. Mr. Bromly Egerton, alias Tom Jackson, was fortunate enough to find Mrs. Schilling at home. It was she who answered his knock. "Good-day, sir," she said. "Will you walk in? Just step into the parlor here, and take a seat." He accepted the invitation and stated his business without preface, or waiting to be questioned at all. She seemed to be considering for a moment. "Well, yes, I can't say as I'd object to taking a few gentlemen boarders, but--I'd want to know who you be, and all about you." "Certainly, ma'am, that's all right. I'm from the East; rather broken down with hard work--a business man, you see--and want to spend the summer here to recruit. Pitched upon your town because it strikes me as an uncommonly pretty place. I brought a letter of introduction to your neighbor, Miss Stanhope, and she recommended me to come here in search of board, saying you'd make a capital landlady." "Well, if she recommends you, it's all right. Would you like to look at the rooms?" She had two to dispose of--one at the back and the other in the front of the house, both cheerful, airy, of reasonable size, and neatly furnished. He preferred the latter, because it overlooked Miss Stanhope's house and grounds. As he stood at the window, taking note of this, a young girl appeared at the one opposite. For one minute he had a distinct view of her face as she stood there and put out her hand to gather a blossom from the vine that had festooned itself so gracefully over the window. He uttered an exclamation of delighted surprise, and turning to his companion asked, "Who is she?" "Miss Dinsmore, Miss Stanhope's niece. She's here on a visit to her aunt. She's from the South, and worth a mint of money, they say. Aint she handsome though? handsome as a picture?" "Posh! handsome doesn't begin to express it! Why, she's angelic! But there! she's gone!" And he drew a long breath as he turned away. "You'd better conclude to take this room if you like to look at her," artfully suggested Mrs. Schilling. "That's her bedroom window, and she's often at it. Besides, you can see the whole front of Miss Stanhope's place from here, and watch all the comings and goings o' the girls--Miss Dinsmore, and Miss Nettie and Lottie King." "Who are they?" "Kind o' fur-off cousins to Miss Stanhope. They live in that next house to hern, and are amazin' thick with her, runnin' in and out all times o' day. Nice, spry, likely girls they be too, not bad-lookin' neither, but hardly fit to hold a candle to Miss Dinsmore, as fur as beauty's concerned. Well, what do you say to the room, Mr. Egerton?" "That I will take it, and would like to have immediate possession." "All right, sir; fetch your traps whenever you've a mind; right away, if you like." There was no lack of good society in Lansdale. It had even more than the usual proportion of well-to-do, intelligent, educated, and refined people to be found in American villages of its size. They were hospitable folks, too, disposed to be kind to strangers tarrying in their midst, and, Miss Stanhope being an old resident, well known and highly esteemed, spite of her eccentricities, her friends had received a good deal of attention. Elsie had already become slightly acquainted with a number of pleasant families; a good many young girls, and also several young gentlemen had called upon her, and Lottie assured her there were many more to come. "Some of the very nicest are apt to be slow about calling--we're such busy folks here," she said, laughing. "I've a notion, too, that several of the beaux stood rather in awe of your papa." They were talking together over their sewing, after Elsie had come down from finishing her letter, and sent Chloe to the post-office with it. "I don't wonder," she answered, looking up with a smile; "there was a time, a long while ago, when I was very much afraid of him myself; and even now I have such a wholesome dread of his displeasure as would keep me from any act of disobedience, if love was not sufficient to do that without help from any other motive." "You are very fond of him, and he of you?" "Yes, indeed! how could it be otherwise when for so many years each was all the other had? But I'm sure, quite sure that neither of us loves the other less because now we have mamma and darling little Horace." "I should like to know them both," said Miss Stanhope. "I hope your father will bring them with him when he comes back for you." "Oh, I hope he will! I want so much to have you know them. Mamma is so dear and sweet, almost as dear as papa himself. And Horace--well, I can't believe there ever was quite such another darling to be found," Elsie continued, with a light, joyous laugh. "Ah!" said Aunt Wealthy with a sigh and a smile, "it is a good and pleasant thing to be young and full of life and gayety, and to have kind, wise parents to look to for help and guidance. You will realize that when you grow old and have to be a prop for others to lean upon instead." "Yes, dear auntie," Elsie answered, giving her a look of loving reverence, "but surely the passing years must have brought you so much wisdom and self-reliance that that can be no such very hard task to you." "Ah, child!" replied the old lady, shaking her head, "I often feel that my stock of those is very small. But then how sweet it is to remember that I have a Father to whom I never shall grow old; never cease to be His little child, in constant need of His tender, watchful care to guard and guide. Though the gray hairs are on my head, the wrinkles of time, sorrow, and care upon my brow, He does not think me old enough to be left to take care of myself. No; He takes my hand in His and leads me tenderly and lovingly along, choosing each step for me, protecting me from harm, and providing for all my needs. What does He say? 'Even to your old age I am He; and even to hoar hairs will I carry you'!" "Such sweet words! They almost reconcile one to growing old," murmured Lottie, and Aunt Wealthy answered, with a subdued gladness in her tones, "You need not dread it, child, for does not every year bring us nearer home?" The needles flew briskly until the dinner-bell sounded its welcome summons. "We shall finish two at least this afternoon, I think," said Lottie, folding up her work. "No, we've had sewing enough for to-day," replied Miss Stanhope. "I have ordered the carriage at two. We will have a drive this afternoon, and music this evening; if you and Elsie do not consider it too much of a task to play and sing for your old auntie." "A task, Aunt Wealthy! It would be a double delight--giving you pleasure and ourselves enjoying the delicious tones of that splendid piano. Its fame has already spread over the whole town," she added, turning to Elsie, "and between its attractions and those of its owner, I know there'll be a great influx of visitors here." Elsie was a very fine musician, and for her benefit during her stay in Lansdale, Mr. Dinsmore had had a grand piano sent on from the East, ordering it in season to have it arrive almost as soon as they themselves. "Yes, Lottie is quite right about it, Aunt Wealthy, and you shall call for all the tunes you want," Elsie said, noticing her friend's prediction merely by a quiet smile. "You don't know how I enjoy that piano," Lottie rattled on as they began their meal. "It must be vastly pleasant to have plenty of money and such an indulgent father as yours, Elsie. Not that I would depreciate my own at all--I wouldn't exchange him even for yours--but he, you see, has more children and less money." "Yes, I think we are both blessed in our fathers," answered Elsie. "I admire yours very much; and mine is, indeed, very indulgent, though at the same time very strict; he never spares expense or trouble to give me pleasure. But the most delightful thing of all is to know that he loves me so very, very dearly;" and the soft eyes shone with the light of love and joy. It was nearly tea time when they returned from their drive, some lady callers having prevented them from setting out at the early hour intended. "Now I must run right home," said Lottie, as they alighted. "Mother complains that she gets no good of me at all of late." "Well, she has Nettie," returned Miss Stanhope, "and she told me Elsie and I might have all we wanted of you till the poor child gets a little used to her father's absence." "Did she, Aunt Wealthy? There, I'll remind her of that, and also of the fact that Nettie is worth two of me any day." "And you'll come back to spend the evening? Indeed you must, or how is Elsie to learn her visitors' names? You know I could never get them straight. But there's the tea-bell, so come in with us. No need to go home till bed-time, or till to-morrow, that I can see." "Thank you, but of course, auntie, I want to primp a bit, just as you did in your young days, when the beaux were coming. So good-bye for the present," she cried, skipping away with a merry laugh, Miss Stanhope calling after her to bring Nettie along when she returned. "We have so many odd names in this town, and I such an odd sort of memory, that I make a great many mistakes," said the old lady, leading the way to the house. Elsie thought that was all very true, when in the course of the evening she was introduced to Mr. Comings, Mr. Tizard, Mr. Stop, Miss Lock, and Miss Over, and afterward heard her aunt address them variously as "Mr. In-and-out," "Mr. Wizard," "Mr. Lizard," "Mr. Quit," "Miss Under," and "Miss Key." But the old lady's peculiarity was so well known that no one thought of taking offence; and her mistakes caused only mirth and amusement. Lottie's prediction was so fully verified that Elsie seemed to be holding a sort of levee. "What faultless features, exquisitely beautiful complexion, and sweet expression she has." "What a graceful form, what pleasant, affable manners, so entirely free from affectation or hauteur; no patronizing airs about her either, but perfect simplicity and kindliness." "And such a sweet, happy, intelligent face." "Such beautiful hair too; did you notice that? so abundant, soft and glossy, and such a lovely color." "Yes, and what simple elegance of dress." "She's an accomplished musician, too, and has a voice as sweet, rich, and full as a nightingale's," remarked one and another as they went away. The unanimous verdict seemed to be, that the young stranger was altogether charming. Across the street, Mrs. Schilling's boarder paced to and fro, watching the coming and going, listening to the merry salutations, and gay adieux, the light laughter, and the sweet strains of music and song, till the desire to make one of the happy throng grew so strong upon him that it was no longer to be resisted. "I will go in with those," he muttered, crossing over just in time to enter directly in the rear of a lady and gentleman, whom he saw coming up the street. "Miss Stanhope invited me to call again, without particularizing how soon, and I can turn my speedy acceptance into a compliment to their music, without even a white lie, for it does sound extremely attractive to a lonely, idle fellow like me." Miss Stanhope met him at the door, would scarce listen to his apology--insisting that "none was needed; one who had come to her with such an introduction from so valued a friend as Mrs. Waters, must always be a welcome guest in her house"--and ushering him into the parlor, introduced him to her niece, and all others present. A nearer and more critical view of Elsie only increased his admiration; he thought her the loveliest creature he had ever seen. But it did not suit his tactics to show immediately any strong attraction toward her, or desire to win her regard. For this evening he devoted himself almost exclusively to Miss Stanhope, exerting all his powers to make a favorable impression upon her. In this he was entirely successful. He had, when he chose, most agreeable and polished manners. Also he had seen much of the world, possessed a large fund of general information, and knew exactly how to use it to the best advantage. With these gifts, very fine, expressive eyes, regular features, and handsome person, no wonder he could boast himself "a woman-killer." Aunt Wealthy, though old enough to be invulnerable to Cupid's arrows, showed by her warm praises, after he had left that evening, that she was not proof against his fascinations. CHAPTER XIV. Your noblest natures are most credulous. --CHAPMAN. Bromly Egerton (we give him the name by which he had become known to our friends in Lansdale) considered it "a very lucky chance" that had provided him a boarding-place so near the temporary home of his intended victim. He felicitated himself greatly upon it, and lost no time in improving to the utmost all the advantages it conferred. It soon came to be a customary thing for him to drop in at Miss Stanhope's every day, or two or three times a day, and to join the young girls in their walks and drives, for, though at first paying court to no one but the mistress of the mansion, he gradually turned his attention more and more to her niece and Miss King. As their ages were so much nearer his this seemed perfectly natural, and excited no suspicion or remark. Aunt Wealthy was quite willing to resign him to them; for--a very child in innocent trustfulness--she had no thought of any evil design on the part of the handsome, attractive young stranger so warmly recommended to her kindness and hospitality by an old and valued friend, and only rejoiced to see the young folks enjoying themselves so much together. Before leaving Lansdale Mr. Dinsmore had provided his daughter with a gentle, but spirited and beautiful little pony, and bade her ride out every day when the weather was favorable, as was her custom at home. At the same time he cautioned her never to go alone; but always to have Simon riding in her rear, and, if possible, a lady friend at her side. Dr. King was not wealthy, and having a large family to provide for, kept no horse except the one he used in his practice; but Elsie, with her well-filled purse, was more than content to furnish ponies for her friends Lottie and Nettie whenever they could accompany her; and matters were so arranged by their indulgent mother that one or both could do so every day. It was not long before Mr. Egerton joined them in these excursions also, having made an arrangement with a livery-stable keeper for the daily use of a horse. And gradually his attention, in the beginning about equally divided between the two, or the three, were paid more and more exclusively to Elsie. She was not pleased with him in their earlier interviews, she could scarcely have told why; but there was an intuitive feeling that he was not one to be trusted. That, however, gradually gave way under the fascinations of his fine person, agreeable manners, and intellectual conversation. He was very plausible and captivating, she full of charity and ready to believe the best of everybody, and so, little by little, he won her confidence and esteem so completely that at length she had almost forgotten that her first impression had not been favorable. He went regularly to the church she, her aunt, and the Kings attended, appearing an interested listener, and devout worshipper; and that not on the Sabbath only, but also at the regular weekday evening service; he seemed also to choose his associates among good, Christian people. The natural inference from all this was that he too was a Christian, or at least a professor of religion; and thus all our friends soon came to look upon him as such, and to feel the greater friendship for, and confidence in him. He found that Elsie's beauty would bear the closest scrutiny, that her graces of person and mind were the more apparent the more thoroughly she was known; that she was highly educated and accomplished, possessed of a keen intellect, and talents of no common order, and a wonderful sweetness of disposition. He acknowledged to himself that, even leaving money out of the question, she was a prize any man might covet; yet that if she were poor, he would never try to win her. A more voluptuous woman would have suited him better. Elsie's very purity made her distasteful to him, his own character seeming so much blackened by contrast that at times he could but loathe and despise himself. But her fortune was an irresistible attraction, and he resolved more firmly than ever to leave no stone unturned to make himself master of it. He soon perceived that he had many rivals, but he possessed one advantage over them all in his entire leisure from business, leaving him at liberty to devote himself to her entertainment during the day as well as the evening. For a while he greatly feared that he had a more dangerous rival at a distance; for, watching from his windows, he saw that every morning Simon brought one or more letters from the post, and that Elsie was usually on the front porch awaiting his coming; that she would often come flying across the lawn, meet her messenger at the gate, and snatching her letter with eager, joyful haste, rush back to the house with it, and disappear within the doorway. Then frequently he would see her half an hour later looking so rosy and happy, that he could hardly hope her correspondent was other than an accepted lover. For weeks he tormented himself with this idea; the more convinced that he was right in his conjecture, because she almost always posted her reply with her own hands, when going out for her daily walk, or sent it by her faithful Chloe; but one day, venturing a jest upon the subject, she answered him, with a merry laugh, "Ah, you are no Yankee, Mr. Egerton, to make such a guess as that! I have a number of correspondents, it is true; but the daily letter I am so eager for comes from my father." "Is it possible, Miss Dinsmore! do you really receive and answer a letter from your father every day?" "We write every day, and each receives a letter from the other every day but Sunday; on that day we never go or send to the post-office; and we write only on such subjects as are suited to the sacredness of its Sabbath rest. I give papa the text and a synopsis of the sermon I have heard, and he does the same by me." "You must be extremely strict Sabbath-keepers." "We are, but not more so than the Bible teaches that we should be." "But isn't it very irksome? don't you find the day very long and tedious?" "Not at all; I think no other day in the week is quite so short to me, none, I am sure, so delightful." "Then it isn't only because your aunt is strict too, that you go on keeping your father's rules, while you are at a safe distance from him?" he queried in a half jesting tone. Elsie turned her soft eyes full upon him, as she answered with gentle gravity: "I feel that the commands of both my earthly and my heavenly Father are binding upon me at all times, and in all places, and I hope I may ever be kept from becoming an eye-servant. Love makes it easy to obey, and God's commands are not grievous to those who love him." "I beg your pardon," he said; "but to go back to the letters, how can you fill one every day to your father? I can imagine that lovers might, in writing to each other, but fathers and daughters would not be apt to indulge in that sort of nonsense." "But Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie are no common father and daughter," remarked Lottie, who had not spoken for the last ten minutes. "And can find plenty to say to each other," added Elsie, with a bright look and smile. "Papa likes to hear just how I am spending my time, what I see in my walks, what new plants and flowers I find, etc., etc.; what new acquaintances I make, what books I am reading, and what I think of them." "The latter or the former?" he asked, resuming his jesting tone. "Both. And I tell him almost everything. Papa is my confidant; more so than any other person in the world." They were returning from a walk over the hills, and had just reached Miss Stanhope's gate. Mr. Egerton opened it for the ladies, closed it after them, bowed a good-morning and retired, wondering if he was mentioned in those letters to Mr. Dinsmore, and cautioning himself to be exceeding careful not to say or do a single thing which, if reported there, might be taken as a warning of danger to the heiress. The girls ran into Miss Wealthy's room, and found her lamenting over a white muslin apron. "What is it, auntie?" Elsie asked. "Why, just look here, child, what a hole I have made in this! It had got an ink-stain on it, and Phillis had put one of Harry's new shirts into a tin basin, and iron-rusted it; so I thought I would try some citric acid on them both; and I did; but probably made it too strong, and this is how it served the apron." "And the shirt?" asked Lottie, interested for the garment she had helped to make. "Well, it's a comfort I handled it very gingerly, and it seems to be sound yet, after I saw what this has come to." "It is quite a pity about the apron; for it really is a very pretty one," said Elsie, "the acid must have been very strong." "Yes, and I am sorry to have the apron ruined, but after all, I shall not care so very much, if it only doesn't eat Harry's tail off, and it will make a little one for some child." Both girls laughed. It was impossible to resist the inclination to do so. "The shirt's tail I mean, of course, and a little apron," said Miss Wealthy, joining in the mirth; "that's where the spots all happen to be, which is a comfort in case a piece should have to be set in." "There comes Lenwilla Ellawea; for some more light'ning, I suppose, as I see she carries a teacup in her hand," whispered Lottie, glancing from the window, as a step sounded upon the gravel walk. "Good-morning, little sixpence; what are you after now?" she added aloud, as the child appeared in the open doorway. "Mother's out o' vinegar, and dinner's just ready, and the gentleman'll want some for his salad, and there aint no time to send to the grocery. And mother says, will you lend her a teacupful, Aunt Wealthy? And she's goin' to have some folks there to-night, and she says you're all to come over." "Tell her we're obliged, and she's welcome to the vinegar," said Miss Stanhope, taking the cup and giving it to Chloe to fill. "But what sort of company is it to be?" "I dunno; ladies and gentlemen, but no married folks, I heard her say. She's goin' to have nuts, and candies, and things to hand round, and you'd better come. I hope that pretty lady will," in a stage whisper, bending toward Miss Stanhope, as she spoke, and nodding at Elsie. All three laughed. "Well, I'll try to coax her," said Aunt Wealthy, as Chloe re-entered the room. "And here's your vinegar. You'd better hurry home with it." "Aunt Wealthy, you can't want me to go there!" cried Elsie, as the child passed out of hearing. "Why, the woman is not a lady, and I am sure papa would be very unwilling to have me make an associate of her. He is very particular about such matters." "She is not educated or very refined, it is true, my child; and I must acknowledge is a little silly, too; but she is a clever, kind-hearted woman, a member of the same church with myself, and a near neighbor whom I should feel sorry to hurt; and I am sure she would be much hurt if you should stay away, and deeply gratified by your attendance at her little party." "I wouldn't miss it for anything!" cried Lottie, pirouetting about the room, laughing and clapping her hands; "she has such comical ways of talking and acting. I know it will be real fun. You won't think of staying away, Elsie?" "I really do not believe your father would object, if he were here, my child," added Miss Stanhope, laying her hand on her niece's shoulder and looking at her with a kindly persuasive smile. "Perhaps not, auntie; and he bade me obey you in his absence; so if you bid me, I will go," Elsie answered, returning the smile, and touching her ruby lips to the faded cheek. "That's a dear," cried Lottie. "Hold her to her word, Aunt Wealthy. And now I must run home, and see if Nettie's had an invite, and what she's going to wear." The ladies were just leaving the dinner-table, when Mrs. Schilling came rushing in. "Oh, excuse my informality in not waiting to ring, Miss Stanhope; but I'm in the biggest kind of a hurry. I've just put up my mind to make some sponge-cake for to-night, and I thought I'd best run over and get your prescription; you always have so much better luck than me. I don't know whether it's all in the luck though, or whether it's partly the difference in prescriptions--I know some follows one, and some another--and so, if you'll let me have yours, I'll be a thousand times obliged." "Certainly, Mrs. Sixpence, you'll be as many times welcome," returned Aunt Wealthy, going for her receipt-book. "It's not to be a large party, is it?" she asked, coming back. "No, ma'am, just a dozen or so of the young folks; such ladies and gentlemen which I thought would be agreeable to meet Miss Dinsmore. I hope you'll both be over and bright and early too; for I've heard say you don't never keep very late hours, Miss Dinsmore." "No, papa does not approve of them; not for me at least. He is so careful of me, so anxious that I should keep my health." "Well, I'm sure that's all right and kind. But you'll come, both of you, won't you?" And receiving an assurance that such was their intention, she hurried away as fast as she had come. "I wonder she cares to make a party when she must do all the work of preparing for it herself," said Elsie, looking after her as she sped across the lawn. "She is strong and healthy, and used to work; and doubtless feels that it will be some honor and glory to be able to boast of having entertained the Southern heiress who is visiting Lansdale," Miss Stanhope answered in a half-jesting tone. Elsie looked amused, then grave, as she replied: "It is rather humbling to one's pride to be valued merely or principally on account of one's wealth." "Yes; but, dearie, those who know you don't value you for that, but for your own dear, lovable self. My darling, your old aunt is growing very fond of you, and can hardly bear to think how soon your father will be coming to carry you away again," she added, twinkling away a tear, as she took the soft, white hand, and pressed it affectionately in both her own. "And I shall be so sorry to leave you, auntie. I wish we could carry you away with us. I have so often thought how happy my friend Lucy Carrington ought to be in having such a nice grandma. I have never had one, you know; for papa's stepmother would never own me for her grandchild; but you seem to be the very one I have always longed for." "Thank you, dear," and Miss Stanhope sighed, slightly. "Had your own grandmother, my sweet and dear sister Eva, been spared to this time, you would have had one to love and be proud of. Now, do you want to take a siesta? you must feel tired after this morning's long tramp, I should think, and I want you to be very bright and fresh to-night, that it may not harm you if you should happen to be kept up a little later than usual. You see I want to take such care of you, that when your father comes he can see only improvement in you, and feel willing to let me have you again some day." "Thank you, you dear old auntie!" Elsie answered, giving her a hug. "I'm sure even he could hardly be more kindly careful of me than you are. But I am not very tired, and sitting in an easy-chair will give me all the rest I need. Haven't you some work for me? I've done nothing but enjoy myself in the most idle fashion all day." "No, my sewing's all done now that the shirts are finished. But I must lie down whether you will or not. I can't do without my afternoon nap." "Yes, do, auntie; and I shall begin to-morrow's letter to papa; finishing it in the morning with an account of the party." She was busy with her writing when Lottie burst in upon her. "I ran in," she said, "to propose that we all go over there together, and to ask you to come into our house when you're dressed. Nettie and I are going to try a new style of doing up our hair, and we want your opinion about its becomingness." "I'll be happy to give it for what it is worth." "By the way, I admire your style extremely; but of course no one could imitate it who was not blessed with a heavy suit of natural curls. You always wear it one way, don't you?" "Yes, papa likes it so, but until within the last year, he would not let me have it in a comb at all." She wore it now gathered into a loose knot behind, and falling over a comb, in a rich mass of shining curls, while in front it waved and rippled above her white forehead, or fell over it, in soft, tiny, golden brown rings. "It is so beautiful!" continued Lottie, passing her hand caressingly over it; "and so is its wearer. Oh, if I were only a gentleman!" "You don't wish it," said Elsie, laughing. "I don't believe a real, womanly woman ever does." "You don't, hey? Well, I must go; for I've a lot to do to Lot King's wearing apparel. Adieu, mon cher. Nay, don't disturb yourself to come to the door." Elsie came down to tea ready dressed for the evening, in simple white, with a white rose in her hair. "I like your taste in dress, child," said Aunt Wealthy, regarding her with affectionate admiration. "The rose in your hair is lovely, and you seem to me like a fresh, fair, sweet flower, yourself." "Ah, how pleasant it is to be loved, auntie, for love always sees through rose-colored spectacles," answered the young girl gayly. "I promised Lottie to run in there for a moment to give my opinion about their appearance," she said, as they rose from the table. "I'll not be gone long; and they're to come in and go with us." She found her friends in the midst of their hair-dressing. "Isn't it a bore?" cried Lottie. "How fortunate you are in never having to do this for yourself." "Why," said Elsie, "I was just admiring your independence, and feeling ashamed of my own helplessness." "Did you ever try it," asked Nettie; "doing your own hair, I mean?" "No, never." "Did you ever dress yourself?" "No, I own that I have never so much as put on my own shoes and stockings," Elsie answered with a blush, really mortified at the thought. "Well, it is rather nice to be able to help yourself," remarked Lottie complacently. "There! mine's done; what do you think of it, Miss Dinsmore?" "That it is very pretty and extremely becoming. Girls, mammy will dress your hair for you at any time, if you wish." "Oh, a thousand thanks!" exclaimed Nettie. "Do you think she would be willing to come over and do mine now? I really can't get it to suit me, and I know Lot wants to put on her dress." "Yes, I'll go back and send her." "Oh, no; don't go yet; can't we send for her?" "That would do; but I told Aunt Wealthy I wouldn't stay long; so I think I'd better go. Perhaps I can be of use to her." "I don't believe she'll need any help with her toilet," said Lottie, "she does it all her own way; but I daresay she grudges every minute of your company. I know I should. Isn't she sweet and lovely, and good as she can be?" she added to her sister as Elsie left the room. "Yes, and how tastefully she dresses; everything is rich and beautiful, yet so simply elegant; what magnificent lace she wears, and what jewelry; yet not a bit too much of either." "And she knows all about harmony of colors, and what suits her style; though I believe she would look well in anything." There was a communicating gate between Dr. King's grounds and Miss Stanhope's, and Elsie gained her aunt's house by crossing the two gardens. As she stepped upon the porch, she saw Mr. Egerton standing before the door. "Good-evening, Miss Dinsmore," he said, bowing and smiling. "I was just about to ring; but I presume that is not necessary now." "No, not at all. Walk into the parlor, and help yourself to a seat. And if you will please excuse me I shall be there in a moment." "I came to ask if I might have the pleasure of escorting you to the party," he said laughingly, as she returned from giving Chloe her directions, and asking if her aunt needed any assistance. "Thank you; but you are taking unnecessary trouble," she answered gayly, "since it is only across the street, and there are four of us to keep each other company." "The Misses King are going with you?" "Yes; they are not quite ready yet; but it is surely too early to think of going?" "A little; but Mrs. Schilling is anxious to see you as soon as possible; particularly as she understands there is no hope of keeping you after ten o'clock. Do you really always observe such early hours?" "As a rule, yes. I believe the medical authorities agree that it is the way to retain one's youth and health." "And beauty," he added, with an admiring glance at her blooming face. * * * * * "I do believe we shall be almost the first; very unfashionably early," remarked Nettie King, as their little party crossed the street. "We are not the first, I have seen several go in," rejoined Aunt Wealthy, as Mr. Egerton held open the gate for them to pass in. Mrs. Schilling in gay attire, streamers flying, cheeks glowing, and eyes beaming with delight, met them at the door, and invited them to enter. "Oh, ladies, good-evening. How do you all do? I'm powerful glad you came so early. Walk right into the parlor." She ushered them in as she spoke. Four or five young misses were standing about the centre-table, looking at prints, magazines, and photographs, while Lenwilla Ellawea, arrayed in her Sunday best, had ensconced herself in a large cushioned rocking-chair; she was leaning lazily back in it, and stretching out her feet in a way to show her shoes and stockings to full advantage. Mrs. Schilling had singular taste in dress. The child wore a Swiss muslin over a red flannel skirt, and her lower limbs were encased in black stockings and blue shoes. "Daughter Lenwilla Ellawea, subside that chair!" exclaimed the mother, with a wave of her hand. "You should know better than to take the best seat, when ladies are standing. Miss Stanhope, do me the honor to take that chair. I assure you, you will find it most commodious. Take a seat on the sofy, Miss Dinsmore, and--ah, that is right, Mr. Egerton, you know how to attend to the ladies." Greetings and introductions were exchanged; an uncomfortable pause followed, then a young lady, with a magazine open on the table before her, broke the silence by remarking: "What sweet verses these are!" "Yes," said Mrs. Schilling, looking over her shoulder, "I quite agree in that sentiment. Indeed, she's my favorite author." "Who?" asked Mr. Egerton. "Anon." "Ah! does she write much for that periodical?" he asked, with assumed gravity. "Oh, yes, she has a piece in nearly every number; sometimes two of 'em." "That's my pap, that is," said Lenwilla Ellawea, addressing a second young lady, who was slowly turning the leaves of a photograph album. "Is it?" "Yes, and we've got two or three other picters of him." "Photographs, Lenwilla Ellawea," corrected her mother. "Yes, we've got several. Miss Stanhope, do you know there's a sculpture in town? and what do you think? He wants to make a basque relief out o' one o' them photographs of my 'Lijah. But I don't know as I'll let him. Would you?" A smile trembled about the corners of Elsie's lips, and she carefully avoided the glance of Lottie's eyes, which she knew were dancing with fun, while there was a half-suppressed titter from the girls at the table. "I really can't say I understand exactly what it is," said Aunt Wealthy dubiously. "What sort of looking creature is a sculpture, Mrs. Schilling?" asked Mr. Egerton. "Excuse me; there's some more company coming," she answered, hurrying from the room. "My good landlady is really quite an amusing person," he observed in an aside to Elsie, near to whom he had seated himself. She made no response. The newly-arrived guests were being ushered in, and there were fresh greetings and introductions to be gone through with. Then conversation became quite brisk, and after a little, it seeming to be understood that all invited, or expected, were present some one proposed playing games. They tried several of the quieter kind, then Lottie King proposed "Stage-coach." "Lot likes that because she's a regular romp," said her sister. "And because she tells the story so well; she's just splendid at it!" cried two or three voices. "Will you take that part if we agree to play it?" "Yes, if no one else wants it." "No danger of that. We'll play it. Miss Dinsmore, will you take part?" "Thank you; I never heard of the game before, and should not know what to do." "Oh, it's easy to understand. Each player--except the story-teller--takes the name of some part of the stage-coach, or something connected with it;--one is the wheels, another the window, another the whip, another the horses, driver, and so on, and so on. After all are named and seated--leaving one of their number out, and no vacancy in the circle--the one left out stands in the centre, and begins a story, in which he or she introduces the names chosen by the others as often as possible. Each must be on the qui vive, and the instant his name is pronounced, jump up, turn round once and sit down again. If he neglects to do so, he has to pay a forfeit. If the word stage-coach is pronounced, all spring up and change seats; the story-teller securing one, if he can and leaving some one else to try his hand at that." Lottie acquitted herself well; Mr. Egerton followed, doing even better; then Aunt Wealthy was the one left out, and with her crooked sentences and backward or opposite rendering of names caused shouts of merriment. The selling of the forfeits which followed was no less mirth-provoking. Then the refreshments were brought in; first, several kinds of cake--the sponge and the farmers' fruit-cake, made after Miss Stanhope's prescription, as Mrs. Schilling informed her guests, and one or two other sorts. Elsie declined them all, saying that she never ate anything in the evening. "Oh, now that's too bad, Miss Dinsmore! do take a little bit of something," urged her hostess; "I shall feel real hurt if you don't; it looks just as if you didn't think my victuals good enough for you to eat." "Indeed you must not think that," replied Elsie, blushing deeply. "Your cake looks very nice, but I always decline evening refreshments; and that solely because of the injury it would be to my health to indulge in them." "Why, you aint delicate, are you? You don't look so; you've as healthy a color as ever I see; not a bit like as though you had the dyspepsy." "No, I have never had a touch of dyspepsia, and I think my freedom from it is largely owing to papa's care of me in regard to what I eat and when. He has never allowed me to eat cake in the evening." "Well, I do say! you're the best girl to mind your pa that ever I see! But you're growed up now--'most of age, I should judge--and I reckon you've a sort o' right to decide such little matters for yourself. I don't believe a bit o' either of these would hurt you a mite; and if it should make you a little out o' sorts just you take a dose of spirits of pneumonia. That's my remedy for sick stomic, and it cures me right up, it does." Elsie smiled, but again gently but firmly declined. "Please don't tempt me any more, Mrs. Schilling," she said; "for it is a temptation, I assure you." "Well, p'raps you'll like the next course better," rejoined her hostess, moving on. "She's a splendid cook and the cake is really nice," remarked Lottie King in a low tone, close at her friend's side. "Yes, Miss Dinsmore, you'd better try a little of it; I don't believe it would hurt you, even so much as to call for the spirits of pneumonia," said Egerton, laughing. "Oh, look!" whispered Lottie, her eyes twinkling with merriment, "here comes the second course served up in the most original style." Mrs. Schilling had disappeared for a moment, to return bearing a wooden bucket filled with a mixture of candies, raisins and almonds, and was passing it around among her guests, inviting each to take a handful. "Now, Miss Dinsmore, you won't refuse to try a few of these?" she said persuasively, as she neared their corner, "I shall be real disappointed if you do." "I am very sorry to decline your kind offer, even more for my own sake than yours," returned Elsie, laughing and blushing; "for I am extremely fond of confectionery; but I must say no, thank you." "Mr. Egerton, do you think 'twas because my cakes and things wasn't good enough for her that she wouldn't taste 'em?" asked his landlady, in an aggrieved tone, as the last of the guests departed. Elsie had gone an hour before, he having had the pleasure of escorting her and Miss Stanhope across the street, leaving them at their own door; but he did not need to ask whom Mrs. Schilling meant. "Oh, no, not at all, my good woman!" he answered. "It was nothing but filial obedience joined to the fear of losing her exuberant health. Very wise, too, though your refreshments were remarkably nice." "Poor Mrs. Sixpence," Lottie King was saying to her sister at that moment, "she whispered to me that though her party had gone off so splendidly, she had had two great disappointments,--in Mr. Wert's absenting himself, and the refusal of the Southern heiress to so much as taste her carefully prepared dainties." CHAPTER XV. A goodly apple rotten at the heart; O what a goodly outside falsehood hath! --SHAKESPEARE'S "MERCHANT OF VENICE." In mental power, education, good looks, courtly manners, and general information Mr. Egerton was decidedly superior to any of the young men resident in Lansdale; and of this fact no one was better aware than, himself. He did not confine his attentions to Elsie, and soon found himself a prime favorite among the ladies of the town. No female coquette ever coveted the admiration of the other sex more than he, or sought more assiduously to gain it. He carried on numerous small flirtations among the belles of the place, yet paid court to Elsie much oftener than to any one else, using every art of which he was master in the determined effort to win her affection and to make himself necessary to her happiness. He had read many books and seen much of life, having travelled all over our own country, and visited both Europe and South America; and possessing a retentive memory, fine descriptive powers, a fund of humor, and a decided talent for mimicry, was able, when he chose, to make his conversation exceedingly amusing and interesting, and very instructive. Also, he seemed all that was good and noble, and she soon gave him a very warm place in her regard; much warmer than she herself at first suspected. According to his own account--and probably it was the truth--Bromly Egerton had had many hair-breadth escapes from sudden and violent death. He was telling of one of these in which he had risked and nearly lost his life from mere love of adventure. Elsie shuddered, and drew a long breath of relief, as the story reached its close. "Does it frighten you to hear of such things?" he asked, with a smile. "Yes, it seems to me a dreadful thing to risk the loss of one's life, when there is no good to ourselves or others to be gained by it." "Ah, if you were a man or boy you would understand that more than half the charm of such adventures lies in the risk." "But is it right, or wise?" "A mere matter of taste, or choice, I should say--a long dull life, or a short and lively one." Elsie's face had grown very grave. "Are those really your sentiments, Mr. Egerton?" she asked, in a pained, disappointed tone. "I had thought better of you." "I do not understand; have I said anything very dreadful?" "Is it not a sin to throw away the life which God has given us to be used in His service?" "Ah, perhaps that may be so; but I had not looked at it in precisely that way. I had only thought of the fact that life in this world is not so very delightful that one need be anxious to continue it for a hundred years. We grow tired of it at times, and are almost ready to throw it away; to use your expression." "Ah, before doing that we should be very sure of going to a better place." "But how can we be sure of that, or, indeed, of anything? What is there that we know absolutely, and beyond question? how can I be sure of even my own existence? how do I know that I am what I believe myself to be? There are crazy men who firmly believe themselves kings and princes, or something else quite as far from the truth; and how do I know that I am not as much mistaken as they?" She gave him a look of grieved surprise, and he laughingly asked, "Well, now, Miss Dinsmore, is there anything of which you really are absolutely certain? or you, Miss King?" as Lottie drew near the log on which the two were seated. They had taken a long ramble through the woods that morning, and Egerton and Elsie had some ten minutes before sat down here to rest and wait for their companions, who had wandered a little from the path they were pursuing. "Cogito, ergo sum," she answered gayly, "Also I am sure we have had a very pleasant walk. But isn't it time we were moving toward home?" "Yes," Elsie answered, consulting her watch. "That's a pretty little thing," observed Egerton. "May I look at it?" And he held out his hand. "One of papa's birthday gifts to his petted only daughter," she said, with a smile, as she allowed him to take it. "I value it very highly on that account even more than for its intrinsic worth; though it is an excellent time-keeper." "It must have cost a pretty penny; the pearls and diamonds alone must be worth quite a sum," he said, turning it about and examining it with eager interest. "I would be careful, Miss Dinsmore, how I let it be known that I carried anything so valuable about me, or wore it into lonely places, such as these woods," he added, as he returned it to her. "I never come out alone," she said, looking slightly anxious and troubled; "papa laid his commands upon me never to do so; but I shall leave it at home in future." "Riches bring cares; that's the way I comfort myself in my poverty," remarked Lottie, lightly. "But, Elsie, my dear, don't allow anxious fears to disturb you; we are a very moral people at Lansdale; I never heard of a robbery there yet." "I believe I am naturally rather timid," said Elsie, "yet I seldom suffer from fear. I always feel very safe when papa is near to protect me, and our Heavenly Father's care is always about us." "That reminds me that you have not answered my question," remarked Egerton, switching off the head of a clover-blossom with his cane. "Is the care you speak of one thing of which you feel certain?" "Yes, and there are others." "May I ask what?" She turned her sweet, soft eyes full upon him as she answered in low, clear tones, "'I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) dwelleth no good thing.' 'I know that my Redeemer liveth.' 'I know that it shall be well with them that fear God.'" "You are quoting?" "Yes, from a book that I know is true. Do you doubt it, Mr. Egerton?" "Why, Miss Dinsmore, you do not take me for an infidel, surely?" "No, until to-day I had hoped you were a Christian." Her eyes were downcast now, and there were tears in her voice as she spoke. He saw he had made a false step and lowered himself in her esteem, yet, remembering his talk with Arthur, he felt certain he could more than retrieve that error. And he grew exultant in the thought of the evident pain the discovery of his unbelief had caused her. "She does care for me; I believe the prize is even now almost within my reach," he said to himself, as they silently pursued their way into the town, no one speaking again until they parted at Miss Stanhope's gate. Elsie, usually full of innocent mirth and gladness, was very quiet at dinner that day, and Aunt Wealthy, watching her furtively, thought she noticed an unwonted shade of sadness on the fair face. "What is it, dear?" she asked at length; "something seems to have gone wrong with you." The young girl replied by repeating the substance of the morning's talk with Mr. Egerton, and expressing her disappointment at the discovery that he was not the Christian man she had taken him to be. "Perhaps what you have taken in earnest, was but spoken in jest, my child," said Miss Stanhope. "Ah, auntie, but a Christian surely could not say such things even in jest," she answered, with a little sigh, and a look of sorrowful concern on her face. Half an hour later, Elsie sat reading in the abode of the vine-covered porch, while her aunt enjoyed her customary after-dinner nap. She presently heard the gate swing to, and the next moment Mr. Egerton was helping himself to a seat by her side. "I hope I don't intrude, Miss Dinsmore," he began, assuming a slightly embarrassed air. "Oh, no, not at all," she answered, closing her book; "but aunt is lying down, and--" "Ah, no matter; I wouldn't have her disturbed for the world; and in fact I am rather glad of the opportunity of seeing you alone. I--I have been thinking a good deal of that talk we had this morning, and--I am really quite shocked at the sentiments I then expressed, though they were spoken more than half in jest. Miss Dinsmore, I am not a Christian, but--but I want to be, and would, if I only knew how; and I've come to you to learn the way; for somehow I seem to feel that you could make the thing plainer to me than any one else. What must I do first?" Glad tears shone in the soft eyes she lifted to his face as she answered, "'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.' Believe, 'only believe.'" "But I must do something?" "'Let the wicked forsake his way and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him, and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.'" The man was an arrant knave and hypocrite, simulating anxiety about his soul's salvation only for the purpose of ingratiating himself with Elsie; but "the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God," pricked him for the moment, as she wielded it in faith and prayer. What ways, what thoughts were his! Truly they had need to be forsaken if he would hope ever to see that holy city of which we are told "There shall in no wise enter it anything that defileth, neither whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie." For a moment he sat silent and abashed before the gentle, earnest young Christian, feeling her very purity a reproach, and fearing that she must read his hypocrisy and the baseness of his motives in his countenance. But hers was a most innocent and unsuspicious nature, apt to believe others as true and honest as herself. She went on presently. "It is so beautifully simple and easy,--God's way of saving us poor sinners: it is its very simplicity that so stumbles wise men and women, while little children, in their sweet trustfulness, just taking God at His word, understand it without any difficulty." She spoke in a musing tone, not looking at Egerton at all, but with her eyes fixed meditatingly upon the floor. He perceived that she had no doubts of his sincerity, and rallying from the thrust she had so unconsciously given him, went on with the rôle he had laid down for himself. "I fear I am one of the wise ones you speak of, for I confess I do not see the way yet. Can you not explain it more fully?" "I will try," she said. "You believe that you are a sinner deserving of God's wrath?" "Yes." "You have broken His law, and His justice demands your punishment; but Jesus has kept its requirements, and borne its penalty in your stead, and now offers you his righteousness and salvation as a free gift,--'without money and without price.'" "But what am I to do?" "Simply take the offered gift." "But how? I fear I must seem very obtuse, but I really do not comprehend." "Then ask for the teachings of the Spirit; ask Jesus to give you repentance and faith. 'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you; for every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh, it shall be opened." Elsie's voice was low and pleading, her tones were tremulous with earnest entreaty, the eyes she lifted to his face were half filled with tears; for she felt that the eternal interests of her hearer were trembling in the balance. He looked at her admiringly, and, lost in the contemplation of her beauty, had almost betrayed himself by his want of interest in what she was saying. But just then Miss Stanhope joined them, and shortly after he took his leave. From this time Egerton played his part with consummate skill, deceiving Elsie so completely that she had not the slightest doubt of his being an humble, penitent, rejoicing believer; and great were her joy and thankfulness when he told her that she had been the means of leading him to Christ; that her words had made the way plain to him, as he had never been able to see it before. It seemed to her a very tender, strong tie between them, and he appeared to feel it to be so also. She was not conscious of looking upon him in the light of a lover, but he saw with secret exultation that he was fast winning her heart; he read it in the flushing of her cheek and the brightening of her eye at his approach, and in many other unmistakable signs. He wrote to Arthur that the prize was nearly won; so nearly that he had no doubt of his ultimate success. "And I'll not be long now about finishing up the job," he continued; "it's such precious hard work to be so good and pious all the time, that I can hardly wait till matters are fully ripe for action. I'm in constant danger of letting the mask slip aside in some unguarded moment, and so undoing the whole thing after the world of trouble it has cost me. It's no joke, I can assure you, for a man of my tastes and habits to lead the sort of life I've led for the last three months, I believe I'd give her up this minute, fortune and all, if the winning of them would lay me under the necessity of continuing it for the rest of my days, or even for any length of time. But once the knot is tied, and the property secured, there'll be an end of this farce. I'll let her know I'm done with cant, will neither talk it nor listen to it." Arthur Dinsmore's face darkened as he read, and in a sudden burst of fury he tore the letter into fragments, then threw them into the empty grate. He was not yet so hardened as to feel willing to see Elsie in the power of such a heartless wretch, such a villain as he knew Tom Jackson to be. Many times already had he bitterly repented of having told him of her wealth, and helped him to an acquaintance with her. His family pride revolted against the connection, and some latent affection for his niece prompted him to save her from the life of misery that must be hers as the wife of one so utterly devoid of honor or integrity. Yet Arthur lacked the moral courage to face the disagreeable consequences of a withdrawal from his compact with Jackson, and a confession to his father or Horace of the wretch's designs upon Elsie and his own disgraceful entanglement with him. He concluded to take a middle course. He wrote immediately to Jackson, somewhat haughtily, advising him at once to give up the whole thing. "You will inevitably fail to accomplish your end," he said. "Elsie will never marry without her father's consent, and that you will find it utterly impossible to gain. Horace is too sharp to be hoodwinked or deceived, even by you. He will ferret out your whole past, lay bare the whole black record of your rascalities and hypocrisies, and forbid his daughter ever again to hold the slightest communication with you. And she will obey if it kills her on the spot." "There's some comfort in that last reflection," muttered Arthur to himself, as he folded and sealed his epistle; "no danger of the rascal getting into the family." Two days later, Egerton took this letter from the post-office in Lansdale. He read it with a scowl on his brow. "Ah! I see your game, young man," he muttered with an oath, "but you'll find that you've got hold of the wrong customer. My reply shall be short and sweet, and quite to the point." It ran thus: "Your warning and advice come too late, my young friend; the mischief is already wrought, and however unworthy your humble servant may be deemed by yourself or others of its members to become connected with the illustrious D---- family, they will find they cannot help themselves; the girl loves me, and believes in me, and I defy all the fathers and relations in creation to keep us apart." Then followed some guarded allusions to various sums of borrowed money, and so-called "debts of honor," and to some compact by which they were to be annulled, accompanied by a threat of exposure if that agreement were not kept to the very letter. CHAPTER XVI. Thou shall not see me blush, Nor change my countenance for this arrest. --SHAKESPEARE'S "HENRY VI.," PART II. It was a sultry summer night. In the grounds of one of the largest and most beautiful of the many elegant country seats to be found in the suburbs of Cincinnati two gentlemen were pacing leisurely to and fro. They were friends who had met that day for the first time in several years; strongly attached friends, spite of a very considerable difference in their ages. They had had much to say to each other for the first few hours, but it was now several minutes since either had spoken. The silence was broken by the younger of the two exclaiming in a tone of hearty congratulation, "This is a magnificent place, Beresford! It does my heart good to see you so prosperous!" "It is a fine place, Travilla, but," and he heaved a deep sigh, "I sometimes fear my wealth is to prove anything but a blessing to my children; that in fact my success in acquiring it is to be the ruin of my first-born." "Ah, I hope not! Is Rudolph not doing well?" "Well?" groaned the father, dropping his head upon his breast, "he seems to be rushing headlong to destruction. Have you not noticed his poor mother's sad and careworn look? or mine? That boy is breaking our hearts. I could not speak of it to every one, but to you, my long-tried friend, I feel that I may unburden myself, sure of genuine sympathy--" And he went on to tell how his son, becoming early imbued with the idea that his father's wealth precluded all necessity of exertion on his part, had grown up in habits of idleness that led to dissipation, and going on from bad to worse, was now a drunkard, a gambler, and frequenter of low haunts of vice. "Day and night he is a heavy burden upon our hearts," continued the unhappy father; "when he is with us we find it most distressing to behold the utter wreck his excesses are making of him, and when he is out of our sight it is still worse; for we don't know what sin or danger he may be running into. Indeed at times we are almost distracted. Ah, Travilla, much as I love my wife and children, I am half tempted to envy your bachelor exemption from such care and sorrow!" Mr. Travilla's kind heart was deeply moved. He felt painfully conscious of his own inability to comfort in such sorrow; but spoke of God's power to change the heart of the most hardened sinner, his willingness to save, and his promises to those who seek his aid in the time of trouble. "Thank you. I knew you would feel for us; your sympathy does me good," returned Mr. Beresford, grasping his friend's hand and pressing it between his own; "your words too; for however well we know these truths we are apt to forget them, even when they are most needed. "But it is growing late, and you must be weary after your journey. Let me show you to your room." Three days passed in which Rudolph was not once seen in his home, and his parents were left in ignorance of his whereabouts. They exerted themselves for the pleasure and entertainment of their guest, but he could see plainly that they were enduring torture of anxiety and suspense. Late in the evening of the third day, Mr. Beresford said to him, "My carriage is at the door. I must go into town and search for my boy. I have done so vainly several times since he last left his home, but I must try again to-night. Will you go with me?" Travilla consented with alacrity, and they set out at once. While on their way to the city Mr. Beresford explained that, for some time past, he had had reason to fear that his son was frequenting one of its gambling-hells; that thus far he had failed in his efforts to gain admittance, in order to search for him; but to-day, a professed gambler, well known in the house; had come to him and offered his assistance. "As his convoy, I think we shall get in," added Mr. Beresford. "I cannot fathom the man's motives, but suspect he owes a grudge to a newcomer, who, he says, is winning large sums from Rudolph. I shall drive to Smith's livery stable, leave my horse and carriage there, then walk on to the place, which is only a few squares distant. Our guide is to meet us at the first corner from Smith's." This programme was carried out, their guide was in waiting at the appointed place, and at once conducted them to the gambling-house Mr. Beresford had spoken of. They were admitted without question or demur, and in another moment found themselves standing beside a table where a number of men were at play, nearly all so absorbed in their game as to seem entirely unconscious of the presence of spectators. Two of them, pitted against each other, and both young, though there must have been several years' difference in their ages, particularly attracted Travilla's attention; and glancing at his friend, he saw that it was the same with him,--that his eyes were fixed upon the face of the younger of the two, with an expression of keen distress, while he trembled with emotion, and almost gasped for breath, as he leaned toward him, and whispered, "It is he--my son." At the same instant the young man's face grew deadly pale, he started up with a wild, ringing cry, "I am ruined!" drew a pistol from his breast, and placed the muzzle to his mouth. But Mr. Travilla, springing forward, struck it from his hand ere he could pull the trigger. A scene of much excitement and confusion followed, in the midst of which young Beresford was led away by his father and Travilla. A week later the latter gentleman reached Lansdale, arriving there in the early morning train. He put up at its principal hotel, and having refreshed himself by a few hours' sleep, a bath, and breakfast, inquired the way to Miss Stanhope's. Elsie was just coming down the front stairway, as he appeared before the open door, and was about to ring for admittance. "Oh, Mr. Travilla, my dear old friend! who would have expected to see you here?" she cried, in delighted surprise, as she bounded forward to meet him, with both hands extended in joyous greeting. He took them in his, and kissed her first on one cheek, then on the other. "Still fresh and blooming as a rose, and with the same happy light in the sweet brown eyes," he said, gazing fondly into their tender depths. "And you are the same old flatterer," she answered gayly, a rich color mantling her cheek. "Come in and sit down. But oh, tell me when did you see papa last? and mamma, and little Horace? Ah! the sight of you makes me homesick for them." "I left them at Cape May, about a fortnight since, all well and happy, but missing you very much. I think papa will hardly be able to do without his darling much longer." "Nor his darling without him. Oh, dear! sometimes I get to wanting him so badly that I feel as if I should have to write to him to come for me at once. But excuse me while I go and call Aunt Wealthy." "Not yet; let us have a little chat together first." Of course, after so long a separation, such old and tried friends would find a great deal to say to each other. The time slipped away very fast, and half an hour afterward Mr. Egerton, coming in without ringing--a liberty he sometimes took of late--found them seated close together on the sofa, talking earnestly, Elsie with her hand in that of her friend, and a face even brighter and happier than its wont. Mr. Travilla had one of those faces that often seem to come to a stand-still as regards age, and to scarcely know any change for many years. He was at this time thirty-four, but would have passed readily for twenty-five. Egerton thought him no more than that, and at once took him for a successful rival. "Excuse me, Miss Dinsmore," he said, bowing stiffly, "I should have waited to ring, but--" "Oh, never mind, Mr. Egerton," she said; "let me introduce you to my old friend, Mr. Travilla--" But she stopped in astonishment and dismay. Mr. Travilla had risen, and the two stood confronting each other like mortal foes. Mr. Travilla was the first to speak. "I have met you before, sir!" he said with stern indignation. "Indeed! that must be a mistake, sir, for upon my word and honor I never set eyes on you before." "Your honor! the honor of a sharper, a black-leg, a ----" "Sir, do you mean to insult me? by what right do you apply such epithets to me? Pray where did you ever meet me?" "In a gambling-hell in Cincinnati; the time, one week ago to-night; the occasion, the playing of a game of cards between young Beresford and yourself in which you were the winner--by what knavery you best know--the stakes so heavy that, on perceiving that he had lost, the young man cried out that he was ruined, and in his mad despair attempted self-destruction. It is quite possible that you may not have observed me in the crowd that gathered about your wretched victim; but I can never forget the face of the man who had wrought his ruin." Egerton's countenance expressed the utmost astonishment and incredulity. "I have not been in Cincinnati for two months," he averred, "and all I know of that affair I have learned from the daily papers. But I shall not stay here to be insulted by you, sir. Good-afternoon, Miss Dinsmore. I hope to be allowed an early opportunity to explain this, and to be able to do so to your entire satisfaction." He bowed and withdrew, hastening from the house with the rapid step of one who is filled with a just indignation. Mr. Travilla turned to Elsie. She was sitting there on the sofa, with her hands clasped in her lap, and a look of terror and anguish on her face, from which every trace of color had fled. His own grew almost as pale, and his voice shook, as again sitting down beside her, and laying his hand on hers, he said, "My poor child! can it be possible that you care for that wretch?" "Oh, don't!" she whispered hoarsely and turning away her face; "I cannot believe it; there must be some dreadful mistake." Then, recovering her composure by a mighty effort, she rose and introduced her aunt, who entered the room at that moment. Mr. Travilla sat for some time conversing with her, Elsie joining in occasionally, but with a tone and manner from which all the brightness and vivacity had fled; then he went away, declining a pressing invitation to stay to dinner, but promising to be there to tea. The moment he was gone Miss Stanhope was busied in beating up her cushions, and Elsie flew to her room, where she walked back and forth in a state of great agitation. But the dinner-bell rang, and composing herself as well as she could, she went down. Her cheeks were burning, and she seemed unnaturally gay, but ate very little as her aunt noticed with concern. The meal was scarcely over, when a ring at the door-bell was followed by the sound of Mr. Egerton's voice asking for Miss Dinsmore. "Ah!" said Miss Stanhope with an arch smile, "he does not ask this hour for me; knowing it's the time of my siesta." Elsie found Egerton pacing the parlor floor to and fro. He took her hand, led her to the sofa, and sitting down by her side, began at once to defend himself against Mr. Travilla's charge. He told her he had never been guilty of gambling; he had "sowed some wild oats," years ago--getting slightly intoxicated on two or three occasions, and things of that sort--but it was all over and repented of; and surely she could not think it just and right that it should be brought up against him now. As to Mr. Travilla's story--the only way he could account for the singular mistake was in the fact that he had a cousin who bore the same name as himself, and resembled him so closely that they had been frequently mistaken for each other. And that cousin, most unfortunately, especially on account of the likeness, did both drink and gamble. He was delighted by the look of relief that came over Elsie's face, as he told her this. She cared for him, then; yet her confidence had been shaken. "Ah, you doubted me, then?" he said in a tone of sorrowful reproach. "Oh! I could not bear to think it possible. I was sure there must be a mistake somewhere," she said with a beautiful smile. "But you are quite satisfied now?" "Quite." Then he told her he loved her very dearly, better than his own soul; that he found he could not live without her; life would not be worth having, unless she would consent to share it with him. "Would she, oh! would she promise some day to be his own precious little wife?" Elsie listened with downcast, blushing face, and soft eyes beaming with joy; for the events of that day had revealed to her the fact that this man had made himself master of her heart. "Will you not give to me a word of hope?" pleaded Egerton. "I--I cannot, must not, without my father's permission," she faltered, "and oh! he forbade me to listen to anything of the kind. I am too young he says." "When was that?" "Three years ago." "Ah! but you are older now; and you will let me write and ask his consent? I may say that you are not quite indifferent to me?" "Yes," she murmured, turning her sweet, blushing face away from his ardent gaze. "Thank you, dearest, a thousand thanks!" he cried, pressing her hand in his. "And now may I ask who and what that Mr. Travilla is?" She explained, winding up by saying that he was much like a second father to her. "Father!" he exclaimed, "he doesn't look a day over twenty-five." "He is about two years younger than papa and doesn't look any younger, I think," she answered with a smile. "But strangers are very apt to take papa for my brother." Egerton left an hour before Mr. Travilla came, and that hour Elsie spent in her own room in a state of great excitement,--now full of the sweet joy of loving and being loved, now trembling with apprehension at the thought of the probable effect of Mr. Travilla's story upon her father. She was fully convinced of Egerton's truth and innocence; yet quite aware that his explanation might not prove so satisfactory to Mr. Dinsmore. "Oh, papa, papa!" she murmured, as she paced restlessly to and fro, "how can I obey if you bid me give him up? And yet I must. I know it will be my duty, and that I must." "What a color you hab in your cheeks, darlin'! an' how your eyes do shine. I'se 'fraid you's gettin' a fever," said Chloe, with an anxious, troubled gaze into her young lady's face, as she came in to dress her for the evening. "Oh, no, mammy, I am perfectly well," Elsie answered with a slight laugh. Then seating herself before the glass, "Now do your best," she said gayly, "for we are to have company to tea. I doubt if you can guess whom?" "Den 'spose my pet saves her ole mammy de trouble. 'Taint massa, for sure?" "No, not quite so welcome a guest; but one you'll be delighted to see. Mr. Travilla." "Ki, darlin'! he not here?" "Yes, he came this morning. Ah! I knew you'd be delighted." Elsie knew that it would require the very strongest proof to convince her father of the truth of Mr. Egerton's story, but hoped to find Mr. Travilla much more ready to give it credence. She was proportionably disappointed when, on hearing it from her, he scouted it as utterly unworthy of belief, or even examination. "No, my child," he said, "the man's face is indelibly impressed upon my memory, and I can not be mistaken in his identity." Elsie's face flushed crimson, and indignant tears sprang to her eyes and trembled in her voice as she answered, "I never knew you so uncharitable before, sir. I could not have believed it of my kind-hearted, generous old friend." He gave her a very troubled, anxious look, as he replied, "Why should you take it so to heart, Elsie? Surely this man is nothing to you." "He is to be some day, if papa will permit," she murmured, turning away her blushing face from his gaze. Mr. Travilla uttered a groan, made two or three rapid turns across the room, and coming back to her side, laid his hand in an affectionate, fatherly manner upon her shoulder. "My dear," he said with emotion, "I don't know when I have heard anything that distressed me so much; or that could give such pain and distress to your doting father." "Mr. Travilla, you will not, you cannot be so unkind, so cruel, as to try to persuade papa to think as you do of--of Mr. Egerton?" Her tone was half indignant, half imploring, and her eyes were lifted pleadingly to his face. "My poor child," he said, "I could not be so cruel to you as to leave him in ignorance of any of the facts; but I shall not attempt to bias his judgment; nor would it avail if I did. Your father is an independent thinker, and will make up his mind for himself." "And against poor Bromly," thought Elsie, with an emotion of anguish, and something akin to rebellion rising in her heart. Mr. Travilla read it all in her speaking countenance. "Do not fear your father's decision, my little friend." he said, sitting down beside her again, "he is very just, and you are as the apple of his eye. He will sift the matter thoroughly, and decide as he shall deem best for your happiness. Can you not trust his wisdom and his love?" "I know he loves me very dearly, Mr. Travilla, but--he is only human, and may make a mistake." "Then try to leave it all in the hands of your heavenly Father, who cannot err, who is infinite in wisdom, power, and in His love for you." "I will try," she said with a quivering lip. "Now please talk to me of something else. Tell me of that young man. Did you say he shot himself?" "Young Beresford, my friend's son? No, he was prevented." And he went on to tell of Rudolph's horror and remorse on account of that rash act, and of the excesses that led to it; also of the trembling hope his parents and friends were beginning to indulge that he was now truly penitent, and, clothed in his right mind, was sitting at the Saviour's feet. Elsie listened with interest. They had had the parlor to themselves for an hour or more, Miss Stanhope having received an unexpected summons to the bedside of a sick neighbor. She was with them at tea, and during most of the evening, but left them alone together for a moment just before Mr. Travilla took his leave, and he seized the opportunity to say to Elsie that he thought she ought to refrain from further intercourse with Egerton till she should learn her father's will in regard to the matter. "I cannot promise--I will think of it," she said with a look of distress. "You write frequently to your papa?" "Every day." "I know you would not wish to deceive him in the least. Will you tell him what I conceive to be the facts in regard to Mr. Egerton? or shall I?" "I cannot, oh, I cannot!" she murmured, turning away her face. "Then I shall spare you the painful task, by, doing it myself, my poor child. I shall write to-night." She was silent, but he could see the tumultuous heaving of her breast, and the tears glistening on the heavy drooping lashes that swept her pale cheek. His heart bled for her, while his indignation waxed hot against the hypocritical scoundrel who, he feared, had succeeded only too well in wrecking her happiness. She had described to him Egerton's character as he had made it appear to her, telling of their conversations on religious subjects, his supposed conversion, etc., etc.; thus unintentionally enabling Travilla to see clearly through the man's base designs. He silently resolved to stay in Lansdale and watch over her until her father's arrival. "You ride out daily?" he inquired. "Yes, sir." "May I be your escort to-morrow?" She cast down her eyes, which she had lifted to his face for an instant, blushing painfully. It seemed an effort for her to reply, and the words came slowly, and with hesitation. "I--should be glad to have you, sir; you know I have always valued your society, but--Mr. Egerton always goes with us--Lottie King and me--of late; and--and I can hardly suppose either of you would now find the company of the other agreeable." "No, Elsie; but what do you think your father would wish?" "I know he would be glad to have me under your care, and if you don't mind the unpleasantness." "My dear, I would cheerfully endure far more than that, to watch over your father's child. You will not let this unhappy circumstance turn you against your old friend? I could hardly bear that, little Elsie." And he drew her toward him caressingly. "Oh, no, no! I don't think anything could do that; you've always been so good to me--almost a second father." He released her hand with a slight involuntary sigh, as at that instant Miss Stanhope re-entered the room. The two were standing by the piano, Mr. Travilla having risen from one of the cushioned chairs to draw near to Elsie while talking to her. Miss Stanhope flew to the chair, caught up the cushion, shook it, laid it down again, and with two or three little loving pats restored it to its normal condition of perfect roundness. Mr. Travilla watched her with a surprised, puzzled look. "Have I done any mischief, Elsie?" he asked in an undertone. "Oh, no!" she answered with a faint smile, "it's only auntie's way." Their visitor had gone, and Elsie turned to her aunt to say good-night. "Something is wrong with you, child; can't you tell the trouble to your old auntie, and let her try to comfort you?" Miss Stanhope asked, putting an arm about the slender waist, and scanning the sweet face, usually so bright and rosy, now so pale and agitated, with a look of keen but loving scrutiny. Then, in broken words, and with many a little half-sobbing sigh and one or two scalding tears, hastily brushed away, Elsie told the whole painful story, secure of warm sympathy from the kind heart to which she was so tenderly folded. Miss Stanhope believed in Bromly Egerton almost as firmly as Elsie herself; what comfort there was in that! She believed too in the inspired assurances that "all things work together for good to them that love God," and that He is the hearer and answerer of prayer. She reminded her niece of them; bade her cast her burden on the Lord and leave it there, and cheered her with the hope that Bromly would be able to prove to her father that Mr. Travilla was entirely mistaken. CHAPTER XVII. My heart has been like summer skies, When they are fair to view; But there never yet were hearts or skies Clouds might not wander through. --MRS. L.P. SMITH. Walter Dinsmore was doing well at college, studying hard, and keeping himself out of bad company. In this last he might not have been so successful but for his brother's assistance; for, though choosing his own associates from among the dissolute and vile, Arthur resolutely exerted himself to preserve this young brother from such contamination. "I've enough sins of my own to answer for, Wal," he would say, sometimes almost fiercely, "and I won't have any of yours added to 'em; nobody shall say I led you into bad company, or initiated you into my own evil courses." For months Arthur's spirits had been very variable, his frequent fits of gloom, alternating with unnatural gayety, exciting Walter's wonder and sympathy. "I cannot imagine what ails him," he said to himself again and again; for Arthur utterly refused to tell him the secret of his despondency. It had been almost constant since the receipt of Egerton's last epistle, and Walter was debating in his own mind whether he ought not to speak of it in his next letter to their mother, when one night he was wakened by a sudden blow from Arthur's hand, and started up to find him rolling and tossing, throwing his arms about, and muttering incoherently in the delirium of fever. It was the beginning of a very serious illness. It was pronounced such by the physician called in by Walter at an early hour the next morning, and the boy sat down with a heavy heart to write the sad tidings to his parents. While doing so he was startled by hearing Arthur pronounce Elsie's name in connection with words that seemed to imply that some danger threatened her. He rose and went to the bedside, asking, "What's wrong with Elsie, Art?" "I say, Tom Jackson, she'll never take you. Horace won't consent." "I should think not, indeed!" muttered Walter. Then leaning over his brother, "Art, I say, Art! what is it all about? Has Tom Jackson gone to Lansdale?" No answer, save an inarticulate murmur that might be either assent or dissent. The doctor had promised to send a nurse and, as Walter now glanced about the room, the thought occurred to him that it would seem very disorderly to the woman. Arthur's clothes lay in a heap over the back of a chair, just as he had thrown them down on retiring. "I can at least hang these in the closet," thought Walter, picking up the jacket. A letter fell from the pocket upon the floor. "Jackson's handwriting, I declare!" he exclaimed, with a start of surprise, as he stooped to pick it up. It was without an envelope, written in a bold, legible hand, and unintentionally he read the date, "Lansdale, Ohio, Aug. -- 185-," and farther down the page some parts of sentences connected with the "D---- family" ... "can't help themselves" ... "the girl loves me and believes in me." He glanced at the bed. Arthur's eyes were closed. He looked down at the letter again; there was the signature "T. J., alias B. E." "It's a conspiracy; there's mischief brewing, and I believe I ought to read it," he muttered; then, turning his back toward the bed, perused every word of it with close attention. It was sufficient to give him a clear insight into the whole affair. Elsie's letters had of late spoken quite frequently of Mr. Bromly Egerton, and so he was the "T. J., alias B. E." of this epistle, the Tom Jackson who had been the ruin of Arthur. "The wretch! the sneaking, hypocritical scoundrel!" muttered Walter between his teeth, and glancing again at the bed, though the epithet was meant to apply to Jackson and not to Arthur. "What can I do to circumvent him? Write to Horace, of course, and warn him of Elsie's danger." And though usually vacillating and infirm of purpose, on this occasion Walter showed himself both prompt and decided. The next mail carried the news of his discovery to Elsie's natural protector,--her father, who with Rose, the Allison family, and little Horace, was still at Cape May. This letter and the three from Lansdale were handed Mr. Dinsmore together. He opened Elsie's first. The contents puzzled, surprised, and alarmed him. They were merely a few hastily written lines of touching entreaty that he would not be angry, but would please forgive her for giving her heart to one of whom he knew nothing, and daring to let him speak to her of love; and that he would not believe anything against him until he had heard his defence. With a murmured "My poor darling! you have been too long away from your father," Mr. Dinsmore laid it down and opened the one directed in a strange hand; rightly supposing it to come from the person to whom she alluded. Egerton spoke in glowing terms of his admiration for Elsie's character and personal charms, and the ardent love with which they had inspired him, and modestly of his own merits. Ignoring all knowledge of her fortune, he said that he had none, but was engaged in a flourishing business which would enable him to support her in comfort and to surround her with most of the elegancies and luxuries of life to which she had been accustomed. Lastly he alluded in a very pious strain to the deep debt of gratitude he owed her as the one who had been the means of his hopeful conversion; said she had acknowledged that she returned his affection, and earnestly begged for the gift of her hand. Mr. Dinsmore gave this missive an attentive perusal, laid it aside, and opened Mr. Travilla's. Rose was in the room, putting little Horace to bed. She had heard his little prayer, given him his good-night kiss, and now the child ran to his father to claim the same from him. It was given mechanically, and Mr. Dinsmore returned to his letter. The child lingered a moment, gazing earnestly into his father's face, troubled by its paleness and the frown on his brow. "Papa," he said softly, leaning with confiding affection upon his knee, "dear papa, are you angry with me? have I been a naughty boy, to-day?" "No, son; but I am reading; don't disturb me now." Mr. Dinsmore's hand rested caressingly on the curly head for an instant and the boy turned away satisfied. But Rose was not. Coming to her husband's side the next moment, and laying her hand affectionately on his shoulder, "What is it, dear?" she asked, "has anything gone wrong with our darling, or at home?" "Trouble for her, I fear, Rose. Read these," he answered with emotion, putting Elsie's, Egerton's, and Travilla's letters into her hands, then opening Walter's. "Travilla is right! the man is an unmitigated scoundrel!" he cried, starting up with great excitement. "Rose, I must be off by the next train; it leaves in half an hour. I shall go alone and take only a portmanteau with me. Can it be got ready in season?" "Yes, dear, I will pack it at once myself. But what is wrong? Where are you going? and how long will you be away?" "To my brother's first--Arthur is seriously ill, and I must get hold of evidence that Walter can supply--then on to Lansdale with all speed to rescue Elsie from the wiles of a gambling, swindling, hypocritical, fortune-hunting rascal!" At a very early hour of the next morning, Walter Dinsmore was roused from his slumbers by, a knock at his door. "Who's there?" he asked, starting up in bed. "I, Walter," answered a well-known voice, and with a joyful exclamation he sprang to the door, and opened it. "Horace! how glad I am to see you! I hardly dared hope you could get here so soon." "Your news was of the sort to hasten a man's movements," returned Mr. Dinsmore, holding the lad's hand in a warm brotherly grasp. "How are you? and how's Arthur now?" "About the same. Hark! you may hear him moaning and muttering. This is our study. I have had that cot-bed brought in here, and given up the bedroom to him and the nurse; though I'm with him a good deal too." "You have a good nurse, and the best medical advice?" "Yes." "You must see that he has every comfort, Walter; let no expense be spared, nothing left undone that may alleviate his sufferings or assist his recovery. What is the physician's opinion of the case?" "He is not very communicative to me; may be more so to you. You'll stay and see him when he calls, won't you?" "What time? I must be off again by the first train. I want to reach Lansdale to-morrow." "It will give you time to do that. He calls early." "Now take me to Arthur; and then I must see that letter, and hear all you have to tell me in regard to that matter." "What does Elsie say?" asked Walter, with intense interest; "do you think she cares for him?" "I'm afraid she does," and Mr. Dinsmore shook his head sadly. "Oh, dear! but you won't allow--" "Certainly not; 'twould be to entail upon her a life of misery." "It's her fortune he's after, that's evident, and indeed I would hurry to Lansdale, if I were you, lest they might take it into their heads to elope. Such a shame as it would be for him to get her--the dear, sweet darling!" "I have no fear that Elsie could ever be so lost to her sense of filial duty; nor, I am sure, have you, Walter," answered Mr. Dinsmore gravely. "No, Horace; and it's the greatest relief and comfort to me just now to know how truly obedient and affectionate she is to you." Horace Dinsmore omitted nothing that he could do to add to the comfort of his brothers, saw the physician and learned from him that he had good hopes of a naturally vigorous constitution bringing Arthur safely through the attack from which he was suffering, examined the evidence Walter was able to furnish that Bromly Egerton and Tom Jackson were one and the same--a man in whom every vice abounded--found time to show an interest in Walter's studies and pastimes, and was ready to leave by the train of which he had spoken. Jackson had not been wary enough to disguise his hand in either the letter that had fallen from Arthur's pocket, or the one written to Mr. Dinsmore, and a careful comparison of the two had proved conclusively that they were the work of the same person. The broken sentences that occasionally fell from Arthur's lips in his delirious ravings furnished another proof not less strong. Also Walter had managed to secure an excellent photograph of Jackson, which Mr. Dinsmore carried with him, safely bestowed in the breast-pocket of his coat. He had studied it attentively and felt sure he should be able instantly to recognize the original. Bromly Egerton lay awake most of the night following his passage at arms with Mr. Travilla, considering the situation, and how he would be most likely to secure the coveted prize. He remembered perfectly well all that Arthur Dinsmore had said about the difficulty of deceiving or outwitting his brother, and the impossibility of persuading Elsie to disobedience. Of the latter, he had had convincing proof that day, in her firm refusal to engage herself to him without first obtaining her father's consent. The conclusion he came to was, that should he remain inactive until Mr. Dinsmore's arrival, his chances of success were exceedingly small; in fact that his only hope lay in running away with Elsie, and afterwards persuading her into a clandestine marriage. Their ride was to be taken shortly after an early breakfast, there being a sort of tacit understanding that he was to accompany the young ladies; but before Elsie had left her room, Chloe came up with a message. "Marse Egerton in de parlor, darlin', axin could he see my young missis for five minutes, just now." Elsie went down at once. Her visitor stood with his back toward the door, apparently intently studying the pattern of her great-great-grandmother's sampler, but turning instantly at the sound of the light, quick footstep, came eagerly toward her with outstretched hand. "Excuse this early call, dearest, but--ah, how lovely you are looking this morning!" and bending his head he drew her toward him. But she stepped back, avoiding the intended caress, while a crimson tide rushed over the fair face and neck, and her eyes sought the carpet. "We are not engaged, Mr. Egerton; cannot be till papa has given consent." "I beg ten thousand pardons," he said, coloring violently in his turn, and feeling his hopes grow fainter. "Will you not take a seat?" she asked, gently withdrawing her hand from his. "Thank you, no; I have but a moment to stay. My errand was to ask if we could not so arrange it as, for once at least, to have our ride alone together? Miss Lottie is a very nice girl, but I would give much to have my darling all to myself to-day." "I would like it much too, very much, but papa bade me always have a lady friend with me; and--and besides," she added with hesitation, and blushing more deeply than before, "papa's friend. Mr. Travilla, is to go with us. I--I have promised that he shall be my escort to-day." Egerton was furious, and had much ado to conceal the fact; indeed, came very near uttering a horrible oath, and thus forever ruining his hopes. He bit his lips and kept silent, but Elsie saw that he was angry. "Do not be offended or hurt," she said; "do not suppose that I followed my own inclination in consenting to such an arrangement. No, I only acted from a sense of duty; knowing that it was what papa would wish." "And you would put his wishes before mine? Love him best, I presume?" "He is my father, and entitled to my obedience, whether present or absent." "But what very strict ideas you must have on that subject! do you really think it your duty to obey his wishes as well as his command?" "I do; that is the kind of obedience he has taught me, that the Bible teaches, and that my love for him would dictate. I love my father very dearly, Mr. Egerton." "I should think so, indeed; but you must pardon me if at present I am far more concerned about your love for me," he said, with a forced laugh. "As for this Travilla, I can hardly be expected to feel any great cordiality toward him after his attack upon me yesterday; and I am free to confess that it would not cause me great grief to learn that some sudden illness or accident had occurred to prevent his spoiling our ride to-day." "Your feelings are perfectly natural; but, believe me, Mr. Travilla has the kindest of hearts, and when he learns his mistake will be most anxious to do all in his power to make amends for it. Will you stay and take breakfast with us?" For at that instant the bell rang. "No, thank you," he said, moving toward the door. "But promise me, Elsie, that I shall be your escort after this until your father comes. Surely love may claim so small a concession from duty." She could not resist his persuasive look and tone, but with a smile and a blush gave the promise for which he pleaded. Procuring as fine a horse as his landlord could furnish, Mr. Travilla rode to Miss Stanhope's, and alighting at the gate, walked up to the house. He found its mistress on the front porch, picking dead leaves from her vines. She had mounted a step ladder to reach some that otherwise were too high up for her small stature. Turning at the sound of his approach, "Good-morning, sir," she said. "You see I'm like the sycamore tree that climbed into Zaccheus. Shortness is inconvenient at times. My, what a jar!" as she came down rather hard, missing the last step--"I feel it from the crown of my foot to the sole of my head. Here, Simon, take away this ladder-step; the next time I want it I think I'll do without; I'm growing so old in my clumsy age. Walk in and take a seat, Mr. Torville. Or shall we sit here? It's pleasanter than indoors I think." "I agree with you," he said, accepting her invitation with a smile at the oddity of her address. "You have a fine view here." They sat there conversing for some time before Elsie made her appearance, Mr. Travilla both charmed and amused with his companion, and she liking him better every moment. When Elsie did come down at last, looking wondrous sweet and fair in a pretty, coquettish riding hat and habit, her aunt informed her that she had been urging "Mr. Vanilla" to come and make his home with them while in town, and that he had consented to let her send Simon at once for his trunk. "If it will be agreeable to my little friend to have me here?" Mr. Travilla said, taking her hand in his with the affectionate, fatherly manner she had always liked so much in him. Her face flushed slightly, but she answered without an instant's hesitation that she hoped he would come. The horses were already at the gate, Egerton was seen crossing the street, and Lottie came tripping in at a side entrance. She had heard a good deal of Mr. Travilla from Elsie, and seemed pleased to make his acquaintance. Egerton came in, he and Mr. Travilla exchanged the coldest and most distant of salutations, and the party set off; Mr. Travilla riding by Elsie's side, Egerton and Lottie following a little in their rear. Finding it almost a necessity to devote himself to Miss King for the time being, Egerton! took a sudden resolution to make a partial confidante of her, hoping thus to secure a powerful ally. He told her of the state of affairs between Elsie and himself, of Mr. Travilla's "attack upon him;" how "utterly mistaken" it was, and how he presumed "the mistake" had occurred; giving the story he had told Elsie of the cousin who bore so strong a likeness to him, and so bad a character. He professed the most ardent, devoted affection for Elsie, and the most torturing fears lest her father, crediting him with his cousin's vices, should forbid the match and crush all his hopes. The warm-hearted, innocent girl believed every word, and rushing into her friend's room on their return, threw her arms about her, and hugging her close, told her she knew all, was so, so sorry for her, and for poor Egerton; and begged her not to allow anything to make her give him up and break his heart. Elsie returned the embrace, shed a few tears, but answered not a word. "You do believe in him? and won't give him up; will you?" persisted Lottie. "I do believe in him, and will not give him up unless--unless papa commands it," Elsie answered in a choking voice. "I wouldn't for that!" cried Lottie. "'Children, obey your parents,'" repeated her friend, tears filling the soft brown eyes, and glistening on the drooping lashes. "It is God's command." "But you are not a child any longer." "I am papa's child; I always shall be. Oh, it would break my heart if ever he should disown me and say, 'You are no longer my child!'" "How you do love him!" "Better than my life!" Mr. Travilla was already established at Miss Stanhope's, and very glad to be there, that he might keep the more careful and constant watch and ward over his "little friend." Thoroughly convinced of the vileness of the wretch who had won her unsuspicious heart, he could scarce brook the thought of leaving her alone with him, or of seeing him draw close to her side, touch her hand, or look into the soft, sweet eyes so full of purity and innocence. Yet these things no one but her father might forbid, and Mr. Travilla would not force his companionship upon Elsie when he saw or felt that it was distasteful to her. The lovers were frequently left to themselves in the parlor or upon the porch, though the friendly guardian, dreading he hardly knew what, took care always to be within call. Elsie longed for, yet dreaded her father's coming. She knew he would not delay one moment longer than necessary after receiving their letters, yet he reached Lansdale almost a day sooner than she expected him. Sitting alone in her room, she heard his voice and step in the hall below. She flew down to meet him. "Oh, papa, dear, dear papa!" "My darling, precious child!" And her arms were about his neck, his straining her to his heart. The next moment she lifted her face, and her eyes sought his with a wistful, pleading, questioning look. He drew her into the sitting-room, and Miss Stanhope closed the door, leaving them alone. "My darling," he said, "you must give him up; he is utterly unworthy of you." "Oh, papa! would you break my heart?" "My precious one, I would save you from a life of misery." "Ah, papa! you would never say that if you knew how--how I love him," she murmured, a deep blush suffusing her face. "Hush! it horrifies me to hear you speak so of so vile a wretch,--a drinking, swearing gambler, swindler, and rake; for I have learned that he is all these." "Papa, it is not true! I will not hear such things said of him, even by you!" she cried, the hot blood dyeing her face and neck, and the soft eyes filling with indignant tears. He put his finger upon her lips. "My daughter forgets to whom she is speaking," he said with something of the old sternness, though there was tender pity also in his tones. "Oh, papa, I am so wretched!" she sobbed, hiding her face on his breast. "Oh, don't believe what they say; it isn't, it can't be true." He caressed her silently, then taking the photograph from his pocket, asked, "Do you know that face?" "Yes, it is his." "I knew it, and it is also the face of the man whose character I have just described." "Oh, no, papa!" and with breathless eagerness she repeated the story with which Egerton had swept away all her doubts. She read incredulity in her father's face, "You do not believe it, papa?" "No, my child, no more than I do black is white. See here!" and he produced Egerton's letter to him, and the one to Arthur, made her read and compare them, and gave her the further proofs Walter had furnished. She grew deathly pale, but was no more ready to be convinced than he. "Oh, papa, there must be some dreadful mistake! I cannot believe he could be guilty of such things. The cousin has been personating him, has forged that letter, perhaps; and the photograph may be his also." "You are not using your good common-sense, Elsie; the proof is very full and clear to my mind. The man is a fortune-hunter, seeking your wealth, not you; a scoundrel whose vices should shut him out of all decent society. I can hardly endure the thought that he has ever known you, or dared to address a word to you, and it must never be again." "Must I give him up?" she asked with pale, quivering lips. "You must, my daughter; at once and for ever." A look of anguish swept over her face, then she started, flushed, and trembled, as a voice and step were heard on the porch without. "It is he?" her father said inquiringly, and her look answered, "Yes." He rose to his feet, for they had been sitting side by side on the sofa while they talked. She sprang up also, and clinging to his arm, looked beseechingly into his face, pleading in a hoarse whisper, "Papa, you will let me see him, speak to him once more?--just a few words--in your presence--oh, papa!" "No, my darling, no; his touch, his breath, are contamination; his very look is pollution, and shall never rest upon you again if I can prevent it. Remember you are never to hold any communication with him again--by word, letter, or in any other way; I positively forbid it; you must never look at him, or intentionally allow him a sight of your face. I must go now, and send him away." He held her to his heart as he spoke; his tone was affectionate, but very firm, and decided; he kissed her tenderly, two or three times, placed her in an easy-chair, saying, "Stay here till I come to you," and left the room. For a moment she lay back against the cushions like one stunned by a heavy blow; then, roused by the sound of the voices of the two she loved best on earth, started and leaned forward in a listening attitude, straining her ear to catch their words. Few of them reached her, but her father's tones were cold and haughty, Egerton's at first persuasive, then loud, angry, and defiant. He was gone, she had heard the last echo of his departing footsteps, and again her father bent over her, his face full of tender pity. She lifted her sad face to his, with the very look that had taunted him for years, that he could never recall without a pang of regret and remorse--that pleading, mournful gaze with which she had parted from him in the time of their estrangement. It almost unmanned him now, almost broke his heart. "Don't, my darling, don't look at me so," he said in low, moved tones, taking her cold hands in his. "You don't know, precious one, how willingly your father would bear all this pain for you if he could." She threw herself upon his breast, and folding her close to his heart, he caressed her with exceeding tenderness, calling her by every fond, endearing name. For many minutes she received it all passively, then suddenly raising her head, she returned one passionate embrace, withdrew herself from his arms, and hurried from the room. He let her go unquestioned; he knew she went to seek comfort and support from One nearer and dearer, and better able to give it than himself. He rose and walked the room with a sad and troubled countenance, and a heart filled with grief for his child, with anger and indignation toward the wretch who had wrecked her happiness. Miss Stanhope opened the door and looked in. "You have had no dinner, Horace. It will be ready in a few moments." "Thank you, aunt. I will go up to my room first and try to get rid of some of the dust and dirt I have brought with me." "Stay a moment, nephew. I am sorely troubled for the child. You don't approve of her choice?" "Very far from it. I have forbidden the man ever to come near her again." "But you won't be hard with her, poor dear?" "Hard with her, Aunt Wealthy? hard and cruel to my darling whom I love better than my life? I trust not; but it would be the height of cruelty to allow this thing to go on. The man is a vile wretch guilty of almost every vice, and seeking my child for her wealth, not for herself. I have forbidden her to see or ever to hold the slightest communication with him again." "Well, it is quite right if your opinion of him is correct; and I hardly think she is likely to refuse submission." "I have brought up my daughter to habits of strict, unquestioning obedience, Aunt Wealthy," he said, "and I think they will stand her in good stead now. I have no fear that she will rebel." A half hour with her best Friend had done much to soothe and calm our sweet Elsie; she had cast her burden on the Lord and He sustained her. She knew that no trial could come to her without His will, that He had permitted this for her good, that in His own good time and way He would remove it, and she was willing to leave it all with Him; for was He not all-wise, all-powerful, and full of tenderest, pitying love for her? She had great faith in the wisdom and love of her earthly father also, and doubted not that he was doing what he sincerely believed to be for her happiness,--giving her present pain only in order to save her from keener and more lasting distress and anguish in the future. It was well for her that she had such trust in him and that their mutual love was so deep and strong; well too that she was troubled with no doubts of the duty of implicit obedience to parental authority when not opposed to the higher commands of God. Her heart still clung to Egerton, refusing to credit his utter unworthiness, and she felt it a bitter trial to be thus completely separated from him, yet hoped that at some future, and perhaps not distant day, he might be able to convince her father of his mistake. Mr. Dinsmore felt it impossible to remain long away from his suffering child; after leaving the table, a few moments only were spent in conversation with his aunt and Mr. Travilla, and then he sought his darling in her room. "My poor little pet, you have been too long away from your father," he said, taking her in his arms again. "I shall never forgive myself for allowing it. But, daughter, why was this thing suffered to go on? Your letters never spoke of this man in a way to lead me to suppose that he was paying you serious attention; and indeed I did not intend to permit that from any one yet." "Papa, I did not deceive you intentionally, I did not mean to be disobedient," she said imploringly. "Lottie and I were almost always together, and I did not think of him as a lover till he spoke." "Well, dearest, I am not chiding you; your father could never find it in his heart to add one needless pang to what you are already suffering." His tone was full of pitying tenderness. She made no answer; only hid her face on his breast and wept silently. "Papa," she murmured at length. "I--I do so want to break one of your rules; oh, if you would only let me, just this once!" "A strange request, my darling," he said, "but which of them is it?" "That when you have once decided a matter I must never ask you to reconsider. Oh, papa, do, do let me entreat you just this once!" "I think it will be useless, daughter, only giving me the pain of refusing, and you of being refused; but you may say on." "Papa, it is, that I may write a little note to--to Mr. Egerton," she said, speaking eagerly and rapidly, yet half trembling at her own temerity the while, "just to tell him that I cannot do anything against your will, and that he must not come near me or try to hold any sort of intercourse with me till you give consent; but that I have not lost my faith in him, and if he is innocent and unjustly suspected, we need not be wretched and despairing; for God will surely some day cause it to be made apparent. Oh, papa, may I not? Please, please let me! I will bring it to you when written, and there shall not be one word in it that you do not approve." She had lifted her face, and the soft, beseeching eyes were looking pleadingly into his. "My dearest child," he said, "it is hard to refuse you, but I cannot allow it. There, there! do not cry so bitterly; every tear I see you shed sends a pang to my heart. Listen to me, daughter. Believing what I do of that man, I would not for a great deal have him in possession of a single line of your writing. Have you ever given him one?" "No, papa, never," she sobbed. "Or received one from him?" "No, sir." "It is well." Then as if a sudden thought had struck him, "Elsie, have you ever allowed him to touch your lips?" he asked almost sternly. "No, papa, not even my cheek. I would not while we were not engaged; and that could not be without your consent." "I am truly thankful for that!" he exclaimed in a tone of relief; "to know that he had--that these sweet lips had been polluted by contact with his--would be worse to me than the loss of half my fortune." And lifting her face as he spoke, he pressed his own to them again and again. But for the first time in her life she turned from him as if almost loathing his caresses, and struggled to release herself from the clasp of his arm. He let her go, and hurrying to the farther side of the room, she stood leaning against the window-frame, with her back toward him, shedding very bitter tears of mingled grief and anger. But in the pauses of her sobbing a deep sigh struck upon her ear. Her heart smote her at the sound; still more as she glanced back at her father and noted the pained expression of his eye as it met hers. In a moment she was at his side again, down upon the carpet, with her head laid lovingly on his knee. "Papa, I am sorry." The low, street voice was tremulous with grief and penitence. "My poor darling, my poor little pet!" he said, passing his hand with soft, caressing movement over her hair and cheek, "try to keep your love for your father and your faith in his for you, however hard this rule may seem." "Ah, papa, my heart would break if I lost either," she sobbed. Then lifting her tear-dimmed eyes with tender concern to his face, which was very pale and sad, "Dear papa," she said, "how tired you look! you were up all night, were you not?" "Last night and the one before it." "That you might hasten here to take care of me," she murmured in a tone of mingled regret and gratitude. "Do lie down now and take a nap. This couch is soft and pleasant, and I will close the blinds and sit by your side to keep off the flies." He yielded to her persuasions, saying as he closed his eyes, "Don't leave the room without waking me." She was still there when he woke, close at his side and ready to greet him with an affectionate look and smile, though the latter was touchingly sad and there were traces of tears on her cheeks. "How long have I slept?" he asked. "Two hours," she answered, holding up her watch, "and there is the tea-bell." CHAPTER XVIII. What thou bidst, Unargued I obey; so God ordained. --MILTON. "I hope you don't intend to hurry this child away from me, Horace?" remarked Miss Stanhope inquiringly, glancing from him to Elsie, as she poured out the tea. "I'm afraid I must, Aunt Wealthy," he answered, taking his cup from her hand, "I can't do without her any longer, and mamma and little brother want her almost as badly." "And what am I to do?" cried Miss Stanhope, setting down the teapot, and dropping her hands into her lap. "It just makes a baby of me to think how lonely the old house will seem when she's gone. You'd get her back soon, for 'tisn't likely I've got long to live, if you'd only give her to me, Horace." "No, indeed, Aunt Wealthy; she's a treasure I can't spare to any one. She belongs to me, and I intend to keep her," turning upon his daughter a proud, fond look and smile, which was answered by one of sweet, confiding affection. "Good-evening!" cried a gay, girlish voice. "Mr. Dinsmore, I'd be delighted to see you, if I didn't know you'd come to rob us of Elsie." "What, you too ready to abuse me on that score, Miss Lottie?" he said laughingly, as he rose to shake hands with her. "I think I rather deserve thanks for leaving her with you so long." "Well, I suppose you do. Aunt Wealthy, papa found some remarkably fine peaches in the orchard of one of his patients, and begs you will accept this little basketful." "Why, they're beautiful, Lottie!" said the old lady, rising and taking the basket from her hand. "You must return my best thanks to your father. I'll set them on the table just so. Take off your hat, child, and sit down with us. There's your chair all ready to your plate, and Phillis's farmer's fresh fruit-cake, to tempt you, and the cream-biscuits that you are so fond of, both." "Thank you," said Lottie, partly in acknowledgment of the invitation, partly of Mr. Travilla's attention, as he rose and gallantly handed her to her seat, "I can't find it in my heart to resist so many temptations." "Shall I bring a dish for de peaches, mistis?" asked Chloe, who was waiting on the table. "Yes." "Oh, let us have them in that old-fashioned china fruit-basket I've always admired so much, Aunt Wealthy!" cried Lottie eagerly. "I don't believe Elsie has seen it at all." "No, so she hasn't; but she shall now," said the old lady, hastening toward her china-closet. "There, Aunt Chloe, just stand on the dish, and hand down that chair from this top shelf. Or, if you would, Horace, you're taller, and can reach better. I'm always like the sycamore tree that was little of stature, and couldn't see Zaccheus till he climbed into it." "Rather a new and improved version of the Bible narrative, aunt, isn't it?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, with an amused look, as he came toward her. "And I fear I'm rather heavy to stand on a dish; but will use the chair instead, if you like." "Ah! I've put the horse before the cart as usual, I see;" she said, joining good-humoredly in the laugh the others found it impossible to suppress. "It's an old trick of my age, that increases with my advancing youth, till I sometimes wonder what I'm coming to; the words will tangle themselves up in the most troublesome fashion; but if you know what I mean, I suppose it's all the same." "Why, Aunt Wealthy, this is really beautiful," said Mr. Dinsmore, stepping from the chair with the basket, in his hand. "Yes, it belonged to your great-grandmother, Horace, and I prize it highly on that account. No, Aunt Chloe, I shall wipe it out and put the peaches into it myself; it will take but a moment, and it's too precious a relic to trust to any other hands than my own." Lottie was apparently in the gayest spirits, enlivening the little party with many a merry jest and light, silvery laugh, enjoying the good things before her, and gratifying her hostess with praises of their excellence. Yet through it all she was furtively watching her friends, and grieved to notice the unwonted paleness of her cheek, the traces of tears about her eyes, that her cheerfulness was assumed, and that if she ate anything it was only from a desire to please her father, who seemed never to forget her for a moment, and to be a good deal troubled at her want of appetite. In all these signs Lottie read disappointment of Egerton's hopes, and of Elsie's, so far as he was concerned. "So I suppose her father has commanded her to give him up," she said to herself. "Poor thing! I wonder if she means to be as submissive as she thought she would." The two presently slipped away together into the garden, leaving the gentlemen conversing in the sitting-room, and Miss Stanhope busied with some household care. "You poor dear, I am so sorry for you!" whispered Lottie, putting her arm about her friend. "Must you really quite give him up?" "Papa says so," murmured Elsie, vainly struggling to restrain her tears. "Is it that he believes Mr. Travilla was not mistaken?" "Yes, and--and he has heard some other things against him, and thinks his explanation of Mr. Travilla's mistake quite absurd. Oh, Lottie, he will not even allow us one parting interview and says I am never to see Mr. Egerton again, or hold any communication with him in any way. If I should meet him in the street I am not to recognize him; must pass him by as a perfect stranger, not looking at him or permitting him to see my face, if I can avoid doing so." "And will you really submit to all that? I don't believe I could be so good." "I must; papa will always be obeyed." "But don't you feel that it's very hard? doesn't it make you feel angry with your father and love him a little less?" "I was angry for a little while this afternoon," Elsie acknowledged with a blush, "but I am sure I have no right to be; I know papa is acting for my good,--doing just what he believes will be most likely to secure my happiness. He says it is to save me from a life of misery, and certainly it would be that to be united to such a man as he believes Mr. Egerton is." "But you don't believe it, Elsie?" "No, no, indeed! I have not lost my faith in him yet, and I hope he may some day be able to prove to papa's entire satisfaction that he is really all that is good, noble, and honorable." "That is right; hope on, hope ever." "Ah, I don't know how we could live without hope," Elsie said, smiling faintly through her tears. "But I ought not to be wretched--oh, very far from it, with so many blessings, so many to love me! Papa's love alone would brighten life very much to me. And then," she added in a lower tone, "'that dearer Friend that sticketh closer than a brother,' and who has promised, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.'" "And He will keep His promise, child," said Aunt Wealthy, joining them in the arbor where they had seated themselves. "I have proved His faithfulness many times, and I know that it never fails. Elsie, dear, your old auntie would save you from every trial, but He is a far wiser and truer friend, and will cause all things to work together for your good, and never allow you to suffer one unneeded pang." She softly stroked her niece's sunny hair, as she spoke, and the kind old face was full of pitying tenderness. "Come back to the house now, dears," she added, "I think the dew is beginning to fall, and I heard my nephew asking for his daughter." "How much longer may we hope to keep you, Elsie?" Lottie asked as they wended their way toward the house. "Papa has set Monday evening for the time of leaving." "And this is Friday; so we shall have but two more rides together. Oh, dear! how I shall miss you when you're gone." "And I you. I shall never forget what pleasant times we have had together; Aunt Wealthy and you and I. You musn't let her miss me too much, Lottie." And Elsie turned an affectionate look upon her aged relative. "As if I could prevent it! But I'll do my best; you may rest assured of that." "You are dear girls, both of you," said Miss Stanhope with a very perceptible tremble in her voice, "and you have brightened my home wonderfully; if I could only keep you!" "Well, auntie, you're not likely to lose me altogether for some time yet," returned Lottie gayly, though the tears shone in her eyes. Bromly Egerton went out from Mr. Dinsmore's presence with his temper at a white heat, for he had just been treated to some plain truths that were far from palatable; besides which it seemed evident that he had missed the prize he so coveted and had made such strenuous efforts to win. He had learned nothing new in regard to his own character, yet somehow it had never looked so black as now, when seen through the spectacles of an upright, honest, vice-detesting Christian gentleman. He writhed at the very recollection of the disgust, loathing, and contempt expressed in Mr. Dinsmore's voice and countenance as well as in his words. He scarcely gave a thought to the loss of Elsie herself: he had no feeling for her at all worthy of the name of love; his base, selfish nature was, indeed, hardly capable of such a sentiment; especially toward one so refined, so guileless in her childlike innocence and purity that to be with her gave him an uncomfortable sense of his own moral inferiority. No, the wounds under which he smarted were all stabs given to his self-love and cupidity. He had learned how honest men looked upon him; and he had failed in the cherished expectation of laying his hands upon a great fortune, which he had fondly hoped to have the opportunity of spending. Rushing into the street, boiling with rage and shame, he hurried onward, scarcely knowing or caring whither he went; out into the open country, and on through woods and over hills he tramped, nor thought of turning back till the sun had set, and darkness began to creep about his path. There was light in Miss Stanhope's parlor and strains of rich melody greeted his ear as he passed. He turned away with a muttered imprecation, crossed the street, and entered Mrs. Schilling's gate. She was sitting on her doorstep, resting after her day's work, and enjoying the cool evening air. "Why, la me Mr. Egerton! is that you?" she cried, starting up, and stepping aside for him to pass in. "I'd really begun to think you was lost. The fire's been put and everything cleaned away this two hours. I kep' the table a-waitin' for you a right smart spell, but finally come to the conclusion that you must 'a' stayed to Miss Stanhope's or someone else, to tea." "No, I've not had supper," he answered gruffly. "You haint, eh? and I 'spose you're hungry, too. Well, sit down, and I'll hunt up something or 'nother. But I'm afraid you'll get the dyspepsy eatin' so late; why, it's nigh on to ten o'clock; and I was just a-thinking' about shutting' up and going off to bed." "Well, you'll not be troubled with me long. I shall leave the place in a few days." "Leave Lansdale, do you mean?" "Yes." "Why, what's up?" "The time I had appropriated to rest and recreation. Business men can't play forever." "Well, I shouldn't wonder. And Mr. Dinsmore's come after his daughter, too." "What's that got to do with it?" he muttered. But she had left the room and was out of hearing. Before closing his eyes in sleep that night, Egerton resolved to make a moving appeal to Elsie herself. He would write and find some means by which to get the letter into her hands. Directly after breakfast he sat down to his task, placing himself in a position to constantly overlook Miss Stanhope's house and grounds. He was hoping to get sight of Elsie, and anxious to watch Mr. Dinsmore's movements. Mrs. Schilling had informed him that "Miss Stanhope's friends didn't expect to leave till sometime a Monday; so she had learned from Phillis, through Lenwilla Ellawea, who had been sent over for a little of Phillis's light'ning, to raise some biscuits for breakfast," yet he had some fear that the information might prove unreliable, and Mr. Dinsmore slip away with his daughter that day. That fear was presently relieved by seeing Simon bringing out the horses for the young ladies, and shortly after a livery-stable man leading up two fine steeds, evidently intended for the use of the gentlemen. He now laid down his pen, and kept close watch for a few moments, when he was rewarded by seeing the whole party come out, mount, and ride away; Mr. Dinsmore beside his daughter, Mr. Travilla with Lottie. Elsie, however, was so closely veiled that he could not so much as catch a glimpse of her face. With a muttered oath, he took up his pen again, feeling more desirous than ever to outwit "that haughty Southerner," and secure the prize in spite of him. Half an hour afterward Simon, who was at work gathering corn and tomatoes for dinner in the garden behind the house, heard some one calling softly to him from the other side of the fence. Turning his head, he saw Mr. Egerton standing there, motioning to him to draw near. "Good-mornin', sah. What you want, sah?" inquired the lad, setting down his basket, and approaching the fence that separated them. "Do you know what this is?" asked Egerton, holding up a small glittering object. "Yes, sah; five-dollar gold piece, sah," replied the negro, bowing and chuckling. "What de gentleman want dis niggah do for to arn 'em?" "To put this into Miss Dinsmore's hands," answered Egerton, showing a letter; "into her own hands, now, mind. If you do that, the five dollars are yours; and if you bring me an answer, I'll make it ten. But you are to manage it so that no one else shall see what you do. Do you understand?" "Yes, sah, and I bet I do it up about right, sah." Very anxious to win the coveted reward, Simon was careful to be on hand when the riding party returned. He stationed himself near Elsie's horse. Her father assisted her to alight, and as he turned to make a remark to Lottie, Simon, being on the alert, managed to slip the note into Elsie's hand, unperceived by Mr. Dinsmore, or the others. She gave a start of surprise, turning her eyes inquiringly upon him, the rich color rushing all over her fair face and neck; as he could see, even through the folds of her thick veil. Simon grinned broadly, as, by a nod and wink toward the opposite side of the street, he indicated whence the missive had come. She turned and walked quickly toward the house, her heart beating very fast and loud, and her fingers tightly clasping the note underneath the folds of her long riding-skirt, as she held it up. She hurried to her room, shut and locked the door, and, throwing off her hat and veil, dropped into a seat, trembling in every limb with the agitation and excitement of her feelings. She longed intently to know what he had said to her; but she had never deceived or wilfully disobeyed her father, and should she begin now? The temptation was very great, and perhaps she would have yielded; but Mr. Dinsmore's step came quickly up the stairs, and the next moment he rapped lightly on the door. She rose and opened it, at the same time slipping the note into her pocket. "Why, my darling, what is the matter?" he asked, looking much concerned at the sight of her pale, agitated countenance. "Oh, papa, if you would let me! if you only would!" she cried, bursting into tears, and putting her arms coaxingly about his neck. "Let you do what, my child?" he asked, stroking her hair. "Read this," she said, in a choking voice, taking the note from her pocket. "Oh, if you knew how much I want to! Mayn't I, papa? do, dear papa, say yes." "No, Elsie; it grieves me to deny you, but it must go back unopened. Give it to me." She put it into his hand and turned away with a sob. "How did it come into your hands?" he inquired, going to her writing-desk for an envelope, pen and ink. "Must I tell you, papa?" she asked; in a tone that spoke reluctance to give the information he required. "Certainly." "Simon gave it to me a few moments since." He touched the bell, and, Chloe appearing in answer, bade her take that note to the house on the opposite side of the street. "There is no message," he added; "it is directed to Mr. Egerton, and you have nothing to do but hand it in at the door." "Yes, sah." And with a sorrowful, pitying glance at the wet eyes of her young mistress, the faithful old creature left the room. "My poor little daughter, you feel now that your father is very cruel," Mr. Dinsmore said tenderly, taking Elsie in his arms again, "but some day you will thank me for all this." She only laid her face down on his breast and cried bitterly, while he soothed her with caresses and words of fatherly endearment. "Oh, papa, don't be vexed with me," she murmured at length. "I'm trying not to be rebellious, but it seems so like condemning him unheard." "No, my child, it is not. I gave him the opportunity to refute the charges against him, but he has no proof to bring." "Papa, he said it would break his heart to lose me," she cried with a fresh burst of grief. "My dear child, he has no heart to break. If he could get possession of your property, he would care very little indeed what became of you." Mr. Dinsmore spoke very decidedly, but, though silenced, Elsie was not convinced. Egerton, watching through the half-closed blinds of his bed-room, had seen, with a chuckle of delight, the success of Simon's manoeuvre, and Elsie hurrying into the house; for the purpose--he had scarcely a doubt--of secretly reading and answering his note. He saw Chloe crossing the street, and thought that her young mistress had sent him a hasty line, perhaps to appoint the time and place of a clandestine meeting; for such confidence had he in his own powers of fascination for all the fair sex, that he could not think it possible she could give him up without a struggle. Lenwilla went to the door, and in his eagerness to receive the message he ran out and met her on the landing. What was his disappointment and chagrin at sight of the bold, masculine characters on the outside, and only his own handwriting within! "Sent back unopened! The girl must be a fool!" he cried, fairly gnashing his teeth with rage. "She could have managed it easily enough; she had the best chance in the world, for he didn't see her take it, I know." He considered a moment, put on his hat, and, walking over to Dr. King's, inquired for Miss Lottie. "Jist walk intil the parlor, sir," said Bridget, "an' I'll call the young lady." Lottie came to him presently, with her kind face full of regret and sympathy. He told his tale, produced his note, and begged her to be his messenger, saying he supposed Mr. Dinsmore had come upon Elsie before she had time to read it, and he thought it hard for both her and himself that she should not have the chance. "Yes," said Lottie, "but I am very sure she would not read it without her father's permission, and you may depend upon it, she showed it to him of her own accord." He shook his head with an incredulous smile. "Do you really think she has so little sense? Or is it that you believe she too has turned against me?" "No, she has not turned against you, she believes in you still; nor is she wanting in sense; but she is extremely conscientious about obeying her father, and told me she meant to be entirely submissive, whatever it cost her." "I can hardly think you are right," he said, with another of his incredulous smiles, "but even supposing she was silly enough to hand my note over to her father, I should like to give her an opportunity to retrieve her error, so won't you undertake"-- "Don't ask me to carry it to her," interrupted Lottie. "It would go against my conscience to tempt Elsie to do violence to hers, I do assure you, though I have no idea I should be successful. So you really must excuse me." He tried argument and persuasion by turns, but Lottie stood firm in her refusal, and at length he went away, evidently very angry. Lottie spent the evening with her friend, and when a fitting opportunity offered gave her an account of this interview with Egerton, Elsie telling her in return something of what had passed between her father and herself in regard to the note. That Egerton had desired to tempt her to disobedience and deception did not tend to increase Elsie's esteem and admiration for him, but quite the reverse. "I think he'll not prevent me from getting sight of her to-day," muttered Egerton, stationing himself at the front window the next morning, as the hour for church drew near. He had not been there long, when he saw Miss Stanhope and Mr. Travilla, then Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie, come out of the house and cross the lawn. He made a hasty exit and was in the act of opening Mrs. Schilling's front gate as the latter couple reached the one opposite. "Put down your veil, Elsie; take my arm; and don't look toward that man at all," commanded her father, and she obeyed. Egerton kept opposite to them all the way to the church, but without accomplishing his object. He followed them in and placed himself in a pew on the other side of the aisle, and a little nearer the front than Miss Stanhope's, so that, by turning half way round, he could look into the faces of its occupants. But Elsie kept hers partly concealed by her veil, and never once turned her eyes in his direction. She was seated next her father, who seemed to watch her almost constantly--not with the air of a jailer, but with a sort of tender, protecting care, as one keeping guard over something belonging to him, and which he esteemed very sweet and precious,--while now and then her soft eyes were lifted to his for an instant with a look of loving reverence. "Poor Elsie was well watched to-day," remarked Nettie King to her sister as they walked home together; "her father scarcely took his eyes off her for five consecutive minutes, I should think; and Mr. Egerton stared at her from the time he came in till the benediction was pronounced." "Yes, I thought he was decidedly rude." "Isn't Mr. Dinsmore excessively strict and exacting?" "Yes, I think so; yet he dotes on her, and she on him. I never saw a father and daughter so completely wrapped up in each other." They were now within sight of their own home, and Miss Stanhope's. "Just look!" cried Nettie, "I do believe Egerton means to force himself upon their notice and compel Elsie to speak to him." He was crossing the street so as to meet them face to face, just at the gate, giving them no chance to avoid the rencontre. "Good-morning, Miss Dinsmore," he said in a loud, cordial tone of greeting, as they neared each other. Elsie started and tightened her grasp of her father's arm, but neither looked up nor spoke. "My daughter acknowledges no acquaintance with you, sir," answered Mr. Dinsmore, haughtily, and Egerton turned and strode angrily away. "There, Elsie, you see what he is; his behavior is anything but gentlemanly," remarked her father, opening the gate for her to pass in. "But you need not tremble so, child; there is nothing to fear." CHAPTER XIX. Oh, what a feeble fort's a woman's heart, Betrayed by nature, and besieged by art. --FANE'S "LOVE IN THE DARK." "Dear child, what shall I do without you?" sighed Miss Stanhope, clasping Elsie in her arms, and holding her in a long, tender embrace; for the time of parting had come. "Horace, will you bring her to see me again?" "Yes, aunt, if she wants to come. But don't ask me to leave her again." "Well, if you can't stay with me, or trust her yourself, let Mr. Vanilla come and stand guard over us both. I'd be happy, sir, at any time when you can make it convenient for me to see you here, with Horace and the child, or without them." "Thank you, Miss Stanhope; and mother and I would be delighted to see you at Ion." "Come, Elsie, we must go; the carriage is waiting and the train nearly due," said Mr. Dinsmore. "Good-bye, Aunt Wealthy. Daughter, put down your veil." Egerton was at the depot, but could get neither a word with Elsie, nor so much as a sight of her face. Her veil was not once lifted, and her father never left her side for a moment. Mr. Travilla bought the tickets, and Simon attended to the checking of the baggage. Then the train came thundering up, and the fair girl was hurried into it, Mr. Travilla, on one side, and her father on the other, effectually preventing any near approach to her person on the part of the baffled and disappointed fortune-hunter. He walked back to his boarding-house, cursing his ill luck and Messrs. Dinsmore and Travilla, and gave notice to his landlady that his room would become vacant the next morning. As the train sped onward, again Elsie laid her head down upon her father's shoulder and wept silently behind her veil. Her feelings had been wrought up to a high pitch of excitement in the struggle to be perfectly submissive and obedient, and now the overstrained nerves claimed this relief. And love's young dream, the first, and sweetest, was over and gone. She could never hope to see again the man she still fondly imagined to be good and noble, and with a heart full of deep, passionate love for her. Her father understood and sympathized with it all. He passed his arm about her waist, drew her closer to him, and taking her hand in his, held it in a warm, loving clasp. How it soothed and comforted her. She could never be very wretched while thus tenderly loved, and cherished. And, arrived at her journey's end, there were mamma and little brother to rejoice over her return, as at the recovery of a long-lost, precious treasure. "You shall never go away again," said the little fellow, hugging her tight. "When a boy has only one sister, he can't spare her to other folks, can he, papa?" "No, son," answered Mr. Dinsmore, patting his rosy cheek, and softly stroking Elsie's hair, "and it is just the same with a man who has but one daughter." "You don't look bright and merry, as you did when you went away," said the child, bending a gaze of keen, loving scrutiny upon the sweet face, paler, sadder, and more heavy-eyed than he had ever seen it before. "Sister is tired with her journey," said mamma tenderly; "we won't tease her to-night." "Yes," said her father, "she must go early to bed, and have a long night's rest." "Yes, papa, and then she'll be all right to-morrow, won't she? But, mamma, I wasn't teasing her, not a bit; was I, Elsie? And if anybody's been making her sorry, I'll kill him. 'Cause she's my sister, and I've got to take care of her." "But suppose papa was the one who had made her sorry; what then?" asked Mr. Dinsmore. "But you wouldn't, papa," said the boy, shaking his head with an incredulous smile. "You love her too much a great deal; you'd never make her sorry unless she'd be naughty; and she's never one bit naughty,--always minds you and mamma the minute you speak." "That's true, my son; I do love her far too well ever to grieve her if it can be helped. She shall never know a pang a father's love and care can save her from." And again his hand rested caressingly on Elsie's head. She caught it in both of hers and laying her cheek lovingly against it, looked up at him with tears trembling in her eyes. "I know it, papa," she murmured. "I know you love your foolish little daughter very dearly; almost as dearly as she loves you." "Almost, darling? If there were any gauge by which to measure love, I know not whose would be found the greatest." Mr. Dinsmore and his father-in-law had taken adjoining cottages for the summer, and though "the season" was so nearly over that the hotels and boarding-houses were but thinly populated and would soon close, the two families intended remaining another month. So this was in some sort a home-coming to Elsie. After tea the Allisons flocked in to bid her welcome. All seemed glad of her coming, Richard, Harold, and Sophy especially so. They were full of plans for giving her pleasure, and crowding the greatest possible amount of enjoyment into the four or five weeks of their expected sojourn on the island. "It will be moonlight next week," said Sophy; "and we'll have some delightful drives and walks along the beach. The sea does look so lovely by moonlight." "And we'll have such fun bathing in the mornings," remarked Harold. "You'll go in with us to-morrow, won't you, Elsie?" "No," said Mr. Dinsmore, speaking for his daughter; "she must be here two or three days before she goes into the water. It will be altogether better for her health." Elise looked at him inquiringly. "You get in the air enough of the salt water for the first few days," he said. "Your system should become used to that before you take more." "Yes, that is what some of the doctors here, and the oldest inhabitants, tell us," remarked Mr. Allison, "and I believe it is the better plan." "And in the meantime we can take some rides and drives,--down to Diamond Beach, over to the light-house, and elsewhere," said Edward Allison, his brother Richard adding, "and do a little fishing and boating." Mr. Dinsmore was watching his daughter. She was making an effort to be interested in the conversation, but looking worn, weary, and sad. "You are greatly fatigued, my child," he said. "We will excuse you and let you retire at once." She was very glad to avail herself of the permission. Rose followed her to her room, a pleasant, breezy apartment, opening on a veranda, and looking out upon the sea, whose dark waves, here and there tipped with foam, could be dimly seen rolling and tossing beneath the light of the stars and of a young moon that hung like a golden crescent just above the horizon. Elsie walked to the window and looked out. "How I love the sea," she said, sighing, "but, mamma, to-night it makes me think of a text--'All Thy waves and Thy billows have gone over me.'" "It is not so bad as that, I hope, dear," said Rose, folding her tenderly in her arms; "think how we all love you, especially your father. I don't know how we could any of us do without you, darling. I can't tell you how sadly we have missed you this summer." "Mamma, I do feel it to be very, very sweet to be so loved and cared for. I could not tell you how dear you and my little brother are to me, and as for papa--sometimes I am more than half afraid I make an idol of him; and yet--oh, mamma," she murmured, hiding her face in Rose's bosom, "why is it that I can no longer be in love with the loves that so fully satisfied me?" "'Thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.' It is part of woman's curse that she must ever crave that sort of love, often yielding to her craving, to her own terrible undoing. Be patient, darling, and try to trust both your heavenly and your earthly father. You know that no trial can come to you without your heavenly Father's will, and that He means this for your good. Look to Him and he will help you to bear it, and send relief in His own good time and way. You know He tells us it is through much tribulation we enter the kingdom of God; and that whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. 'If ye be without chastisements, whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards and no sons!" "Ah, yes, mamma; better the hardest of earthly trials, than to be left out of the number of his adopted children. And this seems to be really my only one, while my cup of blessings is full to overflowing. I fear I am very wicked to feel so sad." "Let us sit down on this couch while we talk; you are too tired to stand," said Rose, drawing her away from the window to a softly-cushioned lounge. "I do not think you can help grieving, darling, though I agree with you that it is your duty to try to be cheerful, as well as patient and submissive; and I trust you will find it easier as the days and weeks move on. You are very young, and have plenty of time to wait; indeed, if all had gone right, you know your papa would not have allowed you to marry for several years yet." "You know all, mamma?" "Yes, dear; papa told me; for you know you are my darling daughter too, and I have a very deep interest in all that concerns you." A tender caress accompanied the words, and was returned with equal ardor. "Thank you, best and kindest of mothers; I should never want anything kept from you." "Your father tells me you have behaved beautifully, though you evidently felt it very hard to be separated so entirely and at once fr--" "Yes, mamma," and Elsie's lip quivered, and her eyes filled, "and oh, I can't believe he is the wicked man papa thinks him. From the first he seemed to be a perfect gentleman, educated, polished, and refined; and afterward he became--at least so I thought from the conversations we had together--truly converted, and a very earnest, devoted Christian. He told me he had been, at one time, a little wild, but surely he ought not to be condemned for that, after he had repented and reformed." "No, dear; and your father would agree with you in that. But he believes you have been deceived in the man's character; and don't you think, daughter, that he is wiser than yourself, and more capable of finding out the truth about the matter?" "I know papa is far wiser than I, but, oh, my heart will not believe what they say of--of him!" she cried with sudden, almost passionate vehemence. "Well, dear, that is perfectly natural, but try to be entirely submissive to your father, and wait patiently; and hopefully too," she added with a smile; "for if Mr. Egerton is really good, no doubt it will be proved in time, and then your father will at once remove his interdict. And if you are mistaken, you will one day discover it, and feel thankful, indeed, to your papa for taking just the course he has." "There he is now!" Elsie said with a start, as Mr. Dinsmore's step was heard without, and Chloe opened the door in answer to his rap. "What, Elsie disobeying orders, and mamma conniving at it!" he exclaimed in a tone that might mean either jest or serious reproof. "Did I not bid you go to bed at once, my daughter?" "I thought it was only permission, papa, not command," she answered, lifting her eyes to his face, and moving to make room for him by her side. "And mamma has been saying such sweet, comforting things to me." "Has she, darling? Bless her for it! I know you need comfort, my poor little pet," he said, taking the offered seat, and passing his arm round her waist. "But you need rest too, and ought not to stay up any longer." "But surely papa knows I cannot go to bed without my good-night kiss when he is in the same house with me," she said, winding her arms about his neck. "And didn't like to take it before folks? Well, that was right, but take it now. There, good-night. Now mamma and I will run away, and you must get into bed with all speed. No mistake about the command this time, and disobedience, if ventured on, will have to be punished," he said with playful tenderness, as he returned her embrace, and rose to leave the room. "The dear child; my heart aches for her," he remarked to his wife, as they went out together, "and I find it almost impossible yet to forgive either that scoundrel Jackson or my brother Arthur." "You have no lingering doubts as to the identity and utter unworthiness of the man?" "Not one; and if I could only convince Elsie of his true character she would detest him as thoroughly as I do. If he had his deserts, he would be in the State's Prison; and to think of his daring to approach my child, and even aspire to her hand!" Elsie lay all night in a profound slumber, and awoke at an early hour the next morning, feeling greatly refreshed and invigorated. The gentle murmur of old ocean came pleasantly to her ear, and sweetly in her mind arose the thought of Him whom even the winds and the sea obey; of His never failing love to her, and of the many great and precious promises of His word. She remembered how He had said, "Your Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things," and, content to bear the cross He had sent her, and leave her future in His hands, she rose to begin the new day more cheerful and hopeful than she had been since learning her father's decision in regard to Egerton. Throwing on a dressing-gown over her night dress, she sat down before the open window with her Bible in her hand. She still loved, as of old, to spend the first hour of the day in the study of its pages, and in communion with Him whose word it is. Chloe was just putting the finishing touches to her young lady's toilet when little Horace came running down the hall, and rapping on Elsie's door, called out, "Sister, papa says put on a short dress, and your walking shoes, and come take a stroll on the beach with us before breakfast." "Yes, tell papa I will. I'll be down in five minutes." She came down looking sweet and fresh as the morning; a smile on the full red lips, and a faint tinge of rose color on the cheeks that had been so pale the night before. "Ah, you are something like yourself again," said Rose, greeting her with a motherly caress, as they met in the lower hall. "How nice it is to have you at home once more." "Thank you, mamma, I am very glad to be here; and I had such a good restful sleep. How well you look." "And feel too, I am thankful to be able to say. But there, your father is calling to you from the sitting-room." Elsie hastened to obey the summons, and found him seated at his writing desk. "Come here, daughter," he said, "and tell me if you obeyed orders last night." "Yes, papa, I did." "I am writing a few lines to Aunt Wealthy, to tell her of our safe arrival. Have you any message to send?" and laying down his pen he drew her to his knee. "Only my love, papa, and--and that she must not be anxious about me, as she said that she should. That I am very safe and happy in the hands of my heavenly Father--and those of the kind earthly one He has given me," she added in a whisper, putting her arms about his neck, and looking in his face with eyes brimful of filial tenderness and love. "That is right, my darling," he said, "and you shall never want for love while your father lives. How it rejoices my heart to see you looking so bright and well this morning." "I feat I have not been yielding you the cheerful obedience I ought, papa," she murmured with tears in her eyes, "but I am resolved to try to do so in future; and have been asking help where I know it is to be obtained." "I have no fault to find with you on that score, my dear child," he said tenderly, "but if you can be cheerful, it will be for your own happiness, as well as ours." She kept her promise faithfully, and had her reward in much real enjoyment of the many pleasures provided for her. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore were still youthful in their feelings, and joined with great zest in the sports of the young people, going with them in all their excursions, taking an active part in all their pastimes, and contriving so many fresh entertainments, that during those few weeks life seemed like one long gala day. Mr. Travilla was with them most of the time. He had tarried behind in Philadelphia, as Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter passed through, but followed them to Cape Island a few days later. The whole party left the shore about the last of September, the Allisons returning to their city residence, Mr. Travilla to his Southern home, and the Dinsmores travelling through Pennsylvania and New York, from one romantic and picturesque spot to another; finishing up with two or three weeks in Philadelphia, during which Rose and Elsie were much occupied with their fall and winter shopping. Mr. Dinsmore took this opportunity to pay another flying visit to his two young brothers. He found Arthur nearly recovered, and at once asked a full explanation of the affair of Tom Jackson, alias Bromly Egerton; his designs upon Elsie, and Arthur's participation in them. "I know nothing about it," was the sullen rejoinder. "You certainly were acquainted with Tom Jackson, and how, but through you, could he have gained any knowledge of Elsie and her whereabouts?" "I don't deny that I've had some dealings with Jackson, but your Egerton I know nothing of whatever." "You may as well speak the truth, sir; it will be much better for you in the end," said Mr. Dinsmore, sternly, his eyes flashing with indignant anger. "And you may as well remember that it isn't Elsie you are dealing with. I'm not afraid of you." "Perhaps not, but you may well fear Him who has said, 'a lying tongue is but for a moment.' How do you reconcile such an assertion as you have just made with the fact of your having that letter in your possession?" "I say it's a cowardly piece of business for you to give the lie to a fellow that hasn't the strength to knock you down for it." "You would hardly attempt that if you were in perfect health, Arthur." "I would." "You have not answered my question about the letter. "I wrote it myself." "A likely story; it is in a very different hand from yours." "I can adopt that hand on occasion, as I'll prove to your satisfaction." He opened his desk, wrote a sentence on a scrap of paper, and handed it to Mr. Dinsmore. The chirography was precisely that of the letter. While slowly convalescing, Arthur had prepared for this expected interview with Horace, by spending many a solitary hour in laboriously teaching himself to imitate Jackson's ordinary hand, in which most of the letters he had received from him were written. The sentence he had first penned was, "I did it merely for my own amusement, and to hoax Wal." "I don't believe a word of it," said Mr. Dinsmore, looking sternly at him. "Arthur, you had better be frank and open with me. You will gain nothing by denying the hand you have had in this disgraceful business. You can hardly suppose me credulous enough to believe an assertion so perfectly absurd as this. I have no doubt that you sent that villain to Lansdale to try his arts upon Elsie; and for that you are richly deserving of my anger, and of any punishment it might be in my power to deal out to you. "It has been no easy matter for me to forgive the suffering you have caused my child, Arthur; but I came here to-day with kind feelings and intentions. I hoped to find you penitent and ready to forsake your evil courses; and in that case, intended to help you to pay off your debts and begin anew, without paining father with the knowledge that his confidence in you has been again so shamefully abused. But I must say that your persistent denial of your complicity with that scoundrel Jackson does not look much like contrition, or intended amendment." Arthur listened in sullen silence, though his rapidly changing color showed that he felt the cutting rebuke keenly. At one time he had resolved to confess everything, throw himself upon the mercy of his father and brother, and begin to lead an honest, upright life; but a threatening letter received that morning from Jackson had led him to change his purpose, and determine to close his lips for a time. Mr. Dinsmore paused for a reply, but none came. Walter looked at Arthur in surprise. "Come, Art, speak, why don't you?" he said. "Horace, don't look so stern and angry, I know he means to turn over a new leaf; for he told me so. And you will help him, won't you?" "I ask no favors from a man who throws the lie in my teeth," muttered Arthur angrily. "And I can give none to one who persists in denying his guilt," replied Mr. Dinsmore. "But, Arthur, I give you one more chance, and for our father's sake I hope you will avail yourself of it. If you go on as you have for the last three or four years, you will bring down his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. I presume you have put yourself in Jackson's power; but if you will now make a full and free confession to me, and promise amendment, I will help you to get rid of the rascal's claims upon you, and start afresh. Will you do it?" "No, you've called me a liar, and what's the use of my telling you anything? you wouldn't believe it if I did." CHAPTER XX. She is not sad, yet in her gaze appears Something that makes the gazer think of tears. --MRS. EMBURY. The family at Roselands were gathered about the breakfast-table. A much smaller party than of yore, since Horace had taken Elsie and set up an establishment of his own, and the other sons were away at college and two daughters married; leaving only Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, Adelaide and Enna to occupy the old home. "I presume you have the lion's share as usual, papa," observed the last named, as her father opened the letter-bag which Pomp had just brought in. "And who has a better right, Miss Malapert?" retorted the old gentleman. "Yes, here are several letters for me; but as there is one apiece for the rest of you, nobody need complain. Here, Pomp, hand this to your mistress. From Walter, I see." "Yes," she answered, opening it, "and a few lines from Arthur too. I'm glad he's able to write again, poor fellow!" "Yes," said Adelaide. "Rose says Horace has been up there and found him nearly recovered. She writes that they are coming home." "When?" asked Enna. "Why, to-day! the letter has been delayed," said her sister, looking at the date. "I shall ride over directly, to see that all is in order for them at the Oaks." "There is no need," remarked her mother. "Rose will have written to Mrs. Murray." "I presume so, still I shall go; it will be pleasant to be there to welcome them when they arrive." "How fond you are of Rose," said Mrs. Dinsmore in a piqued tone; "you wouldn't do more for one of your own sisters, I believe, than for her." "I wouldn't do less, mamma, and I am very fond of her; we are so perfectly congenial." "And Elsie's a great pet of yours, too," said Enna sneeringly. "Well, I shall put off my call till to-morrow, when the trunks will have been unpacked, and I shall have a chance to see the fashions. Elsie will have loads of new things; it's perfectly absurd the way Horace heaps presents upon her, and pocket-money too. Such loads of jewelry as she has,--two or three gold watches, and everything else in proportion." "He may as well; she can never spend the half of her income," remarked Mr. Dinsmore. "Unless she takes to gambling," he added, in a tone that seemed to say that his purse had suffered severely from some one's indulgence in that vice. Mrs. Dinsmore winced, Enna looked vexed and annoyed, and Adelaide sad and troubled; but when she spoke it was in answer to Enna. "Yes, Elsie will have a great many beautiful things to show us, of course; but, though she wears nothing outré, she has never been, and I think never will be a mirror of fashion. It would suit neither her own taste nor Horace's; and you know, fond of her as he is, he will never allow her to have a will of her own in dress or anything else. So it is well their tastes harmonize." "I wouldn't be his child for all her money," said Enna. "There would be some fighting if you were," said her father, laughing. "I never could tell whether he tyrannized over Rose in the same style or not," observed Mrs. Dinsmore interrogatively. "All I know about it is that they seem perfectly happy in each other," answered Adelaide; "but I don't suppose Horace considers a husband's authority by any means equal to a father's." Something delayed Adelaide, and it was nearly two hours after they rose from the table ere she was fairly on her way to the Oaks. "Why, they are here before me!" she exclaimed half aloud as she came in sight of the house. There were piles of luggage upon the veranda, and the whole family, including all the house servants, were gathered round a large open trunk from which Mrs. Dinsmore and Elsie were dealing out gifts--dresses, aprons, bonnets, hats, gay handkerchiefs, etc., etc.; the darkies receiving them with a delight that was pleasant to see. Mr. Dinsmore too was taking his part in the distribution, and as Adelaide rode up little Horace was in the act of throwing a gay shawl about the shoulders of his nurse, who caught him in her arms and hugged and kissed him over and over, calling him "honey," and "pet," and "you ole mammy's darlin' ole chil'!" So much engaged were they all that no one perceived Adelaide's approach till she had reined in her horse close to the veranda, and throwing her bridle to her attendant, sprung lightly to the ground. But then there was a shout of welcome from little Horace, followed instantly by joyous exclamations and embraces from the others. "Dear me, what a long stay you made of it!" said Adelaide. "You can have no idea how I missed you all; even down to this little man," patting Horace's rosy cheek. "You look remarkably well, Rose; and the two Horaces also; but Elsie, I think, has grown a little pale, thin, and heavy-eyed. What ails you, child? Pining for your native air--no, home air--I presume. Is that it?" "Hardly pining for it, auntie, but very glad to get back, nevertheless," Elsie answered, with a blush and a smile. "And you are not pale now. But don't let me interrupt your pleasant employment. I wish I had been in time to see the whole of it." "You are in season for your own gifts. Will you accept a trifle from me?" said her brother, putting a jewel-case into her hand. "Coral! and what a beautiful shade!" she cried. "Thank you; they are just what I wanted." "I thought they would contrast prettily with this, auntie," said Elsie, laying a dress-pattern of black silk upon her lap. "And these are to be worn at the same time, if it so pleases you," added Rose, presenting her with collar and undersleeves of point lace. "Oh, Rose, how lovely! and even little Horace bringing auntie a gift!" as the child slipped something into her hand. "It's only a card-case; but mamma said you'd like it, Aunt Adie." "And I do; it's very pretty. And here's a hug and a kiss for the pet boy that remembered his old-maid auntie." "Old maid, indeed! Adelaide, I'll not have you talking so," said Rose. "There's nothing old-maidish about you; not even age yet; a girl of twenty-six to be calling herself that! it's perfectly absurd. Isn't it, my dear?" "I think so, indeed," replied Mr. Dinsmore. "Here, Jim, Cato, and the rest of you carry in these trunks and boxes, and let us have them unpacked and put out of sight." "Oh, yes!" said Adelaide, "I want to see all the fine things you have brought, Rose. Mamma, Enna, and I are depending upon you and Elsie for the fashions." "Yes, we had all our fall and winter dresses made up in Philadelphia; we prefer their styles to the New York; they don't go to such extremes, you know; and besides--hailing from the Quaker city as I do, it's natural I should be partial to her plainer ways--but we brought quantities of patterns from both places; knowing that nothing was likely to be too gay for Enna. We will let Elsie display hers first. I feel in a special hurry, dear, to show your aunt those elegant silks your papa and I helped you to select. I hope you will see them all on her, one of these days, Adelaide. "That child's complexion is so perfect, that she can wear anything," she added in an aside, as they followed Elsie to her apartments; "there's a pale blue that she looks perfectly lovely in; a pearl-color too, and a delicate pink, and I don't know how many more. One might think we expected her to do nothing but attend parties the coming season." Elsie seemed to take a lively interest in displaying her pretty things to her aunt, and in looking on for a little, while Rose did the same with hers; but at length, though the two older ladies were still turning over and discussing silks, satins, velvets, laces, ribbons, feathers, and flowers, her father noticed her sitting in the corner of a sofa, in an attitude of weariness and dejection, with a pale cheek, and a dreary, far-off look in her eyes that it pained him to see. "You are very tired, daughter," he said, going to her side, and smoothing her glossy brown hair with tender caressing motion, as he spoke; "go and lie down for an hour or two. A nap would do you a great deal of good." "I don't like to do so while Aunt Adie is here, papa," she said, looking up at him with a smile, and trying to seem fresh and bright. "Never mind that; you can see her any day now. Come, you must take a rest." And drawing her hand within his arm, he led her to her boudoir and left her there, comfortably established upon a sofa. "A hat trimmed in that style would be becoming to Elsie," remarked Adelaide, continuing the conversation with Rose, and turning to look at her niece as she spoke. "Why, she's not here." "Papa took her away to make her lie down," said little Horace. "Rose, does anything ail the child?" asked Adelaide, in an undertone. "She does not seem to be out of health; but you know we are very careful of her; she is so dear and sweet, and has never looked very strong." "But there is something wrong with her, is there not? she does not seem to me quite the gay, careless child she was when you went away. Horace," and she turned to him, as he re-entered the room, "may I not know about Elsie? You can hardly love her very much better than I do, I think." "If that is so, you must love her very much indeed," he answered with a faint smile. "Yes, I will tell you." And he explained the matter; briefly at first, then more in detail, as she drew him on by questions and remarks. Her sympathy for Elsie was deep and sincere; yet she thought her brother's course the only wise and kind one, and her indignation waxed hot against Arthur and Egerton. "And Elsie still believes in the scoundrel?" she said inquiringly. "Yes, her loving, trustful nature refuses to credit the proofs of his guilt, and only her sweet, conscientious submission to parental authority has saved her from becoming his victim." "She is a very good, submissive, obedient child to you, Horace." "I could not ask a better, Adelaide. I only wish it were in my power to make obedience always easy and pleasant to her, poor darling." "I hope you have something for me there, my dear," Rose remarked to her husband at the breakfast-table the next morning, as he looked over the mail just brought in by his man John. "Yes, there is one for you; from your mother, I think; and, Elsie, do you know the handwriting of this?" "No, papa, it is quite strange to me," she answered, taking the letter he held out to her, and which bore her name and address on the back, and examining it critically. "And the post-mark tells you nothing either?" "No, sir; I cannot quite make it out, but it doesn't seem to be any place where I have a correspondent." "Well, open it and see from whom it comes. But finish your breakfast first." Elsie laid the letter down by her plate, and putting aside, for the present, her curiosity in regard to it, went on with her meal. "From whom can it have come?" she asked herself, while listening half absently to extracts from Mr. Allison's epistle; "not from him surely, the hand is so very unlike that of the one he sent me in Lansdale." "You have not looked at that yet," her father said, seeing her take it up as they rose from the table. "You may do so now. I wish to know who the writer is. Don't read it till you have found that out," he added, leading her to a sofa in the next room, and making her sit down there, while he stood by her side. She felt that his eye was upon her as she broke open the envelope and, taking the letter from it, glanced down the page, then in a little flutter of surprise and perplexity turned to the signature. Instantly her face flushed crimson, she trembled visibly, and her eyes were lifted pleadingly to his. He frowned and held out his hand. "Oh, papa, let me read it!" she murmured low and tremulously, her eyes still pleading more eloquently than her tongue. "No," he said, and his look and gesture were imperative. She silently put the letter into his hand, and turned away with a low sob. "It is not worth one tear, or even an emotion of regret, my child," he said, sitting down beside her. "I shall send it back at once; unread, unless you prefer to have me read it first." "No, papa." "Very well, then I shall not. But, Elsie, do you not see now that he is quite capable of imitating the handwriting of another?" "Yes, papa; but that does not prove that he did in the case you refer to." "And he has acted quite fairly and honestly in using that talent to elude my vigilance and tempt you to deception and disobedience, eh?" "He is not perfect, papa, but I can't believe him as bad as you think." "There are none so blind as those that won't see, Elsie; but, remember"--and his tone changed from one of great vexation to another sternly authoritative--"I will be obeyed in this thing." "Yes, papa," she said, and rising, hastily left the room. "Try to be very patient with her, dear," said Rose, who had been a silent, but deeply interested spectator of the little scene; "she suffers enough, poor child!" "Yes, I know it, and my heart bleeds for her; yet she seems so wilfully blind to the strongest proofs of the fellow's abominable rascality that at times I feel as if I could hardly put up with it at all. The very pain of seeing her suffer so makes me out of all patience with her folly." "Yes, I understand it, but do not be stern with her; she surely does not deserve it while she is so perfectly submissive to your will." "No, she does not, poor darling," he said with a sigh. "But I must make haste to write some letters that ought to go by the next mail." He left the room, and Mrs. Dinsmore, longing to comfort Elsie in her trouble, was about to go in search of her, when Mrs. Murray, who was still housekeeper at the Oaks, came to ask advice or direction about some household matters. Their consultation lasted for half an hour or more, and in the meanwhile Mr. Dinsmore finished his correspondence and went himself to look for his daughter. She was in the act of opening her writing-desk as he entered the room. "What are you doing, daughter?" he asked. "I was about to write a letter to Sophy, papa." "It would be too late for to-day's mail; so let it wait, and come with me for a little stroll into the grounds. Aunt Chloe, bring a garden hat and sunshade. You would like to go, daughter?" "Yes, sir. Papa, you are not vexed with me? You don't think I want to be disobedient or wilful?" There were tears in her voice and traces of them on her cheeks. "No, darling!" he said, drawing her to him, "and you did not in the least deserve to be spoken to in the stern tone that I used. But--can you understand it?--my very love for you makes me angry and impatient at your persistent love for that scoundrel." "Papa, please don't!" she said in a low, pained tone, and turning away her face. "Ah, you do not like to hear a word against him!" he sighed; "I can't bear to think it, and yet I fear you care more for him than for me, your own father, who almost idolizes you. Is it so?" "Papa," she murmured, winding her arms about his neck, and laying her head on his breast, "if I may have but one of you, I could never hesitate for a moment to choose to cling here where I have been so long and tenderly cherished. I know what your love is,--I might be mistaken and deceived in another. And besides, God commands me to honor and obey you." He held her close to his heart for a moment, as something too dear and precious ever to be given up to another, then drawing her hand within his arm, while Chloe placed the hat on her head, and gave her the parasol, he led her out into the grounds. It pained him to notice the sadness of her countenance, sadder than he had seen it for many days, and he exerted himself to entertain her and divert her thoughts, calling her attention to some new plants and flowers, consulting her taste in regard to improvements he designed making, and conversing with her about a book they had been reading. She understood his thoughtful kindness, was grateful for it, and did her best to be interested and cheerful. "It is so nice to have you treat me as your companion and friend as well as your daughter, papa," she said, looking up at him with a smile. "Your companionship is very dear and sweet to me, daughter," he answered. "But I think we had better go in now; the sun is growing hot." "Oh, here you are!" cried a girlish voice as they turned into a shaded walk leading to the house. "I've been looking everywhere and am glad to have found you at last. Really, if a body didn't know your relationship, he or she might almost imagine you a pair of lovers." "Don't be silly, Enna. How do you do?" said Mr. Dinsmore, shaking hands with her and giving her a brotherly kiss. "As usual, thank you," she answered, turning from him to Elsie, whom she embraced with tolerable warmth, saying, "I'm really glad to have you here again. I missed you more than I would have believed. Now come in and show me all your pretty things. I'm dying to see them. Adelaide says you've brought home such quantities of lovely laces, silks, velvets, ribbons, flowers, feathers and what not, that one might imagine you'd nearly bought out the Philadelphia merchants." "No, they had quite a stock still left," replied Elsie, smiling; "but, as mamma says, papa was very indulgent and liberal to us both; and I shall take pleasure in showing you his gifts." "How do you like my present to Adelaide? asked Mr. Dinsmore. "Oh, very much; but when my turn comes please remember I want amethysts." "Ah, then I have been fortunate in my selection," he said, quite unsuspicious of the fact that Enna had instructed Elsie beforehand in regard to her wishes, should Horace intend making her a present. Elsie had quietly given the desired hint, but merely as though the idea had originated with herself. The jewelry was highly approved, as also a rich violet silk from Rose, and a lace set from Elsie. Adelaide had been intrusted with quite as rich gifts for her father and mother; nor had Lora been forgotten; Elsie had a handsome shawl for her, Mr. Dinsmore a beautiful pair of bracelets, and Rose a costly volume of engravings. "Do you think Aunt Lora will be pleased?" asked Elsie. "They're splendid! It must be mighty nice to have so much money to spend. But come now, show me what you got for yourselves." She spent a long while, first in Rose's apartment, then in Elsie's, turning over and admiring the pretty things, discussing patterns, and styles of trimming, and what colors and modes would be becoming to her, trying on some of the dresses, laces, sacques, shawls, bonnets, and hats--without so much as saying by your leave, when the article in question belonged to her niece--that she might judge of the effect; several times repeating her remark that it must be delightful to have so much money, and that Elsie was exceedingly fortunate in being so enormously wealthy. "Yes; it is something to be thankful for," Elsie said at length, "but, Enna, it is also a great responsibility. We are only stewards, you know, and sometimes I fear it is hardly right for me to spend so much in personal adornment." "That wouldn't trouble me in the least; but why do you do it, if you are afraid it's wrong?" "Papa does not think so; he says the manufacturers of these rich goods must live as well as others, and that for one with my income, it is no more extravagant to wear them than for one with half the means to wear goods only half as expensive." "And I'm sure he's perfectly right; and of course you have no choice but to obey. Well, I presume I've seen everything now, and I'm actually weary with my labors," she added, throwing herself into an easy-chair. "You've grown a little pale, I think, and your eyes look as if you'd been crying. What ails you?" "I am not at all ill," returned Elsie, flushing. "I didn't say you were, but something's wrong with you, and you can't deny it; you don't seem as gay as you used to before you went away." She paused, but receiving no reply, went on. "Come now, it isn't worth while to be so close-mouthed with me, Miss Dinsmore; for I happen to know pretty much all about it already. You've fallen in love with a man that your father thinks is a scamp and though you don't believe it, you've given him up, in obedience to orders, like the cowardly piece that you are. Dear me, before I'd be so afraid of my father!" "No, you neither fear nor love your father as I do mine; but fear of papa has very little to do with it. I love him far too well to refuse to submit to him in this, and I fear God, who bids me obey and honor him. But, Enna, how did you learn all this?" "Ah, that is my secret." Elsie looked disturbed. "Won't you tell me?" "Not I." "Is it generally known in the family?" "So far as I am aware, no one knows it but myself." "Ah!" thought Elsie, "I did not believe Aunt Adelaide or Walter would tell her; but I wonder how she did find it out." "I wouldn't give up the man I loved for anybody," Enna went on in a sneering tone. "I say parents have no business to interfere in such matters; and so I told papa quite plainly when he took it upon him to lecture me about receiving attentions from Dick Percival, and threatened to forbid him the house." "Oh, Enna!" "You consider it wickedly disrespectful and rebellious no doubt, but I say I'm no longer a child, and so the text, 'Children obey your parents'--which I know is just on the end of your tongue--doesn't apply to me." "The Bible doesn't say obey till you are of age, then do as you please. You are not seventeen yet, and Isaac was twenty when he submitted to be bound and laid upon the altar." "Well, when I go to the altar, it shall be leaning on Dick's arm," said Enna, laughing. "I don't care if he is wild; I like him, and intend to marry him too." "But are you not afraid?" "Afraid of what?" "That he will run through his property in a few years, and perhaps become an habitual drunkard and abusive to his wife." "I mean to risk it anyhow," returned Enna sharply, "so it is not worth while for my friends to waste their breath in lecturing me on the subject." "Oh, Enna! you can't expect a blessing, if you persist in being so undutiful; I think it would be well for you if your father were more like mine." "Indeed! I wouldn't be your father's daughter for anything." "And I am glad and thankful that I am." CHAPTER XXI. The human heart! 'tis a thing that lives In the light of many a shrine; And the gem of its own pure feelings gives Too oft on brows that are false to shine; It has many a cloud of care and woe To shadow o'er its springs, And the One above alone may know The changing tune of its thousand strings. --MRS. L.P. SMITH. Mr. and Mrs. Horace Dinsmore were most anxious to promote Elsie's happiness, and in order to that to win her to forgetfulness of her unworthy suitor. Being Christians they did not take her to the ball-room, the Opera, or the theater (nor would she have consented to go had they proposed it), but they provided for her every sort of suitable amusement within their reach. She was allowed to entertain as much company and to pay as many visits to neighbors and friends as she pleased. But a constant round of gayety was not to her taste; she loved quiet home pleasures and intellectual pursuits far better. And of these also she might take her fill, nor lack for sympathizing companionship; both parents, but especially her father, being of like mind with herself. They enjoyed many a book together, and she chose to pursue several studies with him. And thus the weeks and months glided away not unhappily, though at times she would be possessed with a restless longing for news from Egerton, and for the love that was denied her; then her eyes would occasionally meet her father's with the old wistful, pleading look that he found so hard to resist. He well understood their mute petition; yet it was one he could not grant. But he would take her in his arms, and giving her the fondest, tenderest caresses, would say, in a moved tone, "My darling, don't look at me in that way; it almost breaks my heart. Ah, if you could only be satisfied with your father's love!" "I will try, papa," was her usual answer, "and oh, your love is very sweet and precious!" Such a little scene, occurring one morning in Elsie's boudoir, was interrupted by Chloe coming in to say that Miss Carrington had called to see her young mistress and was waiting in the drawing-room. "Show her in here, mammy," Elsie said, disengaging herself from her father's arms, and smoothing out her dress. "She used to come here in the old times without waiting for an invitation." The Carringtons had not been able quite to forgive the rejection of Herbert's suit, and since his death there had been a slight coolness between the two families, and the girls had seen much less of each other than in earlier days; their intercourse being confined to an occasional exchange of formal calls, except when they met at the house of some common acquaintance or friend. Still they were mutually attached, and of late had resumed much of their old warmth of manner toward each other. "Ah, this seems like going back to the dear old times again," Lucy said when their greetings were over, and sending an admiring glance about the luxuriously furnished apartment as she spoke. "I always thought this the most charming of rooms, Elsie, but how many lovely things,--perfect gems of art,--you have added to it since I saw it last." "Papa's gifts to his spoiled darling, most of them," answered Elsie, with a loving look and smile directed to him. "Petted, but not spoiled," he said, returning the smile. "No, indeed, I should think not," said Lucy. "Mamma says she is the most perfectly obedient, affectionate daughter she ever saw, and I can't tell you how often I have heard her wish I was more like her." "Ah," said Elsie, "I think Mrs. Carrington has always looked at me through rose-colored spectacles." After a little more chat Lucy told her errand. Her parents and herself, indeed the whole family, she said, had greatly regretted the falling off of their former intimacy and strongly desired to renew it; and she had come to beg Elsie to go home with her and spend a week at Ashlands in the old familiar way. Elsie's eye brightened, and her cheek flushed. "Dear Lucy, how kind!" she exclaimed; then turned inquiringly to her father. "Yes, it is very kind," he said. "Use your own pleasure, daughter. I think perhaps the change might do you good." "Thanks, papa, then I shall go. Lucy, I accept your invitation with pleasure." They were soon on their way, cantering briskly along side by side, Lucy in gay, almost wild spirits, and Elsie's depression rapidly vanishing beneath the combined influence of the bracing air and exercise, the brilliant sunshine, and her friend's lively sallies. Arrived at Ashlands, she found herself received and welcomed with all the old warmth of affection. Mrs. Carrington folded her to her heart and wept over her. "My poor boy!" she whispered; "it seems almost to bring him back again to have you with us once more. But I will not mourn," she added, wiping her eyes; "for our loss has been his great gain." Tender memories of Herbert, associated with nearly every room in the house, saddened and subdued Elsie's spirit for a time, yet helped to banish thoughts of Egerton from her mind. But Lucy had a great deal to tell her, and in listening to these girlish confidences, Herbert was again half forgotten. Lucy too had spent the past summer in the North, and had there "met her fate." She was engaged, the course of true love seemed to be running smoothly, and they expected to marry in a year. Elsie listened with interest, sympathizing warmly in her friend's happiness; but Lucy, who was watching her keenly, noticed a shade of deep sadness steal over her face. "Now I have told you all my secrets," she said, "won't you treat me as generously, by trusting me with yours?" "If I had as happy a tale to tell," replied Elsie, the tears filling her eyes. "You poor dear, what is wrong? Is it that papa refuses his consent." Elsie nodded; her heart was too full for speech. "What a shame!" cried Lucy. "Does he really mean to keep you single all your life? is he quite determined to make an old maid of you?" "No, oh, no! but he does not believe my friend to be a good man. There seems to be some sad mistake, and I cannot blame papa; because if Mr. Egerton really was what he thinks him, it would be folly and sin for me to have anything to do with him; and indeed I could not give either hand or heart to one so vile,--a profane swearer, gambler, drunkard, and rake." "Oh, my, no!" and Lucy looked quite horrified; "but you don't believe him such a villain?" "No; on the contrary I think him a truly converted man. I believe he was a little wild at one time; for he told me he had been; but I believe, too, that he has truly repented, and therefore ought to be forgiven." "Then I wouldn't give him up if I were you, father or no father," remarked Lucy, with spirit. "But, Lucy, there is the command, 'Children, obey your parents.'" "But you are not a child." "Hardly more, not of age for more than two years." "Well, when you are of age, surely you will consider a lover's claims before those of a father." "No," Elsie answered low and sadly. "I shall never marry without papa's consent. I love him far too dearly to grieve him so; and it would be running too fearful a risk." "Then you have resigned your lover entirely?" "Unless he can some day succeed in convincing papa that he is not so unworthy." "Well, you are a model of filial piety! and deserve to be happy, and I am ever so sorry for you," cried Lucy, clasping her in her arms, and kissing her affectionately. "Thank you, dear," Elsie said, "but oh, I cannot bear to have my father blamed. Believing as he does, how could he do otherwise than forbid all intercourse between us? And he is so very, very kind, so tenderly affectionate to me. Ah, I could never do without his dear love!" After this, the two had frequent talks together on the same subject, and though Lucy did not find any fault with Mr. Dinsmore, she yet pleaded Egerton's cause, urging that it seemed very unfair in Elsie to condemn him unheard, very hard not to allow him even so much as a parting word. "I had no choice," Elsie said again and again, in a voice full of tears; "it was papa's command, and I could do nothing but obey. Oh, Lucy, it was very, very hard for me, too! and yet my father was doing only his duty, if his judgment of Mr. Egerton's character was correct." One afternoon, when Elsie had been at Ashlands four or five days, Lucy came flying into her room; "Oh, I'm so glad to find you dressed! You see I'm in the midst of my toilet, and Scip has just brought up word that a gentleman is in the parlor asking for the young ladies--Miss Dinsmore and Miss Carrington. Would you mind going down alone and entertaining him till I come? do, there's a dear." "Who is he?" "Scip didn't seem to have quite understood the name; but it must be some one we both know, and if you don't mind going, it would be a relief to my nerves to know that he's not sitting there with nothing to do but count the minutes, and think, 'What an immense time it takes Miss Carrington to dress. She must be very anxious to make a good impression upon me.' For you see men are so conceited, they are always imagining we're laying ourselves out to secure their admiration." "I will go down then," Elsie answered, smiling, "and do what I can to keep him from thinking any such unworthy thoughts of you. But please follow me as soon as you can." The caller had the drawing-room to himself, and as Elsie entered was standing at the centre-table with his back toward her. As she drew near, he turned abruptly, caught her hand in his, threw his arm about her waist, and kissed her passionately, crying in a low tone of rapturous delight, "My darling, I have you at last! Oh, how I have suffered from this cruel separation." It was Egerton, and for a few moments she forgot everything else, in her glad surprise at the unexpected meeting. He drew her to a sofa, and still keeping his arm about her, poured out a torrent of fond loverlike words, mingled with tender reproaches that she had given him up so easily, and protestations of his innocence of the vices and crimes laid to his charge. At first Elsie flushed rosy red, and a sweet light of love and joy shone in the soft eyes, half veiled by their heavy, drooping lashes; but as he went on her cheek grew deathly pale, and she struggled to free herself from his embrace. "Let me go!" she cried, in an agitated tone of earnest entreaty, "I must, indeed I must! I can't stay--I ought not; I should not have come in, or allowed you to speak to, or touch me. Papa has forbidden all intercourse between us, and he will be so angry." And she burst into tears. "Then don't go back to him; stay with me, and give me a right to protect you from his anger. I can't bear to see you weep, and if you will be mine--my own little wife, you shall never have cause to shed another tear," he said, drawing her closer to him and kissing them away. "No, no, I cannot, I cannot! You must let me go; indeed you must!" she cried, shrinking from the touch of his lip upon her cheek, and averting her face, "I am doing wrong, very wrong to stay, here!" "No, I shall hold you fast for a few blissful moments at least;" he answered, tightening his grasp and repeating his caresses, as she struggled the harder to be free. "You cannot be so cruel as to refuse to hear my defence." "Oh, I cannot stay another moment--I must not hear another word, for every instant that I linger I am guilty of a fresh act of disobedience to papa. I shall be compelled to call for help it you do not loose your hold." He took his arm from her waist, but still held fast to her hand. "No, don't do that," he said; "think what a talk it would make. I shall detain you but a moment, and surely you may as well stay that much longer; 'in for a penny, in for a pound,' you know. Oh, Elsie, can't you give me a little hope." "If you can gain papa's approval, not otherwise." "But when you come of age." "I shall never marry without my father's consent." "Surely you carry your ideas of obedience too far. You owe a duty to yourself and to me, as well as to your father. Excuse my plainness, but in the course of nature we shall both outlive him, and is it right to sacrifice the happiness of our two lives because he has unfortunately imbibed a prejudice against me?" "I could expect no blessing upon a union entered into in direct opposition to my father's wishes and commands," she answered with sad and gentle firmness. "That's a hard kind of obedience; and I don't think it would answer to put in practice in all cases," he said bitterly. "Perhaps not; I do not attempt to decide for others; but I am convinced of my own duty; and know too that I should be wretched indeed, if I had to live under papa's frown. And oh, how I am disobeying him now! I must go this instant! Release my hand, Mr. Egerton." And she tried with all her strength to wrench it free. "No, no, not yet," he said entreatingly. "I have not given you half the proofs of my innocence that I can bring forward; do me the simple justice to stay and hear them." She made no reply but half yielded, ceasing her struggles for a moment. She had no strength to free her hand from his grasp, and could not bear to call others upon the scene. Trembling with agitation and eagerness, she waited for his promised proofs; but instead he only poured forth a continuous stream of protestations, expostulations and entreaties. "Mr. Egerton, I must, I must go," she repeated; "this is nothing to the purpose, and I cannot stay to hear it." A step was heard approaching; he hastily drew her toward him, touched his lips again to her cheek, released her, and she darted from the room by one door, as Lucy entered by another. "Where is she? gone? what's the matter? wasn't she pleased to see you? wouldn't she stay?" Lucy looked into the disappointed, angry, chagrined face of Egerton, and in her surprise and vexation piled question upon question without giving him time to answer. "No, the girl's a fool!" he muttered angrily, and turning hastily from her, paced rapidly to and fro for a moment; then suddenly recollecting himself, "I beg pardon, Miss Carrington," he said, coming back to the sofa on which she sat regarding him with a perturbed, displeased countenance, "I--I forgot myself; but you will perhaps, know how to excuse an almost distracted lover." "Really, sir," returned Lucy coolly, "your words just now did not sound very lover-like; and would rather lead one to suspect that possibly Mr. Dinsmore may be in the right." He flushed hotly. "What can you mean, Miss Carrington?" "That your love is for her fortune rather than for herself." "Indeed you wrong me. I adore Miss Dinsmore, and would consider myself the happiest of mortals could I but secure her hand, even though she came to me penniless. But she has imbibed the most absurd, ridiculous ideas of filial duty and refuses to give me the smallest encouragement unless I can gain her father's consent and approval; which, seeing he has conceived a violent dislike to me, is a hopeless thing. Now can you not realize that the more ardent my love for her, the more frantically impatient I would feel under such treatment?" "Perhaps so; men are so different from women; but nothing could ever make me apply such an epithet to the man I loved." "Distracted with disappointed hopes, I was hardly a sane man at the moment, Miss Carrington," he said deprecatingly. "The coveted interview has proved entirely unsatisfactory then?" she said in a tone of inquiry. "Yes; and yet I am most thankful to have had sight and speech of her once more; truly grateful to you for bringing it about so cleverly. But--oh, Miss Carrington, could you be persuaded to assist me still further, you would lay me under lasting obligations!" "Please explain yourself, sir," she answered coldly, moving farther from him, as he attempted to take her hand. "Excuse me," he said. "I am not one inclined to take liberties with ladies; but I am hardly myself to-day; my overpowering emotion--my half distracted state of mind--" Breaking off his sentence abruptly, and putting his hand to his head, "I believe I shall go mad if I have to resign all hope of winning the sweet, lovely Elsie," he exclaimed excitedly, "and I see only one way of doing it. If I could carry her off, and get her quite out of her father's reach, so that no fear of him need deter her from following the promptings of her own heart, I am sure I could induce her to consent to marry me at once. Miss Carrington, will you help me?" "Never! If Elsie chooses to run away with you, and wants any assistance from me, she shall have it; but I will have nothing to do with kidnapping." He urged, entreated, used every argument he could think of, but with no other effect than rousing Lucy's anger and indignation; "underhand dealings were not in her line," she told him, and finally--upon his intimating that what she had already done might be thought to come under that head--almost ordered him out of the house. He went, and hurrying to her friend's room, she found her walking about it in a state of great agitation, and weeping bitterly. "Oh, Lucy, how could you? how could you?" she cried, wringing her hands and sobbing in pitiable distress. "I had no thought of him when I went down; I did not know you knew him, or that he was in this part of the country at all. I was completely taken by surprise, and have disobeyed papa's most express commands, and he will never forgive me, never! No, not that either, but he will be very, very angry. Oh, what shall I do!" "Oh, Elsie, dear, don't be so troubled! I am as sorry as I can be," said Lucy, with tears in her eyes. "I meant to do you a kindness; indeed I did; I thought it would be a joyful surprise to you. "I met him last summer at Saratoga. He came there immediately from Lansdale, and somehow we found out directly that we both knew you, and that I was a near neighbor and very old friend of yours; and he told me the whole story of your love-affair, and quite enlisted me in his cause; he seemed so depressed and melancholy at your loss, and grieved so over the hasty way in which your father had separated you,--not even allowing a word of farewell. "He told me he hoped and believed you were still faithful to him in your heart, but he could not get to see or speak to you, or hold any correspondence with you. And so I arranged this way of bringing you together." "It was kindly meant, I have no doubt, Lucy, but oh, you don't know what you have done! I tremble at the very thought of papa's anger when he hears it; for I have done and permitted things he said he would not allow for thousands of dollars." "Well, dear, I don't think you could help it; and I'm so sorry for my share in it," said Lucy, putting her arms round her, and kissing her wet cheek. "But perhaps your father will not be so very angry with you after all; and at any rate you are too old to be whipped, so a scolding will be the worst you will be likely to get." "He never did whip me, never struck me a blow in his life; but I would prefer the pain of a dozen whippings to what I expect," said Elsie, with a fresh burst of tears. "What is that, you poor dear?" asked Lucy. "I can't imagine what he could do worse than beat you." "He may put me away from his arms for weeks or months, and be cold, and stern, and distant to me, never giving me a caress or even so much as a kind word or look. Oh, if he should do that, how can I bear it!" "Well, don't tell him anything about it. I wouldn't, and I don't see any reason why you should." Elsie shook her head sorrowfully. "I must; I never conceal anything--any secret of my own--from him; and I should feel like a guilty thing, acting a lie, and could not look him in the face; and he would know from my very look and manner that something was wrong, and would question me, and make me tell him all. Lucy, I must go home at once." "No, indeed, you must not. Why, you were to stay a week--two days longer than this; and if you were ready to start this minute, it would be quite dark before you could possibly reach the Oaks." Elsie looked at her watch, and perceiving that her friend was right, gave up the idea of going that day, but said she must leave the next morning. To that Lucy again objected. "I can't bear to lose those two days of your promised visit," she said, "for if you are determined to tell your papa all about this, there's no knowing when he will allow you to come here again." "Never, I fear," sighed Elsie. "I haven't been able to help feeling a little hard to him on poor Herbert's account," Lucy went on, "and I believe that had something to do with my readiness to help Egerton to outwit him in obtaining an interview with you. But I'll never do anything of the kind again; so he needn't be afraid to let you come to see us." She then told Elsie what had passed in the drawing-room between Egerton and herself--his request and her indignant refusal. It helped to shake Elsie's confidence in the man, and made her still more remorseful in view of that day's disobedience; for she could not deceive herself into the belief that she had been altogether blameless. "As I said before, I can't bear the idea of losing you so soon," continued Lucy, "but there is still another reason why I must beg of you to stay till the set time of your leaving. Mamma knows nothing about this affair, and would be exceedingly displeased with me, if she should find it out; as of course she must, if you go to-morrow; as that would naturally call out an explanation. So, dear, do promise me that you will give up the idea." Elsie hesitated, but not liking to bring Lucy into trouble, finally yielded to her urgent entreaties, and consented to stay. All the enjoyment of her visit, however, was over; she felt it impossible to rest till her father knew all, shed many tears in secret, and had much ado to conceal the traces of them, and appear cheerful in the presence of the family. But the two wretched days were over at last, and declining the urgent invitations of her friends to linger with them a little longer, she bade them an affectionate farewell, and set out for home. Jim had been sent to escort her, another servant with the wagon for Chloe and the luggage. Struck with a sudden fear that she might meet or be overtaken by Egerton, Elsie ordered Jim to keep up close in the rear, then touching the whip to her horse, started off at a brisk canter. Her thoughts were full of the coming interview with her father, which she dreaded exceedingly, while at the same time she longed to have it over. She drew rein at the great gates leading into the grounds, and the servant dismounted and opened them. "Jim," she asked, "is your master at home?" "Dunno, Miss Elsie, but the missus am gone ober to Ion to spend the day, an lef' little Marse Horace at Roselands." "Why, what's the matter, Jim?" "De missus at Ion little bit sick, I b'lieve, Miss Elsie." "And papa didn't go with them?" "Yes, miss; but he comed right back again, and I 'spect he's in de house now." "Dear papa! he came back to receive me," murmured Elsie to herself, as she rode on, and a scalding tear fell at the thought of how the loving look and fond caress with which he was sure to greet her, would be quickly exchanged for dark frowns, and stern, cold reproofs. "Oh, if I were a child again, I believe I should hope he would just whip me at once, and then forgive me, and it would be all over; but now--oh, dear! how long will his displeasure last?" It was just as she had expected; he was on the veranda, watching for her coming--hastened forward, assisted her to alight, embraced her tenderly, then pushing aside her veil, looked searchingly into her face. "What is the matter?" he asked, as her eyes met his for an instant with a beseeching, imploring glance, then fell beneath his gaze while her face flushed crimson. She tried to answer him, but her tongue refused to do its office, there was a choking sensation in her throat and her lips quivered. He led her into his private study, took off her hat and threw it aside, and seating her on a sofa, still keeping his arm about her--for she was trembling very much--asked again, "What is the matter? what has gone wrong with you, my daughter?" His tone, his look, his manner were very gentle and tender; but that only increased her remorse and self-reproach. "Papa, don't be so kind," she faltered; "I--I don't deserve it, for I have--disobeyed you." "Is it possible! when? where? and how? Can it be that you have seen and spoken with that--scoundrel, Elsie?" "Yes, papa." Her voice was very low and tremulous, her heart throbbed almost to suffocation, her bosom heaved tumultuously, and her color came and went with every breath. He rose and paced hurriedly across the room two or three times, then coming back to her side, "Tell me all about it," he said sternly--"every action, every word spoken by either, as far as you can recall it." She obeyed in the same low, tremulous tones in which she had answered him before, her voice now and then broken by a half-smothered sob, and her eyes never once meeting his, which she felt were fixed so severely upon her tearful, downcast face. He cross-questioned her till he knew all that had passed nearly as well as if he had been present through the whole interview, his tones growing more and more stern and angry. "And you dared to permit all that, Elsie?" he exclaimed when she had finished; "to allow that vile wretch to put his arm around you, hold your hand in his, for half an hour probably, and even to press his lips again and again to yours or to your cheek; and that after I had told you I would not have him take such a liberty with you for half I am worth; and--" "Not to my lips, papa." "Then it is not quite so bad as I thought, but bad enough certainly; and all this after I had positively forbidden you to even so much as exchange the slightest salutation with him. What am I to think of such high-handed rebellion?" "Papa," she said beseechingly, "is not that too hard a word? I did not disobey deliberately--I don't think anything could have induced me to go into that room knowing that he was there. I was taken by surprise, and when he had got hold of my hand I tried in vain to get it free." "Don't attempt to excuse yourself, Elsie. You could have escaped from him at once, by simply raising your voice and calling for assistance. I do not believe it would have been impossible to avoid even that first embrace; and it fairly makes my blood boil to think he succeeded in giving it to you. How dared you so disobey me as to submit to it?" "Papa, at the moment I forgot everything but--but just that he was there." The last words were spoken in a voice scarcely raised above a whisper, while her head drooped lower and lower and her cheek grew hot with shame. "Did I ever take forgetfulness of my orders as any excuse of disobedience?" he asked in as stern a tone as he had ever used to her. "No, papa; but oh, don't be very angry with me!" "I am exceedingly displeased with you, Elsie! so much so that nothing but your sex saves you from a severe chastisement. And I cannot allow you to escape punishment. You must be taught that though no longer a mere child, you are not yet old enough to disobey me with impunity. Hush!" as she seemed about to speak, "I will not have a word of reply. Go to your own apartments and consider yourself confined to them till you hear further from me. Stay!" he added as she rose to obey, "when did all this occur?" She told him in her low, tearful tones, her utterance half choked with sobs. "Two days ago, and yet your confession has been delayed till now. Does that look like penitence for your fault?" She explained why she had not returned home at once; but he refused to accept the excuse, and ordered her away as sternly as before. She obeyed in silence, controlling her feelings by a great effort, until she had gained the privacy of her own apartments, then giving way to a fit of almost hysterical weeping. It was years since her father had been seriously displeased with her, and loving him with such intense affection, his anger and sternness nearly broke her heart. Her tender conscience pricked her sorely too, adding greatly to her distress by its reproaches on account of her disobedience and her delay in confessing it. It came to her mind at length that her heavenly Father might be more tender and forbearing with her, more ready to forgive and restore to favor, than her earthly one. She remembered the sweet words, "There is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared." "If any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous." She went to Him with her sin and sorrow, asking pardon for the past and help for the future. She asked, too, that the anger of her earthly parent might be turned away; that the Lord would dispose him to forgive and love her as before. She rose from her knees with a heart, though still sad and sorrowful, yet lightened of more than half its load. But the day was a very long one; with a mind so disturbed she could not settle to any employment, or find amusement in anything. She passed the time in wandering restlessly from room to room, starting and trembling as now and then she thought she heard her father's step or voice, then weeping afresh as she found that he did not come near her. When the dinner-bell rang she hoped he would send, or come to her; but instead he sent her meal to her; such an one as was usual upon their table--both luxurious and abundant,--which comforted her with the hope that he was less displeased with her than at other times when he had allowed her little more than prison fare. But excitement and mental distress had brought on a severe headache; she had no appetite, and sent the food away almost untasted. It was mild, beautiful weather in the early spring; such weather as makes one feel it a trial to be compelled to stay within doors, and Elsie longed for her favorite retreat in the grounds. In the afternoon some ladies called; Mr. Dinsmore was out, and she dared not go to the drawing room without permission; but her headache furnished sufficient excuse for declining to see them, and they went away. Shortly after, she heard her father's return. He had not been off the estate, or out of sight of the house; he was keeping guard over her, but still did not come near her. Just at tea-time she again heard the sound of wheels; then her father's, mother's, and little brother's voices. "Mamma and Horace have come home," she thought with a longing desire to run out and embrace them. "Oh, papa, has sister come home?" she heard the child's voice ask in eager tones. "Yes." "Oh, then I must run into her room and kiss her!" "No, you must not; stay here." "But why mustn't I go to sister, papa?" "Because I forbid it." Every word of the short colloquy reached Elsie's ear, adding to her grief and dismay. Was she, then, to be separated from all the rest of the family? did her father fear that she would exert a bad influence over Horace, teaching him to be disobedient and wilful? How deeply humbled and ashamed she felt at the thought. Rose gave her husband a look of surprised, anxious inquiry. "Is Elsie sick, dear?" she asked. "No, Rose, but she is in disgrace with me," he answered in an undertone, as he led the way into the house. "Horace, you astonish me! what can she have done to displease you?" "Come in here; and I will tell you," he said, throwing open the door of his study. Rose listened in silence, while he repeated to her the substance of Elsie's confession, mingled with expressions of his own anger and indignation. "Poor child!" murmured Rose, as he concluded; "Horace, don't be hard with her; she must have suffered a great deal in these last three days." "Yes," he answered in a moved tone; "when I think of that, I can scarcely refrain from going to her, taking her in my arms, and lavishing caresses and endearments upon her; but then comes the thought of her allowing that scoundrel to do the same, and I am ready almost to whip her for it." His face flushed hotly, and his dark eyes flashed as he spoke. "Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Rose, half frightened at his vehemence, "you cannot mean it?" "Rose," he said, pacing to and fro in increasing excitement, "the fellow is a vile wretch, whose very touch I esteem pollution to a sweet, fair, innocent young creature like my daughter. I told her so, and positively forbade her to so much as look at him, or permit him to see her face, if it could be avoided, or to recognize, or hold the slightest communication with him in any way. Yet in defiance of all this, she allows him to take her hand and hold it for, I don't know how long, put his arm around her waist and kiss her a number of times. Now what does such disobedience deserve?" "Had she no excuse to offer?" "Excuse? Yes, she did not disobey deliberately--was taken by surprise--forgot everything but that he was there." "Well, my dear," and Rose's hand was laid affectionately on his arm, while a tender smile played about her mouth, and her sweet blue eyes looked fondly into his. "You know how it is with lovers, if you will only look back a very few years. I think there were times when you and I forgot that there was anybody in the wide world but just our two selves." A smile, a tender caress, a few very lover-like words, and resuming his gravity and seriousness, Mr. Dinsmore went on: "But you forget the odious character of the man. If I had objected to him from mere prejudice or whim, it would have been a very different thing." "But you know Elsie does not believe--" "She ought to believe what her father tells her," he interrupted hotly; "but believe or not, she must and shall obey me; and if she does not I shall punish her." "And to do that, you need only look coldly on her, and refrain from giving her caresses and endearing words. Such treatment from her dearly loved father would of itself be sufficient, very soon, to crush her tender, sensitive spirit." His face softened, the frown left his brow, and the angry fire his eye. "My poor darling!" he murmured, with a sigh, his thoughts going back to a time of estrangement between them long years ago. "Yes, Rose, you are right; she is a very tender, delicate, sensitive plant, and it behooves her father to be exceeding gentle and forbearing with her." "Then you will forgive her, and take her to your heart again?" "Yes--if she is penitent;--and tell her that she owes it to her mother's intercession; for I had intended to make her feel herself in disgrace for days or weeks." Chloe was at that moment carrying a large silver waiter, filled with delicacies, into the apartments of her young mistress. "Now, darlin', do try to eat to please your ole mammy," she said coaxingly, as she set it down before her. "I'se taken lots ob pains to fix up dese tings dat my pet chile so fond ob." Elsie's only answer was a sad sort of smile; but for the sake of the loving heart that had prompted the careful preparation of the tempting meal--the loving eyes that watched her as she ate, she tried to do her best. Only half satisfied with the result, Chloe bore the waiter away again, while Elsie seated herself in a large easy-chair that was drawn up close to the glass doors opening upon the lawn and laying her head back upon its cushions, turned her eyes toward the outer world, looking longingly upon the shaded alleys and gay parterres, the lawn with its velvet carpet of emerald green, where a fountain cast up its cool showers of spray, and long shadows slept, alternating with brilliant patches of ruddy light from the slowly sinking sun. She sighed deeply, and her eyes filled with tears. "How long should she be forbidden to wander there at her own sweet will?" A soft, cool hand was gently laid upon her aching brow, and looking up she saw her father standing by her side. She had not heard his approach, for his slippered feet made no noise in passing over the rich velvet carpet. His face was grave, but no longer stern or angry. "Does your head ache, daughter?" he asked almost tenderly. "Yes, papa; but not half so badly as my heart does," she answered, a tear rolling quickly down her cheek. "I am so sorry for my disobedience. Oh, papa, will you forgive me?" And her eyes sought his with the imploring look he ever found it well-nigh impossible to resist. "Yes, I will--I do," he said, stooping to press a kiss upon the quivering lips. "I had thought I ought to keep you in disgrace some time longer, but your mamma has pleaded for you, and for her sake--and for the sake of a time, long ago, when I caused my little girl much undeserved suffering," he added, his tones growing tremulous with emotion, "I forgive and receive you back into favor at once." She threw her arm about his neck, and as he drew her to his breast, laid her head down there, weeping tears of joy and thankfulness. "Dear, kind mamma! and you too, best and dearest of fathers! I don't deserve it," she sobbed. "I am afraid I ought to be punished for such disobedience." "I think you have been," he said pityingly, "the last three days can hardly have been very happy ones to you." "No, papa; very, very wretched." "My poor child! Ah, I must take better care of my precious one in future. I shall allow you to go nowhere without either your mother or myself to guard and protect you. Also, I shall break off your intimacy with Lucy Carrington; she is henceforth to be to you a mere speaking acquaintance; come, now we will take a little stroll through the grounds. The cool air will, I hope, do your head good." CHAPTER XXII. 'Twas the doubt that thou wert false, That wrung my heart with pain; But now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again. --BRYANT. Elsie submitted without a murmur to her father's requirements and restrictions; but though there was nothing else to remind her that she had been for one sad day in disgrace with him--his manner toward her having again all the old tender fondness--she did not fully recover her spirits, but, spite of her struggles to be cheerful and hopeful, seemed often depressed, and grew pale and thin day by day. Her father noticed it with deep concern and anxiety. "Something must be done," he said one day to his wife; "the child is drooping strangely, and I fear will lose her health. I must try what change will do for her. What do you say to a year in Europe?" "For all of us?" "Yes, for you and me and our two children." "It might be very pleasant, and Elsie has never been." "No; I have always meant to take her, but found home so enjoyable that I have put it off from year to year." Elsie entered the room as he spoke. "Come here, daughter," he said, making room for her on the sofa by his side. "I was just saying to mamma that I think of taking you all to Europe for a year. How should you like that?" "Oh, very much, papa!" she answered, looking up brightly; "I should so enjoy seeing all the places you have told me of,--all the scenes of your adventures when you travelled there before." "Then I think we will go. Shall we not, mamma?" "Yes; but I must pay a visit home first, and do some preparatory shopping in Philadelphia. Can we go on in time to spend some weeks there before sailing?" "You might, my dear; but I shall have to stay behind to arrange matters here; which will take some time, in contemplation of so lengthened an absence from the estate." "Then I suppose we must have a temporary separation," said Rose, in a jesting tone; "I had better take the children and go home at once, so that Elsie and I can be getting through our shopping, etc., while you are busy here." "No, Rose; you may go, and take Horace with you, if you like; but Elsie must stay with me. I cannot trust her even with you!" "Oh, papa!" And the sweet face flushed crimson, the soft eyes filled with tears. "I think you misunderstand me, daughter," he said kindly; "I do not mean that I fear you would fail in obedience to my commands or my wishes; but that I must keep you under my protection. Besides, I cannot possibly spare all my treasures--wife, son, and daughter--at once. Would you wish to go and leave me quite alone?" "Oh no, no, indeed, you dear, dearest father!" she cried, putting her arm round his neck, and gazing in his face with eyes beaming with joy and love. "Yours is the better plan, I believe, my dear," said Rose. "I would rather not have you left alone, and I think I could do what is necessary for Elsie, in the way of shopping and ordering dresses made, if she likes to trust me." So it was arranged; three days after this conversation Mrs. Dinsmore left for Philadelphia, taking little Horace with her, and a fortnight later Mr. Dinsmore followed with Elsie. Dearly as the young girl loved Rose and her little brother, it had yet been an intense pleasure to her to have her father all to herself, and be everything to him for those two weeks; and she was almost sorry to have them come to an end. It was late at night when they reached the City of Brotherly Love. Mr. Allison's residence was several miles distant from the depot, but his carriage was there in waiting for them. "Are the family all well, Davis?" inquired Mr. Dinsmore, addressing the coachman, as he placed Elsie in the vehicle. "All well, sir; Mrs. Dinsmore and the little boy too." "Ah, I am thankful for that. You may drive on at once. My man John will call a hack and follow us with Aunt Chloe and the baggage." "Did you give John the checks, papa?" asked Elsie as he took his seat by her side, and Davis shut the carriage door. "Yes. How weary you look, my poor child! There, lean on me," and he put his arm about her and made her lay her head on his shoulder. They drove on rapidly, passing through several comparatively silent and deserted streets, then suddenly the horses slackened their pace, a bright light shone in at the carriage window and the hum of many voices and sound of many feet attracted the attention of the travellers. Elsie started and raised her head, asking, "What is it, papa?" "We are passing a theatre, and it seems the play is just over, judging by the crowds that are pouring from its doors." Davis reined in his horses to avoid running over those who were crossing the street, and Elsie, glancing from the window, caught sight of a face she knew only too well. Its owner was in the act of stepping from the door of the theatre, and staggered as he did so--would have fallen to the ground had he not been held up by his companion, a gaudily dressed, brazen-faced woman, whose character there was no mistaking. "Ha, ha, Tom!" she cried, with a loud and boisterous laugh, "I saved you from a downfall that time; which I'll be bound is more than that Southern heiress of yours would have done." "Now don't be throwing her up to me again, Bet," he answered thickly, reeling along so close to our travellers that they caught the scent of his breath; "I tell you again she can't hold a candle to you, and I never cared for her; it was the money I was after." Mr. Dinsmore saw a deadly pallor suddenly overspread his daughter's face; for a single instant her eyes sought his with an expression of mute despairing agony that wrung his heart; then all was darkness as again the carriage rolled rapidly onward. "My poor, poor darling!" he murmured, drawing her close to him and folding his arms about her as if he would shield her from every danger and evil, while hers crept around his neck and her head dropped upon his breast. The carriage rattled on over the rough stones. Elsie clung with death-like grasp to her father, shudder after shudder shaking her whole frame, in utter silence at first, but at length, as they came upon a smoother road and moved with less noise and jolting, "Papa," she whispered, "oh, what a fearful, fearful fate you have saved me from! Thank God for a father's protecting love and care!" "Thank Him that I have my darling safe." he responded in a deeply moved tone, and caressing her with exceeding tenderness. In another moment they had stopped before Mr. Allison's door, which was thrown wide open almost on the instant; for Rose and Edward were up, waiting and listening for their coming. "Come at last! glad to see you!" cried the latter, springing down the steps to greet his brother-in-law as he alighted. Then, as Mr. Dinsmore turned, lifted his daughter from the carriage, and half carried her into the house, "But what's the matter? Elsie ill? hurt? have you had an accident?" Rose stood waiting in the hall. "My dear husband!" she exclaimed in a tone of mingled affection, surprise, and alarm. "What is it? what is wrong with our darling? Come this way, into the sitting-room, and lay her on the sofa." "She has received a heavy blow, Rose, but I think--I hope it will turn out for her good in the end," he said low and tremulously, as he laid her down. She seemed in a half-fainting condition, and Edward rushed away in search of restoratives. Rose asked no more questions at the time, nor did her husband give any further information, but in silence, broken only now and then by a subdued whisper, they both devoted their energies to Elsie's restoration. "Shall I go for a doctor?" asked Edward. "No, thank you. I think she will be better presently," answered Mr. Dinsmore. "I am better now," murmured Elsie feebly. "Papa, if you will help me up to bed, I shall do very well." "Can't you eat something first?" asked Rose, "I have a nice little supper set out in the next room for papa and you." Elsie shook her head, and sighed, "I don't think I could, mamma; I am not at all hungry." "I want you to try, though," said her father; "it is some hours now since you tasted food, and I think you need it," and lifting her tenderly in his arms he carried her into the supper-room, where he seated her at the table in an easy-chair which Edward hastily wheeled up for her use. To please her father she made a determined effort, and succeeded in swallowing a few mouthfuls. After that he helped her to her room and left her in the care of Rose and Chloe. Having seen with her own eyes, and heard with her own ears, Elsie could no longer doubt the utter unworthiness of Egerton, or his identity with Tom Jackson; of whose vices and crimes she had heard from both her father and Walter, with whom she still kept up a correspondence. She loved him no longer; nay, she had never loved him; her affection had been bestowed upon the man she believed him to be, not the man that he was. But now the scales had fallen from her eyes, she saw him in all his hideous moral deformity, and shrank with horror and loathing from the recollection that his arm had once encircled her waist, his lip touched her cheek. She could now appreciate her father's feelings of anger and indignation on learning that she had permitted such liberties, and felt more deeply humbled and penitent on account of it than ever before. She slept little that night, and did not leave her room for several days. The sudden shock had quite unnerved her; but the cause of her illness remained a secret between herself and her parents, who watched over her with the tenderest solicitude, and spared no effort to cheer and comfort her. She seemed at this time to shrink from all companionship but theirs, although she and her mamma's younger brothers and sisters had always entertained a warm friendship for each other. On the fourth day after their arrival her father took her out for a drive, and returning left her resting on the sofa in her dressing-room, while he and Rose went for a short walk. The door-bell rang, and presently Chloe came up with a very smiling face to ask if "Marse Walter" might come in. "Walter?" cried Elsie, starting up. "Yes, indeed!" She had scarcely spoken the words before he was there beside her, shaking hands, and kissing her, saying with a gay boyish laugh, "I suppose your uncle has a right?" "Yes, certainly; though I don't know when, he ever claimed it before. But oh, how glad I am to gee you! and how you've grown and improved. Sit down, do. There's an easy-chair. "Excuse my not getting up; papa bade me lie and rest for an hour." "Thanks, yes; and I know you always obey orders. And so you're on the sick list? what's the matter?" An expression of pain crossed her features and the color faded from her cheek. "I have been ailing a little," she said, "but am better now. How is Arthur?" "H'm! well enough physically, but--in horrible disgrace with papa. You've no idea, Elsie, to what an extent that Tom Jackson has fleeced him. He's over head and ears in debt, and my father's furious. He has put the whole matter into Horace's hands for settlement. Did he tell you about it?" "No, he only said he expected to go to Princeton to-morrow to attend to some business. He would have gone sooner, but didn't like to leave me." "Careful of you as ever! that's right. I say, Elsie, I think Horace has very sensible ideas about matters and things." "Do you? I own I think so myself," she answered with a quiet smile. "Yes; you see Arthur is in debt some thousands, a good share of it what they call debts of honor. Papa had some doubt as to whether they ought to be paid, and asked Horace what was his opinion. Adelaide wrote me the whole story, you see. Here, I'll give it to you in his exact words, as she reports them," he added, taking a letter from his pocket and reading aloud, "'Father, don't think of such a thing! Why, surely it would be encouraging gambling, which is a ruinous vice; and paying a man for robbing and cheating. I would, if necessary, part with the last cent to pay an honest debt; but a so-called debt of honor (of dishonor would be more correct) I would not pay if I had more money than I could find other uses for.' And I think he was right. Don't you?" concluded Walter. "I think papa is always right." "Yes? Well, I was afraid you didn't think he was in regard to that--fellow you met out in Lansdale; I've been wanting to see you to tell you what I know of the scoundrelism of Tom Jackson, and the proof that they are one and the same." "Yes, I know, I--I believe it now, Walter, and--But don't let us speak of it again," she faltered, turning deathly pale and almost gasping for breath. "I won't; I didn't know you'd mind; I--I'm very sorry," he stammered, looking anxious, and vexed with himself. "Never mind; I shall soon learn not to care. Now tell me about Arthur. Will he stay and finish his course?" "No; papa says his patience is worn out, and his purse can stand no more such drains as Arthur has put upon it two or three times already. So he is to leave and go home as soon as Horace has settled up his affairs." "And you?" "I hope to go on and to graduate in another year." "Oh, Wal, I'm so glad! so thankful you have'nt followed in poor Arthur's footsteps." "He wouldn't let me, Elsie; he actually wouldn't. I know I'm lacking in self-reliance and firmness, and if Art had chosen to lead me wrong, I'm afraid he'd have succeeded. But he says, poor fellow! that it's enough for one to be a disgrace to the family, and has tried to keep me out of temptation. And you can't think how much my correspondence with you has helped to keep me straight. Your letters always did me so much good." "Oh, thank you for telling me that!" she cried, with bright, glad tears glistening in her eyes. "No, 'tis I that owe thanks to you," he said, looking down meditatively at the carpet and twirling his watch-key between his finger and thumb. "Poor Art! this ought to have been his last year, and doubtless would if he had only kept out of bad company." "Ah, Wal, I hope that you will never forget that 'evil communications corrupt good manners.'" "I hope not, Elsie. I wish you could stay and attend our commencement. What do you say? Can't you? It comes off in about a fortnight." "No, Wal. I'm longing to get away, and papa has engaged our passage in the next steamer. But perhaps we may return in time to see you graduate next year." "What, in such haste to leave America! I'm afraid you're losing your patriotism," he said playfully. "Ah, it is no want of love for my dear native land that makes me impatient to be gone!" she answered half sadly. "And are you really to be gone a year?" "So papa intends, but of course everything in this world is uncertain." "I shall look anxiously for my European letters, and expect them to be very interesting." "I'll do my best, Wal," she said languidly, "but I don't feel, just now, as if I could ever write anything worth reading." "I think I never saw you so blue," he said in a lively, jesting tone. "I must tell you of the fun we fellows have, and if it doesn't make you wish yourself one of us--Well," and he launched out into an animated description of various practical jokes played off by the students upon their professors or on each other. He succeeded at length in coaxing some of the old brightness into the sweet face, and Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, mounting the stairs on their return from their walk, exchanged glances of delighted surprise at the sound of a silvery laugh which had not greeted their ears for days. Walter received a hearty welcome from both. His visit, though necessarily short, was of real service to Elsie, doing much to rouse her out of herself and her grief; thus beginning the cure which time and change of scene--dulling the keen edge of sorrow and disappointment, and giving pleasant occupation to her thoughts--would at length carry on to completion. CHAPTER XXIII. "The shaken tree grows firmer at the roots; So love grows firmer for some blasts of doubt." It was two years or more since the Oaks had suffered the temporary loss of its master and mistress, yet they had not returned; they still lingered on foreign shores, and Mrs. Murray, who had been left at the head of household affairs, looked in vain for news of their home-coming. She now and then received a short business letter from Mr. Dinsmore or of directions from Rose; or a longer one from the latter or Elsie, giving entertaining bits of travel, etc.; and occasionally Adelaide would ride over from Roselands and delight the old housekeeper's heart by reading aloud a lively gossipy epistle one or the other had addressed to her. How charmed and interested were both reader and listener; especially when they came upon one of Rose's graphic accounts of their presentation at court--in London, Paris, Vienna, or St. Petersburg--wherein she gave a minute description of Elsie's dress and appearance, and dwelt with motherly pride and delight upon the admiration everywhere accorded to the beauty and sweetness of the lovely American heiress. It was a great gratification to Adelaide's pride in her niece to learn that more than one coronet had been laid at her feet; yet she was not sorry to hear that they had been rejected with the gentle firmness which she knew Elsie was capable of exercising. "But what more could the bairn or her father desire? would he keep the sweet lassie single a' her days, Miss Dinsmore?" asked Mrs. Murray when Adelaide told her this. "No," was the smiling rejoinder; "I know he would be very loath to resign her; but this is Elsie's own doing. She says the man for whom she would be willing to give up her native land must be very dear indeed, that her hand shall never be given without her heart, and that it still belongs more to her father than to any one else." "Ah, that is well, Miss Adelaide. I hae been sorely troubled aboot my sweet bairn. I never breathed the thoct to ither mortal ear, but when they cam hame frae that summer in the North, she was na the blythe young thing she had been; and there was that in the wistfu' and hungered look o' her sweet een--when she turned them whiles upon her father--that made me think some ane he didna approve had won the innocent young heart." "Ah, well, Mrs. Murray, whatever may have been amiss then, is all over now. My sister writes me that Elsie seems very happy, and as devotedly attached to her father as ever, insisting that no one ever can be so dear to her as he." Mrs. Dinsmore's last letter was dated Naples, and there they still lingered. One bright spring day they were out sight-seeing, and had wandered into a picture-gallery which they had visited once or twice before. Rose had her husband's arm. Elsie held her little brother's hand in hers. "Sister," said the child, "look at those ladies and gentlemen. They are English, aren't they?" "Yes; I think so," Elsie answered, following the direction of his glance; "a party of English tourists. No, one of the gentlemen looks like an American." "That one nearest this way? I can only see his side face, but I think he is the handsomest. Don't you?" "Yes; and he has a fine form too, an easy, graceful carriage, and polished manners," she added, as at that moment he stooped to pick up a handkerchief, dropped by one of the ladies of his party, and presented it to its owner. Elsie was partial to her own countrymen, and unaccountably to herself, felt an unusual interest in this one. She watched him furtively, wondering who he was, and thinking that in appearance and manners he compared very favorably with the counts, lords, and dukes who in the past two years had so frequently hovered about her, and hung upon her smiles. But her father called her attention to something in the painting he and Rose were examining, and when she turned to look again for the stranger and his companions, she perceived that they were gone. "Papa," she asked, "did you notice that party of tourists?" "Not particularly. What about them?" "I am quite certain one of the gentlemen was an American; and I half fancied there was something familiar in his air and manner." "Ah! I wish you had spoken of it while he was here, that I might have made sure whether he were an old acquaintance. But come," he added, taking out his watch, "it is time for us to return home." The Dinsmores were occupying an old palace, the property of a noble family whose decayed fortunes compelled the renting of their ancestral home. In the afternoon of the day of their visit to the picture-gallery Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter were seated in its spacious saloon, she beside a window overlooking the street, he at a little distance from her, and near to a table covered with books, magazines, and newspapers. That day had brought him a heavy mail from America, and he was examining the New York and Philadelphia dailies with keen interest. Elsie was evidently paying no heed to what might be passing in the street. A bit of fancy work gave employment to her fingers, while her thoughts were busy with the contents of a letter received from her Aunt Adelaide that morning. It brought ill news. Arthur had been seriously injured by a railroad accident and, it was feared, was crippled for life. But that was not all. Dick Percival--whom Enna had married nearly two years before--had now become utterly bankrupt, having wasted his patrimony in rioting and drunkenness, losing large sums at the gaming-table; and his young wife, left homeless and destitute, had been compelled to return to her father's house with her infant son. Mr. Dinsmore uttered a slight exclamation. "What is it, papa?" asked Elsie, lifting her eyes to meet his fixed upon her with an expression of mingled gratitude and tenderness. "Come here," he said, and as she obeyed he drew her to his knee, passing his arm about her waist, and, holding the paper before her, pointed to a short paragraph which had just caught his eye. She read it at a glance; her face flushed, then paled; she put her arm about his neck, and laid her cheek to his, while tears trembled in the sweet eyes, as soft and beautiful as ever. For a moment neither spoke; then she murmured in low, quivering tones the same words that had fallen from her lips two years ago,--"Thank God for a father's protecting love and care!" "Thank Him that I have my daughter safe in my arms," he said, tightening his clasp about her slender waist. "Ah, my own precious child, how could I ever have borne to see you sacrificed to that wretch!" They had just learned that Tom Jackson had been tried for manslaughter and for forgery, found guilty on both charges, and sentenced to the State's Prison for a long term of years. They were quiet again for a little; then Elsie said, "Papa, I want to ask you something." "Well, daughter, say on." "I have been thinking how sad it must be for poor Enna to find herself so destitute, and that I should like to settle something upon her--say ten or twenty thousand dollars, if I may--" "My dear child," he said with a smile, "I have no control over you now as regards the disposal of your property. Do you forget that you passed your majority three weeks ago?" "No, papa, I have not forgotten; but I don't mean ever to do anything of importance without your approval. So please make up your mind that I'm always to be your own little girl; never more than eighteen or twenty to you. Now won't you answer my question about Enna?" "I think it would be quite as well, or better, to defer any such action for the present. It won't hurt Enna to be made to feel poor and dependent for a time; she needs the lesson; and her parents will not allow her to suffer privation of any sort. Ah, here comes mamma in walking attire. We are going out for perhaps an hour; leaving house, servants, and the little ones in your charge. Horace, be careful to do just as your sister tells you." "Yes, papa, I will," answered the child, who had come in with his mother, and had a book in his hand. "Will you help me with my lesson, Elsie, and hear me say it when it is learned?" "Yes, that I will. Here's a stool for you close by my side," she said, going back to her seat by the window. "Good-bye, dears, we won't be gone long." said Rose, taking her husband's arm. Elsie and Horace watched them till they had passed out of sight far down the street, then returned to their employments; her thoughts now going back, not to Roselands, but to Lansdale, Ashlands, and Philadelphia; memory and imagination bringing vividly before her each scene of her past life in which Egerton had borne a part. Did any of the old love come back? No, for he was not the man who had won her esteem and affection; and even while sending up a silent petition for his final conversion, she shuddered at the thought of her past danger, and was filled with gratitude to God and her father at the remembrance of her narrow escape. Her brother's voice recalled her from her musings. "Look, sister," he exclaimed, glancing from the window, "there is the very same gentleman we saw this morning! and see, he's crossing the street! I do believe he's coming here." Elsie looked, recognized the stranger, and perceived, with a slight emotion of surprise and pleasure, that he was approaching their door. That he was her countryman, and perhaps direct from her dear native land, was sufficient to make him a welcome visitor. The next moment John threw open the door of the saloon and announced, "A gentleman from America!" "One who brings no letter of introduction; yet hopes for an audience of you, fair lady," he said, coming forward with smiling countenance and outstretched hand. "Mr. Travilla! can it be possible!" she cried, starting up in joyful astonishment, and hastening to bid him welcome. "You are not sorry to see me then, my little friend?" he said, taking her offered hand and pressing it in both of his. "Sorry, my dear sir! what a question! Were you not always a most welcome guest in my father's house? and if welcome at home, much more so here in a foreign land." Mr. Travilla looked into the sweet face, more beautiful than ever, and longed to treat her with the affectionate freedom of former days, yet refrained; the gentle dignity of her manner seeming to forbid it, pleased and cordial as was her greeting. He turned to Horace and shook hands with him, remarking that he had grown very much. "I am very glad to see you, sir," said the boy. "You have not forgotten me then?" "Ah, no, indeed; and I can't think how it was that sister and I did not know you yesterday in the picture-gallery; though we knew you were an American!" "Ah, were you there? How blind I must have been!" and he turned to Elsie again. "We were there for but a few minutes before your party left; and quite at the other end of that long gallery," she said. "But I am surprised that I failed to recognize you, even at that distance. But I had no thought of your being in the country. How delighted papa will be to see you. He has often spoken of the old times when you and he travelled over Europe together, and wished that you were with him on this trip. He and mamma have gone out, but will be in presently." Elsie had many inquiries to make in regard to the health and welfare of relatives and friends, and the old family servants at the Oaks; Mr. Travilla numerous questions to ask concerning all that she had seen and done since leaving America. But in the midst of it all she exclaimed, "Ah, you must see our little Frenchwoman! such a darling as she is!" "I'll ring the bell, sister," said Horace, seeing her glance toward it. John appeared in answer, was ordered to tell the nurse to bring the baby, and a neatly dressed middle-aged woman presently entered the room, carrying a lovely infant a little more than a year old. "See, is she not a darling?" said Elsie, taking it in her arms. "She has mamma's own sweet pretty blue eyes, and is named for her. Our Rosebud we call her. Papa gave her the name, and he says she is as much like her mother as I am like mine. You don't know, Mr. Travilla, how glad I was when she came to us; it was something so new and delightful to have a sister of my own. Ah, I love her dearly, and she returns my affection. There, see her lay her little head down on my shoulder." Mr. Travilla admired and caressed the little creature, coaxed her to come to him for a moment, and the nurse carried her away. "When do you return home, Elsie?" he asked. "In the fall. Mr. and Mrs. Perris, mamma's grandparents, have their golden wedding in October. Sophy expects to be married at the same time, and of course we wish to be present on the occasion. We have yet to visit Turin, Venice, and Munich. After seeing these places we intend to spend the rest of the summer in Switzerland, sailing for America some time in September. Ah, here are papa and mamma!" she added as the two entered the room together. "Travilla! what favorable wind blew you here?" cried Mr. Dinsmore, shaking his friend's hand, in almost boyish delight. "A westerly one, I believe," answered Travilla, laughing and shaking hands with Rose, who looked scarcely less pleased than her husband. "They think at Roselands and the Oaks that your year is a very long one, or that you have lost your reckoning, and were anxious to send a messenger to assist you in recovering it; so I volunteered my services." "Ah, that was kind! but to be able to do so to advantage you will need to take up your abode with us for the present, and to make one of our party when we start again upon our travels." "Of course you will," added Rose; "we always consider you one of the family; a sort of brother to us and uncle to the children." "Thank you, you are most kind," he said, a slight flush suffusing his cheek for an instant, while his eyes involuntarily sought Elsie's face with a wistful, longing look. Her father turned laughingly to her. "Is this your stranger of the picture-gallery? ah, are you not ashamed of failing to recognize so old a friend?" "Yes, papa, but I did not catch sight of his full face, and he was at quite a distance, and I never thinking of the possibility that he could be anywhere out of America." "And time makes changes in us all--is fast turning me into a quiet middle-aged man." "You are very kind to furnish another excuse for my stupidity," said Elsie, smiling, "but I really cannot see that you have changed in the least since I saw you last." "And no stranger would ever think of pronouncing you over thirty," added Rose. "Ah, you flatter me, fair ladies," returned Mr. Travilla, smiling and shaking his head. "No, I can vouch for the truthfulness and honesty of both," said Mr. Dinsmore. Mr. Travilla did not hesitate to accept his friend's invitation, knowing that it was honestly given, and feeling that he could not decline it without doing violence to his own inclination. He made one of their party during the rest of their stay in Europe and on the voyage to America. His presence was most welcome to all; he saw no reason to doubt that, and yet Elsie's manner sometimes saddened and depressed him. Not that there was ever in it anything approaching to coolness, but it lacked the old delightful familiarity, instead of which there was now a quiet reserve, a gentle dignity, that kept him at a distance, and while increasing his admiration for the fair girl, made him sigh for the old childish days when she was scarcely under more constraint with him than with her father. Our little party reached Philadelphia a fortnight before the golden wedding. They found the handsome city residence of the Allisons occupied by the family, and full of the pleasant stir and bustle of preparation for the eventful day which was to witness the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Ferris, and the marriage of their granddaughter. Sophy, while paying a visit to Rose in her Southern home, had won the heart of Harry Carrington, and they had been engaged a year or more. Harry had once indulged in a secret penchant for Elsie; but now he would not have exchanged his merry, blue-eyed Sophy for her, or for any other lady in the land. The young couple were married at church, very early in the evening, Elsie acting as first bridesmaid. Returning to the house the bridal party were ushered into the drawing-room, which they found richly ornamented with evergreens and flowers. In the centre rose a pyramid of rare and beautiful blossoms, filling the air with their delicious perfume. Above that was a wide arch of evergreens bearing the monograms of Mr. and Mrs. Ferris, placed between the dates of their marriage and of this anniversary. The old bride and groom sat together beneath the arch on one side of the pyramid, while the newly-married pair took up a similar position, upon the other. Only the family and near connections were present for the first half hour. The eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Ferris made a short address, thanking his aged parents for their unselfish love and devotion to their offspring, and exhorting the youthful bride and groom to follow in their footsteps. Upon the conclusion of this little speech, gifts were presented by children and grandchildren, and letters of congratulation, in both poetry and prose, from absent friends were read. After this the doors were thrown open to the invited guests, and for the remainder of the evening the house was thronged with the elite of the city, and with friends and acquaintances from other parts of the country. Among the latter were Adelaide and Walter Dinsmore, and Mr. Travilla and his mother. The last named was seated in the corner of a sofa, her son standing by her side. He heard a low-breathed sigh, noted the quivering of her lip and the gathering tears in the gentle eyes, as she turned them upon the gray-haired bride and groom, and he knew that her thoughts were with the early dead, the husband and father whose image he could scarcely recall. His heart swelled with tender pitying, protecting love, as he thought of her long, lonely widowhood, and of all that she had been and still was to him. But her gaze wandered to the pair standing just upon the threshold of married life; and smiling up at him, "They are a handsome couple," she said; "how proud and happy Harry looks! Ah, Edward, when will your turn come?" He shook his head with a rather melancholy smile. "It is your own fault, I am sure," she continued in a playful tone; "there are plenty of pretty girls and charming young widows who would like well to be mistress of Ion, and I am growing old, and sometimes feel that I would be glad to resign the sceptre to younger hands." He gave her a glance of affectionate concern. "I shall look for a housekeeper immediately. I ought to have thought of it before." "No, no, it is a daughter I want," she returned still playfully. "I have often wondered how it has come to pass that my warm-hearted boy seems so perfectly invulnerable to Cupid's darts." "All seeming, mother," he answered lightly, but with a wistful yearning look in his eyes which were fixed upon a little group on the farther side of the room; "to tell you a secret," and he bent down, that the low-breathed words might catch her ear alone, "I have been hopelessly in love for many years." She started with surprise,--for there was the ring of deep, earnest feeling beneath the jesting tone--then following the direction of his glance, and perceiving that the group upon which it rested was composed of Adelaide and Elsie Dinsmore, with some half dozen gentlemen who had gathered about them, she looked greatly pleased. "And why hopeless?" she asked. "Ah, the evidences of indifference are so patent that I cannot hope she will ever learn to care for me." "And pray what may they be?" "Constraint and reserve, where formerly there was much warmth and cordiality of manner." "You foolish boy! if that be all, you may take heart. I would not ask for better symptoms. And remember the old proverb--'Faint heart never won fair lady.' You do not fear that she still clings to the old love?" "No, ah no!" "I never saw Adelaide look better than she does to-night," was Mrs. Travilla's next remark; "what a queenly presence, and noble face she has, and how very lovely our little Elsie is! She seems to have gained every womanly grace without losing a particle of her sweet childish simplicity and freshness." Her son assented with a slight sigh, and wandered off in their direction. But before he reached the little group, Elsie had taken Harold Allison's arm and was being led away toward the conservatory. Harold had a rare plant to show her, and was glad of the excuse to get her to himself for a few moments. For the rest of the evening Mr. Travilla devoted himself to Adelaide, his mother looking on with beaming countenance, and thinking how gladly she would welcome the dear girl to her heart and home. It was past twelve when the company dispersed. Harry and his bride having started an hour before upon their wedding tour. "Get to bed as soon as you can, my dear child; you are looking sadly fatigued," Mr. Dinsmore said, putting his arm about his daughter as she came to him for her good-night kiss. "I will, papa," she answered, clinging to him with more than her usual warmth of affection. "Dear papa, what could I ever do without you to love me?" "My darling, if it please the Lord, may we be long spared to each other," he whispered, clasping her close. "Now, good-night, and may He bless you, and keep you, and ever cause his face to shine upon you." Elsie turned away with eyes full of tears, and her pillow was bedewed with them ere she slept that night. But the morning found her apparently her own bright, sunny self again. She was in her mamma's dressing-room soon after breakfast, chatting with her and Adelaide, Mr. Dinsmore sitting by with Rosebud on his knee. Of course they were discussing the wedding, how lovely the bride and her attendants looked, how handsome the groom, how tasteful and becoming was the dress of this lady and that, how attentive was Mr. Such-an-one to Miss So-and-so, etc., etc. Rose making a little jesting allusion to "the devotion of a certain gentleman to Adelaide;" and saying how delighted she was; nothing could please her better than for them to fancy each other; when in the midst of it all, a servant came up with a message. "Mr. Travilla was in the drawing-room asking for Miss Dinsmore,--Miss Adelaide." She went down at once, and as the door closed upon her, Rose turned to her husband with the laughing remark, "It would be a splendid match! they seem just made for each other. I wonder they didn't find it out long ago, and I begin to quite set my heart upon it." "Better not, my dear, lest they disappoint you, and allow me to advise you to let match-making alone; 'tis a dangerous business. Elsie, my child, you are looking pale this morning; late hours do not agree with you. I think I shall have to take to sending you to bed at nine o'clock again, when once I get you home." "Won't ten be early enough, papa?" she answered with a faint smile, a vivid color suddenly suffusing her cheek. "Well, we will see about it. But I can't have you looking so. Go and put on your hat and shawl, and I will take you and mamma out for an airing?" "Looking so?" said Rose, with an arch glance at the glowing cheeks, as she stooped to take Rosebud in her arms, "she is not pale now." "No, certainly not," he said. "Come back, daughter," for Elsie had risen to obey his order, and was moving toward the door, "come here and tell me what ails you?" "I am quite well, papa, only a little tired from last night, I believe," she answered, as he took her hands in his and looked searchingly into her face. "I hope that is all," he said a little anxiously. "You must lie down and try to get a nap when we return from our drive; and remember you must be in bed by ten o'clock to-night." "I shall do just as my father bids me," she said, smiling up at him, "my dear father who is so kindly careful of me." Then as he let go her hands, she tripped lightly from the room. Mr. Travilla had come on an errand from his mother; she begged Adelaide's advice and assistance in a little shopping. Adelaide was at leisure, and at once donned bonnet and shawl and went with him to the Girard House, where the old lady awaited their coming, and the three spent the remainder of the morning in attending to Mrs. Travilla's purchases and visiting the Academy of Fine Arts. In driving down Chestnut street, the Dinsmores passed them on their way to the Academy. Adelaide did not return to Mr. Allison's to dinner, but Mr. Travilla called presently after, to say that she had dined with his mother and himself at the hotel, and would not return until bed-time, as they were all going to hear Gough lecture that evening. He was speaking to Mrs. Allison. Several of the family were in the room, Elsie among them. She was slipping quietly away, when he turned toward her, saying: "Would you not like to go with us, my little friend? I think you would find it entertaining, and we would be glad to have you." "Thank you, sir, you are very kind, but a prior engagement compels me to decline," she answered, glancing smilingly at her father. "She has not been looking well to-day, and I have ordered her to go early to bed to-night," Mr. Dinsmore said. "Ah, that is right!" murmured Mr. Travilla, rising to take leave. The Travillas staid a week longer in the city. During that time Adelaide went out with them, quite frequently, but Elsie saw scarcely anything of her old friend; which was, however, all her own fault, as she studiously avoided him; much to his grief and disturbance. He could not imagine what he had done to so completely estrange her from him. Mr. Dinsmore felt in some haste to be at home again, but Mrs. Allison pleaded so hard for another week that he consented to delay. Adelaide and Walter went with the Travillas, and wanted to take Elsie with them, but he would not hear of such an arrangement; while she said very decidedly that she could not think of being separated from her father. She seemed gay and happy when with the family, or alone with him or Rose; but coming upon her unexpectedly in her dressing-room, the day after the others had left, he found her in tears. "Why, my darling, what can be the matter?" he asked, taking her in his arms. "Nothing, papa," she said, hastily wiping away her tears and hiding her blushing face on his breast--"I--I believe I'm a little homesick." "Ah, then, why did you not ask to go with the others?" "And leave you? Ah, do you not know that my father is more--a great deal more than half of home to me?" she answered, hugging him close. "And you wouldn't have let me go?" "No, indeed, not I; but I'm afraid I really ought to read you a lecture. I daresay you miss Sophy very much, but still there are young people enough left in the house to keep you from feeling very dull and lonely, I should think; and as you have all your dear ones about you, and expect to go home in a few days--" "I ought to be cheerful and happy. I know it, papa," she said, as he paused, leaving his sentence unfinished, "and I'm afraid I'm very wicked and ungrateful. But please don't be vexed with me, and I will try to banish this feeling of depression." "I fear you are not well," he said, turning her face to the light and examining it with keen scrutiny; "tell me, are you ill?" "No, papa, I think not. Don't be troubled about me." "I shall send for a doctor if this depression lasts," he said decidedly, "for I shall have to conclude that it must arise from some physical cause, since I know of no other; and it is so foreign to the nature of my sunny-tempered little girl." He saw no more of it, though he watched her carefully. Great was the rejoicing at the Oaks when at last the family returned. Adelaide was there to welcome them, and Elsie thought she had never seen her look so youthful, pretty, and happy, Chloe remarked upon it while preparing her young mistress for bed, adding that the report in the kitchen was that Miss Adelaide and Mr. Travilla were engaged, and would probably marry very soon. Elsie made no remark, but her heart seemed to sink like lead in her bosom. "Why am I grieving so? what is there in this news to make me sorry?" she asked herself as she wetted her pillow with her tears. "I'm sure I'm very glad that dear Aunt Adie is so happy, and--and I used often to wish he was my uncle." Yet the tears would not cease their flow till she had wept herself to sleep. But she seemed bright and gay as usual in the morning, and meeting her parents at the breakfast-table, thought they looked as though something had pleased them greatly. It was Rose who told her the news, as an hour later they sauntered around the garden together, noting the changes which had taken place there in their absence. "I have something to tell you, dear," Rose said, and Elsie shivered slightly, knowing what was coming; "something that pleases your father and me very much, and I think will make you glad too. Can you guess what it is?" "About Aunt Adelaide, mamma?" Elsie stooped over a plant, thus concealing her face from view, and so controlled her voice that it betrayed no emotion. "Yet; I know; she is engaged." "And you are pleased with the match, of course; I knew you would be. You used so often to wish that he was your uncle, and now he soon will be. Your papa and I are delighted; we think there could not have been a more suitable match for either." "I am very glad for her--dear Aunt Adie--and for--for him too," Elsie said, her voice growing a little husky at the last. But Rose was speaking to the gardener, and did not notice it, and Elsie wandered on, presently turned into the path leading to her arbor and seeking its welcome privacy, there relieved her full heart by a flood of tears. Mr. Travilla called that day, but saw nothing of his "little friend," and in consequence went away very sorrowful, and pondering deeply the question what he could have done to alienate her affections so entirely from him. The next day he came again, quite resolved to learn in what he had offended, and was overjoyed at hearing that she was alone in her favourite arbor. He sought her there and found her in tears. She hastily wiped them away on perceiving his approach, but could not remove their traces. "Good-morning," she said, rising and giving him her hand; but with the reserved manner that had now become habitual, instead of the pleasant ease and familiarity of earlier days; "were you looking for papa? I think he is somewhere on the plantation." "No, my dear child, it was you I wished to see." "Me, Mr. Travilla?" and she east down her eyes, while her cheek crimsoned; for he was looking straight into them with his, so wistful and tender, so fall of earnest, questioning, sorrowful entreaty, that she knew not how to meet their gaze. "Yes, you, my little friend, for I can no longer endure this torturing anxiety. Will you not tell me, dear child, what I have done to hurt or grieve you so?" "I--I'm not hurt or gri--you have always been most kind," she stammered, "most--But why should you think I--I was--" The rest of the sentence was lost in a burst of tears, and covering her burning cheeks with her hands, she sank down upon the seat from which she had risen to greet him. "My dear child, I did not mean to pain you so; do not weep, it breaks my heart to see it. I was far from intending to blame you, or complain of your treatment," he said in an agitated tone, and bending over her in tender concern. "I only wanted to understand my error in order that I might retrieve it, and be no longer deprived of your dear society. Oh, little Elsie, if you only knew how I love you; how I have loved you, and only you, all these years--as child and as woman--how I have waited and longed, hoping even against hope, that some day I might be able to win the priceless treasure of your young heart." Intense, glad surprise made her drop her hands and look up at him. "But are you not--I--I thought--I understood--Aunt Adelaide--" "Your Aunt Adelaide!" he cried, scarcely less astonished than herself, "can it be that you do not know--that you have not heard of her engagement to Edward Allison?" A light broke upon Elsie at that question, and her face grew radiant with happiness; there was one flash of exceeding joy in the soft eyes that met his, and then they sought the ground. "Oh, my darling, could you? is it--can it be--" He took her in his arms, folded her close to his heart, calling her by every tender and endearing name, and she made no effort to escape, or to avoid his caresses; did nothing but hide her blushing face on his breast, and weep tears of deep joy and thankfulness. It might have been half an hour or an hour afterward (they reckoned nothing of the flight of time) that Mr. Dinsmore, coming in search of his daughter, found them seated side by side, Mr. Travilla with his arm about Elsie's waist, and her hand in his. So absorbed were they in each other that they had not heard the approaching footsteps. It was a state of affairs Mr. Dinsmore was far from expecting, and pausing upon the threshold, he stood spell-bound with astonishment. "Elsie!" he said at length. Both started and looked up at the sound of his voice, and Mr. Travilla, still holding fast to his new-found treasure, said in tones tremulous with joy, "Will you give her to me, Dinsmore? she is willing now." "Ah, is it so, Elsie, my darling?" faltered the father, opening his arms to receive her as she flew to him. "Is it so? have I lost the first place in my daughter's heart?" he repeated, straining her to his breast, and pressing his lips again and again to her fair brow. "Dear papa, I never loved you better," she murmured, clinging more closely to him. "I shall never cease to be your own dear daughter; can never have any father but you--my own dear, dear papa. And you will not be left without a little girl to pet and fondle; darling Rosebud will fill my place." "She has her own; but neither she nor any one else can ever fill yours, my darling," he answered with a quivering lip. "How can I--how can I give you up? my first-born, my Elsie's child and mine." "You will give her to me, my friend?" repeated Travilla. "I will cherish her as the apple of my eye; I shall never take her away from you, you may see her every day. You love her tenderly, but she is dearer to me than my own soul." "If you have won her heart, I cannot refuse you her hand. Say, Elsie, my daughter, is it so?" "Yes, papa," she whispered, turning her blushing face away from his keen, searching gaze. "I can hardly bear to do it. My precious one, I don't know how to resign you to another," he said in a voice low and tremulous with emotion, and holding her close to his heart; "but since it is your wish, I must. Take her, my friend, she is yours. But God do so to you, and more also, if ever you show her aught but love and tenderness." He put her hand into Travilla's, and turned to go. But she clung to him with the other. "Yours too, papa," she said, looking up into his sad face with eyes that were full of tears, "always your own daughter who loves you better than life." "Yes, darling, and who is as dearly loved in return," he said, stooping to press another kiss on the ruby lips. "Let us be happy, for we are not to part." Then walking quickly away, he left them alone together.